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  At the moment the Opposition party were doing well. They were ahead of the Government in the polls, and exuded a cocky assurance that they would form the next Government. But there was no date for elections to take place and Si knew that Dougy was working to position himself to gain the maximum from whatever turn the political scene took.

  ‘Doesn’t the Honourable Member for Bognor South realise that education in our schools is a disaster? Worse, it’s an unmitigated disaster. Since this government took power, funding for the education sector has been cut by 26 per cent in real terms. How can he claim that the Government has improved education for our children? It hasn’t improved it; it’s virtually destroyed it.’ The Opposition Spokesman subsided into the empty acres of green leather bench—there couldn’t have been more than a dozen MPs present. His opposite number on the Government benches stood up.

  The Secretary of State for Education dismissed as nonsense what had just been said, and fiercely defended the poor backbench Member for Bognor South, who had been so savaged by the fluent and acerbic onslaught.

  The backbencher, pink-cheeked and tightly upholstered in wide pinstripe, huffed in indignation at the Opposition’s attack, hear-heared his Right Honourable Friend and looked forward to a good dinner at the end of the debate. It was jolly unfair of the Opposition to single him out for attack. He was only doing what the Whips had told him to do. It was damned annoying that they’d forced him to come along to this debate at all. What did he know or care about education, anyway? Confound them. He hated having to feed questions to Ministers. The sooner he found his own rightful place on the Front Bench, the better.

  The Shadow Spokesman had forced the Minister to give way again. ‘In response to the Minister’s challenge, let me tell him this. When this party is in power, we will consult widely with leading representatives of all the main religions in this country and will work closely with them to improve moral standards and to improve the education system…’

  A sarcastic voice from the most distant of the benches opposite shouted, ‘Is that a policy? If so, it’s the first yet.’ Howls of exaggerated laughter greeted the comment.

  ‘Yes, it is a policy. And it’s more than the government can offer us. They are bereft of new ideas and morally bankrupt and that’s why they will soon be out of power. Yes, it is a policy and I am grateful to the Honourable member on the opposite benches for highlighting this point. This party believes that you cannot divorce religion from education and that to improve education standards in this country we need to involve religious leaders in seeking ways forward.’ The Shadow Spokesman sank back as the Minister impatiently sprang up and thrust forward to the dispatch box, gripping the metal-banded box, eager to seize back the initiative.

  Si’s interest was already drifting. He wondered if Dougy had been watching. It would be interesting to see how The Courier’s editor decided to play it in tomorrow’s edition. Certainly, there was considerable scope for journalistic soapboxes; religion and education were two very emotive subjects.

  ~

  Si and Jimmy started out about seven at The Feathers. Quietly at first. Just a few pints and some gentle banter. The usual comfortable and sporadic conversation. Neither had any fixed plans for the evening.

  It was best to get to The Feathers early on a Saturday night, if you wanted a stool at the bar; if you didn’t get a stool, there was little chance of chatting up the girls as they waited later in the evening to be served. When it got really busy about ten, they were standing three deep at the bar, sometimes for up to a quarter of an hour. That was Jimmy’s favourite time to strike. Like tickling salmon, he described it. Taking them when they were most vulnerable. Belly up, half-drunk on lager, and starting to forget themselves.

  The Feathers wasn’t a bad pub. It attracted a mixed bunch: balding young bankers trying to stay awake and biding their time before moving up the road to Chelsea; paunchy, jobbing builders from the North East missing their families, shooting their mouths off and waving fifty pound notes around; chintzy divorcees pretending they were still young; a scattering of raucous tarts game on for a big night out; and, of course, Jimmy and Si—the only professional footballer and journalist among the regulars, but, in common with most of the clientele, non-native Londoners.

  Like the bankers and the tarts, Jimmy and Si didn’t hang out with their school friends, most of whom had stayed in their home town and now spent their spare time playing darts and snooker. Another trait shared with many Feathers’ regulars was a degree of insecurity; they might be doing okay today, but the future was uncertain, even threatening.

  It always amazed Si that people made it past forty. How did they do it? So complicated, confusing. Mortgages, endowments, marriages, kids, tax returns. Even organising a holiday could appear a challenge at times. Did it all become blindingly clear at some stage? wondered Si, awe-struck. Or was everyone else simply born knowing how to deal with life?

  Jimmy felt this less acutely, but occasionally he also expressed the idea. ‘I mean, what happens afterwards? No, not after I’m too old to play soccer but after everything? I mean, shouldn’t we be doing something about it now instead of faffing about like this?’

  But in the face of all this terrifying doubt, Si and Jimmy had found one island which offered temporary refuge: The Feathers.

  Sometimes, after last orders, they went on to a party. On this particular evening, Brenda Bassett suggested the venue. Brenda used to work behind the bar, before getting a job as a Public Relations assistant. But she still came in for a drink. ‘It’ll be great, free booze, beautiful people, even famous ones…’

  ‘Famous? Like who?’ Jimmy raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You shouldn’t be so…’ Brenda searched for the word. Jimmy waited, watching her, amused. ‘So pedantic,’ she concluded triumphantly. ‘But there will be ’cos this guy whose house it’s at is pretty flashy. He drives a sports car, and he’s on the radio. I met him through work.’

  Jimmy smirked, but Brenda didn’t seem to notice.

  Brenda was all mouth—always had been, even three years before as a sixteen-year-old wearing make-up and boasting about what she’d done with her twenty-three-year-old boyfriend the night before. ‘You see that mark there… No, not there, there, on my knee? Yeah, that one. That’s where…’ And so on, trying to impress them all as she pulled the pints.

  Yet, despite her crudity, Brenda was an attractive girl in a raw, sexy kind of way. She rarely wore skirts larger than a handkerchief and had the legs to carry them off. Her tops were invariably too tight and allowed her breasts to reveal themselves impressively through the thin material. Combined with her raunchy laugh and undistinguished but acceptable face, she had something which made most men enjoy her company—Si had once described it as her ‘mistress quality’. She was an archetypal Other Woman.

  Si had known a girl like Brenda at school. He’d shared illicit cigarettes with her and a crowd of others during lunch breaks and used to watch her inhaling carefully, imagining what she’d be like on her own. Just him and her. She used to take a mouthful of smoke expertly and, pouting smudged lipstick, blow out the blue-grey stain into the insipid air, which shone with a billion drops of cold, lemon sunshine.

  ‘He’s posh then, is he?’ cracked Jimmy, but Brenda didn’t smile.

  ‘You don’t need to come if you don’t want to. Nobody’s forcing you. But it’s you who’s missing out if you don’t.’

  ‘Only joking. Course we’ll come. Won’t we, Si?’

  ‘Well, I’d been thinking of starting back soon,’ Si muttered dubiously.

  Brenda made a face. She’d always thought Si was a bit wet. But quite sweet all the same. Not that she gave any credence to those in the bar who suggested that Jimmy and Si were queer. She knew Jimmy wasn’t for a start. And Si, always so repressed, distant, too clever by half—she half-fancied him really. He was different. At least he wasn’t on the dole.

  ‘No, come on! You don’t need to stay long if you don
’t want to. Time to party, eh, Si?’ And as usual Si couldn’t be bothered to object. Jimmy won the day.

  ‘Yeah, suppose so. Why not?’

  ~

  Two hours later Si found himself in a party from hell pressed in on all sides by strangers’ sweating bodies, drinking an unhealthy-looking cocktail through a straw and discussing television with a boring stranger. Brenda, Jimmy and everyone else he knew had disappeared. What am I doing here? I hate parties, why did I agree to come? he wondered.

  He abandoned the loquacious girl who’d cornered him, even though she was still in full flow about the sad demise of the TV dinner. He went in search of Jimmy and found him near a table straining under the weight of a large metal bucket containing bottles of beer and icy water.

  ‘I scored two today against Tranmere,’ Jimmy boasted as Si came within hearing range. ‘It’s only a matter of time before one of the big clubs spots me and then I’m away…’ He’d been celebrating those two goals all night, but the wafer-thin, pallid girl didn’t seem to mind. She listened absent-mindedly.

  The goals had become more spectacular during the evening with each telling. The tap in from a goal-keeping mistake had, after a few more drinks, become a volley from ten yards. Now it had become an overhead bicycle kick from the edge of the box into the top right hand corner. Amazing, thought Si. Nobody else seemed to notice or care that the truth had been lost somewhere between The Feathers and the party.

  ‘Baby, we should go someplace else,’ Jimmy intoned. He seemed not to have noticed Si, standing beside him.

  ‘Do you know I’m a supermodel?’ Si tried not to look surprised. It was true that she did have a strange, haunting quality to her, but how could she be a model—she was all skin and bones?

  ‘Yes, baby. Sure do. You’ve told me four times already.’ Jimmy flashed his killer smile and Si looked away, his stomach turning. Sometimes Jimmy was too much. Even for Si, who had known him all his life. Even as a kid, when they were playing soccer in the street and the ball had gone off course, destroying someone’s rosebed, even then Jimmy had charmed himself out of trouble. Often it had been Si sent to retrieve the ball and to receive the abuse, while Jimmy and the others snickered around next-door’s hedge.

  But Si kept these thoughts to himself. He knew that at the end of the day Jimmy was the only real mate he had. The only one who would put himself out, any time, any place, to help him out. For example, dashing across the world to get him out of jail when his smuggling project went wrong—not that he’d got a smuggling project yet. But if he were to, then Si knew he could rely on Jimmy. Yes, Jimmy’s smarmy sweet-talk and loyalty would come in handy as they blasted their way out of the dank cells and abseiled to freedom.

  So, gratefully thinking how Jimmy had risked his all to get him out of jail, he forgot his rancour. ‘D’you want a drink, you two?’

  ‘Hey, Si, where’ve you been?’ Jimmy grinned broadly. ‘Yeah, I’d love a drink. You’re a good man, Si. How about you, baby? By the way, this is my oldest mate, Si Simpson.’

  ‘I can’t drink,’ moaned the girl. ‘It’ll make me fat and ruin my figure, and you know how difficult it is to stay at the top when you’re a supermodel.’

  Si sighed and Jimmy guffawed. ‘You look like you could put on a bit of weight.’ The model looked askance at Jimmy. Maybe she’d noticed that his Texan bar drawl had faded and crossed the Atlantic—a slight twang now underlay each coarse vowel. But Jimmy seemed impervious. ‘Well, I’ll have a beer and Daisy here will have a carrot juice.’

  ‘Maisy, my name’s Maisy, not Daisy.’

  Jimmy roared with laughter again, drowning out the waif’s protests. ‘Oh baby,’ soothed Jimmy recovering his misplaced drawl, ‘what’s in a name? It’s the real you underneath I’m interested in.’

  Maisy poked him in the chest with a bony finger. ‘If you think you’ve got any chance of sleeping with me, then you’d better learn my name pronto, buster.’

  Si got the drinks in. He’d seen, and heard, it all so many times before.

  When he returned five minutes later, Jimmy and Maisy had disappeared.

  After a few moments, Si gave up waiting for them to return. With all that story-telling, the bugger’s probably scored his hat trick by now, he reflected; best leave him to it. Tired, Si pushed his way through the gyrating throng. God, he felt sober. This was no longer his idea of fun. Was it ever? he wondered.

  At the door he paused to recover from the effort of walking ten paces. A hand stretched out and touched his forearm. Si turned in surprise. ‘Hi, you had enough?’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Si made to leave.

  ‘No, don’t go yet. Let’s have a drink. Come on, don’t be shy. I don’t know anyone here and somehow I think we’d get on.’

  Si hesitated but, seeing the proffered can, he took a closer look at the girl. Finding himself transfixed by a pair of large, almond eyes, he accepted. ‘Yeah, okay. Why not? What’s your name?’

  ‘Roberta. What’s yours?’

  ‘Si.’

  ‘Hi, Si.’ She smiled winningly.

  Si hated small talk, although he could manage passably well when necessary. There seemed to be no alternative, so, summoning his scant, remaining energy, he launched in. ‘Do you know who that guy over there is? The one with the bizarre bow tie? I hate bow ties. Something lacking and inadequate about them. Like wearing one’s insecurities on one’s sleeve.’

  The girl wasn’t responding. She looked at him from under hooded lids and smiled as if slightly amused by what he was saying.

  Si gave up on the small talk.

  ‘Don’t you think this party’s awful?’

  ‘A party from hell,’ Si agreed.

  The girl laughed attractively. ‘Yes… Exactly.’ She had a musical, soft voice, not local. He looked at her suspiciously. Was she taking the mick?

  Someone bumped into Si. ‘Are you leaving or not?’ slurred a voice. Si stood back to let them past.

  ‘Come on. I know somewhere quieter.‘ Roberta led him to a door which slid back. Taking him by the hand, she led him into a dimly lit room. Si followed the tall, slim girl obediently and, despite promising himself that after one final drink he’d go home, his mind raced ahead. Roberta sat cross-legged on the floor and gestured for him to sit down opposite her.

  Intrigued by the stranger’s compelling presence, he did so, leaning back against the wall, legs stretched out in front. ‘So, Roberta, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Well, I’m a student and I’ve been living in London for four months.’

  ‘Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking. I mean you’ve got great English, but you just don’t seem totally English.’

  Roberta seemed to take this as flattery. The truth was that she had a strong and seductive foreign accent and a cool beauty to match. She twiddled a strand of long black hair as she replied. ‘No, you’re right. I’m from Khartoum. D’you know where that is?’

  ‘The Sudan?’

  ‘Yes, well done. Most people just give me blank stares if I say Khartoum.’

  ‘It sounds wonderfully exotic. I’d love to go to the desert sometime. I’ve never been. Only seen the films, you know.’

  ‘Well, if you’re good, then maybe I’ll take you.’

  Si shot her a startled look. She seemed to be playing with him. Otherwise she was terrifyingly forward. ‘That’s a bit rash. We’ve only just met. How do you know I’m not a serial killer?’

  ‘Well, if you are, I’ll find out soon enough and I won’t take you.’ Roberta smiled broadly. She had a large inviting mouth and bright teeth.

  Si laughed. He found this self-confident girl rather attractive, even captivating. Odd. He hadn’t started the evening with any intention of meeting anyone. But, he reflected, in London you should never be surprised by those you meet; that was part of the city’s diaphanous attraction and, of course, its horror.

  His mother, in one of her eastern religion phases, at about the time she claimed to have the gift of medunit
y, had taught him that all the time an infinite number of options, invisible to the conscious self, unfold like a card deck, and chance, not choice, selects the card determining the future.

  Si had a less mystical view of London life. Roberta was certainly special, but, he thought wryly, this wasn’t exactly the first time he’d found himself in such a situation. He’d seen, and heard, it all before. So, another party, another pick up. And no doubt tomorrow would yield another morning after. Or perhaps, he thought as his natural optimism shone through, it might be one of those magical moments which only reveal themselves with hindsight?

  ~

  ‘Morning, Si, do you want some coffee?’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’ Si groped his way to the desk and sat down. Mondays were always difficult but this one was proving trickier than most. ‘Milk and one sugar please.’ Bill grunted as he left the room.

  Si had been at The Courier for two months. The domino effect initiated by Mini Bournemouth’s resignation had gathered pace and eventually acquired the force of a tidal wave. Many journalists were caught up in it and for several weeks the whole profession talked about nothing apart from who was moving where and who’d been sacked by their paper. Some hadn’t been so fortunate as Si. He’d heard of at least a dozen established journalists who’d lost their jobs.

  ‘Often happens in the build-up to an election,’ commented a hoary hack who’d survived the shake-up.

  The tidal wave crashed from one editor’s office to another, from newsrooms to features desks, and wobbled and dislodged hundreds of staff. The secondary ripple, which had shaken Si loose from his niche at The Standard, had washed him from a junior position to become Diary Editor on The Courier.

  Following that unexpected meeting with Dougy McCormack, less than a fortnight had elapsed before he had taken up his new post. The promotion carried a degree of risk. Certainly, he was more exposed than in his previous job. For the first time people began to know who he was.