The Longest Knife

‘My Christ, Geoff. The noise.’ Georgina, his wife, was up with him on stage as the party workers cheered the results coming through on the big screens.
He looked down. Jimmy Pollock would be up here in a tick, with the grand speech: the people had spoken ... work to be done now, wrongs to be righted ... scores to be settled.
Bull to be shat.
Georgina nudged him. Jimmy was there, he’d seen: weaving through the crowd, clutching hands, shoulders, necks ... Then the bound up the steps, the big grin ...
‘You bugger,’ said Jimmy coming over, putting an arm round his shoulders. ‘Your night, Geoff. You’ve kept the whole bloody lot together, you and Malcolm. Miracle workers. See me tomorrow, bright and early. At Number Ten ... Number Ten, eh? How does that sound?’
‘Terrific.’ Maybe it did, too.
‘Now,’ Jimmy said, ‘this speech won’t be one of yours, Master Spin King, but one of mine. It’s going to be Pollock’s. Pure Pollock’s.’
Jimmy stepped forward into the Super Trouper’s light, arms raised.

Shaved and breakfasted, Geoffrey looked over to the crowd in Downing Street as the policeman opened the door. Inside, he was heading towards the stairs, but his deputy, Malcolm Boyle, was in the way, gesturing to a room on his right ....
The door sighed shut, Boyle sat himself at the mahogany desk: piles of newspapers, a notebook with the BBC’s early coverage on mute. Boyle pointed to the armchair opposite.
He sat slowly, his eyes on Boyle’s.‘I was going to see Jimmy.’
‘Busy.’ said Boyle. ‘Having his hair curled by the secret service chaps.’ Boyle leaned back, looking across, smiling. ‘Geoffrey, we’ve known each other for ...’
‘What’s going on here, Malcolm?’
‘No flies on Geoffrey Tailor,’ he said. ‘We’ve been talking, see ...’
‘We?’ he said. ‘You and the hacks at HQ?’
‘Indeed,’ said Malcolm, ‘You are not a peacetime campaigner, are you? A genius at galvanising the troops, summoning the sinews, yes, but the tone now needs to be ...’
‘Conciliatory?’
‘You’re way ahead of me, Geoff.’
‘Suppose I don’t want to go?’
‘Oh, but Geoff,’ said Malcolm, opening a drawer, reaching for a thick manila envelope, ‘we think you do ...’
‘Photographs?’ he said, staring. ‘A flash-drive of emails, too, sent between me and ...’
‘And ... a third party.’ Malcolm smiled. ‘You wouldn’t like your wife to know, would you?’
‘She already does.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. We were going to get a separation after the election. Amicably.’
‘Oh, but it’s such a messy start to an administration.’
‘I’ve worked hard to stop all this dirty tricks crap ...’
‘Between parties and by the media, Geoffrey. A great job only you could’ve done.’
He stared at Boyle. ‘So, all this ... information ...’
‘Was gathered by us,’ said Malcolm.
‘By you, you mean.’
‘By us, Geoffrey. For the greater good of the party. Go quietly. Today. There’s a safe seat, company directorships, whatever Geoffey wants ...’
Silence.
Then he laughed for a while, watching Boyle’s face do nothing. ‘Don’t worry, Malcolm,’ he said, still smiling. ‘I’ll go quietly.’ He got up. ‘You know what? I fancy my old newspaper column back. Dish the dirt again. Be fun. I could call you Lance - Lance Boyle. How’s that sound?’
Picking up the envelope, he went to the door, where he turned to watch the PM’s Press Secretary open the Telegraph. ‘Now, what about the weather, Lance?’ he said. ‘Here’s your forecast: Sunny today ... severe storms later.’
Boyle didn’t look up as he closed the door.