hadn’t known until this moment. Yet it seemed so obvious.
‘But what is it that four of us can do?’ McKenzie pressed.
‘Look at yourselves. All of you specialists. The finest the British Army can produce. Communications. Reconnaissance. Munitions. One lunatic Paratrooper. Expertise and madness – the sort of talents that ought to scare the hell out of anyone with a little imagination. And what could we do?’ He looked slowly around the table, staring once more into their eyes, testing them. ‘Why, practically anything we damn well wanted!’
He began to beat his fists upon the table, as though beating a drum, until the cutlery rattled and the glasses sang. And, one by one, the others joined him, a war party, until the noise became so loud that it echoed around the large dining hall.
The waiter turned and slowly shook his head. He might have known it. Ah, Colonel Amadeus. Bit of a mad bugger, that one. Or so he’d heard.
Goodfellowe’s pager stirred. He uttered something rude and not at all profound. The wretched thing made him feel like a criminal, allowed to roam only on condition that he was electronically tagged. For tuppence he’d have thrown the thing in the Thames, but for ambition he now kept it with him, and switched on.
The small screen lit up and began to flash a sickly green.
‘ UNLESS YOUR AREA WHIP ADVISES YOU OTHERWISE YOU ARE NOW ON A ONE-LINE WHIP.’
Simon says stand up. Simon says stand down. Turn around. Go jump …
Was it any different when he’d been a Minister? Had high office given him any more control over his life? Control over others, certainly, but his own life? He tried to remember, but couldn’t. Itall seemed so long ago, wrapped up with the death of his son Stevie, and he’d spent much of the intervening years trying to block it all out – as his wife Elinor had done, to such terrifying effect.
Goodfellowe rebuked himself; he should stop being churlish. A One-Line Whip meant he didn’t have to bother. It was good news. An evening off. And his thoughts turned to Elizabeth, away in the Ukraine. Half seven in London, two hours later in Odessa. Should be back at her hotel by now.
So he rang, but there was no reply. Nor when he tried again half an hour later.
He hated the feeling of emptiness that struck him when she was away, the insecurity that bit into his humour at times like this. Was it that he felt inadequate? Or didn’t trust her? Or was it that he didn’t trust himself? The more he struggled with the questions, the more he realized he wasn’t likely to enjoy any of the answers, so he stopped. He telephoned Sam instead.
In the years since the death of Stevie and during the misery of his wife’s final and irreversible mental decline, Samantha had often been his only hold on happiness, the rock on which he had managed to rebuild his shattered life. She was now eighteen, studying the history of art at London University, and had digs less than two miles from his own apartment, yet he hadn’t seen her in almost a month. His fault. Things always seemed his fault. Time to do something about it.
But life somehow never quite fell into place for Goodfellowe.
‘No, don’t come round, Dad,’ she insisted when he called. ‘I’m meeting a friend in half an hour. At the coffee shop. But …’ – a sudden decision – ‘come and join us. He’d love to meet you.’
Whoever ‘he’ was.
Goodfellowe made it there five minutes early and commandeered a table with a good view of the window. They arrived holding hands. ‘Dad, meet Darren. And so forth.’ She waved the two together.
Darren’s hand was firm, his eye steady, his hair neatly trimmed, indeed everything that one might expect of a graduate student at the Business School, as Darren turned out to be. He was amusing, ambitious, evidently a young man of the world. Holding handswith his daughter. Touching. Brushing against her. Being almost proprietorial.
Goodfellowe decided he’d have to be adult about
‘But what is it that four of us can do?’ McKenzie pressed.
‘Look at yourselves. All of you specialists. The finest the British Army can produce. Communications. Reconnaissance. Munitions. One lunatic Paratrooper. Expertise and madness – the sort of talents that ought to scare the hell out of anyone with a little imagination. And what could we do?’ He looked slowly around the table, staring once more into their eyes, testing them. ‘Why, practically anything we damn well wanted!’
He began to beat his fists upon the table, as though beating a drum, until the cutlery rattled and the glasses sang. And, one by one, the others joined him, a war party, until the noise became so loud that it echoed around the large dining hall.
The waiter turned and slowly shook his head. He might have known it. Ah, Colonel Amadeus. Bit of a mad bugger, that one. Or so he’d heard.
Goodfellowe’s pager stirred. He uttered something rude and not at all profound. The wretched thing made him feel like a criminal, allowed to roam only on condition that he was electronically tagged. For tuppence he’d have thrown the thing in the Thames, but for ambition he now kept it with him, and switched on.
The small screen lit up and began to flash a sickly green.
‘ UNLESS YOUR AREA WHIP ADVISES YOU OTHERWISE YOU ARE NOW ON A ONE-LINE WHIP.’
Simon says stand up. Simon says stand down. Turn around. Go jump …
Was it any different when he’d been a Minister? Had high office given him any more control over his life? Control over others, certainly, but his own life? He tried to remember, but couldn’t. Itall seemed so long ago, wrapped up with the death of his son Stevie, and he’d spent much of the intervening years trying to block it all out – as his wife Elinor had done, to such terrifying effect.
Goodfellowe rebuked himself; he should stop being churlish. A One-Line Whip meant he didn’t have to bother. It was good news. An evening off. And his thoughts turned to Elizabeth, away in the Ukraine. Half seven in London, two hours later in Odessa. Should be back at her hotel by now.
So he rang, but there was no reply. Nor when he tried again half an hour later.
He hated the feeling of emptiness that struck him when she was away, the insecurity that bit into his humour at times like this. Was it that he felt inadequate? Or didn’t trust her? Or was it that he didn’t trust himself? The more he struggled with the questions, the more he realized he wasn’t likely to enjoy any of the answers, so he stopped. He telephoned Sam instead.
In the years since the death of Stevie and during the misery of his wife’s final and irreversible mental decline, Samantha had often been his only hold on happiness, the rock on which he had managed to rebuild his shattered life. She was now eighteen, studying the history of art at London University, and had digs less than two miles from his own apartment, yet he hadn’t seen her in almost a month. His fault. Things always seemed his fault. Time to do something about it.
But life somehow never quite fell into place for Goodfellowe.
‘No, don’t come round, Dad,’ she insisted when he called. ‘I’m meeting a friend in half an hour. At the coffee shop. But …’ – a sudden decision – ‘come and join us. He’d love to meet you.’
Whoever ‘he’ was.
Goodfellowe made it there five minutes early and commandeered a table with a good view of the window. They arrived holding hands. ‘Dad, meet Darren. And so forth.’ She waved the two together.
Darren’s hand was firm, his eye steady, his hair neatly trimmed, indeed everything that one might expect of a graduate student at the Business School, as Darren turned out to be. He was amusing, ambitious, evidently a young man of the world. Holding handswith his daughter. Touching. Brushing against her. Being almost proprietorial.
Goodfellowe decided he’d have to be adult about
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