Goodfellowe crouched, very uncomfortable, his knees cracking in protest.
‘Toy water bombs? You plan to destroy the City of London with a plastic water pistol, Peter?’
‘Not quite. You see, these little grenades aren’t full of water but a little cocktail I picked up in Kosovo from a Russian captain. Buy anything from the Russians nowadays. It’s a binary chemical their weapons people have been experimenting with. Two solutions that are harmless on their own, but once mixed together become instantly virulent. Orange rain, they call it. Brought it back as a bit of a keepsake. Never thought about … this.’ He nodded towards the skyline.
‘It’ll destroy the City?’
‘Iraqis found it did a damn fine job on several Kurdish villages, apparently. Makes the lungs bleed until you drown in your own blood. But there’s an unfortunate after-effect. On exposure to the air the compound quickly corrupts. The droplets turn to jelly which doesn’t disperse but sticks to everything it touches and degrades very slowly.’
‘That’s a problem?’
‘Sure. It’s a persistent agent. This stuff hangs around for a month or more. Doesn’t kill maybe, not once it starts degrading, simply causes extreme nausea and temporary disablement. But that makes it very messy, and it’s resistant to all the usual anti-agent scrubbing and decontaminants. So you can see why it’s a problem. Even when you’ve taken out the enemy you can’t take advantage of it for a long while. Too long.’ He paused. ‘Although to destroy the City of London, you don’t have to occupy it, do you? Just close it down for a month. The Japanese and American money men will do the rest.’
‘Destroy the City?’
‘That’s right. Call in Bendall’s overdraft.’
‘You think you’d be destroying just banks and companies, for God’s sake? Think it through. You’d be destroying lives. The lives of millions. Their incomes gone, pensions lost …’
‘Tell me about it,’ Amadeus spat. ‘Your Government does it all the time.’
‘But it could never be rebuilt, Peter. This place works on confidence. Cut it to pieces and you can’t simply stick it back again afterwards. It would cause a financial meltdown. Hundreds of billions of pounds flooding out of this place at the touch of a button and taking with it the social services, hospitals – yes, and your precious defence budget. The country would be on its knees.’
‘It’s already on its fucking knees! I’m giving it the chance to stand tall and hold its head up high once more. All it has to do is get rid of one maggot of a man!’
‘You’ll never get away with it.’
‘Why? Because you’ve arrived? Hadn’t noticed you’d brought the cavalry with you. Anyway, nothing’s over until the fat lady sings and’ – he waved the gun towards the transistor, tuned in to live coverage of the Prime Ministerial press conference due in – what? – seven minutes’ time – ‘we’re only on the overture.’
Goodfellowe rose stiffly to his feet, his knees screaming with pain. ‘I can’t let you do this, Peter.’
The barrel of the gun was pointed directly at the centre of his heart.
‘You’ve no choice. One step towards me and it’s the last you’ll ever take.’
‘You’d kill a friend?’
‘Believe me, I’ve watched many good friends die over the years.’
‘In the national interest.’
‘That seems to be the standard political excuse.’
‘And this is in the national interest?’
Amadeus grew animated. ‘What else can I do? Write letters to the newspapers, for God’s sake? Go and lobby my Member of Parliament?’ The words threatened to make him choke. ‘You see, that’s where it all falls down, Tom. Politicians don’t believe in country any more. Or conscience. Only political convenience. You talk about being anchored to your principles, but then the wind changes so you pull up anchor and sail off in some new direction.’
‘I don’t see it that way.’
‘Of course you don’t, because you’re a politician. An animal that can barely see at all. You stand for election with stars in your eyes but the moment you get elected they put you in blinkers so you don’t get lost going through the voting lobby.’
‘It’s a game of give and take. Teamwork. Like football.’
‘It’s no game, Tom. It may seem like that at Westminster but out there in the real world it’s life and bloody death. You screw up in Bosnia or Kosovo or even in Littlehampton District Hospital, and some poor wretch dies. And how many hospitals have you voted to close in the last couple of years?’
‘The world isn’t black and white,’ he responded, ducking.
‘What, there’s no difference between right and wrong? Between deceit and honour? I know that’s how politicians like to make it seem with their spin doctors and compromises, but you’ll have to forgive me, old friend, Westminster isn’t the real world. You talk about being in touch with the people, but the only time you politicians seem to be in touch with the people is when you’re pissing on them from inside the palace.’
‘Seems to me that you’re the one who’s got himself morally confused. Setting himself up as the nation’s conscience. Who the hell voted for you?’
‘It’s enough that I swore to defend my country. With my life, if necessary.’
‘I took an oath of office, too!’
‘Political office? You mean that trough of broken promises? Oh, and you act so proud and so principled while you’re at it, even with your noses stuck in the swill. But then you get shoved aside – as you all are. You’re sacked. You crawl off to spend more time with your family, your ambitions destroyed. It’s only then you discover a different set of principles that had been hiding all the while, new principles that force you to turn on your old friends and become a heartfelt critic of the very Government you were so delighted to serve all those years. Christ, don’t you guys ever get sick of spending half your life crawling up the backside of a creature like Bendall?’
Goodfellowe stood silent for a moment, rubbing both his aching knees and his pride.
‘Tell me I’m wrong, Tom. Look me in the eye and tell me you’re different.’
Me – crawl up to Bendall? ‘I thought I was supposed to be leading this argument, Peter. We seem to have got our roles a little muddled.’ He straightened his stiffening back. He knew he was losing this one. ‘But you make an excellent point. I suspect we’re both fed up with being kicked around by Bendall. So let’s do something about that, shall we?’
‘Like what?’
‘Peter, I’m going to walk over to the radio –’
‘Don’t move an inch. I’ll shoot!’
‘Your choice, old friend. But there’s something I have to prove to you.’
And Goodfellowe walked, moving across to where the radio had been positioned a little distance from Amadeus to improve the reception. It was only a small affair, the size of a thick book, and from it came the sound of commentators filling the time with empty words as they waited for the three o’clock deadline. In five minutes.
The barrel of the pistol followed him as he moved. Goodfellowe couldn’t fail but be aware of the contrast – Amadeus’s hand so steadfast and unwavering, his own shaking like a fish in a net as he took up the radio.
‘The entire country is waiting for this extraordinary event in just a few minutes’ time, when Jonathan Bendall will walk out of the door of Number Ten Downing Street to let us know his decision. In all my years in Westminster I have never known another moment like this, when the fate of not just one Prime Minister but the nation’s capital hangs in the balance …’
With every ounce of his trembling strength, Goodfellowe hurled the radio as far as he could, watching it sail down in a graceful arc to disembowel itself on the concrete hundreds of feet below, and all the while wondering whether he was about to follow.
‘What the f –’
Goodfellowe had risked his life in a gamble to buy a few minutes’ time. He felt profoundly sick, yet he dared not pause o
r lose the moment. ‘You want to stop being kicked around by Bendall? Well, what the hell do you think you’re doing right now, hanging on his every word? Without Bendall on the bloody radio you won’t know what to do. You’re as dependent on him as anyone. I thought I might just make the point.’
‘The point is … the point is that either he will resign, or he won’t. If I hear about it at three o’clock or five minutes past, what’s the difference?’
‘No difference. The principle is still the same. You’ll still be sitting on your arse waiting for him to make up your mind for you!’
‘I rather think it’s Bendall who is waiting on me. I shall destroy him.’
‘Funnily enough, I think it’s quite the other way around. You may be the saving of Jonathan Bendall.’
‘Me? Save Bendall?’
‘Resurrect him. Pull him back from the grave. Make him immortal. You see, I happen to agree with you about our Prime Minister’s personal qualities. But after this? You won’t destroy him. If he decides to step down and save the City, they’ll talk about it as the greatest act of self-sacrifice since the crucifixion. He’ll be Jesus and John Kennedy all wrapped up in one. A pathetic excuse of a man turned into a national hero. Think about it. Kind of makes you lose the will to live, doesn’t it?’
Amadeus was shaking his head as though trying to rid himself of bothersome flies. ‘No such thing as heroes any more. Give them a god and you always find there’s some editor or other non-believer waiting to turn everything to corruption, to make out that we’re all the same sort of lowlife. So Bendall as hero? I doubt it. Anyway …’ His lips toyed with a restrained smile. ‘I’ll take my chance. Nice try, Tom, but that one won’t float.’
‘Then let me try a different boat. Let us set aside Jonathan Bendall, and turn instead to Mary Wetherell and Andy McKenzie. What’s to become of them? Or Freddie Payne – although I suspect you couldn’t care less for him. Silly, really, what he did, trying to screw a little money out of the system you say you’re trying to save. Looks clumsy. Taints them all. But not half as much as they’ll be tainted if you let those bloody things off. They’ll all of them be accessories before the fact, with the fact being something considerably more unpleasant than the bloody Blitz. Puts them in the same league as Goering and Goebbels in most people’s books. So they’ll be condemned and then they’ll be left to rot.’ Time for a slight change of course. ‘Correction – you are going to leave them to rot. The Commanding Officer who betrayed his own men.’
‘Don’t you dare lecture me about betrayal! They all knew the risks. Volunteers every one. And victims. Casualties of war, just like you and me.’
‘I missed that. Like you and me?’
‘Didn’t I explain?’ Amadeus pulled a contrite face. ‘These mortar things start spraying as soon as they’re fired. There’ll probably be enough undiluted backwash to … well, to ensure that neither of us is in much of a position to worry about what happens after.’
Goodfellowe said it softly, yet with passion. ‘Shit.’
‘Sorry, Tom. I’m used to the idea of giving up my life for what I believe in. But you’re a politician. Don’t suppose the thought ever entered your head.’
‘I am going to die?’
‘Possibly. Probably. You’re right, it depends upon Bendall. Not my call.’ Amadeus was eyeing Goodfellowe curiously. ‘Tell me, Tom, how do you feel about that?’
‘Dizzy, I guess. Must be the fresh air up here.’
‘Or the thought of your life hanging on the whim of a politician?’
‘Perhaps it’s that I’m a little more confused than you about the principles I’m supposed to be dying for.’
‘No need for confusion. It’s that stuff we learnt about in civics at school. Justice. Honour. Fair play.’
‘Oh God, spare me the lectures about the playing fields of England.’
‘Damn you, then try the Falklands! Or the Gulf. The Bogside. Bosnia. Kosovo. All the places British soldiers have been sent to die by politicians who couldn’t find the hole in their fucking underpants let alone half these places on a map. The world out there’s still a gutter and we need our armed forces to clean it up as much as we ever did. And the only thing our armed forces need, all they’ve ever asked for, is a little respect.’
‘Respect? With the City gone and the economy crippled? What sort of dream world are you in? You’ll make the military the whipping boy of every third-rate politician in the country. They’ll charge around the corridors of Westminster like demented puppets crying, “Never again! Never again!” And there won’t be a Chancellor in Christendom who’ll resist the temptation to pick the military’s pocket at every turn. They’ll fillet the armed forces as though they were the last fish on this planet. Save them? You won’t have saved them, you’ll have shattered them more effectively than a Russian first strike. These aren’t principles, these are the excuses of a suicide note!’
‘This isn’t a bloody election. There aren’t always easy options. People must be made to realize –’
‘No, it’s you who’ve got to realize. Dying for your country is one thing. Dying for some half-baked idea is totally bloody different!’
‘Scully died – and for what? He was willing to risk his life anywhere in the world for his country, but instead he died for no better reason than to save the neck of that scumbag in Downing Street. And that’s why he’s got to go. What more reason do you want, for pity’s sake? Scully is …’ – Amadeus loses a beat – ‘was the finest, most decent man I ever served with. They killed him. Shot him like a dog. This isn’t a game any more, Tom. I’m not fiddling around with traffic lights or telephone systems. There’s blood on the ground – Scully’s blood – and I swear it’s not going to lie there alone. He deserves more than that!’
Goodfellowe’s response was basted in sarcasm. ‘Ah, so there we have it. Forgive me, I thought we had been talking about high principle, a matter of honour. But this is nothing but a little piss pot of revenge.’
‘No!’
‘But certainly. First you pretend you are doing this for your country, yet your country will revile you. You know something, Peter? They’re going to stand in great queues to spit upon your name, while Bendall will come secretly at night to dance in celebration on your grave. So then you change your tack and say you are doing this for Scully. For Scully? All you’ll be doing is reducing Scully’s memory to nothing better than a kettle of stinking fish.’
Amadeus is suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, as if he has his head above hot coals. He is confused. ‘This is for Skulls. For Albert Andrew. He was my friend. He wasn’t in this for any reason. Only because I asked him.’
Goodfellowe’s voice has risen to the level of a shout. ‘But I thought you said he volunteered. So this is what it’s all about. Not about country or conscience, least of all poor old Scully. This is about your own pathetic sense of shame.’
The pistol is still pointed directly at Goodfellowe’s heart but it is now shaking, held too tight, and Amadeus’s eyes are closed, images of Scully rushing before his mind. He is very near the edge. Goodfellowe is still shouting, pushing.
‘Scully was betrayed, for sure. But by you. He trusted you and you got him killed. That’s it. That’s all of it. Shame! Shame! Shame on you!’
Amadeus is shaking his head, a jerking motion. Nothing is working properly any more. A straining noise is coming from his throat. He wants to reply, to bulldoze his way through the accusations, but he can find neither words nor wind. It is dark and he is standing over a body, of a young Argentinian conscript with a bayonet in his belly and a soundless scream on his twisted lips. But suddenly he can see more clearly and realizes the corpse is not that of some foreign devil but of Scully, lying amidst dust and rubble. In Battersea. His body is lifeless, except for the eyes. The eyes are staring out, accusing. If anyone had to die it should have been Amadeus. Not Albert Andrew. He was owed. By Amadeus above all others.
Shame! Shame! Shame!
Ama
deus has run out of arguments. He can no longer move. Slowly, the pistol tilts away from Goodfellowe’s heart, then falls to the ground.
Goodfellowe is shaking, very scared, but his tone grows softer, the lash put to one side. ‘Sometimes the best means of attack is to do nothing, Peter. You’ve left Jonathan Bendall without a friend in the world. He’s brought London grinding to a halt and caused chaos to millions. Don’t give him the excuse to play the moralizer, to say it was all worth it. Leave him to dangle while his nearest and dearest fight amongst themselves to be the one to finish him off. You don’t have to bother. Don’t you see, Peter, you’ve won already? The only thing that can snatch that victory away from you is what you are planning to do now.’
Amadeus is slumped against the wall. He doesn’t look as though he has won the greatest battle of his life. His lips mouth the word ‘Scully’ over and over.
Goodfellowe glances at his watch. Oh, Hellfire! Two minutes to three! He moves across gently, takes up the plastic shotgun, turns to Amadeus.
‘Peter, I’m sorry to ask this but … I know you normally carry a mobile phone. May I borrow it?’
‘Wh-what?’
‘Your phone.’ Goodfellowe holds out his hand, demanding.
Like a man who has just stumbled bloodied from a boxing ring, Amadeus searches half-aware inside his pocket. At last he finds the phone.
Goodfellowe takes it, retreats, begins punching numbers. For pity’s sake let them answer this time.
It’s as though his whole life now hangs in the balance. He can still save Bendall. For a while at least. Long enough for Goodfellowe to be granted the status of a national hero, to ensure that his elevation to the Cabinet becomes a foregone conclusion and –