At 8.30 that morning, Quentin De Havilland, MP wiped his mouth, having finished a continental breakfast. He placed the napkin beside his plate and pushed back his chair to get up. His mind now focused on the days business. There was nothing in his schedule that could not be changed. After all, being an elected MP does come with privileges. There was an important vote on trade agreements in the House today, which the three-line whip was adamant he must not miss. That was no real problem. It was this afternoon and the car was due any minute, he could be there by 10.30 and had the morning to arrange the other, in his view, more pressing business.
He heard the gravel on the drive outside scrunch under the wheels of his chauffeured diplomatic car. Another pleasant privilege of office. He got up, collected his briefcase and gave his timid mousy wife who was sat opposite him a peck on the cheek.
“I’ve a frightful busy day, my dear. I’m afraid it may be a long haul.” She smiled an understanding resignation; her mousy features being set in a permanent study of accepting deference. She held the door open with one hand, offering him his briefcase to him with the other. Collecting it as he breezed past her, he haughtily strode out to the waiting car. The door heavy wooden door closed solidly as the gravel scrunched again, this time under the departing wheels.
Sitting back in the expansive leather seat, he opened the briefcase and slid out the tablet computer. He preferred it to a laptop as it was more portable. Resting the briefcase on the floor beside him he eased back as car glided silently into the city. It usually took just over an hour, so, after checking James, his driver, was suitably engrossed in driving, he began to occupy himself scrolling through files of his favourite pastime. AXJ was a useful tool. Files could be stored on other people’s devices, away from prying eyes, out of harm’s way and accessed remotely. Which is what he began to do now. The encrypted Wi-Fi that was fitted to the car was for secure exchanges but it didn’t matter. The security would work for personal matters too.
The files were ready to view in 30 seconds, the motion of the car soothing as he swiped down the screen. Images of young people, boys, girls, some of them mere children, cascaded before him. The privacy screen was pulled across and the darkened windows allowed him to see out but no one to see in. Privacy. Each file had a thumbnail image of its contents adding to his anticipation, Whetting his appetite. Sad lonely faces looked back out at him, unblinking. Their parents didn’t care about them, he thought, so why should he?. Otherwise they would not be in the care homes.
No one cared about them, not the staff, the police, certainly not him. No, they were to be used and abused. Discarded after they had served any purpose or he got bored. Bored of their cries, of their sobbing. Power was a wonderful thing, especially when it was yours.
Halfway down the screen he selected a file. A video of one of his ‘adventures’ at the steakhouse. Nadia provided him with video footage of the evenings hunt, which meant he could relive it all over again. His brow was beginning to sweat now, one hand reached down.
He was breathing harder now, lost in an interior world of forbidden fantasy. Reliving every moment, rewinding, fast forwarding and pausing as the action climaxed.
Take your time, James, he thought. There is no hurry at all with the drive.
As the car approached the outskirts of London, he laid his head back, he had to rest, recover. James had been oblivious to the whole thing, he was a good boy. It reminded him of when he was at boarding school, stolen pleasures under the bed covers, before the house masters inspection and lights out. The taste of the forbidden fruit and of not being caught in the act.
He sat up as the destination of London approached, putting the iPad away, his breathing returned to normal. Looking out the window, he saw the signs to Edgeware Road. Winding the window down he took in the view, turning his mind to the days’ official business. It wasn’t long before the car drew to a stop inside the Palace of Westminster courtyard.
An excerpt from the forth coming book ‘The Ledger’ currently being edited.
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