by David Carter
‘Surely there won’t be any problem in that direction,’ said Liz genuinely. ‘The polls have all been so favourable. You’ll romp home, just as you did before.’
Thelma sighed. ‘Polls! Polls! I don’t trust the damn things, never have, I can’t afford to. Mrs May trusted the polls, and look what happened to her. No, the thing is, I can only call an election on the condition that I am certain to win. We have accomplished so much in such a short time, but we must not allow our enemies to take our place and seize our rightful glory. It shall be our legacy, The National Party of Great Britain’s, that we alone shall go down in history as the movement that restored Britain’s rightful place in the world. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with that.’
‘And it won’t, ma’am,’ said Liz decisively.
Thelma leant across and tapped Liz on the forearm. ‘Thank you for your staunch support, I knew that you would understand. I was sure I could rely on you. We are two of a kind, you and me; I think we shall get on famously.’
‘Yes,’ said Liz smiling, ‘I think we shall.’
‘You could organise that, could you?’ said Thelma.
What was she asking, exactly? pondered Liz.
Thelma was already speaking again.
‘I am certain that we shall accrue more votes than all the opposition parties combined, without a doubt, it’s just that some weight of our votes are concentrated in certain areas, while in other key areas, we might be a little light.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Liz, now seeing the lay of the land. ‘Transfer some.’
Thelma smiled broadly.
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Easily done, it should not present a problem.’
‘You mean you and your officers could accomplish such a thing?’
‘Of course, why not? It is not as if we are discounting any votes, or adding additional ones.’
‘Well, quite. Perish the thought. I knew you would understand.’
‘May I speak off the record?’ said Liz.
‘Well of course, my dear, this entire conversation is off the record.’
Liz nodded. ‘Everyone knows that the secret ballot is nothing of the sort. How can it be, when everyone’s vote is immediately identifiable with the voters ID number printed on every voting slip. For years, the security services have been checking on how certain suspect people have been voting, that precedent goes right back to the general strike of the 1920’s, and it has been going on ever since. When it comes to matters of national security, of course the government needs to know how some of its most influential citizens are voting. It’s only common sense. Our thoughts would only be an extension of that operation, and don’t forget, it might not be necessary, and if it were, we would be ready. We go in, impound certain voting boxes, and transfer the necessary number of votes to needy constituencies. I really can’t see the problem. Positive action, problem solved.’
‘How refreshing to talk to someone like you,’ said Thelma, ‘someone who brings me answers, not difficulties, like most of my ministers, men, it has to be said, they are not happy unless they are bringing me bad news. It is as if it magnifies their own importance, the degree of difficulty they dredge up, the problems they face. Hopeless, the lot of them, sometimes I wonder why I bother with any of them.’
‘As I said, Thelma, I can’t see the problem.’
‘I wish I could be so confident of that.’
‘Of what?’
‘The fact that it might not be necessary.’
‘You have nothing to worry about, Thelma,’ and this time it was Liz’s turn to reach over and squeeze the PM’s forearm. Presumptuous, but what the hell? ‘If it is necessary, and I stress the word If, the SPATs would deal with it, quietly and efficiently, as we do in all things, trust me, you can bank on it, and you can bank on us.’
‘Thank you, Elizabeth. I have to say; you so fill me with confidence, and in due course you would be adequately rewarded.’
Liz raised her eyebrows. ‘I serve my country without the promise of reward,’ she said, wondering how sincere her words sounded.
‘Fancy a seat in the House of Lords?’
Liz’s mouth fell open.
‘Let’s put our cards on the table,’ said Thelma, stealing yet another glance at the blond statue by the door. ‘You deliver me an election victory, and in return, I will deliver you a Damehood. What do you say?’
Was there such a word as Damehood, Liz wondered, but regardless of her rapid trawl through her mind’s dictionary, the idea that she might one day rub shoulders with the nobs in the capital, share invitations with royalty and the new King, certainly had its attractions. Dame Elizabeth Mariner, SPATs Controller. How good did that sound? Not to mention the astronomical salary that accompanied the post. It was well known in the service that the salary for the Controller of the SPATs was exceeded only by that of the PM herself.
‘I would be delighted to accept any such invitation,’ said Liz, ‘should it ever come my way, though I would happily accomplish any such task without reward.’
‘We must look after our friends,’ said Thelma. ‘That goes without saying. We have a deal?’
‘Yes,’ said Liz, seizing the proffered hand across the table, and this time it was to be shaken, not kissed.
‘I am so pleased you could come up to town today. I suppose you have heard the latest nonsense to cross my desk?’
‘The French tits?’ said Liz.
Thelma nodded, but didn’t smile.
‘The freaking French!’ she said, surprising Liz with her vocabulary. ‘After all this time they have requested the return of the Channel Islands. I ask you, how pathetic is that?’
‘They haven’t a leg to stand on,’ said Liz.
‘You’d have thought that, wouldn’t you, but they are insisting on taking the matter to the European Court in The Hague. Now that we are no longer members of their sad little European club, The Paris Pissoir I call it, the court will be rigged, everyone knows that. They could even win a decision, and after that, they might drag us off to the UN. The scary thing is if we held a referendum in the Islands, we might bloody well lose. Who the hell would choose to live in France, with their level of inept bureaucracy? Madness, if you ask me.’
‘Tell them to piss off!’ said Liz, taking her lead from Thelma’s language.
‘Don’t worry. I already have!’
Liz could imagine that. She almost felt sorry for the French Ambassador summoned to Downing Street to be bollocked over such a ridiculous idea.
‘Now the bloody Corns are playing up!’
It took Liz a moment to understand what Thelma was talking about.
‘The Cornish?’
‘Yes,’ she snapped, ‘Mebion bloody Kernow, I ask you! They say they want to be an independent country again. Pfft! When was Cornwall ever an independent country in the whole of history? Never! And it won’t be now, not while I am steering the good ship Albion. I tell you this Liz; we shall have to step up our activities in that little fiefdom right across the board. I am not having it! Clowns! Never liked the county much, all rocky beaches and bloody boring Moorland, and moaning locals who are never satisfied, no matter how many cash incentives and grants are pumped into them. I am not a bloody cash cow, for God’s sake! It will be a long time before I go anywhere near the far west again. If they are not careful I might consider giving them to Devon. Call the whole area Greater Devon. Serve them bloody well right, don’t you think?’
Liz grinned, uncertain as to whether Thelma was joking.
After a shared moment’s thought, Thelma said: ‘Tell me, do you have anyone special in your life?’
‘Not at present, ma’am, but I still have aspirations in that direction.’
‘And so you should. You are a very attractive young woman, if I may say. It will not be long before you are snapped up, I suspect sooner rather than later, for in the coming years, I imagine you could become the most eligible and sought after woman in all of London.’
Liz smiled demurely, and then said: ‘I would be fortunate to find a man such as your loyal and devoted husband.’
‘Oh him!’ she said dismissively. ‘Between you and me, Liz, John and I are no longer living as husband and wife; we haven’t been for quite some time.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be. Nothing to be sorry about,’ the PM said, examining her painted nails, before another smile swept across her angular features. ‘I am playing the field myself these days, having the whale of a time, best thing I ever did,’ and just for a second she couldn’t resist turning and glancing at the hunk.
Liz glanced that way too, and though she couldn’t be sure, she imagined she saw the tiniest smirk filtering over those tanned features.
‘You should do the same,’ continued Thelma, ‘while you can, before the wrinkles and weight appear. Take your chances while they exist. Make the most of every opportunity that comes your way. We only live once, you know, even prime ministers and controllers of the security services, we are all mortal.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Liz, ‘we are, and we must.’
‘Don’t forget to leave your phone numbers with my secretary. We’ll talk again soon, and before the election, you will need to come up to town for the planning committees.’
‘At your service, Prime Minister, you know that. Call me at any time.’
‘I shall, Elizabeth, and thank you so much for your support.’
‘It’s the least I could do.’
‘Come on, let’s take some lunch, lamb cutlets, you take lamb?’
‘Certainly,’ smiled Liz, standing and following her Prime Minister out past the gentleman who had, without attracting their attention, moved to one side of the door.
Forty-One
Peculiar smells are rumoured to accompany death. Burnt toast, frying onions, or as Thomas Hardy once speculated on, bacon sandwiches. Martin could smell coffee. Not real coffee; not ground coffee, but instant and black. Perhaps death’s peculiar companion.
Harsh neon light filtered to his eyes. He possessed a thumping headache. Dead people don’t suffer migraines. He squinted from the bed. There was a man sitting at the table. He was reading that day’s Messenger, in front of him was a mug of steaming coffee, instant and black.
Martin coughed. The man turned and glanced his way. Through his hazy vision Martin recognised Jason. He thought he saw the beginning of a smile on Jason’s healthy face.
‘You awake?’ he said, standing and bending over his prisoner.
‘Water,’ said Martin, as if he was Robinson Crusoe.
Jason fetched water and let Martin sip.
‘Not too much,’ he said, ‘it will make you sick.’
‘I thought you were killing me.’
‘Don’t be so stupid,’ said Jason, ‘those jabs can be a little fierce.’
A little fierce, a little fucking fierce! Martin wanted to scream. How the hell would he know?
‘I have been dreaming,’ said Martin, ‘terrible dreams.’
‘Really?’
‘Liz got killed.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Jason.
‘Shot, by the SPATs’
‘Don’t think so,’ said Jason. ‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘Other things too.’
‘I’ll bet. Why don’t you tell me all about it, everything you know.’
‘Like what?’
‘It isn’t too late, Martin. If you tell me what these people have been up to you could still save yourself. It isn’t too late, really it isn’t.’
‘Change the record, will ya.’
‘I am only trying to help you, my friend.’
‘Do you know what your trouble is, Jason?’
‘Tell me.’
‘You are always offering to help me but when I really need help, you are nowhere to be seen.’
‘That’s unfair.’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘You have two days left, Martin. After that, you will be beyond my ken.’
Ken, a strange word to use, thought Martin. Ken and Barbie, Ken and Barbie, and that old song about Barbie flooded into Martin’s clouded mind. What was that damn song about Barbie? Barbie this, Barbie that, what was that bloody old song?
‘Two days, Martin, two days, you still have two days,’ Jason was repeating the phrase like a doped parrot.
Martin wanted to tell him to bugger off, but he didn’t have the strength, and anyway, he wanted food and drink, and Jason was the only friend he had in the whole wide world, even if he was a pseudo one.
Throughout the next two days Jason spent much of the day sitting with a rapidly recuperating Martin. They talked about everything in the paper, from the sports news and results, to the amazing revelation that Mrs Bletchington had stunned the nation by announcing there could be a general election in the spring.
On the front page of The Messenger was a cute picture of the King kissing Mrs Bletchington’s cheek, and other pics of the PM shaking the King’s hand, Mrs Bletchington dutifully curtseying before him, Mrs Bletchington lunching with the royal family, Mrs Bletchington returning to Number 10, Mrs Bletchington on her way to the House of Commons, Mrs Bletchington speaking to the American president on the telephone, Mrs Bletchington was every bloody where.
That’s my girl, Thelma! trumpeted one of the sub headings in The Messenger, a comment the U.S. president was reported to have made to his aides on hearing the news of an impending general election in the UK.
It all seemed to Martin to signal the first step away from the abyss, the first small step on the road back to normality. Could it really be the nightmare was coming to an end? He prayed the country was backing out of the darkness, and not a moment too soon.
‘See,’ said Jason, ‘it really doesn’t matter now whether you tell us about these people or not, nothing will happen to them now, not now.’
The previous night, Martin had lain awake into the tiny hours, and eventually decided that he would tell them all he knew, not that it was that much, just as soon as the election had been held, and democracy had been restored, and most importantly, after he had been reinstated to his job at the BBC. He hadn’t realised how much he adored being a BBC reporter, and how much he missed it.
Those two days passed quickly, and in the afternoon Jason took Martin back to Q14.
The room held a strong feeling of déjà vu.
Doctor Anderson and Doctor Urbanowicz were there, the locked medicine cabinet, the ampoule, the meticulous preparation of the syringe, the jokey conversation about Martin’s white and hairy legs, Doctor Urbanowicz glancing at his naked body, and volunteering to carry out the injection, Jason standing behind him, as if apart from the others, as if secretly disagreeing with the procedure.
Forty milligrams of morphine.
Sleep rapidly followed. Deep sleep.
Sleeping humans breathe.
Dead men don’t breathe.
Martin soon didn’t.
‘All done?’ said Jason.
‘Yep,’ said Doctor Anderson, washing his hands. ‘You’ve arranged the cremation?’
‘I’ve already fixed it for this afternoon,’ said Jason.
‘Good man,’ said Doctor Urbanowicz. ‘The sooner the better. No autopsy necessary.’
The doctors signed the death certificate; it being a legal requirement a minimum of two doctors must perform. Heart attack after his body had reacted unfavourably to the tropical diseases injections.
‘Such a shame,’ said Jason. ‘I’d grown to quite like him.’
‘We gave him every chance,’ said Doctor Anderson, wiping his hands.
‘Oh, I know that,’ agreed Jason. ‘He was a just fool unto himself.’
‘What kind of success rate do you achieve in the final questioning between the first injection and the second?’ asked Anderson.
‘About one in two,’ said Jason.
‘Not this time, eh?’
‘No, sadly.’
‘Did he rea
lly believe we were going to ship him all the way to the Falkland Islands?’ said Anderson.
‘In the end, I think he did,’ said Jason.
‘Are these people really that simple?’ sneered the woman.
‘They must be a little touched to imagine we would go to such expense. There’s bugger all on the FI’s, and never has been,’ said Anderson.
‘Does anyone ever get deported?’ asked Jason.
‘Course not! Not in living memory,’ joked Anderson.
‘Terrorists cannot be allowed to get away with it,’ said Urbanowicz. ‘And they will, if they see the opportunity. We all know that.’
‘Do you think he knew so much that we didn’t?’ asked Jason, washing his hands.
‘Course he did,’ said the woman, ‘without a doubt, you could see it in his eyes.’
Fact was, she didn’t really care. She would sign the drug book and the death certificate, but far more importantly, as far as she was concerned, she would sign the secret termination certificate, and that scrawled signature of hers on the beige, bland document, brought her a thousand pound bounty. It was her four hundred and eighty-sixth such certificate. She would soon have sufficient funds to buy that luxurious holiday home she had set her heart on in Umbria. She could almost feel the Italian sun on her tanning face; taste that wonderful wine, and fresh crusty bread dipped in best local olive oil.
Mrs Bletchington might not care for the Continent and all it had to offer, or so she said, but she, Doctor Ursula Urbanowicz did, and soon, she would retire and move there, and put the sorry business behind her. She might take a part-time job at the local clinic; keep her hand in, kind of thing. She would work for nothing. It could be seen as payback time. She smiled to herself at the thought of it. It couldn’t come soon enough.
‘You must not leave his side until he is cremated,’ Ursula insisted, her voice betraying a slight note of unease. ‘No one is to touch him.’
‘They won’t.... and I won’t.’ said Jason. ‘You can be sure of that.’
‘See that you do.’
Jason wheeled the body of Martin Reamse away.
