Stay of Execution

12

He had been in St Andrews House on many occasions, and for many reasons, since the creation of the Scottish Parliament and its Executive and before that, when Scotland had been ruled from afar and governed on a day-to-day basis by the Secretary of State.

From the start of his career, he had always kept his political leanings to himself, but those who assumed that he was naturally inclined to the right would have been surprised had they known the truth. He had voted for devolution and had welcomed it, on patriotic grounds, but also because he believed in social justice, and knew from experience that the remoteness of the Westminster Parliament and the constant battle for legislative time had been a heavy chain slowing down its delivery.

More than anyone else at the table that morning he had been angered by the interference of Miles Stringfellow, as he always was when he sensed that London was attempting to impose its will on Scotland. He had sometimes suspected that if he had lived his life two and a half centuries earlier it might have been ended on Culloden Moor.

As he rode up to the fifth floor, he was seized again by the feeling that the big stone building was a happier place under its new management.

Lena McElhone was waiting for him as the lift opened. ‘Good evening, Mr Skinner,’ she said as he stepped out into the ministerial office area. ‘She’s ready for you. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you in.’ She led him a short way along the corridor, stopped at a massive, varnished door, rapped on it with her knuckles and swung it open.

The deputy justice minister stood up behind her desk as he came in. The windows were uncurtained, he noticed, and the room was back-lit to an extent by the sodium globes outside in Waterloo Place. ‘Hello,’ exclaimed Aileen de Marco, moving round to meet him and extending her hand. He shook it, his smile seemingly automatically activated by hers. ‘This is a surprise,’ the minister continued. ‘I didn’t expect you to deliver the programme personally. I thought a biker would drop it off.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s not a problem,’ he told her. ‘Besides, I wanted to update you on what’s happened since our meeting this morning. . and to break some bad news in person. I wasn’t certain that I’d find you here, though. I thought you might have been off home to Glasgow by now.’

‘I don’t commute,’ she said. ‘Lena has a spare room in her flat. I rent it from her so that I have somewhere near the parliament and the office where I can crash. It’s an unusual relationship between minister and private secretary but it suits us both. So what’s this bad news you have to break?’

Skinner explained to her that there would indeed be two more guests throughout the papal visit, and that as a result she no longer figured in the platform seating plan.

She laughed. It was a pleasant laugh, not a bray, but strong, musical and infectious. ‘You think that’s bad news, do you? It might be for my brother. . he’s coming with me. . but it isn’t for me. I don’t mind giving up our places for the Prime Minister and his wife. In fact, making them happy is all I live for.’

Skinner looked at her and saw the mischief in her eyes. ‘Not a fan, then?’ he asked.

The young MSP smiled back at him. ‘Come on,’ she chided. ‘That would be heresy, would it not?’

‘If I was the investigating officer, I’d press for full-blown blasphemy on the charge-sheet.’

‘Aah, but I’m an atheist, remember.’

‘I don’t think that would be a legitimate defence. It would be like saying that you didn’t believe in traffic lights, so you have a right to drive through them. There are jails up and down Scotland that are jammed full of people who think like that. You should know. You’re a justice minister; you’re responsible for them.’

‘Mmm,’ she mused, ‘I never thought of that. Maybe I had better guard my tongue in the future.’

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether it’s politically correct within your ruling group to be for the Prime Minister or agin him. From what I’ve observed the antis are probably in the majority.’

She looked at him in surprise, half sitting on the edge of her desk, knee slightly raised, calf curving attractively. ‘Is this Bob Skinner talking?’ she challenged. ‘The man who, or so the legend goes, once had a Secretary of State for Scotland by the throat? The man who’s famous for his dislike of politicians? Is this the same man standing in my office talking like one of them?’

‘Sure it is,’ he replied easily, wondering when he had last felt so relaxed with someone who had been elected to office. ‘You cannot conquer your enemies, Aileen, or even control them, unless you know how they think.’

‘If you can’t beat them, join them?’

‘If necessary.’

She whistled softly. ‘You are definitely not the product as advertised, Mr Skinner.’

‘I’ve learned to adapt over the years. I’ve studied the beast in captivity.’

‘And what have you learned?’

‘I’ve observed that on occasion you come across one that you can let out of its cage to roam around freely, without worrying if it’s going to bite you on the arse. They’re the good ones: the ones who are there to make a difference for the people who gave them the job, not to preserve their own power base: the ones who’ll steer the ship through heavy seas if they have to, not tie up and wait for the storm to pass. The trouble is, they’re almost always found on the back benches or the cross benches, because their colleagues realise they’re too dangerous to be trusted with the tiller.’

‘And how do you spot them?’

‘Small signs,’ he replied. ‘For example, they refer to politicians in the third person rather than the first, “they” instead of “we”, as if they themselves realise they’re not run-of-the-mill, not just another nose in the trough. You did it yourself, a couple of minutes ago.’

‘Are you saying you’d open the door of my cage?’

He nodded. ‘But don’t tell anyone. Watch yourself. Guard your tongue. Go with the tide. . until your chance comes. When it does, you grab the tiller and steer for the white water.’