Utterly exhausted though he was, it had been almost four in the morning before sleep finally overcame him. Even then, he had slept only fitfully, his subconscious bombarding him with all manner of dreams, none of which were in the least bit pleasant. There was Harry Vincent, brandishing a chainsaw which dripped with blood and tottering towards him on stumps of legs that ended at the knees. Then there was Patterson and his crew carrying him at shoulder height towards an enormous cauldron of boiling water and chanting ‘Guts for garters, yum yum yum’ over and over again in a quasi religious monotone. Next, he’d lifted the lid of a toilet cistern and inside was Logan’s severed head singing We’ll Meet Again in a heavily Glaswegian accent. But weirdest of all was the sight of Sandra, completely naked and strapped into an armchair with the butt of a gun in her mouth and aiming it directly at his genitals. Blimey, if Sigmund Freud had got hold of any of that lot, he’d be—
‘Sssh!’
Trevor shook his head free of unbidden images of trains and cigars and focused on the reality of a fully clothed Sandra with nothing more in her mouth than a generously buttered piece of toast. ‘What? I didn’t say anything.’
‘Look,’ she said, pointing in an upward angle above his right shoulder.
He skewed himself round in his chair to see the flat-screen television mounted high up on the wall in a corner of the dining room.
‘That’s him, isn’t it?’
Trevor looked at the picture of a grey-haired man in collar and tie with a Remembrance Day poppy fixed to the lapel of his jacket and recognised him immediately.
‘…for Baileyhill and Redbridge,’ the newsreader was saying, ‘was found dead in the early hours of this morning at the Royal Lansdown Hotel in Bath. Initial reports suggest that the sixty-two year old MP died instantly from a massive heart attack, and police have already ruled out any question of foul play. Other sources have also revealed that Mr Quicke had been suffering from a serious heart disease for several months and that doctors had informed him that it was only a matter of time before—’
‘Well there’s a surprise,’ said Sandra.
The image on the TV then switched to a shot of the Prime Minister being mobbed by reporters and having apparently just emerged from a tour of some factory or other. He wore a suitably solemn expression as he trotted out the usual “deeply saddened”, “greatly missed”, “thoughts are with Gerald’s family at this difficult time” kind of platitudes that drip with insincerity.
‘I still don’t quite get it,’ said Trevor. ‘I mean, why all the hush hush?’
Sandra laughed. ‘Oh come on, Trev. Even you can’t be that naive.’
Still reeling from Imelda’s affirmation of his mind-numbing ordinariness, Trevor winced inwardly at this latest assault on his self esteem. He attempted to conceal his hurt by pretending to concentrate on pouring himself a third cup of coffee but realised he had failed when he felt Sandra’s palm rest lightly on the back of his hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I really didn’t mean that.’
‘No, you’re quite right,’ said Trevor. ‘Ordinary and naïve. Trevor Nice-but-dim.’
‘Nobody said you were dim.’
He felt Sandra’s hand slide from the top of his and instantly regretted the petulant self pity in his tone. ‘Okay,’ he said, trying to recover the situation with a show of positivity. ‘Let’s see if I can work it out for myself. MP gets kidnapped and government pays the ransom – or tries to – but in the meantime, the MP snuffs it. Prime Minister’s been banging on for yonks about not giving in to terrorist demands and all that, so it’d be a bit embarrassing if the whole ransom thing ever got out. Um…’
‘General election coming up. Plenty of other recent scandals without another one to deal with.’
Trevor felt slightly peeved at Sandra’s prompting, but he decided to stifle his irritation in the interests of restoring the amicable equilibrium. ‘The Honourable Member’s already dead, so where’s the harm in playing let’s pretend? No kidnap, no ransom. Situation normal.’
‘Bravo,’ said Sandra, clapping her hands together in mock applause. ‘I knew you could do it if you put your mind to it.’
Her accompanying wink reassured him he wasn’t meant to take her patronising manner seriously, and he smiled back at her to show that the irony hadn’t passed him by.
‘All the same,’ he said. ‘I don’t have to be happy about it. I mean, why should we let the bastards get away with it? What’s to stop us going straight to the press and—’