'Wants to go for the record. Outscore Thatcher,' Digby offered. 'I wouldn't mind, but what's the point? What's he trying to achieve? We've got half the country's dustbins crammed full of Harrods wrapping paper which local councils can't afford to collect while the other half go begging for something to eat.'
'You lobbyists always spoil your case with exaggeration,' Makepeace rebuked.
'Funny, I thought that was a politician's prerogative,' the editor came back.
Makepeace was beginning to feel penned in. He'd felt that way a lot in recent months, sitting beside editors or standing before his constituents with a pretence of enthusiasm when there was only weariness and disillusionment inside. Something had gone stale. Someone had gone stale. Francis Urquhart. Leaving Makepeace with much that he wanted to say, but little he was allowed to.
'He's had a good run, Tom, the country's grateful and all that, but really it's time for some new blood.' 'His blood.' 'A fresh start for the Government.' 'For you, Tom.' 'We all know the things you hold dear, the causes you stand for.' 'We'd like to help.'
'You know the country isn't what it was. Or could be. This country has too big a heart to be beholden for so long to one man.' 'Particularly a man such as that.' 'Hell, even the illegal immigrants are leaving.'
'It should be yours, Tom. Makepeace is ever as good a man as Urquhart.'
Respite. The man from Matasuyo had subsided and the play was about to begin; Makepeace was grateful. His head was spinning. He wanted to dispute their claims, play the loyal hound, but couldn't find the words. Perhaps they were right about Urquhart. Without doubt right about himself. They knew he wanted it, enough that at times his mouth ran dry like a man lost in a desert who spots an oasis, only to discover it is a mirage. Power. But not for its own sake, not for a place in the history books like Urquhart, but for now. Today. For all the things that so desperately needed doing and changing.
Both Brynford-Iones and Digby had a strong interest in change, editor and lobbyist, professional revolutionaries by their trade. Having the world standing still was no more an option for them than it was for him, Makepeace thought. Perhaps they would make useful allies, one day, if war ever came. After his friend Francis had left the field. Or perhaps they would all go to hell together amongst the rogues.
And then there was laughter. Caesar had made his first appearance on stage with a face adorned with heavy make-up that made him look uncannily like Francis Urquhart. The same long profile. Piercing eyes. Receding silver hair. A straight gash across his face for a mouth. A mask that showed neither mirth nor mercy. The arguments backstage had been long and furious when they had learnt of Urquhart's imminent presence. Harry had argued vociferously for a boycott and threatened to throw his body into all forms of picket lines and protests but, as the property manager had so successfully argued, 'Give it a rest, love. It's been years since your bottom 'alf lived up to the promises of your top 'alf. Bloody years since you last saw your bottom 'alf, I'll bet. Must do it all from memory.'
So they had compromised. In true thespian tradition the show would go on, laden with a little ideological baggage. Yet Harry, once more sneaking a look from prompt side to test the mettle of his protest, was to be disappointed. The living mask slipped. From his privileged position beside Booza-Pitt at the front of the stage Urquhart, an experienced trouper in any public arena, had spotted the danger and responded. Not only was he leading the laughter but he also made sure that everyone knew it by taking out a white silk handkerchief and waving it vigorously at his protege.
As the play progressed, Makepeace agonized. Loyalty meant so much, for him it was a political virtue in its own right. Yet he hadn't been sleeping well, a disturbed mind and troubled heart had robbed him of rest, doubts beginning to crowd in on his dreams. And he knew that if he did nothing, simply chafed beneath those doubts, he would lose his dreams as well.
'The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power…'
Loyalty. But to what? Not just to a single man. Great men have their day, only to find that their reputation must fall from the sky like leaves before the autumn storm.
'And therefore think him as a serpent's egg which, hatch'd, would, as his kind, grow mischievous…'
Every Prime Minister he'd ever known had demanded too much, been despatched. Sacrificed. Bled. By colleagues.
And finally the deed was done. 'Et tu, Brute!' An exceptionally pitiless portrayal of the assassination, and at every step Urquhart's handkerchief waved and waved.
'Sodding man!' Grime snapped as he stamped about the quick-change box helping the deceased Caesar into his ghost's garb.
'Your little plot didn't work, luvvie,' Julius mocked. 'Didn't you see him? Laughing his bloody head off at us, so he was.'
'Hold still, Big Julie, or I'll run this pin up your arse,' Harry snapped. 'Anyway, what would you know about plots? The last miserable screenplay you spawned didn't even make it as far as the typist.'
'It had a few developmental problems,' Julie acknowledged.
'As much sense of direction as a horse up a hedgehog.'
'At least I act. You couldn't even play the skull in Hamlet on a good day.' 'Bitch,' Harry pursed, and subsided.
In the auditorium the house lights had announced the interval and thunderous applause reflected the audience's appreciation of a production remarkable for its freshness. It had been a long time since anyone could remember laughing so much through a tragedy but, up in the First Gallery, Digby appeared distracted. Makepeace probed.
'Sorry. Wondering about the new car,' the lobbyist apologized.
'About the mileage? Whether it's environmentally friendly? Recyclable?'
'Hardly. It's four litres of testosterone encased in the silkiest and most explicit Italian styling you can find in this country without getting arrested. Ferrari. Rosso red. My only vice. And parked outside.' 'And you're worried whether all the wrapping paper is going to be removed from your dustbin by the end of the week,' Makepeace taunted.
'More worried that in this brave new world of ours the stereo system will have been ripped off by the end of this performance. What do you think, Secretary of State?'
'Contain yourself, Diggers,' Brynford-Jones interjected. 'Nothing lasts forever.'
The editor and lobbyist enjoyed the banter, but Makepeace's mind had drifted elsewhere. He was gazing down onto the floor of the auditorium where Urquhart, surrounded by enthusing acolytes and attended closely by Geoffrey Booza-Pitt, was replacing his handkerchief.
'Everything pukka, Tom?' Brynford-Jones enquired.
'Yes, of course. Just thinking how right you were. You know. About how nothing lasts forever.' The red-leather box lay open on the back seat, papers untouched. The Minister had fallen asleep as soon as they reached the motorway – it had been a heavy working dinner and the old boy's stamina wasn't what it once was. He was snoring gently, mouth ajar, slumped awkwardly to one side. Should've worn his seat belt. The driver studied him carefully in the rear-view mirror for some time before deciding he could risk it. Cautiously, while ensuring that the Jaguar's engine maintained its constant soothing cadence at a steady eighty-three miles an hour, he reached for the volume button of the radio. They were just about to kick off at Upton Park and the next ninety minutes would decide an entire season's effort. He didn't want to miss it. He paused as through the drizzle ahead emerged the rear lights of an old Escort, still trying to prove it was all TRi and not knackered to death. The Escort's youthful driver cursed; the rotted rubber of his wipers had transformed the motorway into a smear of confusing messages and he was straining to make sense of the scene ahead. He had no eyes for what lay behind. The Minister's driver decided not to risk waking his passenger by braking suddenly, not with the match about to start. He drew over to the middle lane to pass the other vehicle on the inside.