The Line of Succession

by Harry F Rey

  “Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. James, for fuck sake, pick up.” The ring of the phone thudded to the beat of his heart, it’s mechanical bells chiming in the sound of fear. In the pit of his stomach, he knew this path was a mistake. A wrong turn had been taken due to the tricks of a foe; every unanswered ring a reminder that things were spinning out of control. James almost never didn’t answer him. And if he did, he’d return within five minutes.

  The phone kept ringing, ringing, ringing, and then stopped.

  “Fuck.”

  Chapter Five

  The buzzing of James’ phone against the wood of the chair filled the grand corridor of Buckingham Palace. He felt Alexandra, sitting on her own chair six feet away, glare at him, but James ignored her. Both chairs were placed in the middle of the hundred-foot hallway, facing the white double doors and golden handles that would open as soon as Her Majesty decided she was ready to receive them. The vibrating continued. James, slouched down, shuffled himself, and fished the phone out of his pocket, silencing it immediately then turning it off.

  Alexandra, having sat quietly with her legs crossed, now got up from her chair. She blew a rush of air out her mouth in a way that always annoyed him, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her gaze up at the tapestry on the wall.

  “Hmm,” she said, as if taking in the never-noticed detail of some grand battle weaved in thread, “it’s Persian.”

  “Funny, I didn’t think they allowed that sort in here.”

  “Times change,” she snapped back, not missing a beat. “Good party last night?”

  “Yes. What do you care?”

  “Just asking. A lot of nice girls, were there?”

  “What?” James said, finally turning to look at her.

  “You know, for picking out your new girlfriend,” Alexandra said, not even hiding her smirk. “Katyn is nice. A bit young for you, I’d have thought, but at least you’re matched intellectually.”

  James bolted up and practically leapt over his chair to confront her.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Ahh … so, no one’s told you yet? She’s your new girlfriend. I’m taking her to find a dress later. Don’t worry; I’ll make her look fantastic for tomorrow’s papers. It’ll be nice for you to have a bit of positive press coverage for once.”

  “You cunt.” James stood inches away from her face. They’d fought day and night as children, until their parents had placed them in schools in different countries. It only succeeded in concentrating the fighting into the times they were forced to be together. Other children grew out of it and became friends as adults, but not James and his sister. Not now, not ever… “Keep me out of your sick games, or I’ll…”

  The white double doors they’d been waiting for swung open.

  “Children!” Victoria greeted them, looking like she’d shrunk even more when standing next to her butler, Peter. “Now, I hope you two weren’t fighting again, or I shall have to put you out with the dogs.”

  Alexandra floated away and bent down to give Victoria a kiss on the cheek. “Of course not, granny.”

  “Good. Happy birthday, darling.” Alexandra took her grandmother by the arm and they walked into the drawing room together. Peter glanced at James, who only felt like sulking in the corridor.

  “Ready, your royal highness?”

  James stared up at the tapestry, searching out the detail of murder so minutely embroidered into the piece. Truly, every scene had someone stabbing someone else … a knife in the eye, a spear in the heart, a sword in the back.

  “Yes,” James said to Peter, but his eyes transfixed on his sister helping that little old lady to the couch. “I’m ready.”

  • • •

  Andrew padded around the kitchen of his flat, as if making too much noise would disturb someone. Of course, no one else was here. The modern one-bedroom in a Shoreditch high-rise was as anonymous as the Ikea furniture that decorated it. Andrew’s parents had given it to him the day he turned eighteen. Not so much a gift of independence as it was an abrogation of their parental responsibility…

  A breakfast bar divided the metal and wood kitchen with the living room. The black leather corner couch still looked as good as new. Only the flat screen TV on the wall had been updated in the last twelve years. Andrew had spent close to every night since Eton with James, which meant living at Clarence House when they were in London. The Shoreditch pad had become their city getaway, much like the other flats they owned in New York and Sydney. It served perfectly as a place for the various activities that were hard to undertake in a royal residence. Now it served as his place of refuge.

  Andrew opened the fridge to find an old tub of margarine, half a pack of suspicious looking bacon, and milk whose sell-by date scared him. He pulled out the carton and immediately regretted trying to smell it. Finally, he found the cupboard where the bin sat and threw the carton straight in. Guess I’ll take the coffee black.

  Andrew stirred his coffee, letting the sugar dissolve and staring into the whirlpool in the cup … the whirlpool he’d created. The flat gave him a sense of peace. The thick walls and double-glazed windows blocked most noise, and the view of some same old London-street offered comfort in its boringness. As close as could be to ordinary. If it wasn’t for the overbearing memories, Andrew could’ve really lost himself in the flat. Those nights of escape and drug-fueled sexual excitement … the nights spent with the door unlocked, James in his hood, face down on the bed … Andrew acting as master of ceremonies to the finest men the world had to offer, the best of whom came to London They had travelled the world with that hood. From Sydney to Singapore, New York to the Bahamas. It accompanied them on every royal trip like the very crown itself as they sampled the male specimens on every continent, Andrew taking in their guest’s full-frontal view while James experienced them only in anonymity. The men of the world were various and different, but the beauty of London is that it brought the men of the world right to them.

  He stirred and stirred till black coffee spilled out of the cup.

  “Fuck.”

  Andrew opened the dishwasher with the intention of dropping the teaspoon in, but had forgotten about the collection of dildos, butt plugs, and handcuffs that sat inside, now clean and innocent looking. He rinsed the spoon in the sink instead.

  • • •

  Victoria’s gloved hand picked up a lemon slice from the dish on the coffee table. With unexpected vigor, she squeezed the contents right into her china tea-cup, turning the liquid cloudy and leaving a few bits of lemon floating in it. James watched as the Queen, perched perfectly on the ornate settee, lifted the cup to her pursed, purple-looking lips, and took a long, loud sip.

  “Now, James, I hope you’re looking forward to this evening?” she asked. He sat on the settee opposite her, sharing the embroidered couch with her. Peter stood, as always, just a head-turn behind his grandmother, staring down at them all like an eagle ready to poke his eyes out.

  “I think James is very excited. He has some news you know,” Alexandra said, clutching her own cup and saucer delicately in her hand, legs crossed away from James.

  “I can answer for myself.”

  “Yes, I heard,” Victoria said, her eyes narrowing at them both. Now the interrogation would begin.

  “Well, granny, early days and all that. Don’t want to say too much,” James said, trying to laugh it all off.

  “Oh, come now, James,” Alexandra said, her teacup shaking in excitement, “I think it’s a bit more serious than early days. From what I’ve heard anyway. Granny, you’ll love her. Princess Katyn of Sweden.”

  “A princess? Well, that is good news. Very good, indeed. And the Swedes have excellent breeding.” The Queen’s eyes flared, Gollum-like, as if she’d just spotted the golden ring: a grandchild. An heir flowing with Anglo-Saxon and Viking blood…

  “Yes, they do rather. I’m taking her to find an outfit this afternoon. She’s very sweet … very easy to love. Isn’t that right, b
rother?” She nudged a casual elbow into his side, one pointed with intolerable smugness.

  James didn't say a word or even move a muscle. He remained still, like one of those damn vases on a plinth in the hallway, wondering why on Earth Andrew wasn’t here to catch him before everything shattered on the marble floor..

  “Peter,” Victoria said, raising a gloved hand behind her head, “remind me to give the King a call. Sven will be delighted to hear the news. Now, James,” she glared at him with the full force of her grey eyes. “We’re not waiting around for you to get cold feet. You and your little friend can have another few months of your fun, then an engagement. I’m not dying before you’ve done your duty to this family and given us a child.”

  Victoria picked up another lemon slice and, in one movement, squeezed the contents into her cup. It must’ve been more lemon than tea. James couldn’t find his tongue or even the breath to form words.

  “We’ll have a wedding date in time for the Christmas broadcast, won’t we? Now, Alexandra dear, is your family joining us tonight?”

  James felt stuck to the couch utterly unable to move, as if he’d woken in the middle of the night still in a dream, or in the middle of surgery with his sister and grandmother tearing out his insides like a couple of 18th century morticians. He hadn’t expected to do battle … to have to beat down any idea that this girl, whoever the hell she was, would be someone he would marry. It happened too fast. Normally, Andrew knocked back these attempted entrapments with his verbal combat; he had always been a street-fighter when it came to getting in or out of anything. But not this time … He created this damn mess, and now James felt like the last one to realize how hard he’d been played. It was as if Andrew and Alexandra were working together … working to trap him.

  “Yes, Faisal is coming. The children will be in bed.”

  “Well, that husband of yours never misses an opportunity to play dress up, does he?”

  Alexandra smiled blankly. “In fact, Granny, Faisal's uncle is keen to visit soon. It’s been a few years since he’s seen the children. It would be good state opportunity. He’s the Minister of Oil, too.”

  “Ah, I see. Which uncle is this?”

  “Prince Mohammed. The Sultan's younger brother.”

  “Of course, dear. Peter,” she lifted a hand again, “do inform the prime minister we plan to extend an official invitation to Prince Mohammed and his, darling,” she asked Alexandra, “how many wives does he have, exactly?”

  • • •

  Andrew had almost dozed off on the couch while the news played quietly in the background. Without the adrenaline-rush of running around London, the shock of the day started to sink in. Seeing himself on the screen, he cursed his own stupid face and big mouth playing over and over again. For years he’d played the game so well, batting journalists off with some candid photographs or the odd tidbit from the palace. What had gone so wrong this morning? He felt like he’d been entrapped. Like the reporter had baited him, lured him into something so carefully set up by Alexandra. But another thought scared him more. Maybe I’m just not up to the job. Maybe I’m no use to him. No use at all.

  “And we’re expecting a royal balcony appearance shortly?” the news anchor asked a reporter camped outside the palace.

  “Yes, and that will be followed by a fly-past from the Red Arrows. I can tell you the crowds here at the palace are very excited. Especially since the news this morning of the royal girlfriend which seems to have electrified so many people around the country. Many royal watchers are quietly relieved that Prince James, on his thirtieth birthday, at last seems to be taking his royal responsibilities more seriously.”

  Andrew grabbed the phone with his sweaty hands, pressing so hard on the pad the glass felt like it was bending. He tap-tap-tapped on James’ name. “Pick up. Fucking pick up, pick up, pick up.” Again, the phone rang dead.

  • • •

  Two guardsmen opened the doors to the famous Buckingham Palace balcony, the site of so many momentous occasions in the glorious past. The Queen, flanked by her grandchildren, stepped out towards the fresh air and roaring crowds that had gathered below. Victoria waved to the sea of people stretching all the way back to The Mall, her gloved hand wafting through the air like she could splash the adoration of the people onto her face. Alexandra and James were stationed a few steps behind. They knew their place at these set pieces. They nodded into middle distance and occasionally lifted a hand in acknowledgement.

  Soon, the noise of the crowd began to be drowned out by the roar of the RAF planes. In a shower of red, white and blue smoke, the Red Arrows soared over the palace. All eyes were trained on the sky as the pilots did a loop, the colored smoke billowing against the backdrop of a bright blue day.

  The cheers from below sounded like thunder, noticeably louder now than when they first appeared on the balcony. As faces and television cameras took in the aerial display above, James leaned over to his sister.

  “What the fuck is this Swedish girl thing about? I don’t even know her.”

  Alexandra plastered a smile across her face. It might look to anyone who caught the two of them that she simply delighted at the RAF display, but James knew better than to think of his sister as some simple girl dazzled by colorful smoke in the sky. James knew her smile could kill.

  “Just play along, little brother. I’m trying to help you.” She pointed her hand to the air, drawing James’ eye for a moment, as the planes finished their show and jetted off up The Mall, towards central London.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “You will. We wouldn’t want all your secrets coming out of the closet now, would we?”

  Alexandra laughed and clapped her hands together, showing off to the world how much she’d enjoyed the show.

  Chapter Six

  “No, no, no. I already wore the Dior to the Oxfam benefit last month.” Alexandra passed the silky violet dress back to the stylist, who slipped it back into the rack. Her hair, bunched up with rollers, pulled at her scalp as she flicked through another rack. The stylist stood back, trying not to get in the way.

  Alexandra’s hairdresser, Vilna, had been preening away at Katyn for nearly an hour already. He picked up a blow-dryer and worked it over the pieces of foil that would add a few highlights. “There,” he said, through his thick Eastern-European accent. “It’s going to be fabulous.”

  Alexandra looked up from the dress rack and glanced over at them. She took sight of Katyn’s face in the mirror, illuminated by the light bulbs around it. She smiled. “Vilna, you’re an artist.”

  Doris, Alexandra’s assistant, sat cross-legged on an armchair in the corner of the room, typing away on her iPad. Discreetly, she lifted her phone from her lap, and took a few silent photos of Katyn being attended to by the hairdresser.

  The stylist, daring to try again, presented Alexandra with another dress, green and gold with a deep neck. “Ma’am, this could work quite nicely with the Alexander McQueen clutch and shoes.”

  Alexandra took the dress from her and held it up by the hanger. “Hmm … yes but perhaps with the Jimmy Choos. You know, the ones from last Christmas?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I think they’d be perfect. I’ll look them out.”

  “Thanks,” Alexandra said, laying the dress across the empty chair beside her. “Now, what are you going to wear?” she asked Katyn, stepping over to her.

  “I do love the Chanel you showed me earlier. Mother always said the classics were the best.”

  “Darling,” Alexandra said, budging Vilna out of the way and laying an arm across her shoulder. “After tonight you’re going to be the most photographed woman in the world. We’re launching you as the future Queen of England. We need to make a statement.”

  Katyn laughed, but the glint in her eye showed the girl had already been enchanted with the idea.

  “Bring me that rack over there,” Alexandra snapped at the stylist. She twisted the hairdresser’s chair around and helped the young princess stand up.
“Now,” Alexandra said, briskly moving through the rack, “let’s find something fit for a future queen.”

  She pulled out a sparkly silver dress and held it up against Katyn’s slim figure.

  “Ooh, I love it!” Katyn said, running the fabric through her fingers.

  “The low cut is what you want. We’ll find you something simple but spectacular for the neck.” Alexandra gestured for Doris to come over. She lifted the hangar over Katyn’s head and, beaming for the camera, Katyn posed as Doris took a few pictures.

  “Wonderful,” Alexandra said. “This will look magnificent on you.”

  “Who is it?” Katyn asked, giving the dress back and sitting down.

  “Topshop.”

  “Topshop?!?” Katyn exclaimed. “What kind of statement is that? Everyone shops at Topshop. Not a princess!”

  “But, darling,” Alexandra said, stroking the girl’s blonde hair. “You’re going to be the princess everyone thinks they can be.”

  “Oh…” Katyn remained silent for a moment, pursing her lips while the cogs turned in her head. “I like it,” she said, grinning.

  Alexandra smiled at her and turned to the stylist. “Let’s find her a Jenny Packham handbag and some diamond earrings. ”Peering at the handbags, she added in a hushed voice, “Everyone should know this isn’t going to be a very long engagement.”

  Alexandra put the dress down and Vilna returned to Katyn’s hair.

  “D’you really think we’ll get married? Me and James?” Katyn asked.

  “James and I,” Alexandra said, taking a look at a box of earrings the stylist had opened for her. “Don’t you want to marry James?”