by David Carter
‘Flat across the board!’ screamed Tombstone.
Everyone believed him, but searched the screens to check for themselves. 0%, was blinking on and off for England, for Britain, for the United Kingdom, 0%, dead even, dead level, dead heat, wiping its face. For the first time since the computers had begun forecasting a result, it wasn’t showing negative.
‘It’s been a close run thing,’ said Eagles.
‘Too bloody close,’ echoed Tombstone.
‘It must never be allowed to happen again,’ said Thelma. ‘Never!’
Not for the first time they were all looking at Liz, as if somehow it was her fault, as if she alone had caused them to sweat so much. To Liz, it felt as if she was responsible that it should never happen again, and in a way, it was. She immediately realised that. It was all part of her brief, high stakes, high risk, high reward, succeed or die, and already she was thinking ahead, drawing up foolproof plans to ensure there could never be any repetition of such a hideous day.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, they turned up the volume on the huge screen fixed flat on the wall. It was tuned to the all night BBC coverage.
The new, young and improved version of Dimbleby, was saying: ‘After a quite incredible night, Mrs Bletchington has done it again. The National Party of Great Britain has been returned with an overall majority of 16, with just three seats still to be declared. And here she comes,’ he enthused, rising excitedly from his seat.
The pictures switched to the front door of Number 10, just below from where they were sitting. The iconic black door slowly opened, and Mrs B, hand-in-hand with her beaming older husband, stepped out to a cascade of flash photography. The happy couple paused and hugged and kissed, full on the lips for the cameras. Those pictures would be flashed across the globe. They would be on the Internet in seconds. The Messenger would carry very little else for the next three days.
Liz wasn’t the only one to wonder where John Bletchington had been holed up all day, for they hadn’t seen or heard a trace of him. The re-elected Prime Minister stepped confidently forward to the microphone set up in the middle of Downing Street, John proudly patting her backside as any proud and devoted husband might, at the sight of his pretty wife, stepping up to accept the accolades.
Thelma grinned, almost lovingly at the press pack. Her makeup and hair were immaculate. She looked more glamorous than ever. No one would have believed she had been up for almost 24 hours, and no one, beyond the Cobra committee, could have dreamt the stresses she had suffered.
‘I want to thank you all,’ she said, flashing an almost girlish smile, ‘for voting for me, and returning me as your Prime Minister for the next five years, and for those of you that did not vote for me this time, I shall strive all the harder to win your heart and mind, and vote, (pause, cheeky grin, and a special emphasis at the cameras), next time round. As everyone knows, there is still a great deal to be done. We intend to keep Britain firmly on the course we have embarked upon. The nation has clearly endorsed our policies once again, of law and order and continued stability, and I ask you all to support and adhere to the measures that we shall be carrying through. Everyone should know these policies are for the good of Great Britain, and if they are good for Great Britain, then ultimately, they will benefit all of our citizens. I thank you again from the bottom of my heart. I shall not detain you any longer, for I know that many of you have experienced a long and exciting day, and night, as have we all.’
She flashed one final heartrending smile at the cameras, a consummate smile that any actress would have been proud of, a smile designed more for the menfolk of Great Britain, for they were all deeply in love with her, every last one of them, even if they hadn’t yet realised it, because she mesmerised them so, or at least that is how she imagined them to be. John put his arm around her waist and tugged her back inside. Someone said there was a tear in her eye.
Upstairs in the war room, Liz dwelt on seven of Thelma’s words.
Those that did not vote for me.
Precisely. Work in progress. Work to be done. Liz had not missed the underlying threat that lurked there. Those that did not vote for me would be thoroughly checked, as indeed each and every cast vote would be. The State would inform itself of which of its citizens were supporting the government, and far more importantly, which were not.
Those that did not vote for me.
Those brave people’s names would all be red-flagged in some huge and faceless Whitehall ministry, in some blinking and humming never forgetting supercomputer, a machine that would smell just-from-the-box brand new; a soulless creation that would never require deodorant, and no matter that twenty-five million courageous souls had opposed the Leaderene; they would all be monitored. They would need re-educating for next time, or failing that, a different course of action might be adopted altogether.
That was all for the future, another day. Enjoy your triumphs, Thelma might have said. Enjoy, and echoing her first female predecessor, Mrs Bletchington was heard to say several times, before finally collapsing alone into bed: ‘Rejoice! Rejoice at the news. Simply, rejoice!’
Fifty-One
Adam’s eyelids fell open. Shafts of winter sun speared through the entrance to the tent. Close by him, Eve slumbered on. He glanced down at her face. She was sleeping like a child, though she was a child no more. She was fifteen. He wanted to slip from the sleeping bag, but guessed he might wake her, and he didn’t want to do that.
His nose told him it was a cold morning, and more than that, a hot breakfast was on its way. He couldn’t wait any longer. Gently, he pulled himself free. Eve snorted and rolled over, but did not wake.
The day before, they had moved again, deeper into the forest. The trees were taller there and more mixed, but the trees were asleep, dark and slim and leafless and lifeless and gaunt. Ten yards away, Dolores was frying sausages. By her side, sitting on a blanket, Hawkeye played with a small worn out teddy bear. Adam pulled his jacket round his shoulders and sauntered over.
‘Hi.’
‘Hello,’ she replied, glancing up and smiling.
Hawkeye giggled, and shook his arms as if he had just discovered them.
‘Smells good.’
Dolores nodded. ‘Ged’s mother made them. Don’t ask me what’s in ’em. Just eat, and enjoy.’ She cracked three eggs into the pan. They sizzled and spat fat every which way, attracting Hawkeye’s attention. He thought it funny, as he did everything.
Dolores handed Adam a chipped yellow tin plate bearing two glistening dark brown sausages and a soft fried egg. In the icy air, steam poured from them, but they smelt wonderful.
‘Happy Christmas,’ he said, cutting into the sausages, ‘and to the little one too.’
‘We don’t celebrate Christmas,’ said Dolores, helping herself to two more bangers.
‘That’s a pity. Bet he’d like to,’ said Adam, nodding at Hawkeye.
The baby stared back, and grinned.
‘We might have a little something for him,’ whispered Dolores.
‘Where’s Ged?’ said Adam.
‘Hunting. Should be back soon.’
Right on cue, Ged stepped from the trees, looking like Davy Crocket, two hares strung about his neck, in his right hand a brace of rabbit, in the left, a cock pheasant.
Adam and Dolores exchanged an impressed look.
‘Good hunting?’ said Adam.
Ged threw the prey to one side of the fire, as if to say, there’s the proof, my friend. There’s always a good dinner to be found in the forest, if you know where to look. As his reward, Dolores handed him a plate of sausages and eggs, and a thick slice of buttered bread.
‘Happy Christmas,’ said Adam, wiping a crust around his empty plate.
‘I told him we don’t celebrate Christmas,’ said Dolores, not looking up from her chow.
‘That’s right,’ said Ged. ‘We don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘’Cos we ain’t Christians, and before you say anything, we ain’t pagan eith
er.’
‘There’s something I’d like to talk to you about,’ said Adam.
‘Yep, guessed that all along,’ said Ged. ‘You’re Aloha’s Fitnesses aren’t you? The pair of you, you and Evie.’
‘What!’ said Adam.
‘You know what I mean.’
Adam laughed roughly. ‘You mean Jehovah’s Witnesses?’
‘Whatever,’ said Ged, chewing on gristly sausage.
‘God no,’ said Adam. ‘We ain’t them, I promise you that.’
Eve stumbled from the tent and yawned. They peered across at her, as the last of the frost melted.
‘Happy Christmas,’ she said sleepily, coming closer.
‘They don’t celebrate Christmas,’ said Adam.
‘Well, we do,’ said Eve, closing on Adam and kissing him gently on the cheek. ‘Happy Christmas, boy.’
For once in his life, Adam didn’t object to being called boy, not by Eve, not in the way she said it.
‘Sausages?’ said Dolores.
‘What’s in ’em?’ asked Eve.
‘Don’t ask,’ said Adam.
‘Forest food,’ said Ged, nodding at the creatures strewn about the brown grass.
‘Go on then,’ said Eve, ‘try anything once, I’m starving.’
Hawkeye screamed for no other reason than to attract attention. Everyone looked down at him and smiled, and that seemed to satisfy him, and he returned to playing with his old teddy bear.
‘I could be persuaded to take up this Christmas lark,’ said Ged mischievously, ‘If I were kissed in the morning like that.’
‘You pig!’ said Dolores. ‘You get far more than your fair share of kisses.’
‘You can’t have too many kisses,’ said Ged, smirking at Eve. ‘Can you, lass?’
Eve blushed. ‘Dunno, maybe, how would I know?’
LATER THAT MORNING, they packed up the wagon and moved on again, and an hour after that, they came to a small village that neither Adam nor Eve had ever visited before.
‘This Christmas business....’ muttered Ged, leaving his sentence hanging.
‘What about it?’ said Adam.
‘Pubs open, do they?’
‘Suppose so, some of them,’ said Adam. ‘At lunchtime.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Ged, as they glanced ahead, and saw an old forest pub coming closer in the mist. It was small and ancient and thatched, with tiny square windows decorated with coloured lights. Ged drove the wagon past the front door of the pub, pulled up and jumped down. He fastened the horse to a low white wooden fence, and checked their possessions were secure.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘my treat.’
The narrow pub door was left open, even on Christmas Day, to let in fresh air, and Ged stepped onto the stone step.
‘They won’t let kids in there,’ said Dolores, hugging Hawkeye to her chest, as he hugged Teddy to his.
‘Course they will,’ said Ged.
Adam and Eve shared a doubting look, and followed.
Behind the bar, a chubby guy with a black moustache and dyed red hair was pulling a pint. He glanced up at the big stranger standing in the doorway.
‘No gippos!’ he said, turning back to pulling the slow pint.
Ged exchanged a glance with an elderly woman sitting on a high stool at the bar. She grimaced, and then saw the young woman, and the baby.
‘Come on, George, have a heart,’ she said. ‘It’s Christmas, for God’s sake, and it’s ruddy cold out there.’
George harrumphed, and glanced at her, and the strangers in turn. Against his better judgment he nodded them in, muttering: ‘Any trouble, and you’re out!’
‘There will be no trouble,’ said Ged. ‘Not of our doing.’
In the corner, close to the dancing fire, was an empty table. Ged took his family and friends that way, and settled them in. At the next table were two fragrant couples, well dressed and well washed. Churchgoers, thought Ged, Do-gooders, Government supporters. Law abiding bores, Gypsy baiters and haters. He watched them pause drinking and glance over at the smelly unshaven new arrivals. Ged could guess exactly what they were thinking, and what was coming next. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
The nearest lady stood and smiled and came over to Dolores, and the baby. She was something of a looker, slim and tall and blonde, with a long unblemished neck and perfect breasts. Ged noticed that well enough.
‘What a beautiful baby,’ she gushed. ‘Isn’t he, though. A happy Christmas to you all.... and especially to you,’ she said, grinning and winking at Hawkeye, who happily gurgled back. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small square gift-wrapped box. ‘May I give him this?’ she said, to Dolores. ‘Would you mind?’
Dolores nodded her on.
‘Happy Christmas to you all,’ she said again, returning to her seat.
Adam and Eve returned the greeting, as Hawkeye promptly tried to eat the box, as Ged went to the bar for drinks.
The barman took ages to serve him, though that was nothing new. Ged was used to it, and anyway, that day he was determined not to lose his temper. He would be the perfect gentleman Christmas gypsy, for now. When the guy had finally finished, Ged eyeballed the grumpy barman and said: ‘One for the lady, too,’ nodding at the old woman sitting at the bar.
‘You don’t need to do that,’ she said, emptying her glass.
‘I know I don’t,’ said Ged. ‘But I’m going to.’
‘Ta,’ she said. ‘Cheers, and thanks,’ raising the newly filled glass. ‘To you and yours,’ she said, and already she was making eyes at Hawkeye across the bar.
‘Thanks are all mine,’ Ged said, between ferrying drinks to their table.
On the far side of the bar was a large rectangular plasma television screen fixed to the wall. The sound was turned low, but the colours caught Hawkeye’s attention. Eve wondered if he had ever seen a television set before, for he looked at it as if it were some kind of magic. Much later, the sound was turned up.
George the barman came to the end of the bar and shouted: ‘Can we have a bit of hush. Tis the King.’
The bar fell silent, but for the crackling fire and Hawkeye’s occasional gurgles. Heads turned, eyes focussed. People sat up straight, as if long departed parents had ordered them to do so from beyond the grave.
And now, over to Sandringham, schmoozed the announcer.
Everyone stared at the screen, even Ged.
There he was, the careworn King, forcing a smile into the camera.
‘He doesn’t look well,’ said Eve, echoing her mother’s words.
‘Hardly surprising,’ whispered Adam into Eve’s ear, their arms linked.
‘How do you mean?’ murmured Eve.
‘I don’t believe for a minute he approves of everything that’s going on, do you?’
‘You think?’
‘Bloody certain!’
‘Now this is one guy I have time for,’ said Ged, folding his arms.
‘Why’s that?’ said Dolores.
‘He’s descended from gypsies,’ said Ged, over loudly.
The four well-heeled drinkers laughed out loud at such a ridiculous assertion, and drank on.
‘He is!’ insisted Ged. ‘He bloody is! It’s a well known fact.’
‘Eh you! Shut up! We are trying to listen here,’ scowled George.
‘Sorry,’ said Ged, raising his hand in a peaceful salute, as he flashed a smile that was as rare as it was soothing.
Everyone knows the nation has been going through some very difficult times. The recent general election has shown beyond any doubt the country wishes to remain firmly on the course on which we have embarked.
‘He doesn’t believe a bloody word of it,’ whispered Adam. ‘Not a single word. You can see it in his face. It’s as if there is a gun pointing at his head from beyond the curtain.’
For the first time, Eve saw exactly what Adam meant. It was there before their eyes. The King was against the government, just as they were. The King was on
their side, and how comforting and encouraging was that.
It is more important than ever that we all support the forces of law and order.
‘There’s no freaking choice!’ said Ged, boldly winking at the woman who had given Hawkeye the Christmas present. She smirked back, before glancing down at her drink. She knew a desiring look when she saw one, and gypsy or no gypsy, he was a striking man. She knew it would never lead anywhere, but she wasn’t beyond flirting, enjoying the moment to the max. Perhaps there could be a Christmas fantasy there, and what was wrong in that?
‘I won’t tell you again!’ shouted George. ‘One more cuss from you, my friend, and you are out!’
Ged nodded an apology and swigged his stout and winked at the old dear at the bar.
‘It’s him,’ whispered Eve.
‘Who?’ said Adam.
‘The King,’ she said. ‘He is the one.’
‘The one what?’
Eve turned to Adam. ‘Don’t you see? We must go to see him.’
‘Because?’ said Adam.
‘Because, because, he is the only person in the country who can rally the rest of us.’
They glanced back at the screen. The BBC was re-running newsreel shots of Mister and Mrs Bletchington standing outside the newest and just opened Bletchington Clinic. They came out hand-in-hand, the perfect couple. The picture switched back to the King. His hands were clasped together on the desk before him, and they appeared to be wrestling with each other. He forced another smile, and his eyes twittered.
All that remains is for me to wish you, and your families, a very Merry Christmas, and a healthy and Happy New Year. God bless you all.
‘Look at his face,’ said Eve. ‘Just look at his face!’
Everyone in the bar stared deep into those pale blue eyes, those large tired eyes that stared out from the wall. It was as if he was about to burst into tears. It was as if the camera zoomed in on the dead centre of his eyes. Bulls-eye. He was speaking to the people of Britain, his people, the free people of Great Britain, through his eyes, and everyone who looked enquiringly into that face, now instinctively knew that the King didn’t believe a single bloody word of the ham and chips he had been spouting.
