by David Carter
People in high places talking and thinking of assassinating one another, thought Liz, surely such a thing could never happen in modern day Britain.
‘You want to kill the King?’
Thelma’s brow furrowed.
‘Well, perhaps not literally, Elizabeth, though in certain circumstances even that might be considered. No, what I have in mind is to abolish the office of King. Sweep away that bloodsucking family, once and for all. It’s an opportunity too good to miss. They cost us so bloody much, you have no idea. And anyway, they have enough cash of their own. They can keep their houses and their history and God knows what else they might want, but they can clear off out of public life. All this King’s speech this, and King’s speech that, it is just so much twaddle. I write the damn thing for heaven’s sake, they are my ideas, and this ridiculous business of having to wait for him to invite me to form a government, when I am the one who has struggled to win a democratic election, well I ask you; it is all so medieval, ludicrous. The whole system is long overdue a major change, a thorough overhaul. They are totally unaccountable, unlike you and I, Elizabeth, yet they live a life of luxury the likes of which you and I have no comprehension, and worst of all, they contribute damn all. What is the point? We can do without them, Liz, the whole lot of them, we really can, and what is more, secret polls have shown that this line of thinking will be another certain vote winner. It is another populist policy, it is what the public really want, and the National Party of Great Britain is anxious to provide exactly that. Don’t forget, the National Party of Great Britain came to power in the first place because it offered populist policies. We must continue to do precisely that.’
‘The King is popular in the country, ma’am.’
‘Baloney! Only in certain areas, to the dissidents and ragamuffins, and Johnny-come-lateley’s and get this, amongst the gypsies, for Chrissake. Who the hell cares what the bloody gypsies think? No, amongst the educated middle classes, and most of the working class too, abolishing the monarchy would be seen as a terrific idea, and one that will be well received, and long overdue. You mark my words, Liz; I have studied this matter in some depth. Once that family have been consigned to the dustbin of history, the country will be all the better for it. You never hear any hint that the United States would ever be so stupid as to create a royal family, do you? A king? Of course not, they have far too much sense. There has never been any movement to restore a Czar in Russia, has there, or a King in France, or Italy? Of course not! No, the whole proposition of a monarchy in the twenty-first century is quite ridiculous. It is a system that belonged to a time from centuries ago, and it is long overdue that the whole concept was swept away.’
‘Whatever you say, ma’am.’
‘And as to your point that the King is popular, well he won’t be, will he? Not after your department has discredited him.’
Another fearful expression swept across the table.
Liz involuntarily nodded.
‘I will need your help on that one too,’ said Thelma.
Thought you might. ‘In what precise area?’
‘Some of the senior army and navy wallahs are believed to be up to defend Him and his family, to the last man. Misguided fools, the lot of them, but there we are. We will need coordinated and determined action to eliminate that fractious lot.’
‘I see.’
‘Nothing your office couldn’t handle, though. Wouldn’t you say?’
‘I don’t see a problem, though it might be as well to step up our surveillance activities within the senior ranks of the armed services.’
‘I was going to suggest that. You are ahead of me again, Elizabeth.’
So, thought Liz, she sees herself as some kind of latter day Oliver Cromwell. Just so long as she didn’t expect Liz to decapitate the King. That would be one step too far, even for her. Who or what would be next? Compulsory bible readings? Sundays devoted to religion? Persecution of the Roman Catholics? Public burnings? Public hangings off the back of a truck? All opposition should be ruthlessly crushed. Elizabeth recalled the phrase from her SPATs training manual at a residential course she had secretly attended at Warwick Castle, the previous Easter. The conference had been for executive officers, and that phrase had been repeated over and over.
‘How do you propose to discredit the King?’
Thelma’s face flickered as if it had received a minor electric shock.
‘I am sure you will find a way,’ she said. ‘Step up your bugging campaign might be a reasonable starting point. You never know what you might discover.’
The women exchanged tight smiles, and for a moment each wondered what exactly was going on inside the opposite head.
‘So,’ said Thelma, breaking the silence, ‘now you know precisely what is on the line, and where we shall be going, what have you to say?’
‘Revolutionary ideas in every way,’ said Liz, picking her words with care, ‘as I have come to expect from you.’
‘But ultimately, you approve?’
Liz smiled her best green-eyed feline smile.
‘Yes, Prime Minister. You never disappoint me. I am with you all the way. You can rely on that.’
I am with you all the way.
I am with you all the way.
Thelma appeared satisfied.
‘I suggest another meeting in one week to go over matters in more detail. I am looking for a sense of urgency on your part to push through these plans. If we are going down these roads, we need to set out sooner rather than later.’
‘Certainly, Prime Minister. One week from today.’
‘That’s it; you’ve got it,’ said Thelma, ‘and one other thing.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘I realise you and your department may need to carry out distasteful tasks, necessary duties to bring us the success we desire.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘I don’t expect anyone to do anything I am not prepared to do myself. Nor do I expect colleagues to complete difficult duties without being adequately rewarded.’
‘I do not seek personal reward.’
‘I know that Elizabeth, but you shall be rewarded.’
‘Ma’am?’ Liz wondered what was coming next, for what more could there be after being made a Dame, on a huge salary?
‘I am considering bringing the regular police force under the umbrella of the SPATs. What would you say to that?’
‘You mean....’
‘Yes,’ she said, interrupting. ‘ALL British police would come under the direct control of the SPATs, under your control, Elizabeth. Can you imagine such a thing?’
‘I don’t know what to say, ma’am.’
‘Don’t say anything. It is only the germ of an idea at present. It would only ever happen, if and when my two new policies have been implemented and carried through. In that event, this idea would be on the table for discussion.’
So it was a bribe, thought Liz. Clear out the immigrants. Dump the King. Accomplish that, and the entire British police force would be hers. Typical of Thelma really. Something for me, something for you. The stakes could not be higher, and Liz did not have a problem with that. She had always passionately believed in incentives. In her experience the greatest achievers reached their goals when adequate reward was strewn on the path before them. This prize was worth having; this prize was worth fighting for. Fact was; some of the boring idiots running the country’s police forces were long overdue a good kicking, and Liz would enjoy being on the other end of the boot.
Not for the first time, Thelma interrupted her train of thought with a jolting change of tack.
‘Found a man yet?’
Liz fought uncomfortable feelings that swirled within her. She forced a smile.
‘Yes, and no,’ she lied.
‘I have found one for you,’ said Thelma, mischievously.
‘Really?’
‘To be more exact, Henderson has, haven’t you Henderson?’
The women turned and stared at the hunk.
/> A pause, and then he said, without dragging his eyes from the Stubbs: ‘There is someone, ma’am, a possibility.’
Thelma rippled her eyebrows and smirked at Liz. ‘See! Do tell us more.’
‘His name is Captain Giles Sharpe. He is thirty, former SAS man, single, no ties, six foot, dark hair, slim, muscular, educated at Winchester and King’s College Cambridge. Nice chap.’
‘Sounds ideal,’ said Thelma, grinning at Liz, suddenly sounding like a fishwife, ‘don’t you think, Lizzy? Would you like to meet him? Go on, I dare you.’
‘No!’ said Liz, a little too quickly. ‘Not at the moment, as I say, I think I am spoken for, in that direction.’
‘Liar!’ said Thelma, laughing, and for a moment they were more like teenage girls than PM and the head of the most powerful government department that had ever existed in Whitehall.
‘I will let you know,’ said Liz, ‘if I am interested in meeting the gentleman in question.’
‘Don’t leave it too long. Someone else might bag him, eh, Henderson?’ and she turned and winked at the hunk.
‘Don’t think so, ma’am,’ he said.
‘I won’t,’ said Liz, ‘leave it too long.’
‘Then I do believe that completes our business for today,’ said the PM, standing, an action indicating the meeting was over. ‘Henderson,’ she said. ‘Show Dame Elizabeth Mariner to the door.’
The women mwaah-mwaahed hard and often, and parted.
Once in the car round the corner, Liz rang her secretary.
‘I want to run a deep check on a Captain Giles Sharpe, former SAS officer educated at Winchester and Cambridge. I believe he is thirty years old. I want everything you have on him on my desk by the time I get back to the office. I want to know where he lives, who he lives with, who he sleeps with, what he has for dinner, his relatives, finances, bedroom predilections, children, mistresses, scandals, what colour and brand of underwear he wears, what football team he supports, the whole bloody works. And pictures too of course, that is essential, up to date pics.’
‘Yes ma’am, right away, ma’am. Is he a terror target, ma’am?’
‘Just do it!’
Fifty-Three
Ged eased the wagon to a standstill on a patch of rough pasture close to Windsor Great Park. The meadow had been set aside to accommodate London’s growing gypsy population who had, for some obscure reason, become attracted to the capital like moths to bright light. That suited the authorities, always happier when they knew where the gypsy families were, a fact not lost on Ged, and some of his friends.
He insisted he would not remain there for more than one night, for he was anxious not to meet the GLO-worm, the Gypsy Liaison Officer, who was certain to come snooping. The less the authorities knew of Ged’s whereabouts, the happier a man he was.
It was the middle of the morning of the last day of the year, as Adam and Eve set off for the castle. It turned out to be further away than they imagined. They could see the huge grey medieval structure in the distance, but it took them more than an hour to reach the building.
‘What are we going to do when we get there?’ asked Adam.
‘I am going to knock on the door and ask to see the King,’ said Eve.
Adam laughed. ‘Don’t be so daft. You can’t do that. He won’t see you.’
‘Course he will,’ said Eve, ‘when he knows what I have to tell him.’
Adam remained unconvinced. ‘He might not be at home.’
‘He is,’ said Eve, nodding ahead at the huge blue, red and gold standard that billowed out from the flagpole set on the tallest tower, a message for the nation, the sovereign was in the house.
Windsor was still busy, lots of tourists everywhere, local and overseas. At the castle, Adam and Eve were surprised to find an ordinary looking enquiry office set off one wall. They went inside and rang the bell. A moment later a man in his fifties in a silver waistcoat and rolled up sleeves appeared before them.
‘Good morning,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and what can I do for you?’
‘I want to see the King,’ said Eve confidently, ‘I have something very important to give him.’
‘You have, have you?’ he said, unable to suppress a grin.
‘Yes, I do,’ she said. ‘It is most important.’
It wasn’t unusual for oddballs to turn up uninvited, asking to see His Majesty. Set procedure. Form WMI303/6.
‘I am sorry, but the King is very busy today. It is New Year’s Eve. He has a very full programme. If you would like to fill in this form, I shall make sure his secretary gets your message.’
‘No!’ said Eve. ‘You don’t understand. I need to see the King today. It’s a matter of life and death.’
Against his better judgment the staff officer thought of what the girl had said, and then discarded it. It was probably a student rag stunt, or maybe she was from some crazy drug rehab place, seeking publicity.
‘You cannot see the King. Not today, not ever, not without an invitation, now if you don’t mind, I would like you to leave.’
‘I am not leaving until I see the King,’ said Eve, and she sat heavily down on one of the brown leather-clad bench seats.
The man stood to his full height, thrust his hands in his waistcoat pockets, and twice went on tiptoes, betraying his policeman roots.
‘If you are not gone in ten seconds, I shall call out the guard.’
‘Call who you like,’ said Eve. ‘We are not leaving.’
The man turned to Adam.
‘I think it would be better if you took the young lady away, sir, before there is any trouble.’
Eve flashed Adam that defiant stare of hers.
‘We are not going anywhere until we see the King,’ said Adam, ‘it really is that important.’
‘In that case, you leave me no choice,’ said the man, and he made a point of pressing a bell set beneath the counter. ‘I’ve called the guard,’ he said. ‘If I were you, I’d hop it before they get here.’
‘We are not leaving,’ repeated Eve.
They half expected a couple of bearded old guys bearing pikes and wearing medieval red and gold frock coats to arrive. They were wrong. The next moment, two fit looking young men in black leathers and riot crash helmets, visors lifted, hustled into the room.
‘Trouble, Will?’ said the first one, raising an automatic weapon.
SPATs thought Adam, and his mind flashed back to Susie telling him how she could always tell SPATs, Spittle, she called them, how they were always so bloody obvious. Adam saw what she meant. When you knew what you were looking for, you couldn’t miss it. It wasn’t a good idea to get mixed up with these people; he instinctively knew that, especially a wanted SPAT killer like him.
The man in the waistcoat spoke again.
‘These two youngsters say they want to see the King. I have told them it is not possible, but they refuse to leave.’
The first SPAT glared at Adam and Eve.
‘That right?’ he said, in estuary English.
‘We need to see the King,’ repeated Eve, her confidence only slightly dented.
‘Listen, love,’ said the second one, leaning over, lowering his weapon. ‘It’s New Year’s Eve and a time for parties, eh, know what I mean? Why don’t you just toddle off with Tom Cruise here, and we will say no more about it. Get my drift?’
‘But....’
Adam grabbed her shoulder and pulled her toward the door.
‘I think we had better go.’
‘The young man has the right idea,’ said the first SPAT. ‘The alternative is a night in the cells. Not the place you want to be on New Year’s Eve, take my word for it.’
‘But....’ said Eve again.
Adam took Eve’s hand and tugged her from the office and pulled her outside and whispered in her ear, ‘They are SPATs, not good, I’m number one wanted, remember? Come on; let’s scarper before they recall my picture from their pissing posters.’
‘But....’
‘No more
buts, Eve. Not this time. Come on, we will have to think of something else.’
‘But....’
‘No damn buts!’
An hour later they were sitting in the weak winter sunshine on a park bench, still puzzling on how they could get in to see their King, Eve’s bag set to one side of them, on the bench.
‘Why don’t you simply post him the papers?’ suggested Adam.
‘Oh yeah! God knows who might open them, and what happens if they get lost in the mail? Do me a favour!’
‘Ged wants us to leave first thing in the morning.’
‘I know that!’
‘We will have to come up with something pretty quick.’
‘I know that too!’
‘All right! All right! Keep your hair on!’
Eve turned to Adam. He saw her face flushing. Her bottom lip began to quiver.
‘Oh, please don’t cry,’ he said.
Too late.
‘What’s the matter?’ he whispered, curling his arm around her shoulder.
‘I am certain this is the right thing to do,’ she blubbered, between jerking tears. ‘I have never been so sure of anything in my whole life.’
‘Don’t cry, Eve,’ he pleaded, ‘please don’t cry,’ suddenly feeling pretty hopeless, and not a little guilty. ‘We’ll find a way. You’ll see.’
‘But how?’ she said, in the fashion of a young girl through tantrum tears. ‘How? You tell me that!’
‘We’ll think of something.’
She threw herself into Adam’s offered open arms where he hugged her hard and whispered, ‘We’ll think of something, doll, you’ll see, don’t cry.’
A man approached. A dirty looking man. He was walking his dogs. He wore a long muddy greatcoat and green Wellington boots. He left the grass and began strolling along the path, beating out the paces on the rutted tarmac with an ivory tipped walking cane. He was heading toward the seat where Adam and Eve embraced.
He saw the young woman crying on her man’s shoulder. Lover’s tiff, most likely. Didn’t it happen to everyone? Sooner or later, though it was never any the less tragic when it did. It was something he missed, lover’s tiffs, but there was still time. The man stopped by the bench, grateful for the opportunity to pause and catch his breath.
