What Will Survive

by Joan Smith

  The coffee was too hot to drink but smelled of cardamom, and Aisha inhaled the fragrant steam with a feeling of genuine pleasure. As she moved round the bed to the table, she felt something cool and fleshy underfoot, and glanced down to see the bruised petals of the red flower she had worn in her hair the previous day. Brushing them to one side, she put down the tray and looked for a band to tie up her hair. She twisted it into a loose knot and picked up the dark blue trousers she had worn the day before, deciding that they would do for the journey to Beirut. A moment later, carrying a threadbare towel and her toilet bag, she stepped out of the room into what was already beginning to feel like another swelteringly hot day.

  It was stuffy in Committee Room 18, even with the windows open on to the Thames, and the woman from Fair World Now! was still speaking. Her evidence to the Foreign Affairs Select Committee had started almost an hour ago and she was producing lists of figures with lots of decimal points, having memorised, apparently, the shortfall between UN targets and the aid budgets of every EU nation. As for the US, which she seemed to mention in every third sentence, it was axiomatic that the President was public enemy number one, even if he happened, in this instance, to be a Democrat. ‘He’s on your side,’ Stephen felt like hissing, and wondered if she was so single-minded and humourless in private. Aisha knew a lot of that stuff too, but she had more sense than to go on about it, especially in front of people who might be able to help her if she handled them in the right way.

  Thinking about Aisha reminded him that he had not heard from her since he switched on his mobile and found a message the previous morning; she had not called again and her phone was turned off each time he tried the number. It was unlike her and Stephen hoped nothing was wrong, telling himself that the most likely explanation was a weak signal or perhaps her battery was flat... He fixed his gaze on a point in the dark green Pugin wallpaper above the other committee members’ heads — balding heads mostly, for this particular committee attracted more than its share of grandees; Stephen’s own hair was dark and curly, and he had been in the House long enough to see men not much older than himself develop beer guts, a warning which kept him going to the Westminster gym a couple of times each week. He deliberately moved his thoughts away from the committee and his underlying anxiety about Aisha, forcing himself to concentrate on his performance in the House that afternoon, when he was due to put a question to the Prime Minister.

  A nursing home in Stephen’s constituency had just been sold to a developer, throwing half a dozen nonagenarians on to the street, and Stephen — well, actually, his diligent new researcher — had discovered that the partner of a junior health minister was on the board of the company responsible for the closure. It was a pity it wasn’t the minister himself, of course, but the man was unpopular with his own backbenchers and that made him vulnerable. Stephen hoped it would raise the morale of his own side, most of whom were behaving as though they were just as mesmerised by the PM’s thumping majority as the man himself. The honeymoon can’t last, Stephen kept telling his colleagues in the bars and tea rooms, on the rather slender basis that the PM reminded him of the head boy of his old school: charm itself when things were going well, but displaying a petulance that slid into spluttering inarticulacy when anyone challenged him. Every time the PM leaned forward at the despatch box or in a TV studio, putting on his most sincere expression, Stephen thought of Burrell, whose father was an earl and from whom he had inherited the family bank soon after leaving Sandhurst. Burrell acknowledged Stephen whenever their paths crossed, but he clearly did not consider him important enough to cultivate. That was another parallel with the PM, who seemed barely to know who Stephen was, even though he was popular with the parliamentary sketch writers and often featured in their round-ups.

  He frowned, wondering whether his researcher had found the note he had left in his cramped office at 1 Parliament Street before strolling over the road to the committee — it was always worth tipping off the press gallery that something was about to happen, and Stephen wanted the guys from the Telegraph and the Indy to be on the alert for this afternoon’s fireworks. A page lead would go down well in the constituency, where there had been barbed comments about Stephen’s refusal of a job on the Shadow front bench — even though it was number two at Northern Ireland, and therefore much more trouble than it was worth. He had supported one of the unsuccessful candidates in the recent leadership election, a moderniser who was regarded with suspicion by the old guard, and Stephen regarded the offer as little more than a half-hearted attempt to shut him up. He wasn’t interested in the province and as for the security implications — well, he certainly wasn’t going to expose Carolina and the boys, not to mention Aisha, to that little nightmare.

  Stephen had still not decided how to begin his assault, and he turned over various opening gambits. ‘Is the Right Honourable Gentleman aware that the wife’ — not the wife, he must remember that half the new lot had partners, sometimes of the same gender, not that Stephen cared — ‘that the partner of one of his ministers was personally involved in a decision to turn vulnerable elderly people in my constituency out of their much-loved home?’ Perhaps much-loved was over-egging it a bit, for Stephen had been to the place and he wouldn’t want to spend more than an hour there. He tried again: ‘Does the Right Honourable Gentleman agree with me that the welfare of the elderly should always come before profit?’ Trouble was, half his own colleagues unashamedly believed the opposite, which might let the PM of the hook — no point in confusing things, when the aim was to wipe the grin from his boyish features.

  Becoming aware of raised voices, Stephen lifted his head and saw that the woman from Fair World Now! had become involved in a sharp exchange with a member of the committee from the government side. A few minutes ago she was talking about some worthy but doomed project in Colombia, but now she had got on to Afghanistan and things had livened up considerably. Even a woman MP, who had appeared to be fast asleep last time Stephen looked, was sitting up and paying attention.

  ‘You can’t deny the new government’s brought stability to the region, Miss’ — the silver-haired MP glanced down at the sheet of paper on the desk in front of him — ‘Ms Thompson.’

  ‘But at what price? Are you saying stability is more important than human rights?’

  Her voice had turned to ice. Looking down at his own copy of the morning’s agenda, Stephen spotted the letters QC after her name: Sara Thompson QC, her auburn hair swept up into a knot, her figure accentuated by the severe cut of her expensive grey suit. Ms Thompson was becoming more interesting by the minute and he wondered whether she knew Sir Ray’s pedigree. He might look like a distinguished member of the MCC, but he was a former steelworker, well known in the House as a sexist and a homophobe of the first order — Stephen had often thought that anyone with romantic notions about the nobility of the northern working class should spend an evening in Ray Dowling’s customary haunt, the Strangers’ Bar — aka the Kremlin — and they would soon be cured.

  ‘You can’t be unaware of the regime’s record? A recent report from the US State Department documents in detail’– she lifted a bundle of papers from the desk in front of her, effortlessly locating the one she wanted and holding it up—‘the systematic abuse of women and girls up and down the country? Yet your government proposes—’

  ‘Not my government, lass,’ the MP growled, prompting laughter.

  ‘My apologies, Sir Ray. I haven’t forgotten you were first elected to Parliament in 1979, which makes you one of the longest-serving... backbenchers in the House.’

  Stephen looked down to hide a broad smile: Thompson one, Dowling nil. She had done her homework and knew that Sir Ray’s knighthood barely compensated for the ministerial job he had coveted during the Party’s years in opposition and failed to get after the election. She was now in full stride, quoting from Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, the Revolutionary Association of Women in Afghanistan — now there was an organisation Stephen had not p
reviously heard mentioned inside the Palace of Westminster — and proving beyond doubt that the Taliban were not people you would invite home in a hurry. The same might be said, in Stephen’s opinion, about the rulers of Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and one or two other countries that were currently Britain’s bosom buddies. Brought up in a household where religion was barely mentioned, except on occasions when his father launched a diatribe against some interfering bishop, his attitude to religious enthusiasm was composed of incomprehension and dislike — something he was careful to conceal on the rare occasions he visited the small but influential mosque, and the recently-constructed gurdwara, in his constituency.

  Stephen became aware that Sir Ray had retreated, pretending to search for something in a shiny new briefcase embossed with his initials, and the room was temporarily silent. The committee chair, whom Stephen regarded as a thoroughly nice man but a hopeless politician, glanced at his watch. ‘Any more questions?’

  ‘Just one.’ Everyone turned to look at Stephen, who had not previously spoken during the morning’s session.

  ‘Ms Thompson, I’m sure you’re correct in your estimation of the Taliban. But can you tell us what you think this committee, and more importantly the government of which Sir Ray is sadly not an adornment’ — he could not resist glancing across the room — ‘should do about it?’

  Her hazel eyes flicked to the card on the desk in front of him, bearing his name — Stephen Massinger MP — and he saw a flash of recognition. He waited for her reply, wishing he had not chosen today to wear the garish green tie Carolina had given him for Christmas.

  ‘And which you’ve documented with immense care, as I’m sure members of the committee appreciate,’ he added to murmurs of agreement.

  She gave him a very slight nod and then she was off again, talking about boycotts, resolutions at the UN Commission on Human Rights, even making comparisons with South Africa.

  ‘We didn’t take a neutral position on race apartheid,’ she said, ‘and I’m suggesting to this committee, and through it, I hope, to the government, that we shouldn’t stand idly by in the face of the most flagrant gender apartheid. It’s up to the democratic nations of the world to make clear that human rights abuses on this scale will lead to isolation from the international community, as the organisation I represent argues in its latest publication.’ She held up a document that looked at least an inch thick.

  There was a moment’s stunned silence. What the hell was she suggesting, a cultural boycott of Afghanistan? Stephen wondered when the British Council had last sent anyone to Kabul, and which lucky author had drawn that particular short straw; the Taliban could probably survive quite a long time without British poets or a touring production of Othello.

  ‘Any further questions? Then I’d like to thank Ms Thompson, on behalf of the committee, for coming here this morning to give evidence.’ The chair paused as the woman acknowledged his remark and then went back to collecting her papers. ‘We meet again in October, when we’ll be taking evidence on the current situation in the Middle East.’

  Another cheerful session, Stephen thought. He followed Sara Thompson to the door, nimbly overtaking a party of Korean students who had listened in respectful, if slightly puzzled, silence to the morning’s proceedings.

  ‘Excuse me — you were very impressive.’

  She studied his face, assessing whether he meant it. ‘It’s my job. One of them, anyway.’

  Stephen grinned. ‘It’s Ray Dowling’s job, he was sitting on committees when you were doing your GCSEs, and he still doesn’t read his briefs. Why don’t we have lunch some time? I’d like to hear more about — what was it, the Revolutionary Women of Afghanistan?’

  She lifted her eyebrows.

  ‘No, really. I don’t like the Taliban any more than you do, but I also don’t know what we can do about it. If you have ideas, I’d be more than happy to listen.’

  He could see a calculation in her eyes as she came to a decision. ‘All right. Is any day better for you?’

  ‘We’re about to go into recess, so I won’t be in London so often.’ He fumbled in his pocket and held out a card. ‘Why don’t you call my office and we’ll arrange something.’

  She took his hand with slightly more warmth. ‘I’ll do that. Good to meet you.’ Stephen watched as she clipped down the corridor in her black high heels. As she turned towards the stairs he thought again of Aisha and reached into his pocket for his mobile, which had been switched off since the beginning of the meeting. He had four new messages, starting with his constituency chairman, the owner of a German car dealership, who talked at length about some tedious fund-raising event he expected Stephen to attend — more standing about, drinking cheap sherry and making polite conversation surrounded by someone’s hideous soft furnishings; Stephen had noticed a long time ago that the most active members of his constituency association favoured the same sludge-green carpets and curtains, probably because someone knew someone in retailing who could provide a discount. Then Carolina had called, sounding slightly out of breath, to remind him that they were expected for dinner in Ascot with her brother that evening. Stephen rolled his eyes, thinking about the ghastly food his brother-in-law always served, not that he had much appetite at the moment. His researcher, Sunil, was next, reporting that he had primed the lobby correspondents as instructed, adding that he had also given a background briefing to someone on the New Statesman whom he had happened to run into in Starbucks that morning. The New Statesman? Stephen grimaced, thinking that the boy had a bit too much initiative and not much political sense: the paper was not afraid of publishing stuff that damaged the new government, but an approving mention in a Leftish weekly would hardly go down well in the constituency.

  The final message must be from Aisha, Stephen assured himself, and felt a piercing stab of disappointment as his secretary came on the line, passing on a request to call a journalist at the Daily Telegraph who wanted him to write an op-ed piece. ‘Oh, and Mrs Campbell called again,’ she said. ‘She says there’s been a development she wants to talk to you about, so I said you’d probably speak to her this afternoon.’ Wearily, Stephen made a mental note to call the Foreign Office first to find out if they had any news of Laura Campbell’s children, who had been abducted and taken to Yemen by her former husband. ‘I’m sure there was something else,’ Sheila was saying, ‘let me just — oh yes, Tim Lincoln rang. Would that be Aisha’s husband?’ Her tone was openly curious. ‘He sounded very agitated but he wouldn’t say what it’s about.’

  Stephen’s stomach lurched as Sheila recited a familiar phone number. What the hell could Tim Lincoln want? He was about to punch his office number into the phone and interrogate Sheila when she added: ‘Don’t forget I’ve got a doctor’s appointment at twelve-thirty, but I’ll be back at two if you have any queries.’

  ‘Shit.’ Stephen remained where he was, thinking through various possibilities, and started when a hand descended on his shoulder.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to make you jump.’ It was the committee chair. ‘Not bad news, I hope? He gestured to the phone in Stephen’s hand: ‘Those things are a menace, if you want my opinion.’

  ‘No, I—’ Stephen stared at his mobile. ‘Just, you know, family stuff.’

  ‘Listen, we need to have a word about Uzbekistan. You’ll be joining us, I hope? It’s in August so you’ll be back in plenty of time for the Party Conference. Though you can’t be looking forward to it this year.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. I’ll call you.’ Stephen had a vague memory of marking a date on the wallchart in his office with the one-word query:Tashkent? And what a treat that would be, he thought — run by an ex-communist who was industriously herding the opposition into jail, and all they’d get to meet was a series of low-level post-Soviet apparatchiks.

  ‘Hear you’re having a pop at the PM this afternoon.’

  ‘What?’ Stephen stared at him, surprised as ever by how quickly news travelled at Westminster.

  ‘Good luck, your lot c
ould do with cheering up.’ The chair squeezed his arm, turned and walked away.

  Stephen’s mobile rang, causing heads to turn as it piped the opening bars of something which he recognised, too late, as a ghastly song entitled ‘Smack My Bitch Up’. He swore under his breath, moved to the side of the corridor and answered, brusquely: ‘Yes?’

  ‘Stephen, where the hell are you?’

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Still on for lunch today?’

  ‘Lunch?’

  ‘You old sod, I knew you’d forgotten. I’ve been hanging around in the Central Lobby for the last ten minutes but I haven’t had a better offer. There’s a rather pretty blonde next to the Post Office but I’ve tried catching her eye a couple of times and nothing doing. Not what they used to be, girls these days — girl power, isn’t that what they call it?’

  Stephen glanced down at his watch. It was five to one and he had completely forgotten about lunch with Charlie Lennard. He wanted to talk to him about some convoluted business deal involving Carolina’s brother, who would no doubt expect a full report that evening too. He felt a rush of anxiety about Aisha, realised he was muttering to himself and turned the noise into an embarrassed cough.

  ‘Stephen? I’d get that seen to, if I were you.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in — give me five minutes, all right?’

  He pressed a button to end the call and speed-dialled Aisha’s number one more time. ‘Christ,’ he said before her voice had finished asking him to leave a message. ‘Why aren’t you answering your phone? Why’s Tim calling my office?’ He checked himself. ‘Sorry, it’s — very frustrating, not being able to get hold of you. Call me as soon as you get this, OK, it doesn’t matter what time.’

  He hesitated for a moment, then keyed in Tim Lincoln’s number. It took a few seconds to connect, followed by the engaged tone. ‘Shit,’ Stephen said again, drawing a hostile look from an usher, and ended the call. Thrusting the phone in to his pocket, he braced himself for the unwelcome task of entertaining Lord Lennard for the next hour.