'God, I'm confused,' Mycroft eventually muttered, biting his lip. He was still staring at the blank screen, unwilling to look directly into Kenny's eyes. 'All this fuss, this talk about rights. I just can't help remembering that odious man Marples dragging along the young boy. Didn't the boy have rights, too?' 'All queers tarred with the same brush, eh?'
'I sometimes ask myself what the hell I'm doing. What does it all mean for my job, for me. You know, I still can't identify, join the club, not when I see men like Marplcs and some of those militants jumping up and down on the screen.'
'I'm gay, David. A queer. A faggot. A fairy queen. Nancy boy. Poof. Call it what you like, that's what I am. You saying you can't identify with me?'
'I'm… not very good at this, am I? All my life I've been brought up to conform, to believe that such things are… Christ, Kenny, half of me agrees with McKillin. Being a queer is wrong! Yet, and yet…' He raised troubled eyes to look directly at his partner. 'I've had more happiness in the last few weeks than I ever thought possible.' 'That's gay, David.'
'Then I suppose I must be, Kenny. I must be. Gay. Because I think I love you.'
'Then forget about all that crap.' Kenny waved angrily in the direction of the television. 'Let the rest of the world go mount their own soap boxes and get splinters in their dicks, we don't have to join them in slagging off everybody else. Love's meant to be inside, private, not open bloody warfare on every street corner.' He looked earnestly at Mycroft. i don't want to lose you, David. Don't go getting guilty on me.' 'If McKillin is right, we may never get to heaven.'
'If heaven's full of people who are so utterly stinking miserable, who can't even accept what they are or what they feel, then I don't think I want to join. So why don't we just stick with what we've got here, you and me, and be happy.' 'For how long, Kenny?' 'For as long as we've got, old love.' 'For as long as they leave us alone, you mean.'
'Some people come to the edge of the cliff and they look over, then run away in fear. They never realize it's possible to fly, to soar away, to be free. They spend their lives crawling along cliff tops without ever finding the courage. Don't spend your life crawling, David.' Mycroft gave a weak smile. 'I never knew you were poetic' 'Until now I never knew I cared so much for you.' Slowly, Mycroft lifted his coffee mug in salutation. 'A toast, Kenny. To jumping off cliff tops?'
Slowly and with agonizing care, the rifle sight lined up on its target exactly twenty-five yards away, the head of Gordon McKillin, embossed upon one of his old campaign posters. Slowly, steadily, the finger squeezed, and there was a sharp retort as the.22-calibre bullet sped on its way. A perfect hole appeared exactly where the Opposition Leader's mouth had been, before the badly peppered target disintegrated and fluttered like orphaned pieces of tissue to the floor. 'Don't make campaign posters like they used to.' 'Nor Leaders of the Opposition.'
Urquhart and Stamper enjoyed their joke. Directly beneath the dining room of the House of Lords in a low, wood-lined cellar strewn with the piping, conduits and other architectural entrails of the Palace of Westminster, the two men lay side by side in the narrow rifle range where parliamentarians retreat to vent their murderous instincts on paper targets rather than each other. It was where Churchill had practised his gunnery in preparation for the expected German invasion, vowing to fight it personally and to the last from behind the sandbags at the top of Downing Street. And it was where Urquhart practised for Question Time, freed from the inhibitions of Madam Speaker's censorious stare.
'A stroke of luck yours, coming up with that church pamphlet,' Stamper acknowledged somewhat grudgingly, adjusting the leather wrist sling which supported the heavy bolt-action target rifle. He was a much less experienced shot than Urquhart, and had never beaten him.
'The Colquhouns are a rather exotic tribe, members of which descend upon Elizabeth from time to time bearing all sorts of strange gifts. One of them thought I would be interested in the morality of youth, strange man. It wasn't luck, Tim. Simply good breeding.'
The former estate agent glowered. 'You want to shoot any more?' he enquired, placing another bullet in the chamber.
'Tim, I want a veritable war.' Urquhart raised the rifle to his well-padded shoulder once more, peering fixedly down the telescopic sight. 'I've decided. It's on again.' 'Another of your campus jokes.'
Urquhart obliterated a further paper portrait before turning to Stamper. His smile was withering.
'McKillin's in trouble. He went out on a limb, and it broke. So sad.'
'We're not ready, Francis. It's too soon,' Stamper objected, deeply unconvinced.
'The Opposition will be even less well prepared. Parties facing an election are like tourists being pursued by a man-eating lion. You don't have to outrun the lion – you can't. All you have to do is make sure you run faster than the other bastard.'
'The country might be buried under a foot of snow at this time of year.'
'Great! We've got more vehicles with four-wheel drive than they have.'
'But we're still four points behind in the polls,' the Party Chairman protested.
'Then there's no time to lose. Six weeks, Tim. Let's get a grip on them. A major policy announcement every week. A high profile foreign trip, the new PM taking Moscow or Washington by storm. Let's have a row in Europe, demand some money back. I want dinner with every friendly editor in Fleet Street, on his own, while you tickle the political correspondents. And, if we can get away with it, a cut in interest rates. Castrate a few criminals. Get a bandwagon rolling. We've got McKillin on the floor, let's be sure to kick hell out of him while he's down. No prisoners, Tim. Not for the next six weeks.'
'Let's hope His Majesty decides to cooperate this time.' Stamper couldn't hide his scepticism.
'You're right. I've been thinking we should take a new approach to the Palace. Build a few bridges. Put your ear to the ground, find out what the gossip is. What's going on in the dark places.'
Stamper cocked an ear, as if he heard the sound of prey lumbering through the forest.
'And we need foot soldiers, Tim. Loyal, dedicated. Not too bright. Men who would be happy to charge across those bridges, should the need arise.' 'That does sound like war.'
'Better win it, old boy. Or they'll be putting us up there as targets. And I'm not talking about paper images, either.'
January: The Second Week
The gravel of the long drive leading from the gate lodge to the front of the old manor house rattled against the bodywork of the car as it drew up alongside the other vehicles. The polished dark-blue Rolls-Royce seemed out of place alongside the battered Land-Rovers and muddy estate cars, and Landless already knew he would not fit in. He didn't mind, he was used to it. The manor house was the ancestral home of Mickey, Viscount Quillington, and commanded magnificent views over the rolling countryside of Oxfordshire, although a grey January afternoon was not the best of settings. The fabric of the building charted the chaotic progress of an ancient aristocratic family and was mostly William and Mary or Victorian with a hint of Tudor in the wing nearest the tiny chapel, but of the twentieth century there was little sign.
The damp seemed to follow him into the rough and tumble of the large entrance hall filled with tangled hunting dogs, mucky Wellington boots and a variety of anoraks and outer garments all struggling to dry. The floor tiles were badly chipped and there was not a hint of central-heating anywhere. It was the type of house which in many other parts had been rescued from decay by an expanding Japanese hotel group or golf-course consortium, but not here, not yet. He was glad he had declined the invitation to stay the night.