Whispers of Betrayal

‘I can’t believe you.’

‘Why?’

‘You want to join the most bankrupt Government since …’

‘The economy’s a mess, sure, but …’

‘I’m not talking money,’ she bit back, her voice raised. ‘Whatever happened to principle? To all those promises that Bendall conned us with at the last election? About education? About the environment? About the future?’ She was trembling, her half-drunk cappuccino spilling into the saucer. ‘I thought you cared about all that. And now you want to climb into bed with those sleazeballs?’

‘It’s precisely because I care that I want to help. Make changes. Push the system along from the inside.’ He had been taken aback and was grasping for suitable words to explain. ‘A wise old Tibetan once said that a single drop of rain upon the desert …’

‘Dad, this isn’t sodding Tibet,’ she butted in, shoving her way past his words. ‘You’re selling out.’

‘I’m not. Be reasonable, for God’s sake. There has to be a bit of give and take.’

‘What – like last time?’ There were tears brimming in her eyes, now they were tumbling down her cheeks. ‘Haven’t we given enough? Mummy? Stevie …?’ She could say no more, choking back the pain, scrabbling for a tissue from the bottom of her bag.

Goodfellowe found himself utterly lost in the midst of this sudden blizzard. Hadn’t he given enough, too? What was he supposed to do, give up his ambition, his desire? Turn his back on the new life he had embarked upon, with its influence and its authority? And with Elizabeth? Simply because the Prime Minister had the scruples of a timeshare salesman?

‘Sorry, Darren,’ he apologized for the family scene. ‘Politics are all about passion.’

‘I agree.’ His voice had remarkable authority for his years. ‘That’s why I voted for Bendall. He talked about all the things I feel so passionately for.’ He shrugged. Broad shoulders, athletic. ‘But perhaps I’m naïve. I agree with Sam. Above all politics should be about principle. And for Bendall to take a stand on principle is about as likely as Scunthorpe hosting the next Olympics.’

‘That’s a little harsh …’

‘A very flexible man, is our Prime Minister. He promised us the earth at the last election. Trouble is, we’re still waiting for it. Bit like a drunk in the bar who promises to buy a round but always has to borrow the money to do it. Well, if he won’t pay, he’ll just have to be forced to pay. And if that means screwing up Trafalgar Square and every other part of London, so be it. Nothing personal, you understand, Mr Goodfellowe.’

‘Hang on, I thought you were in business studies,’ Goodfellowe offered breathlessly.

‘I am. I’m also chair of the university Environmental Alliance. That’s how Sam and I met.’

‘Well, I suppose it’s all very wonderful being young and able to ride two horses at once. Business. Environmentalism. But, sadly, life forces us to make choices – yes, even to make compromises. Just like politics.’ He knew it was patronizing crap a millisecond after it’d left his mouth.

‘I don’t see why. One day I want to run a major corporation. Where better to be if you’re passionate about the future of the planet? Or are you still locked in that time warp where all environmentalists wander around in dreadlocks and live in some sweaty tunnel beneath a motorway?’

‘Somehow I feel I’m the one who’s just been digging himself a hole.’ He looked across at Sam, moved his hand towards her. ‘I need help. Should I send for a shovel?’ It was meant to lighten the moment, a peace offering. She threw back a look of bloodshot betrayal.

Once again Goodfellowe’s life had turned into a battlefield upon which the two halves of his being, family and politics, were waging war. Stevie had drowned while Goodfellowe was attending to his red boxes. Too busy to play dad. No one’s fault, really, just one of those bloody unfair things. No one had said anything, but Goodfellowe knew that Sam, his wife, everyone, blamed him. He knew that beyond any doubt because he, too, blamed himself. So a family at war, a war that was undeclared but never forgotten. It was the reason why he had resigned as a Minister in the first place, from a sense of guilt and also a sense of duty to his wife and to Sam, to find the space in which he could sort himself out. Yet now his life had become more complicated than ever, with Sam on one side, Elizabeth on the other. Damn.

Sam left without saying goodbye, one arm wrapped in proprietorial fashion around Darren’s waist, the other wiping an eye. Her parting words were little more than an accusation. ‘Daddy, you’ve changed.’

Had he? Was his mind already shuttered? Had he already fallen into Ministerial mode? He was clambering back over the wall, but did this mean he would have to leave Sam behind? She was pleading with him to stop, while Elizabeth, and all the other things he wanted for himself, were pushing him onward. Torn to pieces by the two women he loved most in the world.

He got back to his apartment around ten, and telephoned Elizabeth once more. He wasn’t checking up, merely wanted to say goodnight.

Still no reply.

It took Amadeus three days and nights to find him.

He was all but unrecognizable in the lamplight beneath the covering of cardboard. The face was blackened more effectively than any camouflage stick could manage, because the dust never stopped swirling at gutter level.

Amadeus squatted beside him in the foul-smelling doorway, squeezing him aside to make room, silencing the storm of protest by producing a full pack of cigarettes.

‘So, Albert Andrew, I was sort of wondering.’

‘Won’ring what?’ Scully snarled, in between hungry draws on the first cigarette. ‘Sir,’ he added as the nicotine began to calm him. Old habits.

‘Whether you’ve had enough of sitting on your arse in shop doorways. Bumming drinks and cigarette ends. Smelling like a field latrine.’

‘Wha’ the fuck’s it gotta do wi’ you?’

‘Oh, Skulls,’ Amadeus scolded. Of course it had to do with him. ‘I’ve got something of a proposition. See if you want to get back into the business.’

‘Business?’ The eyes were darting in agitation around the alleyway as though he feared someone was about to pounce and steal his precious cigarettes. He didn’t seem to want to look at Amadeus.

‘Red Devil business.’

‘No such bleedin’ business any more. They don’t fuckin’ want me. An’ I’ve got a busted fucking foot.’

‘I want you, Skulls. You were the best soldier who ever served with me. You see, me and a few pals, we’ve got a little skirmish planned. We want your help.’

The red-blown eyes steadied, lost their look of a wild ferret, and considered. Somebody wanted him again. It had been such a long time since anybody had wanted him.

‘Fuck you, Co’nel.’

Slowly a hand extended from beneath the dirty blanket. Scully pushed a cigarette towards Amadeus. A peace offering.

‘No thanks, RSM. Given it up all of a sudden. Got better things to do.’

Scully’s lips were cracked and sore, but working hard now to rub a little precision back into his speech. ‘You think I’m up to it?’

‘After a wash and a good breakfast, sure. Can you give up the booze?’

‘Booze? You think I’m a drunk? Wha’ do you reckon I’m trying to do, fucking kill meself?’

‘No, I want you to leave that to me.’

Slowly, in the manner of an elderly dog, Scully began to shake himself. Layers of blanket and bad times began to fall from him until he was standing, almost erect in spite of his foot.

‘Breakfast, eh? It’s a deal. Dunno about the fucking bath, though.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know what it is I want you to do?’

‘Don’t need to. Not if it’s you askin’, Colonel.’

A silence. Then, softly: ‘Thanks, Skulls.’

Scully began to scratch himself with considerable vigour. ‘Only one question, sir.’