Party Games (41 page)

            Rodney was eyeing him carefully, Tristan detecting what may have been a hint of jealousy, not hatred, behind his stare.

            “I’m sure you’re not interested in my advice really,” Tristan began, rubbing his jaw nervously. “But I feel I should urge you to sack Colin, and do it sooner rather than later.  You’re set for a victory over Cornwall, I hear.”

            “Thanks, I appreciate your frankness.”   Rodney nodded sagely, but he moved awkwardly, glancing hurriedly at the toilet door.  Tristan sensed with dread that something difficult was about to be aired.  “Look, Tristan, we both know there’s something else,
someone
else, there’s no easy way to say this, but...”

            “There you are!”  Williams exclaimed breathlessly as he half appeared in the doorway.  He looked put out as his eyes flicked between the two men.   His boss forced a smile but Williams didn’t return the gesture.         

            “Rodney, you’ve got to see Debs.”  He tapped his watch.  “The situation is...moving quickly.”

            “Yes.  Yes, of course.”  Rodney caught Tristan’s eye.  Things were to be left unsaid, and Tristan could only feel relieved.  “Glad we caught up, Tristan, put things to bed.  Well, you know what I mean.”  Rodney stretched out his hand.  “Bygones?”

            Tristan smiled cautiously, avoiding Williams’ stare as he reciprocated.  “Err, yes.  Bygones.”  The shake was firm, uncomfortable, slightly painful, in fact.  Tristan winced, Rodney patting his free hand on top of Tristan’s.  It would have been glaringly obvious to any body language expert who was the alpha male, but the squeeze around Tristan’s knuckles eased and Rodney beamed.

            “Good man.  See you in the lobby later, then.”

Tristan flexed his sore fingers behind his back, feeling weakened.

“Indeed.”

*****

Barty Phillips had given much thought to what he should do, now events appeared to be taking over.  The mildly perplexed look which had clouded his face for the past few days hadn’t gone unnoticed to even the most unsuspecting colleagues, now constant paranoia was threatening to justify itself.  He was utterly loyal to Rodney Richmond but he wasn’t doing so well at education and he was sure one more ‘issue’ might be his undoing; desperation had driven him to whisper more than alleged sweet nothings in Patrick Hornby’s ear.

David Fryer, red-faced and twitchy, finally caught up with him at the bottom of the Portcullis House escalator.  He swung his bulk in front of him and subtly grabbed his lower arm so to force him to one side.  A dangerously public move, Barty considered, but as he briefly met Fryer’s blood-shot glare the bustle of the busy atmosphere which swarmed around them became mere background noise.

            “What the
hell
do you think you’re playing at, Phillips?”  Fryer sneered, his broad nose wrinkling and his voice a threatening hiss.  Barty tensed his arm but Fryer kept a firm grip.

            “I don’t know what you’re…”

            “You’re going to wish you never set eyes on Patrick bloody Hornby, never mind – well – I don’t think it needs to be said, what habits you two have!”

            “I honestly don’t think you
need
to say anything whatsoever.”  Barty kept calm and quiet.  The tunnel in which they were stood would echo if their voices raised and a stiff breeze from the colonnade sent a chill through Barty’s body.

Fryer’s face was riddled with rage and Barty feared for his safety.  “Your days are numbered, Phillips, once Colin’s leader you’ll be a no-one, I’ll make sure you’re fucking crucified out there, d’you hear?” 

            “Nobody but bigots like you are concerned with how I lead my life, I don’t have to justify anything and you’ve got no evidence anyway.”  Barty snorted contemptuously.  He knew he was better than this, better than David Fryer and the intolerance he bred.  He found it madness they were even in the same party.

            “Oh, I’m sure I won’t have to look hard, you’re seen together all the time and you’re not the only fag round here, someone will have seen you at one of those
places
your type like to go!”  Fryer grit his teeth and forced a grin as fellow Scott loyalist Patricia Joseph hurried past them, acknowledging him with a guarded smile.   “And as for ‘bigots like me’, I’m sure your association may have something to say about your behaviour!”

            “Well, you would know all about sexual preferences of association members, would you not, David?”  Barty said in a cool whisper, shaking Fryer’s grasp.

            “Your precious pansy-boy lover brings me down, you’re coming down with me, only you’ll fall so hard you won’t even catch a glimpse of the gutter on your way to the sewer!”

            “It's not my fault if you don't cover your tracks.” Barty knew he had to get away, their body language screaming hostility even if their words were inaudible.  “I didn't tell Patrick to do anything, it's nothing to do with me.”

            “Liar!  You bloody, stinking, shitty liar!”

            “Barty!  I’ve been looking for you!” 

Phillip’s saving grace, in the form of an extraordinarily jolly Party Chairman, seemed to appear out of nowhere.  Fryer gave a guttural growl at this annoyance, and like a wild beast outnumbered by its prey retreated hurriedly.  A flicker of a glance at Barty, warning him trouble had only just begun, and he was gone through the glass doors.  Barty thought it a wonder that the ground wasn’t shaking.

“Looked like you needed a hand there.”   Jeremy said slowly.  His colleague lowered his eyes.  “Patrick’s got a full-blown story on him, hasn’t he?”

Barty nodded.

“Well, Bartholomew, you’ve got a ruthless streak I never knew you had.”  The Chairman muttered, an admiring half-smile adorning his lips.  “I’ll remember not to get on the wrong side of
you
.” 

Barty flushed and looked awkward, he hadn’t really thought of himself like that.

“No, seriously – if you need a friend.”  Jeremy patted him on the shoulder.  “I just hope…well, I just hope he’s all worth it, and I don’t mean Fryer.”

*****

A final pre-launch meeting was required and tonight was perfect.  The Village was awash with gossip about the likelihood of Ian Harvey’s sacking from the Cabinet after finally stuffing up Cornish devolution with his ‘slip of the tongue’, while Colin Scott’s challenge to the Tory Party leadership had been all but confirmed by the man himself to a gaggle of news-hungry lobby correspondents.  He needed to make sure his team was prepared, so gathered his supporters in his office while they waited for the vote.  In a final show of defiance the Deputy Leader of the Conservative Party would abstain on his party’s own amendment, and his absence would be very much noticed as his colleagues filed obediently through the ‘aye’ lobby.  

“So Rivers is out the game, is he?”  One of Colin’s supporters piped up.  “No stalking horse?”

            “No, the rumour that he might stand has been enough to rattle Richmond’s cage, show how he overreacts under pressure.” Colin said coolly.  His conversation with Rivers had been brief yet sour as the former Chief Whip spoke as if he were reading from a Cheeser-approved script.  Colin cursed his own foolishness to think it ever could have worked with him but his biggest regret was wasting all that money on that bloody sneak detective.  He was determined to get to the bottom of the real reason why Dickenson had gone back on his word.

            “And Sharkey?”  Someone else asked.  “Are the joint ticket rumours true?”

            Colin smiled wryly.  “We’re ‘in talks’, shall we say.”  It wasn’t completely untrue, he had trusted Matthew Gaines to approach Steven Sharkey’s chief cheerleader, but he had yet to propose a formal alliance.  Another 24 hours, and all that would change.

 “We need some reassurances from you, Colin.  Richmond’s going to put up a bloody good fight and we need to know that you’ll be prepared for the mud-slinging.  We’ve all got constituencies and our people on the ground are a little concerned, they see it nothing more than a political soap opera.”

            Colin studied the faces around the room, his eyes wide with an excitement he hadn’t felt in a long time.

            “Oh, I’m prepared for the fight, alright.  Richmond has sidelined our views for long enough and I’m determined that my campaign will be as slick and smoothly operated as his.  I mean, what the hell does he stand for?  We’ll tear him apart like he’s bloody tissue paper.” His hands and shoulders moved as if he had finally found his cause; far more natural, some observed, than his grandiose speech at Party Conference only weeks earlier in which his hollow, dispassionate praise for the Leader had set many a right-wing jaw for his hypocrisy and Richmondite tongues wagging about his loyalty. 

“I want none of the mistakes of last time, no wallowing in self-pity when it appears as if he is controlling the agenda.  We won’t
let
him control the agenda, I want Richmond wondering why on earth it has gone so wrong for him, and so quickly.  The past two weeks have merely been a catalyst, he knows his leadership has been in trouble for a while.”

Expectant faces smiled and heads nodded earnestly.  “As for my resignation…”  He patted the inside pocket of his jacket, “that will come soon enough tomorrow.  I know your associations won’t be ripping down the official photograph of our glorious leader just yet but when the campaign gets into full swing I hope they’ll see differently.  As for my own association, I’ve been as open with my members as much as possible.”

            As Matthew Gaines began to talk through the strategy for the weeks ahead, Colin felt more at ease with himself than he had done for as long as he could remember.  He privately delighted at the thought of Rodney Richmond’s perfect complexion flushing, his chin quivering in horror now his malcontent of a deputy was finally carrying out the unthinkable.  Making Colin his number two had kept him quiet for only so long.  Now he would take immeasurable joy from being one step ahead of Richmond, in front of the cameras, setting out his vision for a renewed Conservative Party under his reign.  Colin’s lip curled as he revelled in his fantasy.  He wanted to see her, feel her, hold her next to him, share that moment with her.  But, in that split second, it wasn’t Alice he thought of.  Colin buried his weakness and found his resolve. He felt unstoppable. 

Twenty

9.15pm

“Look, we need to be saying a whole lot more.  People will just think all I’m about is Cornish devolution, if they listen to Colin, but I have so much more to say. I want to start making two speeches a week,
at least
; Colin’s been far too much of a distraction lately for all of us, the policy-making process has stalled and we need an open debate in the party about public services, the economy, and how the party’s changed while staying true to our intrinsic Conservative values.  It just seems that at every turn we’re fighting a battle with the media.”  Rodney paused, hands on his hips, gauging the reaction from three of his closest confidants.  Jeremy nodded, casting a glance at the document in Deborah’s grasp.  They had worked hard on it, but that didn’t prevent the nagging guilt about its contents.  Colin had pushed them to it.

“That just helps highlight the point I was about to make – why
battle
with the media?”  Deborah sank into a chair.  “We have successfully played it at its own game for months following your election, and that’s just what we should do again.  In the face of a new contest we need to utilise you even more, run it very similar to the successful campaign of last time, show the big differences between you and Colin.”

“What, Debs, make it
really
obvious we’re split right down the middle?”  Williams asked acerbically.  He indicated to the document as Deborah looked put out.  “What’s that you’ve got?”

Deborah handed it to Rodney, and Jeremy suddenly felt worried.  Rodney would hate it, despise such a personal attack, even on Colin Scott, but as he watched the leader flick through it, his brow furrowed, Deborah continued in her usual confident voice.

“I know it shouldn’t get personal, but he’s made it so, and you outshine him by miles both in marketability and experience.  You’re in a strong position to hit him from all sides over the next couple of weeks – he has absolutely nothing new to say in terms of policy.  We need to get you out there, away from Westminster, to the associations.  We can do it with much greater publicity than the Scott camp will be able to manage.”

 “Don’t forget the MPs though, Debs.”  Robert said. Jeremy noticed that the man hadn’t pulled his gaze away from Deborah for quite some time. “They’ll be Rodney’s starting point.  There’s great support amongst colleagues but it still won’t do harm to butter them up, have as many one-to-ones as he can, do a circuit or two around the tea room.”

“When did you intend to put this out?”  Rodney asked, waving the document.  His voice was tired, snappy.  He looked at Jeremy for clarification.

“Whenever is needed.”  Jeremy replied.  Deborah nodded.

“God, it’s a smear campaign.  I’m not into those, you know that.”

“Desperate times, Rodney.”  Deborah muttered.  “He’ll only do it to you first.”

“But that doesn’t make it right!”   Rodney checked his watch with an edgy flick of the cuff. “What I don’t want to do is put all the blame on Colin, I need to be seen to be publicly shouldering some of it.  I misjudged the situation, misjudged him and our capacity to work together, etcetera.”

“Although, Rodney, we don’t want it to look like that he’s just misunderstood and you’re a poor judge of character.  It’s not your fault he acts like a spoilt child who’s had his toys taken away.”  Deborah remarked.

“Can we really call him ‘Scott of the Anarchic’?”  Rodney mused, re-reading the document’s title.  He stifled a smile, but Williams looked aghast.  “I’m not so sure we should say ‘A ‘Captain Scott’-led Conservative Party would be chaotic and disorderly, leading an ill-fated expedition to the polls from which very few would return.’”