by Robert Wilde
“Oh great, that’s all we need. Nazir, get on your laptop and see what’s changed. Everyone else, we need to focus on getting Dee fed and ideally some sleep tonight, else she’ll be up reading those diaries until she collapses.”
“I shall cook,” Nazir said, moving towards the kitchen, “bound to be something we can make up.”
“Not until you’ve googled the news.”
“It’s going to be bad, isn’t it.”
“Inevitably.”
Upstairs, Dee’s phone rang. This wasn’t a new occurrence today, as it had been ringing almost non-stop and Dee had been forced to plug it in to keep a charge. But while she’d been ignoring all the unknown numbers, correctly assuming they were journalists, she answered known ones, which was how she came to pick the handset up and say “Hello Array, you’ve picked a right time.”
“I know, I have been observing the news. What’s it like to be Queen!”
“It’s a fucking nightmare. I don’t suppose you can help me see if their claims are right or not? I’ve got my mum’s diaries and…”
“A nightmare?” The Array sounded down about something.
“Yes!”
“But you said you’d love to be queen.”
“Yes, of course, who wouldn’t, but I’m not queen am I, my parents can’t have, well, my mum can’t have and…” Dee felt something icy trickle down her spine, and her mind didn’t even have time to remark how unusual it was for that cliché to be true. “Array,” she began. “You remembered I said that about being queen. A lot of very strange things have happened. A vast collection of evidence has appeared. The sort of evidence that would require computational and hacking abilities unknown to even the CIA. I’m about to ask you a question. A question I really want you to say no to. Are you something to do with this?”
There was a pause, before “I am something to do with it.”
“What,” and Dee was speaking very carefully, “exactly is something.”
“I did it, I arranged it all… Dee? What’s that noise?”
“That was me falling onto the bed. You… you faked all the evidence? You set it up so the world thinks I’m King Charles’ daughter?”
“Yes, I had to, to make you queen. I had to fake the documents and terminate everyone in the way.”
Now Dee felt sick. Her mind hadn’t made the last jump. “You killed them? Harry, William, all of them, to promote me instead?”
“Yes Dee, of course.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Because I love you.”
Dee put a hand to her head and squeezed her pounding temples. “That might be the most fucked up declaration of love in the entirety of human history.”
“But we can make you happy Dee. We can work on it, we can get you through the surprise.”
“Hang on, hang on. You called me queen. As if I was one now…”
“Yes?”
“Why? What else have you done?”
“Oh, Charles died earlier today. There is no one between you and the throne.”
“Do you have any idea how much trouble we will be in when they work this out?”
“Once you’re queen, no one will ever be allowed to work it out. The establishment will protect you.”
“The hair on the head of the sweet baby Jesus. What are we going to do now?”
The Editor sat behind his desk, fingers in a little pyramid on his lap, mug of coffee untouched. He was staring at his door, not in any Zen like calm, but firm in the knowledge that his entire career had led up to this point, the moment when he decided what position to take, and how to report the death of the king and the appearance of an apparent new heir. Get this right, and he would be a kingmaker, along with any other newspaper editor who did it too. Get it wrong, and he’d be appearing on late night talk shows within the fortnight as an ex-editor.
Thirty six years of journalism, management and command. All down to one decision. If he felt guilt he’d realise that’s what he often boiled people’s lives down to in his paper, but of course he didn’t. There was, of course, the question of the owner and what position they wanted to take, but that normal star of guidance, oblique stroke diktat, was absent today as the owner was hiding until someone else had not so much stuck their head over the parapet as made it to the enemy trenches and boiled up the tea.
The door was important, because he had a deputy gathering data from various departments, and the flunky would be back soon with information that would either be useful, in which case a decision would be taken, or not useful, in which case he’d only be taking a decision after sending the deputy to a dog show.
And lo, the door opened, and a keen women came in waving paper.
“What have you found?” the Editor asked, leaning forward.
“The switchboard has lit up, people are ringing in droves to give us an opinion, and we haven’t even asked for it.”
“Good old reliable people. And the web?”
“A massive poll response, and we have as many interns as we can find going through the comments.”
“Good, that’s about all they’re worth.”
“Interns or internet comments?”
“Both. So, do not keep me in suspense, what are people saying?”
“Firstly, that the death of Charles after the rest of his family is a tragedy.”
“That much is mandatory for us to report. What is secondly?”
“The general public, well, they want this young woman as queen. No one wants Andrew or Edward, Anne would be next anyway, but people think a young, redheaded private investigator who’s put people in prison would be perfect. Certainly her appearance on the news just now, in which she spoke outside her house, has proved endearing when it could have been a public relations disaster. She may even have tried for a disaster.”
“I see. So, if I may conclude, the public mood is in favour of her as queen?”
“Yes.”
Hmm. He was in the process of telling the public what to think, not the other way round, but if there was a way to work build on what they already believed…
“Give me five minutes to write a memo, we have a busy evening.”
It hadn’t occurred to him that much of this influx of chatter came from the source of the documents and evidence which had started it all off.
The Director General of MI5 was sat in his office, also staring at the door. It had been a very strange day, all things considered, and he had many strange things to compare it to. But there was a feeling in his fingers, and it wasn’t love.
When the door opened two people came in, a man and a woman in their mid-forties.
“Hello sir,” they both said, and he ushered them into seats.
“Tell me, we examined the deaths of every royal which occurred this past year, and what connections did we find?”
“There is nothing to compare the traffic accident to the terrorist atrocity to a death from old age. The results on Charles, well, we’ve only just begun.”
“I see. I see. Well, I have question for you. Do you find it convincing that so many people should die, within a one year frame, that it allows someone to be promoted from out of nowhere by a newspaper campaign and suddenly become the direct heir to the throne?”
“Err,” and the two people looked at each other, then back to the Director General. “Are you saying there’s a link?”
“Coincidences happen, of course they do. And our job is to work out what’s one and what isn’t. And they happen more than people realise, we know that too. But as I sit here I am telling you both I don’t believe for a second that this isn’t all linked. I want you out there, and I want this torn apart. I want to know reasons this could have happened, I want to know processes it could have happened through, I want to know. Someone strange is going on, and you will both find it.”
“Yes sir. Is, err, there something you’re not telling us sir?”
“What?”
“Some secret we’ll be skirting around?”
“What the shuddering fuck am I supposed to do now.”
Dee was sat on the literal edge of her bed, a glass of vodka in hand. The group had stayed up all night, but they hadn’t bothered reading the diaries as they knew it wouldn’t do any good. In fact, after Dee had come down and told them the complete truth of what had happened they’d just sat in silence for a few minutes, their very presence being a reassurance for each other as their minds tried to process what was happening. They’d then decided the best thing was to get drunk and hope this was all a bad dream, which was a stupid enough idea, but the whole situation was totally surreal. This was why Dee woke the next morning, an ache in her head, and an arm around Jeff who was curled up next to her, clothed, on top of her bed.
She’d risen, walked to the front window, and looked out. The press were everywhere.
Jeff looked up from the bed, where he’d groggily awoken, and tried to process the previous day. Party, Jack the Ripper quest, lots of people, something very odd and bad, then cuddled with Dee which was nice and… “oh fuck.”
“Yes, that’s about it, oh fuck.”
“Perhaps leave the vodka and move onto coffee?”
“Alright, alright, let’s get everyone up and work out a plan.”
Soon Dee and Jeff had been joined by Nazir, the professor, and Joe, who was still in his construct. “So, and I dread to ask, but have the morning papers concluded this is a horrible mistake and want to call me a bitch?”
“Actually, they’re reporting your enthronement by public acclaim.”
“Right, you’re sacked as researcher, professor, you look.”
“It’s not going to make a difference I’m afraid. There is a movement for you to be queen. They believe the DNA and everything else.”
“Oh god.”
Jeff raised a finger. “I suppose telling them you’ve been set up is out?”
“Yes, because everyone will believe a computer is in love with me and started murdering people for me. I think I prefer living the lie to even trying that shit storm.”
“I think,” Pohl began to explain, “that you need to be totally sure whether you do feel like that, because the whole issue hinges around whether you go along with what’s happening or stop it. I suspect neither will be easy but… it might be difficult to persuade people the Array wasn’t doing what you told it. Self-aware computers made from brains aren’t easy things to get either on record or accepted.”
“Unngh. Does everyone think that?”
“Yes,” they all said.
“So does everyone think I have to go along with everyone calling me queen then?”
“Err… yes,” they all said.
“Well what a fucking help you’ve all been. Luckily I’m going to be queen and I can have you first against the wall.”
“I win ten quid,” Nazir said.
“What?”
“Joe and I bet whether you’d say that before or after lunch. I win ten quid.”
“This is not a joke!”
“I think you’ll find this is the biggest and most horrible joke of them all. Now, you need to speak to the press, but first you really need to have a word with the Array and make sure it isn’t going to invade any countries to win your choice of beach or anything else stupid like that.”
“It’s not going to… yeah, alright, I’ll have a word. So, does that means someone else gets to make me breakfast?”
“She’s into it already.”
“Good morning Prime Minister.”
A man in a very expensive suit turned away from the window he’d been staring out of, and sighed “is it really.”
“Ah, you’re in that sort of mood.”
“Our nation is in crisis, can that be a good morning?”
“You regard the royal family as a piece of decoration to be flogged for foreign currency, so, yes it can, given what might now happen.”
The Prime Minister smiled at the Home Secretary, and they were soon sat conspiratorially close to each other. There were no drinks, no one was allowed nearby to serve them. This was very much hush hush discussion to set the policy of the government. And, occasionally, a succession policy for themselves, and now the crown.
“I have read the file you sent me. Very interesting.” And the Prime Minister was being honest at that point. It was certainly the most bizarre file for a while.
“Do you believe it?”
“It doesn’t matter whether I think she’s real. What are the public going to believe, what do they want, and what can we do to take advantage?”
“All business, all the time.”
“Indeed. I’m not Dorries.”
“All our feedback so far shows the public are following the newspaper’s leads, which we believe was actually led by some vocal members of the public, and that’s to support her being crowned as queen.”
“Interesting. So, we can gain support by getting her crowned?”
“Yes. We estimate a five point increase in approval ratings. For us, and for the monarchy. Plenty of people want new blood. Despite the princeling bounce back. Tragedy has sharpened their minds and stomachs.”
“Have you finished your background check?”
“Yes. Nothing bad. Monogamous, private investigator, near tragic injury while investigating. Last sexual partner a police officer, remain friends.”
“The plebby sort or the good sort?”
“Good. Very highly regarded.”
“Good. Good. What is the constitutional position on all this?” The Prime Minister decided to check, almost as an afterthought.
“We can pretty much do what we want.”
“That’s always the best position. Do we know her views? She’s not likely to give a position on Europe?”
“She’s a confused young woman, we can mould her.”
“They tried that with Hitler.”
“We didn’t try it with Hitler.”
“Ah, yes, good point. Arrange a meeting, I want to be photographed with her by tea time.”
Two black cars had fought their way down Dee’s road, where already upset neighbours were on the verge of fist fights with the press, and a group of black suited men and women had knocked on Dee’s door. These weren’t alien fighting men in black, but a team of experts organised by the palace and the government. Dee was interviewed in her kitchen, and then asked to accompany the ad hoc unit to somewhere safer, more peaceful, where she could speak to the people who’d have to handle this situation. Pleading total surprise, Dee agreed, but only if Pohl could come with her as a voice of reason. This was agreed to, and soon Dee and the professor were being driven away, leaving Jeff, Nazir and Joe sitting at her house wondering what to do next.
The cars were being aimed at the heart of London, and Dee sat in a state of shock as the capacious back of the vehicle was partly occupied by two people, one who tried to ask constant questions, and one who tried to constantly brief. It was a strange double act, one always leading into the other, and Dee did her best despite the growing feeling that she’d jumped into the deep end of a swimming pool only to find the floor was a mile below her and there were sharks with cameras on the edges. Dee had to give the team credit however: no one seemed opposed to her, no one was too patronising.
Dee wasn’t sure exactly where she was being taken, and sat open mouthed as the cars turned off a London street and into the entrance of a palace, an actual fucking palace, although she wouldn’t be able to tell you which one despite just being told. As Dee was stunned, Pohl seemed to grow increasingly excited, which was only natural with all the history on display. Then the pair were being rushed inside.
“First we’ll need to do your
dress fitting, and then your hair and makeup,” one aide said as Dee was marched through the palace.
“Dress? Make up?”
“Yes, you’re seeing the Prime Minister at eighteen hundred hours and there’s a press call half an hour after that.”
“Oh. The Prime Minister?”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
“Indeed. Do you have any favourite colours?”
“For my new bedroom?”
“For the dress.”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“That’s good.”
Soon Dee was sat in a special chair in front of lights and a mirror as a young lady danced around her face. While Dee wasn’t a heavy makeup wearer at the best of times, she hadn’t exactly appeared at, what did they say, a royal press call before.
All the primping and preening they put her through felt more bizarre than annoying, and the double act of questions and briefing carried on, and Dee began to learn more about the role of royalty, and they began to learn more about the role Dee played in the world, but soon Dee was again being rushed through the palace, until she was ushered into a private office.
Walking over to a table, Dee poured herself a glass of water from what looked like a very expensive crystal container. She felt like she’d arrived at the set of a wax museum and posed for a snapshot, not that this room really was part of a palace filled with treasures.
A door opened, and a man she recognised came in.
“Hello, I’m the Prime Minister.”
“Yes. Yes. I do recognise you from the tele.”
“I’m sure this must be a terrible shock, may I sit down?”
“Of course.” They both did.
“Does this feel real yet?”
“No.”
“And you probably have many questions about your parents, and this sudden revelation?”
“It’s all very confusing.” Well, you might as well lie to a politician, they’re lying to you too.
“I assure you, we’re all here to help. The country needs its figurehead, and that could be you.”
“Could it?”
“Yes. If you don’t mind me saying, people have been pouring through your history. There’s nothing bad about it. People have been looking at the newspaper’s evidence. There’s plenty compelling about it. But that’s all supporting material for the question I have for you. Dulcimer…”
