by Tim Major
The man tilted his head to read the printed text on the box. “Says it’s food. I’m proper hungry.”
Might he attack Russell in public, in daylight? The side road that led to the office was only a hundred metres away. Not for the first time, Russell cursed Ellis for locating the office in East Oxford, with its early-morning drunks, its sick-puddle evidence of last night’s debauchery. Reputable businesses tended to be in the town centre or Jericho. Closer to the deli.
The man studied his face. “Got a couple of quid, then?”
Russell shook his head.
“Fifty pee?”
“Look, I’m going to call for help if you don’t leave me alone. All right?”
The man reached forward. When Russell jerked away, he held up his hands in surrender.
“Types like you shouldn’t come here,” the man said.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
The man scratched his beard. “What’s your business, then?”
“Party. I mean, I’m a government employee.”
“Shit. Really? GBP, round here? What the hell for?”
“We only moved in three months ago. It’s a new department, still setting up. Redevelopment and Funding.”
The man glanced at the faded newspaper pasted in the window of the abandoned premises beside them, then at the heaps of litter piled against the shopfront. Somebody had spray-painted onto a nearby wall the words SKINS GO HOME followed by a large upward-pointing arrow. He looked down at himself and seemed surprised at the filth on his jeans. “You going to help us, then? Fund us? We going to get some redevelopment round here?”
“No. I mean, yes. Not straight away. There are some greenfield sites, north of the city. And the retail park’s going to be—”
“I get it,” the man said. “It’s not for us. I get it all, now, the way you’re looking at me. It’s not just that you’re loaded, is it? You’re one of them.”
Russell felt his cheeks glow.
The man backed away. “Wouldn’t have got up close and personal if I’d known. Okay?”
Russell didn’t dare speak for fear of changing the man’s opinion of him. The man’s sense of deference was appropriate, of course – if he’d been correct. Russell felt guilty contentment at the thought of being assumed ‘one of them’. He held his breath and pushed past.
Behind him, the man muttered, “Tight-arse. Fucking tight-arse Charmers.”
By the time Russell reached the office complex on Marston Street, his fingers felt as though they might uncurl at any moment, spilling his precious cargo onto the filthy pavement. He balanced the box on his knee to fish out his ID pass.
The door to the complex burst open before he reached it.
Russell’s fall felt like slow motion; he managed to half-support the box all the way to the ground. A snap of glass accompanied its landing. Something wet seeped through the cardboard and into Russell’s cupped hands.
A woman backed out of the building. She wore a smart grey suit, though her hair was unkempt. She didn’t acknowledge Russell sprawled on the floor.
“I know your name, you know!” she shouted at somebody inside the building. Russell saw the office security guard standing behind his counter. He looked distraught.
The woman didn’t let the security guard interrupt. “If he’s having an affair, and if I find out you’ve been covering for him, you’re done for. So just think about that the next time you tackle a woman from behind.”
She turned and finally saw Russell. Her freckled face now showed only curiosity. She hesitated – and in the moment their eyes were fixed on one another Russell lost all sense of the passing of time – and then she simply stepped over the leaking box and its growing puddle of juice. As she walked towards the gated exit, her walk slowed from an angry stride to a stroll.
Gingerly, Russell lifted one of the flaps of the cardboard box. Apple juice sloshed around inside and one corner of the box had turned black with oil from a cracked jar of chutney. He heaved himself to his feet and opened the door.
“Mrs Blackwood, I—” the security guard began, before he realised that it was Russell. “Oh, it’s you. Sorry.”
Russell glanced out into the car park. “That was Minister Blackwood’s wife?”
The security guard said sheepishly, “Rules are rules. Nobody without access rights preloaded onto their ID gets in.”
“She can’t visit her own husband at work?”
The guard shrugged. “She didn’t even say she wanted to. Said she was organising a kid’s party.” He pointed towards the nearest door within the office complex. There was no business name on the door, only a faint photocopied picture of three balloons. “But rules are rules, especially if it means sneaking past me when I’m busy.” His eyes flicked down to the counter. Russell saw the corner of a newspaper page filled with tiny print – the racing results.
They stood in awkward silence for a moment. Russell had never known how to talk to working-class people, despite having been brought up by honest, proletarian parents. He coughed. “There’s a bit of a mess out there. A box. Could you bring it into Minister Blackwood’s office? Any time that’s convenient to you. Although, actually, he’ll want it quite soon.”
Without waiting for the guard’s response, Russell strode inside. He glanced again at the door to the children’s party suppliers. Until now, he had never really paid much attention to the other businesses in the shared office complex, though when he had been hired three months ago he had been surprised that any government department might need to share a building at all. He studied each door as he passed: a freelance photographer, a small historical publisher, a banner-printing service, three separate accountants. The door marked Redevelopment and Funding was at the end. He shoved it open, making the smoked-glass door rattle.
The minister refused to allow entry to the cleaner who serviced the rest of the building, so Russell’s first task of each day was to rescue crockery from Ellis’s study, a room of generous proportions that jutted into the far smaller main office area. Russell pushed open the door to the study. Inside, something on the wide wooden desk spasmed.
Ellis Blackwood lifted his head from the desk. His hair was ordinarily untidy but today it was wild, with the frontmost curls glued to his forehead. His grey suit was crumpled. There was still grandeur about him, though whether it was only his status – both as a Charmer and a member of the Party – Russell couldn’t tell. A few months ago Russell had come across some meeting minutes that referred to him and the minister together as ‘Russellis’, a compound nickname that he had never heard repeated but which continued to fill him with secret pride.
“Russell,” the minister said, his voice cracking. “Does this mean that it’s morning?”
“Six forty-five,” Russell said, without needing to check the clock. He was nothing if not punctual.
“Then I’ve missed my chance to sleep.”
“I wasn’t expecting you so early, sir. It’s not normally how things are.”
Ellis smiled. “You’re rather a stickler, aren’t you?”
“That’s my job, sir.” Russell began gathering coffee cups and plates from the desk. “Your groceries will be here in a moment. I could bring you some muesli?”
Ellis hesitated, glanced over Russell’s shoulder at the door, then waved a hand. “No, no. Nell goes in for all that stuff, not me. Do you know what I’d really like? A bacon sarnie, from the greasy spoon. Five doors down. Perhaps after we discuss the diary you could fetch me one.”
Russell’s nails dug into his palms. Each day that passed, he was less a personal assistant and more a delivery boy. His mother had been so proud when he had told her about his new government role. “Of course, Minister.”
“And might there be a fresh suit somewhere within this cavernous space?”
Russell sidestepped past the desk and slid open the wardrobe door that Ellis had had installed. Six identical grey suits hung beside shelves of neatly folded shirts.
“You
’re a wonder, Russell,” Ellis said, beaming, as he retrieved the change of clothes. “Now give me two minutes and we’ll proceed.”
More than fifteen minutes later – and still without a cup of coffee, though he had provided Ellis with his – Russell wheeled his swivel chair into the minister’s office and sat with his knees touching the desk. Ellis had removed his crumpled jacket but had then either forgotten about or decided against replacing his suit.
“Your first is an eleven o’clock,” Russell began, turning the diary sideways for Ellis to see. “The opening of the new hospital in Bicester. I’ve booked the driver for ten-thirty and he’ll wait to bring you back again at eleven-fifteen.”
Ellis rolled his eyes.
“And then your only other appointment is at three. At the Randolph again.”
“Lovely. Who with?”
“I’m sorry, Minister. I wasn’t informed.” Russell pointed to the faint question mark he had drawn beside the appointment booking.
“Ah. Good.”
“Good, sir?”
“Three o’clock is good, I mean. We’ll be offered afternoon tea. The Randolph lays on a certain level of spread. You really must try it.”
Russell looked up. Did Ellis really imagine that a personal assistant’s salary would allow him to eat at the Randolph whenever he felt like it? Perhaps one day, though, if he played his cards right.
Ellis had stopped paying attention. He stared above Russell’s head.
“Sir?”
Ellis blinked as though waking from a dream. “Goodness. Look at me. I may fall asleep even whilst holding the giant scissors. At the hospital opening, I mean.”
Russell cleared his throat. “Ah. I’m afraid they’ve not asked you to actually conduct the opening, Minister. I believe it’s due to be a local celebrity, a young man. He won a talent show on TV. Say anything to him, and he can repeat it instantly, backwards. To music. The organisers felt that—”
Ellis nodded sagely. “That a fuddy-duddy Party minister wouldn’t be a glamorous enough attraction. I understand. Who can compete with the spectacle of a spotty teenager speaking backwards?”
Russell paused before nodding. That wasn’t quite the reason, he suspected. The organisers hadn’t said it out loud, but it had been clear enough that they didn’t want a Charmer to formally open the hospital. They had only grudgingly agreed that Ellis should be named publicly as the minister responsible for locating the funds for the project.
Ellis’s head bowed. His eyes closed before he jolted upright again.
“Sir?”
Ellis stared at him stupidly.
“Do you need more coffee, sir?”
Ellis’s mouth twitched. “Don’t believe everything you hear about us, Russell. Charmers need to sleep as much as the next man. And I’m rather lacking in the sleep department, these days. The mind plays tricks.” He nodded slowly, as if that explained everything.
In the silence that followed, Russell felt more awkward than ever. He had no idea what might be the appropriate response.
Abruptly, Ellis leapt to his feet. “D’you know what? I think I’ll make that trip to the greasy spoon myself. And then perhaps a stroll to South Park. You can hold the fort.” He beamed. “Russell Handler, handling things with aplomb. I rather like that.”
Without pulling on his jacket, he strode to the smoked-glass door and into the corridor. Moments later, Russell heard the minister’s muffled voice. Russell dashed to the doorway, gripped by a sudden anxiety that the security guard might be complaining about his impertinence regarding the groceries. The security guard stood at the end of the corridor, facing the exit. Ellis was nowhere to be seen.
Russell sighed. None of this was what he had expected when he had taken the job. Not yet thirty, and the right-hand man of a Great British Prosperity Party minister! For a long time he had held off telling his mother that the job wouldn’t be located in Westminster, but rather Oxford, or that he wouldn’t be working in a formal office, but instead this tiny room in a rented complex. In part, this was because he didn’t understand the reasons himself. His mother had been no less impressed when the truth was out, though. Compared to her work as a seamstress, and his father’s work on a production line at a factory producing components for radio sets, Russell’s current lifestyle was unimaginably high-flying. Furthermore, the unstated truth was that, unlike them, he would be unlikely to be forced to continue working into his seventies.
He downed Ellis’s untouched cup of coffee. The trill of a phone made him splutter liquid back into the cup.
He grabbed the diary out of habit and ran back to his desk, then stopped himself moments before he attempted to sit on the missing chair, which was still in Ellis’s study. He crouched awkwardly to answer the phone. “Ellis Blackwood, Minister for Redevelopment and Funding.” He coughed. Some of the coffee must have gone down the wrong way.
“Russell Handler?”
“Sorry, yes. I normally say that. ‘Russell Handler speaking’ is what I say.”
“Are you alone?”
The voice sounded familiar, though the line was bad.
“Minister?” Russell said. “Is that you? Are you in the greasy spoon?”
The line went silent for a moment. “The minister is not present?”
“I’m afraid he’s popped out. A morning meeting.” He paused. “In a local establishment.”
“Listen to me, Russell.” The voice was deep and the poor line made it flat, like the compressed sound of old home videos. “I need to tell you something. And I need you to tell me something.”
“I’m sorry. If you’re from the Daily Counsel, then there are proper channels. Who’s speaking, please?”
“Somebody who knows a great deal more than you.”
Almost everybody knew more than Russell knew. It might as well be part of the job description.
“You may call me Ixion,” the voice continued. “I am in a position close to the heart of government. I and my colleagues have observed something occurring. And it is not something good.”
“Why are you calling me?”
“Ellis Blackwood cannot be trusted. You control the minister’s diary. You are best placed to monitor his actions and you alone can identify unusual behaviour, unusual appointments. You are vital, Russell. It must be you.”
Russell had no idea how to end the call. “Look, if this is something to do with the minister being a Charmer, that’s all public record. There are no secrets—”
“You’re wrong. There are secrets. The Party is on the verge of disintegration, and Ellis Blackwood will play a key role. Mark this: you will not be rewarded for assisting him.”
Russell noted the implication that, if he collaborated with ‘Ixion’ and his colleagues, a reward would be in the offing.
“I’m going to hang up,” he said hurriedly.
“Let me explain—”
“This is a crank call. I’m hanging up.”
“We must meet.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I will contact you again.”
“Please don’t.”
Russell jammed the receiver onto its cradle. His hands were shaking.
He looked down at the question mark drawn in Ellis’s diary.
THREE
Evie toppled inside Ivy Cottage the moment Caitlin opened the front door. She must have been pressing on it with her full weight, eager to be let in. In her text message, Caitlin had demanded that Evie come as soon as possible, but that was less than ten minutes ago – a new record. Evie’s elder brother’s canary-yellow Mini was parked askew on the driveway, its front wheels in the flower bed.
Evie planted a wet kiss on her cheek. “My darling! I’ve so missed you!”
Caitlin pushed her away, laughing. Evie always knew when to go over the top.
Evie kicked the door shut with her heel. “You look crappy.”
Instinctively, Caitlin put her hand up to tug at her red hair. Evie’s was almost black, and cropped short – a st
yle that Caitlin would adopt herself if she had the nerve.
Evie rolled her eyes. “You’re ravishing as usual, you flame-haired goddess. I’m talking about this.” She drew a circle with her finger, encompassing Caitlin’s face. “You’re proper mardy this morning. What gives?”
Caitlin shrugged. She wished she knew. She hadn’t exactly cried herself to sleep last night, but she’d come close. She hadn’t been this despondent since she was a kid. At sixteen, surely that sort of thing should be behind her?
“So this is about a guy?” Evie stood on tiptoes to peer around Caitlin and into the dark hallway.
“I’ve sworn off men.”
Evie snorted. “You’ve said that a thousand times. I’m not talking about a conquest, anyway. I’m talking about your uncle. Let me at him.”
“Why would you want to talk to Tobe?”
“Bloody hell, you’re a dope sometimes. Fine. I’ll find him myself.”
Evie pushed past and prowled along the hallway, peering into each doorway. Not for the first time, Caitlin felt a twinge of embarrassment about the size of the house. In theory it was a cottage, but over the generations her ancestors had added wings to both sides and to the rear, the original building a tree trunk with rooms sprouting from it like branches. She supposed that the increased longevity as a result of the Hexts’ Charmer abilities meant that more family members had to be housed here, once upon a time. Not now. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had used any of the ground-floor rooms along this hallway. The largest sitting room, at the eastern end of the house, was now permanently dark and used only to house her dad’s telescope, which was fixed pointing out of the bay windows that overlooked the fields behind the house.
“Aha!” Evie cried as she pushed open the door to the kitchen. Orange light bloomed to illuminate the hallway, turning its parquet flooring into a mesh of glittering gold.
Caitlin’s dad and uncle turned to face them. Tobe sat at the wide farmhouse table, nursing a cup of coffee, while Ian busied himself at the small electric oven, despite the fact that the enormous Aga alongside it was already belching out heat. He had never got to grips with using the Aga for anything other than heating the house. Caitlin’s mum had always been the more enthusiastic cook.
