Party Games

by E J Greenway

  He had overcome what he considered his moment of weakness, earlier in the Atrium. Guilt was a feeling usually alien to him, but Jeremy had a way of bringing out the worst in him. He had all but forgotten the Party Chairman’s expression, a mixture of pity and piousness, and as for the girl, his conscience was now clear. Some may have called it cold detachment; Colin liked to call it the survival instinct.

  “To the leadership.” His companion announced, raising his own glass and producing a slightly sour smile.

  Colin laughed softly. “Quite. To the leadership.” He tipped his own glass in appreciation before draining it, shuddering slightly from the burning in his throat. Another drink was certainly required; cost was nothing when it was on the tab, or Fryer’s tab, to be precise. Elite gentlemen’s clubs weren’t usually Colin’s style, but Fryer had invited him on a number of occasions recently and he had grown a taste for an exclusiveness which he felt had become lost at Westminster. Fryer’s connections were extensive, one of the few reasons Colin put up with his loudmouth behaviour.

  Colin might have been more concerned about Anthea Culverhouse if one of his backbench colleagues hadn’t called him, out of the blue, to offer him his name as the twentieth nomination. No, Fryer hadn’t arm-twisted him into it, he just felt his conscience wouldn’t allow him to follow the majority of his colleagues into unequivocally supporting Richmond. Anthea, however, was still important.

  “I still need a fellow Shadow Cabinet member to endorse me, don’t forget.” Colin reminded Fryer, hiding the frustration in his voice. “Otherwise I won’t be as credible. I’m just waiting for her call. It’ll come.” He checked his watch. Returning to an empty, soulless home seemed utterly uninviting but he had little choice now his one source of entertainment had become impossible, it would be far too dangerous to find a replacement. Colin deeply regretted how things had turned out but the silly girl’s stupidity, and his own, weighed heavily on his mind.

  “Steven’s still a possibility, remember. If he’s wavering, he’d be a far bigger beast than Culverhouse.” Fryer said. He lit a cigar.

  “I still want you to lean on Phillips, he’ll cave eventually. He’s nearly as gullible as Rivers. Leave Sharkey to me, I’ll keep testing the water.” Colin took another cigar from the table, inadvertently missing the mild horror which had clouded his colleague’s face.

  “Phillips is no-go, far too loyal to Richmond.” Fryer stumbled over his words as Colin threw him a puzzled glance. “And anyway, the Patrick Hornby thing, it’s nonsense and we can’t just go to the papers without proof. If it turned out Phillips is gay then it won’t take long before we’d be discovered as the ones who ‘outed’ him and I’d rather not have you be seen as homophobic in any way.”

  “Since when did you get so sensible, David?” Colin scoffed, but before his companion could look even more uncomfortable his mobile phone beeped and vibrated on the table. “Matthew, hi…no, I’m at the Peppermint with David…” There was a palpable pause in Colin’s conversation. He turned to Fryer but his eyes darted around the room.

  “Is there a television?”

  News 24 flickered silently on the flat screen mounted by the bar as Colin indicated brusquely to the barman to turn up the volume. The ‘Breaking News’ headline, red and prominent, caused silent rage to flare in Colin’s chest.

  ‘RODNEY RICHMOND EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW – Tory leader confident of Cornish vote victory tomorrow – calls on critics to justify words with actions –’

  “I’ll call you back.” Colin snapped, his eyes widening as he slowly lowered his mobile. Here was Richmond, looking confident and relaxed, that charming smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he gave the BBC’s Political Editor the interview journalists dreamed of. Fryer muttered something under his breath but Colin paid no attention, his eyes burning into the television screen. News 24 played back the highlights at length, interspersed with a clip of the leader in front of a media frenzy in his constituency as he brushed off questions. But for the relatively new Political Editor, Richmond appeared to have far more frank answers. He had found his resolve following his confrontation with his deputy.

  “You’ve had the most difficult week of your leadership so far. Would you say you still had the backing of the entire Shadow Cabinet?” Zoe Simpson asked in a slightly shrill voice. Rodney leant forward in his chair but kept his arms firmly on the sides – Colin saw he was obviously in control of the interview and had almost certainly requested it himself.

  “I would like to think so.” His smile was tight so to appear confident, not cocky, but as the light caught his dark locks Colin noted that he had been far too heavily made up. “I count many in the Shadow Cabinet as close friends and extremely competent colleagues.”

  “Isn’t it the case that you have had some disagreements with certain of your colleagues?”

  “There is nothing wrong with a bit of healthy debate, it is what keeps our party democratic and forward-thinking.”

  The bitter taste of hatred rose in Colin’s throat and he winced. Richmond was back on form and doing what he did best; he could tame the media beast far better than any other politician Colin had ever witnessed and here he was, calm, groomed and looking like a Prime Minister in waiting.

  “Is that what you call the increasingly public differences between you and Colin Scott? Isn’t it the case that many on the Right aren’t happy with what you’re doing in your party, and the emphasis you have put on the Cornish vote tomorrow?”

  Here it comes, Colin thought.

  Rodney raised a carefully controlled eyebrow. “The Government’s support is falling away, the rebels are in chaos and the Secretary of State’s carelessness is going to cost him dear. We are in a strong position to win tomorrow and put the Government’s plans for Cornish devolution on the scrapheap.”

  “Is that where Colin Scott should be now he and his supporters appear to be plotting against you – on the scrapheap? You’ve already had to sack your Deputy Chief Whip for openly supporting Mr Scott days after appointing him, surely two losses from the Whips Office in the space of a couple of weeks is careless?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t really speak for anyone else in the Conservative Party, all I can say is that I believe what I’m doing – looking hard at what we have said and done in the past and reassessing our policies by listening to people both in the party and the electorate as a whole – is the right way to move us forward and make us electable again.” Rodney leant back in his chair and folded his hands across his lap but there was a determination in his eyes. “I also do not think being stuck in a political rut is conducive to an effective and strong opposition.”

  “So what would you say to any potential challenger to your leadership?” Zoe asked in forthright tone.

  “I would suggest anyone who is unhappy talk to me directly.” Rodney said softly, although obviously, and purposefully, saying nothing to put Colin at ease.

  “And if they do not, and continue to speak out publicly against you?”

  “As I say, anyone who is unhappy should…”

  “Otherwise, as a rather notorious Labour rebel put it recently, ‘come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough’?”

  “Well I wouldn’t put it like that…”

  “But you would rather be challenged directly than have backbiting eating away at your leadership?”

  He could still easily duck the question, Colin thought, play down any leadership problems, but Richmond had already said enough to cause damage. It had been deliberate, Richmond had fired the bullet and now all he needed to do was kick the wound.

  Richmond considered his response. Or so it appeared. A small, almost inaudible sigh passed his lips and his expression turned incredulous. “Yes.” He said firmly. “Yes, I would.”

  Colin curled his lip, his gaze fixed on the television. He was almost sure that he saw Richmond turn to the camera and look him straight in the eye. It was a direct challenge to Colin, and Colin alone. Tristan meant nothing. He heard
Fryer draw in a sharp intake of breath, ready to speak, but Colin held his hand up and shook his head.

  “Not here.” He hissed, hardly moving. “Too public. We’re going to have every journalist and colleague under the sun ringing us any minute – I need go outside, call Matthew back to discuss the line. Richmond thinks he’s calling my bluff, but if it’s a fight he wants…he may have just committed political suicide.”

  *****

  “So you’ve done it then?” Fryer had asked him sharply.

  “Of course. I’ve told her.” McDermott had intended to keep the conversation equally as brief. He had been pleased to be talking to Fryer and not that bloody Matthew Gaines, Gaines was annoyingly good when it came to playing journalists at their own game. It must be Fryer’s money, connections or both that the Deputy Leader was after, it certainly wasn’t his brain.

  “So I can tell Colin that she’s going to support him?”

  “Look, I’ve done my bit. It’s up to her what she does next. We shouldn’t even be talking over the phone about this.”

  “You’re right. We’ll be in touch. Maybe one day Colin might even give you a peerage if you’re lucky as a thank you.”

  Smarmy bastard. McDermott then turned off his mobile for the first time in around five years, closed the blinds on his office windows so the Bulletin staff couldn’t stare in at him, and wondered if he should go before being pushed. Heads would roll for this and he would rather commit suicide on his own terms than be put up against Dickenson’s office wall and shot. He looked down at his hand and saw it was clenched tightly, his nails digging into the soft flesh of his palm. That old feeling was churning inside him again, a rage he had suppressed years ago but which flickered to life every time he saw Richmond’s annoying fucking face, doing nicely for himself on the back of other people’s hard graft.

  He had now been working for a good few hours and the next day’s edition was nearing completion. Of course Anthea Culverhouse wasn’t about to support Scott, but neither was her affair with Tristan Rivers mentioned on a single page of the coming paper. ‘CORNISH VOTE: LABOUR MELTDOWN’ or something similar would be the headline. Colin Scott would be a very unhappy bunny tomorrow – not only was he to fail to get the support he wanted, the Government was still set to face a slim defeat over Cornish devolution. After a hefty gamble Richmond would be set to end a gruelling week with an impressive victory by blowing a massive hole in the middle of the Government’s regionalisation strategy. He would, for that week at least, be the Comeback Kid.

  The knot in McDermott’s stomach prevented him from consuming his staple diet of coffee and Digestives and he felt hot and sick. He would never forget the way Anthea Culverhouse had suddenly bounced back from his interrogation of her. Just as he thought she was about to hang up, enraged by his goading, her voice turned determined. McDermott had not only played a major part in trying to ruin her precious Tory leader, he now threatened her own career. She had been scorned, pushed too far. The journalist was privately impressed.

  “I would be very happy to receive a free copy of your paper tomorrow morning, Mr McDermott, because I’ll be reading about how the Government is screwed over Cornwall and that poll – and my quote - will feature very heavily.” Anthea had spoken with a renewed confidence. “With regards to any of the allegations against Tristan Rivers and me, and Tristan Rivers and his...wife, you’re not going to print a word of them.”

  McDermott took cold comfort in the quiver in her voice. She had known little about Rivers’ past, that much was obvious, but the woman had balls.

  “I admire your strength in the face of adversity, Miss Culverhouse, but as far as I can see you can’t stop me. Public interest and all that.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Anthea scoffed. “I also don’t think your boss has the first clue that you’ve called me, on Colin Scott’s instructions, I presume.”

  “The implications of you switching your support to Scott would be huge. Believe me, he knows.” McDermott had said. That wasn’t, however, strictly true. The old bastard had only approved blackmail of Rivers, and Rivers alone. Culverhouse, he had said, was strictly off-limits. The editor’s other interest had been in Barty Phillips, but Fryer had unexpectedly warned him off without any obvious reason. Culverhouse would be a dead cert, Fryer - and Scott - were sure. It was an act of desperation on Scott’s part and McDermott craved his boss’ approval. It was initiative, not disobedience. On reflection, Barty Phillips would have been a much softer, and safer, target.

  “Well that is strange, for him to approve direct contact – direct blackmail – of me of all people.” Anthea had retorted sharply. “I know too much about you, about the past, much more than you think I do, Mr McDermott. He may be many things but Geoffrey Dickenson is shrewd enough to only go so far for Colin Scott. Somebody’s underestimating me. Many people do.”

  “Sorry, I don’t understand.” The journalist had despised the fact he was suddenly on the offensive and he wondered where this conversation was now heading. More than anything, he didn’t want Culverhouse to sense his panic. She sounded empowered; Tristan may have rolled over and taken it from Scott, but she appeared to be willing to do no such thing.

  “Anything he may have told you – well, you wouldn’t want to get your best friend into trouble, would you?” McDermott said slyly.

  “I don’t believe that you could implicate Rodney in anything, you know it was all you.” Anthea scoffed. “I know he stopped a scoop – something you had discovered in a very dubious way – from making the paper. Isn’t that right?”

  There had been a silence on the other end of the line.

  “You can twist it any way you like, but your hands are now tied. You shouldn’t have called me, Mr McDermott. I will not be forced into supporting anyone in any leadership contest.” Anthea’s voice became threatening and serious. “I think I should let you go and speak to Mr Dickenson, let him know that his scoop is off because of your own stupidity. A man like him won’t risk the reputation of his paper just to print some story about Tristan Rivers and me, Colin Scott’s not worth all that much to him, I’m sure. Oh, but just for the record, we are quietly confident about tomorrow’s vote.” The line went dead.

  McDermott had thrown his phone against his office chair in rage. It had all gone too far. Any of their rival papers, especially Rosie Lambert, would love the political scandal of the year, involving Sir Geoffrey Dickenson, a past cover-up, his unholy alliance with Colin Scott and an attempt to blackmail in order to destroy the Conservative Party leadership. The rest of the Tory press hated the Bulletin, with an editor they despised. It would be all sewn up pro-Richmond and the bad guys would be those shrewd enough to see through him.

  After the call to Fryer, he paced the office, sweat drenching through his shirt. There was a biting wind outside but he was burning up, his eyes wide and unblinking as he tried to process the enormity of the situation. Dickenson would protect his newspaper’s reputation. He wouldn’t, however, protect his Political Editor.

  It was then he made up his mind. Suddenly, he felt calm. A strange calm, before the wrath consumed him and everything was done. He wasn’t going to be telling Dickenson a thing. It had finally come to this. The hatred he had harboured all these years; the blind rage at knowing Richmond was the better journalist, that Richmond had been Dickenson’s favourite, burned his very soul and shrouded him in that familiar deep depression he had battled for so long. Here Richmond was again, inadvertently preventing his scoop from making it on to the front page. If the journalist was going down, then he would drag his former colleague down with him so he could never, ever get back up again.

  It was at home, locked away. He kept it safe, looking at it occasionally to clean it, curious thoughts awash in his mind, wondering whether it could make a person feel strong...

  A fierce knocking on the office door jolted the journalist from his thoughts. It was only then it occurred to him that he hadn’t slept properly in days.

  “You and I
need to have a bloody long talk.” Dickenson growled, his creased face flushed with anger. “You’re not the only one who can tap a fucking phone, Fergus.”

  McDermott’s eyes drifted towards his Nokia. He muttered an expletive. “Was all this with Colin Scott simply to catch me out? Was it, Geoff?” McDermott asked coolly. There was no point in shouting.

  “My office. Let’s go.”

  “Let me get one more interview, this time with Richmond. You know I can do a good interview, the one with Scott was genius, it put the shits up Richmond big style. I can tear him to shreds, get him to slip up, admit Scott’s got him rattled.” McDermott said hurriedly, his accent thickening with anticipation. He then met Sir Geoffrey’s stare as he rose from his Political Editor’s chair, very possibly for the last time.

  “Like I say, Fergus, get the fuck in my office. Now.”

  *****

  “You are all my closest friends, I appreciate you taking the time to come here, especially as it is so late. At least I provided alcohol.” The Opposition Leader strained a smile, but it was weak and tired. “The Simpson interview went well, I thought, now it’s just the waiting game.”

  Barty Phillips moved his tall frame in his chair, the usual uneasy look on his face, but he spoke supportive words and berated the Deputy Leader for his audacity and selfishness. Jeremy Cheeser did what any good Party Chairman would do and reassured his leader that he was holding the party together and that the latest association chairmen poll showed overwhelming support for his leadership. Shadow Chancellor Heidi Talbot simply shrugged and said that only an insane few were prepared to put a cross by Colin Scott’s name in any ballot. But the only person who Rodney would be desperate to hear speak remained unusually silent, her blonde hair hiding the eye he was anxious to catch.