Revenger

18

‘Typical fucking glory boy,’ Schultz muttered into his beer-glass. ‘Like Paras are the only bastards who ever took out a GPMG… I’m going to need a Scotch after that.’

He and Carver were sitting at the bar of the Dutchman’s Head. There was a large-screen TV on the wall, left over from the days when Champions League nights were a virtual guarantee of a packed pub, filled with thirsty punters. There weren’t too many people willing to go to a pub just to watch a politician give a speech. But of the half-dozen regulars, most were keeping at least an eye on proceedings at the O2.

Carver caught the barmaid’s attention. ‘Get him a double whisky or he’ll be moaning all night.’

‘What’s his problem with Paras?’ she asked, pushing the whisky glass up to the optic.

Carver leaned forward, ‘Can you keep a secret?’ he asked.

The barmaid giggled. ‘Depends how good it is.’

She put the filled glass on the bar, tantalizingly out of Schultz’s reach, and leaned forward towards Carver. ‘Well, it’s a sad story,’ he said. ‘See, he always wanted to be a Para but he couldn’t get in. Scared of heights. I mean, really, really scared. Forget jumping, he couldn’t even get in the plane.’

Carver started laughing as he heard Schultz’s voice off to one side going, ‘I’ll get you for that, you bastard!’

But he had laughed too soon. A look of profound sympathy crossed the barmaid’s face. She stood up, picked up the glass and carried it over to Schultz, who downed the contents in one.

‘I know just how you feel,’ she said. ‘I’m the same. I get terrified even thinking about having to fly. Has it always been a problem for you?’

Schultz nodded sorrowfully. He’d been given an opening and he was going to exploit it. ‘No, it came over me quite recently,’ he confided, lying through his teeth. ‘I always used to be able to fly. And maybe I could do it again, you know, if I had the right company.’ He looked her right in the eye. ‘Someone to comfort me, know what I mean?’

‘Do you think that would help?’ the barmaid said. ‘Maybe we could comfort each other…’

‘It would help if I knew your name.’

‘Chrystal. What’s yours?’

‘Snoopy… to me friends.’

‘Aw, that’s sweet!’

Schultz looked across at Carver, a smug look of triumph on his face. ‘You can leave now, mate,’ he said.

A few miles away across the river, in his Downing Street office, Cameron Young pressed the ‘pause’ button on his Sky Plus controller. ‘What next, do you think?’ he asked, to no one in particular.

Jack Grantham was the first to answer. ‘After two men? It’s got to be a woman.’

‘Or an Asian,’ Brian Smallbone pointed out. ‘Muslims are the new Jews. If he’s fascist and stupid, he’ll attack them. But if he’s smart he’ll make a point of playing nicey-nicey.’

‘So there we have it,’ said Young. ‘We think it’ll be an Asian woman. Let’s see if we’re right.’

They were. Samira Ahmed looked young, elegantly dressed, glossy haired, impeccably professional — like an Asian Kate Middleton. She’d been filmed in a coffee-bar with a cup of cappuccino in front of her. ‘Little Miss Starbucks — very normal, aspirational, nice touch,’ Cameron Young murmured.

‘When I was a little girl, I was the only person in the family who could speak English, and I often had to be the interpreter for everyone else,’ Ahmed started. ‘So when they applied for accommodation from the local housing association, I went along with them, and there was Mark Adams, this famous bloke off the telly, doing volunteer work for the association, and he was the one who took care of everything. I remember him being really kind to me. And he made sure we had somewhere to live. As far as my mum and dad are concerned, he’s a saint.’

‘Shit, that’s not bad,’ said Smallbone. ‘I mean, it might just work.’

Young grimaced in agreement.

‘Don’t panic just yet,’ said Jack Grantham. ‘Adams hasn’t even got onstage yet. There’s still plenty of time left for him to cock it up.’

‘You think he will?’ Young asked.

‘Why not? He’s a politician, isn’t he?’