‘But I love you, Elinor.’
‘You can’t love me.’
Not mustn’t. Not didn’t, not shouldn’t, but couldn’t. And with a sadness and a sense of relief that appalled him, he realized she was right. There was loyalty still, and in abundance, but not love.
Elinor turned back to her television screen, and would say nothing more.
‘What are you trying to tell me, Elinor?’ But he already knew. ‘What should I do?’
But she had already spoken. A door had been closed in his life which would never be reopened.
He held her hand for a long time before laying it down. Then he snuffed out the candle and left.
He had been paired and released from voting in order to visit his wife, so when he returned to London he went straight back to Gerrard Street. He was in no mood for company. He prepared a simple supper, nothing too messy, he’d only have to clear it up himself. With some reluctance he switched on the television for distraction. That reluctance grew as he watched the evening news unravel. He became tetchy at the coverage given to a picket line thrown around an abortion advice bureau; it gave the protesters coverage they could never have bought through advertising but which on the news was both priceless and cost-free. He grew angry at the interviewer who showered insolence and interruption upon a Minister, and incandescent at the Minister who allowed such nonsense to continue. Then came the family standing in front of their garden gate, pleading, and Goodfellowe overflowed with wrath. It was a story that had run across several days and all the front pages. The abduction, the abandoned pushchair, the demand for ransom, the speculation, the parental appeals, the search. Then the discovery of her torn and crumpled body in a car boot. A family’s tragedy of unfathomable depth. Yet why was it so necessary, so damnably bloody obligatory, for the media to know how they all felt? To camp outside their house until, weeping, the parents had been forced to come to the garden gate to share their grief in the hope that, after this one photo call, they might be left alone to mourn. Their plea for privacy was lost in the clatter of camera shutters which sounded like machine-gun fire from the trenches. The public had a right to know, so it was said, no matter who became targets.
It was not a moment for restraint, either on their part or on his. As he watched, Goodfellowe’s frustrations and anger took possession of him. He was on his feet shouting and cursing at the newscast, but no matter how much he cried out they wouldn’t listen, would never apologize. So he shouted all the more. Then, uttering a howl that resembled more the fury of a wild animal, he had launched himself at the television and smashed his shoe straight through the control panel. With an air of offended majesty the television rocked back, and forward. Then it toppled. The screen gave a flash of outrage and the news, with all its outpourings of misery, grunted and died. Goodfellowe was astonished into silence by his own actions. He stood beside the wreckage, studying it carefully, wanting to make sure that all traces of life had departed. Then he bent down to examine his shoe.
‘So, you weren’t such a waste of money after all.’
‘Di, you were brilliant.’ He dribbled iced champagne between her shoulder blades and watched it trickle in little spurts down to the hollow of her back, laughing as she wriggled in anticipation. Then he leaned down to taste it. Champagne and sweat. Nothing tasted so good.
Another hour of distraction passed by before Corsa decided to venture upon the real point of the evening, hoping the champagne would make her a little too relaxed to see it coming. Her body lay wrapped in a cocoon of satin, satisfied for the moment, and when he tugged at the sheet to roll her towards him her arms fell open in surrender. He hoped it was a sign of things to come. ‘Had fun?’
‘Did you ever doubt it? You seriously think I’m the sort of girl who fakes my fun simply to flatter your wretched male ego?’
‘Scarcely. I only wish we could squeeze a little more fun out of it.’
‘Why, have I exhausted you already?’
‘I’m not talking about just this. I mean with the Herald and the consortium.’
‘Ah, your other little crime passionnel. I thought your story today about a mole on the executive committee of Greenpeace was a particularly splendid piece of foreplay. Most thoughtful of you. It’ll have them running around in circles for months.’ Her finger traced a sympathetic line around his nipple but he was not to be diverted.
‘We’re still playing at the moment. I’d love to start taking it seriously.’
‘We will, in time.’
‘But why wait, Di? Why not get on with it? Right away.’
‘How?’
‘Get the consortium into action. Don’t let’s hang around for those wretched politicians to finish scratching themselves. Buy into the Herald now.’
There was a rustle of sheets as she withdrew into her cocoon, considering. ‘It wouldn’t work,’ she said, her voice still as soft as silk.
‘Why not?’
‘All for one and one for all? I think not. To have the sustained impact you promised we need more than one newspaper, not just the Herald. We need the other titles. Collective firepower.’
‘But why not get started?’
‘We have. To be a fraction mercenary about it, you’re having to work very hard on our behalf with the Herald just to keep us at the starting line. Doesn’t cost us a penny.’
‘In your own words, that’s only foreplay.’
‘At which you are really very good, Freddy. But we can’t move to consummation until the Bill is signed and sealed and the other titles are shaken out of the tree. Until that time our little plan depends on politicians, hornless unicorns all. On their propensity for sudden elections. On their unique ability to disappoint. To screw things up.’
‘The Bill will go through, of course it will.’
‘And when it does, there we shall be, right behind you. Or, in my case perhaps, right beneath you. But until that time it’s all birds in bushes, and for the moment the only bird you have in your hand is me.’
He rolled on top of her, looking down, allowing the firm contours of his body to adjust to the softness of hers and make their own argument. ‘So let’s make a start. Buy me. Let me be your slave.’
‘Don’t rush the foreplay, Freddy.’ She placed a finger on his lips to still him, then began running the tip down slowly through the dark hair of his chest in the direction of his navel. ‘In fact, don’t rush anything.’
Damnation. It was always going to be a long shot but he’d had to try. He needed to create some breathing space. The bankers had been starting to catch up fast, to ask the questions he daren’t answer, which could only be answered by the consortium and its money. He could feel the breath of dragons down his neck. He was back where he had started.
The Bill or bust.
The music had a headbanging quality, thumping out its message with insistent phrasing and encouraging them all to shake and sweat and drive their bodies onward. Rivulets of perspiration cascaded down the purple temples of the Health Minister. His lips twisted encouragingly at his private secretary, who merely gritted her teeth. She wasn’t used to this. Maybe it would feel better next week.
Goodfellowe had never been to the House of Commons gym before. Buried in the basement of what used to be the police headquarters of Scotland Yard and now expropriated as an annexe to the Palace of Westminster, it was an emporium of effort fitted out in tasteful lime-green and had become a popular meeting place for the fashionably fit, like the Health Minister. Political minds were crowded with as much dirty linen as a laundry basket; it paid occasionally to wash it all out. And to prepare for the long nights of effort and distraction.
‘Lionel, I was looking for you. Your secretary told me you were here. Are you unwell?’
Lillicrap raised a flushed cheek. He was on the rowing machine and the video monitor in front of him showed he was just about to overhaul the Oxford eight somewhere near the Hammersmith Bridge. ‘Got you!’ he exclaimed in triumph as the machine began to bleep furiously.
Quickly, he switched it off.
‘But you haven’t finished,’ Goodfellowe pointed out, not entirely helpfully. ‘You’ve got half the Chiswick bend to row.’
‘Bugger off, Tom,’ Lillicrap replied, reaching for his towel. ‘I’ll not allow a middle-aged cynic to spoil my fun.’
‘Oh, fun’s the objective, is it? That might explain it, I suppose.’
‘All in a Whip’s work. Have to keep an eye on the place, make sure none of our merry men overdoes it and drops dead. You know what a caring bunch we are.’
‘Not to mention the inconvenience of stretchering a corpse through the voting lobby.’
‘Anyway, I wanted to lose a little weight. Get the old jowls slimmed down. Look better on television. Just in case.’ Lillicrap began to wipe down his damp shoulders, admiring the muscle tone, and smiled encouragingly at the passing figure of a female library assistant. ‘You should get yourself fit, Tom. Clean up your sex life.’
‘Dust it down, you mean. With a trowel.’
‘Action or impotence. That’s what my old man always told me.’
‘Then your father was a wise man. I agree with him.’
‘Oh?’ enquired Lillicrap, plugging his hand into the pulsometer to check his rate of recovery.
‘I’ve come to tell you that I have reached a decision. About the Standing Committee.’
Lillicrap’s pulsometer hesitated, then crept back up several notches.
‘The Bill deals with the size of ownership. But size isn’t everything, Lionel. I want the Committee to discuss the quality of ownership, too.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Lillicrap scowled. He was still sweating.
‘Many saints have chosen to own British newspapers, but I’m more concerned with the sinners.’
‘Like?’
‘You need a typed list? Try Maxwell.’
‘A one-off.’
‘If only he were. There are people we regard as being unfit to become company directors or British citizens, but they can own our newspapers. And manipulate our news and our politics. We hand over the most powerful weapons in the country to anyone who can borrow or steal enough money, and then we crawl cap in hand whenever we want their support. Shouldn’t work like that, Lionel. Mustn’t work like that any more.’
‘You do talk crap at times.’
‘We don’t even tax them. The Government puts tax on almost everything that moves – electricity, clothes, cars. But not newspapers. Why, Lionel? Are we so scared we won’t even make them pay their way?’
‘Spare me the moralizing, Tom, I’m a busy man. What is it you are telling me?’
‘That I’ve had enough. I’ve grown sick of watching innocent people being torn to pieces by newsmen hunting in rabid packs. They froth at the mouth about public interest when the only interest being served is their own. It’s all about money, not morality, but money alone shouldn’t decide who runs the media any more than it should decide who runs the country. The Bill goes nowhere near far enough. It’s not just a matter of who owns newspapers, let alone how many they own. It’s about accuracy. And privacy. And fairness. And protection for victims of the press. The whole package. Unless the Government allows these matters to be debated, as part of the Bill, I’m going to vote against it.’
Lillicrap turned on him. ‘Haven’t you made yourself enough of a pariah? The Bill’s already behind schedule. That would screw it up even more!’
‘I pray you are right.’
‘You can’t win, you know that.’ Lillicrap’s tone was sharp, unforgiving. ‘We’d get it back on the Floor of the House. Outvote you there.’
‘Maybe. But I’ll get my day in court.’
‘Before they bloody hang you. With every editor in Fleet Street condemning you and with Beryl pulling at the rope.’ (So, realized Goodfellowe, Lillicrap and Beryl had been in touch … ) ‘And it would be over my dead body as a Whip. My career would go down the pan for your spotty conscience. It would take our friendship with it, Tom.’ Anxiety was turning to anger.
Then how easily political friendships are swept away.’
‘I thought we had more than that,’ Lillicrap spat in contempt.
‘So did I,’ Goodfellowe replied, sadly.
‘Are you determined?’
‘I am.’
‘Even though Freddy Corsa has those photographs of you?’ Lillicrap, still perspiring, was growing ever more heated. He had squared up to Goodfellowe, fists clenched, looking as though he might hit him.
‘You know the photographs are entirely innocent.’
‘So you say, but Corsa could do immense harm by publishing them.’
‘Don’t you understand? That’s precisely the point I’m trying to make, Lionel. All the more reason to speak out.’
‘Tom, we shall have to ruin you.’
The Whip’s words swirled on a flood of emotion, along with the wreckage of their friendship. Goodfellowe left them there. He’d only come to tell Lillicrap of his intentions out of loyalty; it had been a waste of time. At the door he turned once more. Behind him, he saw Lillicrap standing in front of his metal locker. He was pounding it with his fist until it bent.
Sam let the cotton dressing gown slip from her shoulders and allowed the course director to show her how they wanted her to pose. ‘Just a quickie,’ he smiled, indicating that she should place one foot on the small stool and reach up with her hand, as though carrying an Olympic torch. It was a tiring pose, stretching her body and lifting her hands and breasts high. ‘Only five minutes,’ they promised, throwing themselves into their sketching with enthusiasm.
It was a warm early summer’s evening outside but it felt a little cooler than she had expected. A draught, almost. It tickled. She was glad of the heater nearby. She stood in the pool of light thrown by the overhead lamp like an actress or an operatic star, barely aware of the audience seated in the shadows around her but feeling the intensity of their concentration and appreciation. All eyes were on her and she was lost, relaxed in her own innermost thoughts, responding to the solitude and peace.
It was scarcely surprising, therefore, that none of them paid the slightest attention to the far end of the hall, which in any event was in deep shadow. It was the end of the hall which opened onto scrubland, overlooked by nothing, and it was here Oscar Kutzman had been busy. That afternoon, armed with no more than a glass cutter, he had waited until he was sure no one was around and deftly removed one of the small panes of glass, replacing it with plastic film. Later that evening, after the art class had gathered and the curtains had been drawn to guard against the prying eyes of the Boys’ Brigade meeting in the church next door, he had been able to remove the film and cautiously draw back an edge of the curtain to allow a full and uninterrupted view of the entire hall. And it was a calm evening outside; only the slightest draught.
That girl reporter had been right. He could see the lot from here, and they’d even pre-lit it for him. Not ideal conditions for photography, but he had worked in far worse.
They met at Goodfellowe’s favourite restaurant in Shaftesbury Avenue shortly after ten. He’d hoped that by keeping away from her, isolating himself from the charms he knew had such an effect on him, he might have been able to put his feelings for Elizabeth in perspective. No chance. They continued to torment him, along with all the other emotions over which he had lost control. He wanted not to want her, it would make life so much simpler. But as soon as she glided through the door, tall and elegant, and smiled for him, it started all over again.
They had much to catch up on – or, rather, she did, since Goodfellowe did most of the talking. He had become like an ancient knight sitting by the campfire on the eve of battle, doubts banished, full of nervous energy, keen to share, and like all Irish women she was trained to listen. And to pour. She sensed he needed calming, slowing, anaesthetizing against himself and his fire-eyed enthusiasms.
‘Isn’t it possible,’ she enquired after she had listened to his analysis, ‘that Corsa is publishi
ng these attacks on The Earth Firm and the rest simply to boost circulation, like any other newspaper?’
‘It’s more than that,’ Goodfellowe responded, trying to transfer a helping of fried seaweed to his plate and missing. ‘Not just maximum sales, but maximum damage. These stories could have been published at any time, but I think they were printed when they could do most harm.’
‘So why does Corsa loathe The Earth Firm? Or Wonderworld? Even the coal industry? What’s the connection?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Perhaps it’s simply a macho male thing. Too much testosterone. Screwing them simply because they’re there.’
‘You’ve been reading too many parliamentary thrillers.’
‘You think there’s logic mixed in with all the Corsa loathing?’
‘Maybe it’s not so much who he hates, but who he wants to help – apart from himself. The Earth Firm story was clearly designed to help the Government.’
‘But who was helped out by the others?’
‘That’s what I’ve been asking myself.’ He licked the sticky remnants of seaweed from his fingers. ‘Great brain food,’ he muttered appreciatively, while she refilled his glass. ‘But Government can’t be the common link. Not in the case of Wonderworld. Certainly not with the entire coal industry.’
‘So?’
He dug his chopsticks into a bowlful of noodles as though ransacking them in search of inspiration. ‘It’s power. But not political power. He doesn’t give a stuff about politicians. For him they’re just hired hands.’
‘It’s not politics. It’s not sex. What’s left?’
‘Money. That’s what matters to Corsa. It’s warfare all right and he sends his editors in like the Marines. But the target is commercial, not political.’
‘Yet how does Corsa gain commercially from attacking something like Wonderworld?’
‘Because whenever some unfortunate bastard gets staked out in the sun there’s another lurking in the shadows waiting to pick his pockets. Losers, and winners. And you can bet that whoever won from staking out The Earth Firm or Wonderworld or the entire coal industry is a good friend of Freddy Corsa’s.’