YOLK
By Anna Hill

 

Of the three of us, I am the only one who speaks German. Clark knows a little; as the people pleaser of the family, he knows how to say yes when he’s asked to bring the guests something to drink; he knows how to ask them if they’d like ice; and he knows the swear words, both those that slip off our good-natured father’s tongue when he forgets that we’re around, and others, spat by his friends and brothers on humid evenings, when their friendly arguments fog up the kitchen windows. I was born with the century, and my childhood was littered with these loud, imposing adult conversations; they take place at the dining table, in the front yard, in the bar, at the local market. Yet these days, despite the heat of August, their conversations are quieter, colder, often floating through my window from the street on a stiff breeze. Now, just when my ears perk up with curiosity, the language switches to English, occasionally broken and always nervous.

My own German has become stale. Since the spring I’ve spoken it only with my grandfather, and he’s never said much. He’s a man of opaque emotions, more similar to Clark than the rest of us who carry every sentiment on our faces. He wears devastation as if it is nothing more than melancholy, deeping the lines on his face; rage is only a kind of rank disappointment. Still, though the words would never leave his lips, I’ve always known that I’m the favorite of his grandchildren. I remind him of his wife, my mother’s mother, whose name I share, who never saw American soil and whose memory will linger just long enough to be swallowed up by gunsmoke. She exists only in photos and nostalgia, and my own lines on my own face. For this reason German is my superstition; I imagine that if the language dies in my mouth, my grandfather will no longer find my grandmother in his attic, and he will go and search for her among the gunsmoke.

And so every Saturday morning, I climb the stairs to the attic, where he sits in his trash-picked armchair, to read the newspaper at his feet. He never asks for me, but I always appear. The comfort of this routine makes its disruption so much more terrifying, and when he does call for me one Wednesday morning, I feel the fresh, black ink of the Philadelphia Inquirer begin to melt onto my fingers.

The gale of hushed German filtering through my open window over the previous few days has convinced me that there is something urgent happening, and yet I do not understand it. My grandfather does not explain; I do not ask. When I translate the headline to him, he doesn’t even reply. He makes no indication of interest whatsoever, and so after a moment of expectant hesitation, I continue onto the obituaries.

#

Days pass, and my parents talk of nothing, their words empty, false and nervous. I plan to return to school in a few weeks, resting my ability to sleep on the promise of normality. Our Saturday morning tradition becomes a daily routine, but still my grandfather never appears uneasy.

Clark, who is sixteen, just two years older than myself, finds me most evenings. Together we sit on my bedroom floor and search for reasons to feel concerned, but we find none other than in the tone of our parents’ and neighbors’ voices. The headlines boast of ‘striking photographs’ and yet we find little to be struck by. We see men carrying their country’s flag, and others carrying bayonets in a sort of uniformed procession. I find it hard to imagine that something so formal, so lacking in chaos, could be so troubling. Even my parents, their faces eroded by emotion, end every conversation with the belief that it will fade by winter – and anyway, they say, it’s not really our war. They speak the words not with hope but with conviction, and so Clark and I believe it.

#

Whispers in German become shouts in English. Francis is 18, the oldest of us, and in every way Clark’s opposite. An exceptional sense of urgency has always consumed him, and his fleeting obsessions are famous for temporarily disrupting all our lives. Tonight his passion lingers in the kitchen, odorless but humid. It lingers in lieu of Fra himself, who has stormed out. I replay the conversation, trying to make sense of it all; I hear him say the words ‘those Germans’ with sticky, sickly hostility, and I hear my parents beg him to keep his voice down. I relive the relief I feel when I remember my grandfather has gone to bed early, that he wouldn’t understand Fra’s slanted American tongue anyway. I feel my parents’ helplessness, their only argument a reproach for him spending time with Italians in South Philadelphia. I make a mental note to ask why Italians are a corrupting influence.

#

My life becomes a strange, dual timeline: the first, a straight, unbending arrow. Its aim is clear, and even if it does not hit the bullseye, I can at least rely on it heading in one direction. I return to school, and routine settles in. My days are always the same, and I put my trust in their monotony. After a volatile dinner Clark and I will hide in my room until the small hours; sometimes Fra finds us, but even these nights are routine. I can count on Fra’s familiar speech about how this is a shining moment of opportunity, about the glory of defending one’s country. I can count on Clark to point out to him that Britain is not our country, at least no more than Germany is; I can count on those, however, to be his only words against Fra. I can count on the rest of his interjections to be a variety of, “Uh huh,” and “Sure,” and “That sounds right.”

And yet a second timeline invades, one that barrels ahead anyway as we run beside it, trying to catch up. I am certain of nothing. Although my entire class is made up of mostly German children, only a handful of us speak the language, and we have never attempted to speak it to each other, mostly out of laziness rather than principle. Fra’s biblical idea of “sacrifice” begins to terrify me. I feel nothing in common with the boys he reveres for their own “sacrifices.” Sacrifices for what? I don’t ask him; I don’t want to know.

Arrows bend, I think.

#

My mother offers to read the paper to her father, but he rejects her. He only wants me, he says. I want to flatter myself, but I have a sneaking suspicion that he only asks for me because he knows I will not lie to him. Should I be lying to him?

Tonight I see his face flicker for the first time. It’s hardly noticeable to the untrained eye but to me it is akin to a breakdown, a reaction to the headline spread across my lap. Frost creeps into my stomach and I cannot bring myself to read the obituaries and the personal ads. He says nothing else; I almost ask him to explain it to me but I stop myself, fearing that one question will only push him further away.

#

Every morning I find myself running to get the Inquirer before the rest of the family, determined to be the first to know the good news. I imagine the scene a million times: I imagine myself marching towards the breakfast table with the paper held high above my head. I imagine Fra’s passion dissolving through the window, my parents breaking into grins, Clark and I sharing a relieved look. I don’t entirely know what good news looks like, but nevertheless I continue in search of it, running to the corner shop every morning. Some mornings I squint at the headline, wondering who it serves, but I see no sign of joy on anyone’s face. This morning I think we’ve cracked it. I don’t know what side we’re on but surely ‘retreat’ signifies a kind of end, and nothing can be better than an end to it all; surely it is a sign that everyone has come to their senses. It’s a nervous kind of relief, but it will do.

When I charge through the door, I find my mother and father standing at the sink, Fra and Clark at the table. I take no time to ask myself why they’re sitting so quietly, why the usual rush to get out the door has stalled.

“Germans are retreating from Russia,” I say, the words coming out in one strangled breath. Only my mother looks up, giving me a defeated half-smile.

“We know,” replies Fra, his voice bitter. “Someone’s already left us a paper on our doorstep”

Indeed; I look up and see what he’s referring to. On the table sits a paper dripping in egg yolk. Next to it sits a note, written in a scrawled English hand, and suddenly we’re on the opposite side of history. Only Clark looks me in the eye.

#

Winter threatens itself and I do not forget the egg yolks. I do not need anyone to tell me what it means. I do not need my grandfather’s flicker of emotion or Fra’s disgust or Clark’s rational explanations. I do not need to look deep beneath my father’s loud accusations that it’s just one of Fra’s pranks, as if he has ever pulled a prank before. I do not need to listen to the gale which drifts through my window, carrying my neighbors’ nervous whispers, always in English as they recount how that same morning they woke up to their own sticky threats. I know what it means, and I am surprised to find myself fighting a battle I haven’t chosen.

I’m careful not to ask my grandfather what side he’s on. For the first time I feel that I will have to choose one, and I’m unprepared to choose against him. Today I climb the stairs to my grandfather’s room, and I tell him, for the first time, that there’s no news from the front. It’s not a mistranslation, it’s a lie. An omission, maybe, but still a lie. I look for any flicker of acknowledgement – relief, happiness, disappointment. But I see nothing. For a moment I feel as though I’ve staked a claim in this strange fight, and when I open my eyes I have chosen a side.

#

As December arrives, the gale ushers in a frost, a frost that cracks but does not melt, a frost that is somehow reinforced despite every threat of an Indian summer. The sun will come one day, but not before it leaves eleven scars on my arms, marking the date and the time of its arrival. For now I shut the window to keep myself warm.

#

Trampled
By Peter Barnes

 

Petrol fumes collide with the sweet, earthy scent of just-cut grass. Ruth can’t smell it though. Nor can she hear Lionel, sitting as she is behind the French doors with Lou.

“Wheel her out!”

Lionel waves his arms at Ruth from the part-mowed lawn.

“Hey!” he’s yelling over the noise of a very smart, green petrol mower. It’s a Qualcast – the best kind.

“Ruth! Wheel her out on the patio!”

Ruth shrugs. Lionel cuts the engine. With a flounce.

“Would you please wheel her out on the patio so she can watch me making stripes?”

 

“Really, Lionel?”

 

“Really – she needs some stimulation.”

Lou fiddles with the knitted shawl in her lap as she is propelled into the summer air. Laid out before her is an immaculate garden, bounded by glowing Cotswold stone walls, with espaliers of pear and apple neatly trained across them. In the flower beds, hover flies buzz from red hot poker to purple allium, and in the centre of the lawn, a pair of blackbirds chirp, flap, splash and wriggle in the waters of a carved stone birdbath. Lou can feel the warmth and hear the birds. She can see the beautiful flowers and smell their perfume on the breeze. And yet none of it seems to register.

Carl the gardener is responsible for planting, pruning and weeding. The lawn, however, is entirely Lionel’s domain. It is a job he takes enormous pride in.

“What do you think?” he beams, hands on hips. “Doesn’t take long to get things looking Chelsea-standard again, does it?”

Before things got really bad, Lionel used to care for his wife by himself. They would even go on trips to interesting places together – garden centres, heritage railways, civil war re-enactments and so on. He could tell she approved of all his choices. Lionel used to do all the cooking too. He took care of almost everything. Except her hair. Moira from ‘Cut and Curl Studio’ still comes by every three weeks to do that, because Lou had insisted on it. When she could speak.

“I’ll take you clothes shopping with me tomorrow” whispers Ruth into the old lady’s ear. The flicker of a smile lights up her face, wiping away years in an instant. Just for a moment, the carefully coiffured hair makes sense. Then the smile dies, and the decades pile back on.

XXX

A week has passed and already Lionel’s lines have faded. In some places, the grass sports messy little tufts, and the ragged leaves of Dandelions can be seen poking up amidst the sward. The lawn is becoming ill-disciplined. Order must be reimposed. It is time to deploy the Qualcast again.

XXX

“Ruth, I’m going to Tesco’s”

“I’ve already done the shopping.”

“But did you get tomato soup?”

“Four cans – second shelf down in the pantry”

“Heinz tomato soup, Ruth. We only have Heinz.”

“Yes, Lionel. I know.”

Lionel puts his ‘bag for life’ back in the cupboard and slumps into a sofa. On the sideboard next to him is a picture of Lou in her thirties, looking like Brigitte Bardot in a black dress, with golden hair sweeping down across one shoulder. She is laughing and her beautiful, mascara-rimmed eyes radiate happiness.

In an adjacent frame stands a picture of Colonel Lionel Fitch, addressing a battalion of immaculately turned-out soldiers. The man in the picture has thicker hair than the man on the sofa, and his physique is more muscular. The back is straighter. Eyes keener. Lionel reflects on the fact that this energetic young Colonel is being intently listened to, by people who will unquestioningly follow his every command. To their deaths, if necessary.

“Sherry, Ruth! Tell me you remembered the Sherry?”

XXX

In summer, the grass can always be relied upon to undo all of Lionel’s hard work. Lionel secretly likes this about the grass. It is a constant.

Just as he did last week, and the week before, Colonel Fitch marches up and down behind the whirling blades, watching dandelion and clover submit to his iron will. As he advances, perfectly uniform stripes of alternately dark and light green grass bear witness to his skill. Thirty-two minutes later, he surveys the battlefield. Total victory.

XXX

In the kitchen, Moira is carefully blow-drying Lou’s hair. As she pulls a brush through the long strands and drenches them in hot air, Lou almost seems to purr. But nobody can hear it beneath the hairdryer.

“Good God, Moira! It’s hot as hell today without you blasting that thing around the house. Is this entirely necessary?”

“I’m sorry, Lionel. It’s the only way to get the volume she wants.”

“I’d say we could all do with a bit less bloody volume!” yells Lionel, although what he really wants to say is: “Lou stopped knowing what she wants a long time ago.”

“It can’t be helped I’m afraid!” says Moira.

“No.” Mutters Lionel to himself. “I suppose it can’t.”

XXX

The grass is too high again. Some patches are higher than others. If only each blade would grow at the same rate as its neighbours, then perhaps the lawn could be left longer between mows. It’s the lack of uniformity that really makes things look a mess.

Lionel sees his Qualcast as a uniformity machine. Grass with a mind of its own goes in one end, and an inch-high carpet of green comes out the other. The feeling of control it gives him is beautiful.

XXX

When Ruth opens the front door, Lionel is waiting for her in the hallway. Arms folded.

“Where have you two been?”

“We’ve been down at Forge Dam, haven’t we Lou? Feeding the ducks.”

“Feeding the blasted ducks? My wife is 80 years old, Ruth, not 8.”

“She enjoys it.”

“How the hell would you know?”

“I can just tell.”

“Ruth, Lou and I have been married for over 50 years, and not once in all that time have I ever heard her express any desire to feed a duck. What you have to realise is that she was an intelligent woman who enjoyed interesting things – like air shows and museums and what not. You really should have asked me first.”

“Lionel, you were asleep. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Nonsense. You sneaked out rather than seeking my approval.”

“You were asleep! And anyway, surely I don’t need your approval for every little thing? I do know how to look after people in Lou’s position, Lionel – I am professional carer you know.”

“God dammit woman, don’t I have a say in anything? This is my house! Lou is my wife! I would appreciate a modicum of respect.”

Lou starts to rock in her chair, banging the arm rests and moaning.

“I’m sorry dear,” says Lionel, patting the old lady’s hand, “I didn’t mean to shout.”

XXX

At the edge of the lawn, Lionel pivots his mower through 180 degrees to start the next stripe. He has done this many thousands of times before. Today, however, his foot slips into the little space between the lawn and the patio-edge. He falls on the York stone flags and breaks a hip. At the A & E department, a young doctor tells Lionel that his mowing days are over.

XXX

“Moira, this is madness.”

“What is?”

“This. What you’re doing now. What is the point?”

Moira rolls her eyes, switches the hairdryer off and turns defiantly to face Lionel. “She loves having her hair done. It’s important to her.”

“She hasn’t got a clue what’s happening. You might as well be balancing plates on her head.”

“But it’s what she wanted.”

“Wanted. Past tense. I think you should go, Moira. I’ll pay you for today, but we won’t be needing your services again.”

XXX

The sun’s heat is intense as Lionel watches Carl shove a cheap Flymo around the lawn with all the skill of an ape. From his wicker chair on the patio, the old soldier can see that some of the dandelion stalks have simply been squashed flat, rather than cut. He notes, too, that there are no stripes. It really almost looked better before Carl started.

XXX

Lou sits opposite the dressing table mirror, staring fixedly at her reflection.

Lionel sweats as he tucks a towel around her neck.

“Lord, it’s so hot. You’ll feel much better for a haircut.”

He takes up the scissors and carefully trims back his wife’s hair, letting it fall on to the white tiles below. Then he puts the scissors down.

“Okay, now stay very still please.”

The hair clippers buzz into life. Starting at Lou’s neck, Lionel slowly, methodically, trims a neat line all the way to her forehead. Once there, he pauses. Twists the clippers 180 degrees, and trims another neat line back in the other direction. A few minutes later, every hair on Lou’s head is exactly two millimetres long.

“There you go dear! Far quicker than Moira – and you’ll feel so much cooler now.”

Lou’s gaze remains fixed on her image in the mirror. A tear is sliding down its cheek.

“Gosh, look how much you’re sweating even now!” says Lionel, wiping the salt water away.  “Don’t worry though, I’ll cut it every week.”

Interview

By David White

 

It was part of Percy Grover’s ritual. Once an interview had ended and the interviewee had left the studio (such was the mauling he gave them that only rarely did any of them stay on to wind down in his company over a drink) he, his producer and his two young researchers would sit together for a while and chew the fat.  He would have a whisky or two while his colleagues – all women – stuck to dry white wine. They were not really drinkers; too young to have spent hours in the company of old-style journalists to whom alcohol had been an essential accompaniment to a day’s work.

He kept his make-up on until he got home; it was a mask behind which he felt comfortable.

“Telling,” Samantha, his producer, said. “You pressed all the right buttons.”

She always began with a compliment. She had known him long enough to be aware of his sensitivity to criticism immediately after the event. The following day, in the office, when they met for a ‘de-brief’, the description he preferred over ‘post-mortem’, after he had had time to reflect by himself, was the time to evaluate his performance. It was, he had once said to her, like a football manager with his team on a Monday morning analysing the video of Saturday’s game, not to censure players for their mistakes, but to look for opportunities missed, moves mistimed, situations misread. The two researchers, essential to Percy in preparing for the interviews, were there because they were part of the team, but they were not required to comment on his performance. They were, in any case, too wary of this powerful man to dare to criticise. They were, however, allowed to comment on the material they had fed him and to reflect on how they could have prepared it better – more depth here, pithier examples there. Percy appreciated that. Despite his aggressive public persona he was, in fact, considerate of their feelings, having vivid memories of his own shortcomings sometimes cruelly exposed by his superiors

– 1 –

while he was learning his craft. When he had concerns about these junior colleagues he

would discuss them with Samantha who would raise them privately as part of her nurturing of her little team. They didn’t linger over their wine. Their work for the day was done.

‘He wasn’t up to much tonight, was he?” he said to Samantha of his interviewee, Adrian Gant.

“More nervous than usual” she suggested.

“And with some reason,” Percy said.

She waited for him to explain.

“He’s exhausted, don’t you think? Shouldering too much of the burden of the campaign,” Percy went on.

“But he’s supposed to be energised by campaigning. His people say it’s his thing,” Samantha said. She and Percy had had similar conversations before about the Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition.

“I grant you he’s good at an open-air protest, a mike in his hand and a simple message to deliver without any challenge. Just as he was all those years ago on the back benches. He’d make his criticism – never very long or nuanced – as though he’d lobbed in a Molotov Cocktail, and then get the hell out of it.”

Percy thought most politicians he interviewed were unsubtle, and many rather unintelligent. They hadn’t mastered their subject-matter for a start. He only had to probe a little before their ignorance was exposed. He prided himself on going into every interview better repaired than his interviewee; that way he would always win. Their minds were less agile than his, they knew less and they remembered less. If they should, by chance, say anything unexpected, he had ammunition at his fingertips to spike it. And then he’d got them! Trapped them. Skewered them … and he’d keep them there twisting, turning,

– 2 –

suffering.

Samantha thought he sometimes held those moments too long, unnecessarily prolonging their humiliation. That night he had done it, and she would tell him the next day, but not now. She was all for rigour, for forensic questioning which, quite reasonably, put politicians under pressure, but he was, she thought, increasingly cruel, so that his interviews became  not just revealing, but too uncomfortable to watch.

“He didn’t know his stuff tonight,” Percy said. “He muddled the working hours proposal in his manifesto and he didn’t have much idea how he’d introduce the shorter week. And he was vague about the evidence to support it in the first place.”

“I agree,” she said.

“It’s no use trying to sell a policy when you haven’t done your homework,” Percy said. “He was asking for trouble.”

“It was a good policy, though,’ Samantha said, “ and one that ought to go down well, don’t you think?”

“Be that as it may,” Percy said dismissively.

Samantha admired Adrian Gant – privately, that is – professionally, she was neutral, of course, as was Percy. But Gant was a good man, a man of principle and worth ten of his opponent, the current PM. He had a vision of the society he wanted to create, whereas the PM was an opportunist, a chancer, led by the whims and vagaries of focus groups and attachment to the privileged class into which he was born. It mattered little to him what causes he espoused; he was rich enough not to worry. He was a light-weight and a snake-oil salesman, and she despised him.

“Look,” she said, “I have to get off a bit early tonight, if that’s OK. I need to call in on my mother.”

“Everything alright?” Percy said, pouring himself more whisky.

– 3 –

“She’s having a cataract op tomorrow, and I just want to check she’s got everything ready for the hospital,” Samantha said.

“I hope it all goes well for her,” he said. He sounded genuine in his concern, though he had never met her.

“Thanks. I’ll tell her.”

“Tomorrow, then, at 8 a.m. as usual,” Percy said as she left. “And thanks.”

He would have liked her to stay longer. He finished his drink and poured another. Samantha was a good colleague; their working relationship was excellent. Some years earlier he had hoped for intimacy, but although she was friendly – admiring him, even – he was never quite sure that she shared his deep longing, so did nothing. He had to accept simply spending his working days with her and leaving the rest to his imagination. She was unmarried, lived alone, and kept an eye on her ageing mother. She spoke of no friendships, no intimate relationships. If she had them, she kept them absolutely to herself. And he had no contact with her outside the office and studio.

As he drank, he revisited moments in the evening’s interview. He had had many encounters with Adrian Gant over the years, and not just since he had – surprisingly and almost by accident – become the leader of his party. The maverick back-bencher, the serial rebel, always as critical of his own party leader as he was of the leader of the ruling party he was supposed to oppose, had morphed uncomfortably into his present role. He had flourished on the fringe of things, sniping from the margins, always claiming a purity of conviction that the movers and shakers in the party had long since abandoned in their pursuit of power. There had been several attempts to unseat him played out in full view of the media already hostile to him and to any remotely left-wing politician. And then there had been the open disloyalty of his shadow cabinet – high-profile resignations, leadership

– 4 –

elections in which the party publicly washed its, mainly his, dirty linen. He had survived. Even after a General Election defeat – albeit resulting in a hung parliament – he had survived.

Percy recalled some of the lines with which he had attacked Gant in earlier interviews.

“They don’t like you, Mr Gant, do they? Even your closest colleagues don’t like you. They didn’t want you as their leader and they never will. Shouldn’t you just resign?”

He had seen in Gant’s eyes, the hurt he had caused; and in the crossing and uncrossing of his legs, the slight flushing of his grey cheeks, his embarrassment was all too obvious. He recalled the lameness of his answers – evasive and insubstantial – and how he, sure of his own power as a forensic interrogator, had persisted.

“But don’t you ever, Mr Gant, lie awake in the dark, thinking of the scorn and animosity of your colleagues, and then resolve to walk away from it all and leave the field to someone who can do a better job?”

“It’s not about me,” Gant had said, “or my feelings. I am elected by the biggest membership of any political party in Europe on the basis of my policies – policies that millions of our poorest people desperately need to see enacted. That’s what I think about. That’s what concerns me.”

“I accept what you say, Mr Gant, but couldn’t you be mistaken about the millions who you say need your policies? There’s no evidence that they support them – plunging support in the latest opinion polls – and they don’t reckon much of you either. Do you know your current, personal popularity rating with the public?”

Percy had known that he would, but that Gant wouldn’t acknowledge it, so, after a few attempts to squeeze it out of him, he would tell him. That was one of his trademark techniques – creating a ‘revelation’, a moment that was embarrassing to his interviewee.

– 5 –

It worked. As the number was given, Gant missed a beat or two before responding – not to it, but moving the conversation on.

“Percy, since you’re so interested in numbers, what about some other numbers that will mean much more to people out there? The number of libraries closed by the government, the number of food banks its policies have produced, the number of police no longer on our streets, the number of nurses no longer in our hospitals, the number of NHS targets missed – “

“- Of course, Mr Gant, I’m interested in this as the electors will be, but at the moment I’m interested in you and what they think of your numbers. But I note that you have nothing to say about your own approval rating. And people can make what they will of that …”

Then Percy would move on quickly to another topic having given his audience the appearance of having won that round.

A more accomplished politician would not have let Percy get away with that. He would have given him the numbers for the issues he had raised, and asked him why he didn’t talk about them, as if Percy was somehow protecting the government’s record and biased against him and his party. When interviewees turned on him, he was more than ready to slap them down. He quite liked it if they did; it gave edge and drama to the exchange, and clips of it would be viewed by millions on YouTube and then re-tweeted endlessly on social media. He would very quickly take back control and enhance his own reputation as the network’s most formidable interviewer.

“I wonder, Mr Gant,” Percy said, “what the British public thinks of the friends you have made over the years. Should they trust a man who shares platforms with terrorists and breaks bread with members of illegal organisations. So, I ask you, Mr Gant, are you entirely happy with the political allies you have made?”

– 6 –

And when Gant had uttered the first few words of a reply, he interrupted him with with dates and times when he had met these bogeymen.

“How do you explain those meetings, Mr Gant?”

Again, he let him begin an answer only to break in on him once more.

“Don’t you accept, Mr Gant, that such friends worry the voters? Isn’t it reasonable for them to doubt how trustworthy you are … whether the security of the country would be safe in your hands?”

Adrian Gant looked pained. Percy’s taunts dismayed him. They were not new. The right-wing press had devoted page after page to its portrayal of him as ‘the enemy within’, always on the side of the country’s opponents. He had countered all of this many times before, but the issues involved were more complicated, and took time to explain. Party leaders did interviews during elections to sell their policies. He could feel the time slipping away, and as he spoke he could see in his mind’s eye the headlines being written about him, the clips being updated to further demonise him.

“Percy,” he said, “if everyone who tries to explore routes to peace in appalling conflicts is to be abused and denigrated, then there would be no end – “

“But I’m not abusing or denigrating, I’m just exploring the character of a man seeking to lead the lead the country and – “

“Maybe you’d let me finish a sentence if you really want an answer,” Adrian Gant said, clearly angry.

Percy was pleased. Even if he couldn’t push him far enough to walk out on the interview, he could at least engineer a full-blown spat.

“The answer is not for me, Mr Gant, it’s for the nation,” Percy said pompously. “Go ahead.”

Adrian Gant had barely begun when Percy cut him off.

– 7 –

“Thank you for that, but time has run out, Mr Gant.”

He reached towards him to shake his hand, but his interviewee did not take it; instead he busied himself taking off his microphone. The cameras caught the moment and the smile on Percy’s face.

While Percy had another whisky, he flicked through his researchers’ notes for an interview with another leader in a few days, then left for home.

His wife was already in bed, though not asleep.

“You’re late,” she said.

“Am I?” Percy said. “Yes, maybe … but it was a big night.”

He moved around the bedroom unsteadily. She noticed but didn’t draw attention to it.

”I watched it,” she said, “but I didn’t like it.”

As Percy climbed into bed beside her, she put down her book, switched off the light, turned her back on him, and thought of Adrian Gant in his bed, angry and humiliated. Percy thought about Samantha, imagining the touch of her skin against his.