He neither expected nor received preferential treatment, even as the Party's Director of Publicity and one of its best-known members of staff. But then he doubted whether they voted at all, let alone for the Government. What did politics matter when there was a lot of loose tax-free money to make?
The taxi at last managed to make it across Shaftesbury
Avenue and into Wardour Street, only to be met by another wall of solid traffic. Christ, he would miss them. He flung open the door.
‘I’ll walk’ he shouted at the driver.
'Sorry, mate. It's not my fault Costs me a fortune stuck in jams like this,' replied the driver, indicating that O'Neill's impatience should not lead him to forget a tip.
O'Neill jumped out into the road, jammed a note into the driver's hand and dodged another motorcyclist as he made his way past peep shows and Chinese restaurants into a narrow, Dickensian alley piled high with rubbish. He squeezed past the plastic bin liners and cardboard boxes and broke into a run. He was not fit and it hurt, but he did not have far to go. As he reached Dean Street he turned left, and a hundred yards further down ducked into the narrow opening to one of those Soho mews which most people miss as they concentrate on trying either to find the whores or to avoid them. Off the main street; the mews opened out into a small yard, surrounded on all sides by workshops and garages which had been carved out of the old Victorian warehouses. The yard was empty and his footsteps rang out on the cobbles as he hurried towards a small green door set in the far, dark comer of the yard. He stopped only to look around once before entering. He did not knock.
Less than three minutes later he had re-emerged, and without glancing to either side hurried back into the crowds of Dean Street. Whatever he had come for, it clearly was not sex.
Inside party headquarters the atmosphere was strangely quiet. After the weeks of ceaseless activity during the general election campaign, most of the officers and troops had disappeared on election day itself to carry the combat into the far outposts of the constituencies, drumming up the last few and possibly crucial converts for the cause. Most of those who remained were by now taking an early supper at nearby restaurants or clubs, trying to sound confident and relaxed but lapsing repeatedly into insecure discussion of the latest rumours about voter turnout and exit polls. Few of them enjoyed the break, and they, soon began drifting back, pushing their way through the evergrowing crowds of spectators and cordons of police. They found great comfort in their overcrowded and cluttered offices which for the last month had become their home, and they settled in for what would seem an interminable wait.
As Big Ben struck 10 o'clock and dusk at last began to take a firm hold, an audible sigh of relief went up from around the building. The polling booths had closed and no further appeal, explanation, attack, insinuation or - more predictably - almighty cock-up could now affect the result. It was over. One or two of them shook each other's hand in silent reassurance and respect for the job done. Just how well done they would shortly discover.
As on so many previous evenings, like a religious ritual they turned their attention to the familiar voice of Sir Alastair Burnet. He appeared for every purpose like a latter-day Gabriel, with his reassuring tones and flowing silver hair which had just enough back lighting to give him a halo effect. For the next few hours God would have to take second place.
'Good evening. The election campaign is now over. Just seconds ago thousands of polling booths across the country closed their doors, and the first result is expected in just forty-five minutes. We shall shortly be going over live for interviews with the Prime Minister, Henry Collingridge, in his Warwickshire constituency, and the Opposition leader in South Wales.
'But first ITN's exclusive exit poll conducted by Harris Research International outside 153 polling booths across the country during today's voting. It gives the following prediction...'
The country's most senior newsreader opened a large envelope in front of him, as reverently as if the A4 Manila contained his own death certificate. He extracted a large card from within the envelope, and glanced at it. Not too quickly, not too slowly he raised his eyes once more to the cameras, and the venerable broadcaster held 30 million viewers in the palm of his hand, teasing them gently. He was entitled to his moment. After twenty-eight years and nine general elections as a television broadcaster, he had already announced that this was to be his last.
ITN’S exclusive exit poll forecast - and I emphasise this is a forecast, not a result - is...'
He glanced once more at the card, just to check he had not misread it. His professional, emotionless eyes betrayed not a hint of his own views on the matter. From somewhere within Smith Square the sound of a prematurely loosened champagne cork broke the straining silence, but they ignored the cold and sticky froth as it splashed over the desk top.
'... that the Government will be re-elected with a majority of 34.'
The building itself seemed to tremble as a roar of triumph mixed with relief came from deep within. It was winning and only winning that mattered to the professionals, not how they played the game or how close the result. Time enough later for sober reflection as to whether they would be deemed to have had a 'good' war or not.
The whoops of joy drowned out the protesting tones of Sir Alastair as he continued to remind his audience that this was a forecast and definitely not a result, and in any event was much closer than the opinion polls had been predicting. The screen briefly divided between mute shots of the party leaders taking in the prediction, Collingridge displaying a thin humourless smile which indicated no pleasure, while the broad grin and shake of his opponent's head left viewers in no doubt that the Opposition had yet to concede. 'Wait and see,' he was mouthing, 'wait and see', but the producer did not wait to see and cut back to Burnet as he proceeded to report on the rest of the election night news. .
'Bollocks’ Preston was shouting, his hair falling into his eyes. 'What have they done?' He looked at the ruins of his first edition, and began furiously scribbling on his notepad. 'Government Majority Slashed!' he tried. It's Too Close To Call'. 'Collingridge Squeaks In'. They all ended up in the bin.
He looked around desperately for some help and inspiration.
'Let's wait’ Mattie advised. It's only thirty minutes to the first result.'
Even without the first result, celebrations were already well under way at the Party's advertising agency. With the confidence that is shown by all positive thinkers, the staff of Merrill Grant Jones Company PLC had been squashed for nearly three hours in the agency's reception area to witness history in the making projected on two vast TV screens. Not that history would be made for at least another seventeen minutes or so, but like all positive thinkers they prided themselves in being ahead of the game, and the champagne was already flowing to wash down an endless supply of deep pan pizzas and Big Macs. Indeed, the predictions of a drastically reduced majority had only served to spur those present on to greater efforts. Even at this early hour it was clear that two ornamental fig trees which had graced the reception area for several years would not survive the night, and it seemed probable that several young secretaries wouldn't either. Most of the wiser heads were pacing themselves much better, but there seemed to be little reason to exercise excessive restraint. Particularly as the client was setting a fearsome example.
Like so many expatriate Dublin adventurers, Roger O'Neill was renowned for his quick wit, exaggeration and determination to be involved in everything. So many and varied had been his involvements and so wittily had he exaggerated them that no one could be quite certain precisely what he had done before he joined the Party - it was something in public relations or television, they thought, and there was rumour about a problem with the Inland Revenue - but he had been available when the post of Publicity Director had become vacant and he had filled it with great energy, fuelled by a ceaseless supply of Gauloises and vodka-tonics.
As a young man he had shown great promise as a fly-half on the rugby field, but had never fulfilled it, his highly individualistic style making him ill-suited for team games. 'With him on the field’ complained his coach, I've got two teams out there, Roger and fourteen other players’
At the age of forty his unruly shock of dark hair was now perceptibly greying and his muscle tone long since gone, but O'Neill refused stubbornly to acknowledge the evidence of middle age, hiding it beneath a carefully selected wardrobe worn with a deliberate casualness which displayed the designers' labels to their best advantage. His non-conformist approach and the lingering traces of an Irish accent had not always endeared him to the Party's grandees - 'all bullshit and no bottom' one of them had loudly observed - but others were simply overwhelmed by his unusual energy and charm.
And then there was his secretary. Penelope - Hi, I'm Penny' - Guy. Five foot ten, an exciting choice of clothes, a devastating figure on which to hang them. And she was black. Not just dusky or dark but a polished hue of black that made her eyes twinkle and her smile fill the entire room. She had a university degree in the History of Art, 120 wpm shorthand, and was ruthlessly efficient and practical. Of course there had been much gossip when she had first arrived with O'Neill, but her sheer efficiency had silenced, if not won over, the Doubting Thomases, of which there were many.
And she was totally discreet. 1 have a private life’ she explained. 'And that's just how it's going to stay.'
Right now at Merrill Grant Jones - Grunt Groans as Penny preferred to call them - she was effortlessly providing the centre of attention for several red-blooded media buyers plus the deputy creative director while at the same time carefully ensuring that O'Neill's glass and cigarettes were always available but closely rationed. She didn't want him going over the top tonight of all nights.
He was deep in conversation with the agency's managing director.
1 want you to complete the analysis as soon as possible, Jeremy. It's got to show just how effective our marketing and advertising have been in the election. It needs to be divided into the usual age and social groups so that we can show how we hit our target voters. If we win, I want everyone to know that they owe it to us. If we lose, God help us...' He sneezed violently.'... I want to be able to show the press that we beat them hands down at communications and it was only the politics which blew it. We shall have to live off this for the next few years, so don't screw it up. You know what we need, and it's got to be ready by Saturday morning at the latest if we're to get it in the Sunday papers as prominently as possible.'
He spoke a little more quietly. 'If you can't get the figures, make the bloody things up. They will all be too exhausted to look at them closely, and if we get in there first and loudest we'll be fine.'
He paused only to blow his nose, which did nothing to ease the other man's visible discomfort.
'And remember that I want you to send the most enormous bunch of flowers around to the PM's wife first thing in the morning. In the shape of a gigantic letter 'C. She must get them as soon as she wakes up. She'll get into a twist if they don't arrive because I've already told her they are corning. And I want the TV cameras to film them going in and to know who's sent them, so make sure they are bigger and more eye-catching than anything they've ever seen before. Even better, send them round in the back of oneof your company vans. That should look good pulled up outside Number Ten’
The advertising executive was used to his client's breathless monologues by now, and even to some of the extraordinary instructions and accounting procedures issued by O'Neill. But a political party was unlike any other client he had ever encountered, and the last two years working on the account had given him and his youthful agency more than enough publicity to stifle most of the lingering doubts.
Now the election was over, however, and he was waiting nervously for the results, a silent fear struck him as he thought of what would happen if they lost; to have supported the losing side, probably to be made the scapegoat for failure. It had all looked rather different when they had started the work, with the opinion polls predicting a comfortable win. But his confidence had begun to evaporate with the exit polls. In an industry of images, he realised that his business could wither as rapidly as the flowers which O'Neill was making such a fuss about
He sucked his tip nervously as O'Neill rattled on, until their attention was grabbed by the six-foot image of Sir Alastair, who was now holding his ear with his head cocked to one side. Something was corning through his earpiece.
'And now I believe we are ready for the first result of the evening, which looks likely to be in Torbay once again. Breaking all records. It is just forty-three minutes after the polls have closed, and already the candidates are gathering behind the returning officer and it's time to go over live...'
In Torbay Town Hall, amidst the banks of hyacinths and spider plants, rosettes and mayoral regalia, the first result was being announced. The scene resembled more a village pantomime than an election, as the promise of nationwide television coverage had attracted more than the usual number of crank candidates who were now doing their best to capture the moment by waving balloons and brightly coloured hats to attract the cameras' attention.
The Sunshine Candidate, dressed from head to toe in a bright yellow leotard and waving the most enormous plastic sunflower, stood firmly in front of the sober suited Tory, who tried to move to his left to escape from the embarrassment but only succeeded in bumping into the National Front candidate, who was inciting a minor riot in the crowd by displaying a clenched fist and an armful of tattoos. Not quite sure what his candidates manual would prescribe in such circumstances, he reluctantly retreated back behind the sunflower.
Sir Alastair came to his rescue. 'So there we have it from colourful Torbay. The Government hold the first seat of the night but with a reduced majority and a swing against them of, the computer says, nearly 8 per cent. What does that mean, Peter?' asked Burnet, as the screen cut to ITN's tame academic commentator, a bespectacled and rather ragged figure in Oxford tweeds.
It means the exit poll is just about right, Alastair.'
'Great show, Roger, isn't it? After all, it looks like another majority. I can't tell you how absolutely relieved and delighted I am. Well done indeed,' enthused the chairman of one of Grunt Groans major clients, thoroughly enjoying what was tinning into a fully-fledged victory party irrespective of the fact that the Government had just lost its first two seats of the night. He was standing crushed together along with two other invited clients and the agency's chairman in a corner which gave some slight relief from the pressure of celebration going on all around. 'That's very kind of you, Harold. Yes, I think a 30 or 40-seat majority will be enough. But you must take some of the credit.' O'Neill was gushing. ‘I was reminding the Prime Minister just the other day how your support goes way beyond the Corporate donation. I remember the speech you gave at the Industrial Society lunch last March. You know, it was extremely good, you really got the message home well. Surely you've had professional training?'
Without waiting for an answer, O'Neill rushed on. ‘you've pushed home the message about gaining cooperation from all sides by showing leadership from the top and I told Henry- I'm sorry, the PM - that we need to find more platforms for captains of industry like you to express these views.'
There was no need for that,' replied the captain without the slightest trace of sincerity. The champagne had already overcome his natural caution and images of ermine and the House of Lords began to materialise in front of his eyes. 'But that was very kind of you. Look, when this is all over perhaps we could have lunch together. Somewhere a little quieter, eh? I have several other ideas on which I would very much welcome your views.' y O'Neill's response was a series of enormous sneezes which bent him almost double, leaving his eyes tearful and rendering any hope of continued conversation impossible.