‘Don’t be. I’m not here to complain, just to sort things out. I always knew I’d never die with my slippers on, but I don’t want to die in a medical smock and pissing through a straw, either.’
Harry said nothing. He understood, would feel the same. They drove on in silence.
‘The 41,’ Harry said eventually as they passed by the
ruined hulk of the Battersea power station silhouetted on the other side of the river. ‘It’s pretty up-market.’
‘Sure ought to be, the prices they charge. Hell, it’s not like I’m saving for my old age or anything.’
‘Come and stay with me, Zac. At home. Until you’re sorted.’
‘Why?’
‘Many reasons. So you can teach me how to fix martinis, for one. And because if I were in your position, that’s what I would want. I won’t get in your way, Zac, whatever you decide.’
‘Appreciate that.’
‘There’s something else. What you said, about being set up. If that’s so, I’ve got a personal interest in finding out why.’
‘Martha, you mean.’
‘I think that’s perhaps what she meant. About not letting the weeds grow. Cleaning things up.’
‘She was American. That’s what she would have wanted. Screw the bastards.’
‘Who are we talking about here, that’s what I want to know? Who in hell’s name are they?’
But Zac didn’t reply. He had fallen asleep.
‘Hello, Roddy.’
‘Ah, Harry, is that you?’ Bowles spluttered, his features stretched taut in alarm, like an Edvard Munch canvas. ‘Been meaning to catch up with you,’ he lied.
‘And now’s your chance.’
They were standing in a stairwell where Harry had been lying in wait. Ever since Harry had returned Roddy Bowles had been avoiding him, turning on his heels in corridors, suddenly disappearing from crowded bars, avoiding eye contact. Harry suspected he had even been sending his secretary ahead to scout out the ground and make chance encounter impossible. So Harry had decided to ambush him.
Unlike many of his colleagues, Bowles had chosen not to move his office to the glass and steel extension of Portcullis House across the road from the main Parliament building. Instead he had stayed within the honeycomb cake of the old Palace of Westminster. The centre of power and gossip had tended to gravitate to the new facilities, but it meant that MPs’ rooms in the old Victorian building were quieter, less brash than the hi-tech boxes of Portcullis House, and they were far more lavishly decorated. Bowles was a man who preferred Pugin to Peter Jones, and had little interest in the machinations and rumour that swirled beneath the atrium at Portcullis. He preferred Gothic nooks and crannies, and dusty shadows, so he had stayed. It was also a much better place to avoid the likes of Harry Jones, yet now he could avoid him no longer. Harry was on the back stairs, facing him, blocking his path.
‘You’ll have to forgive me, Harry, I’m in such a desperate hurry, late for dinner. But could we get together very soon? So much to catch up on. Give my office a call.’
‘I already have. Twice.’
‘Truly? I didn’t know,’ he blustered. ‘My secretary, been unwell, distracted. I’ll have a word with her, get her to put something in the diary. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’
He tried to pass, but found he couldn’t. Harry was clutching his arm, the fingers digging deep into the flesh. There was also a look in his eye that frightened Bowles.
‘Well, perhaps I could spare a couple of minutes, Harry, as it’s you.’
‘The Terrace, I think.’
‘But . . .’
He was about to say it would be dark and deserted, but presumably that was the point. If there was to be a scene, better it shouldn’t become common gossip. They walked silently through the labyrinth of corridors, meeting few people at this dining hour and ignoring those they did, until they came to the carved oak door and steps that took them onto the Terrace. It was a large paved area nestling between the wings of the old Palace and overlooking the Thames. And it was, as Bowles had predicted, deserted and decidedly uninviting.
‘You sure, Harry? Brass-monkey time out here. How about a drink inside?’
But Harry led him on, to one of the darker corners, where the coverage of the CCTV cameras would be at their poorest, until they were leaning on the balustrade and peering into the dark, turbulent waters of the Thames. A stiff breeze was slicing along the river, whip-ping up disgruntled waves and tugging at Bowles’ hair. He got out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Harry. It was declined with a cold stare. The cigarette took several attempts to light. Bowles suddenly felt very isolated. In the distance, to their left, they could see the lights of the traffic pouring across Westminster Bridge, and he very much wanted to be with other people, not just with this strange man who was still gripping his arm. It was hurting.
‘Can’t tell you how sorry I’ve been about—’
‘Shut up, Roddy.’
‘You know, as leader of the delegation I should have—’
‘Yes, you should have. But you didn’t. Instead, you’ve been spreading rumours about Martha and me, that we were having an affair, got involved in some lovers’ quarrel.’
‘No!’
‘It doesn’t matter, Roddy. As it happens, I did love her, although we weren’t having an affair. How’s your curator friend, by the way? Still working her way through your collection?’
Bowles wriggled in discomfort. ‘She’s fine, thank you. Look, Harry, man to man, I’m sorry if anything I’ve said has been misinterpreted, but—’
‘But bollocks, Roddy. We both know what’s been going on. The difference is that you don’t know what I know. And I’m just about to tell you. You see, when you didn’t return my calls, I telephoned your wife.’
‘You what?’
‘No, not about you and your art collection. Even in this place there are still some basic codes of conduct. At least, I like to think so.’
‘She’s not well,’ Bowles blurted pre-emptively, ‘gets very confused.’
‘Like your secretary, you mean? You really must get a bigger box of excuses, Roddy.’
Bowles threw the remains of his cigarette into the river. It was turbulent, looked angry, slapping impatiently against the Embankment, a high tide doing battle with the water flooding down river from the recent rains.
‘You do your wife an injustice,’ Harry continued. ‘She sounded pretty up-to-date to me. I reminded her we’d talked earlier, about Ta’argistan, that I’d been there with you, talked to the people in government. She was very friendly, asked if I was involved in the airport project.’
‘That stupid—’ But Bowles bit back his outburst. It was time to listen.
‘Didn’t come as much of a surprise, Roddy. You were so far up the President’s backside that at times I suspected you had parking rights. You monopolized the Minister of Transport, then someone told me that you stayed on for a couple of days after the official visit was over. And it wasn’t to look for Martha and me, either.’
‘Look, Harry, where the hell is all this going? So I’m interested in helping the Ta’argis. Nothing wrong with that.’
‘And helping yourself, of course. I spoke with a friend in the City, she put out a few feelers – you know
what that place is like. Seems you’re involved with a consortium that’s been raising a whole shed-load of investment money for Ta’argistan.’
‘And why not? They need a new airport, new hotels, new roads. Fuck you, Harry!’
He was growing angry, which suggested he was a little scared. On the bridge an ambulance, with sirens blaring and emergency lights flashing, was forcing its way across the river in the direction of St Thomas’s. They followed its progress. Perhaps it was a colleague, a fellow MP. That’s how some of them died, in the ambulance.
‘Let’s hope that doesn’t mean another bloody byelection,’ Bowles said, trying to steer the conversation onto firmer ground. ‘We’re in enough trouble as it is. Have you heard the latest? There’s a whisper doing the rounds that the PM might be forced into calling an early election. You know what that would mean. This place will become an abattoir. I don’t take things for granted. It could all come to an end for us soon, Harry.’ It sounded like a plea of mitigation.
‘So stuff a little money away while we can, is that it?’
‘Harry, for Christ’s sake, the Ta’argis need to move forward, I want to help them. What’s wrong with that?’ Bowles began fumbling with his pack of cigarettes once more.
‘I think this is the point in the conversation where you’re supposed to lead me astray a little, suggest that a man with my experience would be most welcome on
board, that there’d be room in your enterprise for me, too.’
‘What? After the stunts you pulled in Ashkek?’
Ah, so Bowles knew more about what had gone on than he was admitting. ‘You’re letting your knickers show, Roddy.’
‘I’m helping the Ta’argis build a new airport. That’s it, and that’s all of it.’
He lit his cigarette and took the nicotine down deep. As his hand came up, it was trembling slightly, and Harry couldn’t help but notice the set of expensive cufflinks that glittered in the half-light.
‘Your efforts to improve their infrastructure are to be applauded, Roddy. And, I presume, well rewarded. Except they don’t seem to have shown up in the Register.’
Bowles’ entire body jerked, as though he’d been stroked with a red hot poker. The Register. It was to modern Westminster what the tumbrels had been to Paris during the revolution, the means by which a politician’s financial entanglements were supposed to be faithfully and fully recorded, a proposition that was pursued by many with almost as much sincerity as their wedding vows.
‘Damn you, Harry,’ Bowles spat, ‘don’t you dare patronize me, not you with all your inherited wealth, a man who’s never had to do a day’s work in his well-heeled life.’
On another occasion Harry might have argued the point. The army, the House of Commons, they’d been
real jobs in his eyes, but he had grown used to the petty jealousies that others found so difficult to hide.
‘I think I can guess how it goes, Roddy. Not only do the parliamentary authorities not know of your little scheme, but I suspect the tax man doesn’t, either. There’ll be nothing in your name, of course, you’re not stupid enough for that, but I suspect your wife’s been signing a lot of the documentation. Yes, your poor, confused wife.’
‘Leave her out of it!’
‘But it’s you who got her involved, Roddy, not me.’
Bowles once more discarded his cigarette and immediately lit a new one.
‘The government says that will kill you,’ Harry said.
‘Fuck the government! And fuck you, too.’
‘Talking of which, it began to get me thinking about your curator. And your magnificent art collection.’
Bowles began coughing as though he was ripping out the lining of his lungs.
‘Is that how they pay you, Roddy? In a few minor Pissarros and Picassos? Pay the girlfriend, too? I have to admit, your taste is excellent, you’ll be able to sell that collection any time, anywhere in the world, with-out the Inland Revenue ever getting to know about it. Those paintings are your pension plan, as good as gold and far more reliable than dollars.’
Bowles looked down into the dark, turbulent waters, then glanced along the Terrace, making sure they were alone and not overheard. ‘What is it you want?’ he said, his voice still hoarse from the coughing.
‘What I want,’ Harry replied softly, ‘is to know what’s really going on in Ta’argistan. I want to know why they need a new airport, new hotels, new roads. What’s going on that is about to turn a country that’s the arsehole of Central Asia into something that’s fragrant and attractive to some of the meanest, most sour-nosed money men in the world. And I want to know it now.’
Suddenly Bowles was flying through the air, across the balustrade, and was dangling upside down, held by his legs, staring at the oily river. The contents of his pockets began falling around him – lighter, pen, mobile phone, keys, wallet, dropping into the dark water and disappearing, except for his cigarettes, which were dragged away in a giddying dance by the fierce cur-rent. The cold spray whipped up from the river was hitting him in his face. He began to scream.
‘You’re crazy!’
‘I agree,’ Harry replied, calmly, letting his grip on Bowles slip a little.
‘You wouldn’t!’
The grip slipped a little more.
‘I can’t swim!’ Bowles cried, but it was turning to a whimper.
‘Not the answer I need, Roddy.’
Bowles tried to twist and stare around him, surely someone was watching and would come to his rescue, but the Terrace was deserted, the winter’s night dark, they were in the shadows. And his belt was about to burst over his hips.
‘All right! All right . . .’ he cried out in submission.
Harry pretended not to hear, kept him dangling,
made him repeat his cringing surrender, this time with considerably more passion, before hauling him up. Bowles slumped onto the paved floor, sobbing.
Harry stood over Bowles, not letting him up, while the other man grew ever more wretched, answering questions, filling in gaps, protesting, pleading, wiping away tears of humiliation, until at last Harry was satisfied. Only then did he allow the other man to scramble to his feet.
‘You must be mad! If you’d let me slip, I’d have died,’ Bowles said, still gasping for air.
‘I know.’
‘Harry, listen to me, please,’ Bowles pleaded, mounting one last defence. ‘It wasn’t my fault. I told you not to go to Ta’argistan in the first place.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Nothing that happened to you there had anything to do with me.’
‘I accept that.’
‘But you’re going to ruin me anyway, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘For pity’s sake, why?’
‘Many reasons. But mostly because of Martha.’
‘I don’t really know what happened to Martha.’
‘No, of course you don’t. But you should have asked,’ Harry replied, disappearing into the night.
When he returned home later that evening, Harry shared what he had discovered with Zac. For a while, they both sat silently, staring at the fire in Harry’s hearth, chasing the consequences. They both knew where it would lead.