David Belbin - Bone & Cane

Andrew had one of those huge, American fridges you saw in sitcoms. If you were to take out the shelves, it would be big enough for its owner to stand up in. He got out two bottles of Budvar.

‘Sarah’s an MP now,’ Nick told him. ‘In Nottingham.’

‘Yeah, she got in at a by-election. Unlikely to survive, though. Safe Tory seat, as I recall. Not been to see her, have you?’

‘No,’ Nick said. ‘I’ve thought about it.’

Andrew poured Nick’s beer for him. ‘Wouldn’t if I were you. Last thing she needs is the press finding out she used to live with . . . you know.’

‘That had occurred to me.’

They went into the living room to talk. The room had a new, polished wooden floor and a gold shagpile rug. It was dominated by a huge TV with a wide screen.

‘Never seen one like that before,’ Nick said.

‘Latest thing.’ Andrew turned it on. ‘Fantastic for movies.’

The politicians being interviewed on some satellite news channel looked bloated, stretched. A Liberal candidate was protesting that, while Labour was likely to win, it would be a hollow victory. ‘They’ve watered down so many of their promises that expectations are low. As far as their activists are concerned, Labour’s already betrayed all its principles. Anything good they do will seem like a bonus. But what’s the point of winning if all you have to offer is a cleaner version of business as usual?’

‘Do you think they’ll stay clean?’ Andrew asked, turning the set off with a swollen remote.

‘Power corrupts,’ Nick replied, falling easily into what felt like an old conversation. ‘But it corrupts some more than it does others.’

‘Tell me about it. You’d be amazed at the number of backhanders I have to pay in London: permits, planning permission, this and that license, mostly going to Labour councillors or the twerps they employ. It’s all graft.’

Nick wondered if Andrew intended a warning. He didn’t like hitting his friend up for money. But the only alternative was to ask for a job. That would be more uncomfortable for both of them. Family was different. Having your younger brother for a boss might be humiliating, but it was an acceptable temporary solution. Joe was helping him out, not ordering him around. Whereas Andrew was a natural boss, always had been, even back when they both despised bosses. It wouldn’t work.

‘How did you deal with prison?’ Andrew asked. ‘As bad as they say?’

‘At first. Then you go into a kind of limbo, pace yourself. It’s the only way to get through.’

Few people asked about life inside. That was the point of prison. It was elsewhere, a place civilized people needn’t think about. But Andrew didn’t flinch from the tough questions.

‘No beatings, attempted buggery, the stuff you hear about?’

‘There’s a lot of bullying, but I’m big enough to make people think twice and I kept myself fit. A few lads came on to me. You learn to say “no”, firm but polite.’

‘You’re heavier, in a good way.’

‘Mostly muscle,’ Nick said, dismissively. ‘Plenty of time to work out inside. It stops you thinking too much.’

Andrew’s voice became more serious.

‘It could have been me in there, some of the tricks I used to get up to. I don’t think any the worse of you for it. Sorry I didn’t stay in touch.’

‘You and all the rest,’ Nick told him. ‘I kept your name out of it anyhow.’

‘Appreciated,’ Andrew said, stroking his beard the way he did when he had something to think about. ‘Mind, I really was out of it by then.’

‘Pull the other one,’ Nick said. ‘You gave me the contacts.’

‘And left you to it,’ Andrew told him.

‘You took a cut,’ Nick reminded him, gently.

Andrew gave a faint smile. ‘Nothing traceable.’

‘Sounds like you have a flexible definition of legit .’

Both men allowed themselves a wide smile, the grin of old friends who understood each other.

‘What do you need, Nick? You know you only have to ask.’

‘Money,’ Nick replied.

‘How much?’

‘As much as you can afford to give me.’

10

The Commons had no system for boxing up and returning an MP’s possessions when they lost their seat. Sarah locked the door of her office for the last time as an opposition MP. She’d have to return before the next parliament to clear out her room.

‘Sarah?’ It was Gill Temperley. The minister’s light-haired, blue-eyed young researcher stood a respectful few yards behind. ‘I wanted to wish you luck. There are too few of us here and you’ve made such a strong start.’

‘Thanks. It’ll be a tough one, but you never know.’

Gill smiled gamely at this show of bravado, then swept off. Her years as a minister were over, but she’d had a good run. There would be many more women in the Commons when Labour won the election. Labour had instituted women-only shortlists for candidate selection meetings to ensure that. A legal challenge had stopped the policy, but not before dozens of female candidates had been installed. There would be plenty of women to take Sarah’s place.

‘Ah, I caught you.’ Jasper March intercepted Sarah in the lobby and handed her a brown envelope. ‘I don’t know where you got this,’ he said. ‘I suspect it was dug up by some diligent reporter on your local paper. Make sure he gets all the credit.’

‘Or she,’ Sarah said. ‘Thanks for . . . whatever it is.’

‘We’re even,’ Jasper said. ‘Or maybe when you’ve used that, you’ll owe me. But I won’t call in the favour until you’re in government.’

He leant forward and placed his hand on Sarah’s back, then made the affectionate rubbing gesture that was currently prevalent in London but had yet to penetrate Nottingham. The gesture was a kind of polite, implied hug, both too subtle and too shallow to catch on north of Watford.

Tories wishing me luck , Sarah thought. What does that mean? She wanted to open the envelope straight away but to do so would mean returning to her office for privacy and she was already late. She placed the envelope beneath the New Statesman in her briefcase. So many MPs were leaving the building that she had to wait ten minutes for a cab to St Pancras, where she was just in time for the 17.04.

Sarah took a seat in first class but couldn’t open the envelope. There were too many other MPs around. David. Alan. John. Graham. Tony. She tried to work out what juicy morsel might puncture Barrett’s balloon. Extra-marital affairs were two a penny. Domestic violence, maybe. Or bribery. Another cash-for-questions scandal would be hard for a Tory to live down. Better, some straightforward, old-fashioned kind of corruption.

The train was delayed. Sarah thought about taking the envelope to the loo, opening it there. But you couldn’t flush the loo while a train was in the station. Her going there would look strange. Outside the carriage, a familiar figure hurried by, clutching one of those large, cheap, pre-booked tickets. This time, Sarah was sure it was him. Nick. No different at this distance from the way he looked twelve years before. His hair was the same length, not short enough to be fashionable now, not long enough to be fashionable then. Even his leather jacket was the sort of thing he wore when she knew him. And he was getting on this train. To talk to him, all she had to do was walk down a few carriages.

Dan had been gone for a month now. She missed him, but only a little. Not the way she had missed Nick, for years and years. Nick would never have let her get away with not telling him about Ed Clark’s assault. He would have noticed her change of mood, wormed it out of her.

The train started to move. Sarah sat stock still for several minutes. The PA system announced that the buffet car was open. There was a trolley service in first class that most passengers used. Her presence in second class might strike some as strange, if they knew MPs could travel first class for free, but she set off anyway. None of the seats Sarah passed had the reservation slips sticking out of the top. Nick would be in one of the reserved seats. It wasn’t enough that the railway made you travel on particular trains in order to get a cheap ticket. They also made you sit with all the other cheap ticket holders.