Hospital Politics

Phoebe Burnett was the Press Relations Officer of the local MP’s party. She called me, one of the political team at the Western Clarion, on a Saturday afternoon. We didn’t publish a Sunday paper so I guessed she wanted something in the Monday edition.

“Hi, Wanda, I wondered if you’d like to come over, I think I may have something to interest you. There’s an open bottle of wine calling you too.”

I called an Uber and grabbed my bag with the tools of my trade. In 10 minutes she was opening the door to her large, Georgian terraced house to let me in. She kissed my cheek. A good relationship with the press is essential for a PRO, naturally, and we had a very good relationship. That is to say we fucked now and then without any desire to turn it into a deeper relationship and when she wanted me to, I’d get a story in print for her, if I could. She never took liberties and didn’t feed me crap. If Phoebe said something, it was always accurate, if not always the whole story.

Good to her word, a very acceptable bottle of Malbec was open and breathing in her sitting room.

“Business first?” That meant she was horny, so I nodded, yes. “Right, well, it’s about Sir Robert Mulhall.”


Sir Robert Mulhall (Captain, Royal Navy retired) was the sitting MP. He was fiery in his defence of the military, hot on law and order, family values and immigration. He was a pugnacious man and popular with a lot of the right-leaning electorate, passionately loathed by most of those from the centre to the left.

“What about him?”

“A little local trouble. I got a call from the Chief Whip. The good, upright Captain has been caught with his flies wide open. A video has been ‘found’ of him being buggered by a rent boy.”

I interrupted. “Underage?”

“No. It’s bad enough without that. The film shows the two of them snorting coke and buggering each other. He pays the boy with coke, for God’s sake.”

“Is he going to be prosecuted?”

“No idea. I don’t know if the police even know about it yet.”

“So why are you telling me?”

“Because the shit is going to hit the fan pretty soon and I want you to know the whole story. The Whip has said Mulhall is set to resign so there will be a bye-election.

“Do you want me to break the story?”

“Can you do it without dropping me in it?” I gave her the ‘what do you think?’ look. “Yes, ok, sorry, of course you can.”

“Who made the tape?”


“The rent boy. He was going to blackmail him. The only thing to his credit is that Mulhall went straight to the Chief Whip, confessed and begged on his knees to be protected. The Whip told him to fuck off and that he’d made his bed so he could bloody well lie in it. But to keep his trap shut.”

“So, who ‘found’ the film?”

“It was sent to the Whip’s office. That’s what kicked it all off. He’d sent it to Mulhall, who tried to ignore it.”

“Wow. Who else knows?”

“The PM, all the Whips and the Speaker.”

“Excellent so it could leak from anywhere?”

“You know something, Wanda?” I asked, what? “Politics would be so fucking dull but for moments like this, don’t you think?”

Laughing, we went upstairs. This was a familiar pattern. Business over, she’d take me up to her bedroom and without bothering to undress, we’d fuck. She had narrow tastes. She liked to watch me masturbate as she strapped on and continue while she stroked her ‘cock’ and her clit, usually giving me a verbal account of what she was going to do. This particular afternoon I’d had the foresight not to bother wearing knickers which seemed to please her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I raised the hem of my dress and spread my legs before beginning a gentle stroking and fingering which, with the added arousal of watching her unbutton her own dress from waist to ankle and tighten the expensive looking harness so the dick poked through the red fabric, quickly got me lubricious enough to accommodate her when the time came. She stood close to me, lifting one foot onto the bed so I could see her cunt in the cleft of the leather between her legs.

“Get yourself good and wet, Wanda. Show me your finger. Oh, excellent. Do you want this?” She stroked the pretty, pale blue dildo. “Of course you do. Kneel on the bed, let me see you properly. I’m going to fuck you hard today, that’s what you want, sin’t it?”

It wouldn’t, quite frankly, have mattered if I’d said I’d rather have had a bacon sandwich; we both knew where this was heading and I for one was not going to complain.

With my arse high on the bed, Phoebe stood behind me and slowly entered me. She always savoured every moment and her commentary started again. “Oh God, I love how you open for me. Are your nipples hard, like mine are?”

It’s not easy to speak with your face pressed down onto the bed so she just assumed I was having as much fun as she was and ploughed on. Happily, she was right, they were as hard as hers.

“Fuck, that’s good. You’re so tight. Like a virgin.”

In different circumstances I’d have laughed, there wasn’t too much virginal about me, not least my cunt which, whilst not over-exercised, had had her bahis siteleri fair share of experience.

Then she got into her stride, found her rhythm and, good to her word, gave me a good, hard seeing to. As always, my orgasm seemed to trigger hers and whilst we seldom coincided, she was never long after so I had to take the pounding after my climax until she reached hers. Tough job, but someone has to do it.

We lay, side by side on the bed and, having recovered, she said, “Will you publish the story?”

“I haven’t worked out how to keep you out of it yet. Your MP, your constituency, and the Clarion is your regional paper. People would have to be fucking thick not to make the connection.”

“Well, as it happens, I have a plan to cover that. It so happens that in recent months I have developed a certain intimacy with Nadine Sheraton.” She was one of the junior whips and a vocal lesbian. “She is going to ‘leak’ the story to two nationals. They will cover it for certain, but they wont have as much as you have got. Your edge will be the knowledge of the film and the payments in coke.”

So, I thought, not a scoop but it’ll make it look like I’ve done better than the nationals which will please my editor.

“But the real scoop, which will be all yours, will be the selection of Mulhall’s replacement. I have a plan and you are at the heart of that plan if you want to be?”

“Do you ever doubt that?”

‘On your knees, Wanda. Phoebe wants a bit more.”

Soundly fucked, I got an Uber back home and wrote up the story so far, and filed it for the editor’s attention on the Sunday, in time for the Monday edition.

“Is this true?” Margaret Connell was an old-style editor. She sat at her desk that Sunday morning with a large cup of hot, black coffee and looked every minute of her 58 years of hard working and living. She’d covered wars in most of the shitty countries of the world, drunk with the hardest reporters and climbed the greasy pole of journalism not, perhaps, to its zenith but certainly as far up it as she had decided she wanted to go. Her sole concession to what she called ‘the modern environment,’ was that she only smoked in the office when nobody could see.

“I spoke to the whip’s office and was told, basically, to fuck off.”

“But they didn’t deny it?”

I shook my head. “I tried to get hold of Mulhall’s private office but all I got was, ‘there’s nobody here,’ so I guess they’re forming the circle of covered wagons. I called a mate on the Times and she asked, ‘where did you get that?'”

“What did you tell her?”

“Another national had dropped me a hint while looking for local background on Mulhall.”

“You’re learning. ‘Bout fucking time. Have you got Mulhall’s private number?” I had. “Have you called it?”

“The saintly Lady M told me, before I asked her anything, that it was all bullshit and I could go and fuck myself.”

“Okay, re-write it. Make it more rumour than allegation, don’t name him – a local MP, denials by family and no comment from Downing Street. Make it sound like we’re doubtful about the existence of the film but that if it exists, it’s a game changer.” That was not far from what I had written but Editor’s like to leave their mark.

“Are you sure you’ll get the stuff on the selection process?”

“Yep.”

“Phoebe hasn’t changed.” I must have failed to hide my shock. She laughed. “Thought so. Well done you.”

Mulhall’s political career bled out slowly and painfully over the next few days, as it he had slipped into a warm bath and slit his wrists. Outraged denial turned to claims of having made a mistake or two and then to a sudden resignation accompanied by vows to fight for his reputation. Good luck with that.

It didn’t take long for the selection process to become the story. Phoebe briefed all the press that showed any interest that there were three candidates under consideration. She only named them, as promised, to me. They were all local, all worthy in their own way and all amenable to my doing a feature about them in the Clarion, which had some significant influence among the local electorate.

Edward Dando was a local farmer and producer of cider and cider brandy, proud member of the local hunt, a district councillor, and outspoken against the evil empire that was the EU. He’d been a mate of Mulhall’s and was desperate to dissociate himself from him.

Charlotte Simpkins ran a huge firm of economic analysts in the City of London. She was beautiful, always dressed to kill and married to a banker. She was superficially charming but with the cold eye of a crocodile and a ruthless streak a mile wide.

Amrita Sangritlal worked as an orthopaedic surgeon at the local hospital, and was big in local politics.

Phoebe had briefed me privately and in her usual and unique manner which of course, involved me spending a lot of time bent over for her. The price a newshound pays for her calling!

“The good doctor’s going to be chosen.”


“How can you be so sure?”


“Because we, that is to say you and I are going to make sure of it. Dando is a nice bloke but oh, so yesterday. canlı bahis siteleri Simpkins will try to seduce her way into the job but the matrons of the local party will find her intimidating in terms of intellect, looks and sheer hunger for the job. Also, she wants high office and our lot here like a constituency MP who works for them, not for their own ambition.

“Sangritlal ticks so many boxes. She’s gay, Asian, hugely knowledgeable about the health service and looks pretty bloody good.”


“Have you?”

“No. Behave yourself. She’s intently interested in local community, a staunch supporter of local education and, and here’s her ace, she doesn’t play the race or gay cards.”

Edward Dando was lovely We started off taking a walk around his land, and my photographer got some great shots of him, his flat cap, tweed jacket and tie, and green wellies a testament to his rural credentials. An old-school farmer and charmer, unashamedly pro-hunting, rural values and eager to call out the government over abandoning the countryside in favour of what he called ‘greedy city fat cats.’ When I asked him if that included Charlotte Simpkins, he’d smiled and said he was sure she was a very fine candidate. So, obviously it did then.

Simpkins was a lot as I had expected. I was invited up to her penthouse flat in London but, trying to keep the initiative, I said I’d prefer to see her in her home in the constituency. This I managed to do, but it had to be at a weekend because she was so, so busy at the moment. Right.

It was 11am on a Saturday. When I arrived her husband, Ronald Ramsden, let me in. “Charlotte believes that a woman who takes her husband’s surname is perpetuating an outdated view of marriage.” Try that, I thought, on the local matrons. He explained that Charlotte was on the phone but wouldn’t be long. He led me through to a large, farmhouse kitchen that had, once upon a time, actually been a farmhouse kitchen. Now it was a city-dwellers Disney representation of one. A huge range, ivory coloured and without a stain on it, dominated the old fireplace. A scrubbed pine table to seat about ten people stretched across the room and had clearly never seen the bottom of a hot pan, or a spilt glass of red. Nothing in the room looked as if it had ever been used. Copper pans hung from steel hooks, pristine and gleaming warmly. Fresh flowers, not from their extensive garden but from the local florist, adorned dresser and table alike.

She arrived, eventually, and studiedly casually dressed and offered me coffee which she made from a huge Gaggia machine that would have looked big in a busy coffee shop. It was probably the only machine in that kitchen that was ever used.

We sat at that huge table and she made sure I could see her long legs, clad in the beautiful black trousers, her feet in tasseled loafers. Her magnificent chest was contained within a black cashmere sweater with a V neck that revealed just enough cleavage.

She felt, she told me, passionate about the constituency and she was clever enough to have memorised some important local statistics. But for me, however, her achilles heel was her total opposition to blood sports that were incredibly popular among the rural community, her insistence that small, local schools were inefficient and wasteful of resources and that second-home owners were a major contributor to the local economy.

I asked if she’d read any of the letters in the Clarion from local people on the subject of second homes and she told me that people misunderstood economics. That’ll go down well!

Of all of them, Sangritlal was the hardest to get to meet. She wasn’t avoiding me, she was just very busy because, in addition to her surgical work, she was in the process of setting up a charity to provide what in England are regarded as routine operations such as hip replacements, to people in poorer parts of her parents’ home country, India.

I finally got to meet her in her consulting room at the local hospital. ‘Consulting room’ was a grand term for a windowless box with a desk, inevitable computer, an examination couch, books on a book case side by side with models of various joints of the body. She sat, wearing scrubs, at her desk. “I’ve just spent three hours in theatre, so apologies for the scrubs.”

I occupied the patient’s chair. I almost gasped when she removed her mask, she was unutterably beautiful. My second almost-gasp moment was when she took of her surgical cap and her hair, black, thick and glossy cascaded down past her shoulders, contrasting so powerfully with the pale blue of her scrubs.

“How will you find time for the job of an MP with everything else that you do?”

“I’ve agreed with the hospital that I can go part time if I get elected. I have to keep my licence so I have to do a fair bit, but no more than, say, a lawyer or accountant or general practitioner. I love hard work, it’s bred into me, and I hope I can bring insight to the job that others just don’t have.”

She was humble, self-effacing, funny, and very, very convincing. She had, she said, one test of almost anything in terms of canlı bahis policy or law. “Is it fair? That is the simplest and best question to ask about almost anything. Is racism fair? Of course it isn’t, any more than discrimination is or unequal pay. Is it fair to tax rich people less than the poor?”


As I left she shook my hand. “You’re gay too, I’ve been told.” I said that was true. “Please, don’t make it an issue in your piece.”

“You want it kept quiet?”

“No, absolutely not. I’m not remotely concerned about it being public knowledge. I just don’t want sexuality to be a matter of discussion. Nobody ever says, ‘well, of course, she’s straight, you know,’ do they? So why should they remark on me, or you, being gay? Mention it by all means, but don’t make it something that defines me.”

Phoebe was right. Not only did Sangritlal get selected, she got elected. I got a pay rise and was made political editor. Well done me.

A rather surprising event soon followed her election. There was a huge controversy at the local hospital around bullying among surgical staff. It seemed like a great opportunity to test the mettle of our new MP so I called her office for a quote. Later that evening, she called me herself and invited me to her home the next day for supper.

She had a large modern flat with a balcony overlooking the canal. It was a warm summer evening and we ate there in the waning sun. She’d cooked a mild chicken dish.

“My mother taught me to make this when I was 8. It’s still a favourite.” It was delicious and I said so.

“There has always been misogyny and bullying in medicine and particularly in surgery and even moreso in orthopaedics. Most of my colleagues are male, soccer or rugby fanatics and choose the discipline because it gets a lot of work with sports enthusiasts. Most of them hate treating geriatrics because there’s no glamour in it. Mend a rugby football star’s knee and you get the work privately, lucratively and with a virtual guarantee of more.

“But, the bullying is something else. Being Asian, female and gay, I got it all. Nobody protected us from it. Not just here in this city’s hospitals, but everywhere. Once I was elected, I wrote to the trustees of the hospitals in my constituency, highlighted personal experience and reports I’ve received from others; some anonymous but some with the courage to be open about it. I didn’t make that public because I love the service and wanted them to resolve matters quietly and effectively. Now it’s in the public arena there will be a lot of noise and lip service but will there be progress? Only time will tell.

“Your piece helped me to get elected and I’m grateful. I know Phoebe had a hand in it too but she wont admit it and, I suspect, nor will you. Just know that I know and I’m very appreciative.”

There is a pub just outside the larger of the two hospitals in the city, called the Tender Trap, ‘tender,’ being a none too subtle pun on nurse, and nurses and other medics made up a huge proportion of the pub’s clientele. It was run by Jack Roberts, a former fairground prize fighter, although, aside from his frame, you’d never know. His face bore none of the usual signs of the pugilist. The back bar was, essentially, a gay bar and, since Jack was himself as queer as a flying goat, he spent most of his time in that part of the pub. I’ll explain the significance of the Tender Trap a bit later.

The evening before, I’d been to see Amrita again. I’d barely arrived when she showed me a sheaf of copies of old fashioned poisoned pen letters, letters or words cut from magazines or newspapers and stuck onto paper. They were vile threats, utterly horrible; too horrible to repeat here.

“Have you been to the police?”

“Yes,” she smiled, “of course I have but we both know they wont solve it.”

“Have they got the letters?”

“Yes and they asked for the envelopes but I’d thrown them away, then this morning, I realised I hadn’t put the rubbish out so I still have them.”

“Who did you see?” She named a DI called Martin Levin. I knew him from when I was on the crime desk. He was a subtle as a bulldozer and loathed foreigners, gays and the press with equal vehemence. He was also incompetent. I picked up my phone.

Christina Wellow was a Detective Chief Inspector, but not Levin’s DCI. She was brilliant and we’d seen a few cases through together and she trusted me. I told her about the letters and that Levin was dealing. She laughed. “Fancy giving a poisoned pen case to a man who can barely read!”

“The doctor has found the envelopes, well, some of them.”

“Bring them round and don’t touch them.”

“How long have we known each other?”

I said goodbye to Amrita, dropped the envelopes off at the police station and made my way to the Tender Trap. I was still wearing my work clothes which, that day, were a pair of black, leather trousers which were as old as the hills but still fitted me and looked okay. They were pretty tight and I wasn’t wearing anything under them. My top was a grey silk blouse which, if I got excited, revealed my braless nipples. It sometimes pays to advertise. The blouse wasn’t tucked into my trousers. Jack was behind the bar and gave me a warm welcome. We chatted for a while and I saw Jack’s eyes move to look at someone on my left. “Hi, Benny, what can I get you?”