Whispers of Betrayal

‘Then what about the unadulterated pleasure of revenge? That’d be enough for some.’

Amadeus pushed aside his glass of wine, which had scarcely been touched. It was as though he were making room on the table cloth in front of him for a plan of battle. ‘I think we need more than that. Much more. We need to move the Government. To change their mind.’ Gently, almost tenderly, he smoothed out the creases in the linen. ‘Or have it changed for them.’

‘What, bloody revolution?’

‘No, not revolution. Perhaps more along the lines of a little encouragement. A gentle prod in the right direction. I think they need reminding that the world can still be full of misfortune.’

‘Tell us ’bout it,’ Payne muttered, heavy tongued, as he refilled his own glass.

‘That’s why I invited you all here for dinner. To see whether any of you might be interested in … a matter of honour.’ He returned to the phrase once again, like a call to arms. Or an alibi, perhaps.

He gazed around the table. All three of his guests returned his stare, even Payne, through eyes that were turning to glass.

‘It would require a little risk. And perhaps more than a little time. Here in London, Mary,’ he added, addressing her directly.

‘Not a problem. I’m not going back to Exmoor.’ Her words startled her. The words were entirely unexpected; she hadn’t known until this moment. Yet it seemed so obvious.

‘But what is it that four of us can do?’ McKenzie pressed.

‘Look at yourselves. All of you specialists. The finest the British Army can produce. Communications. Reconnaissance. Munitions. One lunatic Paratrooper. Expertise and madness – the sort of talents that ought to scare the hell out of anyone with a little imagination. And what could we do?’ He looked slowly around the table, staring once more into their eyes, testing them. ‘Why, practically anything we damn well wanted!’

He began to beat his fists upon the table, as though beating a drum, until the cutlery rattled and the glasses sang. And, one by one, the others joined him, a war party, until the noise became so loud that it echoed around the large dining hall.

The waiter turned and slowly shook his head. He might have known it. Ah, Colonel Amadeus. Bit of a mad bugger, that one. Or so he’d heard.

Goodfellowe’s pager stirred. He uttered something rude and not at all profound. The wretched thing made him feel like a criminal, allowed to roam only on condition that he was electronically tagged. For tuppence he’d have thrown the thing in the Thames, but for ambition he now kept it with him, and switched on.

The small screen lit up and began to flash a sickly green.

‘UNLESS YOUR AREA WHIP ADVISES YOU OTHERWISE YOU ARE NOW ON A ONE-LINE WHIP.’

Simon says stand up. Simon says stand down. Turn around. Go jump …

Was it any different when he’d been a Minister? Had high office given him any more control over his life? Control over others, certainly, but his own life? He tried to remember, but couldn’t. It all seemed so long ago, wrapped up with the death of his son Stevie, and he’d spent much of the intervening years trying to block it all out – as his wife Elinor had done, to such terrifying effect.

Goodfellowe rebuked himself; he should stop being churlish. A One-Line Whip meant he didn’t have to bother. It was good news. An evening off. And his thoughts turned to Elizabeth, away in the Ukraine. Half seven in London, two hours later in Odessa. Should be back at her hotel by now.

So he rang, but there was no reply. Nor when he tried again half an hour later.

He hated the feeling of emptiness that struck him when she was away, the insecurity that bit into his humour at times like this. Was it that he felt inadequate? Or didn’t trust her? Or was it that he didn’t trust himself? The more he struggled with the questions, the more he realized he wasn’t likely to enjoy any of the answers, so he stopped. He telephoned Sam instead.

In the years since the death of Stevie and during the misery of his wife’s final and irreversible mental decline, Samantha had often been his only hold on happiness, the rock on which he had managed to rebuild his shattered life. She was now eighteen, studying the history of art at London University, and had digs less than two miles from his own apartment, yet he hadn’t seen her in almost a month. His fault. Things always seemed his fault. Time to do something about it.

But life somehow never quite fell into place for Goodfellowe.

‘No, don’t come round, Dad,’ she insisted when he called. ‘I’m meeting a friend in half an hour. At the coffee shop. But …’ – a sudden decision – ‘come and join us. He’d love to meet you.’

Whoever ‘he’ was.

Goodfellowe made it there five minutes early and commandeered a table with a good view of the window. They arrived holding hands. ‘Dad, meet Darren. And so forth.’ She waved the two together.

Darren’s hand was firm, his eye steady, his hair neatly trimmed, indeed everything that one might expect of a graduate student at the Business School, as Darren turned out to be. He was amusing, ambitious, evidently a young man of the world. Holding hands with his daughter. Touching. Brushing against her. Being almost proprietorial.

Goodfellowe decided he’d have to be adult about that. Trouble was, he wasn’t always very good at the ‘grown-up’ thing when it came to his daughter. Every time she produced a new boyfriend it was always the same, that initial feeling of panic and distress. Like sitting in the dentist’s chair watching the needle approach, knowing it was likely to hurt.

‘It’s been too long, Sam,’ he smiled, extracting the teabag from his mug. There was nowhere to put the dripping mess. That’s how they made tea in a coffee shop.

‘S’pose it has,’ she offered, trying to bend her youthful mind around the elusive concept of Time. ‘Almost like when I was younger. You remember? Those years when I only ever saw you on television?’

It wasn’t intended to make him feel guilty. She succeeded nonetheless.

‘Not quite the same, I dare say.’ He made a fuss over his hot tea, as though his lips were burning rather than his cheeks. ‘But since we’re discussing seeing each other at a distance, did I catch sight of you the other day? At Trafalgar Square?’

She beamed. ‘Sensational, wasn’t it?’

‘Bloody inconvenient. But I got your point.’

‘You should have joined in, Dad.’

‘I did. No choice. But for what it’s worth, I agree, something has to be done.’ He bit into a croissant, the pleasure of which was considerably devalued by the avalanche of flakes that was sent tumbling down his chest.

‘That’s not quite what I expected to hear from a politician, Mr Goodfellowe,’ Darren interjected.

‘My party bosses frequently tell me that I’m not what they expect from a politician,’ he responded, picking crumbs from his tie.

‘I don’t understand … You agree something ought to be done. Everybody seems to agree. So why doesn’t it happen?’

Goodfellowe rubbed the motif on his tie, wondering whether it was a stain or the design. ‘Because I am a humble backbencher. Parliamentary pond life. If I speak sense no one will hear it above the noise of the rabble. If I shout loud enough for anyone to take notice I simply make myself part of the rabble.’ Damn. Stain. ‘Anyway, it’s all very well setting yourself up as Robin Hood, rushing around trying to right all those wrongs, but I can tell you it gets damp and very cold out there on your own in the forest.’

‘You’re saying parliamentary politics are pointless?’

‘No, not at all. But if you really want to make things happen – as you put it – you need to have your hands on some of the levers. Be a Minister.’

‘So it’s being a backbencher that is pointless?’ Darren pressed, before realizing the unintended slight. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Goodfellowe …’

Goodfellowe laughed, wondering how Darren managed to keep his tie so straight. Did he use a different knot? Somewhere he’d read there were seventeen different ways of doing it. ‘Call me Tom. And, no, being a backbencher isn’t entirely pointless. It only seems that way at times.’ Most of the bloody time, actually, but he didn’t want to take honesty too far. Might scare the children.

‘But I thought you rather enjoyed being Robin Hood,’ Sam joined in. ‘You know … the independence. The free life. Getting out among the serfs.’

‘Sure, but … It’s one of the things I wanted to chat with you about, darling daughter. Get your view. Of course I enjoy playing Robin Hood. It’s just that at times – perhaps too many times – you feel about as much use as a fly on a windscreen. That’s why I’m thinking of becoming – trying to become, at least – a Minister once more.’

‘You? A Minister?’ Sam sounded startled.

‘Bit like you at Trafalgar Square the other day. In fact, just like that. You know, wanting to make a difference.’

‘You want to become a Minister?’ The question was repeated, very slowly, the breath rattling hoarsely in her throat, with every syllable emphasized as though the words were being constructed from first principles.

‘Yes.’