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She’ll put you through,” the guard said, in awe, grateful to hand over the awesome responsibility.
    “Hello. Hello. Yes, this is Roger.” A brief pause. “Prime Minister! How very good to hear from you. Many, many congratulations. The result is really excellent in the circumstances. My old father used to say that a victory is sweet whether you win 5–0 or 5–4…” His eyes darted around the room; every face was turned to him. “What did you say? Oh, yes. Yes! That’s so kind. I’m at the advertising agency right this moment as it happens.”
    The room was now hushed to a point where they could hear the fig trees weeping.
    “I think they’ve performed marvelously, and I certainly couldn’t have done it without their support…May I tell them that?”
    O’Neill placed his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to the audience, which was held in total rapture. “The Prime Minister just wants me to thank you all on his behalf for helping run such a fantastic campaign. He says it made all the difference.” He went back to the phone and listened for a few seconds more. “And he’s not going to demand the money back!”
    The room erupted into a great roar of applause and cheers. O’Neill held the phone aloft to catch every last sound.
    “Yes, Prime Minister. I want to tell you that I’m totally thrilled, overwhelmed to receive your first telephone call after your own election…I look forward to seeing you, too. Yes, I shall be at Smith Square later…Of course, of course. See you then. And congratulations once again.”
    He replaced the telephone gently in its cradle, his expression heavy with the honor that had been done him. He turned to face the room. Suddenly his face burst into a broad smile and the gathering broke into a series of resounding cheers and everyone attempted to shake his hand at once.
    They were still saluting him with a chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” as, in the next street, Penny replaced the car phone in its cradle and began to adjust her lipstick in the mirror.

Six
It was my old gillie who taught me a lesson, up on the moor, one I’ve always remembered. I was a child—what, eight years old? But cast your own mind back; it’s at that sort of age the lessons sink in, take hold.
He said this to me: “If you must inflict pain, make sure it is irresistible and overwhelming, so that he knows you will always do him more harm than he can ever do to you.” The gillie was talking about wild dogs, of course. But it’s been a good lesson in politics, too.
    Friday, June 11
    The crowd in Smith Square had increased dramatically in size as supporters, opponents, and the merely curious waited for the Prime Minister’s arrival. Midnight had long since tolled but this was a night when biological clocks would be stretched to the limit. The onlookers could see from the TV technicians’ monitors that his convoy, escorted by police outriders and pursued by camera cars, had long since left the M1 and was now approaching Marble Arch. It would be less than ten minutes before they arrived, and three youthful cheerleaders employed by the Party were encouraging the crowd to warm up with a mixture of patriotic songs and shouts.
    They were having to work harder than at previous elections. While people appeared more than happy to wave enormous Union Jacks there seemed to be less enthusiasm to brandish the large mounted photographs of Henry Collingridge that had just appeared through the doorway of Party Headquarters. Several members of the crowd were wearing personal radios and informing those around them of the results. It didn’t seem to lift spirits. Even the cheerleaders would stop occasionally to form a huddle and discuss the latest news. There was also an element of competition because several Opposition supporters, emboldened by what they’d heard, had decided to infiltrate and were now proceeding to wave their own banners and chant slogans. Half a dozen policemen moved in to ensure that