one of his several direct lines. His voice is fond, almost obsequious.
‘We’re there, Jay. Bit of nitpicking, as had to be expected. Roy’s formula went down a treat … Absolutely not, old boy! I didn’t offer it, he didn’t ask for it. If he had asked, I’d have said, “Sorry, mate, not my business. If you feel you’ve a claim, take it up with Jay” … probably fancies himself a cut above you bounty-hunters …’ A sudden outburst, part anger, part relief: ‘And if there’s one thing in the world I can’t stand, it’s being preached at by a fucking Welsh dwarf!’
Laughter, distantly echoed over the phone. Change of subject. Ministerial yeses and of courses:
‘… and Maisie’s all right with that, is she? Still on side, no headaches? Atta girl …’
Long silence. Quinn again, but with a submissive fall in the voice:
‘Well, I suppose if that’s what Brad’s people want, that’s what they must have, no question … all right, yes, fourish … the wood, or Brad’s place? … the wood suits me a lot better, to be frank, more private … No, no, thanks, no limo. I’ll grab a common black cab. See you fourish.’
*
Toby sat on the edge of his bed. On the sheets, traces of their final loveless coupling. On the BlackBerry beside him, the text of his last message to Oakley sent an hour ago: love life shattered vital we talk soonest, Toby.
Change sheets.
Clear bathroom of Isabel’s detritus.
Wash up last night’s supper dishes.
Pour rest of red Burgundy down sink.
Repeat after me: countdown’s already begun … here we are with the bloody clock ticking … see you on the night, as they say, Paul.
Which night? Last night? Tomorrow night?
And still no message.
Make omelette. Leave half.
Switch on Newsnight, encounter one of God’s little ironies. Roy Stormont-Taylor, Queen’s Counsel, the silkiest silk in the business, in striped shirt and white open-necked collar, is pontificating on the essential differences between law and justice.
Take aspirin. Lie on bed.
And at some point, unknown to himself, he must have dozed off, because the shriek of a text message on his BlackBerry woke him like a fire alarm:
Urge you forget lady permanently.
No signature.
Text back, furiously and impulsively: No way. Too bloody important. Vital we discuss soonest. Bell.
*
All life has ceased.
After the headlong sprint, the sudden, endless, fruitless wait.
To sit all day long at his kneehole desk in the ministerial anteroom.
To work methodically through his emails, take phone calls, make them, barely recognizing his own voice. Giles, where in God’s name are you?
At night, when he should be celebrating bachelorhood regained, to lie awake longing for Isabel’s chatter and the solace of their carnality. To listen to the sounds of carefree passers-by in the street below his window and pray to be one of them; to envy the shadows in the curtained windows opposite.
And once – is it night one or two? – to be woken from a half-sleep to the absurdly melodious strains of a male choir declaring itself – as if for Toby’s ears alone – ‘impatient for the coming fight as we wait the morning’s light’. Convinced he is going mad, he scrambles to the window and sees below him a ring of ghostly men in green, bearing lanterns. And he remembers belatedly that it’s St Patrick’s Day and they are singing ‘A Soldier’s Song’ and Islington has a thriving Irish population: which in turn sends his mind skimming back to Hermione.
Try calling her again? No way.
As to Quinn, the minister has providentially embarked on one of his unexplained absences, this time an extended one. Providentially? – or ominously? Only once does he offer any sign of life: a mid-afternoon phone call to Toby’s cellphone. His voice has a metallic echo, as if it is speaking from a bare cell. Its tone verges on the hysterical:
‘Is that you?’
‘It is indeed, Minister. Bell. What can I do for you?’
‘Just tell me who’s been trying to get hold of me, that’s all. Serious people, not riff-raff.’
‘Well, to be frank, Minister, nobody very much. The lines have been strangely quiet’ – which is no less than the truth.
‘What do you mean, “strangely”? Strangely how? What’s strange? There’s nothing strange going on, hear me?’
‘I wasn’t suggesting there was, Minister. Just that the silence is – unusual?’
‘Well, keep it that way.’
As to Giles Oakley, unwavering object of Toby’s despair, he is being equally elusive. First, according to Victoria, his assistant, he is still in Doha. Then he is in conference all day and possibly all night as