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'Roger,' began Urquhart, 'it looks as if we shall be in Downing Street by the end of the week. I've been doing some thinking about what I shall need, and I thought we might talk about what you wanted.'
O'Neill took another gulp before answering.
'Francis, I'm bowled over that you should be thinking of me. You're going to be a class act as Prime Minister, really you are. As it happens, I've also been giving some thought to it all, and I was wondering whether you could use someone like me in Downing Street — you know, as a special adviser or even your press spokesman. You're going to need a lot of help and we seem to have worked so well together that I thought...'
Urquhart waved his hand for silence. 'Roger, there are scores of civil servants to take on those responsibilities, people who are already doing that work. 'What I need is someone like you in charge of the political propaganda, who can supplement the civil service properly and can be trusted to avoid all those mistakes which the party organisation has been making in recent months. I would very much like you to stay at party headquarters—under a new Chairman, of course'
A look of concern furrowed O'Neill's brow. The same meaningless job, watching from the sidelines as the civil service ran the show, as aloof as he thought they were incompetent? What the devil was in it for him?
'But to do something like that effectively, Francis, I shall need support, some special status. I... thought we had mentioned a knighthood.'
'Yes, indeed, Roger. That would be no more than you deserve. You've been absolutely indispensable to me, and you must understand how grateful I am. But I've been making enquiries. That sort of honour may not be possible, at least in the short term. There are so many who are already in line to be honoured when a Prime Minister retires and a new Government comes in, and as you know there is a limit on the number of honours even a Prime Minister can hand out. I'm afraid it could take a while...'
Urquhart was determined to test O'Neill, to bully him, disappoint him, torment him, subject him to all the pressures he would inevitably come under in the course of the next few months, trying to see how far O'Neill could be pushed before reaching the limit. He had not a moment longer to wait as the Irishman hit his limit and burst through it with volcanic passion.
'Francis, you promised! That was part of the deal! You gave your word, and now you're telling me it's not on. No job. No knighthood. Not now, not soon, not ever! You've got what you wanted and now you think you can get rid of me. Well, think again! I've lied, I've cheated, I've forged and I've stolen for you. Now you treat me just like all the rest. I'm not going to have people laughing at me behind my back any more and looking down their noses as if I were some smelly Irish peasant. I deserve that knighthood and I demand it!'
The tumbler was emptied and O'Neill, shaking with emotion, refilled it from the decanter, spilling the malt whisky as it flowed over the edge of the glass. He slurped a huge mouthful down before resuming his avalanche of anger.
'We've been through this all together, as a team. Everything I've done has been for you, and you wouldn't have been able to get into Downing Street without me. We succeed together- or we fail together. If I'm going to end up on the compost heap, Francis, I'm damned if I'm going to be there alone. You can't afford to let me tell what I know. You owe me!'
The words had been spoken, the threat made. Urquhart had offered O'Neill a gauntlet of provocation, which almost without pause had been picked up and slapped back into Urquhart's face. It was clear it was no longer a matter of whether O'Neill would lose control, but how quickly, and it had taken no time at all.
There was no point in continuing to test him, and Urquhart brought it to a rapid conclusion with a broad smile and shake of the head.
'Roger, my dear friend. You misunderstand me entirely. I am only saying that it will be difficult this time around, in the New Year's Honours List But there's another one in the Spring, for the Queen's Birthday. Just a few weeks away, really. I'm only asking you to wait until then. And if you want a job in Downing Street, then we shall find one. We work as a team, you and I. You have deserved it, and on my word of honour I will not forget what I owe you.'
O'Neill could not respond above a murmur. His passion had been spent, the alcohol burrowing its way into his nervous system, his emotions torn asunder and now pasted back together. He sat there drained, ashen, exhausted.
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