Chapter Text
The headline says ‘SILNA UP TO NO GOODSIR: LABOUR AND GREEN MP’S SAUCY SEXTS,’ accompanied by a grainy photo of Silna and Harry Goodsir up against a wall. At least, Francis assumes it’s them – it’s dark, just the suggestion of grabbing and hands sliding into hair and the general kinetic energy of kissing – but there’s something about the way the man’s head tilts up that – yes, yes, that earnest inquisitive cock of the head, it’s Goodsir all right. Somehow Francis knows without looking that the instant they parted Goodsir was asking ‘Is that all right? Ought I to be doing something differently?’
And Jaysus, the article’s reproduced texts they’ve written where Goodsir asks that very question, at an hour that Francis is not going to examine, and about something that Francis is absolutely not going to read more about.
He looks up. ‘Why the fuck is this even news? They’re single, last I heard. They can shag each other’s brains out, and it’s nobody’s business but their own.’
‘Number one,’ says Blanky, ‘when has that ever stopped the Mail? Number two, they were using Government property to send each other messages, so you know they’ll argue that means this fuckery’s in the public interest. Read the article.’
The copy purrs ‘If Silna’s got Goodsir on side, no wonder the Greens have been so keen on Labour.’
Francis looks up. ‘He thinks Silna’s doing a – what, a Delilah act? – to get the Green Party onside?’
Blanky shrugs. ‘Fuck knows what the little weasel thinks. It’s what he’s saying.’
‘The Green party,’ says Francis, ‘A grand seduction of the mighty and powerful Green Party. With all … one… of their elected MPs.’
Blanky grins. ‘Every little helps. Hung Parliament, and all that.’
‘Yes, but she isn’t,’ says Francis, ‘helping. Silna doesn’t give a tinker’s fart about the Party line. Everyone knows that.’
‘Hickey does, any road,’ says Blanky, ‘why d’you think he’s suddenly all red-faced about Silna and Goodsir having it off?’ He leans forward. ‘He’s not stopping, Frank.’
Francis sits back, rubbing his forehead. ‘We should talk to Silna. Not easy, your first tabloid smear.’
‘We can talk to her,’ says Blanky, sitting down opposite Francis, ‘but I doubt she’ll be too fussed.’ At Francis’s raised eyebrow, he says ‘Well, she’ll be furious. But it’s Hickey she’ll be furious with. She’s not looking to us to do owt.’ He gives Francis a long look. ‘Should she be?’
Francis meets Blanky’s gaze and sighs. ‘We’ll have a word with Hickey.’
‘Good,’ says Blanky. ‘Gently, mind.’
Francis grins. ‘There’s mixed signals for you. Thought you wanted me to give him what for.’
‘I want you to cut him loose,’ says Blanky. ‘Nothing for him to grab on to, nothing for him to report. Fucker’s still press.’
Francis grunts in acknowledgement.
The promised word doesn’t materialise immediately, or even within a week. Well, it can’t, can it. Francis doesn’t have any way of getting in touch with Hickey, and when Jopson offers to contact the Mail offices Francis waves him away. He’s not about to issue instructions to Hickey over the phone about whatever understanding he thinks they have. He’ll just have to find another way to have that conversation. That conversation, and the no less pressing one with Silna about her voting record. Blanky’s refusing to send in Ned again to put the frighteners on her, and Christ knows the lad’s been about as much use as a paper condom so far, but Silna’s part of Ned’s flock of MPs to keep in line, and the boy’s got to learn.
‘She’s not one for the threats, Frank,’ says Blanky, ‘it’s what you like about her.’
He does like that about her, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing at the moment.
‘We’ll need to do it,’ says Blanky, and Francis grunts. ‘Might be easier once you’ve given Hickey his pink slip. Summat to offer her?’
Francis nods, and Blanky looks at him. ‘Better have that word with him, then, eh?’
‘Fecker’s shy all of a sudden,’ says Francis. Blanky looks at him but doesn’t say anything.
A week later, and Francis is in Stephen’s. The cold snap’s turned out to be less of a snap and more of an early and extended winter, and Francis has found a seat by the bar away from the draught. He was sharing a Badger’s with the Northern Irish MPs, and then Blanky joined him to backslap with the Scottish Labour MPs, and Francis has said the words ‘devolution’ enough that the sounds just slide into each other now, not that it matters when not a man Jack of them can hold his drink, Christ, look at them, they’re fucking plastered.
Blanky’s off home now after offering to call Francis his Ministerial car, but Francis has waved him off. ‘I can take the Tube home,’ he says. He likes knowing the Tube routes home still. There’s a comfort to it, to the chatter of information about engineering works and planned disruptions and bus replacements and the roiling heave of commuters and tourists. Makes him feel like there’s a part of him that’s still … connected. That can still find his way home. Not everyone can say that. Not a one of those plummy toffee-nosed feckers could find their actual way around the city. Scarcely a one of them could find their bare arse with both hands and a compass. Not that that’s seemed to stop them.
He raises two fingers, catches the bartender’s eye and taps his glass. Someone slides into the seat next to him and he looks up.
Ah yes. Of course.
‘Hello, Mr Crozier,’ says Hickey.
Francis says nothing, waiting for his glass to come to him.
‘I’ll have what my friend here’s having,’ says Hickey.
Francis pulls his glass towards him and says nothing.
Hickey waits for his drink to arrive and takes a sip. He lowers his glass and licks his lips, the tip of his tongue flicking out. His little beard gleams in the light.
‘You read the article, Mr Crozier?’ he says. His head’s cocked to one side.
Francis nods, and Hickey’s shoulders straighten. His eyes are brighter.
‘How did you find those messages?’ says Francis.
Hickey smiles demurely. ‘I have my ways, Mr Crozier.’
‘Those were Government machines.’
Hickey smiles again, dimples deepening. ‘I have my ways.’
‘Clearly,’ says Francis mildly, watching Hickey take a sip from his glass, pale lashes fluttering over the rim as his dimples flash.
‘I told you, Mr Crozier,’ says Hickey, ‘I’m good at making people look at true things.’
‘You did tell me that,’ says Francis.
‘She’ll have something to think about now, that Silna,’ says Hickey. ‘She’ll know her place.’
‘Her place?’ says Francis.
Hickey knits his hands together on the counter and leans sideways. ‘Lippy, that one. Throwing her weight about. It’s what she wants, eh, make a bit of a splash? Well, she’s making one now.’
‘She was speaking her mind,’ says Francis, watching Hickey, ‘which is what she was voted in to do.’
Hickey slants Francis up a look. ‘Oh aye,’ he says, ‘speaking her mind all over the place. Thinks she’s the Queen of Sheba and the Second Coming, rolled into one.’ He takes a genteel sip of his whisky. ‘Couldn’t be doing with that, could we?’
‘Could we not,’ says Francis. ‘And that’s why you picked her.’
Hickey has the beginnings of a flush now, pink and excited. ‘She’s a trouble-maker, that one, Mr Crozier. That kind never knows when to stop.’
‘That is a danger, all right,’ says Francis.
‘It is,’ says Hickey, ‘but we’ve sorted her out.’
‘Have we,’ says Francis.
Hickey takes a larger sip and smacks his lips. ‘You’ll see, Mr Crozier,’ he says, ‘anyone’s got a problem with us, they’ll have a thing or two they don’t want being talked about.’
‘And you’re good at making people look at true things,’ says Francis.
Hickey wriggles in his seat and grins. Francis says ‘You know, nobody asked you to dig up dirt on Silna.’
Hickey wrinkles his nose. ‘Didn’t need to be asked. Saw a problem, saw our chance, took it.’
‘You keep saying ‘we’ and ‘our’,’ says Francis.
Hickey looks across at him. ‘She was a problem.’
‘Silna’s an MP who disagreed with the Party line,’ says Francis, ‘it happens. It’s my job to sort it out.’
‘Right,’ says Hickey, ‘that’s why she was a problem for us.’
‘A problem, maybe,’ says Francis, ‘not your problem.’
‘She was in the way,’ says Hickey, a frown creeping between his eyes, ‘I spotted a way to slow her down, and I took it.’
‘She’s a member of my party,’ says Francis, ‘you did a hit piece on a member of my party.’
‘Oh, you think she gives a fuck about parties?’ says Hickey, ‘there wasn’t a thing you could do about it.’
A stillness settles over Francis. ‘The things I couldn’t do about it,’ he says, ‘being spying on her, taking photographs in private moments - ’
‘They were in public, anyone could - ’
‘Stealing personal messages - ’
‘Between her and someone from another Party. She could’ve been saying all sorts - ’
‘From Government property - ’
‘You needed me!’
Francis puts his glass down. ‘I am going to contact the Mail, Mr Hickey,’ he says. ‘Your editor. He’s the one who gave you all this rope, and he’s got to be the one who hangs you with it. I am going to ask for an apology - ’
‘An apology?’ says Hickey. He looks stunned, like a small animal receiving an unexpected kick, and Francis sets his teeth. ‘For what? To whom?’
‘An apology to Silna,’ says Francis, ‘and now to me. And you’re asking me for what? You just gave me my pick, there, Mr Hickey.’
‘I just saved your career!’
Francis bares his teeth. ‘An apology and a fine, then.’
‘You were getting nowhere with her before I - ’
‘As high a fine as the courts will tolerate.’
‘If it hadn’t been for me, you’d - ’
‘Keep talking, Mr Hickey, go on.’
Hickey’s lips snap shut. His face is very pale and his eyes are blazing. He rises and twines his scarf around his neck.
‘You’ll want to pay for your drink,’ says Francis.
Hickey stiffens. He reaches for his wallet and slaps down a tenner, eyes on Francis. He steps away from his seat, turns on his heel and walks out.
‘You were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off,’ says Blanky, when Francis tells him. His Michael Caine impression’s irritatingly good.
‘You wanted me to give him the push,’ says Francis.
‘Gently, I said,’ says Blanky. ‘You think you’ll get the fine?’
Francis grunts. ‘The Mail’d rather pay that than apologise, they say.’
‘Well, that’s some - ’
‘I want both, Tom. I’ll not settle for one or the other. You saw what they did to Silna.’
Blanky cocks his head. ‘And it’s Silna pushing for both, is it?’
Francis doesn’t answer.
The Crown Prosecution Service whacks the Mail with a £100,000 fine, which they pay – eventually – with a squawk that can be heard from space. Francis holds firm on the apology, and – at considerable length – one is forthcoming from Hickey. Personally, at Francis’s insistence. Or at any rate, Hickey’s column does contain the word ‘sorry’, even if it’s immediately followed by ‘for any offence caused’. And even if the Mail has three separate columns in the same paper sneering at political correctness gone mad, and Red Labour coming for red-blooded British free speech.
‘We’re joined by the Government’s Chief Whip, Francis Crozier,’ says Stephen Stanley, ‘who’s at the centre of a raging controversy about censorship.’
Francis snorts. ‘The Mail’d be a sight less fussed about censorship if I asked for what Hickey really deserves.’
‘Which is - ?’
‘What’s the punishment for breaking and entering?’ says Francis. ‘Distribution of images that don’t belong to you?’
Stanley considers him. ‘I see,’ he says. ‘You’ve certainly given the press something to think about.’
‘The Mail’s always got something to be hysterical about,’ says Francis.
‘Hardly just the Mail,’ says Stanley. ‘Here, from the Spectator: ‘LABOUR CHIEF WHIP SHOULD STICK TO HIS OWN JOB’. From the Telegraph: ‘LABOUR CENSORSHIP GONE AMOK’. The Guardian has two separate op-eds about Labour’s flirtation with censorship.’
‘Jaysus,’ says Francis. He has a headache and he doubts Stanley will be minded to take him to the BBC Club, which means he’ll have to take his chances with the yuppies at the Horse and Groom. Christ, why did he agree to come here? ‘And anyway, little wankstain deserves a flogging. He’s lucky he gets away with a muzzle that’ll come off in seconds.’
There’s a silence during which Stanley gives him a long, cool stare through his nostrils. ‘I see,’ he says. ‘Well, Minister, you’ve given us a rare spectacle indeed: something the Mail and the Guardian can agree on. I’m sure you’re delighted to be the thing they’re agreed on.’
‘Christ,’ says Francis to Blanky later, ‘they were happy enough to gloat over the fine and tut-tut over the Mail’s privacy violations. And now look at them. You’d think I’d backed a train over the family pet, Christ. As though there’s a one of them would piss on Hickey if he were on fire.’
‘It’s the press,’ says Blanky, ‘They stick together, the job lot of ‘em. You know that. You’re making them twitchy with this fine and apology business.’
‘Let ‘em twitch,’ says Francis. ‘Nothing to us.’
‘It is if it’s us they’re twitching at,’ says Blanky.
‘It’s part of the job,’ says Francis.
‘It is,’ says Blanky, ‘though now it’s a bigger part than it need be, mind.’
Francis doesn’t reply.
‘Fishery and Aquaculture Bill’s on the docket for the twenty-eighth,’ says Blanky.
‘That it is,’ says Francis.
‘Funny thing, though,’ says Blanky, ‘overheard one of the other lot making plans for a vote on the twenty-ninth.’ He throws Francis a look. ‘Wouldn’t know anything about that, would we?’
Francis shrugs. ‘The Aristocunts have a day wrong on their docket.’
Blanky cackles. ‘The looks on their faces when they find out, eh?’
Francis grins.
‘Well,’ says Blanky, ‘thank fuck it’s our job to tell ‘em, aye?’ He looks at Francis and cocks his head. ‘When d’you want to do it?’
Francis takes a long sip of his whisky and says nothing.
‘Frank?’
‘If they come to us,’ says Francis, ‘we’ll tell them. They’ll figure it out in time.’
‘In time,’ says Blanky, ‘but that’s a day less for them to get their lot in for the vote.’
Francis shrugs. ‘Not our fault they can’t count, is it?’
Blanky laughs, but there’s a frown in his eyes.
‘Sit you down, Silna,’ says Francis. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
Silna eyes the clock on the wall and shakes her head. Francis shrugs and pours himself a whisky. It’s four on a Thursday. Christ knows there’ll be bums in seats enough in the pubs that Francis would likely have to take his chances standing outside. ‘Tea, then?’
‘I’m fine,’ says Silna, ‘thank you.’
‘Ah now, you’ll not let a man drink by himself,’ says Francis, ‘you’re not so hard-hearted.’
Silna looks at him for a long moment and says ‘Tea, then.’
Francis claps his hands together. ‘Tom, can you get Silna some tea?’
Tom Jopson vanishes and reappears with eldritch speed.
‘Milk, two sugars, right?’ he says, and Silna nods.
‘Thanks,’ she says, taking the cup from him.
‘Now, then, Silna,’ says Francis, ‘you’ll be wanting to know what we did about Hickey.’
‘No,’ says Silna.
‘He apologised,’ says Francis, ‘I’ll show you the article.’
‘No, you’re all right,’ says Silna.
‘You’ll have seen the fine the Mail got,’ says Francis. Silna shakes her head.
‘Hundred grand,’ says Blanky. Silna nods. There’s a silence.
Blanky clears his throat and says ‘We wanted to talk about your voting record, Silna.’
Silna says nothing. Blanky says ‘What do you need?’
‘What do I need to do what?’
‘The Works Bill,’ says Francis, ‘what’ll it take for you to support it?’
‘Vocally,’ says Blanky, ‘bring in your little band of Merry Men.’
‘What’ll it take?’ says Silna. ‘It’ll take a completely different Bill.’
Blanky grins. ‘All right,’ he says, ‘that’s your opening bid, then.’
‘No opening bid,’ says Silna, ‘no bid at all. I’m not voting for that Bill.’
Francis says ‘Look, Silna, we just need to get through this bit in the Session, and then - ’
‘And then?,’ says Silna. ‘And then what? Then we make way for another Bill cutting off another public service? So we can make way for another shaving away something else for pensioners or single working mothers or asylum-seekers? And then another, then another, then another?’
Blanky says ‘All that training on the picket-lines come in handy, then.’
‘Silna,’ says Francis, ‘we need to keep the other lot out. I’ll not argue with you, or trade words. It’s as simple as that. We need to find a way to keep. Them. Out.’
‘Why?’
Blanky and Francis exchange a glance. ‘Why?’ says Francis. ‘What do you mean, why?’
‘I mean why?’ says Silna. ‘Why, when you’re just the same as them?’
‘Ah, Jaysus,’ says Francis, ‘don’t give me that. That’s child’s talk, and you know it.’
‘It’s not,’ says Silna. ‘This Bill, the spending cuts for the doctors before the election, it’s nothing the Tories wouldn’t do.’
‘They’re fighting us because they don’t think we go far enough,’ says Francis. ‘Come on, now.’
‘And then what will you do?’ says Silna. ‘Roll over? Give them what they want?’
‘Now listen - ’ says Blanky, but Silna is leaning forward.
‘You bring me in here,’ she says, ‘to threaten me, or give me carpets for my office, or season tickets to the football, or whatever else you’re bribing the others with. You twist people’s arms, you push and pull, you make them sell out their constituents, you risk them losing their seats because they stuck with the party and not the people who voted for them, and you don’t even want to be here.’
‘What are you talking ab - ’
‘You don’t,’ she says. ‘You’re just sitting there, pushing these … pieces of paper … and you’re letting them get worse. You’re letting him get worse. John Ross.’
‘Silna - ’
‘It’s sleepwalking,’ she says, ‘the Party, and you’re letting it. You don’t even care what you’re pushing. You haven’t cared since - ’
‘Careful now,’ says Francis.
‘James Ross,’ says Silna. ‘And he can make his choices and you can make yours, but why can’t I do the same? Why are you taking your incel funk out on us?’
The door slams open and Fitzjames strides in, brandishing a sheaf of papers like a flaming sword. ‘Francis, I need a word.’
‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ says Francis. ‘Not now, Fitzjames.’
‘Yes, now,’ says Fitzjames.
‘I’m in a meeting, Fitzjames.’
‘I’m sorry, Silna,’ says Fitzjames,‘but I’m afraid it can’t wait. Francis.’
Silna is still looking at Francis, and he is violently disinclined to meet her gaze, or the other accusing dark eyes raking him over. And then Blanky says ‘Get out, Jimbo, and knock.’
There’s a pause. ‘Knock?’ says Fitzjames.
‘Knock,’ says Blanky. ‘They’ll have taught you that at Eton, I expect. You put your knuckles to the wood, like so - ’ and he raps on the table, ‘till it makes a sound. We’ll let you in, don’t fret.’
Fitzjames gapes at them, still clutching his precious paper. He turns to look at Francis, who looks back with a cocked eyebrow. Finally Fitzjames, with a muttered ‘For God’s sake’, turns on his heel, shuts the door behind him with exaggerated care, and knocks.
Blanky shoots Francis a look. ‘What’s this about, then?’
Francis shrugs. ‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘I might,’ says Blanky, and sighs. ‘Right, Silna. We’ll be seeing you, then.’
‘Probably,’ she says, ‘I’ve not changed my mind.’
‘We’ll definitely be seeing you then,’ says Blanky. ‘Just … think about what we said, yeah?’
Silna shrugs. ‘Ta for the tea,’ she says, and makes for the door. Fitzjames stands aside politely to let her leave, and then raises his hand to beat a deeply put-upon tattoo on the door.
‘Who is it?’ says Blanky, dulcetly.
‘For God’s sake, both of you.’
Blanky cackles. ‘All right, all right, come in.’
Fitzjames storms in and slams his sheaf on the desk. ‘The docket,’ he announces without preamble, and Blanky shoots Francis a look. ‘The second reading of the Fishery and Aquaculture Bill.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s on the docket for the twenty-eighth.’
‘That it is.’
Fitzjames takes a breath. ‘We had it as the twenty-ninth.’
‘Really?’ Francis looks at Blanky with eyes as grotesquely wide as he can make them. ‘That’s funny. Still, what’s a day, eh?’
‘What’s a – Francis, did you know about this?’
Ah for Christ’s sake, thinks Francis, you know I knew. Why would you be bursting in here, all flashing eyes and floating hair, if not to give out to me?
He raises his head and says ‘Not our fault if you can’t get your lot in on time.’
‘There’s an agreement to notify the other side if there’s an error, Francis - ’
‘Oh, an agreement, is it?’ says Francis. ‘An agreement to follow you with a mop and a bucket because your lot can’t be arsed to count?’
Fitzjames has two scarlet spots on his thin cheeks. ‘You’re happy enough to make use of gentleman’s agreements when they suit your purposes,’ he says. ‘How often have you needed us to pair your sick or your can’t-be-bothered?’ He looks ostentatiously down at the glass by Francis’s elbow. ‘Or your drunk?’
Francis’s head snaps up. ‘Well in that case, then,’ he says, ‘we’ll not be troubling you with that any further.’
‘Francis,’ Blanky says, but Francis is looking at Fitzjames.
‘No more pairing.’
Fitzjames is standing very still. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I’m serious,’ says Francis, ‘You think you’re doing me a favour? Get out, and take your charity with you.’
‘Francis, it’s an ancient tradition, you can’t - ’
‘Get out,’ says Francis, ‘get out of my office.’
There’s a silence. Fitzjames shoots Blanky a look, and Blanky motions him away. When the door shut he turns to Francis. ‘Frank, look - ’
‘Go on with you,’ says Francis, ‘and tell Stockton he’ll need to be coming in after all.’
‘He hasn’t been feeling well - ’
‘We can’t pair him. So he’ll have to come in.’
There’s a pause, and then Blanky’s shoulders drop. ‘Yes, Chief,’ he says.