by Paul Mathews
A minute later, he was outside the building. There was no security guard, so he dashed straight inside. He’d been here before. He knew where to go.
A receptionist spotted him and gasped in horror. Howie ignored her and ran through reception and up a flight of stairs, leaving a trail of brown footprints behind him. At the top of the stairs he could see the studio’s yellow double doors. He shoulder-charged his way in, splattering mud as he did so, and sprinted along the corridor. He spotted a clock on the wall which showed it was 7.41am. What a relief. The car’s clock must have been running fast, not slow, otherwise the interview would be about to start. Howie would have two or three minutes to find the First Lady and persuade her to pull out. But it would have to be a quick conversation. Especially as he now looked like one of the Martian mud monsters from Zayn Winner’s Alien Invasion films.
He carried on down the corridor, drawing astonished looks from everyone who set eyes on him. A couple of people yelled at him. One startled young woman screamed ‘They’re here! They’ve come for us! The mud monsters!’ But he had no time to explain that he wasn’t from Mars. Or a mud monster. Or that he was only coming for one person – the First Lady.
Seconds later, he reached his destination. It was the Green Room. Fortunately, there was just one person sitting in the tiny, glass-walled waiting area. It was the First Lady. She was immersed in her new book and didn’t notice him. When he opened the door, she didn’t look up. When he walked towards her, she still didn’t notice him. But when a blob of mud slopped onto the floor from his jacket, she glanced up. And she froze. Her face filled with fear – just like the people in Alien Invasion when they first saw a mud monster.
‘It’s me, First Lady. It’s Howie Pond.’
This news didn’t change her expression.
‘What the hell happened to you? You look like you’ve been digging up a dead body.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Not my husband?’
‘No, I fell over in some mud.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Howie didn’t detect any relief in her voice. ‘I was in a rush to get here because I don’t want you going on that sofa. Your husband is still missing. And you appearing on live digi-screen isn’t going to help matters.’
She pointed to a small digi-screen in the corner, which was showing Rise and Shine live. ‘It’s too late now. They’ve already announced me as the next guest.’
Howie tried to look serious. But it was difficult from behind his muddy face mask. ‘You were supposed to inform me about any media bids. You did the Republican interview without telling me and now this.’
‘My apologies. I’m very forgetful like that.’
It was time to talk tough. ‘I don’t care what they’ve announced. You’re not going on.’
‘I am an experienced media performer. You have nothing to be concerned about.’
Time to talk even tougher. ‘Martha Blake sent me here. She told me she doesn’t want you doing the interview.’
‘Oh, really? Well, I only have your word for that.’
Howie could hear voices in the corridor outside. It wouldn’t be long before someone arrived to collect the First Lady and usher her onto the sofa. He had one more chance to persuade her not to do it. It was time to play dirty – even dirtier than the clothes he was wearing. ‘You want to know the truth about Cherry Blush?’
The First Lady flinched as he mentioned the name. ‘You talked to that girl?’
‘Yes, I did. We had a very interesting discussion.’
‘Did she admit being involved with my husband?’
‘Pull out of the interview and I’ll tell you.’
‘That sounds like blackmail to me.’
It sounded like blackmail to Howie. But James Bond wouldn’t have called it that. What would he have called it? Something witty. ‘It’s an offer you can refuse, First Lady.’
She looked behind Howie and gestured with her hand at someone in the corridor. Then she turned to him. ‘Good. Then I’ll refuse it.’
A horrified-looking man in a yellow jumper bearing the words ‘Rise and Shine!’ burst into the room. ‘Security! Where the hell are they?’ he screamed. Then he addressed the First Lady. ‘I’m so sorry, Your Ladyship. This muddy maniac should never been allowed inside! I’ve got three members of staff thinking we’re under attack from Martians, the cleaner’s going mental …’ He stared at Howie with contempt. ‘… and this dirty great thing here, whoever he is, got within centimetres of molesting you, our star guest! I’m absolutely mortified!’
Another blob of mud dropped from Howie and hit the floor. ‘The name’s Pond. Howie Pond. I’m the president’s spokesperson and special investigator for the National Security and Intelligence Service. The First Lady can confirm this.’
The man in the yellow jumper took a step back, eyed Howie suspiciously and then turned back to the First Lady. ‘Is this true, Your Highness?’
The First Lady stared into Howie’s eyes, as if trying to place his face. Then a triumphant smile rippled across her face. ‘I’ve never seen this man before in my life.’
Howie wasn’t the only one who could play dirty. But he would have the final word. ‘Listen. I’ve got ID. I can prove it.’ He reached for the card in his jacket pocket. But it wasn’t there.
‘Security!’ screamed yellow-jumper man, at the top of his voice. ‘Get your lazy arses over here now!’
Panic began to engulf Howie. ‘It’s in here somewhere.’
A second later, two huge men in security uniforms charged into the room.
‘About bloody time, you two! Now, keep this filthy fanatic here until the police arrive.’
The security guards grunted an acknowledgement and fixed their gaze on Howie. There was no point trying to escape. He’d be slammed to the floor in seconds. If he could just find that ID card.
Yellow-jumper man grabbed the First Lady’s hand. ‘Let’s get you out of this mucky madhouse. You’re on in sixty seconds, if that’s okay, Your Majesty.’
The First Lady smiled. ‘The sooner the better.’ Then she left the room with her yellow escort, not even bothering to look back.
Howie searched his pockets again. He had his bleeper. He had his wallet. But it didn’t contain his security service ID. He must have left it back at the pod.
Five minutes later, a radio crackled in one of the security men’s jackets. The man listened to the person on the other end and then spoke to his colleague. ‘The boys in light blue are here.’
Howie sighed. This was going to be a long morning.
Chapter 26
Britt was back in St James’ Park. Or rather, Pellie Cann was back in St James’ Park. She was dressed just as before – raincoat, scarf and huge sunglasses. There hadn’t been time to mess around choosing another outfit. Anyway, it felt easier playing the same role in the same clothes. She didn’t want to start confusing herself.
From her position on the bridge that crossed the large lake, she surveyed the crowds. She couldn’t see any sign of her target, Vice President Zayn Winner. According to the Daily Democrat article, this was where the ex-Hollywood star came at nine o’clock every Wednesday morning to feed the ducks. It was a strange thing for a vice president to reveal in an interview. Politicians didn’t usually invite contact with citizens unless it was absolutely necessary.
Then a thought occurred to her. Maybe feeding the ducks was part of a plan to show how ‘in touch’ Zayn was with ordinary citizens? Could he possibly be setting himself up to run as the Republican presidential candidate, if Jan Polak couldn’t be found? She would try to probe Zayn on his future plans and find out.
Britt scanned the faces around her. There was still no sign of Zayn. But a small group of people had gathered at the end of the bridge nearest The Mall, possibly in anticipation of his arrival. Britt decided to stay where she was. She would make her move when Zayn set foot on the bridge. Her plan was to charm Zayn and draw him into a chat about the president. It shouldn’t be that difficult.
As she gazed at the exotic birds loitering in the water beneath the bridge, she heard a distant voice from behind her. It was a man with an Irish accent. Britt recognised it immediately. She turned around. It was Conor O’Brean – the press officer Pellie Cann had briefly met yesterday in the Grafton Arms. Britt swore so loudly, a passing mother with a young child gave her a dirty look. This was a disaster. The chances of her getting a one-to-one with Zayn were almost zero now. She felt like taking off her sunglasses and throwing them in the lake. But she didn’t. There was still some hope. She might be able to grab Zayn for a quick question or two. Perhaps if Conor got distracted?
Britt watched as Zayn and Conor reached the edge of the bridge. By now, a small crowd had formed round them. Autographs were signed. Photos were taken by locals and tourists. After a few minutes, Conor forced a path through the crowd and the pair were now standing on the bridge – just a few metres away from her.
‘Can I have everyone’s attention, please?’ shouted Conor. ‘Now, our superstar vice president only has five minutes in his busy schedule to feed our feathered friends. But first of all, good people, do we have any members of the press here?’
No one responded. There were no other journalists here. That was good news.
‘Hallelujah!’ boomed Conor, so loudly that all the birds within a hundred-metre radius took off and flew out of the park. ‘Ah. No birdies. Never mind, ladies and gentlefolk. Vice President Winner will not be deterred. He will now proceed to throw pieces of the best British bread into the murky depths below, for the birdies to enjoy, at their leisure, when we are all gone from this place.’ Conor fumbled in his pockets and then turned to Zayn. ‘Do you have the bread, sir?’
‘No. I gave it to you to put in your rucksack.’
Conor started to go pink. ‘Ah. I knew there was something I forgot, sir.’ He turned to the fast-dwindling crowd. ‘But worry not, dear citizens. There being no birds, and no bread, will not deter the vice president. He will be standing on the bridge and, erm … let me just think.’
Britt took a couple of steps nearer to Zayn. She might just get her chance.
Conor raised a finger, to indicate he’d made a decision. ‘He’ll just be standing on the bridge looking vice presidential.’ He turned to Zayn. ‘If you would kindly get yourself in position for a photo, sir. We’ll need one, just in case any media want to see you in duck-feeding action.’
Zayn walked forward and stood with his hand on the metal rail, as if he was modelling this spring’s new fashions. ‘Is this how you want me, Conor?’
‘Perfect. Now where’s my camera?’ Conor began frantically searching in his rucksack.
Britt saw her opportunity. She walked up to Zayn and spoke in a smooth American accent. ‘Hi, Vice President Winner! I loved your interview in the paper today.’
Zayn’s face lit up. ‘You did?’
‘I’m from the New States. You’re a super-megastar over there. Whenever we talk about actors who played the president, we always think of you first.’
Zayn grinned. ‘I always think of me, too.’
Britt casually put her hands on the metal rail. ‘I was wondering if you might wanna play the president for real? The British president, I mean.’
He straightened his tie. ‘The best actors always want to audition for the best roles. When they’re available. It’s the same for politicians.’
Britt could see Conor had located his camera. She didn’t have much longer. ‘And is the role of British president going to become available soon? If so, are you ready to audition?’
Zayn looked thoughtful. Then his eyes widened, as if about to deliver a revelation. Then Conor butted in. ‘Sorry, madam, I’m going to have to ask you to step back.’
‘Can I just finish my chat with —’
Conor interrupted. ‘You’re Pellie Cann, aren’t you? We met in the pub yesterday.’
This was going to be tricky. ‘Erm, yeah … that’s me.’ Time to change the subject. ‘I’m a big fan of the vice president.’
Conor wagged his finger. ‘And you were a big fan of my best buddy, Herbert Bogdanowic. And look how that ended – in tears. He bleeped me this morning. Poor fella is in a terrible way. He waited up all night for you. He’s devastated. He drank a whole six-pack of Britain’s Finest and he had to throw away a perfectly good three-cheese lasagne.’ He turned to Zayn. ‘I’m sorry, Vice President Winner. I can’t have you mixing with troublemakers like her.’
This was all getting a bit surreal. A voice boomed out from beside her. ‘Hey, lady!’ It was an American accent. A genuine American accent. And it sounded familiar. She turned round. It was the tourist she had encountered in Trafalgar Square yesterday. Her mind flashed back to their conversations about cars and Lord Nelson. Britt had been using her normal accent. Not her American one. This situation had moved from tricky to very tricky.
‘I didn’t think you was gonna do it!’ shouted the American. ‘Jump all over them sports cars in Trafalgar Square. But you did!’
Zayn laughed. ‘Cool! You can be my stunt double if I do another movie.’
Conor’s jaw dropped. ‘With respect, sir, this woman is the terror of Trafalgar Square.’
The American whooped with laughter. ‘Is that what you guys are calling her?’
Britt wasn’t aware that anyone was calling her anything. She was meant to be breaking the news, not making it.
‘You’re positive it was this woman, sir?’ asked Conor.
‘Sure is. Saw her with my own two eyeballs. She bounced off those Italian sports cars like they were trampolines. Funniest thing I ever saw!’
Conor was crimson now. ‘I read the Daily Democrat story. Those beautiful machines. Trampled to death. You showed no mercy! An Italian sports car vandal – the worst kind of criminal!’ He looked around and then screamed so loudly, every living creature within earshot scattered for safety. ‘Officer, officer! Come quick! I’ve captured the terror of Trafalgar Square!’ He grabbed Britt’s arm. She tried to wrestle free but it was impossible. It was like being mauled by a grizzly bear.
‘Hey, big guy, go easy on the lady,’ shouted the American. ‘Your traffic signals screwed up.’
Conor tightened his grip. ‘That doesn’t mean she can bounce all over the British traffic, sir.’
To Britt’s relief, Zayn joined in. ‘Give her a break, Conor. She’s a big fan of mine.’
‘So am I, sir, but that doesn’t give me immunity to prosecution for crimes against sports cars.’
The approaching police officer was less than a minute away. Britt tried again to wriggle away from Conor. But it was impossible.
‘Come on,’ pleaded the American. ‘She did what she had to do. Desperate affairs require desperate measures.’
‘The words of Lord Nelson himself,’ replied Conor, a dreamy look in his eyes. ‘One of my historical heroes.’ He let go of Britt’s arm and saluted. ‘England expects that every man will do his duty. And I shall do that duty, by handing this woman over to the authorities.’
The American whispered to her. ‘If you’re gonna do it, then go and do it! I ain’t gonna stop you.’
Britt didn’t need a second invitation. She turned and ran from the bridge, in the direction of Birdcage Walk.
‘Stop!’ cried Conor, from behind her. ‘That woman is a fugitive from British justice!’
Conor’s shouts, and the laughter of the American tourist, faded into the distance as she headed towards St James’ Park Metro station. The safest place to be right now was back at her pod – where she could plan her next move.
Chapter 27
Howie was sitting alone on a metal bench in a windowless police cell, somewhere in East London. He still couldn’t quite believe what had happened to him. For the first time in his forty-two years and one day on the planet, he had been arrested. But this wasn’t an everyday arrest. It was an arrest under section 24, subsection 7, of the new Penal Code. Or a 24-7 as it was known. This covered a wide range of offences – everything from
stalking and harassment to pro-royal and anti-government activity. The fact Howie’s suspected offence came into this category was made clear at his arrest. Mainly in four-letter words. Spoken at high volume. Close to his face.
Other first-time experiences had followed his arrest: being dragged into the back of a police van, being handcuffed, being bundled out of a police van, being processed in a police custody suite and being shoved into a cell. It had been a busy morning. And it wasn’t over yet.
The grubby clock on the wall told him it was 11.31am. He’d been sitting here for more than three hours. He had been told that he’d be interviewed about the morning’s events, including his close encounter with the First Lady, when an officer became available. But when would that be? He had no idea.
Howie examined himself. He was caked from head to toe in dried mud. And had been stripped of his personal possessions. There were no windows in the cell, just a wall-mounted security camera for the police to monitor his movements. He had no way of communicating with anyone outside the four concrete walls. It was a communication professional’s worst nightmare. It was a secret agent’s worst nightmare. There was nothing he could do but wait for a police officer to come and collect him for his interrogation. Then he would have to try and talk his way out of here.
More minutes passed. He got up and walked up to the camera. He gazed up at it and waved his hands. ‘Hello. Can someone please come and interview me?’ There was no response. He tried again, in a louder voice. ‘I’m the president’s spokesperson and a special investigator for the National Security and Intelligence Service. There’s been a misunderstanding. Please can I talk to a police officer urgently?’ Still nothing. He tried yelling. ‘I want to speak to someone now! Are you listening to me? I don’t have time to sit around in a police cell all day!’ No response. He walked to the front of the cell to see if the camera would follow him. It didn’t. He walked to the back of the cell and pretended to collapse onto the floor. After five uncomfortable minutes sprawled on his stomach, he got up. The camera hadn’t moved a millimetre. It probably wasn’t even switched on. He sat back down and leaned his head against the wall. No one was watching. No one was listening. He could die of mud poisoning, for all they cared.
