Extracted

by RR Haywood

  ‘Bloody day,’ he booms down the corridor. ‘Is it clock-off time yet?’ he asks a senior aide, who shakes his head gravely.

  ‘No, sir, unfortunately you have one further engagement.’

  ‘One more?’ he blusters. ‘Good God man, you’re working me to death.’

  ‘My apologies, sir,’ the senior aide says.

  ‘If I’d known what a taskmaster you were I’d never have taken the bloody job, eh Carmichael? Taskmaster, ain’t ya?’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘Does he boss you about too?’ he asks a junior aide. ‘Bet he does,’ he adds, with that wry grin the nation loves so much. ‘I bet he’s a right mean bastard and a secret Labour voter to boot no doubt. Eh, Carmichael? Vote Labour, do you?’

  ‘The Green Party, sir,’ Carmichael replies with a deadpan expression.

  ‘THE GREENS!’ he booms round at the smiling sycophants. ‘Bloody Greens he says, did you hear him? He said the Greens! Carmichael is a bloody Green . . . what about Mrs Carmichael? She a Green too?’

  ‘Unfortunately not, sir. The good Mrs Carmichael cast her pledge towards the presently incumbent government.’

  ‘A Tory!’ he shouts with victory. ‘Pass on my heartfelt thanks to your good lady wife, Carmichael, and tell her I said her husband is a bloody evil taskmaster.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  ‘What have we got left then?’ he asks with a heavy theatrical sigh.

  ‘Private business, sir,’ Carmichael replies, knowing not to give the identity of the caller away in a corridor full of aides.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Sir.’ Carmichael passes the tablet over, taking care to angle the screen solely towards his boss.

  ‘Ah right,’ he says, reading the screen. ‘How long?’

  ‘Ten minutes, sir.’

  ‘Right, bring him straight down and can someone get me a mug of tea please?’

  He sweeps past, ignoring Safa, who in turn ignores the look of utter distaste sent her way from Carmichael. Voices clamour as the aides rush down the corridor and past the base of the famous yellow stairs.

  ‘Safa to static control, corridor clear.’

  ‘Understood.’

  She waits, standing easy next to the lift as aides and staff bustle about. One more meeting to go. With luck it will be a long one and delay him finishing work for the evening.

  ‘Gate to front door, private business caller en route to you. Search complete and negative.’

  ‘Front door received, visual on the private business caller now. Confirm white male, dark hair, blue suit with dark red tie.’

  ‘Gate to front door, confirm visuals. Yes yes.’

  ‘Front door receiving caller now, transfer under way. Caller at the door.’

  An aide bustles past Safa towards the door, pausing only to straighten his suit and adopt a suitable countenance.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Please do come in.’ The aide holds the door open just enough for the man to step through. ‘Follow me.’ The aide moves off down the corridor as Safa sweeps her eyes over the private business caller.

  Safa looks ahead until he has gone past and resumes the visual inspection, now examining his back, her eyes running over the folds of his clothes looking for anything that should not be there.

  ‘Safa to control, private business caller inside.’

  ‘Understood.’

  She waits. That’s all this job is really. Waiting. Lots of waiting and watching. The dread builds. Tension in her shoulders, which she rolls gently. Every second that goes by is a second closer to him coming down to the lift and the evening of utter shit that lies ahead. Fourteen days. Just fourteen days.

  She cannot do a thing to stop it or make it not happen. No one would listen. The man is adored by tens of millions with a popularity not known since Churchill during the war. Every little factor has been taken into account. She is British by birth but born to an Egyptian mother and an Indian father. She is young and female. She is physically beautiful and a police officer on a salary that will never really be that high. In contrast, he is the Prime Minister. Enough said. There is no evidence and there never will be. The only option is to get away and that option is under way now. Fourteen days and she will be protecting the royals instead. Old, infirm, rude and incredibly wealthy, but it is not here and that is all that matters.

  ‘Pilkington to Safa, private business caller towards you for exit.’

  ‘Safa received.’

  The aide comes first, leading the way with the man walking behind. The man smiles at Safa as he ventures down the corridor towards the door and nods politely as he passes. She stares back without expression.

  ‘Have a good evening, sir,’ the aide gushes as the man walks through the opened front door.

  ‘Safa to front door, private business caller with you.’

  ‘Front door received, caller on way to gate.’

  ‘Gate received, visual on caller now.’

  A gentle rise in her heart rate and her stomach tenses. Eyes forward. Firm and resolute. She steels herself in readiness.

  The Prime Minister appears within a few minutes. Blustering along the corridor with Carmichael following in his wake and a muted conversation under way. They stop to talk quietly before Carmichael nods and walks off.

  Exhaling noisily through his nose, the Prime Minister walks briskly to the lift and waits for Safa to key the code. A visual check inside and she steps aside, letting him enter before walking in after him. The doors close with a gentle hiss, sealing them into the dead zone. No electronics will work in the lift. No CCTV. No audio devices and even her radio will not transmit. After the bunker, the lift is one of the most secure rooms within the building. A gentle vibration and the lift starts to ascend and she stares ahead, praying they go straight to the top, but the hand moves past her shoulder and presses the button, bringing the lift to a gentle stop between floors.

  ‘How are you, Safa?’ he asks gently.

  ‘Fine, sir,’ she replies dully.

  ‘Friday night.’ He breathes the words out, letting the back of his hand press against the material of her trousers with just enough pressure for her to feel it. His breathing quavers. He steps closer, exhaling a blast of air on the back of her neck. She stares ahead with thinly pursed lips and her left eyelid strums with the revulsion running through her body. ‘You’re transferring,’ he says, and her stomach tightens again. ‘Leaving me,’ he breathes into her ear. ‘I could block it. You know that. I’m the Prime Minister. I can do anything.’ He draws the words out and steps closer. ‘Raghead.’ His mouth hovers so close to her ear. ‘Dirty raghead.’ His breathing gets faster with his excited state. ‘My raghead wants to leave, does she?’

  She could beg but that’s what he wants. She could tear him apart and beat him to a pulp but she would be shot on sight. She could shoot him, then herself, but that would shame every member of her family, as no one would ever know why. She cannot tell anyone or do anything so she stares ahead with her left eyelid beating a drum that only gets worse when she feels his erection pressing into her hip.

  ‘Can you feel that, raghead?’ He exhales the words, bringing a hand up to her ribs. ‘I can block your transfer . . .’ The hand rises an inch. ‘I can deport you and your raghead family . . .’ The hand brushes over her shirt as it goes up another inch. ‘Maybe the police will find something in your father’s office.’ The tip of the forefinger on his right hand presses against the bottom of her sports bra. ‘My dirty little raghead . . .’

  It consumed her life. She did not go out and never wore make-up. She did not date but wore baggy clothes and felt shame towards herself and her family. The pride they all had at the job she achieved that so quickly turned into the worst nightmare imaginable. She never cried or wept but locked it down inside and kept coming to work to protect the man who did this to her.

  ‘Undo them.’ His trembling breath seeps into her ear. ‘Quickly.’ She swallows, knowing that any option of doing anything other th
an she is told bears a consequence too severe to contemplate.

  ‘Now.’ He hisses the word out and her hands lift to work at the buttons of her white shirt. He never does it himself. He never touches her for fear of leaving any DNA trace that could not be accounted for. If she delays he gets angry, and his power is too great to risk testing him. He knows everything about her. The universities her father and mother teach at. The careers of her brother and sister.

  ‘Wider . . .’ He peers over her shoulder, staring through the gap in her shirt to the plain white sports bra underneath. His breathing gets faster as the stiffness against her backside pushes harder.

  Over the last six months she’s considered every angle. That maybe his trousers pressing into hers like this would leave trace fibres. They would but it would never be enough to show anything other than normal transference of people moving in close proximity to each other.

  ‘Whore.’ The blunt voice at normal volume makes her flinch visibly. ‘Get dressed,’ he sneers, reaching past to press the button on the lift, and she rushes with hurried hands to re-clasp the buttons on her shirt. He steps back, humming to himself as the lift comes to a stop and the doors open.

  ‘Remember what I said,’ he whispers behind her as she gets to the door to his apartment rooms. She does not reply but unlocks the door and enters first with a visual sweep through the bathroom, kitchen, dressing room and bedroom.

  ‘Clear, sir,’ she reports dully.

  ‘Thank you, constable.’ He nods affably. ‘A sterling effort as always. Dismissed.’

  She walks towards the door, passing by his shoulder as he whispers quietly, ‘Think about it.’

  He did not need to whisper and he did not need the pretence of acting normally either. His apartment is almost as secure as the lift.

  Outside she transmits to control that he is within his apartment. The message is relayed to a house of staff breathing a sigh of relief.

  The evening draws out. An aide brings food. A silver tray of the Prime Minister’s favourite fish and chips. She is brought coffee and relieved by the sergeant for a toilet break, but in such close proximity to his apartment they speak only muted words of a professional nature.

  The shift in time heralds the greatest danger. The meal has been served. The toilet break given and with nothing else planned, she knows he will be in there, drinking, scheming, planning. She stares at the door, tensing at every sound from within. The shadows grow longer, deeper, and the soft glow lamps come on at the appointed time. Fourteen days. Fourteen days. She repeats it over and over. Imagining herself working within the royal households and away from here. She shows no visible reaction when the door to his apartment opens.

  ‘Can you do a bug sweep, please,’ the affable voice calls out.

  ‘Sir.’ She moves to the cupboard and takes the long wand, forcing herself to take a deep breath and hold steadfast with courage in the face of adversity. He will not beat her. He will not win. Fourteen days. ‘Sir, which rooms?’ she asks, smelling the whisky in the air.

  He turns with a smile. ‘All of them, please.’

  She nods and starts in the kitchen. Sweeping the device over every surface and object, knowing it will detect anything transmitting or receiving a signal. With the kitchen clear, she walks into the bathroom, catching sight of him in his study, sitting at his desk and staring at the multiple computer monitors. The bathroom is abject luxury. A deep corner bath fitted with hydromassage jets and a wet room bigger than the living room of her own tiny flat. All clear, and she moves out and decides swiftly to do his bedroom while he is in the study. Everything clean and tidy. The drawing room clear. The lounge area clear and with the last room to go she freezes at the sight of his half-erect penis clearly visible through the open flies of his trousers while he stares at the monitors as though unaware of his appendage on display.

  Fourteen days. You cannot do anything. He is the Prime Minister. You are a police constable.

  ‘Sir?’ she calls out, forcing her tone to remain neutral.

  ‘Finished?’ he asks, still staring at the monitors.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Really?’ he asks lightly. ‘Have you done in here?’

  She hesitates, thereby passing tiny measures of victory his way. ‘No, I have not,’ she says quickly.

  ‘Better do it then,’ he says thoughtfully, picking his glass tumbler up to take a big mouthful of the amber liquid.

  She enters with a firm step and her hands show no tremble as she commences the security check. Working down the wall, checking the frames of the paintings and prints on the walls. The lamps on the tabletops, the underside of the surfaces and working round towards the desk. A glance over and her left eyelid flits at the four monitors showing images of naked Arabic-looking women. Her mind processes fast with the possibility of finally having evidence then realises that his computer will be one of the most secure in the world. The Prime Minister can access anything without leaving a trace and anyway, if the Prime Minister wants to wank at porn then he can, everyone else does it.

  She has to scan the desk. She swallows, gripping the wand.

  ‘Sir, the desk?’

  ‘Yep.’ His voice is hoarse and rough with anticipation. What did he think? That she would see the images and be so turned on she would throw herself at him? That the sight of his cock would make her drop down and open her legs? He is not married but famously single and quite possibly the most eligible bachelor in the world. He is relatively young too, not yet fifty.

  Oh God, he is erect now. Fully hard with the thing standing to attention in his lap. He smiles, turning his head with a slowly spreading grin. ‘Am I in your way?’ he rasps and clears his throat with a chuckle. ‘Too much whisky,’ he explains. ‘Want me to move back?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, sir.’ Forcing that neutral tone is near on impossible but she does it. Standing resolute as he pushes the wheeled chair back a few inches and leans back with his hands behind his head while opening his legs a few inches as though proudly displaying his swollen member.

  She kneels down, working the wand along the desk legs, the underside and the external casing of the computer, freezing when he shifts position and resuming when he goes still again.

  She works from bottom to top, trying to ignore the erotic images of dusky-skinned women.

  ‘They look a bit like you,’ he says pleasantly and waits as though expecting a reply. ‘That one does,’ he adds, leaning forward to press a manicured finger against the screen on the left. ‘Don’t you think?’

  She does not reply. To verbalise anything now would be to give away her fear.

  ‘I said don’t you think?’ he asks again. ‘That one.’ He jabs the screen. ‘Looks like you . . . do you know her?’

  Still she does not reply but works the back of the monitors.

  ‘Figured you all know each other,’ he says with the faintest of slur to his words. ‘I’m not racist though,’ he adds quickly. ‘Love all the ragheads,’ he sputters with a laugh and stands up. She holds perfectly still with the wand an inch from the rear of the last monitor and his form in her peripheral vision.

  ‘I can have the police find extremist material in your father’s office,’ he says quickly. ‘He’ll be arrested and questioned under terrorism laws. A leak will take place telling the media that your family are linked to Islamic extremism . . . do you understand?’

  Her heart hammers in her chest and her mouth goes dry. She swallows with a visual show of her nerves and the knuckles on the hand holding the wand go white.

  Later, when the investigation concludes, the report will show that the fast jet entered UK airspace on a planned flight path provided to the authorities. The report will detail how the scanning stations did not detect anything of concern because the jet engines did not show a military signature, thereby causing the aircraft to be perceived as civilian.

  ‘You carry gloves. Put them on,’ he orders, pulling a pair of tight-fitting latex gloves from his pocket.

>   The report will detail how a crude missile system was fitted to the executive jet with a basic laser guiding system operated by the pilot on line of sight.

  She has no choice. The threat is real and everyone knows that behind the genial, blustering persona there is a core of ice running through the Prime Minister.

  The investigation will reveal the jet descended from fifteen thousand feet to five thousand and finally down to two thousand feet as it thundered towards the capital. It will detail that the alarms sounded within Heathrow, Gatwick and Stansted, who all received the alerts and tried desperately to make contact with the aircraft they all assumed was plummeting from the sky.

  His gloves are tight. Carefully chosen to prevent transference of DNA but to be tight enough and thin enough for him to feel every ridge and bump of her flesh. Her own gloves are not that carefully chosen and simply taken from the boxes in the first aid room. You do what it takes to protect your family. You do what it takes to get by in this world. He will not hurt her, as any injury will show, so she pulls the gloves on and finally lets the utter distaste show on her face, but that only feeds his perception of power gained. He nods at her shirt. An order given without words required. She complies, glaring at him balefully while working to open the buttons, her movements not hesitant now but forceful and determined. Courage in the face of adversity.

  The air traffic controllers fail to make contact and, as dictated by protocol, they send an emergency message to the police, fire and ambulance services of Greater London as they work to track the likely impact point of the jet they still believe is coming down for a crash landing. When the final destination shows Downing Street to be the likely crash site the only response left is to alert the RAF, who scramble their own rapid-response fighter jets.

  Her shirt is undone. The sports bra showing clearly. He touches himself with an almost drunk look on his face, which flushes red from the lust surging through his body. He takes a square packet from his pocket, bites the corner open and pulls out the condom, which he fits with shaking hands and eyes that cling to the sight of her.