He stopped, caught in the horror of the moment. She moved a hand over the table and took his. ‘You don’t have to go on.’
‘I feel I want to tell you. There were consequences.’
‘All right. Only if you want.’
‘I think I lost consciousness for a moment but then I remember the smell of burning, the hissing, then ambulance men and firemen. One of them was looking down at Leo. I’ll never forget his words. “There’s nothing we can do for this poor sod.” They must have lifted Heather out. I guess I was trapped. There were grinding sounds. They cut me out and pulled me through the front door. I could smell burning, imagined the fire to come. My left leg had turned the wrong way round and been crushed. I remember how wrong it looked. There was blood on my face. They finally got me out. Still the smell of burning, but no fire. I was stretchered into an ambulance. That was it for a while. Morphine, I guess. I woke up to find I was in bed in a ward, my left leg hanging and stretched out on some contraption. Sorry, I’m saying too much.’
‘No,’ she replied firmly, ‘I want to know everything.’
‘I’d smashed my thigh, pulverized it. I had to lie there for four months. Otherwise I’d be Long John Silver today. Maybe not quite, but they said the leg would have been nine inches shorter. Soon after I woke, they told me Leo had died. Apparently his seatbelt couldn’t have been properly fastened. The impact threw him at huge speed against the steering wheel. It fractured his aorta. The other driver died too, poor man. Heather broke a leg and wrist, more standard breaks than me, some cuts and bruises. She was properly strapped in, thank God.’
He ran his finger along the scar. ‘They put a hundred stitches in that. They weren’t sure if I’d smashed into the sunroof handle or been catapulted forward into the top of the windscreen. It was quite a mess. Heather was let out after a few weeks. She came to see me in my bed. I couldn’t really face her. Not just because I knew I must look awful. It was because I’d brought her into this.’
‘You couldn’t blame yourself for that,’ said Carol.
‘You blame yourself for everything. I could have stopped the crash. Saved my best friend’s life.’
‘No, you can’t think that.’
‘When I got out, I thought of looking Heather up but I couldn’t. Just couldn’t.’ He paused. ‘I never saw her again.’
‘That’s sad. Perhaps you’d have ended up with her.’
He smiled. ‘No. We were too young.’
She released his hand and sat up straight. ‘Well, that’s something. Otherwise we might not be sitting here.’
‘And we haven’t even ordered.’
‘We’ll do that in a minute. I want to know the aftermath.’
The bottle of wine had arrived. He poured into her glass – she didn’t stop him filling it right up – and then a smaller amount into his own.
She took a large sip. ‘Go on.’
‘Before the crash, I’d had an interview with an MP to work on his team. I’d done my bit at Manchester. President of the Students’ Union.’
‘Not the Conservative Association?’
He grinned. ‘You’d never get both. Not there, not then. Maybe at Oxford Tories were allowed.’
‘As I well remember,’ she said. A short silence fell. He wondered if she minded that he was a provincial. ‘And I’m very glad you’re not from that Augean stable.’ He relaxed. She had read him instantly. ‘But difficult perhaps to hide your colours?’
‘No, I was – am – pragmatic. Never an ideologue. The Conservatives seemed the party of power. I didn’t spot Blair coming,’ he said ruefully. ‘I might have gone the other way.’
‘We’ll do politics next time. Go on.’
‘Amazingly, lying in hospital, my parents brought me a letter. This MP had offered me a job as researcher. He was great about it, held the job for me for the time I needed to recover.’ He took a sip of water and looked down at the table. ‘And then, three months later, soon after I started, they began.’
6
Carol knew instinctively that whatever came next was central to his life. ‘What began?’
He looked back up. ‘The panic attacks. What do you know about how they work?’
‘Assume nothing.’
‘OK. The first time I was at a concert. A few weeks after I’d left hospital. I was in the middle of a row near the front. The hall seemed to go foggy. My pulse felt unbelievably fast. I was sweating, wanting to get out. It was chamber music. Even the slightest cough was a disturbance. The next ten minutes were agony. I thought I was going to die.’
‘Die?’
‘Yes, really. I assumed it was a heart attack. When the applause stopped, I pushed my way out, past the friend I was with. God knows what he thought. I phoned the next day to apologize. Put it down to a funny turn.
‘Outside in the fresh air I slumped on the ledge of a pillar. I was sure I’d pass out. To my surprise I stayed conscious. I couldn’t face the second half. I couldn’t walk to the tube. Or even get on a bus. My heart was still thumping. In the end I got a taxi back to the flat I was sharing with two guys. Jed Fowkes and Mikey Miller. They were both at home when I got back. Jed gave me a funny look. “I thought you were at a concert.” “Yes,” I said, “the lead violin was shit. I walked out.”
‘The attacks went on. Tube, theatre, in a car, flying. It didn’t help if I’d drunk too much the night before.’
‘Didn’t you tell anyone?’
‘I was sort of embarrassed. I didn’t die when they happened, however much I thought I would. I didn’t want to make a fuss. Then one Friday, I developed a headache. It got worse and worse over the next two days until by the end of Sunday I’d convinced myself it was a brain tumour. We had a friend, Suzy Lancaster…’
‘The BBC reporter?’
‘Yes, we met her when she was a trainee on attachment to Parliament and we became good mates. I told her what was happening. She was amazing. Carted me into a taxi, straight to casualty. I was examined in every possible way. Nothing physically wrong. The headache went. Fortunately there was a young doctor who got it and made an appointment for me to see a psychiatrist the next day.’
A waiter arrived. Sandford paused. ‘I’m banging on, let’s get some food.’ They ordered. ‘Haven’t you had enough?’ he asked, frowning. ‘I’d much rather know about you.’
‘Actually, no,’ she said. ‘I know this is the first time we’ve properly talked. I certainly didn’t expect to be discussing this. I’m sure you didn’t either. But if we want to know each other – really know each other – then I think you should get to the end.’
‘OK.’ He touched his forehead. ‘It’s the scar, isn’t it? You start with that, then one thing leads to another.’
‘In that case, it has its uses – and you can only see it when you look really closely. As I’m afraid I’m inclined to do at most things.’
‘You say that like it’s a fault.’
She grinned. ‘Is it?’
‘Maybe I’ll tell you in a few years.’
‘Are you flirting or is that the quickest proposal in the history of marriage?’ She saw the flash of alarm in his eyes. ‘It’s all right, Robbie, I’m joking.’
‘Do you think I am?’ he replied.
She did not answer and looked over his shoulder. ‘Ah, olives.’ A dish was placed between them. She poked an olive with a stick and plopped it into her mouth. ‘So what happened?’
‘The psychiatrist explained it to me. Anxiety disorder, plus depression—’
‘Had you felt depressed?’
‘Not that I was particularly aware of. He said they usually went together. In my case the crash might have been enough to trigger it. Combined with the stress of a new job and new home. Actually he called it hypochondriasis. I thought, hell, so I’m a bloody hypochondriac, am I? He said not at all. Everything you feel is happening to you physically. But it’s a build-up of adrenalin caused by the mind working on itself and creating a vicious circle. He was an experienced
guy – maybe a bit old-fashioned in retrospect – and put me on Valium and Librium. Seriously strong tranquillizers and anti-depressants.’
‘That sounds drastic.’
‘Yes, but it was still the go-to treatment in the first instance. SSRIs – you know, Prozac-type things – hadn’t been around that long and were still viewed with some suspicion. And CBT—’
‘Cognitive behaviour therapy—’
‘Yes. It wasn’t frontline treatment then.’
‘Did the drugs cure it?’
‘It’s never fully “cured”. They did control the attacks, but…’ He hesitated, looked down and felt his glass of wine.
‘But?’
‘There were things you had to avoid eating with those drugs. I remember broad beans was one, heaven knows why. And they said you should be careful with alcohol. That was bloody difficult. There was a terrible drinking culture in the House of Commons. Still is, as I understand it. It was very male. Then at weekends at the flat it was always party-time. Mikey was a wild one. Great fun, but endless booze and, in his case, coke. I tried to be restrained, never did drugs, but on a few occasions the combination of too much alcohol with Librium and Valium was bad. Really bad. I mean, a few times I woke up on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon and couldn’t remember anything from midway through the previous evening. Like, full-scale alcoholic black-outs. Except that I wasn’t an alcoholic. After one of those, Suzy – the saviour again – took me to one side. She told me I needed to take care. I wasn’t sure why she chose that moment – I just hoped I’d never done anything really stupid or embarrassing.’
‘Had you?’ she asked sharply.
‘No. Not as far as I know. No one ever said anything. But the thought of it made me wise up. Anyway, after a couple of years I came off the drugs. Did some CBT. To be honest, it’s only the breathing exercises that really helped. I tried Prozac a couple of times for a few months. Helped a bit too – and no bad side effects.’
‘And now?’
‘Last three or four years have been fine. The odd attack, but milder. There are a couple of people close to me who fully understand it. Knowing they’re there and I can lift the phone helps.’
‘Well, I’m one now too.’
‘Thank you.’
She raised her glass again. ‘If you don’t mind the irony, let’s drink to that.’
They clinked glasses. ‘You know something?’ he said.
‘Oh?’
‘A scientific study has shown that a man only needs eight point two seconds to look at a woman to know he’s fallen in love with her.’
‘Really?’ she laughed. She took a large glug of wine, looked straight into his eyes and broke into the biggest grin he’d ever seen. ‘What on earth takes a man so long?’
7
‘Good to see you, Jed.’
Sandford slapped an arm around his visitor’s shoulder. Fowkes drew back with a frown. ‘I sensed you’d been a bit withdrawn these past months.’
‘No, not at all.’ Sandford waved his arms around. ‘It’s just… everything’s so… so busy.’
‘Sure.’ Fowkes’s expression was a blank. ‘How’s the rich wife?’
Sandford forced a smile. ‘Still rich. Look, sorry if I’ve been elusive. It’s not meant.’
‘It’s fine. We all move on.’
‘Let’s sit in here.’ Sandford gestured him into the 10 Downing Street flat’s kitchen, indicated a wooden chair at the breakfast table, put on the kettle and sat down opposite him.
‘But you, Jed… your wheel’s come full circle,’ said Sandford, rubbing his hands. ‘Right-hand man to the Chancellor and Deputy Leader.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. I’m just a Spad.’
‘But a powerful one. My civil servants tell me Spads have all the fun,’ said Sandford lightly. ‘Power without responsibility.’
Fowkes allowed a brief smile. ‘I wouldn’t listen too much to your civil servants, Robbie. They’re a big part of the problem.’
‘Maybe. But I’ve given M-C the Treasury. And that means you too.’
‘You could hardly not. Better for you to have him inside pissing out, not outside pissing in.’
Sandford, his heart sinking, forced another smile. ‘I reckon M-C doesn’t mind where his piss goes.’
Fowkes had been shown through the door of the flat on the dot of 7.45 a.m. Sandford realized he must have arrived early to ensure that not a minute of the fifteen he had been given would be wasted. There was nothing new about the judgementalism. As young men, it had often seemed sharp, even funny. Less so now.
‘Jed,’ continued Sandford, ‘you mentioned “something bad” in that quick chat we had in Birmingham. And you ended with a question which I assume you didn’t mean literally. It was preposterous.’
‘I wish it were so,’ said Fowkes.
Sandford told himself not to react. ‘Since then, you’ve told my PPS there’s been a development.’
‘I’ll come to that.’
‘As you wish.’
‘First I want to ask you about a particular Friday night and the weekend that followed.’
‘When?’
‘In the flat of course.’
‘That’s thirty years ago. There were a lot of Friday nights and weekends that followed.’
‘Quite.’
‘Things get a bit blurry that far back.’
‘This one was around November 1991,’ said Fowkes. ‘A Friday evening. You and I met Mikey in the pub round the corner from his bank.’
‘We often met Mikey there.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Fowkes, ‘bear with me.’ Mikey, he related, had brought along a couple of girls from the bank – one was new, a sweet little Hungarian redhead called Andrea who was doing some waitressing and cleaning, the second a receptionist from Ireland called Roisin, pretty curls of dark hair and plenty of jokes.
‘I remember Roisin,’ said Sandford. ‘I took her out for dinner a couple of times.’ He smiled. ‘She was a laugh.’
‘I suspect that was after the evening I’m talking about. Maybe something was nagging you and you wanted to ask her about it.’
‘I doubt it. I just liked her.’
‘Perhaps.’ Fowkes resumed his account. They drank and chatted, Roisin mainly, the petite Hungarian saying little – she had arrived in Britain only a couple of weeks before. A few others came and went; Mikey was sidetracked by a new girlfriend.
‘It’s weird,’ said Jed, ‘I can remember certain details like that, even picture Mikey’s girl’s face – and the two of them linking arms as they headed for the street. She was wearing a tight black leather skirt.’ He paused, peering into Sandford’s eyes. ‘Bring anything back?’
‘Can’t say that does. Mikey always had a good-looking girl in tow. But yes, because of Roisin, I remember an evening out with her and her new friend. I don’t remember the friend. Small maybe, young-looking?’ Sandford looked at his watch. ‘Any help?’
‘Sorry, you’re a busy man.’ It had been nearing midnight, Fowkes continued, the pubs emptying, the city closing down for the weekend. ‘Roisin said she was going to peel off.’
‘I think I do remember that. I was disappointed.’
‘OK,’ said Fowkes. ‘It’s from now I’m really hoping you can keep bringing it back. Because, Robbie, it soon turned out your disappointment was short-lived. Unfortunately things turned out in a way that’s come back to haunt me. And it has bad consequences for you. I mean, really bad.’
8
‘Now I want to know all about you. Everything.’
‘Everything?’ she smiled. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, please,’ he said. The chianti bottle was empty and espressos on the way.
Carol took a deep breath. ‘Well, I was born one Sunday at a quarter to midnight. Because I had my right hand stuck by my head, my poor mother’s vagina had to be surgically widened to let me through. So I emerged into this world as a rather bloody mess.’
Sandford chuckled. ‘All right, may
be not.’
‘You see,’ she said, ‘I can be inclined to a certain precision at times.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. I might learn from it.’
She took his hand and stroked the back of it. ‘I was born lucky. My father is second-generation Dutch immigrant, married a soldier’s daughter, he’s now more English than the English. We had a house in Chelsea during the week, country house in Gloucestershire at weekends. Horses, swimming, tennis. I went to private day school in London, then boarding school when I was thirteen.’
‘Your choice or your parents’?’
‘Mine. Two of my best friends were going to the same place. I was OK, never unhappy or lonely. But it wasn’t a clever girls’ school and I was more academic than most of them. That could be frustrating.’ She spoke with the same fluency and intelligence he had instantly admired at her presentation. ‘But, my lucky star again, there was one wonderful teacher. He taught French and German. I was good at languages and, to everyone’s surprise, I got into Oxford. The only one in my year – or the two years before and after, for that matter.’
‘I knew it.’ He turned his hand and held hers. ‘Not just clever. But smart enough not to make a thing of it.’
‘That’s nice of you, Robbie. And then the summer after I did my “A”s we went as usual to Corfu, we had a villa there…’ She tailed off, her face dropping, and retrieved a tissue from her bag.
‘What is it?’ he asked softly. ‘You don’t need to…’
She quickly dabbed an eye. ‘No, it’s fine. I had three brothers, one older, two younger. The older was Johann. They called him that as a sort of throwback to Holland, I think. Anyway, he was jet skiing. Going too fast, trying to be too clever. He turned it over and the front end somehow caught him just below the temples. It was bad luck. They quickly fished him out of the water, unconscious but still breathing. The Corfu town hospital at least had a CT scanner. They sent the result to Athens. It was what they call “unsurvivable”. He had two days on a ventilator. We said goodbye, switched him off and that was it.’
A Time to Lie Page 3
