Goodfellowe MP (29 page)

‘I can only be grateful I haven’t joined the rush.’

‘Don’t stand in the way of the crowd, Tom. You’ll only get trampled.’

A silence ensued. Corsa stared out across the reaches of the Thames as though he had lost all interest in the discussion, while Goodfellowe struggled to comprehend all the many ways in which Corsa seemed to have rustled his arguments and tied his options in knots. Eventually Corsa turned.

‘What are you going to do?’

Goodfellowe didn’t know. He had been searching his mind for the fault line in Corsa’s defences, but had found none. ‘You’ll win in the end, of course. Even if I found some excuse for kicking the Bill out now, it would only come back next session. The best I can do is to delay, be an inconvenience.’

The smile flickered back to Corsa’s face. That irritated Goodfellowe. Irritated him to hell.

‘But I think I shall try to keep my principles a little longer.’

‘Meaning?’

‘By opposing the Bill. In Committee. On the Floor of the House.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘On the grounds that if you want it, I’m against it.’

For the first time during their encounter Corsa’s lips appeared to lose a little of their flexibility. They narrowed, became stuck. ‘That would be foolish. And utterly pointless.’

‘It’s all I have. You’ve left me with no other choice.’

‘You have every choice. To survive. To prosper even. Or to destroy yourself. I never wanted this quarrel, you picked it.’

‘Nevertheless we have a quarrel. And unlike some of my colleagues, you can’t buy me.’

‘Oh, but I believe I can.’ Even the pretence of humour had disappeared. ‘Wait,’ he instructed.

Goodfellowe watched as Corsa returned inside the penthouse to stand in front of a Howard Hodgkin hanging in the centre of one wall. The picture swung back on hinges to reveal a wall safe from which Corsa removed a handful of slim folders. He flicked through them, extracted one, replaced the rest, and returned.

‘Every principle has its price,’ he muttered, handing the folder across.

Goodfellowe opened it. Inside was a series of photographs, some in colour, most in black and white, of a young girl posing unashamedly for the camera, lifting her breasts, stretching her long legs until the muscles stood taut, relaxing full length on the floor, one leg gently crooked to provide an avenue for the eye leading to her naked navel. It was Sam.

‘She’s a beautiful girl. And very popular,’ Corsa continued. ‘Underneath the photographs you’ll find
the transcripts of interviews with three local boys who have been out with her. They have one thing in common. They’ve all screwed your daughter. They all claim she’s exceptionally – how can I put it? – wholehearted in her approach. One also says he got her to smoke a little dope, but that was only once.’

‘Lies! All disgusting lies!’ Goodfellowe all but choked on the words.

‘Perhaps. We shall see. Although some of it was corroborated by the doorman at the night-club. Red Hot Dutch, I think it’s called.’

‘You’re not going to print this filth?’

‘If I have to. If you make me.’

‘You can’t print it. This violates every code, every agreement …’

‘We’d find a way. Just as we did this morning.’

‘You want to buy me off. With this?’ Goodfellowe waved the folder defiantly. But as his eyes caught the photographs of Sam once more, his strength of purpose failed him. He snapped the folder shut and buried his head in it.

‘Not to buy you off, Tom, merely to persuade you of my good intentions.’ Corsa took a pace forward, drew closer. ‘I offered you the hand of friendship, I even loaned you money. You have shown in return nothing but enmity. You have brought everything on yourself. Your reputation is in shreds, your finances are a shambles, your career probably at an end, your family falling apart, and yet – and yet it can still all be put right, every bit of it. If you, even at this late stage, would become my friend. Stop opposing me.’

‘You mean stop opposing the Bill.’ Goodfellowe’s head was up again.

‘It’s what your Government wants. It’s why you were put on the Committee in the first place. Nothing more. Come with us all, for friendship. And in return you may have the dossier and the original photographs.’ It all sounded so reasonable, so simple. The easy way out.

Goodfellowe clutched the folder to his chest as if he would never give it up. ‘I know I can only be a pinprick in your plans. But I’m curious. Why does it bother you so much that I might delay the Bill, even for a few months? Why is it so damned important to you?’

‘Business hates uncertainty,’ Corsa replied. ‘No one will gain by delaying reforms which even you agree are inevitable.’

‘But it’s more than that, it must be. You need this Bill, now. You need it in a hurry. Or else why go to these lengths?’ He banged his fist upon the folder. ‘It matters, doesn’t it, the delay? Very much. And the only thing that matters to you is money. A lot of money. Which means …’ He rubbed his hand across his scalp as if to encourage the blood supply to the brain. ‘It’s the consortium. You need their money. For which you need the Bill.’ The pieces were beginning finally to fall into place.

‘Let me put it this way. I would welcome your co-operation.’

‘And if I don’t co-operate?’

‘Then, with regret but without a moment’s hesitation, I will ruin your daughter’s reputation. Utterly. Is that what you want on your conscience?’

Goodfellowe could find no answer. As he struggled with his thoughts a silence ensued during which the tension seemed to evaporate from Corsa’s body. The shoulders came down, the fingers unclenched, the jaw relaxed. Only now with its disappearance did Goodfellowe realize how tense Corsa, too, had been. How much it all mattered to him.

‘Strange,’ Corsa began, ‘I hadn’t understood before now how much alike we are. Oh, yes,’ – he cut short Goodfellowe’s protest – ‘you and your bike and me in my limousine. We both seem to spend our lives driving the wrong way up the street. We find the challenge irresistible. A matter of our natures, perhaps. And I guess we both have something to prove.’

‘To whom?’

‘Mostly to ourselves, I suspect. Who else matters? After all, neither of us gives a damn about the good and the great, our so-called superiors. I see them bend their knees too much, to me. You see it, too. Submissiveness and weakness all wrapped up behind their old-boy arrogance. That’s something neither you nor I suffers from, Tom. We should be on the same side. Allies. Even friends. I think that’s why I let you up here. Why you disturb me so much.’

Goodfellowe bridled. Corsa had tried flattery, bribery, blackmail – was friendship simply another ploy in their game? But something in him said that Corsa’s confession was genuine. ‘There’s a difference between us, Freddy. You seek to smash the system, take it over for yourself. I prefer to try to make the system work.’

‘It doesn’t. It won’t.’

‘There you may be right. But once you and your headline writers have knocked over everything that’s good and the world around us is laid flat, where are people going to find shelter from the storm? In bingo halls and brothels? Because that’s all you’d leave us with as you sailed away in your luxury yacht.’

‘You’d have me dragged off in chains.’

‘For what you have tried to do to me, and so many others? Yes.’

‘I’d prefer to be friends, Tom, truly I would. But you know I’ll use the material about Sam if I have to.’

‘I know you will,’ Goodfellowe whispered.

‘Just as I know you’ll never give me cause to. That’s the trouble, you see, with a conscience.’

Lillicrap strode along the Committee Corridor with steps full of purpose in the direction of Committee Room 10. These were the dog days of July and everyone was impatient for the long summer recess that lay ahead. The temperature had risen steadily during the last week, leaving the atmosphere inside this part of the Palace with an unmistakable masculine ripeness, but it would soon be over, they would all be gone. So long as he could get this wretched Bill out of the way.

‘Are you going to make us sit till all hours, Tom, or shall we get it over with and enjoy a Pimm’s on the Terrace?’ The Whip’s greeting to Goodfellowe outside the Committee Room door was genuine enough and he had no reason to expect the response he got. With no warning other than a guttural cry
of rage, Goodfellowe had grabbed a handful of his shirt and thrust him fully across the corridor. Lillicrap hit the panelled wall with an impact that rattled his bones.

‘Maggot!’ Goodfellowe snarled, lifting the other man off the ground until he started to choke. ‘You told Corsa about the adoption. It could only have been you.’

‘Oi, steady on!’ the policeman on duty in the Committee Corridor cried, setting off to quell the disturbance, only to be confused to discover that those locked in confrontation were two Honourable Members. Lillicrap waved him away.

‘I didn’t mean to, Tom,’ he struggled, half-choking, astonished that Goodfellowe had the strength to continue holding him six inches off the floor. ‘Let me down. Please.’

But Goodfellowe wouldn’t, shaking him like a doll. There was an extraordinary look in Goodfellowe’s eye, like a distant sun exploding. ‘You ruined my family. I trusted you. As a friend.’

‘For pity’s sake,’ Lillicrap cried hoarsely. His tie was slipping, choking him, his face had begun to ripen like a plum. At last Goodfellowe relented and Lillicrap all but fell to the floor, struggling for breath.

‘Tom, I never meant it, you must believe me. I would never do that, no matter how desperate I was. You have to believe me, as a friend.’

‘That friendship is dead. You sold it to Corsa.’

‘An accident,’ Lillicrap panted. ‘He tricked me. Truthfully. You know he can be evil. Tell me what I can do to make amends.’ Struggling desperately to
control his breathing, he began dusting himself down, rearranging his rumpled collar.

Then the light in Goodfellowe’s eyes burned out and died, his energies gone. ‘There’s nothing you can do. The damage is done.’ Without another word he turned for the Committee Room.

Lillicrap hurried after him, anxious lest further mayhem break out in the Committee itself, but Goodfellowe was already seated, head in hands, motionless. The Committee Room was sweltering in the morning sun that burned through the towering window blinds. Overhead the ceiling fans were turning despairingly. Most Members were already in shirtsleeves, their backs sticking to the leather chairs, trying to cool themselves from the water bottles and horrid plastic cups that had been laid out along the tables. On the public seats the designer jackets were coming off, the cool brows of the lobbyists beginning to burn, the briefing papers turning limp in their hands. But Goodfellowe appeared to be unaware of it all. He remained jacketed and oblivious, raising no objection, pursuing no argument, offering not a word all through the proceedings. Then a division was called. Betty Ewing was pressing another amendment and insisting on a vote. After all, with Goodfellowe’s agreed support she would win.

‘Division!’ the Chairman commanded languidly, perspiration soaking into his collar, and the wheels of democracy started to turn. When the doors had been locked, the Clerk began calling out the roll.

‘Mrs Ewing?’

‘Aye!’

‘Mrs Fagin?’

‘Aye!’

‘Mr Gedling?’

‘No!’

‘Mr Goodfellowe?’ A long silence. They all turned towards Goodfellowe, head still buried in his hands, as though kneeling before a headsman’s axe. ‘Mr Goodfellowe, are you in favour of the amendment?’ the Clerk requested, more loudly.

Goodfellowe struggled to lift his head as though the effort drained his last reserves of energy. The face was set rigid, like a mask, the eyes rimmed with red, unseeing. Big Ben began striking the hour, muffled in the fetid air like a funeral bell.

‘Mr Goodfellowe?’

The lips moved but no sound emerged for some moments, and then only in a whisper. ‘No …’ His head sank back down, but not so quickly that he failed to see the look of abject contempt thrown towards him by Betty Ewing.

She found Goodfellowe’s office wrapped in darkness. All was silent. She was about to retreat when, in the shadows, something stirred.

‘Whoever it is, go away,’ Goodfellowe said simply. ‘It’s been one hell of a day and I don’t wish to be disturbed.’

The figure remained silhouetted against the light.

‘If that’s difficult to understand, let me put it in plain English. Bugger off.’

Still she didn’t move.

‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ he demanded in rising irritation.

‘Only me.’

A pause. ‘Sam?’

‘I came to London. I thought we should talk.’ Hesitantly she stepped a pace into the room, as though fearing the need to make a rapid escape. ‘We never seem to be able to talk, do we? Not about important things. Like adoption.’

‘Sam, I …’ He rose but her body language insisted he keep his distance. He slumped back into the chair. He shook his head, bereft of defences. ‘I am so sorry, Sam. Your adoption was meant to be a thing of joy, not pain. The number of times I tried to tell you, somehow it never seemed quite the right moment. It was always something for tomorrow. And these last couple of years, you and I, we seemed to be fighting all the time. I guess I was frightened of what might happen if you learnt I wasn’t your natural father.’