Jon fended him off, ‘But that’s not my, not strictly … not broadly my—’
Apparently, the Member for Wythenshawe, Frodsham and Lymm had, once more, gone astray. The man seemed to have been preprogrammed by forces of such exquisite and bizarre malignity that Jon could only ever think of him as the Mancunian Candidate.
When I imagine her mouth, when I imagine her at all … or my living here … it’s hard to say …
Sansom was whining at speed. Like a mosquito, perhaps sandfly, even. Definitely an arthropod kind of man is Sansom. And, according to Sansom — which was no guarantee of reliability — there had been a mishap late last night at the barrel-scraping end of some standard hotel jolly. Which was the reverse of being anything to do with Jon, particularly now.
The point is, my issue is … that I am — to a degree — feeling something. This sensation …
Jon tried to summarise and, by doing so, move on and away from bloody Sansom, ‘So he was verbally unwise, yes? That’s not really news … Your Honourable Member generally—’
The Honourable Member is generally a fuck-up. What was it the last time, the last incident? The man is a walking Fat Finger — a soft, thick accident waggling about and sure to thump itself against what it should not …
Ah, yes — I remember — ‘Beware the Hun in the sun.’ The last time had been in Leipzig. Fact-finding trip for comparison of this with that, or that with this — heaven forfend that MPs should achieve the same result by exchanging emails, phone calls, Skypeing, no one should ever be caused to miss an excursion. You could tell the Mancunian had prepared it — his bon mot — hooked it out as suitable for the occasion and therefore gone heartily off-piste in an address to several hundred sophisticated polyglot Europeans whose water glasses knew more about social grace and twentieth-century history than Mr Manchester ever would, even after some type of wholesale brain transplantation. The paper coasters under their water glasses could have beaten him at chess.
Chess … what am I thinking? Anything — animate, or inanimate — could beat him at chess. The coasters could have beaten him at rock, scissors, paper — at hangman — at snap.
He’s got the right idea in a way. Voters are justifiably scared of clever politicians. They’ll never like or trust you, never respect you — but if they can laugh at you, whether fondly or despairingly, you may prosper. Be a buffoon. But not too much of a buffoon. Don’t bury yourself in the part. There is a line it’s possible to cross. And Parliament’s gift to Timperley would usually cross it, because he wasn’t faking — he was both a genuine moron and stridently addicted to attention. One of the little-boy types who says what he hopes will earn him a spanking, because spanking is attention of a kind.
And God save us from a sly buffoon, we have no defence against that.
‘Sweet Jesus, really? Baby’s got back. He actually said that. And this woman was …?’ Jon tried to enjoy hearing a problem that was not his problem. And to enjoy reciting it back even more. ‘So to summarise, in the run-up to a general election, a white, male Parliamentary Undersecretary of State has insulted a black, female— Yes, it was an insult, that’s why it was taken as an insult, it could hardly not have been … Because it was grotesquely discourteous, why else? And—’
Two things about Sansom — he wouldn’t let you draw breath and he lied to the wrong people. Which is to say, he lied all the time. The ends of his sentences didn’t even match their beginnings, so hard and fast did he reshape the narrative of each trouble that beset him. You couldn’t help a person if they wouldn’t acknowledge reality — reality was all you’d got and, left unplacated, it would inevitably bite you. Swearing on your mother’s grave that the world did not have teeth and wouldn’t harm you made no difference. The hot and manly thrust of your sadomasochistic ambition went all for naught.
If I knew what I was feeling … One can’t have nameless emotions, surely … They must eventually declare themselves — neither vague, nor trifling, nor tendered in a spirit of mockery. Surely …
‘Sansom, you wouldn’t be calling me if it hadn’t been taken as an insult. So white, male and so forth has insulted a black, female activist who works for his own party and is … substantial in mass as a person … which was ungallant … And is this true, anyway — what’s your source?’
Sources … if one can trace things to their sources, they must surely then become identified, identifiable …
So is the source of my emotions my wife?
Ex-wife. She’s my ex-wife.
That would be the important question. Does my, as yet, unclassified emotional disturbance derive from her, or has it flown in from elsewhere?
‘He was recorded doing it …? Well, isn’t everyone? Isn’t everyone now recorded while doing everything …? He at least wasn’t overheard by a sober off-duty policeman of impeccable reputation, decorated former serviceman and tirelessly devoted to a number of charities …’
Jon ambled down Valerie’s staircase as he spoke, its skewed angles marking it out as original. If anything lasted long enough, it got twisted.
Always makes you think you’re falling, or about to.
And, as his telephone reception became exquisitely weak, he peered at his image, caught in the shine of the living-room door. Original again — oak, two-panelled — polished by centuries of various substances until it had a deep and browny-goldy finish, the subtly uneven surface further enhancing the impression that it was a slab of very tranquil, well-aged liquid set up on end and then graced with a doorknob.
The one thing I miss about this place — the doors.
I can picture myself being desolate about the doors.
Although I’m not.
Emotions were like pine needles in your carpet — you’d think they were cleared and then another would work its way up and sting you, then another.
But you can look at a needle and see it for what it is. The bloody things are explicable.
His face, wavering in the sombre woodwork, was definitely grinning. He didn’t look remotely annoyed.
And not bad for fifty-nine. Seen worse. Possibly. Any unbiased observer might be kind. Any kind observer might be … willing to look away.
His arms — spidery — were distorted, his body’s long outlines flickering as he moved. But it wasn’t disturbing.
I never truly got the benefit of being tall. And yet people say it’s a good thing. I was told recently that it’s good.
‘I was joking, Sansom … No, I was joking … I made the policeman up … He does not exist … He is a fiction…. You know about fiction … Audio, or video …? Magnificent. The Internet loves camera phones, where would we be without them … You know I can’t help you.’
I don’t want to help you, but I also can’t. My loyal and effective service may not be inhibited by the taint of comprehensive commitment to any particular interest or philosophy. We don’t even share a minister. Be your bloody age.
My dad would say that — be your bloody age. Another tall man, Dad — not a clue what to do with it, either.
First time I came back from school — home for the holidays — and he’d decided to be short around me. My own father. I made him stoop. That could never have been right. I should have said so. One can’t, though, can one?