Michael Dobbs - The Final Cut

For Maria, who had never known her uncles and could therefore not share fully in their loss, the issue was a matter of politics and of principle. Yet for her father it was so much more. A matter of honour and of retribution. Cypriot honour. Vangelis' retribution.

'We must find out what we can about these hidden graves, Baba.'

'And about the crimes they tried to bury in them.' He heaved his bent body up straight, like a soldier on parade. 'And which bastard did the burying.' At the south-facing entrance to the Chamber of the House of Commons stands an ornate and seemingly aged archway, the Churchill Arch. Its antiquity is exaggerated, the smoky pallor having been produced not by the passage of time but by its presence so close to one of Reichsmarshal Goring's bombs, which razed the Chamber to the ground on 10 May 1941. On either side of the archway stand bronze statues of the two great war leaders of modem times, David Lloyd George and Winston Churchill. Lloyd George's pose is eloquent, Churchill's more aggressive, as though the old warrior were hurrying to deliver a booted blow to the backside of the enemy. A little further along is a plinth bearing no statue, perhaps left as an act of encouragement to all those who pass and who hope, by dint of endeavour and great achievement, to join the rank of revered statesmen.

Roger Garlick would not, in any passage of lifetimes, number amongst them. Of course, he had a high opinion of himself which fitted his role as a Junior Whip, one of those whose task it was to round up Government MPs and herd them through the voting lobbies. Garlick was a man of considerable girth but limited oratorical ability; he recognized that his chances of achieving high public acclaim were thereby limited and relished the opportunity to exercise his influence more privately, through the dark arts of whipping. He feasted on abuse, his favourite diet being new members and any woman.

'Roger!' The cry of recognition came from Booza-Pitt, making his way through the Members' Lobby where MPs gather to collect messages and exchange gossip and other materials necessary to their work. Booza-Pitt reached out and squeezed the Whip's arm in greeting but didn't stop. Garlick was a useful contact, a man who was willing in private and under pressure from a second bottle of claret to share many of the personal secrets he had unearthed about his colleagues, but the middle of the Members' Lobby was not the place. The Transport Secretary made off in search of other indiscretions.

The Lobby was crowded, as was always the case in the half-hour before Prime Minister's Question Time when Members assembled for the ritual spilling of blood – occasionally Urquhart's, more frequently that of the questioner and particularly that of Dick Clarence, the youthful and ineffectual Leader of the Opposition who had a tendency to appear as a schoolboy attempting to be gratuitously rude to his long-suffering headmaster. There had to be order in class, and it was Garlick's job as one of the form prefects to impose it. Thus, when he spotted Claire entering the Lobby, his eyes extended like the glass beads on the face of a child's bear.

'Missed you at the vote last night, my dear. I stood Up for you, of course, but the Chief Whip threw a terrible tantrum. Took me half a bottle of whisky to calm him down.' He pinned her up against the base of Lloyd George.

'Sorry, Roger. Pressing engagement, I couldn't get out of it.'

'Not good enough, you know, old girl. I put my arse on the line for you, now you owe me. How about saying sorry over dinner tomorrow night?' He leant his thick arm on the statue behind her, bringing them closer together, an intimacy he claimed by right as a Whip. He reeked of Old Spice and other things less sweet. She was searching the Lobby for someone else – anyone else – to distract her attention, but he did not notice, his own eyes were clamped firmly upon her blouse.

'Sorry, Roger, can't do tomorrow. I'm having my hair done. Following night's out, too, I'm hoping to go to assertiveness class. If my husband lets me.' She smiled, hoping he might take the hint.

'Next week, then,' he persisted. 'It'd be fun. There's a hint of a reshuffle coming up, new jobs going, we could discuss your future. Might even be able to get you added to the Whip's List of new stars.' As he spoke, a fellow Member squeezed past and Garlick took the opportunity to move his body still closer, trying to brush against her. Claire voiced no objection; in this hothouse of stretched emotions and endless nights it was not uncommon for her to be propositioned, particularly after Members had indulged in a good dinner, and alienating every colleague who had put a hand on her knee or an amorous arm around her waist would leave her a member of a drastically reduced party. Boys' club rules, and she had asked to join. But she didn't have to take Garlick's crap.

'Not next week, Roger. I'm having a new kitchen fitted.' She continued to smile, but with great firmness she placed her fingers on his chest and pushed him away.

Both his attitude and the comer of his lip turned with the rejection. 'Bloody women! You're all the same in this place. Useless. How the hell can we run the country with you crying off every time you get a migraine or one of the kids goes down with mumps.' Other Members standing nearby had begun to tune in; he was aware he had acquired an audience and raised his voice. 'It's about time you got something straight. This isn't a knitting class or a creche, it's the House of Commons, and you're here to do as you're told. Leg up. Lie down. Roll over. Adopt as many different positions as a missionary in a pot. You were elected to support the Government, not to wander through the voting lobbies as though you're picking and choosing underwear at Marks amp; Spencer's. You turn up when we tell you and do as you're told!'

The blood was flowing early today; from amongst the colleagues gathered around came a shuffling noise, a mixture of embarrassment and expectation, like the sound of a butcher's apron being passed.

'I am very sorry I missed last night's vote, Roger. I had no choice.' She took great care to squeeze out any tremble or trace of emotion which might have crept into her voice.

'What was so important, then, that you had to let us all down? For God's sake don't tell me you had a pressing engagement with your bloody gynaecologist.'

'No, I wasn't on my back, Roger. I was with Francis. You know, the Prime Minister? He asked me to become his PPS.'

The audience around them stirred and Garlick's jowls began to take on a deeper hue of crimson. He appeared to be having trouble controlling his lower jaw. 'The Prime Minister asked you to become his…' He couldn't finish.

'His Parliamentary Private Secretary. And you know what kind of girl I am, Roger. Couldn't possibly say no.'

'But the Chief didn't know anything about it,' he stammered. He prayed he was being wound up.

Of course the Chief Whip didn't know, couldn't possibly have been brought in on the discussion. He was one of those marked to end up in the pot beside the missionary. Along with several of the Junior Whips.

'F.U. was planning to mention it to him over lunch today. It obviously hasn't come down the line yet. At least, not as far as you.'

A senior member of the audience plucked at Garlick's sleeve. 'Game, set and testicles, I'd say, old boy,' and walked off chortling.

Garlick appeared like a punctured Zeppelin, arms flapping uselessly, making gushing noises, deflating, half the man he had just been yet, as she knew, more than the man he was shortly to be. She had come upon the privilege of access and inside information, and Claire realized how much she loved it. Incapable of speech, all communications facilities shot away, Garlick turned and shuffled off in the direction of the Whips' Room and its bottle of whisky.