The darkness was intense, split only by pale splashes of moonlight from the high windows of the west wall, but he knew every inch by instinct. He had stepped onto this stage, the greatest stage of all, so many times yet it never failed to impose its majesty. The atmosphere, heavy with history, clung to him, lifted and elated him, he could feel the memories of centuries crowding round, the ghosts of the great whispering in the wings and waiting for him, Francis Urquhart, to join them.
He pushed his way past the waving Order Papers and jabbing elbows, stepping over the outstretched legs, making his way towards his seat. At one point he stumbled, forced to rest a hand on the lip of the Clerk's Table for support, sure he had been tripped by some extending ankle – Gladstone's, perhaps, the rakish Disraeli's or recumbent Churchill's? Did he hear the clip of a closing handbag, smell stale Havana? But then he had reached it, the space on the bench left for the Prime Minister, waiting, as it always had been, for him. He sat, embracing the formal subtlety of its leather, savouring the spice of great events which lingered in its fabric and brought forth the familiar rush of adrenalin. He was ready for them. But they were quiet tonight, everyone waiting to hear him, hanging on his every word, knowing that these were momentous times.
He stood to face them, his legs propelling him firmly upwards until he was standing at the Dispatch Box, gripping its sides, rubbing his palms along its bronzed edging, afraid of no one. He would have his place in history, whatever it cost, show them all, those faint hearts and foes who surrounded him like men of Lilliput. He'd make them remember Francis Urquhart, and tremble at the name. Never let them forget. Whatever it cost.
He pounded the Dispatch Box and from around the Chamber came answering echoes like the thunder of applause washing down across a thousand years. He could hear them all, great men, one woman, their voices a united chorus of approval, emerging from the dark places around this great hall where history and its memories were kept alive. They spoke of pain, of the sacrifice on which all legend is raised, of the glory which waited for those with character and audacity enough to seize the moment. And their thumping acclaim was for him. Francis Urquhart. A welcome from the gods themselves. 'Excuse me, Mr Urquhart. You shouldn't be here.'
He turned. In the shadows by the Speaker's Chair stood a Palace policeman. 'You shouldn't be here,' the man repeated.
'You are of that opinion, too? It seems the whole mortal world is of the same view.'
'No, I didn't mean that, Sir,' the policeman responded, abashed. 'I merely meant that it's against the rules.'
'My apologies, officer. I only came here for… one final look. Before the election. A chance to reflect. It has been a very long time.'
'No worries, Mr Urquhart. I'm sure no one will mind.' 'Our little secret?' Urquhart requested. 'Course, Sir.'
And with a low bow of deference and a little light from the policeman's torch, Francis Urquhart bade farewell to the gods. For the moment. It was Passolides' custom to rise before dawn, the habit of mountain warfare lingering in the mind of an old man. And while he embraced the cover of night and paid silent tribute to past times, he would gather the freshest of fish from the local market. A habit with purpose.
Unfriendly eyes watched him leave and it was while he was pondering over shells of crab and fillet of swordfish that hostile hands went about their work. Grateful, as Passolides had once been, for the cover of night.
When he tried to turn into the street, laden with paper-wrapped parcels of food, he found his way barred by a large plastic ribbon and a police officer. 'Sorry, Sir. No one allowed in until they've finished damping down.' The parcels slid to the pavement. 'But that is my house.'
A hundred yards away, hemmed in by fire engines, the windows of his home stared out sightless across the street, his newly restored restaurant now a gaping, toothless grin. He had been gone little more than an hour. It had taken considerably less than that to destroy almost every possession he had. They set out that morning for Watford, on the very outskirts of London. It would be the final stop before their triumphal entry into the city itself, and already the route was lined with images of Makepeace and other trophies, strewn along their path like rose petals. A conqueror's welcome for a man of peace. And one day to go. Claire, in answer to his summons, found him writing letters in his study. He brightened as he saw her; he appeared pale with exhaustion but more at ease, as though he had ceased to battle against the impossible current and was finally reconciled to being carried downstream. 'Can I help?' she offered.
'You may help yourself, if you want. I'm writing out a list. Disposing of a few baubles and trinkets to those who have been kind.' He looked at her intently. 'My Resignation Honours.' 'You have decided to go?'
'That has been decided for me, I no longer have any say in the matter. But in the manner of my passing…' He waved the piece of paper. 'Can I find something for you?' 'There is nothing that I want,' she replied quietly. 'For Joh, perhaps?' She shook her head.
He fell to pondering. 'My doctor. Corder, too. Elizabeth, especially Elizabeth. She must have something.' 'You sound,' Claire suggested slowly, 'like a man disposing of his most personal possessions from his…'
'Deathbed?' He completed her thought. His cheeks filled with a little colour, an expression of defiance began to erase the bruises around his eyes. 'No!' he said with feeling. 'I intend to live forever.'
He returned to the papers on his desk. 'Tell me, what do you think Geoffrey deserves?'
'You want to give him something?' The words stuck in her throat like dry biscuit.
'But he surely merits some recognition.' An ironical smile played about his lips but reached no further. The eyes remained like old ice. 'You may have noticed he was unable to attend our little session in the Cabinet Room yesterday, sent a message saying that he was away campaigning around the country. So I tracked him down by phone. He swore loyalty. To me. Which was why he was working so hard in the constituencies, he said. Tireless, the man is tireless. D'you know, it sounded as though he was almost in tears.' She shook her head in evident bewilderment.
'You misjudge him, my dear, our Geoffrey has never been idle or lacked passion.' 'In his own cause most certainly, but in others'?'
'Why, I even asked if he would issue a public statement of support, which he readily agreed to do. I have obtained a copy.'
He indicated a press release on the comer of his desk. She read it quickly. An appeal for party unity. Emphasis on achievements. A call to arms, of battles still to be fought and victories to be gained even through difficult times. Of faith in the future. 'But there's not a single mention of your name.'
'Precisely. His trumpet sounds, but not in praise of me or even in epitaph. It's the first rallying cry in his own leadership campaign. He wants my job.' 'You expected any less?' 'Absolutely not.' 'So why do you want to give him something?'
'Language is important in this job and I've learnt to use my words with care.' It sounded almost as if he were embarking on a lecture. 'I asked you what he deserved.'
'Disappointment. But are such things still within your power?'
'I may be mortally wounded but that makes me dangerous, not incapable. I am still Prime Minister. I can prick him, prick them all. If I want.' 'Do you?' 'In his case?' He pondered, one last time. 'Yes.' 'Why are you so unrelenting?'
He picked up three envelopes, as yet unsealed. 'Because some people are born to ruination. Geoffrey is one.' He sealed the first envelope, addressed to the chairman of Booza-Pitt's local association, regretting that 'in light of the new circumstances' the offer of an honour would have to be withdrawn.