Chapter 10
A hole in the middle where the lightning went through
Nicola is once again disconcerted to wake to find her bed empty. She quickly locates her husband, sitting on the window seat in neat black slacks, a white shirt, and royal blue socks. She releases a breath she hadn't noticed she'd held. Malcolm lifts a cup of tea to his lips, eyes never leaving her. "Mornin'."
"Did you at least bring me a tea?" She frowns, squinting against the half open curtains.
"How the fuck was I supposed to know what time you'd wake up?" He says mildly. Nicola's face pinches with irritation - it's not a particularly early morning for her, but she's not in the mood already.
Malcolm crosses the room and smacks her lightly on the hip on his way to the en suite. "There'll be one in the kitchen for you."
"Does that mean I have to get up first?" She calls after him. He emerges with an electric razor pressed to his throat.
"Wouldn't hurt, since we need t'be in a car in an hour."
Nicola groans and peels herself out of bed, taking the bathroom over before Malcolm has even had the chance to finish shaving.
She clips into the kitchen in appropriate-height heels to find her husband at the kitchen table with a newspaper spread in front of him.
She curls her hands gratefully around a steaming cup of lemon zinger and watches him read. "Sometimes you are nice to me, Malcolm." She says, sipping the tea.
Malcolm looks up and is grateful for this small semblance of normalcy. There's a bowl of bircher muesli sitting on the table ready for her, fresh berries sliced over it. Malcolm is worried it will make her hurl - she is already a little pallid, and biliousness is a common hallmark of pre-speaking-engagement nervous Nicola.
"I don't think I can cope with - " He drops his head back to the paper and points towards the toaster, which pops as if on cue. She crosses, kissing his temple on her way, and begins nibbling warily at the dry toast. She hears a newspaper page turn behind her.
"Y'look nice." He says. "Funeral appropriate nice."
"Well, that's what I was aiming for." She says flatly. Malcolm twists in his char and glances up at her over the top of his glasses, analysing the particular lines of tension on her face. He holds out a hand and she reaches for it, coming to stand in front of him, her leg rests against the edge of the kitchen table. Their hands fall away from each other, and Malcolm curves his long fingers around the swell of her hip, clad in a neat black wool dress.
"You'll be alrigh', pet." He says, hoping he can be of some reassurance.
"I hope so." She says, eyes falling on something over his shoulder. She hesitates, catches her lip between her teeth, and thanks the wonders of modern science for colour stay lipstick before saying softly, "I don't want to make it any worse for her parents."
"Without diminishing yer ability to fuck things up, darlin', I don't think anything will make today worse fer them." Nicola pushes her hair back and nods. Irritatingly, he has made a fair point.
How, exactly, the nation's media has decided staking out this poor dead cop's funeral is a decent and reasonable thing to do is beyond even Malcolm, who arguably understands journalists better than anyone else in the UK. Nicola doesn't notice them at first, has turned to Malcolm to ask "Do you think there's some kind of rivalry between North and South Hykeham?" She clocks the closing of his face, and turns her head over her shoulder to be met with a series of flashes and a gabbling group of reporters already on site at the Parish Church of All Saints.
"Shitting Henry." She whispers.
"Yeh're alrigh'." Malcolm says, slipping into Communications Director voice rather than supportive spouse voice. She can see him plotting out the logistics in his head, and she's glad, because she doesn't want to be. The Range Rover full of her Protection Command pulls up behind her sleek black Sentinel, officers jumping out to assist with the squabbling press. Malcolm is already out of the car and by Nicola's side door when she kicks her legs out.
There are police close at hand, and indeed all over the place, since many of them have asked to come to Erica's funeral to pay their respects, but Nicola has discussed with the senior officer that she'd rather not cause a commotion if possible. Her Protection Command hears this message as 'don't end up half carrying me in to get me through a crowd', and they're right. But it is also against their instincts when there are this many journalists who seem to have taken leave of their sense of basic decency.
Malcolm stands on her left side as if protecting her broken wrist, but he thinks after that he'd have been better going the opposite route and letting her swat anyone who got a bit close with the plaster covered arm. He angles his body defensively around her, his right arm curved around her back. Once he thought he had learnt to drown out journalists' repeated cries of "Prime Minister!" but today they are deafening him, and he can only imagine the effect they are having on his skittish other half.
"Prime Minister, how do you respond to claims from your back bench that you're not up to the job?"
"Prime Minister, is it true there's another leadership push on?"
"I'm here for the funeral of one of my staff, so I'm sure you'll understand when I say I'm not answering any questions." Nicola's words are authoritative. She eyeballs the press pack now, where once she would have kept her gaze on her feet.
"Do you feel guilty for Miss Patterson's death, Ms Murray?" Malcolm feels every muscle in her back whip together with tension.
"Alright! Give the lady some room." Malcolm barks, and somehow the command has seemed relatively civil - would not play badly on the evening news. Nicola wishes she could reach for one of his hands, but unfortunately one is firmly occupied on her lower back and the other is shooing away members of the press.
Her Protection Command officers begin to filter through the press pack, breaking it up and separating it out enough so that she and Malcolm can get through, and soon they are standing in the body of a Victorian Gothic church, the kind that can be found all over the country. It is quite a grand affair, though, for a relatively small town.
Nicola turns to one of her SO1 officers, with more presence of mind than Malcolm had given her credit for in this moment and says "Could we make sure the press pack doesn't jump on anyone else coming in?" Her officer nods - Collins is his last name, so everyone calls him Tom. He's the most senior officer they ever send her out with. She hopes that's not an indication of risk today. Before she can ask he has set out for the door to do as she's requested. Malcolm has swapped sides so he can thread their fingers together and rubs his thumb over her knuckles. He doesn't say anything, although his head is full of what he could say. While he is deep in the middle of this, Nicola notices Erica's parents and begins making her way across the church, which is still relatively empty.
"Maureen, Dave. I'm so sorry about the press pack outside."
"Oh, Nicola, please don't apologise." Maureen Patterson says, embracing Nicola warmly. Malcolm is still a little baffled by how good Nicola can be one on one, given how atrocious she always was at building relationships with journalists. And other MPs. And most of her staff. Nicola kisses Dave Patterson on the cheek. She has spent two hours with these people mere days after the worst event of their life occurred and somehow managed to create a genuine bond with them. The strategist in him is impressed.
"Sorry, this is my husband, Malcolm." She says, turning her shoulders and bringing Malcolm into the conversation. Malcolm unfolds his arms and crosses to them, shaking hands with Dave and squeezing Maureen's upper arm apologetically. "I'm very sorry fer yer loss."
They thank him, and Malcolm resists the urge to settle his hand on Nicola's back, to show how relieved he is that this happened to anyone but him. He feels bad for the reaction, honestly, but he is also honest enough with himself own it. They chat a bit more, but soon more of the guests are arriving, and Nicola decides to slide into a pew, lest people start commenting on the trashy politician hogging all the limelight. She sits on the far end, so she can get up easily. Malcolm had an extra two packets of tissues forced upon him the night before by his wife's Chief of Staff, who is secreting herself somewhere in the back. She does not want to be a feature of the day's events.
Nicola, who can usually keep her face under control (and has improved at this immeasurably since being married to Malcolm and being party to certain indecent activities occurring under her desk) has a steady stream of tears flowing down her cheeks for the entirety of the service. Gilly was indeed correct - by the time they arrive home she has almost exhausted all three pocket packets of tissues.
"I would now like to invite our Prime Minister, the Right Honourable Nicola Murray, to say a few words." Nicola winces at the fulsomeness of the title the Priest has used, but rises from her seat on the end of the third row and makes her way up the side of the church. Malcolm watches his wife carefully, watches her weighing up whether to deviate from the written word, sees her confidence wobble at the idea that she might fuck this up. He knows she wants to begin with a greeting, break the ice as she normally does, but the tone of the event feels wrong for it. Malcolm knows discomfort leads Nicola to try to joke - something she is not particularly adept at; he hopes she can suppress the urge.
"In a way, I feel like a bit of an imposter, standing here and talking to you all about Erica. You are the people who were closest to her - Father Peter, who baptised her, her wonderful parents, Dave and Maureen, her aunts, her uncles, her cousins, her friends. I have loved hearing the stories of Erica when she was a child today. I wish she had told me more of them herself. The mischievous, rugby loving, sporty little kid who never believed the coaches who said she couldn't keep up with the boys. I have to say, it explains a lot about the woman I knew. The first time I met Erica she was twenty four years old. I'd been the Prime Minister for about six weeks. I remember looking at her and thinking 'My god. This woman is the same age as my daughter and she looks fifty times more competent than I do.'" The room rolls with a gentle burst of laughter, and Malcolm notes her parents turning to each other and smiling tearfully.
"Erica stuck out her hand and said 'Good morning, Ma'am. I'm one of your Protection Command officers'. And honestly, I don't think I have ever felt safer than at that moment.
"Erica was the kind of person who would always go the extra mile for you - she was more loyal than anyone I have ever met, harder working, and more intuitive. She was extraordinarily kind - even after coming up through an organisation that is heavily male dominated, where emotional intelligence isn't always valued for the skill it is.
"I thought a lot about what anecdote was worth telling you today, and I came up with one that, to me, has always summed up exactly the kind of person Erica is." Malcolm sees her hover over the tense change, sees her struggle with it. "One night we'd been touring some of the flood affected towns in the North. Erica was in the lead car, ahead of me, and it pulled over. My other staff and I were sitting in the second car wondering what was going on. We pulled up behind her, and hopped out. Erica had found a lost dog on the side of the road. He was muddy, obviously starving. Erica pulled off her jacket, and started rubbing the dog dry. She turned around and said 'Can someone grab me a bottle of water from the boot?'. Without thinking about it I went and found the stash of water she always kept for us. Erica started feeding the dog water out of the bottle. Thankfully it had a collar, so Erica managed to track down the owners. When she dropped the dog off the owners cried. Their house was almost totally destroyed by the flooding, and they thought Charlie - the dog - had drowned. But beyond this, Erica, tried to get me to do the actual hand-back. We had an argument, sitting in the back of the car patting this poor exhausted dog, Erica saying 'Ma'am, you're the Prime Minister. It will mean more coming from you.' But the truth was I wouldn't have even seen Charlie. I had fallen asleep in the back of the car." Another roll of gentle laughter. Malcolm is both interested and relieved that she's deviated from the script a little, relaxed into her topic.
"Erica was awake in the car in front, not just making sure I was okay, but keeping an eye out for anyone else who wasn't. So absolutely Erica. Whenever I wasn't in the mood for the demands of my job, Erica had a way of turning my days into adventures. I am absolutely grateful for the four years I spent getting to know Erica. She..." Nicola's voice breaks and her eyes well. She looks up and finds Malcolm, steady ice blue eyes silently urging her on, with a mix of emotions in his gaze that she can't unpick at this very moment. Nicola looks back to her notes to avoid keeping eye contact with any of Erica's nearest and dearest. "She died protecting me. I will never be able to thank her enough for that. And I will never be able to apologise enough to everyone who loved her that she isn't here anymore. Go well, darling girl. Thank you for all our adventures. I wish we had time for more of them." Nicola looks to Dave and Maureen and nods almost imperceptibly. Maureen mouths 'thank you'. Nicola slinks back to her seat, shoulders rounded, trying to make herself invisible.
She slides into the seat beside Malcolm and lets him wind an arm behind her shoulders, place his hand on the far side of her head and gently direct her closer so he can kiss the side of her head. She cries steadily but stiffly, trying not to pull the focus from the lovely dead lady to the crying PM.
He leaves his arm around her shoulders and clasps her hand with his free one. Nicola can feel how lost in thought he is. She is too involved in the service to analyse why at this point in time. "Good job, pet." Malcolm breathes into her ear.