Happy Days (31 page)

‘The answer’s no,’ he said.

‘Really?’ She didn’t hide her disappointment. ‘Am I allowed to ask why?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s none of your business. Or Mark’s.’

She nodded, then reached for her phone and slipped it into
her bag. There were moments when he couldn’t hide the truth from her, and this was one of them

‘You’ve had a better offer, haven’t you?’ She kissed him and then stood up to leave. ‘Good luck, my love. Don’t forget me, eh?’

The message from Marie was waiting for Mackenzie when he got back to the hotel. His wife needed to talk to him urgently. Please ring.

Bazza sank behind his desk and briefly reviewed the pile of other stuff that had come in. He made a couple of calls on issues that couldn’t wait, checked in with Leo Kinder and then turned his attention once again to Marie.

She’d been trying to contact him all afternoon. His phone had been on divert throughout the bingo session but she’d sent two texts, both of them terse. The second one left little room for negotiation.
Just pick up the phone 4 Gd’s sake
.

Bazza kept a photo of Marie on his desk. In her late forties she was still a handsome woman, blonde, leggy, gym-fit, and when friends and business associates told him he was the luckiest guy in the world he knew they were right. Not because Marie had kept her looks but because she was the real strength in the marriage, the family’s centre of gravity around whom everyone else revolved. Bazza’s orbit had been the giddiest, wild excursions into deepest space, but he’d always come back to her. Not just because she was sexy and popular and all the other stuff, but because she made him feel good. She was class. She cared about him. Without Marie there was nothing.

With some reluctance, he lifted the phone. He knew she wouldn’t rant at him. That wasn’t her style. But he braced himself for a bollocking all the more effective for being so reasonable and low-key.

‘Ma? It’s me.’

He made his excuses, said he was sorry for not getting back,
explained how busy he was. He was about to tell her about this evening’s campaigning schedule when she cut in.

‘We need to talk,’ she said. ‘All of us.’

‘Have you signed the bank thing?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve just told you. We need to talk. Stu’s coming over this evening with Ezzie. We have to straighten things out, Baz. We can’t go on like this.’

‘Tonight’s impossible. I’m up at Mountbatten for a meeting at seven. Then there’s—’

‘Cancel it. The kids are coming over at half seven. OK?’

She put the phone down.

The Mountbatten Centre, in Kinder’s phrase, was the key to Pompey’s heart. The complex of sports facilities lay on the city’s western shore beside Tipner Lake. The recent addition of a multi-million-pound Olympic-size swimming pool offered a world-class launch pad for young local swimmers, and in a city as sports mad as this one, Mackenzie knew it deserved lots of electoral attention.

He and Leo Kinder drove up together. The Secretary of the Boxing Club was waiting in reception. Upstairs, in the café, he introduced Bazza to a couple of star prospects who were keen to shake his hand, and the candidate happily posed for a couple of phone shots to squirt off to their mates. Afterwards, with the Secretary, they got down to business. The Boxing Club was planning a big tournament for the autumn. Mackenzie confirmed that he’d be happy to chuck in a bit of sponsorship, though he wasn’t yet able to go firm on a definite figure. When the Secretary enquired whether he’d be prepared to present the trophies on the night, Mackenzie beamed. My pleasure, he said.

A glance at Kinder prompted an idea for a poster. Kinder had roughed it out earlier in the War Room. He wanted to
come with a photographer to the club’s Friday night training session. They’d choose one of the younger lads and take some action shots to feature on a poster for the closing week of the campaign. Kinder showed the Secretary the strapline:
Pompey First … striking a blow for city pride
. The Secretary was impressed. Like Mackenzie, he was Copnor born and bred.

‘On the fucking nose,’ he said. ‘Brilliant.’

With Kinder en route back to the hotel, Mackenzie hijacked a girl from the Mountbatten management team and did an impromptu walkabout, visiting the cycle track, the squash courts and the weights room, dispensing cheerful waves and Pompey wisecracks. In the sports hall his entrance brought a netball game to a halt. This was a face from the local TV news. When the ball came Mackenzie’s way he made four attempts on the basket and missed every time. Being a short-arse, he said, was sometimes a pain in the bum. The women loved him, and even his escort – an ultra-cool nineteen-year-old from Baffins Pond – was impressed.

‘You’re like that Prince Charles,’ she said, ‘but tastier.’

Mackenzie’s last call was the fitness suite. At this time in the evening, once the after-work crowd had left, it was nearly deserted. A couple of guys in the corner were going head to head on the rowing machines, and an older woman in a scarlet leotard was on the running machine, her eyes closed, her lips moving to whatever was playing on her MP3. Mackenzie spared her no more than a glance, then took a second look. Gill Reynolds.

He walked over. For someone her age, maybe early forties, she was in excellent nick: sleek legs, neat arse, flat stomach. Mackenzie reached for the controls and wound the speed down. Gill frowned and slowed her pace. Then the machine came to a complete halt and she opened her eyes.

‘Awesome.’ Mackenzie threw her a towel. ‘Drink?’

The bar was upstairs. Mackenzie drank a bottle of Becks
while Gill showered. When she finally turned up, she settled for a spritzer.

‘You look knackered,’ she said.

‘I am. Totally wrecked.’

‘You should try some of this.’

‘That’s a woman’s drink.’

‘I meant exercise.’

‘Really? You think I’m sat on my arse all day? Jesus …’ He called for another Becks, no glass.

They talked about the campaign. Gill, who’d already penned a long feature piece for the
News
some months ago, was fascinated by the way all the schemes and dreams were now playing out. The election, at long last, was upon them. The public could be unforgiving. Mistakes would begin to matter.

‘Too right.’ Mackenzie took a suck at the Becks. ‘So are you still shagging Andy?’

Gill laughed. After what she’d heard about Mackenzie, nothing came as a surprise.

‘I thought we were talking about
Pompey First
?’

‘Well? Are you?’

‘No. Not right now.’

‘Heartbroken?’

‘I miss him, yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Is that a serious question?’

‘Of course it fucking is.’

‘Then I’ll give you a serious answer. That guy was the fuck of my life.’

‘Was?’

‘I dunno –’ she reached for her glass ‘– but probably yes.’

Mackenzie took his time digesting the news. He could think of lots of nice things to say about Andy Makins but this wasn’t one of them.

‘Surprised?’ Gill was watching him carefully.

‘Yeah. Tell you the truth, I’d never have thought he had it in him.’

‘But he does, Baz. In spades.’

‘Great.’ Mackenzie lifted his bottle in salute. ‘Here’s to Andy.’

Gill ignored the toast. She wanted to know whether Bazza was keeping a diary.

‘Why?’

‘Because we might be interested.’

She explained about her editor on the
News
. The special supplement, in her view, would offer a post-election chance to draw breath, part the curtains and show the public how the campaign had
really
worked.

‘You really think I’ve got time to keep a fucking diary?’ Mackenzie liked the bit about parting the curtains.

‘Probably not.’

‘Then who does the grafting?’

‘Me.’ She smiled at him. ‘We’d have to touch base pretty regularly, probably every day. You give me five minutes of your precious time and I can sort the rest.’

‘I bet you can.’ Mackenzie loved her fingernails. The way she shaped and varnished them reminded him of Misty. ‘So do I get time to have a think? Make a decision?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t.’

‘Then the answer’s yes.’ He tipped the bottle again. ‘Game on?’

It was nearly ten by the time Mackenzie finally got home. He’d made a detour to the hotel, collecting his schedule for tomorrow’s appearances, which seemed to include a brief speech at a dog-walking class in the depths of Buckland. Buckland was inner-city Pompey, the real thing, and when he asked Kinder what he was supposed to say, Kinder rolled his eyes. The kids were worse than the dogs, he said, so watch your back. Mackenzie laughed, heading out of the hotel’s front entrance.
Makins happened to be leaving as well, and Mackenzie paused for a moment beside the Bentley, wondering whether he ought to offer the boy a lift, but then decided against it. The kid had enough going for him. He could fucking walk.

A two-minute drive took him to Sandown Road. Mackenzie let himself in and headed for the kitchen. The moment he opened the door, he knew he’d made a big mistake. He should, after all, have binned all the nonsense up at the Mountbatten.

Stu Norcliffe, his son-in-law, was asleep, his bulk filling the tiny two-seat sofa. Ezzie was perched on a stool, watching something inane on the big plasma. Of Marie, ominously, there was no sign.

‘She’s gone to bed, Dad. You ought to wake her.’

Mackenzie went upstairs. There were a couple of clean sheets neatly folded on the landing outside one of the spare bedrooms. He stared at them for a moment, then walked into the master bedroom. He could hear the splash of water from the en-suite. Marie was washing her hair, oblivious to his presence. He watched her for a moment or two. Beautiful.

‘It’s me, Ma. Got held up.’

Marie turned the shower off and began to dry her hair. She told him to go downstairs and get Ezzie to put the kettle on. She’d join them in a minute.

‘I don’t want tea.’

She shot him a look, stepped very close, lifted her head, wrinkled her nose.

‘You’ve been drinking. Great.’

‘Big deal.’ He asked her about the sheets in the hall.

‘They’re for you. There’s a duvet on the bed already and spare blankets in the wardrobe. Help yourself.’

‘Thanks. I will.’

Downstairs, Mackenzie roused Stu. He had a bottle of decent malt in one hand and a couple of glasses in the other. Stu, still groggy, said yes to the malt. Ezzie was still watching the telly.

Marie appeared in her dressing gown. She wasted no time
on small talk. She’d spent most of the day on the phone to the accountant. This was a call, she said, that she should have made months ago. Probably years ago. Even now, even after God knows how long on the phone, she’d no idea where the money had gone.

‘Hard times, love. There was a banking crisis. You probably heard.’

‘But there’s nothing left, Baz. Spain? France? Montenegro? Dubai? It’s all gone, it’s all mortgaged. And for why? Because you couldn’t stop buying, because you had to get bigger and bigger, because you’re like a kid, because you’re so bloody
greedy
and so fucking
stupid
you had to have more all the time.’

‘More is good.’

‘More is the kiss of death, Baz. More is what’s got us into this mess. You can’t just keep building and building and you know why? Because in the end the thing will just fall over. Are you with me, Baz? Do you understand that?’

Mackenzie shrugged. The first malt had gone down rather nicely. He helped himself to another and offered the bottle to Stu. Stu shook his head.

‘She’s right, Baz,’ he said. ‘I’ve gone over the figures. I’d no idea it was so bad.’

‘This is short-term, mush. Things change all the time. A couple of months and we’re in the clear.’

‘You think so?’

‘Definitely.’

‘So how does that work?’

‘It’s a question of bottle, Stu. Some people have it and some don’t.’

Mackenzie seemed to think this settled the argument. Ezzie had other ideas.

‘Mum says our houses are on the line.’

‘Mum’s wrong. I’ve got that sorted.’

‘Yeah?’

Mackenzie nodded. He’d negotiated a bridging loan only this morning. Thanks to Marie it would take longer than he’d like to lay hands on the cash, but the deal was done and there wouldn’t be a problem.

‘So who’s this guy Cesar?’ Marie again.

‘A business associate. A friend of mine.’

‘What kind of business?’

‘Home entertainment. He also rents vans.’

‘And you think a hundred thousand will be enough?’

‘Ample. Like I say, it’s short-term, a month tops.’

‘And after that?’

‘After that –’ Mackenzie smothered a yawn ‘– you can all come up to Westminster and I’ll show you around.’

Marie closed her eyes and squeezed them very hard. Lately she’d begun to suspect that her husband was off his head. This was the clincher.

‘You’re mad, Baz,’ she said quietly. ‘I could get you sectioned.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I mean it. This whole political thing, you know what it is?’

‘Tell me.’

‘It’s a wank, Dad.’ This from Ezzie. ‘The whole thing’s a wank. Even Stu thinks so.’

‘Stu?’ A hint of something dangerous had crept into Mackenzie’s voice. The question was a challenge, a test.

‘I think you’re overstretched, Baz. Maybe
Pompey First
wasn’t such a clever move.’

‘You’re a London cunt, mush. You wouldn’t know the first thing about Pompey.’

‘Yeah, but even so—’

‘Even so, bollocks. You listen to me, son. There are some people in this town who know a thing or two about loyalty, about sticking with something through thick and thin, about getting a fair deal for the little guys that get screwed by the likes of you, and you know what? I’m one of them. That’s
where
Pompey First
comes from. That’s why I get up in the morning. That’s why I’ve just spent most of my fucking evening playing Mr Nicey-Nicey to a bunch of netball witches over in the Mountbatten who might, just might, give me their precious fucking vote. That’s commitment, son. That’s the kind of graft that built this city. Not that anyone ever fucking listens.’