It was also common ground that the landslide had tossed the car carrying his private secretary and interpreter sideways into a ravine two thousand feet deep. There was still more common ground that such a landslide could have been caused by the incessant rain, as the official report suggested.
But rain, no matter how heavy, couldn’t explain why the Lama’s own car was thrown not sideways, but backwards. Neither could rain explain the sharp stench of burning that filled his nostrils for days afterwards, nor the rock that was thrown with great force through the windscreen, striking him high on the right-hand side of his face. And rain would never explain the extraordinary blue-white light that filled his head as a result, blazing with an intensity of a kind he had never experienced before.
And, when the light had finally flickered and died, would never experience again.
The rock had damaged the optic nerve. He was blind.
But what is blindness to a man who had spent a lifetime, indeed a whole succession of lifetimes, seeing beyond this world? At least, that is what the Dalai Lama told those who tried to commiserate with him. He could accept his blindness.
But what he could never accept was that he had now become a target, and as a result of being a target he had become a threat to the lives of all those around him. His own death was something his religion required him to contemplate daily and which he had never feared. Death was an achievement, in its own time. But killing, the taking of life, was as repulsive and as abominable as any act he could imagine. And now his very existence threatened to inflict precisely that on those who were closest to him.
The darkness that fell across his life as a result made blindness the lightest of his burdens.
Defunct Ministers generate surprising attributes. Such as becoming invisible. The female lobbyist who only a few weeks before had pestered him to the point of exhaustion now passed him in the crush of Parliament Street without even a fleeting sign of recognition, let alone remorse. Goodfellowe had also developed what appeared to be a case of infectious incontinence. Although he noticed no change in his own personal habits, he had become aware of the large number of people who in his presence seemed suddenly to find the need to rush away. This was particularly so in the case of the Whip who informed him that, as he was no longer a Minister, he would have to hand over possession of his large office in the House of Commons and move immediately to less salubrious surroundings. At least the Whip had the decency to appear embarrassed before rushing off. Well, perhaps it was his prostate, thought Goodfellowe kindly. But there were no kind thoughts for Maurice who, to the end, to the very end, remained the complete uncivil servant. As a final gesture Maurice had taken great delight in handing him a small plastic bag that contained all the mementoes Goodfellowe would never have wished to see again. The name card from his Ministerial door. An ashtray from some banana republic engraved with the image of its fat-jowelled president-for-life. Even a half-eaten tube of mints wrapped in a packet of tissues that had been found hiding down the back seat of his Ministerial car. Or rather, his ex-Ministerial car.
Yet perhaps the most distressing circumstance was that concerning his House of Commons secretary, Veronica, a single lady in her early forties who had been a model of efficiency, ambition and detachment. In this instance it was the second quality of ambition that led to the third, detachment, for she basked in the reflected glory of her employers and had no time for lingering in shadows. Within a month of his resignation Veronica had followed suit and thrown in her Tippex. But her prime quality of efficiency was never to be doubted; she had already found alternative employment with a Cabinet Minister.
So it had fallen to Goodfellowe to find a replacement secretary, not the easiest of tasks in the middle of a parliamentary session. They told him he would have to look outside the system and indeed he had, interviewing a succession of spinsters and matrons whom he had found to be ‘just right for the job’ – like Veronica. Yet he was still getting used to the role of the Invisible Man; he was lonely, at times despondent, in need of … well, doing something different for a change. Something unexpected. Unpredictable. Then in walked Mickey Ross. Quite literally.
He had been in the Central Lobby one afternoon chatting to Gladstone. Gladstone was a tramp. He slept in the doorway of a gentleman’s tailor in the Strand and frequently came to the Central Lobby to exercise his democratic right to comfort and a little companionship. He’d become something of a celebrity fixture. Although he was homeless he managed to dress himself in an orderly fashion and possessed a wit as polished as his shoes were scuffed. No one knew his real name but he held court at the foot of the statue of the great nineteenth-century Prime Minister and night stalker, after whom he was affectionately known. One ‘senior backbencher’ – the parliamentary term usually reserved for someone who had achieved very little and had stretched it over a great period of time – had once indulged in the folly of seeking Gladstone’s removal from his place of comfort. A waspish article in that day’s Evening Standard had ensured the request was hastily withdrawn and Gladstone informally offered tenure of the end of his leather bench. And Goodfellowe rather enjoyed his company, for the tramp was a great observer of people and life. It was while they were chatting away contrasting the qualities of Bulgarian Riesling and surgical spirit that he felt a hand on his sleeve.
‘Excuse me. Do you work here?’ It was a young woman, handsome and earnest.
‘I suppose I do.’
‘It’s just that I’m looking for a job. Don’t know if there’s any going, do you?’
He stared hard. She had a raw energy and an almost combative presence that he found immensely appealing. And a touch of East End in her elocution. No nonsense.
‘What sort of job?’
‘Secretary, I guess. Or personal assistant. I’ve got GCSEs.’
‘Happens I might know someone. Care to talk about it over a drink?’
‘Champagne?’
‘No, only tea, I’m afraid.’
‘Then you’re on. My mother told me never to drink champagne with a man until you know his name.’
‘Tom Goodfellowe,’ he offered.
‘I’m sure you are,’ she replied, holding out her hand. ‘Mickey Ross.’
And he had taken her down to the Terrace of the House of Commons, which overlooks the Thames. There was a gentle breeze and the sun played on the bow waves of the tugs and pleasure cruisers that plied back and forth. It also shone on her hair, auburn, which had been brushed to perfection. She was meticulous about her appearance. Women with large breasts such as hers could sometimes look so untidy, but every part of Mickey Ross looked as though it knew what it was about.
‘As it happens, I’m looking for a secretary.’
‘Who are you then, Tom?’
‘The Member of Parliament for Marshwood.’
‘Whoops. Never figured it, not with you talking to that tramp.’
‘That is not a tramp, that is Gladstone.’
‘Gladstone was a randy old sod who spent his days making great moral statements while he spent his evenings wandering around the streets of London picking up women of doubtful virtue. I’ve always wondered if that’s why he didn’t manage to get the relief column
