The End Of Days

by Douglas Lindsay

  'Well,' said the PM, 'we plant beds of dead insects and small animals, then we crush them. Eventually they'll turn into fossil fuels.'

  'And is there a timeframe on that?' asked Barney.

  'Anywhere between fifteen and six hundred and fifty million years,' said the PM.

  'So it's a long term plan,' said Barney.

  'Exactly,' said the PM. 'We can say that we're planning for your children's future. And your children's children.'

  Barney continued to snip away, deciding in the absence of a Prime Ministerial diktat that what was required was an Albert Einstein.

  The PM smiled smugly. 'Some say that in a few million years the human race will have evolved into a beer-drinking sloth species with no appendages and no ability to think for itself.'

  'You think it'll take that long?' said Barney glibly, and the PM snorted.

  The door opened behind and Bleacher entered looking flustered.

  'You haven't heard the news,' he said, a bald statement of fact.

  'That Etonian twit thrown in the towel, has he?' barked the PM, then laughed to himself at the thought.

  'More mayhem at Westminster,' said Bleacher. 'Another four dead. Four MPs at any rate, also seven security staff and a Lord.'

  Barney stopped cutting hair and suddenly the PM's eyes were upon him.

  'What was that you were saying earlier about by-elections, Thomson?' said the PM.

  Barney shrugged.

  'You should be all right until there are another fifty or so dead. Then maybe you'll have to start worrying about it.'

  The PM turned back and faced the mirror, his face suddenly solemn. Sooner or later people were going to be talking about this murder crisis, rather than how well he was doing as PM, and he didn't want anything to be distracting from that. And then there was the possibility of the coup d'état by serial killer, a nagging doubt that refused to go away.

  'Get me the defence chiefs again,' said the PM into the air and Bleacher rolled his eyes and walked from the office.

  1234hrs London, England

  'Prime Minister, we cannot possibly attack the United States of America,' said the Chief of the Defence Staff. 'They'd fight back. We'd get hurt.'

  The PM was looking for options, not excuses.

  'And meanwhile,' he grumbled, 'we sit back while they overthrow the government of this country by individually murdering every single MP and Lord in the Houses of Parliament.'

  'You don't know that, Sir,' said Bleacher. 'In fact, not only do you not know that, the very idea is preposterous. This is not a coup, absolutely not. It is obviously someone, somewhere, who is very disgruntled about the expenses scandal and is taking their revenge.'

  The PM didn't look at Bleacher, but stared insanely around the group of military chiefs who were gathered around the table, a table that had laid out upon it the map of the full eastern seaboard of the United Sates. More than one of those military chiefs was reminded of the scenes of Hitler in Downfall, insanely berating his chiefs of staff for not fighting off eight billion Russians with a platoon of four teenagers, a bombed out tank and a bag of jelly babies.

  Barney Thomson, who had finally been invited to join the pre-War Consultation group, was sitting at the back imagining what kind of haircut he would give each of the officers if any of them were to ask.

  'I just have one question,' said the PM. 'If I said to you that I wanted to launch an invasion of the north-east coast of the US mainland before Christmas, how many men would you be able to put on the ground? That's all. Simple question.'

  The Chief of the Army, Sir Jock Testicles, folded his arms and looked sternly across the table at the PM.

  'About five,' he said.

  'Five what?' barked the PM. 'Five battalions? Five hundred men? Five divisions?'

  'No, sir,' said Testicles resolutely, 'about five men. Five. You, and successive governments before you, have cut and cut and cut and cut this army until we are able to fight one war at a time. Just the one. And not a very big one at that. We have five spare men to invade the US, and we'd better be quick, because even they're due to go to Afghanistan in the New Year.'

  The PM shook his head and took a guzzle of cold coffee. He looked around the room for some support, but there was none coming from the military. They were keeping a tight ship, all bizarrely reading from the same script on being unable to launch a ground attack on Maine. Finally his eyes found Barney Thomson.

  'Barney?' he said.

  The military chiefs shook their heads. Bleacher closed his eyes.

  'It's obvious,' said Barney. 'You need to introduce conscription. It'll massively cut youth unemployment, it'll train the workforce, you'll be able to put men on the ground, and the Mail and the Express will love it. An extraordinary vote winner. Plus you'll have the bounce from being the underdog in a war. It'll be 1939 all over again, and you'll be laughing all the way to the polls.'

  As Barney had spoken the PM's shoulders had straightened; and as the PM's shoulders straightened, everyone else in the room slumped further into their seats as they saw a politician thinking with his politician's brain, which is good for several things, but none of them useful. Or sensible.

  'I like it. Look,' he began, and he glanced down at the map, 'who knows the state capital of Maine? Anyone?'

  There were blank looks around the room.

  'Bangor,' said one of the military. 'You know, First boxcar, midnight train, destination, Bangor, Maine...' and he had broken into song by the time he'd reached the end of the line.

  The PM nodded, and looked for Bangor on the map.

  'It's Augusta,' said Barney. Barber's know stuff. 'It's not the biggest city, and it's not on the coast.'

  The generals leant over the map to look for Augusta, while the PM sat back and stroked his chin. Things were beginning to come together.

  'I want a plan – a positive plan and no excuses – for the invasion of Maine and the taking of the state capital, on my desk by nine this evening.'

  The generals grumbled in low voices, and some raised their eyes, and in the air was the feeling of Christmas.

  2213hrs London, England

  Late in the evening. DCI Frankenstein, DS Hewitt and Barney Thomson were having a sandwich in Frankenstein's office. The body count was rising, the temperature was falling, in the air was the feeling of panic.

  'So you're not going to tell us what you and the PM were talking about all afternoon?' said Frankenstein.

  Barney smiled. 'National security,' he said.

  'Fo shiz,' said Hewitt. 'Totally understand.'

  Frankenstein squinted at Hewitt, was going to comment, decided there was no point, and looked back at Barney.

  'If I told you...' began Barney.

  'You'd have to kill me,' finished Frankenstein. 'Well, given that you're Barney Thomson, I don't think I'll wave that possibility before you.'

  'Like, totally,' said Hewitt, and the three men took bites out of their sandwiches.

  Friday 11th December 2009

  0747hrs London, England

  Commons Criminals screamed the Daily Express, as it implied that there was more than one serial killer at large in the Houses of Parliament.

  The PM had other matters on his mind, as the newspapers lay at his feet. He was flicking through the short dossier. He had called his plan to invade the United States, Operation Double Thunder. The military chiefs had done his bidding, completing the task which he'd set them; they had outlined a plan for the first forty-eight hours of Operation Double Thunder; landing troops on the coast of Maine, taking Portland and the declining naval air station at Brunswick, moving inland and then capturing the state capital, Augusta, including TV, radio and Police HQ. They had also outlined the effects of stationing a Polaris submarine off the east coast and threatening to nuke New York, Washington, Philadelphia, Atlantic City, Miami and Manchester-by-the-Sea. Then they had outlined the effects of actually carrying out the threat.

  At no stage had they sweet-talked the process and made i
t sound anything other than what it was; a mind-blowing act of complete and utter stupidity, which would lead to the end of Britain as a functioning sovereign state.

  'When they say stupid,' said the Prime Minister, 'one gets the feeling that they're disrespecting the entire concept of invading America. There's no credit here, for example, for the element of surprise. Look at Pearl Harbour; the Japanese just killed them for months after that, because they hadn't been expecting it. We can do the same thing.'

  'It didn't turn out too well for Japan in the end, Prime Minister, did it?' said Bleacher, a man who now saw it as his duty to prevent total world destruction and eradication of the human race. (Although that was going to happen anyway, because no one wanted to give up their big cars or their flights to Sydney.)

  'Aye,' said the PM, 'but it took nigh on four years before the Yanks nuked them. We could make some gains, and then get out on our own terms.'

  'Sir,' said Bleacher, 'they would have nuked them on Day One if they'd had the capability. And when it came to it, they pretty much nuked them the first chance they had, once the weather had cleared. And then they did it again, just for the Hell of it.'

  'Hmm,' said the PM, and then finally he lifted his eyes from the dossier and looked in the mirror. Barney Thomson was standing behind him, waiting for some Prime Ministerial direction. The PM and his new hair had been carrying all before them for the previous seven or eight days, thanks to the skills and craftsmanship of Barney Thomson, whose artistry had been honed in the realms of the gods.

  'Think I'd suit a Marshal Tito today. In keeping with the whole war-time mentality that's sweeping the capital.'

  'Sure,' said Barney. 'Reckon that might be perfect. Shouldn't take more than a couple of minutes.'

  Barney was playing the game, but he had his own plans. He'd had enough, and was determined he was going back to Scotland that night - and never returning - regardless of what the PM thought or said.

  The PM looked satisfied and flicked over to the next page of the dossier. The page that listed the genocide that would occur from first use of nuclear weapons.

  'It'd cement my place in the history books.' he said, and neither Barney nor Bleacher knew if he was talking about the attack on American soil, or his latest political haircut.

  1113hrs London, England

  DCI Frankenstein and DS Hewitt were on coffee and doughnuts when Barney Thomson walked in to the small office. Barney looked at the table, where the coffee machine and plate of spare doughnuts patiently awaited a third person to the meeting. There was a radio playing, a boy's choir singing the Coventry Carol. Barney looked at the two policemen and Frankenstein nodded in the direction of breakfast.

  'Help yourself,' he said.

  Barney nodded, poured himself a cup of coffee, milk no sugar, put two doughnuts on a plate, then pulled up a seat.

  'Nice,' he said, indicating the music.

  'Radio 3,' said Hewitt. 'Get us.'

  'I keep waiting for the Angel Gabriel to walk into the room and bless us, or some crap like that. Some holy crap. Christmas...'

  'So, gentlemen,' said Barney, through a mouthful of sugar-sprinkled, 'what brings me here? Is this you gathering all the suspects in the room, Poirot-esque, to explain who did it? And I'm the only suspect.'

  'If we could explain who did it, we'd call a prime time ITV reality show,' said Frankenstein.

  'How cool would that be?' said Hewitt.

  'Here's the thing,' said Frankenstein, through a mouthful of fondant cream, 'we've been over the tapes endlessly, hundreds of man hours, everyone in and out of the building. Every conceivable entrance is covered, no other way in. Firstly, there's no one who looks like the photofit we have of Utterson.'

  'Bad photofit,' said Barney.

  'Ain't that the truth, dude?' said Hewitt. 'Like, totally,' he then said, to answer his own rhetorical question.

  'Perhaps. But if this guy ain't walking in and he ain't walking out, it means there could be someone inside pulling a Tom Cruise Mission Impossible...'

  'Like, wearing a mask,' threw in Hewitt.

  'Exactamundo,' said Frankenstein. 'And whether he's wearing a mask or not, it means that one of these people who's walking in and walking back out again is the killer. One of these MPs, one of these secretaries, one of these security guards.'

  'There can't have been too many people in the middle of the night?' said Barney. 'And you've had a few nights now, you must be able to narrow it down.'

  'We have,' said Frankenstein.

  'Like, totally,' said Hewitt.

  Barney nodded. 'Good work,' he said. 'How many did you narrow it down to?'

  'Five,' said Frankenstein. 'Just five.'

  'And five shall be the number of the counting,' said Hewitt, although most of the words were unintelligible owing to the fact that he had crammed an entire doughnut into his mouth.

  Barney nodded, took a drink of coffee, not too hot, washed down the doughnut. Contemplated the second one, which stared up at him from his plate, like a giant empty dead eye waiting to be eaten by a hungry orc.

  Barney decided he didn't want the doughnut.

  Then he looked up, something in the tone of Frankenstein's voice.

  'Ah,' he said. 'I'm one of them.'

  'Yep,' said Frankenstein. 'The PM was over there each of those nights, and you were there too. Giving him a haircut at one in the morning, were you?'

  Barney narrowed his eyes, took another sip of coffee, partially hiding his face behind the cup. Wondering if they were seriously thinking that he might be the killer.

  Well, it wasn't as if he didn't have previous...

  'You know what he's like. Calls me up at any time. I'm his new idiot savant.'

  'Like, cool,' said Hewitt.

  'And were you with him the entire time?'

  Barney shook his head.

  'I spent much of it sleeping on a sofa. My life here is that rubbish.'

  'And then, strangely, the murders stopped when you went back to Scotland at the weekend.'

  Barney nodded. He knew he hadn't killed anyone, but how could he blame anyone else for thinking that?

  'So the PM was also here all those nights,' said Barney, deciding to move the conversation on.

  'Like, foshizzle,' said Hewitt.

  'Will you stop that!' snapped Frankenstein.

  'Like, sure,' said Hewitt.

  'Yes,' said Frankenstein, 'the PM was here every night. However, the Chief Constable has instructed us that we won't be including him in our list of suspects of people who might want to overthrow the government by serial killer.'

  'That seems narrow minded,' said Barney.

  'Privilege of rank,' said Frankenstein dryly.

  'Which leaves three,' said Barney.

  'Names which I'm not at liberty to discuss with you, given your recent elevation to the role of suspect.'

  'And demotion to the Official Deputy substitute's bench,' said Barney.

  'Like, totally, and stuff,' said Hewitt.

  Barney sighed heavily and looked down at the remaining doughnut on his plate.

  'I guess I may as well tuck into this,' he said.

  'Sure,' said Frankenstein. 'And whatever you do, don't leave town.'

  Barney Thomson looked up as he bit into the doughnut and a large globule of jam squished out. Where had he heard that before?

  2134hrs London, England

  The night was dark and cold in London, England. These were grim times in the capital, as the city faced up to a collapsing economy, the dark prelude to class war, rising sea levels which threatened to engulf the banks of the Thames, a government in crisis, members of Parliament being murdered by the dozen, and now the threat of war with America.

  The streets were strangely quiet, as if the people knew that the worst of times was upon them, that the great battle of the age was about to begin. The clubs were quiet, the restaurants half-empty; the binge drinkers had stayed home. (Not that they weren't still binge drinking.)

  And as
one of Britain's four Polaris submarines – HMS Vainglorious – moved into waters off the eastern seaboard of the United States, and three small frigates headed towards the coast of Maine, carrying a few hundred men – all that the Army could muster – one man did take to the streets of London, heading for Euston station and the late night train to Glasgow.

  Barney Thomson had had enough.

  Carrying a small bag, happy to leave some of his things at the hotel, he walked along the road, heading for Westminster tube station. There was no escape for him, he realised that. Wherever he went, murder and death followed, and there was nothing he could do. And yet now, for the first time in so long he couldn't remember, he was actually a suspect again.

  He was tired, he just wanted to be home. And so, like the MPs who had gone back to their constituencies, happy to believe that everything would be fine, Barney Thomson was going to put himself on a train to Glasgow, go back to his small shop on the coast, and imagine that all this murder and political squalor and slime would just go away.

  As the first of the frigates sighted land; as the Prime Minister stood at the window of Number 10 Downing Street, looking gravely over at the back of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, wondering how history would remember him; as the few MPs remaining in London for the weekend looked over their shoulders in fear; as the delegates at Copenhagen argued over percentages and numbers, flushing the future away into the over-polluted mire of decay as they did so; as the skies turned black and cold and the rainforests burned, Barney Thomson was approached by a plain-clothed officer, who took him by the arm and asked Barney to accompany him to the station.

  Barney turned and took a quick glance at his face. He didn't want to go to the station; he didn't want to be in London any more. He pushed the officer off and broke into a run. Another officer appeared from nowhere, ahead of Barney, and Barney threw his bag at him, catching him in the face.