This Honourable House (24 page)

Lawrence rolled over on to his back, his breast rising in a great heave of panting, while Benedict raised himself and knelt over him, half-conscious, exhausted. The room began to tilt and sway, his eyes saw only blood red, and darkness threatened to come over his mind. The earth was whirling, they were in danger of sliding off the edge of the world, they must cling together or they would be lost. He sank down prostrate on Lawrence’s body, and they lay together, flank clinging to flank, the weals livid on Lawrence’s skin, the sweat like a dusting of diamonds on Benedict’s back.

His heart hurt, his lungs hurt. A knee twisted under him screamed in pain as he moved. He put out his hand to steady himself. It touched Lawrence’s lying out on the floor. And suddenly the two hands closed together as if of their own volition, the one clasped tightly over the other.

They lay inert together for what might have been a long time, till their breathing subsided and their heartbeats returned to something like normal. Dazed, Benedict dragged himself to his knees and helped Lawrence into a sitting position. They tried to avoid each other’s eyes, but then sat, as Benedict stroked his cousin’s face.

‘Blimey,’ Lawrence whispered. ‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

‘No. I’ll be stiff in the morning.’

‘You sure you’re okay?’

‘Never felt better.’ Benedict bent and kissed his cousin, gently, on the lips. He put a finger quickly on the same spot. ‘Hush. Don’t say a word. Nothing happened. Nothing will happen.’ In the hot air the only sound was their breathing. Then Benedict began to rise. ‘But thank you.’

In silence they headed for the showers. When they emerged they were laughing and joking but their jollity had a brittle tinge. With exaggerated nonchalance they switched off the lights and climbed the stairs. Kitbags on their shoulders, the two men disappeared unchallenged into the chill autumn night.

And the concierge, who had watched every minute and who had double-checked beforehand that the ventilators were jammed and that the strategically placed video and still cameras were operational, leaned back with a contented smile. And pondered whether to spend the proceeds on a beautiful villa in Spain.

Gail wondered whether to laugh or cry. It was all very well that nice Mr Maxwell arranging a fat contract for her to tell her own story. It would be published in book form, he had promised, to coincide with the next party conference, to guarantee maximum coverage. Serialisation was arranged in a national Sunday paper. If she aimed merely to tell her version of the story she would obtain the undiluted attention she deserved. If she wanted revenge it would come in spades. Sales of the order of twenty thousand hardback copies were likely. Every public library, every college and university would feel obliged to have one, or more than one. The House of Commons librarian would request a signed copy, given its subject matter. There would be a high-profile signing session in Harrods. Ladies in charge of charity committees would beg autographed first editions for their tombolas. And a year or so later it would re-emerge in paperback, perhaps with an additional chapter bringing it up to date. At that moment she would have made her mark on history.

The payments lured her on, though of course she wasn’t writing for the money. But she had resisted the temptation to announce donations from the royalties to charity; no particular charity sprang to mind that was more important than paying the rent and keeping the bank manager at bay every month. So the initial cheque, received when she had agreed to do it, had kept her out of overdraft until quite recently. The next was not due until she delivered a text ‘ready for press’, whatever that might mean, and the remainder would come on the date of publication. Aware that she had begun mentally to spend the sums long before they had been received, the impending date of delivery had tipped her into a state of panic.

To be paid to say exactly what she wanted was a wholly attractive scenario. The lawyers would get at it, she had been warned, but she was determined to stick to her guns. The publishers had been enthusiastic and supportive. They had suggested a ghost writer, a notion she had indignantly rejected. Did they think she was stupid? So instead, making soothing noises, they had offered an editor, which Mr Maxwell assured her was no longer common practice in the publishing world: she was being treated with kid gloves. The editor, an earnest young man, had provided her with a list of tentative headings and various questions that the reading public would expect to be answered. He had explained that this was merely to assist her with a logical structure. Now all she had to do was get on with it.

There were serious problems none the less. The biggest was that getting on with it was easier said than done. Revenge no longer seemed so sweet – even though wise heads said it was a dish best eaten cold. Whenever she began at chapter one, ‘The Early Years’, the picture of Frank that came to mind was so much the man she had married that she would dissolve into tears. It didn’t matter that that person no longer existed. The burly young police officer, chest bursting out of the uniform he wore with such pride, had disappeared into the mists of time; the fresh face in the passing-out photograph was irreconcilable with the blotchy jowls of Frank in middle age, so familiar to the tabloid-reading public. But as she doodled he came back to life, and sat at her side urging her not to betray what they had once held so precious: their young love together.

One nagging difficulty was that her anger seemed to have cooled. Those quiet few days at the home of Inspector Stevens had had their effect. He had been gentle, and kind, and respectful. Despite the long hours he worked he had left a small tray with breakfast, a newspaper and a mug of sweet tea outside her room each morning. That had been such a pleasant surprise that she had cried the first time she had seen it, even as the front door closed without him saying goodbye. Each evening he prepared a simple supper and talked as they ate it about the events of the day, before disappearing into his study (the downstairs dining room in a normal house) to finish off his paperwork. He had not minded that she spent hours watching television; she had reciprocated his courtesy by keeping it turned down so low she could hardly hear it. Her sense of uselessness was assuaged by clearing up the kitchen,
washing the few dishes and pans, leaving the damp tea towel hung out tidily, in a fashion she had not had the heart to do for ages in her own place.

Inspector Stevens had said little about his own life, about the wife who had left. If he, too, had been badly hurt he did not share it. There was a sadness about him, an incompleteness: he was a man who needed a wife, but who would not demean himself with efforts to find one. Not for him a casual dalliance with a secretary or with a colleague’s spouse or girlfriend. He was not the sort to answer contact advertisements even in respectable newspapers; it was unimaginable that he would place one. He gave the impression of a man of discipline and dignity who accepted that solitude and loneliness were to be his due, and instead sublimated his wasted emotional energy in his job. Yet Gail knew enough to assume that he must be nearing compulsory retirement age, and a senior police officer would have a reasonable pension. But what would he do to fill his days if he had no close companion?

She exclaimed in disgust with herself. She was supposed to be thinking about her life with Frank, the way he had betrayed her, and writing about it for money that was desperately needed, not dawdling about pondering the possible needs of Inspector Stevens. This was ridiculous. The publishers were right: she was stupid and too easily distracted. She must get on, open up the neglected computer, concentrate, find that list of the editor’s suggestions and start inputting text. There was no time to waste. And yet the values exhibited by the gentle inspector seemed to have touched her soul. It was nigh impossible to summon up the raw edge of bitterness when she had been cosseted with such discreet kindness.

The flat was clean and orderly once more, the graffiti wiped from the walls, the clothes hung in the wardrobe, the dishes replaced in the kitchen cupboards. The dolls were piled once more on the sofa and window-ledges, though a couple had been too damaged to save. The inspector had arranged it, he said, after the Scenes-of-Crime Officers had taken the evidence they required. He had treated her with some deference after he had received their report. She was certain that he believed her at last. Whether it was something the SOCOs had found, or whether her manner had convinced him that, however upset she might be about Frank, she was not capable of wrecking her own home to spite him, she did not discover. But the policeman had switched from the role of cynical observer to friend. The man was now on her side.

They were not, however, any nearer to knowing who the criminal, or criminals, might be. The sole explanation that made sense was that somebody wanted to intimidate Gail, and the only person with a strong reason to want her silent was her husband. Or possibly his political friends, though they were so inept at running the government that the idea they could successfully arrange to scare off an enemy was laughable. It might have been some of his murkier pals from the bad old days before he entered politics, but they would not have budged without Frank tipping them the wink. It all came back to
him
.

Gail sighed. The inspector had asked her gravely if she would manage alone in the flat. It had been clear to them both, though unspoken, that she could not continue to stay at his house for longer than it took for the police inquiry to be concluded; anything else would be inappropriate and might invite comment. She had not wanted to come home. This was not home, anyway, and never would be: it was a place of temporary respite, a transitional pad, with nothing to show off or take pains over. But his concern for her welfare surfaced in a phone call each evening, not at a fixed time, when he would ask her to relate how she had spent her day, whether she had eaten, whether there was anything he could do to assist. He was checking up on her, as a concerned friend might. Gail had the feeling that if she responded as calmly as possible, the moment might come when his reserve would be breached. He might ask her to dinner. And she would accept.

Meanwhile she had to pay her way. A contract had been signed, the publisher was waiting, a tad impatiently, nice Mr Clifford Maxwell was pressing her. The computer would not write a word of text by itself. Gail made a cup of coffee, gathered up the file with her notes, fetched a cushion for the
chair, and switched on.

The counsellor adjusted her spectacles and examined the nervous young man seated before her. He was well dressed, in a dark suit, white shirt and an unremarkable silk tie. He had told her that he worked in government, though he had given no further details. A civil servant would have said so or named his department, a local government officer would have offered a complicated job title that confused rather than illuminated, but this young man, Mr Edward Porter, had the distinctive combination of sheen and innocence which revealed incontrovertibly that he was a supporter of the new government. Cynicism had not yet set in. Experience had not yet undermined the veneer of
self-confidence
. The counsellor, who had once harboured political yearnings of her own, wished she did not feel so disappointed.

As a client, however, Mr Porter was a standard case. He had been adopted and after much heart-searching wanted to trace his natural parents.

‘Do you understand the process?’ the counsellor asked. ‘Since you are over eighteen you are entitled to ask for your original birth certificate. Your birth mother and father cannot approach you, but in law you are allowed to approach them. In practice we recommend that you do it through us.’

‘I don’t quite see why,’ Edward began. He squared his shoulders. ‘I’m a lawyer by trade.’

He was not the first to attempt to pull rank in this way, and he would not be the last. The counsellor put on a practised frown. ‘Then you will know, Mr Porter, that this process of counselling is written into the law. It is compulsory. Making use of our agency’s services to help you trace your birth parents is not. But decades of experience suggest that the moment when you meet, if it is to happen, should not be one of confrontation. That can be too fraught for everyone. It needs preparation. We can do that for you.’

She waited. The client was full of an intense energy, though it was under control. He was the type who, once convinced of a course of action, would stick to it stubbornly, perhaps beyond the point of withdrawal; a desirable quality, but also a nuisance. He was not going to admit it, but he was finding the interview extremely awkward.

‘I have given careful consideration,’ he said, as if to recover her approval, ‘to the effect that my search might have on my parents. The ones who adopted me. I have known only them; they love me and it is mutual. I asked their view and they have been encouraging. So has my employer.’

‘That might be useful if you have to travel to find your birth parent and take time off work,’ the counsellor said drily.

‘I don’t think that will be an obstacle,’ Edward said.

The rigid intensity showed in a slight tremor of his right hand, the counsellor noted. Some applicants wept; others laughed with hysteria; most did not listen or take in what was said to them, had to have it repeated, were given written leaflets that spelled out every bit of legislation and advice, yet still they often took no notice.

‘And you must discuss it with those others near to you.’ The woman consulted her notes. ‘You’re not married – but a partner? Or any children?’

Edward shook his head. ‘Nobody else is involved,’ he said gravely. ‘The woman I love takes the same line as my parents, that I should go ahead.’

The woman I love, but not a partner. The counsellor swiftly decided that it was not her business to pry. ‘Do you understand why we recommend that you do the tracing through us, Mr Porter? Believe me, we are not seeking work.’

The young man appeared to quell his fidgets. ‘Tell me,’ he commanded politely. ‘Take me through it.’

The counsellor took a breath. Having dealt with so many cases it seemed obvious to her, but she was obliged to recognise that each applicant came fresh to the issues and could be uncertain or
incredulous. Bank managers and estate agents, let alone lawyers, must face identical problems with ill-informed clients. ‘Your birth parent may be as delighted as you to be found. She – or he, or both – may have given you for adoption in the most trying circumstances, and may have been hoping ever since that you would turn up. On the other hand, that isn’t always the result. Your appearance may reawaken painful memories long since deeply buried. She may have denied your existence to all and sundry, including a new family: it is thirty years since these events, in your case. She may not want to see you. To refuse is her right. And it’s better that we are able to find out before you do.’

‘How can a parent not want to see a son?’ Edward swallowed hard. ‘It’s not as if adoption is anything to be ashamed of.’

‘Oh, but it is. There you are wrong. Pregnancy and illegitimacy carried a great stigma then. In many communities they still do – Muslims, for example. And we have no idea how the conception occurred. You might have been a love child, Mr Porter, but you might not.’

The young man sat brooding. ‘I feel so sure that I won’t have this difficulty,’ he said at last. ‘And I have my lawyer’s training: I could persuade somebody to see me, even if I wasn’t entirely open about why.’

‘You mean you’d check up on them first? That is not a sound way to proceed, Mr Porter.’ The counsellor closed the file. ‘The best outcomes are often where parent and child find they have a lot in common, that is true. If you discovered that your mother is a professional person, much like yourself, I’m sure you’d hit it off. We can establish such facts for you.’

‘If my mother turned out to be a raving lunatic, a drunk and a drug addict, I should still feel some sense of responsibility for her,’ Edward retorted.

‘Yes, but she mightn’t feel the same in return. Or if she did, she might prefer that you did not become entangled with her life. Mother-love is a strange and unpredictable commodity, Mr Porter. You must understand that she has the right to say no, and not to be troubled by you further.’ A silence followed. The counsellor waited. Edward seemed to relent.