There had to be some other way, but what?
~ * ~
Even keener than Maggie to locate Jeremy was Clarissa the PM, “Post Mortem” as some of the more scurrilous organs in both the left- and right-wing press had taken to dubbing her. So keen she was unable to sleep at night without repeats of those damned dreams in which she is slaughtered by unnameable foes in terrible ways, including suspension by her heels over toilet bowls before being flushed down the S-bend with echoes of “Goodbye Cruel World” ringing in her waterlogged ears. Not great for a person in her position. Not great at all. Ergo the absolute need to find Jeremy Crawford fastest and brand him not her as the demon behind the nation’s woes, in pursuance of which objective she again called her Casanova.
“Answer the bally phone, will you. It’s me. Phoebe,” she hissed as the super-triple-encrypted number rang and rang before going to message.
“Pah! Some bloody secret agent,” she spluttered, pacing up and down her private Downing Street bedroom tugging at her hair while Maurice made his excuses to the company over supper at the Shepherd’s Hut, saying this was a call he’d have to take.
“Bit of a clichéd line, old boy,” said Barry through a mouthful of cheese and pickle. “Thought only B-list American movie PIs said that sort of thing. Still, if you must, you must.”
“It’s the PM,” said Maurice, laying aside a newly forked radish. “Probably wanting updates. I’ll get a better signal outside.”
Jeremy paled with a half-chewed frankfurter in his mouth. “You’re not going to tell her about…?” he managed to gurgle.
“Certainly not,” said Maurice, as Julie leaned over and took Jeremy’s hand.
“What are you going to tell her then?” she said.
“To get lost,” was Dennis’s advice, at which Maurice laughed.
“Not in so many words,” he said over his shoulder as he made his way to the door with the phone in his hand. “Although you can rest assured legerdemain shall play an important role in my shtick. Think Iago here.”
Barry smiled, amused to hear his protégé employing the sort of reference 007 could never have dreamt of.
“Sock it to her, old fellow,” he said, but Maurice had already closed the door behind him.
“Phoebe, what a pleasure,” he said after dialling the super-triple-encrypted number and holding the phone away from his ear until the torrent of staccato language blasting through it stopped. “And what can I do for you this evening?”
More torrential staccato language, much of it blurred by what Maurice took to be tears or fury or a combination of both. He was reminded of eyewitness reports from the West Wing of the White House when the baby man president was upset.
“Hello there Phoebe?” he said, in an attempt to stem the flow.
Which was when the prime minister of Great Britain, currently lying on the floor of her private Downing Street bedroom kicking her spindly legs in the air, gathered together what was left of her wits, remembered her Roedean training, and whispered, “That is you, Casanova?”
“The very same, ma’am. At your disposal.”
“Thank God for that. Getting a tad confused. I need help.”
“Too right you do,” thought Maurice, although he was too well bred to say so. Instead he said, “Anything I can do to be of assistance?”
“Tell me where the megalomaniac bonkers banker is,” was the reply, all the words run together so they sounded more like tell-me-where-the-megalomaniac-bonkers-banker-zzzz.
“I need him on board,” Phoebe added in a more or less coherent utterance.
“Ah, so that’s it,”
“Yesssss.”
“I’m close to him. Very close,” Maurice reassured her, not entirely untruthfully.
“Good. Good. Call me when you’ve got him. There’s work for him to do,” said Phoebe, reaching into the secret bedside table which contained not only high-percentage bottles of vodka and gin but also secretly prescribed packets of high dosage Valium pills, six of which she crammed into her mouth and swallowed before dropping her phone and crawling back into her bed. After all, she faced Prime Minister’s Questions in the House the next day and needed to be on top form.
Maurice sighed, pocketed his phone, and returned to his Shepherd’s Hut supper.
“Well, what did you tell her?” was the question on everybody’s lips.
“As much as she needed to know and no more,” said Maurice. “Don’t worry, I gave nothing away,” he added before outlining his worries over the PM’s mental health, for which everybody expressed (limited) sympathy.
“So she still doesn’t know where I am?” said Jeremy.
“No,” said Maurice.
“Well, that’s a relief, Iago. Jolly well your legerdemain must have gone down,” said Barry. “Anybody fancy a top-up of the burdock brandy as a digestive?”
And everybody did. Julie even sang them a ditty of her own creation she’d never before admitted to anyone, not even her father. It was called “Let the Leaves Fall” and was autumnally sad to begin with but then, in verses two and onwards, came the new growths of the following spring. “Things can only get better,” was the refrain.
Barry loved it. “Just hold on a mo,” he said, rummaging in a cupboard until he found the battered old Gibson guitar he hadn’t touched in years. “Bear with me,” he added, “while I play you that old Chinese folk song called ‘Tunin’.’
“Didn’t know you were a guitarist, Prof,” said Maurice. “One lives and learns.”
“Indeed one does. Nothing fancy though, old chap, just a few basic chords,” Barry said, holding an ear to the soundboard as he twiddled the pegs until satisfied with the tuning.
“Ah, that should do it. Now then, young Julie, sing us your song again and let’s see if I can keep up with the melody.”
So, giggling, Julie performed a reprise and, after only two more run-throughs she and Barry had a workable song, bluesy to begin with but then lightening up.
“How about we all join in on one last version?” Maurice proposed.
“Then we could be a group and go on X Factor.” Dennis stood and wiggled his bottom.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, all we need is love,” chorused Jeremy Beatle-ishly.
And, you know what, the final result didn’t sound half bad, decent harmonies and everything. When it was over, Julie did a little dance to thank everybody.
“WOW-EEEEE,” she whooped as she pirouetted.
Jeremy shook his head and smiled in wonder.
~ * ~
Heartened by this musical coming together, when everybody was back on their chairs and sofas while Barry strummed through a serviceable rendering of Eric Clapton’s “Layla,” even including some of the twiddly riffs, Maurice leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Igor time?”
“Huh?” said Barry, his mind and fingers elsewhere.
“Ripurpantzov? Our little project? A good moment to spread the news?”
Barry carefully laid aside the ancient Gibson and nodded. “If you judge the auguries to be in our favour, Double O Seven.”
“Seventeen actually.”
“Ah, the new and improved model.”
Maurice laughed.
“Jeremy on board, is he?” Barry asked.
“I judge so. Seems prepared for the next step.”
“Well then, let us go for it. I believe that’s the current parlance.”
Twenty-one
For the psycho in the White House, things were going from poor to appalling, at least by rational standards, none of which, being psychotic, he shared. As if facing impeachment over allegations of Ripurpantzov’s role in his election (which he denied as fake news) weren’t bad enough, he was now facing a string of further allegations (also denied as fake news) of a plethora of sexual harassments and assignations with porn stars, as well as bestowing sinecures on members of his family, one of whom was claimed to be illegitimate, which he categorically denied as “the fakest of fake news. FAKE!!!”
Additionally there were continuing investigations into conflicts of interest between his business affairs and those of his presidential office, his refusal to declare tax returns, and nefarious money laundering deals done with the Russians by his son-in-law and his daughter. And matters weren’t helped by the insider reports of backbiting, fury and intimidation in the White House, which the baby man commander-in-chief had dismissed in an outraged tweet as “a fucking fake fantasy” dreamt up by all his enemies: the Democratic Party, women, some “freaks” in the Republican Party, the media, immigrant communities, women, the UN, and “strangers” in general—basically anyone who wasn’t male, mega-rich and white like him. In short, the guy was a mentally deranged bigot with a short fuse and, judging by his hands, some said, an even shorter dick.
Still he was the one who’d been chosen president, so he could do what he liked: declare Jerusalem to be Israel’s capital even if it pissed off the Palestinians, play macho games with the “rocket man” in Pyongyang over who had the bigger nuclear button (dick) even if it pissed off the Chinese, dub as “shitholes” the countries from which he intended banning the intake to the US of any more brown or black people never mind how pissed off the UN got, “reform” tax laws so the poor imagined themselves less poor and the rich (him) got even richer, threaten to start World War Three any time he felt like it, fire or otherwise punish underlings who disagreed with these “policies” or, as in one case, called him “a fucking moron”…anything he wanted he could do. And just like any baby craving affection, he threw out of his pram all the toys he didn’t like, supporting the rationale for such actions by re-tweeting his view of himself as a genius who’d gone to all the best schools. Such wonderful tools the social media! Without ever leaving his lavatory, he could offload on the world all his darkest thoughts, albeit they lacked syntax, logic, or lexical accuracy. But that was just one more way he imagined of endearing himself to those who wrote their tweets just the same way he did. From the heart, he liked to think.
It was not only psychoanalysts around the globe who tut-tutted and shook their heads in concern at this behaviour. Practically everybody everywhere reckoned the bloke was off his trolley. You have to wonder how such a screwball could have been elected in the first place with or without Ripurpantzov’s assistance, let alone remain in office for even six weeks.
Well, the answer is sadly simple. Because his hillbilly and redneck supporters from the outbacks of Tennessee and all points south all the way up north to the Rust Belt were as paranoid as he was, that was why. Folk who had been ignored by the “pinko liberals” in Washington DC “swamp” for far too long were over the moon suddenly to see their values reflected in the White House. John Wayne-type National Rifle Association bible-thumpers who shot first and asked questions later. Whose wives cooked them apple pie and looked sideways if they strayed a little into whorehouses. Guys with good ole American family values who shot moose, collected roadkill, and froze them for winter. Guys whose ancestors had driven the covered wagons west killing Injuns along the way, then given the Spanish invaders a good kicking when they arrived. Guys who didn’t see why they shouldn’t still be slave owners. In other words guys—and gals—stuck in a time warp falsely called the American Dream. And they were damned if any foreigner, especially Muslims or Mexicans, were going to take that away from them.
Hardly surprising the madman in the White House should be their hero. Every time he hollered “America First” at the only rallies he ever agreed to attend, i.e. those packed with his adoring hillbillies, rednecks and the “left behinds,” they whooped and cheered. Which played nicely with the Republican Party establishment currently running both houses of Congress. Far too difficult it would have been for them to ditch the very working-class (albeit billionaire) hero who was keeping them in power even though he was clearly crazy as a coon under a red wagon.
And this was the president with whom PM Clarissa hoped to maintain the “special relationship” nurtured by Roosevelt and Churchill and later aped by Reagan, Thatcher, Bush and Blair when the Brexit negotiations came crashing down around her ears and there was no more Europe left to trade with. The president who, in a recent poll, had been deemed by 72% of British citizens to be a threat to world peace and thus never to be invited to their shores. How embarrassing would that be for the elderly Missus Queen and her gaga husband? Still Clarissa went on renewing the invitation, as did Fat Slob the foreign secretary, who had recently been seen practically genuflecting at the White House. Not that the baby madman seemed likely to accept when so many Brits loathed him. Might make him cry.
In Moscow, Igor Ripurpantzov looked on and smiled at the ensuing chaos. Everything coming nicely together just as planned, he thought, toasting himself with another glass of Cobetckoe Ntpnctoe.
~ * ~
Nowadays, even “Maggie” Montague had become aware of these potentially catastrophic shifts in the world order. As Sir Magnus, he hadn’t given much of a toss, had actually quite liked the new president, thinking him a man after his own heart—a businessman who, unlike your regular politician, could tell shit from Shinola and didn’t mind saying so. And if lily-livered liberals in the US had been taken by surprise by his improbable victory, the more fool them. Ditto the UK bunch of wet nellies currently bemoaning Brexit. More power to the elbows of the brave Brexiteers who had campaigned so valiantly to salvage British sovereignty from the clutches of the woolly-minded Europeans, was what Sir Magnus had reckoned. Which was why he had covertly funnelled funds from the bank’s already in-the-red accounts to the Leave campaign in the belief he was helping preserve the power of the glorious nation which had for centuries defeated Europeans of all hues—on land, at sea, in the air, everywhere—to ensure it was Brits who colonised the world, not them.
So it was, just like the American hillbillies, rednecks and left-behinds, that Sir Magnus had unquestioningly accepted an always already mythic version of national identity, which on scrutiny bore no resemblance to current or even past reality. But neither he nor his fellow delusionists in the US had bothered with such parlous introspection…they had just swallowed history’s stories/lies whole. Proud to be American, proud to be British, and happy to be chosen rather than take the time and effort to contemplate choice.
But that was the old Sir Magnus for you. The re-formed “Maggie” had rearranged his brain to see the world in a different context. Not cynical but resolutely sceptical such that nothing passed beneath his radar without critical examination. And how that had changed not just his external appearance, but also his mind! Even to the extent of wishing to repair some of the damage he had done in his old persona. His bank he had already fixed as best he was able, now he wanted to change the world. But first he needed to find Jeremy Crawford, congratulate him on his escape from mindless conventions, and offer any support he might need. But where the bloody hell was he?
It was for the wont of any better idea that he’d girded his loins in their skinny black leather jeans, donned the rest of his Lambretta-riding outfit—the crash hat with the FREEDOM flag and a Hells Angel-type black leather jacket—and burnt (okay “singed”) rubber to Fanbury to see if the family had any news. He could have phoned but reckoned it better to go in person.
It was a bleary-eyed Sophie who opened the door, gawped for a second, and said, “If it’s money you want, you can piss off,” before slamming the door in his face.
Unsurprised but equally undeterred, Maggie pulled the bell-chime rope again and though the letterbox whispered, “It’s me. Sir Magnus.”
The door re-opened, just a crack.
“What…the…fuck?” said Sophie, recognition registering dimly. It was the eyes that were the giveaway. Less gimlet, mistier, but still the same old eyes.
“My name’s Maggie now. Long story,” explained the ex-Sir Magnus. “Mind if I come in?” he was saying as, behind Sophie loomed a burly polished-headed figure with a Zapata moustache.
“Bleedin’ right we do,” said Burly. “Don’t we, Soph?”
> Sophie girned rictally. “Um, erm, this is…” she was saying until Burly provided the answer on her behalf.
“Mitch,” he said. “As in ‘don’t mess with Mitch.’ Got it? An’ if Soph says you should piss awff, you should piss awff. Narmean? Uvverwise you is looking at hospital time.”
“Mitch, Mitch,” said Sophie while Maggie examined his boots and flicked road dirt from his Hells Angels jacket.
“Things have changed around here I see,” he said.
“Got that right, bruvver. Now, like I said, piss awff,” said Mitch, taking a step forward so Maggie could inspect at closer quarters the knuckle duster embracing his muscly fingers.
“Sorry about this. Mitch is my new…” said Sophie.
“Live-in lover,” said Mitch. Threateningly.
“Okay. Fair enough,” said Maggie, turning to leave. “I was just wondering if you’d had any news from Jeremy, that was all. But never mind, I’ll just…”
“Fuck AWFF,” said Mitch, stroking his polished pate with the hand that wasn’t dusting his knuckles.
“Quite. So…have a nice life, you two,” Maggie called over his shoulder as he made his way back to the waiting Lambretta in which, during its owner’s absence, a pig had taken an unnatural interest.
“Oink, oink,” said Pete, when Maggie tried to shoo him away.
“Bally pigs,” he was on the cusp of saying until peculiar tumblers fell in his brain.
Had not Jeremy lived with a pig during his time in the barn? Of course he had. And thought of it as his best friend according to the “bonkers” diagnosis provided by both the family and the shrinks. No reason to assume this was the same pig of course, but if it were…”
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