We Have Lost The President

by Paul Mathews

  No vice-presidential hands went up in the air.

  Martha took a deep breath. ‘All those in favour of Zayn Winner, please raise your hands.’

  A few seconds passed. Then Ivan and Daisy raised their hands, followed by a few others. Then Oskar’s two friends raised theirs. Then the remaining vice presidents reluctantly thrust their hands in the air.

  Martha counted the hands. ‘That’s everyone in agreement. I can formally declare Zayn Winner as the Republican Party’s candidate for the 2044 presidential election. Congratulations, Vice President Winner.’

  Zayn sat with his arms crossed, looking supremely smug. ‘Once a Winner, always a Winner!’

  The vice presidents started to get up, wander over to Zayn and offer their congratulations.

  ‘This is going to be fun,’ whispered Britt to Howie.

  ‘No,’ grumbled Howie. ‘This is going to be a total bloody disaster.’

  Britt kissed him on the cheek. ‘By the way, thanks for saving me, Mr Pond. How can I ever repay you?’

  ‘You could marry me,’ replied Howie softly, so only Britt could hear him.

  Britt’s eyes lit up like fireworks. ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘No. I’m not joking. I could do with a couple of weeks’ honeymoon just to get out of this lunatic asylum.’

  ‘You always were a romantic. Where’s the ring?’

  ‘Still in the jeweller’s shop. But at least I’m wearing a decent suit.’

  ‘You bought it specially for the occasion?’

  ‘No. I got it free after I was wrongly arrested for attempting to kidnap the First Lady from a television studio. My other one was completely covered in dried mud because I went arse-over-tit on the grass. Twice.’

  ‘I see. You’ve had another boring day at the office, then?’

  ‘Yeah, completely forgettable.’ Howie laughed. Then his mind really did go blank. ‘What were we talking about?’

  ‘You asked me to marry you.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Sorry, B.’ This wasn’t how Howie had imagined his proposal. Although, thinking about it, he wasn’t sure he’d ever imagined it at all. ‘Let’s start again.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Britt Pointer … will you marry me?’

  Britt’s eyes filled with a look of steely determination. She stood bolt upright. And an inscrutable smile swept across her face. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘You big, dumb prince.’

  This would have been the point in a James Bond film when he and Britt retired to the privacy of one of the royal bedrooms, kissed, and the final credits would roll. But that wasn’t going to happen. This movie wasn’t finished just yet.

  Zayn shouted from behind the throng of vice presidents. ‘Hey, Martha! When I win, do I get to keep Howie as my spokesperson?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Unless the president has plans to poach him for State 51?’

  Working for the Americans on a glorified oil rig sounded preferable to having to clear up Zayn’s media mess for five years. Even if he would feel seasick the whole time. Howie gazed at the president with eyes of hope. It was hope bordering on desperation.

  ‘I would love to bring Howie with me. But the Americans have their own media and publicity team. In any case, I wouldn’t want to deprive this great nation of such a dedicated and loyal public servant.’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking of retiring early,’ announced Howie. ‘Living in the country … on a farm. Or something.’

  ‘What?!’ cried Zayn. ‘You’re only in your fifties. You’re in the prime of your life.’

  Howie frowned. ‘I’m forty-two, actually.’

  ‘That’s great news – even more years left in you than I thought! And listen – I still want you do all your secret agent stuff for Martha. I’m not planning on going missing, or anything like that.’ He thought for a second. ‘Well, I might disappear down the West End for a few hours, every now and then. Just because you’re president doesn’t mean you can’t have a social life, does it? No. But if I ever do go missing – down the West End, on an oil rig, wherever – I want you to be the one who comes and finds me.’

  Martha gave Zayn a bemused look. ‘Let’s hope it never comes to that. We don’t want to get a reputation for losing our presidents, do we?’

  ‘No. I mean, if I was president, and you lost me, they’d probably be some kind of revolution. The people love Zayn. And Zayn loves the people. But not as much as he loves Howie the media maestro over there.’ He looked at his colleagues. ‘You people don’t appreciate what he does. But I do. He has those journalists in the palm of his hand. Look at him – one of them just kissed him on the cheek. That’s how much they love him. And I really love this guy. He’s a living legend.’

  Howie had to admit – it did feel good to be appreciated.

  Zayn winked at him. ‘Well, what’s it going to be, my not-so-old buddy?’

  Howie was probably going to regret this. ‘Okay’ he sighed. ‘I’ll stay on as presidential spokesperson if you win the election.’

  Zayn punched the air. ‘Yes! You and me – the dream team! The media love Zayn. It’ll be the easiest job in the world.’

  Somehow Howie doubted that. ‘We’ll see. But if I’m going to be your spokesperson, I’m not sure I can keep up with the intelligence work. It’s a lot harder than James Bond makes it look. I spent three hours in a police cell this morning, for reasons I’d rather not discuss. I nearly broke my ankle yesterday, falling down a flight of stairs. I was even dive-bombed by a seagull at lunchtime in Trafalgar Square. I’m lucky to still be here.’ Howie shook his head. ‘No. I’d better get out of this secret agent game, before one of the bad guys chucks me in a piranha-infested swimming pool.’

  Martha smiled in the way that people always do when they’re about to give you bad news. ‘Ah, yes. I was going to have a word with you about that. Those additional employment conditions you signed yesterday – we didn’t fully understand the implications.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Howie, the panic already rising within him.

  ‘There’s a minimum period of service in the National Security and Intelligence Service. It’s twelve months. So you still have a little time yet to serve.’

  Howie knew he should have read those bloody terms and conditions. ‘Can’t I just resign from the service?’

  ‘You can. But there’s a twelve-month notice period.’

  Howie closed his eyes. ‘Of course there is.’

  Martha walked up to him and put her hand on his arm. ‘But listen, Howie. Don’t worry. I’ll only call on you if we ever have another Code Red crisis. And that’s not likely to happen again in the next twelve months, is it?’

  Howie sighed. Somehow he just knew. Something was going to happen.

  Message from the Author

  Thanks for supporting me by buying this e-book or borrowing it via Kindle Unlimited. If you enjoyed the novel, an online Amazon review would be lovely. You should receive a prompt when you reach the end of this e-book. It only takes a minute – a star rating, a few wise words and you’re done. If you’re on Goodreads, a rating there would also be appreciated.

  If you want to read more about Howie and Britt’s adventures in 2040s London, there are three more books in the series: We Have Lost The Pelicans (book 2), We Have Lost The Coffee (book 3) and We Have Lost The Chihuahuas (book 4).

  If you would like regular updates on what I’m doing, and fancy a peek into a comedy writer’s world, then sign up for my fortnightly Very Funny Newsletter (which is, of course, very funny). You can do this by visiting my website – www.quitefunnyguy.com – which also has lots of information on my novels and plays.

  You can also follow me on Twitter @QuiteFunnyGuy or ‘Like’ my author’s page on Facebook – www.facebook.com/paulmathewsauthor

  Thanks again and feel free to get in touch.

  Best wishes

  Paul Mathews

  Acknowledgements

  This section is always so boring if you don’t actually know the author. In fact, it ca
n still be pretty tedious even if you do know the author. So I’m going to change that. Here we go.

  A massive cuddle for my wife, Dori, for listening to me going on and on about this book for the last 15 months, and always managing to look and sound interested. And for all the cups of coffee, cheesy snacks and chocolate bars that magically appeared on my desk during the writing process.

  A delicate stroke on the head for my cat, Lulu, for breaking up those long writing days with games of hide and seek. (She generally won.)

  There’s a high five for Catherine Fitzsimons – an editor, proofreader and test reader all rolled into one.

  Next up, it’s a firm handshake for the super-talented Alex Storer, who designed this book cover, produced a video trailer and provided graphics for my website.

  A big salute for my mini army of test readers: Barry Wheller, Camila Brandão Guedes, Jonathan Hall, Robin Mobley Boyle, Cheryl Frances-Hoad and Carol Mathews (known to me as ‘Mum’).

  A shower of scented rose petals for Steve, Jacqui and everyone else who told friends and family to buy my book, or they would never speak to them again.

  Heartfelt thanks must go to the Two Chairmen and Grafton Arms pubs in St James’ Park, Westminster, for all the pints of Guinness and excellent pub food they served me – only some of which was consumed during working hours.

  Finally, a huge thumbs up for my laptop – for not crashing and losing everything.