David Belbin - Bone & Cane

The bar was heaving with excited party members. A big screen TV was predicting a Labour majority of over a hundred. Every time a victory flashed up on the red bar at the bottom of the screen, there was a loud cheer. Nick looked around, picking out faces, failing to put names to most of them. No Joe. Most partygoers were glued to the TV.

‘Get ready everybody,’ a voice said over the PA. ‘She’s here!’

Both of the hall doors opened at once. A scrum of people pushed their way through. It took a moment for Nick to see who they were carrying. He had never heard a football crowd give as hearty a roar as the one that greeted Sarah, her legs akimbo, face beaming. Waving both arms in the air, the triumphant MP was carried to the small stage at the front of the hall, where the scrum set her down.

Sarah wobbled to her feet. Her hair was messed up and the grey suit she was wearing had become dishevelled. She pushed her hair back before giving the crowd an enormous smile. That set them off cheering again.

‘Comrades,’ she said. ‘Friends. I can’t believe we did it . If we’ve won in West – not narrowly either, but by nearly two thousand votes – it means that we’re about to see the biggest Labour victory since 1945. Possibly the biggest Labour victory ever!’

The cheers resounded. Nick joined in. She had won, as he had wanted her to win. She might have saved his bacon tonight, too. Sarah deserved the best the world could give her. But now he’d never get together with her again. Looking at her on the stage he saw the same woman he’d stood beside at her first victory, fifteen years ago. He realized how much he still wanted her. He ought to be by her side now.

‘I want to thank you, all of you, for working so hard and to say that I won’t let you down.’

‘You’ve never let us down!’ someone yelled.

‘I’d prepared this plucky little good-loser speech and now I have no idea what to say except, this is wonderful and we all really deserve it. Let’s enjoy tonight because, tomorrow, the real work begins.’

She left the stage to a tuneless but gusto filled rendition of ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’. Champagne corks popped. Nick took a glass.

‘Nick! You made it! Come and have a drink!’

Sarah threw her arms around him and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. She smelt of sweat and expensive perfume.

‘How’s your sister-in-law?’

‘Fine. Lovely baby girl. Seven pounds two ounces.’

‘Brilliant.’

Nick felt conspicuous. The half glass of warm champagne did little to help. He needed to sink two or three pints before he could relax around Sarah, who was now accepting a kiss from his younger brother. When did Joe arrive?

‘It’s marvellous news,’ he was saying. ‘You won’t remember me, but . . .’

‘Of course I recognise you,’ Sarah shouted. ‘Nick’s brother. Congratulations on your news, too. A little girl. You must be so thrilled.’

Seeing Joe’s dumbfounded expression, Sarah hesitated. As somebody else came to congratulate her, Nick tapped his brother on the shoulder.

‘Been trying to get you all evening. Where the fuck have you been?’

‘Incommunicado. Sarah’s got the wrong end of the stick, yeah?’

Nick shook his head. ‘I left Caroline twenty minutes ago. Tell her you were at the party but didn’t get the message and your mobile’s malfunctioning. She might just buy it.’ He handed his brother the key to Stuart’s car, adding where it was parked.

‘She’s okay? The baby’s okay?’

‘They’re fine. Congratulations. Now get the fuck out of here.’

‘I owe you one. Here, take this. I never drive with it. Cheers, bro.’

His brother handed Nick his tobacco pouch then pushed his way out of the crowded hall. Nick stood near Sarah, watching her accept congratulatory hugs from friend and foe alike. Everybody wanted to be part of her success. Tony Bax came over, his eyes watering. Seeing Nick, he raised a fist.

‘All four seats Labour. We didn’t even get that in ’forty-five. It’s wonderful.’

On the TV screen, big Tory names were falling fast. Rifkind was gone. Jasper March, they were saying, was in trouble. Michael Howard, the Home Secretary, might lose to the Liberals. Gill Temperley’s seat was no longer safe. Even Michael Portillo was considered to be in danger. The Labour leader was boarding a plane to London. The TV kept showing a crowd of familiar, famous faces at the Royal Festival Hall.

Time accelerated. At three or so, Nick checked his brother’s tobacco pouch and found, as he’d expected, some skunk in a separate bag at the bottom. He sat on the loo and skinned up a couple of small spliffs, then went outside for a smoke. He could hear the radio playing through an open window. The results had taken on a surreal flavour. Portillo – the Defence Minister who most expected to be the next Conservative leader – had lost his ‘safe’ seat. Jasper March was in a recount. Optimists began saying that the Tories were finished, gone for good.

The mild night was starting to become a little chill. The results were slowing down. Nick could hear a few people leaving. One set of footsteps approached him.

‘I thought you might have left,’ a familiar voice said. Sarah.

‘Wouldn’t have gone without saying goodbye,’ he told her, hiding the joint by cupping it in his hand.

‘I remember that guilty look,’ she said, amusement in her voice. ‘Are you smoking what I think you’re smoking? You must be mad. What if the police had found it on you?’

‘I didn’t have it earlier,’ Nick explained. ‘Joe got me to hold if for him when he drove to the hospital. Want some?’

‘I hardly touch the stuff these days,’ Sarah said. Nevertheless, she took the spliff and had a couple of small hits before passing it back to him. ‘I’d better not be seen doing this.’

‘You’d better not,’ Nick agreed, and stubbed the spliff out on the wall.

Sarah giggled. ‘I feel twenty-one again.’

‘You look great,’ Nick told her. ‘Better than ever.’

‘So do you.’ When he didn’t try to kiss her straight away, Sarah took a step towards him. ‘Give us a smokey kiss, then.’

He did as he was told. The kiss lasted a long time. Nick held Sarah tightly, until he heard someone behind them and broke away. It was one of the youngest campaign workers. Oblivious to Sarah and Nick, he threw up into a bush. Sarah got out her mobile and handed it to Nick.

‘Call us one of your taxis. Take me home.’

‘I don’t want to take advantage,’ he said.

‘I’m not that drunk,’ she said, her voice slurring slightly. ‘I’m celebrating. So let me take advantage of you. Please.’

He made the call. ‘Five minutes. I said you’d be waiting at the front.’

‘I’ll go and take my leave. I’d rather you didn’t . . .’

‘I understand. I’ll wait for you at the end of the road.’

Fifteen minutes later, they were in a cab.

‘Where to?’ The driver asked.

Nick, instead of doing up his seat belt, slid an arm round Sarah’s shoulder, the hand carelessly brushing her right breast.

She gave him the address. Dawn was only an hour away. Nick wanted to kiss Sarah but she’d flinched slightly when he put his arm round her and he sensed that was because they weren’t alone. Nick didn’t know the driver, Rodney. A request to be discreet might have the opposite effect, so he kept quiet. Then the silence began to feel awkward, so he talked to Sarah in a low murmur, up close, the way he used to talk to her in bed.

‘I can’t believe you’re still single.’

‘I’ve always been choosy, you should know that.’

He chuckled. ‘I should never have let you go.’

‘As I recall, I didn’t give you a lot of choice.’ She squeezed his thigh.