London Calling - James Craig [124]
Joe shrugged, not caring one way or the other. It was the hanging around picking over the bones of failure that he hated. Now, it was time to move on, find some other bastards to get worked up about. ‘Sure.’ He pulled the car keys from his pocket and weighed them in his hand. ‘See you in the morning, boss.’
‘Thanks, Joe.’
Carlyle ordered another double at the bar and took it back to his seat. For the next few minutes he wanted nothing more than to enjoy his drink, stare vacantly into space, and hope that all the frustrations of recent weeks would fade as he began to get increasingly pissed.
Behind the bar was a television with the sound turned right down. Carlyle looked up to see Edgar Carlton, on the steps of party HQ, making an ‘impromptu’ speech to his cheering campaign workers. Edgar was surrounded by faces that had become all too familiar in recent days, all of them busy nodding and clapping as if their very lives depended on it, waiting for the polls to close so that the celebrations could begin in earnest.
‘Almost there now, aren’t you, you tossers,’ Carlyle slurred to himself. ‘Got what you wanted, your bloody birthright.’
He took another mouthful of whiskey and decided that tonight would be an excellent night to get totally shitfaced.
‘Tossers!’
The barman stopped pouring a pint and gave him a dirty look.
‘But they are,’ Carlyle grumbled under his breath.
Maybe he should just go to bed.
On the screen, the picture zoomed in on one bright, shining face hovering behind Edgar’s left shoulder. With the shot glass poised at his lips, Carlyle froze.
‘Holy fucking shit!’
This time, the barman looked ready to come over and sort him out.
Ignoring him, Carlyle jumped to his feet and bolted for the door.
THIRTY-FIVE
‘Come on, come on!’
Hopping from foot to foot, Xavier Carlton sipped his beer nervously and glanced at the second hand skipping round the face of his TAG Heuer Carrera. It was 9.59 plus ten … eleven … twelve seconds.
His heart was beating so fast, Xavier thought it might burst out of his chest at any moment. This waiting was killing him. The final hour before the polls closed had dragged interminably, going on for what seemed like days. But now, finally, in less than a minute, they would know the outcome of the election.
… twenty-three … twenty-four … twenty-five …
The excited hubbub died down as everyone gathered round the television monitors placed all around the room, waiting for the news. The final opinion polls still had them in front, if only by five per cent or so. That should still be enough to give them a small but workable majority in the House of Commons, assuming that the polls were right.
… forty-eight … forty-nine … fifty …
Letting his eyes slip away from the massive cinema screen at the far end of the hotel ballroom, Xavier glanced at his brother. With his head bowed, Edgar looked gaunt and exhausted. They’d had it in the bag for so long now, all they really wanted was the relief of knowing it was all over.
In the distance, Xavier thought he could just make out the faint chimes of Big Ben, half a mile down the road, as it struck ten o’clock. For a second, all of the screens within the room went blank.
Heart pounding, Xavier held his breath.
Suddenly, finally, Egar’s face appeared on the screen.
There was a split second’s delay, then a massive cheer went up. All around, people were shouting and screaming, hugging each other and punching the air in celebration. One of the girls close by burst into tears.
Xavier stepped over and hugged his brother.
‘Thank God!’ Edgar closed his eyes and gave silent thanks.
‘Amen,’ said Xavier, feeling his knees buckle slightly. Regaining his composure, he grabbed Edgar by the arm and quickly led him past a couple of Trevor Miller’s security guys and down a hallway leading away from the noise. Round a corner, he swiped a key card that gave them access to the sanctuary of their own private hotel suite. Strict instructions had been given that