Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  (Michael and Shaun. Singing from the same song sheet. Great).

  I set my jaw and stared out of the window behind him. I could just about make out Jodrell Bank, a tiny dark bump on the watery horizon of Cheshire. So it must have been a clear day.

  He carried on. “You forget how long you and I go back, Stan. You had jobs like this ages ago. Doing the bog-standard managerial stuff. Helping the poor, mostly undeserving and definitely ungrateful members of the public.”

  I tried to interrupt him, but he shook his head, raising his voice.

  “No, all right. Let me finish. You’re way too good for that kind of thing. You’re the visionary type. Not so long ago, you were advising the government on those steering groups in Whitehall. You had all those bloody top civil servants ringing you up, asking your opinions about stuff.”

  I kept quiet, letting him talk. It’s always nice to have someone say pleasant things about you. But this was getting silly. Visionary type, my arse. And interestingly, the more silent I became, the more I noticed a change in his demeanour. He was growing frustrated. Animated. Not the chilled-out, couldn’t-give-a-shit Shaun that most people got to see.

  “I mean, if it wasn’t for you, half of the women in centres like yours across the country wouldn’t be getting all the legal help. Or the welfare benefits that they’re now entitled to. Thanks to the stuff that you – you, personally – have achieved for them. They might not know that. But I do. And I know how you work. You quietly shake things up. You influence people. And that’s why I want you here, working with me. If I’m going to be the one stepping up to the CEO post, I’ll need a damned good team. People I can trust.”

  He turned back to the window, looking out. A 747 droned past us, on the descent towards Ringway, leaving a trail of fluffy pollutants across an almost cloudless sky.

  “And I’d pay you twice as bloody much as you’re on at the moment. You know that. And you need the money,” he muttered.

  I tried to collect my thoughts before I began.

  “Shaun. We’re going round in circles here. I’m not interested. Even if I lose my job at Sisters’ Space thanks to your stupid – sorry, necessary – funding cuts …”

  “Not mine. Your man at the Ministry.”

  “It’s rude to interrupt, Shaun,” I said, pointedly. “So, even if I was going to be made redundant, I wouldn’t want to be doing a policy job again. And I’m managing financially. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  (Liar).

  “Well, let’s change the damned job, then!” he threw his arms up in despair. “Maybe there was too much bloody focus on the policy, anyway. We can shift responsibilities a bit. You can go out and visit homeless old ladies and prison inmates. Disabled lesbian refugees from eastern Europe who have TB. Whatever fallen on hard times group of people takes your fancy.”

  I shook my head.“No. And as I’ve said to you before, Shaun, you can’t just go offering jobs like that to people. What happened to equal opps?”

  He snorted. Getting narked with me now. Bristling, even.

  “Yeah, right – when was there a time I couldn’t get around equal opps? We just go through the motions with interviewing the others. I know who I want here – and will you stop doing that?” he pointed his pen at me.

  “What?”

  “Looking heavenward. Rolling your eyes. You know it drives me mad!”

  I was about to tell him where to shove his pen and his complaints about my eye-rolling, but we were interrupted by a light tap at the door. As the Rottweiler waltzed in, a look of surprise contorted itself upon her face. Almost physical disgust at my presence in the Omniscient Office of Her Great Giant.

  “So sorry, Shaun. Is this someone you made an appointment to see, without telling me?” She looked directly at him, disregarding me. But I’d heard plenty about her and was aware that her modus operandi was to belittle people. So, before he could answer, I jumped right in.

  “No, this someone just turned up right out of the blue because that someone,” I pointed my finger at Shaun, “needs to consult with me over something. Urgently. In private.”

  The pet pooch was taken aback. Had probably never seen anyone speak to her Mr Elliot in such a way. Her presence in the room meant that Shaun had returned to his usual, unruffled manner, though. He reached over to the wall next to him and altered the angle of a painting of Medlock market in Victorian times. It didn’t need straightening.

  “Ladies – please. Yeah, Rachael should have made an appointment and all that. But give us ten minutes, Renee, and I’ll go through those minutes with you. Promise.” He nodded at his PA.

  She realised that she was dismissed. Setting her jaw in place (thinking of gnawing a bone again, no doubt), she flung me a filthy look as she left the room.

  (Get in your bed, Rover…)

  As soon as she had gone, I closed the door with a good hard push and then sat down on the two-seater sofa next to Shaun’s desk.

  “I just want to know, Shaun. Are we talking a double whammy here? In addition to us losing our sixty-five per cent funding? When you’ve got to submit your recommendations to this so-called emergency asset review … will you be pushing for the sale of the building as well?”

  He stood still, with his hands on his hips. Shaking his head, smiling warily at me.

  “Look. Even if I did recommend that, Sisters’ Space is still an entity in its own right. It seems to me that the whole concept of enterprise can’t be working at your place, if you can’t sell enough chocolate rabbits to pay people’s wages there. Rudimentary principles of social enterprise – I would have thought that you …”

  I glowered at him.

  “You know we’re not at that stage yet! I went over the business model and the plan in plenty of depth with you the other week. It would be another six months before we’re breaking even. Which makes it even more stupid that you would do this to us now!”

  He shrugged.

  “Nowt that I can do about that, Stan.”

  I paused again. This was getting me nowhere.

  Now was the time to up the ante. Play dirty.

  “You know what? I wonder if your HR department or the Manchester Evening News maybe, would be interested in a story about some poor grieving widow. About her being bullied by one of the most senior men in local government in the north-west … due to the fact that they had an aborted love affair. Quite recently, actually. And all because he wants her to take a job that she doesn’t want. A job that he seems to be making up as he goes along … and because he’s a complete nobhead.”

  Nobhead. I was sure that I hadn’t used that word since high school. Must be Dawn’s influence.

  Shaun was quiet for a few seconds. Reflecting. And then:

  “Ooh, you’re good, Rachael. You’re really bloody good.” He tapped his pen on the desk. “You’re accusing me of blackmail now. Jesus! See what I mean? That’s why I want you on the team here. You see so many other angles and avenues in any given situation. We need someone like you here. Someone who, clearly, can still impress the suits in London ...”

  And now I quickly thought of something else. A complementary tactic.

  “Funny you should mention London. I’m off there tomorrow.”

  “Yeah?” He was interested now. Glad of the change of subject, no doubt. “Work or pleasure?” he asked, standing up and walking towards me around his desk. Closer.

  “Pleasure. Long weekend. Going to see my in-laws. May go to see my sister ...”

  “She still in London?”

  “Yes.”

  “Funny, that.”

  “What?”

  “You wanting to go to London all of a sudden. You’ve always tried to avoid it. You hate the place.”

  “Well, perhaps I’ve changed my mind. Some of us have to change our opinions, don’t we? A sign of maturity, apparently.” I stood up.

  He folded his arms and perched on the edge of his desk.

  “One guess. Why you’re going to London.”
<
br />   “Oh, Shaun. Will you just bloody leave it? Am I not allowed to go and check out a few paintings at the Tate Modern or have a gang bang with the Household Frigging Cavalry without you spouting your views at me? What do you care?”

  I was getting desperate now, but this was good stuff, actually. I was getting under his skin. He shifted his weight and looked at his feet. At mine. Jet-dark eyes began to move up my body. A slow crawl.

  “Well, that’s just it,” the gravelly Yorkshire intonations had softened now, sounded hoarser. “I do care. I think you’re getting yourself into something that’ll really hurt you. Someone has to tell you that.”

  (No one else about to, is there?)

  His words and the change in his disposition were stirring that emotional melting pot once more. A slow spin; a laborious whirl with ribbons of sorrow, frustration – and fury.

  Time to leave. This wasn’t working after all. Shaun wasn’t giving me the story I wanted to hear. No offers of a lifeline for Sisters’ Space. So no point in staying. But I wasn’t going to ignore his last remark.

  “Shaun. Don’t be such a hypocrite. Acting like the expert on what I should be doing in order not to get hurt ...” But I couldn’t disguise the sudden change in my voice. Wobbling, faltering. I looked away quickly, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the oncoming tsunami.

  But he had.

  “Hey,” he called faintly, reaching over and touching me on the arm. “Hey. Sorry.” Keeping his hand there. He stood up now and moved towards me, brushing his hand lightly against my back and beginning to stroke it gently. Up. And then down.

  “Come here; come on.” Pulling me closer to him. I resisted at first. Sulky-child seconds. But I let him lead me towards him. So that my face rested against his chest. I could feel the heat of his skin through the shirt. The scent of soap and fabric conditioner, the citrus and spiced notes of his aftershave. And then underneath that, I was breathing in the more personal and biological chemical properties …

  Every nerve end in my body was jangling a warning.

  Cattle-prodded. Painfully, jolted alive.

  That’s how it had always felt.

  But this time, a real spike of fear in the pit of my stomach. That adrenaline again. Coursing through my veins. Spurred on by the legendary pheromones of Shaun and Rachael.

  So much truth contained in legends. So many tough lessons to be learned.

  And I didn’t want history to repeat itself. I didn’t want the ruinous agonies that being involved with Shaun always brought. But I wanted to stay here, too. It was familiar and oh-so-sweet territory. Getting doped to the eyeballs on dopamine. Seconds ticked by. Shaun placed his palm on the back of my head, stroking it gently. Slowly, deliberately, he moved his lips to mine. Just for a split second. Just so I felt the taste of him. Just so I was reminded of how it could be. How it would be?

  Then he moved an inch or two away. Saying softly under his breath, “I don’t know why you make life so complicated, Stan. I know I’m the last person that you’ll take advice from. But I just think that you could be doing so much better for yourself. With your career. And in terms of men.”

  And then the town hall clock struck the half hour. A deep, brassy clang. But it wasn’t the bell that knocked me back into my senses, deflecting me away from that moment of odd and unplanned intimacy. It was the fact that for a split second I had read Shaun’s words as a reference to Adam. My imagination, perhaps. But jarring me, nonetheless.

  I looked up at Shaun, caught a quick glance of his towards the door. Slight anxiety, a small frown in case the Rottweiler might walk in. See him holding me.

  And then I glimpsed something on his desk. A discreetly placed photograph of a pretty, dark-haired woman clad in khaki colours, her image surrounded by greenery. Jungle vines, by the looks of it. Probably saving some gorillas in Uganda. Single-handedly re-foresting the Amazon.

  Jess, no doubt.

  Reminding me. I’d always be that dirty little secret.

  I moved backwards, gathering more lucidity of thought. Hoping that the words would follow.

  “Well. This is all very friendly, Shaun,” I gave a quick blink, “but some of us have got kids to collect right now.”

  He nodded. Hands in pockets now.

  I turned on my heel. Headed for the door.

  “Stan?”

  “What?”

  “I mean it about the job. Closing date is tomorrow. I can’t see that you’ve got any other options. Even if we don’t sell off your building.”

  “Right.”

  “So just get the application in – 5 p.m. tomorrow.”

  I looked at my watch. Terribly important things to do, Shaun.

  “Yeah, 5 p.m. tomorrow. I’ll think about it.”

  He took a couple of steps towards me. My fingers were resting on the door handle, a slow push downwards. I-need-to-go.

  Holding my gaze for a minute, he smiled grimly. Reached out and swept the tip of my chin with his fingers. Tracing his hand across my throat. Testing my reaction. Then he said, quietly, “You’re still one real mindfuck, you know.”

  I pushed the handle down hard. Moved away from his touch and opened the door.

  “See you, Shaun. I’ll guess I’ll be hearing from you. One way or another. Or from Fido in the foyer here.”

  “Yeah. And Stan?”

  “What?”

  “On London. I wouldn’t take the risk. If I were you. Call me if you need me.”

  “Right.”

  “You know that some of us will always be here for you ...”

  I glanced back over my shoulder. But he had turned around. Drinking in the panorama of urban Manchester through the prism of a slain, glass-eyed dragon.

  Ignoring the venomous stare of the Rottweiler, I made my way down the municipal stairways and back into the council car park. I opened the car door and plonked myself onto the driver’s seat. I reached for Matthew’s emergency day-glow lollipop stash in the glove compartment, although a triple G and T would have been more welcome. But sugar would have to do.

  Think, Rachael. Think.

  I glanced at my phone. Four messages on my voicemail. The first was from the mortgage people, querying why I hadn’t been able to make this month’s minimum payment. The second was from Matthew’s nursery, asking me to pick him up as soon as I could because he had “bitten another child on the head” and had to be sent home due to their safeguarding policy.

  How the hell do you manage to bite someone on the head?

  The third voicemail was from my mother. Not meant for me, apparently. The phone-in-handbag trick. Today she was asking her local pharmacist “for your most effective pile treatment. He’s suffering terribly with them at the moment. Of course, sitting in his shed on that damp allotment for half the weekend so he can avoid his grandchildren didn’t help. They’re a bit … hyperactive.”

  I deleted all three messages.

  Because that said it all, really. No amount of thinking was ever going to change the state of affairs, which Shaun had just related to me in his usual blunt fashion. The bleeding obvious, quite frankly.

  Michael and Me? Could never be. Our lives were poles apart. Were great big ruddy socio-economic, political and several hundred miles of railway tracks apart. Never mind the motorbike thing. And the army thing. And God knows how many more reminders that it could never work.

  I sucked at Matthew’s lollipop. Bubblegum flavour. Hideous. And then I listened to the final message.

  It was from Martyn Pointer.

  Martyn had heard all about the cuts at Sisters’ Space. He wanted to let me know that there was still time available to take out the social enterprise loan that he had previously offered me. And that there was a separate loan facility that allowed an organisation to pay for the acquisition of a property. “So perhaps Ms Russell would like to have a further chat about this, with a view to moving entirely away from the parochial tendencies of a certain Mr Elliot.”

  So. Go on, Rachael. Call him.


  But I rubbed the back of my neck, instead. Nerves and muscles a-jangling from Shaun-sex endorphins had morphed into a dull ache now. Unsure what to do.

  That was the thing about an encounter with Shaun. The charge was so forceful, so power-packed, that as soon as it began to wear off you found yourself wondering when the next bolt would come – not looking for it, exactly, but perhaps anticipating …

  I shrugged as I chucked the phone back onto the passenger seat and then opened my car window, spitting out the sickly lollipop. Generating a look of disgust from an elderly black woman trudging past the car with her two heavy shopping bags.

  What to do? Jobs, money and men. Lethal sodding combination.

  At least with Shaun I knew the score. Was on home turf.

  What would Adam want for me? For us? Anyone’s guess. We’d been living life too much to ever really talk about the What Ifs. And anyway, who the hell could have pre-empted this particular little geometrical combination of What If Corner?

  I started the engine. The car radio boomed into life, causing me to jump and to clutch the steering wheel.

  And there it was.

  AC/DC’s ‘Highway To Hell’.

  (Cheers for that, Adam.)

  And I laughed and I cried.

  I laughed and I cried.

  “A wicked and adulterous generation asks for a sign.” (Matthew 12:39, Bible NIV)

  EPILOGUE

  So here I was again.

  Sitting on a park bench with stretched-out legs. Toe-tapping. Wondering if Mr Very Big and Important Person in These Parts would arrive on time.

  The pigeons were getting a bit too friendly for my liking. Pecking perilously close to my shoes. Yes, I was wearing heels again. Not stupidly lascivious loved-up heels. These were pretty but prudent. The sort that a lady in waiting would choose to meet a man who didn’t want to draw too much attention to the both of them while in public.

  I crossed my legs, startling the pigeons. They flapped off drunkenly, towards the rhododendrons. I squinted at the face of the clock in the distance. Fifteen minutes late.