Ten Days. Gillian Slovo

       Friday

       5.30 a.m.

      When Cathy heard the front door closing, she stormed out into the hall: ‘Where the hell have you been?’

      Lyndall, who’d been intent on laying her keys softly down on the table, jumped.

      ‘I asked you a question. Where have you been?’

      ‘But I left a note.’

      ‘Yes, and I saw your bed was empty long before I found your note. Why did you sneak out like that?’

      ‘I wrote you I was with Jayden.’

      ‘Jayden’s turned into a bodyguard, has he?’ She heard her voice rising.

      ‘We weren’t in danger, Mum. It was getting light.’

      ‘Getting light! Getting light! You think that’s going to keep you safe from . . .’ And now she heard a voice inside telling her to stop it. ‘From . . .’

      ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I heard you up and down all night, so when I saw you were sleeping, I didn’t want to wake you.’

      Hearing how shaky Lyndall sounded, Cathy calmed down. And it was true, she had had a terrible night. Every time she’d closed her eyes she’d been assailed by images – of Ruben’s head lolling back, or of his slack body being worked on by the paramedics, or of that sheet covering a face that no longer looked like his.

      ‘It’s not your morning to be at work,’ Lyndall said. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed?’

      ‘I can’t. Ruben’s parents need support. And we have to discuss how we’re going to deal with this.’

      ‘Go and have a shower, then. I’ll make breakfast. In times of stress you need to eat,’ said with such sweet sincerity that it drove off the last of Cathy’s aggravation.

      She touched her daughter gently on the cheek. ‘Who’s the mother here, missie?’

      ‘Well, I am the better cook.’

      ‘That’s not hard, is it? Tea would be lovely.’

      ‘Don’t worry, Mum, don’t sweat it. Go take that shower.’

       6 a.m.

      If this bloody heat goes on much longer, Peter thought, I’ll have to take up residence in the shower. Trying to ignore the dark pooling under his arms, he looked down at the list Patricia had drawn up for him.

      As ever, she’d done a thorough job, but knowing how the slightest miscalculation might galvanise the other side or, worse, open the way for a compromise candidate to steal his prize, he was going to check it again. He considered phoning Patricia and asking her to do it with him. But no: she worked so hard. Leave her to her beauty sleep.

      She’d divided their MPs into three categories: unquestionably for him, unquestionably against him, and a middle group – by far the largest – of the undecided or the unknown. These were the ones he and his team needed to work on. And all before the recess. It was going to be a tough nine days.

      He looked down at the separate columns. There were names of MPs with whom he’d grown up politically, or bonded with on his first day in the House, or plotted with or against, as well as names of MPs who had driven him mad or to laughter, or those whose late-night camaraderie helped him bear the frustrations of political life – all of them now reduced to three categories: for, against or unknown.

      That it should come to this.

      The prospect of what he knew he had to do, and not the heat, was what was making him sweat. Now it drove him from his desk.

      The milky light of dawn had hardened – soon the relentless sun would burn off any nuance. Then the green-carpeted corridors would be full of the people who oiled the wheels of Parliament. But for this moment the House was empty. Nowhere to go and nobody to talk to. He would take a stroll, he thought, before going back to stare at that blasted list.

      He walked along the Lower Ministers’ corridor and pushed through the double doors of the Chamber, going round the Speaker’s Chair and into the Chamber proper. Odd to be there when those green benches were empty of the members and the hubbub they created. Odd also to have come this way by the opposition benches. He looked over the line to where he usually sat and thought that if things went well, he’d soon be two paces to the right, directly behind the dispatch box. And responsible for everything. A shiver of anticipation ran down his spine.

      I’ll wash my face, he thought, and then get on. Leaving the Chamber, he made his way to the nearest toilet, going straight over to a basin. He switched on the tap and, lowering his head, splashed his face with water before running his wrists under the tap, sighing with the relief of it.

      He was about to splash his face again when he heard a sound. Someone groaning? He switched off the tap.

      Nothing.

      Must have been the antique plumbing system, protesting at this early use. He turned on the tap again and cupped his hands. He was in the process of lowering his head when someone – it was a human sound, not mechanical – groaned again.

      ‘Are you all right?’

      No answer. But he hadn’t imagined the sound. It had come from one of the stalls.

      He walked along the line-up, gingerly pushing each door in turn. They swung open, empty, until the last, which, although it wasn’t locked, resisted his push. He pressed against it harder.

      ‘Watch it, you bastard. That’s my leg.’

      He knew that voice. He craned his head around the door to see Albion Hind, member for one of the Midlands constituencies. Albion was half on and half off the lavatory, and his eyes were shut.

      ‘Albion, it’s Peter.’ At least the man’s trousers were still up.

      Albion groaned.

      ‘Are you ill?’

      A ginger opening of one eye. ‘Do I look ill?’

      Never the most picturesque of men, Albion looked not so much ill as really awful. His nose was habitually bulbous and reddened from drink, and that long strand of greasy hair that had flopped away from the bald patch it was meant to conceal didn’t help. All as usual. What was new, however, particularly so early in the morning, was the mess of gravy or dark vomit that stained his shirt.

      A revolting sight. Peter was half tempted to back off, close the door and leave Albion to his own devices. ‘Let’s get you out of here,’ he said.

      ‘You and whose army?’ Albion’s eyelids shuttered down.

      ‘Shift.’ Peter pushed at the door.

      Albion groaned, but he did inch away from the door, allowing Peter to widen the gap and squeeze in. Not much room to manoeuvre, but he eventually managed to bend over the fallen man. He was assailed by the mix of stale tobacco, soured alcohol and vomit so toxic that it took an effort of will not to rear away. He concentrated on breathing exclusively through his mouth. ‘Lift your arms.’ He pushed his own arms under Albion’s, linking them at the other’s back, and then, saying, ‘Upsy’, he hauled Albion to his feet.

      ‘I want to stay here,’ Albion groaned.

      ‘To be spotted by the other side? Or, worse, by a bastard from the lobby? I think not.’

      He turned them both round, using a knee to push Albion, and that way manoeuvred the other man, crab-like, out of the stall and over to a wall. ‘Stay here.’