State Sponsored Terror

by David Carter

  The Leader had reached Colin. She paused, ostensibly to talk to the lady beside him, but all the while she was staring at him. He held her gaze. It was as if her eyes had turned red. Camera red-eye, in real life. She glared at him, as if to say: Don’t I know you? I am sure I know you. But from where? Who are you, exactly?

  He stared back into her dark eyes. He guessed it unsettled her. Perhaps she was not used to it, being stared at in that fashion, and then the flunkey was back at her side, ushering her ever onward.

  ‘We need to press on, ma’am,’ he said; close enough for Colin to hear his every word. ‘Don’t forget, as we swing right, smile at the cameras. This is the International press; it will make such good copy.’

  ‘Bugger the International press!’ she said, under her breath, though she didn’t once curb her smile that flashed in their precise direction.

  She had passed Colin by.

  Further along the line, closer to the entrance, where her most vehement supporters lay, reserved spaces no less, the chanting was yet more frantic. They pressed forward all the more, reaching out, desperately, as if the Son of God himself was in town, or daughter. It was as if they had to touch her, as if some of her glory might rub off on them. And there, right at the front, chanting the loudest, tears of unbridled joy running down her face, was Joss.

  So surprised was he, Colin needed to take a second look. It was Joss all right. So much for rock concerts! He watched her almost fall over the barrier in the ecstasy of it all, while behind her, pressed fast against her, his face red, his eyes crazy, dressed in a ridiculous scout-like uniform, plastered in badges, was, presumably, fat Frank Preston.

  Colin grimaced.

  They hadn’t seen him, not yet, so engrossed were they in the moment, and nor would they, for he was about to move away, and not for one second could they drag their eyes from her image, from their hero. As Colin was leaving, the Leader glanced back over her shoulder, and directed one final withering look at Colin Cornelius, a look so ferocious that several other observers witnessed it, and looked there too, in an effort to see what it was that she saw.

  A moment later, the Leader had gone. She had disappeared inside the hall, as Colin hurried away, though he was one of the few that did. The others would hold their places, standing in line for hours, hoping for a reprise when she finally emerged. Today, she was there to meet delegates, and listen to others. Her big day, her big speech, would be tomorrow.

  A truck pulled up and braked hard. Two SPATs gofers picked up and threw the bloodied and broken man onto the back of the lorry like a sack of rotten potatoes. No one paid any attention to that, except Colin. He cursed himself for forgetting his camera, though he doubted if he would have been allowed to use it. One of the body collectors threw handfuls of golden sand onto the blood on the pavement, and in a cloud of diesel fumes and overloud acceleration, the truck departed, leaving behind a squeal of burning rubber, and Colin’s burning throat.

  Eighteen

  The following day Mrs Thelma Bletchington began her speech at precisely half past ten. She addressed her handpicked audience for two hours without a break, and without notes. Rounds of thunderous applause regularly interrupted the performance, carefully scripted, Colin imagined, as he sat watching it on television in an anteroom.

  Afterwards, he could barely remember anything of the speech itself, except the regular renditions of Putting Britain First, of Looking After Our Own Interests, and of Maintaining Our Armed Forces and Looking After the People of Britain, all of which profound statements had been aired many times before, and all of which produced the expected bellicose cries of: Bravo! Bravo!

  One of the few things he did remember was a section attacking the old parties of Labour and Conservative who, according to Mrs Bletchington, had regularly taken the country to war without a public mandate, and in the process had endangered our brave servicemen, many of whom had been killed. The punch line was: Today Britain has NO servicemen fighting anywhere in the world, and long may it continue!

  The applause almost brought down the roof. Many in attendance would later swear the entire building shuddered on its foundations. She made them laugh, did Thelma, her devotees, she almost made them cry, she particularly amused them when she reminded them of how the old parties were: Riddled with not only yesterday’s men, but yesterday’s thinking, and yesterday’s morality! We have no wish to return to the politics of yesterday! Yesterday has gone forever!

  The clapping bordered on the violent.

  At the climax, and a true climax it was, to rival any speaker on the world stage, she received the predictable vociferous standing ovation that went on uninterrupted for ten whole minutes, and it continued, scripted or not, Colin could not be sure, until she had finally left the hall to one last crescendo of adulation.

  In the pressroom afterwards, the hacks were almost as hyped as the audience. They were busy filing their stories via their miniature multi coloured laptops and palm pootlers, as Colin referred to them, and God knows what other modern comms devices. Perhaps surprisingly, the overseas press corps were among her most vociferous admirers.

  Michel Marigny of Le Figaro exclaimed: ‘If only we ’ard someone like ’err en Fronce,’ while Willard Wilson of the New York Times, shouting aloud as he typed, was heard to say, ‘This dame would go down a storm in Washington. She makes Mrs Thatcher look like a washerwoman. She is Mrs Thatcher with youth... and beauty... and balls! Mrs T on steroids!’

  Colin watched and listened and made notes, ever conscious that at half past seven that night he would have them all green with envy, for he alone possessed an exclusive televised interview with Mrs Bletchington herself, the Leaderene, an interview that would be beamed around the globe. Love her or loathe her, Mrs Thelma Bletchington was compulsive viewing.

  It was difficult to drag one’s eyes from her expressive face, it was as if the viewer’s vision zoomed in on those lightly painted lips as she spoke, as if those lips delivered words deep into the souls of all those watching, into their very psyche, echoing, forceful words, delivered in such a way that no other politician had ever mastered before. There was no one like Mrs B, and never had been.

  The thought of it, the interview, made him nervous. The thought of some of the key questions he had in his head, chewed into his mind. He knew well enough that if he asked the questions he really wanted to issue, he would end up on the dole queue, at best. It was simply a question of phrasing his words in a way that everyone might see what he was getting at, without actually saying it. He wasn’t sure he was capable of such a task, and the thought of what was to come made him tense.

  He arrived at the Carlton at half past four.

  She was notoriously punctual in all things, and detested any sign of lateness, for she saw it as weakness, laziness. He wanted to be early to set himself up, coolly and efficiently, to be as well prepared as possible. His plan didn’t work. He was too early. Time dragged interminably by until the appointed hour. He began sweating, and regularly retreated to the Gents to lash on more anti-perspirant. It was a losing battle, for it was like tossing salt at the Niagara Falls.

  Back in his chair he sat and waited, and sat and waited, glancing nervously at his wristwatch. It was 7.32. The great one really was late. Who would have thought it, when suddenly the double doors on the far side of the room opened with a flourish and she swept in, the very same flunkeys mumbling and stumbling at her side. Behind her, hovered a huge tanned blond man, a different man, a man Colin had never seen before. He set his eyes on Colin and seemingly never once averted them. She strode across the room toward him, smiling broadly.

  Colin jumped from his chair like a startled flea.

  She offered him her hand. It was clenched, fist down facing the floor, and in silence.... she waited. Colin tried a smile that didn’t really work.

  Then she said, ‘I know it is a silly practice, but once they started doing it a year or two ago, I have kind of become used to it. If truth be told, I quite like it. Is that so vain
?’

  It was clear she expected him to kiss her hand.

  The entire interview might depend on it.

  He grasped her hand gently, stooped and kissed it like some Elizabethan explorer returning from the New World with reports of acquired riches, and peculiar new foods and fads.

  Behind, and to one side of him, cameras clicked and flashed.

  Colin glanced to his rear, for he had not been aware the photographers had appeared there. He gave off the ambience of a naughty schoolboy caught scrumping, or opportunistically staring and stumbling into the bathroom of a naked sister. The cameras clicked and flashed again, as he blinked and squinted back at them. Under his breath, Colin cursed.

  ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘that kissing the hand of the Head of State is not such a ludicrous idea.’

  ‘But surely, ma’am,’ Colin said boldly, ‘the King is the Head of State.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course he is!’ she said fussily, ‘the King is the Head of State, we all know that, as he moves around his palaces, and plays bridge and croquet with his friends, and attends cup finals and boat races, and Wimbledon, and all the important things that kings must do. We all know that! But is it not I who bears the full burden of the state on my shoulder? Most reasonable people would agree with that modest assessment. Of course the King is legally the Head of State, and long should that remain, but no one could possibly argue that the main stately matters rests upon the desk of the prime minister, don’t you agree with that, er.... Colin Cornelius?’ as if struggling to remember his name.

  ‘Yes ma’am, that is certainly true.’

  The Leaderene smiled attractively, and glanced around the room, anxious to take in every available winking lens.

  He still held her hand, and she appeared in no hurry to retrieve it.

  ‘We have met before?’ she said slowly, struggling to place where exactly.

  ‘Yes ma’am, yesterday, I was in the crowd.’

  ‘That’s right, you were. You are a naughty boy. You unsettled me.’

  ‘Did I? I am sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘Did you know that you possess a look that might unsettle women?’

  ‘No, ma’am, I did not, I apologise.’

  Not for the first time Colin wondered whether the cameras were already rolling, and on top of that, whether the sound was being recorded. He prayed not.

  ‘No matter,’ she said. ‘No harm done. Shall we be seated?’

  ‘Certainly, ma’am,’ said Colin, as he beckoned her toward the first of the green leather high backed armchairs that sat at an angle before the crackling fire. The cameras flashed again. Only when she was comfortably seated did she point to the opposite chair.

  ‘Take a seat,’ she said, he thought in an over-friendly tone. It remained to be seen how long that ambience remained.

  ‘Shall we get on with it? I have so much to do, a very full programme.’

  ‘Certainly, Prime Minister,’ he said, peering down at his copious notes.

  ‘You won’t be needing those,’ she grinned, displaying her perfect white teeth. ‘Ask whatever you want, ask from the heart man, the nation would expect nothing else,’ and she glanced over her shoulder at some fictitious floor manager in the shadows, and back at Colin and grinned. ‘Don’t you go sticking to their official lines. You ask whatever you feel you must.’

  Was that scripted, that bravado, those off the cuff remarks and relaxed attitude, he wondered. If they were, she was even better than he’d imagined.

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ he said, feeling more relaxed, for she possessed great skill in putting everyone at their ease. She was beautiful too, more beautiful in the flesh, and afterwards, Colin remembered pondering on that at the time. Not to mention charismatic, demanding, intelligent, cheerful, decisive, and above all, she was the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and she was sitting before him, Colin Cornelius, beseeching him to ask whatever he wished. Above everything though, she was totally unforgettable.

  The next question was, would he, and could he; ask the questions he had piled up in his head, in his heart?

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘The general election?’ he began. Whether he had finished or not was not clear, for she smiled one of her most charming smiles, and leapt upon his words like a sabre-toothed tiger on the shoulder of a bull elephant.

  ‘I thought you might start with that one!’ she said, super confident. ‘In your shoes I would probably have done the same. As I alluded to in my speech, the date of the general election will be set for some time next year, have no fear, Mister Cornelius, you may rely on that. It is coming.’

  ‘Sorry to be pedantic, ma’am,’ said Colin, ‘but do you mean the date will be set next year, or do you mean, there will be an election next year?’

  ‘I thought I had made that perfectly clear,’ she said, no hint of irritation in her voice; indeed she was smiling at Colin, a smile that neither he nor the cameras could possibly miss. It was the kind of smile a lady might make at a man on an exciting blind date, a man she had instantly taken a great liking to.

  ‘I have a first in English at Oxford, and I believe I am capable of expressing myself clearly and concisively. The date of the general election will be set some time next year. Surely that is clear enough?’

  Colin nodded, realising that she was not going to expand on that answer any further. Mrs Bletchington did indeed possess a double first at Oxford in both English and History, as her advisors were never shy in pointing out. She was also the proud possessor of a gigantic IQ, which some uncharitable folks suggested to be the same size as her ego. Fact was, the total number of people in the kingdom with a higher IQ could be counted on the fingers of Mrs Bletchington’s dainty hands, and most of them were either retired, or banged up in lunatic asylums.

  ‘Can you remind us why the general election was cancelled in the first place?’ asked Colin, unable to resist flashing his best smile at her.

  She saw it coming, and instantly knew he was trying to flirt. She liked that, because it told her he liked her, and she knew she would win any such contest hands down.

  ‘Old ground, Colin, old ground!’ she fired back, as she reached forward and patted him admonishingly on the top of his thigh. ‘Surely everyone knows the reason for that! The level of violence on the streets, the crime wave sweeping the country, combined with the level of terrorist attacks, they all forced the State of Emergency I pledged to immediately implement if I triumphed at the last election. The country knew that, and they voted for it in their droves. They supported it then, and I believe they support it now. You cannot have free and fair elections in an anarchistic society. It just doesn’t work. The people of Britain know that, and have almost unanimously supported me and my government in the actions we have be forced into taking, to put the country back on an even keel.’ She barely took a breath. ‘That was the mandate I was elected on, and I have carried it through to the letter. No one could quibble with that! No one could ever accuse me of not keeping my promises. I am a woman who sees things clearly, and a woman who does what she says she is going to do. I am a woman of action. Am I not, Colin?’

  ‘It is not for me to say, ma’am,’ said Colin, and as he said that, he wondered about her comment that the country was behind her unanimously. Was that strictly true? Either way, he wouldn’t raise that point. Not yet anyhow.

  ‘Well you should say!’ she continued abrasively. ‘You should stand up and be counted, man! When the barricades are up, you are either with us, or you are against us. Thankfully, the country has shown, time and again, that the vast majority of the population are with us, and support us, and long may that be the case. You are either for law and order, or you are for the mob, and I do not believe, Colin, that you are that way inclined. Are you a Party member, Mister Cornelius, by any chance?’

  Surely she must know the answer to that, he thought.

  ‘As it happens, I am not.’

  ‘Yes, I thought that the case; then perhaps you sh
ould consider becoming so. A man of your intellect and talent could go a long way with Party backing. I’d look into that if I were you. It is something to be considered. You’d be made most welcome.’

  He glanced across at her. Her mouth was opening and closing as if in slow motion. She was smiling without showing teeth. He couldn’t keep his eyes from her lips, so mesmerising were they, and he wondered if this was nothing more than a well-polished politician’s smile. And what was she saying? He had to remind himself. For a second he felt as if he was losing the plot. She had said: Join the Party and progress, stay on the outside, and face the consequences. What could she possibly have meant by that, and what were they exactly, the consequences? He didn’t dare follow that line of questioning any further.

  ‘Can I turn to the EWP?’

  ‘Of course you may. Ask anything you like. I have already made that quite clear.’

  ‘Some parents have expressed concern about their teenage children being taken from them for three years, without knowing where they are going, or what they are doing. Do you think that is fair and reasonable, and most of all.... necessary?’

  ‘By some parents, who do you mean exactly?’

  ‘Many parents have written in to The Messenger expressing such views.’

  ‘Then you must show me those letters, for I have not seen any such thing. Are you sure you do not mean yourself, Colin. Do you not have a child about to embark on EWP training?’

  Colin smiled, realising that she had been well briefed after all. He should have expected that.

  ‘I do, prime minister.’

  ‘And you are a worried man?’

  ‘A little, yes, one hears such lurid stories.’

  ‘I have heard no such lurid stories,’ she smiled, as charming as could be. ‘Perhaps you should ignore such tittle-tattle tales, and afterwards, I expect you to fill me in on those, but if I may, let us go back and answer the question. The EWP has been brought in to instil in our younger citizens a sense of duty, of service, of discipline, of tolerance, a sense of purpose, that was so clearly lacking when they were running the streets, drunk and disorderly, and drugged up to the eyeballs, something that was a regular occurrence under both of the previous governments, attacking, burgling and vomiting over everything and everyone who stepped in their path, vandalising gravestones, mugging pensioners, smashing shop windows, murdering anyone who had the guts to stand up against them, knifing and shooting and happy slapping, and God knows what else. The Essential Work Programme has been an immense success, as a recent Messenger poll showed, when a staggering 93% of the adult population stated that they wholeheartedly agreed with the EWP, and all its aims. Can you honestly say that is not the case?’