They were rescued by Williams, who had just put down the phone. 'Don't let me interrupt, but Henry will be here any minute.'
I’ll come down with you,' volunteered Urquhart immediately.
'And you, Michael?' asked Williams.
I’ll wait here. There will be quite a rush when he arrives. I don't want to get trampled.'
Urquhart wondered whether Samuel was having a gentle dig at him, but chose to ignore it and accompanied Williams down the stairs, which had become crowded with excited office staff as the word had spread of the Prime Minister's imminent arrival. The appearance of the Party Chairman and Chief Whip outside on the pavement galvanised the cheerleaders, who resumed their attempts to raise the spirits of the crowd. An organised cheer went up as the armoured black Daimler with its battalion of escorts swung around the square, to be greeted by the brilliance of the television lights and a thousand flaring flashguns as both professional and amateur cameramen tried to capture the scene.
As the car drew to a halt, Collingridge emerged from the rear seat and turned to wave to the crowd and the cameras. Urquhart tried just a little too hard to get to him to shake his hand, and instead managed to get in the way. He retreated apologetically while on the other side of the car Lord Williams, with the chivalry and familiarity which comes of many years, carefully assisted the Prime Minister's wife out of the car and planted an avuncular kiss on her cheek. A bouquet appeared from somewhere along with two dozen party officials and dignitaries who all wished to get in on the act, and the whole heaving throng somehow managed to squeeze through the swing doors and into the building.
Similar scenes of confusion and congestion were repeated inside as the Prime Minister's party tried to push its way upstairs through the workers, pausing only for. a traditional word of thanks to the staff from the stairs, which had to be repeated because of the press photographers had not managed to assemble themselves quickly enough.
Once upstairs in the relative safety of Lord Williams' suite, the signs of strain which had been so well hidden all evening began to appear for the first time on the Prime Minister's face. The television set in the comer was just announcing that the computer was predicting a still lower majority, and Collingridge let out a long, low sigh. His eyes wandered slowly round the room.
'Has Charles been around this evening?' he asked quietly. Charles Collingridge was nowhere to be seen. The Prime Minister's eyes met those of the Chairman.
Tm sorry,' the older man replied.
Sorry for what?’ thought Collingridge. The fact that my brother's a drunk? Sorry that I seem almost to have thrown away our parliamentary majority? Sorry that you will have to carry the can along with me? But anyway, thanks for caring.
He was suddenly feeling desperately tired as the adrenalin ceased to flow. After weeks of being hemmed in on all sides by people and without a single private moment to himself, he felt an overwhelming need to be on his own and he turned away to find somewhere a little quieter and a little more private. Instead he found his way blocked by Urquhart who was standing right by his shoulder. The Chief Whip was thrusting an envelope at him.
I've been giving some thought to the reshuffle’ he said. 'While this is hardly the time, I know you will be thinking about it over the weekend so I have prepared some suggestions. I know you prefer some positive ideas rather than a blank sheet of paper, so I hope you find this of use.'
Collingridge looked at the envelope and raised his exhausted eyes to Urquhart. ‘You're right. This is scarcely the time. Perhaps we should be thinking about securing our majority before we start sacking our colleagues’
The sarcasm cut deep into Urquhart, deeper than the Prime Minister had intended, and he realised he had gone too far.
I'm sorry, Francis. I'm afraid I am a little tired. Of course you're quite right to think ahead. Look, I would like you and Teddy to come round on Sunday afternoon to discuss it. Perhaps you would be kind enough to let Teddy have a copy of your letter now, and send one round to me at Downing Street tomorrow - rather, later this morning’
Urquhart stood rigid with embarrassment at the semi-public rebuke he had received. He realised that he had been all too anxious about the reshuffle, and cursed himself for his folly. His natural assurance seemed to desert him when it came to Collingridge, a grammar school product who in social terms would have had trouble gaining membership of his club. The role reversal in Government unnerved him, unsettled him, and he found himself acting out of character when he was in the other man's presence. He was frustrated with his inadequacy, and quietly loathed Collingridge and all his kind for undermining his position. But now was not the time, and he retreated into affability.
'Of course, Prime Minister. I will let Teddy have a copy straight away.'
'Better copy it yourself. Wouldn't do to have that list getting around here tonight,' smiled Collingridge as he tried to bring Urquhart back into the conspiracy of power which always hovers around Downing Street. In any event, I think it's time for me to depart. The BBC will want me bright and sparkling in four hours' time, so I shall wait for the rest of the results in Downing Street’
He turned to Williams. 'By the way, what is the computer predicting now?'
It's been stuck on 24 for about half an hour now. I think that's it.' There was no sign of pleasure or sense of victory in his voice. He had just presided over the Party's worst election result in nearly two decades.
'Never mind, Teddy. A majority is a majority. And it will give the Chief Whip something to do instead of sitting idly around with a majority of over a hundred. Eh, Francis?' And with that he strode out of the room, leaving Urquhart clutching his envelope.
With the Prime Minister's departure the crowds both inside and outside the building began perceptibly to melt, and Urquhart made his way to the back of the first floor where he knew the nearest photocopier could be found.
Room 132A was not an office at all, but a windowless closet barely six feet across which was kept for supplies and confidential photocopying. As Urquhart opened the door the smell hit him before he had time to find the light switch. Slumped on the floor by the narrow metal storage shelves was Charles Collingridge, who had soiled his clothes even as he slept. There was no glass or bottle anywhere to be seen, but the smell of whisky was heavy in the air. He had crawled away to find the least embarrassing place to collapse.
Urquhart coughed as his nostrils rebelled at the stench, and he reached for his handkerchief and held it to his face. He stepped over to the body and turned it on its back. A shake of the shoulders did little other than disrupt still further the fitful heavy breathing. A firmer shake gave nothing more, and a gentle slap across the cheeks produced equally little result.
He gazed with disgust at what he saw. Suddenly Urquhart's body stiffened as his contempt mingled with the lingering humiliation he had suffered at the Prime Minister's hands and welded into a craving for revenge. He turned cold and the hairs on the nape of his neck tingled as he stood-over the stupefied body. Slowly, powerfully, Urquhart's hand swung down and began to slap Collingridge's face and, as his signet ring began to rake across the flesh of the cheeks, the whole head whipped from side to side until blood began to seep from the mouth and the body coughed and retched. Urquhart bent over the other man, staring closely as if to see that the body still breathed. He remained motionless for several minutes, like a cat at its prey, his muscles tense and expression contorted until he straightened with a start, towering over the drunk.
'And your brother's no damned better,' he hissed.
He turned to the photocopier, took the letter out of his pocket, made one copy and left without looking back.
It was the Sunday after the election. At 3.50 p.m. Urquhart's official car turned from Whitehall into Downing Street to be greeted by a policeman's starched salute and a hundred exploding flashguns. The press were gathered behind the barriers which cordoned them off across the road from the world's most famous front door. It stood wide open as the car drew up - like a political black hole, Urquhart thought, into which new Prime Ministers disappeared and rarely if ever emerged without being surrounded and suffocated by the protective hordes of civil servants. Somehow the building seemed to suck all political vitality out of some leaders.
He had made sure to travel on the left-hand side of the car's rear seat that day in order that his exit in front of Number Ten would provide an unimpeded view of himself for the TV and press cameras, and as he climbed out and stretched himself to his full height he was greeted by a chorus of shouted questions from across the road, providing him with a good excuse to walk over for a few quick words amidst the jungle of notepads and microphones. He spotted Charles Goodman, the legendary Press Association figure, firmly planted under his battered trilby and conveniently wedged between ITN and BBC news camera crews.
'Hello, Charles. Did you have any money on the result?' he enquired, but Goodman was already into his first question as his colleagues pressed around him.
'Are you here to advise the Prime Minister with the reshuffle, Mr Urquhart, or has he called you to give you a new job?'
'Well, I'm here to discuss a number of things, but I suppose the reshuffle might come into it’ Urquhart responded coyly.
It's rumoured that you are expecting a major new post.'
'Can't comment on rumours, Charles, and anyway you know that's one for the PM to decide. I'm here at this stage solely to give him some moral support.'
‘You’ll be going to advise the PM along with Lord Williams, will you then?'
'Lord Williams, has he arrived yet?' Urquhart tried to hide any suggestion of surprise.
'About 2.30. We were wondering whether someone else was going to turn up.'
Urquhart hoped that they hadn't noticed the steel which he felt entering his eyes as he realised that the Prime Minister and Party Chairman had been working on the reshuffle without him for an hour and a half. Then I must go. Can't keep them waiting,' he smiled. He turned smartly and strode back across the road and over the threshold. He was annoyed, and it smothered the sense of excitement which he still felt whenever he passed that way.
The Prime Minister's youthful political secretary was waiting at the end of the corridor which led away from the front door towards the Cabinet Room at the rear of the building. As Urquhart approached, he sensed that the young man was uneasy.
The PM is expecting you, Chief Whip’ he said quite unnecessarily. 'He's in the study upstairs. I’ll let him know you have arrived,' and bounded off up the stairs.
It was a full twelve minutes before he reappeared, leaving Urquhart to stare for the hundredth time at the portraits of previous Prime Ministers which adorned the famous staircase. He could never get over the feeling of how inconsequential so many of the recent holders of the office had been. Uninspiring and unfitted for the task. Times had changed, and for the worse. The likes of Lloyd George and Churchill had been magnificent natural leaders, but one had been promiscuous and the other arrogant and often drunk, and neither would have been tolerated by the modern media in the search for sensationalism. The media's prying and lack of charity had cast a blanket of mediocrity over most holders of the office since the war, stifling individualism and those with real inspiration. Collingridge, chosen largely for his television manner, typified how superficial much of modem politics had become, he thought. He yearned for the grand old days when politicians made their own rules rather than cowering before the rules laid down by the media.
The return of the political secretary interrupted his thoughts. 'Sorry to keep you waiting, Chief Whip. He's ready for you now.'
As Urquhart entered the room traditionally used by modern Prime Ministers as their study he could see that, in spite of efforts to tidy up the desk, there had been much shuffling of paper and scribbling of notes in the previous hour and a half. An empty bottle of claret stared out of the waste paper bin, and plates covered with crumbs and a withered leaf of lettuce lurked on the windowsill. The Party Chairman sat to the right of the Prime Minister's desk, his notes spilled over the green leather top. Beside them stood a large pile of MPs' biographies supplied by party headquarters.