James Craig - London Calling

‘Thanks, Joe.’

Carlyle ordered another double at the bar and took it back to his seat. For the next few minutes he wanted nothing more than to enjoy his drink, stare vacantly into space, and hope that all the frustrations of recent weeks would fade as he began to get increasingly pissed.

Behind the bar was a television with the sound turned right down. Carlyle looked up to see Edgar Carlton, on the steps of party HQ, making an ‘impromptu’ speech to his cheering campaign workers. Edgar was surrounded by faces that had become all too familiar in recent days, all of them busy nodding and clapping as if their very lives depended on it, waiting for the polls to close so that the celebrations could begin in earnest.

‘Almost there now, aren’t you, you tossers,’ Carlyle slurred to himself. ‘Got what you wanted, your bloody birthright.’

He took another mouthful of whiskey and decided that tonight would be an excellent night to get totally shitfaced.

‘Tossers!’

The barman stopped pouring a pint and gave him a dirty look.

‘But they are,’ Carlyle grumbled under his breath.

Maybe he should just go to bed.

On the screen, the picture zoomed in on one bright, shining face hovering behind Edgar’s left shoulder. With the shot glass poised at his lips, Carlyle froze.

‘Holy fucking shit!’

This time, the barman looked ready to come over and sort him out.

Ignoring him, Carlyle jumped to his feet and bolted for the door.

‘Come on, come on!’

Hopping from foot to foot, Xavier Carlton sipped his beer nervously and glanced at the second hand skipping round the face of his TAG Heuer Carrera. It was 9.59 plus ten… eleven… twelve seconds.

His heart was beating so fast, Xavier thought it might burst out of his chest at any moment. This waiting was killing him. The final hour before the polls closed had dragged interminably, going on for what seemed like days. But now, finally, in less than a minute, they would know the outcome of the election.

… twenty-three… twenty-four… twenty-five…

The excited hubbub died down as everyone gathered round the television monitors placed all around the room, waiting for the news. The final opinion polls still had them in front, if only by five per cent or so. That should still be enough to give them a small but workable majority in the House of Commons, assuming that the polls were right.

… forty-eight… forty-nine… fifty…

Letting his eyes slip away from the massive cinema screen at the far end of the hotel ballroom, Xavier glanced at his brother. With his head bowed, Edgar looked gaunt and exhausted. They’d had it in the bag for so long now, all they really wanted was the relief of knowing it was all over.

In the distance, Xavier thought he could just make out the faint chimes of Big Ben, half a mile down the road, as it struck ten o’clock. For a second, all of the screens within the room went blank.

Heart pounding, Xavier held his breath.

Suddenly, finally, Egar’s face appeared on the screen.

There was a split second’s delay, then a massive cheer went up. All around, people were shouting and screaming, hugging each other and punching the air in celebration. One of the girls close by burst into tears.

Xavier stepped over and hugged his brother.

‘Thank God!’ Edgar closed his eyes and gave silent thanks.

‘Amen,’ said Xavier, feeling his knees buckle slightly. Regaining his composure, he grabbed Edgar by the arm and quickly led him past a couple of Trevor Miller’s security guys and down a hallway leading away from the noise. Round a corner, he swiped a key card that gave them access to the sanctuary of their own private hotel suite. Strict instructions had been given that absolutely no one, other than a handful of their closest circle, was to be allowed access. Even friends and family had been parked in rooms on the floor below, the brothers having insisted on a space which was for them alone. Those years of having, literally, their every move watched, exposed, dissected, debated and criticised were over. The campaign to claw back some of their privacy started here.

Grabbing a fresh beer, Xavier dropped on to the sofa in the middle of the large sitting room. On a TV mounted on the wall the presenter proclaimed: ‘The polls have now closed in today’s General Election. And tonight it looks as though Britain has a new government. We are predicting that Edgar Carlton will become the next prime minister, with a majority of twenty seats in the House of Commons.’

In the ballroom outside, the music started up as the victory party proper finally got under way. Xavier felt his brother’s hand rest on his shoulder as he gulped down his beer. Neither man said anything, their elation drowned in sheer relief.

They were still lost in their thoughts when the door swung open and William Murray fell into the room, eyes gleaming.

‘Congratulations!’ shouted the special adviser. ‘You’ve done it!’ In each hand, Murray held up a magnum of chilled Krug 1995, beads of condensation quickly forming on the dark green glass. An unlit Romeo y Julieta Short Churchill was wedged between his lips. Standing unsteadily on one leg, he kicked the door shut behind him with the other.

The little sod’s drunk, thought Xavier. But why not? I will be, too, soon enough. Everyone should get blasted on a night like this. The night of a lifetime.

‘Thank you, William.’ Edgar stepped forward, smiling broadly. The emotion of the moment had subsided, and he was regaining his composure. ‘And thank you for all your work on our behalf over the last few years.’

Tears in his eyes, the young man bowed his head. ‘It has been an honour…’

‘You have been a vital member of the team,’ Edgar burbled, ‘and, as I have always said, this is simply the beginning of our adventure.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Please let everyone know that Xavier and I will be coming out right away. Let’s get the party started. Tonight we want everyone here to have a great time. Goodness knows, they deserve it. Can you tell them that we’ll be with them in a few minutes.’

Murray stared at him blankly. ‘No, I really don’t think so.’ Tossing one of the bottles on to the sofa, he skipped straight towards Edgar. Grabbing it by the neck with both hands, he lifted the remaining bottle high above his head. The two politicians appeared mesmerised. For a millisecond, as he struggled to keep his balance, it looked as if Murray might tip over backwards. Then, grunting with the effort, he brought the Krug bottle smashing down right on to Edgar’s head with a dull clunk.

‘What the…?’ Xavier watched in disbelief as his brother crumpled under the heavy blow. He tried to stand up, but Murray was upon him before he could force himself out of his seat. The first blow glanced off his arms, raised in defence, but the second caught him full in the face, sending him spiralling into darkness.

Xavier registered the smell of burning flesh before he heard the scream.

‘No-ooo!’

Reluctantly opening his eyes, it took Xavier another second or two to realise that he was lying face-down on the carpet, his hands tied behind his back and his feet taped together. Worse still, he was totally naked. The worst headache he had ever known was scouring at the inside of his skull, and he badly wanted to puke. Slowly, he turned his head in the direction of Edgar’s cries.

Lying about six feet away, his brother was also bound hand and foot, naked from the waist down. Edgar’s right buttock sported a nasty red burn about the size of a fifty-pence piece, clearly the result of William Murray’s casual deployment of the now lit cigar.

‘Help! Help! HELP!’ Edgar’s face turned crimson as he screamed with all his might. However, against the sound of Kylie Minogue thudding through the intervening wall from the party outside, it amounted to barely a squeak in his brother’s ears.