Union Jack. V. McDermid L.

the dog a final pat and strode up the beach as fast as the shingle would allow. She didn’t grant Laura a single backward glance.

      By the time she returned to the Winter Gardens, Lindsay’s run-in with Union Jack was already history. At least half a dozen things had happened which had grabbed the attention of delegates desperate to be riveted by anything other than conference business. But although the rest of the world seemed oblivious to Lindsay’s highly charged encounter with the father of her chapel, it was still vivid in her mind. It didn’t need Ian’s solicitous enquiries as she sat down to remind her of the wound that Union Jack had so callously opened.

      ‘Are you okay? Bloody Union Jack. I can’t believe he could be so bloody insensitive,’ he said, but not quietly enough to avoid arousing the interest of other members of the delegation. ‘Even though he didn’t know about Frances, he still had no right to drag her in like that.’

      Lindsay rubbed a hand over her face. Any good the fresh air had done her vanished like mist in sunshine. ‘He was just trying to discredit me, that’s all. Making sure that anyone who didn’t know I’m a dyke knows now. That and telling everyone that I’m somebody else’s puppet. Why should I expect him to have known about Frances?’

      By now, the entire table had given up any pretence of listening to the debate. Lindsay and Ian were the centre of everyone’s attention, even Paul leaning forward to hear better.

      ‘Because he bloody should have. Because you’re a member of his chapel, and for three months your partner was fighting a losing battle against cancer. He should have made it his business to see you had any support you needed.’

      Lindsay sighed, and patted the fist Ian was banging on the table. ‘I got the support I needed from you and the rest of my friends. You know I didn’t want a big song and dance about it. Frankly, if Union Jack had been forced to swallow his prejudices and offer me sympathy, the sight of so much hypocrisy would have made me vomit.’

      ‘Maybe so, but you shouldn’t let it rest here. Union Jack treated you abominably, bringing up Frances like that, and I want to take it to the chapel committee. You deserve an apology,’ Ian said defiantly. He had not noticed that Laura had come up behind him while he spoke.

      ‘And that’ll really make Lindsay feel better,’ she said sarcastically. ‘For Christ’s sake, Ian, let the woman bury her dead in peace.’

      Ian whirled round in his seat, the chair legs screeching on the floor. He faced Laura, his face flushed scarlet. By now, the surrounding delegation tables were agog. Lindsay felt a slow anger burn in her. How dare Laura use her pain as a stick to beat Ian with?

      ‘What the hell has this got to do with you?’ he demanded belligerently.

      ‘Exactly as much as it has to do with you. Christ, Ian, you’re just as bad as Union Jack. You’re as willing to use Lindsay’s grief for your own political ends as he is,’ Laura snapped.

      ‘Stay out of this, Laura,’ Lindsay butted in. ‘This is nothing to do with you.’

      ‘You don’t even know what we’re talking about,’ Ian said in exasperation, getting to his feet.

      Laura made a deliberate point of stepping back and tilting her head upwards to look at his skinny frame towering above her. ‘You think not? Let me tell you, Ian, if there’s anyone in this hall who’s caused a lot of heartache by jumping to conclusions, it sure as hell isn’t me.’ Her voice was low and dangerous.

      The pair of them held each other’s gaze. Ian’s ears were scarlet, Laura’s mouth set in a sneer. The stalemate might have continued indefinitely had it not been for the call for a vote. The muttering and rustling as delegates quickly checked which way they were voting and raised their hands shattered the moment. Ian turned away and picked up his voting card. Laura smiled ironically at the rest of their delegation and walked off towards the platform.

      ‘What a prize bitch!’ Siobhan muttered in Lindsay’s ear. ‘He’s well shot of her.’

      ‘Almost makes you feel sorry for the new man in her life.’

      * * *

      Lindsay didn’t want to think about how much whisky she’d drunk. She knew she’d only had three and a half hours sleep after the Scots/Irish ceilidh, but lack of sleep was only a tiny component of the pounding, gut-churning hangover that had invaded her body. She felt like the ball in a rugby match somewhere towards the end of the first half: it was bad already, but she knew it was going to get worse. At least it was the final morning of the conference. She could probably lay her head on her arms and sneak a couple of hours’ kip at the delegation table. Someone would happily hang on to her card and vote in her stead. The hangover would pass. Her guilt at not being in a fit state to carry out her duties as a delegate would probably hang around for longer.

      As she slowly crossed the hotel dining-room, she managed to grasp that she was far from the only one who looked like they used to be members of the human race. As she passed the buffet table laden with fruit juices and cereals, she gave a shudder and slunk into her seat at the table she shared with Ian, Siobhan and a subeditor from the Evening Standard who hadn’t yet managed to make it to breakfast. ‘Coffee?’ she croaked. Siobhan passed her the pot. Lindsay’s shaking hand knocked over the salt-cellar as she reached for the milk. Ian moved his pot of hot water out of Lindsay’s line of fire.

      ‘You’re not fit to be let out,’ he commented, looking up from his copy of The Watchman. ‘And that poison won’t help.’ Self-righteously, he dunked his herbal teabag in his cup, then dropped it in the ashtray.

      Ignoring him, Lindsay drained her first cup of coffee and shuddered as the shock hit her system. ‘Come on then, Siobhan, don’t keep me in suspense. Did you crack it?’

      Siobhan giggled. ‘Sure did. Four men in four nights.’ She ticked them off on her fingers. ‘Monday, Toby Tranter from Brighton; Tuesday, Peter Little, the Manchester branch chairman; Wednesday, Danny Stott, that radio reporter from Newcastle with the cutest bum at conference. And then last night. I’ll be glad to get home. I need the rest.’

      ‘So who was the lucky guy last night?’ Lindsay asked.

      ‘Search me. I went for a meal with the Racial Equality Caucus, and I got pissed as a newt. We ended up back in my room, and when I awoke, he’d gone,’ she reported.

      Ian tutted. ‘I don’t know, you spent the seventies slagging us men off for treating you like sex objects, and the minute you get liberated, all you do is do exactly what you gave us a bad time for,’ he said in mock reproach.

      ‘Shut up, Ian,’ they chorused.

      Lindsay added, ‘You’re failing to understand that by definition, the oppressed cannot themselves be oppressors. Go back and read your Germaine Greer again.’

      Ian pulled a face. Then he said, ‘You sure you did it? I mean, if you can’t even remember the guy’s name, I’m not sure we can award you the Legover of the Conference award.’

      Siobhan giggled. The sound was like a hot wire splitting Lindsay’s head in two. She’d been right about that giggle. ‘Oh, we did it all right. Take my word for it, Ian, I know we did it. Let me tell you, it’s only his name I can’t remember. I can recall everything else about him.’ She ticked items off on her fingers. ‘He was Irish, he had freckles, he had brown hair and ginger pubes …’

      ‘Enough, enough,’ Lindsay groaned. ‘I already feel nauseous.’ She eyed a piece of toast, wondering if she could stand the noise crunching it would make inside her skull. Before she could decide, Ian helped himself to the last piece. Lindsay looked around for a waitress, and spotted Laura standing a couple of tables away, talking to one of the delegates.

      Their conversation ended, and she walked towards the exit. As she approached their table, she turned back to call something to the man she’d been talking to. She carried on walking and cannoned into their table, sending Ian’s plate of toast, his cup of rosehip tea and his pot of hot water flying.

      The