Gillian Slovo - Ten Days

That it should come to this.

The prospect of what he knew he had to do, and not the heat, was what was making him sweat. Now it drove him from his desk.

The milky light of dawn had hardened — soon the relentless sun would burn off any nuance. Then the green-carpeted corridors would be full of the people who oiled the wheels of Parliament. But for this moment the House was empty. Nowhere to go and nobody to talk to. He would take a stroll, he thought, before going back to stare at that blasted list.

He walked along the Lower Ministers’ corridor and pushed through the double doors of the Chamber, going round the Speaker’s Chair and into the Chamber proper. Odd to be there when those green benches were empty of the members and the hubbub they created. Odd also to have come this way by the opposition benches. He looked over the line to where he usually sat and thought that if things went well, he’d soon be two paces to the right, directly behind the dispatch box. And responsible for everything. A shiver of anticipation ran down his spine.

I’ll wash my face, he thought, and then get on. Leaving the Chamber, he made his way to the nearest toilet, going straight over to a basin. He switched on the tap and, lowering his head, splashed his face with water before running his wrists under the tap, sighing with the relief of it.

He was about to splash his face again when he heard a sound. Someone groaning? He switched off the tap.

Nothing.

Must have been the antique plumbing system, protesting at this early use. He turned on the tap again and cupped his hands. He was in the process of lowering his head when someone — it was a human sound, not mechanical — groaned again.

‘Are you all right?’

No answer. But he hadn’t imagined the sound. It had come from one of the stalls.

He walked along the line-up, gingerly pushing each door in turn. They swung open, empty, until the last, which, although it wasn’t locked, resisted his push. He pressed against it harder.

‘Watch it, you bastard. That’s my leg.’

He knew that voice. He craned his head around the door to see Albion Hind, member for one of the Midlands constituencies. Albion was half on and half off the lavatory, and his eyes were shut.

‘Albion, it’s Peter.’ At least the man’s trousers were still up.

Albion groaned.

‘Are you ill?’

A ginger opening of one eye. ‘Do I look ill?’

Never the most picturesque of men, Albion looked not so much ill as really awful. His nose was habitually bulbous and reddened from drink, and that long strand of greasy hair that had flopped away from the bald patch it was meant to conceal didn’t help. All as usual. What was new, however, particularly so early in the morning, was the mess of gravy or dark vomit that stained his shirt.

A revolting sight. Peter was half tempted to back off, close the door and leave Albion to his own devices. ‘Let’s get you out of here,’ he said.

‘You and whose army?’ Albion’s eyelids shuttered down.

‘Shift.’ Peter pushed at the door.

Albion groaned, but he did inch away from the door, allowing Peter to widen the gap and squeeze in. Not much room to manoeuvre, but he eventually managed to bend over the fallen man. He was assailed by the mix of stale tobacco, soured alcohol and vomit so toxic that it took an effort of will not to rear away. He concentrated on breathing exclusively through his mouth. ‘Lift your arms.’ He pushed his own arms under Albion’s, linking them at the other’s back, and then, saying, ‘Upsy’, he hauled Albion to his feet.

‘I want to stay here,’ Albion groaned.

‘To be spotted by the other side? Or, worse, by a bastard from the lobby? I think not.’

He turned them both round, using a knee to push Albion, and that way manoeuvred the other man, crab-like, out of the stall and over to a wall. ‘Stay here.’

When he let go, Albion slid all the way down to the floor. No point in picking him up. ‘I’ll fetch help,’ he said.

‘Kind of you.’

‘Oh well.’ He was glad that he had bothered.

‘Never figured you for a kind man.’

Just like bloody Albion, adding a sting to his gratitude. Should have let him stew in his own festered failure.

Which thought seemed to transmit itself to Albion. ‘You can’t know what it’s like.’ He was clearly on the brink of tears. The weight of his eyelids seemed too much to bear. They closed while he was saying something that sounded like ‘votes for sale’, although Peter, who now wanted more than anything to get away, couldn’t be sure.

He found a doorkeeper who agreed to deposit Albion in a nearby hotel. Something at least accomplished. It was harder to shake off his feelings of pity for Albion, who, once a high-flyer, had sunk so low. There but for the grace of God, he thought, and then he told himself that this was nonsense. Albion’s many vices were what had done for him; Peter’s would not. Of this he would make sure. He went back to his office, intent on ridding himself of clothes that must now reek of Albion Hind’s failure.

He pushed the door so hard that it banged back against the wall, and when he did, he saw how a slim, dark figure who had been standing by his desk jumped.

‘What the…’ His vision cleared. ‘Oh, it’s you, Patricia.’

The sight of her always set his pulse racing. She was a gorgeous-looking young woman, and she knew it, donning a succession of bright colours like this sleeveless yellow summer frock that showed off her bronzed skin to its best advantage. He wanted to compliment her on it but no need: she’d clocked his appreciative regard and it made her smile.

‘I was thinking of ringing you,’ he said.

‘Your wife beat you to it.’

‘My wife?’

‘Your mobile’s off.’

He took it from his pocket — ‘Oh yes, so it is’ — and switched it on, and as it loaded he saw three missed calls from Frances. ‘Did she say what she wanted?’

‘To tell you that the PM’s going to be on at 7.15.’

Of course he was. Trying to steal Peter’s thunder.

‘She thinks they might be planning to ambush him with his latest legalise drugs obsession. She says you should hear it live in case you’re rung for comment.’ Patricia indicated a folder she must just have placed on his desk. ‘I’ve digested the salient facts. The Dutch example’s telling. And the rake-offs of the Colorado and Washington dispensaries should cause some alarm.’

First Frances and now Patricia: his women were certainly coming through for him. ‘That’s extremely helpful.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But now I think I’d better ring…’

‘… your wife. Yes, Home Secretary. I’ll leave you to it.’ She was smiling as she passed him by.

The scent she gave off was redolent of spring flowers that would long ago have wilted in this heat. Hope she didn’t think the stench that must be coming off him was his. ‘Oh, and Patricia?’

‘Yes?’ The way she looked at him: she was such a coquette!

‘Might be worth turning your keen eye on our new Commissioner. Background. Connections. That type of thing.’

‘Of course.’ She was all business. ‘Anything in particular?’

‘Not sure. He was vetted, naturally, but I think there might have been something missed. Sniff around: see, for starters, if you can find anything about his relationship with the PM. Something peculiar there which might be…’ — how should he put it — ‘be…’

‘Helpful,’ she said. ‘Of course.’ She slipped out of the room, softly, as she always did.

10 a.m.

The heavy tread that Joshua Yares had been keeping half an ear out for caused him to raise his head. ‘Anil? Would you mind stepping in for a moment?’