But I’m stinking rich... he reminded himself as he shaved in front of the en suite bathroom mirror, the soft whirring of the shaver buffering against the weight of silence that otherwise threatened to bear down. Outside, and even inside on the roaring TV breakfast news, he was the headline – ‘Grant Shapps’ double life’, ‘Tory Chairman lies about second job’...
The full extent of his doppelganger Michael Green had been exposed at last, and while he had known the inevitability of this, the hopeless frustration of it all was beginning to approach a critical mass at which point he would have to sink back into a cocoon of shadows and re-emerge anew. Just look at the despicable duplicity below me in the news, he vented to himself; the paedophilic sex gang of MPs, the police chiefs who covered it all up. His only offence was to get fucking rich, anyone would think that was a shameful sin in this rotten county these days.
He couldn’t help but chortle at the serendipity of it all though, his double exposed on the same day as Tony Blair’s doppelganger announced his stepping down from the role of Middle East peace envoy; all the while the real Blair remained, a horrifying grinch withered with disease, stalking the long-forgotten annexes and passageways of the Palace of Westminster.
For Shapps though, his deception was rooted in more than just a sense of tortured morality, his was a continuous carousel of personalities, a pack of greyhounds chasing the rabbit of truth round and round the racetrack that had become his life. Tonight, he decided, Ant would pay a visit, who would expunge the day’s squirming excuse-making with a reckless cocktail of whores, champagne and coke. For after all, he was stinking rich, and everyone knows that a boy’s best friend is his money...
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