by Deborah Finn
“Yeah, I’m serious. Why not? Get somewhere at auction. I saw that on the telly. You can get bargains. Places like round here, that need doing up.”
“Alright,” Jango nodded. “We’ll look at it. I’ll speak to our Robbie.” He signalled and turned right. “But for now, we’ve got to go and sort out the toerag.”
Fourteen
The car pulled up at Ashton Hall. The debate wasn’t until eight o’clock and the doors didn’t open for another half an hour, but already there was a crowd outside.
Gallagher watched the crowd milling about with their placards. “Everywhere I go these bastards are there, and look - there’s TV. What am I to do Steve? Come on! You’re the campaign manager. You’re supposed to make me look good.”
Steve nodded. “Just walk through smiling, alright? Don’t listen to any of it. Don’t say anything. For fuck’s sake, don’t get in a fight!”
“Easy to say when it’s not you they’re spitting at. Bloody animals.”
Gallagher opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement, an easy smile spread across his face. Immediately a roar went up as the crowd surged forwards. Police officers moved into position, forming a cordon from the car to the steps of the building.
“HOUSES AND JOBS, NOT CROOKS AND SHOPS.”
Gallagher kept the smile on his face, as he moved swiftly towards the building. On the steps he turned briefly, lifting a hand in greeting, as though they were cheering him into the building. The door was opened from the inside just wide enough for Gallagher and his campaign manager to squeeze through, and then it was rapidly bolted again. The noise receded, but Gallagher could see the mob pressing up against the panelled glass door.
“I could do with a drink,” he muttered.
“Maybe not wise,” Steve suggested. He stood in front of Gallagher, inspecting him close up. He was scanning his face like a referee in a boxing ring. “You need to hold it together, Lester.”
Gallagher could feel the blood pumping in his neck. He was wound up, ready to lash out. He forced himself to breathe deep, dropping his shoulders. He nodded. “I know, Steve. I know. I just... It’d help, you know, steady my nerves.”
Steve gave a reluctant smile. “Alright. Just one. It’ll have to be vodka.”
“No short measures,” Gallagher said as Steve walked off. One of the local organisers led Gallagher to a room assigned for backstage use. Gallagher paced around the space. He checked his mobile. A load more shit from central office, and a text message from that bitch, Marilyn: Maybe I’ll do it. I want some guarantees. I want it all in writing.
Gallagher laughed. You’d think she’d have learned her lesson the last time.
He pressed the call symbol. It rang twice, three times, and then it was picked up. Silence for a moment, but he could hear her breathing. He smiled. The little bitch was scared.
“Hello Marilyn. Turns out you like my offer, then?”
He heard her suck in a deep breath. “I’m thinking about it.”
“It’s a great offer, Marilyn. You’re not going to get anything better. We both know that, don’t we?”
She said nothing. He could hear her brain ticking. God, it was pitiful.
“It’ll be like the old days, Marilyn. You and me, together.”
“You’re sick,” she hissed. “I don’t want to be anywhere near you. I just want a job.”
He laughed. “Tell you what, Marilyn, why don’t you come in and we’ll talk over the details? I can meet you Monday evening. There’s an awards do over at the Sheraton. Come and meet me there and we’ll talk it over. It’ll be a night out for you.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Don’t tell me you need to check your diary?” He laughed. The skinny cow probably spent every night in front of the telly, hunched over a microwaved plastic tray of 99p macaroni cheese.
“No,” she admitted. “What time?”
“Well, it starts at eight, so how about you get there a bit earlier.” He thought for a moment. “About seven? How’s that suit you?” Of course she wasn’t going to say no. She was bright. She’d been the best PA he’d ever had. And she’d be back under his thumb. Who’d believe any accusations she ever made once she’d come back to work for him. “Wear a nice frock, Marilyn. If you’re lucky, I’ll get you into the ceremony.”
“I don’t have a nice frock.”
“Well, use your imagination. You work in a laundry, don’t you? Must get a few dresses come through.”
Marilyn sighed. “I can’t do that.”
“Well, just don’t come in your tracksuit. Call me when you’re on your way and I’ll meet you downstairs. Alright?”
Gallagher snapped the phone shut and pocketed it. Immediately he felt the blue painted walls of the small room closing in on him. Less than an hour and he’d be on the platform, up against Bryony Haslett. She had some kind of computer for a brain. She remembered everything. Every last little fact she’d pull out just to make him look like an old fool. He couldn’t beat her if it got into detail. That’s what Steve said, steer clear of... And where was Steve with that drink? Jesus! Did he have to sort out everything himself?
The itch in his head was starting up again. There was a small unframed mirror screwed to the wall. Gallagher went and stared at the top of his forehead. There was nothing to see, but it was driving him mad. It was like the itch was inside his skull, like some bug was slowly crawling across the inside of his skull.
The door opened and Steve came in. He tossed a mineral water bottle to Gallagher. It was full.
Gallagher took off the lid and sniffed it.
“What’s this?”
“Vodka and tonic.”
Gallagher scowled and took a deep swig from the bottle. He tipped his head backwards and rolled his shoulders as he felt the alcohol percolating into his system.
Steve checked his phone. “OK. There’s a few things we need to go over before you go on. She got you last time on the affordable housing thing. I need you word perfect on this.”
“Right. Can we do this in ten? I’ve got one more call to make.”
Steve looked at his watch. “Yeah, I’ll be back in ten, and then we’re going through this, word by word.”
Gallagher narrowed his eyes at his campaign manager, but nodded. When had Steve started talking to him like this, as if Steve was the boss, not him? No matter. After he’d won, he’d remind him who was boss. Right now, he needed him.
Gallagher scrolled through the numbers on his phone until he found the one he was looking for: Martin Halton. He pressed the call button and listened to it ringing. It was answered by a man who sounded out of breath.
“Hi. Who is this?”
“Martin! Is that Martin?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Lester Gallagher.” Lester laughed easily. “Bit of a voice from the past, eh? Haven’t caught you at a bad time have I?” He could hear the beat of silence at Martin’s end. The bastard. He’d be wondering how he’d got onto him and whatever he was up to with that bitch, Marilyn.
“God,” Martin managed. “Lester. Err no, it’s not a bad time. Just moving some boxes around.”
“Oh well, I won’t keep you long. I’m just catching up with a few old contacts,” Gallagher explained. “You’ll have heard I’m standing for election. Well, I bloody hope you have anyway, or that PR machine isn’t working at all.” He laughed again.
“Yeah,” Martin said. “Yeah, I’d heard.”
“So, I’m just rounding up a few people; people with influence in the community, you know.”
He heard Martin laugh. “I don’t think that’s me.”
“Oh, don’t put yourself down, Martin. A professional like you, an architect no less, your opinion on the city is important. People listen to what you think.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
There was no mistaking the sarcasm. “Look, I know we didn’t see eye to eye over the plans, but that’s how it is in business, you know. People have different ideas. Doesn’t mean your id
eas don’t carry weight.”
Another silence before Martin spoke. “This is all ancient history, Lester. Why are you calling me now?”
“Just drumming up support, Martin. That’s all. I like to keep in touch, you know, keep tabs on where people are and what they’re up to.” He let it hang in the air for a moment.
“Right,” Martin said.
“And maybe there’s things we can do to help each other out,” Gallagher suggested. “It’s who you know, isn’t it? If I’m elected, there’ll be things I can do for you. I just want to know if I can count on your support.”
A longer silence. “I don’t really get involved in politics, Lester. It’s not really my thing, you know.”
“Well, OK. That’s fine, Martin. I’ve leave it there for now, and you can get back to your boxes. Perhaps I’ll be back in touch though, if I think of something you could help me out with?”
“Sure.” He sounded anything but.
Gallagher smiled to himself as he ended the call. The bastard was rattled. That was all he needed to achieve right now, rattling his cage. He took another swig of vodka and waited for Steve to come back.
Half an hour of tactical bootcamp followed with Steve coaching: she says X, you say Y; she says A, what do you say, Lester? It went on and on until he felt like a trained fucking seal. Worse, he felt like a fighter, pretending to be a seal. By the time it was ready to start, he was pacing the small room just waiting to be released. At last they came and called him. He waited just off stage, listening to the introductions. And then it was time.
Gallagher jumped up the steps onto the platform with the energy of a man half his age. He strode towards the podium and waited for Haslett to come sauntering up. He despised her: her modest dress, her neat haircut, her academic glasses. He smiled, his best charming smile, and held out a manicured hand. He saw her momentary hesitation. She didn’t want to shake his hand. She didn’t want to be tainted by touching him, but to refuse would look churlish and he would look statesmanlike. She had no choice. He grasped her limp fingers and squeezed them hard, turning towards the crowd and the press.
Then he stepped back briskly to his podium and looked out over the audience. It was a piddling little crowd of nobodies, but he smiled, looking over their heads, as though to some glorious horizon. He was a man with charisma. He had presence. That’s what the local research said. This was one of his key selling points, especially when pitched against this cold fish in a dress. He let his face relax into an easy smile, as though every single one of them was his friend. He leaned casually on the podium as he watched the old trout address the first question. Nothing she said troubled him. The economy: no one understood it anyway. All he had to do was make her sound irresponsible, like a teenager put in charge of the household budget. It was easy enough, with that wish-list of spending she was throwing out. She’d be subsidising every lame dog in the pound, given her way.
“Now, Bryony, if you don’t mind me pointing it out, you don’t have the background in business that I have. You’re coming up with these figures but...”
He paused as a noise from the audience distracted him. A heckler. Ignore it. He raised his voice to carry on. “You think we can spend our way out of this situation, but you can’t spend money you haven’t got. We have to tighten...”
“WHAT ABOUT SPIRAL INVESTMENTS?”
He stumbled momentarily and mercilessly the cameras flashed. Jesus! Where had they dug that one up from? He was sure he’d well and truly covered his tracks on Spiral Investments. Christ, that was fifteen years back.
“We have to make tough choices,” he went on. “We will carry everyone with us, but we have to build a stronger economy, and we can’t do that by spending everything we’ve got.”
She bared her teeth at him in a pretence of a smile. “What you call tough choices, the rest of us call self-interest.”
Camera flashes again. “Your choice would be to cut social care to the elderly in their own homes. Instead, you’d spend that money on a development scheme that no one wants, and that...”
The noise from the crowd rose and she raised her voice above it. “And that would substantially benefit Gallagher Holdings.”
The noise turned into a roar of disapproval, and Gallagher could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead. He managed to keep the smile on his face as he shouted above the noise.
“I make no apology for investing in this city.” He spread his hands, palm upwards, in a gesture of incredulity. “This city needs investors with courage and vision. We need to rebuild the energy and prosperity in this city, and we do that by building things, by making things, by showing people that this city is not done.”
A smattering of applause.
“Well, if you have such courage and vision, Mr Gallagher, why don’t you finance the whole thing? Why do you need public subsidy to build a lot of shops that will do nothing but kill our city centre?”
A bigger noise. He had to pull it back.
“I think your question shows that you have no understanding...” The noise swelled and he waited for it to subside, before beginning again. “You have no understanding of modern city infrastructure. The days of the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker – they’re long gone. Do you think we can compete with China...”
The noise was rising to the point where he couldn’t compete. He turned to look out at the crowd. There was a faction who’d managed to get in with placards. They were raising them now and chanting, that same fucking mantra:
HOUSES AND JOBS, NOT CROOKS AND SHOPS
Security officials were bearing down upon them, hustling them towards the exits. The old cow was smiling blandly as the cameras flashed. The itching in his skull was suddenly unbearable. He pressed a hand against his forehead and felt an explosion of light from the press cameras.
“What makes you so sure that people want your modern city, Mr Gallagher? Don’t you think they’d rather live in a country that looked after its elderly?” She turned to the audience, her voice impassioned now. “We’re all going to be old one day. And what’s going to matter to you then? That you can stay in your own home, and that someone will care; or that there’s a shiny new shopping mall across town that you can’t even get to by public transport?”
The audience roared its approval. She was smiling and he hated her.
He jabbed a finger in her direction. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She laughed. “Is that the best you can do?” She was acting like she’d won already. She shuffled her papers on her podium. He’d like to wipe that smile off her face. When this nightmare was over, he’d get someone onto that, and Bryony Haslett wouldn’t look so smug then.
Fifteen
“Who was that on the phone?”
Martin was standing in the garage, staring into space. His back was to the door that lead out from the utility room straight into the garage. He hadn’t even heard Beth open the door, hadn’t realised she’d been standing there. Had she been there throughout the conversation?
“Lester Gallagher.”
She frowned. “Gallagher?” she repeated. “Standing in the election, that Gallagher?”
“That’s the one.”
Beth folded her arms across her chest and smiled quizzically. “Why’s he calling you?”
Martin shrugged. “Search me. Trying to drum up support.”
“From you?” she snorted with laughter.
Martin turned away and sighed. “I know. I told him I’m not exactly a community mover and shaker.”
“I didn’t mean that,” she said, with a gentle smile in her voice. “I meant you’re kind of the wrong side of the fence.”
“Yeah. That too.”
Martin stared at the boxes, but he wasn’t really seeing them anymore. Beth had asked him to sort out his stuff in the garage so that she could get her car in there again. It was a pointless job anyway, he was sure. She didn’t really want the hassle of opening and closing the garage every day. She ju
st wanted to make him work.
He’d willingly do that. He’d do whatever she wanted, but right now he needed her to go away so that he could think.
“Cup of tea?” she suggested.
He nodded, and she went back indoors.
Why was Gallagher calling him? Why now? It was just days ago that he’d seen Marilyn, that she’d told him this story about Gallagher raping her, about Gallagher being Ben’s father. At the time, she’d half convinced him, but with each hour that had passed he’d managed to shove it to the back of his mind. But now this? Why would Gallagher call him, of all people? It was as if he knew; as if he knew that Marilyn had fed him a story, and... and what?
Maybe they were in it together, Marilyn and Gallagher? Oh no, that was just stupid. That made no sense. So why had Gallagher called him? A sensation of dread pressed down on him, and slowly his thoughts caught up with it. Marilyn had been talking to Gallagher. That would be it. Jesus Christ! Had she told him where Ben was? Would she have been so reckless? She’d gone on about Ben being evidence. She would have guarded him surely. But she was wild, she was all over the place. She could have done anything.
Martin pulled his phone out of his pocket and was scrolling to Marilyn’s number when Beth appeared in the doorway holding two mugs of tea. Not only had she offered to make him a cup of tea, but she’d made one for herself. She was going to pass the time of day with him. At any other time, he would have wanted nothing more. He hesitated then put the phone back in his pocket. Marilyn would have to wait five minutes.
“Who’re you calling?” Beth asked. “Don’t let me stop you if you’ve got some moving and shaking to do.”
He smiled. “Box moving is about my limit, Beth, and you know it.”
He took the mug of tea from her and perched against a box. She sat down on the step. The back of the garage had a window and a door that led into the back garden. The door was open and sunlight streamed in, along with the sounds of boys screaming as they soaked each other with squirt guns.
“Do you think we should take down the climbing frame?” she asked.
