by Phil Walden
The door of his trim terraced house opened. His dressing gowned wife and petite, uniformed daughter appeared on the steps. The little girl hurriedly slung a school bag over her shoulder and skipped towards the car. She was seven but looked five. Wilson pushed open the passenger door.
His wife called out, “Drive carefully. You’ve plenty of time.”
His daughter jumped in and struggled to attach her safety belt. He sighed impatiently. Soft, loving eyes sought and, as always, received forgiveness as the car hurriedly left.
The second hand on a large clock hung high above the Exhibition Hall clicked ever nearer nine o’clock. The vast arena was busy for this time of the morning with the nation’s press summoned on the promise of a significant policy announcement. They gathered in front of a huge shrouded structure as increasingly dramatic music cranked up the tension, whilst a wolf pack of photographers jostled and manoeuvred for the best positions in front of the stage.
Catchpole shuffled impatiently in the wings alongside Lucy Hass and members of the shadow environmental team. “He’s late.”
Lucy tore at her mobile. “He can’t be far away. I’ll try phoning him.”
Wilson tapped the steering wheel with growing impatience, eager for the red traffic lights ahead to change. The Today programme boomed out from the radio, its subject only raising his stress levels still higher.
“Today, the Shadow Minister for the Environment, Dominic Wilson, is the main speaker as her Majesty’s Opposition launches a bold new green initiative at the Ideal Home Exhibition in London.”
Violet squeezed his hand. His mobile began to ring. A quick glance at the screen confirmed his suspicions about the identity of the caller. It was Patrick Carlton again. He killed the call. Paddy was persistent, he’d give him that. It was obvious Devaney was panicking. Carlton had been dispatched to persuade him against any leadership challenge and to buy him off. Wilson knew the carrot of a higher Shadow Cabinet position would eventually be dangled and any continued lack of cooperation would be met by veiled threats. But he no longer feared Devaney and neither did he need him. The man was toxic. Any alliance would be a link to the past, a connection to the years of drift and betrayal and a slap in the face to the green alliance which Wilson had fought so hard to establish both inside and outside the party. He knew he was on the cusp of success. The planet couldn’t wait and nor could he.
The lights turned green at last. He pressed down hard on the accelerator and the car flew forwards.
Lucy Hass held out the phone in frustration. “He’s not picking up.”
Catchpole rolled his eyes. “Well, we can’t wait any longer.” He began to march towards a podium placed directly in front of the covered structure.
The car careered towards another junction. His mobile rang again. This time Wilson silenced the radio and flicked onto speaker phone. How many more times did Carlton have to be told?
“Yes!” he barked.
To his surprise, his wife’s puzzled voice filled the cabin. “I’ve just had The Globe on the phone. They want to speak to you. As a matter of urgency they said.”
“Did they say what it was about?”
Violet straightened as she saw the traffic lights ahead turn amber. “Daddy?”
“No. They said you’d know if I mentioned the name Daniel.”
Wilson stared straight ahead, his face suddenly full of shock and fear.
“Daddy!” his daughter squealed.
“Dominic? Are you still there?”
The car shot across the junction.
His daughter screamed, “Stop!”
Wilson hit the brakes hard. The car skidded. A lorry ballooned into view, braking and jack knifing. It smashed into the passenger side of the car. Both vehicles locked together. They careered into a shop window, shattering the glass.
Catchpole’s hands gripped the podium as flashlights continually punctuated his speech. “Spacious, elegantly designed, self-sufficient in energy, fully recyclable…. And affordable for all!”
Strolling out triumphantly in front of the podium, Catchpole flourished an arm back towards the huge covered structure. His arm dropped. There were gasps from the onlookers as the shroud fell away to reveal a full scale mock up of a futuristic eco house. A large solar panel was integral to the roof and a small wind turbine adorned one gable end. Part of the structure was cut away to reveal that both were attached to storage batteries positioned in the loft space. Exposed sections revealed super thick insulation to the roof and walls, alongside underfloor heating, triple glazing and a rainwater harvester. Motion sensitive lighting flashed on and off as green clothed models strode and posed on both levels of the building.
“This isn’t just a concept. It stands as a working model, fully tested and proven. We propose that every new house constructed in this country incorporates each and everyone one of these features. We propose a rolling programme of affordable house replacement and renovation to ensure these features are accessible to all. The benefit to future energy consumers will be felt in lower prices, the benefit to the country in more jobs and a booming economy, the benefit to the planet in substantially lower carbon emissions and a halt to climate change. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the house of tomorrow… today!”
Beaming broadly he paraded before the audience, assailed by enthusiastic applause and a bombardment of flashlights.
The stricken lorry lay sideways, crushing the car against the destroyed shop front. Horrified bystanders froze as the last remnants of glass cascaded onto the pavement. In an instant, a huge explosion enveloped both car and lorry in a thunderous fireball. Debris shot into the sky. An empty stillness was broken only by the sound of creaking metal and the incessant wailing of alarms.
*
Persistent rain drenched a mourning party gathered by a freshly dug grave at the far end of a West London cemetery. Low, grey clouds masked an ascending plane, the shrill noise from its thrusting engines piercing the sombre morning calm.
Two policemen, standing guard, saluted as Tom Catchpole and Harry Spenser marched side by side through the entrance. They trooped along a narrow footpath past leaves lying sodden on the wet grass and tall, grey tombstones looming out of the early morning mist.
Catchpole eyed the group circling the grave. “Better hurry. We’re late.”
He felt Spencer’s restraining arm. “I shouldn’t worry. No one’s counting.”
“I don’t wish to appear disrespectful.”
“And you won’t. You’re here, aren’t you? Please don’t mistake this for anything more than a show?”
“A show?” exclaimed Catchpole.
“Of course.” Spenser caught his friend’s puzzled expression. “Look. Politicians don’t really know each other and they certainly don’t like each other. Why should we? The party may talk about working together for the common good but the truth of the matter is we’re no different from the other lot. We pretend to cooperate, but in reality we compete for influence, for the next notch on the greasy pole, for power.
“Ten years in Parliament have made you very cynical, Harry.”
“So, whatever our thoughts on his perceived faults, we have to close ranks around Wilson. The papers have had their say. The internet is awash with rumour. Now’s the time to praise his character, laud his public service and achievements. Appear to grieve out loud.”
“That way we smother the scandal.”
“And limit the damage.”
“He just didn’t seem the type.”
“A little misjudgement from his youth apparently, long buried and forgotten about.”
“Or so he thought.”
“Yes, the leak to The Globe, utterly scurrilous. But you’d be surprised how many have, how can I put it?”
“A skeleton in the cupboard?”
“A weakness to be exposed and exploited.”
They stopped a little behind the mourners, acknowledging with a nod the glances made towards them.
Spenser leant and murmured
in Catchpole’s ear, “One’s loss is another’s gain. Rumour has it you’ll be offered the Environment.”
Black gloved hands clasped together as a vicar intoned, “Behold, I show you a mystery. We shall not all sleep but we shall all be changed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet.”
Two coffins, one large and one small, were gently lowered into the ground. Wilson’s widow began to weep, supported by a relative on one side and Devaney on the other.
Spenser’s head nodded towards his leader. He whispered, “The party would gladly bury him for all the good he’s doing.”
The vicar continued, “For the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.”
Alex McKenzie and Caroline Bruce moved to hover close by Devaney’s side.
Spenser sniggered, “Vultures circling a dying man.”
Catchpole was surprised. “What? You mean those two?”
“Of course they’ve no chance.”
“They’re both big hitters.”
“Maybe, but the English won’t tolerate another Scot and as for her, all shoes and handbags.”
The vicar’s eyes moved across his graveside congregation. “For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written: death is swallowed up in victory.”
He held out his palm. Earth spilled from the hand of Wilson’s wife, clattering onto the lid of each coffin. He concluded, “Oh death, where is thy sting? Oh grave, where is thy victory?”
The mourners meandered along the damp grey path towards the cemetery entrance. Catchpole and Spenser followed some way behind.
Catchpole looked across towards the short, portly figure of Patrick Carlton. “What about Carlton?”
“I’m sure Paddy wants it, expects it even. But he’s been too loyal, too patient. His moment’s gone.”
“He’d keep the unions on board.”
Spenser shook his head. “They’re taken for granted, always have been. I mean where else is their money going? Trust me, Carlton’s no threat.”
Catchpole gasped. “Threat, Harry? Are you considering a challenge?”
“Good God, no! Anyway, after the last incumbent, being a person of privilege is a positive handicap these days.”
“What did Nye Bevan say? It’s not where you come from but where you’re going.”
“That’s before the Etonians reclaimed the government. It won’t wash now, especially in our party.” He began to loosen his tie. “No, the next leader needs to have the common touch or at least some memory of it.”
“Who then?”
“It’s a pity about Wilson, very marketable. A good communicator and downright ruthless to boot. You had to admire him. Still there is one person who shares a similar profile.” He gripped Catchpole’s arm hard and stared earnestly at him. “And the Tom I remember never ever came second.”
Side by side, stride by stride, the two men paced after the mourning party.
Chapter Seven
Start’s car swung through the entrance to the Woodlands mental hospital. Thorne was standing by the main door.
“Give me the picture, Start,” Olivia demanded. “I’ll show it to him.”
Start pulled into the only remaining parking space. Before he could draw up the handbrake, Olivia had leant through the partition, snatched the e-fit and was out of the car, striding towards the waiting psychiatrist.
Thorne straightened as she approached. “Come on then. Let’s have it.”
She thrust the drawing at him. “Angel at 16.”
He studied it carefully. “Yes, very plausible. Who did this?”
Olivia glanced across at Start now climbing from the car. “One of his old contacts apparently…at Scotland Yard!”
“Impressive. Do I take it Start’s come round? He’s interested?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But trust me, I’m working on him.”
“Good for you.” He looked at the picture again. “You know we’ll be taking a big risk.”
“We have to try, surely?”
He sighed. “Yes. I think we do.” He brandished the drawing. “But be warned. This could set her back years.”
Angel sat tucked in the white wicker chair, her gaze rooted to the window ahead of her, her left foot repetitively tapping the floor. A nurse combed her short cropped hair, caressing each side with gentle downward strokes. The door creaked open. Thorne and Olivia crept into the room. Start shuffled in behind.
The doctor held up his hand. “I must insist you leave this entirely to me.” He glanced across at the nurse. “All of you.” She hurriedly pulled the comb across the top of Angel’s head and stepped back.
Thorne lifted a chair and positioned it directly in front of her. Easing himself onto it, he began to lift Angel’s right hand upwards until her arm was outstretched and stiff in front of her body. He let go. The arm did not move.
“It’s part of the condition. She could hold it like this for hours.”
He turned the hand flat with the palm upwards and placed the e-fit upon it. Her eyes lowered onto the drawing of a pretty young girl. They lit up. Her rigid expression softened. She smiled. The fingers on her other hand reached out and began to stroke the image, pausing to touch each feature, first the eyes, then the nose and mouth and finally the long blonde hair. Sadness enveloped her face. A tear began to roll down her cheek. Olivia edged a little nearer, anxious to witness Angel’s reaction.
Throne hissed at her, “Stay back!”
The nurse stepped forward, quickly easing Olivia away and cautioning, “Be careful, Doctor.”
He pulled a folded handkerchief from his pocket. He slowly moved his hand onto Angel’s shoulder and began to wipe away the tear. Angel’s expression changed. Her face reddened and hardened with anger. Her whole body went rigid. She shot a look of sheer hatred at Thorne. In an instant she flew at him, knocking him to the ground. He threw up his arms to protect himself. Kneeling astride his body, she swept them aside and violently tore at his face and hair. The nurse leapt forward to restrain her. Angel flung her arms backwards, throwing the nurse to the floor. Then Angel froze, her body once again still, her eyes fixed firmly on the French window.
Start and Olivia edged nearer Thorne but were stopped by his low and insistent rebuke. “Nobody move.” Angel rose. Throne shuffled sideways as she began to stagger forwards. She bent to pick up the discarded chair. She swung it in an arc behind her and hurled it towards the window. The single pane shattered. She sank to the floor, weeping, her knees crunching the scattered broken glass, her head held up against the cool breeze sweeping in. Blood oozed across the floor. She stared out into the night, utterly transfixed.
Thorne slumped in his office chair. “Is she sedated?”
The nurse dabbed his scratched and bloodied face with an antiseptic wipe. “Yes. She’ll be out all night.”
Perched on the edge of a seat by the door, Olivia buried her face in her hands. “That was seriously scary.”
“A complete disaster,” Thorne complained.
His words were aimed at the static figure of Joe Start loitering by the window, deep in thought, as he looked out across the dimly lit hospital gardens.
“I should never have agreed to it,” he continued.
Olivia did not look up and Start failed to answer.
“Keep still,” the nurse snapped as she struggled to apply ointment.
Thorne persisted. “Perhaps you were right all along, Start. We should have left well alone.”
This time Start spun round. “The day she first stood up. When was that?”
“A few weeks ago. Why?”
“When exactly?” he demanded.
A vexed Thorne shrugged the nurse away and sat upright. “You ought to know. You were there.”
The nurse snatched a clipboard from the n
earby desk and hurriedly interceded. “Three months ago. Look. It’s in her notes.” She thrust the file at Start, a finger jabbing at the relevant part. “There.”
“First she stands unaided,” Start stated. “A month later, she gouges a symbol on the window; and now one month to the day, this.”
Olivia looked up. “What are you getting at, Start?”
“It’s obvious. One thing links all three. We were too busy focussing on her to see it.”
“See what?”
Start turned to gaze out at the full moon hovering low in the night sky. He murmured, “Where she was looking.”
*
The nurses at the hospital had long admired Thorne’s rather dapper appearance. They were also in awe of his clinical abilities. He had become the foremost authority in his field with a reputation which spread far overseas and they were accustomed to and proud even of his frequent absences when called away to international seminars on aspects of trauma treatment. However, they could be forgiven for wishing that the clean, tidy looks, clear thinking, deep analysis and rigorous attention to detail had also applied to his record keeping. His office had the look of a room recently burgled, files scattered randomly over surfaces, books and papers piled high on desks and in and on top of cupboards. The records room was no different. Nurses had long pressed for it all to be digitised and resisted the urge to catalogue and file in the hope that Thorne would relent. Hence, when the need arose to locate information urgently, something resembling a treasure hunt invariably ensued.
Start’s sudden insight led to just such a search. He was anxious for any information which might cast light on Angel’s condition on the day she was found.
“We…you… already know that,” Thorne chided.
“Her injuries are well documented,” Olivia added.
“But there are things we don’t know. Like what she was wearing, any possessions she might have been carrying. Anything which might give us a clue as to where she might have been and who she could have been with,” Start said.
