Party Games

by E J Greenway

  “Yeah, well, I guessed that. Here are the proofs, taken last night.” He handed over an envelope, Colin snatching it from him while watching for unwelcome observers. A ball suddenly appeared at his feet, a small boy running in his direction, a high laugh of childish exuberance reaching Colin’s ears and making him panic. Instinctively, he kicked the ball back and the boy smiled at the gesture, scooping up his ball and waving at Colin. Colin found himself returning the wave, but the boy turned with another giggle and ran back to his mother’s arms.

  “Well, are you going to look or what? You’re not my only client, you know.”

  A gruff voice jolted him from the unexpected distraction. Turning away from the boy, he peered into the envelope and smirked.

  “Good.” He said. “Good. Keep watching them.”

  His companion nodded. “I’ll be back in touch.”

  “Don’t leave it too long. I need to close a deal, and soon.”

  *****

  Rodney Richmond liked nothing better than getting out of the bubble that was the Westminster Village. If that included a photo shoot at a London secondary school, one decidedly wooden Shadow Education Secretary, twelve children, a food technology teacher, one cynical-looking headmistress and a handful of press, then he would meet the challenge with all the enthusiasm of a candidate on the hustings.

  The long, high ceiling room had an inherent stuffiness about it from years of cooking fumes, the rice pudding-coloured walls adorned with colourful posters depicting smiling, toothy children munching on carrots and apples. Bartholomew Phillips MP, Rodney’s broad-shouldered education spokesman, stood grinning furiously. Irritated by his lack of engagement in the visit, Rodney wondered if children actually terrified him, but he was a key loyalist in the Shadow Cabinet. Barty continued to smile and do little else.

  “We teach them about nutrition in their first year of GCSEs, it’s not all just how to boil an egg.” The teacher explained, a gaggle of cameras swooping in as Rodney nodded at a bright text book. He mentally cursed himself for being surprised that the teacher was a young, enthusiastic man rather than a lady with horn-rimmed spectacles and a flour-stained apron.

  Clare paced the classroom, her mobile pressed to her ear. Sky News had failed to turn up, the Morning Engager education correspondent kept asking Rodney ‘unsuitable’ questions about the reshuffle, the Martin Arnold story could break any day and Rodney was now behind schedule. Rodney glanced at Clare, ill with a terrible cold he most certainly didn’t wish to catch. She began making furious ‘kill the conversation’ signs.

  A group of well presented 14 year olds stood solemnly just in shot of the BBC’s rolling camera. Rodney turned his well-practiced charm up a notch and began asking them pertinent questions as he rolled up his shirt sleeves and hid is concern about his lack of kitchen skills. Never having baked one in his life, Rodney had been well briefed about cake-preparation during the car journey.

  “You will show that the Leader of the Opposition can certainly get stuck in over education – but you will have to do it all in twenty minutes.” Clare had explained frankly. Rodney had laughed but she hadn’t reciprocated.

  He was soon up to his elbows in flour, the journalists making light banter, and he vowed to return and try his creation at the end of the visit. Clare shook her dark-haired head but it was too late.

  “I hadn’t actually envisaged you eating the damn thing! ‘Let them eat cake, says Tory leader’. Brilliant, effing marvellous.” She would say admonishingly in the car afterwards.

  “Reckon you’ve got enough Cavaliers to see off Colin Scott’s Roundheads, eh, Mr Richmond?” The Engager correspondent asked him during a history ‘lesson’ about the English civil war. The children looked blank as Rodney continue to smile, ignoring the ache in his cheeks as he waved away the comment with a quip about sticking to today’s lesson.

  “Rodney’s doing an amazing job as leader, and will continue to do so.” Barty interjected stiffly. Rodney tried not to let his smile falter.

  To his surprise, Clare wasn’t listening to the conversation. It was all too apparent by her expression that something was wrong. As he headed towards the door with his entourage, he glanced at her for a visual sign as to how she thought the visit was going. As he caught her eye and saw ‘that look’ on her face, his public smile froze. Arnold. But when?

  *****

  “Order, order. Questions to the Prime Minister, Mr Alan Foster...”

  As usual for a Wednesday the Chamber was packed, MPs squeezed together, the atmosphere charged. The headlines from the school visit were now tomorrow’s worry and Rodney had psyched himself up for his weekly boxing match with the Prime Minister. Robert Williams, his dependable PPS, sat behind him, literally and figuratively watching his back, while Colin Scott and Shadow Chancellor Heidi Talbot flanked him. He glanced along the bench at his team, buoyed by a smile from Anthea. Colin crossed his arms, looking dead ahead at the Government benches, but Rodney felt a frosty presence even the heat of the Chamber couldn’t melt. The weekly nausea was present in his gut, but he was a master at hiding it.

  “Mr Rodney Richmond!”

  All too aware of Tristan Rivers’ heavy stare from further up the benches, Rodney rose to his feet to a roar of approval behind him.

  “Thank you, Mr Speaker. Can I ask the Prime Minister, why is it that only groups supporting the Government’s position on Cornish devolution were asked to

  contribute to the initial consultation process? Does he agree with me that the consultation was flawed, that it wasn't an open consultation but was instead biased in the extreme just so he and his right honourable Friend the Secretary of State could get the outcome they wanted rather than one which reflects the majority view in Cornwall?” Rodney jabbed his finger at the despatch box, his tone accusing yet concerned. He sat back onto the bench defiantly to a resonant shout of support from his own benches, already relaxing into the theatre of the occasion. The rush of adrenaline now surging through him had nothing to do with Anthea’s nods of agreement and approving gaze.

  The Prime Minister was on his feet. He forced a rattled grimace as a dissenting grumble rippled over the Government back benches.

  “I think the Right Honourable Gentleman should get his facts straight before hurling his usual opportunist accusations! The consultation, Mr Speaker, the consultation…”

  “Order!” The Speaker blustered, this time turning his exasperated attention to the over-excited Opposition bench. Shouts of ‘answer the question!’ resonated around the Chamber.

  “The consultation, Mr Speaker, covered a wide range of groups and my Right Honourable Friend the Secretary of State has already made a statement on this issue. We have gone ahead with this Bill because there is much support for a devolved assembly in Cornwall. However I am unsurprised that the Leader of the Opposition has chosen to disregard the results of the consultation as his party refuses to listen, and as a result suffered its worst defeat for twenty years at the last election!”

  A triumphant smile and a deafening Labour cheer precipitated Rodney’s rebuttal, but he ignored their mocking eyes and fixed his gaze on the Government despatch box.

  “As usual, Mr Speaker, the Prime Minister fails to answer the question!” He announced smoothly, but with just enough disgust in his voice to encourage those behind him to join in. Cabinet ministers waved in dramatic gesture and shook their heads in mock disappointment.

  “Maybe he can answer this one instead – why doesn’t he give the people of Cornwall the chance to decide for themselves if they wish to be independent from the UK? Isn’t it simply the case that he is scared stiff of a referendum because he knows only too well he would lose that referendum? And isn’t it also the case that the Prime Minister deliberately left the Bill out of his manifesto at the last election because he knew that the Honourable Lady for Cornwall North might otherwise have had to seek alternative employment?”

  A chorus of ‘hear, hear!’ from his colleagues drowned out the shouts of a female
Labour MP.

  “This is typical scaremongering from a party which has run out of steam and run out of ideas, Mr Speaker!” The Prime Minister retorted, the Government benches exploding in agreement. “And, it seems, they have run out of patience with each other! Just ask their Deputy Leader, the Honourable Member for Romsey, who seems to be telling anyone who will listen that the Right Honourable Gentleman is wrong on this issue! If he won’t listen to his colleagues, what chance is there he will listen to the British people?”

  Rodney felt a flush of anger as a mocking roar went up from the Government benches. He saw Colin stiffen next to him, but the man just smiled and shook his head. Attempting a retort, Rodney struggled to be heard.

  “Order, order!” Mr Speaker demanded, rising to his feet and glaring. “I will not tolerate shouting in the Chamber, it’s disrespectful to the Leader of the Opposition! And the new Opposition Deputy Chief Whip, the Honourable Gentleman for Barnstapole and Witherington, should be aware he is on his last warning! Rodney Richmond!” David Fryer turned red as the noise suddenly dropped to a low rumble, members egging each other on to be the first to disobey the Speaker and find themselves suspended for a week.

  “Thank you, Mr Speaker,” Rodney said gratefully, a page of notes and a copy of the newly published Bill clasped in his hand. For the last fifteen months Rodney had been through a more intensive make-over than he ever thought possible, and all to this end. He had the voice, the smile, the hair and wore an expertly tailored suit, every other man on that front bench looking inadequate next to him. Colin Scott included. “It seems rather interesting, does it not Mr Speaker, that it is the Honourable Lady for Cornwall North who is shouting the loudest even though she knows she has the most to lose from this fudged and democratically damaging Bill?”

  “Wait for second reading!” A lone male voice shouted from the Government benches.

  Unfazed, Rodney nodded. “The honourable Gentleman shouldn't worry, we will certainly be waiting with great anticipation for Second Reading! As they say out there in the real world, Mr Speaker, rather than in the world of the benches opposite: ‘bring it on!’ ”

  *****

  “Don’t forget, you’ve a number of calls you need to return before they all ring again.” Colin’s PA said firmly as he swept past her desk, ignoring the disproving look on her face. “And that Mr Wright has rung about six times, if you don’t ring him back about that phone mast I think he’s going to lynch you at the surgery.”

  Colin muttered that he would do his best to call Mr Wright after lunch.

  “Where are you going for lunch? There’s nothing in the diary.” She asked breezily. Colin had overheard her telling a colleague’s PA, rather loudly in the corridor, that she suspected her boss was either having a secret relationship, or plotting, or both. He would have sacked her if she weren’t just as astute in her job.

  “Just to the pub, with an old friend.” Colin smiled as he headed out. “I’ll be back by two.”

  The Parliamentary estate was a big place when one didn’t wish to stop to chat. He waved at those he knew would support him, if push came to shove, and exchanged jovial words with persuadable colleagues as he passed through Portcullis House, then along the colonnade. But his mind were on those pictures -

  they weren’t enough for blackmail, but it was indeed a start. Richmond’s obsession with Culverhouse was an open secret, and any man, especially a recently sacked colleague, who chose to live life on the edge by screwing her, would most likely see himself at the bottom of the Thames. Politically, of course. But it was Rivers’ wife which could ultimately be the stick with which to beat him into submission. Rivers was gullible. A leopard like the ex Chief Whip rarely changed its spots, and once the truth came out, once Anthea knew exactly who she was involved with, once the evidence had played its part.... The seeds of doubt were already planted in Rivers’ mind about Richmond and all that was needed for them to bloom into distrust was a little watering - with a shot or two of whisky. The guy’s career had taken a nose-dive and Colin would be there, after dark, to watch him drown his sorrows and help him realise that his destiny lay in revenge.

  Inside the Marquis of Granby pub, the Deputy Leader checked his watch. If he didn’t turn up soon, he would have venture out into the cool late autumn rain for a fag. His stomach had begun to complain, but he didn’t feel like eating. Suppressing his hunger pains he simply ordered a pint of Hobson’s Choice and headed over to one of the few secluded corners of the pub. He scanned the room, feeling quite uncomfortable in a place he certainly didn't patronise very often.

  A few minutes past and Colin breathed in sharply, already he was becoming jittery. Just as he wondered whether he had been stood up, he saw a familiar, overbearing figure walk in, a greatcoat hanging off his substantial frame. A pair of ageing, watery eyes looked his way, but instead of making a beeline for the politician, the man headed to the bar and ordered a drink. His voice was deep and his accent thick. Colin rolled his eyes and waited.

  “Geoff, how nice to see you. It’s been a while.” Colin smiled as the man finally approached. They shook hands, Colin feeling the newspaper editor’s icy leathery fingers pressing into his knuckles.

  Sir Geoffrey Dickenson grinned, cocking an eyebrow and smacking a newspaper onto the table. The Engager, Colin noted with amusement. Always good to keep a firm eye on the competition.

  “Yes, it has. Fifteen bloody months isn’t it?” He boomed, kicking a stool in Colin's direction and lowering himself onto it. It wasn’t a question, it was a dig. “And here you are, still fannying about as Richmond’s whipping boy – sorry, deputy, I should say. Thought you might’ve got shut of him by now, if you were doing your job properly.” Geoffrey Dickenson gulped his pint, drops of condensation spilling down his chin. He wiped them away and eyed Colin carefully. Colin tried not to feel outraged, acutely aware of anyone who may be listening in. “Unless, of course, you’re too chicken to take him on again so soon.”

  “Bit harsh, Geoff. He did beat me, and some people even like him.” He mumbled. Not many people could intimidate him, but he had the uneasy sense that he was being belittled without the recourse of retort.

  “Yeah, well. Things can change. I just don’t see you putting much effort in, that’s all. Saw your interview in The Times a few weeks ago – what’s all this corporate responsibility nonsense? You’re just turning into one of them, one of Richmond’s stooges. And I thought you were better than that.”

  The back of Colin's neck prickled. Colin didn’t have the time or the inclination to argue the toss with a man whose views were formed at the turn of the century – the previous century.

  “I am certainly not a stooge of Richmond’s. I just have to play the political game. You know how it is, Geoff.” Colin fell silent, raising his drink to his lips and gulping the cool liquid. He studied Dickenson's ageing face, every line and crevice along his cheeks and forehead etched from years of tirelessly beating back the competition and striving to the top in his field. His grey locks were swept back and gelled to his scalp, his cloudy green eyes wide and bloodshot.

  “God, I need a bloody cancer stick.” Dickenson said. “And yes, I know how it is – it just seems that, ever since you lost, you’ve bottled it. I think it’s time you played the game to win, none of this pissing about, half way up Richmond’s arse.”

  Colin was sick of this ignorant presumption. What the hell did he know? He wasn’t about to tell him of his plans. Yes, Dickenson’s paper had backed him during the leadership race, but if he thought this gave him the right to sit and insult him to his face, he was mistaken.

  “I can’t just wade in there, shooting my mouth off, Geoff!” Colin hissed, his composure slipping. “I don’t have many bullets in my gun, as it were, and if I only get one shot, I’m not about to just fire it into the air and hope my honourable colleagues flock to me! It would scare them off and they would be even more attached to Richmond’s apron strings. I have to wait for him to make a mistake, and I think C
ornish devolution is it. He buggers that up, then it’s only a matter of time.”

  Dickenson shook his head. “Cornish devolution – it’s utter shit, Colin. Nobody gives a flying fuck about Cornish bloody devolution...”

  “Exactly my point.”

  “No, I mean, you really think anyone outside the South West will care if the Government wins or loses on this issue? You think you can bring Richmond down over this?”

  “Richmond’s allies think he’s putting too much emphasis on it, that he’s making a big political mistake by attaching himself personally to the prospect of bringing down Ian Harvey...”

  The editor chuckled, downing the rest of his pint. “Ian Harvey – my God, he’s a bloody case, isn’t he? Not too bad a Secretary of State, I hear, but I also hear he likes a bit of skirt over at that excuse for a department of his and has a knack for making grown men cry. Sounds like the PM’s just needing an excuse to get rid. Looking at you lot, this whole thing is to do with the fact that Richmond still wants to screw Culverhouse. If I was loyal to Richmond, I’d be telling him I don’t reckon he should go all out on this Bill.”

  “But you’re not loyal to Richmond.” Colin said carefully.

  Dickenson folded his arms. “He’s not what I thought he was when he was at the paper, as a politician he’s got about as much spine as a fucking jellyfish. Anyway, the main thing is that you know which side your bread is buttered. I bloody hope.”

  Colin considered a half-hearted denial of the blatant hints the Bulletin had been putting out over the past year. “I’ve not changed my political outlook, nor my ambition, if that’s what you mean.” He finally responded.

  “In that case, I think you and I can make a tidy little deal here.”

  Colin coughed cynically but his body language gave every sign of interest. The editor fingered the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. “Richmond's done for all ready, it's in the stars. I mean, Barty fucking Phillips, why the hell is he still there? A token bloody gay Leftie is all he is. Richmond ain't going nowhere, you lot know it, the entire lobby knows it, he ain't got what it takes to even get you through the Europeans next year, and even if he had you can't carry on living in the Government's pocket over the latest crappy deal over the European budget and hope to hold your heads up high come polling day.”