House of Cards

by Michael Dobbs

  How many years had he watched younger and less gifted men finding more rapid advancement? How many times had he dried their eyes, wiped their arses, buried their secrets deep from view in order to clear their way? Yes, they owed him! He still had time to make his mark, but both he and Mrs. Bailey knew he hadn’t so much of it.

  Yet even as he turned from her she pursued him, haranguing him about the proposed one-way system for the High Street shopping center. He raised his eyes in supplication and managed to catch the attention of his wife, Mortima, busily engaged in platitudes on the far side of the room. One glance told her that his rescue was long overdue and she hurried to his side.

  “Ladies, you will have to excuse us, we have to go back to the hotel and change before the count. I can’t thank you enough for all your help. You know how indispensable you are to Francis.”

  Urquhart even managed a smile for Mrs. Bailey; it was like a mayfly, so brief it almost died before it could be seen but enough to repair relations. He made quickly for the door. He was saying good-bye to the hostess when he was waved to a halt by his election agent who was busily scribbling down notes while talking into the telephone.

  “Just getting the final canvass returns together, Francis,” she explained.

  “And there was me wondering why that hadn’t been done an hour ago.” Again the faintest of amused expressions that died long before it reached the eyes.

  “It doesn’t look quite as cheerful as last time,” she said, blushing from the rebuke. “A lot of our supporters seem to be staying at home. It’s difficult to read but I suspect the majority will be down. I can’t tell how much.”

  “Damn them. They deserve a dose of the Opposition for a few years. Maybe that would get them off their rumps.”

  “Darling,” his wife soothed as she had done on countless previous occasions, “that’s scarcely generous. With a majority of nearly twenty-two thousand we could allow for just the tiniest of little dips, couldn’t we?”

  “Mortima, I’m not feeling generous. I’m feeling hot, I am tired, and I’ve had about as much chatter about doorstep opinion as I can take. For God’s sake get me out of here.”

  He strode on as she turned round to wave thanks and farewell to the packed room. She was just in time to see the standard lamp go crashing to the floor.

  * * *

  The air of controlled menace that usually filled the editor’s office had vanished, replaced by a brooding sense of panic that was threatening to get out of hand. The first edition had long since gone to press, complete with a bold front page headline proclaiming: “Home and dry!” But that had been at 6:00 p.m., four hours before the polls closed. The editor of the Daily Chronicle had taken his chance on the election result in order to make his first edition of even marginal interest by the time it hit the streets. If he was right, he would be first with the news. If he got it wrong, he’d be up to his neck in it with the alligators circling.

  This was Greville Preston’s first election as an editor and he wasn’t feeling comfortable. His nervousness showed in his constant change of headlines, his insatiable demand for updates from his political staff, and his increasingly lurid language. He’d been brought in just a few months earlier by the new owner of Chronicle Newspapers with one simple and irreducible instruction: “Succeed.” Failure wasn’t an option in his contract, and he knew he wouldn’t be given a second chance—any more than he showed any hint of remorse for the others who worked at the Chronicle. The demands of the accountants for instant financial gratification had required ruthless pruning, and a large number of senior personnel had found themselves being “rationalized” and replaced by less experienced and considerably less expensive substitutes. It was great for the bottom line but had kicked the crap out of morale. The purge left the remaining staff insecure, the loyal readers confused and Preston with a perpetual sense of impending doom, a condition that his proprietor was determined to do nothing to dispel.

  Preston’s strategy for increasing the circulation had taken the paper down-market, but it had yet to reap the promised harvest. He was a small man who had arrived at the paper with the air of a new Napoleon but who had lost weight until he required braces to haul up his trousers and a tide of coffee to keep open his eyes. The once smooth and dapper appearance had begun to be washed away by countless beads of perspiration that collected on his brow and made his heavy rimmed glasses slip down his nose. Fingers that had once drummed in thought now snapped in impatience. The carefully manufactured attempt at outward authority had been eaten away by the insecurity within, and he was no longer certain he could rise to the occasion, any occasion. He’d even stopped screwing his secretary.

  Now he turned away from the bank of flickering television monitors piled against one wall of his office to face the member of staff who had been giving him such a hard time. “How the hell do you know it’s going wrong?” he shouted.

  Mattie Storin refused to flinch. At twenty-eight she was the youngest recruit to the paper’s political staff, replacing one of the senior correspondents who had fallen foul of the accountants for his habit of conducting interviews over extended lunches at the Savoy. Yet despite her relative youth and recent arrival, Mattie had a confidence about her judgment that inadequate men mistook for stubbornness. She was used to being shouted at and no stranger at yelling back. Anyway, she was as tall as Preston, “and almost as beautiful” as she often quipped at his expense. What did it matter if he spent most of his time staring at her breasts? It had gotten her the job and occasionally won her a few of their arguments. She didn’t find him a sexual threat. She knew his secretary too well for that, and being harassed by short men in lurid red braces was the price she had chosen to pay by coming south. Survive here and she could make her career anywhere.

  She turned to face him with her hands thrust defensively into the pockets of her fashionably baggy trousers. She spoke slowly, hoping her voice wouldn’t betray her nervousness. “Grev, every single Government MP I’ve been able to talk to in the past two hours is downgrading their forecast. I’ve telephoned the returning officer in the Prime Minister’s constituency who says the poll looks like it’s down by five percent. That’s scarcely an overwhelming vote of confidence. Something is going on out there, you can feel it. The Government aren’t home and certainly not bloody dry.”

  “So?”

  “So our story’s too strong.”

  “Crap. Every poll during the election has talked of the Government getting home by a sodding mile, yet you want me to change the front page on the basis of—what? Feminine instinct?”

  Mattie knew his hostility was built on nerves. All editors live on the edge; the secret is not to show it. Preston showed it.

  “OK,” he demanded, “they had a majority of over a hundred at the last election. So you tell me what your feminine instinct suggests it’s going to be tomorrow. The opinion polls are predicting around seventy seats. What does little Mattie Storin think?”

  She went up on tiptoes, just so she could look down on him. “You trust the polls if you want, Grev, but it’s not what’s going on in the streets. There’s no enthusiasm among Government supporters. They won’t turn out. It’ll drag the majority down.”

  “Come on,” he bullied. “How much?”

  She couldn’t stand on tiptoe forever. She shook her head slowly to emphasize her caution, her blond hair brushing around her shoulders. “A week ago I’d have said about fifty. Now—I reckon less,” she responded. “Perhaps much less.”

  “Jesus, it can’t be less. We’ve backed those bastards all the way. They’ve got to deliver.”

  And you’ve got to deliver, too, she mused. They all knew where their editor stood, in the middle of one of the largest swamps in Fleet Street. Preston’s only firm political view was that his newspaper couldn’t afford to be on the losing side, and that wasn’t even his own view but one thrust on him by the paper’s new cockney propr
ietor, Benjamin Landless. It was one of his few attractive aspects that he didn’t bother being coy and trying to hide his true opinions, he wore them in full public view. As he constantly reminded his already insecure staff, thanks to the Government’s competition policy it was easier to buy ten new editors than one new newspaper, “so we don’t piss off the Government by supporting the other fucking side.”

  Landless had been as good as his word. He had delivered his growing army of newspapers into the Government camp, and all he expected in return was for the Government to deliver the proper election result. It wasn’t reasonable, of course, but Landless had never found being reasonable helped get the best out of his employees.

  Preston had gone over to stare at the bank of television screens, hoping for better news. Mattie tried again. She sat herself on the corner of the editor’s vast desk, obliterating the pile of opinion polls on which he so blindly relied, and marshaled her case. “Look, Grev, put it in perspective. When Margaret Thatcher at last ran out of handbag time and was forced to retire, they were desperate for a change of style. They wanted a new fashion. Something less abrasive, less domineering; they’d had enough of trial by ordeal and being shown up by a bloody woman.” You of all people should understand that, she thought. “So in their wisdom they chose Collingridge, for no better reason than he was confident on TV, smooth with little old ladies, and likely to be uncontroversial.” She shrugged her shoulders dismissively. “But they’ve lost their cutting edge. It’s rice pudding politics and there’s no energy or enthusiasm left. He’s campaigned with as much vigor as a Sunday school teacher. Another seven days of listening to him mouthing platitudes and I think even his wife would have voted for the other lot. Anything for a change.”

  Preston had turned from the television screens and was stroking his chin. At last he seemed to be paying attention. For the tenth time that evening Mattie wondered if he used lacquer to keep his carefully coiffured hair so immaculate. She suspected a bald patch was developing. She was certain he used eyebrow tweezers.

  He returned to the charge. “OK, let’s dispense with the mysticism and stick to hard numbers, shall we? What’s the majority going to be? Are they going to get back in, or not?”

  “It would be a rash man who said they wouldn’t,” she replied.

  “And I have no goddamned intention of being rash, Mattie. Any sort of majority will be good enough for me. Hell, in the circumstances it would be quite an achievement. Historic, in fact. Four straight wins, never been done before. So the front page stays.”

  Preston quickly brought his instructions to an end by pouring out a glass of champagne from a bottle that was standing on his bookcase. He didn’t offer her any. He started scrabbling through papers in dismissal but Mattie was not to be so easily put off. Her grandfather had been a modern Viking who in the stormy early months of 1941 had sailed across the North Sea in a waterlogged fishing boat to escape from Nazi-occupied Norway and join the RAF. Mattie had inherited from him not only her natural Scandinavian looks but also a stubbornness of spirit that didn’t always commend itself to inadequate men, but what the hell.

  “Just stop for a moment and ask yourself what we could expect from another four years of Collingridge,” Maddie challenged. “Maybe he’s too nice to be Prime Minister. His manifesto was so lightweight it got blown away in the first week of the campaign. He’s developed no new ideas. His only plan is to cross his fingers and hope that neither the Russians nor the trade unions break wind too loudly. Is that what you think the country really wants?”

  “Daintily put, as always, Mattie,” he taunted, patronizing once more. “But you’re wrong. The punters want consolidation, not upheaval. They don’t want the toys being thrown out of the pram every time the baby’s taken for a walk.” He wagged his finger in the air like a conductor bringing an errant player back to the score. “So a couple of years of warm beer and cricket will be no bad thing. And our chum Collingridge back in Downing Street will be a marvelous thing!”

  “It’ll be bloody murder,” she muttered, turning to leave.

  Three

  Jesus told us to forgive our enemies, and who am I to second-guess the Almighty? But in his infinite wisdom he didn’t mention a damned thing about forgiving our friends, and least of all our families. I’m happy to take his advice on the matter. In any case, when it comes to it, I find it much easier to forgive myself.

  It was the Number 88 bus thundering past and rattling the apartment windows that eventually caused Charles Collingridge to wake up. The small one-bedroom flat above the travel agency in Clapham was not what most people would have expected of the Prime Minister’s brother, but reduced needs must. Since he had run out of money at the pub he had come home to regroup. Now he lay slumped in the armchair, still in his crumpled suit, although his tie was now completely missing.

  He looked at his old wristwatch and cursed. He’d been asleep for hours yet still he felt exhausted. He’d miss the party if he didn’t hurry, but first he needed a drink to pick himself up. He poured himself a large measure of vodka, not even Smirnoff any more, just the local supermarket brand. Still, it didn’t hang on the breath or smell when you spilled it.

  He took his glass to the bathroom and soaked in the tub, giving the hot water time to work its wonders on those tired limbs. Nowadays they often seemed to belong to an entirely different person. He must be getting old, he told himself.

  He stood in front of the mirror, trying to repair the damage of his latest binge. He saw his father’s face, reproachful as ever, urging him on to goals that were always just beyond him, demanding to know why he never managed to do things quite like his younger brother Henry. They both had the same advantages, went to the same school, but somehow Hal always had the edge, and gradually had overshadowed him in his career and his marriage. Charles didn’t feel bitter about it, was a generous soul, far too generous, and indulgent. But Hal had always been there to help when he needed it, to offer advice and to give him a shoulder to cry on after Mary had left him. Yes, particularly when Mary had left him. But hadn’t even she thrown Hal’s success in his face? “You’re not up to it. Not up to anything!” And Hal had much less time to worry about any other chap’s problems since he had gone to Downing Street.

  As young boys they had shared everything; as young men they still shared much, even an occasional girlfriend or two. And a car, one of the early Minis, before Charlie had driven it into a ditch, staggering away, persuading the young policeman it was shock and bruising rather than alcohol that made him so unsteady. But these days there was little room left in Hal’s life for his younger brother, and Charlie felt—what did he feel, deep down, when he allowed himself to be honest? Angry, stinking bloody one-bottle-a-time furious—not with Hal, of course, but with life. It hadn’t worked out for him, and he didn’t understand why.

  He guided the razor past the old cuts on his baggy face and began putting the pieces back together. The hair brushed over the thinning pate, the fresh shirt, and a new, clean tie. He would be ready soon for the election night festivities to which his family links still gave him passage. A tea towel over his shoes gave them back a little shine, and he was almost ready. Another glance at the wristwatch. Oh, it was all right after all. Just time for one more drink.

  * * *

  North of the river a taxi was stuck in traffic on the outskirts of Soho. It was always a bottleneck and election night seemed to have brought an additional throng of revelers onto the streets. In the back of the taxi Roger O’Neill cracked his knuckles in impatience, watching helplessly as bikes and pedestrians flashed past. He was growing agitated, he didn’t have much time. He’d had his instructions. “Get over here quick, Rog,” they had said. “We can’t wait all fucking night, not even for you. And we ain’t back till Tuesday.”

  O’Neill neither expected nor received preferential treatment, he’d never tried to pull rank. He was the Party’s Director of Publicity but he hoped to
Christ they knew nothing of that. There were times when he thought they must have recognized him, seen his photo in the papers, but when he was less paranoid he realized they probably never read a newspaper, let alone voted. What did politics matter to these people? Bloody Hitler could take over for all they cared. What did it matter who was in government when there was so much loose tax-free money to make?

  The taxi at last managed to make it across Shaftesbury Avenue and into Wardour Street, only to be met by another wall of solid traffic. Shit, he would miss them. He flung open the door.

  “I’ll walk,” he shouted at the driver.

  “Sorry, mate. It’s not my fault. Costs me a fortune stuck in jams like this,” the driver replied, hoping that his passenger’s impatience wouldn’t lead him to forget a tip.

  O’Neill jumped out into the road, jammed a note into the driver’s hand, and dodged another motorcyclist as he made his way past the endless huddle of peep shows and Chinese restaurants into a narrow, Dickensian alley piled high with rubbish. He squeezed past the plastic bin liners and cardboard boxes and broke into a run. He wasn’t fit and it hurt, but he didn’t have far to go. As he reached Dean Street he turned left, and a hundred yards further down ducked into the narrow opening to one of those Soho mews which most people miss as they concentrate on finding fun and dodging traffic. Off the main street the mews opened out into a small yard, surrounded on all sides by workshops and garages that had been carved out of the old Victorian warehouses. The yard was empty and the shadows deep. His footsteps rang out on the cobbles as he hurried toward a small green door set in the far, gloomiest corner of the yard. He stopped only to look around once before entering. He didn’t knock.

  It took less than three minutes before he re-emerged. Without glancing to either side he hurried back into the crowds of Dean Street. Whatever he had come for, it evidently hadn’t been sex.