He knew he must finish it. There was no point in going on. He no longer believed in himself, and knew he had forfeited the right to have others believe in him. Through misty eyes he reached down into the drawer of his desk, and fumbled as he took out his private phone book. He punched the numbers on the phone as if they were nails being driven through his soul. He fought hard to control his voice throughout the brief conversation, but then it was finished, and he could weep again.
The news that Earle had pulled out of the race left everyone aghast as it flashed round Westminster later on Tuesday morning. It had happened so unexpectedly that there was no time to alter the printed ballot papers except with an ignominious scratching through of the name with a biro. Sir Humphrey was not best pleased that his carefully laid preparations should have been thrown into chaos at the last minute, and had some rough words to use for anyone who was willing to liste
n. But on the stroke of ten Com
mittee Room Number 14, which had been set aside in the House of Commons for the ballot, opened its doors and the first of the 335 Government MPs who were going to vote began to file through. There would be two prominent absentees - the Prime Minister, who had announced he would not vote, and Harold Earle.
Mattie had intended to spend the whole day at the House of Commons chatting to MPs and gauging their sentiment. Most appeared to think that Earle's withdrawal would tend to help Samuel as much as anyone: 'the conciliators tend to stick with the conscience merchants
’
one old buffer had explained, 'so Earle's supporters will drift towards young Disraeli. They haven't got the sense to make any more positive decision.' Behind the scenes and in private conversations with colleagues who could be trusted, the campaign was taking a more unpleasant personal edge.
She was in the press gallery cafeteria drinking coffee with other correspondents when the tannoy system announced there was a telephone call for her. She took it at the nearest extension. The sense of shock which hit her when she heard the voice was even greater than the news of Earle's withdrawal.
'Hello, Mattie. I understand you were looking for me last week. Sorry you missed me, I was out of the office. Touch of gastric 'flu. Do you still want to get together?'
Roger O'Neill sounded so friendly and enthusiastic that she had trouble connecting it with the voice she had heard a few days earlier. Could it really have been O'Neill she had listened to drivelling down the phone? She remembered the reports about his outrageous performance at Urquhart's reception in Bournemouth, and realised the man must be riding an emotional helter skelter, careering between highs and lows like a demented circus ride.
If you are still interested, perhaps you would like to come across to Smith Square later today
’
he offered.
He showed no signs of the verbal bruising he had received from Urquhart, which had been particularly merciless. Urquhart had telephoned to instruct O'Neill to make the appropriate arrangements for Simon to attend Earle's weekend meeting, and to ensure that the
Minor
was anonymously informed of the connections between the two men. Instead he had discovered that O'Neill was sliding steadily into his cocaine-induced oblivion and losing touch with events outside his increasingly narrow, kaleidoscopic world. There had been a confrontation. Urquhart could not afford to lose O'Neill's services inside party headquarters, or have loose ends unravelling at this point.
'One week, Roger, one more week and you can take a break, forget about all of this for a while if you want, and come back to that knighthood you've always wanted. Yes, Roger, with a "K" they will never be able to look down their noses at you again. And I can arrange everything for you. But you let me down now, you lose control and I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your life. Damn you, get a grip on yourself. You've got nothing to fear. Just hold on for a few more days!'
O'Neill wasn't absolutely sure what Urquhart was going on about; to be sure he had been a little unwell but his befuddled brain still refused to accept there was a major problem which he couldn't handle. Why fill one's life with doubts, especially about oneself? He could cope with it, particularly with a little help
...
Still, a few days more to realise all his ambitions, to get the public recognition he deserved, to wipe the condescending smiles off their faces, would be worth a little extra effort.
He had got back into the office to be told that Mattie had been looking for him, that she was asking questions about the Paddington accommodation address.
'Don't worry, Pen. I'll deal with it.' He fell back on the swaggering confidence of years of salesmanship, of persuading people to buy ideas and arguments, not because they were all particularly good but because his audiences found themselves captivated by his energy and enthusiasm. In a world full of cynicism, they wanted to put their trust in a man who seemed to believe so passionately in what he was offering.
When Mattie arrived in his office after lunch, he was bright, alert, those strange eyes of his still amazingly animated but seeming very anxious to help.
‘J
ust a stomach upset
’
he explained. 'Sorry I had to stand you up.'
Mattie acknowledged that his smile was full of charm; it was difficult not to want to believe him.
‘I
understand you were asking about Mr Collingridge's accommodation address?'
'Sounds as if you are admitting that it
was
Charles Collingridge's address?'
she enquired.
'Well, if you want something on the record, you know I have to say that Mr Collingridge's personal affairs are his own, and no one here is going to comment one way or the other on any speculation.' He trotted out the Downing Street line with accomplished ease. 'But may I talk to you off the record, not for reporting?'
He made strong eye contact with her as if to establish his sincerity, rising from behind his desk to come and sit alongside Mattie in one of the informal chairs which littered his office.
'Even off the record, Mattie, there's a limit to how much I can say, but you know how unwell Charles has been. He's not been fully responsible for his actions, and it would be a terrible pity if we were to go out of our way to punish
him
still further. His life is in ruins. Whatever he has done wrong, hasn't he suffered enough already?'
Mattie felt angry as she watched the loading of guilt onto the shoulders of the absent Charles. The whole world is to blame, Roger, except for you.
'Are you denying that Charles Collingridge himself asked you to open that address?'
'So long as this is not for reporting but for your background information, I'm not going to deny it, but what good will it do anyone to re-open such old wounds? Give him a chance to rebuild his life
’
he pleaded.
'OK, Roger. I see no point in trying to subject
him
to farther harassment. So let me turn to a different point. There have been lots of accusations about how party headquarters has been very careless in allowing damaging ma-, terial to leak out in recent
months. The Prime Minister is
supposed to blame Smith Square very directly for much of his troubles
’
‘I
doubt whether that is fair, but it is no secret that relations between him and the Party Chairman have been very strained
’
'Strained enough for that opinion poll we published during party conference week to have been leaked deliberately from party headquarters?'
Mattie had to look very hard to detect the faint glimmer of surprise behind his flashing eyes before he sped into his explanation.
‘I
think that assumption is very difficult to justify. There are only - what, five people in this building who are circulated with copies of that material apart from the Party Chairman. I'm one of those five, and I can tell you how seriously we take the confidentiality of such material.' He lit a Gauloise. Time to think. 'But it also gets sent to every Cabinet Minister, all twenty-two of them, either at the House of Commons where it would be opened by one of those gossipy secretaries, or to their Departments where it would be opened by a civil servant, many of whom have no love for this Government. Any leak is much more likely to have come from there.'
'But the papers were leaked at the headquarters hotel in Bournemouth. House of Commons secretaries or unfriendly civil servants don't go to the party conference or roam around the headquarters hotel
’
'Who knows, Mattie. It's still much more likely to have come from a source like that. Can you imagine Lord Williams scurrying around on his hands and knees outside hotel room doors?'
He laughed loudly to show how ridiculous it was, and Mattie joined in, realising that O'Neill had just admitted he knew the manner in which the opinion poll had been handed over, and he could only have known that for one reason. His overconfidence was tightening the noose around his neck even as he laughed.
'Let me turn to another leak then, on the hospital expansion scheme. Now I am told that party headquarters was planning a major publicity drive during last summer, which had to be scrapped because of the change of plan
’
'Really? Who on earth told you that?' asked O'Neill, knowing full well that it could only have been Kendrick, probably egged on by his weakness for a pretty woman. 'Never mind, I know you won't reveal your sources. But they sound exaggerated to me. The Publicity Department here is always ready to sell Government policy, and had the scheme gone ahead then certainly we would have wanted to help promote it, but we had no specific campaign in mind.'
‘I
was told you had to scrap a campaign which had been carefully planned and which was ready to go.'
The limp ash from his cigarette gave up its struggle to defy the laws of gravity and cascaded like an avalanche down his tie, but O'Neill ignored it. He was concentrating hard now.
'You've been misinformed. Sounds to me like someone wanting to dig up the story again and trying to show the Party in much greater confusion than it actually was. Your source sounds a bit dubious to me. Are you sure he's in a position to know all the facts, or has he got his own angle to sell?'
With a broad grin, O'Neill tried to smother Kendrick as a reliable source, and the smile which Mattie returned betrayed none of her own wonderment at his impromptu yet superbly crafted explanations. But she was asking far too many leading questions, and even a polished performer such as O'Neill was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. He felt a gut-wrenching need for greater stimulation and support than his Gauloise could give him, no matter what Urquhart had said.
'Mattie, I'm afraid I've got a busy day, and I have to make sure we are ready to handle the result of the ballot later this evening. Could we finish it here?'
Thanks for your time, Roger. I have found it immensely helpful in clearing up a few things.'
'Any time I can help,' he said as he guided her towards the door. As they did so, they passed by the computer terminal stationed in the corner of his crowded office. She bent down to inspect it more closely.
I'm an absolute moron with these things,' she commented, turning to look straight into his flickering eyes. I'm impressed to see your Party is well ahead of the others in using new technology. Are all the terminals in this building linked through the central computer?'
‘I
.
..
believe so,' he said, pressing her more firmly towards the door.
‘I
never knew you had such high-tech skills, Roger,' she complimented.
'Oh, I don't,' he said in a surprisingly defensive mood. 'We all get put through a training course, but I'm not even sure how to switch the wretched things on, actually. Never use it myself.' His smile had tightened, and his eyes were flickering ever more violently. He propelled Mattie through the door with some force, and bade her a hasty farewell.
At 5 p.m. the doors to the Commons Committee Room were ceremoniously shut to bar any further attempts to lodge votes in the leadership election. The gesture was an empty one, because the last of the 335 votes had been cast ten minutes earlier. Behind the doors gathered Sir Humphrey and his small team of scrutineers, happy that the day had gone smoothly in spite of the appalling start given to their preparations by Earle. A bottle of whisky did the rounds while they fortified themselves for the count. In different rooms around the Palace of Westminster, the candidates waited in various states of excitement for the summons which would tell them that the counting had finished and the result was ready to be announced.
Big Ben had struck the quarter after six before the eight candidates received the call, and at half past the hour more than 120 active supporters and interested MPs accompanied them
as
the Committee Room doors swung open to allow them back in. There was much good humour mixed with the tension as they filed in and stood around in loose groups, with substantial sums being wagered as Members made last-minute calculations as to the likely result and gambled their judgement against the inconclusive opinion polls which had been filling the press. Outside the room, excluded from what was technically a private party meeting, the men from the media did their own speculating and made their own odds.