A GHOST STORY FOR CHRISTMAS (2021)

The app was running out of steam before the caterers arrived. On the cobbled alleyway, between the security lights, Tristram ducked then weaved, holding a box of Dom Perignon aloft like a newborn. His phone was buzzing again – one call, a pause, a second, a third. He felt it in his pocket, heavy with the weight of urgency. Someone from the PM’s office. No doubt about it now. Who else would call at nine-fifteen? The line was created for tonight. A burner. No trace.

Teflon was waiting by the fire exit, wedging it open with one black stiletto, illuminated by her iPhone. Teflon was sexy. He snuck a glimpse at the porcelain white of her calves, reserved like a top table behind those familiar black silk tights. A promised land.

“Finally!” she whisper-shouted. “Allegra’s gasping!”

Tristram hurried inside, the edges of the box digging into the inverse of his elbow now. Behind him, a gaggle of quietly-suited men pushed by with shrink-wrapped cheeseboards and silver dessert trays. Tristram let the inside wall of the servant-quarters take half of the champagne’s weight.

“The app isn’t working like it should,” he said.

“Fuck the app! The app’s irrelevant!”

Tristram didn’t think it was irrelevant. In fact, the Boss had charged him with making sure it didn’t fuck up at any time tonight. After the cataclysm of the Track and Trace (which, at least didn’t really matter) there was a lot of pressure on ensuring this one actually worked. It was the kind of pressure that, if dealt with, earned promotions. Now, here he was, caught between a possible technological meltdown and not looking like a try-hard in front of Teflon. Because Teflon was very sexy.

Inside the party room, the caterers were already laying out the canopes across long, awkwardly-placed tables. Somebody had rustled up ill-fitting paper tablecloths, decorated with shit tinsel. A band of male key advisors swarmed like randy flies around a sheltering gang of female key advisors. Shirts were unbuttoned too low; lips were staining red from the merlot.

Tristram set down the champers, taking care to place a bottle out for the Boss, D.C., Matt H, Priti, and The Gove. Teflon had already taken care of Rishi’s ten-pack of Cokes.

“I see the champagne has my name on it,” Dom announced, as he arrived to a couple of half-cheers and some uncertain whispers. “Dom Perignon…” he added, to bring it home.

Tristram always got a little flustered around Dom. He’d never been in the company of genius before, but he figured this fluttery feeling might well have been what people felt when they shared a room with Einstein, or Isaac Newton, or Norman Tebbit.

Tristram checked his phone. 17 missed calls. Bollocks. Somebody in the PM’s team wanted an update. Covertly, he opened the Tory Translate app. Buffering. Double-bollocks. He looked at the little black words at the bottom of the screen: “Powered by Cambridge Analytica.” They hadn’t so much won the contract as been handed it, which wasn’t a problem (the privacy of the parties this year was a matter of national security, so all balls had been to the wall) but it did mean that there were a few… glitches. Without it, MPs might misspeak, especially as they got more pissed. Tristram moved stealthily past Dom, who was now standing by the fireplace on his iPad writing his blog, and slipped out of the room.

“There you are!” Teflon shouted, a little tipsy. “Allegra’s gone home. Boring. What are you doing?”

“Actually, I need to—”

“You’re always on your phone, do you know that?”

“Well, it’s sort of my job.”

By God, she was fierce. Scary and sexy at the same time. Sexcary.

“It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake. Let’s put on some music.”

Before he knew what was happening, she had taken hold of his hand and was leading him back to the briefing room. A flicker of the first time a girl had led him flirtatiously across a nightclub dancefloor, back at Oxford. Teflon’s perfume rushed into the air around him. I bet this is what Helena Bonham-Carter smells like, he thought, with a tingle of arousal.

By the Bluetooth speaker, Teflon took out her phone and added a device. A huddle of advisors stood nearby, drinking cheap wine from plastic cups.

“Finally,” said one. “Let’s get the tunes on!”

“Where’s the Boss?” asked Teflon, looking for a Christmas mix on Spotify.

“Still in the Ardennes exchanging Zoom gifts with Sleepy-Go-Bye-Biden.” A ripple of laughter. “We snuck in a packet of Pro Plus for the shits of it.” This was Oliver, one of the goon patrol from Hancock’s DHSC. He loved puns and, to be fair to the guy, they did go down well with this crowd. Last year, he’d scored a winner with a play on Donald Trump and the Krampus. Tristram couldn’t remember exactly what it was, but had a feeling it involving the simple changing of a vowel sound.

Tristram’s phone finally loaded the Translate app. Okay, gotta be quick. Something simple. Into the left-hand box, he typed:

“There were several illegal parties inside Downing Street during the Christmas of Covid, 2020.”

He hit ENTER and waited.

In the right-hand box, three loading dots blinked on and off before the Translation appeared, quite quickly:

“I am certain there were no illegal parties at Downing Street during the Christmas of Covid, 2020, and if there were, I am also certain no rules whatsoever were breached.”

A rush of relief washed over him. It was working! Probably, the Wi-Fi hadn’t been strong enough outside the building, but in here – in here it was going gangbusters, just as intended. A second screen appeared now:

HINTS & TIPS

If in doubt, why not use a spare binbag to cover up the CCTV cameras?

Tristram smiled. Everything was back under control.

“T-Man, what’s with the paedo-grin? Finally get a match on Grindr?” Oliver said, more of a bark than a bite.

Tristram closed the app and pocketed his phone. He was distracted by the figure across the room.

“I was thinking of saying hi to Dom. What do you guys think?”

“Sure. But it’s your funeral, buddy. Apparently he’s been chewing out aides like a fucking springer spaniel since lunchtime.”

Behind him, on the speakers, Elton’s Step Into Christmas started up, to minor applause.

Tristram approached Cummings nervously, like a timid kitten.

“Hi. Dom…” he said.

“Busy,” Dom replied, without looking up from his iPad.

Tristram couldn’t quite believe he was so close to him, to the grey-hooded figure whose iconic lanyard signalled the Grand New Era of British politics.

“I just wanted to say, I thought the way you handled the rose garden conference…. You were incredible.”

“It was a shit-show,” he said, still typing.

“No! No, it was brilliant…” Tristram offered, a little pathetically.

“Dog dirt of the finest order. Like those frozen ones you see when it’s been snowing. Capped with silver. A silver-lined dog dirt.”

Tristram’s throat closed up.

“Don’t get me wrong, it was planned dog-shit. Dom always wears a johnny; you can’t take chances. I just fancied a go at the cameras. Captive audience. All eyes on me. Might not get another chance.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause. Dom kept typing.

“You can fuck off now,” he said, eyes still glued to the screen. “Don’t let Hancock eat all the breadsticks. Gluten confuses him.”

The party was in almost-full swing now. By the buffet, Priti P took slow, sinister sips from a dark frothy drink topped with cream and threw daggers with her eyes across the room, where her team cowered and hid their smiles whenever somebody said something amusing.

Tristram wasn’t sure if he was enjoying himself. He didn’t like to ponder that uncertainty too often, not least because the doubt it created in him opened up something like a swirling emptiness inside. Better to turn off the Doubt Switch and get on with things. A stitch in time saves nine. Nine stitches in time could cauterise even the glummest of feelings. Besides, he’d gone halves with Lucien on a gram of good quality coke, and he hadn’t done so much as a bump yet. A bump usually did the trick. A line would bring him fisting and dancing into the evening.

The closest toilets were by the Ardennes, the door to which was still fully closed. Biden must still be on the line, he thought as he passed the guard outside and pushed open the door to the Gents.

“T-Man! Awesome to see you!” The Gove mocked as he entered. He was wearing a typically Michael suit but the tie was loosened now, which was a good sign. For all his faults, Gove was a good time guy. His eyes were a little glassy behind his specs, but the rolled-up twenty in his left hand looked ready to take care of that. He was flanked on either side by a tall, silent type, dressed all in black. “We were about to do a little vaccine – care to join?” he asked.

Tristram shrugged and joined them at the sink. The mirrors reflected the four men back at themselves in festive fashion.

“The four horseman of the Cov-pocalypse,” said The Gove, coming up from the line and wiping his schnozz clean of the remnants. “I came up with that,” he added, proudly.

Tristram received the twenty, leaned over the sink and took his turn. The powder hit quickly, like a rush of good air.

“Mike One, what’s the sitch with the rave playlist?” The Gove asked of the man to his right.

“Ready to go,” said Mike One.

“And the poppers, Mike Two?”

“On standby, sir,” said the man to his left.

“Excellent. I want to go Full Gove tonight – no apologies.”

Tristram sniffed the last of the powder up into his nose, dabbing greedily at his nostrils.

“You’re a good kid, Tristram. I see a bright future for you,” Michael said, looking him dead in the eye. “We’d love to hear your thoughts on Levelling Up.”

Tristram blushed, not confident enough yet from the coke to push him for a meeting in the new year.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, much too passively.

“Messy fucking Christmas,” said The Gove, patting him on the shoulder - and with that, he pocketed his bag and shimmied out of the Gents, with the Mikes stalwartly in tow.

In the briefing room, things were hotting up. There were more people now. In the middle, by the briefing table, Rishi cracked a cane sugar Coke and slurped at the froth like an intoxicated child.

“There you are,” said Teflon, turning away from the gathered aides. “I was beginning to think you’d darted.”

“Me? No. No, I’m in for the, uh, for the long haul. Par-tay!” Tristram tried, with enthusiasm, already regretting the attempt. Teflon looked at him like he was a fledgling.

“What do you think about Matt?” she asked, looking over his shoulder to where Hancock was standing, locking eyes with his assistant. “I mean, he’s sort of my type…”

Tristram followed her eyeline.

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“I don’t mean my type, my type, but, y’know… yeah?” She asked it like she was trying to convince herself.

“I mean, everyone is everyone’s type, in a way,” Tristram said, wishing the buzz from The Gove’s gear would push him further. “In a way, you and me are each other’s type, if you thought of it that way…”

Teflon’s laugh was long and slow.

“Ha! That’s what I love about you, Tee. Funny.” She slung back a glug of wine. “Not like these pricks.”

“Careful,” Oliver said, forcing his way back in.

“Oh, piss off,” said Teflon, rolling her eyes and jiggling her shoulders.

“I actually love strong females,” said Oliver, very earnestly. “Seriously. I watched all of the first series of Handmaid’s Tale. Elisabeth Moss is so hot.”

“She is!” said Teflon, offering her glass out for a top-up. “My mum says that I look really like her, but only when I’m wearing make-up.”

“Fuck yeah - I can see that,” said Oliver, pouring the wine. “What about you, paedo? Do you like women’s shows?”

Tristram shrugged. From over his shoulder, a strange applause broke out, followed by a chant:

“There’s only one Boris Johnson! One Boris Joooooooohnson! There’s only one Boris Johnson!”

Everybody in the room was facing the door now, either confidently joining in the chant or presenting a kind of ironic bow, as the PM entered. Tristram saw his hair first, scratched scruffy in the usual manner, floating by the dearly beloved as he found his way to the head of the briefing table.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he said, shushing the cheers, “Nothing to see here.”

The songs subsided as he took his place at the centre of the room.

“No, no. Honestly. We all did this. It’s not just me,” Boris said, taking up his bottle of Dom. “To the country! May we always Get It Done!” An explosion of cheers. “Please, have a drink on me – not literally, the, er, the public are paying—” More whoops. “—and a very merry Christmas to us!”

“To us!” came the response, resounding and full, from all across Downing Street.

“At least nobody can accuse us of a Silent Night,” said the PM, to some laughter. “But we deserve it! Now, for Christ’s sake, go get drunk!”

The briefing room became full with cheers, and Jerusalem started up on the Bluetooth speaker.

“And did those feet,

In ancient times…”

“I think I want a ciggy,” squawked Teflon, so close that Tristram could feel her breath in his ear.

“I’ve got some,” he replied.

Then, he was leading the girl out of the briefing room towards the fire exit, her hand in his. The air outside was cold and dry. A white frost settled on the evening.

“Let’s sit,” she said, letting the wall break her descent. Tristram settled beside her and took two cigarettes from the pack, lighting one, then the other. His legs felt hazy and light beneath him.

“My God, that’s good,” she giggled, as she took the first drag. “Thank you.”

Tristram shrugged, not knowing what to say. He could feel her shoulder close to him on the cobbles, close enough that they were almost touching. Suddenly the realness, the very physicality of her, frightened him.

Teflon rummaged in her pocket for her phone, then gave up.

“Where will you go for Christmas?” Tristram asked.

“Oooooo, I don’t know,” she said, knowing that her phone was inside. “Daddy’s supposed to come up to London, but…”

“Restrictions,” he said.

Teflon shrugged.

“He’s got a cough.”

Silence.

“Mummy keeps texting, but I’m sure it’s just a cold. It’s always a cold.”

“Still, what with everything…” Tristram said, twirling the cigarette between his fingers.

“All those cigars. Silly old man.” She sounded less convinced now.

The cobbles were cold beneath them. Wintry cold.

“He’s got a cough,” Teflon said again, her face different this time.

More silence.

Very gently, Teflon brought her head to rest on his shoulder. Tomorrow, just around the corner, there’d be conferences on this street, addressed to the nation, for everyone to watch. The world was different now. The weight of it was tangible.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Tristram said, putting out his cigarette, while inside, the dull thud of Christmas banged against the door, like music from another time.