phrases, beating the air with his hand, till he signed off on a strong indignant quiver. As he built to each crescendo the hand fell faster, till it seemed he was chopping a log, and then the log gave way in a crash of applause. His hair was longer then, a swart pelt, and with every juddering salvo his fringe worked loose, till it dropped across his eyes and he forced it back with a swipe of his paw.
When he finished, when he left the stage to the stamping of feet, his plum shirt black and a long damp leaf up the seam of his jacket, I was waiting at the stairs, my card between two fingers. We ate lunch the next day. For the rest of the campaign I looked out for him. He wasn’t around much. I caught him at a hustings in Ayrshire. He spoke from an open-top bus in George Square. And then I saw him at the count in Edinburgh, before the big screen with a Coke in his hand, raising his glass as the votes thumped home.
And then he just vanished. Not vanished, exactly, but he dropped out of sight. He’d been promised the nomination to one of the Glasgow seats, and when this didn’t happen he took it badly. For four years no one saw him. And then he was back, elected on the Glasgow list, rising in Holyrood to give his maiden speech. The speech was special. It had none of the rancour, none of the field-preacher cadences of the referendum tour. He was witty, dry; nervous at first, you could see that, but enjoying himself, in full control. He spoke without notes, in a courtroom style, swinging round suddenly and pointing his finger, spreading his arms in cajoling appeal. His voice carried, an educated baritone, dropping an octave for prickly little asides in Glasgow Scots. Afterwards, in the Garden Lobby, everyone pouted and shrugged, leafed through their press-packs. But the hacks were stirred, skittish as horses, tossing their heads as they kept an eye on the members’ door. I listened to the talk and kept my mouth shut. And that Sunday we ran a profile, a full page with quotes from his law-firm partners and wry reminiscences from primary teachers.
He was holding the bottle now, tipping it towards me.
He’s missed the boat, I had thought, when he lost the nomination. But watching him now, I could see it had made him, the four-year delay. It looked like precision timing. By the time he got elected, the country was yearning for someone like Lyons. The new dispensation had waned. The promise had dimmed, the lustre dulled, and here came Peter Lyons, with his rational charm, his chat-show eloquence, his Mafioso neckties. Peter Lyons, who was new, untarnished, and yet a link with the old brave days, the calendar of hope.
I put my hand over the glass.
‘It’s only going to waste.’ Lyons waggled the bottle.
‘They can put it in the gamberoni,’ I said. The second glass had made me sleepy. Already the thought of the office was turning sour, like the first twinge of a headache.
‘Anyway, we’re not all demob happy. Some of us have our work to go to.’
‘Yeah?’ The bottle clanked as Lyons set it down. ‘It seems to me I’ve just about done your work. I’ve just about sorted you out. Or is that not right?’
He was nettled. I’d only meant to josh him, find a tactful way of declining the wine. But his face was dark now, with sullen bumps below his mouth.
The glass wobbled as I pushed it to the centre of the table.
‘Yeah, you’re right. It’s only three thousand words, Peter. It writes itself.’
‘Bryce’ll send you the quotes.’ He was smiling again. ‘Drop him an email. He’ll send them over. You string them together; top and tail.’ He laughed. He leaned forward, telling me a secret. ‘Nobody reads it all the way through, Gerry.’ He leaned back, raised his hand for the check.
His smile failed as the money fluttered down. Two twenties and a ten.
‘That cover it?’ I put my wallet back in my pocket.
‘Gerry. Gerry .’ He caught my sleeve as I negotiated the tight table, chairs squealing on the
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