The Sound of Trumpets

by John Mortimer

  ‘I thought it appropriate’ – Titmuss took over the meeting – ‘since we’re here, to remember Peter Millichip.’

  ‘A thoroughly good sort.’ Sir Gregory wished to come to an early and uncontroversial conclusion.

  At this Linda Millichip, who had her nose in a glass balloon awash with Cointreau, merely snorted.

  ‘Is that your view of the matter?’ Titmuss asked with interest.

  ‘You wouldn’t agree?’ Sir Gregory frowned, fearing a prolonged discussion.

  ‘A good sort, you said. Doesn’t that rather depend on what sort you’re talking about?’

  ‘Well, Peter never pretended to be a high-flier.’

  ‘Did he not? I thought he tried to fly pretty high on at least one occasion.’

  There was a pause; Sir Gregory looked up and saw the Kite again, a true high-flier. ‘I’m not sure about that. Perhaps he’d’ve liked to be a Junior Minister. At Privatization.’

  ‘I was talking to our former Chief Whip. About the day the gardener here heard a crash in the house and came in to find Peter Millichip lying in the hall with a rope round his neck and wearing rather old-fashioned cami-knickers. I believe with black stockings and garters. I don’t think he was after a Junior Ministry on that occasion. He was after an orgasm brought on by partial strangulation.’

  ‘The little creep!’ Linda licked the chocolate off her ringed fingers.

  ‘He’d tried hanging himself from the banister railing. Luckily or not it broke. As I remember we had to pay the gardener a considerable sum of money to dissuade him from selling the story to the Sun. I think you were away on that occasion, weren’t you, Linda?’

  ‘Secretive bastard,’ Mrs Millichip agreed. ‘Only enjoyed himself behind my back.’

  ‘I know nothing of that.’ There was a slight tremor in Sir Gregory’s shoulders, as though to shake off an unfortunate memory.

  ‘No. But you know something of the other occasion, when Millichip flirted with disaster and fell for it. You know something about that, don’t you, Gregory?’

  ‘I really have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, I think you do. I’m talking about the morning Millichip was found dead in that nice, clean, chlorinated water we see in front of us. I’m recalling the morning when you were kind enough, and public spirited enough, to give work experience to a boy highly skilled in picking locks.’

  For a while there was no sound but the water lapping in the wind and the glugging as Linda Millichip replenished her glass. At last Sir Gregory sighed and turned his well-known quizzical smile on Titmuss. ‘Really, Leslie,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what Linda’s been telling you.’

  ‘Linda didn’t tell me. Young Slippy Johnson told me. He came across with the whole story.’

  ‘What do you mean, the whole story?’

  ‘That you didn’t get Slippy out to weed roses. You brought him here and showed him something in the shed over there. The one with the sauna bath, I believe. Something you’d fished out of the pool. A man in a woman’s leopardskin bathing dress, handcuffed and gagged. Slippy was a boy you knew could pick locks and get the handcuffs off our M.P. before he was dropped back in the pool. I’m sure you thought he’d done an excellent job. Did you help with the gag and the swimwear?’

  ‘It wasn’t even my bikini!’ Linda gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘The little horror must have gone out and bought it for himself!’

  ‘So, by the time the police arrived the Honourable Member was a naked Millichip, back in the pool, unmanacled.’

  Sir Gregory crossed his legs, puffed his cheeks, blew out air and decided to meet trouble head on. ‘Something had to be done,’ he said, ‘for the sake of the Party. And Linda too, of course.’ He turned and gave Mrs Millichip his charming smile. ‘That sort of kinky behaviour wouldn’t have gone down at all well in Hartscombe.’

  ‘The fact that you interfered with a corpse wouldn’t have gone down very well in Hartscombe either. I’m not at all sure it’s not my public duty to let the electors know exactly what you did.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do that, Leslie! You’ve always been loyal to the Party.’ Now Sir Gregory was seriously rattled. He twisted a gold signet-ring on his little finger and did his best to look beseeching.

  ‘On certain conditions,’ Titmuss told him, ‘I might be prepared to keep your secret. And Linda’s.’

  ‘What conditions?’ Sir Gregory got the whiff of a deal.

  ‘That you behave sensibly and Willock withdraws the stupid allegation of lying against his opponent.’

  ‘You want us to lose the election?’

  ‘I want to save you from making fools of yourselves.’

  ‘Willock’s his own man.’

  ‘I don’t believe that for a moment. Willock’s your man. He’ll do exactly what you tell him.’

  ‘What are you getting at, Leslie?’

  ‘Nothing very obscure. A fair fight and a decent result.’

  ‘Aren’t you still supporting us?’

  ‘Haven’t I agreed to speak outside the town hall?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. And we’re extremely grateful.’

  ‘Then I take it we agree. I’ll listen to Willock’s press conference with considerable interest.’

  ‘The boy Slippy won’t say anything?’ Sir Gregory was anxious again.

  ‘I’m sure not. We’ll do our best to keep him out of Blackenstock.’

  ‘Then, if Linda agrees …’

  ‘Linda has been good enough to organize this meeting.’ Titmuss selected, for the first time and with great care, a chocolate biscuit, and bit into it delicately. ‘I’m sure, Gregory, she’ll be guided by you, as she has been from the beginning.’

  ‘What do you think, Linda?’ Sir Gregory was still anxious. ‘I don’t imagine you want the publicity …’

  ‘I told you. The little sod was turned on by death more than by sex with me. I’m not too keen on everyone knowing that. Let’s keep it out of the papers.’

  ‘Well, that would seem’ – Titmuss, having finished his biscuit, rose to his feet – ‘to conclude our business. I’m sure we all know where we stand. You can get the pool covered up again, Linda. No need to remind ourselves of this unhappy incident any more.’

  So he moved away from them and Sir Gregory Inwood, in considerable relief, gulped the drink that Linda Millichip poured for him. It was sweet, sticky and rather disgusting, but it restored his confidence.

  ‘I would like to make a statement about the accusation of lying against my Labour opponent.’ Tim Willock stood alone at the Union-Jack-draped table at his press conference. No minister had agreed to join him that morning and the Party Chairman was otherwise engaged. ‘Our further investigations have shown us that Terry Flitton’s father in fact remained a shop-floor employee during his entire working life. His description in the Labour candidate’s election manifesto was perfectly correct. I am pleased to withdraw the allegation of publishing an untruth unreservedly.’

  When Willock, who didn’t look in the least pleased, paused for breath, the journalists made their bids.

  ‘Mel Rathbone from the Guardian. Does that mean you’re apologizing to Terry Flitton?’

  ‘It means exactly what I say. We withdraw the accusation.’

  ‘Cornelius Vance from the Telegraph. So that’s an apology?’

  ‘I have already answered that question.’

  ‘Bob Pertwee from The Times. Wouldn’t it have been better if you’d done your research before you fired off the accusation of lying?’

  ‘I have nothing to add to my previous answer.’

  ‘Are you expecting Terry Flitton to take legal proceedings against you?’

  ‘I think I’ve answered all your questions on this subject, and time’s running short. Can we now deal with Monetary Union … ?’

  Realizing they would get no further, the journalists put down their pencils and closed their eyes.

  Terry heard the news on the van radio when he was driving with Kate, who
had taken the days that were left before the poll off work, and a few volunteers, to canvass the travellers at Worsfield bus station. The volunteers in the van clapped and cheered, and Kate said, ‘So that’s over then.’

  ‘Yes,’ Terry agreed. ‘It seems to be over.’

  ‘Thank your lucky stars.’

  But Terry thought he knew whom he had to thank.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Agnes was looking down at her body, white and pink, shadowed between the legs, lapped in water greened by bath gel. It was a critical assessment. Her legs had grown no shorter, her thighs and stomach had not been distended by the passage of time. She couldn’t claim the breasts of a young girl (‘young girl’ were the words she used to avoid saying ‘Kate’ to herself), but she was still going to get dressed without a bra. She raised her chin and soaped her neck, fearing loose skin at her throat, feeling for it with forced courage. She would last a little while longer, she decided; her lease of a desirable body might run out, but not yet. How long? How long could she rely on anything? Pressing her breasts she might, any day, discover a lump. She could crash her car, which she drove fast and carelessly, head on into one of the lorries which filled the country lanes bearing precious shit from London Airport to scatter on the fields. She could fall, as her father had, from a soaring horse over a dark hedge, and might, at any time, discover his need to do so. But, while it was still hers, she lay in her bath and thought about her body, and about Terry, who might also be hers for however long or short a time after his passionate love affair with the voters of Hartscombe and Worsfield South released him after election night.

  It had been a long, dusty day at the bookshop, reorganizing the second-hand shelves, phoning publishers, dealing with customers desperately anxious to buy books but unable to remember the titles or the authors’ names. What she now had to look forward to was As You Like It at Skurfield Y.O.I. She twiddled the hot-water tap with her toe, felt the warm tide flowing up her legs and listened to the five o’clock news programme which boomed and crackled from the transistor on the damp bath-mat. Bob Pertwee from The Times was discussing the latest turn of events in the Hartscombe by-election.

  ‘So, Bob,’ the anchorlady asked in a sad and serious voice, ‘is this retraction going to harm the Conservative campaign seriously?’

  ‘I think it might. It seems to have been a quite reckless allegation, and Mr Willock was obviously extremely uncomfortable when he had to eat his words.’

  ‘Do you think the Labour candidate will sue for slander?’

  ‘He might well have grounds for that, but Terry Flitton told me he doesn’t want to drag Mr Willock through the courts. He says he’d much rather leave the decision to the voters on Thursday.’

  ‘Hartscombe has always been a safe Tory seat. Are you saying that Labour are in with a chance?’

  ‘They have an excellent candidate in Terry Flitton. He’s got a steep hill to climb, but yes. I think he might just possibly do it.’

  ‘Thank you, Bob. I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got time for. Now, can stiletto heels seriously damage your health … ?’

  As the hot water covered her like a warm blanket Agnes’s eyes misted. Honour and decency were winning at last, and Terry’s refusal to grub for slander damages was a gallant gesture. She loved him the more for it.

  That morning Terry had been standing by the steps of the Worsfield Flier, a non-stop bus to London, shaking hands and introducing himself as ‘Terry Flitton, your Labour candidate’, when the mobile squeaked in his pocket. He stood with one hand holding the phone to his ear, the other greeting the passengers boarding the Flier, and he heard the familiar mocking rasp. He was grateful to it, of course, but hoped that, after his victory, he would never have to listen to his Master’s Voice again.

  ‘I want to see you. Now won’t be too soon.’

  ‘And I want to thank you for all you’ve done.’ Terry spoke quietly, looking across at Kate, who was canvassing a couple of drivers who seemed struck dumb by her beauty.

  ‘You may not thank me when you hear what I’ve got to say. Half an hour. I’ll meet you at that damned hut. In Hanging Wood.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m afraid I’m booked up.’

  ‘And if you’re not there I’ll hand them over to Willock.’

  ‘Hand what over?’

  ‘The documentary evidence. Service agreement. All the details from W.R.F., about your father’s job.’

  Terry had walked through the wood filled with happiness, on his way to some sort of dream. Now he plodded through the leaves like a man in a nightmare. What was the old bastard up to? Preparing to betray him? Making sure of a Labour defeat? Entertaining himself with some elaborate and brutal practical joke? He had to find out, but he dreaded the knowledge.

  He had seen the ex-government Rover in the narrow road, and his heart sank. The hut, when he reached it, seemed silent, empty. Was it all a trick to take him away from pressing the flesh of bus travellers to an empty hut, only for the sake of a sepulchral chuckle? By the time he pushed the rickety door open he’d almost persuaded himself that he’d find no one there, but he was disappointed. The tall figure in the dark coat with a woollen scarf at his throat said, ‘Not exactly the bridal suite, is it? Can’t quite match up to afternoon sex at the Hotel Splendide in Monte Carlo.’

  Terry didn’t tell him that, on his last visit, it had seemed more romantic than any hotel. He said, ‘It’s an old poacher’s hut.’

  ‘A good enough place, I suppose, for you to wreck your chances. Anyway, you’re five minutes late.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So you should be. After all the damn trouble I’ve taken over you.’

  ‘I wanted to tell you that I’m extremely grateful.’ But should he be? He was about to win, barring all accidents. Should he have to be eternally grateful to a has-been old Tory grandee?

  ‘Perhaps you won’t be so grateful when I’ve finished. Sit down. I want to talk to you.’

  Terry looked at the sofa. The escaping springs would stick into him and damp seep into his trousers. He took off his anorak, folded it carefully, and sat on it, alarmed at his own obedience. He said, ‘You had some papers.’

  ‘Enough to prove Willock’s case a hundred times over.’ Titmuss’s hand emerged from his coat pocket clutching flimsy and crumpled slips of paper. Terry reached out for them. ‘Not yet!’ Titmuss restored the papers to his overcoat. ‘Not till you’ve done what I tell you.’

  ‘I’m not exactly under your orders …’

  ‘Do you think not? Don’t you understand? You’ve disappointed me. After all I’ve done for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re doing it quite deliberately. Taking the most idiotic risks. Even in this stinking little hut.’

  ‘Risks of what?’ But of course Terry knew.

  ‘Becoming a candidate who embarrasses me. Steers himself deliberately on to the rocks. And on to the front page of the Sun. What’re you going to do when your wife finds out, just before polling day, you’ve been shafting a middle-aged constituent in the woods?’

  ‘Has she found out?’ Terry said as though there were something he could do about it if she had.

  ‘Not yet she hasn’t. Not until I tell her.’

  ‘Are you going to?’

  ‘That depends entirely on you.’

  ‘How did you know?’ Terry was asking him, he knew, an unimportant question, postponing the demands that were about to be made on him.

  ‘By using my eyes. And with a little help from others.’

  ‘You had me followed?’

  Titmuss was clearly not in the least ashamed of it. ‘Of course. As I say, I’ve put a lot of time and effort into you. I had to keep an eye on my investment.’

  ‘It’s my private life.’

  ‘It’s mine now. And it’s your public’s.’

  ‘What if I told you I was in love?’

  ‘With the daughter of a Socialist doctor? With a starry-eyed Lefti
e? With a fag hag who makes friends with a do-gooding prison governor? With a considerably older woman?’

  ‘Yes. With all of those. What would you say?’

  ‘I’d say you’ve got to break it off before it gets into the tabloids. Kate, or whatever her name is, ’ll look so pretty in the photograph. She’ll touch the readers’ hearts.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Break it off. Before it’s too late.’

  ‘You mean, tell Agnes it’s over?’

  ‘You’d probably make a mess of it. I want you to do more than that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Make her hate you.’

  ‘She won’t.’

  Sitting there, in the damp and rotting hut which had been the scene of so much love, his monstrous helper, the dark presence that seemed to have taken control of his life told him: ‘Do what you said, you’d never do. Tell the world that the governor of Skurfield Young Offenders’ Institution’s got a taste for boys.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yes, you can. You must, to make sure that stupid so-called love affair’s over.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘I told you. Wee Willie Willock gets the evidence he wants.’

  Terry looked into the smiling face of the old man. ‘You’re just doing this to show you can control me. You’re doing it for power.’

  ‘You may be right. You should understand as well as anybody that power is a great deal more interesting than love.’

  ‘It’s quite unnecessary’ – Terry tried to sound reasonable – ‘to attack Fogarty.’

  ‘I’ve decided how it’s got to be done. So it seems that you’ll have to do it. She won’t forgive you.’

  ‘What do you want me to call him?’ Terry was angry. ‘A faggot? A poofter? A fairy? What was the expression they used in your time? Queer? A pansy?’

  ‘Use whatever words you like. Only make sure she understands.’

  There was a silence between them, and then Terry said, ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘If I were you,’ Lord Titmuss made the impossible supposition, ‘I should think very hard indeed.’