Read The Touch of Innocents Online
Authors: Michael Dobbs
The Touch of Innocents (35 page)
‘Forget about what you and your daughter have done?’
‘Yes. Unless you are willing to forget about your own daughter.’
‘You expect me to forget what you’ve done to God knows how many innocent children?’
‘The adoption nonsense was none of my doing. What I told you about Fauld is true. He’s finished, it’s over.’
‘Forget about Daniel?’ she whispered through clenched teeth. ‘Never!’
‘Look, you have two simple options. You can have your baby. Or you can have me. Revenge, or Bella. But not both. Simple as that. So what’s it to be?’
She stood dumbstruck. Madly her mind was trying to puncture the scenario he had conjured up, but every one of her arrows seemed to bounce off an impenetrable shell.
‘Look at your baby, Isadora. Look at her closely. You see, you really have no choice.’
No choice. No choice. The words burned into her brain as he sauntered over to the police commander and began gesticulating vehemently. They seared away truth as she was led back land-side beyond passport control, back to the world full of real people. But not Daniel. They befogged her mind and bewitched her emotions even as she stumbled through a brief period of police questioning, ably
prompted by Devereux, while she clung to Bella and cried.
They let her go. With a warning. Dismissed by these men as just another overwrought, unfathomable female.
And Devereux had smiled. She had so wanted to lash out, to disfigure his smirking face, to smash away the condescending sneer, but she could not do it without letting go of Bella. And she would not, would never, let go of Bella.
She had Bella and she had thought that was all she had wanted, but it was not enough. She could not forget what she knew, leave behind what she had seen, ignore the children who had been abused and who might go on being abused. She could not stop loving Daniel, even though she had only just started. She would never stop hating Devereux. And she raged at her own impotence, and felt ashamed.
No choice!
This time Devereux took no chances, not for one moment taking his eyes off her. He watched her all the way: onto the plane, out to the taxiway, up into the air. On her way home.
It was over. He’d won.
Izzy gone. Paulette, stunned and inwardly stirred by the realization of all that she had done, at last repentant and clinic-bound. Fauld, resigned and headed for obscurity, his silence secured by his guilt, his foul trade finished – for so long he had fooled even Devereux, one of the few misjudgements Devereux had made.
The police were puzzled about Daniel’s death – no dope in his system – but satisfied. After all, there was a drugs record as long as a perforated arm, and he died with a needle in his hand. Misadventure. No one to blame but himself. It might have seemed confused, a mess, this tangle involving a Cabinet Minister’s daughter, drug addicts and a demented mother, but who wanted to enquire too closely? Doubt the word of Devereux? Anyway, it cleared up the paperwork.
A charmed life, Devereux thought. An ability to surmount the tribulations that would destroy any ordinary man. A purpose.
And Bizzie had just called; the PM had finally resolved to retire – not now, not immediately, but definitely, in the summer.
His purpose seemed set to be fulfilled. And soon.
Life was good, thought Devereux. In fact, it was great.
She had stumbled through the hours as though in a dream, the anger tightening around her stomach like a band of steel, her senses paralysed, blinded by shame. Manipulated. Left no choice.
She had Bella, at least, safe, loving, well. But it was not enough.
No choice. It burned inside her, like acid.
If only she could be content simply being a mother. But it had never been enough, so she had played the game of men, and lost. Kicked around between Devereux and Joe and Grubb and all the rest of the boys’ brigade.
And even high above the clouds they were still rubbing insult into injury. That miserable little producer of hers –
ex
-producer of hers – was leering from the in-flight video, not even attempting to fill her job, not hard news about hard facts but some vacuous piece about celebrity gossip. Is that what it had all come to? Crap about the Prime Minister’s wife christening a cross-Channel locomotive named after herself? The boys playing at trains?
She had fought all her professional life for integrity, but now she knew it had been an utter waste of effort and tears. She felt her composure and resilience ebbing rapidly – damn it, she would not cry! – and began scrabbling in the overhead locker for the tissues in her bag. She couldn’t even do that properly; the bag fell to the floor where it lay, disembowelled, its contents strewn.
She sank to her knees in humiliation, hiding her face, burying her futility as she attempted to retrieve her few pathetic possessions.
‘The Bizzie Lizzie,’ the video intoned, revealing
the face of the Premier’s wife who waved and looked so proud.
And as the champagne broke across the locomotive’s bows, beneath the seat she found not only the tissues and hairbrush and other oddments but also a computer disk. Devereux’s diary. And the parts at last began to fit.
‘
Spent night with BL while PM off in Brussels. The fool. Being screwed on all fronts
…’
Bizzie Lizzie? Elizabeth Flood …? Only now did it make sense. Devereux had been bedding the boss’s wife! Not definitely, not absolutely for certain, but probably, and as soon as she got home she would make sure, damned sure, by reading the rest of the disk.
And then what? No publisher or editor would touch it. She couldn’t prove the contents of the diary were anything but an elaborate forgery, there are no fingerprints on a computer disk. These things could never see the light of day.
But perhaps they did not have to. All she had to do was to ensure that they fell into the right hands.
The Prime Minister’s hands. And with her contacts she could ensure that.
He wouldn’t have to know, for certain. Only suspect. Devereux wouldn’t need to be convicted in court, only in Flood’s mind. And the suspicions of a cuckolded husband ignite like sulphur on brushwood. In the diary there would be too many indiscretions, circumstances, confessions, dates, too many private and political details which could only have come from Devereux, for Flood to be left in any doubt.
It was said the PM was not long for this world, that he would soon jump or be pushed. Whichever, he would make sure as hell is hot that he took
Devereux with him. To have slept with the Prime Minister’s wife may not be the worst crime in politics, but to have bragged about it in a diary was a hanging offence. Devereux would be dismissed. Disgraced. Hanged. Very publicly.
She was crying openly now. Through her tears she could see in front of her the weapon with which she could destroy Devereux and all his works, without in any way involving Bella or herself. Destroy Devereux and
all
his works.
Which would include the Duster.
Even Joe.
And Joe’s custody case. Her chance to win back Benjy.
On her knees she began to laugh. To roar. To exult in her triumph.
She had a choice after all.
Writing encourages curiosity. I have been so fortunate in my own life that it would be too easy to grow narrow-minded, self-satisfied, all curiosity crushed, yet that would lead to nothing but autobiographical novels for which I suspect there would be an even smaller market than for my memoirs.
So I have always chosen to indulge my curiosity and include in my books groups of people against whom there is extreme discrimination – politicians, kings, homosexuals, prisoners of war. Until now, I have lacked the courage and certainly the experience to write about the largest group against whom there is widespread discrimination – mothers. Particularly working mothers.
As my various careers have flourished I have watched female colleagues being torn between maternal instinct and professional ambition, conscious of my own male advantage rather than their dilemma. Perhaps, with the help of this book and of many friends, I now understand that problem rather better – and the conflicting, often tormenting, emotions of which it is composed.
I owe an enormous debt of thanks to many people for their help. Most of them have shared deep confidences, either personal or professional, and do not wish to be directly acknowledged, but they know who they are and I hope they feel, when they have finished reading
The Touch of Innocents
, that their time and unselfish efforts have been well spent.
Therefore I shall restrict my specific acknowledgements to the two most important women in my life: my late mother, Eileen, and my wife, Amanda. The only truly wretched part of my life has been that I was unable to share more time with my mother; Amanda has been by far the best compensation. The two of them have been, and continue to be, an inspiration.
MJD
THE TOUCH OF INNOCENTS
Michael Dobbs was at Mrs Thatcher’s side as she took her first step into Downing Street as Prime Minister, and was a key aide to John Major when he was voted out. In between times he was bombed in Brighton, banished from Chequers and blamed for failing to secure a Blair-Major television debate. He is now one of the country’s leading political commentators.
‘A new and even nastier political villain … wickedly captivating.’
Daily Express
‘I ended up sitting up till the early hours, and for the next few days scenes and people kept going around in my head. You can’t ask for more.’
JEREMY PAXMAN
‘A characteristic Dobbs tale, with the authentic stink of corruption.
The Touch of Innocents
is pure entertainment.’
Daily Telegraph
‘Dobbs has done it again … he’s created an MP of breathtaking immorality.’
Today
The Edge of Madness
Churchill’s Hour
Churchill’s Triumph
Never Surrender
The Lord’s Day
First Lady
Winston’s War
Whispers of Betrayal
The Buddha of Brewer Street
Goodfellowe MP
The Final Cut
To Play the King
Last Man to Die
Wall Games
House of Cards
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
Harper
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This edition 2008
First published in Great Britain by
HarperCollins
Publishers
1994
Copyright © Michael Dobbs 1994
Michael Dobbs asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
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