‘Did you remember to have anything to eat?’
‘Finger food.’
‘And you wonder why you’re drunk. Where are you?’ She named the hotel. ‘Twenty minutes. But don’t make me hang around. I was about to turn in.’
Sarah stepped out of the booth and tried to work out the quickest route back to the ballroom. Maybe she should freshen up first. Had she passed a bathroom? There was bound to be one by Reception. Sarah looked down the hall to make sure Ed had gone.
‘Sarah!’
Ed was coming out of his room, key in hand. Before she could head him off, he was upon her, an arm hooking beneath her elbow, as if to hold her up, then locking around her waist.
‘Glad I found you, duck. I knew you’d change your mind. Sorry about before. I shouldn’t have tried it on in public like that.’
He steered Sarah towards his room. The door hung open. She’d made a real pig’s ear of this. They were within earshot of Reception. News of any incident would be all over the party in minutes. Would it be easier to go into Ed’s ground floor room, sort it out there? Ed pushed her inside and the decision became irrelevant. Number seven. She’d have noticed it when walking past if she hadn’t been so slaughtered.
‘Don’t close the door.’
He ignored her. At least he didn’t lock it. There was a glazed look in his eyes that hadn’t been there minutes earlier. Sarah realized he’d taken something. There, on the dressing table, was a tell-tale white trail.
‘I was ringing my boyfriend. He’s coming to collect me. I’m sorry, Ed. I thought I made myself clear.’
‘We’d best be quick, then.’
He let go of her, had his hand on the buckle of his jeans. Now was the time to act. Still, Sarah hesitated. She was due to make two public appearances with Ed in the next week. He unzipped his flies.
‘Ed, it’s not going to happen. I’ve got to go.’
He grabbed her by both buttocks and pulled her towards him. This was getting out of hand. Sarah wished she hadn’t worn a dress. He was a sweaty animal, his erection digging into her waist.
‘Ed, that’s enough.’
He knocked her to the floor. Before she could react further, he clicked shut the lock on the hotel door and began to pull down his jeans. He got one leg off and she tried to get up, but he put a foot on her stomach, pressing her back down. In a moment of clarity, Sarah saw that she would have only one chance to fend him off. He lifted his foot in order to finish pulling off his jeans. She moaned and turned onto her left side.
He gave a growl of arousal and began to lower himself onto her. Sarah pulled back her right leg.
‘Stop!’ she said again.
Ed held himself up with his left arm. With his right he tried to push Sarah onto her back. This was it. Sarah let her shoulder fall. He thought she was succumbing. Then, instead of rolling onto her back, she thrust her right knee into his groin.
Ed yelled and rolled off her, cursing. Sarah got to her feet. Her best green dress was ripped, she realized. Time to unlock the door. What did you do? Press? No, turn. Or maybe that thing on the side? Too late. Ed grabbed her ankles, pulling her down. Sarah lost balance and slipped. She landed hard on the matt green carpet. Her face was next to his. His eyes had watered from the pain, but he was grinning. How long before he recovered sufficiently to start again?
‘I’ll scream,’ she told him. ‘Someone will come. You don’t want that.’
It was the stuff he’d taken, she told herself: coke, speed, some shitty street drug . . . With one hand he held her down, scratching her thigh with the other as he ripped her knickers down her legs. For a moment, he stared at her pubic hair. Next, he bunched her knickers in his right hand and held them to his nose.
‘Frightened cunt,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Lovely.’
Then he let go. It was as if that was all he’d wanted. Sarah stood quickly, put on her shoes. Ed sat up, legs apart, still in pain. This time, she remembered how to open the door – press in the switch on the side, turn the knob to the left. Ed began to speak softly.
‘I did it, you know. Killed him and fucked her. She enjoyed it, I can tell you. Same way you’d enjoy it if you let yourself. Ashamed how much she enjoyed it, with hubby dead in the corner. Begged me to kill her too. So I did.’
The smile on his face was smug, rather than demented. Sarah couldn’t read him well enough to know if he was telling the truth.
‘I’m going to pretend none of this happened,’ she said, in her MP’s voice, like that put her in control. ‘But I don’t want to see you again. The rest of the week, the media stuff, don’t show up. Call in ill or I’ll have you arrested for assault.’
He lifted her knickers to his nose and sniffed them again. Sarah hurried down the corridor, out through Reception, into the chilly car park. She stood in the cool and collected herself. Then she hurried back in, used the bathroom and returned to the ballroom for her bag. She told the chair of the Campaign Committee that, sorry, she was exhausted and had to leave: no fuss please. There were no comments about the small rip in the side of her dress.
Ten minutes or so passed before Dan found her, waiting in the car park, holding her dress down over her cold bum. He didn’t notice that she was shivering, but kissed her on the cheek.
‘Quick getaway for once, huh?’
She nodded. During the drive home, Sarah only managed a couple of words, but if Dan made anything of this, he took it as drunken tiredness. They didn’t talk as much as they used to, weren’t as interested in each other’s lives as partners ought to be. That was one of the reasons why, only a few days ago, they had tentatively agreed to split up. Neither of them could be bothered to try.
As soon as they got in, Sarah showered. In bed, when Sarah didn’t respond to his caress, Dan turned over. Within minutes, he was snoring. Sarah lay awake, thinking about Ed Clark’s confession to double murder. She tried to convince herself that he was only winding her up.
2
Sarah sat in the plush Pugin Rooms, one of the House of Commons’ less busy watering holes, uncertain whether she’d chosen the right outfit. She wore a Planet navy suit, aligned with a pale cream Ghost blouse. Lately the party had taken on a fashion consultant who advised women members on what to wear. Sarah tried to follow that advice, in the Commons at least, although a lot of the suggestions made her look like an 1980s bonds trader without the shoulder pads. She avoided heels, opting for plain Clarks flats with a decent sole. When you did as much walking as she did, you couldn’t deny the need for sensible shoes.
‘You’ve changed your hair. It looks great,’ Donald said, by way of a greeting. Donald was Labour’s Chief Whip, a dapper Scot.
‘Thank you,’ Sarah said, though she hadn’t changed the style in two years. Her long, brown hair was a pain to manage. She had grown it to impress selection conferences with her femininity and she did like the way it framed her face. Having thick hair also hid her rather pointy ears, a family trait that reminded older members who her grandfather was. Sir Hugh Bone had been in Wilson’s 1960s Labour cabinet. She’d soon tired of comments about the resemblance.
‘Thanks for joining me.’ Donald summoned a waiter with much the same casual authority as he’d summoned Sarah to meet him. She knew what he wanted. Sarah was the party’s new spokesperson on miscarriages of justice. The evening before, she’d been on Newsnight accusing the Tories of wanting to abolish trial by jury. She’d gone off on one and added a line on the spread of HIV in British prisons, going a step beyond party policy. She’d expected to be admonished, but not so urgently. With an election on the way, party discipline was moving into overdrive. She listened politely to her dressing down.