you understand, Mr Goodfellowe.’
‘Hang on, I thought you were in business studies,’ Goodfellowe offered breathlessly.
‘I am. I’m also chair of the university Environmental Alliance. That’s how Sam and I met.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s all very wonderful being young and able to ride two horses at once. Business. Environmentalism. But, sadly, life forces us to make choices – yes, even to make compromises. Just like politics.’ He knew it was patronizing crap a millisecond after it’d left his mouth.
‘I don’t see why. One day I want to run a major corporation. Where better to be if you’re passionate about the future of the planet? Or are you still locked in that time warp where all environmentalists wander around in dreadlocks and live in some sweaty tunnel beneath a motorway?’
‘Somehow I feel I’m the one who’s just been digging himself a hole.’ He looked across at Sam, moved his hand towards her. ‘I need help. Should I send for a shovel?’ It was meant to lighten the moment, a peace offering. She threw back a look of bloodshot betrayal.
Once again Goodfellowe’s life had turned into a battlefield upon which the two halves of his being, family and politics, were waging war. Stevie had drowned while Goodfellowe was attending to his red boxes. Too busy to play dad. No one’s fault, really, just one of those bloody unfair things. No one had said anything, but Goodfellowe knew that Sam, his wife, everyone, blamed him. He knew that beyond any doubt because he, too, blamed himself. So a family at war, a war that was undeclared but never forgotten. It was the reason why he had resigned as a Minister in the first place, from a sense of guilt and also a sense of duty to his wife and to Sam, to find the space in which he could sort himself out. Yet now his life had become more complicated than ever, with Sam on one side, Elizabeth on the other. Damn.
Sam left without saying goodbye, one arm wrapped in proprietorial fashion around Darren’s waist, the other wiping an eye. Her parting words were little more than an accusation. ‘Daddy, you’ve changed.’
Had he? Was his mind already shuttered? Had he already fallen into Ministerial mode? He was clambering back over the wall, but did this mean he would have to leave Sam behind? She was pleading with him to stop, while Elizabeth, and all the other things he wanted for himself, were pushing him onward. Torn to pieces by the two women he loved most in the world.
He got back to his apartment around ten, and telephoned Elizabeth once more. He wasn’t checking up, merely wanted to say goodnight.
Still no reply.
It took Amadeus three days and nights to find him.
He was all but unrecognizable in the lamplight beneath the covering of cardboard. The face was blackened more effectively than any camouflage stick could manage, because the dust never stopped swirling at gutter level.
Amadeus squatted beside him in the foul-smelling doorway, squeezing him aside to make room, silencing the storm of protest by producing a full pack of cigarettes.
‘So, Albert Andrew, I was sort of wondering.’
‘Won’ring what?’ Scully snarled, in between hungry draws on the first cigarette. ‘Sir,’ he added as the nicotine began to calm him. Old habits.
‘Whether you’ve had enough of sitting on your arse in shop doorways. Bumming drinks and cigarette ends. Smelling like a field latrine.’
‘Wha’ the fuck’s it gotta do wi’ you?’
‘Oh, Skulls,’ Amadeus scolded. Of course it had to do with him. ‘I’ve got something of a proposition. See if you want to get back into the business.’
‘Business?’ The eyes were darting in agitation around the alleyway as though he feared someone was about to pounce and steal his precious cigarettes. He didn’t seem to want to look at Amadeus.
‘Red Devil business.’
‘No such bleedin’ business any more. They don’t fuckin’ want me. An’ I’ve got a busted fucking foot.’
‘I want you, Skulls. You were the best soldier who ever served with me. You see, me and a few pals, we’ve got a little skirmish planned. We want your help.’
The red-blown eyes steadied, lost their look of a wild ferret, and considered. Somebody wanted him again. It had been such a long time since anybody had wanted him.
‘Fuck you, Co’nel.’
Slowly a hand extended from beneath the dirty blanket. Scully pushed a cigarette towards Amadeus. A peace offering.
‘No thanks, RSM. Given it up all of a sudden. Got better things to do.’
Scully’s lips were cracked and sore, but working hard now to rub a little precision back into his speech. ‘You think I’m up to it?’
‘After a wash and a good breakfast, sure. Can you give up the booze?’
‘Booze? You think I’m a drunk? Wha’ do you reckon I’m trying to do, fucking kill meself?’
‘No, I want you to leave that to me.’
Slowly, in the manner of an elderly dog, Scully began to shake himself. Layers of blanket and bad times began to fall from him until he was standing, almost erect in spite of his foot.
‘Breakfast, eh? It’s a deal. Dunno about the fucking bath, though.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know what it is I want you to do?’
‘Don’t need to. Not if it’s you askin’, Colonel.’
A silence. Then, softly: ‘Thanks, Skulls.’
Scully began to scratch himself with considerable vigour. ‘Only one question, sir.’
‘Give it.’
‘Which way’s the fucking canteen?’
Now there are five.
Amadeus, the leader.
Scully, the loyal disciple.
McKenzie, the man of principle, who is drinking in a pub in Victoria with others he’s met earlier that evening at a lecture sponsored by Amnesty. For him it’s the principle of the thing, coupled with the adventure.
Then there is Payne, a man of confusion. A man who knows fear all too well. He is also drinking, heavily, in his club on St James’s. Indeed, Freddie Payne is drunk. He has been gambling heavily, at backgammon. Losing. He hasn’t the funds with him to pay his debts, in fact he doesn’t have the money anywhere, so he leaves an IOU. Payment within two weeks. Such things are acceptable, amongst gentlemen, so long as the debt is honoured. For Freddie Payne, life always seems to be a matter of honour. And a burden.
Mary Wetherell is at home. Or what passes as home. A room in a desperately undistinguished boarding house behind Shepherd’s Bush. She sits in the dark, listening to the thunder of traffic past her window, hoping it will drown out the ringing of her mobile phone. The display informs her that the caller is her husband. She doesn’t answer.
He
