Capital Offence

Chapter 21

Jamieson Maclean was trying to pull down the shutters on a truly awful day. The political currents he was trying to swim through flowed relentlessly against him. Swimming into the tide drained the energy from his limbs until his will to fight on was sapped. He felt a compelling urge to give up the fight, to sink under, to find relief in oblivion.

He had to clutch at the straws of detail, when what he longed for was the buoyant inflatable rafts of policy which had looked so impressive strapped to the decks of the Good Ship PDP as it was launched to the cheers of an excited electorate.

But leaks appeared. And ordering Cabinet Ministers to swap from one tired vessel to another just gave the illusion of action.

So on they pressed, lurching from one crisis to the next, never having the time or materials to repair the vessels of policy, rarely daring to design new models lest this be seen as an admission of weakness in the old.

And instead of commanding the Flagship of State, Jamie seemed to spend his time thrashing around in the seas of compromise trying to decide which piece of debris to clutch next.

“So really, with respect, Prime Minister, it’s your call.”

Quentin Ricco waited. Around him, the room fell silent.

What the hell’s that all about? Seas of compromise? Inflatable rafts? You sad bastard Maclean - you don’t have a clue what’s going on. Jamie looked down at his notes, trying to remind himself which bloody committee this was. There were some unimpressive doodles. Probably the stormy sea. Shit. Start treading water again...

“You’re quite right, Quentin. I accept that this is my call, and I’ll take full responsibility for the decision I make. However, I don’t intend to be forced into a snap judgement on a matter of this importance.”

There was a moment’s pause, then Fraser Howe burst out laughing, and the rest of the room followed suit. In a moment, the release of tension was extraordinary. Over at the far side of the table, one of Jamie’s more elderly Cabinet Ministers pulled out a handkerchief to dab at the tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Priceless,” he gasped to Howe. “Don’t know how he does it.”

Howe spoke up.

“In that case, PM, can I suggest we just get them to bring in some ham, some chicken, and a few vegetarian fillings, and we’ll fight over them once they arrive...”

Jamie smiled his agreement.

But Jamie wasn’t thinking about sandwiches.

For a fraction of a second he’d felt a wave of relief that he’d got away with losing the place. Then his mind had drifted off again.

And this time, he was thinking about Vaila.

*      *      *

Three quarters of a mile from where that meeting was dragging on into a beautiful spring evening, Donald Murray lay on his back staring into a dull pink void. There was a buzzing near his head. He opened his eyes, and the world was a strange abstract in sap green and cerulean blue. Fiona Maclean brushed a tiny insect off his forehead with a blade of grass.

Donald looked at his watch. It was almost seven o’clock.

“Relax, plod,” murmured Fiona. “The car’s just down there, and you’ve got your mobile.” She pretended to pat his pockets in search of it. Either she was disorientated by the strong golden Edinburgh evening light, or she thought police bodyguards kept their mobiles in their underpants. And in a way she wasn’t entirely wrong.