And it's actually very fitting
Oct. 12th, 2009 04:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mymetalphantomThe last part of my prequel fic. On the 25th anniversary as well, although it's a complete coincident that I've completed it by this date.
Dramatic events save Urquhart from doing something he would ultimately regret.
Friday 12th October 1984
It was a 1:15 am and Francis Urquhart found himself wide awake, sat on the plush sofa in his rooms at the Grand Hotel in Brighton. The Party conference was going as well as could be expected considering all the trouble that had occurred earlier in the year with Arthur Scargill and his National Union of Mineworkers; out of touch socialists with their rosy nostalgia, struggling against fiscal progress. But the disruptions they had caused were starting to get on the nation’s collective nerves and even the staunchest support for the miners was starting to ebb and wane and the Prime Minister’s popularity was firmly on the rise again.
And that morning she would give her speech to the Party, with the watchful eyes of the press upon her.
Yet it wasn’t thoughts of the Prime Minister or of Scargill and his thugs that kept Urquhart awake. He had felt uneasy all day and had been restless and unfocused as he sat only half listening to his Parliamentary colleagues give their speeches. It wasn’t that he had anything else on his mind. In fact that was precisely what was bothering him. He had nothing else on his mind. Urquhart, not shy about his abilities, would be the first to admit that the Prime Minister’s faith in him as Chief Whip was not misplaced. He had proven effective, able to round up obstinate Ministers and bring them back to the Party line with a mixture of threats and cajolery.
And yet...maybe that was half the problem. Maybe he was just a little too good at his job, invaluable and therefore less effective in any other position. The Prime Minister, as shrewd as she is, was not about sacrifice the power Urquhart gave her just to do him a good turn, no matter how impressed she was with him. That left him stagnating. Oh, he enjoyed his job, no doubt of it. The Cabinet were ever so slightly terrified of him, as were the backbenchers, but with that came respect as they watched him execute his job with loyalty and decorum. Everyone knew he was a good chap, a sound man but not one you messed with if you valued your career.
But the calmness and the comfort of his life was starting to get to him. He hated to be still, preferring instead to keep an active mind, to always have some project on the go so that he wasn’t left alone with idle thoughts. Thoughts that would crowd in on him and could turn callous and mocking in a second, taunting him during his vulnerable sleeping hours.
With everyone toeing the Party line, Urquhart had found himself redundant and it gnawed away at his insides, making him want to crawl out of his skin.
This was why he was up and about this early in the morning.
It didn’t help that Elizabeth was absent. He missed her sturdy, reassuring presence so much that it made him feel sick.
She was ill at home, nothing serious although he would admit privately to himself that any weakness, however slight, on her part petrified him; she was the strong one who always knew what to do and what to say and could calm him with a smooth, cool hand or excite him with a sharp word or two. In his darker moments his mind forced him to contemplate what his life would be without her, and that was more frightening than the thought of even his own death. These were the sort of thoughts that rushed in on him whenever his mind sat still.
So there he was, away from home, away from the comforting strength of his wife, sitting alone trying to read but failing miserable as the words jumbled before his tired eyes and as his body practically itched with frustration. He was tense and he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to cry or smash something. In his youth, at times like this he would walk, walk for miles across moorland until all his energy was spent. The only thing he could do at that moment was fidget on the settee.
Before the ’79 election he had felt very much in control of his destiny, but he was losing his grip on that control and at that moment his fate rested completely in the hands of another, a person who was always going to be looking out for herself no matter how keen her allegiance and sense of duty.
He just felt so...so...impotent.
He was about to fling his book down in annoyance when there was a knock at the door. He stared at it for some moments, wondering who on earth would need to see him at this time in the morning, but eventually he rose to answer. Urquhart found himself greeted by the smiling face of Tim Stamper. And Lord, was he a welcome sight.
He was not his usual self. He was buttoned down, his tie and jacket removed leaving him in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, his hair slightly messy from where he had obviously run his fingers through it as he had worked. Urquhart was instantly struck by how soft he looked; so unlike the Tim Stamper that could be seen stalking the House of Commons, completely kempt and tensed with nervous energy.
“Thought you’d be up,” he said as Urquhart raised a questioning eyebrow. His smile broadened and he produced from behind his back a bottle of whiskey and handed it to Urquhart.
A 12 year old Glenfiddich Caoran Reserve, not his favourite but still a good malt whiskey. “Come in,” Urquhart instructed and stood aside to let him past. It was as he entered the room that Urquhart also noted that Stamper had no shoes on, treading the carpet in only stocking feet. It was jarring to see him so casual but by no means unpleasant.
“How did you know I was up?” he asked as he moved towards a sideboard where the tumblers were kept, breaking the seal of the bottle as he went.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Stamper answered with a shrug, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pinstriped trousers. “You seemed...restless today. Then as I walked past I noticed the light under the door.”
It never ceased to amaze Urquhart how well Stamper really knew him. Now that they were both working in the Whip’s office their relationship had become much closer than when they were just fellow backbenchers. They had become extraordinarily close in some respects and many people had come to accept that if you got one then, inevitably, you got the other.
Elizabeth would not accept it. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was about Stamper that annoyed his wife so, other than the obvious clash of cultures that occurred whenever they were in a room together. Elizabeth had not been brought up to mix with the likes of Tim Stamper, and Urquhart rather got the impression that she resented being forced to do so now.
“But he’s important, Elizabeth,” Urquhart had assured her calmly. “He’s a sound man; I need him on my side.”
Elizabeth paused and looked at him through narrowed eyes as though she was examining him. “He’s not your son, Francis,” she had replied coolly and Urquhart flinched.
No, not his son. Sons were of no use to Urquhart. Sons eventually let a man down, everyone knew that. Foolish is the man who wants a son. It is the son’s job ultimately to unseat his father and take his place, to betray him. Sons are usurpers. Not like daughters. A daughter would always love her daddy, look up to him, admire him and no one would ever be able take the place in her heart reserved for her father. What a glorious thing it must be, to father a daughter. Yes, Francis wanted daughters and Elizabeth wanted sons. But it didn’t matter anymore.
If he was to keep Stamper in check he needed him to be much more than a son.
Urquhart poured the whiskey, handed a glass to Stamper then indicated for him to sit on sofa. There was another chair in the room but Urquhart chose to sit next to him. Stamper looked momentarily shocked at this decision but then relaxed into contentment and allowed his gaze to linger on Urquhart a little longer than was strictly necessary.
They drank in silence for a moment or two and Urquhart watched Stamper out of the corner of his eye, pleased to see the younger man could handle his scotch now. He also found himself slightly annoyed at how well Stamper was aging. Urquhart had been told many times that he looked older than his years; something which had served him well in his youth but with every passing year was becoming distinctly more embarrassing. His deputy on the other hand seemed to have aged very slowly in the twenty years he’d known him. That dark hair of his showed no signs of greying, even while the colour was quickly disappearing from Urquhart’s much lighter hair, and unless he was frowning his face seemed to still be smooth, even and still remarkably unblemished.
The man was far too nubile for his own good as well, Urquhart thought as he found his eyes scanning the lines of his body as he reclined on the sofa, his legs stretched out before him. There was a boyish enthusiasm about the man mixed with that hard cynicism and Urquhart was reminded of the poorer boys at school, keen to please and later the scholarship students at Oxford who wanted to fit into the public school gangs so much that they would do anything. Urquhart sighed.
His loneliness and anxiety tonight had reached boiling point and right on cue his friend had shown up offering alcohol and the solace of his company. He might have stopped him from going mad tonight.
Stamper had remained silent, knowing that something was wrong but not mentioning anything, waiting for Urquhart to speak first. Good old Tim Stamper, how well he’d learned the rules of this game.
“Do you ever question yourself, Tim?” he asked. “Do you ever doubt yourself?”
“Of course,” he replied. “Sometimes. Doesn’t everyone?”
Urquhart hummed thoughtfully. “I’m starting to wonder what the future holds. Where will I be in ten years time?”
Stamper gave him a gentle smile. Not his usual sly grin, but a genuine smile. “Prime Minister?”
Urquhart laughed, trying to appear casual but in fact he felt himself glow red hot both at the thought and at Stamper’s faith in him. “I don’t think so, Tim. I’ve never been able to picture myself in that role.” It was only half a lie. Every politician thinks about the highest office and idly daydreams about what they would do were they ever to reach the top of that greasy pole. Yet for Urquhart it had all seemed more abstract. He had never been the one in charge. At school he was a Prefect but not the Head Boy, in the army he was a Lieutenant but never rose to any higher rank. All he wanted to do was serve his country, to be seen and to be remembered for being a wise and noble statesman. He could do that in any Cabinet position given the chance. Aneurin Bevan, would be remembered forever for his achievement and he was never made PM, but how many people, other than A-level history students had heard of poor Spencer Perceval who was assassinated in the lobby of the House of Commons? Being Prime Minister did not mean you would be remembered.
Still, the seed had been planted now. “Do you really think I could be PM?” he asked hoping that he sounded jocular.
“Of course you could, Francis,” Stamper said with high pitched insistence. “If anyone has the balls to run a country like ours it’s you. You know that?” It was a curious question rather than a statement. Did Stamper think he had high ambitions?
The earnestness in his friend’s voice made Urquhart’s face grow hot. “Well...” he said but was unsure what he wanted to say.
“Really, Francis,” Stamper insisted, “you’re better than any of that lot,” he finished, referring to the present Cabinet. To punctuate his statement he instinctively placed a comforting hand on Urquhart’s shoulder, breaking the silent code that had existed between them for so long.
Urquhart was surprised but did not move away, merely turned to Stamper and raised an eyebrow at him. He looked at his old friend, relaxed into a sort of late night, sleepy suppleness and couldn’t help the thrum of energy that passed through him. It was late, his mind was exhausted but his body was so full of energy that he felt he was bursting at the seams and more to the point he felt incredibly lonely. His manner made him very few genuine friends and yet here was Stamper, faithful and obedient and so very reminiscent of those young Oxford scholarship students, ripe for seduction and corruption. Ready to do anything to be “one of the boys”.
And suddenly all his frustration was channelled and shot straight to his groin.
He got up, feeling the desperate need for another drink, even though his mind felt fuzzy enough. As he stood the warm hand slipped from his shoulder and he actually mourned its loss.
While he poured another glass of whiskey he heard a shuffle from behind him and felt the other man approach, the tension radiating so strongly off his body that he seemed to be surrounded by some sort of electric force field. The way Urquhart’s own body was positively buzzing with nervous excitement he had the feeling that he probably felt the same.
And then he felt the warmth behind him as he stood so close. My but you are a brave boy today, Tim Stamper, he thought as he put the bottle down and turned to look at him. The pleading look on the younger man’s face made him throb. He couldn’t look any more desperate were he on his knees before him, and that thought nearly knocked the breath from him. Would he? Would he do that for him, here, now? In the Grand Hotel at the Conservative Party conference while his own wife was at home looking after their young children?
More to the point, did Urquhart want that?
It was the ultimate proof that he could have anything from this man without reserve. He went dizzy as the blood drained from his head, needed as it was in other areas. Yes, he wanted this. To prove that he could, to prove that he wasn’t impotent. To prove that he had this man, body and soul.
He sighed. “Oh, Tim,” he said in a low, rumbling voice that he had practiced and refined. He reached up a hand and cupped the side of Stamper’s face, feeling the smooth skin with just the barest prickle of stubble; a manly thing to offset the boyish look of wonder on his face.
Stamper’s eyes slid shut as his face turned into the hand on his cheek. When his eyes opened again Urquhart saw that they had gone almost black and he felt himself drawn towards him. Closer and closer.
It went no further as the air was suddenly rent by a noise so loud that Urquhart could well have believed it was the apocalypse. It was a deafening explosion that tore at the eardrums and he could have sworn his heart had stopped dead in his chest.
The rest was a blur as the world seemed to be crashing down around the two of them and he suddenly found himself sprawled out on the floor beneath Stamper as massive chunks of wall and ceiling rained down upon them.
After minutes that seemed like hours everything settled and he found himself completely trapped, unable to move and unable to see anything except the man before him and fragmented pieces of the hotel’s structure. His heart was hammering so fast that his chest felt in agony and he feared he may be having a heart attack. The sensation was doubled as he felt the same frenetic beat of Stamper’s heart against him.
Half blind and deaf except to the loud shrill whine ringing away in his inner ear, Urquhart felt the true meaning of panic.
He saw as Stamper looked up at him, the same terror mirrored in his expression. “My God, are you okay?” he yelled, clearly suffering the same auditory problems. He was clutching at Urquhart’s shirt.
“I’m, I’m fine!” he answered, completely out of breath. Apart from his racing heart and his head pounding like a jackhammer, he seemed to be uninjured. In a way he considered the fact that he felt sore all over from his sudden impact with the floor a good sign, as it proved no spinal damage. “What happened?”
“It sounded like a bomb!” Stamper grimaced and shifted position, trying to dig them out of the rubble. “I think I’m going to ache like a fucker once the adrenaline wears off!”
Both of them over the initial, paralysing fear but still functioning on panic they frantically began pushing the debris away.
They were there for hours, some of the rubble too heavy for them to move and the effort to shift it had left them exhausted.
It felt like days until they saw the beautiful sight of the fireman’s torch shining in on them, signalling their rescue.
They had been lucky. They were helped out of the ruins and lowered onto the street outside where they sat being bandaged up by paramedics, watching as the fire brigade struggled valiantly to try and rescue the people still trapped, the Grand Hotel still standing but with a massive chunk missing as though it had be scooped out.
It was all so frenzied but those who had been involved and were now watching from the sidelines just stared in a kind of trance, the whole thing almost too surreal and horrible to contemplate. The world was passing Urquhart by so slowly, as though in a dream.
“They’re still trying to get Tebbit and his wife out,” Urquhart was told by a young Samuels who was stood with a fellow backbencher named Woolton, both with bandages covering head injuries, both in their pyjamas and both as shell-shocked as he was.
“IRA?” Urquhart asked, although he didn’t need to.
“Bastards,” Woolton said as his sharp face grew dark with hate and anger.
“The PM?”
“She’s fine,” Samuels answered with a look of pride. “Not a scratch.”
Now in complete safety the panic that had overcome him earlier had transformed into an almost heady feeling of victory. The adrenaline pounded through him and it was the most exhilarating experience. To have survived an attempt on his life. To have walked away while others were being brought out on stretchers. So much for survivor’s guilt, Urquhart suddenly had a feeling of invincibility and he had never felt so powerful before that day.
How could he doubt his purpose when he had been allowed to live?
“I need to call my wife,” he said, filled with the desperate need to hear her voice and to tell her that everything was all right. He got up to search for a public phone.
He had just turned down a side street when he realised that Stamper had followed him. He had forgotten all about him. He turned to see the younger man standing in the street, his socks soaked from the foam that the firemen had used to put out the flames that threatened to engulf the hotel. He was obviously still dazed by the whole experience, and looked at Urquhart with a mixture of joy and relief and something that looked far too much like adoration. “Tim,” he said softly and then in a flurry found his arms full as Stamper had thrown himself at him and clung on. There was such desperation in his grasping that it stifled Urquhart and he squirmed in those surprisingly strong arms.
Sense filtered back into his shrewd brain and he felt sick at the idea of what had nearly occurred in that hotel room. In his loneliness and frustration he had almost given in to his abstract attraction. He had almost given Stamper everything he wanted.
Urquhart tried to imagine the alternate universe where they had gone through with it and it made his stomach churn. A world where Stamper would forever cling to him the way he was now, under the false assumption that somehow they were in love and always expecting favours to be returned. Their relationship was not like that. Urquhart set the rules and controlled the rewards. And sanctions.
What was he doing now? Was this just from relief, or was he trying to recapture a stone dead moment? Either way Urquhart wanted none of it.
He allowed Stamper to cling for only a minute before he pushed him back gently, returning to the aloofness that was so characteristic of him. There would be no more of that, lest he give into temptation in some other moment of weakness. Stamper got the look of a puppy that had just been kicked by its doting owner but Urquhart was numb to it. “It’s been a trying day. We must try and forget all about it,” Urquhart said, knowing that Stamper would get the hint. Stamper continued to look hurt. “I need you, Tim,” he threw out, offering the poor man something. “I need you. I can still rely on you?”
“Of course you can, Francis.” Stamper nodded and allowed a weak smile to pass over his face. “Sorry,” he added.
“It’s all right, Tim,” Urquhart reassured, although he didn’t know exactly which part of this horrible night the man was apologising for, nor did he care.
All he wanted to do was talk to Elizabeth. Then everything would be all right.
AN: The real Chief Whip, John Wakeham was trapped in the rubble for seven hours. His wife was killed outright. Norman Tebbit was also trapped in the rubble and his wife was left partially paralysed. I support home rule for Ireland, but I disagree with terrorism. All this did was make people hate them when they might have supported them.
Also, the thoughts on Scargill and the miner's are Urquhart's and emphatically not mine!
Brighton Bombing
Scargill and the miner's strike
Spencer Perceval - The only British PM to be assassinated.
Aneurin Bevan - The man who introduced the National Health Service.
Dramatic events save Urquhart from doing something he would ultimately regret.
Friday 12th October 1984
It was a 1:15 am and Francis Urquhart found himself wide awake, sat on the plush sofa in his rooms at the Grand Hotel in Brighton. The Party conference was going as well as could be expected considering all the trouble that had occurred earlier in the year with Arthur Scargill and his National Union of Mineworkers; out of touch socialists with their rosy nostalgia, struggling against fiscal progress. But the disruptions they had caused were starting to get on the nation’s collective nerves and even the staunchest support for the miners was starting to ebb and wane and the Prime Minister’s popularity was firmly on the rise again.
And that morning she would give her speech to the Party, with the watchful eyes of the press upon her.
Yet it wasn’t thoughts of the Prime Minister or of Scargill and his thugs that kept Urquhart awake. He had felt uneasy all day and had been restless and unfocused as he sat only half listening to his Parliamentary colleagues give their speeches. It wasn’t that he had anything else on his mind. In fact that was precisely what was bothering him. He had nothing else on his mind. Urquhart, not shy about his abilities, would be the first to admit that the Prime Minister’s faith in him as Chief Whip was not misplaced. He had proven effective, able to round up obstinate Ministers and bring them back to the Party line with a mixture of threats and cajolery.
And yet...maybe that was half the problem. Maybe he was just a little too good at his job, invaluable and therefore less effective in any other position. The Prime Minister, as shrewd as she is, was not about sacrifice the power Urquhart gave her just to do him a good turn, no matter how impressed she was with him. That left him stagnating. Oh, he enjoyed his job, no doubt of it. The Cabinet were ever so slightly terrified of him, as were the backbenchers, but with that came respect as they watched him execute his job with loyalty and decorum. Everyone knew he was a good chap, a sound man but not one you messed with if you valued your career.
But the calmness and the comfort of his life was starting to get to him. He hated to be still, preferring instead to keep an active mind, to always have some project on the go so that he wasn’t left alone with idle thoughts. Thoughts that would crowd in on him and could turn callous and mocking in a second, taunting him during his vulnerable sleeping hours.
With everyone toeing the Party line, Urquhart had found himself redundant and it gnawed away at his insides, making him want to crawl out of his skin.
This was why he was up and about this early in the morning.
It didn’t help that Elizabeth was absent. He missed her sturdy, reassuring presence so much that it made him feel sick.
She was ill at home, nothing serious although he would admit privately to himself that any weakness, however slight, on her part petrified him; she was the strong one who always knew what to do and what to say and could calm him with a smooth, cool hand or excite him with a sharp word or two. In his darker moments his mind forced him to contemplate what his life would be without her, and that was more frightening than the thought of even his own death. These were the sort of thoughts that rushed in on him whenever his mind sat still.
So there he was, away from home, away from the comforting strength of his wife, sitting alone trying to read but failing miserable as the words jumbled before his tired eyes and as his body practically itched with frustration. He was tense and he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to cry or smash something. In his youth, at times like this he would walk, walk for miles across moorland until all his energy was spent. The only thing he could do at that moment was fidget on the settee.
Before the ’79 election he had felt very much in control of his destiny, but he was losing his grip on that control and at that moment his fate rested completely in the hands of another, a person who was always going to be looking out for herself no matter how keen her allegiance and sense of duty.
He just felt so...so...impotent.
He was about to fling his book down in annoyance when there was a knock at the door. He stared at it for some moments, wondering who on earth would need to see him at this time in the morning, but eventually he rose to answer. Urquhart found himself greeted by the smiling face of Tim Stamper. And Lord, was he a welcome sight.
He was not his usual self. He was buttoned down, his tie and jacket removed leaving him in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, his hair slightly messy from where he had obviously run his fingers through it as he had worked. Urquhart was instantly struck by how soft he looked; so unlike the Tim Stamper that could be seen stalking the House of Commons, completely kempt and tensed with nervous energy.
“Thought you’d be up,” he said as Urquhart raised a questioning eyebrow. His smile broadened and he produced from behind his back a bottle of whiskey and handed it to Urquhart.
A 12 year old Glenfiddich Caoran Reserve, not his favourite but still a good malt whiskey. “Come in,” Urquhart instructed and stood aside to let him past. It was as he entered the room that Urquhart also noted that Stamper had no shoes on, treading the carpet in only stocking feet. It was jarring to see him so casual but by no means unpleasant.
“How did you know I was up?” he asked as he moved towards a sideboard where the tumblers were kept, breaking the seal of the bottle as he went.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Stamper answered with a shrug, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pinstriped trousers. “You seemed...restless today. Then as I walked past I noticed the light under the door.”
It never ceased to amaze Urquhart how well Stamper really knew him. Now that they were both working in the Whip’s office their relationship had become much closer than when they were just fellow backbenchers. They had become extraordinarily close in some respects and many people had come to accept that if you got one then, inevitably, you got the other.
Elizabeth would not accept it. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was about Stamper that annoyed his wife so, other than the obvious clash of cultures that occurred whenever they were in a room together. Elizabeth had not been brought up to mix with the likes of Tim Stamper, and Urquhart rather got the impression that she resented being forced to do so now.
“But he’s important, Elizabeth,” Urquhart had assured her calmly. “He’s a sound man; I need him on my side.”
Elizabeth paused and looked at him through narrowed eyes as though she was examining him. “He’s not your son, Francis,” she had replied coolly and Urquhart flinched.
No, not his son. Sons were of no use to Urquhart. Sons eventually let a man down, everyone knew that. Foolish is the man who wants a son. It is the son’s job ultimately to unseat his father and take his place, to betray him. Sons are usurpers. Not like daughters. A daughter would always love her daddy, look up to him, admire him and no one would ever be able take the place in her heart reserved for her father. What a glorious thing it must be, to father a daughter. Yes, Francis wanted daughters and Elizabeth wanted sons. But it didn’t matter anymore.
If he was to keep Stamper in check he needed him to be much more than a son.
Urquhart poured the whiskey, handed a glass to Stamper then indicated for him to sit on sofa. There was another chair in the room but Urquhart chose to sit next to him. Stamper looked momentarily shocked at this decision but then relaxed into contentment and allowed his gaze to linger on Urquhart a little longer than was strictly necessary.
They drank in silence for a moment or two and Urquhart watched Stamper out of the corner of his eye, pleased to see the younger man could handle his scotch now. He also found himself slightly annoyed at how well Stamper was aging. Urquhart had been told many times that he looked older than his years; something which had served him well in his youth but with every passing year was becoming distinctly more embarrassing. His deputy on the other hand seemed to have aged very slowly in the twenty years he’d known him. That dark hair of his showed no signs of greying, even while the colour was quickly disappearing from Urquhart’s much lighter hair, and unless he was frowning his face seemed to still be smooth, even and still remarkably unblemished.
The man was far too nubile for his own good as well, Urquhart thought as he found his eyes scanning the lines of his body as he reclined on the sofa, his legs stretched out before him. There was a boyish enthusiasm about the man mixed with that hard cynicism and Urquhart was reminded of the poorer boys at school, keen to please and later the scholarship students at Oxford who wanted to fit into the public school gangs so much that they would do anything. Urquhart sighed.
His loneliness and anxiety tonight had reached boiling point and right on cue his friend had shown up offering alcohol and the solace of his company. He might have stopped him from going mad tonight.
Stamper had remained silent, knowing that something was wrong but not mentioning anything, waiting for Urquhart to speak first. Good old Tim Stamper, how well he’d learned the rules of this game.
“Do you ever question yourself, Tim?” he asked. “Do you ever doubt yourself?”
“Of course,” he replied. “Sometimes. Doesn’t everyone?”
Urquhart hummed thoughtfully. “I’m starting to wonder what the future holds. Where will I be in ten years time?”
Stamper gave him a gentle smile. Not his usual sly grin, but a genuine smile. “Prime Minister?”
Urquhart laughed, trying to appear casual but in fact he felt himself glow red hot both at the thought and at Stamper’s faith in him. “I don’t think so, Tim. I’ve never been able to picture myself in that role.” It was only half a lie. Every politician thinks about the highest office and idly daydreams about what they would do were they ever to reach the top of that greasy pole. Yet for Urquhart it had all seemed more abstract. He had never been the one in charge. At school he was a Prefect but not the Head Boy, in the army he was a Lieutenant but never rose to any higher rank. All he wanted to do was serve his country, to be seen and to be remembered for being a wise and noble statesman. He could do that in any Cabinet position given the chance. Aneurin Bevan, would be remembered forever for his achievement and he was never made PM, but how many people, other than A-level history students had heard of poor Spencer Perceval who was assassinated in the lobby of the House of Commons? Being Prime Minister did not mean you would be remembered.
Still, the seed had been planted now. “Do you really think I could be PM?” he asked hoping that he sounded jocular.
“Of course you could, Francis,” Stamper said with high pitched insistence. “If anyone has the balls to run a country like ours it’s you. You know that?” It was a curious question rather than a statement. Did Stamper think he had high ambitions?
The earnestness in his friend’s voice made Urquhart’s face grow hot. “Well...” he said but was unsure what he wanted to say.
“Really, Francis,” Stamper insisted, “you’re better than any of that lot,” he finished, referring to the present Cabinet. To punctuate his statement he instinctively placed a comforting hand on Urquhart’s shoulder, breaking the silent code that had existed between them for so long.
Urquhart was surprised but did not move away, merely turned to Stamper and raised an eyebrow at him. He looked at his old friend, relaxed into a sort of late night, sleepy suppleness and couldn’t help the thrum of energy that passed through him. It was late, his mind was exhausted but his body was so full of energy that he felt he was bursting at the seams and more to the point he felt incredibly lonely. His manner made him very few genuine friends and yet here was Stamper, faithful and obedient and so very reminiscent of those young Oxford scholarship students, ripe for seduction and corruption. Ready to do anything to be “one of the boys”.
And suddenly all his frustration was channelled and shot straight to his groin.
He got up, feeling the desperate need for another drink, even though his mind felt fuzzy enough. As he stood the warm hand slipped from his shoulder and he actually mourned its loss.
While he poured another glass of whiskey he heard a shuffle from behind him and felt the other man approach, the tension radiating so strongly off his body that he seemed to be surrounded by some sort of electric force field. The way Urquhart’s own body was positively buzzing with nervous excitement he had the feeling that he probably felt the same.
And then he felt the warmth behind him as he stood so close. My but you are a brave boy today, Tim Stamper, he thought as he put the bottle down and turned to look at him. The pleading look on the younger man’s face made him throb. He couldn’t look any more desperate were he on his knees before him, and that thought nearly knocked the breath from him. Would he? Would he do that for him, here, now? In the Grand Hotel at the Conservative Party conference while his own wife was at home looking after their young children?
More to the point, did Urquhart want that?
It was the ultimate proof that he could have anything from this man without reserve. He went dizzy as the blood drained from his head, needed as it was in other areas. Yes, he wanted this. To prove that he could, to prove that he wasn’t impotent. To prove that he had this man, body and soul.
He sighed. “Oh, Tim,” he said in a low, rumbling voice that he had practiced and refined. He reached up a hand and cupped the side of Stamper’s face, feeling the smooth skin with just the barest prickle of stubble; a manly thing to offset the boyish look of wonder on his face.
Stamper’s eyes slid shut as his face turned into the hand on his cheek. When his eyes opened again Urquhart saw that they had gone almost black and he felt himself drawn towards him. Closer and closer.
It went no further as the air was suddenly rent by a noise so loud that Urquhart could well have believed it was the apocalypse. It was a deafening explosion that tore at the eardrums and he could have sworn his heart had stopped dead in his chest.
The rest was a blur as the world seemed to be crashing down around the two of them and he suddenly found himself sprawled out on the floor beneath Stamper as massive chunks of wall and ceiling rained down upon them.
After minutes that seemed like hours everything settled and he found himself completely trapped, unable to move and unable to see anything except the man before him and fragmented pieces of the hotel’s structure. His heart was hammering so fast that his chest felt in agony and he feared he may be having a heart attack. The sensation was doubled as he felt the same frenetic beat of Stamper’s heart against him.
Half blind and deaf except to the loud shrill whine ringing away in his inner ear, Urquhart felt the true meaning of panic.
He saw as Stamper looked up at him, the same terror mirrored in his expression. “My God, are you okay?” he yelled, clearly suffering the same auditory problems. He was clutching at Urquhart’s shirt.
“I’m, I’m fine!” he answered, completely out of breath. Apart from his racing heart and his head pounding like a jackhammer, he seemed to be uninjured. In a way he considered the fact that he felt sore all over from his sudden impact with the floor a good sign, as it proved no spinal damage. “What happened?”
“It sounded like a bomb!” Stamper grimaced and shifted position, trying to dig them out of the rubble. “I think I’m going to ache like a fucker once the adrenaline wears off!”
Both of them over the initial, paralysing fear but still functioning on panic they frantically began pushing the debris away.
They were there for hours, some of the rubble too heavy for them to move and the effort to shift it had left them exhausted.
It felt like days until they saw the beautiful sight of the fireman’s torch shining in on them, signalling their rescue.
They had been lucky. They were helped out of the ruins and lowered onto the street outside where they sat being bandaged up by paramedics, watching as the fire brigade struggled valiantly to try and rescue the people still trapped, the Grand Hotel still standing but with a massive chunk missing as though it had be scooped out.
It was all so frenzied but those who had been involved and were now watching from the sidelines just stared in a kind of trance, the whole thing almost too surreal and horrible to contemplate. The world was passing Urquhart by so slowly, as though in a dream.
“They’re still trying to get Tebbit and his wife out,” Urquhart was told by a young Samuels who was stood with a fellow backbencher named Woolton, both with bandages covering head injuries, both in their pyjamas and both as shell-shocked as he was.
“IRA?” Urquhart asked, although he didn’t need to.
“Bastards,” Woolton said as his sharp face grew dark with hate and anger.
“The PM?”
“She’s fine,” Samuels answered with a look of pride. “Not a scratch.”
Now in complete safety the panic that had overcome him earlier had transformed into an almost heady feeling of victory. The adrenaline pounded through him and it was the most exhilarating experience. To have survived an attempt on his life. To have walked away while others were being brought out on stretchers. So much for survivor’s guilt, Urquhart suddenly had a feeling of invincibility and he had never felt so powerful before that day.
How could he doubt his purpose when he had been allowed to live?
“I need to call my wife,” he said, filled with the desperate need to hear her voice and to tell her that everything was all right. He got up to search for a public phone.
He had just turned down a side street when he realised that Stamper had followed him. He had forgotten all about him. He turned to see the younger man standing in the street, his socks soaked from the foam that the firemen had used to put out the flames that threatened to engulf the hotel. He was obviously still dazed by the whole experience, and looked at Urquhart with a mixture of joy and relief and something that looked far too much like adoration. “Tim,” he said softly and then in a flurry found his arms full as Stamper had thrown himself at him and clung on. There was such desperation in his grasping that it stifled Urquhart and he squirmed in those surprisingly strong arms.
Sense filtered back into his shrewd brain and he felt sick at the idea of what had nearly occurred in that hotel room. In his loneliness and frustration he had almost given in to his abstract attraction. He had almost given Stamper everything he wanted.
Urquhart tried to imagine the alternate universe where they had gone through with it and it made his stomach churn. A world where Stamper would forever cling to him the way he was now, under the false assumption that somehow they were in love and always expecting favours to be returned. Their relationship was not like that. Urquhart set the rules and controlled the rewards. And sanctions.
What was he doing now? Was this just from relief, or was he trying to recapture a stone dead moment? Either way Urquhart wanted none of it.
He allowed Stamper to cling for only a minute before he pushed him back gently, returning to the aloofness that was so characteristic of him. There would be no more of that, lest he give into temptation in some other moment of weakness. Stamper got the look of a puppy that had just been kicked by its doting owner but Urquhart was numb to it. “It’s been a trying day. We must try and forget all about it,” Urquhart said, knowing that Stamper would get the hint. Stamper continued to look hurt. “I need you, Tim,” he threw out, offering the poor man something. “I need you. I can still rely on you?”
“Of course you can, Francis.” Stamper nodded and allowed a weak smile to pass over his face. “Sorry,” he added.
“It’s all right, Tim,” Urquhart reassured, although he didn’t know exactly which part of this horrible night the man was apologising for, nor did he care.
All he wanted to do was talk to Elizabeth. Then everything would be all right.
AN: The real Chief Whip, John Wakeham was trapped in the rubble for seven hours. His wife was killed outright. Norman Tebbit was also trapped in the rubble and his wife was left partially paralysed. I support home rule for Ireland, but I disagree with terrorism. All this did was make people hate them when they might have supported them.
Also, the thoughts on Scargill and the miner's are Urquhart's and emphatically not mine!
Brighton Bombing
Scargill and the miner's strike
Spencer Perceval - The only British PM to be assassinated.
Aneurin Bevan - The man who introduced the National Health Service.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-12 04:33 pm (UTC)I'm...oh boy. You really frightened me there! That read as if it actually happened...like this was a part of the show that wound up on the cutting room floor...fools!
You've really done a great job strengthening the understanding of roles between the three of them. (Kowtows)!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-12 09:30 pm (UTC)A more messed up trio has never been seen!
Though I am gutted that they didn't do it...XD
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-12 10:15 pm (UTC)It's a reflection on American humor that a true disaster of a Vice President is almost a guarantee of a President's long lifespan...because the VPs are the first ones to step up to the plate...
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-12 07:57 pm (UTC)Through this series I've been amazed at how well you've combined real history with the fictional history of HoC, making then seamless. The bombing felt very real, as was everyone's reactions to it.
I'll be sad to see this series end!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-12 09:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-12 11:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-13 12:33 pm (UTC)It was totally my intention to make you all feel bad for poor little Tim, even though you really shouldn't ;)
I've kind of made myself love him though, which I could kick myself for because, despite the CJ loveliness he's just so...horrible!
*snuggles Tim in spite of his snarling*
Just don't make any sudden movements and you should be fine XD
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-13 03:22 pm (UTC)*slowly lets go and allows Tim to run free*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-13 04:23 pm (UTC)I completely agree! <---- bias much?
he can't run too far, I haven't finished with him yet!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-13 05:07 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-13 03:03 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-13 12:34 pm (UTC)To stick to canon they really couldn't have gone through with it. In another universe though...
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-13 09:28 pm (UTC)in fact, i'm gonna go comment on it now...
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-15 02:42 am (UTC)The Cabinet were ever so slightly terrified of him
I love the combination of "ever so slightly" and "terrified". Very effective.
any weakness, however slight, on her part petrified him
Aww. I normally never feel sorry for him, but this really makes me. Elizabeth is really his rock, and it makes so much sense that he would need her to seem invincible.
Stamper had no shoes on, treading the carpet in only stocking feet.
MUH. With the no tie and the shirt and waistcoat and the socks and HOGOD. How is it that I can find him so incredibly sexy?
“He’s not your son, Francis,” she had replied coolly and Urquhart flinched.
O.O Oh. Elizabeth. That making me feel sorry for Urquhart thing? You're really good at it.
“Of course you could, Francis,” Stamper said with high pitched insistence.
I can heeear it! That's another thing you're really good at!
Shoulder touching! ;_; The character analysis of Urquhart you've done here is really amazing. He's a hard person to get inside his head, and you make the things he does make sense.
My but you are a brave boy today, Tim Stamper
Oh heavens. The dynamic is so interesting, with Stamper being so adoring but so outwardly casual and cynical and crude, and Urquhart being so mentor-like but needy beneath it.
O_O EEP. *goes to read about the actual historical event* Whoa. Yikes.
“Tim,” he said softly and then in a flurry found his arms full as Stamper had thrown himself at him and clung on.
*incomprehensible squee!!!!!!* And it merits that many exclamation points. It DOES. Buh. This image is going to be one of those I imagine for days when I need to make myself happier. I want to draw it but I'm afraid I wouldn't do it justice! *wibble joy*
Oh, Francis, don't ;_; You'll make him make the horrible astonished hurt face, and we know what that looks like and it's just painful. But the thing about how Urquhart sets the rules - it's so true, and I can utterly believe that this would be his reaction if he ever started to feel attracted to Tim.
You are AMAZING.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-15 08:06 am (UTC)Elizabeth is really his rock, and it makes so much sense that he would need her to seem invincible
Their relationship is something I really love about this show. I know it's weird and unnatural, because they sleep with other people and they plot world domination together, but she's the only person he loves and he does love her so very much. And she him. It makes them both very human I think, beneath the villainy.
How is it that I can find him so incredibly sexy?
*grin* If I ever work it out for myself I'll let you know ;)
The dynamic is so interesting, with Stamper being so adoring but so outwardly casual and cynical and crude, and Urquhart being so mentor-like but needy beneath it.
Yes, I couldn't have put that better myself! Hidden depths. It's what makes them understandable villains rather than pantomime villains.
*goes to read about the actual historical event* Whoa. Yikes.
Indeed. And after the Falklands people thought they'd never feel sorry for Thatcher!
Oh, good Lord, I counted six exclamation marks! I'm honoured!
I want to draw it but I'm afraid I wouldn't do it justice!
OH! You really must! Anything...I'll give you anything! My first born? You can has it! Tim Stamper cleaned, pressed, gift wrapped and shipped to you? You can has it! (He's handy to have around actually. Does your dirty work for you and is very loyal).
You'll make him make the horrible astonished hurt face, and we know what that looks like and it's just painful.
*wibble*
Ah, I loves you elaby, I hope you know that :)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-15 11:37 pm (UTC)she's the only person he loves and he does love her so very much
It's awesome, in a show so full of powerful men and women getting shagged and killed, that the most powerful man in the series is utterly under the control of a woman. She could get him to do anything, and he'd think it was his idea.
He's handy to have around actually. Does your dirty work for you and is very loyal
XD I'll just bet he is! Though I'm not sure I could inspire loyalty in quite the same way Urquhart does. Continue writing the wonderful Stampers and Lestrades that you do, and I'll draw it :) I was thinking about it all day, trying to figure out how I could pull it off XD In between thinking about the scene itself, of course. Guh.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-16 07:17 am (UTC)Though I'm not sure I could inspire loyalty in quite the same way Urquhart does.
Probably not without compromising your own dignity, no. *looks shifty* Not that I've given that a lot of thought or anything.
And I in return will write whatever you want me to write as long as you bring on the wonderful art!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-16 10:09 pm (UTC)I ought to read the books just to get a non-fancying-Urquhart Mattie, because that was kind of freaky. Fascinating, but freaky.