There was something delicious about sneaking off for a crafty cigarette, thought Gimball. It brought his schooldays back. Out of bounds and after lights out – there’d been friendships based on such adventures.
The air felt fresh after the dusty interior of the meeting hall. It was growing dark, and the people queueing at the entrance – always a gratifying sight – were grey, indistinguishable shapes, but he decided to slip round a corner anyway. Those grey shapes came armed with smartphones, whose standard apps included a bogus sense of journalistic responsibility: light up here and he’d be trending on Twitter two puffs in, the modern equivalent of being collared by a beak. Ten minutes, no more. Time to calm himself, compose his thought. Thoughts. Mentally rehearse his address to his people.
Yes, people, because he had those now. Friendships, not so much. He had alliances, but that was different. Even Dodie, without whom he’d not have got this far – and he was big enough to admit this; careful enough to mention it every so often, too – was his best friend inasmuch as there was little competition for the role. ‘Only friend’ sounded equally valid. Which made what he was about to do, get up in front of the cameras and reveal who he really was, even more dangerous. Because Dodie would support him, but she’d be furious he hadn’t cleared it with her first. She had her own agenda to maintain, and standing up for her husband’s right to express himself might involve a little backtracking on previous public pronouncements, which would hardly be a novel experience for a columnist with forthright opinions, a six-figure contract and a pair of junior hacks to do the actual writing, but nevertheless required a certain amount of ground preparation. So yes, that was a storm he’d have to weather, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. But needs must.
The alternative: he’d be Five’s cat’s paw, now and forever. If he gave in to Claude Whelan’s pressure just once, he could kiss any idea about political independence goodbye. So, again:
this was what he needed to do, so
he was going to do it, and
damn the torpedoes.
Gimball felt better, now it was laid out clearly. Still needed a cigarette, though.
He found an alleyway and nipped down it, plugging a cigarette into his mouth before he reached the yard at the end. Catch me here, he thought – what would people make of it if they caught him here, skulking among wheelie bins like a feral cat? He breathed out, and smoke drifted up into scaffolding while a long-lost schoolboy memory retrieved itself and burned across his mind like a cave painting. Three of them behind the gym, passing a cigarette hand to hand. The image vanished, but he wondered: what had happened to those old companions, and what were their names, and what were their lives like? However they’d turned out, they’d be reading about him in the papers tomorrow, or on their screens later tonight. BREXIT HERO ADMITS PERVY LEANINGS. The headline refused to adjust itself, no matter how hard he tried. CROSS-DRESSER CROSSES FLOOR. He shook his head, but it was too late: the full horror of what he planned to do had landed, and there was no pretending it hadn’t. Stand up and publicly announce his most private of peccadillos – really? Spike Claude Whelan’s guns by throwing himself in front of a cannon? It was madness. Because it wasn’t Whelan he had to fear; it wasn’t even the media, which would do what the media always did, and feed on whatever red meat was thrown its way. No, it was his own people who would turn on him if he dared reveal the truth about himself. What had he been
He could feel damp on his neck, and that loosening inside which comes with narrow escape. It had been a few small hours of angry bravado, that was all. The future that awaited him was too grand, too important, to jeopardise out of pique. So yes, fine, he’d do what Whelan wanted. It would make no difference, not in the long run. He couldn’t announce, tonight, Zafar Jaffrey’s dealings with an underworld enabler; couldn’t undermine the PM by exposing his tame Muslim, but you couldn’t stop the clock on history: the story would break, sooner or later, and if Dennis Gimball wouldn’t be the one to announce it, he’d certainly be there to add colour and noise. In the end, that was what counted – that it was you who was there, at the end. Because politics was all about timing: hell, you could stick your dick in a dead pig’s mouth and get away with it if your timing was right. And provided you were shame-free, but that was a given for Eton. He’d come close to forgetting that lesson, but had pulled himself short in time, thanks to the sacred habit of smoking: if he’d not slipped away to clear his head with a nicotine blast, he might still be in the grip of the delusion that exposing himself in public was the thing to do. Christ. And Dodie got on his case about it.
