Twenty Twelve (2 page)

‘So what have you been up to?’ he asks.

‘Not much.’

I’m toying with him. I know what he wants but can’t resist the perverse pleasure of not giving it to him.

He raises an eyebrow, white whiskers sprouting at wild angles like a catfish.

I open my palms as if there is nothing to tell. Why do I do this? Torturing a shell of a man is pathetic.

‘I heard there’s going to be a reshuffle,’ he says.

He looks so eager, like a child waiting for a slice of birthday cake, hoping to get a bit with a sweet on it. The great Paddy Connolly, darling of the party, champion of the hardworking family, enemy of the unions, brought to this. Sniffing out scraps of gossip like a puppy.

I relent. ‘Davison is out.’

Dad nods. ‘About time. The man couldn’t get a hard-on in a brothel.’

‘They say McDonald will get the job.’

‘A move from Education to the Foreign Office.’ Dad whistles. ‘That Scottish bastard always was ambitious.’

I tell him the rest. Who’s in. Who’s out. Who has the PM’s ear. When the old man is satisfied that’s he’s exhausted the detail, he leans back against his pillow. He closes his eyes, so I drop my own little ingot into the conversation.

‘I’ve been offered something.’

His eyes open, instantly alert.

I hold my hand up to calm him. ‘It’s not much. Just a junior appointment.’

‘Everyone has to start somewhere. Even me,’ says the man who became the youngest ever cabinet minister.

I laugh, and for the first time in as long as I can remember he laughs too.

‘So where is it?’ he asks. ‘Health?’

I shake my head.

‘Defence?’ he says.

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘Education?’ He gives a throaty chuckle. ‘Spent some of the best years of my life in Education under Keith Joseph.’

‘It’s Culture, Media and Sport,’ I say.

Dad stops laughing.

‘I guess with my background it seemed an appropriate choice,’ I say.

‘Your background,’ he repeats.

I count to ten in my head. According to Dad, my background is one of politics and power, hailing, as I do, from stock so steeped in the business of government that one of my godparents was the chief whip of the party, the other, Chancellor of the Exchequer.

‘I meant my running, Dad,’ I say.

He blinks at me.

I try to keep the irritation from my voice. ‘I wasn’t bad at it, remember? In the 1996 Olympic squad.’

‘Yes,’ says Dad, but he’s no longer interested.

‘Actually, I’m pretty excited with the Games coming up. I think I can really bring something to the table.’

Dad doesn’t answer. He closes his eyes.

‘Try to eat more,’ I say and make for the door.

I slam the Mini Cooper into third, stamp on the accelerator and barrel down Shooters Hill Road, glad to put Blackheath and Dad behind me.

I can’t believe the old sod still has the ability to make me so angry. I’m a ten-year-old girl again, waving my medals under his nose, only to be asked why I don’t do something more constructive with my time than ‘a bit of bleedin’ running’.

A black cab pulls out in front of me and I press the heel of my hand against the horn. When I spot a tiny gap in the oncoming traffic I hit the gas and overtake, ignoring the cabbie’s proffered middle finger.

‘Your dad’s a hard man to please,’ my mum used to tell me, retrieving the medals from under my pillow.

‘I just want to make him proud,’ I said.

She wiped the tarnished brass against the leg of her trousers and gave me one of her slow, sad smiles. ‘You will, love, you will.’

I thump the side window with the edge of my fist. I refuse to end up like Mum, still trying to do the right thing until the day she died, still dancing to the old bastard’s tune.

She never learned that it didn’t matter whether she did the waltz, the twist or the bloody cha-cha-cha: Dad is never satisfied.

Well, not me. Not any more. I’m hanging up my jazz shoes.

When the leg gave way and all the doctors could do was shake their heads, I didn’t look for sympathy. My running career was over but I got on with my life, didn’t I?

The old man didn’t disguise the fact that he was relieved I’d stop pissing my life away on the track.

‘Mind you,’ he told me, ‘you’ll never make an MP. Too pretty, too indecisive.’

So I joined the civil service.

‘That’s who really run the show.’ Dad winked at me.

And he’s probably right, but I’ve hated every stinking minute of it. The hours, the egos, the backstabbing. Tepid glasses of wine while my smile breaks my jaw.

This job in Culture, Media and Sport is the first thing that has made my blood pump in a very long time. The chance to be involved in the 33rd Olympic Games – here, in London. My town. The chance to reach out and touch, if only fleetingly, something I love.

I force myself to inhale deeply, to exhale through my nose. I will not allow that man to spoil this. The world is bubbling with excitement and I’m going to be at the very heart of it.

‘I am calm,’ I sing out. ‘I am relaxed.’

Shit.

I miss my turn-off for Greenwich and end up in the sludge of Deptford’s one-way system.

Miggs was the last to arrive.

Steve and Deano were already in the kitchen, rooting in Ronnie’s fridge. Deano pulled out a carton of milk and sniffed it. ‘Fucking hell, this is minging.’

He catapulted it into the sink, which was already piled high with greasy dishes and empty takeaway cartons. It landed with a thud, spraying thick white lumps of cottage cheese over the fag ends and cold chips that littered the draining board.

Miggs swallowed down a pang of nausea. He’d stayed in some shitholes in his time but Ronnie’s spot was like a Glasgow crack house.

‘Got any bevvies?’ he asked.

Ronnie didn’t even look up. ‘Cupboard next to the cooker.’

Miggs helped himself to a warm can of Stella and handed out the rest. He wondered why Ronnie didn’t keep them in the fridge, but given the state of it, it was probably for the best.

He took a swig and settled on the sofa where he knew Ronnie slept. A stained sleeping bag lay in a heap in the corner of the room, but the cushions retained the smell of their leader’s sweat.

The TV was already on, though the sound was off. Some twenty-four-hour news channel.

Deano took his place next to Miggs. ‘You want to get yourself a flat screen telly, Ron,’ he said. ‘Much better picture than this heap of shit.’

Miggs caught sight of Deano’s beefy fingers. Between each tattoo, the knuckles were raw and bloody. How many times had Ronnie warned him not to get into any fights, not to draw attention to himself? ‘My brother could get you one for less than five hundred quid. Thirty-six-inch, surround sound,’ he said.

Ronnie shrugged. ‘I’m not really bothered about all that.’

Deano turned to Steve, who was perched on the arm of the sofa. ‘Got you one, didn’t he, mate?’

‘Put my order in.’ Steve flashed the gaps in his teeth. ‘Next day delivery.’

‘See?’ said Deano. ‘As good as fucking Currys.’

Sometimes Miggs couldn’t believe what a stupid cunt Deano could be. Selling knock-off tellies was a sure-fire way to bring the five-oh crashing down on his head. He flicked a glance at Ronnie, looking for the telltale throb at the temples that would signal the shit was about to hit the fan.

Ronnie and Miggs had known each other since they’d been in care. Miggs was originally from the schemes in Possilpark and had been acquainted with a few hard bastards in his time, but nothing prepared him for the brutality of the kickings wee Ronnie would dole out on an almost weekly basis. Miggs had been on the wrong end of a few batterings himself. Umpteen anger management courses and a spell in the madhouse had made no impact. Violence was simply a part of Ronnie’s life.

Luckily for Deano, Ronnie’s attention was diverted by the screen. ‘Turn up the sound.’

Steve leaned forward and punched the remote control. Some bird was standing outside the Olympic Village in Stratford. The breeze ruffled her jacket to reveal the hint of a black bra.

Deano whistled at the screen. Steve joined in. Ronnie put up a hand and silenced them both.

The presenter was smiling into the camera. She had those straight teeth you always saw on the telly but never in real life.

‘An excited crowd is gathered here today to watch the official opening of the Olympic Village, which will be home to more than fifteen thousand athletes from two hundred countries around the globe.’

The camera panned around the village, revealing the rows of spanking new accommodation blocks built around communal squares. A water feature was tinkling pleasantly in the middle. A lifetime away from Miggs’s childhood.

In the distance the five rings of the Olympic flag fluttered.

Miggs risked another sideways glance, but Ronnie’s eyes didn’t leave the screen.

I roar into the car park outside the Village and race over to where the minister is finishing an interview.

Sam Clancy is a consummate performer. When he’s done, he sees me and the smile slides off his face. ‘You’re late.’

‘I had to visit my dad,’ I say.

Sam’s face softens. Even now, Paddy Connolly’s name is royalty. ‘Where are we at?’ he asks.

I pull out my BlackBerry and check my list of things to do. ‘The rooms are completely ready,’ I tell him.

‘You’ve checked the paperwork? We don’t want a re-run of the Delhi fiasco.’

‘It’s all in order,’ I assure him. ‘Building regs, health and safety, you name it. There isn’t a loose screw in the whole place.’

Sam nods in satisfaction. ‘And the Yanks?’

‘All booked on flights and ready for a quick photo op at Heathrow.’

‘The ambassador?’

I pull a face. The American ambassador is never happy. With anything.

‘Still banging on about security, I suppose?’ says Sam.

‘I danced him through every last detail, even the MI5 assessments,’ I say. ‘Short of holding the Games in secret, we can’t make it any tighter.’

Sam cracks a smile. ‘You know what they say, Jo – you can’t please all of the people all of the time.’

As we’re led towards the crowded Plaza, groups of children are pressing their way inside, laughing and pushing one another.

‘Looks like we can please some of the people,’ I say.

Sam gives my shoulder a couple of taps. ‘And that’s what it’s all about, Jo.’

We make our way inside and I can’t keep the smile from my face. The Plaza is fantastic. During the Games this is where the athletes will meet their friends and family, but today we are set up for a conference. Every seat is taken, press and cameramen standing at the sides. I’m glad I wore my new shoes – smart ballerina pumps, the colour of fresh raspberries.

The front row has been allocated to a special school whose pupils have travelled by coach from Bromsgrove so that Sam can make the point that the Paralympics are every bit as important to London as the real deal. A teenage boy with Down’s syndrome is giggling loudly, his round features lit up in excitement. The girl to his right sits low in her wheelchair, clapping.

Their teacher puts a finger to her lips to quiet them but they can hardly contain themselves. It’s infectious and I laugh too.

See, this is what Dad doesn’t get. That politics doesn’t have to be all about arguments and meetings that go on into the early hours.

The Olympic Games are about hope and optimism. They send out the message that we should all strive to be the best we can be. Who wouldn’t want to be involved in that?

Sam takes to the podium. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, I’d like to welcome you to the 33rd Olympic Games.’

The crowd bursts into spontaneous applause. Even the press corps joins in.

‘I’m sure many of you remember the rapturous news that the UK had been successful in its bid to host the 2012 games. I certainly had a few glasses of bubbly that night.’

A ripple of polite laughter snakes around the room.

‘But after the streamers were cleared away, the reality of the task ahead began to set in.’ Sam lifts a finger. ‘Make no mistake that it has taken years of hard graft and commitment to ensure that everything is ready and in place. It hasn’t been easy. The country has been facing difficult times. We’ve all had our backs against the walls and, to be honest, there have been times when I’ve questioned whether we could pull it off.’

He pauses and lets his gaze sweep across the audience.

‘But ultimately we succeeded because the people of this great country always succeed. We were determined to host a summer of unrivalled sporting achievement which will propel this country into a new era.’

The crowd erupts into cheers and someone throws their cap to the ceiling. The boy with Down’s leaps to his feet and punches the air. He takes two steps towards Sam but security block his path.

‘It’s fine,’ says Sam. ‘We all want to celebrate, don’t we?’ He beckons the boy towards him and every camera in the place begins frantically clicking.

Still grinning, the boy looks behind him to the back of the room. Perhaps his mum is there. ‘I’m here,’ he calls.

I imagine her bursting with pride, snapping away. My mum would have done exactly the same. I hope she’s getting a good view.

Then boom.

A flash of light.

An ear-splitting crack.

Black.

I try to open my eyes but they feel heavy, as if something is weighing them down. I lift my hand to my cheek but I can’t feel that either. Am I dead?

I remember a sea of faces. Clapping. Laughing. A boy with a huge smile. Then nothing.

I try to move but I don’t know if I’m sitting or standing. I can’t feel anything around me. It’s as if I’m suspended. As if all around me is air. Hot air. I break into a sweat.

Christ on a bike, am I in Hell?

I know I’ve been a bit of a twat to my dad, and then there was the time I told that bloke I thought I might be a lesbian so he’d dump me. But are these the sort of sins that warrant an eternal roasting?

I need to open my eyes. I have to see where I am. I let my arms and legs loosen and direct every scintilla of energy towards my face. I control my breathing and concentrate. At last I manage to lift one of my eyelids. Only a tiny slit. But it’s enough.