National novel writing month (chapters 3 and 4 - unedited)

Chapter 3

Lance

Lance got up at 5am, picked up his papers and headed for his car, he had to be in Nottingham by 9am and usually left at this sort of hour to beat the traffic. He could work on the way up, which today meant write the speech he was going to give to a group of Nottingham worthies about the new education bill. As if he gave a shit about education, all his kids had been privately educated, mostly paid for by his wife, who
earned far more than him, but he was starting to pick up a nice bit of consultancy work, once he left government, the money would pour in. He had reached a plateau in his career in politics, there were far too many thrusting young Mps for him to trample over and get one of the big jobs, and he had a few secrets which might come out if he ever got too much in the public eye. He had a weakness for prostitutes, back street shags, couldn't help it, it had all started when he was a student, he got pissed one night, almost fell over a prostitute, and when she offered him some business, he didn't see a reason to refuse. He saw a reason now, it had fucked up his chance of high office, but who the fuck knew they might have a chance of that when they were 19. He was convinced that all the big beasts of his party had secrets which could destroy them. He even knew a few of them, which was how he got this gig, the Education secretary had a cocaine addiction, and how he had managed to keep that a secret from the press, Lance had no idea. Lance had no intention of dobbing him in though, wasn't worth the notoriety, and he needed the contacts that this job could bring. Destroying the career of a minister might earn him a few bob, but the big money was in corporate directorships, £30,000 for a few hours a month, multiply that by a ten or twelve and he'd be a happy puppy.

He didn't see his children often, one because they'd sent them all off to expensive schools, and two because him and his wife were super successful careerists and doing kids stuff was tiresome, and a waste of time. Why go to a kid's play when you could go to a meeting, which might result in a new contact. He didn't see his wife much either, as hers was an international job, so she was always jetting off to Tokyo, New York, Frankfurt, Peking, Washington and the like. Education ministers didn't get much in the way of junkets, he'd been a bag a carrier to a couple of education international conferences when he was a PPS to a cabinet minister, he'd taken a big risk with a prostitute in Paris, and had managed to get robbed. Luckily he'd learnt only to take cash out on his visits, and no ID, so he'd just waved goodbye to that 500 euros, and managed to get it back with some crafty expense inflation.

He had left a lot of his small town past behind, only one person remained from those days, Joe, that fuck up who had never amounted to much. He was doing some kind of Mcjob for a charity, earning in a year what Lance could make for a few hours and as a banking consultant. He didn't know how he kept so fucking happy, he didn't see him much, they swapped birthday cards and tried to meet up in the summer for a few
drinks by the river. He usually bought Joe an expensive dinner, he expected Joe to be grateful for giving him a taste of the high life, but Joe usually made some crack about how he was only sending some of his residential allowance (the fucker was right) They were meeting that week, they would get drunk, Joe would roll him a spliff which they would smoke behind the Tate Modern, and after he had walked to Waterloo
bridge with Joe, it was a cab to Kings Cross and a shag in the bin store of a run down council block, £15 well spent, in Lance's eyes.

Chapter 4

The meeting, a spliff and the back street shag.

Joe looked forward to his meetings with Lance, he was entertaining, a pompous twat, who spent money to impress Joe, told him stories to impress him, ordered expensive wine to impress him. He took him to the Ivy to impress him, Joe was never impressed with status, even less so with Lance.They went back way too far, he'd seen Lance shit faced and lying in a pool of vomit on more occasions that he had fingers and toes for. Lance couldn't take his ale, never could. He guessed that Lance didn't drink a lot now, in case of fucking up his promising career, maybe he'd be a full cabinet minister, a privy councillor, maybe end up with a knighthood, or even be made a lord. They'd make anyone a Lord if it suited them, Lord Lance; it was a fucking joke.

They met in a pub along the Thames South Bank, Joe could never remember the name of it. It was the one on the walk between London Bridge and the Tate Modern, the modern looking one, sold Youngs bitter. A few ramrod and specials were a fine way to spend an evening, Joe wasn't that bothered about eating, he got a sandwich from M&S on the way down. He didn't really like eating out, if he was meeting someone for a drink, he wanted to have a drink, and not have to sit opposite them in a restaurant eating fucking starters, for fuck's sake. Joe got there first, it was a cool summer evening, it had been a fairly easy work day, the prize cunt had been at a manager's away day, so Joe and Barry had fucked around all day.They must have spent about an hour outside in the car park, smoking, plus a 2 hour lunch. Luckily for Joe, his work mates were on the whole pretty cool, and knew he covered for them as well, and as he never took sickies, they tended to feel guilty for taking the piss so much.the old 2 days before and after a 2 week holiday was the norm for several of them. They knew that Peter, or TPC as they all called him behind his back, was a crap manager who didn't have the bollocks to pull them up on it. And was only serving his time before some manager's non-job involving strategy or training came up, so didn't want the hassle that a disciplinary would bring, or shock fucking horror some sort of confrontation. He knew that TPC was terrified of Barry, that he thought if he pushed Barry too hard, Barry might go postal on him, Barry liked to give him that impression,
inventing a territorial army past, and claiming that he had just missed out on going to Iraq.

Joe sat outside, savouring the taste of the Ramrod and Special, or Ramrod and Spesh as it was traditionally known. He wasn't expecting Lance for an hour or two, it was 6pm, Lance always had important meetings to go to, so Joe opened his ruck sack, a black "the north face one and pulled out his book. Hhe was reading "Blood of victory by Alan Furst, a word war two espionage novel. Joe loved reading, always carried a book around with him. Her could happily read some airport thriller or some big heavy tome, he usually had 3 or 4 books on the go. He liked to really get into a book, read it, think about it, think about it when he wasn't reading about it, look forward to reading it. He even had one of those book reading mini lamps that he'd picked up from waterstones, he liked to read in bed, with darkness surrounding him, with only the small light to read by.

Joe surveyed his surroundings, there weren't many people sitting outside. He knew Lance would like that, Lance was paranoid about being recognised. Joe usually delighted in telling him that he wasn't famous, that he was faceless MP, that even his own constituents would have difficulty picking him out in a lineout. Despite his picture appearing every week in the local paper. above a column written by his PA. Lance
did have an inflated sense of his own importance, Joe had to acknowledge that he had done well, somehow, in a perverse way, he admired his wheeler dealering. He knew that Lance was dodgy as fuck, but hadn't been caught out yet. He didn't actually know why Lance was dodgy, or how, but there were unexplained things about him, he had been mugged several times, Lance always explained them away as wrong place, wrong time. Joe knew there was something more to it, but Lance was a convincing liar, he was after all, a moderately successful politican,so it was a useful skill. Joe knew that even if he knew something dodgy about Lance, he would never tell the story to the papers, even if he really needed the money, that was just wrong. Although if he knew Lance had committed a crime, had killed someone or raped someone, he would dob him in, no cunt should get away with that sort of thing.

Joe sparked up, he loved his silver Zippo lighter, a gift from a grateful work place. He'd worked there 3 years got on with everyone, but he fancied a change, and left to do a bit of temping. He'd enjoyed that, a few months here and there, moving on if he couldn't be arsed with the job anymore. How the hell had he managed to stay in one place for the last 8 years?. Convenience was the answer, he could walk to work. When he turned 30 he had decided that he didn't want to be messing around in
the tube for an hour a day each way, so applied for jobs closer to home. Maybe now, if he ever got another woman, it would be a good thing, to get home at 5.30. to watch Richard and Judy with her, to have a nice bottle of wine, maybe have the same bottle that Richard and Judy were drinking. One of these days he would meet the one, he was still confident of that, she was just hiding from him very successfully at the moment, he didn't want the kids thing, didn't particularly want to live with them. He'd want her to have her own flat, he'd want to keep some of their lives separate.

He settled into the book, and was surprised when Lance whispered into his ear
"how are you my favourite fucking failure? Joe looked up, "not bad you cabinet minister never will be They both laughed, and it was a genuine laugh, even though both were certain they had hit a nerve.

Lance got the beers in from the bar, settled down, accepted a cigarette, even though he was part of the anti-smoking nazis in the government. He was slightly worried about being photographed smoking, so cupped the cigarette in his hand, and bent down to smoke it.The spoke briefly about their parents who knew eachother, but didn't see much of eachother any more as they were all getting a bit doddery and so didn't get out much. Joe knew that Lance rarely visited his home town, always professing he had no time, busy busy, and all that. Joe suspected that he was ashamed of his working class roots, even though he mentioned them all the time in his speeches, to emphasise his working class credibility. Joe inwardly cringed whenever he heard lance speaking in public, thankfully it was very rare, he wasn't a big gun wheeled out in front of the tv cameras whenever there was a government crisis, he had never appeared on newsnight, never battled on the today programme. He had the odd appearance of local news, which Lance always arranged to be recorded, one of the things he fancied himself doing, post parliament (and there were a lot of things he fancied doing, all involved earning a lot of cash for very little money) was tv presenting. He had seen how portillo had managed a nice little tv career post parliamentary career, and he fancied a bit of that himself.

Joe took a few sneaky looks at his watch whenever Lance took a toilet break, he couldn't decide whether Lance had a weak bladder or a serious cocaine habit. He plumped for weak bladder. Lance had always been a little tight with his money, he noticed that lance was getting receipts every time he got the round in, tight fucker.
"fancy a number?" Joe said as Joe brought the pints back to the table, Lance did what he always did, looked for camera phones, people, people with camera phones, satisfied that he wasn't being watched, he readily agreed. Joe produced a ready rolled spliff, and lit it with his Zippo lighter, he who made it, gets first draw, he thought to himself, as he did everytime he lit a spliff. He inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs and held his breath, let slowly let it out, the first toke was always the best one. He looked at Lance, who was eying the spliff greedily, one toke was enough for joe tonight, he wanted to keep relatively light headed. Lance was determined not to be, and joe knew he wanted to get more than a little light headed. He handed the spliff
to Lance, who again looked around before he took it. The spliff excited Lance, as did anything that was wrong, he liked the excitement, the risk he was taking, he almost wanted to be caught to find out how that felt, but the lure of financial reward was more. And the risk of losing all that financial reward was perversely what excited him about the gear, and the prostitutes. He wanted the risk and the glory of his soaraway career. He deeply inhaled, and coughed, he hated looking incompetent in front of Joe, well, in front of anyone, and made sure the second toke was more assured, more confident. Joe went off to get what he hoped was the last round before home time.

By 10, Lance was his usual glassy eyed self, Joe suggested leaving, Lance agreed, and said his goodbyes quickly before lurching into handily placed black cab on waterloo bridge, Joe thought he heard the words Kings Cross, said to the driver, which was strange as Lance lived fulham way, but he thought lance was maybe shagging someone who lived nearby, and headed for his bus stop, and home to Hackney.

Lance fell asleep in the cab, even though it was a relatively short trip, the cabbie woke him up, lance handed him a twenty, and left the cab unsteadily, forgetting to get both a receipt and the change, he twirled around but the cabbie had left sharpish. Lance set off, on a familiar trip, he knew these streets well, had been coming here for years, sometimes he worried about all the cctv cameras about, but as he was usually pissed when he came here, immediately fRtgot his concern, he was a horny fucker tonight.As he strolled, in a casual way, he was clocking his surroundings, even when drunk he knew where to look, he spotted her near a bus stop, walked up to her, looking for business love?" she sniffed as she said it, he could tell that she had a drug habit, couldn't give a fuck, she was probably 19 or so, the education system, he was a major part of, had obviously failed her, he'd worry about education tomorrow. "how much?" he said, "£20 hand job, £25, blow job, £30 full sex" she said reeling out the items on her menu, "a blow job" then, lance said, and followed her into the bin stores of a local council block. He watched as she climbed over a fence, delighting in the sight of her knickers, she opened the door, and beckoned in him. He was disappointed when she produced a condom, asked if she would do it without, she said no, "it's either this or you can fuck off" she said, he agreed, and stood, looking at an overflowing bin, as she unzipped him, and started on him, it was all over in a couple of minutes, he felt glorious, even pissed he could still manage it, she was off as soon as he finished, leaving him to get rid of the condon, and walk out into the night.

As he walked away, he thought he dropped something, but couldn't see anything in the gloom of the bin store, and dismissed it as unimportant. He grabbed another black cab in Kings Cross, got home 30 minutes later, this time, small tip, and receipt, and he stumbled into bed, in his empty home, his wife was in Tokyo, he thought, he wasn't
sure, he wasn't even sure he cared.