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

by Unknown

  When he woke the following morning, there it was – the solution – bright and shining and clear as a full moon. Yet around the solution was a dark ring. Arthur was troubled. His father had to be brought down, and he was the one to do it. But by deception and cunning? Was Leo right? Did the end justify the means? By the time he had shaved and dressed, he had convinced himself that he was being over-sensitive. Corruption was a disease. If it were not rooted out, the whole system would become infected.

  He laid the text on Uther’s desk. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Your letter of resignation.’

  Uther sighed wearily. ‘We’ve been through this before. You’re wasting my time.’

  ‘If you refuse to sign it,’ said Arthur, ‘I shall e-mail your MI5 file to the Daily Telegraph.’

  Uther leaned back in his chair and considered Arthur through narrowed eyes. ‘And see our whole political system tainted and your father disgraced?’ He shook his head. ‘Somehow I don’t think so. You see, Arthur, you are one of that rare breed, a good man, and like all good men, you have a conscience. You care what happens to people.’

  Arthur produced his palm computer and sent a signal to the computer on Uther’s desk. The wallscreen flickered, and on it was the text of a letter signed by Arthur.

  Uther frowned. ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘My covering letter to the editor. And now . . . ’ Slowly Arthur scrolled down several more pages, allowing Uther plenty of time to read them. ‘Your MI5 file.’

  ‘You’d never dare send it.’ Uther was less confident than he sounded. Being confronted by that damned file up there on the screen was a little unnerving. If this was poker, then Arthur had certainly raised the stakes. Was he bluffing? Most probably, though there was a resolute look about him that Uther found disquieting.

  A few more taps on the palm computer, and there on the screen was Charles Meadows, editor of the Daily Telegraph. It was clear to Uther from Arthur’s greeting that he and Meadows had already discussed this. ‘Morning, Charles. You’ll have the story in the next few minutes.’

  ‘Can I have an exclusive?’ ‘No guarantees,’ said Arthur.

  ‘At least give me a clue what it’s all about,’ pleaded Meadows.

  Uther was studying every nuance of expression, every word and every inflexion. Never for a second did he take his eyes off the screen.

  ‘It will be of great interest to your readers,’ promised Arthur.

  Though it was less than Meadows had hoped for, he would take whatever he could get. ‘Is that all you can tell me?’

  ‘For the moment,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Why am I onscreen in Number 10?’ Surely the story must have something to do with the PM. But what? And why, Meadows asked himself, was Arthur Pendragon involved? Was it personal? A family problem? Ill health, perhaps? Or . . . wait a minute . . . could it be divorce! Was that it? Was Uther’s wife leaving him? There had been rumours over the years. Was this an exercise in damage limitation?

  ‘That would be telling,’ said Arthur, giving nothing away.

  For a journalist this was more than frustrating. ‘If it was anyone but you, Arthur . . . ’ And with that the screen went blank. Charles Meadows knew he had all he was going to get

  – for the moment, at least.

  Uther was trying to read the expression on his son’s face, but it was impenetrable.

  ‘Which is it to be?’ asked Arthur, ‘resignation or exposure?’ Uther was beginning to feel the pressure. ‘I can’t believe you’d be such a fool – you, Westminster’s golden boy.’ Uther smiled ruefully. ‘As you know, I’m a realist. You have to be in this business. I hate to admit it, but next time round the chances are that United Labour will win the election. And then . . . think of it, Arthur. You will be Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.

  Are you ready to throw all that away?’

  ‘With great reluctance,’ admitted Arthur. ‘But if I have to

  . . . ’ He shrugged. ‘There comes a time when a stand has to be made.’

  My God, thought Uther, he isn’t bluffing. He really means it. He had heard of such men, men who were willing to sacrifice everything for a point of principle, though this was the first time he had had the misfortune to meet one. And to think it had to be his own son! ‘Don’t do this to me, Arthur,’ he begged, making his plea shamelessly personal. ‘Whatever our differences, you’re the one man in the whole world I can trust, the only friend I have. Don’t abandon me when I need you most.’

  ‘That’s what you did to me,’ said Arthur quietly.

  Uther sat with head bowed. ‘So that’s what this is all about. Getting even.’ Though Arthur wanted to deny it, in his heart of hearts he wasn’t sure. Abruptly Uther switched to ingratiating mode. ‘Come now, my boy,’ he said, beaming benevolently,

  ‘why quarrel when we can work together? Leave United Labour. Cross the floor of the House. Join me in the great crusade. Think what a team we would make. You would be my trusted lieutenant. I would give you anything you wanted – a knighthood, a peerage, a cabinet post, anything at all. No terms. No strings. I offer you an Aladdin’s cave of choices. Take what you want.’

  ‘Nice try, father.’

  A reproachful look. ‘There must be something you want.’ ‘There is,’ said Arthur.

  A glimmer of hope in Uther’s eyes. ‘Name it.’ ‘Your resignation.’

  Uther could not conceal his disappointment. ‘That’s one thing you’ll never get.’

  A tap on the palm computer, and the first page of MI5’s file on Uther was onscreen. Fingertip resting lightly on the send key, Arthur looked at Uther. ‘This is it, father. The moment of truth. When I tap this key, Meadows will have the file in seconds, and nothing you or I do can stop it going to press. There’ll be no going back.’

  Uther’s mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  All Arthur had to do now was pull the trigger, and it would all be over. If only it were as easy as that, he was thinking. It was painful enough when you had the enemy in your sights but when it was your own flesh and blood you were about to consign to oblivion . . . ’Last chance, father.’

  ‘You haven’t got the guts.’

  A tap on the send key and Uther watched in horror and disbelief as the story of his treachery scrolled swiftly to its end. Onscreen now was the Daily Telegraph answer back, confirming receipt of the text.

  ‘Jesus Christ, what have you done?’ Head in hands Uther repeated over and over again, ‘What have you done? What have you done?’ He looked up, his eyes wild. ‘Phone Meadows. Now! For God’s sake phone him! Tell him it’s all lies. Tell him it’s a forgery. Tell him anything you like but get that report back while there’s still time.’

  Arthur did not stir.

  ‘What the hell are you waiting for? You don’t think he’ll believe you? Is that it? Offer the man a peerage then. He’ll sell his soul for a peerage. I know these journalist types.’

  ‘It’s no use, father.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ Uther looked pleadingly at his son. ‘For God’s sake help me, Arthur. There must be something you can do.’

  Arthur shook his head. ‘It’s too late.’

  Such was the tension in his mind and body that for several seconds Uther actually stopped breathing. Then he lay back in his chair and gave a sigh so profound that it seemed to draw the very soul out of him, and with it all his hopes and dreams. He was beaten and he knew it. He had gambled and lost. ‘Dear God, Arthur, you’ve ruined me.’

  Arthur shrugged. ‘I’m sorry it had to be like this.’ ‘What happens now?’

  ‘You must sign the letter,’ said Arthur.

  Uther summoned up all his courage. ‘Ah, but should I sign it now, or should I sign it tomorrow? Or should I not sign it at all?’ As he toyed with his predicament Arthur watched him, half in astonishment, half in admiration: Nero fiddling while Rome burned. How typical of his father. ‘Will I? Won’t I? Will I join the dance?’ Sliding open the left-hand bott
om drawer of his desk, Uther produced a bottle of cognac and a glass. ‘You know something, Arthur, I don’t think I will. At least not now. I’ll wait until the story hits the headlines.’ Uther looked at his watch. ‘They deliver the morning papers at six a.m.’ he said. ‘Did you know that, Arthur?’ Arthur shook his head. ‘No? Well, we all live and learn in politics, isn’t that so?’ He poured himself a triple brandy. ‘Cheers! I shall celebrate my last twelve hours as Prime Minister in an alcoholic stupor.’

  ‘If you don’t jump now, you’ll be pushed in the morning,’ said Arthur, trying to sound casual. ‘Wouldn’t it look better if you did the honourable thing?’ This was the moment on which everything turned. How would his father respond? If he refused to resign now, all would be lost. There would be no reason for him to resign in the morning.

  ‘The honourable thing?’ Uther poured himself a large cognac and downed it in one gulp. ‘Why not? It’ll be a new experience.’ He shrugged, took out his pen and signed the resignation letter. Arthur scanned the letter onto his palm computer and transmitted it to the Web Channel’s News Service. Seconds later every newspaper in the country had the full text of the Prime Minister’s resignation.

  A number blinked on Arthur’s palm computer. He transferred the editor of the Daily Telegraph to the wallscreen. ‘I have your story, Arthur,’ said Charles Meadows, ‘or I presume that’s what it is. I need the key code to unscramble it.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Arthur, ‘it’s a non-starter. There’s a bigger story on the Web Channel.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Meadows. ‘The Prime Minister has resigned.’ ‘Jesus!’ The screen went blank.

  Uther looked uncomprehendingly from Arthur to the screen and back again. And then the penny dropped. ‘You bastard! You scheming bastard! You tricked me!’

  Arthur said nothing. What could he say? The cat was out of the bag. He would rather his father had not found him out but now that he had, he was not going to lie about it.

  ‘You put the text onscreen to bamboozle me. I assumed that because I could read it, Meadows could too, but he couldn’t. You sent it to him alright, but you sent it encrypted. You conned me into resigning.’

  ‘I’m afraid I did, father,’ said Arthur. ‘Mea culpa,’ he added mischievously. He expected another outburst, but to his astonishment a hint of a smile disturbed Uther’s features.

  ‘Damn me,’ he murmured, ‘damn me if you aren’t a chip off the old block.’

  It was dusk. Uther poured himself yet another drink from a near empty bottle of cognac, and staggered across the room to the window. In the street below a tabby cat licked his paw with great concentration. He watched it, fascinated. To that cat nothing else in the world mattered. Prime Ministers could come and go, and what the hell was it to him? He would go on licking his paw. He envied it. My God how he envied it.

  The heat of the summer’s evening was oppressive. Apart from the cat, Downing Street was deserted, as were many other streets up and down the country. At this very moment millions would be watching the late news, though did anyone really care what they were looking at? Of course not. Why should they? They had no say, no influence, no real involvement in what was happening in the world. For them the news was just another game show, only without prizes. A new millennium had dawned, but what was really new about it? Nothing. Democracy was a sham. People never had any control over their lives, and they still hadn’t.

  One thing was certain, his story would sell a hell of a lot of newspapers. As for the telly, he shuddered to think what they would do with it. What would it be – Soap or Reality TV? A bit of each? What did it matter? No one could distinguish fantasy from reality any more. All those channel-hoppers looking for a real life experience wouldn’t recognise one if they had a head- on crash with it. Tomorrow’s Reality Celebrity show would be the Prime Minister – da dum – in – wait for it – The Crucifixion of Uther Pendragon! with repeats at hourly intervals from breakfast to midnight, and from midnight to dawn for the benefit of shift workers. To enhance the illusion, real nails and actual blood would be used. His torment promised to be first class reality entertainment, like all the other news the great British public so enjoyed watching – floods, fires, earthquakes, tornadoes, famines, plagues, surgical procedures, rape, murder, torture, massacres, sexual abuse, executions, crimes of greed and passion, wars and terrorist incidents.

  There was a crack of thunder. In a way it was a relief. The storm had been brewing for a long time, ever since they made him Foreign Secretary in fact. The cat jumped and ran for shelter. The few pedestrians in Whitehall disappeared as the merciless rain lashed tarmac and paving stones. Rats leaving the sinking ship, thought Uther. Everyone runs for cover when the rains come.

  One more drink left in the bottle. As he tossed it back the sweat was already streaming down his face. A sharp pain stabbed the inside of his left arm, the glass fell from his hand. Throwing back his head he fought for breath, gulping in air. His throat seized up and he started to choke as the room spun round him. A vice-like pain gripped his chest, squeezing the life out of him. Folding to his knees he laid his forehead on the carpet and drifted into unconsciousness.

  Seventeen

  2024

  The resignation of the Prime Minister was banner headlines in the morning papers, prompting endless speculation. Journalists, by nature sceptical, had difficulty taking so sudden and dramatic an announcement at its face value. The PM’s letter mentioned health problems but gave no details. Some columnists suspected that the real problem was not the PM’s health but powerful enemies in the New Millennium Party. Had there been a palace revolution? More titillatingly newsworthy, he was rumoured to be fond of the ladies. Was this a pre-emptive move to head off a sex scandal? But when, a few hours later, the news of Uther’s heart attack broke, the doubters were silenced. Uther was popular with the electorate, and there was considerable interest in the details. How soon would he recover? Would he recover at all? At first the cardiac infarction was reported to have been a mild one. But as the day wore on and the doctors’ bulletins grew more cautious, press and TV reports assumed an increasingly

  valedictory note, as if they were premature obituaries.

  For the political hacks there was only one issue. If it came to it, who would step into Uther Pendragon’s shoes? Candidates for the succession rushed into TV studios. Their message was invariably the same. First, they expressed earnest regret that the Prime Minister’s health had compelled him to resign. Second, they professed total optimism that he would make a full recovery. Third, they stressed their unequivocal disinterest in succeeding him. And fourth and last, they hinted how eminently qualified they were should they be compelled to answer the call.

  Towards evening Uther waved Igraine and his step-daughters out of the hospital room. He wanted to be alone with Arthur.

  ‘The doctors say you’re doing fine,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Doctors are even bigger liars than politicians.’ Uther reached out and patted his son on the arm. ‘Thank you for your concern.’

  ‘I blame myself for this.’

  ‘You did what you had to do. You were not to know my ticker was going to give out.’

  ‘A few weeks rest and you’ll be back to normal.’

  A wicked smile. ‘Normal is one thing I shall never be.’

  Uther lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes. Arthur could scarcely believe the change in his father. Yesterday he was a man in his prime, still fighting, still seeing off his critics with disdain, still answering questions on the floor of the House with his customary confidence and flair. Under attack he had stood tall and proud, as he always did, his colour high, his voice strong and vibrant. Now his face was ashen, his voice weak. Twenty-four hours ago his hair had been charcoal grey. Now suddenly it was white. In one day Uther Pendragon had become an old man.

  ‘Cigar,’ demanded Uther. ‘You really think you should?’

  Uther snorted irritably. ‘Of course I bloody shouldn’t. Inside jacket po
cket and be quick about it.’

  Arthur grinned. ‘I can see you’ll be giving the nurses trouble.’ He clipped the end of a huge cigar and put it carefully in his father’s mouth.

  As the match flared, Uther’s nostrils twitched. ‘Always liked the smell of sulphur.’ He winked at Arthur. ‘Something to look forward to.’

  For a while he lay puffing contentedly, then thrust the cigar at Arthur to dispose of. ‘Last cigar I shall ever smoke, and I can’t even finish it. Sod it!’

  ‘You’ll be Cuba’s best customer for years to come,’ said Arthur confidently.

  In the corner of the room was a TV set, switched on, but with the sound turned down. The appearance of a man he loathed threw Uther into a sudden rage. ‘Anthony Jarvis, the obsequious turd, the devious scumbag!’

  ‘You want me to turn up the volume, father?’

  ‘What for? I know exactly what he’s saying. He’s saying he can’t wait for me to get better. Lie! The truth is he can’t wait for me to die. He’s denying he’s a candidate for the succession. Lie! He would sell his kids, his wife and mother too for a shot at Number 10. Look at that nauseating smile.’ Pushing himself up, Uther shouted at the screen, ‘They’re yellow, Tony! Get them capped!’ and fell back, panting. Moments later he was directing his rage at the screen again. ‘Who gave you your first job? Whatever happened to loyalty, arsehole?’

  He began to cough uncontrollably, a rasping, pitiful sound. Arthur held the cup of water to his lips. Uther took a couple of sips and lay back, exhausted. ‘That man claims to be my friend. I have no friends.’

  ‘You have many friends,’ Arthur assured him.

  ‘The Prime Minister has many friends. Uther Pendragon has none. Watch out, Arthur. The House of Commons is a dangerous place. It’s not your enemies you need to worry about, it’s your friends. Your enemies sit opposite you where you can keep an eye on them. Your friends sit behind you and stab you in the back. Take a tip from me, be on your guard. It’s always the ones you trust most who betray you.’