A Woman's Place (63 page)

This time, before anyone could stop him, he had risen to his feet, thrust his hands into his coat pockets and set off along the pavement, head down as if deep in thought.

‘Almighty Christ!' Morris grabbed the mobile. ‘All units alert. Keep your eyes peeled. We may have action. Hold your fire. Suspect and hostage are in the front downstairs room of the house. Hold your fire, I repeat, unless you have target.'

Elaine picked up the heavy blue vase and raised its contents to her nose. She stood side on to the window. ‘These are so nice,' she remarked, ‘but anemones have no smell, do they? Though they'll open up beautifully by this evening.'

She allowed herself to chatter lightly as Bob knelt to fiddle with the video. There was
movement again out there: she could see something out of the corner of her eye but dared not look directly. A black figure leaped across a rooftop opposite. In a trice it had ducked behind a chimney. It too was armed.

Her mouth went dry and her heart thumped wildly. If Bob had stepped close he would have spotted the pulse racing in her throat at once. Casually she stepped away from the window. They would not take pot shots into the gloomy unlit room, not if they were sure she was inside. The problem was how to get out, and whether Bob still had the knife somewhere, and how quickly he could move, and whether her ankle would carry her speedily enough to safety…

A tall man in a buff-coloured coat suddenly came across her line of vision, walking along the pavement towards them. He had his head bent and seemed lost in his own thoughts. As he passed in front of the window he raised his head – and looked her fully in the face.

‘George!' she cried involuntarily, then turned in horror. For Bob had leapt to his feet, his face contorted with rage and alarm. He was shouting and grabbing at her. His fingers closed on her arm in a vicious grip and he started to drag her towards the door.

‘No!' she screamed, and struggled. Then, pulling back her free arm, she threw the vase with every ounce of her strength at the window.

She had aimed true. It shattered with a tremendous crash, shards of thin glass fracturing and spinning everywhere. A tiny piece flew back and caught her on her mouth: she could feel the sting and the warm blood, could taste it on her lips. But she did not hesitate. With a fierce tug she tore her arm free and jumped for the gap, kicking away broken glass to place her foot firmly on the sill among the ragged flowers. Praying she would fall safely, she rolled her arms over her head, thanked God for the thick pullover and pushed herself forward. Then suddenly she found herself blessedly in a tumbled confusion of blood, crunching glass and dusty privet hedge – but at last she was out in the bright open air, being grabbed by willing hands and hauled to freedom.

There was a shout and the sound of running feet as she was hustled out of range. Behind her came a savage roar of frustration, pain and anger. As she twisted her head she saw Bob's hands emerge from the window, one on each side of the frame. He began to haul himself out, as if to pursue her. Her last image of him, of his face, showed the same crazed scowl she had seen when he had first forced her into that van – only this time he was unarmed, and she was no longer alone.

The police officer in the peaked cap raised his hand and dropped it, his mouth set in a tight line. From the rooftops and from prone black figures came a single volley of rifle fire. The noise cracked and echoed and stopped, then hung in the air. Her eyes were on Bob: she knew, even in the infinity before it happened, that he was their fatal target. His body was framed in the window, almost motionless, as if time had stood still. Then the bullets punctured his trunk with calculated accuracy. She saw the shirt rip in several places and the marks of his wounds appear, not spurting as in films but a dark ooze in each hole, for these were high-velocity weapons. He shuddered as each shot thudded into him; then his hands slowly lost their grip and his dying body slid backwards into the room. As the echoes of the firing reverberated around the terraced houses, the expression on his thrown-back face changed to one of amazement, as if it had never occurred to Bob that one day he might be killed too.

‘Elaine! You OK? Where's the ambulance?'

‘Mum! Mum!'

Pandemonium broke out. Police in flak jackets were everywhere: several leapt into the house through the broken window. An ambulance with a blue flashing light screeched from round a comer, then another. Elaine was oblivious. Instantly she felt overcome with tiredness. Karen was on one side of her, sobbing and laughing, George on the other, gabbling nonsense at her. With his handkerchief he wiped blood ineffectually from her cheeks and hands and picked gingerly at the pieces of glass which shivered in her hair like a fragile tiara. Behind him hovered men and women in Day-glo jackets – paramedics, she surmised, who hesitated to put blankets around her shoulders for fear of driving glass
into her skin. Nobody but George dared touch her.

Then the world turned black. She heard a voice shout ‘Catch her!' – and knew only that she was safe in George's arms.

‘The carriage awaits, Ma'am.'

‘Thank you, Michael.' The Queen kicked a corgi from under her feet, patted her stiff grey hair and stole a final look at herself in the long mirror.

The years had been kind, considering. Her face was lined and paler, but in her early seventies that was hardly a surprise. Why did they say she was so dowdy? That hairstyle had been the latest fashion and had even incurred adverse criticism as too flighty for a future monarch when first she wore it. Never satisfied, some of them.

Take the morning's papers. Full of carping remarks about the silly practice of a redundant old-age pensioner in a white silk evening gown – in broad daylight – weighed down with diamonds, driving around London in a lacquered horse-drawn coach to open Parliament. If only they realised how tough a job it could be. It was not her fault that the speech was boring:
she
didn't write it. Were it up to her, she'd much rather perform in a Hartnell dress and jacket with a matching hat. And sail up in the Rolls: vastly more comfortable than a draughty carriage, and fewer whiffs from the horses. But should she try to change one jot or tittle they'd scream blue murder about the loss of tradition. Damn their eyeballs: they were lucky to have her.

The equerry twitched. Quite right too: these things were timed to the last second. She moved back a few steps to the adjoining door and poked her head through.

‘Right! Philip – are you ready?'

‘Speaker at prayers!'

The cry echoed around the lobbies. The only ceremony at Westminster which is hidden from the cameras was under way.

Fred Laidlaw stood at the furthest end of the second row, correctly in his place as a junior Minister, bowed his head in reverence and tried to concentrate on the ancient words.

What amazing changes had occurred since he had stood in the Chamber at his first State Opening. He had been guided by Elaine Stalker on that occasion, he recalled, but he had not seen her this day. Then she had advised him, not entirely seriously, that it was better to watch it on television if he wanted to see and understand what went on. But that was not the same as
being
here.

The place was magic. Every stone breathed history, continuity, gravity. Its law-making had placed it for centuries at the bosom of the nation. What was said at that dispatch box really mattered: the phrases were recorded for all to read and would be consulted and quoted long after its utterers were dust. His entire youth he had fantasised that some day he might enter those doors, and still had to pinch himself that the dream had come true.

The famous names of his adolescence were largely gone, of course. Sir John Major was a luminary in the World Bank and had dropped out of politics entirely. His brother Terry still made regular appearances on chat shows and believed the audiences were laughing at his jokes. Michael Heseltine in retirement had lost all his hair; somehow the baldness had unmanned him completely. Bill Cash had been a bold appointment as Minister for Europe and to everyone's astonishment was in danger of turning native. Teresa Gorman had at last succumbed to advancing years, stopped taking the tablets and shrunk to a benign little granny.

Another old lady had, however, gained a new lease of life. Margaret Thatcher adorned both the Lords and the Order of the Garter: she and the Queen had long since patched up their quarrels. Or maybe Her Majesty simply found the baroness more entertaining than her successors. Neither would tell.

As for himself, Fred Laidlaw: to be a Minister, serving in a government he admired – wasn't that the pinnacle of a political man's ambition? He half opened an eye and surreptitiously gazed
around. On the front bench a few yards below him stood the broad shoulders and well-cut suit of the Prime Minister. A good man, Roger Dickson, though a bit cold at times. It was almost as if, Fred mused, despite Dickson's having attained the highest position in the land, something disappointed him deep in his soul. Maybe power was not all it seemed.

Only one thing was lacking in Fred's life: the woman he loved. He mouthed, ‘Give us this day our daily bread', along with his colleagues, but added under his breath, ‘And please, good Lord, give me Karen as well, for ever and ever. Amen.'

It was not as if he hadn't begged her. Indeed he had bombarded her with marriage proposals, and repeated his offer after her mother's rescue. The whole incident, the danger which had faced Karen herself, the bravery with which she had insisted on accompanying the police, had served to underline his conviction that there was no other partner for him and never could be.

Was he such a poor prospect as a spouse? Surely not. He had a steady job with every expectation of holding his seat as long as he wanted it. His reputation in the House was growing, though it was recognised that he still had much to learn. He had made several speeches worthy of note. He might expect a modest promotion in due course, if not at the next reshuffle then the one after. Should his luck hold he might some day find himself as a senior Minister of State, or even on the lower rungs of the Cabinet. What more could a girl want?

His moral behaviour was impeccable; and that was no fabrication but the gospel truth. He had no affairs on the side, no strange proclivities which might shock or titillate readers of the
Globe
. On the contrary, he adored the girl and despite her refusals to marry him was faithful to her. Since she had appeared on the scene, indeed, he had had eyes for nobody else.

They lived in the same house and shared the expenses and chores. They slept in the same bed, mostly. They made love regularly and it was fresh and wonderful every time. They went on holiday together. Dammit, they were nearly married; yet still she resisted. Whenever he raised the issue she pushed him gently away with a friendly laugh, even as she wriggled her naked bottom at him invitingly. He had not dared mention the possibility of their having children. Damn women.

‘Prayers over!'

Fred resumed his seat. All was well with a beautiful world. With a little cunning and a lot of hard work, if next year he was further up in the hierarchy he would be entitled to sit on the senior of the two front benches, nose to nose with Her Majesty's Opposition. And, if Fate were kind, some day, a couple of years from now, on his left ring finger there would be a wedding ring. On that he was quite determined.

‘Ah, Jayanti, it is so beautiful.'

Pramila Bhadeshia lifted the box of Kleenex on to her lap and abandoned any attempt to hide the tears which flowed down her cheeks. At her side her husband frowned and fanned himself with the
Times of India
. He dared not turn off the television for fear of reprisals: the women in his household upbraided him sufficiently for his failures already.

His wife adjusted her sari over her shoulders. On the screen the Queen emerged from the Irish state coach, her expression bland, her hand held out to the Lord Chamberlain to steady herself. Pramila sniffed audibly.

Without warning the cameras switched to the waiting Lords' Chamber. Red and gold splendour blazed as the peers, caparisoned in similar colours, their wives in ermine and pearls, rose to their feet. The sound of trumpets filled the air.

Pramila began to keen loudly. ‘Ai! Ai!'

‘Oh, do stop, wife.' Jayanti jumped up impatiently. He had had enough. ‘Are we to have this
nonsense every year? I cannot return. You are never going to sit in a peeress's seat. You know the reason perfectly well.'

He stalked out of the room. In the corridor he beckoned to a retainer. ‘I suggest you fetch madam another box of tissues.'

‘Yes, my lord,' the old servant murmured with a bow.

Jayanti gazed at him mournfully. ‘No, don't call me that. Especially not today.'

Mrs York bent towards the television set and gently switched it off. Slumped in his armchair, his eyes glazed with tears, her husband made no attempt to stop her. Nor could he.

She moved awkwardly since arthritis had set in, but at least she was more mobile than her husband. His stroke had partly been a consequence of Anthony's arrest and the newspaper furore. He had reacted so badly to his son's death. For months it seemed to her that it had been a matter of waiting till another disaster struck the family in the form of her husband's illness. When it came it had felt like divine retribution. She had relaxed marginally since; probably nothing much worse could happen to destroy them now.

Yet for him to be deprived of speech was the greatest irony of all, because he had been such a taciturn man who had found it impossible to express his inner feelings. They had never been a family that had talked much. Now he could not talk at all, paradoxically it had become easier to communicate emotions, such as his grief at the parliamentary ceremony, since words no longer got in the way.

Was it all their fault? Had they never understood their son? Had the family's reluctance to share worries set the seal on his fate? Perhaps that had been the nub of the problem. Had Anthony been able to articulate his fears in good time, had anyone responded with compassion and love, he might have avoided his agony, or at least been able to cope with it better. She sighed and touched her husband's hand, which trembled in response.

There was no way of knowing. It was too late.

‘We can't upgrade you, sir. Business class is full.'

Jim Betts scowled. ‘But you've just told me the smoking section's full in economy. How am I to survive if I can't have a smoke?'

‘I'm sorry, sir.' The British Airways clerk dug deep into her training and contained her temper ‘It is only an hour's flight to Brussels. The plane is full because there's a big conference there tomorrow. You can have a cigarette in the lounge before we take off.'

Betts slouched away, his ticket and passport in his fist, muttering angrily to himself.

He knew about the conference: that was why he was on the same flight. He expected to see certain familiar faces, not least Ted Bampton, who had been pushed sideways to become Minister of Agriculture, with no prospects of a further Cabinet post after that. That meant Bampton would spend the remainder of his career negotiating fish quotas and debating food safety. The PM's office claimed, tongue in cheek, that it was a good move, but Bampton's morose face told its own tale.

Not that he, Betts, had much to sing about. He sought an empty space among the few smoking seats in the departure lounge of Terminal One and sat down gingerly. The bruises had long since healed, but he had been warned that certain parts of his anatomy were likely to be delicate for the rest of his life. He would have to be careful how and where he deployed them. He winced at the thought and rummaged for his cigarettes.

At that moment Bampton, briefcase in hand, wandered in. Betts half rose politely and proffered his pack.

‘Thanks, I don't mind if I do.'

The two men puffed companionably for a few minutes. Then Bampton eyed the journalist.

‘I hear you're going to be a regular on this trip, Jim. Is that right?'

Betts grimaced. ‘Yes, I'm afraid so. The paper says it's a big promotion, but it doesn't feel that way. Though they are paying me better.'

‘What exactly's your title now?'

Betts sucked deeply on his cigarette, then blew two smoke rings into the air above their heads. His eyes were full of sorrow.

‘Me? I'm to be the group's Brussels correspondent. Big deal. Fourteen newspapers, mostly heavies and regionals. I'm to cover not only haddock and your goddam set-aside, Ted, but the
Part-Time
Directive and nitrates in tap water and compulsory paternity leave and equal pay for lesbian goldfish and the goings-on of Monsieur Santer. And how subsidiarity's working and the Committee of the Regions and, oh yes, I have to shadow Lord and Lady Kinnock as well. That'll be a bundle of laughs. Terrific job.'

He hung his head and continued in a lower tone. ‘My boss said he was fed up visiting me in hospital. A five-year posting to Belgium should keep me out of trouble. On that he's probably right.'

Bampton chuckled. ‘We'll have to keep in touch then, Jim. I was sorry to hear about your accident. They didn't catch the muggers, did they? How many was it – four? Five? Terrible. It's not been a grand year for either of us, has it?'

Martin Chadwick would be on duty after lunch when the Prime Minister rose at the dispatch box to start the more formal debate on the Gracious Speech, but for the moment he had an hour to spare, provided he kept a wary eye on the mute television set in the corner of his new office overlooking Horse Guards Parade.

To have been made the senior civil servant in charge of the No. 10 Policy Unit was quite a promotion after the mishmash of the Department of Health, Welfare and the Family, now fortunately no more. He smiled quietly to himself. Strictly speaking he was not the unit's head – that job was a political appointment reserved for a former features editor of the
Financial Times
, a friend of the PM's since his days at Tarrants Bank. But the position of the senior official was far more significant.

Politicians would come and go. Their reputations would wax and wane, mostly the latter. Whatever the crises, he had steered his masters serenely through them, always finding a suitable phrase to soothe and compromise, though whether that resulted in good government was not for him to say. His wealth of knowledge and experience, his tact and charm, his sheer
ability
, guaranteed him permanent access to power. He had served both the competent and the forgettable with the same diligence and would continue in that vein; he would be there long after the current bunch had been replaced by their bitterest opponents from the Opposition benches. Indeed, the more wet behind the ears his masters might be, the more influence it gave him and his ilk.