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He cursed when he saw the time. He must have been asleep for five hours yet he still felt exhausted. He needed a drink to pick himself up, and he poured himself a large measure of vodka. Not even Smirnoff any more, just the local supermarket brand. Still, it didn't hang on the breath or smell when you spilled it.
He took his glass to the bathroom and soaked in the tub, giving the hot water time to work its wonders on those tired limbs. Nowadays they often seemed to belong to an entirely different person. He must be getting old, he told himself.
He stood in front of the mirror, trying to repair the damage of his latest binge. He saw his father's" face, reproachful as ever, urging him on to goals which were always just beyond him, demanding to know why he never managed to do things quite like his elder brother Henry. They both had the same advantages, went to the same school. But somehow Henry always had the edge, and gradually had overshadowed him in his career and his marriage. He did not feel bitter. Or at least he tried not to be. Henry had always been there to help when he needed it, to offer advice and to give him a shoulder to cry on when Mary had left him. Particularly when Mary had left him. But hadn't even she thrown Henry's success in his face? 'You're not up to it. Not up to anything!' And Henry had much less time to worry about other people's problems since he had gone to Downing Street
As young boys they had shared everything together, as young men they had shared much, even a few girlfriends. But these days there was little room left in Henry's life for his younger brother, and Charles felt angry - not with Henry, but with life. It had not worked out for him, and he did not understand why.
He guided the razor past the old cuts on his baggy face, and began putting the pieces back together. The hair brushed over the balding pate, the fresh shirt and clean tie. He would be ready soon for the election night festivities to which his family links still ensured he was invited. A tea towel over his shoes gave them back a little shine, and he was almost ready. Just time for one more drink.
North of the river, a taxi was stuck in a traffic jam on the outskirts of Soho. It was always a bottleneck, and election night seemed to have brought an additional throng of revellers onto the streets. In the back of the taxi Roger O'Neill drummed his fingers impatiently, watching helplessly as the bikes and pedestrians flashed past. He did not have much time.
'Get over here quick, Rog' they had said. 'We can't wait all bleedin' night, not even for you. And we ain't back till Tuesday.'
He neither expected nor received preferential treatment, even as the Party's Director of Publicity and one of its best-known members of staff. But then he doubted whether they voted at all, let alone for the Government. What did politics matter when there was a lot of loose tax-free money to make?
The taxi at last managed to make it across Shaftesbury
Avenue and into Wardour Street, only to be met by another wall of solid traffic. Christ, he would miss them. He flung open the door.
'I'll walk' he shouted at the driver.
'Sorry, mate. It's not my fault Costs me a fortune stuck in jams like this,' replied the driver, indicating that O'Neill's impatience should not lead him to forget a tip.
O'Neill jumped out into the road, jammed a note into the driver's hand and dodged another motorcyclist as he made his way past peep shows and Chinese restaurants into a narrow, Dickensian alley piled high with rubbish. He squeezed past the plastic bin liners and cardboard boxes and broke into a run. He was not fit and it hurt, but he did not have far to go. As he reached Dean Street he turned left, and a hundred yards further down ducked into the narrow opening to one of those Soho mews which most people miss as they concentrate on trying either to find the whores or to avoid them. Off the main street; the mews opened out into a small yard, surrounded on all sides by workshops and garages which had been carved out of the old Victorian warehouses. The yard was empty and his footsteps rang out on the cobbles as he hurried towards a small green door set in the far, dark comer of the yard. He stopped only to look around once before entering. He did not knock.
Less than three minutes later he had re-emerged, and without glancing to either side hurried back into the crowds of Dean Street. Whatever he had come for, it clearly was not sex.
Inside party headquarters the atmosphere was strangely quiet. After the weeks of ceaseless activity during the general election campaign, most of the officers and troops had disappeared on election day itself to carry the combat into the far outposts of the constituencies, drumming up the last few and possibly crucial converts for the cause. Most of those who remained were by now taking an early supper at nearby restaurants or clubs, trying to sound confident and relaxed but lapsing repeatedly into insecure discussion of the latest rumours about voter turnout and exit polls. Few of them enjoyed the break, and they, soon began drifting back, pushing their way through the evergrowing crowds of spectators and cordons of police. They found great comfort in their overcrowded and cluttered offices which for the last month had become their home, and they settled in for what would seem an interminable wait.
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