by Nick Corbett
“They are. I’m here at their request. They’ve been liaising with Beirut too. This is the preferred way forward. The military option remains open, of course. It’s just far more likely to result in the boy and others being killed. I don’t deny the stakes are high. I felt I had to ask you though. I thought it right to speak to you first, rather than go to Luke. I hope I did the right thing.”
David’s voice is high pitched. “I’ll go myself, instead of Luke or Hannah.”
James smiles. “That wouldn’t work Uncle David, you’re well known, but the boy doesn’t know you.”
“Well, as I say, it’s Joe that knows Hannah best. I haven’t heard Luke mention her for a long time.”
James looks stern. “But as I say, I don’t know Joe. I can’t just talk to anyone about this.”
“I trust him implicitly. He’s a fine young man. You probably met him at Luke’s party.”
There follows a brief discussion about Joe, what he does for a living, where he lives, how best to contact him. They hatch a plan to get Joe into the House of Commons, so James can meet him. James gets up to his feet. David continues.
“I’m concerned about Hannah’s safety. Her life could be in danger if she does what you want.”
“Beirut’s dangerous again, we’ll be bringing her back whatever happens. I’ve got to go now Uncle David, and you’ve got an important meeting too. I’m so sorry about the circumstances of our meeting.”
David nods. “I hope for everyone’s sake, this matter gets properly resolved. What’s the boy’s name.”
“Elias. Please don’t repeat a word of our talk.”
The Foreign Secretary’s helicopter takes off. David and Annie stand together on the lawn, watching it disappear into the blue sky. They walk back into the house.
“How old do you think Jamie looks?” asks Annie.
“Oh, about sixteen,” replies David, and then he embraces his wife, presses his face against hers. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything, darling. I had to promise.”
“Oh, Jamie’s naughty, I don’t think that’s appropriate. You’re not in any trouble are you?”
“No.”
“Nor Luke?”
Before David can answer, the doorbell chimes. David releases his wife and wipes his brow.
“Well?” asks Annie.
“I promise you, we’re all okay.”
“Good. Now then, that’ll either be a Civic lady or William for you. I don’t want you to be late for the leader of the council.”
“What a morning, eh? It’s not even nine o’ clock yet.”
Annie takes David by the hand. They make their way through the panelled grand reception hall. Annie opens the front door and there in front of them, bathed in the morning sunshine, stands a middle-aged motorcyclist. He is dressed in leathers, has a short grey beard. William is David’s chauffeur. He hands David a crash helmet and a leather jacket.
“Ride carefully please William, he’s not as young as he looks,” says Annie.
William straddles the BMW motorbike, gives Annie a salute. David mounts the bike, clings on tightly, the engine growls. They’re off, down the crunchy gravel drive. They cross over the moat, approach the lodge cottage and the lichen-covered gateposts. David glimpses side ways, sees an enormous dead badger, feet sticking skywards.
7 Westminster
It’s just after one o’clock, Joe’s mobile phone rings out with a merry tune. He is sitting on a bench in Holland Park, mouth full of chicken sandwich.
“Ello,” he muffles inaudibly.
“Oh, is Joe there please?” says a refined female voice.
Joe immediately recognises Cathy. She doesn’t recognise his voice, it’s been a long time. Joe establishes his identity.
“Oh, sorry Joe, you sound different,” says Cathy. “How are you?”
“Fine, just eating a sandwich, and you?”
“Fine, did you know I was engaged, to Jean-Paul?”
“Yeah, I heard. Congratulations!”
“Thank you. I want you to meet him as soon as possible; everybody likes him. Now, it’s great to catch up, but this isn’t actually a social call. You need to listen carefully.”
“I’m listening.”
“Right, you know I’m the personal assistant to Bill Robinson, the Secretary of State?”
“Eh, yeah. Your status is well known.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Sorry.”
“Listen! Bill’s just called me. He’s read your article in The Times. He wants to talk to you. He’s giving a speech in the House of Commons tomorrow morning, about his urban renaissance policy. We’d like some bullet points from you on the design of Kensington High Street. This could be a big break for you, are you up for it?”
Joe gulps, gob-smacked.
“Are you there, Joe?”
“Eh? Ur, yeah, when does he want these bullet points for?”
“We need the briefing note tomorrow morning, shall we meet at eight o’clock?”
“Blimey, it’s short notice.”
“You’ve got a day and a night, that’s plenty. You’ll do it then?”
“Yes, I’ll do it for you, Cathy.”
“Thanks honey. Be very concise, just a few bullets, no jargon. Bill acts like an imbecile, but he’s actually very intelligent, he demands excellence.”
Joe gulps again.
“Do you still work in Kensington?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Bill’s got a flat around the corner. Let’s meet in that new trendy glass building, with the coffee shop in it, it’s on the high street, not far from the tube station, at eight, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Thanks so much sweetie can’t wait!”
“Me neither,” replies Joe, but Cathy has already hung up.
It is the following morning, Thursday. Joe scrambles up the steps from High Street Kensington tube station. He is wearing his best suit, shirt and tie. There is a spring in his step. He is invigorated with purpose. He likes the idea of working for the Secretary of State, being a high-level influencer. He worked very late last night, but he doesn’t feel at all tired. He is excited. However, his enthusiasm was tested earlier by a particularly long, frustrating delay on the tube, in the Earl’s Court tunnel, again! Now he walks through the arcade’s throng of commuters, heading for the high street. He stands still for a moment, adjusts his tie, readies himself, snatches a glimpse at his watch.
It’s 7.59 A.M. Drat!
He’s got one minute. He can’t be late for Cathy.
He rushes out of the arcade, emerges into the bright morning sunshine. He briefly looks up the high street. A tall woman suddenly appears, standing directly in front of him, clutching a market research clipboard. She is wearing a bright red coat and she’s demanding Joe’s attention.
“Just one second, please Sir!” she speaks with a slight American twang.
“No thanks!” says Joe, shaking his head vigorously.
Joe turns his back to the woman, jogs down the high street. He builds up speed. People step aside to make way for him. He feels as strong as a warhorse. Suddenly, someone’s running with him.
“Sir, sir, one second!”
Unbelievably, the market research lady, in her flapping red coat, is running alongside him, waving her clipboard. Joe is flabbergasted. He doesn’t stop running.
Even if I am the perfect demographic for her research, thisbehaviour’s totally inappropriate.
The woman keeps pace with him. Joe stops. Hands on hips, he glares at her angrily. The woman gasps for breath.
“Sir!”
“What?”
“Your trouser zip’s undone.”
“Eh?”
“Your trouser zip’s undone!” she repeats loudly. A passer-by looks at Joe’s crotch, sniggers. Joe turns his back to the woman, looks down. His flies are not just open, there’s a bit of white shirt protruding through the gap. Thank heavens, nothing else is showing. Joe wonders how long they�
��ve been undone for. It must have been since he got dressed.
How many people on the tube noticed?
He was stuck in the tunnel for so long. A vision passes before his eyes of all the people on the tube, and on the platform, they are all staring at his crotch, sniggering. He recalls the giggling schoolgirls. He tries to shrug it off, feels hot with embarrassment. It could be worse. He zips up, turns around, lost for words. He offers a genuine big, grateful smile to the market researcher, and jogs off to the coffee shop, a little more humble.
Joe strides into the busy, trendy architectural glass box coffee shop. He immediately notices an immaculate young woman wearing a pin-stripe business suit, shoulder length red hair, pretty face, quite short, curvy figure. She is beautiful and stylish. The top buttons of her blouse are undone, revealing ample cleavage. Her legs are crossed. She drinks a cappuccino from a large white cup. It is Cathy. Joe is pleased, heartbeat quickens. Cathy spots him, she puts down her drink, stands up, arms open, ready for an embrace. Joe rushes over, holds her in his arms. He delays letting go for several seconds after Cathy has released him. The poor girl needs a moment to recover from strangulation. She recovers and they smile warmly at each other. Joe takes a seat, upon a stool beside Cathy. His eyes involuntarily wander to her cleavage. Cathy really does look fantastic.
“Have you got your briefing note Joe?”
The question pulls him back sharply.
“Oh, no, I’ve left it on the District Line,” he jokes.
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he hears them drop on the floor, as if someone else has said them. The short run and the sight of Cathy, has left him giddy. He concentrates on breathing. Cathy looks concerned. Joe pulls himself together.
“Don’t worry Cathy, I’ve got the paper here for you,” he says, rummaging in his briefcase.
Cathy speaks in a rather stern business-like tone;
“Oh, good. Now then, have you met Bill before?”
“No, I’ve never met any government ministers.”
“Your Times article’s really impressed him. He wants to meet you. Will you ride with us to the House?”
“Whose house?”
“The House of Commons, of course, imbecile.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Joe feels his heartbeat quickening again, senses the landscape of his life is about to change.
“Bill’s car will be here any minute.”
“Oh, good,” he squeaks, nervously. Joe breathes deeply. Calm. He gathers his thoughts, turns to Cathy. “Was it your idea, for me to meet Bill?”
“No, it wasn’t. Bill just called me, mentioned your name out of the blue. Somehow he knows we’re friends.”
“That’s odd. How could he possibly know that?”
“I don’t know, I suppose you’re famous now, what with articles in The Times.”
“Hardly. I wonder if Luke’s dad, David Rogers, had something to do with it.”
“That could be it. Anyway, it’s irrelevant. You’ve got a great opportunity so don’t screw it up.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
Cathy’s countenance changes, it softens. “There’s something else Joe, something personal I want to ask you.”
Joe’s eyebrows are raised. “Oh yeah, go on.”
“You can tell me to get stuffed if you want, okay?”
“Okay.”
“It’s about Hannah.”
“I haven’t seen her for ages.”
“I always thought you two would get together, eventually; you’re so well matched.”
Then her tone becomes firmer. “So, is it ever going to happen?”
Joe’s flummoxed. For a moment, he vainly wonders if Cathy’s interested in him.
Is she making sure Hannah’s not an obstacle?
He realises that’s nonsense. Cathy’s just got engaged to Jean-Paul. Joe pictures Hannah in his mind. He really does miss her, he’d love to see her again.
What Joe doesn’t realise is that Cathy telephoned Hannah the night before; she did this as soon as she knew she’d be meeting Joe. The girls plotted for Cathy to ask Joe the probing questions, to ascertain his intentions towards Hannah. Joe finds himself staring at Cathy’s cleavage again.
“Ah, there’s the car!” Cathy’s pointing through the glass towards a black Mercedes “people-carrier”. It’s more like a mini-bus than a car. Joe notices the vehicle, pulled up on the opposite side of the high street. It’s got blackened windows.
“Come along! You can have a think about that question, give me a call later.”
Cathy grabs hold of Joe’s arm, escorts him out of the café. Together they dart between cars on the heavily trafficked street. They reach the other side. Joe notices a black saloon car parked immediately behind the ministerial vehicle. Two men are sitting in it. Joe steals a look at the back window of the saloon. It flashes words in red, “STAY BACK!” Joe will be riding in a chariot of State, along a road used by world leaders for two thousand years. He has arrived. He’s already imagining how he’ll relay the story to Luke and Archie.
Cathy and Joe stand beside the ministerial vehicle. The passenger door slides open. A suave looking thirty-something civil servant pops his head out;
“Do come in, do come in” he snaps.
Joe pokes his head in cautiously, to see what he’s letting himself in for. He instantly recognises the Secretary of State, Bill Robinson. He is a surprisingly short, rotund figure in a grey suit, enthroned upon a cream-coloured leather chair. The interior cabin is spacious but slightly gaudy. The vehicle would better suit a pop star. There are four seats. Two face the direction of travel, occupied by the Secretary of State and his civil servant, the other two seats, opposite them, are empty. Cathy ducks her head, steps aboard. Joe continues to gawp. The Secretary of State collects his papers so that Cathy can sit down, opposite him.
“Do come in,” the civil servant snaps again at Joe. His voice doesn’t disguise his agitation.
Joe gulps, climbs aboard, and sits opposite the civil servant.
“Hello. I’m Giles Best. I’m the Secretary of State’s Political Secretary.” He is very well spoken.
Joe leans forward and shakes his hand.
“Hello. I’m Joe. I’m pleased to meet you.”
Bill has his head down, engrossed in his notes. Half-moon spectacles perched on the end of his nose, slurping noises coming from his mouth. He is chewing bubble gum. Loudly. Suddenly, to Joe’s great surprise, he blows a large bubble. With a “pop”, his bubble bursts, all over his face and spectacles.
“Oh! Bollocks,” he spurts out.
Joe struggles to hold back his laughter. Giles slightly raises an eyebrow. Cathy is about to speak, but Bill raises a hand for her to stop. He busies himself with a handkerchief, wiping the pink gum from his spectacles. This done, he repositions his spectacles on the end of his nose, continues to read his notes, as if nothing has happened.
Joe wonders why Bill hasn’t even acknowledged him. He takes in his new surroundings, cream-coloured leather seats, table with telephonic conferencing facilities. Joe’s hand explores the side of his chair, there is an array of buttons that he dare not touch. He wonders about the driver. A dark glass screen separates them from whoever he or she might be.
So close, yet so far away.
It feels odd to Joe that he can see all the pedestrians on the street, but they can see nothing of him, because of the one-way glass. A youth suddenly stares blindly in, wondering who might be there, and then he walks off again.
Joe turns to look at Bill. He notes his grave appearance. He’s got bags under his eyes, sagging jowls, and his shoulders are drooped, as if has the world resting on them. He is aged about seventy. Thanks to the bubble gum incident, Joe’s warmed to him. After a long silence, Bill looks up from his notes. His face is transformed by a radiant smile, like an old man roused from a snooze, delighted to find his favourite grandchild has arrived. His face is illuminated and warm. He speaks with a gruff, smoker’s voice, strong regional accent.
“Alright Cathy, dear, who’s this you’ve brought in to see us? Is this ya new boyfriend?” Bill chuckles to himself.
Cathy adjusts her jacket to cover up any visible cleavage.
“As you know, Bill, he’s not my boyfriend, this is Joe, the gentleman you requested a briefing paper from, for your urban renaissance speech this morning.” Cathy replies in her crisp, no nonsense tone.
Bill pretends not to hear her. He turns to Giles and mumbles.
“You’re still here are ya Giles?”
Giles is dressed immaculately in a pin-stripe suit. He also wears an expression of calm endurance. He nods serenely. Bill turns his gaze to Joe, gives him a wink.
“Alright son?”
“Yeah, good thanks, and you?”
“So, you’re the pal of David Rogers’s son, Luke, is that it?”
Joe smiles, nods. “Yeah, we’re old school friends.”
“I haven’t seen that young man since he was in nappies.”
“Oh, he hasn’t changed much.”
“Still incontinent?”
“I think so.”
Bill seems to remember something and he looks over his notes again. There’s another awkward silence.
The Secretary of State suddenly farts. Joe, taken aback, wonders if he’s just imagined it. Could it have been the sound of something rubbing against something else? No, it was a fart, released quite triumphantly. Joe looks at Cathy, pulls a questioning face. She turns away, stares out of the window, pretends not to have heard it. Joe begins to snigger, he snorts. Now Cathy begins to giggle.
“Alright, alright, settle down, sorry about that,” says Bill. “Now then, I’d like to know about the approach to street design that’s been championed on Kensington High Street.”
Joe pulls himself together.
“Oh, right, yes, I’ve got a note for you in here,” says Joe as he rummages through his briefcase. At last he finds his paper. Bill looks as if he’s nodded off again, but then he raises his head. He slides back the dark glass screen, speaks to his driver.