House of Cards by Michael Dobbs Read Free Book Online Page B

majority is a majority. And it will give the Chief Whip something to do instead of sitting idly around with a majority of over a hundred. Eh, Francis?' And with that he strode out of the room, leaving Urquhart clutching his envelope.
    With the Prime Minister's departure the crowds both inside and outside the building began perceptibly to melt, and Urquhart made his way to the back of the first floor where he knew the nearest photocopier could be found.
    Room 132A was not an office at all, but a windowless closet barely six feet across which was kept for supplies and confidential photocopying. As Urquhart opened the door the smell hit him before he had time to find the light switch. Slumped on the floor by the narrow metal storage shelves was Charles Collingridge, who had soiled his clothes even as he slept. There was no glass or bottle anywhere to be seen, but the smell of whisky was heavy in the air. He had crawled away to find the least embarrassing place to collapse.
    Urquhart coughed as his nostrils rebelled at the stench, and he reached for his handkerchief and held it to his face. He stepped over to the body and turned it on its back. A shake of the shoulders did little other than disrupt still further the fitful heavy breathing. A firmer shake gave nothing more, and a gentle slap across the cheeks produced equally little result.
    He gazed with disgust at what he saw. Suddenly Urquhart's body stiffened as his contempt mingled with the lingering humiliation he had suffered at the Prime Minister's hands and welded into a craving for revenge. He turned cold and the hairs on the nape of his neck tingled as he stood-over the stupefied body. Slowly, powerfully, Urquhart's hand swung down and began to slap Colling ridge's face and, as his signet ring began to rake across the flesh of the cheeks, the whole head whipped from side to side until blood began to seep from the mouth and the body coughed and retched. Urquhart bent over the other man, staring closely as if to see that the body still breathed. He remained motionless for several minutes, like a cat at its prey, his muscles tense and expression contorted until he straightened with a start, towering over the drunk.
    'And your brother's no damned better,' he hissed.
    He turned to the photocopier, took the letter out of his pocket, made one copy and left without looking back.
    SUNDAY 13 th JUNE
    It was the Sunday after the election. At 3.50 p.m. Urquhart's official car turned from Whitehall into Downing Street to be gree ted by a policeman's starched salute and a hundred exploding flashguns. The press were gathered behind the barriers which cordoned them off across the road from the world's most famous front door. It stood wide open as the car drew up - like a political black hole, Urquhart thought, into which new Prime Ministers disappeared and rarely if ever emerged without being surrounded and suffocated by the protective hordes of civil servants. Somehow the building seemed to suck all political vitality out of some leaders.
    He had made sure to travel on the left-hand side of the car's rear seat that day in order that his exit in front of Number Ten would provide an unimpeded view of himself for the TV and press cameras, and as he climbed out and stretched himself to his full height he was greeted by a chorus of shouted questions from across the road, providing him with a good excuse to walk over for a few quick words amidst the jungle of notepads and microphones. He spotted Charles Goodman, the legendary Press Association figure, firmly planted under his battered trilby and conveniently wedged between ITN and BBC news camera crews.
    'Hello, Charles. Did you have any money on the result?' he enquired, but Goodman was already into his first question as his colleagues pressed around him.
    'Are you here to advise the Prime Minister with the reshuffle, Mr Urquhart, or has he called you to give you a new job?'
    'Well, I'm here to discuss a number of things, but I suppose the