Author’s Note: This novel covers the 2016 national and international political scene from the perspective of the North East of England, using these events a backdrop for a young man’s coming of age and initiation into the world of politics.
‘Dull’ lasted for a while. Had I known how short a time that we would have together, I’d have probably appreciated its presence more. As it was, I had merely quietly enjoyed trying to match Julian’s energetic stride, taking in any one of his infinite lessons about politics and steadily adding more and more bottles to the small bar I kept under the stairs.
Much of my day involved tailing him as he bounced from meeting to committee to yet another meeting, stopping for just long enough to grab us both a coffee en route. Julian had an endless capacity for caffeine, which explained both his uncanny amounts of energy and how much of my day was spent making a fresh pot. Aside from that, my role was to watch my mentor in action, try to retain whatever useful lesson or information there was to be learned and file the documents and printouts which Julian seemed determined to blanket his desk with. As had been the case the first time, the meetings regarding devolution were the highlight of his routine: the one time he could be nakedly and shamelessly optimistic, surrounded by the other leaders of city councils who appeared to feel the same way. I was getting a little better at following the ins and outs of what was discussed at the meetings, and as far as I could tell, progress was being made.
The rest of his working day wasn’t nearly so cheerful. Cuts to council services were, no matter what Julian thought of them, inevitable. Suggestions and plans were sent to him on how these might be implemented, each met with irritation from the man whose job it was to choose one. Someone had come up with the optimistic slogan ‘Ambition in the Face of Austerity’, which had fooled no-one and had done little to improve the general mood. Ken Johnson’s Cassandraic prophecy about trouble with the bin collectors grew more and more truthful every day, and soon Julian was having tense phone calls with those closer to the situation than he was, whatever news he received doing little to improve his mood.
Escape from the endless cuts and grinding machinery that was Newcastle City Council mostly came in the form of Sonia. Our first night out had apparently confirmed for both of us that we had seen something worthwhile in each other, and we had started spending more and more time together as if in hope of figuring out what that was. Most of our activities involved drinking, it had to be said, but there were often weekends when we would take ourselves off to the cinema, or she’d give me a tour of some sight I’d not managed to find myself yet. It was a very companionable friendship, and though there were times when it felt like one or both of us was on the verge of seeing what else it could become, for the meantime friendship was all it was and something which made us both very happy.
At the beginning of March, after hanging up with some satisfaction on the Council Member for Neighbourhoods and Regulatory Services, Julian informed me that he planned to throw a party at his house and that I was invited.
‘Don’t feel the need to dress up too nice or anything,’ he said, waving an airy hand and trying to place his feet on his desk in a casual manner. This was hampered by the fact that his desk was at that moment piled high with papers and files: a testament to Julian’s resistance to my attempts at office management. Admitting defeat after several seconds, he spun the chair to the left and placed his feet back down on the floor. ‘I just thought it would be nice to get some people together, knock back some drinks and relax a little. We’ve been working extremely hard, after all.’
He wasn’t wrong. Julian’s energy, fed from the promise and progress of the devolution agreement, had seemed to suffuse the Civic Centre for past two months, but the strain of hard work and the need to save money was beginning to show.
‘Sounds good,’ I said, draining my coffee mug. It was nearly five, and we were both winding down to leave. It had become a tradition to end our last few minutes in the office with a companionable conversation about anything other than work. ‘It’ll be nice to have a chance to mingle.’
‘Bring your lady friend,’ Julian suggested. He and Sonia still hadn’t met, though some days it seemed like he was using council funds to have us tracked on our frequent nights out, presumably waiting with bated breath for news of that first drunken shag. Still, he seemed to approve of her, or at least thought that it was ‘so damn useful to have a lawyer to hand all the time’. I steadily ignored all of his insinuations, though this did very little to discourage him.
‘I’ll ask her,’ I said. ‘When is it?’
‘Next Saturday,’ Julian replied. ‘The nineteenth. My place. I’ll send out some email or book people’s faces or whatever the young people are saying now.’ I laughed, and he shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Not sure what you find funny,’ he remarked. ‘Having you around is supposed to help me connect with the young voters and let me take over this place: if I don’t know my Spacebook from MyFace, then it could lead to disaster.’
I let him playfully harangue me for several more minutes before making my exit. Sonia and I were grabbing a post-working day coffee, and I caught her outside her room. Her middle-aged female co-workers were filing out past her, so we were subjected to the standard giggles as they saw me approach. Clearly one of Julian’s ambitions in the face of austerity was to make sure that everyone believed that Sonia and I were on the verge of elopement. Sonia shot me a grin and we set off down the stairs, in search of espresso and an escape from politics and the law.
‘A party?’ she mused, sipping from her small cup. ‘Could be fun. Who else is invited, apart from us young’uns?’
I shrugged. ‘Didn’t really ask for any details.’
‘Typical man. How am I supposed to know what to wear? What to bring? What area of expertise regarding Newcastle City Council business I have to brush up on?’
‘Do you really need to know all that?’ She flicked some of her espresso at me, aiming to miss, and I laughed. ‘I promise I’ll find out some more,’ I said. ‘And then you can show up in exactly the right outfit. Does that work for you?’
‘It’ll do. Any idea what Julian’s parties are like?’
‘Not a clue; never been to one. I know he used to hang out with my uncle, and he can drink better than you’d expect when you first meet him.’
‘I suppose he does have a reputation as parliamentary bad boy to protect,’ Sonia pointed out. ‘And with a lot less media scrutiny on him…’ she grinned at me, ‘we could be walking into quite the social event.’
‘You’re expecting house keys in a bowl?’
‘I was thinking more a full-blown orgy, but I might just be more adventurous than you are.’ She glanced at her watch and made a face. ‘I should get back. Skype call with the parents in a bit, and if I’m not there they’ll assume I’m in some kind of den of iniquity and sin.’
I looked around us. Caffè Nero didn’t seem to offer those kinds of opportunities, but I didn’t bother pointing that out.
I managed, by degrees, to drag more details from Julian and convey them to an increasingly impatient Sonia. It seemed that even Julian wasn’t quite certain what form the party was going to take, and if I was a more cynical person (or if I was Sonia, who was quite cynical enough for the pair of us with enough pessimism left over to quell a communist uprising) then I would have thought that it was only my pestering him for information which led to him making any decisions about the event at all. At any event, the nineteenth soon arrived, and Sonia and I both met at the Jesmond Metro station, walking the short distance to my mentor’s house.
We paused outside, looking up at the place. It was definitely large enough: three storeys rising up in front of us. I hadn’t seen Sonia’s living situation yet, but it did make my ground-level flat in Gateshead look extremely meagre. Warm light shone from the windows, casting the shadows of guests against the glass, and it was just possible to hear the music and conversation from within.
Sonia and I looked at each other in surprise. ‘And he definitely said half past eight?’ Sonia asked, doubtfully. ‘Because either my watch is wrong, you’re wrong, or this has been going on for a while.’
‘He said to be here at eight thirty,’ I said. ‘I put it in my phone the second he did. And it’s eight thirty now.’ I frowned. ‘Why would he tell us to show up at the wrong time?’
Sonia just shrugged, but the look she directed at the house was still calculating. After a second, she shook her head as if to dislodge whatever she was thinking. ‘Nice place,’ she said, her voice more casual.
‘Seems to have done alright, doesn’t he?’ I said. ‘Come on.’ We walked towards the door, which was slightly ajar, and then stepped inside.
The heat hit us once we were in, as did the babble of conversations. There seemed to be people everywhere, milling about through the hallway and the other rooms which opened on from it. We glanced at each other, shrugged simultaneously, and moved further into the house. They had definitely been here for some time.
We found Julian in the kitchen, talking with a group of distinguished-looking men and women as he smoothly pulled the cork out of a bottle of red wine. He looked up as we stepped into the room and grinned, placing the screwed cork down on the kitchen island. ‘Ah, Tom. Miraculously good timing you have there: this is probably the best bottle we’ve opened so far. Drink?’
I nodded, focusing on Julian and trying to ignore the attentive stares of the others, all of whom were trying to work out what such young people were doing in what probably did count as a den of iniquity and sin. I also noted his use of the phrase ‘so far’: something had been going on here before our arrival.
Julian filled a glass and pushed it towards me, prompting me to step forward and take it, Sonia following. ‘This young man is one Tom Barrett, future Prime Minister,’ he said, flashing me a wink. ‘I worked with his uncle: Andrew Darnay.’ There were sounds of acknowledgement and understanding around me. I couldn’t believe that these people almost three hundred miles away were apparently familiar with Uncle Andrew. I was a blood relative and I’d barely even heard of him.
The leader of Newcastle City Council turned to Sonia, still smiling. ‘And this, I believe, is Sonia Malik: a young lady doing extremely good work in our housing and planning department.’ He tilted the bottle over another glass. ‘Red?’
Sonia nodded, returning his smile. ‘Thank you very much.’ She took the glass of wine that Julian offered her, sniffing it before taking a sip.
‘There should be some food in the dining room,’ Julian went on, ‘and a few people around you might recognise. So, relax, mingle, have a nice time.’ He filled a glass for himself, and then turned to answer a question he hadn’t fully heard.
Sonia nudged me and tilted her head towards a second door. I nodded and followed her out of the kitchen.
‘So, that’s Julian Ashworth,’ she said. ‘Nice guy. Great hair.’
‘Something people look for in a politician?’ I asked, trying the wine. It was dark and dry: possibly another Sangiovese. Julian might become the best Mayor in the history of the region, but he really did have appalling taste in wine.
‘I wouldn’t call it a negative, but it wouldn’t stop me looking at his policies,’ Sonia replied, absently. ‘Come on: let’s find some food. I’ve been starving myself to get into this dress.’
I looked her up and down. Her dress was black and clung to her body flatteringly. She noticed me looking and smiled. ‘You look very nice too. Definitely my favourite of your four suits.’
‘Five,’ I said, having another drink.
‘I’m trying to bury the memory of that light grey one,’ she said. ‘And you know what’ll happen if you wear it again.’
I nodded, smiling. Sonia had been specific, graphic and quite terrifying in her attention to detail. The suit had not been worn again.
After we’d passed through several rooms, all of which were populated by Julian’s guests, we managed to track down some food and began to circulate. Despite Julian’s assurances, most of our fellow partygoers didn’t seem quite sure of who we were, but I had been raised by a family of people who had never quite grasped the point of differentiating between relatives, whilst Sonia was social enough to be on first-name terms with three Big Issue salespersons and wasted no time winning herself several new friends.
There were several guests who did know us by sight and were accustomed to seeing me at Julian’s side. As I’d half-expected, there were several questions about what had brought the new leader of the city council to the frozen North, which probably would have been interrogative before the third glass of wine. As it was, it was easy enough to deflect, distract or just completely ignore the question: something else I’d learned from family functions. I was extremely aware of Sonia beside me as I dodged these inquiries, but all she did was help me turn the conversation to more friendly territory.
Most of the time, I let Sonia lead our half of the dialogue; she was more confident in that area than I was. Even so, the alcohol had turned the guests into a friendly enough audience. More than anything, everyone just seemed to want to have a good time.
We’d been there for about an hour, mingling and circulating, before we saw someone whose name I knew. Julian had been moving in and out of sight, topping up glasses and making the occasional convivial comment, and we’d not bothered him, thinking that it would be for the best if he could run the party without interruptions.
It was Sonia who spotted the familiar face first, as she turned around to scope the room. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, sounding honestly surprised. ‘My MP just walked in the room.’
I turned around too, and saw Ken Johnson making his way through the lounge. ‘Ken Johnson’s your MP?’ I asked. ‘And you know who your MP is?’
Sonia looked at me. ‘You don’t know who your MP is?’
‘Haven’t had to yet; we’re a while away from an election.’
She kept looking at me for a second longer before turning back to Ken Johnson with a mutter of what sounded like ‘Jesus Christ’.
By this time, Ken was halfway across the room, and closing in. ‘Well, better have done your research,’ I said, smiling politely at the approaching MP. ‘Looks like it’s Sonia Malik’s Question Time.’
Sonia was already meeting Ken Johnson’s eyes as he drew closer. ‘Mr Johnson,’ she said, brightly. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’
Ken blinked, caught off-guard by the greeting, and then smiled. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, something clicking in his memory. ‘Miss…um…Malik?’
She nodded. ‘Sonia Malik. And I think you’ve met Tom Barrett before?’
Ken looked at me, and again you could see him pulling something out of whatever filing system his mind used. ‘Of course: Julian’s protégé.’
A very cynical and most definitely Southern part of my mind was surprised that Ken Johnson knew a word like ‘protégé’, but I just kept smiling. ‘Good to see you again, Mr Johnson.’
‘Oh, don’t bother with any of that: just make it “Ken”. We’re at a party, aren’t we?’ Behind Ken, I saw Julian walk into the room, glance over to us and walk right back out again. Ken hadn’t noticed; he was talking to Sonia. ‘You’ve come to several of my surgeries, haven’t you? Must be where I’ve seen you before.’
She nodded. ‘My neighbour’s not always in the best shape, so I go along for her when I can. She’s very involved.’
‘Very civic-minded of you. So, not thinking of running for a seat yourself, then?’
Sonia laughed, shaking her head. ‘That’s Tom and Julian’s department. I’m going to be a lawyer.’
Ken laughed as well: a great booming laugh. ‘Probably the smartest one of us, or at least the wealthiest. Where did you come here from, Sonia?’
‘Heaton,’ Sonia replied. ‘Not a bad journey; Tom’s all the way out in Gateshead.’
The MP shook his head genially. ‘No, I meant originally: where were you before Newcastle?’
If you were watching Sonia, which I had fallen into the habit of doing since meeting her, then it was just possible to catch the flicker of irritation on her face. I was almost certain that Ken Johnson hadn’t noticed it; his smile was just as broad and friendly as ever, and in a second Sonia’s face was cheerful and serene again.
‘Before this I was in Enniskillen.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘Ireland,’ Sonia said. ‘Northern Ireland: keeps life exciting.’
Ken nodded, looking a little more uncertain. ‘Yes, but…before that?’
I took a drink, wanting a slightly bigger alcohol cushion if this was going to end with Sonia stabbing someone in the neck with her wineglass. But she seemed to be in perfect control of herself.
‘Before that, it was New Delhi,’ she said, taking a sip of her own drink. ‘But I’m a lot more Irish than Indian; I don’t remember much about it.’
Before Ken could answer, Julian stepped towards our group. ‘Ken,’ he said, offering the man a glass of wine. He had a second, fuller one which he kept for himself. I wondered if Ken had been invited late as well, or if he’d had his own business to attend to.
Ken took the glass and Julian’s hand, subjecting him to his vigorous shake. ‘Ah, the Dear Leader. How’s life with the local authority?’
‘Ticking along nicely, Ken, thanks very much,’ Julian said. ‘How’s representing Newcastle East going?’
‘We seem to be managing alright,’ Ken said carelessly. ‘As alright as not being in government goes. Still, suppose I should be grateful I’ve got a seat in the meantime.’
If it was meant as a delicate thrust, and I doubted that Ken Johnson was accused of delicacy very often, then Julian didn’t seem to register it. His face stayed perfectly calm, not betraying any flicker of annoyance like Sonia’s had. ‘I suppose so.’
‘I was wondering, actually, Julian,’ Ken went on, his tone companionable. ‘You and Jeremy are still pretty close, aren’t you?’
‘As far as I’m aware.’
‘Talked to him lately?’
‘Not recently.’ Julian glanced, apparently casually, at my empty wineglass. ‘Oh dear, Tom; you appear to be suffering from evaporation. I’ll fetch you a –’
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ll get it. Sonia, need a refill?’
Whether by happenstance or quick thinking, Sonia’s wine was also finished, and she followed me as we abandoned the leader of the city council and the MP for Newcastle East.
You’re not the most loyal student, are you Tom?’ Sonia commented cheerfully as we moved into the kitchen. ‘I thought you’d be expected to take a bullet for your mentor, not throw him to the wolves.’
‘If he’s going to invite Ken Johnson to his parties then he needs to deal with the consequences of that decision,’ I said. ‘I don’t come to parties to be a human shield.’
Sonia nodded. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
We refilled our glasses with a Malbec rich enough to derail Sonia’s criticisms of my lack of fidelity and agreed to avoid that room for the time being.
‘And if we hear the sound of two male politicians having a scrap…’ Sonia started.
‘Then we find a room a little further away,’ I said, trying another sip of the Malbec.
We continued to circulate, keeping an eye out for Ken or Julian and an ear out for any unparliamentary conduct. The guests only got friendlier as time went on and the wine was depleted, and we spent a convivial half hour getting tutored on the sights and monuments that we really must see in the North East by a sweet old lady who worked in the licensing department.
Finally, we broke away, the alcohol making us both hazy and hungry. We made our way to the buffet, gathered up some food and found a handy wall to lean against, watching the party go on.
‘You know,’ Sonia said, holding a sausage roll halfway to her mouth, ‘At a guess, I’d say that you’re the only person here who’s not a politician or a city council employee. And I’d say that I’m only here because I’m your plus one.’
I glanced around the room. From what I could tell, it was a typical party: nothing seemed out of the ordinary; no-one was making any grand speeches or trying to present themselves as a statesman. ‘Alright,’ I said, ‘explain that to someone who’s not as clever as you.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, part of it is because I’ve seen the MPs for all three parts of Newcastle here. And I’m not sure, but I think someone mentioned Durham’s MP too, so I’d call it quite the little group. The city council people I recognise because, you know, I work at the city council.’ She looked down at the sausage roll and ate it in one decisive bite. ‘This is a nice party, but I don’t think that’s all it is. Might explain why we were invited so late, if there was a part of this evening at which we weren’t needed. Or wanted. Say…discussions regarding exactly who is going to be North East Mayor, with all the right people invited?’ She gave me a smile. ‘Mr Barrett, have I been dragged into some great political game?’
‘Would that be more or less interesting than an orgy?’ I was still thinking about what she’d said. If she was right, and Sonia tended to make sure that she was before saying anything, then this changed the complexion of the evening entirely, and Julian had kept me in the dark about it.
Not that he had any reason to tell me everything. As far as he was concerned, he might have been giving me a night out with free drinks.
I finished the free drink I was holding, frowning slightly. Sonia noticed. ‘You alright? I wasn’t trying to make this seem sinister or anything. Just noticed it gradually.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said, wondering if it was. Partly I was irritated that I’d not been told, if of course there was a deeper meaning to the gathering. Part of me was annoyed at myself for expecting to be told. Julian’s lack of discretion around me must have gone to my head more than I’d thought. ‘Fine,’ I said again.
She nodded. ‘Who knows?’ she said. ‘Maybe all of his friends are politicians and city council people.’ Sonia seemed to contemplate the apparent horrors of such a life and then shrugged. ‘At least he has a nice house.’
It was a nice house, and our search for the buffet had let us see about a third of it. Julian didn’t have a lot of furniture, but what he did have was perfect for each room; you couldn’t imagine anything fitting better. He’d obviously put care and attention into the place. That and a hell of a lot of money.
Sonia was looking around the room too, though with a more searching gaze. ‘No idea where the bathroom is, do you?’
I didn’t; the bathroom was one of the places we hadn’t stumbled on in our search for sausage rolls. ‘We could always go exploring.’
‘We could,’ Sonia agreed. We stepped out of the doorway, leaving the politicians to their plotting and the city council employees to whatever they did on their nights off.
It only took a few minutes to track down the bathroom, and I decided that I’d go back to the kitchen and claim some wine before the members of the conspiracy downstairs finished it. As I turned, I saw a door that was half-open, and through the door I could see Julian.
He was bent over, leaning heavily on his desk with his head bowed. I watched him for a moment, on the verge of turning away whilst not quite able to. I was about to force myself to go downstairs when his head raised, and he saw me.
Julian’s face didn’t register shock or surprise at seeing me there. Instead he gave a sigh, and then beckoned for me to enter the room. Not feeling quite certain about where this was going, I did, pushing the door open and stepping through before shutting it behind me.
The room, it turned out, was a study. Shelves lined with books, none of them which appeared to be in any kind of order, covered several walls. A desk, the wood scarred and its green leather surface worn, dominated the room. I noticed with approval the selection of whiskies and glasses sitting on a side table. It certainly fit the idea of Julian I’d come to cultivate.
Julian saw me looking at the bottles and nodded. ‘Make us two large ones, will you, Tom? The selection’s up to you.’
I knew better than to turn my nose up at that opportunity, even though the reason for it still eluded me. I scanned the labels before spotting one which had stuck in my memory. Smiling a little, I opened the Ardbeg – Julian didn’t seem to have tried it yet – and poured a pair of doubles. There was no ice; Julian never added anything to his drinks.
Julian took one glass from me and, without hesitating, drank over half of it. I took a sip of mine, the spirit going down easier than when I’d first tried it.
‘Thanks,’ Julian said, putting his glass down. ‘I needed that.’
I nodded but didn’t say anything. Years of living with my mother had given me a decent enough instinct of when to speak and when to shut up. In my experience, if people wanted to talk then you didn’t often need to encourage them. The hardest part tended to be stopping them.
Sure enough, after a few seconds Julian looked up at me. ‘Gateshead’s going to pull out of devolution.’ He raised a finger to point at the door. ‘And in a short enough time, some of the people out there will know about it too. I managed to get the news from someone who’ll have come to me first, but we don’t have long. They’ll be announcing it on Tuesday in any event.’
‘Why did they drop it?’ I asked. That part didn’t make sense to me. Julian wasn’t the only one who came out of the devolution planning meeting looking positive; it was probably a novelty for the committee members to be able to discuss strategies which didn’t revolve around slashing funding. ‘Did they want a better deal?’
‘That’s part of it,’ Julian said, his voice dark. ‘There’ll be a few changes of offices over at Gateshead Council in the near future, I think: a new council leader at the very least. And the people who’ll take over are saying that there’s not nearly enough cash there. But that might just be an acceptable excuse; I’ve not exactly got a dossier right now.’
‘And there can’t be any more, right?’
‘Money?’ Julian snorted. ‘We’re still clawing our way out of a recession and the Government’s privatising everything, so I’d have to say no. Apparently, the new man across the Tyne is saying he’ll back “genuine devolution” and nothing but. Stupid bastard. Everyone knew this deal wasn’t going to be perfect, but it was something to work with: something we could improve on. But no: they’ve decided to throw all their toys out of the pram and now every business owner in the North East is going to be at their throats, and I don’t fancy trying to referee it. Which, if I’m going to look –’ he laughed bitterly, ‘– mayoral, then I probably should.’
Again, I didn’t scramble for something to say. We both needed to think clearly. We both probably needed to stop drinking, but I knew better than to suggest that.
‘And you can’t do it without Gateshead?’
He snorted. ‘It’s right in the middle; we’d be looking at a devolution donut. Can’t imagine anything more stupid-looking, even ignoring factors like transport: buses, the Metro…can’t see it.’
We were silent again. I didn’t know what I was going to be able to contribute on this topic, but he hadn’t asked me to leave the room, so I was going to try to think of something.
Finally, I said, ‘So, you think it’s the new man? The one who’ll be the new Leader of Gateshead Council: just him?’
Julian shrugged. ‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t think so. It seems like a few councillors are going to vote against it. Whether or not he persuaded them is another matter.’
‘And there’s nothing you could do to persuade them the other way?’ I asked. ‘Nothing else they want?’ I took a drink. ‘Or anything they really don’t want? You could talk to Uncle Andrew, or maybe get in touch with some other people in the Party and…come to some arrangement?’ It wasn’t politics as I assumed Julian and Uncle Andrew played it, but even with Julian’s lessons I still didn’t know what the right thing to do was in this situation.
I was struck, right then, by the absurdity of it all. I had attended a party which might well have been some kind of shady political powwow, and in the middle of that was now sequestered with a politician who was receiving clandestine intelligence and trying to act on it before the politicians that he’d invited to the party/powwow knew anything about it.
I took another, larger drink.
Julian was watching me, and I wondered if I might have stepped over a line. I’d been as oblique as I could be, mainly because speaking specifically about political machinery was beyond me in my current state of pleasant inebriation and not that much easier when I was sober, but I was also aware that what I was suggesting wasn’t what you might call moral. Julian, despite his reputation as the Commons’ swaggering hard man, had a low opinion of bribery, blackmail or backroom deals, and I couldn’t be sure whether he was inferring any of that from what I’d said. I didn’t quite know what I was implying either, though I was probably more flexible when it came to bribery or blackmail than Julian was.
What I really wanted, I realised, was for Julian to have a solution: any solution that worked. I wanted everything to go back to whatever the plan was before this evening, however that might come about, and for him to be once again filled with his indomitable vitality.
I shrugged, the silence and my own thoughts starting to get to me. ‘Is there anyone you could call?’ I suggested. ‘Someone who could make him change his mind? There’s got to be someone, right?’ To my embarrassment, I realised that I was thinking of Corbyn. That had my mother’s style of upbringing written all over it: when you want to solve a problem, go straight to the top.
To my surprise, Julian nodded. ‘There could be,’ he said. ‘I’d have to make some calls, find a few things out.’
‘What, now?’
He nodded emphatically. ‘Have to be. No time to waste.’ He stopped, as though something had just occurred to him. ‘Wait here,’ he said, reaching into his pocket as he made towards the door. ‘If anyone asks anything…’ He tailed off on his way out of the room, leaving my options refreshingly open. I’d probably just lie.
I looked around me, taking in the room now that Julian wasn’t dominating it. Leaning against or sitting on his desk didn’t feel appropriate, so I made my way around the study, stopping for a moment to glance through the whisky collection again.
As I straightened up, I noticed a trio of pictures on the wall which faced the desk. I moved towards the centre of the room looking at them. One of them was of the Tyne Bridge. Next to it, apparently captured from street level, was a print of Grey’s Monument.
The third picture was monochrome, like the others, but rather than structures it showed a man. He was a little way out of middle age, wearing a slightly ill-fitting suit and standing in front of the Newcastle Civic Centre. A little over his left shoulder, I could just make out my favourite naked statue, under which I’d met Sonia.
I’d not seen that picture before, but I’d seen others of the man and knew who he was.
- Dan Smith.
No wonder he preyed on Julian’s mind.
‘Tom?’ I turned, and saw Sonia leaning against the doorway. ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘I was having a talk with Julian.’
She gestured over her shoulder. ‘Well, whatever you told him, he practically knocked me down the stairs to get into the bathroom.’ Her eyes moved to the half-empty glass in my hand and the empty one on the desk. ‘How much did he drink?’
‘Wasn’t quite like that,’ I said. ‘Political manoeuvring.’
‘In a bathroom? How industrious.’ She strode into the room, holding out her hand. I handed her the whisky; she sniffed it, then sipped it. ‘Ardbeg,’ she declared. ‘Man has a good taste in booze.’
‘I picked it,’ I said. ‘He’d not opened the bottle.’
‘Ah,’ she said, handing me the glass back. ‘Then I’ve taught you well.’ She noticed the pictures and looked them over. ‘Oh look: T. Dan Smith,’ she declared. ‘Could have done anything else to this city but went with Brutalism. Interesting man to use as a decoration.’
‘Might be a warning for himself.’
‘Or it might be symbolic,’ Sonia countered. ‘And this should be a huge clue to us that we’ll overlook and be shocked later by how obvious it all was.’
‘Mm,’ I said. ‘How much have you had to drink?’
‘Not as much as you. You finishing that whisky?’
I drank the rest of it, barely wincing. ‘I’m not the one trying to turn everything into some seedy political thriller.’
Sonia smiled, walking towards one of the shelves and reaching for a book at random. ‘Ah, but if this was a thriller then I could just pull this book and…’ She tugged the book free. Nothing happened, and she looked at me. ‘Well, the shelf would probably have opened up to reveal a secret room or something.’
‘A secret room containing what in particular?’
‘Piles of gold? Dead body? The real Julian Ashworth, held prisoner and chained to the wall?’
I thought about this for a moment. ‘I think you’ve got your political and gothic thrillers mixed up.’
She held up the book she’d picked up: Coningsby by Disraeli. ‘You don’t think this guy would rather be writing about ruined castles, dastardly plots and young ladies in thin nightgowns?’
‘Might have slightly undermined the outline for New Conservatism he laid out in that novel.’
Sonia looked at me in faint surprise. ‘Did Julian tell you all that?’
‘I was an English student,’ I said, taking the book and putting it back on the shelf. ‘I’ve read the book.’
Sonia nodded. ‘Not just a pretty face, then.’ She turned toward the desk, then pointed a finger at something on its surface. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘The mystery deepens.’
I turned, following her finger. On the desk, amidst what might have been stacks of paper if any attempt had been made to stack them, was a picture in a frame. It was a photograph of two people. One was Julian; he looked about ten years younger, though there might easily have been five years on either side of it. However old he was, he appeared to have the same graceful energy he possessed now, something the dinner jacket he was wearing certainly helped.
Beside him, smiling serenely at the camera, was a woman. She was stunning, dark hair framing an elegant face and deep blue eyes. One arm was linked with Julian’s, the black of her dress and his tuxedo melding together.
‘They look happy,’ I said.
Sonia rolled her eyes. ‘Astounding, Monsieur Poirot; the case is surely solved. Who do you think she is, genius?’
I shrugged. ‘Friend? Partner? Sister?’
She snorted. ‘Sister? Does anyone hold their sister like that?’
‘Wouldn’t know. Don’t have a sister.’
‘Cousin, then? Or is that the way with you fancy British elites: keep the Barrett bloodline pure?’
I gave her a shove, causing an outbreak of giggling. Once she’d composed herself, she shook her head. ‘No. Nobody holds their sister like that. The only hold I used on mine was a full nelson.’
‘So, a girlfriend?’
‘I suppose so.’ She patted me on the shoulder. ‘Bad luck, Tom. And the two of you could have been so happy together.’ The joke was distracted; she was still looking at the photograph. ‘Wonder who she was. Wonder why they’re not still together.’
‘Maybe she’s locked away in the city council basement.’
‘Attic,’ she said. ‘They put mad women in attics, not basements.’
‘She might not be mad.’
She gave a vague nod. ‘That’d work, then.’
The door opened, and Julian stepped back inside. He looked at me first, then with some surprise at Sonia, before his gaze shifted to the framed picture. It was only there for a moment, and then his eyes had moved quickly from it. Sonia turned towards him, and for the first time since I’d met her looked slightly guilty. For a moment, there was a sense of uncertainty in the room, as though neither of them knew quite what to do or say: presumably a rare occasion for both.
‘Any news?’ I asked, more to break the silence than out of real interest.
He gave a slight nod. ‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to wait and see. But it might have done some good.’ I understood that he was being deliberately vague and evasive in front of Sonia: the civilian in the room. She looked at me, puzzled, but didn’t ask about it.
I nodded too, putting my empty glass down and checking my watch. It was past eleven. ‘It’s getting late,’ I said, not sure whether I was talking to Julian or Sonia.
Sonia nodded, stifling a yawn. ‘Yeah, I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’ She looked at me. ‘Taxi? They can drop me off on the way to Gateshead.’
‘Sure.’ I looked over at Julian, wanting to ask whether everything was alright and not quite sure how I could with Sonia in the room. He seemed to know what I was thinking, and he gave me another short nod, smiling this time.
‘Well, thanks for coming, you two. And for sticking around with all of these old boring folks for so long.’
‘Thanks for having us,’ Sonia said, politely. She held out her hand and Julian shook it. ‘It was nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise. Have a safe journey back. Tom, I’ll see you on Monday.’
Sonia was already through the door, but I stopped, turning back to Julian. I thought I might be able to get an idea of what was going on, but Julian apparently had misread my intentions.
‘She was someone from before,’ he said, glancing once again at the photograph. ‘Someone…’ For a moment, I thought that he was about to go on, but then he shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
I couldn’t exactly tell him that I’d not wanted to know about it. In fact, I didn’t have much idea what to say. I settled for a nod, then turned away to join Sonia.
On the stairs, I came across Sonia booking the taxi. ‘It’ll be here in a couple of minutes,’ she said. ‘So, going to spill and tell me what happened, or am I going to have to get you drunk first?’
‘Love the idea of you getting me drunk, to be honest. We can make plans on the way home.’
‘That was more an opportunity for you to tell me everything right now, actually.’
‘Shouldn’t have offered to get me drunk.’
We bickered our way towards the road. As we stood there, waiting, there were suddenly shouts and laughter from one end of the street. We turned, the uproar extremely out of place after the gentle conversation and quiet music of the flat. There was a group of students making their way down the street, swaying slightly as they yelled to each other.
‘God, that brings back some memories,’ Sonia said, reflectively. ‘I didn’t use to head out until this time.’
‘I’m shocked. To think I thought you’d always been a quiet, studious girl.’
She laughed. ‘A quiet studious girl who’d not get home until six in the morning.’
‘Just imagine.’
We quietened as the students drew level with us, lurching past us without a glance on their way towards the city centre. We watched them go, waiting silently for our taxi.
David Spain has completed several novels, a young adult fantasy, an adult science-fiction work, a screenplay for a political horror film, as well as a comedy murder mystery play.
