The Vampire of Downing Street and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  And it's the kind of silence I'm hearing now.

  In fact, after a few seconds, I even realize that I've been holding my breath.

  “So you see,” I continue finally, “I'm in something of a pickle. The voters are sheep, they don't understand the difficult decisions I've had to make, they think they can have it all and not worry about the cost. They think the war comes down to black and white issues, they don't appreciate the shades of gray or the subtleties of a conflict that in one form or another has been going on for two decades now. They read the bloody papers and swallow the bullshit whole, and now they have me down as some kind of caricature who can't be trusted. They're just... I...”

  The words catch in my throat.

  I hate them.

  That's what I was about to say.

  I hate every one of them.

  They voted me in five years ago, and now they're on the verge of voting me out.

  “And Carol won't be seen with me,” I add. “Can you believe that? My own wife won't even show up to smile by my side for a bloody photo opportunity. It's as if she thinks my brand is toxic. Five years ago she...”

  Sighing, I lean back on the stool and try to get my thoughts together.

  “Five years ago,” I continue after a moment, “she couldn't get enough of the limelight. Now she won't even be in the same room as me. She won't even talk to me, she just sends messages via the staff, and she gives those pandering little interviews where she shows the media around our home. I swear to God, there are half a dozen journalists who've seen my kids more than I've seen them over the past few years. She's positioning herself for the transition. She's trying to set herself up as a sympathetic public figure once I've fallen from grace. She's -”

  Catching myself just in time, I realize that I'm ranting. I look toward the void at the far end of the chamber and I listen to the absolute silence that mixes with the cold air.

  Squinting, I try to make him out, but it's still too dark.

  “You said you'd help me,” I say after a moment. “On that very first night, you said I could come to you when I'm at my lowest ebb, and you said you'd help. I'm getting massacred in the polls. My life is a shambles. My wife hates me, my children probably get bullied at school because of who I am, they probably hate me too. Please, I'm begging you, this is my darkest hour and I need you to do something.”

  I wait, but still he doesn't reply.

  “Damn it,” I mutter, getting up and stepping forward, before stopping and getting down on my knees. “Is this what you want? Do you want me to beg? Because I'll beg. I'm not proud. I'll beg, but I need you to help me. Come on, what are you waiting for?”

  I fall silent for a moment, hoping against hope that he'll tell me.

  And then slowly, finally, I see his blood-stained, pock-marked hand reaching out from the void, and I watch in horror as his too-long fingers uncurl to reveal a crusty, deviled palm.

  I can't see his face, but I can feel his eyes burning into me.

  And still he holds his hand out.

  Waiting.

  “No,” I whisper. “Not that.”

  Silence.

  “Never that,” I continue.

  The hand remains.

  There are tears in my eyes now.

  “No prime minister of this country has ever given you that,” I stammer, “and I will not be the one to...”

  My voice trails off. For a moment, I consider what might happen if I just gave in and let him have what he wants. I know he has the power to change everything, to reward me, but at the same time I also know that the price would be far too high. I'm sure every one of my predecessors has been faced with a moment like this at some point, but none of them surrendered to temptation. Even as his hand remains outstretched, I know that I can never give the vampire of Downing Street what he wants. I can't be the one who betrays my country. My people.

  “Not that,” I say again, though my voice is trembling. “Never that. I'll find some other way.”

  Three

  “Mr. Buchanan, over here!”

  “Mr. Buchanan!”

  “Mr. Buchanan, can you spare a word?”

  “God, they're rapacious little runts, aren't they?” Carol whispers as we stand grinning and waving on the step outside Number 10. “Can't they just reuse the photos from five years ago? I have less wrinkles in those.”

  “They probably want new ones to show just how much we've aged since I got the top job,” I mutter, turning so that the chaps from ITV can get a good shot. “Bloody high-def cameras.”

  “Mr. Buchanan!” one of the reporters yells. “How do you think you managed to overturn such a massive poll deficit and come back to win your second election? What's your secret?”

  “Yes, Bobby,” Carol whispers. “How did you manage to do that?”

  “Smile and wave, darling,” I reply, forcing myself to keep this shit-eating grin plastered across my face. “It's what you're here for, after all, and you're loving every second.”

  “I assure you, I most certainly am not.”

  “Rubbish.” She let out a grunt of laughter. “You're like a pig in mud, Patrick, and don't even try to deny it. I can read you like a book.”

  ***

  “And the air-strikes seem to have crippled the enemy's supply lines,” General Dove explains as he brings up another slide. “We're counting barely any convoys going through the disputed zone now, whereas before the strikes it was up to ten a day. At this rate, they'll be totally out of resources within the week and then they'll start hemorrhaging support among the local tribes.”

  Staring at the screen, I tilt my head slightly, trying to figure out exactly what I'm seeing. There's a kind of gray crater-like thing surrounded by black dots, so I assume something rather large must have been blown up. General Dove probably told me what was being blown up, but in truth I've been rather distracted and I think I drifted off for that part. He hasn't said anything for the past twenty seconds or so, however, so I suppose he's expecting me to comment.

  “Marvelous,” I say finally. “It seems you guys are doing a splendid job.”

  “And your approval ratings are up to 60%,” Moore reminds me as he shuffles through some briefing papers at the next desk. “That's not too shabby for a man who's well into his second term of office. At this rate, you could even start thinking about running again when the next five years are up.”

  “Let's focus on one thing at a time,” I reply, although I can't deny that his words are rather calming. Flattering, even. “I'm not a man who's driven by opinion polls and media opinion. I want to focus on the work and let the polls take care of themselves. That has always been my motto.”

  Moore looks back down at the papers.

  “Did you just roll your eyes?” I add.

  “If your have no further questions, Sir,” General Dove says after a moment, “I should like to get back to the command post. We still need to ascertain precisely how the rebels are sourcing this new batch of weapons. We think it might be the Russians, but I'm also worried about a supply line opening up from the south somewhere. The last thing we need is a Turkish pincer movement catching us out.”

  “Keep me informed,” I reply, getting to my feet and offering a salute, which he conspicuously fails to return. “You're doing excellent work, General Dove. God's work.” I hesitate for a moment. “Well, you know what I mean.”

  He mutters something under his mustache as he leaves the room, and I quickly tell myself that there's no point dwelling on minor mistakes. Gathering my briefing papers, I figure I have time to go back to the office and do some swotting up before PMQ's later, although in truth I barely need to prepare these days. Every week without fail, I make the leader of the opposition look like a bloody catastrophe, and I'm on such a roll that I genuinely think the poor bugger might eventually just not bother showing up. It can't be fun for him, taking such a battering at the dispatch box.

  “I'll be in my office,” I tell Moore as I head to the door.

&n
bsp; “Excellent, Sir,” he replies. “He's waiting for you in there.”

  I reach for the handle, before hesitating for a moment and then slowly turning to look back across the room.

  “I beg your pardon?” I say cautiously.

  “Sir Marmaduke Gladpole,” he continues.

  I feel a flutter of relief in my chest. Then again, I should have known better.

  “Right. Of course. What does he want?”

  “As one of your predecessors,” Moore replies archly, not looking up from his papers, “I imagine he simply wants to drop by and offer you some sage words of advice. Either that, or the rumors of his dementia are proving true and he thinks he's PM again.”

  “Right.” I take another deep breath. “Well, I'm sure it'll be lovely to see him again. His presence is always so... there.”

  As I head out of the room and make my way toward my office, I can't help wishing that Sir Marmaduke bloody Gladpole would bugger off and leave me alone. The man's a decrepit relic of a bygone age and it's hard to believe there's anything he could offer me by way of advice. For God's sake, the old fool doesn't even use email; he stubbornly sticks to handwritten letters or, when he's really got his back against the wall, the occasional fax. By the time I reach the door to my office, I have to stop for a moment and steel myself against the inevitable wall of nonsense I'm about to face, but finally I push the door open and step inside with a big smile plastered across my face. I've always been rather good at bullshitting knights of the realm.

  “Sir Marmaduke!” I exclaim, affecting an air of surprise as I spot his rather large frame squeezed into one of the armchairs next to the bookshelves. “What a pleasant surprise!”

  “Did you do it?” he asks stiffly, from beneath a monstrously bushy white mustache.

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Did you do it, man?” he barks. “You're just about the most popular post-war prime minister this country has ever seen, which is a remarkable feat given that you possess all the leadership qualities of a streak of piss. I've never had such low esteem for a prime minister in all my life, and that's saying something considering the cretins I've been forced to endure.” He leans forward in the chair, causing the leather to creak. “For the love of all that's holy, please tell me you didn't give him what he wants.”

  I make my way to the desk at the far end of the room, buying myself a few seconds.

  “I don't entirely know what you mean, Sir Marmaduke,” I mutter finally. “I'm just -”

  “Don't bullshit a bullshitter!” he roars. “Dear God, man, can you not just answer a straightforward question. Did you give him what he wants?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “No, I did not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He stares at me, as if perhaps he doubts I'm telling the truth. In fact, his expression is positively dripping with condescension.

  “I didn't,” I continue, trying not to sound too defensive. “What do I look like to you? A complete fool? I'm made of sterner stuff than that, thank you very much. Now, would you like a glass of port or sherry?”

  I wait, but he simply lets out a long, thoughtful sigh.

  “I'm certainly going to have one,” I add, heading over to the decanter. Damn it, I'm usually rather cool and collected, but Sir Marmaduke has set me off-kilter. “One of the perks of this job is that from time to time, you get hold of some delightful vintages.”

  “He must see something in you,” he replies.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “He must see something that he thinks he can use,” he continues. “Some quality that will be useful to him. That's why he hasn't tossed you aside yet, and I suppose it's also why things are going so well for you at the moment.”

  “Well, I wouldn't mind taking some of the credit for these good times.”

  “He thinks you'll break,” Gladpole continues. “That's what it is. He thinks you're still his best chance, and he's hoping that he can pressure you to roll over and give him exactly what he wants.”

  “If I didn't know better,” I reply, as I pour myself a drink, “I'd be starting to think that you have a rather low opinion of me.”

  “I am the oldest living former prime minister of this great nation.”

  “I'm aware of that.”

  “It's more than fifty years since I won my first election.”

  “I'm aware of that too.”

  “More than fifty years since I was first led down to that basement and introduced to that thing.” He pauses, as if he's reliving the moment. “Every time I see a new prime minister on the television, waving from the front step, I know what's about to happen to him. He's going to be led to the basement and introduced to the thing that lives down there, and he's going to be made the same offer we've all been made for hundreds of years. And each time, as I watch the news, I find myself wondering whether this time that monster will get what he wants.”

  “He certainly hasn't got it from me,” I reply, before taking a sip of port. “I'm made of sterner stuff.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Definitely,” I add with a chuckle. “Perhaps he simply saw my strong resolve and realized he might as well work with me, rather than against me.”

  “That's not how his mind functions.”

  “Oh, and you're the expert, are you?” Finding that I've somehow finished my glass of port already, I pour another, but I can feel a simmering sense of irritation starting to bubble up through my chest already. “Did you come here today for any other reason, Sir Marmaduke? Or are we done?”

  “If that thing is ever given what he wants,” Gladpole replies, his voice filled with pompous indignation, “this nation -”

  “I know the stories,” I reply, trying to affect an air of casual indifference, “and don't worry, I'm not going to be the one who lets the side down. Perhaps he thinks he can break me, but if so then he's a bigger fool than I ever imagined. Let him try to play me, but he won't get very far. I understand the responsibility of this office far too well.”

  I down the rest of my port before glancing at my watch.

  “And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a reception dinner to get ready for. I'm sure you remember, Sir Marmaduke, what it was like when you were a busy man all those years ago. I'm sure you couldn't spare the time to sit around shooting the breeze with your predecessors, now could you?”

  ***

  “No, I said she said the bloody fool could deal with the Gambia on his own!”

  At this, a roar of laughter erupts as the various ministers, ambassadors and go-gooder movie stars continue to sip at their champagne. There's plenty of back-slapping and camaraderie, and I can't help smiling as I realize that we should be on track to raise plenty of money for those sick Africans everyone's always banging on about. Nigerians, I think, or Ethiopians, something like that. Anyway, the optics will be great.

  “Sir? A word?”

  Turning, I find that Mr. Moore has come to bother me again.

  “I rather think I'm off the clock right now,” I point out. “Save it until morning.”

  “I'm afraid this is rather urgent.”

  “Has nuclear war broken out?”

  “Not quite, Sir, but we do have a situation.” He pauses, as if thinks I might be able to read his mind, and then finally he leans closer. “Sir, something unfortunate has happened in the basement.”

  ***

  “Who the bloody hell let him down here in the first place?” I ask, as I watch a police officer setting a second femur bone on the tarpaulin. The bone has been stripped of flesh, with just a few strands of bloodless meat still clinging to one end, while part of the femur has been shattered as if the attacker was desperate to get to the marrow. Despite my sense of disgust, I can't quite bring myself to stop watching. “I thought the door was kept locked at all times.”

  “It is, Sir,” Moore replies, “but alas, Sir Marmaduke obtained special dispensation to come down to the basement. I saw fit to give him what
he wanted, although obviously I recognize now that this was an error on my part.”

  “An error? Is that all you've got to say for yourself?”

  I watch in disgust as another officer brings out part of a rib-cage. It takes a moment before I see that he's holding, in his other hand, a complete lower jawbone along with what looks like a section of the upper jaw. Something tattered is hanging from one of the bony sections, and finally I realize that Sir Marmaduke's mustache has been left more or less intact. This, at last, is enough to make me turn away.

  “So what exactly happened?” I ask, taking another sip of champagne. “Has anything like this occurred before?”

  “It's not a regular occurrence, Sir,” Moore replies, “although there is precedence.”

  “So what did he do? Did he blunder in there and cause trouble?”

  “I haven't quite been able to ascertain that, Sir. There were no witnesses. The macabre scene was only discovered when one of the duty officers noticed that Sir Marmaduke had not yet returned from the basement. I believe he had been down here for up to a quarter of an hour.”

  “A quarter of...”

  My voice trails off for a moment.

  “Is that all it took?” I add finally. “To cause all that damage?”

  Moore nods.

  “And no cries were heard? No commotion?”

  “Nothing, I'm afraid.”

  “Jesus,” I continue, finishing the last of my champagne and then turning to watch as the officers roll the tarpaulin and start wrapping straps around the edges. “Why would he do this? Why would he attack Sir Marmaduke? I didn't think he was violent. Not like this, at least.”

  “Perhaps he was simply hungry, Sir.” He hesitates. “You could go in and ask him yourself. He threw the bones out so that they could be collected, but I'm sure he would be willing to entertain a visit.”