Goodfellowe MP (32 page)

The House expelled its breath in a moment of most extraordinary passion.

‘It is possible, Madam Speaker, that we shall never be able to bring these matters to court. But in the light of what I have revealed, I must ask the House not to approve this Bill today. It should wait until the next parliamentary session for calmer and, dare I say it, less corruptible consideration. The inconveniences of delaying a year are far outweighed by the penalties of proceeding. The public, and I hope the House, will demand a pause for thought. I ask, through you Madam Speaker, that this Bill be buried.’

Exhausted, feeling spent, he resumed his seat. He could feel the sweat trickling down the small of his back. Had he been a smoker he would have reached for a cigarette.

Cautiously the House came back to life, moving its limbs slowly, stretching, saddened that it was over, knowing this had been an experience that was
unlikely to be repeated for a very long time. Even Madam Speaker spoke with a sigh.

‘That was the most extraordinary Point of Order I think I shall ever witness. In light of what has been said, may I ask the Minister what his intentions are?’

The Government Front Bench looked bemused. Both Minister and Prime Minister were looking pale, drawn, like witnesses of some awful assault, but now they set to conferring, with Lillicrap’s head nodding in a sustained fashion. They were all agreed. Moments later the Prime Minister was pushing his reluctant colleague forward towards the Dispatch Box.

‘In light of the very serious allegations made by my Honourable Friend, the Member for Marshwood,’ the Minister began, ‘I believe we will need to consider afresh how best to proceed, indeed whether we should proceed, with the Bill at this time.’

There were formalities to pursue, other Cabinet colleagues to consult, but the exercise was academic. The Prime Minister was already shaking his head in surrender.

‘With your permission, Madam Speaker, I beg to move that the House do now adjourn.’

They had no choice. They could not continue. The debate was over. The Bill was dead.

And so was Corsa. The bankers were already hammering at his door, the Fraud Squad would not be far behind. Goodfellowe glanced up into the gallery. Diane Burston had gone, and with her the support of the consortium. Corsa sat on his own, abandoned. He was looking directly at Goodfellowe. Their eyes
met and fixed. Not even Corsa was able to muster a smile, but with what Goodfellowe later considered to be surprising grace, the pressman began silently to applaud.

A few minutes later as he left the Chamber, Goodfellowe noticed for the first time that his shoes were no longer painful. How things change, he reflected. The House was still in turmoil and he thrust aside the outstretched arms and the questions, too exhausted to respond, but as he passed behind the Speaker’s Chair he was grabbed by Lillicrap who hustled him into the toilet at the back of the voting lobby. The Whip stood with his back to the door, his arms spread, barring entrance to anyone else.

‘What do we do now?’ Lillicrap all but pleaded.

‘Get our stories straight. You know most of the details anyway. We’ll meet tomorrow. Breakfast. At the Ritz. Your treat.’

‘But Corsa will kill me!’

‘Only by killing himself, and I doubt if he’ll bother. I’ll bet there are far too many alligators circling in his swamp for him to be concerned with small fry.’

‘You saved me,’ Lillicrap whispered gratefully.

‘But the Chief Whip won’t. He’ll skin you alive because he thinks you’ve been holding out on him. Keeping secrets. You’ll be out of a job. It’s still better than you deserve.’

Lillicrap was all but sobbing. ‘I’ll be back. After the election. Don’t you worry.’ With that he rushed to the basin to bathe his face and burning eyes.

Goodfellowe walked away, driven by saddening
memories of friendships past mixed with a nausea of cold contempt. His strides were confident now, full of renewed purpose as he passed along the panelled corridors, feeling once again as though he belonged, that he was part of it all. Then he pulled himself up sharply. No, that wouldn’t do, slipping back into the old ways. Getting sucked dry by ambition and disappointment. He had become something of an outsider, a pain in the collective butt, and he rather enjoyed it. Perhaps it was better that way.

Sam and Mickey were waiting for him in his office. They had watched the proceedings on the closed-circuit monitor.

‘As a reception committee this is somewhat … small. But very welcome.’ He held his arms out wide and Mickey reached up to embrace him. Sam kept her distance, smiling reproachfully, deliberately coy.

‘Daddy, weren’t you telling a few lies in there about poor Mr Lillicrap? What sort of example is that to a young girl?’

‘A father never lies. Let us say I was merely redistributing the truth. A little unevenly, perhaps. But very fairly.’

‘You took a hell of a risk,’ Mickey interjected. ‘What if he had denied it?’

‘Offer a drowning man your hand and he’ll accept, even if it costs him a kick in the teeth as you drag him out. It was either that or Lionel knew I would push him under. It concentrated his loyalties wonderfully. Anyway, I had no choice. Without him I could prove nothing against Corsa directly, my word against his.’

‘There’ll be one almighty stink.’

‘An inquiry, no doubt, but it’s like a game of blind man’s buff. No one will be sure who they’ll bump into. So interest will fade in the run-up to an election, they’ll accept my word but say that firm evidence is lacking. They will issue a ringing call for sobriety and motherhood and insist on due care in accepting money from the media, then forget it while they all go poaching for editorial support and wondering why Freddy Corsa has disappeared from the scene.’

‘A measure of justice, at least,’ Sam suggested.

‘Perhaps. But I can’t help thinking of Jya-Yu. I feel I’ve let her down so badly, dragging her onto the front pages. I’ve never been able to get her on the phone, to apologize. And her uncle was furious. He would barely talk to me.’

Mickey began to laugh, clapping her hands. ‘Wrong again, Goodfellowe. She returned your call this morning. She escaped from it all in Hong Kong but now she’s back and she’s fine. So is her uncle. He’s not angry. He couldn’t speak because he was rushed off his feet. Since the
Herald
article was printed he’s been fighting off the crowds. Apparently they all think you’re on tiger bone.’

‘I shall recommend it for the entire Cabinet.’

‘But what about you, Daddy? Do you think they’ll be grateful? Make you a Minister again?’

He shook his head. ‘Gratitude isn’t one of the great foundations of politics. Anyway, I don’t want that any more. I may be a mere backbencher, but I think I’ve shown there’s some fun to be had. I don’t want
to be Prime Minister. And the press would never allow it.’

‘But why, Daddy?’

‘Because my name is far too long for headline writers. Eleven letters. Goes on forever. I’d have the longest Prime Ministerial name since … since Neville Bloody Chamberlain, and a fine mess he got us into.’

Sam looked puzzled, greatly concerned, until he burst into laughter.

‘You’re impossible!’ she shouted, and at last she was in his arms.

‘Thanks for caring. But truly I want other things. I want a life. I want you, Sam.’

Her hug was enormous. ‘And I want to celebrate,’ she exclaimed. ‘Can we?’

‘Let’s all three of us go out to dinner tonight,’ he suggested.

‘Anywhere special?’

‘Perhaps.’ He paused, as if it were the most difficult decision of his day. ‘Mickey, at the risk of doing too much damage to your manicure, pick up the telephone and give The Kremlin a call. Ask if they will accept a booking. In the name of Goodfellowe.’