Twenty Twelve (4 page)

‘Can I get you a drink?’

I look up and see Simon Benning hovering over a decanter of brandy. He’s what Dad calls a fixer.

To be honest, I don’t know if I want a drink or not. One minute I was standing beside an ambulance, the paramedic looking into my ears with a torch, and the next I was being bundled into a black Range Rover with tinted windows and whisked over here. It all feels unreal. As if there’s a glass partition between me and the rest of the world. I can see everything well enough, but I’m physically detached.

Benning pours three large brandies. ‘Frankly, I think we could all bloody do with one.’

He places a glass in front of me with a smile, but there’s none of the PM’s warmth in it.

‘You’re probably wondering why we dragged you over here,’ says the PM.

I shrug as if it’s nothing.

‘Unfortunately, Sam is still unconscious,’ he says. ‘We have no idea when he’ll wake up, and even then . . .’ He lets his voice trail off.

So that’s it. Sam is being replaced by another minister, who will bring with him his own number two. I’m being sacked. Story of my life. Never quite making it to the winner’s podium.

I bring the glass to my lips and take a mouthful. The brandy burns my throat but I take another gulp. Nearly killed and out of a job in the space of an hour. Not bad, even by my standards. I pour the remaining spirit into my mouth, draining the glass. I’m not sure a doctor would approve, but frankly I just want to feel better.

‘We’d like you to take over,’ says the PM.

I cough and swallow at the same time, brandy shooting up my nose. I splutter into one hand and wipe tears from my eyes with the back of the other. ‘Sorry,’ I choke.

Benning holds out a pristine white handkerchief between thumb and forefinger. Gratefully I take it and hold it over my mouth until the coughing subsides. When at last I can speak, all I can manage is another apology.

The PM is still wearing a kind smile. ‘So what do you say?’

I blow my nose and shake my head. ‘It’s very generous, but while I’m more than happy to assist I just don’t think I’m ready for the responsibility of such a huge task.’

‘I think you are,’ says the PM.

‘But after this?’ I say.

‘Especially after this.’

Benning crosses his arms and watches me over his beak-like nose. He resembles a bird of prey about to swoop. I realise I’m the doormouse.

‘To be honest with you, Jo, the prime minister wanted to give you something bigger in the reshuffle.’

I raise my eyebrows. I was given no hint that I was even being considered for one of the senior posts.

‘You might hate me for this, Jo,’ Benning continues, ‘but I scuppered that for you.’ He runs a bony finger around the rim of his own still-f glass. ‘The Olympics are the most important thing on the political agenda right now and I thought we needed you on it. No doubt you’ll think I held you back, but I won’t apologise. You were the right woman for the job and you still are.’

I’m gobsmacked. The PM and Benning both look at me intently and I realise they expect me to say something. I can’t. I open and close my mouth like a fish, but nothing comes out.

‘The country needs these Olympics to be successful,’ says Benning. ‘The country needs you.’

My mind somersaults. Is it possible that after all the years of not quite cutting it, Jo Connolly is, at last, of importance?

The PM envelops me with a smile. Everyone matters. Even me. ‘Will you take the job?’ he asks.

‘I’m not a minister,’ I say. ‘I’m not even an MP. I work in the background.’

‘I think you’ve proved yourself to be much more capable than that,’ says the PM.

I can’t do it. I’m not cut out for it. Too pretty. Too indecisive. ‘Couldn’t you appoint a new minister?’ I stutter. ‘I’d be only too happy to get them up to speed.’

‘I don’t think that’s feasible, Jo,’ says the PM. ‘I think it would be far better if you headed it up.’

I gulp. Could I really pull it off like he says?

‘Come on, Jo,’ says the PM. ‘Do it as a favour to me.’

‘Okay,’ I say.

No sooner is the word out of my mouth than Benning stands, whipping a mobile from his inside pocket. ‘I’ll call Kylie.’

I gulp. Sacha Minogue owns Media Nation. Papers, TV and radio. The man who decides what half the world sees, hears and reads with its cornflakes.

Benning stabs one button. He has Kylie on his speed dial. Of course he does.

‘We’re on,’ he says and hangs up.

The PM gets up, straightens his tie and heads for the door. When I assume he has nothing more to say to me, he turns. The sparkle has left him and in its place I sense a heavy heart.

‘Thank you, Jo.’ His voice is quiet. ‘Thank you very much.’

The door closes behind him and Benning snaps on the TV. I notice the channel is one that belongs to Media Nation.

A posse of reporters has gathered in the street outside Number Ten. When the PM appears they wave tape recorders, cameras and booms at him. His special smile is back in place and the press pack all call out at once.

‘Prime Minister, is it true that Muslim extremists are behind this attack?’

‘Prime Minister, was the Secretary for Culture, Olympics, Media and Sport killed by the blast?’

The PM puts up his hands in mock surrender. ‘The answer to those questions is no and no. My great friend Sam Clancy was very badly injured but I have absolute faith in the medical staff who, as with every patient, are doing all they can.’

Another barrage of questions is volleyed at him but he simply bats them away. God, he reminds me of Dad in his younger days.

‘As for the first question, let me be very clear here.’ He pauses and straightens up to his full height. ‘There is no evidence whatsoever that this tragedy was anything more than a terrible accident. The security services are at the scene, identifying exactly what happened and as soon as they tell me, I will make an announcement.’

I turn to Benning in shock. ‘An accident?’

He doesn’t take his eyes from the screen, but nods distractedly.

‘I’d assumed it was a bomb,’ I say. ‘A terrorist attack.’

Benning raises an eyebrow. ‘Never assume, Jo. We spoke to MI5 before you came over and they were absolutely clear that there is nothing at this moment to support that theory.’

Benning’s right – I did put two and two together and make eight.

‘A gas leak, perhaps?’ I ask.

‘That was mentioned during our discussions with MI5,’ says Benning. He directs me back to the screen with his finger.

‘Will the Olympics be called off?’ cries one of the hacks.

The PM shakes his head. ‘This country has seen bigger setbacks than this.’

‘Who’s taking over from Sam?’ another reporter calls out.

The PM lets a tiny smile seep out. ‘I’m pleased to announce that Jo Connolly has agreed to take over the post.’

The buzz through the press pack is incredible. I’m taken aback at their excitement.

‘Is she coming out?’ they shout.

The PM pushes his palms forward as if he were physically keeping them at bay.

‘Give the lady a break,’ he says. ‘You all know what she’s been through today.’

Shouts of disappointment rage through the crowd and the camera focuses away from the PM to the door of Number Ten.

‘Come out, Jo,’ one journalist shouts. The others laugh, but soon join the fray.

I watch open-mouthed as they chant my name. I turn my head and realise Benning is no longer watching the screen but me instead. I realise too that my mouth is still gaping.

‘Well?’ he says.

‘Well what?’

He stifles a small sigh. ‘Do you think you could go out there and give them a few words?’

I laugh, assuming it’s a joke, but in the space of five minutes this is the second time I grasp that assumptions are a bad thing in politics.

‘Don’t answer any questions.’ He puts his hand in the small of my back and urges me towards the door. ‘Just say how sad you are for Sam, but what an honour it is to take over.’

I almost trip in the corridor as my feet fail to keep up with events.

‘You should definitely mention the kid you saved,’ he adds and I cringe at the memory of how I almost left her behind.

‘What should I say?’ I ask.

‘That you couldn’t stand by and let the girl die,’ he says. ‘Don’t forget to point out that she’s handicapped.’

‘Disabled,’ I murmur.

‘What?’

‘Society handicaps her,’ I say. ‘The child is disabled.’

He glares at me. ‘Whatever.’

As we approach the door I catch my reflection in a mirror. My face is streaked with dirt, my shirt is torn and bloodied. ‘Shouldn’t I get cleaned up?’

Benning shakes his head. ‘You’re going to have to learn very fast, Jo.’

When I step outside a roar goes up and I’m blinded by hundreds of flashes. My heart leaps and I’m tempted to run back inside. The PM welcomes me to him with open arms and I squint and make my way over.

He puts a protective arm around my shoulders and wags a finger at the assembly.

‘This isn’t the
Today
programme,’ he says. ‘Jo will give a few words and then she needs to get some rest.’

After more snapping cameras, everyone falls silent. I realise they’re expecting me to speak.

‘I don’t think I could ever have imagined a worse way to be offered this job,’ I begin. ‘Sam Clancy is a great friend and colleague. He had a real vision for these Games and I only hope that I can do that vision justice. No doubt when he recovers from this accident he’ll be straight back to work.’

‘So you agree it was an accident?’ asks one of the journalists.

I nod. ‘Secret services have confirmed it.’

‘What about Paddy?’ shouts another. ‘Will he be pleased that you’ve turned out to be a chip off the old block?’

I smile politely, wondering indeed what the old man will make of this turn of events.

Mama’s lips move silently as she reads the book of Revelations, her finger tracing the words so she won’t miss out a single one. For almost two hours she’s sat at the kitchen table, a candle flickering next to her. The house is so hot and still, the girls have fallen asleep, Rebecca sucking her thumb like a baby, though she ain’t the youngest
.

Isaac wishes he had gone off with his daddy and his brother. They set out at daybreak to get as far as the ridge while the air was still cool. Probably sitting by Old Maple Creek right now, trailing their toes in the cold water, the morning’s catch tied to a rope by their feet and hung between two hickory trees
.

Isaac’s a good fisherman. Better than Noah, who is almost three years older. Bet he could have gotten a couple of catfish if only they’d let him go. Instead, he’s been stuck inside all day cus he was sick last night
.

He’d pulled on his boots anyway when the others were ready to leave
.

‘You are going nowhere, young man.’ Mama had her hands on her hips
.

‘I’m fine,’ he told her
.

‘You’re running a fever as hot as the pit itself,’ she said
.

Isaac had appealed to his father. ‘I feel all fixed, Daddy.’

‘Listen to your Mama, Isaac,’ he said with a smile
.

Then they left, Noah poking out his tongue as he slung a rifle and rod over his shoulder. Isaac would have liked to rip it right out of his mouth
.

When they got to the far side of the yard, Daddy turned back and raised a hand to Isaac, who was skulking in the doorway. ‘Remember now, you’re the man of the house while I’m gone.’

I read somewhere that there are over two hundred bones in a human body and this morning I can feel every single one of them. Even the tiny ones in your feet that footballers routinely break before the World Cup. Yesterday I kept going on adrenaline and brandy. Today I ache from the top of my skull to my little toe.

In the shower I have to scrape off the grime and dried blood. I wince as I soap myself down. Tiny pieces of plaster and sand fall from my scalp like shrapnel and collect at my feet. When I’m finally clean I don’t move, letting the stream of water wash over me and ease my stiffness.

My mobile rings but I leave it, my face upturned to the warmth of the soothing water. Moments later it rings again.

I groan and regret agreeing to start work immediately. I should have done what the nice paramedic suggested and taken at least a day or two off.

‘
Carpe diem,’
the PM had said.

It had seemed a good idea at the time.

When it rings a third time I stumble from the cubicle. I reach for the phone and a searing pain runs across my shoulder blades.

‘Aagh!’ I shout into my phone.

‘Miss Connolly?’ It’s a woman’s voice.

‘Yes.’

The woman sounds nervous. ‘Are you okay?’

I press my phone between my jaw and my shoulder and lower myself onto the bed. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Right.’ She doesn’t sound sure.

I let myself flop back onto my duvet. ‘I’m great, honestly. How can I help you?’

She lets out a breath, relieved. ‘It’s Highfields Hospital here.’

Dad. Shit. I sit bolt upright, pain surging through me again. ‘Aaaghh.’