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Chapter Text

‘… And that’s Corby gone as well,’ says Tom Blanky.

Francis raises a glass of his Badger’s in acknowledgement. Not his first of the night, and it certainly won’t be his last.

‘… And, as Corby falls to the Conservative Party, John Ross will have to be asking himself some tough questions now,’ says David Dimbleby on screen. ‘Or they’ll be asked of him at the next Labour party conference.’

‘Questions like ‘Why in fuck’s name did you ever think you could run a piss-up in a brewery, let alone a political party?’’ says Blanky.

‘Birthright,’ says Francis. ‘He was born to it, remember?’

‘I was born shitting myself,’ says Blanky, ‘I have a right to do that, an’ all.’

‘Well, so has John,’ says Francis, and is rewarded with a long cackle.

It’ll be last orders soon enough. Stephen’s will, at some point, gently suggest that they move on. Francis and Blanky will make their way to Blanky’s mysteriously comfortable house in Mile End. Blanky will greet Esther with a smacking kiss and Esther will offer them blisteringly hot and very strong tea. Francis will watch them with an orphan’s hunger and a drunk’s mawkishness. They will sit glued to the BBC and wake up mumbling electoral margins from Finchley or Chester-le-Street.

Not a bad night out.

Well, I mean, yes, it’s a terrible night out, but.

‘John’s talking to Stanley,’ says Blanky, elbowing Francis awake.

‘Ah, Jaysus,’ says Francis, ‘could no one hide the fecker’s trousers or something?’

‘Wouldn’t stop him,’ says Blanky, and Francis groans in agreement.

John Ross is a man beloved of political cartoonists and, as far as Francis can tell, precisely nobody else. He comes from money, old money and lots of it, but money used to build schools and orphanages and fund Fabian Socialist pamphlets and, eventually, Labour political dynasties. He bullied and jostled his way into the Labour leadership five years ago and the party was too startled to protest. They’ve been wincing their way through every bye-election and debate ever since.

To this day Francis doesn’t know why Ross chose the Labour party – he can think of five Tory politicians off the top of his head who lean more noticeably left than he does. But then, Ross seems to have utterly bypassed his Beatrice-Webb-quoting, Quakerish forebears, and thrown himself back to fiefdoms and blood feuds. Ross doesn’t love the Labour party so much as he wants the Tories’ heads on a stick. Which is a perspective Francis can agree with, but politically it’s not of much use.

It’s certainly not much protection against Stephen Stanley, formerly a cardiothoracic surgeon who was spotted at a fundraising dinner and eased into the BBC through stints on the News Quiz commenting on NHS policies, then a guest spot on Have I Got News For You, before flowering to a coveted spot on Newsnight. A former colleague, when asked about this startling abandonment of a promising surgical career, said he hadn’t been surprised. ‘Stephen always liked cutting people,’ he said, ‘and now there’ll be much less fuss when they die.’

‘Welcome to Newsnight’s Election Special,’ says Stanley, ‘where we currently find Labour’s electoral prospects lying, prone and twitching, on a fishmonger’s slab.’

‘Not his best,’ says Blanky critically.

‘Doesn’t need to be his best,’ says Francis.

‘We’re joined by John Ross,’ continues Stanley, ‘Prime Minister and Labour party leader.’ He pauses and smiles thinly before continuing ‘for now.’

Ross’s smile has stayed fixed on his face, but even his moustache appears to be edging away from it. ‘I shall continue to be the Prime Minister and Labour party leader.’

‘On what basis do you make this prediction?’

Ross says ‘In turbulent times, the party knows it needs strong leadership.’

‘Yes,’ says Stanley, ‘whom did you have in mind?’

‘Now, see here - ’

‘… Oh,’ says Stanley, after a long slow blink, ‘I see.’

‘Now, see here - ’

‘Prime Minister,’ says Stanley, ‘how would you say the election is going?’ Ross opens his mouth and Stanley says ‘To clarify, I mean for the Labour party.’

A vein starts beating on Ross’s forehead. ‘I know what you meant.’

‘That’s one comfort,’ says Stanley, ‘and well?’

‘He knows,’ says Blanky, ‘that he doesn’t have to react to every single one of Stanley’s little pokes, right?’

Francis grunts and reaches for his glass. On screen, Ross is saying ‘Stephen, I’m proud of all that we’ve accomplished, and at the end of the night, I think the voters will reward the bold direction – ‘

‘Spending cuts,’ says Stanley, ‘Pay freezes for junior doctors.’

Ross coughs. ‘Stephen, we are running a ballooning deficit, and steps need to be taken.’

‘Slashes to fuel subsidies for people on fixed incomes during the coldest winter on record, for example.’

‘We all,’ says Ross, taking refuge in huffiness, ‘need to tighten our belts when times are hard.’

‘Not the MPs, apparently,’ says Stanley. ‘The party put forward a motion to give yourselves a 10% salary increase.’

‘That is a perfectly reasonable - ’

‘At a time when care workers are earning significantly less than a living wage.’

Ross bristles. ‘This is precisely the sort of oversimplification I have come to expect from the biased BBC. You cannot take – take apples, and compare them to – to –‘

‘Oranges,’ says Blanky, ‘Jesus, John, oranges, you have to have heard of them, you’re not a tenth century sailor. Oranges. Fucking oranges.’

Francis drains his glass as he watches Ross visibly ransack his memory for a fruit – any fruit, or possibly anything edible – that is not an apple, and just as visibly come up short.

‘A completely different kind of apple,’ finishes Ross.

‘I promise you, Prime Minister,’ says Stanley, ‘I am under no illusions that any one of your MPs is remotely the same sort of … apple … as a junior doctor. I do want to know how you think you are going to govern.’

‘We are going to govern,’ says Ross. ‘Yes, we have had to take some difficult decisions during difficult times, but the people will respond to a firm hand.’

‘I’d say they are responding, yes,’ says Stanley, ‘Labour’s lost 67 seats so far, 60 of them to the Conservative party.’

‘Stephen, when the dust settles, I am convinced that the British people will say, with one voice, that it is Labour’s vision for the country that will prevail.’

‘Will it,’ says Stanley. ‘Prime Minister, Labour stands at 280 seats, and the Conservatives at 276. 22 constituencies are left to declare their results. Mathematically no possible path to a majority, and ample opportunity for the Conservatives to overtake you. So, I ask again, how do you think you are going to govern?’

Every individual hair in Ross’s moustache seems to be bristling in a different direction. ‘The Tories don’t have a way to a majority either.’

‘No,’ says Stanley, ‘but they are closer than they were in 2005.’ He pauses and takes a sip of water. ‘The year you took over the leadership.’

‘Tenner says he’s gonna say ‘Now see here’ again,’ says Francis.

‘Piss off, no one’s taking that bet,’ says Blanky easily, and sure enough the fatal words puff themselves past Ross’s moustache.

‘Are you saying it’s a coincidence that Labour has been haemorrhaging support since you took over the leadership, Prime Minister?’

‘This is exactly the sort of slant I’d expect from the biased BBC.’

‘Do you disagree that you’re losing seats, or that this loss has followed your becoming the leader of the party?’

‘I disagree,’ says Ross, ‘with the way you’re putting it.’

‘Putting,’ says Stanley, ‘which?’

Ross, distinctly puce, says ‘It is precisely this sort of hostile media environment that makes it impossible to get any real change done.’

Stanley considers Ross in silence for a good twenty seconds before asking ‘And is that your explanation of Labour’s performance tonight?’

‘When the dust settles - ’

‘When the dust settles, Prime Minister, you will still be short of a majority. Now, if Labour is invited to form a government, will you shore up your deeply underwhelming numbers with support from other parties?’

‘We will,’ says Blanky, ‘because we don’t have a fucking choice.’

Francis says nothing. On screen, Ross says ‘I’m sure you’d like me to answer that, Stephen.’

‘It is why I asked, yes.’

Ross says ‘Well, look, Stephen, I’m sure you’d, you’d, you’d like to rush me into an answer, but we need to take a number of factors into consideration - ’

‘Is one of those factors basic arithmetic?’

‘Now see here - ’

‘A simple question, Prime Minister. If you end the night the largest party, is Labour open to forming a coalition with the Liberal Democrats?’

‘Yes, all right,’ says Ross, ‘I heard you the first time.’

‘Will you answer me the second time?’

‘He’s going to say no coalition,’ says Francis.

There’s a pause and Blanky says ‘He bloody is, isn’t he?’

‘I am confident in the mandate Labour will secure from the people, Stephen, and - ’

‘Yes or no, Prime Minister.’

‘If you’ll let me finish - ’

‘I’m trying to get you to begin, Prime Minister.’

‘I’m sure you’d like nothing more than to, to bully me into an answer, but - ’

‘I would, Prime Minister, but as we’re running out of time - ’

‘We have no need of the Liberal Democrats,’ says Ross.

There is a pause while Stanley surveys him. ‘I disagree,’ he says, ‘but thank you for your candour, Prime Minister.’

Blanky switches off the TV and slumps back in his seat. ‘That’s torn it.’

Francis looks at Blanky. ‘We’ll have to talk to James.’

‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ says James. They’re sitting in his drawing room, afternoon light flooding in and giving James a blazing halo. Ann had welcomed them with a sympathetic press of hands, and then disappeared tactfully.

Francis looks at Blanky. ‘Sorry?’

James puts down his teacup and looks at Francis. ‘I’ve told Uncle John I don’t want a Cabinet position, even if we manage to squeak in.’

‘What?’

James leans forward. ‘I promised Ann I’d ease out.’

Francis holds James’s gaze as the words come at him. ‘She said, when I asked her – she said it’s not what she wanted. I told you.’

‘But she said yes,’ says Francis, and winces at how the words sound: petulant, pleading, the voice of a frightened child. ‘She said. Yes.’

‘She did,’ says James, ‘if I agreed to pull back.’

Francis can feel Blanky’s eyes on him, but he can’t look anywhere but at James. ‘And you agreed.’

‘I agreed,’ says James, ‘Of course I agreed. Come on now, Frank.’

Of course James agreed, thinks Francis. Of course he did. Francis was there the day James had met Ann, at some hideous send-off for some Tory grandee. Francis doesn’t remember why they were invited. Childishly, he wishes they hadn’t been. Maybe if they hadn’t gone … or if Ann hadn’t come. Dr Ann Coulman, lovely and accomplished and kind.  Ann Coulman, daughter of the august and severe Tom Coulman, Home Secretary for five years and rumoured for the top job before illness meant he had to step down.

Francis had seen James’s head snap around, had watched him put down the plate of soggy vol-au-vents he’d been dallying with and go over to her. Had watched him smooth his hand nervously over his curls and thought Jaysus.

Had watched James’s head bend, had watched the blush march across his cheeks and down to his neck. Had watched Ann look at him. Had watched the shape of her mouth and the tilt of her head. Had allowed Blanky to drag him away but kept an eye and an ear cocked for James. Had let Blanky waggle his eyebrows at him on James’s return and refused to watch his reaction. Had listened to the near-giggle that escaped James and thought Oh.

Ann had been torn about James. Oh, she liked him – she liked him very much, people tended to like James very much – but she knew about him too. His meteoric rise. His prospects in the Party. James was headed for the big one, she knew that, and she knew what the big one – the wanting of it, the waiting for it – had done to her father, and perhaps more pertinently what it had done to her mother.

Francis remembers the night James turned up at his doorstep, pale and sunken-eyed, fists jammed into his pockets. A long night, silent and drenched with all Francis’s whisky, then all his beer, then finally even the oversweet sherry someone had brought and that Francis had never thrown away. He remembers the hangover. He remembers venturing a hand on James’s shoulder, and the watery but resolute smile he’d received. He remembers dragging James with him to meetings with the Transport Workers’ Union. He remembers the two of them propping up a bar while they argued the mechanics of the deal between the bus network bosses. He remembers James’s shoulder bumping against his as they staggered back to James’s house (Francis’s house? Someone’s house) and flopped onto the sofa. He remembers another hangover, and James tossing a cushion at his head in the morning to wake him for coffee.

He remembers that they tried to stay away from each other, James and Ann. He remembers that they failed. He remembers plans to watch the footie cancelled because Ann’s shifts at the hospital had been unexpectedly rearranged. He remembers Ann’s warm smile and her ‘The famous Francis Crozier!’ He remembers the light in James’s eyes as he looked between Ann and Francis. He remembers the first time Ann opened the door to James’s flat. He remembers her glad bright smile, and the effort it took to summon one in response. He remembers the first time Ann said ‘You must stay, I’ll make the bed in the guest room’, and telling himself she was nice, so nice, such a lovely woman. He remembers the time Blanky and James and he spent in James’s new house in Blackheath, shanghaied into painting the kitchen because James wanted to surprise Ann when she was done with her 36-hour on-call shift. He remembers Blanky saying ‘fuck this for a laugh’ and buggering off after a few hours. He remembers a day spent arguing over the precise shade of yellow James had chosen. He remembers laughing till he couldn’t stand upright anymore. He remembers that was the last time he’d had so much of James to himself. Then he remembers Ann coming home and her peal of incredulous, gratified laughter. He remembers James and Ann holding hands. He remembers muttering something about meeting Tom and looking for his coat. He remembers that Ann begged him to stay and that James said ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Frank.’

‘I thought she understood,’ says Francis.

James sighs. ‘She tried, Frank. But – look, you remember the steel workers’ bill?’

Francis does. He remembers long nights spent making calls and twisting arms to work in pension protection for steel workers with James’s head bent over the paper, steadfast and intent. He remembers Ann softly placing sandwiches down on the table between them. A nice woman. A lovely woman. In that moment, all things had seemed possible.

‘Two months, Francis. Two months where it was all I could talk about. One week of me and you and Tom at our kitchen table.’

‘Yes,’ says Francis. In that moment, all things had seemed possible.

‘Good work for two months, that,’ says Blanky. ‘Got what we wanted, eh?’

James smiles. ‘We did. But it was two months of treating Ann like my housekeeper. Essie wouldn’t stand for it, would she?’

Blanky laughs. ‘Our Essie wouldn’t stand for a pile of things she does stand for. Makes me pay in the end, mind.’

‘I’m glad she does,’ says James. ‘I don’t think I could afford Ann’s price, though.’

He’s paying it, though, thinks Francis. James Clark Ross, political lightning in a bottle. Handsome James, principled James, James who can get a miner to laugh and an earl to listen because he went to school with his son, James who could have taken it, taken the top job and done something with it, something that mattered, James who –

Well.

It doesn’t matter what James would or could have done. What matters is that, in this moment, it’s not enough.

‘Maybe if we talked to her,’ says Blanky, ‘your uncle’s killing us, James.’

‘Leave it, Tom,’ says Francis.

‘Maybe just for another year - ’

‘Leave it, Tom.’

Francis can feel James’s eyes on him, and he looks down at his teacup. ‘Right, then,’ he says, ‘best be off.’

‘Frank,’ says James, ‘you know it’s the right thing.’

Francis looks up at James and manages a smile. ‘All right,’ he says.

Outside, Blanky turns to Francis. ‘You all right, there?’

Francis shrugs.

‘You wouldn’t even try.’

‘No point,’ says Francis. ‘He’s not an idiot. He knows his uncle. If we – it – mattered to him - ’

‘It matters to him, Frank,’ says Blanky.

‘Not enough,’ says Francis.

Blanky looks at him for a long moment before sighing. ‘He’s missing out on some excitement.’

‘He is that,’ says Francis. ‘Anywhere we can get a pint here isn’t overrun with yuppies?’

Blanky grins and Francis can see him flicking through a mental catalogue of proper Old Man boozers and sea dog haunts. ‘This way.’

‘Sure about this?’

‘Not a goat’s cheese tartlet in sight, cross my heart.’

He’s in a different pub (one which not only does goat’s cheese tartlets but boasts the best baked Camembert and pickled trompettes this side of the Channel) when he runs into Sophia – or, rather, as he suspects, Sophia runs into him.

She sits down opposite him, beautiful and precise as a scalpel. Francis still feels a baffled pang when he sees her, loss combined with a sliver of doubt that he ever had her in the first place.

‘Hello, Francis,’ she says, eyes lingering on the whisky in his hand. Francis meets her gaze and lifts the glass to his lips. Typical of Sophia to reserve the right to censor what he puts into his body long after handing him a neatly-packed box of his things with a brisk, kindly ‘We both know this isn’t working, Francis.’

‘James says he’s phasing out of politics,’ she says.

Francis nods. Sophia watches him for a while before saying ‘And Ross? What’s the plan there?’

‘Don’t know,’ says Francis, ‘Blanky’s problem.’

Sophia’s eyes narrow. ‘Blanky’s problem?’

‘Not mine anyway,’ says Francis. ‘thinking of calling it quits myself.’

‘Oh?’ says Sophia. ‘And do what?’

Francis shrugs. He wishes he were the sort of person whom drink loosened, made slapdash and giddy, but this – this peaty fog which all words must struggle through to reach him – this will do. ‘I’ll figure it out.’

‘I asked you,’ says Sophia, ‘I used to ask you if you’d consider it.’

She did, thinks Francis. Every new client of hers that had needed to be screened, every tense whispered argument, every potential conflict of interest, until finally Sophia had asked why it was that her career needed to be fenced-off and cordoned, as though she were the plague-carrier between the two of them and not Francis. Especially on the nights when Francis was fending off backbenchers and trade unionists because John Fucking Ross had taken a great feudal shit on them from a great feudal height.

‘The way you looked at me…’ says Sophia, and her lips twitch into a smile of genuine amusement, ‘I should’ve known what would make you do it.’

‘I’m tired, Sophie,’ says Francis, ‘I’m tired of being the last person who cares.’

Sophia sighs. ‘You’re not the last person who cares, Francis. My uncle does.’

‘Franklin?’

Sophia Cracroft comes from a long and unbroken line of Tory Party stalwarts, including John Franklin, Tory Party Chief Whip. Francis has never entirely rid himself of the suspicion that she only ever spared him a second glance because of the look on her uncle’s face.

‘They can sense blood in the water, you know,’ says Sophia.

‘That’s no compliment to your uncle’s nose,’ says Francis, ‘you’d need to be dead not to.’

‘Well, the point is they can,’ says Sophia, ‘including my Uncle John.’

Francis thinks that British politics would be a fuck of a lot more bearable without other people’s Uncles John.

‘John Franklin hasn’t the nous,’ he says, ‘I’d worry if it were your aunt.’

‘You’re not listening,’ says Sophia, ‘I’m not saying Uncle John’s a political mastermind. The point is, he doesn’t have to be. Not right now. Right now, you’re a minority government with no steady allies, and it’s all to play for. You need someone canny in the Chief Whip’s Office, someone thoughtful, someone used to taking garbage orders and making. Them. Work.’

‘Blanky can - ’

‘Blanky’s not Chief Whip material,’ says Sophia, ‘And you know it. He’s a bruiser, a sheepdog. He’s too good at what he does. You’d be throwing him away as Chief Whip.’

‘What are you saying, Sophie?’

‘I’m saying,’ says Sophia, ‘that there’s a chance here for Uncle John to get credit for killing Labour when we both know it’d mainly be death by John Ross.’

‘And so…’

‘We need an adult in the room, Francis,’ says Sophia. ‘And it’s going to have to be you.’

Francis looks at Sophia. ‘That sounded like an order.’

‘That’s just my manner,’ says Sophia, and gets up. ‘I’ve paid your tab.’

‘So,’ says Francis to Blanky and Ned Little, newly-drafted into the Whips’ Office, ‘here’s where we are. We’ve got 290 seats, the Tories have 270, Lib Dems at 50…’

‘And a whole raft of hanging-and-flogging nutters and vegetarians,’ says Blanky.

‘At the same time?’ says Ned, nervously.

‘Doubt it,’ says Blanky. ‘We’re all up shit creek, though, aye? We’ve got the boat, but they’ve got the paddles.’ To Ned’s worried face, he says ‘there are more of them than there are of us, Ned.’

‘They can only get rid of us with a no-confidence motion, though, right?’ says Ned.

‘Right,’ says Francis, ‘which they can call if we can’t get stuff through the House. Which can happen if…’

‘…They … block us,’ says Ned.

‘Good man,’ says Francis, and watches Ned fidget in relief, ‘which they can more easily do since there are, as Blanky says, more of them than us.’

‘Doesn’t help that there’s so many of us poorly,’ says Blanky, ‘Stockton North’s not looking too clever, and Rochdale’s taken to an ‘orrible ominous cough nowadays, you so much as look sideways at him.’

‘That’s not their names,’ says Ned.

‘Their constituencies, Ned,’ says Francis. ‘You should remember their actual names, of course. You’ll get briefs. We all will – you, me, Blanky. Watch your flock, Ned. Tend to them. Get them in, get them voting, get them voting right, keep them happy.’

‘Right,’ says Ned, taking his list from Francis, ‘keep them happy how?’

‘Oh, all sorts,’ says Blanky, ‘do they want a new chair? A new carpet for the office? If they’re trainspotters, get them onto Transport Committees…’

‘You’re allowed to make promises,’ says Francis, ‘within reason.’

Ned looks a little green. ‘Right.’

Blanky claps him on the shoulder. ‘You’ll get the hang of it. Right, Frank, time for pairing?’

‘Pairing?’ says Ned. ‘Oh, where if we’ve got someone who can’t make a vote, their side agrees to have one of theirs sit it out.’

‘And vice versa,’ says Francis. ‘Stockton North and Rochdale. That’s two of our lot, and two of theirs we want sitting out.’

‘Mind, now,’ says Blanky to Ned, ‘we’ll not want to tip our hands, like. Make out it’s no bother to us if we get a pair or not. Let them come to you.’

‘Easy enough with Fitzjames,’ says Francis, ‘fecker’d keel over if his mouth were shut for him.’

‘Deputy Whip for the Tories, right?,’ says Ned. ‘I read about that man he saved from drowning. That was - ’

‘Ah, for Christ’s sake don’t bring it up,’ says Francis, ‘He doesn’t need encouraging. Tenner says he’ll tell the story of how he negotiated the release of those endangered birds caught in that traffic island, Tom.’

Blanky cackles. ‘You’re on. They’re coming to us, aye?’

‘That they are,’ says Francis. There’s a knock at the door and he turns to Blanky and Ned. ‘Ready for the Aristocunts?’

Chapter Text

‘Did you see Ross on Newsnight with Stanley?’

‘I did,’ says James Fitzjames.

‘Like watching a lion rape a walrus,’ says Henry Thomas Dundas le Vesconte, ‘but in a bad way.’

‘I’m not sure I want you to tell what the good way is,’ says James.

‘There’s clips of the interview on YouTube,’ says Dundy, ‘I like the dubstep remix.’

James laughs and opens the door to the Opposition Whips’ office, where John is conversing with Graham.

‘Good morning, James,’ says John, waving him in, ‘such a bore, all this. I really thought we had them this time.’

‘Nearly, John,’ says James, ‘All it takes is a few stalled bills and we can charge over the top and finish the job.’

‘Quite so,’ says John, ‘it’ll all be over by Christmas.’

Where have I heard that before, thinks James, but he smiles and ducks his head instead. ‘All over by Christmas.’

Graham makes a rueful clucking noise and says ‘Now, where have I heard that before?’

James’s eyes fly to him, but John is throwing his head back with a rich chortle. ‘Oh, you cheeky bastard,’ he says with delight, and taps Graham on the shoulder with a rolled-up newspaper. ‘What d’you have to say to that, James?’

James schools his face into a smile and a wink thrown to Graham. ‘Rather good, Graham. John, it’s time we were off to the Terrors.’

‘Yes, of course,’ says John. ‘Whom do we need a pair for?’

‘Two,’ says Graham, ‘Battersea has his daughter’s piano recital at Roedean, and Mole Valley’s son is Eton’s opening batsman for the First Eleven match.’

‘We might consider lassoing Mole Valley in, John,’ says James. ‘This is a bit much.’

‘Now, James,’ says John, ‘where would English sporting life be without the Eton and Harrow match?’

‘Nowhere, John,’ says James, ‘and I’d say nothing if it was the Eton and Harrow match. But they’re only playing Marlborough.’

John wavers, but shakes his head. ‘We promised him he could, and I don’t want to risk bad feeling this early in the session.’

‘Quite right,’ James hastens to say, ‘all right, that makes two then.’

‘We’ll let them make the opening bid,’ says John, ‘No need to tip our hands, of course.’

‘Of course, John,’ says James. ‘Might even sneak one past old Crozier, if we’re lucky and it’s the morning after the night before. Doubt he’ll be able to count as far as two.’

‘Now, James,’ says John, ‘you know he’s doing a remarkable job.’

‘A remarkable job staying upright,’ says James, ‘John, he’s a dinosaur. A seventies holdover and a souse to boot.’

‘Who is holding his party together under extremely trying challenges,’ says John.

‘I’ll admit John Ross is a hard pill to swallow,’ says James.

‘A gift to us, though,’ says Graham.

‘But honestly, John, Crozier’d make hard lines for himself whoever was in charge. The self-righteousness alone, God. Every time he looks at me I have to remind myself I’m not actually going to hell just because I wear something slightly nicer than a corduroy suit I pilfered from the bin-bags of the County Down Oxfam. And I only have to put up with it once a week. Christ knows how they stand it.’

‘Be nice, James,’ says John.

‘You’re far too nice,’ says James, ‘you’ve no need to turn the other cheek to Crozier, John, I swear you love him more than God does.’

‘I’m just saying,’ says John, ‘that we should watch that man, all of us.’

‘I do watch him,’ says James.

‘Yes,’ says John, ‘you do, don’t you.’

‘Francis,’ says John, as they enter, ‘Blanky. Ah - ’ he blinks genially at the long-lashed newcomer.

‘Ned Little,’ says Francis, ‘Member for Oldham East and Saddleworth.’

‘A pleasure,’ says John. ‘I’m John - ’

‘Member for Louth and Horncastle,’ says Francis.

‘Thank you, Francis. This is Graham Gore, Member for Dudley South, and James Fitzjames, Member for Watford.’

‘Hello,’ says Ned, shaking their hands. ‘That’s – that’s a really nice suit, James.’

‘James,’ says Francis, lips lifting from his teeth in something that James is not going to call a smile, ‘has many a fine suit, eh, James?’

James tenses. ‘I’m sorry if it offends the Socialist Workers’ Union, Francis - ’

‘Eh, but you’re a worker yourself, you,’ says Blanky, with a grin, ‘Our Jimbo’s a tailor.’

‘It’s a long-established bespoke clothier on Savile Row - ’

‘Stitch you up a little bib and tucker for you and your doggie, Ned, have you fit for a garden party at Buckingham Palace in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

John clears his throat. ‘All right, now that the pleasantries are done with, shall we talk about the second reading of the Pensions Bill?’

‘All right,’ says Francis, ‘the 27^th?’

‘Hmmm,’ says John, ‘not sure that works for us, the 27^th, and wouldn’t you like the Bill to have more time in Committee?’

‘The bill’s been read once already,’ says Francis, ‘there’s no need.’

‘Perhaps the 29^th?’

Francis surveys John. ‘Were you not wanting,’ he says, ‘more time in Committee? How would postponing it achieve that?’

John spreads his hands. ‘I’m only trying to find a solution, Francis.’

‘If it’s only a matter of days,’ says James, ‘when I was with the FCO, we were sent on a delegation to the Export Processing Zone in Chiankiang, and -’

‘This one again,’ says Francis, lifting his eyes to James, ‘you should tell the Birdshit Island story instead, James. That’s a grand tale.’

‘Oi, that’s cheating, you,’ says Blanky, ‘bet’s void.’ He grins at James. ‘We had a tenner on which one of ‘em you’d tell, James.’

James tries to will back the angry circles of red that he knows are forming on his cheeks, and knows from the look of bleary but venomous satisfaction on Francis’s face that he is unsuccessful. He hears Graham clear his throat and say ‘Look, shall we crack on? Which of your lot can’t make it?’

‘On the 27^th?’ says Francis, ‘or the 29^th?’

Graham glances at John and James. John says ‘Shall we say, for the sake of argument, the 27^th?’

‘All right then,’ says Francis, ‘how many do you need?’

‘How many do you need?’ says James.

Francis looks at him. ‘None of your lot need to slip away, then?’

James, thinking again of that blasted Eton-Marlborough match, says ‘I’m sure we could manage to get our chaps in.’ Mole Valley will just have to hope his spawn’s selected for the Eton-Harrow match.

Francis’s eyes narrow to blue slits. ‘All of your ‘chaps’, then?’

John clears his throat. ‘That’ll do, James, stand easy. Francis, we’d like a pair for two of our lot. Mole Valley and Battersea have … other commitments.’

‘Other commitments, is it,’ says Francis, ‘Is the business of doing what they’re paid for too much of a distraction for them, then? What is it now, a yacht show?’

‘Oh, here we bloody go,’ says James.

‘Now, James - ’

‘You’re only bothering to speak to us because you have people you need paired as well, we all know it. Just because you’ve never missed a Division - ’

Francis’s head shoots up and he levels him with a look. James swallows but raises his chin and continues ‘And that doesn’t make you special. Neither have I.’

‘Neither have you,’ says Francis, softly, ‘in your – what? – three whole years as a Member? And that’s meant to impress me, is it? Jaysus, man, do you want a medal for tying your shoelaces as well?’

There is a silence. Francis’s lip is curled and his eyes are flat and hard on James. Then there’s the sound of rustling paper as Blanky flips open his notebook. ‘If that’s through, then,’ he says, ‘we’ll pair youse with Stockton North and Rochdale.’

‘Splendid,’ says John, ‘a pleasure as always, gentlemen. Are you expecting much turnout your end?’

Francis tenses. ‘We’ll be there.’

‘Of course,’ says John, ‘it’s James’s baby, this bill, isn’t it?’ He laughs gently, a hand on James’s shoulder, and says ‘Your James, that is. James Ross. How is he keeping?’

‘He’s well,’ says Francis, not looking at them, ‘I’ll tell him you asked after him.’

‘James Ross’s baby,’ says James, watching Francis, ‘and his swan-song. Before he retires into wedded bliss, I believe?’

Francis doesn’t say anything for a while, eyes down on his desk. John says ‘He’ll be missed, of course.’

‘He will indeed,’ says James, and Francis’s head comes up. His eyes are empty and very blue.

‘If that’s all, then,’ he says, ‘I’ll not keep you.’

‘Thank you, then, Francis,’ says John, and they take their leave.

‘Battersea and Mole Valley will be pleased,’ says John, ‘Good work, gentlemen.’

‘The vote, John,’ says James, ‘There’s a chance here to put pressure on them early. If we block it, that’s a wicket right out of the gate. Hard to recover from a loss that big, this early in the Session.’

‘They’re under pressure already, James,’ says John, ‘288 of them voting on the bill, if Francis can get every one of their boys in except for the two they’ve paired off – which is a big ‘if’. Quite a way off from a majority.’

‘Do we think,’ says Graham, ‘that they might shore up their numbers?’

‘Almost certain they will,’ says James, ‘Blanky’ll be about it now, I expect. Some wheeling and dealing with the Liberal Democrats, some with the Scottish National Party, probably shake down some of the odds and sods…’

‘Yes,’ says John, ‘and that will be their downfall. A deal here, a deal there, a tweak to a policy here, a sop there, and where does it end? It weakens them, James, every time.’

‘Yes, of course,’ says James, ‘but it might help them survive this Division.’

‘Oh, survive,’ says John, ‘survive as what? A dash of Lib. Dem, a splash of SNP, a sprinkling of the odds and sods, all with their fingers in your pie, all whispering in your ear. You might as well not bother with having a party system at all.’

‘Right,’ says James. John claps him on the shoulder and says ‘If you don’t stand for anything, James, what’ll you fall for?’

Graham laughs. So, after a few moments, does James.

Francis is in the Red Lion a few evenings later, waiting for Blanky. He’s been having a pint or five with the Members for Belfast West and Foyle, trying to cajole them on-side. He’s made some noises about making a push for Irish reunification, though Christ knows if he’s been believed. He paid their tab, which did seem to go some way towards mollifying them, and extracted a promise from them that they’d at least not go waltzing in with the Tories.

Not that the Tories seem to have asked them to dance, reflects Francis with a curl of his lip. John Franklin’s too busy preaching about party unity and party purity to ever dream of reaching out to anyone outside his sacred circle, and Fitzjames – well, if that man has ever bothered to make an approach even once in his charmed fucking life, Francis will eat each one of his ridiculous shoes, soles-first. There’s a craychur’s never needed to do anything but turn up and wait before whatever he’s wanting is placed carefully in his lap.

Christ knows how he’d even go about trying to make a deal, thinks Francis. Probably turn up and expect Belfast West and Foyle to do whatever he asked, just because he was the one asking it. Francis wonders what’d happen if he’d dragged him to a meeting with the Transit Workers’ Union. Probably go down like a cup of cold piss. No chance in hell he’d be making the head of the union double up with laughter, like James had in ten minutes, or –

There’s the sound of a throat being cleared, before a man slides into the seat next to him. He’s a small man, narrow-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with light hair curling slightly as it hits his shoulders and a thin pointy beard.

‘Hello,’ he says. Pleasant voice, Northern accent. ‘You’re Francis Crozier.’

Francis raises his glass. ‘Which paper’s asking, now?’

The man’s eyes widen and then he grins: a quick sharp thing with a momentary flash of dimple. ‘How could you tell?’

Francis shrugs. ‘There’s only two sorts of people know about me: politicians and reporters. You’re not in politics; I don’t recognise you.’

‘You will,’ says the man, ‘in time. My name’s Hickey. Cornelius Hickey.’

‘That’s a mouthful,’ says Francis, ‘you’re right, I’d remember that if I saw it in a byline. And where would I be seeing this byline?’

The dimple appears again, eyes cast down demurely. ‘The Daily Mail.’

Francis looks at him. ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘then I’d not be reading it.’

‘I’d not ask you to,’ says Hickey, ‘what papers do you read, Mr Crozier? The Socialist Worker? The Morning Star?’

Francis snorts. ‘You’d move there if I told you I read it, would you?’

There’s a pause while Hickey looks at him. ‘No,’ he says at length, in the manner of one who was giving the matter serious consideration. ‘I like the Mail, me. My editor gives me rope and a budget, and I can do what I like.’

‘And what is it you like, then, Mr Hickey?’

‘I like people who tell the truth, Mr Crozier,’ says Hickey. ‘I don’t like being lied to.’

‘If it’s the truth you’re after, Mr Hickey,’ says Francis, ‘you’ll find the Mail an uncomfortable place.’

‘I wouldn’t be so quick to say that, Mr Crozier,’ says Hickey, ‘there’s a lot more lying at the Independent, or the Guardian.’

Francis raises an eyebrow. ‘The Mail’s a temple of integrity, then, is it?’

Hickey shrugs. ‘They’re capitalists, Mr Crozier.’

‘If you care enough to know my name,’ says Francis, ‘you’ll know that’s not a selling point to me. Or an answer to my question.’

Hickey grins. ‘They want to flog their tat, Mr Crozier. Same as everyone. They do at the Guardian, or the Telegraph, or wherever else. Oh, they’ll frown and they’ll dither and they’ll tug at themselves, but they’re after the same eyeballs as we are. They’re just not as good at it. We’re all selling, Mr Crozier. Even you.’

Francis raises two fingers and the bartender appears. ‘I’ll have another,’ he says, tapping his glass, ‘and one for Mr Hickey here, so he can insult me the better.’

‘I’ll have what Mr Crozier’s having,’ says Hickey, and picks up the glass when it arrives with careful hands. Francis swallows the first dram and turns in his seat to look at him. ‘You said I was selling, Mr Hickey.’

‘Of course you are,’ says Hickey, staring at him. ‘I’d not be talking to you if you weren’t. You’re selling the Party. You’re selling an idea – to your constituents, to your own members. You’re selling all the time. You’re just not lying to do it.’

Francis turns and looks at his glass. ‘Maybe I should try it,’ he says, ‘try soft-soaping, or lying. Maybe I’d get farther.’

‘It’s a mug’s game, lying,’ says Hickey, ‘People think it’s easier than it is, so they try it. It’s a rarer thing, Mr Crozier, to see that it’s not the easy way at all.’

Francis raises his glass to look at Hickey through it. Oddly refracted, through the base, all nose, then all forehead. ‘That’s the sort of thing I’d expect to read in one of your articles, is it?’

Hickey takes a sip of his whisky, and shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says, ‘I’m good at getting eyeballs, and eyeballs tend not to stick on moral philosophy, Mr Crozier.’

‘And it’s philosophising you’re doing, is it, Mr Hickey?’

‘You didn’t ask me,’ says Hickey, ‘what I’m selling, Mr Crozier.’

Francis shrugs. ‘If you’re wanting to sell it to me, you’ll tell me sooner or later.’

Hickey leans closer. ‘Mr Crozier,’ he says, ‘there’s no point your telling the truth if nobody’s listening.’

Francis turns to watch Hickey. ‘Who’s not listening, Mr Hickey?’

‘Them,’ says Hickey. ‘Your John Ross, the others. I can see it, Mr Crozier, Tories, Labour, there’s not an inch of daylight between them. It’s all mealy-mouthed you will, you won’t, you do, you don’t, you may, you might, it’s all different faces saying the same words. They’re afraid of you, because you’re saying different words. You’re not reading off their cheat sheet.’

Francis calls the bartender over again.

‘Same again,’ he says, raising his empty glass, ‘how about you, Mr Hickey?’

‘I’ve still got mine,’ says Hickey, ‘do you agree with me, Mr Crozier?’

Francis shrugs. ‘You’ve been reading other papers than your own, Mr Hickey, fair play to you. It’s not a grand state secret that Labour’s a different thing now than it was in the seventies.’

‘Or the Tories?’

‘Fashions come and go, Mr Hickey. The fashion now’s for white teeth and sharp haircuts and shiny hair and jaws like a fucking shovel. The eyeballs you were talking about, Mr Hickey, that’s where they’re sticking.’

Hickey is watching him, eyes narrow. ‘Who are you talking about, Mr Crozier?’

Francis feels the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘Nobody,’ he says, ‘It’s a type, Mr Hickey, that’s all.’

Hickey keeps his eyes on him before he lowers his head. ‘Fashion, then,’ he says. ‘It’s a fashion for politicians to all look the same and sound the same. And it’s a tricky thing to be out of fashion.’

Francis shrugs. ‘I’ve managed this long, Mr Hickey.’

‘You have,’ says Hickey, ‘but there’s no need, Mr Crozier.’ He leans forward again. ‘I could be useful to you, Mr Crozier.’

Francis catches the bartender’s eye and taps his glass. ‘You going to make me fashionable, Mr Hickey?’

‘Same again for me as well,’ says Hickey to the bartender. ‘No, Mr Crozier, I’ll not make you fashionable. But I told you: I’m good at getting eyeballs on true things.’

‘Jaysus,’ says Francis, ‘Is it an endorsement you’re after offering me, Mr Hickey? Because I don’t want to offend you, man, but a helping hand from the Mail is something I’d have to turn down, even if your lords and masters wanted to go for it.’

Hickey smiles down at his glass, the dimples appearing again. ‘No endorsements, Mr Crozier,’ he says, ‘there’s other ways I could help.’

‘You’d not want to be my mouthpiece,’ says Francis, watching him, ‘and again – no offence – I’m not looking for one.’

Hickey’s smile widens. ‘There’s other ways I can help, Mr Crozier.’

‘You like to look mysterious, don’t you,’ says Francis, ‘that either means there’s something you don’t want to tell me, or that you’ve nothing to tell.’

Hickey’s dimple cuts along his cheek. ‘I’ll not lie to you, Mr Crozier, but there’s no reason for me to tell you everything.’

‘None at all,’ says Francis, ‘maybe I’ll take a leaf from your book, Mr Hickey. Make out I’ve got a secret. Trick the world.’

‘That’s not your way, Mr Crozier,’ says Hickey, lifting his eyes to those of Francis with a quick movement of his head.

Francis lifts an eyebrow at him, and is about to reply when there’s a hand on his shoulder. ‘There y’are, Frank,’ says Blanky. ‘Who’s yer friend?’

Francis waves at Hickey. ‘Meet Mr Cornelius Hickey.’ He says in a stage whisper to Blanky ‘Daily Mail.’

‘Christ,’ says Blanky, ‘I’d shake your hand, Mr Hickey, but I’ve not had me ‘flu jabs yet.’ He grins at him. ‘I’ll let you get me a drink, if you like, though. Show there’s no hard feelings, like.’

Hickey smiles. ‘I’d best be off,’ he says, ‘maybe another time, Mr Blanky.’ He turns to Francis. ‘Remember what I said, Mr Crozier.’

‘Odd duck, that one,’ says Blanky, taking the seat he vacated. ‘What did he want?’

Francis shrugs. ‘He was being mysterious,’ he says.

‘That sounds cheerful,’ says Blanky, ‘anything John’s done? Or you?’

‘There’s a vote of confidence, ta very much,’ says Francis, ‘what would I have been doing?’

‘If I knew, I’d not need the bloody Mail to tell me now, would I?’

‘It’s nothing I’ve done,’ says Francis, ‘that I know of. He was saying he could be useful to us.’ He looks down at his glass. ‘Well, to me, anyway.’

‘Kind of him,’ says Blanky, ‘Useful how?’

‘He wouldn’t say. Just a load of chat about truth and eyeballs.’

‘Ominous,’ says Blanky, ‘and about as much use as a jelly dildo.’

‘And about as messy, probably,’ says Francis.

‘And what did he want, anyway, in exchange for his help?’

Francis drains his glass. ‘I never asked him.’

Blanky secures his pint and raises it. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’

Chapter Text

‘Well, do try to look pleased about this, won’t you, George?’

George Lyon, the Honourable Member for Meriden and the freshly-minted Shadow Secretary of State for Communities and Local Government, sniffs. ‘I was rather hoping for Foreign…’

‘Now, George,’ says John, ‘it’s the dance, you know, the old up and down.’

‘Yes,’ says the Member for Meriden, ‘and I was rather expecting to be up. Communities and Local Government, John, for Christ’s sake. What does it even mean.’

‘Here’s a chance to find out,’ says Graham.

‘Buck up, George,’ says John, clapping him on the shoulder, ‘swings and roundabouts, you know.’

‘Yes,’ says the Member for Meriden, who seems unconvinced, ‘ah well. It’s all moot now, I suppose.’

James leans forward. ‘Why moot?’

‘Well,’ says the Member for Meriden, ‘this is all assuming Himself stays on as Leader of the Party.’

James and John exchange a glance. ‘Am I to take it,’ says John, ‘that this is an assumption not everyone in the Party is making?’

‘Oh, come on,’ says the Member for Meriden, ‘election loss to a historically unpopular incumbent Labour Party with John Sodding Ross as Prime Minister, Labour straggles in to a minority government, we think ‘Right, we’ve got them on the hop now,’ and then what? They’re getting their bills through. Minority in the House and they’re ramming through!’

‘They’re shoring up their numbers with cross-party alliances,’ says James, not looking at John.

‘Yes, and it weakens them,’ says John, ‘every time, it weakens them.’

‘Well, it’s making us look like a complete bloody shower,’ says the Member for Meriden. ‘Three of their bills now they’ve managed to sail through. Of course there’s mutterings.’

‘Mutterings about - ?’ says James.

‘Oh come off it,’ says the Member for Meriden, ‘You don’t think Himself expects to stay on as leader after all this. Don’t play lily-white with me. You lot must know.’

James and Graham look at John, whose chin lowers to his chest before he raises his head. ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ he says, ‘All perfectly par for the course. You attend to your portfolio, George, and don’t pay any attention to gossip.’

‘My portfolio,’ sniffs the Member for Meriden, ‘for all the good it’ll do me.’

‘Yes, well,’ says John, ‘if we all kept our heads down and our powder dry, George, it’s quite possible it wouldn’t be the Shadow Cabinet you were part of, now wouldn’t it?’

The Member for Meriden makes an attempt at looking chastened before he takes his leave. When they’re sure he’s out of earshot, James and Graham hasten to John’s side.

‘Let’s see what we can find out,’ says John. ‘Discreetly. I don’t want to spook the horses.’

‘Is there going to be a leadership contest?’

James looks at Dundy. ‘Where did you hear this?’

‘Blanky said so,’ says Dundy. ‘Thought you might let a chap in.’

‘Blanky?’

Dundy nods. ‘Spreading it about like a sailor with the clap. Why does the other side know the goods about us before we do?’

Good question, thinks James, but says out loud ‘There is no ‘goods’. Blanky gossips like an old woman, you know that.’

‘Never known him to lie, though,’ says Dundy. ‘So what’s the story, morning glory?’

‘No story,’ says James, shooing him away.

‘Looks like the horses are spooked already, Chief,’ says Graham, when James tells him and John.

John sighs. ‘Parry’s proving a bit hard to pin down.’

‘He should be back from the Athenaeum now,’ says James, glancing at his watch. ‘There’s a vote on that Appropriations bill.’

‘Very well then,’ says John, ‘Pincer movement. Let’s see if we can get hold of him.’

‘I haven’t the foggiest idea what you mean, dear boy,’ says William Edward Parry, the Honourable Member for Bath.

James looks at the Member for Bath. As an inveterate teller of stories himself, he knows the face of a man who wants to talk. Just a little, he thinks, the tiniest push…

‘Hmmm,’ says John, ‘well, if you’re sure, Bill - ’

‘Just a moment, John,’ says James, and drops to the floor to fiddle with his shoelaces. Come on, he thinks, come on, you want to…

‘If we were to have a leadership contest,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘don’t you think it might be just what the party needs?’

James straightens up slowly, keeping his eyes on the Member for Bath. John says ‘The Party’s at a delicate juncture at present, Bill. Now hardly seems the time to destabilise us.’

‘Or,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘it is exactly the time. Come on, John, we ought to have romped home this election. There’s not an animal, vegetable or mineral in the country with a kind word to say about John Ross, nor should they. That we managed to lose - ’

‘It was close, Bill - ’

‘Oh, well, then,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘Close, my word. Jolly good thing we’re in a political system where ‘close’ gets you bugger-all, isn’t it. Who d’you think we are, John, the Huns? ‘Close’ is all very well for them. They can knit together coalitions with every raving loony who can get three other raving loonies to vote for him. This is England.’

‘The United Kingdom,’ murmurs John.

‘Yes, yes, all right. It’s not as though the Scots or the Welsh or the Northern Bloody Irish have been a blind bit of use to us.’

‘The Northern Irish certainly won’t,’ says James, ‘Labour’s got them all but sewn up. Well, Crozier has.’

‘Yes, thank you, James,’ says John, and James clears his throat and looks at his shoes.

‘In any case,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘we ought to have taken it. That ought to be us across the hall, John, us home and dry and with a majority to boot.’

‘We did them real damage, Bill,’ says John, ‘It’s not as though winning the election’s gotten them so very much.’

‘It’s gotten them enough,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘and that’s another thing. A minority government, John. They ought to be lame. Why aren’t they?’

‘They make deals, Bill,’ says John, ‘it’s unseemly.’

‘Unseemly or not,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘it’s working. We haven’t managed to block a single one of their bills. Not one. Thirty seats short of a majority, and they’re making it look easy.’

There’s a silence before John says ‘Whom are you putting up against him, Bill? Norwich North?’

‘William Beechey?’ says the Member for Bath. ‘Maybe.’

‘The Member for Hazel Grove?’

‘George Back,’ says the Member for Bath. ‘Interesting. Why, d’you think he’d win?’

‘Yes,’ says John. James and Graham look their assent.

The Member for Bath looks them up and down. ‘Not very loyal to Himself, your lot, are you?’

‘Our loyalty is to the Party, Bill,’ says John, ‘not to any one man.’

‘Glad to hear you say so,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘because we’re thinking of taking a punt on someone else.’

‘A punt?’ says John. ‘On whom?’

‘Holborn and St Pancras,’ says the Member for Bath.

John blinks. ‘Jane?’ he says. ‘My Jane?’

The Member for Bath grins. ‘More like you’re her John, eh, John?’

‘Jane?’ says John again. ‘Why?’

The Member for Bath shrugs. ‘New ideas,’ he says. ‘Thinking’s getting a bit stale. Might want some shaking up. She’s a sharp one, your Jane. A comer. Nice way with a speech. Knows her way around Radio 4.’

‘Jane,’ says John, the shape of the word sounding uncertain in his mouth.

‘You won’t discuss it with her, of course,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘not till we’ve had a chance to sound her out first.’

John’s chin sinks down to his chest.

‘John?’ says the Member for Bath.

‘Sorry, Bill,’ says John. ‘No, no, of course not. Thank you for the warning, though.’

‘Of course we’re not serious about her,’ says the Member for Bath to James. They’re having a drink at the Athenaeum, just the two of them, James sinking into a cavernous wingback in front of a crackling fire. ‘Jane Franklin, dear Heaven. Oh, she’s promising all right: plenty of gumption, reminds me of my daughter’s headmistress. But she’s not anywhere near ready for the big one: any of the big ones. Not now. Not yet.’

‘Gosh,’ says James, ‘no, I suppose not.’

‘You do see, don’t you?’ says the Member for Bath. ‘Bit of cannon fodder, knock out the chancers and weed out the malcontents, before a proper candidate takes it.’

‘Whom do you have in mind?’

‘Oh, Beechey,’ says the Member for Bath. ‘It’s time, I think.’

‘It’s hard on John,’ says James, watching the Member for Bath, ‘with Jane in the mix. He’s the soul of honour, I know he is, but still it’s a hell of a position to be in.’

‘Yes,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘that is rather why I thought we might have this chat, the two of us. John can’t know, James. As far as he’s concerned, Jane Franklin is a perfectly viable candidate for Party leader, and that is how it has to remain.’

‘Ah,’ says James, ‘Bill, I’m sure John’s perfectly capable of separating Party business from - ’

‘Wives and sweethearts,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘Never may the twain meet. I’m sure you’re right, James, and your loyalty does you credit, of course, but it is, as you say, hard lines on him. Let’s not make it harder, eh?’

‘No,’ says James, ‘you’re quite right, of course.’

‘Good man,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘John Barrow said you were a sound chap.’

I’ll just bet he did, thinks James. He smiles over his glass and ducks his head. ‘He’s been kind to me.’

‘‘Knows when to keep his mouth shut’, he said,’ says the Member for Bath. ‘Useful skill.’

‘Thank you,’ says James. ‘Bill, this is terribly flattering, and I can’t thank you enough for putting so much trust in me, but I do have to ask: is Jane making a serious bid herself? Does she know what’s planned for her?’

‘Not in so many words, but,’ the Member for Bath shrugs. ‘She should know enough to make it look good in the first round of votes at least.’

‘And after?’

‘Oh, after,’ says the Member for Bath. ‘After, she’ll go where she’s put if she knows what’s good for her, and I don’t doubt she does. Oh, it’ll be worth her while whatever happens: she gets to make a bit of a splash, some noise about her. She won’t be forgotten either: Beechey’ll be grateful when it’s time to put a Cabinet together. Maybe she’ll fancy Communities and Local Government.’

James smiles. ‘Communities and Local Government was George Lyon’s portfolio. We’ll have to find something for him to do.’

‘Will we?’ says the Member for Bath. ‘Yes, I suppose we will.’

James lets the smile fall from his lips as he tips his head back. The lighting in the bathroom makes him look alien. Sickly. Ideal breeding ground for a knee-trembler: stumble in, take a look at yourself, feel like shit, grab the nearest warmish body for a quick fumble, for God’s sake don’t look at yourself in the mirror again. Warm amber lighting might predispose you to linger, and we can’t be having that.

‘I know you,’ says a voice next to him. Soft, pleasant, Northern.

James turns to look. Small, head barely scraping James’s shoulder. He’s wearing an overlarge jacket and jeans cuffed over beaten-up boots.

‘Have we met?’ says James, bending his head and manufacturing a broad politician’s smile. This isn’t one of his constituents, is it? Surely not – apart from the accent, the man shrieks London; and not just London, a very specific London. He looks startlingly incongruous in a Soho nightclub loo: James would expect to see him rolling a fag outside a Hoxton millinery-cum-pizza-parlour-cum-performance-art space (Jesus, why did James let Dundy drag him to that place?). Still, may as well check. ‘Do you live in Watford, by any chance?’

The man shakes his head.  ‘I’m Eddie.’

‘James,’ says James, and offers his hand to shake. Eddie looks at the hand but doesn’t take it. James waits for a beat or two and then lowers it.

‘You were in the papers,’ says Eddie, ‘you saved that man from drowning.’

‘Ah,’ says James, and smiles, tossing his hair out of his eyes. ‘Oh, gosh, that old thing.’

Eddie’s watching him, head to one side. ‘Jaw like a fucking shovel,’ he says, and a dimple appears in his cheek.

James touches his own jaw. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘It really is,’ says the man. It doesn’t sound admiring. More like Eddie’s trying to solve a puzzle and a piece has fallen into place.

James looks at him again. Soft golden hair, pointy beard, blazing dark eyes. He’s not James’s type, but then James’s type hasn’t been doing it for him lately. Might be time to broaden his horizons.

‘You know,’ he says, leaning his hip against the sink, ‘when I jumped into that river to save that poor man, can you guess what I learned?’

Eddie’s looking at him. He’s beginning to smile. James waits for a moment or two before saying ‘Well, can you guess?’

Eddie shakes his head, dimple deepening. James tilts his throat up and says ‘I can hold my breath for a long, long time.’ He throws Eddie a look under his lashes. ‘Comes in handy from time to time.’

Eddie has his hands in his pockets and is studying him. At length he says ‘You’re not my type, you know.’

‘Well, you’re not exactly mine either,’ says James, a little nettled, ‘does that matter?’

Eddie shakes his head. ‘Give me your number, then.’

‘My number?’ The man’s a romantic, after all. How unexpected. ‘I wasn’t really thinking - ’

Eddie sighs, a distinctly put-upon sound, and opens the door to a stall. ‘A quick one, then,’ he says, ‘but I want your number after.’

Well, I’m broadening my horizons all right, thinks James, following him into the stall.

That night, William Gibson, Administrative Officer attached to the Cabinet Office, receives a call. He stares at the name on the screen for a while before picking up.

‘What do you want, Cornelius?’ he says.

‘I’d like to see you again,’ comes the response.

Billy Gibson snorts. ‘You took a shit in my fridge, Cornelius.’

‘You ratted me out, Billy.’ The voice is mild, even distantly tender.

‘Irving was going to have us both sacked, you know that.’

‘Come off it, Billy, nobody gets sacked in the Civil Service.’

‘You can sack a contractor, Cornelius.’

‘I know, Billy, says Hickey, ‘I know, ‘cause that’s what they did. To me.’ He pauses. ‘You’re all right, though. Got a permanent job and everything.’

‘Only ‘cause I put in for a transfer. I was going somewhere with that job, Cornelius.’

‘You don’t want to be stuck carrying bags and printing papers at the House of Lords, Billy,’ says Hickey. ‘Much more useful where you’re at now.’

‘Useful for you, you mean,’ says Billy. ‘Well, go on, then. What do you want?’

‘You can pull records from the Whips’ Office, can’t you?’

‘Which one?’

‘Opposition,’ says Hickey, ‘for now.’

‘And if I can?’

‘Will you?’

‘Why?’

There’s a silence followed by ‘I’m asking you to.’

Billy leans his forehead against his desk. ‘Why?’

‘I’ll come over on Saturday,’ says Hickey, ‘and I’ll tell you then.’

There’s a pause and then Billy sighs. ‘All right.’

A few days later, Francis lets himself into the Chief Whips’ office. Tom Jopson, his Executive Officer, is waiting with a mug of coffee.

‘Thanks, Tom,’ says Francis, pulling off his coat. ‘What news from the horse-race across the hall?’

‘John Franklin pledged his support to his wife,’ says Tom.

‘Blanky told me,’ says Francis. ‘The things a man’ll do to keep the peace at home.’

‘It was a hard position for him to be in, sir,’ says Tom.

‘It’s about to be harder,’ says Francis. ‘There’s not a bookie wouldn’t give you sky-high odds on that one.’

‘She’s seen off George Back quite handily,’ says Tom.

‘Very handily,’ says Francis, ‘I’ve met her. Jaysus, but that woman’s terrifying.’

‘They seem to like that, sir,’ says Tom.

‘Of course they bloody do, they’re posh and English,’ says Francis, ‘all they want is to be put across Nanny’s knee. What do you think?’

‘I’m not sure I could say, sir - ’

‘You can, Tom. What do the assistants say?’

Tom smiles demurely. ‘I think she’ll surprise us, sir.’

‘It’s just her and Himself now,’ says Francis, ‘you think she can take out the leader?’

‘I think,’ says Tom again, ‘that she’ll surprise us, sir.’

‘Not you, clearly,’ says Francis with a grin.

The door flies open and Tom Blanky barrels in. ‘Your friend at the Mail’s been busy, Frank,’ he says, slapping down the paper.

‘You’re reading the Mail now, Blanky?’ says Francis, not looking down.

‘Someone has to,’ says Blanky, ‘ever since you got yourself a pet reporter there.’

‘I didn’t do a damn thing,’ says Francis. ‘More like he followed me home and refused to leave.’

‘Well,’ says Blanky, ‘he’s left something on your doorstep, any road.’

Francis turns to the page Blanky’s pointing to. The headline yells ‘FITZJAMES IN FITZNETS: MP FLASHES HIS LEGS IN SAUCY DRAG’, and there’s a nearly full-page photo of Fitzjames sprawled on a couch, boa slipping off one shoulder. His head is thrown back, baring that ridiculous throat. He’s wearing a dress – what there is of it, at any rate. The thing’s slit all the way up the thigh, and a very long leg (in, yes, fishnets) is slung over the back of the couch. His eyes are shut and his mouth’s a dark smear on his face.

‘What is this?’ says Francis. He clears his throat. ‘What is this, Blanky?’

Blanky shrugs. ‘Looks like costume. Must’ve been for a play or summat at uni.’ He glances down and wrinkles his nose. ‘School, maybe.’

He does look younger in the photo. The face is a triangle, the hands and feet (Jaysus, those shoes, where did he find them?) look like they’re waiting for the rest of the body to catch up.

‘It’s good to be the King,’ the copy begins, ‘but James Fitzjames, MP for Watford, likes it better as the Queen.’

James was playing something called Queen Fadladinida in some Godawful-looking production at Eton. Jesus, how old had he been? Sixteen? Seventeen?

‘This the sort of thing we can expect from your friend, is it?’ says Blanky.

Francis lifts his head – a curiously hard thing to do – and stares at Blanky. ‘You think I knew about this?’

‘Course not,’ says Blanky, ‘that grubby little shit.’

Francis looks back at the page. The copy has some insinuating text about James’s preference for playing women’s parts and the photo manages to be bootleg-porn-VHS-grainy while simultaneously capturing every detail of the shadow of Fitzjames’s lashes on his cheek and the mark of the fishnets cutting into his long pale thigh.

‘Can’t look at the thing without feeling like a pervert,’ says Blanky.

Francis tries for a smile. ‘You are a pervert,’ he says.

‘I am that,’ says Blanky with a grin.

Francis doesn’t respond. There’s a photo of Fitzjames kneeling on that fucking couch with that fucking dress rucked up around his knees. Giant knobbly knees, sticking out like whorls on an oak, he’s a boy here, a child, all legs and arms and angles and shadows, he grew into those massive fucking paws at some point between now and whenever this photo was taken, those shoulders, Christ. He’s splayed out like a penitent or a –

‘Frank,’ Blanky is saying.

Francis lifts his head. Blanky and Jopson are both looking at him.

‘Posh boys,’ he says, and his voice sounds a little strange to his ears, ‘any excuse to put on a dress, right? He isn’t the first, and he won’t be the last.’

‘Yeah,’ says Blanky, but he’s looking at him narrowly. ‘Posh boys in drag. All there is to it, eh?’

Francis tries to shrug and immediately gives up. He knows what to expect when it comes to drag. Who lives in London without dodging a projectile-vomiting Hooray Henry on a stag do complete with deflating falsies and a cartoon Cupid’s bow lipsticked on and radiating static from a Farah Fawcett wig?

The creature in the photo, on the other hand …

He takes a swallow of his tea.

Tom, watching him closely, says ‘I’ll get you some water, sir.’ He turns on his heel before Francis can say anything, though he’s not entirely sure what. He would like some water. He’ll drink it gratefully when it comes. He’d like to crack open a window, Christ, it’s boiling in here, have Facilities kept the heating on still? He wants –

‘Take this bloody thing away,’ he says, pushing the paper at Blanky.

‘Chuck it away yourself,’ says Blanky. ‘What are you going to tell your little friend, Frank?’

‘He’s not my friend,’ says Francis, ‘and what do you want me to say to him? I didn’t ask him to do this.’

‘I know you didn’t,’ says Blanky, ‘but did you tell him you didn’t want him to do it?’

‘Do what?’ says Francis. ‘I didn’t even know Fitzjames had photos of himself looking like -’ he glances down at the page again and hastily covers it with his fist, ‘that. What would I be telling Hickey?’

‘Your water, sir,’ says Tom at his elbow.

‘Thanks, Tom,’ says Francis. ‘Blanky, you going to tell me to muzzle the Mail? They’ll love that.’

‘Not telling you to muzzle anyone,’ says Blanky, ‘just tell your friend thanks, but no thanks.’ He grins. ‘You can tell him you’ll take him to a footie game or summat instead. Get him ice cream afterwards.’

‘Piss off,’ says Francis, aiming a kick at him under the table. Blanky dodges with a cackle.

‘Well, it’s a good photo of you anyway,’ says Dundy. James shoves him on the shoulder.

It wasn’t even a good play, he thinks. Christ knows he wasn’t any good in it. Some mid-nineteenth-century drivel from some chest-thumping and extremely unlamented sailor whom Dickens had once had a kind word for, and whose great-great-great-great-grandson was in the same year as James. He can barely remember his part now.

What he can remember is the whisper of lace and satin on his midriff, the secret insinuating shusha-shusha of it as he moved, the way it nudged between his thighs, the lattice-marks the tights left on his calves and higher, the scratch of the common-room sofa on his back. He remembers he’d only just managed to get his voice under control, that he’d just – barely – stopped knocking things over and walking into tables and chairs. He remembers that the spots on his jaw and cheek were only just beginning to clear, that he’d acquired shoulders. He remembers the shift of those shoulders and the way they’d pulled at the fabric of the dress.

He remembers that when he put on the dress the first time he tried not to look in the mirror, because for the first time after the agonising kneecapping of puberty, he might – just might – recognise himself.

The next year he played Viola, all gangling and trembling and swagger and equivocation in her ‘masculine usurped attire’.

He’d tried out for Olivia.

‘Right, so that’s Dulwich and West Norwood, North Durham, Newcastle upon Tyne Central and Wentworth and Dearne can’t make it,’ says Blanky. ‘We need pairs for ‘em all.’

‘Four?’ says John. ‘Goodness, that’s a bit worrying, isn’t it?’

‘Nothing contagious, I hope?’ says Fitzjames, smiling sweetly and making a giant production of his sodding lashes.

‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Jim,’ says Blanky.

‘One might wonder,’ says Fitzjames, ‘why we should be sending so many of our guys home simply because your lot can’t seem to get their act together.’

‘Dulwich and West Norwood is recovering from surgery,’ says Francis, ‘North Durham has chemo, and Newcastle upon Tyne Central and Wentworth and Dearne have to go to a funeral. The same one, if that matters.’

The smirk’s wiped clean off Fitzjames’s face. ‘Oh.’

‘Oh,’ says Francis, ‘any more questions?’

Fitzjames’s eyes fall and then he stills. ‘Oh,’ he says in a very different tone of voice, ‘oh, for God’s sake, Francis.’

Francis frowns and looks down – at his desk, with the Daily Fucking Mail open at that fucking page.

‘The Mail?’ says Fitzjames. ‘I honestly didn’t expect it of you.’

Blanky shoots Francis a look and tries to intervene, but Fitzjames is well off. ‘It’s so bloody typical: all that finger-wagging, purer than the driven snow, Saint Francis of the Picket Line, but when it comes to rubbernecking you’ll be first in line with your News of the World subscription and the Sun burning a hole in your pocket.’

‘Now, James,’ says John, and ‘For fuck’s sake,’ says Francis.

‘Well, go on then,’ says Fitzjames. His cheeks are pink and he looks ready to either upturn Francis’s desk or flounce out. ‘You’ve had your gawp. Take your best shot. Ready, aim, fire.’

Fire? Francis thinks He’s bloody milking it, the worst thing that’s ever happened to the Golden Boy and it’s one pissweak smear in a tabloid and Jesus fuck why didn’t I throw the fecking thing away and You have a snaggle-tooth or you used to have one and now I know it and I need to ask Facilities to turn down the heating in here, Princess Fitzjames is pink as well, look and the reason I know about that snaggle-tooth is because you’re biting your lip in that fucking photo and Christ, I need a drink.

He says ‘Jaysus, Fitzjames, give it a rest. It’s not news to the rest of us that you tarted yourself up for the benefit of a bunch of chinless Eton twats.’

There's a silence in which he sees Fitzjames's eyes flicker and his shoulders fall - a moment so brief he wonders if he's imagined it - before his chin lifts. Then there's a 'Now, Francis' from John, and then Blanky says ‘Nowt wrong with a bit of tarting. If I looked like that in a dress, I’d not take it off.’

Francis looks at Blanky with an ancient and familiar gratitude and manages ‘Good thing you don’t, then.’

‘I might yet, I’ve not tried,’ says Blanky. ‘I’d not shave me legs, though, mind. My Essie likes the natural look.’

‘How is Esther?’ says John, and the next few minutes Francis allows to wash over him while he stares in front of him and very resolutely not at anyone or anything in the room.

‘Jane Franklin is the new Leader of the Party,’ says John to the Member for Bath, who is sitting very still, ‘congratulations, Bill, your dark horse romped home.’

‘Christ,’ says the Member for Bath.

‘We’ve been polling the Members,’ says Graham, ‘Informally, just a chat, you know. I suppose nobody ever thought she’d make it, so they thought it was safe to register a little protest by voting for her, because surely everyone else would be voting for Himself. And now - ’

‘You’ve done well for yourself out of this,’ says the Member for Bath, looking at John.

‘The Party’s done well for itself, Bill,’ says John. ‘Janie’ll surprise you.’

‘Yes,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘Yes, I suppose she will.’

‘The Lady wants to see you,’ says Jane Franklin’s Executive Officer to James.

‘Yes, of course,’ says James, ‘the Whips were just on our way to pay a visit - ’

‘Not the Whips,’ says the EO, ‘you.’

James straightens his tie and hair, grabs his Moleskine, and follows.

‘James,’ says the Right Honourable Member for Holborn and St Pancras, Leader of the Opposition, rising to shake his hand, ‘how are you? Goodness, it’s been ages.’

‘It really has,’ says James, ‘Congratulations, Jane.’

‘Oh, that,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘well, the Party wanted change.' She smiles. ‘The Party’s going to get it.’

‘Sounds exciting,’ says James.

‘I hope so,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘now, James, you’ll be wondering why I asked to speak with you alone.’

‘I’m always pleased to speak with you, Jane,’ says James, and smiles.

‘So glad to hear it,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘because we will be working closely together, you and I.’

‘The Whips’ Office, of course - ’

‘The Whips’ Office, of course,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘with you as Chief Whip.’

James blinks. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Oh, don’t apologise, it’s common,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘you heard me. I want you as my Chief Whip.’

‘Jane, John’s the Chief Whip.’

‘John,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘pledged his personal support to one of the candidates in the leadership election. That is a particularly serious breach for the Whips’ Office. You’re meant to stay above the fray, the pack of you. That’s how this works, James.’

‘Well, yes,’ says James, ‘but – Jane, the candidate he pledged his support to was you.’

‘I’m glad of his support,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘but he oughtn’t to have gotten involved at all. Tea?’

While her EO fetches them tea, the Leader of the Opposition touches James’s knee, a quick firm grasp before sitting back. ‘Don’t worry about John, James. We’ve plans for him in the Other Place. Lord Franklin. Nice little ring to it.’

‘So it does,’ says James.

‘Much better place for him,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, and James wouldn’t disagree even if he could.

‘It’s richly-deserved,’ he says quickly, taking his tea.

‘Thank you, James,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘so you’ll see why I’m bringing you on.’

‘And I’m terribly flattered,’ says James.

‘It’s a bit quick for you, of course,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘but John Barrow speaks highly of you.’

‘He’s kind to me,’ says James, and sips at his tea.

‘We have an opportunity here, James,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘Labour. We can finish them. They haven’t got the numbers.’

‘They shore them up,’ says James, watching the Leader of the Opposition, ‘with cross-party deals.’

‘Yes,’ says the Leader of the Opposition. ‘Now, I know John’s not been keen on reaching across party lines in the past.’

‘No,’ says James, ‘but I really do think - ’

‘Yes,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘I release you from your bonds, James. Go forth and multiply.’

James breathes out. ‘Thank you, Jane,’ he says.

‘You’re hungry,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘I like that.’ She takes a sip of her tea. ‘Nasty business about that Mail article.’

James puts down his teacup and squares his shoulders. ‘Jane, I’m so sorry about - ’

‘Grimy little pimp, that Hickey,’ says the Leader of the Opposition. ‘It was a play, good heavens. Someone had to pull on the petticoats. You were just being a good sport.’

James thinks of the first time he let himself look in the mirror with the dress on. That ancient grimy mirror, the hoods and the shadows and the brightness of his own eyes. The words tarted yourself up appear in his mind. He pulls both corners of his mouth up to the exact same height and looks back at the Leader of the Opposition. ‘Someone had to do it,’ he says. A good sport. For the benefit of a bunch of chinless Eton twats, was it, Francis?

‘Of course,’ says the Leader of the Opposition. ‘Such a fuss. Well, nobody’ll remember or care about that squalid little story if there’s a Vote of No-Confidence, will they?’

‘Better get cracking, then,’ says James.  

Soho, again. A voice at James’s elbow, again.

‘Eddie,’ says James.

Eddie smiles, and James thinks he smiles like someone who’s seen other people smile but never understood why they might do it. ‘Tried your number.’

‘Did you?’ says James. They’ve not spoken since possibly the most perfunctory ten minutes of his life. Eddie’d sucked cock like a builder plastering over a hole in a wall before lunch: efficient but joyless. When James had offered to reciprocate he’d asked instead, again, for his number.

Eddie shrugs and looks away. ‘Well?’

James considers him. ‘Have you seen the Mail?’

Eddie looks back at him. ‘Should I have?’

James shakes his head and calls the bartender over. ‘Get this man a drink.’

Chapter Text

‘I mean, Chief Whip, Tom, really.’

Francis and Blanky are in the Marquis of Granby, where they have been propping up the bar for the past three hours. The Granby’s full, and there’s a weekend clatter, which is why Francis’s voice is raised even with Blanky right next to him. They’ve also had their elbows jogged and their drinks spilled, which is why Francis has a hand on Blanky’s shoulder. To steady Blanky. No other reason.

‘He was Deputy Whip, Francis,’ says Blanky, ‘nowt so strange about a promotion if Franklin couldn’t stick on.’

‘Three years,’ says Francis, ‘Jaysus, Tom, three years. Three years is all it took for the fecker to get the job. How long were we in the office before the Chief Whip moved on and we got a nod up?’

‘Eh, t’gaffer was in the saddle for a good while, you know that,’ says Blanky, ‘and he never mucked about with backing horses in leadership races. Kept his head down and did the job. Not Fitzjames’s fault Franklin didn’t do the same.’

‘Boy gets a career gift-wrapped,’ says Francis, ‘John Barrow greasing the wheel for him - ’

‘That’s former Prime Minister John Barrow to you,’ says Blanky.

‘ - Mates with George Barrow - ’

‘The pig-fucker George Barrow,’ says Blanky with a cackle.

‘The pig-fucker George Barrow,’ says Francis, ‘Christ, how far you think we’d get with something like that hanging around our necks?’

‘It’s only a rumour about George Barrow and the pig,’ says Blanky with a shrug, ‘sort of thing they get up to at that club, eh? Nobody’s ever confirmed it.’

‘Nobody’s denied it either,’ says Francis.

‘They’d be daft to,’ says Blanky, ‘That’s when I’d start believing the story, me.’

Francis acknowledges the point and raps the counter for another. Blanky frowns and says ‘Frank, d’you think - ’

‘Fucking stitch-up,’ says Francis, ‘his legs were all over the Mail.’

‘Nine days’ wonder,’ says Blanky, ‘Nobody else is talking about it anymore.’ He shoots Francis a look and Francis huffs.

‘While wearing a dress,’ says Francis. ‘Christ.’

‘He was a nipper,’ says Blanky, ‘it was a school sodding play. The Mail made it sound like that’s his officewear, but that’s the Mail.’

‘It’s not about that,’ says Francis, ‘Jaysus, let the bastard wear a dress, who cares - ’

‘… that a rhetorical question, is it - ’

‘I’m just saying,’ says Francis, raising his glass, ‘if that had happened to us, we’d be banjaxed. There’s not a chance in the world we’d get away with having our legs all over the Mail without being shuffled off somewhere in the absolute arse-end of the backbenches till it was safe.’

Blanky shrugs.

‘Leave alone fall arse-backwards into a bloody promotion.’

‘Speak for yourself, you,’ says Blanky, ‘if they’d seen my legs in a dress, they’d have made me Prime Minister by now.’

Francis chuckles into his drink. ‘Couldn’t be worse than High and Mighty up there.’ He groans. ‘Ah, Jaysus, the new Works Bill.’

John Ross, presented with irrefutable evidence that his programme of public spending cuts had hit working families (particularly single working mothers) disproportionately hard, had reacted in entirely predictable fashion: by insisting that the problem was a) messaging, b) the wrong sort of austerity, c) insufficient austerity. The new Public Works bill was going to give jobseekers’ benefits and Legal Aid a spanking that would make the most zealous Soho kink club purse their lips.

Blanky winces in sympathy. ‘Happen I might need to get me legs out after all.’

‘Should’ve thought of it before, ‘says Francis, ‘Why don’t you give it a go, then?’

‘Might do,’ says Blanky, ‘still have your tame Mail reporter on call?’

Francis throws him a look. Blanky continues ‘You brought him to heel yet?’

‘I have not,’ says Francis, ‘because he’s not my tame anything. I’m not telling the press what to print or not print, Blanky, Christ.’

‘Have it your way,’ says Blanky, ‘but that one’s a nasty little shit, mark my words.’

‘A nasty little shit he might be,’ says Francis, ‘a nasty little shit he is, but he’s his own nasty little shit.’

Blanky cocks an eyebrow and downs his drink.

‘So, the fifteenth for the Works Bill?’

Francis nods.

‘Should be a fun one,’ says Henry Thomas Dundas le Vesconte, newly-minted member of the Opposition Whips’ Office.

‘One half-hearted gesture at fiscal responsibility,’ says Fitzjames.

Francis snorts. ‘Christ, man, the bill’s costing working men and women a hundred pounds a month. Each. Will that not do for you?’

‘Please,’ says Fitzjames, ‘it was taxpayers who were paying for your giant civil service salary bloats - ’

‘Not working men and - ’

‘Oh, do give it a rest,’ says Fitzjames, ‘so pious, you and your ‘working men and women’. You and your solicitor father, John Ross with his Kirkcaldy castle, James Ross one heart attack away from a baronetcy. Your Shadow Chancellor’s fresh from the Kennedy School of Government.’ He pauses. ‘Harvard, Francis.’

‘I’m aware,’ says Francis with gritted teeth.

‘You’re bristling with Hampstead Marxists and champagne socialists. All of you hectoring straight white men.’

Francis cocks an eyebrow and sweeps his eye across the Opposition Whips. ‘And you’re a den of diversity over at the Tories, are you.’

Fitzjames flushes. ‘Well, we’ve got a woman leader, which is more than Labour can say or will be able to say for twenty solid years. And she’s not our first.’

‘She’s fixing to be your last,’ mutters Blanky, ‘there’s a lady’s not for turning, all right.’

‘What about the lot of you?’ says Francis, gesturing at them, ‘there one of the pack of you didn’t go to the Lily-White Straight Bullingdon Borstal?’

‘I wasn’t a member of the Bullingdon club, no,’ says Fitzjames, ‘and what do you mean, straight?’

‘What do you mean, what do I mean,’ says Francis, ‘Straight. Heterosexual. ‘Hectoring straight white men’ you said, so - ’

‘Yes,’ says Fitzjames, ‘but I’m not.’

There is a silence. Francis can hear his own brain screech to an abrupt and complete halt, before leaping back into action only to goad his involuntary muscular functions into gear. He can hear every individual thump of his heart, so loud he swallows to force the thing back into his chest.

The gulp he makes sounds very loud in his ears too.

‘You’re gay?’ he says.

Fitzjames has gone a very dark pink. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I thought – I mean, I’m out.’

Francis’s eyes seek Blanky’s. He doesn’t mean to look accusing, but he must do because Blanky says immediately ‘It’s not a secret, Frank.’

Fitzjames says ‘I thought you’d have a file on me.’

A file? Blanky probably does, he’s got one on everyone. He’s likely got one on Francis. Miserable fuck, drinks too much, took up with that Tory bird, got given the push by the Tory bird, what else is new.

What would Fitzjames’s file say? Francis can think of a few things (Francis can think of quite a few things). He could ask Blanky what’s in the file. He could, but he can see, with crystalline and nightmarish clarity, Blanky’s face if he did ask. More to the point, he can hear what he’d say.

He says ‘Fitzjames, we’d only bother to keep a file on anyone we needed to watch out for.’

Fitzjames’s lips tighten, and Blanky leans forward. ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘who’ve you got needing pairing, then?’

‘Thank you so much for coming.’

Ned Little fidgets in his chair – a cavernous wingback in the Members’ Dining Room designed for nodding off over the Times, or Independent, or poison of choice; for conspiratorial whispers and for eavesdropping. He thought it might be nice for a rising star backbencher to be invited into this august and high-domed sanctum. ‘Bit of the old shock and awful,’ Blanky had said, ‘but in a nice way.’

Now, sitting opposite Silna, the Member for Coventry West, he is beginning to have second thoughts.

‘What would you like?’ he says, pushing the menu towards her. ‘The Lapsang’s really quite special, you know, first-growth from this plantation that’s been supplying Westminster since - ’

‘1840,’ says Silna.

‘Yes, that’s right!’ Ned relaxes, maybe this wasn’t such a –

‘Through the East India Company,’ says Silna.

‘Well, yes, but - ’

‘During the First Opium War,’ says Silna.

Ah.

‘I’ll let you have a browse,’ says Ned.

‘Builder’s is fine,’ says Silna, handing the menu to the waiter without looking at it.

‘The same for me,’ says Ned, whose stomach is already beginning to curl in on itself in protest.

‘Very good, sir,’ says the waiter. He says nothing else, and says it loudly.

‘Anyway,’ says Ned, ‘thank you so much for making the time, Silna.’

‘It didn’t sound like I had much of a choice,’ says Silna.

‘Yes,’ says Ned, ‘well. I wanted – we wanted – to just. Have a little chat. You know. A little feedback.’

‘From whom?’

‘From us,’ says Ned, ‘the Whips’ office.’

Silna says nothing. Ned says ‘It’s nothing bad, of course, just – we’ve observed a few things, and – well – we thought. You know. Some feedback.’

Silna says nothing. The tea arrives, and Ned watches Silna take a sip. She puts her cup down and continues to regard him. Ned moistens his lips and coughs.

‘So,’ he says, ‘you know, of course, Silna, that we’re hung. Us. In Government.’

Silna says nothing.

‘So it’s difficult getting stuff through the House, being a minority government.’

Silna takes another sip of her tea and says nothing.

‘So we really do need all hands on deck. For every Bill.’

Silna says nothing.

‘That’s quite important,’ says Ned. He takes a sip of his tea and instantly regrets it.

Silna says nothing.

‘It’s really important,’ says Ned.

‘Important for whom?’ says Silna.

Ned blinks. ‘Us! The Government.’ He licks his lips and adds the hopefully unnecessary reminder ‘Labour.’

Silna says nothing. Ned takes another ill-advised swallow of his horrible stewed Builder’s brew and chokes. Silna hands him a napkin in silence. Ned dabs at his mouth and says ‘Well. Anyway. We’ve noticed a few – abstentions – from you. On the Transport bill, for example? And then – well – you say you’re voting against the Works bill.’

Silna says nothing. Ned says ‘And – well – that’s hard, being in the minority. As I said.’

Silna says nothing. Ned swipes his lip with his tongue once, quickly, and leans forward. ‘And – well – you certainly have a gift for – well, for taking people with you. The – there’s younger MPs, who seem to – you’ve quite a following. Even outside the Party. Harry Goodsir from the Green Party, for one.’

Silna says nothing. Ned says ‘So, you see, we have to be on the watch for - ’

‘Watch for what?’ says Silna.

Ned takes a hasty swallow of his tea.

‘The Bill didn’t work for me,’ says Silna.

Ned blinks. ‘What?’

‘Or my constituents,’ says Silna. ‘The Bill didn’t work for us.’

‘Right,’ says Ned, ‘well - ’

‘Factory shutdowns,’ says Silna, ‘post office closures. Family incomes 20% lower than the UK average. You have to drive forty-five minutes to get to a midwife, it’s an hour’s wait at the GPs, and now you’re shutting down primary schools as well.’

‘Yes,’ says Ned, ‘but - ’

‘So,’ says Silna, ‘I’m not going to try to sell that to them. Because I would be lying to them. And I’m not going to pretend I think your Bill’s anything more than daylight robbery of the working class, because that would be lying to them as well.’

Ned swallows. He says ‘You could just abstain from voting.’

Silna says ‘That would be pretending I don’t care one way or the other about the bill.’

‘And that would be a lie,’ says Ned, numbly.

Silna inclines her head. She drains her cup and stands up. ‘Ta for the tea,’ she says, and walks to the door.

‘Ah, Silna,’ says Fitzjames, approaching her with outstretched hand.

‘Piss off,’ she says without a break in her stride.

The Works Bill squeaks through to a second Reading in the House even despite Silna and her groupies, mainly by dint of Blanky wheeling in two Members for the vote hours after non-elective surgery, and Francis promising the Member for Ashton-under-Lyne one of those wanky stand-up desks for his office, Christ.

Francis is in the Red Lion again. He and Blanky had gone there to make faces as they suck down pint after pint of London Pride. Blanky’s disappeared off home, and Francis has moved on to the whisky.

‘Hello, Mr Crozier.’

Francis turns to find a familiar narrow face dimpling at him.

‘Mr Hickey,’ he says.

Hickey slides into the seat next to him. ‘I’ll have what he’s having,’ he says to the bartender, and watches Francis with a bright dark eye until his drink arrives.

‘Have you had a glance at the Mail in the last couple of weeks, Mr Crozier?’ he says, after taking a sip.

Francis looks down at his drink and considers his options. A part of him wants very badly to say no. It doesn’t matter if he’s convincing; all he needs is to deliver a solid rebuff, or at the very least to let Hickey know that he can do whatever the fuck he wants, but if he’s thinking he has Francis in the viewing gallery cheering him on, then he needs to get another think coming. And why the fuck would he be looking at the Mail, anyway? He wouldn’t even have seen it that one time if it hadn’t been for Blanky. Blanky, who’s fucked off home and left him with the beginning of a headache starting at the back of his teeth and a world that is already pale green and fuzzy at the outlines and the pointy beard and shimmering intent gaze of Cornelius Hickey.

Fuck it. ‘I have,’ he says.

‘The one with Fitzjames?’

Off with the Band-Aid. ‘That one.’

Hickey’s whole face brightens, a pale focussed radiance. ‘Pretty little dollybird, weren’t he?’

Francis drains his glass in three burning swallows and raises two fingers to summon the bartender. He’s feeling queasy. He’s not expected to answer, is he?

Hickey goes on with a slow reminiscent smile ‘Queen Fadlandinida. The things they come up with, those posh boys.’

Francis says nothing.

‘They wanted me to caption that picture ‘Queen FAGlandinida’, you know, Mr Crozier. They thought ‘Bit cheeky, make the punters sit up, push the boat out a bit, might get away with it.’’

Francis takes a swallow and says ‘And you didn’t think you could? Get away with it?’

‘No,’ says Hickey, quietly, ‘I thought we could. I didn’t want to.’

There’s a pause. Francis raises his head to say ‘You’re wanting a medal for that, are you?’

Hickey shakes his head, dimple reappearing. ‘Us poofters've got to stick together.'

Ah. 'Not enough not to print the article, obviously.'

Another dimple. another shake of the head. 'The Mail's a newspaper, Mr Crozier.'

'Debatable,' says Francis.

Hickey twinkles at him over his glass. 'What I mean is: no point shouting about something everyone knows already, Mr Crozier. It’s not news that Fitzjames is queer.’

Only to me, thinks Francis as he stares down into his glass.

‘I mean, he doesn’t make a secret of it,’ says Hickey. ‘No, that’s not one of his secrets. He’s got them, though, Mr Crozier.’

Francis says nothing, swirling his whisky from one side of the glass to the other. Hickey continues ‘Ever noticed that about people who want you to look at them, Mr Crozier? They only ever want you to look at the bits they want to show you. And that Mr Fitzjames, that’s a man wants to be looked at something awful.’

‘You’re interested in Fitzjames,’ says Francis.

‘Him?’ says Hickey, ‘not him, no.’

Francis doesn’t ask Who, then? Hickey says ‘He’s not interesting, Mr Crozier. We both know that, don’t we?’

Francis doesn’t answer. Hickey says ‘It’s just – he’s got a thing or two he doesn’t want known, and I’ve told you, Mr Crozier. I’m good at getting people to look at true things.’

Francis says nothing. He can feel Hickey’s eyes on him as he says ‘Dunno what kind of true things, or who’s gonna have a useful true thing to look at. But something’ll turn up, or I’ll make it turn up.’

Francis says ‘Careful, Mr Hickey. I’ll not be an accessory to whatever you’re confessing.’

Hickey smiles. ‘No confession, Mr Crozier. I come by a thing or two, I use them when I need to.’ He leans in and says ‘it’s about when to use them.’

‘The ‘thing or two’ you come by,’ says Francis.

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, you talk a powerful game, Mr Hickey,’ says Francis, and tips his glass. ‘I’ll give you that for nothing.’

‘I can back it up, Mr Crozier,’ says Hickey, watching Francis.

Francis shrugs. Jubilee line was fucked this morning, but it should probably be up and running by now, if he settles up now he’ll be able to watch Newsnight with Neptune, and there’s a half-bottle of the Jameson under the sink still, he thinks.

‘I’ll send you a message,’ Hickey is saying, ‘on Fitzjames. Just to remember me by.’

Francis stuffs his arms into the sleeves of his coat and gets to his feet. He waits, hands on the counter, for the room to steady before straightening.

‘All right, Mr Crozier?’

‘Good night, Mr Hickey,’ says Francis, and leaves.

‘All right, we’ll have Ashton-under-Lyne sit out for Mole Valley, then,’ says Blanky.

‘Thank you, Tom,’ says Fitzjames. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip. They’re in the throes of an Indian Summer, a last burst of warmth before autumn sets in, but Facilities has stubbornly refused to switch off the heating.

‘Feeling it a bit, eh, Jimbo?’ says Blanky.

‘Not a bit of it,’ says Fitzjames, stoutly.

‘That jumper can’t help,’ says Blanky, and indeed Fitzjames is wearing a close-fitting turtleneck under his jacket. ‘I know you buggers are out in the cold politically, didn’t know the bleeding weather’s different across the hall as well.’

‘Very good, Tom,’ says Fitzjames, smiling with his lips closed. ‘Gentlemen, if we’re done - ?’

‘It is warm for a turtleneck,’ says Francis. ‘Something on your neck you don’t want us to see, maybe?’

He feels Blanky shoot him a look, and Fitzjames stiffens – the barest moment, but Francis sees it –  before saying with a sniff ‘I don’t see how it’s any of your business. Honestly, the pair of you - ’

‘A mark, maybe?’

‘Gossipping like thirteen-year-old-girls - ’

A message on Fitzjames, Hickey had said. He'd thought 'on' as in 'about', but Jaysus. Hickey attaching himself to that long white throat with his sharp little teeth, beard scraping the skin –

‘Christ,’ he hears himself say, ‘you eejit. You fucking eejit.’

‘Excuse me?’ he hears, Fitzjames’s voice ringing with disbelief, and he hears Blanky’s ‘Frank.’ Fitzjames’s head thrown back like in that wretched bloody Daily Mail spread, offering himself up for Hickey’s tongue and teeth and lips –

‘Could you not have – of all the fucking papers, the fucking Mail, Jaysus, Fitzjames.’

‘Francis, what the hell are you talking about?’

‘The man who gave you that,’ says Francis, jabbing his finger at Fitzjames, ‘that thing on your neck. That was Cornelius Hickey.’

‘What?’

‘Hickey, from the Mail.’ He looks at Fitzjames’s face and adds ‘the one who wrote that article about your dress-up in school.’

‘Hickey?’

‘Hickey,’ says Francis, ‘Christ, at least tell me you made him work for it.’ His lips pull back from his teeth. ‘Ach, don’t, I’ll not be lied to.’

Fitzjames, having first flushed a furious scarlet, has now gone very pale. He says ‘How did you know?’

‘How did I know? He told me he’d do it. How was I to know he could actually – get to you. Jesus, Fitzjames, if you had to take up with someone - ’

He stops, and it’s probably for the best, because Blanky has a hand on his shoulder and Fitzjames is saying ‘He told you he’d do it?’

Francis feels his cheeks heating. ‘Not in so many – I didn’t know what he’d actually do.’

‘All of it?’ Fitzjames’s eyes are burning. ‘The article about me at school?’

‘What? No, Christ, I’d no idea he’d - ’

‘You’re talking to the Mail? About me?’

‘No!’ Francis slams his hands down on his desk, and Fitzjames starts a little at the noise, but keeps his eyes on Francis. ‘The fecker was trying something, God knows what. I haven’t been talking about you. Not to the Mail, not to anyone. Christ, why would I?’

He can see Fitzjames’s eyes snap before they dim. ‘Why would you indeed,’ he says. ‘You’re sure about this?’

‘Small, blonde, Northern, pointy beard?’

Fitzjames winces. ‘God. Why would he - ’

‘Fuck knows,’ says Blanky, getting between Fitzjames and Francis, ‘best not give him a kicking if he’s press, though, sadly. I wouldn’t blame you for being tempted, mind.’

Blanky bustles them out - Fitzjames throws Francis a very long look before he leaves - and then shuts the door and advances on Francis. ‘You’ve been having some chat with Hickey, then.’

Francis groans. ‘Do we have to do this now, Tom?’

‘When else?’ says Blanky, ‘before there’s a front-page spread of whichever poor fucker Hickey thinks is doing you down?’

Francis looks away. Fitzjames’s face, shocked and pale, is an insistent image, the thread of bewildered hurt in his voice hard to banish. ‘Fitzjames can look after himself.’

‘He can,’ says Blanky, ‘he’s not who I’m worried about. Frank, tell Hickey you don’t want whatever help he thinks he’s giving you.’

‘I’ve never told him to do a thing,’ says Francis.

‘I know that,’ says Blanky, ‘but he thinks you are.’

‘Well, then he’s delusional,’ says Francis, ‘and that is not my problem.’

‘It may not be your fault,’ says Blanky, ‘but he’ll make it your problem, soon enough.’ 

A few weeks later and the summer’s abruptly vanished behind bruised-looking skies and rattling nor-easterly winds – just in time for Facilities to turn off the heating. Silna’s been doing the rounds, popping up on Radio 4, LBC and Channel 4 and being ferociously frank about the Works Bill. Ned was dispatched to give her another chat, and returned with every individual eyelash drooping in a different direction. Francis is going to need to bring her in for a talk, and Christ. What would he even say.

Francis hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Hickey, and meetings with the Opposition Whips have largely consisted of long pauses filled with chatter from Blanky, Dundy and Gore. Fitzjames’s baritone cuts in from time to time, but Francis looks intently at his desk.

James and Ann have a baby on the way, and James has announced that he’s planning on doing some consulting for the Institute for Economic Affairs, working from home after Ann’s maternity leave’s done. The Guardian’s cooing over the new masculinity he models, there are photos of him in jumpers and Ann wearing a bump and the proverbial glow. There they are in the Observer in their Blackheath home, standing in front of the fireplace with the salvaged Edwardian tiles that Francis helped to fix. They’re staring into each other’s eyes, James’s hair haloed against the wall: the same magnolia wall that Francis helped to paint.

Francis congratulates James and Ann. His presence at tea has been demanded, and he’s made an excuse. The Works Bill, he says. He’s going to have to bribe and sweet-talk and threaten to squeak the thing past the finishing-line. No rest for the wicked, he says. Once they’re done with the Session, he says.

‘I’m getting Tom on the bell,’ says James, ‘He’s been around, and we've talked about this. You're becoming a hermit, old man. I’m going to shovel tea and crumpets down your throat if we have to kidnap you to do it.’

Francis smiles. ‘I’ll dob you in if you do. How’d that look? Labour MP, wanted for conspiracy to kidnap.’

James laughs. ‘Former Labour MP.’

Francis’s smile freezes before he pins it back on. ‘Right. Well, in that case.’

He looks happy. James looks happy. So happy, Christ. He’s going to be a wonderful father.

The door to the office slams open and Blanky walks in with a newspaper under his arm. There’s a crease between his eyebrows and Francis sits up at the way he’s holding his mouth.

‘What is it?’

Blanky throws the paper on the desk. Francis spots that distinctive header. His heartrate picks up – ah, Christ, what now? He shuts his eyes briefly and looks up at Blanky. ‘Not the Mail again. Tom - ’

‘Your boy’s gone rogue, Frank,’ says Blanky.

Francis manages a shrug. ‘Look, I warned Fitzjames,’ he says. He thinks of the gleam of Hickey's teeth, of the bob of Fitzjames's Adam's apple. There’s a thin sour taste in his throat, and he sets his jaw. ‘Not my fault if he didn’t listen.’

‘It’s not about Fitzjames,’ says Blanky.

Francis frowns. ‘Who, then?’

Blanky flicks at the paper. ‘It’s about Silna.’

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.

Chapter Text

Francis is a little surprised that it takes as long as it does for Hickey to respond personally to him. Presumably the Mail’s happier to froth about censorship in general and Photoshop Francis into photos of Chairman Mao while keeping Hickey’s head low, and calls that a reasonable compromise for more than a month.

It can’t last, of course.

‘CROZIER? MORE LIKE MORE BEER!’ blares the headline, followed by ‘LABOUR WHIP’S 20K A YEAR HABIT’.

‘Little fucker’s been doing some arithmetic,’ says Blanky, nodding at the headline.

‘There’s no way that’s right,’ says Francis.

‘That wouldn’t stop the Mail,’ says Blanky. ‘Anyway, you want to argue with them?’

Francis does not. Every part of his head is sluggish and afflicted with a dull throb, just out of phase with the ache in his eyes and neck.

At least the bloke in the photo they chose of him looks like he’s having fun, for a given definition of ‘fun’. The leering buffoon in the photo, with his dead tooth, and blank eyes, looks like someone’s thumped every original thought or feeling out of his head with the business end of a mallet and replaced them with… ah, Jaysus, with what?

Francis doesn’t know where Hickey found those pictures, but he’s distantly impressed. Once the little streak of piss had found them, it was only a matter of time before he made use of them.

He thinks he remembers that evening. He’d made up his mind to ask Sophy to marry him (again? Was this the first or second time?). She’d had to think about turning down a PR contract that she’d helped land. Renewables division of a massive energy company, but there was a conflict of interest with James trying to push through more stringent oversight on renewables production and distribution. Francis had been twisting some arms, and Sophy’s was – well, Francis wouldn’t twist her arm, wouldn’t dream of it, he wasn’t that stupid, but this was important, she had to see that.

‘It always is important,’ Sophy had said, ‘it’s certainly more important than anything I could do, isn’t that right?’

She hadn’t given up the contract in the end, but she’d had to let the partners know that there might be a conflict down the road.

‘They’re a massive client,’ she’d said, ‘and if it’s a choice between me and them, I know who they’ll choose, Francis.’

‘They’d be mad not to choose you,’ Francis had said, reaching out to take her hand.

She’d let him take it, cool and smooth in his palm, and studied him. ‘No, they wouldn’t,’ she’d said, ‘it’s a perfectly reasonable decision. And now they’re thinking that if they have to make that choice sooner or later, why not sooner?’

‘Sophy - ’

She’d lifted her hand from his grasp and risen from her chair in a swift elegant movement. ‘Let’s have dinner,’ she’d said.

The Bill had narrowly squeaked through to the Second Reading, but they’d known – Francis and James and Blanky – that they had a fight on their hands to get it further. More scrapping, more wheeling and dealing. Francis had called Sophy from the pub to say he wouldn’t be home for dinner because he and James and Blanky were shaking down a few dithering backbenchers. ‘Fine,’ she’d said, and when Francis had asked if he should come home instead, she’d said ‘No’.

Blanky had gone home first, followed by James, leaving Francis to make increasingly desperate promises on increasingly convoluted points relating to increasingly remote local authorities. The last of the backbenchers had just left, making plaintive pleas for ‘a tangible commitment’.

And it had been then, with the owlish wisdom of six pints on an empty stomach and a seventh just before closing, that it had come to Francis: A tangible commitment, they’d said, and a tangible commitment was what was wanted.

He’d slammed the bar with his palm so hard his neighbour’s glass had rocked.

‘Oi, mate, watch it.’

Francis hadn’t even looked at him. ‘I’m going to ask her,’ he’d said to his glass.

(Again? Yes, again. Oh, Christ, that’s right, Francis remembers the first time now. Fuck.)

Somehow, the guy next to him had overheard, and Francis had been swept into a tossing maelstrom of beery goodwill. His back was slapped so often he had honest-to-goodness welts the next morning, there were wet imprints on his cheek left by enthusiastic kisses from sentimental strangers, someone had – for reasons best known to themselves – popped a pair of sunglasses on his nose, and there he was blinking bemusedly behind yellow-tinted lenses while someone made enthusiastic ‘V’ signs behind his head and a camera went off. He’d been asked to smile, and had done so with all the joyous abandon of a man who hadn’t really smiled in at least a year, and didn’t want to do it then.

He’d made it home, somehow, and passed out on the couch. The next morning, there had been a brisk hand on his elbow, and Sophy’s face, immaculate and cool, suspended over his. Francis’s eyes – bloodshot and still covered by those ridiculous fucking sunglasses – had dragged up the length of her until they met hers. ‘Marry me,’ he’d said.

Sophy’s eyebrows had shot up before her eyes narrowed. ‘There’s water and Seltzer on the table,’ she’d said, ‘and a bucket in case you need it.’

Then she’d turned on her heel and left.

That evening, Francis had cleaned up, steeping himself in scalding hot water until his skin was a glowing, indignant pink. He’d laid the table and got in the Beaujolais that Sophy loved but he privately thought was overpriced swill fit only for people who’d heard rumours about wine but would faint at the real thing. He’d worn the Thomas Pink shirt she’d gotten him for his birthday and brushed his hair until his scalp twinged. He’d flossed. Twice. When Sophy’s key scraped in the lock, he’d met her with a glass of wine, arms ready to take off her coat.

‘Thank you,’ Sophy had said, eyes a little wary on his face.

Francis had bent to press a kiss to a cool smooth cheek. ‘How was your day?’

‘Fine,’ Sophy had said.

‘I’m happy you took the contract,’ Francis had said, ‘Christ knows nobody deserves it better than you do.’

Sophia had smiled, a delicate pink in her cheeks, and sipped at her wine, and squeezed his hand.

They’d had a lovely dinner, gossipping about Sophy’s office and skirting lightly around the Renewables Bill. She’d laughed; Francis had always been able to surprise that schoolgirl giggle out of her. Francis had even thought the Beaujolais might be growing on him.

And then Sophy had put down her knife and fork and said ‘Shall we talk about this morning?’

Francis had nodded and said ‘I meant it.’

And Sophy had drawn a deep breath and said ‘I thought you might have.’

Francis had said ‘That wasn’t the way I wanted to ask you. So - ’ and he’d gotten up and gone over to Sophy’s chair, about to go to one knee when Sophy had said ‘No.’

Francis had frozen, knee half-bent, off-guard and ridiculous. ‘You haven’t heard what I’m - ’

‘Sit down, Francis,’ she’d said, and pulled out the chair next to her. ‘Let’s talk about this.’

Francis had lowered himself into the seat and looked at her. ‘Look, I shouldn’t have asked you like that. That’s not how I meant to - ’

‘That’s not why I’m saying no,’ Sophy had said.

(No ‘sorry’, he’d noticed. No murmured expressions of regret, however perfunctory or insincere. He noticed; he couldn’t help but notice. Sophy’d never bothered to go easy on him. She’d told him once he should take it as a compliment. He hadn’t been convinced, not then, not ever.)

‘Why, then?’ he’d said.

‘It wouldn’t work,’ she’d said.

‘I’d make you happy,’ he’d said, and reached for her hand. ‘I do make you happy.’

She’d looked down at their joined hands and sighed. ‘You do,’ she’d said, and lifted her head. ‘Your job, though…’

‘What about my job?’ Francis had said. ‘Your uncle and aunt are in the game too. My job is how we met, Sophy.’

‘Your job makes my job almost impossible, Francis.’

‘If this is about the Renewables Bill - ’

‘And the Construction Bill,’ she’d said, ‘And the Transport Bill before that.’

‘It’s only the final push, Sophy. Once we get this one through - ’

‘It’s the final push for this Bill,’ Sophy had said. ‘And what about the next one?’ She’d smiled, a real smile, fond and a little sad. ‘There is a next one, isn’t there? For you and James and Blanky?’

‘James is close, Sophy. It’s always heavy going at first, you know that, when you’re building a name for yourself in the Party.’

‘Close,’ she says, ‘James is close.’

There had been something – an inward, questing tone – in her voice that Francis hadn’t known how to answer. At length Sophy had looked up and smiled again. ‘There’ll be more late nights with MPs, or staging late-night question-and-answer sessions, or wining and dining the Guardian, or Times, or - ’

‘It’s the job, Sophy.’

‘I know,’ she’d said, ‘that’s what I said, remember?’ She leaned her chin on her hand. ‘And it’s not like I can ask you to quit. Not with … James … so close.’

Francis’s head had jerked up. He could feel the blood draining from his face before it surged back and he grasped her hand. ‘You could.’

Sophy had looked at him before throwing her head back and laughing. ‘Francis - ’

‘I would,’ he’d said.

She’d looked at him again, then, hard and quick. ‘You would,’ she’d said, ‘and you’d hate me the rest of our time together. Which would be … a year, at most.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ he’d said, ‘I love you.’

‘I know,’ she’d said, and it was the gentleness in her voice that had had his feet frozen to the floor in terror.

Francis hadn’t quit his job. He and Sophy had stayed together for three months after that, in no small part due to the Renewables Bill keeping Francis out at all hours, and then a massive job needing Sophy to pull nights at work for weeks on end. They’d left each other takeaway or casseroles and made sure to leave the sink and kitchen counters gleaming, with the occasional strand of shining golden hair on a brush the only whisper Sophy had left behind her in the place that was supposed to be their shared home.

Once Francis had spotted that Sophy was picking up after herself, eliminating all traces, wiping her fingerprints off the doorknob, so to speak, he’d found himself expanding to take up the available space and batter at the narrowing, neatly-sutured-shut membrane around her. He’d begun to leave mugs in the sink. He’d left notes for her – on the fridge, on the bathroom mirror, on her chest-of-drawers, anywhere she could see them. Innocuous enough: telling her that there was stew in the fridge, reminding her that the bin man was due, things like that. The messages didn’t matter so much as the emphatic block-capital F R A N C I S at the bottom.

Initially, he’d found the notes unmoved, the only signs that Sophy’d read them being if they were a bit skew-whiff. He’d put them in more noticeable places: directly on handles or taps or right on her brush. After that, he’d find the notes crumpled up in the waste paper baskets, fish them out and stick them back up, wrinkles and all. Francis had made a career of being difficult to ignore, difficult to dismiss, difficult in general. This is my turf, he’d thought, this is a game I know how to play.

He’d found his lips pulling back in a grin of triumph when Sophy’d started tearing up the notes. Neat folds, pressed down with her immaculate nail, and then a brisk shred along the fold.

He’d planned to wait home for Sophy one evening, but James had called with an SOS: a gaggle of the Scots and Welsh MPs were worried about the Renewables bill and he needed reinforcements.

He’d come back reeking of the swill the Welsh had insisted they try (who knew there were vineyards in Wales? Whose bright idea had that been?) and a note saying I left a plate for you in the oven. The bedroom door was shut.

The next evening, when he’d let himself in, Sophy had been waiting for him.

‘I didn’t want to do this bit through notes,’ she’d said.

And then he’d seen the boxes: neatly-packed and labelled with Sophy’s elegant sloping hand.

‘We both know this isn’t working, Francis,’ she’d said.

‘It’s Ashton-under-Lyne,’ Blanky says, ‘he can’t make it for the Fishery and Aquaculture Bill.’

Francis lifts his head. ‘He’s going to have to.’

‘He has surgery, s – Franc – sir,’ says Ned Little, ‘I really don’t think - ’

‘When’s his surgery?’ says Francis.

Ned and Blanky exchange a look. ‘The twenty-sixth.’

Francis cocks an eyebrow. ‘That’s two days before the vote.’

‘Frank,’ says Blanky.

‘Two days to come down,’ says Francis. ‘What’s the problem?’

Ned swallows. ‘It’s – the doctors normally recommend rest after the surgery, Francis, I don’t know if - ’

‘He can rest,’ says Francis, ‘after the vote on the Bill.’

‘Francis, he’s already put off the surgery a couple of times to come in for votes, I don’t think - ’

‘It’s a three-line whip,’ says Francis, ‘if he wants to continue representing the fine folk of Ashton-under-Lyne as their Labour MP, he can come in for a couple of hours.’

‘Francis,’ says Ned, ‘I really think he’s concerned about - ’

‘It’s a benign tumour, Ned, Jaysus, the doctors said so. It’s a precaution. And besides,’ he sends him a grin, ‘nobody dies in the Palace of Westminster.’

Ned blinks. ‘What?’

‘It’s a tradition, Ned,’ says Blanky, ‘nobody’s supposed to die in the Palace. No commoner, anyway. And the lot of us are as common as muck, eh?’

Ned’s brow is beginning to furrow. ‘But they – bodies don’t work that - ’

‘We know, Ned,’ says Blanky, ‘people do cark it in the House. It’s just that if you do, it won’t be called till you’re halfway across the bridge.’

‘Right,’ says Ned, ‘are we – are we worried about that?’

Blanky shoots Francis a look. ‘We worry about everything, Ned.’ He claps Ned on the back. ‘You certainly do, eh, lad?’

Ned tries to smile. Francis says ‘So there you go, Ned. Nobody’s dying. Not yet.’

Ned nods, but he’s looking a little green. Francis looks at the calendar, and looks at Ned. ‘Twenty-eighth, Ned. There’s your clock, there’s your marching orders. Get to it.’

Looking definitely green now, Ned nods, says ‘Yes, Chief,’ and walks out.

Blanky looks at Francis and says ‘Frank, could we not talk to - ’

‘Stockton North,’ says Francis, ‘where are we with him?’

There’s a pause and Blanky says ‘I’m working on him.’

‘Go work on him some more, then.’

Blanky looks at his shoes and then nods. ‘All right, Chief.’

‘Have you seen the docket, Frank?’

Francis raises two fingers to call over the bartender and turns to Blanky. ‘What’ll you have, Tom?’

‘You’re all right,’ says Blanky. ‘The docket, Frank.’

‘What about it?’ The coaster’s sticking to the surface of the bar.

‘The Appropriations Ways and Means Amendment. It’s on the twenty-eighth.’

‘And?’ Christ, the coaster’s peeling itself off the bar and onto his elbow now.

‘Same day as the Fishery and Aquaculture Bill.’ Blanky slaps the docket down onto the bar. ‘Almost the same time.’

Francis looks at the lines Blanky’s pointing to in silence. At length he says ‘You think he knew?’

‘Who?’

‘He,’ says Francis. ‘Fitzjames. The Tories. You think he – they – knew?’

There’s a pause and then Blanky sighs. ‘I don’t know,’ he says.

‘They never said anything.’

‘Can’t blame them, can you?’

Francis looks at Blanky and Blanky leans forward. ‘Anyway, that doesn’t matter now, does it? Frank, we have to - ’

Francis pulls his drink towards him and says nothing. There’s another silence before Blanky leaves.

‘It’s Silna, sir,’ says Tom Jopson, on the morning of the twenty-seventh.

‘What’s she done now?’

‘The post office workers were protesting the Works Bill, sir,’ says Jopson, ‘and Silna joined them.’

‘Of course she did,’ says Francis.

‘Yes, sir. And there was an … altercation … with the police.’

‘Don’t tell me - ’

‘I’m afraid so, sir. She was arrested.’

‘She’s a goer, that one,’ says Blanky.

Francis puts his head in his hands for a moment before saying ‘Have her brought in. Tell her she can write out a written apology or pay a fine. What’s the maximum allowable?’

‘Three hundred pounds, sir.’

‘Written apology or fine of three hundred quid, then.’

Silna makes an appearance the next day, on the twenty-eighth, and walks to the desk, where Tom has put out a pad and pen for her. She sits down, looks up at Francis and picks up the pen, before putting it back down and placing a wallet on the table.

She pulls out a twenty-pound note. Another. Then another.

‘Sixty,’ says Tom, producing a pad and pen of his own.

Eighty. One hundred. A hundred and twenty. A hundred and forty. A hundred and sixty. A hundred and eighty.

‘Two hundred,’ intones Tom.

Two hundred and ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety.

Silna produces a small fat coin purse and slaps it on the table.

Two hundred and ninety-two. Two hundred and ninety-four. Two hundred and ninety-five. Ninety-six. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine.

Silna roots about in the purse.

‘Two hundred and ninety-nine pounds and fifty pence,’ says Tom, making a note on his pad.

Seventy pence. Eighty pence. Ninety pence. Ninety-five. Ninety-seven. Ninety-nine.

‘Three hundred pounds,’ announces Tom.

Silna picks up her wallet and purse and walks out.

There’s a silence in her wake, broken only by Blanky saying ‘That was pretty fucking good, actually.’

Francis turns on him. ‘You have a vote you need to be getting to. Need to get a move on, if you’re to make the Fishery Bill as well.’

There’s a silence before Blanky nods. ‘Yes, Chief.’

Francis is waiting with an eye on the door. It’s been a good showing for the Fishery and Aquaculture Bill. Ashton-under-Lyne turned up, a bit yellow under the skin and wheezing, but he made it down the right corridor. They didn’t have time to get him another shirt when the stitches from his surgery reopened, but Francis is happy to promise for the Party to cover the dry-cleaning bill, and Tom Jopson’s waiting back in the office with gauze and band-aids and antiseptic swabs in case the stitches open again. They’re neck-and-neck with the Aristocunts (Fitzjames and the man who insists on being called Dundy apparently twisted every available arm in the party to get their lot in), and the doors are closing. Where the fuck is –

There’s a sickening crunch, followed by lusty swearing.

‘Mister Speaker! MISTER SPEAKER!’

Fitzjames and Francis rush over to find Tom Blanky prostrate on the floor of the House, red-faced and triumphant. His legs are caught in the door.

‘Made it,’ he says, grinning up in Francis’s face. ‘Through the right corridor and everything.’

Francis finds his face splitting into a grin. ‘Looks like one for us, Fitzjames,’ he says.

‘Hang on a moment,’ says Fitzjames, ‘The Deputy Whip didn’t make it in time. His vote’s void.’

‘Don’t pull that with me,’ Francis is beginning, when the Speaker raises his hand.

‘Would you say,’ says the Speaker to the presiding Clerk, ‘that the bulk of the Deputy Whip’s person was in the House as the vote was closing?’

The Clerk considers. ‘I would say so, Mister Speaker.’

‘A half?’

Francis, Fitzjames, the Clerk and Speaker regard Blanky before the Clerk says judiciously ‘Three-quarters.’

‘Mister Speaker, this is ridiculous, we can’t – ’

‘The Opposition Chief Whip’s objections are noted, but I’m going to call this one for the Government. Two hundred and ninety votes to two hundred and ninety. And three-quarters.’ The Speaker sighs. ‘Record books’ll have a field day with this one.’

Francis is baring his teeth at Fitzjames when there’s the sound of swearing from the ground.

‘Tom?’

‘It’s nowt,’ says Blanky, face pale, ‘leg’s giving me a bit of bother’s all.’

‘For Christ’s sake open the door,’ says Francis to the Clerk, bending over Blanky, ‘Tom, are you – ’

‘I can,’ says the Clerk, in a trembling voice, ‘I can see the bone, Jesus, that’s not – ’

‘Call an ambulance,’ says Francis, ‘For God’s sake call an – ’

Fitzjames has already produced a mobile and is speaking into it, issuing directions. When the medics arrive, Francis is shuffled off to the side. He’s allowed to ride in the ambulance, holding Blanky’s hand.

‘He’s shorter than I always think he is,’ he says to Tom Jopson, who’s already called Esther. ‘I always forget – he’s shorter than me. I always - ’

Esther Blanky walks in. Francis goes to her and she lets her eyes rest on him before walking past him.

Francis goes to one of the chairs in the waiting room and sits down and wills his hands to stop trembling.

‘It was a nasty break,’ the consultant and surgeon are telling Esther (Francis is hovering and hasn’t been told to leave, so he hasn’t), ‘Tibial shaft fracture, not pleasant. But the surgery went well. We’re recommending physio, and with care he should recover the bulk of the functioning of the leg within about four months.’

‘Anything longer term?’ Esther asks.

The consultant says ‘We can’t say anything definitive at this point, but it was a significant operation, and there is some chance of some persistent pain and reduced mobility. We’ll monitor him, of course.’

The surgeon says ‘We’re lucky the bone wasn’t infected, which was a very real risk.’

 Francis winces. The consultant says ‘He should be able to see people now.’ He glances at Francis. ‘Only one at a time, mind.’

Esther springs up from her seat and goes in. Francis glimpses Blanky taking her hand and watches her head go down as she presses her lips to his forehead. Esther Blanky, that tower of a woman, whom Francis still insists on thinking of as the only woman who could close to match Tom Blanky’s stature even though he knows perfectly well she’s a head taller than him. Tom Blanky in the ambulance, small and human and terrifyingly breakable.

Esther emerges and nods at Francis. ‘You can go in now,’ she says. They’re the first words she’s said to him since she came in. ‘No theatrics, mind.’

Francis nods. ‘Thanks,’ he says. She doesn’t respond.

Francis walks to Blanky’s bed, where his leg’s rigged up in a terrifying-looking cast. Blanky’s watching him, eyes twinkling.

‘Margin of three-quarters of a vote, they tell me,’ he says to Francis. ‘Be dining out on that for a time, I can tell you.’

‘Tom,’ says Francis, and can’t say anymore. He reaches for Tom’s hand and lifts it and presses his forehead to it.

‘Ah now, you soft bugger,’ says Blanky, ‘none of that.’

‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ says Francis, ‘Christ, you have to know, I’m so - ’

‘Look,’ says Blanky, and gives Francis’s hand a little shake. ‘I’m all right, see. Born to be hanged, me.’

Francis gives a rather damp chuckle. Blanky goes on ‘Anyway, nobody dies in the Palace of Westminster, eh?’

‘No,’ says Francis, eyes swimming, ‘but nobody says anything about breaking a leg in the Palace.’

‘Pity,’ says Blanky, ‘was looking forward to the State funeral.’

‘For a broken leg?’

‘All right, then,’ says Blanky, ‘nice golden watch then. No, tell you what – nice shiny anklet.’

Francis laughs, but says ‘Christ, Tom, don’t be kind to me now. I can’t bear it.’

‘He’s not being kind,’ says Esther’s voice. She walks to the other side of Blanky’s bed. ‘It’s not kind he’s being when he pretends there’s nothing wrong, is it?’

‘Essie, love – ’ says Blanky. Esther takes his hand and presses it, and he subsides.

‘Essie,’ says Francis, rising to meet her, ‘I am sorry.’

‘I know you are, Francis,’ says Esther, and Francis feels the gentleness in the words like a blow, ‘And?’

Francis looks at Blanky and says ‘I’m joining AA. And I’ve asked Tom Jopson to clear out all the booze in my desk and flat.’

‘Frank, that’s - ’

‘Good,’ says Esther simply.

Francis nods, gives Blanky’s hand a parting squeeze, gets a pat on the cheek from Esther, and walks out.

Chapter Text

‘I know it’s a rough road, John - ’

‘It’s a very rough road.’ John Diggle, the head of the Transport Workers’ Union, sits back and folds his arms across his chest. ‘What in the bloody hell does your man think he’s playing at?’

Good question, thinks Francis, but says instead ‘It’s a tricky thing in Parliament, being hung.’

‘First time in his life John Ross has ever been called hung anything, eh?’ says Diggle. Francis grins. Diggle continues ‘Aye, I know it’s not easy getting anything through with the other lot breathing down your necks. But that’s not something I can keep taking to my lads, Frank, and you know it.’

‘I do,’ says Francis, ‘look, we’ll get the Budget through. The Budget’ll pass, and that’ll give us a bit of sea room. We can try to push some bigger stuff through then.’

‘We don’t need big,’ says Diggle, ‘don’t need flashy. Lean on the train, bus and tube companies in London on pay freezes.’

Francis raises an eyebrow. ‘That’s all, is it?’

‘It’s a start,’ says Diggle.

‘A start,’ says Francis. ‘What’s the middle, then? Or the end?’

‘You get cracking first, sunshine,’ says Diggle, ‘or we’ll have to.’

‘That a threat, John?’ says Francis.

Diggle shakes his head. ‘I’m just telling you, Frank. You let your man know. The Steel Workers’ Bill made it through, no bother. It was popular, an’ all. What happened to James Ross?’

‘Fatherhood,’ says Francis, and raises his cup of tea to his lips. ‘Had to cut back.’

‘Shame,’ says Diggle.

‘It is that,’ says Francis.

‘Try to get that one back.’

He left, the words come to Francis’s lips, he saw what was happening and he left. He says instead ‘Ah, let him be. He’s a new father. Let him enjoy the wains.’

‘The shitting and the screaming and the throwing up?’ says Diggle. ‘He can have it.’ He sighs. ‘Not that I was there for much of that, mind.’

Francis looks at him over his tea. ‘And how old are they now?’

Blanky would know, he thinks.

‘The oldest’s twenty,’ says Diggle, ‘good lad. Card-carrying member of the Union.’

‘Labour voter?’

‘He fucking better be,’ says Diggle, ‘but who knows nowadays?’

‘Who indeed,’ says Francis. ‘Look, John, it’s tight right now, but we’re getting settled. We’re working on Ross. We’re not forgetting you.’

‘I know you’re not,’ grins Diggle, ‘and we’re not forgetting you either.’

Francis raises his cup of tea. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

Diggle raises his pint and takes a swallow, watching Francis. ‘How’s that going?’

Francis lowers his cup and tries to smile. ‘Three months sober. One day at a time.’

Diggle nods and stares ahead of him. ‘My dad drank,’ he says after a long moment.

Francis watches him. ‘Mine too.’

‘Yeah? What was his poison?’

‘Gin,’ says Francis, ‘Yours?’

‘Ah, he wasn’t choosy.’ Diggle raises his pint to his lips before putting it down without taking a sip. ‘You got someone who’ll sort you out?’

Tom Jopson, pale eyes scanning him every morning, keychain weighed down with the addition of the key to Francis’s desk drawer that Francis gave him wordlessly. Esther Blanky, inexhaustible fount of tea, biscuits, precisely-cocked eyebrows and the wrath, or worse disappointment, of God. Tom Blanky, who had to be bullied into taking every painkiller and physically threatened to make sure he actually rested.

‘I’ve got people,’ he says.

Francis looks at his watch. It’s always been a reflex – get to the pub twenty minutes before the appointed time, get a cheeky pint or two in – and he forgot to recalibrate. And if you’re not drinking, there’s not a powerful lot to do in a pub. The football’s playing on the telly over the bar, and Francis tries to keep an eye on it before letting his eyes rove over to the dartboard. He can remember Blanky’s long filthy cackle as some backbencher MP missed his target, coupled with the rapidly-lessening heft of the pint in his hand and a warm, hoppy fug in the air, tinged blue with smoke back when you could still smoke indoors.

‘What’ll you have?’ says the bartender. When Francis turns back to him, he nods. ‘The usual?’

Francis smiles and shakes his head. ‘Water for me, thanks.’

‘Right,’ says the bartender, and comes back with a pint-glass of water. He watches Francis take a sip and says ‘You know, there’s soft drinks that look like cocktails.’

Francis cocks an eyebrow at him. ‘I’ll not be ordering virgin pina coladas, lad. Not now, not ever.’

The bartender grins. ‘There’d be no judgement, sir.’

‘There would,’ says Francis, ‘from me. There’s no shame in water, at least.’

‘All right,’ says the bartender, holding up his hands, ‘but if I’m on duty and you fancy a nice lime-and-soda, just ask me for a G&T, all right? I do it when there’s creeps trying to get girls drunk who don’t want to be got drunk.’

Francis grins. ‘You’re after protecting my virtue, then?’

The bartender nods. ‘Part of the job.’

Francis looks down at his water and smiles at the bartender. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem,’ says the bartender. ‘G&T, then?’

‘I used to say I’d go off the sauce before I ever touched gin,’ says Francis.

‘You were right, it seems,’ says the bartender. ‘G&T?’

‘Please,’ says Francis.

A goblet appears in front of him in a few minutes’ time, sparkling and fizzing and with a sprig of rosemary (fucking rosemary).

‘Thanks,’ says Francis, and lifts the glass to his lips. ‘What’s your name, lad?’

‘Tom,’ says the bartender, ‘Tom Hartnell.’

‘Sorry I’m late, Francis,’ says Fitzjames’s voice. He throws a sharp glance at the glass in front of Francis.

‘Lime and soda,’ says Francis.

Fitzjames freezes on his stool – caught spying, thinks Francis. ‘Of course,’ he says.

Just like Sophia, thinks Francis, kicking him out but reserving the right to turn her delicate nose up at whatever he chose to put in his body. He feels a stab of irritation at the thought, along with a warm wash of something he can’t quite name, which promptly vexes him in turn.

‘Taste for yourself,’ he finds himself saying, pushing the glass towards him, ‘if you don’t believe me.’

‘That’s not what I,’ begins Fitzjames. He chews on the inside of his cheek: physically swallowing down his annoyance, a familiar gesture and Francis’s cue for a knife-sharp grin peeling back from his teeth. He reaches for it – muscle memory should get him there – and says instead ‘I know.’ He holds out the glass. ‘Try it anyway.’

Fitzjames’s eyes move swiftly to his before lowering. Francis holds out the glass, watching distantly the imperative angle of his wrist, the ring of condensation on the coaster. It takes him far too long to feel abashed at his own insistence, somehow, entirely too long to begin to draw the glass back towards himself.

And then Fitzjames mutters something under his breath that Francis can’t catch, and darts forward. His big hand curves around the top of the goblet, safe inches away from Francis’s, and he bends his head down to take a sip.

Francis finds himself watching with an exacting, pained fascination as Fitzjames’s lashes flutter against his thin cheek. He tilts the glass, or Fitzjames does, his long pale pianist’s fingers inches from Francis’s rough red right hand.

He watches Fitzjames swallow and lift his head.

‘Very nice,’ he says, his voice deep and flickering. His cheeks are faintly pink.

‘Thanks,’ says Francis, and lifts his glass to his own lips quickly to soothe the scratch in his voice.

‘The rosemary really,’ says Fitzjames, and Francis turns to look at him, watches the bob of his Adam’s Apple, ‘lifts it.’

‘Right,’ says Francis. Fitzjames’s other hand is clenched loosely on the bar. Francis thinks, suddenly, that he may need to take up smoking if only to find something to do with his hands.

Someone barges up to the bar next to Fitzjames. ‘Three pints of the Taddy’s,’ he says, ‘and what pale ales d’you have on tap?’

There’s a Taddy’s Pale Ale, thinks Francis, the Twice Tangled, the Hopping Hare, and nobody ever gets the Hobgoblin but they should, they fucking should, not one of these Shoreditch twats with their beard oil and their eyebrow combs knows a decent real ale when they see it or if they’re chucked into a vat of it headfirst, there’s not a one of them physically capable of telling the difference between a decent pint and whatever overpriced overhopped overmalted melted cardboard they insist on shoving down your throat at those Godforsaken aluminium-siding microbreweries, Christ, remember when I could enjoy beer? Remember when it was something that I could sip with pork scratchings while I talked? Remember when beer was a thing that I liked?

He takes a swallow of his lime-and-soda. The rosemary (the fucking rosemary) floats into his mouth and he plucks the sprig off his tongue. ‘Don’t know if I’m convinced about the rosemary, myself,’ he offers to Fitzjames, watching him.

‘Let’s go somewhere else,’ says Fitzjames.

‘The Red Lion?’ Why? They have seats here at the bar, and decent enough elbow-room for now. There’s no point moving.

Fitzjames’s lips tighten. ‘I don’t want us to meet at a pub. Or a bar,’ he says, looking at Francis, ‘or anywhere they serve alcohol.’

Francis stares at him before saying. ‘I’m fine, Fitzjames.’

Fitzjames says nothing. Francis says again ‘I’m fine.’

‘Francis - ’

‘Look,’ says Francis, ‘I’m going to have to learn to be around alcohol. We don’t do a lot of business at the Chelsea Flower Show, if you haven’t noticed.’

‘We could,’ says Fitzjames, and rolls his eyes at Francis’s raised eyebrow, ‘not the Flower Show, I mean. But the Park’s an option. We could go down to St. James’s.’

‘And it’s that you’re proposing, is it,’ says Francis, ‘drag every single rebel backbencher or Northern Irish Independent down to St. James’s every time I want to sweet-talk them or put the frighteners on? That’ll go over well.’

‘I’m neither a rebel backbencher or a Northern Irish Independent,’ says Fitzjames, the snap of his vowels deafeningly voicing the unspoken and thank fuck for that, ‘and I’m saying - ’

‘I can do it, Fitzjames.’

If Tom Blanky could pull on his trousers and work his crutch to hobble downstairs and help Essie with dinner two months after a door crushed his leg, I can do this. If he can prod me out the door with the same crutch when I try to get him to take his sodding painkillers, I can do this. If I’m to ever look him in the eye again, I can do this.

‘For God’s sake, Francis,’ says Fitzjames, ‘I’m not saying you can’t. I’m saying you don’t have to.’

There’s a silence. There’s a flush high on Fitzjames’s cheeks, and Francis looks away and into his goblet.

Fitzjames clears his throat. ‘If you don’t like the Park,’ he says, ‘there must be somewhere else. You’ve worked here for years,’ and he gives Francis a look, ‘as you’re never tired of reminding m-us. You must know somewhere we can go.’

Francis calls Hartnell over and puts the money down for his drink. ‘All right,’ he says to Fitzjames, ‘we’ll find somewhere.’

They head out onto Bridge Street and cross. Francis makes his way to the Elizabeth Tower, flashing his card at the guard to pass. They make their way to the base of the tower and enter.

‘Last Big Ben tour groups of the day have gone,’ the guard says with a wink, lifting the rope and gesturing the two of them past. They climb up the steps until they reach the narrow landing behind the face of the clock.

‘I’ve never come here before,’ says Fitzjames.

‘Me either,’ says Francis.

‘Have you been?’ James had asked him, long ago. ‘I took Ann up there. I told her we’d be allowed up after the tour guides had left, get the place to ourselves a bit. She refused. Said she wanted the full experience.’

They’d strolled around the Tower, hand in hand, laughing dutifully at strained witticisms from the tour guide. ‘It’s fun,’ James had said, ‘I’m so used to thinking of it as the office, you know. It’s where I work. The Tube’s rammed and the coffee’s shit. But there’s children there, people from all over the world. They’re not thinking about the coffee or the Tube or the loos with the doors that don’t lock. They see something else entirely. And just for a moment, you do too.’

Francis has never needed anyone else’s eyes to see Parliament. He’s never felt jaded, exactly; you’d need to feel belonging for that. Big Ben’s always been a thing apart, at once too familiar and too abstract, too much a thing for other eyes and other tongues and other myths. Now, watching the shadows from the inexorable sweep of that famous monumental hand on Fitzjames’s long thin face, it feels at once stranger and closer.

He’s glad this is his first time up here, he thinks, and flushes hotly at the thought.

‘You wanted to meet,’ says Fitzjames, and Francis realises neither has spoken for a while.

‘Right,’ says Francis, ‘I want to call pairing back on.’

Fitzjames raises his eyebrows. ‘Just like that?’

Francis sets his jaw. ‘Yes.’

Fitzjames stares at him for a long minute. Francis can tell it’s a full minute because the slashing shadow on Fitzjames’s face shifts infinitesimally. Francis says ‘Look, you’ll want to have pairing back as well. Can’t have been easy for you lot.’

‘It hasn’t,’ says Fitzjames, ‘it hasn’t, at all.’

‘Well, then,’ says Francis.

‘Especially,’ says Fitzjames, ‘when I was allowed to think I had a day more for a vote than I actually did.’ His chin is tilted a little as he looks at Francis.

Francis’s eyes meet his and he lowers his head. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

Fitzjames holds his gaze before sighing, shoulders lowering. ‘I know. I did it too. And I’m sorry I did.’

‘You weren’t to know what I’d do.’

Fitzjames’s eyes flick across to Francis. He doesn’t say I could guess, and Francis doesn’t know whether to be grateful or furious. He says instead ‘I’m sorry anyway.’

‘You weren’t doing anything I hadn’t already done,’ says Francis, ‘but. Thank you.’

Fitzjames nods. There’s a long silence, broken only by the well-bred persistent ticking of the clock. Fitzjames stands with his hands on the rail, eyes on the back of the clockface. Francis looks at his own hands and says ‘Pairing.’

Fitzjames says ‘I can’t, Francis.’

Francis looks at him, and Fitzjames says ‘Look, it hasn’t been easy, but we’re managing.’

They have been managing, Francis will admit. And Christ knows Labour was done no favours by their Chief Whip and Deputy Whip damn near out of commission for weeks on end. Thank fuck there hadn’t been anything major on the docket, or Ned would really have been in for it.

‘You don’t need to manage anymore,’ Francis says.

Fitzjames shakes his head. ‘The Lady’s said no.’

Francis raises his head and Fitzjames says ‘She’s not playing, Francis. I don’t know if she’d have thought of calling off pairing herself, but once it was offered to her – she’s not the sort to give up an advantage, you know that.’

‘No,’ says Francis. ‘No, I suppose not.’

Fitzjames parts his lips to speak, and Francis wonders for a moment if he’s going to say he’s sorry, and whether he’d mean it. But he says instead ‘So there you have it.’

‘Right,’ says Francis. ‘Well, then. Thanks for coming.’

He watches Fitzjames leave, throwing long sharp shadows behind him, and turns back to stare at the back of the clockface until it strikes.

‘And we’re joined tonight by the freshly-minted First Minister of Scotland, Alexander McDonald of the Scottish National Party. First Minister, welcome.’

‘Thank you, Stephen,’ says McDonald.

Alex McDonald – ‘Macca’ to his friends, which include the Scottish press and rather more of the English media than anyone, including McDonald himself, is really comfortable with – has taken the SNP, and then Scotland, by storm. Albeit a gentle, twinkling storm composed entirely of Edinburgh burrs and square jaws and floppy hair and riotous dimples. He radiates an unflappable air of dependence in the essential reasonableness of everyone, including his political enemies. He has a nice way with a quip and gets endearingly rumpled in campaign trail candids. You know implicitly that he always has an attentive ear and a clean hanky at the ready.

‘You’ve given yourself a crowded agenda for your first year,’ says Stanley.

‘Nothing that doesn’t need doing,’ says McDonald, ‘we weren’t brought in to shirk, Stephen.’

‘A referendum on Scottish independence, for one,’ says Stanley.

‘It’ll take a wee while for that,’ says McDonald, ‘we’ll need to put legislation through parliament first in Scotland, and then our lords and masters in Westminster vote to allow us to hold it.’ He grins. ‘If we’re very good and do all our homework, you ken.’

‘I do ken,’ says Stanley, ‘I ken that you’ll need the backing of more than half of Parliament.’

‘We’ll get it in Scotland,’ says McDonald.

‘You might,’ says Stanley, ‘how about Westminster?’

‘We’ve had support from Labour in the past for devolution,’ says McDonald.

‘For devolution, yes,’ says Stanley, ‘Eventually, and painfully, and partially. You’re proposing a full break.’

‘That’s one of the options on the table, yes,’ says McDonald. ‘It’s nothing new, Stephen. Scotland’s been pushing for greater powers of self-determination, and all we’re getting is empty promises and the occasional fiddling at the margins. Scotland doesn’t get to keep her own money or set her own taxes. We even need Westminster’s permission to say whether or not we want to follow her.’

‘You do,’ says Stanley, ‘how do you propose to get it?’

McDonald sits back and smiles at Stanley. ‘I’ve got a winning manner, Stephen, when I want to.’

‘Do you now,’ says Stanley, ‘You’ll need every ounce of it. The SNP decimated Labour in Scotland.’

‘Well,’ says McDonald, ‘that’s all of a piece with it, I’d argue. Scottish people have an appetite for Scottish representatives.’

‘They certainly seem to have an appetite for you,’ says Stanley in musing tones, and looks promptly stricken.

McDonald’s eyebrows fly up and a dimple appears before he clears his throat. ‘In any case,’ he says, ‘the SNP’s always willing to work with Labour. We’re natural allies.’

‘You’re not the only ones to think so,’ says Stanley. There’s a dark wash of colour high on his cheeks, but he seems otherwise unbothered.

A poster comes up on screen with a giant image of McDonald, and John Ross’s face peeking out of his jacket pocket.

LABOUR PUTS US IN SCOTLAND’S POCKET, says the poster, with a ‘VOTE CONSERVATIVE’ below it.

McDonald throws his head back and laughs. ‘That’s adorable,’ he says, ‘Imagine me toting around puir wee John Ross.’

‘He’s imagining it all right,’ says Stanley. ‘He’s said he will personally vote against legislation permitting a referendum on Scottish independence.’

There’s a silence. McDonald rests his chin on his hand and looks at Stanley. The dimple’s back, but there’s an ambivalence about it.

‘Well, then,’ he says, ‘Looks like my evening just opened up.’ The dimple widens. ‘What are you up to tonight, Stephen?’

James Fitzjames switches off the television and turns to Graham and Dundy. ‘Anyone know McDonald’s number?’

‘All right then, that’s the fifteenth for the amendments to the Budgetary Oversight Bill,’ says Francis. ‘That work for you, Fitzjames?’

James nods. Tom Blanky gives a thumbs-up from his chair. Francis had offered him a chair as the meeting wore on, and received both the V sign and a very prolonged raspberry in response. But when James had risen and pushed his chair over to him, he’d sunk down with a cheerful ‘this one swivels properly.’ Francis had eyed him with twitching lips and sent James a look he couldn’t read.

James’s phone pings in his pocket. He fishes it out and glances at the screen: a message from McDonald. Fitzjames had located his number and written ‘I wouldn’t dare compete with Stanley, but I promise the sherry at the Athenaeum is better than the swill at the BBC’.

McDonald’s responded, saying ‘It is swill, isn’t it? Can confirm. Seven tonight at the Athenaeum?’

James taps out a ‘See you there then’ and puts the phone back, meeting cocked heads and raised eyebrows from Blanky and Francis.

‘Boring you, are we, Fitzjames?’ says Francis.

‘Not at all,’ says James. ‘But if we’re done here - ?’

‘Oh, before you go, Jimbo,’ says Blanky, ‘I’ve got a rip in my jacket pocket, here’ and he brandishes the offending thing which does, indeed, have a tear at the bottom of the pocket. ‘I thought, since we’ve got a tailor handy. Couldn’t help a man out, could you?’

James looks down at the tear with raised eyebrows and clicks his tongue. ‘Sorry, Tom,’ he says, ‘I don’t work with man-made fibres.’

There’s a brief, startled silence, before Blanky’s cackle breaks out. ‘You cheeky bugger,’ he says, ‘your boy’s coming along, Frank.’

James’s eyes fly to Francis, who is staring at him with his brow winging skywards and the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips. At Blanky’s words a stinging circle of scarlet appears on his cheeks – a precise mirror for the heat in James’s own, he suspects.

‘You got what you need, James?’ he says.

‘Yes,’ says James, ‘Yes, I do,’ and beats a hasty retreat, though not hasty enough to avoid hearing Blanky’s ‘Oh, it’s ‘James’ now, is it?’

He doesn’t stay to hear Francis’s response.

‘I must say it’s quite a thing, us puir wee Scots Nats getting all this romantic attention from the Tories,’ says Alex McDonald, leaning back in his chair, ‘it’s enough to turn a girl’s head if she wasn’t careful.’

‘Are you going to be?’ says James. ‘Careful?’

‘I’d have to be, now,’ says McDonald, ‘would I not?’ He looks at James. ‘I am curious to hear what you think you can offer, though, lad.’

‘Actual support for devolution,’ says James.

‘Ah, that,’ says McDonald, ‘I’ve heard that one before.’

‘John Ross didn’t mean it,’ says James.

‘And the Lady does?’

‘The Tories are all for devolution,’ says James, ‘We want lighter government. It’s Labour that wants to nationalise and centralise, centralise, centralise. And centralisation means centralisation in Westminster and away from Holyrood.’

McDonald tilts his head. ‘Interesting,’ he says. ‘But our manifesto was about independence, not devolution.’

James puts down his glass and knits his hands together. ‘We won’t support it,’ he says.

‘Shame,’ says McDonald, and says no more.

‘We won’t support it,’ says James, ‘but you’ve already seen that Labour won’t either. At least the Tories haven’t strung you along. At least with us you know what you are getting.’

‘Which is not a lot,’ says McDonald, ‘still, you’re not wrong.’ He considers James for a long moment. ‘Are the Tories not afraid of chumming up with the Scots Nats, then? I saw that little poster your lot put out. Easy enough for Labour to knock up one with the Lady in my pocket.’

‘The Lady,’ says James, ‘is not one for pocketing.’

McDonald snorts. ‘That she is not,’ he says, ‘not a comfy pocketful, that one.’

‘I’ll tell her you said so,’ says James with a smile, ‘she’ll like that.’

‘I meant every word,’ says McDonald. He looks at James over his glass. ‘We’re still closer to Labour than to any other party, you know.’

‘For now, maybe,’ says James, ‘Just about. Not for long, if John Ross has anything to say about the matter.’

McDonald sighs. ‘You’re not wrong.’ He lowers his head, forelock falling forward. ‘Look,’ he says at length, ‘we’ll dance with them what brung us. I’ll not walk out on Labour in the middle of their term.’

‘Is it the length of the term that’s stopping you?’ says James, ‘because I’m working on shortening that.’

The dimples peep out. ‘You’re a card,’ says McDonald. ‘I’ll not break faith with them yet.’

‘All right,’ says James, ‘what if Ross wants to centralise? What if there’s more regional spending cuts? Less money on Scottish infrastructure investment?’

McDonald looks up at him sharply. ‘What have you heard?’

‘Nothing,’ says James, ‘I only have the same information that you do, and you know those weren’t bad guesses.’

McDonald nods slowly. ‘Let’s keep talking,’ he says.

James smiles. ‘It’d be my pleasure.’

‘No, mine,’ says McDonald, ‘the sherry here really is better.’

‘I did tell you,’ says a voice behind James. A familiar voice: he turns to find Stanley looming behind him, an impeccably-tailored wall topped off with the famous nostrils. ‘You were the one who said you needed to compare.’

‘And now I have,’ says McDonald equably. ‘You two know each other, I’m guessing?’

‘Stephen,’ says James.

‘James,’ says Stanley. ‘Not keeping you, are we?’

James takes his congé with good grace, finishing his sherry as rapidly as dignity allows before making his exit.

‘McDonald met with Fitzjames,’ says Tom Jopson the next day.

Francis doesn’t bother asking how Tom knows, pausing only to bite off a curse.

‘You Scottish tart,’ says Blanky to McDonald when they meet. He’s grinning as he says it.

‘These boots are made for walking, Tom,’ says McDonald. ‘And that’s just what they’ll do.’

‘Walking to the Tories, though, Alex?’ says Francis.

‘It’s not you, Francis,’ says McDonald, ‘You know it’s not. Your man, though – Ross is another matter altogether.’

‘We’ll bring him round, Alex,’ says Francis, ‘He’s just nervous with the Tories so close.’

McDonald shakes his head. ‘It’s been going on longer than that, Francis, and you know it. Francis, there’s a reason I put independence on my manifesto. Tories, Labour, there’s not a one of you cares about anything other than backbiting and scrapping with the other.’

‘What did you say to Fitzjames?’ says Francis.

‘I told him I’d dance with them what brung me,’ says McDonald. A dimple appears, slow and ominous. ‘I didn’t tell him I’d leave with them what brung me.’

‘Your boy is coming along,’ Blanky says to Francis, afterwards.

‘He’s not my - ’ says Francis, and makes himself stop in the face of Blanky’s expectant grin. ‘Christ, if McDonald walks…’

‘You know what we’ve got to do,’ says Blanky.

Francis nods and sighs. ‘Fat chance Ross’ll listen, but you’re right. We’ve got to try.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’ says Blanky.

Francis shakes his head helplessly. ‘Any ideas?’

‘Maybe,’ says Blanky. ‘Let’s have a word with His Nibs first.’

That night, Neptune’s head on his knee, Francis thinks of John Diggle saying ‘You got someone who’ll sort you out?’ Thinks of lime-and-soda with a sprig of rosemary in a G&T goblet. Thinks of brown eyes flicking sharply to the glass, a baritone with razor-sharp vowels saying ‘I’m saying you don’t have to.’

‘Sort me out, eh?’ he says to Neptune, whose tail thumps briefly on the floor in acknowledgement.

Chapter Text

‘A gay marriage Bill, is it?’ says Alex McDonald.

‘You with us on this one, Alex?’ says Francis.

The First Minister nods. ‘Scotland’s been solidly in favour a full decade, you know that. What I want to know is: how’d you get your man to do it?’

‘It’s popular with the younger members of the base,’ says Francis, ‘and a majority of the older ones aren’t massively opposed.’

‘That’s reasonable,’ says McDonald, ‘which John Ross is not.’

Blanky grins. ‘He’s not a homophobe, though.’

‘Is he not?’ says McDonald. ‘Flag-waving Friend of Dorothy, aye?’

Blanky cackles. ‘Maybe they’ll ask him, if we get this through. Strap him into a leather harness, stick him on a float at Pride. That’d be a sight.’

McDonald’s eyes dance. ‘That what you promised him, Francis?’

‘Frank promised to wear the leather himself,’ says Blanky.

‘Jaysus,’ says Francis. ‘They don’t make leather getups for the likes of me.’

His thoughts go, unbidden, to the sort of body for which they do make leather getups. He thinks of skintight leather clinging to long legs, straps cutting into pale golden skin, gleaming with sweat in the summer sun, and –

‘You all right there, Francis?’ says McDonald.

‘Bit red there, Frank,’ says Blanky.

Francis shuffles his papers together. He doesn’t meet Blanky’s eye, which he suspects to be agleam with a knowing twinkle, though what the fuck he’s being knowing about who can say.

‘How’d you get Ross to agree?’ says McDonald.

Francis shrugs. ‘Wasn’t very much to agree to. It’s a one-line whip.’

McDonald’s eyes narrow. ‘The Party’s trying to legalise gay marriage in the United Kingdom,’ he says quietly, ‘and the Prime Minister’s suggesting – just a wee suggestion, mind, a request – that its Members attend the vote?’

‘About the size of it,’ says Francis.

‘They needn’t tell us if they’re going to show,’ says Blanky.

‘We’ll remember,’ says Francis, looking at him.

‘We will that,’ says Blanky, ‘and hope the troops are more frit of us than they are of the man upstairs.’

Francis grins. ‘They are of you, Tom, don’t fret.’

‘They’d bloody better be,’ says Blanky.

‘I certainly am,’ says Alex, dimpling as he rises. ‘Shaking in my boots, Scout’s honour.’

Francis looks at him. ‘You’ll walk in with us, then, Alex?’

‘I’ve been scared straight,’ says McDonald. ‘Or rather – well, you know.’

‘John,’ Francis had said, ‘a one-line whip - ’

John Ross had stared at him, eyes nearly colourless in the fading afternoon light. ‘The Members have been forced enough,’ he says.

‘John,’ Francis had said, ‘the lines on a whip are signals.’

‘Are you,’ Ross had said, ‘lecturing me?’

‘No,’ Francis had said, ‘but we’ve given them three-line whips on a vote about the placement of a comma on a Bill, John. Near-automatic dismissal if they didn’t show and vote as we told them. There’s not a man Jack of them cared about that Bill. The Tories didn’t care. We didn’t care.’

‘We did care - ’

‘We cared,’ Francis had nodded, ‘because the moment we stop getting bills through the House, the other lot will be on our necks. That’s why we drag our people in and threaten them with the boot if they don’t vote as we tell them to about a thing that ten people in the country care about at all. But this, John - ’ Francis had paused. ‘People care about this, John. People understand this.’

‘The Mail does,’ Ross had said. ‘The Sun does.’

‘Well, of course they’ll hate it - ’

‘You’ve a history with the Mail,’ Ross had said, and Francis had looked down, ‘so the less said, the better.’

‘John,’ Francis had said, ‘the backbenchers look at a one-line whip, and they’ll think the Party doesn’t think this vote matters.’

‘We wouldn’t be holding the vote,’ Ross had said, ‘if it didn’t.’

‘Why are we, then,’ Francis had said, ‘if we’re not fighting for it?’

‘Not fighting for it? We’re sponsoring the vote, aren’t we?’

‘John,’ Francis had said, ‘I take this to the Members, and they’ll think we care more about slashing junior doctors’ wages than letting gay people have rights the party base has supported for more than a decade.’ He’d paused. ‘They’d be right to think that.’

There had been a silence. John Ross had said ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’

‘John - ’

‘I’ve given you my instructions,’ John Ross had said, rising, ‘Now do your job.’

‘And for fuck’s sake,’ Francis says to Blanky, ‘it’s not like the bloody Bill doesn’t need all the help it could get anyway. Look at the fecker.’

‘I put more thought into my takeaway order,’ agrees Blanky.

‘Bloody thing reads like it was written in crayon on the back of a Nando’s menu,’ says Francis. ‘Gay marriage, it says. Glory be. And what’s all this marriage buying you today, then? Are we saying anything about spousal rights? Adoption? Who gets to visit you in a hospital or inherit your shit when you die? Who gets custody of the wains if you and the wife split up?’

‘You’re cheerful about marriage,’ grins Blanky.

‘It’s a law, Blanky,’ says Francis, ‘If all they’re after is a wink and best wishes, why’d they be coming to Westminster? If it’s a law about marriage they’re wanting, sure, what would be the point if there’s no law about divorce?’

‘The Northern Irish would say,’ says Blanky, ‘that marriage is eternal and there shouldn’t be a divorce law. For anyone.’

‘Not all the Northern Irish, only the nutters in the Democratic Unionist Party,’ says Francis, and groans. ‘Jaysus, they’ll never go for this.’

‘Well,’ says Blanky, ‘we’ve got to go shake them down anyway, don’t we.’

‘How’s the eighteenth, then?’ says Blanky.

‘Eighteenth, hmmm,’ says James, flipping through his diary, ‘Doesn’t work for us, I’m afraid, George’ll be heading out to Davos.’

‘George?’ says Francis. ‘George Barrow?’

‘What’s the pig-fucker want with this Bill?’ says Blanky.

James stiffens, but pins a smile to his lips. ‘It’s not him especially, Thomas. We want all hands on deck.’

Francis cocks an eyebrow. ‘All hands?’

James nods. ‘Three-line whip on this one.’

Francis and Blanky shoot each other a glance. ‘You’re very keen,’ says Francis, ‘on making sure gay people can’t marry.’

‘Somebody wanting to make an honest man of you, then, Jimbo?’ says Blanky. ‘You could just say no. Nowt’s stopping you. Bit drastic to put a stopper on marriage for every poofter in the land, isn’t it?’

James rolls his eyes. ‘Fat lot of use this Bill’s going to be to any ‘poofter’ in the land. There’s no accompanying legislation amending spousal rights, or custody arrangements, or next-of-kin arrangements. There’s virtually no timeline for implementation. There’s no provision for separation or divorce. There’s nothing about adoption.’

Francis does not look at Blanky, and he can feel Blanky very studiously not looking at him. He says instead ‘Ah, Jaysus, do me a favour. It’s the first draft of the first Bill. Your lot’s after refusing to teach a child to read because it can’t recite War and Fucking Peace word-perfectly first go.’

‘Is it binding on every country in the United Kingdom?’ says James. ‘Does Northern Ireland have to abide by it?’

Blanky does look at Francis at this. A number of fraught conversations are being had with Democratic Unionist Party hardliners on this very subject.

‘It’s a start,’ says Francis, watching James, ‘You’d throw out the first step altogether, you lot.’

‘It’s not a start if it’s the same thing as a civil partnership but with the word ‘marriage’ slapped on it,’ says James. ‘It’s not a start if marriage for gay people is less than marriage for the rest. It’s certainly not a start if nobody knows if marriage supersedes civil partnership. In fact, it’s a step back. The law understands civil partnership. There’s no point taking away protections we know we have for an uncertain promise.’

‘Ah well, if you’re nervous about uncertain promises,’ says Blanky, ‘no wonder you’re nervous about marriage.’

Francis is looking at James. He says ‘This what you believe?’

‘Of course it is,’ says James, shoulders squared.

‘Yeah?’

James looks away, chewing the inside of his cheek. ‘It doesn’t matter what I believe.’

Francis cocks an eyebrow. ‘That what they tell you across the hall?’

‘Tory starter kit,’ says Blanky, ‘along with the Thatcher biography and Winston Churchill dildo. No lube, mind. Get fucked up the arse dry and say thank you afterwards, that’s the Tory way.’

‘While Labour’s all lube and no condoms,’ says Dundy. ‘All mess, no responsibility.’

‘I’ll come to you next time, eh?’ says Blanky, ‘for a nice responsible shag.’

Dundy grins back. ‘Keep that filthy public sector lube away from me.’

Francis is still looking at James, who has lifted his chin and is looking back. ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘these are questions I’d want to know the answers to.’

Blanky grins. ‘At Prime Minister’s Questions, would that be?’

James’s eyes flicker to Blanky quickly and back to Francis before he says haughtily ‘Party Whips don’t speak in the House.’

‘Of course not,’ says Francis.

‘You’ll not be asking owt, then, eh,’ says Blanky.

‘Of course not,’ says James. ‘Now, if we can’t do the eighteenth - ’

‘We’d better tell His Nibs,’ says Francis, ‘There’s going to be questions about the gay marriage bill.’

‘Nothing we haven’t thought of,’ says Blanky. ‘He didn’t listen then.’

‘No,’ says Francis, ‘but if the other lot’s thinking of them too - ’

‘Only your boy,’ says Blanky, looking steadily at Francis.

‘He’s not my,’ begins Francis, and pulls his lips – unaccountably twitching upwards – down and shut. ‘Look, even if Ross won’t listen to us, he’ll pay attention if he knows the Lady’ll be on the case, eh?’

Blanky grins at Francis. ‘Lay you a tenner he won’t.’

Francis doesn’t take the bet.

‘Can the Prime Minister assure the House of the timeline for this Bill?’

John Ross leans his elbow upon his desk and levels an indulgent smile at Jane Franklin. ‘Dear lady,’ he begins, to a histrionically indignant chorus of boos.

‘Jaysus,’ mutters Francis to Blanky, ‘catcall her next time while you’re at it.’

Blanky grins. ‘I’d pay good money to see him try.’

‘Dear lady,’ says Ross, ‘if the Opposition has not read the provisions of the Bill, it is not the Government’s responsibility to digest it for them.’

There are some game chuckles from the Labour benches. The Leader of the Opposition says ‘The Opposition has read the provisions of the Bill. We were hoping the Government had too.’

The Opposition benches chortle theatrically. Jane Franklin continues ‘I understand that a question like ‘by when is this Bill to be enacted?’ is too complex a question for the Government to answer, so let’s try something simpler. Does same-sex marriage supersede civil partnership?’

‘Dear lady,’ says John Ross, raising his voice over the panto-crowd booes and hisses he is met with, ‘The Bill is perfectly clear on the subject - ’

‘I’m sure it is,’ says the dear lady in question, with a wide smile, ‘so it ought to be no hardship to explain it to me. Does same-sex marriage replace civil partnership? Is it something separate? And if so, what is the difference between the two?’

‘Once again,’ says John Ross, ‘it is not the responsibility of the Government to do the Opposition’s job for them.’

‘And yet,’ mutters Blanky, ‘here you bloody are.’

‘If the Government will not do its own job,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘and refuses to do ours, could the Prime Minister explain what he is here to do?’

‘Now see here,’ says John Ross, and Francis lowers his head to his hands. He doesn’t look up while the Lady asks about spousal rights, next-of-kin provisions or custody arrangements.

When he lifts his head, he sees James’s eyes on him. As their gazes meet, James’s head snaps around so that he’s looking at the Lady.

‘Well, he did tell us this was coming,’ says Blanky, ‘your boy.’

Francis can feel the tips of his ears pinkening, and scowls. ‘He only had the same questions we did,’ he says. ‘There’s no grand mystery to it.’

‘There is to His Nibs,’ says Blanky.

‘Christ,’ says Francis.

‘Well,’ says Blanky, ‘off to twist some Liberal Democrat arms, then.’

‘Careful,’ says Francis, ‘they break easily.’

‘Of course I’ll walk in with you,’ says George Hodgson, the Member for Eastleigh and leader of the Liberal Democrats. ‘I’ve been pushing for something like this for years. It’s absurd for the UK to be dragging its feet on this.’

‘That’s grand, George,’ says Francis, ‘I’ll put you all down for an Aye, then.’

‘You can put me down for an aye,’ says the Member for Eastleigh, and pauses, ‘but I can’t speak for the party.’

‘Don’t pull my pisser, you,’ says Blanky, and the Member for Eastleigh winces, ‘you’re leader of the party, George. We get you, we get your troops.’

‘Well,’ says the Member for Eastleigh, ‘as I say, you get me.’ He pauses delicately. ‘The troops … would like some assurances.’

‘Bless the man,’ says Blanky to Francis, ‘he’s playing at politics.’

‘He is that,’ says Francis, looking at Blanky, ‘what do you want, George?’

‘A proper go on Proportionate Representation,’ says the Member for Eastleigh. ‘Francis, the current system’s archaic. Democracy’s meaningless without faithful representation. The Mother of Parliaments ought – ‘

‘Fine,’ says Francis, and the Member for Eastleigh subsides as though he’s run into a wall. ‘We’ll put it on the docket.’

‘When do we talk about proportional representation?’ says Blanky to Francis later. ‘It’ll be all hands on deck to get the budget through next, and Diggle’s got a whole face on his face about pay freezes.’

‘I know,’ says Francis, ‘but we didn’t say when we’d talk about PR, just that we would. Does no harm, and Christ knows this marriage bill needs all the help it can get.’

‘We’ve got the Northern Irish,’ says Dundy to James.

‘The Democratic Unionists are in?’ says Gore.

‘They are,’ says Dundy. ‘Got their man arseholed at the Red Lion and he opened up a lorryfull of brimstone-and-hellfire about the gays.’ He glances at James. ‘Sorry, Jas.’

James waves a hand. ‘Yes, I thought they might. Didn’t want to cramp their style, or yours.’

‘Hideous chaps,’ says Dundy cheerfully, ‘still, one vote’s as good as another.’

‘That it is,’ says James. ‘So that’s - ’

‘270 of their lot,’ says Blanky, across the hall. ‘Forty of ours are jibbing, Frank.’

‘We’ll have to assume they’re not making it,’ says Francis. ‘We’ll have to keep some of our powder for the rest of the Session.’

‘And they’ve got the DUP,’ says Blanky, ‘and the rest of the hangers and floggers. That’s 310 to them. We’ve got the Lib Dems and Scots Nats, though, so that’s 311.’

Francis lets out a breath. ‘Right,’ he says, ‘it’s tight, but we’ve done it before.’

‘So long as no bugger blows a spare tire or summat,’ says Blanky.

‘Don’t,’ says Francis.

‘Speeding,’ says Francis.

Tom Jopson coughs. ‘Apparently, sir.’

‘George Hodgson,’ says Francis, ‘was speeding.’

‘Yes, sir,’ says Jopson, ‘Three points automatically on his driver's licence. But he’s got strikes already, sir, and any more and his licence would be revoked. So he asked his wife to say it was her driving the car instead.’

They survey the news spread. A nicely shifty-looking picture of the Member for Eastleigh lurks beneath the headline ‘GEORGIE PEORGY, PUDDING AND PIE: KISSED THE GIRLS AND MADE THEM LIE’.

‘Kissed the girls,’ says Francis.

‘Yeah,’ says Blanky, walking in. ‘Our Georgie’s got a little crumpet on the side. Works at one of those think-tanks over by Bloomsbury, you know the ones. Met her at one of those jammy Policy Wanker shindigs. Interview here, stakeholder consultation there, lunch at the Savoy, cocktails at Brown’s, next thing you know you’re sneaking off for a dirty weekend in Devon and it’s down on your expenses as ‘Sundries’.’

Francis looks at Jopson, who says demurely ‘I think it was Somerset, sir, but I don’t know any more. But yes, Mr Hodgson was having an affair.’

‘And the wife found out,’ says Blanky. ‘And asked why in the everloving fuck she was taking points on her licence for her cheating waste of space of a man.’

‘Ah, Christ,’ says Francis. ‘But to go to the police - ’

‘She says,’ says Tom Jopson, ‘that he forced her, sir. It’s a serious charge, perverting the course of justice.’

‘Jaysus,’ says Francis, ‘as though Hodgson could force a starving man to eat a bar of chocolate.’

‘That’s what she’s claiming, sir,’ says Tom Jopson.

Ned Little is frowning heavily down at the article, turning a weighty cogitation over and over in his mind. At length he says ‘George Hodgson’s had sex?’

‘Multiple times, Mr Little,’ says Tom Jopson. ‘Well,’ he corrects himself, ‘at least twice.’

Blanky claps Ned on the back. ‘Hope for us all, eh, Ned?’

Tom Jopson frowns at Blanky and says ‘Well, Mrs Hodgson’s gone to the police and now there’s charges of criminal perversion of justice and marital coercion.’

‘She knows she’ll get in trouble for this too, though, right?’ says Francis. ‘Even if the courts believe her.’

‘Eight months jail, the prosecutors are asking for,’ says Blanky. ‘For both of them.’

‘Christ,’ says Francis. A thought strikes him. ‘Wait,’ he says, ‘if he gets sentenced, when’s he need to serve his time?’

Blanky looks at him. ‘The vote?’

‘George, just say you’re sorry.’

The Member for Eastleigh looks across at Francis and Blanky. They’ve met at Daly’s before Hodgson’s appointment with his solicitor and the barrister he’s instructed.

‘Just say you’re sorry to the wife, George,’ says Blanky, ‘It’s points on a licence. You’ll not let your career and a ten-year marriage go to hell because of points on a sodding licence.’

‘Licence,’ says the Member for Eastleigh, chasing his scallops and cod cheeks around his plate, ‘from the Latin licentia: freedom, unrestrained liberty, wantonness, or presumption.’

Francis and Blanky exchange a glance. ‘Right,’ says Blanky, ‘and you can apologise for all that.’

The Member for Eastleigh looks at them, his eyes nearly colourless in the dim light of the bar. ‘It’s also possibly a root word for the Lettish liktsu: ‘I reconcile. I come to terms.’’

‘You can reconcile,’ says Blanky, ‘with the wife. Say you’re sorry, George, and this’ll all be - ’

‘She has a solicitor too,’ says the Member for Eastleigh, ‘who’ll be instructing a barrister.’

‘I expect so,’ says Francis.

‘She’ll be up for the same penalty as me,’ says the Member for Eastleigh.

‘Not exactly the same,’ says Francis, ‘she’s saying you’ve coerced her, George.’

A smile curves the Member for Eastleigh’s lips. ‘I’ve never coerced her in my life.’

‘Look, we know that,’ says Blanky, ‘just talk to her, George, this is - ’

‘We’ll go down together,’ says George, the smile turning rapt and broad, ‘sharing a sentence. A communion.’

‘The couple that does time together stays together?’ says Blanky. ‘Come off it, George, you don’t actually believe - ’

‘She was sending me a message,’ says the Member for Eastleigh.  

‘She was,’ says Blanky. ‘It was ‘you’re a cheating arsemonger, and you’d best grovel like you’re never planning to walk upright again.’ It’s as clear as day, man.’

The Member for Eastleigh stares at him. ‘No,’ he says, ‘no, that’s not it. She’s going down herself. We’ll go down. Together.’

‘Jaysus,’ says Francis, ‘George, have you even tried speaking with her?’

The Member for Eastleigh shakes his head. ‘I don’t need to,’ he says. ‘What I need to do is atone. At one. With her. We will serve together. This is what she wants.’

‘A Hodgson sex scandal?’ says Graham Gore blankly. ‘Hodgson’s had sex? More than once?’

‘With more than one woman,’ says Dundy. ‘Hope for us all.’

James frowns at the desk. ‘If he’s going to prison, there’ll be a by-election in Eastleigh. Who’ve we got there?’

‘Oh, Christ,’ says Graham, ‘oh, what a bloody stitch-up.’

‘Why, what’s the matter?’

Gore wrinkles his nose. ‘That’s the Doctor Dongle one, isn’t it?’

There’s a slightly crowded silence. Dundy asks carefully ‘Doctor who?’

‘Dongle,’ says Graham. ‘This joke candidate who only ever appeared anywhere dressed as a USB Flash stick. He called himself Doctor Dongle and said he was campaigning to outlaw the human body and upload every citizen of Eastleigh onto a giant flash drive.’

‘Well, if I lived in Eastleigh,’ says Dundy, ‘I’d probably be sold on that too.’

‘Enough of them were,’ says Graham. ‘Hodgson only scraped in by 200 votes.’

‘So if there was a by-election and our man was up against Doctor Dongle,’ says James.

Graham shrugs. ‘Not sure I fancy our chances, lads.’

There’s another silence. Dundy looks at James and then at Graham. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘anyone know Doctor Dongle’s stance on gay marriage?’

‘The Noes have it, the Noes have it.’

James is watching Francis out of the corner of his eyes. Watches his sandy eyelashes flicker before his shoulders square.

‘Well done, James,’ says the voice of the Leader of the Opposition at his elbow.

James turns to face her. ‘Thank you, Jane. Though I’m afraid I can’t take all the credit.’

‘Yes, not much to it after all,’ says Jane. ‘Poor show all round their end.’

‘Not from the Whips,’ James hears himself saying, and feels a flush rising at Jane’s swift look. ‘I mean, there isn’t very much you can do with a one-line whip.’

‘Oh, quite,’ says Jane, ‘why even bother running a motion when you’re not going to put your back into it?’

‘Why indeed?’ says James.

‘We’ll do it better,’ says Jane, ‘when it’s our turn.’ She squeezes his shoulder, a quick gesture in passing. ‘That’s a promise.’

‘Oh, after you, Francis.’

‘Thanks.’ Francis walks out ahead of James into the fresh air, and glances behind him at James, who is buttoning his coat against the winter chill.

‘See you at the Player’s, Jas,’ calls Dundy, lighting a cigarette as he walks past.

‘Celebrating?’ Francis says to James. His tone’s one of mild interest as he pulls on his mittens, in some fuzzy blue-grey material that brings out his eyes. James nods and glances to the side. He gnaws at his bottom lip and says swiftly, before he can think better of it: ‘It was bad luck. About the Bill, I mean. I wasn’t expecting the rest of the Lib.Dems to abstain after Hodgson went down.’

‘No?’ says Francis, cocking his eyebrow. He sounds amused. ‘That makes one of us.’

James is caught precisely midway between bristling and laughing, and at length decides on the latter. ‘I’ll bear that in mind the next time I’m scrambling for the numbers and the leader of an entire party decides to have a sex scandal right on the eve of a vote.’

‘You’re expecting that to happen again, are you?’ says Francis.

James shrugs. ‘Might as well be prepared.’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ Francis agrees.

‘It’s politics,’ says James, ‘stranger things will happen.’

‘Than Hodgson having a sex scandal?’ says Francis, and a laugh’s shocked out of James. Francis joins him, eyes creasing and a gap-toothed grin appearing.

They stand for a moment looking at each other. The lamplight’s caught in Francis’s hair, giving him a soft old-gold halo.

‘Are you all right?’ says Francis. The grin’s disappeared, his eyes intent on James’s.

‘Me?’ says James. ‘Yes, of course, why wouldn’t I be?’

‘I meant about the Bill not making it,’ says Francis. ‘Are you all right?’

James feels his cheeks warming and raises his chin. ‘We won,’ he says, ‘remember?’

‘With a little help from Hodgson’s sex life,’ says Francis. His eyes are smiling but watchful on James’s. Blue. Very blue.

‘A win’s a win,’ says James.

‘Is it a win?’ says Francis. ‘Is that what you believe?’

James swallows. ‘It doesn’t matter what I believe.’

‘You said that before,’ says Francis. He smiles. ‘Like a good Chief Whip.’

James can feel a smile beginning and clears his throat. ‘I also told you what I think of the Bill.’

Francis nods. ‘We’ll bear it in mind for the next time.’

‘Next time, then.’

‘Next time.’

Francis lifts his hand to wave good night and turns away. He folds his hands behind his back as he walks, a determined measured step as though he could walk from Land’s End to John o’Groats without breaking a sweat. James watches him go for a long moment before swearing and hurrying along Whitehall Place to the Embankment Arches.

Chapter Text

‘I simply cannot allow - ’

The Teller is trailing after the Member for Barking, who is holding a small child by the hand.

‘Oh, you can’t allow?’ says the Member for Barking. ‘Then you’d best get a move on with that crèche for the Members, hadn’t you? Look, what do you want me to do? School’s shut because of a gas leak, his dad can’t get him till six, so he’s staying with me. And I need to vote on this Transport Bill, so there you have it.’

‘In the Chamber?’ the Teller nearly levitates. ‘The Chamber is reserved for Members of Her Majesty’s Government, and this - ’ he waves at the child, ‘this young man is not a Member.’

‘Oh, but he has such a sound grasp of fiscal policy,’ says the Member for Barking.

‘And you’d vote how we want you to for the Transport Bill, wouldn’t you, lad?’ says Blanky.

‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ says the Member for Barking, and Francis, glancing at the deeply unimpressed small face staring up at him, is inclined to agree.

‘The vote’s in twenty minutes,’ says Francis to the Teller. ‘Could you at least let us find someone to watch - ’

‘I am very sorry,’ says the Teller, ‘but the private domestic arrangements of the Members are not the House’s concern.’

‘For fu - ’ begins Francis, and stops as the child’s eyes brighten. There’s a step in the corridor and James appears, with Moleskine in tow and seemingly in a hurry.

‘Jimbo!’ says Blanky. ‘Just the man.’

‘Thomas,’ says James, ‘Francis. Hadn’t you better be getting going, the Transport Bill’s - ’

‘Funny you should ask,’ says Blanky, ‘Look, we’ve got a Member with a small child, here,’ and he gives said child a cheery buffet between his shoulder-blades, ‘can’t make the Division.’

‘A pity,’ says James smoothly, ‘still, there’ll be others, won’t there?’

‘Oi, you tight bastard,’ says Blanky, ‘don’t peel eggs with me. We need a nod.’

‘There’s twenty minutes left for the - ’ begins James.

‘James,’ says Francis.

James meets his eyes and sighs. ‘Oh, all right. Fine. Yes. The Member for Barking is nodded through. Mister Teller, will you allow it?’

The Teller scowls down at the Member for Barking’s child, who returns the look with interest. ‘Very well,’ he says, ‘the Member for Barking is recorded as having voted on the Transport Bill.’

‘With an Aye,’ says Francis, ‘for the record.’

‘An Aye from the Member for Barking,’ says the Teller, producing a notebook of his own, ‘for the record.’

‘You don’t need me to make it for Division? Fine,’ says the Member for Barking, ‘I’ll be off then.’

‘Quite a cottage industry, that could be,’ remarks Dundy later, ‘might see if I can hire out a small child myself. Produce the sprog, say I can’t make it to the Division, get the nod, have my vote recorded without needing to show up in the Chamber, chill out in the Whips’ Office, save myself the shoe-leather.’

‘You still have to turn up on Palace grounds to get the nod,’ says James, ‘I still needed to see Barking. You can’t get nodded through from Timbuktu, or Paisley, or even Kensington.’

‘Bugger-all shoe-leather saved, then,’ says Dundy.

‘Bugger-all,’ says James. ‘Save yourself the child-trafficking charges.’

‘Rochdale here’s not feeling too clever,’ says Blanky to Dundy.

‘Obviously,’ says Dundy, looking down with a jaundiced eye at the figure wheeled in on a stretcher. ‘I’d say that’s an understatement.’

Blanky grins. ‘He’ll be all right with a bit of rest, but he wanted to vote.’

‘Did he,’ says Dundy, ‘or did you kidnap him from the hospital?’ He peers down. ‘Or the mortuary?’

‘Lips are sealed, mate,’ says Blanky, ‘You’re not taking away his right as an MP to make a vote on a Bill, are you?’

‘I’m not taking away anything,’ says Dundy, ‘But how the hell do you expect the poor bastard to vote?’

‘He’s on Palace grounds,’ says Blanky, ‘it’s just he can’t walk down the corridor to vote.’

‘You want a nod-through?’ says Dundy. ‘Jesus Christ, Blanky, I mean - ’ he waves a hand before the Member for Rochdale’s face, ‘Hello? Is he even breathing?’

‘Don’t be insensitive, you,’ says Blanky, but sticks a finger beneath the Member for Rochdale’s nose, ‘and besides, doesn’t matter if he is. Nobody dies in the Palace of Westminster, right?’

‘Don’t they,’ says Dundy, eyeing the Member for Rochdale, ‘I’d say we’re giving that a run for its money.’

‘Can’t we put a stop to it, James?’ says the Leader for the Opposition. ‘This nodding-through business? They did for pairing.’

James chews his lip, with Dundy’s plaintive ‘Honestly, they’re absolutely taking the piss with this nodding-through thing, Jas’ ringing in his ears. At length he sighs and shakes his head. ‘It’s an ancient tradition, Jane. If they’re in the grounds but can’t make it to the vote, they’re entitled to the nod-through, and so are we. I’d be hesitant to make any unilateral moves.’

The Leader of the Opposition eyes him narrowly. ‘They put a stop to pairing unilaterally.’

‘They did,’ says James, ‘and he – they – oughtn’t to have. And it’s been harder on them than it has on us.’

‘And yet,’ says Jane, ‘here they are. On their deathbeds like that man you nodded through, but alive. A hung Parliament, and with no pairing. They ought to have drowned – three times by my count.’

‘So they ought,’ says James, and what it is in his voice he doesn’t know, but the Leader for the Opposition turns to level a stare upon him.

‘They’re releasing their second Budget,’ she says, ‘Their second, James. We ought by rights to have put a bullet in the back of their heads before the first. Instead here we are, limping along to a second.’

‘We have them on the ropes, Jane,’ says James, ‘they’ve lost three Divisions in a row, now, even with nodding-through - ’

‘Which is why,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘if we refused to allow it - ’

‘We can finish them, Jane,’ says James, ‘Even with nodding-through. We needn’t go that far.’

‘It’s the Budget, James,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘Budgets always pass.’ She sniffs. ‘Even this one.’

‘They don’t like it,’ says James, ‘even their own.’

‘Oh, lord, I know,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘did you see Coventry West and the Green MP on Newsnight?’

James had had that privilege. Silna and Goodsir were neither of them impressed with Ross’s new Budget, had detailed why painstakingly and at length, and Stanley was probably still recovering from the effects of so much worried sincerity at so close a range.

‘Well,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘but so what? It’s not the first dead dog John Ross has rammed down the throat of his own Party, and it won’t be the last. Budgets always pass.’

‘Until now,’ says James. ‘Leave this with me, Jane.’

‘And can the Prime Minister,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘confirm how he intends to justify his planned cuts to health spending?’

There are calls of ‘Answer, answer’ and the Prime Minister rises to his feet. ‘Dear lady,’ he begins, because John Ross has never met a mistake he didn't refuse to learn from, ‘we are presently running a deficit of nearly 5% of our Gross Domestic Product. France is managing at under 4%, and Germany is running a surplus. In times like these - ’

‘Steps must be taken, Prime Minister, I agree,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘but the NHS seems a curious place to start. I will remind you that this House received a Parliamentary briefing only last week that said that hospital waiting times are up to 24 weeks, and Royal College of Nursing attrition rates are at a twenty-year high.’

‘And once we’ve stabilised the deficit, dear lady - ’

‘Has the Prime Minister,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘had an opportunity to read the Office for Budget Responsibility’s impact assessment on his proposed budget?’

James glances across the aisle and sees Francis tense. His eyes lift to James’s, and James looks away.

‘The Office of Budgetary Responsibility,’ says the Prime Minister, ‘has only released a preliminary analysis - ’

‘It is a preliminary analysis,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘only because they were only given the draft budget three weeks ago, instead of the eight weeks they would typically receive.’ She pauses. ‘I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.’ She glances across at the Prime Minister. ‘But I’m also sure the Prime Minister is not in the business of reasonable explanations.’

Much knee-slapping ensues from the Conservative benches, and James looks across again at Francis. Their eyes meet again before Francis ducks his head.

The Leader of the Opposition says ‘The OBR report says that the Prime Minister’s planned health spending cuts are nearly cancelled out by planned tax-cuts.’ She pauses. ‘To people making more than a hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year.’

‘Dear lady - ’

‘Your budget would save the economy,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘about nine hundred and eighty-five pounds per annum.’ She rustles through her notes. ‘My apologies, I misspoke: Nine hundred and eighty-five pounds and thirty-seven pence.’ She makes an extravagant display of peering down at her notes. ‘That would save the average taxpayer the princely sum of nought point nought nought nought nought nought three five two pounds. Per annum.’ She pauses. ‘Well, every little helps, I suppose.’

There is histrionic braying from the Opposition benches. The Prime Minister has begun a reply apparently consisting exclusively of the words ‘See here’ and ‘dear lady’. James looks at Francis, whose eyes shut momentarily, the shadows beneath them seeming to deepen. James looks away.

‘I’ve been here often enough that they know my drinks order now,’ the First Minister of Scotland says to James. He tilts his head. ‘What’s this about, then?’

‘The budget,’ says James. ‘We’d like you to walk in with us.’

‘I’m sure you would,’ says the First Minister, ‘And?’

‘You don’t like this budget, Alex,’ says James, ‘you can’t possibly.’

The First Minister shrugs. ‘That’s no state secret, lad. The thing’s a mess.’

‘An unpopular mess,’ says James, ‘especially with planned cuts to areas of mass deprivation. Of which there are quite a few in Scotland.’

‘I’m aware, James,’ says the First Minister. ‘I’ll tell you what else is unpopular in my neck of the woods, though, if you like.’ A dimple appears. ‘You’ll not like the answer, mind.’

‘The Conservative party,’ says James, ‘yes, I know.’

‘So,’ says the First Minister, ‘why would I be walking in with you, then?’

‘You’re still pushing for a referendum on Scottish independence,’ says James.

‘I am,’ says the First Minister, ‘changed your mind on that, have you?’

James puts down his glass. ‘We’ll support legislation to hold the referendum,’ he says. ‘Two-line whip, make things particularly warm for anyone who doesn’t show up and vote in favour.’

The First Minister raises his eyebrows. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘That ought to get you over the line to hold your referendum,’ says James.

‘It should, at that,’ says the First Minister. ‘What’s the catch?’

‘No catch,’ says James, ‘We'll support your right to have a referendum. We won’t support independence once you actually hold the referendum, but that can’t have been a surprise to you.’

‘It’s not,’ says the First Minister. ‘And could I get your lot to personally campaign against independence?’

‘Whatever for?’

A demure dimple appears. ‘I wasn’t joking when I said Conservatives aren’t popular in Scotland, you ken. You show up north of the border telling us to stick on, I have a feeling I know what’ll happen.’

‘Just back and sides for me,’ says a voice. Solomon Tozer, the Member for Axbridge and Axevale, looks up and has his chin turned gently to the side by the barber.

‘You’re Sol Tozer, aren’t you?’ says the voice. A tall man with greying wavy hair is standing in front of him. ‘Axbridge and Axevale, isn’t it?’

The Member for Axbridge and Axevale nods as best he can. ‘Do we know each other?’

The man shakes his head. ‘Le Vesconte. Sefton Central.’

‘The enemy,’ says the Member for Axbridge and Axevale, and grins.

‘Crumbs, no,’ says le Vesconte. ‘Hardly. In fact, from what I hear, there’s quite a few of the lot of you in hot water with your party bigwigs. This Coventry West lady. Quite a pistol, that one.’

‘Well,’ says the Member for Axbridge and Axevale, ‘she just wants what’s fair. You know. A bit of respect, bit of consideration. Remember our roots.’

‘Oh, quite,’ says le Vesconte, ‘And well, I mean, this budget’s as far from your roots as it’s possible to get, really, isn’t it? Tax-cuts for the wealthy. Kneecapping the NHS.’

The Member for Axbridge and Axevale, about to agree, clears his throat. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘budgets always pass, don’t they?’

‘I suppose so,’ says le Vesconte, ‘seems a pity, doesn’t it, Jas?’

Another tall man appears on the Member for Axbridge and Axevale’s other side.

‘That’s a hell of a suit,’ says the Member for Axbridge and Axevale.

‘Oh, gosh, how kind,’ says the newcomer. ‘What were you saying, Dundy?’

‘We were talking about the budget,’ says le Vesconte, or Dundy, or whatever he likes to call himself.

‘Oh, my word, yes,’ says the new posh boy, perching on the arm of his chair, ‘funny old budget for a Labour government, isn’t it?’

‘Budgets always pass,’ says the Member for Axbridge and Axevale, looking stubbornly ahead of him.

‘Well,’ says the newcomer, ‘in theory they’ve got to pass Committee stage, you know. Just like any other Bill. The Opposition would – well,’ he smiles at the Member for Axbridge and Axevale, ‘well, we’d oppose it, of course. That’s what we’re there for.’

‘It’s never worked,’ says the Member for Axbridge and Axevale.

‘Oh, well,’ says the newcomer, ‘I wouldn’t say that. If members of the ruling party were to join with the Opposition to table an amendment, for example - ’

‘It wouldn’t work,’ says the Member for Axbridge and Axevale, watching their reflections.

‘It has in the past,’ says the newcomer. ‘For a budget just like this one.’

‘Gosh, you’re right,’ says Dundy, ‘Sometime in the seventies, right? I haven’t thought about that in years.’

The newcomer smiles, and turns to the barber approaching. ‘Just a tidy-up, thank you so much.’

Le Vesconte and the other one submit to the ministrations of their barbers afterwards, and the Member for Axbridge and Axevale considers his reflection in silence.

The Member for Coventry West emerges from the BBC Studios. A tall figure in a trenchcoat steps out from the shadows.

‘Hello, Silna,’ says James. ‘Great interview.’

Silna stands in front of him in silence, zipping up her puffer jacket.

‘Fancy a pint?’ says James. ‘There’s some space at the Yorkshire Grey.’

Silna says nothing, but falls into step next to him.

‘It’s a one-time thing, this,’ says Silna to James. ‘This doesn’t mean I’m going with you for good.’

‘No, of course not,’ says James.

‘I don’t know where we’d put you, for starters,’ says Dundy.

‘A wrecking amendment to the Budget,’ says Francis to Blanky, ‘from a member of our own party. Jaysus, I knew Silna was running her mouth off all over the countryside, but this-!’

‘Not just her,’ says Blanky, ‘Sol Tozer and Tommy Armitage as well.’

‘To say nothing of Harry Goodsir,’ says Ned Little.

‘Ach, Goodsir’s a package deal with Silna,’ says Francis.

‘Scots Nats too,’ said Blanky. ‘Alex did warn us, Francis.’

‘He did,’ says Francis. ‘But to join up with the lot across the Hall - ’

‘Your boy,’ says Blanky, and pauses, ‘happen we’d best start calling him your man, eh.’

Francis gives him a look. Ned says ‘I suppose we’ll have to redraft the Budget, then.’

Francis and Blanky turn to him. ‘Ned,’ says Francis, ‘we may not get the chance.’

There’s a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ calls James. He starts up when Francis, Blanky and Ned Little walk in.

‘I thought I’d save you the bother of coming to us,’ says Francis.

‘Oh, Francis, it’s no bother,’ says Dundy. Blanky grins. James smooths down his jacket and turns to Francis.

‘On behalf of Her Majesty’s Opposition,’ he says, ‘we shall be presenting a motion of censure to Parliament that this House has no confidence in Her Majesty’s Government.’

Francis’s eyes are steady on his. ‘The twenty-ninth?’

‘Yes, that’s what we were thinking,’ says James.

‘Do try to wheel in your dead for this one on time, won’t you?’ says Dundy.

‘Least you can tell the difference between the living and the dead in our party,’ returns Blanky.

Francis is still looking at James. Blue eyes, holding his own. ‘It’s all right,’ he says.

James lifts his chin. ‘I know it’s all right.’

‘Good,’ says Francis, and smiles: a gentle private thing entirely in the eyes. James feels it like a press of the hand. ‘It’s nothing I wouldn’t do.’

James swallows. ‘The twenty-ninth, then.’

Francis nods. ‘The twenty-ninth.’

‘The Ayes have it, the Ayes have it.’

James looks at Francis. His shoulders sag for a moment and his face – that weary lived-in face – crumples.

‘James!’

The Leader of the Opposition has come to James. ‘James, that was a strike over the bowler’s head if ever I saw one.’

‘Ah,’ says James, ‘thank you, Jane.’

‘I will admit I did wonder for a moment if we could pull the thing off, but my word, James.’

James feels his cheeks warm. ‘We all pulled together for this one, Jane, I wouldn’t - ’

‘James,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘I’m saying well done. You’ve never been shy with compliments before. Take it like a man.’

James clears his throat and pins a smile to his lips. ‘Thanks, Jane.’

‘Come along now,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘we have an election to plan.’

She takes him by the elbow and steers him towards the door. On the way out, James glances back over his shoulder at Francis, in conversation with Blanky. Francis lifts his head to look at him. James looks away.

‘Ah, Jaysus,’ says Francis, ‘Did they need to go with that one?’

They’re looking down at the Sun’s spread. A lugubrious John Ross is peering out on the front page, with the Sun asking ‘CAN FLOPPY JOHN STAY ELECT?’

‘Is there a man Jack of us,’ says Francis, ‘a single one who was panting to think of John Ross’s cock?’

‘Well, whoever they are,’ says Blanky, ‘I hope they’re happy.’ He sits down. ‘There’s more, Frank. Rochdale wants to step down.’

Francis sighs. ‘Not a surprise, that. Poor bastard’s been in and out of the hospital all year.’

‘He has that,’ says Blanky, ‘seat’s safe as houses, we’ll keep it no bother. It’s just about Rochdale’s replacement. Summat to bear in mind.’

‘You got the newspapers yourself, sir?’ says Jopson, entering with a frown on his face and a sheaf of newspapers over his arm.

‘Sorry, Tom,’ says Francis meekly, as the Sun’s tidied from his desk. ‘But while you’re here, I wanted to ask you something.’

‘Francis! Tom!’

Ann opens the door and pulls them in gently, pressing a kiss to Francis’s cheek, and then Blanky’s.

‘I’m so sorry, Francis,’ she says. ‘Come in, I’ll put the kettle on. James! It’s Frank and Tom!’

James appears at the head of the stairs with what seems to be a toy in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. At the sight of the two of them he gallops down, transfers the toy and screwdriver to one hand and slings the other arm over their shoulders.

‘Well, lads,’ he says, ‘let’s get you fed and watered before we talk, eh?’

‘You know why we’re here, Jim,’ says Blanky to James, after they’ve had their tea and Ginger Hobnobs and Young James, having said hello, has been carted off to parts unknown.

James sighs and sits back. His eyes find those of Francis, who says to him ‘We can’t go on under him, James. We need a rescue. The party’ll haemorrhage seats this election, and the Lady’s one to be reckoned with.’

‘Frank’s boy in the Aristocunts’ Whips’ office is a canny lad as well,’ says Blanky, and Francis glares at him, ears suddenly hot. Blanky grins back at him before turning to James. ‘We’re fucked, basically.’

‘That’s a hell of a sales pitch,’ says James, but he’s beginning to smile.

‘I thought it were, yeah,’ says Blanky. He turns to Francis. ‘Owt I left out, Frank?’

Francis shakes his head. He says ‘What do you say, James?’

Ann enters the room and takes in the three of them. She goes to James and rests a hand on his shoulder. James looks up at her, hand running up her arm from wrist to elbow. Francis watches and waits for the familiar sharp-toothed pit to open in his belly.

He’s still waiting when James squeezes Ann’s hand and turns back to the two of them.

‘We’ll need to get me back on the Party lists,’ he says.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ says Blanky, ‘we’ve bent a few ears, had a few words. Islington South and Finsbury. Your old gaff.’

James grins. ‘Awfully certain I’d say yes, weren’t you?’

Francis shakes his head. ‘Not certain at all,’ he says, ‘but hopeful.’

‘Hopeful, eh?’ says Blanky to Francis as they walk to the Tube.

Francis considers and then nods. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘I am,’ says Blanky, ‘it’ll be one less thing to worry about if the boss isn’t your main bloody liability.’

Francis grunts in assent.

‘Christ knows we’ve got enough on our plate with the Lady.’

‘Jaysus.’

‘To say nothing of your boy.’

‘He’s not my - ’ begins Francis, and stops short as Blanky’s train pulls up.

‘Night, Frank,’ says Blanky with a wink.

When the train pulls away, Francis touches his face. The corners of his mouth have twitched up.

He’s still smiling when his train pulls onto the platform.

Chapter Text

‘Well, here we are,’ says the Prime Minister, ‘one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.’

James smiles. ‘Congratulations again, Jane.’

The Prime Minister waves a hand. ‘I can’t take all the credit,’ she says, ‘John Ross did most of the work.’

James laughs. ‘What a Godsend that man is.’

‘But with James Ross back in the fold,’ says the Prime Minister, ‘I suspect we’ll need to look alive. I’d rather face John Ross across the aisle than James, any day of the week.’

‘Do you think that’ll happen?’ says James. ‘Yes, I suspect they’re brewing for a leadership dispute. But I was thinking the Party infighting might drag on for a bit. That ought to make things a little easier for us, oughtn’t it?’

‘It was ‘Party infighting’,’ says the Prime Minister, ‘that swapped Himself out for me.’

‘You think it’ll resolve itself with James Ross?’

‘I’d be disappointed in them if it didn’t,’ says the Prime Minister. ‘If they’re not spoiling for a change across the hall, they don’t deserve to be within a bargepole’s length of power ever again.’

‘They probably are spoiling for a change, at that,’ says James. ‘We had a decent haul this time around. Picked up a fair few seats from them that they must have thought were safer than houses. Gower, Bishop Auckland, Southampton Itchen…’

‘Not enough for a majority, though,’ says Francis to James.

James puts down the cardboard box on the table in the Government Whips’ Office and gives Francis an emphatic smile. ‘Your lot managed to do a fair bit of damage as a minority government.’

‘That’s the aim, is it?’ says Francis, cocking an eyebrow, ‘a ‘fair bit of damage’?’

‘The aim,’ says James, ‘is to repair the fair bit of damage you did.’

‘With some damage of your own?’ says Francis.

‘That’s what your lot will call it, I suppose,’ says James.

‘We will,’ says Francis. ‘You all set here?’

‘Nearly,’ says James. He sits down on the swivel chair and, keeping eye contact with Francis, releases the lever so that the seat rises. He emits a little sigh of satisfaction. ‘That’s better.’

Francis watches the display with twitching lips and says ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’

‘Thank you, Francis.’

‘And James?’ Francis pauses at the door. The smile’s still warming his voice, but his eyes are steady and trained on James. ‘Don’t get comfortable.’

James looks back at him. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Francis.’

‘Now, the base has got a bit higgledy-piggledy,’ says the Prime Minister to James, ‘I’m used to our chaps not all wanting the same thing, but this time around they’re rowing quite hard in entirely opposite directions.’

‘Yes,’ says James, ‘the manifesto had to thread quite a few needles.’

‘It did,’ says the Prime Minister, ‘and I was never much one for sewing.’

‘There’s an opportunity here,’ says James, ‘while the other lot’s gearing up for pitched battle – Ross against Ross, and all that – to try to pass one of the big ones. Sneak it past them while they’re distracted, get an early victory, consolidate our position.’

‘I agree,’ says the Prime Minister, ‘how does gay marriage grab you?’

James puts down his teacup and looks at the Prime Minister, who is stirring a lump of sugar into her Darjeeling with delicate movements of her wrist. ‘So soon after the other lot’s attempt?’

‘If you can call it that,’ says the Prime Minister.

James takes a breath. ‘And what about Parry and his hangers-on?’

The Prime Minister takes a sip of her tea and lowers her cup. ‘We promised a referendum on EU membership.’

‘We did,’ says James, watching her, ‘did we mean it?’

The Prime Minister smiles demurely. ‘If you find the hangers and floggers are being difficult about gay marriage, remind them the referendum’s on the manifesto.’

‘I shall.’ James looks down at his teacup and smiles. ‘That ought to keep them a little sweet.’

‘Only a little?’

James chews his lip. ‘I know there’s been some disagreement about privatisation of auxiliary healthcare services - ’

‘This again,’ says the Prime Minister, ‘James, I don’t know if the efficiency gains are worth the job-losses. The Northern Conservatives would let out a squawk you’d hear in Land’s End.’

‘I know,’ says James, ‘but all we need to offer is a vote on the issue. For those undecided on the gay marriage Bill.’

‘You’re trusting the other lot to wipe out the auxiliary healthcare services Bill, then?’ says the Prime Minister, giving James a very direct look. ‘That’s quite an ask, James.’

'I think they can,' says James.

'Do you,' says the Prime Minister.

James coughs. ‘One other thing I’d like to ask, Jane: the other lot had a one-line whip on their gay marriage bill. What am I allowed?’

‘Two-line whip,’ says the Prime Minister, ‘You have my permission to be imaginative with your threats should the horses refuse to jump the stile.’

James smiles again. ‘Thank you, Jane.’

‘Not at all,’ says the Prime Minister. ‘I did say we’d do it properly when we had a chance, didn’t I?’

‘Gay marriage?’ says Francis, ‘again?’

‘Actually,’ says James, ‘it’s marriage equality. We had a consultant look it over. The branding, you know.’

‘Of course you fucking did,’ says Francis, ‘Who?’

James’s eyes dart over to Francis. He hesitates and bites his lip, and Francis feels his eyebrows lifting. ‘You didn’t,’ he says, ‘Sophia’s firm?’

James coughs and smooths the lapels of his jacket. ‘Anyway,’ he says.

It might even have been Sophy working on this, Francis thinks. This sort of thing is right up her alley.

‘Gay marriage’ sounds like you’re asking for special rights for gay people,’ James says. ‘Didn’t play well last time. ‘Marriage equality’ reminds people we’re only trying to restore some fairness to the system.’

‘That the line they gave you?’ Francis cocks an eyebrow. ‘Play to people’s sense of fairness? About gay marriage?’

‘Marriage equality,’ murmurs Dundy.

‘You didn’t like the Bill last time,’ says Francis to James. ‘A whole list of complaints you had. What’s changed?’

‘The Bill has,’ says James, ‘for one thing. It wasn’t gay marriage - ’

‘Marriage equality,’ say Francis, Blanky and Dundy in unison.

‘- Marriage equality, thank you, that I – we – objected to.’

‘Just who was proposing it?’ says Francis.

‘It’s a better Bill, Francis,’ says James, eyes on Francis. ‘It is, I - ’ he coughs. ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘you’ll have a draft of the Bill by the end of the day.’

‘Look forward to it,’ says Francis.

James hesitates, chewing on the inside of his lip, before saying swiftly ‘I did say I didn’t like the Bill, Francis. The first time.’

‘You did,’ says Francis, ‘and I said I – we’d – bear it in mind for the next time.’

‘Well,’ says James, ‘this is the next time.’

‘Bill’s all right, as it happens,’ says Blanky. ‘The swish new Marriage Equality one.’

‘Not watertight,’ says Francis.

‘No,’ says Blanky, ‘But a bloody sight more grown-up than His Nibs’s try.’

Francis grunts. He’s feeling a little out of sorts, and he’s not sure why.

‘They took notes on what happened last time,’ says Blanky, ‘Your boy did give us his little shopping list.’

‘And I said I’d keep it in mind for the next time,’ says Francis to Blanky and he winces at the sound of injury in his own voice, ‘you’d think a man could wait a minute or two.’

‘Happen he couldn’t,’ says Blanky with a shrug, putting a sixth lump of sugar in his tea. ‘Happen he’s tired of waiting, your boy.’

‘He’s not my - ’

‘Happen,’ says Blanky, ‘he’s not a fan of waiting.’ He takes a luxurious swig. ‘Summat to bear in mind, maybe.’

Francis squints at him. ‘What on God’s green earth are you talking about?’

Blanky chuckles. ‘Not a thing, Frank. Don’t you fret.’

‘A three-line whip,’ says Francis.

‘That’s right,’ says the Leader of the Opposition.

‘Voting no on the Marriage Equality Bill.’

The Leader of the Opposition turns pale eyes on him. ‘We have an opportunity for an early victory here,’ he says. ‘This is a flagship Bill. If we kill it, they’re lame right out of the gate.’

‘Yes, John,’ says Francis, placing his palms on the table, ‘But there’s a signal we’re sending the Party. We proposed the gay marriage bill first, and now we’re opposing it.’

‘The signal,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘is that the Labour Party wants to win.’

‘Even if we’re doing a U-Turn on our own policy positions?’

‘This new Bill,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘is not the one we proposed.’

‘No,’ says Francis, ‘it’s better.’

The Leader of the Opposition starts back, the colour high on his thin cheeks. Francis looks at him and presses on: ‘It just means they learned from our experience with the Bill, John, there’s no shame in it.’

‘Shame?’

Francis closes his eyes briefly. ‘I only meant - ’

‘I want this thing dead,’ says the Leader of the Opposition.

‘And if I’m asked why,’ says Francis, ‘I’m twisting their arms to kill a thing I twisted their arms just a few months ago to support?’

‘A three-line whip,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘that should be answer enough.’

‘And if it isn’t?’

The Leader of the Opposition surveys Francis. ‘You have a job to do, Francis,’ he says. ‘I suggest you do it.’

‘Well, we’ll get the Democratic Unionists again,’ says Blanky.

‘Make a play for the hangers and floggers as well,’ says Francis.

‘I will,’ says Blanky, ‘Might be a tad trickier this time, mind.’

‘Why?’

‘The Tories have a two-line whip on this Bill, sir,’ says Tom Jopson, the brand-new Member for Rochdale and freshly-minted appointee to the Opposition Whips’ Office.

Francis groans. ‘Jaysus,’ he says, ‘they’re putting their backs into it, aren’t they. They really did learn from our cock-ups.’

‘I said your boy was coming along,’ says Blanky. Francis throws him a look.

‘We can get some of the Independents on side,’ says Ned Little.

‘Is every Tory hanger and flogger bound to listen to the Lady?’ asks Francis. ‘It’s a two-line Whip, not the whole nine yards. They’d put the frighteners on the rank and file, shake their heads at the likes of Back and Parry. Not enough to shake ‘em. What are they offering to get them to turn up?’

‘A vote on legislation for a referendum on EU membership,’ says Blanky.

‘That’ll get some of them on side,’ says Francis, ‘anything else?’

‘There’s been some talk,’ says Tom Jopson, ‘About privatisation of auxiliary healthcare services.’

Francis and Blanky look at each other. ‘Cutting nurses’ jobs,’ says Francis, ‘and slashing healthcare anywhere there’s already no services.’

‘That’ll get the rest of them on board right enough,’ says Blanky grimly.

‘Jaysus, James,’ says Francis. ‘You want this one, eh.’

‘Told you,’ says Blanky, ‘Not a fan of waiting, your boy.’ Francis is too winded to bring himself to disagree.

‘We could put the word out,’ says Ned, ‘among our own. Silna’ll probably vote No on the Marriage Equality Bill if that means she could quash the auxiliary healthcare services vote?’

Francis runs a hand through his hair. ‘Can’t chance it,’ he says, ‘I don’t fancy more grandstanding with that one. She’d probably say she’ll vote her conscience both Bills. Our best bet’s the nutters in their party.’

Blanky sits down opposite him. ‘Anyone we know,’ he says slowly, ‘thinking of stepping down?’

Francis raises his head to look at Blanky with a slowly-dawning grin, and is met with a cackle.

‘Good Lord,’ says the Honourable Member for Bath, exiting the Members’ Common Room and finding Francis Crozier and Thomas Blanky from the Labour Whip’s Office lying in wait for him, ‘Are the two of you even allowed to speak to anyone outside your Party?’

‘We’re not,’ says Crozier.

‘We’ll be going up in a puff of smoke any minute now,’ says Blanky. ‘But before we do - ’

‘We’d like a word, Bill,’ says Crozier.

The Member for Bath hesitates. ‘I was going to my club - ’

‘We’ll come with you,’ says Crozier.

‘Could do with a drink, actually,’ says Blanky, ‘I’m gasping, me. You’d like some tea, wouldn’t you, Frank?’

Crozier nods.

The Member for Bath hesitates again. Whether or not Crozier and Blanky are set to imminently go up in a puff of smoke, the august members of the Athenaeum might if he brought the two of them along.

‘Or you could come with us to Stephen’s,’ says Blanky. ‘I’ll even stand you a pint.’

The Member for Bath thinks back to the last time he’d set foot in Stephen’s, and specifically the morning after three glasses of the house red. He forces back a shudder, and says ‘Please, I insist. I’ve been meaning to have the two of you over anyway.’

Blanky cackles, which gives the Member for Bath pause, but it’s Crozier’s quick bared teeth that really make him worry.

Stowed away in a nice secluded corner of the Athenaeum, the Member for Bath considers Crozier, holding a delicate Royal Doulton cup in his rough red hand, and Blanky, eyes alight in enjoyment of a rather nice Talisker.

‘Now, gentlemen,’ says the Member for Bath, putting down his own glass of sherry, ‘what is all this about?’

Crozier puts down his teacup and leans forward. ‘We want you to walk in with us on this new Marriage Equality Bill,’ he pauses, ‘…Bill.’

‘The new gay marriage Bill?’ says the Member for Bath. ‘The one that my own Party’s putting up?’

‘Yes, Bill,’ says Crozier, ‘Your own Party’s Marriage Equality Bill.’

‘And why,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘why would I do that?’

‘Maybe you wouldn’t,’ says Crozier. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to if it were dear to your heart.’

‘Maybe you were part of the drafting, like,’ says Blanky, ‘Consulted every step of the way, at least.’

The Member for Bath picks up his sherry-glass.

‘Doesn’t strike me as much of a one for consulting, though, the Lady,’ says Blanky, watching him. ‘More of a one for laying down the law. That’s how it’s always looked to us, eh, Frank?’

Crozier, watching him, gives Blanky a nod.

‘Maybe we’re wrong, though,’ says Blanky. ‘What would we know, eh?’

The Member for Bath takes a sip from his glass. The Lady has been a number of things as leader of the party, he reflects: decisive, a quick-thinking and reliable performer at Prime Minister’s Questions on both sides of the aisle, and a surprisingly effective rallying-point. She has not, however, exhibited especial deference to the grandees of the party, up to and including the people – such as the Member for Bath – who first mooted her candidacy for leadership. Granted, he’d never expected or meant for her to get as far as she did, but still.

‘There’s a two-line whip in place, as you know,’ he says at length.

‘We do know,’ says Crozier.

‘All of a piece with the Lady, eh?’ says Blanky, ‘Laying down the law. My way, or the highway.’

The Member for Bath takes another sip of his sherry. He cannot bring himself to disagree. ‘Can’t really argue with a two-line whip.’

‘They’ll drag you in,’ says Blanky, ‘wag their finger at you, give you a bit of the old shock and awful, calm down a bit, more in sorrow than in anger, like.’

‘That’s what I’d do, anyway,’ says Crozier. ‘That’s about it, though. Nothing to put the fear of God into someone like you.’

‘Might make good material,’ says Blanky, ‘for a newspaper column.’

The Member for Bath looks up sharply. Blanky grins and says ‘The Telegraph’s been sniffing around you for a new column, hasn’t it? Nice work if you can get it.’

The Member for Bath clears his throat and says ‘The Telegraph is looking for authentic insider perspectives on - ’

‘Right,’ says Blanky. ‘I’ll be buying my copy, eh, Frank?’

Crozier, eyeing him over his teacup, glances sideways at Blanky and nods. There’s a twist to his lips that makes the Member for Bath bristle, but he doesn’t say anything.

‘Make a hell of a column, that,’ says Blanky, ‘Dictatorial PM, ramming through some sort of PC agenda without a by-your-leave, principled dissent – make a cracking novel.’

The Member for Bath clears his throat. ‘You flatter me.’

‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,’ says Blanky, eyes twinkling, ‘But you don’t think I’m wrong, do you?’ He takes a sip of his whisky. ‘Nice drop, this.’

Crozier lifts his teacup to his lips. They sit in silence for a moment before the Member for Bath clears his throat and turns the topic.

The next evening, there’s a message for Francis.

‘We’ve got him,’ he tells Blanky, ‘Bath, and five others joining him.’

Blanky grins. ‘And Ned and Tom’ve bagged the UK Independence Party lot.’

‘And with the Democratic Unionists as well,’ says Francis, ‘we’re on our way.’

He’s drumming his fingers on the table. Blanky looks at him and says ‘Just doing our jobs, Frank.’

Francis looks up at Blanky and grimaces. ‘Just following orders?’

‘We don’t want the other lot getting that healthcare bill above the ground,’ says Blanky.

Francis sighs. ‘You’re right. Go round up the usual suspects, then.’

‘How’s the leadership battle going across the hall?’ asks James.

‘Much as we expected,’ says Graham. ‘James Ross has seen off Richardson and Rae. Quite handily, in the end – I expected Richardson to put up more of a fight.’

‘So it’s down to John Ross and James Ross now,’ says James. ‘All right, just as we thought.’

‘John Ross is in a hell of a mood,’ says Dundy, ‘I’d sleep with one eye open if I were James Ross.’

‘We’ll let them eat each other,’ says James, ‘Nothing to us.’

‘Isn’t it?’ says Dundy, ‘James Ross mightn’t give us as easy a ride as his uncle.’

‘It isn’t John Ross who’s been giving us an easy or a difficult ride,’ says James, ‘The ride’s down to Francis.’ He coughs as Graham and Dundy look at him, fighting down the heat in his cheeks. ‘Crozier, I mean. And Blanky.’

‘Well, riding Crozier aside,’ says Dundy, ‘We’ve got the Liberal Democrats on side, Jas. Ten Independents too.’

‘Good,’ says James, ‘how about our lot?’

‘Bath’s being a bit cagey,’ says Dundy, ‘I know he’s a stick-in-the-mud about gay marriage, or any sort of marriage outside a man, a woman and a semi-detached in Surrey five minutes from the stables. Worth hauling him in?’

James shakes his head. ‘Can’t wag your finger at Bill Parry. He wouldn’t listen to us, and now he’s got that Telegraph gig he’s got a megaphone to whinge about what’s happening to the Party.’ He stops. ‘He does have a megaphone,’ he says again, slowly, ‘can anyone find out if the other lot have been at him?’

‘You think he’d buck the Party line?’ says Graham, ‘On this?’

James shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. Find out if Blanky or Francis have been seen with him, will you?’

‘Blanky and Crozier spirited Parry away somewhere last week,’ says Graham later that day.

‘For God’s sake, Francis,’ says James, and needs to school the smile off his lips.

‘It won’t just be Parry,’ says Dundy, ‘he’ll take some of the other gammon with him. What do we do, Jas?’

James sits back. ‘We’ll just have to poach some of theirs, then, won’t we?’

‘Hello, Silna.’

‘Yes, I’m voting yes on the Marriage Equality Bill,’ says the Member for Coventry West without slowing, ‘Now go away.’

‘Right, so if we get Coventry West that means we get Goodsir too,’ says Dundy.

‘Good,’ says Graham, ‘… Has anyone actually asked him, though?’

There’s a silence. ‘Hmmm,’ says Dundy, ‘Honestly never occurred to me to ask.’

‘I suppose we should,’ says James, ‘might as well confirm.’

‘It’s going to be tight, Jane,’ says James to the Prime Minister, ‘we’ve got the Lib. Dems, the Scottish Nationalists, and most of our lot on side, but they’ve got the Democratic Unionists, and you heard about Bill Parry.’

‘And his little friends, too,’ says the Prime Minister, in a voice that bodes no good for any of them. ‘I heard.’

‘Dundy and Graham are working on the last few Independents,’ says James.

The Prime Minister’s eyes sweep over James. ‘I want this bagged, James,’ she says.

‘I know, Jane,’ says James.

‘Got your lads all lined up, then, Jimbo?’

James turns to Blanky and smiles. ‘They’re all in their places, Thomas. And how about you?’

‘Don’t you fret, lad,’ says Blanky with a wink, and turns, his loping stride a little uneven.

‘Ah, James Fitzjames! Just the man.’

James turns to see James Clark Ross at his elbow.

‘I’m about to vote on this Bill,’ says James Ross, ‘and I was wondering if I could walk in with you? I’ve been up to my elbows in nappies so long, I’m afraid I’m utterly lost now I’m back.’

James’s eyes widen momentarily before he comes to himself. ‘Dreadful maze, isn’t it,’ he says, ‘Of course I’ll walk in with you, James.’

‘Legend,’ says James Ross, with his broad sunshine grin, ‘Thanks so much.’

‘Oh, my pleasure,’ says James. He heads down the Aye corridor, James Ross at his side, and can’t resist throwing a look over his shoulder. Francis is standing and staring after them, eyes alight and mouth doing something that James is resolved not to think about.

Francis is standing in the Elizabeth Tower, watching Big Ben’s gigantic minute hand creep up. John Ross had left instructions to withdraw the whip from every Labour MP who voted Aye on the Marriage Equality Bill, with especial relish for his prodigal nephew. Words like ‘traitor’ were liberally thrown about, speckled with froth.

‘I’d be shaking in me boots if I was Jim,’ Blanky had said, ‘if His Nibs had a say any more on who get to stick on in the Party. You going to tell him about the leadership race?’

‘Tomorrow,’ Francis had said. ‘Let’s give Jim the good news, though.’

It had felt like a sign, somehow, when Jim had gone up to James, their long figures matching strides as they walked down the corridor.

Francis takes in a breath and lets it go.

‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t know someone was up here.’

James has a foot on the landing, another on the top stair, when he sees in the figure in the Tower. The man turns swiftly, and James realises that he knew who it was even before he saw his face. Something about the set of the shoulders, the solidity, that weary determined slouch.

‘I’m sorry, Francis, I’ll leave you to it.’

‘It’s no bother,’ says Francis, ‘You don’t have to go.’

‘No, it’s all right, you looked like you were thinking about something, I didn’t mean - ’

‘No, come in,’ says Francis, ‘Come in.’

James hesitates. Francis says ‘Or I’ll go, if you - ’

‘No,’ says James, ‘Please. Stay.’ The words come out with more force than he intends, and he feels his cheeks heat. He coughs. ‘Stay, if you like.’

Francis pauses, and James cannot see clearly in the half-light, but he thinks his eyebrows are raised. ‘All right,’ he says, and James can hear the smile in his voice, ‘but come in now.’

James’s feet carry him next to Francis. He smiles at him, and he thinks he gets a smile back, but he’s looking down now at his hands on the railing.

‘The others are celebrating,’ he says.

Francis nods. ‘Thought you’d be with them.’

‘I’ll go in a minute,’ says James, ‘I just … wanted to think for a bit.’

‘All right,’ says Francis.

They stand in silence for a moment. James suspects – he knows – that Francis is more comfortable with silence than he is. He should have accepted Francis’s offer to leave him alone. James thinks he knows why he didn’t, and standing a bare few feet away from the man is no time or place to interrogate that.

‘Do you remember,’ he says, ‘your first attempt at a marriage equality Bill?’

‘I remember,’ comes the response, quiet and dry as a corn-husk in the sun.

‘Blanky asked if someone wanted to make an honest man of me and I wanted to get out of it,’ says James.

‘I remember,’ says Francis again. He says, then, in quite a different voice ‘Is there?’

‘Is there wha – No!’ says James. ‘God, no. Not then, not now. Not an honest man, or a dishonest one.’

‘Oh,’ says Francis, in a voice that is doing rather too many things for James to understand.

‘No, I haven’t really bothered since - ’ oh. Best not continue.

But Francis has understood. ‘They won’t all be bottom-feeding tabloid hacks, James.’

‘Won’t they?’ says James. ‘No,’ he says, as Francis turns to him with a frown, ‘No, I know they won’t. I just – haven’t been interested, I suppose.’ He smiles. ‘Married to the job. You know how it is.’

‘I do know,’ says Francis, ‘but it doesn’t have to be that way, James.’ He pauses, moistens his lower lip. James looks away. ‘You’re young yet, you don’t have to - ’

‘The marriage thing reminded me,’ says James – he doesn’t want to hear Francis stumble through his version of a put-yourself-out-there-man speech, not Francis, and he knows why, and he can’t think about that – ‘That that’s how I knew – or at least that’s when I admitted to myself – that I was gay.’

Francis waits, looking at him. James says ‘My last year at school, a friend of mine had his older brother visiting. We slipped off into town, sat by the river. Necked alcopops.’ He glances at Francis, who has an amused twist to his lips.

‘I hope you had God’s own hangover the next day,’ he says.

‘I did,’ says James.

‘Good.’

‘He made a toast,’ says James. ‘The older brother. He was in the Navy, I should mention. It was Saturday, so he toasted ‘To our wives and sweethearts.’’ He leans his forearms on the railing and looks down at his clasped hands. ‘I remember thinking ‘Well, I don’t have the one, and I don’t want the other, so where does that leave me?’’ He looks up at Francis. ‘It didn’t take a huge amount of soul-searching to realise where it left me, as it happens.’

Francis’s eyes are serious and heavy on his. He says ‘You could get a husband now, though. If you wanted.’

Blue eyes, dark in the slashing green-yellow light from the clock-tower. James finds his own eyes falling. He says ‘There’s plenty of queer people out there to do the marrying now.’

‘Not you?’

James does not have an answer. He says instead ‘You are the marrying kind, I suppose.’

Smooth, he says to himself in disgust. Francis takes the question in stride, saying ‘If someone’ll have me.’

James notices the ‘someone’, notices that he notices, and sets his teeth. Francis says ‘It’s no secret I tried.’

Sophia Cracroft, thinks James. John Franklin had mentioned it, taking care to keep his horror entirely out of his voice.

Twice he’d asked, apparently, and twice she’d turned him down. James looks up at Francis’s face, at the tired watchful eyes and the shadow from the minute-hand on his mobile lips. Twice she turned him down, he thinks, and he thinks how?

He looks down at his hands and says ‘I’d better get going.’

‘All right,’ says Francis, ‘Well done, by the way. I don’t think I told you before.’

James looks at him, and promptly looks away. ‘Well, once James Ross crossed the aisle - ’

‘He does that,’ says Francis, and the fondness in his voice has James’s fingers tightening on the railing, ‘No consideration for the likes of us.’

‘Well, I was glad of it,’ says James, ‘especially once you’d poached Bill Parry and his minions.’

Francis grins. ‘You poached Silna.’

‘If you think I have the power to make Coventry West do anything she doesn’t want to do - ’

Francis laughs, a delighted open sound exposing the gap in his teeth. James allows himself to watch for a moment before he makes himself look away.

Some months later, James is coming away from a discussion with the Prime Minister. Labour’s rallied quite alarmingly around James Ross, to the Government Whips’ Office’s entire and gloomy lack of surprise.  A Bill’s squeaked through, but they’re bracing themselves for stormy weather.

An aide hurries past with a sheaf of old newspapers. On top is an old copy of the Sun, released shortly after Labour’s leadership results became known. James Ross looks out of the front page, with the headline proclaiming ‘MEET THE NEW ROSS (same as the old Ross).

‘If only,’ mutters James as he steps out onto Whitehall.

‘Hello, James,’ says a voice. Polite, friendly, Northern.

James stands still for a moment, looking at the newcomer. ‘Hello, Eddie,’ he says, ‘No, sorry, Hickey’s your preferred alias, isn’t it?’

Hickey gives him a smile, dimple cutting a slash into his cheek. ‘Somewhere we can talk?’

‘No comment, Mr Hickey,’ says James, and turns to leave.

‘It’s not really about what you can tell me, James,’ says Hickey, ‘more what I can say about you.’ The dimple widens. ‘Anywhere private we could go?’

Chapter Text

‘And we’re joined today by John Ross, former leader of the Labour Party. Minister, welcome.’

‘Thank you, Stephen.’

‘Christ, what does the fecker think he’s playing at?’ says Francis. ‘It’s been months, John, let it go.’

‘He’s not a man who lets things go, Frank, you know that,’ says Blanky.

‘Minister, you have been vocal in the past few months since your ouster,’ says Stanley. ‘Op-eds in the Guardian, the Telegraph, the Times, the Mail, the Express…’

‘Next thing you know he’ll be buying space in those free newspapers they hand out on the Tube,’ says Blanky.

‘Don’t give him any ideas,’ says Francis. ‘Why the fuck did Stanley even have him on?’

‘They had Jim on last week,’ says Blanky. ‘I know the Express had one of their cut-and-paste hack-and-slash jobs about bias in the liberal BBC about that.’

‘The Mail too,’ says Tom Jopson.

‘Looks like the BBC shat itself inside out,’ says Blanky, ‘and scrambled to throw as many anti-Jim faces at the screen as they could find to distract the punters. They’ll have the Lady on next, mark my words.’

‘Jaysus,’ says Francis. ‘Bet Stanley’ll love that.’

Stephen Stanley is saying to John Ross: ‘You have been making some startling allegations about James Ross.’

John Ross leans forward. ‘Not startling to anyone who knows him,’ he says.

‘Corruption,’ says Stanley, ‘Incompetence. Corruption again. Vanity.’

‘All true,’ says John Ross.

‘Holding up a family photograph,’ says Stanley, ‘to make sure the photographer got his best angles.’

‘Yes,’ says Ross, ‘well - ’

‘For fully fifteen minutes, you say here in the Express.’

‘It’s what the story represents, Stephen.’

‘Yes, you said so, Minister.’

John Ross nods. Stephen Stanley looks at him impassively.

John Ross leans back with his arms folded.

Stanley continues to look at him. At length he says ‘And what does the story represent, Minister?’

‘Vanity,’ says Ross.

Stanley looks at him for a long moment before saying ‘You derive great meaning from that story, Minister.’

‘It’s a telling story.’

‘It’s certainly a story you tell frequently. You used it in the Mail as well,’ Stanley looks down at the newspapers on his desk, ‘the Sun, the Times and Telegraph. Not the Guardian, for reasons escaping my comprehension.’

‘We had to pay the photographer overtime!’

One eyebrow lifts. ‘Wasteful,’ says Stanley. ‘You might want to lead with that next time, Minister.’

‘Never letting Jim hear the last of that, any road,’ says Blanky.

‘Minister,’ says Stanley, ‘you’ve also brought up corruption and incompetence, which seem like rather more pressing charges.’

‘Yes,’ says Ross, leaning forward, ‘well, the whole process by which he took the leadership.’

‘A vote,’ says Stanley, ‘by your Party membership.’

‘A rigged vote,’ says Ross.

‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ says Francis, ‘this again?’

On screen, Stanley is conveying much the same sentiment with eyebrows and nostrils alone. He sighs and says ‘Minister, we have had this discussion before.’

‘It continues to be true no matter what the biased liberal media - ’

‘I wouldn’t call the Sun particularly liberal,’ says Stanley, in the manner of one strongly implying that it is only for legal reasons that he is forced to concede that the Sun counts as media at all, ‘And they disagreed.’

‘Yes, well - ’

‘’Bye, bye, Baby,’ was, I believe the headline.’

Ross’s cheeks are a very dark red. ‘The Sun can’t be expected to be fair about any member of the Labour party.’

‘Which I suppose you are,’ says Stanley.

‘Barely,’ says Blanky.

‘Minister, have you any evidence to back your allegations?’

‘Look,’ says Ross, ‘James Ross swans back into the Party after more than a year away, and within months there’s a leadership contest and he’s brought in. How do you explain that?’

There is a pause. ‘How do I explain,’ says Stanley, ‘someone returning to politics after paternity leave.’

‘He said he was stepping down!’

‘How do I explain someone changing their mind about retiring,’ says Stanley, ‘in politics.’

‘He’s not the sort of man who changes his mind on a whim.’

‘Not a flip-flopper,’ says Stanley.

‘Well - ’

‘Or the sort of person who would push his membership to vote yes on a marriage equality Bill presented by Labour, then turn around and threaten to kick them out of the party for voting yes on a marriage equality Bill presented by the Conservatives,’ says Stanley. ‘For example.’

‘That is nothing but cheap gotcha journalism from the biased - ’

‘Tell me why, Minister,’ says Stanley, ‘tell me why you think James Ross decided to return.’

‘Because he’s a snake! An untrustworthy, conniving - ’

‘Conniving,’ says Stanley, ‘with whom?’

Ross does not have an answer. He says instead ‘And why would there be a leadership battle?’

‘You seem to misunderstand the purpose of an interview, Minister,’ says Stanley, ‘why do you think there was a leadership battle?’

‘Scheming,’ says Ross promptly, ‘Corruption.’

‘Why is that the only explanation?’

Ross blinks. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Jaysus,’ says Francis, ‘he really doesn’t, does he?’

‘Do you not,’ says Stanley, ‘all right then. Minister, Labour has been steadily losing vote-share and seats in the House since you took the leadership. The last time you were in power, it was as a minority government. We’ve had two general elections in three years because your party couldn’t manage to govern. You lost the last election to the Conservative party - ’

‘Who couldn’t get a majority either,’ says John Ross, counselled entirely by his evil genius.

‘Christ,’ says Francis.

Stanley surveys him. ‘I’m glad that’s a comfort to you,’ he says, ‘I imagine it’s less of a solace to your party.’

‘Now, Stephen - ’

‘And you’re surprised there was a leadership battle,’ says Stanley. He pauses and says reflectively, ‘I agree.’

Ross blinks. ‘It – you agree.’

‘Yes,’ says Stanley, ‘I’m amazed it didn’t happen five years earlier.’

‘Now see here,’ says Ross, and Francis switches off the TV.

‘He’s still our problem,’ he says to Blanky, ‘while he’s still in the Party.’

‘He needn’t be in the party,’ says Tom Jopson, ‘Jim Ross has grounds enough to boot him out, surely.’

‘Jim’s still taking the high road,’ says Blanky, ‘high on the fumes from the Marriage Equality thing.’

‘Bloody drama queen,’ says Francis. ‘Surrounded by drama queens, I am.’

‘Only the Jameses,’ says Blanky. Francis throws him a look and is about to answer when the phone by his elbow rings.

‘Yes?’ he says, picking it up.

‘Francis?’ says James’s voice. Carefully calm.

‘James?’ says Francis. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ comes the response, failing completely to reassure Francis in any meaningful way. ‘Can we talk?’

‘Yes,’ says Francis, ‘Clock tower? Five minutes?’

He gets James’s assent and hangs up, looking into Blanky and Jopson’s expectant faces.

‘Don’t wait for me,’ he says, grabbing his coat and heading out.

‘Your boy all right?’ says Blanky.

‘I don’t know,’ says Francis, putting on his coat. ‘Lock up without me.’

‘It’s not really about what you can tell me, James,’ says Hickey, ‘more what I can say about you.’ The dimple widens. ‘Anywhere private we could go?’

Hickey is sitting opposite James at their table in Gordon’s. They’ve both got a glass of tawny port, but neither has taken a sip yet. Hickey’s considering James, head on one side.

‘You’re doing well,’ he says, ‘Government Chief Whip and all.’

‘You’re too kind, Mr Hickey,’ says James. ‘Governments do change hands. That’s really a Party-wide effort.’

‘You’re being modest, James,’ says Hickey admiringly. ‘Look at you.’

‘Mr Hickey,’ says James, ‘What do you want?’

Hickey looks at James. He says ‘Francis Crozier.’

James can feel his pulse pick up speed and lowers his eyes to his own glass. He says ‘What about Francis Crozier?’

Hickey’s eyes are dark in his thin face as he stares at James. He says ‘Awful cosy, the two of you.’

Again his pulse flutters beneath his skin. Hopeful – oh, James is a fool. You’re going to ask him why he thinks that, he tells himself. You’ll want to fish. Do not.

James turns the glass in his hands and says ‘What makes you say so?’ Fool, he thinks.

He sees a knife-sharp grin appear and curses himself savagely (fool, fool, fool). Hickey says ‘You’ve been seen. Talking to each other. Before votes. After votes. All over the place.’

‘He’s the Opposition Chief Whip,’ says James, ‘Did you think there’s no communication between the parties?’

‘Communication, is it?’ A dimple appears, but Hickey’s eyes are trained on James.

James leans back and lifts his eyebrows. ‘Someone’s got to arrange dates for votes, Mr Hickey. Someone’s got to see about the admin for the business of the House. I’m afraid those conversations have to happen somewhere.’

‘Secret places,’ says Hickey, ‘nobody knowing whereabouts you go to.’

‘It’s no secret,’ says James, sorely tempted to add that it is, in fact, one of the most recognisable places in the world before thinking better of it. ‘Anyway, why does this matter?’

Hickey shrugs. ‘I like to know what he’s up to.’

‘All right,’ says James, ‘so find out.’

‘I helped him out before,’ says Hickey, ‘Once or twice.’ He nods pleasantly to James. ‘You’ll remember that, I expect.’

‘Was that what you were doing,’ says James, ‘Helping?’

‘Oh, don’t be like that, James,’ says Hickey, ‘weren’t personal.’

‘Oh, that came across,’ says James, ‘most impersonal blowjob I ever got in my life.’

Hickey twinkles at him. ‘Got the job done.’

‘Is that why you came here, Mr Hickey?’ says James. ‘To reminisce?’

Hickey shakes his head. ‘I told you. I like to know what people are up to.’

‘Crozier,’ says James. ‘You said you want to know what Crozier is up to.’

Hickey nods. ‘That’s why I came to you.’

James stares. ‘You came to me to – what? Spy on Crozier? For you?’

Hickey shrugs. ‘You find a thing, you leak it to the Press. Don’t act lily-white with me, James, you run on whispers and leaks, you lot. There’s not a one of you doesn’t do it.’

‘Francis doesn’t,’ says James, and swears internally when he sees Hickey’s eyes open before narrowing.

‘Francis,’ says Hickey, and James looks across sharply at the slashing inflection Hickey places on the name, ‘was happy enough to let me help until it didn’t suit him.’

‘That’s Francis’s concern,’ says James. ‘This is a ridiculous proposition, Mr Hickey.’

Hickey is looking amused, leaning forward as the candlelight casts flickering shadows on the curved wall behind him. ‘James,’ he says, ‘it’s just information. We both get what we want. It’s a win-win.’

‘No,’ says James, ‘thank you all the same.’ He knocks back his port and makes to rise. ‘I’m heading off now. Good-night, Mr Hickey.’

‘There’s another reason I think you should listen to me, James,’ says Hickey. He tilts his head to look up at James. ‘I’ve been hearing some things about your time at Oxford.’

James rolls his eyes. ‘You’ve moved on from what I got up to at school at least,’ he says. ‘Points for that, I suppose.’

‘Piers Gaveston ring a bell?’ says Hickey. ‘The club, I mean.’

James stills before making himself relax. ‘I wasn’t a member,’ he says.

‘No,’ says Hickey, ‘but George Barrow was.’ He dimples. ‘And so was Pip Griffin.’ He takes a dainty sip from his glass. ‘I’m good at making people look at true things, James.’

He shouldn’t have brought Hickey underground, thinks James. He’s always needed to be chary of the low ceilings of the basement at Gordon’s, but he’s never thought the walls were folding in on him before. He looks at the stone and mortar behind Hickey’s shoulder, and thinks of the worn stairs outside George Barrow’s room. He says ‘That’s an old story.’

Hickey shrugs. ‘Doesn’t matter. You know that.’

James looks down at the table and wishes he still had some of his port. Hickey says softly ‘James, all I’m asking you to do is keep your eyes and ears open. You’ll find a thing you want people to look at, and I’m good at getting people’s eyes on things – and good at knowing when to keep my mouth shut. Don’t go letting your high horse get in the way of a practical arrangement.’

James says ‘Just so I understand, what are you offering exactly?’

Hickey says ‘You know, James.’

‘You want me to spy on Francis, and if I don’t, then whatever you think you have - ’

‘I do have it, James,’ says Hickey.

‘And if I don’t feed you what you need, then?’

Hickey wrinkles his nose. ‘I don’t like to say, really.’

‘Say it, Mr Hickey,’ says James, ‘Say the words.’

Hickey shrugs. ‘It’s a nice little story. It’s quite a trade I’m offering you, James.’

‘I’m overcome with gratitude,’ says James. ‘But keep your trade.’

Hickey sighs, a sorrowful gust of air. ‘I don’t make empty threats, James.’

‘I’m not asking you to,’ says James. He stands. ‘Publish and be damned, Mr Hickey.’

He takes the steps onto Villiers Street and lets out a breath before taking his mobile out of his pocket and dialling.

‘Yes?’ comes the voice at the other end of the line. A little distracted; James is interrupting something.

‘Francis?’ says James.

Francis is in the clock-tower already when James makes his way up, hair and sturdy shoulders in silhouette. He’s facing the stair as James comes up.

‘What’s wrong?’ he says.

‘Hello, Francis,’ says James, and goes to stand next to him. ‘Calm down, it’s nothing serious.’

‘Nothing serious,’ says Francis, and his eyebrow’s raised, ‘when you call me long after office hours sounding like you saw a ghost.’

‘Well, in a manner of speaking I did,’ says James, ‘sorry about calling after office hours, though.’

Francis frowns. ‘What ghost did you see?’

‘Well,’ says James, ‘you remember Cornelius Hickey.’

‘I remember,’ says Francis, and his mouth flattens, ‘And what did he want?’

James leans his elbows on the railing and crosses his legs. ‘He wants,’ he says, ‘to know what you’re up to.’

Francis squints at James. ‘Me?’ he says. ‘Why?’

James shakes his head. ‘You’ve had history with him. Any reason you can think of?’

Francis looks away, cheeks and ears a dull dark red. ‘He offered to help me, last year. I didn’t say yes, but -’ his eyes shut briefly before he turns to look at James, ‘I didn’t say no either.’

There’s a curl to his lip that James knows well. It’s a little startling to see it and realise he’s not the target. ‘He’d probably have done whatever it was he was going to do anyway, Francis, even in spite of you.’

The twist to the soft mouth again. ‘It would’ve been nice,’ says Francis, ‘if it were in spite of me.’

‘Francis, you mustn’t - ’

‘Don’t,’ says Francis, ‘be kind to me. Don’t.’

‘Francis - ’

‘What did he want from you, then?’

James looks down. ‘He wanted me to pass on information to him. Information about you.’

‘He what?’

‘That was what he wanted.’

James lifts his eyes and looks at Francis, who is staring at him with a frown between his eyes. At length he says ‘Well, as media plants go, you could do worse.’

James’s head snaps up. There is a moment of hurt – what does Francis take him for? – and words of a hot and Victorian maidenly outrage are ready to tumble from his lips. Then he looks again at the creases around the eyes looking into his own, the angle of the light on the deep bags beneath those eyes. He lets out a breath. ‘I don’t know if I could do worse, actually.’

Francis grins, and James goes on ‘If I were shopping for a media plant, I’d likely prefer someone a little less - ’

‘Mental?’ suggests Francis.

‘Obsessed with you, I was about to say.’

Francis’s cheeks turn pink. ‘Like I said – mental.’

I don’t know, thinks James, watching the rueful half-smile on the lovely weary face in front of him, seems rational enough to me.

‘So,’ says Francis, ‘what did you say?’

‘I said no,’ says James, ‘Obviously.’

‘Is it obvious?’ says Francis. Softly. When James glances at him his eyes are fixed on James’s face, dark in the light from the tower, intent and impossibly warm.

James looks away. ‘Jane called him a grimy little pimp,’ he says.

‘Jane’s right,’ says Francis. The light from before is still warming his eyes, a banked and comforting glow. He’s smiling slightly, his mouth soft. James glances at him before looking away.

‘Well, anyway,’ he says, ‘I said no.’

‘He can’t have liked that,’ says Francis.

‘He didn’t,’ says James. He takes a breath in and releases it. ‘That’s why I asked you here, actually.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Hickey’s going to publish a story,’ says James, ‘about my time at Oxford.’

Francis is frowning. ‘What about your time at Oxford?’

James feels his own mouth twisting and straightens up. ‘Not just my time,’ he says, ‘George Barrow’s too.’

‘The pig-fucker George Barrow?’ It’s said mechanically, without even the bite of a jeer. Francis’s eyes are on James’s face.

James laughs, and sees Francis frown at the sound. ‘The pig-fucker George Barrow,’ he says, ‘Exactly. Hold that thought.’

Francis’s eyes widen, but he’s silent. James looks down at his crossed feet, considering. There’s no point pretending: James wants to make a good yarn of it. It’s the first time Francis has invited him to tell a story, after all, and he doubts he’ll get the opportunity again. He’s got to make the most of it. Christ knows if Francis will even want to speak to him after this.

‘What do you know,’ he says, ‘about the Piers Gaveston Society?’

‘Didn’t know there was such a thing,’ says Francis, ‘but Jaysus, of course there would be.’

James smiles. ‘It’s a dining club,’ he says, ‘Very small, very exclusive, very male. All male, in fact. Twelve of them in total. Members get given titles like ‘Poker’ and ‘Catamite’.’

Francis says ‘You were a member, then?’

James smiles, and he knows it’s a real smile. ‘How posh do you think I actually am, Francis?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Anyway, my mother forbade me to even think about trying. She said if I was going to be an Oxford sociopath, I might as well join the Oxford Union.’

‘Which you did,’ says Francis, watching him.

‘Which I did,’ says James. ‘I know about the goings-on at the Piers Gav because of a friend of mine. Philip Griffin, reading Classics, my neighbour at Merton.’ He pauses, watching Francis. ‘Philip Griffin,’ he says. ‘Pip Griffin, for short. Piggy, for even shorter.’

Francis’s eyes get intent on his. ‘The pig-fucker George Barrow.’

‘The pig-fucker George Barrow,’ says James. ‘I told you that Piers Gav members have titles like ‘Poker’ and ‘Catamite’, didn’t I? Can you guess which one was Pip’s title, and which one was George Barrow’s?’

Francis grimaces in distaste. The frown returns to his face. ‘I don’t understand,’ he says, ‘Barrow’s been fine with the pig-fucker rumours all this time. Shagging a uni mate – even one with an embarrassing nickname – has to be better. Why would Barrow care?’

‘Better a rumoured pig than a confirmed man,’ says James. He keeps his voice studiedly neutral but Francis looks sharply at him.

‘He’s a piece of shit,’ says Francis.

James laughs. ‘He’s something, all right.’

‘That’s not the whole story, is it?’ says Francis, ‘where do you come into this?’

‘Are you asking to hear more of one of my stories?’ says James, allowing his eyes to widen and his jaw to drop.

‘Jaysus,’ says Francis, but his lips are twitching, ‘Just get on with it, you.’

‘If you insist,’ says James. Francis gives him a flat look.

‘Pip wasn’t one of the properly posh ones, you understand,’ James resumes, ‘Stockbroker dad, publisher mother.’

Francis is surveying him. In a tone dry as the Sahara, he says ‘Not properly posh.’

‘Not in comparison,’ says James, ‘There were three minor royals and the heir to an earldom in the Gav the year he was in.’

‘Christ,’ says Francis, ‘we have got to get you people out of power.’

‘Well, you would say that,’ says James.

‘I just did say that,’ Francis points out. ‘Well, why did they take your friend then?’

James shrugs. ‘He was pretty.’

‘As pretty as you?’

James’s head snaps up to stare at Francis, whose cheeks have instantaneously flamed scarlet in the dim light.

To hell with Hickey and the Mail, thinks James for one moment, let’s sit on the ground and talk. Tell me I’m pretty, or tell me you think I might have been pretty once even if I’m not now, it’ll be like you’re telling me I’m good, or it won’t, I know it won’t, but it’s close as I’ll ever get.

And then he thinks of Pip’s furious pale face, and John Barrow’s fatherly hand on his thigh, and his shoulders slump.

‘Much prettier,’ he says. His voice sounds metallic to his own ears. Francis turns his head sharply to look at him. ‘Soft and angelic, with a mouth like a Hoover, so George says.’

‘Jaysus,’ says Francis, lip curling.

‘There was a ball,’ says James, ‘From what Pip tells me, you stand in fancy dress somewhere in Queen Street. Then coaches come to pick you up and drop you somewhere in the middle of a field that’s been hired and cleared for the purpose. Or at least that’s the idea.’

Pip had come by to borrow harem trousers. Pip had insisted on wearing nothing but a brocade waistcoat on top on the grounds that a shirt would ruin the whole effect. It had been a spring day with summer’s promise and winter’s bite in the wind. The effect had been one of eyeliner, goose-bumps and nipples standing to attention.

‘Do not,’ James had said, ‘muck up those trousers.’

‘I promise,’ Pip had said.

‘I mean it,’ James had said, ‘No more blow-jobs in the middle of a fucking field. You can take to your knees as often as you like where there’s civilisation and carpeting.’

Pip had laughed. ‘Peccavi,’ he’d said, ‘I’ve learned my lesson, Jas.’

James had waved him off, not believing a word of it.

The coach had apparently smelt of feet and cigarettes. There had been a large covered tent in the middle of the field festooned with draperies and shishas. The theme had been Arabian Nights, because posh boys have never been known for their imagination.

Bouncers had taken the one or two mammoth mobile phones produced by the eager early adopters in the party, and the guests had been whisked inside.

‘Bollinger,’ James says to Francis, ‘Coke, fifty quid per gramme of ecstasy, you know the sort of thing.’

‘I do not,’ says Francis. He tilts his head to look at James. ‘And neither do you, do you?’

James meets his gaze and feels his cheeks warm. ‘No,’ he admits at length, ‘No, I don’t.’

Francis surveys him for a moment and James looks back before clearing his throat. ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘Pip found George, and stuck to him. George snagged a bottle of Bolly and two glasses, one for him and one for Pip. So. There was champagne. There were drugs. More champagne. More drugs. Apparently there was dancing and Pip swears an orgy was about to break out any moment.’ He pauses. ‘And George Barrow decided to help things along.’

Francis is watching him. James says ‘George fished his cock out. Pip shinned down to take it in his mouth. They were on the dancefloor but Pip didn’t care. He told me he thought it was an enormous lark, the whole thing.’

Francis winces, an old-maidish gesture. He’s straight, James reminds himself. Not that anyone should be expected to take exhibitionism among a bunch of braying Hooray Henries in stride. ‘A lark.’

‘A lark,’ says James. ‘But then a bunch of people from the Council turned up. They’d cleared using the land for the party, but apparently one of the people at the party was trying to ride a cow.’

Francis laughs, a shocked, delighted sound. ‘Jaysus,’ he says, ‘and is that poor numpty still with us?’

‘I assume,’ says James, watching the way the pouches beneath his eyes soften, ‘Otherwise I’d have heard about it, I expect.’

‘Right,’ says Francis, ‘anyway, your friend’s sucking off George Barrow, someone’s riding a cow, then what?’

‘He was only trying to ride a cow,’ says James, primly, ‘and then - ’ he sighs, ‘then George passed out.’

Francis is looking at him with raised eyebrows. ‘George Barrow passed out?’

‘He did,’ says James.

‘With - ?’

‘Yes,’ says James, ‘With his cock in Pip’s mouth.’

‘Christ,’ says Francis. ‘And what did your friend do?’

‘Well, he fell on top of Pip,’ says James, ‘And they both collapsed. And it sounds like Pip fetched himself a blow on the back of his head, so he lost consciousness for a moment. And when he came to, there was George surfacing, and his cock inches from Pip’s face, and people shouting about the cow, and people threatening to sue, and just as he was beginning his comedown from the MDMA.’

‘Christ,’ says Francis again.

‘So Pip began to scream,’ says James, ‘And scream. And scream quite a lot, and quite loudly.’

‘Jaysus,’ says Francis, laughing, ‘how’d they calm him down?’

‘I’m not sure,’ says James, ‘but they did something. By the time I went to see him in George’s room, he was quieter.’

‘Now we’re getting to it,’ says Francis, ‘Where do you come into all this?’

‘Well, one of the things that set Pip off, apparently,’ says James, ‘Was the state of his harem trousers. Something about what had happened to them, and what I would say to him. And they got my full name out of him, and my father knew where to find me.’

James can see the moment that it registers. Francis’s eyebrows fly up and his head snaps to look at James. ‘Your what?’

‘Oh, yes,’ says James, fingers tightening on the rail, ‘Didn’t I mention? My father was there.’ He looks at Francis briefly and then looks away. ‘James Gambier.’

Francis frowns. ‘Foreign Office? Former ambassador to somewhere in South America?’

‘Brazil,’ says James. ‘He and his wife found a job for a girl they met out there who was coming to the UK to study. Au pair for friends of theirs in Devon. Of course they visited the friends. Most natural thing in the world. Also the most natural thing in the world to fall into bed with the girl who was so grateful to my father. Of course my father knocked her up. Of course he wanted nothing to do with the result. Neither did the poor girl. He farmed me out to friends of the family.’

Francis is listening. He says slowly ‘I never knew any of that.’

James shrugs. ‘No reason you should, I don’t talk about it.’

‘Why was,’ Francis pauses, ‘your father there?’

‘I don’t know,’ says James, ‘I think he’d finagled himself an invitation to deliver a guest lecture on International Political Economy at the Union. I have no idea why he was at the Piers Gav ball. I don’t know why they let him in. I don’t know why he’d want to go at all. He must have been three times the age of anyone else there. He was…’ James shuts his eyes, ‘He is a ridiculous man.’

Francis’s voice comes to him. He says ‘So your father called you?’

‘George did,’ says James. Three a.m., dragging a comb hastily through his hair, throwing a blazer over his pyjamas and shivering in the morning chill, sneaking past the porter at Brasenose and scraping his knuckles as carefully as he could at the door to George’s room. Pip’s white face, eyeliner smeared, mascara running, shivering in his waistcoat and those comprehensively-ruined harem trousers. George’s pink face, its customary self-satisfaction somehow still intact even as he was pouting about the waste of a perfectly good case of champagne and those beastly oiks putting an end to a harmless little knees-up. And James’s father – James still can’t quite put words to how he felt walking into that narrow little room to find him there.

‘They’d told me, my parents,’ he says to Francis, ‘I’d thought about making contact, but I hadn’t made a plan yet. So I knew he existed, I knew what he looked like, I’d seen photographs, but it was … abstract. In two dimensions. Something I might have the option of finding, but I’d never thought it might find me.’ He looks down at his hands. ‘And I didn’t want – this is stupid – I knew, you see, what he was, I didn’t expect him to be a hero.’ He looks at Francis. ‘I didn’t.’

‘No harm if you did,’ says Francis. He’s bending forward, eyes intent on James’s. James looks away.

‘I didn’t, but it was still – anyway, I got Pip out of there. Put him to bed in his room. Told him not to worry about the sodding trousers. Tried to get some sleep myself. I thought I’d find him – my father – the next morning, once I’d had a chance to talk to my parents. But, as it happened, he found me before then.’ He pauses and says ‘George and Pip had been busy while I slept, apparently. George went to Pip’s room to get back the coat he’d lent Pip when I came to get him, and while he was there he broke up with Pip and told him he didn’t really think he ought to come to the Piers Gav anymore.’

‘Classy man, George Barrow,’ says Francis.

‘Very,’ says James. ‘Pip didn’t take it lying down, though. He threatened George with telling the Principal, the press and the police, I believe in that order, about the ball. George huffed and puffed and begged, but Pip kicked him out. So of course George went running to Papa – his and mine.’

He’d taken him to the Turf. They’d both hit their heads on those wretched low beams and hunched over a table.

‘You look so like your mother,’ James’s father had said. James had smiled – he knew, he’d been told, but still – and pushed his hair behind his ear.

A long conversation: asking solicitously about James’s tutors and what he was up to, a startled-but-game ‘Oh? Oh, jolly good!’ when he’d asked about girlfriends and James had told him he was gay, reminiscing about his own time at Oxford, what larks, what a wild bunch, but all harmless really, and how dreadful it would have been if some finger-wagging rag had got hold of some of his adventures. Careers ruined – lives ruined – including the person who tattled, and really, for what?

‘He was asking me for help,’ James says to Francis. ‘I could protect him, by talking to Pip and getting him to back off. I could rescue him.’ He shuts his eyes. ‘I’d never met the man before in my life. Our first conversation – our very first – and he was asking me to cover for him at a party he should never have been at in the first place.’ He takes a breath and turns to face Francis. ‘It felt good,’ he says, slapping the words down at Francis’s feet, ‘to be asked. I felt good. I don’t know why.’

‘Yes, you do,’ says Francis, so gently James has to cling to the railing to keep from running away. ‘And you know why they sent your father to ask you.’

His eyes are searching on James’s. After a beat, James nods and looks down at his hands. ‘Pip didn’t really want to go to the police,’ he says, ‘I asked him if George had forced him, even a little, or bribed him, or strongly hinted, or, or made him. In any way.’ He looks at Francis. ‘I did ask him.’

‘Good,’ says Francis, ‘good lad.’

James looks down hastily. ‘Pip said no. I told him there wasn’t any point, that the story would be jumbled, that he’d get in trouble as well as George – just as much, likely even more, that George would get his father to pull strings and he’d wriggle away and leave Pip carrying the baby. I told him he was better off out of the Piers Gav.’

‘That was true,’ says Francis drily.

‘And I told him that he needed to stop thinking of revenge,’ James looks up and smiles thinly, ‘and start thinking of leverage.’

‘Ah,’ says Francis.

‘Pip got a nice little internship at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office out of the deal,’ says James. ‘He’s up for Director-General of UNESCO, last I heard.’

‘Good for him,’ says Francis, ‘and what about you?’

James smiles again, a pointed stretch of the lips, ‘Oh, I did all right out of the whole business,’ he says, ‘John Barrow was grateful. He’s been ever so kind to me. I don’t know where I’d be without him.’

Francis smacks his hand down on the railing with a ringing sound, making James jump. ‘You would be,’ he says, ‘exactly where you are.’

‘John Barrow,’ says James, ‘took one look at me and said ‘there’s someone who’s willing to be of use.’ A political animal.’

‘Well,’ says Francis, ‘good thing you’re actually in the politics game, eh?’

James smiles. ‘I suppose.’

‘You asked your friend,’ says Francis, ‘You did ask him if he was pushed, or made to.’

‘I did,’ says James, and sighs, ‘but maybe I didn’t want to know the answer. Maybe – maybe I ought to have pushed harder.’

‘You were being used,’ says Francis, ‘and you saw a mess, and you saw a way to make the most of it for your friend.’

‘And myself,’ James reminds him.

‘And yourself,’ says Francis. ‘That’s Chief Whip material, in my book.’

James looks up and sees steady blue eyes trained on him. He looks back helplessly, entirely dumb for a very long moment.

‘Well,’ he says, when he can speak, ‘there you have it.’

‘Thank you for telling me,’ says Francis.

James shrugs. ‘You’d have found out sooner or later.’

Francis bends his head and leans in so that James has to look at him. ‘Thank you,’ he says again, ‘for telling me.’

James swallows and nods.

A few evenings later, the phone rings again. Blanky picks it up. ‘Government Whips’ Office.’ He blinks. ‘Jimbo? You all right, lad?’

Francis reaches for the phone but Blanky waves him off. ‘Right! Well, all right, then. Ta very much, lad.’ He hangs up and looks at Francis. ‘What the hell did you talk about with your boy when you disappeared with him?’

‘Nothing,’ says Francis, and Blanky rolls his eyes. ‘I can’t say. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ says Blanky, ‘he called to say pairing’s back on if we want it.’

Francis keeps an eye on the Mail after his talk with James. He tries not to pounce on the papers when Tom Jopson brings them in, but when Tom slides the sheaf across to him, Mail front page on top, he doesn’t complain.

Week after week goes by without a mention of the story. The Mail’s apparently more concerned with the Lady’s broken promise of a referendum on EU membership, which seems to be moving further and further down the docket. Words like ‘TRAITOR’ and ‘FRANKLIN’S NOT SO FRANK’ are sprayed about like confetti.

‘Happen the Lady’s a bit nervous about a massive Bill right now,’ says Tom Blanky. ‘Their strike-rate’s none too good at the moment. Three Bills they’ve tried to push through, and only one’s made it. She’s looking a bit green, poor lass.’

Tom Jopson walks in with the papers, looking a bit grim.

‘What’s wrong, lad?’ says Blanky.

‘Nothing for us to worry about,’ says Tom, but his eyes when they look at Francis are worried. He puts down the papers and slides across the Mail.

Blanky takes one look at the headline and looks at Francis. ‘This what you’ve been watching out for and couldn’t talk about, then?’

Chapter Text

The headline says ‘FITZJAMES’S PORKY PIES: SEX, LIES AND TORY DEBAUCHERY’ above an image of James at his shiniest and most self-satisfied-looking.

‘If you were caught having illegal drug-fuelled public sex,’ the story begins, ‘you’d expect to be punished, wouldn’t you? Not if you’re the Foreign Secretary and you’ve got the Chief Whip on call. The Mail has discovered nights of public sex, drugs and corruption, covered up by James Fitzjames, the Tory Chief Whip, in exchange for a nice gift-wrapped career.’

‘Hickey’s put Jimbo front-and-centre on this,’ says Blanky.

‘It’s ridiculous,’ says Francis. ‘splashing James about in the headlines and photo. George Barrow was the one getting his cock sucked. He’s the Foreign Secretary now. His dad pushed along the cover-up, and he was the Prime Minister at the time. James was only a kid.’

‘A kid who’s Chief Whip now,’ says Blanky.

‘He had barely anything to do with it,’ says Francis, ‘even the story admits that.’

‘Eventually,’ says Blanky. His eyes are on Francis. ‘Anything else your boy tell you?’

Francis meets Blanky’s eyes and sighs. ‘I can’t say.’

‘All right,’ says Blanky, ‘well, it’s a gift for us, any road.’

Francis doesn’t respond.

‘Oh, Newsnight’s delighted to have me on,’ says Jim. ‘The Tories are on lockdown. The Lady’ll have their guts for garters if they so much as open their mouths,’ he grins, ‘which means it’s time for us to get chatty.’

‘You’ll be talking about this Barrow thing, Jim?’ says Blanky.

‘I absolutely will,’ says Jim, ‘Absolutely gift-wrapped story of power and corruption. Doesn’t hurt that it’s so bloody sordid.’

‘Jim,’ says Francis, ‘do we need to bring J – Fitzjames into it?’

There’s a silence. Francis forces himself to keep his eyes on Jim, who’s blinking back at him.

‘Bring Fitzjames into it?’ says Jim slowly. ‘He’s in it already, Frank. I mean, he was involved, and he’s a senior member of the Tory Party.’

‘I know,’ says Frank, ‘but do we need to?’ He takes a breath and speaks slowly. ‘It’s George Barrow who fucked up, and John Barrow who pushed the button the cover-up. Fitzjames isn’t important.’

There’s another pause and Jim seems about to speak when Blanky leans forward. ‘Don’t want to muddy the waters, Jim. Proper dog’s dinner the Mail made of it, confusing people with Fitzjames this and Chief Whip that. No bugger knows who we are. Shame to waste airtime explaining to people what the Whips’ Office does and why anyone should care what one of ‘em did years ago.’

Jim’s staring at Francis, a little frown between his eyes. At length, his brow clears and he looks over from Blanky to Francis and grins. ‘You’re right,’ he says, ‘the Barrows are the main story. Keep it simple, right?’

‘Right,’ says Blanky, ‘Thanks, Jim.’

‘Thanks,’ says Francis.

‘I can still resign, Jane,’ says James.

The Prime Minister waves a hand. ‘That wouldn’t help. You’re not the story anymore, as you know perfectly well. James Ross has seen to that.’

Or maybe Francis has, thinks James, and can’t help a little glow at the thought.

James Ross has been ubiquitous: on Newsnight, on the radio, at Prime Minister’s Questions, being cheerfully devastating about Tory entitlement, Tory nepotism and Tory corruption, and how the long arm of the then-Prime Minister shielded the man who would proceed to fail upwards to the country’s chief diplomat. He’s been asking the Prime Minister what she intends to do about such naked disregard for just consequences at the highest ranks in her own party, and the Prime Minister has responded saying that George Barrow’s youthful peccadilloes are not the Party’s responsibility or of public interest, and neither are whatever private arrangements were made between John Barrow and members of a private club.

‘They’re in the public interest,’ says James Ross, ‘if the Tory Party thinks it can run the country through ‘private arrangements’. ‘Private arrangements’ that the rest of the country’s locked out of.’

The Chamber erupts into a riot of ‘Answer, answer’.

‘I would answer,’ says the Prime Minister, ‘if the Leader of the Opposition had asked a question.’

There is a great snigger from the Tory benches, and the Leader of the Opposition grins. ‘If the Prime Minister would like a question,’ he says, ‘here’s a simple one: Where is George Barrow?’

The Prime Minister says ‘The Foreign Secretary has duties to attend to in - ’

‘I’m glad to hear the Foreign Secretary’s learned about his actual job,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘but I’m more inclined to think he’s hiding behind Mummy’s skirts.’

The Prime Minister stiffens. ‘I’m not going to dignify that particularly lazy bit of misogyny with a response.’

She sits down and hunches a shoulder in a marked manner, and the Leader of the Opposition grins ruefully.

‘We’ll need to think of something else for James Ross to worry about,’ says the Prime Minister to James, ‘I can't keep pretending to be offended at every single joke Jim Ross makes.’

‘It might be time to bring George in, Jane,’ says James to the Prime Minister, ‘let him face the music.’

‘I have no intention of exhibiting George to James Ross,’ says the Prime Minister to James, ‘he’d eat him alive. I don’t want this silly sideshow prolonged any longer than it has to be.’ She frowns. ‘Besides, it’s not the other side I’m worried about anymore, but ours.’

There have been leaks – to the Times and Telegraph – from so-far-nameless ‘senior Government sources’ tut-tutting about cronyism in the Party and how deep the rot has set in.

‘I can ask around,’ says James.

‘Oh, we know who the leaks are,’ says the Prime Minister. ‘Parry and the rest of his lot. We’ve had a bad run of luck shoving Bills through the house, they’re throwing a strop about me and they’ve found an excuse. Never mind that I had nothing to do with George Barrow getting his end away at University, or his needing Daddy to fish him out of the soup he’d landed himself into.’ She drums her fingers. ‘All right, then,’ she says, ‘we’ll give it to them.’

‘Give them what, Jane?’

‘Their referendum,’ says the Prime Minister, ‘they want legislation for a referendum on leaving the EU? We’ll feed the brutes.’

‘Jane,’ says James, ‘we can think of something else to pacify them. We needn’t - ’

‘We did promise, James,’ says the Prime Minister, ‘we’d have our feet held to the fire about it sooner or later. Well, here the thing comes. And, James?’ She looks up at him. ‘Three-line whip on this one. Put the frighteners on the horses, as much as you like. I don’t want to give the other lot a blink of daylight to winkle our chaps to their side.’

‘A referendum,’ says Blanky to James, ‘well, the Lady’s ambitious, you’ve got to say that for her.’

‘Why in the name of Christ is the Lady going along with this?’ says Francis, ‘there’s not a one of you could bear to get cut off from your Moselle and your places in Provence and your holidays in Zermatt.’

‘It’s a referendum,’ says James, ‘we’re just giving the people a chance to vote on whether they want to continue in the EU, or whether they want out.’

‘Continue in the EU,’ says Francis, ‘All so that your banker chums can launder money in Amsterdam without missing the first act at the Prague Opera House.’

‘All so that your mining friends in ‘t’North’ are covered by Working Time Directives so they aren’t working eighteen-hour shifts anymore, actually. Or so they can sue for worker’s compensation if they get lung cancer on the job.’

‘What fucking job?’ says Francis. ‘In a mining town in ‘t’North’ that hasn’t seen even the rust on a penny of investment for the past twenty years because it’s all getting sucked into banking and lawyers and property developments for Russian fucking oligarchs who’ll throw cash at whichever Tory politician will pick up the phone. It’s a grand bit of job protection your miner friends are getting from the EU, when you’ve thrown ten times more people at the same number of jobs and left them to sink or swim.’

There’s a pause. Dundy says ‘So, to be clear, Labour’s still meant to be opposing the referendum on leaving the EU, yeah?’

Francis’s eyes snap to James. The tips of his ears are pink. James makes himself look away.

‘Yes,’ says Francis, his voice a little rough. James looks determinedly at his shoes. ‘Yes, of course we are.’

Blanky says ‘And Jimbo here’s still eager to have a vote on leaving the EU?’

‘It’s legislation on a vote,’ says James, looking studiously at Blanky, ‘The Party would campaign to remain in the EU once the vote was actually held.’

‘Sure the vote’ll go your way?’ says Francis’s voice.

James swallows and looks at him. ‘That’s not up to me.’

‘It’s up to your Party if you want to even let them have the vote, lad,’ says Blanky.

James sighs and looks at his notebook. ‘How’s the fifteenth, then?’

‘Sabbath,’ says Blanky.

‘Right, sorry,’ says James, ‘Twenty-first, then?’

‘Welcome back, George.’

George Hodgson, the Honourable Member for Eastleigh, smiles a little self-consciously at Dundy and James. ‘James. Henry.’

‘We were wondering, George,’ says James, ‘if we could have a little word with you.’

‘The referendum,’ says the Member for Eastleigh.

‘Correct,’ says Dundy.

‘Well, lads,’ says the Member for Eastleigh, ‘I’d like to help, I really would, but my constituents are firmly pro-EU.’

‘We know, George,’ says James, ‘So are most of ours. It’s only a vote. We’re just letting the people decide.’

‘A referendum’s no way to decide,’ says the Member for Eastleigh, ‘it’s a complex issue, it’s taken decades for us to get to any sort of understanding about our relationship with the EU, and you’re planning to just put it down to a Yes/No question. It’s absurd.’

‘Well, all sorts of things are absurd,’ says Dundy, ‘you keep banging on about the First-Past-the-Post system and how absurd that is.’

‘It’s archaic,’ says the Member for Eastleigh, ‘We’re saying that if a candidate gets one vote – one vote – more than their opponent, they scoop the whole seat. You’re binning the votes of millions of people across the country because they didn’t back one particular horse, and you’re calling it a democracy.’

‘Yes,’ says Dundy, ‘but people understand horses and racing, George. Now you go to Joe Bloggs and start chuntering on about single transferable votes and ranking and having three-fifths of a candidate in the House of Commons because that’s how the percentages work out, and see how far that gets you.’

‘Joe Bloggs,’ says the Member for Eastleigh, ‘has never even been given the chance to decide. If he did - ’

‘Well, that’s actually why we’re here, George,’ says James, ‘how would you like to give Joe Bloggs that chance?’

The Member for Eastleigh looks sharply at James. ‘What?’

‘Join us on this EU referendum Bill,’ says James, ‘and we’ll back your push on Proportional Representation.’

The Member for Eastleigh takes a breath. ‘Are you serious?’

‘As a heart attack,’ says Dundy.

The Member for Eastleigh’s eyes widen. ‘That’s quite an offer.’

‘Thought you might like it,’ says Dundy.

‘I do,’ says the Member for Eastleigh, and smiles, ‘which is why I said yes when the Labour lot gave me the same deal.’

‘He was enjoying that far too much,’ says James.

‘He was,’ says Dundy.

‘I should have known Francis would get to him,’ says James.

‘Heard Hodgson wouldn’t let you cop a feel, lads,’ says Blanky.

‘Lovely,’ murmurs James.

Dundy grins. ‘What did you say to him for him to let you?’

‘You know what we said,’ says Francis, ‘he’s been wanting us to talk about PR for a while now.’

‘Only thing I thought he ever got a hard-on for,’ says Blanky. ‘Apparently I was wrong.’

‘It can’t just have been that,’ says James, looking at Francis, ‘we offered the same, and there are more of us than there are of you.’

‘Not for long, though,’ says Blanky.

James keeps his eyes on Francis, and Blanky’s voice continues ‘Last few stabs at getting laws made haven’t looked too clever, Jimbo. We told Georgie that any promises you made were one of those post-dated cheque on a failing bank-type things.’

Still with his eyes on Francis, James says ‘You’ll be pushing for a no-confidence vote if this one doesn’t go through, then?’

Francis is watching James. He says quietly ‘I did tell you not to get comfortable, James.’

James takes in a breath. ‘So you did,’ he says. ‘Come on, Dundy. We’ve got a country to run.’

‘Ah, John.’

John Ross blinks suspiciously at the long figure smiling winningly at him. The face looks familiar; John thinks it’s been splashed across the tabloids with a series of unsavoury headlines attached.

‘James Fitzjames,’ says the man.

‘Tory Whip,’ says John Ross. ‘Mail photos make you look shorter.’

Fitzjames’s smile dims, but only for a second. ‘They caught my bad side,’ he says. ‘Really, what a bore that story is. Nothing at all like your column in the Mail.’

Ross sniffs. ‘You’re the only one who says so,’ he says.

‘Surely not,’ says Fitzjames, ‘James Ross puts down his responsibilities as an MP and then takes them back up again when he’s bored of Nappy Duty. As though membership of the Labour Party were a – how did you put it? – a toy for a bored toddler.’ He throws back his head and laughs, subsiding only to wipe his eyes. ‘That line made me laugh so hard my driver pulled over.’

‘Oh, he didn’t,’ says John Ross.

‘He did, I promise. Knightsbridge at peak hour, you can imagine the fuss.’ He shakes his head. ‘The line’s funny, of course, because it’s true.’

John Ross sniffs again, but finds himself leaning in towards Fitzjames. ‘I only say what I think,’ he says.

‘Of course you do,’ says Fitzjames, ‘A rare thing in our line of work. So rare, in fact, that - ’ he sighs, ‘Well, it must make your chaps fidget. Rocking the boat and all that. Saying the unsayable.’  

‘It shouldn’t be unsayable,’ says John Ross, ‘When the party leadership’s stolen – stolen! – by a preening Johnny-come-lately with nothing but - ’

‘It shouldn’t be,’ says Fitzjames softly, ‘but you were the only one who said it.’

Ross grunts. Fitzjames continues ‘And now with this EU referendum. Insisting on blocking a simple vote allowing people to have their say – just have their say – on whether people stick on in the EU.’

‘Letting a parcel of Brussels bureaucrats get fat off British taxes,’ says John Ross, ‘telling us what we can and can’t do, or make, or sell.’

‘Opening the floodgates to foreigners,’ says Fitzjames, ‘making people compete with ten times more people for the same number of jobs.’

‘Bloody good point,’ says Ross.

‘You’re too kind,’ says Fitzjames, with a smile. ‘There’s all sorts of reasons to hold a referendum on leaving the EU, John.’ He sighs. ‘Pity James Ross is using it as a springboard.’

‘Typical,’ says John Ross, before saying ‘what do you mean?’

‘Oh, you know,’ says Fitzjames sadly, ‘if he manages to stymie this Bill, he’ll want to push a no-confidence motion. Call a snap election, roll the dice, ride the wave. Maybe even make himself Prime Minister.’ He wrinkles his forehead. ‘Would he be the youngest PM in the country’s history?’

He seems to be puzzling the matter over when his brow clears. ‘Well, no, of course not,’ he says with some relief. ‘William Pitt the Younger was twenty-five, wasn’t he?’

‘Twenty-four,’ says John Ross, through his teeth.

‘Well, then,’ says Fitzjames. ‘Still, he’d be the youngest Labour Prime Minister, wouldn’t he? That must be some sort of record.’

‘He won’t,’ says Ross, ‘it’s absurd.’

‘Well,’ says Fitzjames, ‘my chaps are doing everything they can, you know they are, but now that Francis has tucked away Hodgson and the Lib. Dems, and Alex McDonald, it’s going to be a bit of a struggle.’

John Ross leans forward. ‘You’ve got me,’ he says.

Fitzjames’s eyes widen. ‘John!’ he says. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘I’m deadly serious,’ says Ross, ‘and I won’t be alone.’

‘We’ve got John Ross,’ says James to Dundy and Graham, ‘And thirty of his loyalists.’

‘Christ,’ says Dundy, ‘Imagine thirty people liking John Ross who aren’t John Ross or his mother.’

‘Well,’ says James, ‘they don’t like the EU either, which is useful.’

‘And we’ve got the Democratic Unionists,’ says Dundy, ‘and I’ve mopped up all the gammon and the hangers and floggers.’

‘So that’s 325 walking in with us,’ says Dundy, ‘and by my count, 325 to the lot opposing the referendum. Dead heat.’

The night of the vote, Tom Jopson comes to find Francis.

‘Tom,’ says Francis, ‘shouldn’t you be getting your little sheep in a row?’

‘They’re booked in, sir,’ says Tom. ‘Sir - ’

‘Call me Francis, lad, I’ve told you before.’

‘Sir,’ says Tom, ‘I need to ask you something.’

His eyes – those clear all-seeing eyes – are troubled. ‘What is it, Tom?’

‘My mother,’ says Tom, ‘she’s sick.’

Francis sits down. ‘Jesus, Tom, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.’

‘I’ve never said,’ says Tom. ‘Accident at the plant crushed her fingers. The surgeons saved what they could, but she couldn’t work after.’ He smiles, a knife-sharp inward thing. ‘Worker’s compensation kicked in, though, like Mr Fitzjames said.’ He continues ‘They gave her painkillers after the surgery. Supposed to taper off, they said. Never really happened.’

Francis is watching him. He thinks of Tom Jopson clearing out his flat. The key in his pocket. He says ‘You’ve tried to get her off them, haven’t you?’

‘A time or two.’ Tom smiles, that same smile. ‘Every time’s the last time, sir.’

Francis winces. ‘And now?’

‘She’s sick, sir,’ says Tom, ‘It’s bad. And I need to ask you - ’

‘Don’t ask me anything,’ says Francis, ‘Go to her, lad, Jaysus, why are you still here?’

‘We’ve got 325 votes on this Bill, sir,’ says Tom, ‘Same as them across the Hall. We’ve nearly got them, I know.’

‘There’ll be other chances,’ says Francis, ‘Jesus Christ, man, go.’

‘Not for a while, sir,’ says Tom, ‘It’s a big one, this, isn’t it, sir? If they get this one through, they’ll recover. We’ve got momentum now. If we break it - ’

‘We’ll find another one,’ says Francis, ‘Tom. Go.’

‘But there’s no way to - ’

‘We’ll manage,’ says Francis, ‘Go.’

‘Francis,’ says James, sitting up as the man strides in, ‘Hello. Shouldn’t you be - ’

‘I need a pair,’ says Francis.

‘You need a what?’ says James.

‘A pair,’ says Francis. ‘You called pairing back on. I need a pair.’

‘There’s half an hour left for the vote,’ says James, ‘The time’s past, Francis, how do you expect me to - ’

‘Tom Jopson’s mother is sick,’ says Francis. ‘She’s sick. Dying, or Tom wouldn’t have mentioned it.’

‘Oh God,’ says James, ‘Francis, I’m so sorry.’

‘So,’ says Francis, ‘I need a pair.’

James sits back. ‘Francis,’ he says, ‘I can’t. We’ve dragged all our chaps in, the Lady’s on the warpath, she knows if this doesn’t go through your lot’s coming for us.’

‘Figure it out,’ says Francis.

‘Figure it – Francis, what do you suppose would happen to whoever sat this vote out? Career over, just like that, whom are you proposing I throw to the wolves?’

‘Are you asking me,’ says Francis, ‘to drag Tom back in here from his mother’s deathbed?’

‘Of course not,’ says James, ‘that isn’t fair.’

‘Oh, fair,’ says Francis, ‘What bloody is, James? It’s not fair for Tom to have to nurse two junkies in his life. It’s not fair for him to watch one of them die and worry about sparing the other one.’

‘Francis - ’

Francis sits down heavily in the seat opposite James. His face – the lovely lines and circles and whorls of it – seems to fall in on itself. ‘It’s not fair,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s not fair on you, and it’s not fair on him. It’s not. I know that. But I’m asking. Can you help?’

His eyes find James’s, and it is very simple. ‘All right,’ says James. ‘You’ll get your pair.’

A smile begins on Francis’s lips. ‘Yeah?’

James nods.

‘Who?’

‘Oh,’ says James, ‘oh, does it matter?’

Francis frowns. ‘Of course it matters.’ He pulls out his notebook. ‘We get this on record, like always. We need a pair for the Member for Rochdale. Who’re you getting to sit out the vote?’

James fishes out his own notebook. ‘The Member for Watford.’

Francis’s pen stops abruptly. ‘You.’

‘Me,’ says James.

Francis’s face is grim. ‘Stop pissing about, I’m serious.’

‘I’m perfectly serious, Francis,’ says James, ‘You need a pair and I’m giving you one.’

Francis puts his notebook down. ‘No.’

‘Francis - ’

‘Find someone else.’

‘There is nobody else,’ says James, ‘You know that.’

Francis slams his fist on the table. ‘Find. Someone. Else.’

‘Francis, for God’s sake, you’ve a perfect right to ask for a pair, and I’m giving you one. Don’t be melodramatic.’

‘No melodrama,’ says Francis, getting up, ‘no deal.’

‘I’m not Christ, Francis,’ says James, getting up, ‘Use me.’

‘See you in the House,’ says Francis.

‘I’m offering myself here,’ says James. ‘Francis. Are you really turning me down?’

Francis turns to look at him once, and then walks out.

‘Where’s Tom?’ asks Blanky.

‘Not here,’ says Francis. ‘His mother’s sick.’

Blanky pauses and then nods. ‘All right,’ he says, ‘we’ll get ‘em next time.’

Francis nods back and smiles. ‘Next time.’

Blanky looks over Francis’s shoulder and blinks. ‘What the actual - ’

Francis turns to find Ned Little, with a slightly shell-shocked air, walking down the ‘No’ corridor. He’s accompanied by James.

‘Get lost there, Jimbo?’ says Blanky.

James’s eyes flick to Francis before looking at Blanky. ‘No,’ says James, and tries to walk away before Francis moves to block him.

‘No,’ says Francis.

‘It’s done, Francis, there’s no need to - ’

‘Go back,’ says Francis, ‘and walk down the other corridor. Twice.’

‘Francis,’ says James, ‘You’re making a scene.’

‘Frank,’ says Blanky, ‘Let the man go.’

Francis lets Blanky pull him away and watches James go to Dundy and Gore, who promptly grab him and pull him into a frantic and gesticulating huddle.

‘Don’t you go doing owt daft, either,’ says Blanky, ‘Like charging down t’other corridor to cancel your boy’s vote.’

‘Tom, I can’t just let him - ’

Blanky gives him a look and limps away to the Speaker.

‘The Ayes have three hundred and twenty-four votes, the Noes three hundred and twenty-five. The Noes have it, the Noes have it.’

Francis feels Blanky’s hand on his shoulder but doesn’t look at him. He’s looking at James, long and thin and looking suddenly very alone. He’s about to go to him when the Lady walks across to James. Francis can’t hear what she says, but he can read the careful dip of James’s head and the squaring of his shoulders.

The door to the Government Whips’ Office is locked. Francis tries the handle and looks around before he sees a long shadow on the stair. He hurries after it and sees James walking towards the door, holding a cardboard box.

‘James.’

James turns and stands until Francis walks to him.

‘James, you don’t have to do this.’

‘I think I do, actually,’ says James. He’s looking a little pale but his voice is steady. ‘The Lady was perfectly clear.’

‘It’s one vote.’

‘A vote with a three-line whip,’ says James, ‘At a crucial time for the Party. No point having a Whip if there are no consequences for stepping out of line.’

‘Apologise, then,’ says Francis, ‘Pay a fine, a fat fucking fine, a written apology, you don’t have to - ’

‘Francis,’ says James, and Francis clenches his fists at the patient warning tone, ‘it’s all right.’

Francis’s eyebrows fly up and a disbelieving sound whistles past his lips. ‘All right?’

‘I just need to call my driver,’ says James, and stops. ‘Ah. No ministerial car.’

‘James, Christ, don’t worry about - ’

‘No, it’s all right,’ says James, ‘I’ll take the Tube. District line, it's fine.’

‘The District line’s fucked,’ says Francis, ‘Engineering work. James, listen, just - ’

‘I’ll take the Number 52, then,’ says James, ‘Easy enough.’

‘You don’t want the bus on a night like this, James, for fuck’s sake - ’

‘No, it’s fine, it’s a clear night, and a short walk.’ There’s the flash of a smile, and the creases by his mouth deepen. Francis wants to scream. ‘I’m a good walker.’

‘James, Jesus - ’

‘You’ll call a no-confidence vote, I expect,’ says James, and his voice is metallic, determinedly brisk, ‘I don’t think the Lady will allow pairing on it, so you’ll need to bear that in mind.’

‘James, Christ, don’t - ’

‘Hickey didn’t say anything about my father in his story,’ says James, ‘You might want to use it, though.’

‘Use the – what are you talking about?’

‘I don’t know how you would,’ says James, speaking rapidly now, ‘Or whether there’s any mileage to be got from it, now that I’m out of the Party, but - ’

‘Stop this - ’

‘- But it’s something to think about,’ finishes James.

‘Stop this,’ says Francis, ‘Stop it. I’m not using your father. I’m not doing that to you, Christ, stop.’

‘I’m giving you permission,’ says James, ‘You can.’ His voice is a little less steady now.

‘I don’t want your permission,’ says Francis, ‘I don’t want to talk about your father. James, Jesus, we can fix this.’

James opens his mouth and Francis says ‘We can talk about this, hmm? Talk? Just talk. Will you just - ’

‘Francis!’

Francis looks back. Ned Little’s tearing down the corridor towards him.

‘They’re looking for you,’ he says, ‘Jim and Blanky. We need to talk about the no-confidence vote.’

‘I’m coming,’ says Francis, ‘I just need to - ’

He turns back, but James is gone.

Chapter Text

Francis Crozier hasn’t had a drink.

‘When Cato the Younger was faced with the looming threat of autocracy under Caesar,’ the article begins, ‘he had a sword brought to him. Cato drew the sword from its sheath and inspected it. Seeing that the point and edge were still sharp, he said ‘Now I am my own master’. Later that evening, he stabbed himself through the stomach.’

The Guardian headline says ‘NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED: JAMES FITZJAMES AND THE PRICE OF PRINCIPLE’. John Bridgens, proclaims the byline, accompanied by a photo of the man himself: dark hair shot through with silver and sad kind eyes.

‘James Fitzjames had a strange constitutional line to walk,’ the article continues, ‘as Party Whip, he was not allowed the luxury of a personal conscience. He was the arm of his party, and a party is very seldom one thing and one thing alone. Certainly the Conservative Party under Jane Franklin seemed often like a ship heading off in very different directions at once. Opening their arms to the future with marriage equality, retreating into a walled-off and suspicious past with a referendum on leaving the EU. The circle is hard enough to square, even without the inconvenience of personal convictions in the mix.’

There’s a photo of James as well: long and bright-eyed and impassioned-looking. Francis’s thumb rests against the corner of his mouth, the paper worn and grainy to the touch.

‘James Fitzjames was as strong a right arm for his party as he could be,’ says the article, ‘and having delivered them the best position he could, he took the liberty of then listening to his conscience. He paid a price for it, but, like Cato, he is now his own master.’

‘That the Bridgens column again?’

Blanky sits down opposite Francis, who has slammed his hand down on the paper.

‘If you had a proper phone,’ says Blanky, ‘you could read that article a hundred times a day and it’d be nobody’s business but your own.’

‘It’s already nobody’s business but my own,’ says Francis, ‘and I don’t read it a hundred times a day.’

‘You could bookmark it,’ says Blanky as though Francis hadn’t spoken, ‘instead of carrying around a six-month-old paper.’

Francis says nothing, drawing the paper towards him and folding it instead.

‘Surprised the thing’s in one piece, the way you paw at it.’

‘I don’t paw at it,’ says Francis.

‘Bet the thing falls open at the page with Bridgens’s column.’

‘Did you want something, Tom?’

Tom grins. ‘The Aristocunts are coming by, remember? Pairing for the Green Belt Bill.’

Dundy – newly-minted Opposition Chief Whip – walks in five minutes later, accompanied by Gore and new bug Charles des Voeux, dark of eye, fluty of voice and punchable of face, to whom Francis is so meticulously and freezingly polite that Blanky has had to take him aside and tell him ‘It’s not his fault he’s not your boy, Frank. Remember?’

No, thinks Francis, it’s my fault.

When they’re done and the Tory Whips are preparing to leave, Blanky says to Dundy ‘Seen Jimbo around lately?’

Francis freezes before throwing a look at Blanky, who is resolutely not looking back.

‘Saw him last weekend, yeah,’ says Dundy.

‘He doing all right?’ says Blanky.

‘Fine,’ says Dundy. He’s looking over at Francis now, and he’s not accusing Francis of anything, there’s nothing in his voice or his eyes to remotely suggest it, nothing at all.

‘Good,’ says Francis, ‘that’s good.’

How was he looking, he does not ask. Is he happy, he does not ask. Does he think about that night? Or the days after with the tabloids splashing his face about on their covers and screaming ‘TRAITOR’? Did he hate me then? Does he hate me now? How much? Does he hate me enough? Has he forgotten?

It’s good if he has, Francis tells himself. It’s better if he has.

He doesn’t have a drink.

Francis doesn’t have a drink.

He didn’t have a drink that night after the vote on the EU Referendum. He didn’t have a drink the night of the vote of no-confidence kicking the Tories out, or any of the nights leading up to the election, or the night they found out that Labour were back in, with a majority this time.

He sits with Jim Ross and Blanky and he pushes votes through and it’s easier, of course, he’d forgotten what it’s like to be the Whip for a ruling party with an actual majority, and he reads John Bridgens’s column again and he doesn’t drink and he walks on Westminster Bridge and he doesn’t drink and he hears the sonorous tolling of Big Ben and he doesn’t drink and he thinks my mistake was bringing him to the sodding clock-tower, Christ, what was I thinking, you can’t get away from the wretched thing, it’s right where we – I – work and he doesn’t drink and he reads old interviews with James and he doesn’t drink and he thinks of the jagged slashing shadows of the ancient clock on that long angular face and he doesn’t drink and he thinks I should really have taken him to St. James’s Park like he’d suggested, I never go there anyway and he doesn’t drink and he thinks of those huge hands clasped on the railing and he doesn’t drink and the rumble of James’s baritone as he says I’m offering myself here and he doesn’t drink.

He carries the feeling, alive and bristling like knives under his skin, waiting for him to draw too deep a breath.

He goes home at night and Neptune bounds up on the bed, with the serene confidence of one who knows he’s not allowed but knows also that this time he will not be denied. He buries his fingers in the soft fur at Neptune’s neck and thinks that when James told him about his father, he didn’t hold him. A good thing, all things considered: what would it even have looked like, yanking down that great giraffe of a creature? He’d have had to fold like a deck-chair, his chin would have dug into Francis’s shoulder, the thing would be a shambles and James wouldn’t have thanked Francis for it, why should he, pawing at the craychur like that, Francis would have had nothing to show for it but a mouthful of soft dark hair and whatever ridiculous product the man uses. A good thing altogether Francis never even tried, and best he puts it out of his mind.

Neptune licks his chin and Francis thinks and anyway, it’s not like it would have made a difference. Christ knows James doesn’t think about that night – or any night, any night in a clock-tower or under the street lamps of Whitehall or any time he spent any time with Francis Crozier – with anything but regret, and who could blame him.

If he thinks about it at all.

It’s good that he doesn’t. It’s better that he doesn’t.

‘Islington North’s looking to move on,’ says Blanky to Francis. ‘Got an offer for a job lecturing at Yale, jammy bastard.’

Francis shrugs. ‘Seat’s safe enough,’ he says, ‘we should hold it fine.’

‘Dunno,’ says Blanky, scratching his chin, ‘Lib. Dems are sniffing around that one. And you know the seat now: it’s all yummy mummies and Radio Four types. Whoever we bring in can’t be an egg-and-chips man. They’ll need to be genteel, like.’

‘Well,’ says Francis, ‘we’ll find someone genteel, then. No shortage of them in the Party.’

‘That there isn’t,’ agrees Blanky. ‘Suits and haircuts everywhere you look nowadays, and people sounding like they’ve never had a tooth needed filling in their lives.’

‘We’re not like that,’ says Francis.

‘Happen we should be,’ says Blanky. ‘Some of us, any road.’

‘Well, politics is about representation, after all,’ says Jim, when Francis brings the matter up with him. ‘Might be worth considering.’

Francis lifts his ginger-beer to his lips. Jim has asked for a chat, just him and Francis, and Francis is waiting for him to tell him why.

‘You know Islington North’s looking to move on,’ says Jim.

Francis nods, and Jim continues ‘Which means I’m in the market for a new Work and Pensions Secretary.’

‘Ah,’ says Francis, ‘whom are you thinking?’

‘You,’ says Jim.

Francis puts down his bottle. ‘Me? Jim, you’re not serious.’

‘I’m perfectly serious,’ says Jim.

Francis sits back. ‘Jim, I haven’t any experience.’

‘Yes, you have,’ says Jim. ‘You’ve pushed through good legislation and bad, you know what flies and what doesn’t. Remember the steel workers’ Bill? It’s one of the better things we’ve done, I still think that, and I couldn’t have done it without you.’

‘Christ,’ says Francis.

‘Come on, old man,’ says Jim, ‘haven’t you had enough of selling other people’s bad laws?’

Francis looks at him. ‘Make some bad laws myself, you mean?’

Jim laughs. ‘It’s a hell of a sales pitch, you have to agree.’ He leans forward. ‘Look, will you at least think about it?’

Francis feels a smile beginning on his lips before he remembers. ‘What about the Whips’ Office?’

Jim purses his lips. ‘Well, there’s the problem. I’ve sounded Blanky out about a promotion to Chief Whip.’

‘Did he thump you?’ says Francis.

‘Damn near,’ says Jim ruefully. ‘Don’t blame him, of course. He’d be wasted in the job.’

‘Thanks,’ says Francis.

‘Don’t mention it,’ says Jim. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a successor lined up?’

‘Jopson,’ says Francis, ‘But he just joined the office himself. It’s too soon for him.’

‘Hmm,’ says Jim, ‘Well, have a look around and think, will you? You can’t stay in the Whips’ Office forever. I think it’s time you pulled your weight at the big table, old man.’

Francis walks into Stephen’s and goes to the bar. The bartender – Tom, was it? Tom Hartnell? – appears and smiles.

‘Haven’t seen you around in a while,’ he says approvingly.

Francis smiles. ‘I’d like a G&T, please.’

Hartnell laughs. ‘Yes, sir.’ He reappears in a few moments with a goblet bearing the Hendricks logo filled with lime and soda. That sodding sprig of rosemary’s floating on top. Francis forgot to ask him to leave it out.

Francis smiles in thanks anyway and lifts the glass to his lips.

‘Francis,’ says a voice at his elbow. Sophia’s standing next to him, levelling a very pointed stare at Francis’s glass.

‘It’s lime and soda,’ says Francis.

‘Ah,’ says Sophia, and sits down.

‘What are you doing here anyway?’ says Francis.

Sophia nods towards the door. ‘I’m meant to be collecting Aunt Jane for dinner, but her meeting overran. What are you doing here?’

Francis shrugs. ‘Thinking.’

‘Thinking,’ says Sophia, ‘or moping?’

Francis says nothing, taking another sip instead.

‘What are you down at the mouth about?’ Sophia considers him with her head to one side. ‘I’d have thought you’d be happy,’ she says, ‘now that your James is back.’

‘He’s back?’ Francis puts down his glass, his thoughts racing. When did he come back, how, why hadn’t Francis heard, why didn’t he say anything, how did he even manage it, why didn’t he find Francis, he could have said, why didn’t he –

Sophia’s looking at him oddly. ‘He’s been back nearly a year, Francis.’

‘Oh.’ Francis pulls his glass towards him. ‘Jim. Right. It’s good to have him back, yeah.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ says Sophia, her gaze very sharp, ‘but he’s not the James you meant, is he?’

Francis says nothing, raising the glass to his lips. He can feel Sophia’s eyes on him, beautiful and clear and keen.

‘You see, I thought,’ she says after a pause, ‘that you were moping - ’

‘I’m not moping, Sophy - ’

‘- That you were moping,’ she says, ‘Because you’d finally figured out that you’re in love with James.’

Francis swallows a good ounce of lime and soda the wrong way, and the next few minutes are spent in a slapstick panic of choking and streaming eyes and a hearty buffet from both Sophia and Tom Hartnell. He sits with a glass of water in his hands, eyes still watering, and looks balefully at Sophia.

‘Jaysus, Sophy, what the hell are you playing at?’

Sophia has somehow acquired a glass of something red and expensive while Francis was in extremis, and is sipping it unconcernedly. She raises perfectly-arched eyebrows at Francis. ‘Playing at?’

‘That joke you made.’

‘I’d like some olives, please,’ Sophia says to Hartnell. ‘Kalamata, I think. Thank you so much.’

‘Sophy.’

Sophia turns back to him, swivelling the wine in her glass.

‘So you haven’t figured it out, after all,’ she says. This tone Francis remembers well: the amused sympathy that used to have him furious and red-faced and reaching for his collar and eager all at once. All it does now is have him setting his teeth. ‘Sophy, Christ, this isn’t funny.’

‘No,’ says Sophia, and the smile’s quite gone from her voice, ‘I never really thought it was, even when I didn’t realise.’

Francis turns his head to look at her. He has fallen out of the habit of making her happiness his responsibility, however long it took – and it took far, far too long – but there’s something in the quiet inward ripple of sadness in Sophia’s eyes that has him leaning forward. ‘Sophy, I don’t understand. Tell me.’

‘I just did,’ says Sophia, and smiles. Sad, again, and sweet. Her phone buzzes and she picks it up. ‘I have to go.’

‘Sophy, wait.’

Sophia’s sliding off the stool and kisses Francis on the cheek. ‘I paid for our drinks, by the way.’

Francis finishes his lime and soda slowly, chewing meditatively on the sprig of rosemary. He goes home that night and watches Jim Ross on Question Time and pulls absently at Neptune’s ears.

He’d allowed Neptune up on the bed the night Jim had met Ann.

‘When else, boy?’ he says to Neptune, who shoves his nose into his palm and breathes a wet burst into his skin.

Three nights in a row after Sophy’d kicked him out for the last time. Once when Jim and Ann had gotten back together. That time Francis had had the ‘flu. The night Jim had called Francis and Blanky to say ‘She said yes!’ and they’d gone out to celebrate. Not the night following Jim and Ann’s wedding, what little Francis can remember of that. Sophy’d been his date, composed and lovely in cool blue silk. She’d brought him home and pulled off his shoes and kept Neptune out of the room because she knew he wasn’t allowed. She hadn’t known that Neptune had jumped up onto the bed the night before the wedding, and that Francis had let him.

Francis switches off the telly and gets up. He pulls on his pyjamas and brushes his teeth. He turns down the covers and cocks an eyebrow at Neptune, tail wagging and ears cocked.

‘Come on, then,’ he says, and Neptune bounds onto the bed.

He doesn’t drink that night.

He doesn’t drink the next night, or the next, or the one after that.

He goes to Stephen’s and asks Tom Hartnell for a G&T. When Tom asks if he’d like the rosemary, he hesitates before nodding.

When Sophy joins him he takes them to a booth. After Tom brings her her glass of something red and expensive, and the requisite bowl of Kalamata olives, Francis says ‘How long have you known?’

Sophy, bless her, doesn’t pretend not to understand. She takes a sip of her wine and says ‘Two years, I think.’

‘Christ.’

‘Or at least,’ she pauses, a frown in her eyes. ‘No, that’s not exactly right. I can’t tell you how long I’ve known, Francis. I knew, I think – some part of me knew the instant I saw you and James Ross together. No, even before that: the moment I saw you and Ann together. Do you remember? Jim had invited us over and he was late for some reason, so Ann was chatting with us instead. The way you were with her – there was something there. I could recognise it even if I didn’t know what I recognised. By the time I’d put words to it, it didn’t feel like I was realising, more like - ’

‘Remembering,’ says Francis.

Sophy smiles at him. ‘Yes. Remembering.’

Francis looks at her. ‘I hurt you, Sophy.’

‘No,’ she says, ‘not really. I left before you had the chance.’

 ‘Still,’ says Francis, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You didn’t mean to,’ says Sophy, ‘you didn’t know.’ She sits back. ‘You know now, though.’

‘I do,’ says Francis. ‘I’m not in love with Jim, Sophy.’

‘No,’ she agrees, ‘not any more. I gathered that. So,’ she tilts her head to look at him, ‘which James is it, then?’

Francis takes a swallow from his lime-and-soda. ‘I don’t know if you know him. Actually, wait, you might. James Fitzjames.’

Sophy looks at him, a smile widening until she throws back her head and laughs. Francis scowls at her.

‘James Fitzjames,’ she gasps, smacking her hands together, ‘Oh, Francis, darling.’

‘Sophy,’ says Francis, ‘don’t.’

‘You have a type.’

‘Sophy - ’

‘A highly specific type, as well.’

‘Sophy - ’

‘No wonder it took you so long to figure it out.’

‘Look, can we just - ’

‘Must be a tall, pretty, plummy politician called James,’ she says, ticking the points off on her fingers.

‘All right,’ says Francis, ‘are you done?’

Sophy smiles at him. ‘Well, this one’s gay, from what I remember,’ she says, ‘which is an improvement, isn’t it? The Tory Whip thing’s a bit racy, but - ’

Francis winces. ‘He's not a Tory Whip. Not any more.’

‘Not any – oh yes, that’s right, isn’t it? Quite a fuss that made.’

‘Quite a fuss,’ says Francis.

Sophy leans back and takes a sip from her glass, eyes on Francis. ‘You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you, Francis?’

Francis lifts his eyes to look at her, and she raises her eyebrows. ‘Well.’

‘I didn’t know what he’d do,’ says Francis. ‘I tried to stop him.’

‘I know,’ says Sophy. ‘I know you did.’

‘Ach, it's easy enough to say,’ says Francis, ‘I didn’t stop him.’

‘If he was determined to chuck away his career,’ says Sophy, ‘I’m not sure what you could have done to stop him.’

‘He wouldn’t have thought of it,’ says Francis, ‘if I hadn’t gone to him.’

‘Why haven’t you?’ says Sophy. ‘Gone to him now, I mean.’

‘Gone to him?’ says Francis.

‘Yes,’ says Sophy. ‘Now that you know how you feel, and he’s not the enemy any more.’

‘Sophy, Christ,’ says Francis, ‘I can’t. I ruined his life, I’m not after fetching up on his doorstep and making myself his problem all over again.’

‘Francis,’ says Sophy, ‘I’m still not clear on what exactly you did, but if he threw away his career for you without even a thank-you to show for it - ’

‘I’m not going to thank him,’ says Francis, ‘he shouldn’t have done it. I didn’t want him to do it.’

‘And I’m not suggesting you do thank him,’ says Sophy, ‘that’s not what you want to say to him, is it?’

Francis looks at her and sags in his seat. ‘What would I even say?’

‘There,’ says Sophy, ‘now you’re asking the right questions.’ She rises. ‘I’m hungry,’ she says, ‘we’re going to the Cinnamon Club. You can pay.’

Francis grins. ‘Thanks, Sophy.’

‘Don’t thank me yet,’ says Sophy, ‘I’m not a cheap date, you know.’

‘I remember,’ says Francis, ‘thank you anyway.’

Chapter Text

‘Talk to Blanky,’ says Sophy. ‘If I know him at all, it won’t come as a surprise.’

Francis grins ruefully. ‘I don’t think it will either.’

In the event, Francis doesn’t even need to say the words. He walks into the Government Whips’ Office with a trimmed beard – Sophy’s final word of counsel had been to ‘Keep the beard, but for God’s sake give the thing a trim before you see Fitzjames, Francis, you look like you’re about to tell me about the Rapture’ – and Blanky takes one look at it and lets out a prolonged whistle.

‘Hello, ‘ello, ‘ello,’ he says, ‘Jimbo got in touch then?’

Francis feels the colour rising in his cheeks, sends up thanks for whatever real estate the beard covers, and stamps over to the desk. ‘No.’

‘Ah,’ says Blanky, with a nod, ‘you’re off to talk to him, then. Bloody finally.’

Francis is somewhere between denying all knowledge of what Blanky’s on about with one breath, and asking for James’s whereabouts with the next, when Tom Jopson walks in. His pale eyes skim over Francis’s scarlet face, rest for a searing millisecond on his beard, and brighten with a terrifying gleam.

‘James Fitzjames,’ he says, as though someone’s pushed a button somewhere, ‘part-proprietor and manager of Coningham’s, 51 Savile Row.’

He went back to the family firm, then. Good. That’s good. That’s –

‘Recently benefitting from an elevated profile because of that GQ cover with Teddy Charlewood.’

‘He did that Trans-Siberian rail documentary thing,’ supplies Blanky.

‘Yes, sir. Mr Fitzjames and Mr Charlewood are friends.’

‘Of course they bloody are,’ mutters Francis.

‘Mr Fitzjames has a cat named Fagin,’ continues Jopson, ‘I don’t think you have any allergies to cats, sir - ’

‘I don’t, Tom - ’

‘ – And Fagin’s a short-hair in any case - ’

‘Christ, Tom - ’

‘But just in case, I’ve looked up over-the-counter medications that are at least 90% effective and shouldn’t have any side-effects, so - ’

‘Jaysus, Tom - ’

‘No worries on that front, sir,’ says Tom Jopson. He gives Francis an encouraging smile, dimple appearing in his cheek.

‘There y’are,’ booms Blanky, delivering a buffet to Francis’s back that nearly has him reeling, ‘piece of piss.’

Right, thinks Francis. Piece of piss. Show up at the man’s place of work six months after losing him his job and tell him I’m in love with him. Nothing to it.

‘Maybe,’ says Blanky, as though Francis had spoken out loud, ‘you’ll want to ask him if he’d like to grab a cup of tea. Ease into it, like. Don’t want to scare the horses. No point kicking the doors down and going in guns blazing with a marriage proposal.’

‘I’d worked that bit out for myself, Tom,’ says Francis.

Blanky and Jopson’s eyes rest on him with wounding scepticism. ‘Course you had, Frank,’ says Blanky, so kindly that Francis considers chucking him out of the window.

Francis looks down at the papers on his desk. ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘what’ve we got on the docket?’

Blanky and Jopson look at each other. ‘We,’ says Blanky, ‘have timings for the Nuclear Energy bill to work out with the Aristocunts. And we have got it well in hand, don’t we, Tom?’

Tom Jopson nods. ‘Should be straightforward, sir.’

They stand and stare at him expectantly. Francis stares back for a good long while before he says ‘I’m not going to talk to James now.’

‘Why not?’ says Blanky.

‘It – Christ, Tom, I’m not turning up where he works in the middle of the day without so much as a by-your-leave.’

‘Why not?’ says Blanky again.

Tom Jopson is watching him, eyes gleaming with a catlike lustre. He says ‘Is it the lack of preparation that bothers you, sir?’

‘Prep – no! Jaysus.’

‘Happen that’s what it is,’ says Blanky to Jopson, ‘no time for him to think about what he’s going to say, like.’

‘For Christ’s sake, that’s not - ’

‘Would you like to run through what you’d like to say to him, sir? With us?’

‘I would not,’ says Francis.

Blanky brightens. ‘We could do that,’ he says, with sinister relish. ‘Bit of role-play, eh? Here, look, Tom, you be Jimbo, and I’ll be Frank.’ And before Francis can muster a protest, he slouches, shoving his hands into his pockets, and produces a sound like the death-rattle of an emphysemic duckling. ‘Top o’the mornin’ to yez,’ he says, fixing Jopson with a limpid eye. ‘Begorrah, James, and sure Oi’ve been meanin’ ter tell ye hwat’s in me heart a long lonely time - ’

‘All right, all right, I’m leaving,’ says Francis, ‘but when I come back I’m disciplining you for racism.’

Blanky’s cackle chases him out of the door.

Francis doesn’t ask for his car when he steps out. It’s a fine day, one of those icy cornflower-skied winter days that are so hard to come by in England, and he might as well make the most of it.

It’s only a half-hour walk to Savile Row, which should give him time to finish his midlife crisis of sexuality, or at least repress it and put it tidily away, before he shows up at James’s door. James deserves that. He deserves, at the very least, someone who’s finished stewing in whatever nonsense he’s got backed up before he turns up on his doorstep asking to take him to tea. Well, James deserves someone who had the good sense to do that bit of housekeeping in his thirties, or at least the first time he fell in love with another bloke. James deserves –

But if Francis thinks about what James deserves, and what Francis can offer him, and the yawning gulf between the two, he will step out into traffic. So best not, perhaps.

Francis turns his head to look up the Mall. As he does, a stiff piece of paper pokes his chest. Ah Christ, the Guardian. That six-month-old copy of the Guardian with Bridgens’s article. He can’t show up at James’s with a dog-eared paper making a sodding great bulge in his pocket, James’ll think he’s growing a second head or something. He’d better throw it away.

He fishes out the thing and stands over a bin on the Mall.

Look, he’s had the thing long enough. It’s served its purpose. He knows now why he was so reluctant to let it go. He knows. At long and painful last, he knows.

Chuck the thing away.

The article’s available online anyway. Jopson’s even showed him how to clear his history, so Blanky needn’t know if he reads it once or twice or a hundred times or never.

He’s had the wretched thing so long it’s nearly worn through, anyway. You can barely read the type.

Not that Francis needs to, he knows the article by heart by now.

Easily done. Just chuck the thing.

He’s going to see the real thing, anyway.

He’s going to chuck away the paper.

He’s going to do it.

He folds the paper once, twice, three times, four times, into a neat, dense little square, and puts it back into his jacket pocket.

He nearly misses the place when he reaches it. It’s a narrow door in a narrow terraced building, with a discreet plaque murmuring, rather than announcing itself. Francis thinks of that insistent, lantern-jawed face, that insistent thrusting rumble, the insistent gleam of that dark head, and grins. Unless he’s done a power of changing in six months, James must chafe at that sign every time he passes it.

Christ. Maybe he has done a power of changing. It’s been six months, after all. Six months in which James slid back into the open arms of the family business and closed the shithouse door on politics, and backbiting, and Francis.

Would he even want to see Francis?

Maybe he’ll show him the door, thinks Francis. Christ, that might even be a relief.

Maybe he’ll have tea with Francis. For old time’s sake. Jaysus, maybe he’ll be kind. Kind, or at least trying to be, and bad at it, because James is a large number of things, almost all of them chosen deliberately to spite Francis, but one of the things he is not is kind.

Trying to be kind, and looking discreetly at whatever expensive thing he has on his wrist that even Francis wouldn’t dream of calling anything but a timepiece, while Francis stumbles through talk so small he can’t see it through the most powerful microscope. James will be brittle and lethally polite, while Francis can feel the familiar hot and cold and clammy chase themselves under and over his skin, and at the end of an excruciating forty-five minutes James will invent a very important appointment that he needs to make it back in time for, and there is Francis, on the street with that cocking six-month-old Guardian sitting like a lump of coal in his jacket. The six-month-old Guardian that he refused to bin on the way here and that he should throw away on the way home but won’t.

His mobile goes off like a bomb in his pocket. Swearing, Francis grabs for it.

‘Have you gone in yet?’ says Blanky’s voice.

‘Christ,’ says Francis, ‘don’t you need to be talking about the Nuclear Energy Bill with the Aristocunts?’

‘Already done,’ says Blanky, ‘Done in the time it took you to heave yourself on foot to Savile Row. Why didn’t you take the car?’

‘It was a nice day for a walk,’ says Francis, ‘why do you know about the car?’

‘Jopson had it ready for you,’ says Blanky, ‘and then you fucked off for a nice little walk instead. You haven’t gone in, have you?’

‘Christ, Blanky, I just got here, give a man a - ’

‘It’s been nearly an hour,’ says Blanky, ‘did you stop at the Royal Bloody Academy on the way?’

‘Don’t be ridic - ’

‘Why haven’t you gone in?’

‘How do you know I haven’t?’ says Francis, and winces at the silence that greets him.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ says Blanky, ‘have you been standing and making cow eyes at his bloody shop window for half an hour?’

‘Jaysus, Tom, have you been microchipping me while I sleep?’

‘Jopson calculated your average walking speed and he says you should’ve reached the place half an hour ago.’

‘… What?’

‘He has a spreadsheet, he says.’

‘… Every single word of that sentence was terrifying, I hope you know that.’

‘Right, go in,’ says Blanky, ‘or I’m calling the filth on you. Government Chief Whip, arrested for loitering with intent. How’d that look, eh?’

‘For God’s sake, Tom, don’t - ’

‘Jopson says,’ says Blanky, ‘that he has Jimbo’s number.’

‘Of course he bloody does, Jopson probably moonlights at MI fucking Six, he probably is MI6 on his days off, why wouldn’t he - ’

‘And,’ says Blanky inexorably, ‘if you don’t go in in the next ten seconds, he’s calling Jimbo and sending him out to get you.’

‘Jaysus, Tom, you can’t just - ’

‘Ten.’

‘For fuck’s sake, what even would - ’

‘Eight.’

‘Fine welcome you’re getting me, scaring the living bejaysus out of the poor fecker with - ’

‘Three.’

Francis lurches forward so fast he nearly gets run over. ‘I’m going, I’m going, I’m going, bloody - ’

‘Don’t fuck it up,’ says Blanky, and hangs up.

‘Thanks,’ mutters Francis, and pushes the door open.

There’s a small, neat, dark-haired young man inside.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he says, ‘how can I help you?’

Francis freezes on the doorstep, hand on the doorknob. ‘I’m looking for James Fitzjames.’

‘Mr Fitzjames isn’t in now, I’m afraid,’ says the young man, ‘He’s consulting on a shoot.’

‘Right,’ says Francis.

‘He ought to be back soon,’ offers the young man, ‘but I’d be happy to help if I can?’

‘No, you’re all right,’ says Francis.

‘If you’re looking for a suit…’ says the young man, and the implication that if Francis is not looking, he should be, is so delicately unvoiced and so deafening that Francis can feel himself bristle. A snarl is rising in his throat until he looks into the young man’s open, guileless face and subsides. He can’t snap at the kid, it’d be like kicking a puppy. A well-trained puppy that hasn’t even done anything wrong.

He opens his mouth to rebuff the young man, as gently as he can manage, when he recalls the loud and hectoring peanut gallery waiting for him in the office and freezes in place.

‘All – OK,’ he says, and the young man lights up.

‘If sir would step this way,’ he says, gesturing, and Francis lets go of the doorknob with the very distinct feeling that he has made a mistake.

He’s taken a few steps in when the door opens behind him. He turns and finds himself face-to-face with James, hanging up a coat.

He’s wearing a dark blue suit – his own make, probably – cut close to his long body. He’s grown his hair, it’s down nearly to his chin. He looks tired, the creases on the side of his face deeper, the angle of his jaw slicing the air. He’s beautiful, did Francis know he was beautiful? In all the time that he was collecting and refusing to think about and unable to let go of guilty sidelong glimpses of his hair and the line of the fecker’s legs and his hands – Jesus Christ, his hands – had Francis even gotten his act together enough to form a one-word impression of the whole James Fitzjames?

He called him pretty once, Francis remembers. There’s one word, if you like. Years of knowing the man, and pretty, he called him, Christ alive, pretty. And here is Francis now, toe to toe with him, uninvited on his doorstep, and he’s beautiful, so beautiful Francis has to set his teeth.

‘Francis,’ says James. His voice is deep, a subterranean baritone rumble that has Francis clenching his fists.

‘James,’ says Francis. He doesn’t know what to make of his own voice.

‘What,’ says James, his voice catching a little on the word. He breaks off and coughs, his cheeks washing pink. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Sir is looking for a suit, Mr Fitzjames,’ says the voice of the young man.

James’s eyes haven’t left Francis’s face, and Francis sees them widen and then narrow. ‘A suit?’ He flicks a glance to the young man and then back to Francis. ‘Sir wants a suit?’

‘A suit,’ says Francis a little sulkily, protective of the lie.

‘Really,’ says James, his gaze sharp. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘if a suit sir wants, a suit sir shall have.’

‘I can take his measurements, Mr Fitzjames,’ begins the young man.

‘It’s all right, Harry,’ says James. He reaches out an imperative hand and the young man drops a tape-measure into it.

‘If sir would follow me,’ he says, and walks past Francis.

‘I’m not sure I can afford you,’ says Francis, trailing after him.

‘I’m very affordable,’ says James, and Francis snorts. ‘It’s on the house, Francis.’

Francis stops. ‘It is not,’ he says, ‘I can pay for my own clothes, Fitzjames, Christ.’

‘I insist,’ says James, ‘I’ll not charge you a penny. If you hand over that wretched corduroy number.’

Francis, who happens to be wearing what he suspects is the offending garment at that precise moment, freezes before defiantly unbuttoning his coat. James eyes the jacket beneath with an assessing gaze that makes Francis prickle with several different kinds of heat.

‘Oh, good,’ says James, ‘you’re wearing the very one. How considerate.’

‘What are you planning to do with it?’ says Francis.

‘Burn it,’ says James. He sniffs. ‘I assume it’s highly flammable.’

Francis scowls and takes off his coat with slightly more violence than is strictly necessary. The movement jars his pocket, and a tightly-folded square of paper falls to the ground. Francis grabs for it, but James gets to it before he can reach it.

The Guardian. The wretched thing’s fallen open at the Bridgens article. There’s the sound of a quick intake of breath.

‘I remember that article,’ says James, his voice quiet. 'I read it at least - ' he breaks off, handing the paper back to Francis, fingers politely and carefully inches away from those of Francis.

Francis takes the paper and folds it again. He stuffs it back into the inner packet and turns to face James, shoulders squared. Ask me about the paper, he thinks. Go on, ask me.

‘You’ll ruin the line of the coat that way,’ says James.

‘It’s a pocket,’ says Francis, ‘it’s meant to hold things, isn’t it?’ Ask me, ask me.

James’s eyes meet his, and Francis watches the line of his throat. Then James says ‘Harry, I’d like to look at the charcoal twill, please. And the navy.’

‘Yes, Mr Fitzjames,’ says the young man’s voice. Swatches are produced, and gently laid on Francis’s shoulder.

‘The charcoal, I think,’ James pronounces at length. He nods to Francis to turn, and Francis does. ‘What do you think?’

Francis looks in the mirror, at his own pitted and scowling face, at James looming palely behind him. He nods mutely.

‘The ties, as well,’ says James.

‘James, that’s not - ’

‘Blue silk,’ says James, as if Francis hadn’t spoken. His eyes are intent on Francis. ‘Dark blue. To bring out sir’s eyes.’

Francis turns his head to look at James, whose cheeks have flushed darkly. Francis looks away.

Quickly – too quickly, not quickly enough – the young man (Harry, is it?) returns with six ties that look, to Francis’s jaundiced eye, completely identical. James considers them weightily for fully twenty minutes before lifting away two. He holds up one and drapes it over Francis’s shoulder before chewing the inside of his cheek.

‘I’m not sure,’ he says. ‘Francis, turn around, would you?’

Francis raises an eyebrow, but does as he’s told.

‘Take that jacket off, please.’

Francis does.

‘I want to see the tie on you,’ says James, ‘do you mind?’

Francis shakes his head. He unknots his own tie and pulls it off. He’s about to reach for the blue silk in James’s hand when James raises his hands and slips it around Francis’s neck himself. This close, Francis can smell his cologne: something woody and rich that wraps itself around Francis’s head. The long fingers move quickly, pulling the silk into a knot. James looks between the tie and Francis’s eyes so carefully that Francis can feel his skin prickling.

At length, James says ‘It’s not quite right.’

Francis turns to look at himself in the mirror. ‘Seems all right.’

James makes a noise. ‘Oh it’s all right,’ he says, biting the word off as though it’s personally offended him, ‘but it isn’t right.’ He glares into the mirror.

‘It’s fine,’ says Francis.

‘Ugh,’ says James. ‘Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way. Maybe I need gold.’

‘You’re not putting me in gold.’

‘Not the suit, Francis,’ says James, rolling his eyes, ‘the tie. I need - ’ there’s a frown between his eyes. ‘Lamplight,’ he says, ‘what your eyes do in lamplight, they - ’ and his lips clamp shut, scarlet jumping into his cheeks.

Francis can feel the heat in his own cheeks, and looks down. ‘Tie looks fine,’ he manages, his voice scraping the air.  

‘I’ll find the right one,’ says James. His eyes meet Francis’s in the mirror. ‘I promise.’

Francis looks back and nods. They stand for a moment before James steps away. ‘Right,’ he says, clearing his throat, ‘let’s get you measured, then.’

Francis nods.

James picks up the tape-measure and rests it on Francis’s left shoulder. He draws it so that it rests on the other shoulder and nods. He reaches for a notebook – a Moleskine, Francis notes with a pang so sharp he nearly makes a sound – and writes rapidly.

‘If sir would face me,’ he says, and Francis turns. James takes the tape measure and measures Francis’s shoulders from the front, reaching for the Moleskine again.

‘Could sir lift his arms?’ he asks, and Francis lifts. The tape slips around him and James draws it tighter.

‘Forty-two inches,’ he murmurs, making a rapid note in his book. ‘Lower your arms, please.’

He measures the length of Francis’s arm and writes.

‘If sir would lift again, please. Just away from your sides.’

‘Like this?’ says Francis. James glances at him and nods. He stoops slightly to measure Francis’s waist.

‘The beard’s new,’ he remarks, and Francis feels the pink rising in his cheeks.

‘A change,’ he says. He doesn’t ask if James likes it. What could James even say? What would Francis say if he said he didn’t?

‘I like it,’ says James, and red marches across his cheeks again. He turns away swiftly and lifts his notebook.

‘Thanks,’ croaks Francis.

James clears his throat. ‘Now,’ he says, and sinks to his knees. He places one end of the measure at Francis’s waist and extends it down to his shoes. He makes a note in his Moleskine and looks up at Francis.

‘If sir would spread his legs, please?’

Francis blinks down at him. The colour hasn’t left James’s cheeks.

‘The inseam,’ he says, ‘could I ask you to - ?’

‘Right,’ says Francis, and shuffles his feet apart.

‘Wider,’ says James. His voice has lowered and his cheeks are glowing.

‘Wider,’ says Francis, and moves his feet apart.

‘Thank you,’ says James. His voice is hushed. Francis watches his throat bob. James walks on his knees a little closer, and places one end of the tape measure at the hem of Francis’s trousers. Francis looks down at the shining dark head bent over its task and looks away. He feels the cloth of his trousers cling and shift as James runs the tape measure up the seam of his trousers. He hears a soft sound and glances down to see James reach for his notebook and scribble a figure in it, red down to his collar and tongue swiping nervously at his lip. Francis looks away again.

He flinches when he feels the tape at the back of his thigh.

‘I apologise,’ says James. He looks up fleetingly and looks away. ‘I need to - ’

‘Fine,’ says Francis. His voice is a hushed crackle. James glances back up and swallows.

He draws the tape around Francis’s thigh and Francis stares directly ahead of him and thinks of the shopping he needs to do and the door hinge that needs greasing and the broken escalator on the Tube. Anything, in fact, except the long figure cataloguing his poor ravaged body, piece by exhausted piece, and turning alternately pink and pale at what he finds.

‘There,’ says James at length, having made a final note in his book, ‘that’s all I need for now.’

‘Right,’ says Francis.

‘We’ll get in touch in a bit to make an appointment for a fitting,’ says James.

‘Right,’ says Francis.

He looks at James, staring back up at him. He hasn’t gotten up yet.

‘I never congratulated you,’ says James.

‘On what?’

‘The election,’ says James. ‘A majority.’ He smiles, tight and careful. ‘A chance to really get things done. No more scraping and wheedling and arm-twisting just to survive.’

‘I miss the excitement,’ says Francis, and realises that that’s true.

James looks up, lips curved into a soft smile. ‘It was exciting, wasn’t it?’

Francis looks at him and sees the moment that the smile begins to leach away. He watches James clear his throat and begin to say ‘Well, I should - ’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

James freezes, eyes flying to Francis’s. Francis watches him consider pretending he doesn’t know what Francis is talking about before his shoulders slump and are then pulled back. ‘Don’t be.’

‘James, I - ’

‘I’d do it again,’ says James, with that familiar petulance, ‘so there’s really no need for apologies, is there?’ He smiles again, thinly. ‘Now, I should - ’

‘Why?’ says Francis.

James slaps down his notebook. ‘You know why,’ he says, and his eyes are raised to Francis, dark and scolding, ‘you know perfectly well why.’

Francis stares down at James, kneeling at his feet. His breath is coming rapidly and he’s gnawing on the inside of his jaw. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are flushed pink, and Francis knows he has to take him away, away from this narrow room and Harry’s attentive ears.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he says, ‘Tea. Let’s get some tea.’

James blinks. ‘All right,’ he says, ‘Fortnum’s isn’t far.’

‘Not Fortnum’s,’ says Francis. Christ knows what he’s going to say to James, but he can’t do it through the clatter of silverware and tourists chattering over scones and cucumber sandwiches. ‘Come home with me,’ he says, ‘I’ll make you tea.’

Chapter Text

They walk in silence to Green Park and get on the Tube in silence. Francis is expecting them to have a quiet ride over this early in the day, but he’s reckoned without half-term. The platform’s teeming with noisy middle-schoolers who pile onto their carriage, laughing and chattering and shoving. Francis and James are squeezed into a corner by the door, pressed into place by teenagers and the occasional harried commuter.

They don’t talk; they don’t have the chance. They sway with the movement of the train as it rattles and shrieks through the tunnels, leaping and juddering over ancient track. At one particularly energetic jolt, James is pitched forward and grabs at the pole before he can knock Francis over. Francis lurches forward to steady him before snatching his hand back.

They stare at each other for a moment, before the doors open and there’s an eddy of people pressing past them and pushing them further into the other’s space. Francis can feel the brush of James’s long coat against his hand. He can see the shadow of James’s lashes on his thin cheek, the bob of his long throat over the top of his scarf as he swallows. The knuckles on his other hand stand out white as he tightens it on the pole. Tightening, again, some more, as Francis’s own hand moves up to rest on the pole. They’ve neither of them worn gloves. Francis has a pair, fingerless to better navigate the Tube, jammed into the pockets of his coat. James presumably has something sleek in very soft leather that is tucked tidily somewhere in the recesses of his coat. But in the meantime there is his hand, large and pale, fingers wrapping like a strange tensile lily about the pole inches from Francis’s own.

‘The next station,’ says the detached automated announcement, ‘is West Hampstead.’

Francis looks at James. ‘Our stop,’ he says.

James nods, eyes on him.

Francis tells people he lives in Kilburn, not West Hampstead. In spirit he does, in the scruffy neighbourhood he moved into twenty years ago, with its ramshackle Irish boozers and its high road rammed with narrow poky off-licences and betting shops and key-cutters and (recently) places that offer to unlock mobile phones. But at some point in the past ten years, the Irish boozers with their sticky floors began to acquire gleaming coats of paint outside and veggie-friendly menus inside. Those, that is, that had remained boozers without being sold off to property developers to make flats with chrome kitchens and high ceilings and brochures purring about honouring the building’s character and history. The greasy spoons gave way to twee cafes with capybara themes and menus in looping cursive script. There’s a butcher who insists he knows the name of every single pig whose cuts he sells. Nowadays on his way home from the Tube, Francis passes at least three pizza places with vegan chorizo and No Logo craft beer.

‘Very trendy,’ says James as they pass ‘Za ‘Za Gabor, the newest of the offenders. Francis can’t place his tone: approving, but there’s a thread of bemusement there.

‘It wasn’t like this when I first came here,’ says Francis.

‘Ah,’ says James. ‘No, I suppose not.’

Francis scowls and hurries on ahead to open the gate to his flat.

He lives in a narrow Victorian conversion, the ground floor occupied by a nice young couple with sleek haircuts and a cherubic toddler. It’s close to the park, which is handy because of –

Shit.

‘How do you feel about dogs?’ he asks James.

James looks surprised. ‘I like them,’ he says, ‘Oh, you’ve got one, haven’t you?’

‘I do,’ says Francis, ‘he’s a terror, but he means no harm. Just brace yourself, all right?’

He opens the door and there’s the furious clatter of paws on the floor. He’s earlier home than Neptune probably expects, and he is vociferous in his approval of this turn of events. Once Francis has fended him off, James follows into the flat.

‘Neptune,’ begins Francis, but James is submitting to having his face thoroughly and enthusiastically licked. Neptune’s tail thumps against Francis’s ankle as he subjects the stranger to a meticulous inspection.

‘Neptune,’ says Francis again, more firmly. Neptune and James both turn to look at him, James’s hand buried in the fur at Neptune’s neck.

‘Neptune,’ says James, and Neptune cocks his head to look at James. ‘Hello, boy.’

And Francis looks at the long hand petting Neptune’s flank and the delighted caress of that purring baritone as he says his dog’s name and thinks if he told James that Neptune’s not allowed on the bed James might not listen, or he might argue, and he tells himself he cannot let himself think that way, not now, not so soon, that way madness lies, and maybe James is a strict disciplinarian, though the way he’s letting Neptune slobber all over that nice coat somehow Francis doesn’t think so, and maybe James would only pretend to agree with Francis about Neptune on the bed but Francis would find long strands of dark hair that could only have got there one way, no matter what James says, and he needs to stop, there’s no point thinking like this, and anyway James has a cat, maybe he doesn’t want –

‘I’ve always wanted a dog,’ says James, looking at Francis over Neptune’s ears. He turns pink, and Francis realises he’s been staring.

‘You can get one,’ he says, and James flushes and looks down.

Oh, lovely, Francis thinks in despair, lovely, lovely, why did I bring you here, what am I meant to do with you.

‘Tea,’ he says. ‘I promised you tea.’

‘Francis,’ says James, ‘You needn’t - ’

‘I said I’d make you tea,’ says Francis, and turns on his heel.

He puts the kettle on and hunts in his cabinet for anything that might conceivably be had with tea. There’s Ginger Hobnobs, thank fuck. God alone knows how or why they came to be there. Francis puts some onto a plate and carries it to the drawing room. Neptune looks up hopefully but subsides at the raised eyebrow Francis gives him.

‘Thank you,’ says James, accepting the plate. Francis nods.

‘Milk?’ he says, ‘Sugar?’

‘One teaspoon of sugar, please,’ says James, ‘no milk.’

Francis nods again and retreats to the kitchen.

Once he’s let the tea steep for a bit, he adds the sugar to James’s tea, milk and four spoons of sugar to his own, and bears the mugs to the drawing room. Neptune’s allowed James to take a seat in the meantime and to shuck off his coat and jacket, laid out tidily on the arm of the sofa. Francis hands him his mug, and their fingers brush. James starts, jarring the mug.

‘Agh!’

‘James!’ The tea’s splashed onto James’s hand, which is already reddening. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine,’ says James, but Francis has snapped his fingers to get Neptune away from him.

‘Come on,’ he says, dragging James up and behind him. He heads to the kitchen and runs the tap until it’s cold, putting James’s hand beneath the spout. He feels the slight start from James as the cold water hits his hand and holds his wrist steady.

‘There,’ he says, after about a minute has passed, ‘that should do it.’

He picks up a cloth and blots James’s hand dry carefully. He puts away the cloth and raises James’s hand to examine it more closely.

‘A scald,’ he says, ‘But it should be all right.’ He lifts his eyes to James’s as he speaks and stops. James is staring back at him, eyes very dark in the wintry twilight. It comes to Francis in a slow hot creeping wave that he’s been holding James’s hand for a while.

The pulse beneath his fingers is rather fast. Faster still if he presses down. James swallows and Francis watches the movement carefully.

‘A scald,’ says James. His voice is hushed and very deep.

Francis nods. His thumb strokes over the little mark on the back of James’s palm. James takes in a breath, sharp and high. Francis glances up at him. His cheeks are a very dark red, his eyes lowered to the movement of Francis’s thumb: a slow circular sweep, in clockwise concentric movements. When Francis moves his thumb against the grain, James bites his lower lip. Francis watches the snaggletooth grip his lip so hard he wants to reach out and soothe the hurt. Instead, he moves his thumb across the scald again, cradling James’s wrist in his palm.

His pulse is rapid now, a skipping jittery beat, the skin beneath his thumb beginning to pinken. Francis lifts the hand – slowly, very slowly – and lowers his head so he can rest his mouth over the scald. Not a kiss, nothing so definite, just the heat of James’s skin beneath Francis’s lips. Just the soft sound that James makes. Just the snap of his head to the side and the convulsive movement of his throat as he swallows.

James looks back at Francis, and Francis freezes in place as their eyes meet.

‘Francis,’ says James. His voice is carefully steady. ‘May I – may I kiss you?’

Francis raises his head from James’s hand and nods. James licks his lips once – a quick nervous movement – and bends forward.

Thin lips, pressing a little fearfully against his. The hammering of James’s pulse under Francis’s fingers. The point of his nose against Francis’s cheek.

Francis pulls away, and so does James. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have - ’

‘It’s not that,’ says Francis, ‘Neptune licked you.’

‘Oh,’ says James, and snatches his hand away to cover his mouth.

‘It’s fine,’ says Francis, reaching for him. I could get used to it, he wants to say, let me get used to it, oh Christ let me, give me the chance to get used to it.

James steps back, red down to his collar. ‘Could I wash my face?’

‘Right,’ says Francis, and takes him to the bathroom.

‘Is there,’ says James, and blushes again, ‘mouthwash?’

Francis hands him some, dumbly, not trusting himself to speak.

He roots out a towel and hands it to James and leaves him to it. He retreats to the corridor and then makes himself walk back to the drawing room and sit on the sofa. He picks up his tea and takes a sip.

He gets up when James comes back into the drawing room, scrubbed and pink of face, and hands him his tea. ‘Should be cool enough to drink now,’ he says.

‘Thank you,’ says James. He takes a sip and then puts down the mug. ‘Francis - ’

‘Yes,’ says Francis.

‘Francis, may I - ’

‘Yes,’ says Francis.

James shuffles forward – slowly, eyes on Francis, hand braced on the back of the sofa – and places his lips against Francis’s.

Mint, from the mouthwash. Timid pressure, the shape of those thin English lips. The angle: Francis hasn’t had to tilt his head up to kiss or be kissed in a while. Not since his first kiss, in fact, Siobhan Joyce in the Upper Fourth at Banbridge Academy, Siobhan with her dark hair and blue eyes, Siobhan who towered over every girl and boy in her year and who was sniggered at as a consequence and who slouched and scowled and who shoved him away once she’d taken her kiss, hard enough to send him reeling and knock his shoulder painfully against a stone wall.

There’s something of the shape of it here: not Siobhan’s outthrust jaw or her bristling rage, but the almost-fearfulness, the foot on the floor, the fugitive watchfulness. James’s hand steals forward and rests at the place where Francis’s neck meets his shoulder. Ginger and hopeful and carefully steady. Francis reaches for it and grasps it and James makes a sound against his mouth.

Another press of the lips. Another. He takes Francis’s lower lip between his. Lets go. Presses a kiss to the side of his mouth. Raises his head to look at Francis.

‘What brought this on?’ he says, breath warm against Francis’s cheek.

‘You kissed me,’ Francis reminds him, lifting an eyebrow.

James rolls his eyes. ‘Coming to see me. What brought you? And don’t,’ he says, ‘say you suddenly needed a suit. That’s garbage, and you know it.’

‘You measured me for one,’ says Francis.

‘Of course I did,’ says James, ‘I’ve been wanting to for - ’ he breaks off. Francis looks a question at him and the colour rises in his cheeks. ‘Why did you come?’

Francis shrugs, feeling the big hand shift against his neck. ‘You’d been gone,’ he says. ‘You left that night. You wouldn’t even stay to talk.’

James flushes. Francis watches him gnaw at the inside of his cheek. ‘What would you have said?’

‘You wouldn’t even let me say I was sorry,’ says Francis.

James tosses his head. ‘I told you,’ he says, ‘there’s no need to - ’ the hand against Francis’s neck stills. ‘Is that why you came?’

‘I wanted to say it,’ begins Francis, and the hand on Francis’s shoulder is gone.

‘You came to apologise,’ says James, and his voice has become an arid careful thing. Francis reaches for him and James ripples back. ‘Is this’ he gestures between themselves, economical and horrible, ‘the apology too?’

Francis stares at him for a long moment before saying ‘What?’

‘I should have known,’ says James, mouth twisting in something slashing and inward and ugly that has Francis reaching for him again, a hand impatiently shrugged off, ‘Bridgens’s article. Why are you carrying the thing around? You’ve never had time for the Guardian, ever. And an article about a Bill you never personally liked yourself. Why bother?’

‘James - ’

‘We met at Stephen’s,’ says James, ‘When you were three months sober. Do you remember? I told you I didn’t want to meet there anymore.’

‘I remember,’ says Francis.

‘You kept going there, didn’t you? Surrounding yourself with booze and people on the lash, just to rub it in. What you can’t do anymore.’

‘Hard to avoid pubs in our line of work,’ says Francis. ‘I haven’t touched a drop since, James.’

‘I know you haven’t,’ says James, ‘the point was to punish yourself, wasn’t it?’

Francis is silent. James nods, once, sharply.

‘I thought so,’ he says, and gets up. ‘Well, find another way to punish yourself this time, Francis. Make your apologies to someone who wants them - ’

‘James, what - ’

‘And leave me out of it.’

‘James, Christ, listen - ’

‘Thank you for the tea,’ says James.

‘I didn’t tell you to do it,’ says Francis. ‘I didn’t want you to do it.’

James is standing with his coat in his hands. He’s staring at Francis.

‘James,’ says Francis, taking him by the elbows, ‘I’m sorry - ’ James jibs, and Francis tightens his grip, ‘and I’m not apologising.’

James’s breath is coming harshly, his eyes on Francis’s.

‘Will you sit?’ says Francis. ‘Hmm? Just sit? Before you barge off like the last time?’ He rubs his thumbs over James’s arms just over the elbows.

James shivers in his grasp and looks at him. ‘Francis, why did you bring me here?’

‘Let me hold you,’ says Francis. It’s not an answer. It’s not not an answer.

James’s eyes are very dark. He passes his tongue over his lips and says ‘I’ll get used to it.’

You’ve never been a junkie, thinks Francis, or you’d know you never expect to make a habit of a thing.

And he thinks Promise you’ll get used to it. Promise me now.

He slides his hands up to James’s shoulders and draws him down and in.

James has to fold around him like a rickety deckchair. His chin digs painfully into Francis’s shoulder and his hair tickles Francis’s nose. But then his big hands come up to Francis’s waist, and Francis feels his eyes shutting. One hand tightens on Francis’s shirt, and Francis feels the movement of his head as he butts Francis’s chin. Francis lets one hand stroke up the long back, muscles shifting beneath his palm, and rests his cheek against a cloud of dark hair.

‘You never showed the least interest,’ comes a petulant rumble.

Francis thinks back to Tom (Blanky and Jopson), and Sophy. ‘I don’t think that’s true.’

James disentangles himself and straightens up, eyes narrow in suspicion. ‘I thought you were straight.’

‘So did I,’ says Francis.

The fingers on Francis’s waist flex nervously. ‘Francis,’ says James, ‘if this is an experiment - ’

‘A – Jaysus, James - ’

‘If it is,’ says James, ‘then I won’t - ’ he swallows, ‘I’m not saying no.’ He smiles at Francis, something lost and young. ‘I don’t think I could. But - ’

‘I don’t experiment,’ says Francis, ‘Not my style.’ He moves his hands back up to James’s shoulders and gives him a shake. ‘Blanky warned me not to burst in with a marriage proposal.’

James’s eyes fly to his, and he curses silently. ‘It was a joke.’

‘Of course,’ says James. He licks his lips. ‘A joke, of course. Out of the question.’

And there’s something in the way he says it, the way his shoulder slump before straightening, the sound of the ‘c’ and ‘s’ in his voice, as a stick turned on himself, that has Francis saying ‘Why out of the question?’

James’s eyes are very wide as Francis continues ‘It’s legal now.’

A thousand expressions are chasing each other on that long narrow face. James clears his throat. ‘No thanks to your lot,’ he says.

‘My lot?’ says Francis, cocking an eyebrow. ‘We’d have had it into law a year earlier if you lot hadn’t decided to take a piss in the pool.’

James scoffs extravagantly. ‘If you can call that a law.’

Francis smiles. Watches James watch him. Watches something begin in the corners of his eyes and mouth.

‘So,’ says James, and Francis watches him swallow before producing a hideous Henley Regatta drawl, ‘not an experiment, then.’

‘Not the experimenting kind,’ says Francis. ‘Not the casual kind.’

‘The,’ says James, and his tongue swipes at his lip quickly, ‘the marrying kind.’

‘The marrying kind,’ says Francis, ‘as you know.’ He looks at James. ‘You’re not, I know, you said.’

James’s hand shifts on Francis’s waist. He says ‘We talked about it. The night the marriage equality Bill passed. In the clock tower, I don’t know if you - ’

‘I remember,’ says Francis.

‘Oh,’ says James, hopeful again and young. Francis wants to shake him, Francis wants to pull him back in. He wants to kiss the strand of the thing in his voice into his own mouth.

‘You said you were the marrying kind,’ says James, ‘if someone would have you.’

‘I remember,’ says Francis.

‘I thought ‘he’ll make her so happy’,’ says James, ‘Whoever she is. I pictured it: what you’d wear, what the weather would be like, the way you’d smile at her as she walked down the aisle to you. I thought about it and I thought about it until I couldn’t bear to anymore, I - ’ he breaks off. His cheeks are scarlet and he’s meeting Francis’s eye with his jaw outthrust. Like he’s about to jump backwards off the clock-tower.

Francis slides his hand up so he’s cupping James’s jaw, one thumb beating against his hot cheek. He pulls him closer until he can kiss him.

The lips beneath his are closed, the mouth downturned. Francis kisses him until his lips part, until a long tongue is curling at the corner of Francis’s mouth. Francis groans and opens for James, lets James open to him. Mint he tastes, and tea, the tea he made for James in his mug in his drawing-room in his house. The hand at his waist tightens, the hand on his back strokes up until it’s tangling in his hair. James pulls him in closer, closer now till Francis is bearing him down and back onto his sofa.

Another kiss. Another. James sipping at his bottom lip. Francis’s thumb at James’s jaw, prying him open wider. The angles and the planes and the sharp lines of him, the pliant heat of his mouth, the big hand at the back of his neck directing him so James can taste him. His tongue, clever and ductile and confident, moving about Francis and cataloguing what it finds. Another measuring-tape, thinks Francis, another notebook. Take it all down. Piece by piece, all of me, keep it with you, you’ll make better use of it than I ever did.

Francis is … not drunk on James. Drinking was never this, not even before – and there was no before, there never was a before, ‘before’ is another comforting lie he has to let go of. Maybe it had always sat under his skin, a compulsion in waiting. This is something else: a fizzing radiance, a fierce and serious joy.

His fingers are pulling, restlessly, at James’s tie. An impatient huff is muffled into his mouth, so familiar Francis finds himself grinning. James’s fingers join him, loosening the knot and slipping the button from the collar. A thumb under the sharp slice of his jaw, then, and the long line of his throat is bared. Francis runs his nose up the length of it and then fastens his teeth to the soft skin beneath his chin. A sharp cry, fingers tightening in his hair and pulling him closer. Francis’s hand, snatching and groping blindly down James’s side to grasp his leg and pull it around him, stymied by just how much leg there is. Miles of leg, thinks Francis, miles of James, acres of him, a moonscape of improbable angles and jutting planes and sighs and heat.

He pulls away to suck in breath (very reluctantly), and flushes at the thin thread of spit connecting them. He’s slobbering all over him, Jaysus, it’s like he’s never been allowed near a human mouth before. And then James pulls him back, crooked teeth fastening on his bottom lip, and Francis grins, an eyebrow shooting up, and dives back into James’s mouth, the eager tongue panting against his own, the urgent little moans. He hums and pushes and lets himself be pulled. His thumb swipes against the corner of the mouth open for him. A big hand slides down his back until it reaches the swell of his arse and squeezes. Francis grunts in surprise, hips pushing forward, until he grazes –

Oh.

He lifts his head to look at James, flushed all the way down to his collarbone. ‘A moment,’ says James, all breath, ‘I’ll get myself under - ’

Francis lowers himself down onto James with a purposeful push, holding James’s eyes. A cry breaks from James, head thrown back. Francis kisses him, one hand at James’s neck and the other squeezing his hip: all bone and points. Everything about James feels like it’s concealing something fragile and lethal. Even the thing between his legs, pushing against Francis and calling forth an insistent response.

James pulls away, long nose pressed to Francis’s cheek, and draws in breath. ‘Let me take you out,’ he says, voice rumbling in Francis’s ear.

Francis lifts his head. ‘Take me out?’

James nods. Francis squints at him. ‘Why?’

‘I’d like to,’ says James, and the hand in his hair moves to cup his jaw, fingers resting on him like he’s something infinitely rare. ‘I’d like to show you off.’

Francis can feel the heat crawling up his neck to his cheeks. ‘Show off the suit you’ve made for me, more like.’

‘For goodness’s sake, Francis,’ says James, ‘That’s not a date suit.’

‘Jaysus,’ mutters Francis, ‘and where are you taking me that needs a date suit? I thought you were after burning my corduroy.’

‘I am,’ says James, and then falls silent.

‘What is it?’

James glances at him. ‘You’re not out,’ he says, ‘I’d know if you were.’

‘Out wh – oh.’

James is looking at him. ‘Not everyone does come out,’ he says, his voice carefully blank.

‘I’m not the pig-fucker,’ says Francis.

James smiles at him, broad and unrestrained, eyes nearly disappearing. Then he pushes himself up so he’s sitting, nose-to-nose with Francis. ‘We’ll need to manage it, then.’

‘Manage it?’ Blanky knows. Jopson knows. James knows. He’ll tell Jim. What else is there to manage?

‘You’ll need a plan for the media,’ says James, ‘there’ll be pushback. We’ll need a strategy.’

‘A strategy,’ says Francis. Pushback, Christ. He’s weathered the drink, and he’s weathered John Ross. It can’t be being with James that’s pushing his career over the edge. There’s a part of him, though, that strains forward at the thought, of offering it up to James. For you, see, see, I’m in this, you’re not the only one.

James frowns at him. ‘You need to take this seriously, Francis. You need to pick a channel, a media outlet. Someone on your side, politically and LGBTQ-wise. The Guardian seems the safest bet. An interview, maybe a photo or two - ’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ says Francis, ‘And what’s the headline you’re selling them, then? Middle-aged Irishman in love? That’s an eye-grabber.’

James freezes, eyes huge in his face, and Francis plays back what he said.

Ah, Christ.

‘Ah, you knew already,’ he says, and James shakes his head emphatically. Francis deflates.

‘Look,’ he says, ‘I wasn’t going to tell you.’

‘Weren’t going to tell me?’

‘James,’ says Francis, ‘I can handle this. I didn’t tell you for you to say it back, I understand if - ’

‘Say it back?’ says James, his brows snapping together. ‘Francis, you know I do.’

Francis sits back, blood roaring in his ears. Very carefully, he says ‘I do not.’

James is staring at him. ‘You know I do,’ he says again. ‘You asked me why I did it, and I told you ‘You know why’ and you said you’d give me tea, and you brought me here and gave me the most appalling cup of ditchwater I’ve ever had in my life - ’

‘- If this is about you wanting to go to Fortnum’s - ’

‘It’s about not stewing the tea for a day before serving it, Francis, what do you think my stomach’s made of?’

‘Ah, Jaysus, and what would Princess Fitzjames prefer, then, for his precious stomach? Flip the teabag off and give you water and lemon instead?’

‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ sniffs James, ‘I was never offered lemon.’

‘And you never wi – James,’ says Francis, tightening his grip on James’s jaw. James meets his eye and falls silent. He shuffles forward, tongue peeking out.

‘Francis,’ he says, ‘Francis, may I kiss you?’

Francis pulls him in.

‘We should think about that Guardian interview,’ says James, some time later, head on Francis’s chest. ‘Like it or not, Francis, it’s a story. You might as well tell it on your own terms.’

Francis has his fingers in James’s hair, stroking back and forth. ‘You’ve a knack for this politics thing, eh, lad?’

James stiffens – only for a moment, but Francis feels it. ‘Not anymore.’

And then it comes to him. Christ, but Francis is a fool. It’s simple, Jaysus, it’s so simple. He sits up, James throwing him an inquiring look.

‘Jim wants me on the Cabinet,’ he says. ‘Department of Work and Pensions.’

James’s eyes widen. ‘Francis! Darling, that’s wonderful.’

Francis fights not to shut his eyes at the endearment, the sound of it fanning out over and in him. James says ‘How does Blanky feel about taking over for you?’

‘He’s not,’ says Francis, ‘Christ, James, you know the job.’

‘He’d be wasted in it,’ says James with a frown, ‘Jopson, then?’

‘Too green and you know it,’ says Francis, and James grimaces in agreement. Francis watches him closely. ‘Any other ideas?’

James considers, and Francis squeezes his knee. ‘I had someone in mind.’

James frowns at him, and Francis cocks an eyebrow. He grins at James’s face. ‘Me?’

‘You,’ says Francis. ‘Why not?’

‘Why not? There’s a thousand reasons why not.’

‘You’ve done the job,’ says Francis, ‘you get along with Blanky - ’

‘Everyone gets along with Blanky,’ says James, waving his hand. ‘Everyone gets along with me too, I’ll have you know. Everyone except you.’

‘I get along with you now,’ says Francis mildly, ‘even when you’re throwing a tantrum.’

‘I’m not - ’ James breaks off with a shiver as Francis strokes his knee with his thumb. ‘Francis, I did the job as the Tory Whip, in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘Tory Whip who pushed along marriage equality and killed a referendum on leaving the EU,’ says Francis, ‘you’re not even to the right of either party.’

‘There isn’t even - ’

‘Islington North’s moving on,’ says Francis, ‘it’s a good seat for you. Yuppies as far as the eye can see.’

‘You’ll want someone from within the party.’

‘You’ll be within the party,’ says Francis, ‘I’ll have a word with Jim.’

James’s eyes are on Francis. ‘That’s nepotism.’

‘Terrible thing,’ says Francis, ‘Curse of politics. Say yes.’

‘I’ll need to - ’

‘Say yes,’ says Francis. He slides his hand up James’s thigh and savours the high thready gasp he gets.

‘Fran – oh. Francis, that’s not fair.’

‘It is not,’ says Francis, thumb beating at the hot line of James’s cock, ‘say yes.’

He swallows James’s cry in his mouth.

‘We’ll need to get Treasury on side,’ says Jim.

‘Christ,’ says Francis, Secretary of State for the Department of Work and Pensions, ‘those feckers and their paranoia. You’d think we were on opposite sides of the Berlin fucking Wall.’

‘You’ll be wanting to get Silna on side too,’ says Blanky.

‘When do we not,’ says Francis.

‘Blanky’s right,’ says James Fitzjames, Government Chief Whip. ‘What do you say we offer her a seat on the Budgetary Oversight Committee?’

‘A seat with actual authority, mind,’ says Blanky, ‘She’ll not go for owt less.’

‘She’ll keep us on our toes all right,’ says Jim, with a grin. ‘You think that’ll be enough for her?’

‘It’s a start,’ says James, ‘we’ll see what she has to say.’ He gets up, dropping a kiss on Francis’s cheek. Francis, frowning down at the text of the Bill, feels his cheeks warm. Then Blanky’s cackle assails him and his blush deepens.

‘You two make me sick,’ says Jim approvingly.

‘Where’s my kiss?’ says Blanky.

‘Ugh,’ says Jim, ‘Here then,’ and he pulls Blanky into a theatrical kiss.

‘What did I miss?’ says James, coming back into the room.

‘Silly buggers,’ says Blanky cheerfully. ‘You’re an all right kisser, though, Jim, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

‘We’ll work it into my campaign next election, shall we?’ says Jim, ‘Thomas Blanky certified.’

‘All right, darling?’ says James, reaching down to thumb at the crease between Francis’s brows. ‘We’ll pull this through, don’t worry.’

‘I’m not worried,’ says Francis. Across the table, Jim and Blanky are considering campaign slogans for Jim Ross incorporating his vaunted kissing prowess. A spirited case is being made for Pucker Up, Britain.

James is resting his hand on Francis’s shoulder, the metal of his wedding ring chilly through Francis’s shirt.

In that moment, everything seems possible.