Читать книгу The Final Cut - Michael Dobbs - Страница 11

I prefer dogs to humans. Dogs are easier to train.

The door of the stage manager’s box opened a fraction for Harry Grime to peer into the auditorium.

‘Hasn’t arrived, then,’ he growled.

Harry, a leading dresser at the Royal Shakespeare Company, didn’t like Francis Urquhart. Fact was, he loathed the man. Harry was blunt, Yorkshire, a raging queen going to seed who divided the universe into thems that were for him and thems that weren’t. And Urquhart, in Harry’s uncomplicated and unhumble opinion, weren’t.

‘Be buggered if that bastard’ll get back,’ Harry had vouchsafed to the entire company last election night. Yet Urquhart had, and Harry was.

Three years on, Harry had changed his hair colour from vivid chestnut to a premature orange and shed his wardrobe of tight leather in preference for something that let him breathe and allowed his stomach to fall more naturally, but he had moved none of his political opinions. Now he awaited the arrival of the Prime Minister with the sensibilities of a Russian digging in before Stalingrad. Urquhart was coming, already he felt violated.

‘Sod off, Harry, get out from under my feet,’ the stage manager snapped from his position alongside the cobweb of wires that connected the monitors and microphones with which he was supposed to control the production. ‘Go check that everyone’s got the right size codpiece or something.’

Harry bristled, about to retaliate, then thought better of it. The Half had been called, all hands were now at their posts backstage and last-minute warfare over missing props and loose buttons was about to be waged. No one needed unnecessary aggravation, not tonight. He slunk away to recheck the wigs in the quick-change box at the back of the stage.

It was to be a performance of Julius Caesar and the auditorium of the Swan Theatre was already beginning to fill, although more slowly than usual. The Swan, a galleried and pine-clad playhouse that stands to the side of the RSC’s main theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon, is constructed in semi-circular homage to the Elizabethan style and has an intimate and informal atmosphere, 432 seats max. Delightful for the performance but a nightmare for Prime Ministerial security. What if some casual theatre-goer who loved Shakespeare much yet reviled Francis Urquhart more, more even than did Harry Grime, took the opportunity to…To what? No one could be sure. The Stratford bard’s audiences were not renowned for travelling out with assorted weaponry tucked away in pocket or purse – Ibsen fans, maybe, Chekov’s too, but surely not for Shakespeare? Yet no one was willing to take responsibility, not in the presence of most of the Cabinet, a handful of lesser Ministers, assorted editors and wives and other selected powers in the realm who had been gathered together to assist with celebrations for the thirty-second wedding anniversary of Francis and Mortima Urquhart.

Geoffrey Booza-Pitt was the gatherer. The youngest member of Francis Urquhart’s Cabinet, he was Secretary of State for Transport and a man with an uncanny eye for opportunity. And for distractions, of all forms. And what better distraction from the shortcomings of Ministerial routine than to block-book a hundred seats in honour of the Master’s anniversary and invite the most powerful men in the land to pay public homage? Two thousand pounds’ worth of tickets returned a hundred-fold of personal publicity and left favours scattered throughout Westminster, including Downing Street. That’s precisely what Geoffrey had told Matasuyo, car giant to the world and corporate sponsor to the RSC, who had quietly agreed to pay for the lot. It hadn’t cost him a penny. Not that Geoffrey would tell.

They arrived late, their coming almost regal. If nothing else, after the eleven years they had lived in Downing Street, they knew how to make an entrance. Mortima, always carefully presented, appeared transported onto a higher plane in an evening dress of black velvet with a high wing collar and a necklace of pendant diamonds and emeralds that caught the theatre’s lighting and reflected it back to dazzle all other women around her. The wooden floors and galleries of the playhouse complained as people craned forward to catch a glimpse and a ripple of applause broke out amongst a small contingent of American tourists which took hold, the infection making steady if reluctant progress through the auditorium to the evident embarrassment of many.

‘Le roi est arrive.’

‘Be fair, Bryan,’ chided one of the speaker’s two companions from their vantage point in the First Gallery, above and to the right of where the Urquharts were taking their seats.

‘Fair? Can we possibly be talking about the same Francis Urquhart, Tom? The man who took the professional foul and set it to Elgar?’

Thomas Makepeace offered no response other than a smile of reproach. He knew Brynford-Jones, the editor of The Times, was right. He was also clear that Brynford-Jones knew he knew. Lobby terms. But there were limits to what a Foreign Secretary could say in a public place about his Prime Minister. Anyway, Urquhart was his friend who had repaid that friendship with steady promotion over the years.

‘Still, you have to admire his footwork, a true professional,’ Brynford-Jones continued before offering a wave and a smile in the direction of the Urquharts who were turning to acknowledge those around them. ‘There’s not a man here without the marks of your Prime Minister’s studs somewhere on his anatomy. Good old FU.’

‘Surely there’s more to life than simply providing you with copy, Bryan.’ On Makepeace’s other side a third man joined in. Quentin Digby was a lobbyist, and a good one. He not only had an involvement in professional politics but, in his own quiet way, was also something of an activist, representing many charities and environmental concerns. Makepeace didn’t know him well but rather liked him.

‘I wondered which of us three was going to play the moralizing toad tonight,’ Makepeace mocked.

The house lights dimmed as the Managing Director of Matasuyo stepped forward onto the stage to claim his place before the public eye and offer a speech of welcome. The light thrown onto the stage bounced up onto the faces of Makepeace and his companions, giving them a shadowy, conspiratorial look, like witches attending a cauldron.

‘Seriously, Tom,’ Brynford-Jones continued, anxious to take advantage of the Cabinet Minister’s presence, ‘he should have gone on his tenth anniversary. Ten bloody years at the top is enough for anyone, isn’t it?’

Makepeace made no comment, pretending to concentrate on the Japanese gentleman’s homily which was attempting to establish some form of spiritual connection between culture and car bits.

‘Wants to go for the record. Outscore Thatcher,’ Digby offered. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but what’s the point? What’s he trying to achieve? We’ve got half the country’s dustbins crammed full of Harrods wrapping paper, which local councils can’t afford to collect, while the other half go begging for something to eat.’

‘You lobbyists always spoil your case with exaggeration,’ Makepeace rebuked.

‘Funny, I thought that was a politician’s prerogative,’ the editor came back.

Makepeace was beginning to feel penned in. He’d felt that way a lot in recent months, sitting beside editors or standing before his constituents with a pretence of enthusiasm when there was only weariness and disillusionment inside. Something had gone stale. Someone had gone stale. Francis Urquhart. Leaving Makepeace with much that he wanted to say, but little he was allowed to.

‘He’s had a good run, Tom, the country’s grateful and all that, but really it’s time for some new blood.’

‘His blood.’

‘A fresh start for the Government.’

‘For you, Tom.’

‘We all know the things you hold dear, the causes you stand for.’

‘We’d like to help.’

‘You know the country isn’t what it was. Or could be. This country has too big a heart to be beholden for so long to one man.’

‘Particularly a man such as that.’

‘Hell, even the illegal immigrants are leaving.’

‘It should be yours, Tom. Makepeace is ever as good a man as Urquhart.’

Respite. The man from Matasuyo had subsided and the play was about to begin; Makepeace was grateful. His head was spinning. He wanted to dispute their claims, play the loyal hound, but couldn’t find the words. Perhaps they were right about Urquhart. Without doubt right about himself. They knew he wanted it, enough that at times his mouth ran dry like a man lost in a desert who spots an oasis, only to discover it is a mirage. Power. But not for its own sake, not for a place in the history books like Urquhart, but for now. Today. For all the things that so desperately needed doing and changing.

Both Brynford-Jones and Digby had a strong interest in change, editor and lobbyist, professional revolutionaries by their trade. Having the world standing still was no more an option for them than it was for him, Makepeace thought. Perhaps they would make useful allies, one day, if war ever came. After his friend Francis had left the field. Or perhaps they would all go to hell together amongst the rogues.

And then there was laughter. Caesar had made his first appearance on stage with a face adorned with heavy make-up that made him look uncannily like Francis Urquhart. The same long profile. Piercing eyes. Receding silver hair. A straight gash across his face for a mouth. A mask that showed neither mirth nor mercy. The arguments backstage had been long and furious when they had learnt of Urquhart’s imminent presence. Harry had argued vociferously for a boycott and threatened to throw his body into all forms of picket lines and protests but, as the property manager had so successfully argued, ‘Give it a rest, love. It’s been years since your bottom ’alf lived up to the promises of your top ’alf. Bloody years since you last saw your bottom ’alf, I’ll bet. Must do it all from memory.’

So they had compromised. In true thespian tradition the show would go on, laden with a little ideological baggage. Yet Harry, once more sneaking a look from prompt side to test the mettle of his protest, was to be disappointed. The living mask slipped. From his privileged position beside Booza-Pitt at the front of the stage Urquhart, an experienced trouper in any public arena, had spotted the danger and responded. Not only was he leading the laughter but he also made sure that everyone knew it by taking out a white silk handkerchief and waving it vigorously at his protégé.

As the play progressed, Makepeace agonized. Loyalty meant so much, for him it was a political virtue in its own right. Yet he hadn’t been sleeping well, a disturbed mind and troubled heart had robbed him of rest, doubts beginning to crowd in on his dreams. And he knew that if he did nothing, simply chafed beneath those doubts, he would lose his dreams as well.

‘The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power…’

Loyalty. But to what? Not just to a single man. Great men have their day, only to find that their reputation must fall from the sky like leaves before the autumn storm.

‘And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg which, hatch’d, would, as his kind, grow mischievous…’

Every Prime Minister he’d ever known had demanded too much, been despatched. Sacrificed. Bled. By colleagues.

And finally the deed was done. ‘Et tu, Brute?’ An exceptionally pitiless portrayal of the assassination, and at every step Urquhart’s handkerchief waved and waved.

‘Sodding man!’ Grime snapped as he stamped about the quick-change box helping the deceased Caesar into his ghost’s garb.

‘Your little plot didn’t work, luvvie,’ Julius mocked. ‘Didn’t you see him? Laughing his bloody head off at us, so he was.’

‘Hold still, Big Julie, or I’ll run this pin up your arse,’ Harry snapped. ‘Anyway, what would you know about plots? The last miserable screenplay you spawned didn’t even make it as far as the typist.’

‘It had a few developmental problems,’ Julie acknowledged.

‘As much sense of direction as a horse up a hedgehog.’

‘At least I act. You couldn’t even play the skull in Hamlet on a good day.’

‘Bitch,’ Harry pursed, and subsided.

In the auditorium, the house lights had announced the interval and thunderous applause reflected the audience’s appreciation of a production remarkable for its freshness. It had been a long time since anyone could remember laughing so much through a tragedy but, up in the First Gallery, Digby appeared distracted. Makepeace probed.

‘Sorry. Wondering about the new car,’ the lobbyist apologized.

‘About the mileage? Whether it’s environmentally friendly? Recyclable?’

‘Hardly. It’s four litres of testosterone encased in the silkiest and most explicit Italian styling you can find in this country without getting arrested. Ferrari. Rosso red. My only vice. And parked outside.’

‘And you’re worried whether all the wrapping paper is going to be removed from your dustbin by the end of the week,’ Makepeace taunted.

‘More worried that in this brave new world of ours the stereo system will have been ripped off by the end of this performance. What do you think, Secretary of State?’

‘Contain yourself, Diggers,’ Brynford-Jones interjected. ‘Nothing lasts forever.’

The editor and lobbyist enjoyed the banter, but Makepeace’s mind had drifted elsewhere. He was gazing down onto the floor of the auditorium where Urquhart, surrounded by enthusing acolytes and attended closely by Geoffrey Booza-Pitt, was replacing his handkerchief.

‘Everything pukka, Tom?’ Brynford-Jones enquired.

‘Yes, of course. Just thinking how right you were. You know. About how nothing lasts forever.’

*

The red-leather box lay open on the back seat, papers untouched. The Minister had fallen asleep as soon as they reached the motorway – it had been a heavy working dinner and the old boy’s stamina wasn’t what it once was. He was snoring gently, mouth ajar, slumped awkwardly to one side. Should’ve worn his seat belt. The driver studied him carefully in the rear-view mirror for some time before deciding he could risk it. Cautiously, while ensuring that the Jaguar’s engine maintained its constant soothing cadence at a steady eighty-three miles an hour, he reached for the volume button of the radio. They were just about to kick off at Upton Park and the next ninety minutes would decide an entire season’s effort. He didn’t want to miss it.

He paused as through the drizzle ahead emerged the rear lights of an old Escort, still trying to prove it was all TRi and not knackered to death. The Escort’s youthful driver cursed; the rotted rubber of his wipers had transformed the motorway into a smear of confusing messages and he was straining to make sense of the scene ahead. He had no eyes for what lay behind. The Minister’s driver decided not to risk waking his passenger by braking suddenly, not with the match about to start. He drew over to the middle lane to pass the other vehicle on the inside.

Some events in life – and death – lie beyond reasonable explanation. Afterwards men of learning, experience and great forensic ability may gather to offer their views, yet all too frequently such views serve less as explanation than excuse. Sometimes it is as easy to accept that there are moments when Fate rouses herself from an afternoon nap and, sleep still heavy upon her eyes, points her finger capriciously and with chaotic intent. For it was just as the Minister’s driver was leaning towards the radio button once more, less than six feet to the rear and on the inside of the other vehicle, that the Escort’s rear offside burst. Fate. It swerved violently in front of the Ministerial limousine whose driver, one-handed, snatched at the wheel. The Jaguar hit the central reservation and turned a full, elegant circle on the damp road before crossing the hard shoulder and disappearing down an earth bank.

It came to rest against the trunk of an elm tree. When the driver recovered from his shock, he found the Ministerial box battered and torn on the front seat beside him. And so was the Minister.