providing you with copy, Bryan.’ On Makepeace’s other side a third man joined in. Quentin Digby was a lobbyist, and a good one. He not only had an involvement in professional politics but, in his own quiet way, was also something of an activist, representing many charities and environmental concerns. Makepeace didn’t know him well but rather liked him.
‘I wondered which of us three was going to play the moralizing toad tonight,’ Makepeace mocked.
The house lights dimmed as the Managing Director of Matasuyo stepped forward onto the stage to claim his place before the public eye and offer a speech of welcome. The light thrown onto the stage bounced up onto the faces of Makepeace and his companions, giving them a shadowy, conspiratorial look, like witches attending a cauldron.
‘Seriously, Tom,’ Brynford-Jones continued, anxious to take advantage of the Cabinet Minister’s presence, ‘he should have gone on his tenth anniversary. Ten bloody years at the top is enough for anyone, isn’t it?’
Makepeace made no comment, pretending to concentrate on the Japanese gentleman’s homily which was attempting to establish some form of spiritual connection between culture and car bits.
‘Wants to go for the record. Outscore Thatcher,’ Digby offered. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but what’s the point? What’s he trying to achieve? We’ve got half the country’s dustbins crammed full of Harrods wrapping paper, which local councils can’t afford to collect, while the other half go begging for something to eat.’
‘You lobbyists always spoil your case with exaggeration,’ Makepeace rebuked.
‘Funny, I thought that was a politician’s prerogative,’ the editor came back.
Makepeace was beginning to feel penned in. He’d felt that way a lot in recent months, sitting beside editors or standing before his constituents with a pretence of enthusiasm when there was only weariness and disillusionment inside. Something had gone stale. Someone had gone stale. Francis Urquhart. Leaving Makepeace with much that he wanted to say, but little he was allowed to.
‘He’s had a good run, Tom, the country’s grateful and all that, but really it’s time for some new blood.’
‘His blood.’
‘A fresh start for the Government.’
‘For you, Tom.’
‘We all know the things you hold dear, the causes you stand for.’
‘We’d like to help.’
‘You know the country isn’t what it was. Or could be. This country has too big a heart to be beholden for so long to one man.’
‘Particularly a man such as that.’
‘Hell, even the illegal immigrants are leaving.’
‘It should be yours, Tom. Makepeace is ever as good a man as Urquhart.’
Respite. The man from Matasuyo had subsided and the play was about to begin; Makepeace was grateful. His head was spinning. He wanted to dispute their claims, play the loyal hound, but couldn’t find the words. Perhaps they were right about Urquhart. Without doubt right about himself. They knew he wanted it, enough that at times his mouth ran dry like a man lost in a desert who spots an oasis, only to discover it is a mirage. Power. But not for its own sake, not for a place in the history books like Urquhart, but for now. Today. For all the things that so desperately needed doing and changing.
Both Brynford-Jones and Digby had a strong interest in change, editor and lobbyist, professional revolutionaries by their trade. Having the world standing still was no more an option for them than it was for him, Makepeace thought. Perhaps they would make useful allies, one day, if war ever came. After his friend Francis had left the field. Or perhaps they would all go to hell together amongst the rogues.
And then there was laughter. Caesar had made his first appearance on stage with a face adorned with heavy make-up that made him look uncannily like Francis Urquhart. The same long profile. Piercing eyes. Receding silver hair. A straight gash across his face for a mouth. A mask that showed neither mirth nor mercy. The arguments backstage had been long and furious when they had learnt of Urquhart’s imminent presence. Harry had argued vociferously for a boycott and threatened to throw his body into all forms of picket lines and protests but, as the property manager had so successfully argued, ‘Give it a rest, love. It’s been years since your bottom ’alf lived up to the promises of your top ’alf. Bloody years since you last saw your bottom ’alf, I’ll bet. Must do it all from memory.’
So they had compromised. In true thespian tradition the show would go on, laden with a little ideological baggage. Yet Harry, once more sneaking a look from prompt side to test the mettle of his protest, was to be disappointed. The living mask slipped. From his privileged position beside Booza-Pitt at the front of the stage Urquhart, an experienced trouper in any public arena, had spotted the danger and responded. Not only was he leading the laughter but he also made sure that everyone knew it by taking out a white silk handkerchief and waving it vigorously at his protégé.
As the play progressed, Makepeace agonized. Loyalty meant so much, for him it was a political virtue in its own right. Yet he hadn’t been sleeping well, a disturbed mind and troubled heart had robbed him of rest, doubts beginning to crowd in on his dreams. And he knew that if he did nothing, simply chafed beneath those doubts, he would lose his dreams as well.
‘The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power…’
Loyalty. But to what? Not just to a single man. Great men have their day, only to find that their reputation must fall from the sky like leaves before the autumn storm.
‘And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg which, hatch’d, would, as his kind, grow mischievous…’
Every Prime Minister he’d ever known had demanded too much, been despatched. Sacrificed. Bled. By colleagues.
And finally the deed was done. ‘Et tu, Brute?’ An exceptionally pitiless portrayal of the assassination, and at every step Urquhart’s handkerchief waved and waved.
‘Sodding man!’ Grime snapped as he stamped about the quick-change box helping the deceased Caesar into his ghost’s garb.
‘Your little plot didn’t work, luvvie,’ Julius mocked. ‘Didn’t you see him? Laughing his bloody head off at us, so he was.’
‘Hold still, Big Julie, or I’ll run this pin up your arse,’ Harry snapped. ‘Anyway, what would you know about plots? The last miserable screenplay you spawned didn’t even make it as far as the typist.’
‘It had a few developmental problems,’ Julie acknowledged.
‘As much sense of direction as a horse up a hedgehog.’
‘At least I act. You couldn’t even play the skull in Hamlet on a good day.’
‘Bitch,’ Harry pursed, and subsided.
In the auditorium, the house lights had announced the interval and thunderous applause reflected the audience’s appreciation of a production remarkable for its freshness. It had been a long time since anyone could remember laughing so much through a tragedy but, up in the First Gallery, Digby appeared distracted. Makepeace probed.
‘Sorry.
