Bone and Cane (2 page)

‘Don’t close the door.’

He ignored her. At least he didn’t lock it. There was a glazed look in his eyes that hadn’t been there minutes earlier. Sarah realized he’d taken something. There, on the dressing table, was a tell-tale white trail.

‘I was ringing my boyfriend. He’s coming to collect me. I’m sorry, Ed. I thought I made myself clear.’

‘We’d best be quick, then.’

He let go of her, had his hand on the buckle of his jeans. Now was the time to act. Still, Sarah hesitated. She was due to make two public appearances with Ed in the next week. He unzipped his flies.

‘Ed, it’s not going to happen. I’ve got to go.’

He grabbed her by both buttocks and pulled her towards him. This was getting out of hand. Sarah wished she hadn’t worn a dress. He was a sweaty animal, his erection digging into her waist.

‘Ed, that’s enough.’

He knocked her to the floor. Before she could react further, he clicked shut the lock on the hotel door and began to pull down his jeans. He got one leg off and she tried to get up, but he put a foot on her stomach, pressing her back down. In a moment of clarity, Sarah saw that she would have only one chance to fend him off. He lifted his foot in order to finish pulling off his jeans. She moaned and turned onto her left side.

He gave a growl of arousal and began to lower himself onto her. Sarah pulled back her right leg.

‘Stop!’ she said again.

Ed held himself up with his left arm. With his right he tried to push Sarah onto her back. This was it. Sarah let her shoulder fall. He thought she was succumbing. Then, instead of rolling onto her back, she thrust her right knee into his groin.

Ed yelled and rolled off her, cursing. Sarah got to her feet. Her best green dress was ripped, she realized. Time to unlock the door. What did you do? Press? No, turn. Or maybe that thing on the side? Too late. Ed grabbed her ankles, pulling her down. Sarah lost balance and slipped. She landed hard on the matt green carpet. Her face was next to his. His eyes had watered from the pain, but he was grinning. How long before he recovered sufficiently to start again?

‘I’ll scream,’ she told him. ‘Someone will come. You don’t want that.’

It was the stuff he’d taken, she told herself: coke, speed, some shitty street drug . . . With one hand he held her down, scratching her thigh with the other as he ripped her knickers down her legs. For a moment, he stared at her pubic hair. Next, he bunched her knickers in his right hand and held them to his nose.

‘Frightened cunt,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Lovely.’

Then he let go. It was as if that was all he’d wanted. Sarah stood quickly, put on her shoes. Ed sat up, legs apart, still in pain. This time, she remembered how to open the door – press in the switch on the side, turn the knob to the left. Ed began to speak softly.

‘I did it, you know. Killed him and fucked her. She enjoyed it, I can tell you. Same way you’d enjoy it if you let yourself. Ashamed how much she enjoyed it, with hubby dead in the corner. Begged me to kill her too. So I did.’

The smile on his face was smug, rather than demented. Sarah couldn’t read him well enough to know if he was telling the truth.

‘I’m going to pretend none of this happened,’ she said, in her MP’s voice, like that put her in control. ‘But I don’t want to see you again. The rest of the week, the media stuff, don’t show up. Call in ill or I’ll have you arrested for assault.’

He lifted her knickers to his nose and sniffed them again. Sarah hurried down the corridor, out through Reception, into the chilly car park. She stood in the cool and collected herself. Then she hurried back in, used the bathroom and returned to the ballroom for her bag. She told the chair of the Campaign Committee that, sorry, she was exhausted and had to leave: no fuss please. There were no comments about the small rip in the side of her dress.

Ten minutes or so passed before Dan found her, waiting in the car park, holding her dress down over her cold bum. He didn’t notice that she was shivering, but kissed her on the cheek.

‘Quick getaway for once, huh?’

She nodded. During the drive home, Sarah only managed a couple of words, but if Dan made anything of this, he took it as drunken tiredness. They didn’t talk as much as they used to, weren’t as interested in each other’s lives as partners ought to be. That was one of the reasons why, only a few days ago, they had tentatively agreed to split up. Neither of them could be bothered to try.

As soon as they got in, Sarah showered. In bed, when Sarah didn’t respond to his caress, Dan turned over. Within minutes, he was snoring. Sarah lay awake, thinking about Ed Clark’s confession to double murder. She tried to convince herself that he was only winding her up.

2

S
arah sat in the plush Pugin Rooms, one of the House of Commons’ less busy watering holes, uncertain whether she’d chosen the right outfit. She wore a Planet navy suit, aligned with a pale cream Ghost blouse. Lately the party had taken on a fashion consultant who advised women members on what to wear. Sarah tried to follow that advice, in the Commons at least, although a lot of the suggestions made her look like an 1980s bonds trader without the shoulder pads. She avoided heels, opting for plain Clarks flats with a decent sole. When you did as much walking as she did, you couldn’t deny the need for sensible shoes.

‘You’ve changed your hair. It looks great,’ Donald said, by way of a greeting. Donald was Labour’s Chief Whip, a dapper Scot.

‘Thank you,’ Sarah said, though she hadn’t changed the style in two years. Her long, brown hair was a pain to manage. She had grown it to impress selection conferences with her femininity and she did like the way it framed her face. Having thick hair also hid her rather pointy ears, a family trait that reminded older members who her grandfather was. Sir Hugh Bone had been in Wilson’s 1960s Labour cabinet. She’d soon tired of comments about the resemblance.

‘Thanks for joining me.’ Donald summoned a waiter with much the same casual authority as he’d summoned Sarah to meet him. She knew what he wanted. Sarah was the party’s new spokesperson on miscarriages of justice. The evening before, she’d been on
Newsnight
accusing the Tories of wanting to abolish trial by jury. She’d gone off on one and added a line on the spread of HIV in British prisons, going a step beyond party policy. She’d expected to be admonished, but not so urgently. With an election on the way, party discipline was moving into overdrive. She listened politely to her dressing down.

‘I made it clear that I was venturing a personal opinion, not policy,’ she responded when the Chief Whip was done.

‘Needle exchanges in prisons, no matter how sensible, sound bad to the public,’ Donald told her. ‘We can’t be soft on drugs.’

‘In that case, the party has to support handing out condoms on demand,’ Sarah argued.

‘The Prison Officers Association wouldn’t even consider that,’ Donald said. ‘There are all sorts of uses for condoms. But there’s no point in getting into these operational issues until we’re in government. And government is what I want to talk to you about.’

Their tea arrived. Sarah lifted the lid off the pot, gave the tea bags a stir, then let it rest a minute before pouring.

‘You did well with that miscarriage of justice, must have done you a power of good in your constituency. Hasn’t hurt you nationally, either, though the guy doesn’t sound like a saint.’

‘He isn’t,’ Sarah said, trying to keep the weekend’s party at the back of her mind. ‘But I think he’ll keep his nose clean, not embarrass us.’

‘That’s good. You’re doing some media with him, I’m told.’

‘Nothing controversial, I promise.’

In fact, after what happened last Saturday, she had pulled out of her joint TV appearance with Ed. It was only local TV, anyway. Sarah splashed a dash of milk into her bone china cup, then poured the tea.

‘I’m sure that will be useful exposure in the run up to an election but – let’s be frank – not useful enough. That’s why I wanted to see you.’ Donald tested the temperature of his tea. ‘We’d like you in the government, Sarah. You’re exactly the kind of person Tony wants to represent New Labour. But he can only appoint you if you’re still an MP. Even our most optimistic polls show you falling short of re-election.’

‘I know.’ It had taken a big by-election swing for Sarah to get elected, two years ago. Nottingham West was normally a safe Conservative seat. Sarah stood at a time when the Tories were at only twenty-five per cent in the opinion polls and got in with a majority of five thousand. But by-election victories always reverted to the original holders. It was one of the ineluctable rules of British elections. Support for the government party would need to drop to below thirty per cent for Sarah to stand a chance this time.

‘Am I missing something here? Do you not want to continue?’

‘I want to continue. But Nottingham’s my home, as well as my constituency. I can’t let people down. After the general election, I’ll look for another seat. A by-election, maybe . . .’

‘And lose your chance? What will you do in the meantime? Work as a lobbyist while Johnnies-come-lately get the start you should have had? Wise up, Sarah. There won’t be any by-elections, not in Labour seats. Everybody who’s ill or needs pensioning off will make a sudden exit in the next few days. It’s already started. Soon it’ll be a flood. If you want a move, I’ll hold you a place. But I need to know now.’

Sarah sipped her tea. She was being offered the chance to behave like a Tory. Lots of their top players were being extricated from marginal constituencies and given safe seats to contest in the forthcoming election. For example, Barrett Jones, a member of the Tory cabinet, was standing against her. His old seat had become marginal after boundary changes, so he was deserting it. But Sarah wasn’t a deserter.

‘I appreciate the offer, Donald, I really do. However, if you’re going to press me for an instant decision, it’d have to be a no. Can I have the weekend to think it over?’

Donald nodded. ‘I can’t promise, but we’d try and get you a Yorkshire or Derbyshire seat. Local roots help calm the locals when there isn’t time for a full selection contest. Talk to me on Monday.’

He left Sarah alone with her strong tea. If the party had her parachuted into a new constituency at the last minute, could she live with that? A Yorkshire seat. It was very tempting, if it could be handled adroitly. But she already had a fallback plan. Her family came from Chesterfield, where Tony Benn had hinted that he meant to stand down at the next election but one. As a local girl, she’d stand a good chance there.

That said, selection processes were never a sure thing. In Nottingham West she’d had to defeat a former council leader, an ex-MP and two favourites of the hard left when she was selected to fight a by-election that was meant to be unwinnable.

Any minute now, the division bell would sound. Sarah finished her tea and tried to remember where the nearest Ladies was. This place wasn’t designed for women – you always had to plan a pee. The Junior Trade Minister walked in. Sarah gave Jasper March the smallest nod.

‘Have you got a moment, Sarah?’ She sat on a select committee with Jasper, one of the less obnoxious Tories.

‘Thirty seconds.’

‘Could you spare me a couple of hours if I stood you dinner? Something I need to talk over. You choose the restaurant.’

Good food was a weakness of Sarah’s that she rarely had time to indulge. An MP’s salary meant she could afford to eat well, but few Labour colleagues shared her tastes and Dan wasn’t much of a gourmet. Sarah didn’t like to dine alone. She checked her diary.

‘I can do Quaglino’s after the vote on Tuesday.’

‘Brilliant.’

This use of
brilliant
as a synonym for ‘really good’ was unexpected in a Tory minister, even a youngish one. Sarah wondered what he wanted.

While she waited for her question to come up, Sarah tried not to think about how different her life would be if she had a safe seat. Her turn came at 3.27 p.m. This was going out live on the BBC. She had brushed back her long, brown hair and hoped that her blue tailored suit made her look slim. She gave the number of her question. The PM referred her back to his earlier answer. Then Sarah rose again.

‘Will the Prime Minister show his concern about the spread of HIV and Hepatitis B in Her Majesty’s Prisons by allowing prison governors to sanction the free distribution of condoms to all inmates who require them?’

There were boos and animal-like jeers from the government benches. The PM blathered about understanding her concerns, but not wishing to do anything that might encourage drug taking.

‘The honourable gentleman seems to have misunderstood. I am not advocating needle exchanges in prisons, although there are strong arguments in favour of such action. I am suggesting urgent measures to reduce the tragic and costly spread of HIV through anal sex between prisoners.’

At the mention of anal sex, the PM’s eyes glazed over.

‘I have no such plans at this time.’

The Chief Whip joined Sarah as she left the chamber.

‘I can see tomorrow’s tabloid headlines:
New Labour Backs Gay Sex Orgies in Prisons.
Very helpful.’

He was playing at being angry. Or so she hoped.

‘Remember,’ Donald said. ‘I need a decision by Monday.’

Sarah took the 16.29 from St Pancras.

‘How does Ed Clark feel now he’s out?’ asked Brian Hicks. Brian, formerly the crime correspondent for the
Nottingham Evening Post
, was now their political editor. He was a small, fifty something, roly-poly man with a dry wit and a constant thirst.

‘Haven’t you asked him?’ Sarah was surprised Clark hadn’t given Brian an interview. The paper had covered her campaign sympathetically.

‘I would, but he’s gone to Tunisia for a break. Paid for by the
Mirror
, who he’s sold his story to. When his compensation comes through, he should be a wealthy man. Half a million, he’s told his mates.’

‘Money can’t replace five lost years of freedom.’

‘Don’t get sentimental on me,’ Brian said. ‘Ed Clark was always a scrote. Half a million pounds is untold riches for someone like him.’