master of the persuasive address, the loaded pause and the witty riposte. His years in Hollywood had served him well.
He might have been a film star, but the time for acting is over …
Eve Harley was a clueless hack whose job it was to sniff out heat, even when there was nothing to back it up. Mitch was careful. The press would never get to him.
Afterwards, a posse of reporters was lobbying for a word. Microphones lunged as he paced through the foyer. ‘What’s next, Senator Corrigan? Is 2014 your year?’
Mitch turned at the door to his committee, winning smile resolutely in place. After feeding them their quota of practised lines, he slipped into his antechamber.
Checking there was no one else around, he located the bathroom.
Mitch had a diehard bathroom routine. He could not do the business unless any and all cubicles behind him were vacant. The stalls had to be open, wide open, so he could see into them. He refused to have his back to a closed door.
If you want my ass so bad you’ll have to damn well find it first!
But they had found it last time, hadn’t they?
No way was he laying his ruined rump bare. He might as well put a tablecloth under it, give them a knife and fork and invite them to pull up a chair. Christ!
Today, Mitch was in luck. The restroom was empty. After a quick inspection in the bank of mirrors, comprising a swift adjustment to his chestnut-coloured toupee and a reassuringthumbs-up, he unfastened his pants. As he emptied himself into the urinal, he prayed that Melinda had scarpered back to the apartment. Mitch was grateful for tonight’s TV slot—with any luck his wife might have gone to bed by the time he returned. Occasionally she would grope for him in the dark, murmur something enticing like, ‘Have you showered? If you’ve showered you can put it in me,’ but if he left it long enough she would have her eye mask on and her earplugs in.
If Melinda only knew where he’d been, what he’d seen …
Images from the house at Veroli came rushing back: the elderly couple, the shed in the courtyard, the driving rain … Part of Mitch wished he had never gone, had never laid eyes on the terrible reality. But there had been no choice.
Now he knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that these creatures were out there, biding their time, preparing to strike, their skills and machinery eclipsing anything this planet had to offer. Rome had confirmed their existence once and for all.
The invasion was nigh—and Mitch was its target.
Signor Rossetti had explained. ‘They want you, Senator Corrigan. You are a special man. You will soon run America, the most powerful country on Earth …’
Mitch would never forget those words as long as he lived. Them.
One probe was all it took. Fiercely he yanked up his pants.
Trembling, Mitch Corrigan bolted for the door.
The car arrived on the dot of six to escort him to the studio. Mitch was due live on America Tonight in an hour. He couldn’t be less set for a public airing if he tried.
‘Remember our focus is the campaign,’ Oliver, his PR guy, chattered, stabbing keys on his BlackBerry. ‘I’ve briefedthe producer on what we will and won’t say. I’m not sitting through a Who’s Who of Mitch Corrigan movies like we did last time.’
Mitch’s knee started to shudder as the downtown traffic rushed past. ‘It’s what they’re interested in,’ he conceded. After eight years in politics, people still hankered after morsels from his showbiz past: instead of hearing his views on a proposed health reform or a controversial rule on education, what they really wanted was a rendition of a celebrated catchphrase from his best-known flick, nineties action-fest A Good Day to Die. In it, Mitch’s character Blaine, a stunt driver, tells his arch-enemy to: ‘ Side with me if you want to ride with me. ’ Those ten words had haunted him the majority of his adult life. They got yelled at him in the street, at party conferences, on beach vacations, in
He might have been a film star, but the time for acting is over …
Eve Harley was a clueless hack whose job it was to sniff out heat, even when there was nothing to back it up. Mitch was careful. The press would never get to him.
Afterwards, a posse of reporters was lobbying for a word. Microphones lunged as he paced through the foyer. ‘What’s next, Senator Corrigan? Is 2014 your year?’
Mitch turned at the door to his committee, winning smile resolutely in place. After feeding them their quota of practised lines, he slipped into his antechamber.
Checking there was no one else around, he located the bathroom.
Mitch had a diehard bathroom routine. He could not do the business unless any and all cubicles behind him were vacant. The stalls had to be open, wide open, so he could see into them. He refused to have his back to a closed door.
If you want my ass so bad you’ll have to damn well find it first!
But they had found it last time, hadn’t they?
No way was he laying his ruined rump bare. He might as well put a tablecloth under it, give them a knife and fork and invite them to pull up a chair. Christ!
Today, Mitch was in luck. The restroom was empty. After a quick inspection in the bank of mirrors, comprising a swift adjustment to his chestnut-coloured toupee and a reassuringthumbs-up, he unfastened his pants. As he emptied himself into the urinal, he prayed that Melinda had scarpered back to the apartment. Mitch was grateful for tonight’s TV slot—with any luck his wife might have gone to bed by the time he returned. Occasionally she would grope for him in the dark, murmur something enticing like, ‘Have you showered? If you’ve showered you can put it in me,’ but if he left it long enough she would have her eye mask on and her earplugs in.
If Melinda only knew where he’d been, what he’d seen …
Images from the house at Veroli came rushing back: the elderly couple, the shed in the courtyard, the driving rain … Part of Mitch wished he had never gone, had never laid eyes on the terrible reality. But there had been no choice.
Now he knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that these creatures were out there, biding their time, preparing to strike, their skills and machinery eclipsing anything this planet had to offer. Rome had confirmed their existence once and for all.
The invasion was nigh—and Mitch was its target.
Signor Rossetti had explained. ‘They want you, Senator Corrigan. You are a special man. You will soon run America, the most powerful country on Earth …’
Mitch would never forget those words as long as he lived. Them.
One probe was all it took. Fiercely he yanked up his pants.
Trembling, Mitch Corrigan bolted for the door.
The car arrived on the dot of six to escort him to the studio. Mitch was due live on America Tonight in an hour. He couldn’t be less set for a public airing if he tried.
‘Remember our focus is the campaign,’ Oliver, his PR guy, chattered, stabbing keys on his BlackBerry. ‘I’ve briefedthe producer on what we will and won’t say. I’m not sitting through a Who’s Who of Mitch Corrigan movies like we did last time.’
Mitch’s knee started to shudder as the downtown traffic rushed past. ‘It’s what they’re interested in,’ he conceded. After eight years in politics, people still hankered after morsels from his showbiz past: instead of hearing his views on a proposed health reform or a controversial rule on education, what they really wanted was a rendition of a celebrated catchphrase from his best-known flick, nineties action-fest A Good Day to Die. In it, Mitch’s character Blaine, a stunt driver, tells his arch-enemy to: ‘ Side with me if you want to ride with me. ’ Those ten words had haunted him the majority of his adult life. They got yelled at him in the street, at party conferences, on beach vacations, in
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