c-c-charisma.’
‘Is that your word for the day?’ snapped Rupert.
‘No, it’s my word for always about you,’ said Taggie, blushing crimson. ‘Honestly, they think you’re marvellous.’
‘Funny way of showing it,’ said Rupert, walking towards the door.
Taggie ran after him, her eyes filling with tears.
‘Oh, please. Daddy really needs you. You and Freddie were so wonderful when he was down, I know he seems terribly clever but he’s not street bright like you.’
Gazing at her, Rupert noticed how her tears and the old grey denim shirt of Declan’s she was wearing emphasized the strange silver-grey of her eyes.
‘Darling Taggie,’ he said, his face softening, ‘how can anyone refuse you anything?’
‘Then you’ll stay?’
Rupert shrugged. ‘I suppose so. . but I’m extremely pissed off.’ He reached into his pocket and rooted out a crimson leather box. ‘I got you an Easter egg in Madrid. I hope you’ll like it better than the present I brought your father.’
Inside the box Taggie found a little gold egg, speckled with rubies and diamonds. She gave a gasp.
‘Look further,’ said Rupert.
Opening the egg, she found a tiny gold bird with ruby eyes.
‘Poor thing’s got conjuctivitis,’ said Rupert.
‘I can’t believe it,’ breathed Taggie. ‘No one brings me presents like that. Oh thank you so so much. I love it.’
Blushing furiously again, she leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. She’s the little sister I never had, Rupert told himself firmly.
‘Your steak and kidney’s burning,’ he said.
‘Are you staying for supper?’
‘No, I’ve got to go back and vote.’
‘What on?’
‘Capital punishment for terrorists.’
Taggie looked horrified.
‘They’re not going to bring it back, are they? Daddy’d leave the country.’
In the library Freddie was tearing a strip off Declan. ‘This is the big league, if you’ll excuse me saying so. Rupert’s a very clever operator, and we can’t afford to lose ’im. You’ve got to learn to argue wivout rancour, Declan. You can’t stick your chest out all the time.’
‘What do you know about it?’ growled Declan.
‘I’ve never ’ad a strike at work,’ said Freddie, ‘because I don’t judge everyone the same. I cultivate their individual skills. You’re always bangin’ on about giving creative people the right atmosphere to work in. Then, when Rupert does somefink really creative, you shit on ’im.’
Watched in awed amazement by Bas and Charles, Freddie calmly retrieved the application from the wastepaper basket.
Declan gazed at him appalled: ‘But, it’s dishonest, for fock’s sake. You wouldn’t have nicked that document, would you?’
‘Wouldn’t ’ave ’ad the nerve,’ said Freddie. ‘But now we’ve got it, I’m certainly goin’ to ’ave a little look. This is war, as Rupert said, not tiddlywinks. You don’t want to be too ’igh-minded, Declan.’
By the time Sydney his driver had dropped Rupert off at Westminster, the yellow stone of the House was softened by floodlighting and Big Ben shone like a great sugar sifter against an inky blue sky.
‘Only one vote,’ Rupert told Sydney. ‘I’m paired after that, but I’ve got a hell of a lot of work still to do. Can you come back about twelve-thirty?’
Nodding good evening to the policeman on the gate, Rupert went through the Member’s entrance, an expression that usually made him laugh. Glancing at the monitor he saw that Owen Davies, the Labour leader, was winding up for the abolitionists. Time for a large drink. . he was bloody tired, and he’d never had any doubts that stringing up was the answer for terrorists. But as he headed for the bar he thought fleetingly of Taggie’s horror of capital punishment, and Declan’s passionate disapproval, and decided to listen to the debate instead.
As he entered the chamber the Ministers of Employment and of Health moved slightly apart to make room for him on the green leather front bench.
‘Owen’s in barnstorming form,’ whispered the Minister of Health.
Hearing a din behind him, Rupert glanced round to see Paul Stratton, who was violently pro-hanging for everything, particularly wife-pinching, looking excited for the first time in months.
‘Rubbish,’ Paul yelled. ‘Resign, check your figures. What’s the point of having British soldiers out there if we don’t support them?’
Owen Davies, a brilliant orator on the dullest subject, was on magnificent form tonight. What about all those people who’d been imprisoned for terrorism, he demanded, who’d later been found innocent? How much more terrible if they’d been hanged. What evidence was there in any country that the death penalty curbed terrorism, and, conversely, didn’t hanging make sainted martyrs out of the most vicious thugs?
It was great emotional stuff. But, putting aside the soft cadences, the eloquence, the Welsh voice, Rupert suddenly knew Owen was right. Every moment you could feel the spirits of the Anti-Hanging lobby rising. The Bring-Back brigade looked turned to stone. The Prime Minister, who was almost more pro-hanging than Paul Stratton, looked most bootfaced of all. Owen Davies sat down to a storm of applause.
Scenting blood, the abolitionists roared for the PM to get up. ‘On your feet. Don’t be bashful.’
But the PM wasn’t budging. Instead, she let the Home Secretary, who was decidedly ambivalent about the merits of hanging anyway, wind up. Every time he opened his mouth, he was howled down, but he ploughed on bravely with his prepared speech, careful not to emphasize that terrorism was on the increase, but droning on about deterrents and the need to support the forces of law and order. As ten o’clock approached, the abolitionists worked themselves into the kind of frenzy only seen at Cardiff Arms Park when there’s two minutes to go and the Welsh are just in the lead. Then, as Big Ben tolled ten o’clock, the noise subsided and the house divided.
The Ayes, looking tight-lipped and apprehensive, shuffled to the right. The Noes, looking elated, sauntered to the left. Without a moment’s deliberation, ignoring the outraged looks of the PM, the Chief Whip and most of the Front Bench, Rupert joined the Noes. Owen Davies, turning in delighted amazement, tapped Rupert on the shoulder. ‘I didn’t know you were one of us.’
‘I wasn’t until I heard you,’ said Rupert.
The Minister of Health, a pacific and gentle soul, also joined the Noes.
‘We’ll be on the carpet tomorrow,’ he said.
‘She’ll have to call an election any minute,’ said Rupert.
‘An even tenner on 10th June,’ said the Minister of Health.
‘Done,’ said Rupert.
Feeling suddenly shattered and not wanting a bollocking from the PM, Rupert beat a quick retreat to his office, a small room on the lower Minister’s floor. Inside, the walls were covered with signed photographs of famous athletes: Pat Eddery, Ian Botham, Maradona, John McEnroe, Pat Cash, Gary Lineker, Dino and Fenella Ferranti, to name only a few. Above the filing cabinet was a picture of Wesley Emerson, the local cricketing hero who had joined the Venturer consortium, and who Rupert had saved from getting busted.
‘Thanks, Rupe, Wesley Emerson,’ he had scrawled in black pentel across the blue sky behind him.
I should think so too, reflected Rupert whenever he looked at the photo.
Having taken off his tie, and undone his top button, he poured himself a large whisky and soda. Christ, he was tired. He’d been on the go since five that morning and hadn’t had any real sleep for a week. Making him feel even more tired was the red box full of work, the buff envelope on the blotter full of constituency letters to be signed, and the even bigger pile of mail to be read, which was probably mostly abusive letters about the football riots.
The admirable Gerald had scribbled a note: ‘
In the corner of the room was a hard olive-green sofa, where Rupert was supposed to snatch some sleep
