The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1)

by Unknown

  Mischief glinted in Lanky’s eyes. ‘Compatible. That’s when the man is twenty-four and the girl is thirteen, is it?’

  ‘I shall be fourteen in a week,’ said Guinevere severely.

  In an abrupt change of mood, she pushed Lanky onto the bed and began pummelling her with a pillow, with every blow protesting fiercely, ‘I’m not in love! I’m not in love!’

  Though she worshipped her friend, there was still a great deal about Guinevere that Lanky found hard to understand: Ginny’s cool, analytical mind was much to be admired, but what use was it when it came to feelings? Love was Lanky’s absolute best thing. Hardly a day passed without her falling in love with someone or other, and she asked little enough in return. She would fall in love with a pop star for a signed photograph, or a classmate for a friendly glance, yes, even if they were not compatible and he was of no consequence at all. But understand her or not, oh, how Lanky wished she were half as mature, half as sensible and one tenth as beautiful as Guinevere. Most boys in the school were openly in love with her and the rest were too shy to admit it. Ginny, of course, was indifferent to all of them. A lot of girls thought her big-headed and vain for being so stand-offish, but not Lanky. Ginny deserved someone special; she had proved that, hadn’t she? Only thirteen years old, and already she had a mature admirer, and not just any admirer, but dishy Arthur Pendragon. This was no teenage fantasy, this was the real thing.

  One day, for sure, she would marry Arthur. For never for a single moment did Lanky doubt that what Ginny wanted, Ginny would get.

  Three

  2019

  It came as a surprise and something of a shock to Uther to hear that Arthur had resigned his commission in the army. His son’s service career had been distinguished, and it was an open secret that he would have become Colonel of the Regiment. Even more disturbing to Uther was certain information he had recently obtained from his sources; Arthur was spending a great deal of time in the company of Leo Grant, Leader of the Opposition. Fraternising with the enemy? What could it mean? If, by any chance, Arthur was considering a political career, why had he not consulted his father who was in a better position to help him than anyone else? By nature suspicious, Uther tried to convince himself that his son’s behaviour, though odd, was innocent enough. Arthur was, after all, a novice in the ways of the world. Neverthless the fact was, whether by accident or design, that his son’s ship was heading the wrong way and needed a swift course correction. Who but Uther could do what was so obviously necessary? He invited his son to lunch at a smart Westminster restaurant much frequented by politicians. Being seen in Arthur’s company would send the right message to M.P.s, journalists, and anyone else of influence who might be dining there.

  There seemed little point in rushing things. Over starter and main course Uther chatted amiably about this and that, studiously avoiding anything contentious, confining himself to some chit-chat about the family, some choice Westminster gossip, and a couple of political jokes which Arthur laughed at politely. Over coffee Uther lit a cigar with some deliberation, leaned back, blew an aggressive stream of smoke at the ceiling and dangled the bait. ‘A little bird told me you might be interested in becoming an M.P. Is that right?’

  Arthur grinned. ‘I have to be elected first.’

  ‘We’ll soon find you a suitable constituency,’ said Uther confidently. ‘Shouldn’t take long. People die all the time.’

  ‘How do you mean, suitable?’ said Arthur warily.

  ‘A safe seat,’ Uther extended his arms in an expansive gesture. ‘What else would be good enough for my son?’ His cigar glowed red as he drew on it.

  Arthur fiddled with a bread roll. ‘That’s good of you, father, but I would rather take my chances.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ A shrewd look from under lowered brows. ‘If that’s how you prefer it,’ said Uther, confident that his son would change his tune when he discovered how difficult it was to find a ‘safe’ seat without his old man’s blessing. ‘Just what the party needs. A man of principle.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘On the other hand . . . ’ – Uther leaned back, eyes narrowed

  – ‘you might like to consider short-circuiting the usual tedious procedure.’ Another stream of smoke hit the ceiling and bellied out, sending long tendrils of smoke wriggling snake-like down the walls. A few diners coughed ostentatiously and looked indignantly in Uther’s direction. Uther stared right through them. Arthur toyed with his starter and waited for his father to explain.

  ‘I’m looking for a Parliamentary Private Secretary,’ explained Uther. ‘That way you would avoid all the hassle of getting yourself elected. Interested?’ Why wouldn’t he be, for God’s sake?

  ‘Isn’t that a rather senior post for a new boy?’ asked Arthur. ‘Possibly. But . . . ’ – Uther bared his teeth in a mirthless smile – ‘it would be an excellent career move.’

  A moment’s hesitation, then Arthur said cautiously, ‘I’m not sure I’m ready for such an exalted position. May I think about it?’

  ‘Don’t think too hard,’ said Uther huffily, piqued at his son’s guarded response, ‘my offer may not be on the table for long.’ Then, with a characteristically abrupt mood swing, his voice became seductive and his facial expression ingratiating. ‘You would be surprised at the number of admirers you have in the House, my boy. And the absurd questions they ask! How many terrorists has your son killed? Who has he rescued lately? That sort of thing. Of course you never tell me anything, so I have to make it all up. I do a pretty good job, if I say so myself. You’re a legend, I can tell you. I bask in the warm glow of your reflected glory.’

  ‘Wild exaggeration, father,’ said Arthur.

  Uther leaned across the table conspiratorially. ‘You are destined for great things, son. All I’m doing is offering you a chance to set your foot on the first rung of the ladder. What is there to think about? PPS to the Foreign Secretary. What! In a few years you could write your own ticket. How many newly elected MP’s get a chance like that, d’you think?’

  ‘Isn’t that rather the point?’

  Uther played dumb. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘You don’t think,’ said Arthur, ‘that it would raise a few eyebrows if I accepted such a plum job from my own father?’

  A blank look. ‘Why should it?’

  It had to be said. ‘Some people might say it smacked of nepotism.’

  Uther feigned surprise. ‘Nepotism! I doubt anyone would think such a vile thing of me – or of you,’ he added hastily. ‘If they did, it would only be sour grapes. And frankly, who gives a damn anyway? Politics isn’t about soul-searching, Arthur. It’s about ambition, it’s about success.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but that’s not how I see politics.’

  ‘No?’ This time Uther was genuinely surprised. ‘Really?

  How do you see it, then?’

  ‘I see it as a way of helping people,’ said Arthur.

  ‘How very noble of you,’ said Uther with heavy irony. ‘I see it as a way of helping myself.’

  Surely his father was joking? ‘You don’t mean that.’ ‘Oh, but I do,’ said Uther.

  ‘Then I’m afraid I can’t accept your most generous offer.’

  Uther’s nose wrinkled as if it had been assaulted by a repugnant odour. ‘I do hope you’re not going to turn into one of those sanctimonious do-gooders.’

  Arthur was accustomed to his father’s swift mood transformations – one moment smiling like the Cheshire Cat, the next red in tooth and claw. ‘I know I have a lot to learn but I intend to learn in my own way and in my own time. I prefer not to be beholden to anyone.’ A moment’s reflection. ‘Above all not to you. Not to my own father.’

  ‘I hear,’ Uther remarked cattily, ‘that you are palsy-walsy with Leo Grant.’

  ‘He and I exchange views on world affairs from time to time,’ said Arthur, trying not to sound defensive.

  Uther’s eyebrows arched. ‘World affairs indeed! And what are your views
on world affairs, if I may ask?’ The tone of his voice suggested that Arthur’s views on world affairs were of no consequence whatever.

  Arthur refused to be riled. ‘We have not discussed domestic issues like health care, education, pensions and so on. Obviously those are vital matters for most people. It seems to me, though, that Leo Grant is right when he says that the single most important issue in the world today is the one that affects the security of every citizen – terrorism, and how the free world is dealing with it, or rather failing to deal with it.’

  Uther did not attempt to conceal his irritation. ‘And what conclusions have you reached?’

  ‘Leo thinks, and I agree with him,’ said Arthur, ‘that serious mistakes are being made.’

  ‘No doubt he would handle it much better,’ said Uther sarcastically.

  ‘He says many world leaders secretly believe they are fighting a war they cannot win. He is convinced they are wrong.’

  A sardonic smile. ‘Well now,’ said Uther, ‘it’s easy to criticize when you are in opposition. It is quite another thing to run the country.’ Uther had a very shrewd idea what lay behind this, and he could have kicked himself for having come clean about Sadiq, a mistake he was paying for now. ‘Let me ask you, Arthur, how would you tackle the problem of terrorism if you were in charge of the country? Remember they have the advantage of surprise, and their aim is to kill as many innocent people as possible. They want to destabilise the free world by spreading fear.’ He considered his son. Should he be blunt? He lifted his shoulders. What did he have to lose? ‘Ok, I admit it. Sadiq is no exception. Deals are done all the time. Not just here in the UK but all over the world governments are making compromises, paying huge ransoms, releasing convicted terrorists, trying to buy time and save lives. Maybe it’s not such a great idea, but what else do you suggest we do?’

  ‘Fight them,’ said Arthur.

  ‘We are fighting them.’ Uther stubbed out his cigar savagely and lit another one. ‘Our military resources are stretched to the limit and beyond. From time to time we invade someone. It never works.’ Yet another funnel of cigar smoke flattened itself on the ceiling and billowed down the restaurant’s walls. ‘Iraq was a disaster and we are still living with the consequences. There’s a limit to what tanks, bombs and missiles can do. Or the threat of nuclear weapons for that matter. Let’s be realistic, there will always be terrorists and they will always have the advantage over us. We can contain them, perhaps, but we can never defeat them.’

  ‘We can if we stand up to them,’ insisted Arthur. ‘If we don’t, they’ll destroy us in the end.’

  ‘No they wont,’ said Uther confidently. ‘The fact is, when all is said and done, they’re nothing but a nuisance.’

  ‘A nuisance! You can’t be serious, father.’

  ‘Oh, but I am. Deadly serious. Look at the figures. Since September eleventh 2001, terrorists have killed probably no more than ten or fifteen thousand people worldwide. Last year a hundred and twenty people died in the UK in terror attacks. The year before there was a bomb explosion at that nuclear power plant. Nasty, I’ll grant you. Over three hundred dead, but the effects of radiation were not nearly as bad as we feared.’

  ‘What is your point?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘Every year about three thousand people die in traffic accidents in the UK alone. In France it’s nearly three times that number. In the USA it’s over forty thousand. I don’t speak of the maimed and injured. And then there are natural disasters: earthquakes, hurricanes, droughts, floods. How many died in the Tsunami of December 2004? A quarter of a million people? More? No one really knows. What about disease? Every year millions – no hundreds of millions – die of cancer, heart disease, AIDS and so on.’ Uther paused for effect. ‘I rest my case.’

  ‘One thing has nothing to do with the other,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s not a matter of statistics. Many terrorists are dedicated to a cause, and that cause is the overthrow of the free world. We are talking about a global threat to our civilisation.’

  Uther snorted. ‘A gross exaggeration.’

  ‘So your policy is to allow terrorists to kill and maim innocent people with impunity,’ said Arthur bitterly.

  ‘That is a malicious simplification of what I just said.’ Uther stubbed out his cigar, all the time casting venomous looks at his son. ‘What I am saying is, because we can’t eliminate the problem, we have adopted a policy of damage limitation. We let the terrorists make their point, knowing there’s not a hell of a lot we can do about it anyway. Containment, Arthur, is the political buzzword of our time.’

  ‘I acknowledge that sometimes compromises have to be made,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Very decent of you,’ said his father with heavy irony.

  ‘But not with terrorists. We are talking about sick evil men with no conscience and not a trace of human compassion. No, father, you don’t make compromises with the devil. It can’t be right. And morality aside, it’s counter-productive. It only breeds more terrorism. The first duty of a government is to protect its citizens. If it doesn’t do that, it is not doing what it was elected to do.’ Arthur stood, thanked his father for lunch and left.

  What a waste of a good meal thought Uther savagely, and a damned pricey one too, even if it was on expenses. He gulped down two large brandies, signed the bill and walked slowly out of the restaurant, doing a ‘triumphal’ tour of M.P.’s and media people on the way. On the drive back to the House Uther continued to think about Arthur. He had always seen his son as a rather quixotic figure, a knight on horseback tilting at windmills, certainly not someone who could ever be a serious contender. It seemed he had made a serious error of judgment. Arthur was developing a most unfortunate tendency to think for himself. Whatever next? It was all very worrying. As his PPS, Uther would have been able to keep a watchful eye on him, control him even, but now he would be a loose cannon, a menace to himself and everyone else. Uther’s unease was heightened by the memory of that disturbing exchange with Merlin.

  It is written that he will overthrow you.

  Are you saying I should be afraid of my own son? Many men are.

  It was all nonsense of course, and Arthur would come round eventually. It was only a matter of time.

  A few weeks later he learned that Arthur had been adopted as a prospective candidate by a United Labour constituency in the West Country; in another couple of months he took his seat as a backbencher in the House of Commons. Uther was mortified. What was that old saying about blood being thicker than water? Not in the Pendragon family it seemed. So be it; his son had thrown down the gauntlet. Uther would not hesitate to pick it up.

  Four

  2019

  Arran gore was dining at his club one evening when a voice boomed from the far end of the long centre table: ‘Gore!’ To shout from one end of the table to the other was considered bad form, especially offensive when the member was obviously the worse for drink. Arran did not respond. George Drummond, or Bulldog as he was known, was a habitual trouble-maker, stubborn and irascible. Being ignored only made Bulldog more aggressive. ‘I’m talking to you, Gore!’

  What concentrated the attention of everyone in the room, and charged the atmosphere with nervous expectation, was the well-known grudge Bulldog bore Arran: a close friend and business associate of his had recently been refused membership of the Club, and Drummond had somehow convinced himself that Arran, a member of the committee, had played a leading role in that decision. The dining room was suddenly eerily hushed, the sound of traffic outside on Piccadilly filtered through the windows, a police siren wailed in the distance.

  Bulldog began to growl belligerently, resisting the vain attempts of his friends to shut him up; the more they tried to restrain him, the more angry and spiteful he became. ‘Woshwrong with my friend, then? Woshwrong with him, Gore?’ What was wrong with Bulldog’s friend, as everyone in the club knew, was that he had dipped his hand into his company’s pension fund, causing widespread hardship to his employees and their famil
ies. For that offence he had served a term in jail, a detail he had omitted to mention on his application form. The committee was constrained by Club Rules, and the vote to refuse the man membership had been unanimous.

  ‘How’s that lovely wife of yours?’ Bulldog bounced on his chair, cackling. It was well known that Arran Gore’s wife, Morgan, was no beauty. There was a sudden intake of breath in the room. An embarrassing situation had swiftly developed into a potentially explosive confrontation. Members at the far end of the table redoubled their efforts to silence the drunk, again without success. ‘Taught anyone to fly lately, has she?’ This second jibe was followed by another cackle of laughter.

  Arran, who could stand Bulldog’s jeering insults no longer, had to be held back. Bulldog, a powerful and thick-set individual, was dragged from the room by several friends. Outside in the hall Arran went up to him. ‘You are drunk, George. When you are sober, I shall expect an apology.’

  ‘Fat chance, Gore.’ As Arran turned to walk away, Bulldog called after him, ‘How is the crazy bitch, then?’ Arran whirled round and let fly an accurate punch, drawing blood from Bulldog’s nose.

  The following day the two men met in the club bar, each flanked by friends ready to step between them should it become necessary. Arran repeated his demand for an apology. George Drummond, now sober, replied in characteristic fashion. ‘Who’s going to make me apologise?’

  Arran sighed in frustration. ‘If it’s a fight you want, we can go a couple of rounds.’ In the basement was a well equipped gymnasium where both men regularly worked out. Bulldog touched his nose. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Arran was smaller but quick on his feet, and for a man of his age still in excellent shape. ‘Let’s finish this business, George,’ he said quietly. ‘I simply want an acknowledgement that you were drunk and didn’t mean what you said. That will be apology enough for me.’

  ‘You want me to admit I was drunk? Fine. I was drunk. Now I’m sober.’ Bulldog moved his face so close to Arran’s that their noses were almost touching. ‘And I still say your wife’s a crazy bitch.’