Smoke and Mirrors

“Clegg!”

The harsh voice echoed across the crowded concourse and heads turned in the direction of the uniformed man standing on the metal stairs, clipboard in hand. It was early afternoon, just after the midday meal, and the inmates of HMP Wandsworth were enjoying their scheduled period of 'Social Interaction' before being locked back in their cells for the rest of the day. None of them wanted to waste any of this precious time chatting to a screw – especially not Bastard Bailey.

“Come on Clegg, let's be 'avin' yer, yer poncy little git! Where the 'ell are ya!”

Men were looking about them, conversations tailing away to near silence, but no-one moved towards the man on the stairs. Eventually he crooked a finger at the nearest group.

“You – Addison! Where's Clegg?”

The man addressed, a sturdy, middle-aged individual with an impressive collection of tattoos covering his muscular forearms, seemed about to spit in disgust but rapidly changed his mind under the officer's glare.

“Girlie Clegg? I dunno, Mister Bailey. Ain't seen 'im, have you, lads?”

Checking the shrugs and shaking heads of the men around him, he cocked his head at his questioner and shrugged. “Sorry, Mister Bailey...”

With a grunt of dissatisfaction Bailey turned away, only to be brought up short by a shouted comment from someone hidden in safe anonymity at the back of the hall.

“E's Simpson's bitch - go ask Mad Mike, why don't yer!”

A wave of laughter and crude comments followed Bailey up the stairs and along the narrow metal walkway that ran along both sides of the long concourse, but he ignored them as he strode towards the rear of the hall, checking his watch with a slightly worried air. Other prison officers standing on the walkway nodded to him as he passed, but did not take their eyes off the crowds milling around the floor below them. In a place as crowded and as rundown as this, trouble could kick off any time – and any disturbance could turn into a full blown brawl in seconds. Nobody wanted another riot.

“What's up, John?”

Bailey glanced at the man he was passing. “Clegg,” he explained, “Wanker's got a visitor – with a pass from the Guv'nor.”

His compatriot whistled. “Friends on high, eh? If he's been bleating to outsiders it could be messy -”

“-Nah. Who cares how a sicko like Clegg's treated? Nah,” Bailey repeated, trying to convince himself. “Jus' cause this perv's the B wing bicycle... Can't be. He's not written to anyone, no-one's visited 'im, and he' 'adn't used any of 'is call privileges before 'e lost 'em. Can't be that!”

“You hope,” snorted the other. “Anyway, Clegg's on cleaning detail in D wing – or he was the last I saw of him. And Dougie Moss and his mates were after him.”

He did not have to say any more, and Bailey groaned.

“Christ. I hope 'e's not been too badly knocked about – bloody typical of the little bastard. The one day when 'e's got to look more or less undamaged, and Simpson's hired 'im out to Moss for some fun 'n games.”

Bailey turned to head in the direction of D wing, throwing a “Thanks, Tom,” over his shoulder, and went on his way, frowning. Dougie Moss... the big Glaswegian, in for GBH and armed robbery and therefore high in the prison hierarchy, had been using Mike Simpson's 'girl' a lot of late. Clegg was Simpson's property, as everyone, officers and prisoners both, knew perfectly well. The prison staff had learned long ago not to interfere with such arrangements.

There had been an auction for Clegg barely a week after the disgraced ex-MP had arrived; an auction which Simpson had won. Though tall, Clegg was slim and lightly-built, and his boyish good looks, air of privilege and easy charm had made him an immediate target for the prison's hard men who, quite apart from despising Clegg for the nature of the offence which had led to him being banged up, would also have been determined to take 'the toff' down a peg or two.

Clegg's relegation to the status of 'girl', someone to be rented out by his 'owner' to any prisoner who wanted to use him, had therefore been both predictable and swift. Judging by the frequency with which the newcomer had ended up in the prison hospital in those first months, Clegg himself hadn't seen it that way, but he'd folded eventually, as did all such unfortunates. Recently there had been barely a flicker of resistance when Simpson had sent him to another inmate's cell before evening lock-up. Bailey might even have felt sorry for him – the man had shown a lot of guts, resisting for as long as he had – were it not for the reason Clegg was here in the first place.

Sex offender. Paedophile. Fuckin' perverts – hanging was too good for them...

Bailey had reached the main hall of D wing now – a carbon copy of B wing, same crowded concourse, same prison officers on watch on the walkway above. Once again he descended the metal staircase and raised his voice.

“Clegg!”

This time however, he was answered.

“Here, Mister Bailey.”

Standing in wary isolation off to one side and well away from the crowd milling about the hall, a lean figure in the dark blue jeans and pale blue shirt of the Wandsworth prison uniform straightened at the sound of Bailey's voice to make its way across to the waiting prison officer. Bailey noticed absently that the man had fresh bruising on his face, but when the officer grabbed his chin and made the other look up, nothing too serious. Cut on the jaw, possible black eye coming, mouse on one cheekbone... he pushed Clegg's chin down and away and the other man immediately lowered his eyes again, keeping them on the ground.

“You've been fighting again, haven't you? Right little fire-eater you are,” the officer commented.

“Yes, Mister Bailey,” was the soft, toneless response, and Bailey nodded, satisfied at the man's docile acceptance of his authority.

“Right. Come on then. You're a lucky man – you've got a visitor. Mustn't keep 'im waiting, must we?”

“No, Mister Bail – A, a visitor? Who?”

Already halfway up the stairs, Bailey turned around, irritated to find that Clegg had not followed him. The prisoner was still standing at the bottom, one hand on the handrail and eyes fixed with painful intensity on the officer's face. He looked down as soon as Bailey turned, but not quickly enough for Bailey to miss the mingled hope and fear on Clegg's face.

“'ow should I know?” snapped Bailey, annoyed. “All I know is someone wants to see you – now move your arse before I ginger you up with this!”

He swung his baton menacingly, and with a quick, apprehensive glance at the threat Clegg ran up the steps to walk ahead of the screw in the direction Bailey had indicated.

Stupid, Nick. You should have learnt by now, The prisoner told himself as he moved. Don't fight back. You never fight back... Keep your head down, do as you're told, and never – ever – question a screw.

Or anyone else, for that matter...

When the door to the cramped, bare interview room opened David Cameron stood up in immediate, helpless reaction, but his brain managed to catch up with his emotions before he'd taken more than a step towards the gaunt figure in the too-large prison uniform who had appeared in the doorway, his prison officer escort a looming menace bringing up the rear.

“Hello, Nick,” he said quietly, carefully controlling his voice with all his politician's skill.

There was no visible reaction from the man he had come to see and the burly escort pushed his charge roughly in the back, sending him staggering forward a few steps.

“Answer the man, Clegg!” the officer barked and Cameron's fists clenched in helpless rage as Nick recovered his balance and said, in dead tones which bore only a passing resemblance to the warm, expressive voice Cameron recalled so vividly, “Hello, David.”

Nick did not look at his visitor, keeping his eyes lowered while standing almost at attention, his hands dangling uncharacteristically relaxed and unused at his sides, and Cameron's eyes narrowed as the prison officer turned and closed the door before standing four-square and menacing just in front of it.

“What are you doing?”

“Guarding the prisoner, sir. All prisoners must be accompanied by an officer at all times. It's regulations, sir. Can't leave you alone with 'im!”

“Oh, can't you.”

Time to see if the bluff that Ray had come up with would work as well as his Chief of Security had insisted it would... Cameron delved into the inside pocket of the black leather bomber jacket which Ray had insisted on him wearing – in combination with the black polo-neck and black jeans it provided, apparently, the right 'look', whatever that was - and withdrew a small plastic folder. He walked deliberately across and flipped it open for a few seconds under the prison officer's nose.

“I think this gives me the authority to demand almost anything, short of releasing the prisoner into my custody,” he said calmly, deliberately exaggerating his upper-class accent into the arrogant, intimidating drawl he knew so well how to use. “Clegg is hardly a danger to a fully trained representative of – my department, now is he. Leave us, officer. Now.

“Oh, and one more thing,” as the stunned, speechless man turned away, fumbling at the door, “There was a reason that I specified an interview room with no camera, hidden microphones or one-way glass. This is now a matter of national security. If I or my people discover that any recordings of this interview have been made, for whatever reason, those responsible will be subject to full charges under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. No-one – no-one – is to know about this visit.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Uh, y-yes, sir,” stammered the big man, already retreating into the corridor. “No-one. Yes sir. I'll wait outside, and just – just knock on the door when you've finished.”

“You may return in one hour. Don't forget to lock the door behind you,” said Cameron pleasantly, and stood waiting until he heard the tumblers click closed.

Then he turned to look at the man who had watched the entire conversation in wary silence.

“Nick!” he whispered. “Christ, Nick -”

He found himself moving to fold the other in a warm meant-to-be-comforting hug, but Nick flinched away. That was bad enough. Worse was the sudden, rigid control which Clegg visibly clamped on to that automatic response, freezing himself motionless and clearly setting himself to endure whatever was to be done to him.

Swallowing hard as he recognised the conditioned fear behind both reactions, Cameron aborted his attempted embrace, contenting himself instead with a gentle, carefully measured pat on one shoulder, and indicated one of the two chairs at the small, square table in the centre of the room.

“Sit down, why don't you?” he said, careful to keep the strong emotions roiling within him out of his voice. “We've got a lot to discuss.”

Retreating to the other chair, Cameron opened his briefcase and took out some packs of cigarettes which he slid across the table as Nick hesitantly did as he'd been told.

For the first time Cameron saw some expression on the other's face as a slight smile chased across the battered features.

“M-my favourite brand. How did you know?”

“I asked Cable,” Cameron responded promptly. “Besides, one thing I do recall from all those discussions on prison reform was that cigarettes are the main form of currency in places like this. I thought I'd provide you with some funds.”

The smile was gone, wiped away in an instant by a much darker expression. “Snout's one form of currency, yes. Not the only one.”

Cameron felt a little sick. No, he really did not want to know what the 'other forms of currency' might be. Not when they could put that despairing, shamed look on Nick's face. Hastily he changed the subject.

“Well,” he said firmly, “Why don't you have one now? Here,” he proffered a disposable lighter. Two packets of cigarettes had already disappeared into the baggy shirt with almost magical speed, but the remaining packet was opened and a cigarette removed. When it was held to the offered flame Cameron carefully ignored the way the thin fingers were shaking, very slightly. Give him time, he told himself. Take this slowly...

Cigarette lit to his satisfaction, Nick leaned back in his chair to take a long, self-indulgent draw before exhaling just as indulgently, and seemed to relax somewhat. Leaning back in his own chair, Cameron took his first opportunity to really look at the man he'd come to see.

Nick's red-brown hair was longer than the regulation prison cut. It touched the collar of his shirt at the back and flopped over his eyes at the front, and it still refused point blank to remain neat and well-behaved for long, Cameron saw with an odd, hollow sensation deep in his chest. But that unruly tangle was the only exuberant thing about Nick now.

Nick's face was far too thin, bony and hollow-cheeked, and the matching thinness of his neck and wrists suggested either a near-starvation diet or – and this had to be more likely given where they were – hard drugs. Cameron shook his head in dismay at his thoughts. No, Nick wouldn't have succumbed to the drugs culture in here, surely. Not Nick Clegg!

But he couldn't help wondering, and found himself eyeing Nick's forearms – as if he would be able to pick up any track marks from over a metre away!

Realising that his eyes were fixed on the lean, lightly-furred length of arm nearest to him, skin mottled with bruises but with no obvious puncture wounds to be seen, Cameron hastily jerked his gaze elsewhere, furious with himself for even giving the idea house room. According to the reports which he'd surreptitiously arranged to have forwarded to his desk, Nick had been in and out of the prison hospital almost from the day of his arrival. The medical staff would have noticed anything like that, of course they would...

But it was a shock nevertheless, this sudden realisation that the Nick Clegg of Wandsworth gaol and the Nick Clegg of the outside world might be two very different people. Prison changed everyone, but surely, Cameron argued with himself, it couldn't change the essential core of a man? There would be differences, but underneath it all Nick would still be Nick...?

Wouldn't he...?

That mental argument temporarily silenced, if not exactly settled, Cameron returned to his silent study of the prisoner seated on the other side of the table. Nick was prison-pale, and his face wore an expression that was almost identical to that of other prisoners Cameron had encountered. It was set and hard - a sullen, impassive mask which was completely alien to the passionate and straightforward man that Cameron had known. Nick's hands – those strong, attracive blunt-fingered hands which David had admired from the moment he'd first seen them - were calloused and scarred with hard labour, the knuckles scabbed and broken as if their owner had been fighting, and overall – God, the man was skin and bone! And those bruises -!

He'd heard rumours, of course, but he'd hoped... He'd been wrong.

“My God, Nick,” he half-whispered, barely aware that he was speaking aloud, “What have they been doing to you in here?”

Nick blinked at him, the sullenness fading briefly into confusion. “What? What you'd expect, of course. I'm a child molester, remember? I deserve everything I get -”

He bit his lip, looking away from David's shocked expression. “It's fine, really...

“Nothing I can't handle,” he added defiantly, leaning forward to stub out his dog end on the battered table top and finishing with a brief, would-be dismissive shrug.

With a bitten-off exclamation Cameron exploded out of his chair and stalked across to the far wall – all of three paces there and three paces back.

“Bollocks to that!” he snarled, slamming his hands down on the table on his return, as Nick flinched back in his chair and watched the angry man cautiously from behind his tangled hair. “It's not fine, and it's not right!”

“I like that from you, Tory boy,” Nick snapped back immediately. “That's a bit of a change from your position when we were arguing about the shortcomings of our glorious prison system, isn't it? What happened to 'they deserve everything they get', hm?”

He smiled thinly up at Cameron - a bitter, cynical expression which made David's heart twist despite his flicker of relief at Nick's spark of temper. The fire was still there then – Nick hadn't been completely broken.

But nevertheless, this was wrong – so wrong. This wasn't the Nick Clegg he'd grown to care for (no, care about, insisted the little voice in the back of his mind, not care for. It was absolutely correct and right to care about Nick Clegg, Cameron hoped he was a decent human being and Nick had after all been his deputy. Anyone would care – in a purely friendly capacity. He felt no more than concern for a colleague – a friend. It was no more than that. Of course it wasn't!)

Forcing himself to calm down, David returned to his chair and said quietly, “Fair enough. You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to – though surely you could have spoken to someone about the way you've been treated. The Inspectorate, say. Or one of your other visitors, perhaps... Someone must have commented on your appearance -”

“-There've been no other visitors.”

Cameron stared, struck speechless. Clegg's voice had been quiet, no emotion in the words other than a kind of resigned acceptance, and for the second time that afternoon Cameron found himself clamping down on a sudden flare of righteous anger.

“None at all? But -”

“Nobody will have anything to do with a convicted paedophile. Who can blame them?” Clegg's voice still held that disturbing air of resignation, and he was avoiding Cameron's gaze again.

“I can!” snapped Cameron furiously. “Good Heavens, man, surely they didn't believe – surely Miriam -”

“-Miriam never doubted me! Not once, do you hear?”

Nick's tones had fire in them now. He looked up at David, his grey-blue eyes still dark, but there was a little more life in his expression as the fierce, desperate words poured out. It was all almost too emphatic, Cameron thought suddenly - as if Nick was fighting to convince himself as well as his audience.

“I, I told her to go! I told her to take the boys and go home – go back to Spain, to get an annulment if the Church would allow it, and to cut off all contact with me. It had to be done, for the children's sake! Can you imagine what would have happened to them if they had stayed in this country, with a father in jail for -” Nick swallowed, throat working, “- for sex offences? You must have seen – heard – what happened to our home. The graffiti and the, the vandalism, the sheer, overwhelming hate of it all...

“She – they could have tried moving, but I was too well-known over here, David. Going back to Spain was their best, no, their only option. Surely you must see that! Miriam had to go back to her family, back to where the kids could go to a school where no-one's heard of Nick Clegg the – the paedophile…”

David was nodding. “Yes, I do remember,” he said quietly. “It was absolutely the right thing to do, Nick. I would have done the same thing.”

Though why Miriam couldn't have visited occasionally, he wondered – then dismissed it. Knowing Clegg, the man had probably insisted that she stay away for her own sake, and had been too proud, or perhaps too ashamed, to change his mind later. “But – your family...”

Nick's face quivered and he bit his lip, looking away from David as he fought to maintain his composure. Cameron waited until Nick had himself under control once again, repressing his sudden, acute need to wrap the other in a protective blanket, take him away from this dreadful place and stop the world from ever hurting him again.

Be careful, he told himself, clenching his hands again, so tightly this time that the nails bit unseen into his palms. Don't push him too far too fast, you want to help him, not frighten him away... Nick needed space – the most helpful thing David could do for him today was to give him that. Let him adjust to the presence of a friendly face and the news that David had for him, after more than a year of utter isolation, surrounded by nothing but hostility and contempt.

But Nick was still speaking in those low, over-controlled tones which set off all sorts of alarms at the back of David's mind.

“...didn't believe me. My own sister was afraid to come and see me to start with in case she discovered that it was true -”

Nick swallowed hard, fighting for control, and continued. “And, and then there was the... the crash.”

He stopped speaking again, chewing at his lip so hard that David saw blood welling, and he winced as he suddenly realised what Nick was talking about. Shit, shit, shit! Why hadn't he picked his words better – he'd reminded Nick of the car accident!

“Nick, it's all right, you don't have to -” he began, but it was too late. The words were spilling from Nick's lips in an uncontrolled flood, and impulsively David reached across the table to grasp the other man's hand. Nick needed this, he realised. Let him talk it out – maybe it would help. His heart lurched as Nick's bony, calloused hand turned under his to cling on fiercely. Blinking down at the bruised, grimy fingers interlaced with his own soft, carefully-manicured ones, David held on tight - and listened.

“I th - thought you'd have heard – it was all over the, the news.... Dad crashed his car,” Nick was saying. “He – he had a massive stroke at the wheel... He died instantly, the doctors said. Brought on by the sheer stress of the trial, the media witch-hunt - everything... They... were coming to, to, to visit me, just before the trial started - I was remanded in custody here, no chance of bail for a - a sex offender, of course...”

Nick bowed his head and took a couple of deep breaths, clearly trying to keep his voice under control, then continued in a dead-level voice, “They were all in the, the, the car – Mum, my brothers – Alex had flown over from Vietnam specially - my aunt and uncle. All killed. All – gone. Because I pleaded Not Guilty, because I - I insisted I was innocent...

“It – it was all my fault!”

Ah, dear God... All of them? I didn't know it was all of Nick's family gone. Christ – Cameron recalled the pictures in the media, of a handcuffed Nick Clegg standing motionless, silent and dry-eyed between two police officers at the funeral service. They hadn't even taken the cuffs off at the graveside – he'd been forced to remain handcuffed to a policeman all the way though the priest's eulogy and had been kept to one side, well away from the rest of the mourners. As if his mere presence would contaminate them, or worse.

Shaking his head in heartfelt sympathy, David was desperately hunting for the right words to remove the dreadful burden of self-blame that Nick was carrying when the other added abruptly,

“There's only my, my sister left now. My sister – who isn't sure whether I'm guilty or – or -or not, and doesn't dare come to visit in case she, she finds out that I lied about my innocence!

“So... there you have it, David.”

Withdrawing his hand from David's grasp, Nick cocked his head and gave that bitter, cynical twist of the lips again. “If my own sister doesn't fully believe in my innocence, why should anyone else? Why should you?

“Why are you really here?”

“Wha - No, Nick, for Heaven's sake!” Cameron spluttered. “I don't think you're guilty! I never thought you guilty, never once! The whole thing was a - an incredibly clear and obvious set-up from beginning to end!”

Something sparked into life in the shadowed eyes watching him so carefully. “You... didn't.”

“Of course not!” snapped Cameron – then he flushed. “I'm sorry I didn't say anything publicly at the time, but -”

“No, no, you couldn't.” Nick reassured him hastily. Not that it made David feel any the less guilt-stricken. “It would have been political suicide for you to say anything before the trial, and afterwards – well, I'd been found guilty.”

Nick hesitated, still worrying at his lip, then lit his third cigarette from the end of his second. Chain smoking. “It would have been nice to have had a letter, or a message, or – or something once the dust had settled, though,” he added, all his concentration apparently on the glowing tip of his new cigarette. “I was – feeling a bit isolated by then, you know.”

“I did try to send you a message by one of your defence team – Ben Whitlocke. Sam knew his wife,” Cameron told him, “But he seemed very reluctant to pass it on.”

One corner of Nick's mouth quirked up. “He must have been, because I never received it. Whitlocke... wasn't convinced of my innocence either, which was hardly ideal when he was supposed to be defending me. He's seen so many apparently honest, upstanding citizens who have turned out to be guilty of the most appalling crimes. Why should I be any different?”

He was clearly quoting his defence lawyer, and Cameron clenched his teeth against the angry words that wanted to spill out, knowing that they would do more harm than good. Venting his feelings over Benedict Whitlocke's behaviour was not going to make Nick feel any better. Cameron took a deep breath and let it out again, letting the anger go with it.

“I am so sorry,” he repeated helplessly, shame still pricking at him. “I should have tried harder to get a message to you... But I didn't want to make it too obvious that I knew you were innocent, you see. That would have made it far more difficult to flush out those responsible for the whole mess. If they'd realised that I hadn't been convinced by their smoke and mirrors they'd have worked even harder at covering their tracks. As it was we had our work cut out.”

“Had.” Clegg's eyes sharpened, his face showing more animation than at any time since he had been brought to the interview room. “You said, 'Had'. Have you found out, then? Who – and for God's sake, why?”

Cameron smiled at him and then, as Nick watched with strained attention, leaned over, extracted a notebook-sized laptop from his briefcase and powered it up.

“It's all on here, Nick,” he said over the hum of the hard drive as the notebook ran through its start-up routine, and he gestured for the other to pull his chair round until he could see the screen. “I'd never have done it without Cable, though. He might have been at outs with you over the coalition, but he never doubted your integrity either. Like me, he realised that the best way of finding out who was behind it was to pretend to have been fooled.”

“Vince?” whispered Clegg, stunned. “Vince bloody Cable believed in my innocence, after dropping me in it over the VAT thing and calling me just about every name under the sun in the media when this whole mess kicked off – Vince?”

Nick's face was fully alive now, Cameron noticed with relief, delighted to see Nick Clegg starting to wake up to life again. That sparkle was back in the eyes, and expressions were flickering across those bruised features with much of their old liveliness. This was more like the old Nick!

“It surprised me, too,” Cameron admitted, resisting his sudden desire to reach up and brush the untidy, overlong fringe out of Nick's eyes. “But he called on me at Chequers one day – unofficially. Completely out of the blue. I wasn't too pleased, we had a Norwegian delegation in residence to discuss drilling rights and the last thing I wanted was a row with my new Deputy Prime Minister...”

September, it had been, just over a year ago. September 2011...

oOo

“...Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Prime Minister.”

The thanks sounded grudging, as they always did with Vince Cable, but Cameron had long ago schooled himself not to take offence at such things. Especially not with the highest-ranking Liberal Democrat in the Cabinet, the man Cameron had selected to replace Nick Clegg – no, don't think about Nick. Not now -

“I don't have a great deal of time, Vince, but please – what was it you wanted to see me about?”

The stocky, truculent figure of his DPM found a convenient chair and sat down, watching Cameron pick up his cufflinks from the dressing table – an antique, like all the furniture at Chequers - and don them before moving across to stand in front of a wall mirror, collecting the dark blue silk tie which Alice had selected for him on the way. His meeting was due to start in less than fifteen minutes.

“It's concerning Nick Clegg,” Cable said bluntly. “You've been asking questions, Cameron. Very odd questions. Could it be that you don't think Clegg is the paedophile he's been labelled, despite your thundering public silence on the matter?”

Cameron's hands, in the process of tying a neat double Windsor as he stared at his reflection in the baroque-style gilded mirror, hesitated and dropped. “Perhaps,” he said cautiously. “You know perfectly well why I said nothing.”

There was a harsh bark of laughter from the chair behind him. “Maybe I do – the same reasons that I pretended to be fooled. I want to get these bastards, whoever they are, and that'll be a damn sight easier if they think they've got away with it.”

“With what?”

Cable made an impatient noise which sounded remarkably like the bark of an asthmatic sheep.

“Don't play games with me, Cameron. The bastards who framed Clegg, of course - and in solid oak, too! I won't stand for it, and it seems that neither will you – though I can hardly believe that I'm saying that, let alone believe it.”

David had turned away from the mirror to stare incredulously at the man sitting in the ornate, plushly-upholstered armchair. “Cable, how could you seriously think that I would plot against my own deputy in such an – such an underhand fashion?” he demanded.

Cable snorted again. “You're a Tory, and an aristocrat. You people never believe that the rules apply to you. But no. I was astonished when I realised that I was actually crediting you with at least a modicum of conscience. A form of noblesse oblige, perhaps?”

Cameron flushed but bit back the angry retort that came all-too-easily to his tongue. Vince Cable had always been good at getting a rise out of him, but this matter was too important for them to waste time in petty bickering. He glanced hurriedly at his watch and groaned.

“There's no time, not now! Look, Cable -” – he eyed the untidy figure of the immensely experienced and argumentative Liberal Democrat who had been a thorn in the side of the Conservatives for as long as David could remember. “- I have to attend this meeting. It's scheduled to finish at four. Are you able to wait until then?”

“What reason would I have for hanging around Chequers?” enquired Cable – not aggressively, but as if he really wanted to know. Cameron considered.

“Hm. Well – until very recently you were my Secretary for Business and Industry... I'll inform my aides that I asked you down to brief your successor Laws on the results of this meeting and get your views on what the Norwegians are offering before our next meeting tomorrow. I very nearly did that anyway, you know, so it is a plausible explanation for your presence here.”

“Why didn't you, then? Invite me, I mean.”

Cameron shot Cable a grin that was so charmingly irresistible that Vince could not prevent himself reluctantly quirking his lips into a brief, rusty smile in return. “Why, Vince! I would have thought it was obvious. I had no desire to spend the whole evening in a furious argument. All the shouting would have ruined my digestion!”

Abruptly returning to business, the Prime Minister walked across to the door and held it open. “So I will see you later, Cable,” he said in a louder voice. “I depend on your valuable insights in this matter.”

“Indeed, Prime Minster,” returned Cable equably, following Cameron out of the room and now sounding like a nasal Sir Humphrey Appleby, “I look forward to it...”

And so it had begun.

Quietly and very, very carefully, because neither Cameron nor Cable had any idea how far the conspiracy spread and how many of their own staff were a party to it, and it was fairly obvious that somewhere along the line the intelligence services had been involved. Whether such involvement was authorised or simply a few rogue agents running a wildcat operation – well, everyone knew that MI5 had drawn up a plan to stage a coup back in the 70's to bring down the Wilson government, with the covert approval of certain ministers, and that particular 'authorised' operation had come very close to success.

As Cameron commented to Cable, “If they don't blink at bringing down a PM why should they balk at framing a Deputy?”

Cameron's life away from his Prime Ministerial and Cabinet duties became a round of hushed consultations with Cable and others over a pint of beer or glass of port: brief, snatched chats in various offices under the cover of a percolating coffee machine or i-Pod set to max: occasional surreptitious meetings in unused lobbies or committee rooms at the House of Commons. Cable's long career in Parliament meant that he had favours owed and useful contacts everywhere, even among the lower reaches of the Conservative party, while Cameron had family connections with just about every hereditary peer in the House of Lords and political connections with all shades of Tory from faultlessly wet to desert dry. And he utilised all of them – he even spent one extremely nerve-racking half hour trying to pump the MP for Wellingborough and Rushden over a glass of Bulls Blood, the MP's favourite tipple (which Cameron loathed) in the Strangers bar.

The conspirators – who very soon included George Osborne, simply because Cameron could not conceive of leaving George out of anything truly important, and then Osborne, somewhat surprisingly, insisted on bringing in Danny Alexander, his lieutenant at the Treasury – made no stunning single discovery or outstanding revelation. There was no 'Eureka!' moment. There was only a quiet, inexorable accumulation of hints, possibilities, rumours and gossip that fitted together like a particularly unpleasant jigsaw until they had almost a complete picture.

And what Cameron found truly depressing, when he and Cable, Alexander and Osborne eventually stood back and looked at what they had discovered, was that very little of it came as a surprise.

“So...Theresa,” said David, tight-lipped. “It's frightening, how easily I can believe this of her.”

George Osborne was shaking his head, while Alexander's naturally milky complexion was sheet-white. “My God.” muttered Osborne. “Was she insane? To smear a Cabinet colleague this way -”

“You know what Theresa's like when she gets her teeth into something, and she was desperate to drag the party and the Cabinet back to the right. She's always suffered from a basic inability to see her political opponents as human beings, and she's an arch-manipulator.”

Osborne looked ill, and Cameron gave him a quick smile before continuing, mainly for Alexander's benefit – Dr Cable, he knew, suffered from no illusions where Theresa May was concerned.

“Getting rid of Nick was a dream solution from her point of view. It wouldn't just destroy Clegg, whom she detested, it would smear the Lib Dems by association. She would have assumed that I would immediately disassociate myself and the rest of the Cabinet from the Lib Dems. I genuinely don't think that she ever considered the possibility of my keeping my word. That when Clegg was arrested and charged, and therefore no longer a member of the government or of Parliament, I would replace him with another Lib Dem, as per the coalition agreement.”

Cameron shook his head angrily. “And let's face it, she was in the perfect position to set something like this up – or rather, arrange for it to be set up. Planting those vile pictures on Nick's laptop – getting past all the security software to put them into his private files... That's the kind of operation the intelligence agencies could handle in their sleep.”

“Aye,” agreed Danny in his soft Scots. “I couldn't manage it, though I can see how it was done – and once I knew what to look for, thanks to Paddy, I could see where they'd covered their tracks, as well. It was a really professional job. Nick never had a chance. Paddy says it has to have been Five or Six, or maybe a private agency that they recommended – for deniability.”

“Well, Theresa is the Home Secretary. Overseeing the intelligence services is part of her job description. So she would have known exactly who to go to, to carry out her hatchet job,” Vince commented.

Cameron nodded.

“SIS might even think that this was a legitimate operation,” he added after a moment. “After all, if the Home Secretary orders you to set up this kind of... what's that American term? Black op? You're not going to argue, are you.”

“But by the same token, if her –and their - boss the Prime Minister orders them to come clean, they shouldn't kick up a fuss about it, either,” argued Osborne, and David agreed.

“But we have to keep it quiet for now, George,” he warned. “Because it wasn't Teresa who got Clegg sent down for three years with no remission.”

“No, you're right. Possession of child porn, or even downloading it from the Internet... it might be a criminal offence, but it's hardly of the same degree of magnitude as actual assault. So why did they come down so hard on Clegg?”

“The judge threw the book at him,” muttered Cable, the mere memory still rousing him to fury, and Cameron nodded agreement.

“Don't you remember all that incredible bollocks about 'making an example' of 'a man who was supposed to represent the best of us and who instead plumbed the depths of iniquity' – ach!” Cameron almost snarled his disgust as he remembered the judge's summing-up at the end of Nick's trial. “That judge – Patterson, the senile old twat – had to have been operating under orders from the Lord Chancellor's office. And that means Ken Clarke.”

Osborne shook his head again, clearly still trying to comprehend the idea that two members of his own party had cold-bloodedly set out to destroy a rival's whole life.

“But those two loathe one another,” he said, and Cameron shrugged.

“Not as much as they hate the direction in which I'm taking the party, it seems. Clarke's never forgiven me for leaving him out of the Cabinet or for supporting David Laws' return to the government. Dear old Uncle Ken is just as much of a homophobe as Theresa on the quiet. The legalisation of gay marriage was obviously a step too far for them and probably for the 1922 Committee as well.”

“I bet they blamed Clegg for that bill,” said Osborne. “You were never that passionately in favour of it when we were in opposition, Dave.”

Cameron shrugged a little uncomfortably. He did not like to admit just how much he had been influenced by Nick Clegg's arguments, but one thing he was sure of – Clegg had never pushed him anywhere he didn't want to go. It was just that occasionally Nick got him there a little more quickly than he would have done had he been left to work out his thinking on his own.... and God, but he missed Clegg's input these days! Vince was a canny operator, but he wasn't Nick.

Remembering those meetings in his office or Nick's, the hours they had spent in discussion and argument, sometimes shouting themselves hoarse, at other times bouncing ideas off one another in consultations so rich with ideas and strategies that they were still there at midnight, hunched over cups of tea or coffee... Nick, tieless, hair in disarray, gesturing wildly with the words tumbling from his lips in that stream-of-consciousness manner of his that always showed when his brain was moving too fast for his tongue... David lying in wait, ready to leap in with the verbal ambush, slicing at Nick's ideas with his incisive logic and pragmatic common-sense, forcing Nick to backtrack, rethink, rebuild, and come back at him again with a better concept, a more complete strategy... God, he'd enjoyed those sessions.

Suddenly Cameron missed Nick with an almost physical pain. Taking a deep breath, trying futilely to ease that stabbing, knife-sharp sense of loss, he deliberately turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

“The Marriage Act was always going to happen,” he insisted, “No matter what the right-wingers thought. But – yes, I think you're right, George, and Ken and Theresa decided that if they got rid of Nick they would be able to roll back the gay rights issues.

“Blinkered, bigoted - ”

“- Dear old Ken Clarke,” growled Cable, his voice vibrating with repressed fury. “It's a lovely conspiracy, isn't it. But there was far more than just those two involved, Cameron. You know it, I know it.” He glanced at Danny Alexander. “We have to get proof, or we'll never get Clegg out.”

“We're not just getting Nick out,” Cameron announced firmly, also pinning Alexander with his gaze until the young Scot looked acutely uncomfortable.

“He's going to be cleared, absolutely, completely, entirely cleared. There is no way that this disgusting smear is going to be left clinging to him for the rest of his life!

“Is that understood?”

It was clear from the silence of the other three that it was, and satisfied, Cameron continued in the same firm voice,

“And the man who is going to get that proof is you, Danny. You're the computer expert here, you were the one who worked out how they loaded those files on to Nick's laptop in the first place and you were the one that Lord Ashdown approached with his suspicions when he realised that we had started this investigation.... I'd still like to know how he figured out what we were up to,” Cameron added, almost to himself, then shook his head in self-directed irritation. “Never mind that now! Danny, you have to be the one to speak to SIS, because you're the only one who will know what questions to ask. Are you all right with that?”

Suddenly the target of three pairs of eyes – one stern, one assessing, and one – Osborne's – calmly confident, Danny hesitated briefly then nodded once, sharply, his sandy hair flopping forward over his eyes.

“Aye, I can do that,” he stated. “You'll get your evidence, Prime Minister!”

oOo

... “You mean all this was just for – for political gain? Just more Tory dirty tricks? No – oh, no -”

Nick's voice had risen incredulously as the meaning of what Cameron had told him began to sink in, and now his voice broke. Covering his face with his hands, his shoulders began to shake as hoarse, dry sobs racked his bony frame.

This time Cameron did not hesitate. He was folding Nick into a warm hug, his cheek resting gently on the top of Nick's head, before he had time to think. By the time he felt Nick stiffen and start to withdraw it was too late, and with a swift mental prayer David tightened his hold.

And sensed, with a kind of desperate relief, Nick relaxing into his arms with a long, shuddering sigh.

Turning his face into David's broad chest, Nick finally dropped the defensive barriers which had held him aloof from a hostile world for so long, and let it all out. Allowed all the pain and the misery, the loneliness and the grief, to pour out unchecked while he was held here, safe and secure in David's arms...

Nick knew even in the midst of the emotional turmoil that was tearing at him that he would never forget this. That when he had broken at last, when he had finally needed someone, anyone, to hold him, just for a little while – someone had been there.

And best of all, it was the one man who Nick had not dared let himself think of, or yearn for, through all the lonely, desperate months, lest his memories break him altogether. It was David...

...Driving his head into David's neck while his hands held on to the other's jacket in a desperate, white-knuckled grip, Nick wept it all out in harsh, difficult sobs which had David's own eyes filling in sympathy. Gently he rocked Nick in the soothing rhythm he had developed to calm his children's emotional storms, his hands rubbing gently across the shaking back while he murmured soft, meaningless phrases into the tangled hair under his chin.

Eventually the storm subsided but Nick continued to cling to David, consciously registering the warmth and comfort which surrounded him and storing it in his memory. He knew that he would never forget this – the moment when he knew, really knew for the first time that someone truly cared. That David cared.

This memory would be a refuge, somewhere that he could flee to when the nightmare times returned, as they always did. The times in the shower block on a quiet afternoon after football practice, or in the sports hall changing rooms, or – the worst nightmare of all – the times when, bought and paid for, he was sent to another man's cell, under orders to be ready and waiting in the smothering dark after lock-up and lights-out.

But now... At least he had this memory to hold on to. Surely that was all he needed – just one good memory to help him keep the misery and the shame and the fear at bay, once he was alone again.

Because David would leave. Everyone left eventually...

Slowly, reluctantly, Nick relaxed his grip. Sensing the change David reacted immediately, letting go of the other and leaning back to study his friend. Nick looked away, but David ducked his head deliberately to catch Nick's gaze and smiled warmly when he succeeded.

“All right?”

Nick hesitated – then, seeing no trace of condemnation or pity in the warm blue gaze studying him, he straightened, sniffing, and knuckled unselfconsciously at his swollen, tear-stained eyes like an eight-year-old before attempting a somewhat wobbly smile.

Cameron's heart turned over at the sight... And that was when, with a sense more of recognition than surprise, David Cameron succumbed. Quite deliberately, quite simply, he found himself thinking,

I love this man.

Warmth spread through him with that recognition, and suddenly he was smiling helplessly even as he fought the temptation to lean forward, cup his hands around that bruised, worn face, and kiss those gorgeous, wonderful...

“David?”

Cameron surfaced with a start to realise that he had been leaning forward, his eyes fixed on Nick's mouth and his hands reaching towards a Nick who was watching him quizzically. Clearing his throat he sat up abruptly, feeling an embarrassed flush heating his cheekbones, and hastily averted his gaze, thereby missing Nick's fleeting look of disappointment.

“I – um. Yes.” Cameron stammered.

Frantically he cast about for something to say – then his gaze fell on the laptop. “Oh – I nearly forgot!”

Hastily he straightened up and shifted in his chair, trying not to feel as if he was running away.

Nick eyed him gravely and said, “Bailey will be back soon. You never did tell me why you had to see me. Everything you've said so far you could have put in a letter. Which would have had far less chance of alerting anyone to what you were up to.”

Cameron glanced at his watch. “We have ten minutes yet,” he said reassuringly.

“That officer... Bailey, you said?”

Nick nodded.

“Is convinced that an agent of MI5 is interrogating you over a matter of national security, and that it's such a sensitive subject that no records of our conversation can be allowed to exist.”

“I gathered that it was something like that,” Nick responded. “I can see why you felt you had to visit incognito, too. It must have been a bit ticklish to arrange! How on earth did you get the authorisation?”

“My Chief of Security. He handled the incognito side of it as well. If it had been left up to me I'd probably have turned up in a false beard or something equally ludicrous, but Ray pointed out that the Prime Minister is someone you see on television, wearing a posh suit and surrounded by bodyguards and press. He doesn't visit a prison dressed like this -” he indicated his black jeans, polo neck and leather jacket which made him look like something out of the latest Bond film “- and driving a three-year-old Mondeo.

“Which is outside the front gate, by the way,” he added, anticipating Nick's next comment, “With Ray behind the wheel. So I'm not completely without my security detail!”

Nick's eyebrow arched, and David grinned. “No, the Mondeo's not mine. I wouldn't be seen dead driving that! Ray sorted it out, just as he arranged everything else. He doesn't know what all the secrecy's in aid of, but he's probably guessed, because he hasn't asked any questions. I got the distinct impression that he's used to fixing this kind of thing. He used to work for Mandelson, or so he says, so perhaps I shouldn't find his attitude surprising. And of course, like just about everyone else at Number 10, he liked you. That famed Nick Clegg charm...”

Cameron shook his head reminiscently and smiled, then saw Nick, flushing, look away, and made haste to change the subject.

“However – before that prison officer returns, please could you take a quick look at these?”

Cameron slid five photos across the table and Nick picked them up. They were all long-distance shots of adult men, clearly taken with a telephoto lens, but the focus was knife sharp and the detail excellent. Nick studied them one by one as David continued,

“Those are the five agents of MI5 who Lord Ashdown considers to be the most likely to have been involved in this operation. Danny is almost sure that they must have physically entered your room at the Cabinet office at least once to access your private files, maybe even twice, to remove any evidence of their tampering afterwards. However, we have no idea which of them -”

“-This one.” Nick threw one of the photos down on the table with a quick, jerky movement that showed his revulsion more clearly than any words. “I remember him visiting me. The appointment had been made through the usual channels, he was supposed to be interviewing me for some music magazine or other. At one point he asked me for something – I don't know, a drink of water or perhaps a coffee – and I remember getting up and going over to the door... Turning my back on him. He wouldn't have had time to do much, though.”

“Perhaps just to plant a recording device to pick up your keystrokes for your password,” said Cameron thoughtfully. “Once they had that, according to Danny they could have accessed your laptop remotely. Theresa would have given them access through the Cabinet Office's firewall.”

Nick nodded again, but David could see that he wasn't really listening. He was staring at the photo on the desk, his eyes haunted.

“What is it?”

Nick's throat moved as he swallowed. “I – I saw those photos, you know.” he said, low-voiced. “The ones they planted on my computer. They were – appalling. Horrible. I felt – felt violated just looking at them... The police made me look at them, wanted me to tell them where I'd got them from, who I'd bought them off -”

He paused briefly, breathing hard, clearly fighting his disgust at the memory, and David listened in silence, nodding encouragingly as Nick talked on. The words were pouring out now in fits and starts, like gouts of poison escaping from an infected wound, Nick's hands gesturing uninhibitedly as he relived those dreadful nightmarish days.

“I felt as if my laptop had been permanently soiled, I never wanted to touch it again, and there were the police demanding where I kept the rest of the pictures! The rest! Christ-!”

Nick took a deep, shaky breath, “Just looking at those, those obscenities made me feel sick to my stomach, why couldn't they see that?”

He looked across at Cameron, the sheen of tears back in his eyes.

“Why?” he repeated hopelessly. “How could they – how could anybody – genuinely believe that I could ever want to possess pictures like that? I mean, some of those poor kids were the same age as my own -”

Suddenly Nick clapped a hand to his mouth and turned away, fighting to control his stomach, and David could only be glad that he succeeded. Extracting the small bottle of Evian that he had purchased to go with his lunchtime sandwiches Cameron wordlessly handed it across the table, and with a grateful nod Nick took it.

“Nothing much down there,” Nick explained wanly after taking a couple of swigs of the pure mineral water and then resting the cool bottle against his forehead for a few seconds before handing it back. “I never thought I'd be thankful for the fact that I don't get to eat all that often...”

Cameron was about to pursue this odd remark when Nick's eyes flew to the locked door.

“Screw's coming!”

Cameron did not argue – Clegg had easily been here long enough to be able to hear a prison officer's approach a mile off. The laptop was switched off and tucked away while it was still shutting down, and by the time the key turned in the lock and the door swung open Cameron was on his feet, briefcase in hand. Behind him Nick sat quietly, staring down at his clasped hands – the very picture of a suitably-cowed prison inmate.

“Right on time, I see. Excellent. Thank you for your co-operation,” commented Cameron, assuming his arrogantly-intimidating upper-class drawl as soon as Bailey entered. He nodded to the seated man. “I've finished with him – you can return Clegg to his cell now. I may have to return, but I have enough to be going on with. Your prison has been most co-operative, and I shall so inform my superior.

“Good afternoon.”

And with a lofty nod, David Cameron brushed past Prison Officer Bailey and strode away down the corridor.

oOo

Later that night Nick lay silent and wakeful in a bunk not his own, feeling the heavy warmth of his latest user spooned in against his back. This time, though, he didn't mind quite as much as usual – he hadn't been wanted for a fuck, for once, just a blow job and a wank. Jack Hollister was terrified of getting AIDS – quite reasonable, in Nick's opinion – and also put no trust at all in condoms. He used Nick because the whole prison knew that Clegg was clean, that the heaviest chemicals Simpson allowed his 'girl' were poppers, speed, or maybe an occasional spliff... nothing heavy, though. Nothing requiring the use of needles which would have infected Simpson's property faster than you could say 'HIV positive'.

It was a far-sighted policy which meant that Clegg was in great demand with those prisoners who were still – as far as they knew – uninfected, and it also meant that (to Nick's great relief) nearly all his users (Nick refused to call them clients, or punters, or tricks. He wasn't a whore. He wasn't doing this by choice. He wasn't.) insisted on using protection. Even by those standards, though, Hollister was careful. Nick still loathed it – he was still just a thing, a body for Hollister to wank over, a mouth and hands to make Hollister come – but at least Hollister didn't fuck him, or try to make Nick come as well and then punish him when he failed to climax.

And tonight he'd had something new to think about. Tonight, for once, he hadn't been caught in his usual vicious spiral of self-hate and humiliation, bitterly aware that he was nothing more than a dirty, worthless coward...

David Cameron had come - to see him! David had talked to him as if they were still equals, as if they could still be friends. Nick knew it was a ridiculous idea. Any chance of his remaining a part of that clean, daylight world outside the prison gates had long gone – had finally been destroyed on that day a few months ago when he had at last allowed Simpson to hire him out without making any attempt to fight the two men who had wanted to use him. He'd been so bloody tired by then. Tired of fighting and of being defeated and beaten up, and - coward that he was - scared too, of the brutal punishments that Simpson would have used on him yet again in an attempt to bring him into line. Nick had quite simply reached his limit, and since then he had done as he was told, gone where he was sent, and serviced whoever Simpson ordered him to service.

And slowly, inexorably, Nick had felt himself drifting away. Day by day, user by user, he'd found himself caring less and less. Even the gnawing corrosion of his self-contempt, the bitter humiliation of the knowledge that he was nothing more than a coward and a cheap, dirty whore, had begun to fade, locked up behind a hard, defensive shell of careful, emotionless detachment. And he'd wanted that – wanted to stop the feeling, stop the misery and the loneliness and the tearing, hurtful memories. Wanted it all to go away.

But now... ?

Seeing David had reminded Nick of the way it used to be, and that had brought it all back, all the hurt and the pain, the loneliness and the desolation, but Nick couldn't regret David's visit for all that. David had looked just the same. Well, a little more tired maybe, a bit more silver in that soft dark hair, but that only added to his distinguished appearance. David's eyes were that same beautiful deep blue, his shoulders were still broad and he still possessed that strong, muscular build and that bloody gorgeous arse. Such a great body, David had. Not like his own skinny streak of nothing.

And he still possessed that same Cameron smile. The warm, sunny smile which had always made Nick want to smile back, full of all the Cameron warmth and charm. That smile had pulled Nick into David's orbit within days of them forming the coalition government, and had rapidly led to him falling completely and hopelessly in love with his boss.

Hollister's breathing had deepened now... Nick shifted carefully, easing away from the sleeping man behind him to slide off the narrow bunk without disturbing Hollister or Hollister's cellmate in the bunk above. The floor was hard and cold, but Nick had slept on worse – if he dressed and found a blanket, he could curl up on top of the old newspapers that Hollister collected for the crosswords.

Arranged to his satisfaction, Nick returned to his thoughts. Yes, he'd loved David Cameron for a long time, though he'd never done anything about it. At least he'd had that much integrity... There had been Miriam and the boys to think of, and David had had Sam.

Miriam and he... the magic had faded between the two of them, Nick acknowledged silently. Things had been going wrong even before the election and the two of them had been trying almost too hard to fix things. Then his job as Deputy Prime Minister had only aggravated the problems between them. So many committees to chair, so many Cabinet meetings to attend...The job had been far more pressurised and time-consuming than he had ever anticipated. It had been far worse than when he had been elected Leader of his party, and Miriam had rapidly become disenchanted with that as well, though that time he'd been able to woo her back – and little Miguel had come along at just the right time to settle things. For a while. Until the election – and David.

Those long periods of time he had been forced to spend away from his family had only increased the rift between them. Besides... Well, he hadn't exactly resisted the opportunities to spend more time with David, had he? Forcing himself to be content with what he could have – David's company, David's friendship – while yearning for so much more. But although he'd wanted, he'd never strayed – had never allowed himself even the simplest fantasy. He wouldn't do that to the mother of his sons, the woman who had once meant the world to him and whom he had still loved, if no longer with the burning ardour of their first few years together.

And Miriam...? Nick knew she had never loved him as passionately as he had loved her, not even in their early years. But she adored her boys and had seemed content enough with her job and her family, and Nick was sure that the two of them could have rubbed along for years in a fair approximation of a happy, comfortable marriage. That would have been good enough for Miriam. Devout Catholic that she was, she would never have countenanced a divorce.

Until now. Nick's face twisted at the thought. It seemed that even in the Roman Catholic church, marriage to a sex offender could be considered justifiable grounds for an annulment. As a special case. Especially if the husband did not object...

So now he had nobody. No-one to depend on him, no-one to let down, and most important of all, no-one to find out what a complete failure, what a dirty, worthless... whore - he really was.

And that was all to the good, wasn't it?

Of course it was...

Curled up quietly on the newspapers in the corner of the cell with a prison-issue blanket around his shoulders, Nick Clegg slept, tears streaking his unconscious face.

oOo

There was a clatter of football boots on concrete and the sound of cheerful voices, and despite himself Nick's head jerked round to watch the door that led outside. The wet mop's progress across the dirty tiles of the shower room slowed, then stopped, and Nick waited, mouth dry and head down, for the players to enter the changing room next door.

Staring fixedly down at his hands grasping the mop handle, he noticed detachedly that he was gripping the plastic so hard that his knuckles were sallow knobs on his grimy, bony hand, and deliberately he made himself relax.

It wouldn't do him any good if his hands were too stiff to use, would it? Mike would be annoyed with him.

And if there was one thing Nick knew, it was that almost anything was better than having his owner annoyed with him.

“Hey, Nicky boy! All ready and waitin'? There's a good lad!”

Mike Simpson's jovially-threatening tones echoed through the shower room, and Nick made himself look round at the stocky, muscular man standing bare-chested in the doorway. Even as Nick turned Simpson unceremoniously stripped off his shorts and jockstrap and crooked a finger at his 'girl'.

“Come 'ere, darlin'. Time to earn your keep...”

Keeping himself under rigid control, Nick complied. Eyes down, brain in neutral. Don't think, he told himself desperately, just do... don't think, just do...

A strong hand settled on the back of his neck and forced him to his knees, and Nick went with it, feeling a distant rush of relief. Blow job – was that all, he could do that -

The floor was cold and hard under his knees. He brought his hands up, only to have them batted aside.

“Naughty, naughty,” came the voice above his head, “Use yer mouth like I showed you, Nicky boy, and get yer own out. Want to see you enjoyin' yerself, don't I? Little slut...”

A hand grasped the hair which Simpson had arranged to be kept long for this very purpose, jerking his head back. With a muffled whimper Nick opened his mouth as a half-hard prick shoved at it with sublime confidence. By now Simpson knew exactly how much his girl could take without choking, and for how long, and prided himself on pushing Nick right to the limit.

“Oh, yeah,” said that hateful voice above him as Nick started to work his tongue around and over the rapidly-hardening prick filling his mouth, sucking and licking at it as it filled, working his jaw and trying to time his breathing with Simpson's thrusts as Mike began to fuck his mouth, spitting out a continuous stream of obscenities and insults as he did so.

Then Simpson dealt him a ringing clip on the ear. “Thought I told you to get yer dick out! Go on, yer little slut – do it! You're gonna show me 'ow much you like taking my prick, y'little cocksucker – now, do it... oh yeah, that's better. Use that sweet mouth...”

Blindly, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as Mike's thrusts grew deeper until he was almost gagging with each stroke, Nick fumbled at himself until he had his cock out. Just do as you're told – don't think, just do... Frantically he grabbed for the flaccid evidence of his total disinterest and began to stroke, trying to match Simpson's rhythm and hating the way the heat began to pool at the base of his spine as his body responded to his skilful ministrations.

Humiliation burned through him as he heard the cheers and whoops of the rest of the team and as always it went straight to his prick. His jaws were aching now – Mike was breathing hard, the insults and dirty talk coming in fits and starts, and Nick prayed for Mike to climax, quickly, quickly – and then it happened.

Mike thrust sharply and Nick took him deep into his throat, swallowing as he had been taught, and felt Mike's prick jerk once - twice - three times. With a heartfelt curse Mike pumped the bitter, salty liquid into Nick's waiting mouth, and Nick gulped it down, terrified that some might escape. Once, a few months back, he'd choked and coughed it out, and Simpson had not been pleased. Nick had never done it again.

The flaccid penis slipped from his mouth and Nick sat back on his heels. He was breathing hard, his jaw was aching, his mouth was sore and his cock was hard and wanting, but all he really knew was that it was over. He'd done it again – he'd got through...

Then rough hands grabbed at his hair again.

“Right, slut, let's be 'aving ya! Get over there!”

What - no. Oh, no...

When Nick looked up Simpson was waving one broad hand at the changing room – and the long bench where players sat to put on their boots. Still gripping Nick's hair with his other hand, Simpson hauled him to his feet and shoved him towards the door. Nick stumbled, almost falling before he recovered his balance, and Simpson howled with laughter.

“Bleedin' 'ell, he's hot for it, isn't 'e, lads! Go on, then, slut. Right -” Simpson paused at the entrance, looking round enquiringly, “I've warmed 'im up for yer, now who wants a slice of that sweet little arse? But no barebacking, or I'll do you instead of 'im, I'm warnin' yer!”

Numb, Nick reached the bench and stripped down as the men who wanted to use him showed Simpson their packs of condoms. How could he have been so stupid, Nick wondered as he stepped out of his underpants and bent over the long wooden bench. Simpson had been threatening to hire him out to the prison football team for weeks – how could he have forgotten?

Because he hadn't wanted to think about it. There was nothing he could do, so he'd shut it out. If you don't think about it, perhaps it won't happen... stupid, as well as a coward...

Lying still and silent, the polished wood of the seat digging into his stomach, Nick closed his eyes and tried to find that place in his head. The place of nothingness and white light, where he'd gone sometimes when he was meditating, long long ago...

Rough fingers coated with some kind of grease speared into him, and he jerked back to the real world with a muffled whimper of protest. Somewhere he heard Simpson's shout,

“Oi! Go easy – that's my property, that is! If you break 'im I'll do you!”

“Nah, I was gentle as a kitten – he's just a bit skittish,” was the response, but the fingers did ease a little and Nick clenched his hands on the edge of the bench and set his teeth, telling himself grimly that he could get through this. Not as if it's the first time, is it, Nicky boy, he told himself with harsh humour. My arse has had more traffic through it than Clapham fucking Junction. This is no different!

And as the hands clutched at him and the first of Simpson's punters began to pound into him, the heavy grunts sending hot, foul breath gusting across Nick's neck and the hard hands grasping his hips so tightly that Nick knew there would be perfect finger-shaped bruises there later, Nick found himself thinking, oddly, of David's smile, and the warmth filling those deep blue eyes.

Someone cared. He wasn't – quite – alone.

And suddenly, as if David's faith and belief in him had unlocked a key in his mind, Nick found that for once he wasn't completely trapped in what was happening to him. It was still happening, it was still painful and degrading, it would still leave him feeling utterly violated, forced to endure the mockery and contempt of his world - but he could get past it now. He could believe that there was another world outside this little circle of his own personal hell, and he knew – he knew - that one day David would come for him, and he would be free.

One day.

All he had to do was hang on...

Gritting his teeth, Nick rested his forehead on the bench and set himself silently to endure. They wouldn't break him now, he vowed. Not now the end was in sight.

He. Would. Survive.

oOo

“Clegg!”

The harsh voice echoed across the crowded concourse and heads turned in the direction of the uniformed man standing on the metal stairs, clipboard in hand. It was early afternoon, just after the midday meal, and the inmates of HMP Wandsworth were enjoying their brief time of chat and socialising.

“Come on Clegg, let's be 'avin' yer! ”

“Here, Mister Bailey.”

The prison officer grunted in satisfaction as Clegg approached him and jerked his head towards the stairs. “Right then – you're wanted, Governor's office, ten minutes ago. So MOVE!”

The Governor's office, when they reached it, seemed to be full of large men in ill-fitting suits with suspicious bulges under their left arms. It took a few moments for Bailey to see the plump, unthreatening form of his current boss, standing near the large desk which (under less crowded circumstances) usually dominated the room and chatting to an expensively-dressed individual who Bailey recognised, after a few seconds' groping, as the Prime Minister.

Of course, that was why he looked so familiar. Bailey felt quite proud of himself for recognising him so quickly, though he couldn't imagine why his memory of the man had him wearing a black polo neck, jeans and casual jacket. Must have been some news footage from somewhere, he decided vaguely as he grabbed the shocked, frozen figure of the prisoner and pushed him, not ungently, towards the Governor and his illustrious visitor.

“Prisoner Clegg, sir – as requested,” he said, only just preventing himself from saluting in the presence of all this security, most of whom had the indefinable air of being, like himself, ex-military.

“What-what-what? Oh – yes, yes, um, Bailey...”

Governor Martin had a tendency to splutter when flustered – today he seemed to be stunned almost into incoherence. Bailey wondered what the hell was going on, and whether it meant trouble for himself and the rest of the prison staff. If fuckin' politicians were involved – almost certainly, he decided pessimistically.

“Yes, good, thank you, Bailey. You can go.”

Bailey's jaw dropped. “But, sir – the prisoner -”

The governor coughed uncomfortably. “Ah, yes, um... I don't have time to explain, Officer. Suffice it to say that we are in no danger from this prisoner.

“Mr. Clegg is being released. He has been cleared of all charges...”

There was a strange, inarticulate sound, a small, choked cry. Everyone looked round.

Nick Clegg was standing frozen, blood draining from his features, his grey-blue eyes huge and shocked and staring transfixed at the Prime Minister, who was grinning back at him with the strangest look of mingled warmth and apology and... affection? More? on his aristocratic face.

Nah. Ridiculous, dismissed Bailey immediately, feeling foolish for even considering such a thing, but even as he reluctantly left the office he continued to wonder.

He never found out.

Inside the room Bailey had just left, Governor Martin was discovering what many people had discovered before him – that when David Cameron turned on the charm he was almost impossible to resist. Within five minutes Martin was agreeing that yes, Clegg probably needed some time to come to terms with his unexpected good fortune, and within ten he was convinced that leaving the newly-free Clegg with his old friend the Prime Minister for some private time together was all his own idea. Having the government owe you a favour or two was never a bad idea...

“... I'm sure Mike and Stewart would love a cup of tea,” beamed the Prime Minister, “It's very good of you to offer. The staff canteen is just down the stairs, I think you said?”

“Um... I – yes, I tell you what, I'll take you,” responded Martin. He looked an enquiry at the third security man, but was greeted by a shake of the head.

“One of us has to stay with the Prime Minister at all times, sir – but thank you for the offer,” he was informed. “Mike'll bring me back a coffee – won't you Mike?...”

And the next thing he knew, the governor was being ushered firmly and politely from the room by two very large though very amiable security men.

Behind them Ray waited for a couple of breaths, then, with a conspiratorial wink at his employer – who was choking back a snort of laughter – he too moved, to the landing outside the office, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Leaving David Cameron and Nick Clegg alone.

“I'm sorry it's taken so long,” David began, hungrily devouring every detail of Nick's appearance. “I never thought it would be six weeks...”

“I heard about Theresa's resignation this morning,” Nick said vaguely, his own gaze as hungry as David's. “I realised then that things were happening, but I never thought it would be this quick. How – how did you do it?”

David's grin grew wider, if that were possible.

“Once you'd identified the MI5 agent it was relatively simple,” he said, trying not to sound too smug. After all, it had still taken them six weeks, during the whole of which time Cameron had been frustratingly conscious that Nick was still stuck in gaol, suffering who-knew-what in the way of pain and humiliation.

“I arranged a meeting with the head of MI5 and then we played the usual bureaucratic game. I officially informed him that one of his agents had been conducting an operation without the knowledge or authorisation of Her Majesty's Government. He professed to have no knowledge of any plot to undermine the Deputy Prime Minister and assured me that the agent concerned would be disciplined, and I gave him to understand that I would leave it there and take no further action, on condition that the full story of MI5's part in the affair – without any names, of course – was leaked to the Press.

“At around the same time Vince Cable and George together bearded Theresa May in her office and informed her that we – er – 'knew everything'.”

Cameron's smile took on a reminiscent tinge.

“George told me that watching Vince go to work was an absolute treat,” he added. “I only wish I could have seen it. By the time he'd finished with her, she'd given him the names of every one of our staff who she'd managed to suborn or browbeat into helping her, and was practically begging for the chance to resign 'to spend more time with her family' before we released a full statement - only with names this time.

“Which Cable and Osborne will have done...” he glanced at his watch, “Approximately an hour ago.”

He sighed.

“I only wish we could do the same with Ken Clarke, but the devious old bastard was far too cunning to leave behind any concrete evidence of crooked dealings or undue influence. All I can do there is put some pressure on to push Patterson into early retirement. But Clarke knows that we know what he's been up to, and I think he'll be keeping very quiet and keeping his nose firmly inside the Royal Courts of Justice for a while. Hopefully until the next election, and after that – well, all bets are off, aren't they?”

“You, you really managed to get rid of Theresa?”

“Well, Cable did,” corrected David, but Nick immediately shook his head in quick, fierce disagreement.

“No, it was you, David. Do you think that I haven't figured out who drove this? Who it was who had such faith in me that they were prepared to go against their own party, their own colleagues? I can't thank -”

“-Don't, for God's sake thank me!” snapped David, startling both of them. “I didn't do it for your gratitude, Nick, I did it – we all did it - because it was the right thing to do, and because it had to be done. Please don't be grateful!”

Nick was biting his lip, looking at the floor and refusing to meet Cameron's gaze.

“Was – was that the only reason?” he asked in a constricted voice. “Because it was the right thing to do?”

Unnoticed, David took a step towards him, and instinctively Nick looked up. Their eyes clung to each other's faces and neither of them was really listening to what the other was saying aloud.

“What other reason could there be?” demanded David, as his hands came up to cup Nick's face.

Closing his eyes, Nick turned his head to press against that warm touch, and David caught his breath. What was he doing! Nick was horribly vulnerable at the moment, there was no way that he, Cameron, should be doing this...

Reluctantly David dropped his hands and made himself step back, fumbling for something to say. Nick blinked, lifting one hand to his cheek where David's hand had rested and staring at David with a bereft expression which almost had Cameron changing his mind.

Almost.

“I... um...”

Suddenly Nick's lips quirked upwards. “You sound like you did during that interview for Pink News,” he remarked, and David lost his uncertainty in a glare.

“Oh, thank you,” he retorted. “If we're going to drag up embarrassing interviews, need I remind you of your chat with a certain Piers Morgan?”

Then he nodded in the direction of the front entrance. “I'm sure that Piers is out there with the rest of the press corps, if you fancy another go-around with him!”

“Ah, fuck it,” groaned Nick. “The press are on to this already? They'll eat me alive...” he fell silent, frowning. The last thing he needed now was to fight his way through a crowd of media and journalists just to get out – and where was he to go? He hadn't thought of that.

David, watching the expressions come and go on Nick's face, had little difficulty in following the other man's train of thought.

“Don't worry, Nick, you're coming home with me,” he said firmly. “There's the most incredible media scrum outside, you know. There are teams from every television company in the country plus a fair few foreign news agencies waiting to jump you at the front gate. So we're going to smuggle you out the back.”

There was a glimmer of mischief in Nick's eyes. “In the Mondeo?”

David's laugh was as much relief as anything else.

“No, in the Prime Minister's Jag! It's got tinted windows, remember? We'll drop you anywhere you want to go, but I'd be delighted if you came back to Downing St. with me – we can smuggle you in through the garden, off Horse Guards, and you can stay out of sight until you feel ready. No one will ask you to go public until you want to, I promise. Please?”

Relief shuddering through him at the realisation that he would not have to try and handle the complications of finding somewhere to eat, somewhere to stay, of coping with public transport and unrestricted movement after almost two years of simply doing as he was told and going where he was bid, Nick nodded, a lump rising in his throat.

“I – yes. Yes, please,” he whispered, and then found himself fighting back tears at the expression of pure, uncomplicated delight on David's face. Since when had he acquired such power to make David happy? How could Nick possibly cope with that, what would happen when David discovered – as he inevitably would - what a pathetic waste of space Nick was? Why him, why not Sam –

Sam! How could he have forgotten -

“Um... David? What about Sam? Won't she mind you bringing me back – I mean, I'm only just out of prison, and, er...”

David's face sobered.

“Sam and I are separated,” he said quietly, his voice shadowed with regret. “But let's not get into that now, eh?”

He made himself smile reassuringly at Nick, who was worrying at his lip and watching David, doubt clear in his eyes. “We can talk about it later. How about tonight, over dinner?”

The worry faded a little. “Are you going to cook?”

David grinned. “Of course! You don't think I'd get a take-away for your first meal in freedom, do you? No, no. This is going to be a meal to remember.”

“It would be anyway,” Nick said, and then smiled, an expression of such unguarded happiness that David's heart turned over. Unable to stop himself, he drew Nick into a hug, squeezing fiercely as his emotions threatened to overcome him once more... but this time Nick hugged back.

“God, I've missed you,” David murmured, his breath hot against the side of Nick's neck. “I've missed you – so bloody much...”

Nick said nothing, but turned his face towards David's. Heads tilted... Foreheads rested against each other while breath mingled... And then David leaned a little further and found Nick's mouth with his own.

David felt Nick's lips part under his and with a muffled groan his tongue flickered out, tasting another man for the first time since the heady days of Oxford. Nick's mouth opened willingly for him, in a complete surrender that set David's heart soaring - and then Nick shifted his weight, changing the angle slightly, and sheer raging need rocketed through David like wildfire. His hands slid down to grab Nick's arse, squeezing him even closer, and then David slid one hand down under the waistband of Nick's jeans, down between his cheeks...

And Nick froze.

It took David a moment to react, to realise that although he was rock-hard and very close to coming in his pants, he could feel no answering hardness from the other man. Sweating with the effort, desperately fighting the arousal that was demanding that he slam Nick up against the nearest wall and just take what he wanted, David loosened his grasp and forced himself to step back and away.

“Sorry,” he gasped, somehow wrestling his raging libido back under control. “I – God, I'm so incredibly sorry, Nick, I didn't mean to -”

Nick was visibly shaking - then he slowly put out one trembling hand. “No, I'm sorry,” he said in a constricted voice. “I – I thought, if I wanted it – if it wasn't -”

He bit his lip, looking away with a violent flush mantling his cheekbones, and David finished the sentence in his head. “If it wasn't rape...”

That was why Nick had hated to be touched! Through his shocked, sick misery, his appalled sudden understanding of what Nick had been through, David realised that it explained so much – the bruises, the fear, even the diffidence and the rock-bottom self esteem. Helplessly he wondered what to do, how he could help.

Nick was watching him miserably, and on a sudden impulse David simply held out his arms, smiling. “Come here, if you want -”

He didn't get a chance to finish. With a muffled gasp Nick was there, in his arms again and clinging on as if he would never let go. “I'm sorry, so sorry, I, I-I thought you'd hate me for leading you on -” he stammered, and David could not help pressing a kiss into Nick's hair.

“It's all right,” he said softly. “Really it is. I love you, you know, and we will get through this. I promise...”

Nick stopped speaking and tucked his head into the crook of David's neck, as he had done before in the interview room, and David rested his cheek on the tangled hair and simply rocked him in silence.

After a few moments, and quite unexpectedly, he felt a seed of contentment begin to sprout somewhere within him. Despite everything that had happened, despite the dreadful things that had been done to the man he loved, he was holding that man safe and secure in his arms - as he had once thought would never, ever happen. And more wondrous even than that – Nick loved him back.

And where two people loved each other, well... anything was possible.

Nick's muffled voice came from below David's chin.

“I love you too, David... I will get over this, I promise. If you want me like that, I mean. You can have me any way you like. You do realise that?”

Nick lifted his head until his eyes found David's. His own were very serious. “You don't have to - I mean - the things I've done...”

Suddenly David understood what Nick, in his fumbling way, was trying to tell him, and he shook his head fiercely and laid one finger on Nick's lips, silencing him immediately.

“Not one word more, do you hear me? You give me what you want to give me, when you want to give it, Nick my love - no more and no less. I can wait until you're ready. Understand?”

Nick nodded obediently, but made a silent vow to himself that David would not have to wait too long. David had said Nick was his - well then, Nick was going to make damn sure that things stayed that way. David was one owner Nick was very happy to belong to, bought with faith and paid for with love.

The best way to be, he thought contentedly, and lifted his face for a kiss.

oOo

It was only a little while later that Ray, opening the door cautiously to see the silhouettes of two men wound so closely about each other that it was difficult to see where one ended and the other one began, nodded to himself and cautiously snicked the door to again.

Well, aren't things getting interesting around here, he thought. I'm going to have to start putting 'Cupid' on my CV! I know they promised me excitement when I joined the Protection Squad, but I never expected this!

And whistling soundlessly between his teeth, he assumed parade rest at the door of the governor's office and began to plan possible strategies for getting his boss and a certain ex-con together while avoiding the CCTV.

Happy days, Ray decided, content. Happy days!

FIN