A Parliamentary Affair (79 page)

The pig had really left his traces. Not just vomit, but his coat and trousers and underpants in a disgusting heap on the floor. Tracey fetched a plastic bin bag and donned rubber gloves to deal with the soiled garments. The man must have been taken to hospital with his shoes and socks still on but not much else below the waist. How humiliating, but serve him right. She paused in her labours and hesitated. Underneath the clothing was a handkerchief, a sodden pack of cigarettes and some bits of wet paper. An envelope, it looked like. Cautiously she stirred it with her toe; it might be important. Then she made her mind up. Might have been once, but no more. Too far gone to rescue now.

As soon as Karen Stalker was safely inside and he could hear her shoes clattering on the stone stairs, Gerry Keown turned swiftly away. The Tube took him back to Finsbury Park station, from where it was a short walk to the Portland Rise estate, opposite the park. The air in North London was still, petrol-laden and humid and he was soon sweating hard. In a corner house on the estate, in a back room, four men were already gathered. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke. Lager and Guinness cans littered the floor. As Gerry Keown was ushered in by a blank-faced young woman there was another knock on the door. He was not surprised to see hands move quickly, protectively, to back
pockets. He knew only one person in the room and then only by a first name, though the voice was quite familiar, with an accent similar to his own.

When at last everyone was assembled, instructions were issued. Gerry looked at his list, brooding, and was troubled to note that his heart was heavy. He pointed at one name on the list. ‘This one too?’

The answer was impatient. ‘Yes, Volunteer. The lot. You have waited for this for a long time. Don’t fail us.’

Back at the flat Karen Stalker undressed, still crooning the bleak poem to herself. The little room was stuffy and she opened the sash window as wide as it would go, hearing in the distance more sirens. The noise bothered her less, now she was off the street; it was amazing what a person could learn to live with. Instead, after an undemanding and relaxing evening, she felt more confident about the tests ahead.

As she cleaned her teeth and considered, she wondered if it was entirely spurious to find parallels between the Commons and Eliot’s vivid word-pictures: ‘In this last of meeting places/We grope together/And avoid speech.’

Perhaps not, given that it as written so soon after the First World War when the complacency of both Houses of Parliament had pushed two million men to their deaths.

On a quick impulse she phoned her mother and regaled Elaine with a cheery account of her date.

‘How’s it going your end, Mum?’

‘Diabolical. Door-knocking is like swimming through mud – heavy-going and dirty. We really could do with some help – not you; you stick to your books. But all the promises of mutual aid seem to have evaporated. It’s every man for himself.’

Karen was feeling very grown-up. ‘Your Roger should get his people to help. He should make himself useful, if you want my view, which you don’t. Or leave you alone completely. Oh, you’ll be all right, Mum. We both will be. I’ll bring the post up tomorrow. See you.’

In bed, she gazed at the ceiling and breathed the lines with their rat-a-tat marching rhythm. Her eyes were closing as she reached the last few words:

Bright lights, hurting his eyes. He twisted his face away with a moan, but the pain in his head tore through his eye sockets with fierce intensity. His gut was worse – it felt as if it had been ripped out, leaving a gaping bloody hole, like in wartime. White ceilings. Tiles, reflecting the harsh light. Tubes, stands, trolleys. Metal clashing on metal. The smell of disinfectant and plastic. His mouth felt dry, his throat blocked: there was a tube in the way, making him gag and want to be sick yet again.

Jim Betts now knew what it felt like to want to die. He lay prostrate in the hospital bed, arms limp at his sides. Gradually he became aware of a young woman doctor standing at the foot of the bed examining his notes. She moved closer; a name badge identified her as Dr Martin. She eyed him thoughtfully.

‘Back in the land of the living, are we? We thought you were a goner for a while. Nasty bout you’ve had.’

Betts croaked and pointed to his mouth. The doctor called a nurse and together they removed the tube, bathed his face and helped him to a drink of sterile water. Deftly the nurse checked the fluid-replacement drip in Betts’s left arm.

‘What was it – what have I got?’ he asked feebly.

‘Oh, you’ve been suffering from salmonellosis. We’ll need you to think about what you ate before you went down with it – probably chicken, or possibly eggs.’

The doctor wondered why the patient seemed vaguely familiar. His name meant nothing to her; nor would hers to him, for she used her maiden name in the hospital. Betts had been taken ill in the Midlands but after a day in a coma had been transferred to a hospital closer to home. Thus he found himself in St Thomas’s under the eagle eye of Marcus Carey’s wife.

Betts looked at her beseechingly. ‘When will I be out of here? I have a job to do.’

‘Not for ages. The lab should be able to tell us in a day or two which particular little bug you acquired. Then we have to keep testing you till you’re clear. That can take three months or more, twice a week clutching a little pot of sample. As an out-patient, of course,’ she added hastily, as Betts reacted.

‘God! Can’t you give me something?’

‘Not antibiotics, if that’s what you mean. Antibiotics would only prolong the carrier state. You’re on ciprofloxacin for the diarrhoea and fever, if you really want to know, and that’ll have to do unless you get much worse. Otherwise you fight this one on your own.’

‘Got to get better. Get back to work. They need me.’

‘Really, Mr Betts, can’t they manage without you? What do you do for a living?’

‘Journalist. Senior reporter.
The Globe.
Very busy with the election. I can’t be sick, d’you hear?’

The aggressive squeak exhausted him. He fell back on the pillows, face pallid and clammy-Alison Carey frowned and checked the name again. When she looked up there was a glint in her eye.

‘Been on big stories, have you, Mr Betts? By-elections, political scandals, that sort of thing?’

‘Yeah, all that sort of thing. I saw Sir Nigel-too-good-to-be-true-Boswood off. That was me.’

Alison felt herself go cold. She remained silent, nodding as Betts huskily explained his importance to the world of political journalism. She would not dream of breaking the Hippocratic oath for Mr Betts, star reporter: but the hospital policy of providing patients with lots of useless information offered an opportunity. Giving him a hard time would be allowable, even sweet revenge.

‘Now then, Mr Betts. You should understand that you are going nowhere, not for the duration of the election or for at least a week or two afterwards. Your entire system has been badly knocked about. Even in healthy subjects – and I’m not sure you were a prime specimen before – salmonellosis may cause a wide range of very unpleasant side-effects. Blood poisoning is the obvious one, but there are well-documented cases of inflammation of the heart, neurological damage, reactive arthritis, ankylosing spondylitis and permanent damage to the small intestine and colon. You may suffer from diarrhea for the rest of your life, and you may never be able to eat normally again.’

Betts’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Will I die?’

‘Well, let’s see. There are about thirty thousand confirmed cases every year in England and Wales of what you’ve got, of which around sixty are fatal. That’s about one a week. Maybe it’s your turn this week.’

Had Betts been able to focus better he might have noticed a satisfied gleam behind Alison’s otherwise stern professional demeanour. He turned his face away in desperation.

‘I thought we’d sorted it out. Thing of the past.’

‘I’m afraid not. The figures are rising. If I had my way I’d make every member of the government suffer with it, one really bad dose just like yours. Then they might take it seriously and do
something effective. Meantime, I don’t think it’s going to finish you off – but you are going to suffer instead. Sorry, Mr Betts. Not nice, is it?’

And Dr Alison Carey smiled sweetly at her patient, scribbled briefly on his notes and left him.

Gerry Keown had worked through the night, preparing and snipping and packing. House of Commons envelopes and wrapping paper and dark-green presentation boxes from the kiosk were scattered at his feet as dawn was breaking. There was no time for a rest, only for a shower, shave and change into his uniform. It was essential to be there early, as if on the first shift.

There was no problem parking his car in the deserted underground car park at the Commons; no difficulty choosing a spot where he was unlikely to be observed by the security cameras; no hassle leaving one small package tucked behind a pipe in a spot carefully researched weeks before. And no hesitation, setting the timer as ordered for 13 June, the day Parliament was to return.

The place was remarkably relaxed. He headed downstairs for the rifle range. He had thought about joining, but had refused the invitation of his original partner, Constable Robin Bell, who would have spotted instantly that he knew how to handle a gun. It was located under the Lords Chamber, in a scruffy and disorganised part of the Palace with plenty of hiding places amongst the jumble and cupboards. Everyone joked that it was here in 1605 that Guy Fawkes and his fellow Catholic conspirators had attempted to blow up the King. Keown’s friends were not interested in the monarch – her death would be counter-productive, with worldwide revulsion. The new Parliament was a different matter, a legitimate political target, and a warning to the new government to get out of Northern Ireland. Perhaps this time, if enough of them got hurt, they would take some notice.

It didn’t take much, not in a building like this. The main damage would be caused by collapsing masonry as walls caved in and floors fell through on to unsuspecting heads. The Commons was the intended quarry, but their Lordships had an added attraction that most were elderly and less likely to survive.

It was a bright sunny day as he headed for the Home Office and the Ministry of Defence, House of Commons packages under his arm stamped with the Speaker’s stamp. That had been easy to reproduce with the help of a friendly office supplies shop in Finsbury Park. Now that Whitehall and Westminster were half empty, people’s guards were down, the atmosphere casual. The Northern Ireland Office was always too careful to be worth trying, and the item put in the internal mail to No. 10 probably would get no further than the post room. Staff would probably congratulate themselves on finding it.

After depositing his parcels he made his way back to the Commons and delved in the boot of his car. The next placement required sleight of hand, good timing and a little luck. If he was caught, the rest of the operation would be aborted. That was why he had done all the other jobs first – or nearly all.

Keown walked through Speaker’s Court and took the ministers’ stairs to the principal floor. In a moment he stood at the door of the Chamber, behind the Speaker’s Chair, an item concealed in his hand. This was the trickiest, for guided tours were still under way. He chatted easily to colleagues, explaining that he had been called in to replace a man gone sick, who then felt better and turned up. As lunchtime loomed, people and staff drifted away. Quickly he moved to the side of the Chair. Underneath were two vertical slots used for temporary storage of papers when the Chair was occupied. He bent quickly at the knees, reached behind, and stuck the tiny box on its pad of plasticine far back under the seat.

Even if all the items were found in time a powerful statement would have been made. Personal gifts, however, would be more likely to get close to their victims. Their timers were set for the following few days, and all were tamper-sensitive.

Once he had been tipped off that his call would come after all these years as a sleeper, Keown had made himself a familiar figure to certain Commons secretaries. He had dropped hints to the girls as he drifted in and out of their offices that he was secretly charged with keeping an eye on vulnerable personages. Many of the secretaries were still around. Keown checked the names on his list; several were approached successfully, delighted to pass on a small goodwill token to their employers. The chairman of the backbench Northern Ireland committee and its treasurer, the chairman of the House Select Committee on Northern Ireland and one of its most prominent members all now received gifts on behalf of the security staff. In that familiar green, gold and white livery, who could refuse a box of House of Commons mint chocolates? Especially if innocently presented in the Commons’ own gift wrap, available only from the kiosk? That the boxes had not been screened did not occur to the women concerned. A member of the security staff: who would dream of suspecting?

Two of the names on his list were unreachable. The Paddy factor was at work: in wanting to make their point as close to the election as possible (as well as after), his controllers had forgotten that during the campaign period certain prominent people cleared off from the Commons entirely, taking their staff with them. They were not at their London homes either. On the off chance he substituted Lord Prior, a former Northern Ireland Minister, and Lord Howe, a former Home Secretary, leaving gifts in the lobbies of the apartment blocks where they lived. That would have to do.

One left. Kept to the end. He did not want to do this one, and it would have been easy to forget it, to say the task had been impossible. Yet had he not reacted at the mention of the name, when first her daughter had spoken to him? Hadn’t he courted the girl initially as a potential entry point for him to her mother, who had spent almost the whole four years of this Parliament as secretary of the backbench Northern Ireland committee? Keown was unsure what responsibilities that entailed, but she was on the list and not yet crossed off. If she were omitted he would have some explaining to do when he got home. He doubted if the controllers would show any more mercy to him than to their other victims, especially if there were any hint he might regret his role and turn Queen’s evidence.

The dead boy called to him, insistently, from beyond the grave. Time to repay. He steeled himself and picked up the phone.

‘Karen? Gerry here. First of all, happy birthday, though I know you’re not planning to celebrate till after your exams. Glad I’ve caught you. When are you off?’

Nick Thwaite sat in the chair at the side of the hospital bed and contemplated his snoring staffer. The smell of sickness wafted over with each breath. Thwaite moved his chair several inches further back out of the line of fire.

The sound of wood scraping on the floor woke Betts up. He opened one yellowed eye, cautiously. Seeing a friendly face he blinked and half sat up.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘I thought it was that doctor. Every time I have a relapse she looks pleased. Ghouls, the lot of them.’

Nick was amused. ‘How’re you feeling? I hear you’ve got salmonella. Is that right?’

‘It is
not
funny,’ Betts responded grumpily. ‘I feel like death and my legs have gone. When I tried to get to the toilet by myself this morning I passed out. Going to take at least another week, they say.’

‘Pity. The whole election’s coming nicely to a climax. Polls all over the place – now Labour are two points ahead. I’ve let Cherry have a crack at political human interest stories, and she’s having a whale of a time. Her approach is a bit trivial, but the readers approve. She recently pulled off an excellent interview with the Prime Minister’s wife – lovely pictures. If she carries on like this, she won’t want to stay with fashion – and McSharry will be thinking about promotions.’

Thwaite left unsaid the obvious corollary – that there might be demotions, or even vacancies.

Betts frowned. His mind was functioning only sluggishly. He put out a hand. ‘Nick – I left some things behind at that hotel. Important things. Did they turn up?’

His companion shrugged. ‘The stuff in your room, of course; I’ve had that taken to your place. Your sicked-on clothes were destroyed. Was there anything important?’

‘My notebook – and a letter. It was in my pocket.’

‘Letter? No, nothing like that’s turned up. You did make a helluva mess, Jim. We’re lucky the hotel didn’t send us a bill.’ Thwaite reached behind him and pulled out a brown paper bag. ‘Anyway, I brought you a bunch of grapes. Get well soon.’

Betts regarded the green fruit gloomily. ‘They look just like suppositories,’ he muttered. ‘Got them sticking out of my bum and coming out of my ears, it feels like. Thanks anyway, Nick, I’ll give them to the nurses. I’m off fruit for the duration. Nothing but endless fluids and sweet things like custard. By the time I’m better I shall be a scarecrow. What have I done to deserve this?’

Karen Stalker and Gerry Keown stood awkwardly at the police post at Members’ Entrance by Westminster Hall, surrounded by visitors who emerged blinking into the sunshine at the end of their guided tour. Beside the girl a pile of carrier bags held the remains of the post; behind her the hands of Big Ben moved towards midday. She fidgeted, eyes downcast. If her mother lost the seat, she might not see Gerry again and felt almost sorry. Future boyfriends would have a hard task to measure up to his courtesy, consideration and quiet maturity.

‘I shall miss you, Gerry. Will you still be here after the election, if my mother gets back in?’

‘Of course,’ he said, but knew it was untrue. Returning would not be safe. In any case, for all he was aware, there might be another sleeper placed in the Palace, much like himself, ready for next time.

‘All the best for the exams.’ He stumbled a little over the words. ‘I’ve brought you…’ He thrust the package in her hand. ‘Just some chocolates. Not for you, mind. For your mother, to wish her luck in the election. Will you make sure she gets them?’

‘I’d be glad to. Might even eat a few myself. How very thoughtful of you, Gerry. You’re so sweet.’ Karen stood on tiptoe, placed an arm around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. A policeman standing nearby chuckled, then winked at Keown. The luck of the Irish.

‘Must go’ – and she was off, arms loaded with carrier bags, heading under the colonnades towards Westminster Tube and the train up to South Warmingshire. Big Ben began to chime, slow, sonorous, timeless.

Gerry Keown watched her go and stood quietly for a moment. ‘Have a good birthday, and be careful,’ he whispered to her retreating back. He could have given her a birthday gift, a real one, but it had been beyond him entirely to wrap yet another parcel, this time innocently, in the murderous detritus of his room. His expression as he turned away was sombre.

On the train home, staring out of the window or trying to concentrate on French irregular verbs, Karen realised that she could kill two birds with one stone. It would not be far out of her way to go into Roger Dickson’s constituency office. Officially she could ask if there was any chance of promises of help being fulfilled. And if the opportunity presented itself to tell Roger Dickson to lay off she would take it. This time, without tears.

Feeling like the original bag lady as she struggled with the street door, Karen managed at last to make her way inside past boxes of last-minute handouts, a stack of posters still to be erected and pieces of a broken public address system left on the floor. Three elderly ladies busy folding leaflets at a trestle table recognised her, for her resemblance to her mother, despite the different colouring, was unmistakable. The good women were happy to be diverted for a few moments and one helped her deposit her bags while another poured a welcome cup of tea. Mr Dickson was still in London, they informed her, and would be so sorry to have missed her.

Tom Sparrow spotted Karen and motioned her inside his office. Visitors who distracted his helpers working under a tight deadline needed discouraging. He suspected, however, that Miss Stalker had not come for trivial reasons.

Sipping her tea Karen outlined the problems in South Warmingshire. ‘We have plenty of bods in the office. What we need are a few more energetic types fit enough to doorstep and willing to come out this last weekend.’

Sparrow nodded sympathetically. ‘Don’t we all,’ he agreed. ‘People these days don’t relish red-blooded political argument face to face. They prefer it all pat on the telly.’

‘Some people just don’t understand. We had a very shirty phone call from a retired politics professor who has recently moved into our area, wanting to know why we hadn’t responded to his offer of distinguished help. He’s eighty-two, and all he wants to do is sit round in the office explaining the origins of the First World War. I told him we really needed a pair of good legs with a mouth on top and he put the phone down.’

‘That was unkind, Karen.’ But Sparrow couldn’t avoid a chuckle. ‘I’ll send a carload of experienced people over tomorrow afternoon, if that will help. We’ve about finished here.’

He waited. Karen examined her fingers for a moment, then looked him in the eye.

‘They’re still at it, aren’t they? Can’t we stop them?’

‘I have tried, Karen, believe me. I am not sure they realise the danger, not only for themselves but for the whole government.’

‘I don’t think my mum is that bothered for herself. She is worried, though, what would happen to Mr Dickson’s career if he was found out.’

‘Not to speak of his family, his wife and little children,’ Sparrow suggested drily.

Karen pulled a wry face. She had never heard her mother agonise in those terms.

The matter was left there, with both feeling unhappy. In their world hangers-on did not count for much compared with the principals. Sparrow courteously escorted Karen out of the office; it was apparent to both that they had a great deal in common and would worry or suffer in unison, whatever the outcome.

It was not until Karen was safely on the bus home and Tom Sparrow had gone to the printer’s to collect the last leaflets that one of the helpers noticed the Commons carrier bag, green plastic with the portcullis logo. Enquiries ascertained that it must have been left behind by Miss Stalker; easily done, for the girl was so laden. That was a nuisance but not a disaster, as a group would be heading in her direction the following day.