2084 The End of Days

by Derek Beaugarde

  *

  A couple of hours later that same morning Jill and Ruthie stood facing each other in the ladies’ restroom on the 8th floor of the Times office. Buckley had been mightily pleased with Jill and the other Times staff who had worked hard to get a great story out about the tragic, historic and horrendous events at Windsor. But, Buckley demanded that the whole team needed to knuckle down because the Times was going to have to be filled with each day’s developing events on this momentous story.

  “Ruthie, you’re covering everything that goes for a shit out of the Palace, right up to Thursday’s State Funeral for Prince Edward. Can you handle it?”

  Ruthie was elated. She was entering into the big leagues now. Ruthie exclaimed a bit too enthusiastically.

  “Yes, Buck!”

  Buckley turned to Jill and stabbed a finger at her.

  “You’re on the investigation side of the bomb plot. I want you to crawl all over Hollingsworth and every blue-arsed copper who has something to say about it. And I want you to turn over every stinking stone and unearth each and every snivelling snitch and grass that you know. I want the Times to be the first paper to print the name of the bastard organisation that carried out this atrocity. Okay, Jill?”

  “What about the Schenkler thing?”

  Buckley threw his notes down hard on his desk.

  “Fuck the Schenkler thing! That’s next week’s news if it ever gets that far. This week we’re only interested in Her Majesty and any fucking terrorists. Are we on board with that, Jill?”

  “Absolutely, boss.”

  Ruthie gave another tissue to Jill from the cheap scented box on the restroom wash counter. Jill wept sorely just as another girl from the Finance department stepped in, but just as quickly stepped back out again when she saw the floods of tears.

  “Oh, God, Ruthie – this pregnancy thing has got me so fucked up, ah cannae think straight!”

  Ruthie gently touched the back of Jill’s hand.

  “How do you feel about it, Jill, are you happy?”

  “Ah don’t know what to think, Ruthie. Ah phoned ma mum in Glasgow last night. She’s over the bloody moon about it. Always wanted to be a granny, she said. But ah don’t know how ah feel.”

  Ruth probed Jill a bit further.

  “Do you want this baby?”

  “No – ah mean, yes, maybe – och, ah don’t know, Ruthie. Khan has got me all messed up at the moment. First off ah tossed him out ‘cos ah thought he was screwing around - then it looks like ah might have been wrong about that. And now here ah am carrying his baby – our baby…”

  Jill hesitated and looked at Ruthie with liquid-filled bloodshot eyes but Ruthie saw something begin to sparkle in those reddened teary orbs. Ruthie smiled and indicated with her beckoning palms.

  “A-a-and?”

  Jill collapsed into Ruthie’s arms.

  “Of course ah bloody well want this baby. Oh, Ruthie ah’m just so happy and excited…”

  Ruthie held Jill at arms length and the young girl spoke in a serious and matronly tone to her new Glaswegian friend.

  “Well there is a lot to think about, Jill…”

  “You’re right, Ruthie. Buckley’s gonna have us working up to the hilt this week on this Windsor story. So ah better start thinking about that and park the baby for the present…”

  Ruthie scoffed with a huge smile on her face.

  “Sod that Buckley - who’s talking about him? You need to think about getting your ultra and your amnio!”

  “Oh, yeah, ah forgot about them, Ruthie.”

  The ‘amnio’ was the legally obligatory amniocentesis procedure in which a small amount of the amniotic fluid surrounding the baby in the womb is removed to detect whether or not a foetus has inherited a chromosomal disorder, such as Downs syndrome. In 2066 the Liberal Democrat and Labour coalition government came under pressure to act on the rising numbers of genetic disorders and human infertility. They passed the highly controversial Abortion Amendment Act 2066, which was vehemently opposed by the Conservative opposition and Christian, Muslim and other Pro-Life groups. The Act made it law for all pregnant women in the UK to have an ultrasound scan at 12 weeks and again at 15 weeks. Women also required to give blood samples and take an amniocentesis test, also at the 15 week stage. Women would then have to receive a counselling session on the test results, although this was only to provide the women with choice and no woman was legally required to abort their foetus. However, Jill would certainly need to take the tests.

  “The thing is this, Ruthie – ah would hardly trust ma doctor’s centre to prescribe me an aspirin, never mind take an amnio from me!”

  Ruthie thought for a moment and then had a brainwave.

  “Tell ya what, Jill – this is right up my mom’s street. She’s a brill doc at Bart’s – I’ll ask her for a big favour.”

  Jill looked in the mirror and started tidying up her smudged mascara.

  “That’s great, Ruthie. Look we better get back to work before Buckley sends out a search party!”

  The girl from the Finance department popped her head in gingerly to check if it was now safe for her to pee.

  Chapter 11

  Earthdate: 10:28 Thursday February 13, 2081 GMT

  The butler in 10 Downing Street poured tea into the china cups for the two men, quietly and efficiently. They hardly noticed his presence. The butler backed out of the understated study and left Prime Minister John Ralston and US President Joshua Spengler Trueman to enjoy their morning tea and biscuits and to continue their meeting in private. Ralston spoke first.

  “It’s a damned rotten business this, Josh!”

  The large imposing black ex-5 Star General US Army from Birmingham, Alabama was in total agreement with his British counterpart.

  “Too fuckin’ right it is, John! Taking down Prince Eddie is real bad. Ah really liked that young guy. Ma fear is that this is the start of a resurgence in global terrorism, the likes a’ which we ain’t seen in fifty years. An’ ah ain’t standin’ for it on ma watch!”

  “Nor on mine, Josh, but it appears to be here and right now. And the British police and Security Services have drawn a blank so far as to the perpetrators of this bloody atrocity.”

  Trueman empathised with the Prime Minister.

  “It’s the same ma side a’ the Pond, John. CIA and Homeland Security ain’t turned up diddly squat. But ma money’s still on the LOIN. It just smells like Islamic extremism to me. That’s why ah think that we fire a shot across Suleiman’s bow!”

  Ralston nodded his agreement.

  “Shall we make the call then, Josh?”

  Trueman nodded and Ralston patched through to his secretary to connect the secure line to Tehran. They sipped at their tea quietly in nervous anticipation. It was only a moment or two before the distinctive deep voice of the Iranian President and Secretary-General of the LOIN, Mullah Abdullah Suleiman came through clearly and confidently. Suleiman, a Cambridge graduate, spoke perfect English with the softest of accents.

  “Good morning, Prime Minister Ralston.”

  “Good morning, President Suleiman. I also have President Josh Trueman here beside me this morning.”

  Trueman was never one for standing on ceremony.

  “Yeah, Josh here Abdullah. How are y’all doing?”

  “Mmmm, for an old man I am doing very well. Allah has blessed me in mind, in body and in spirit. And Prime Minister Ralston and yourself President Trueman? I trust that your God has smiled also on you both?”

  Trueman looked over at Ralston who nodded for the US President to continue.

  “Well, as you know, Abdullah, John and ah are due at Westminster Abbey at one o’clock for his, ah, His Royal Highness, Prince Edward’s funeral –“

  There was a slight pause before Suleiman replied.

  “Yes, my friend, a dreadful bus
iness. I apologise to you Prime Minister Ralston that due to pressing commitments I am unable to attend His Highness’s sad funeral this afternoon. I trust my Vice-President Mullah Ahmed Rahman has arrived to represent the great Islamic Republic of Iran?”

  Ralston nodded again to Trueman, who continued to speak.

  “Yep, Abdullah, John says that Vice-President Rahman is in London and we thank you for his presence. What ah would like ta run by you, Abdullah, is if your guys have heard anything at all about who might be behind this terrible atrocity at Windsor?”

  Again Suleiman paused before replying.

  “Josh, my friend, I hope that is not a veiled accusation against Iran or the LOIN?”

  Trueman tapped his nose at Ralston then lied.

  “Ah ain’t accusing anybody of anything, Abdullah. As you well know there has existed a sort a’ Pax Romana in the world for the last fifty odd years. And John and ah would like to, uh, try and keep it that way. Ah trust that you want that too, Abdullah?”

  Mullah Abdullah Suleiman sounded mildly irritated.

  “President Trueman, it is my belief that it was the foresight of the previous Islamic leaders – my predecessors - in walking out of the UN and creating the strength of Islam within the LOIN that actually contributed to this Pax Romana, as you call it. As you both well know, the beloved Qu’ran urges all of its followers to seek the path of peace...”

  Trueman interrupted Suleiman.

  “And Prime Minister Ralston and ah would commend that path is taken by all the followers of Allah, including yourself Abdullah. All ah would like to say, my friend, is that the governments of Great Britain and the United States will leave no stone unturned to find out who is behind this barbaric terrorism. And when we do…”

  Ralston shook his head vigorously and held up his palm at Trueman in restraint. Suleiman interjected during the slight impasse becoming more irritated.

  “…and what exactly will you do, President Trueman?”

  John Ralston interjected instead.

  “We will bring all the perpetrators to justice, President Suleiman. All that President Trueman and I seek is for the continuation of world peace to exist between all the nations in the UN and the LOIN. I trust that is your own aspiration?”

  Suleiman’s voice suddenly changed and he now sounded like a venomous viper ready to strike.

  “Of course, Prime Minister Ralston - I will always follow the path of my great and beloved Allah in striving for the true peace and justice deserved of all his Islamic peoples. Now I must go and allow you both to prepare to grieve - for your dead Prince. Good day, gentlemen.”

  The line went dead and Ralston and Trueman looked at each other with pained expressions.

  “Goddamit, John, that was a fuckin’ veiled threat if ever ah heard one!”

  “Yes, Josh, I believe that Suleiman may have been inferring that a holy jihad is in the offing. My impression was that he was not just telling us to grieve for the Prince today, but also to grieve for what is to come in the future!”

  *

  Earthdate: 11:48 Thursday February 13, 2081 GMT

  As Gary sat glued to the small 3DTV in his flat, he thought that it really should have been a Black Friday. Instead it was a Thursday the 13th rather than a Friday the 13th. In twelve minutes time the State Funeral procession of His Royal Highness, Edward, Prince of Wales was about to begin and the cameras were already rolling. The sombre British commentator on the BBC advised the hundreds of millions of viewers sitting mesmerised that ‘the eyes of the world are watching this terrible moment’. Gary glanced over at Ewan, who was busily poring over notes and diagrams and CGI models on his computer screen. Gary thought, well not all the eyes of the world are watching.

  “Jeez, Ewan, gonna give that a bloody rest for five minutes. Are you not gonna watch the funeral on TV?”

  Ewan looked up momentarily, more at the TV than at Gary.

  “Sorry, Gary, but I need to work on this. It’s important and I want to have it ready to take down to Jill on Saturday afternoon.”

  Jill had phoned Ewan on the Monday after the death of Prince Edward and Aisha al-Gazari to say that her boss Bill Buckley had put his whole team onto the bombing and funeral reportage and that she would have to put the Schenkler story off at least until the Saturday. The plan was for Ewan and Gary to catch the Edinburgh train down to London on Saturday morning and then come over to Jill’s flat in Kew in the afternoon. Ewan had told Jill that this idea suited him, because he needed to work on some more in-depth research on the comet. Gary had become increasingly fed up with Ewan’s inordinate obsession with the blasted comet. Gary gave a loud harrumph to signal his disapproval and went back to watching the funeral on TV and growled at Ewan.

  “Och, suit yerself, Ewan.”

  The BBC camera panned in on a Welch Guardsman, a soldier of Prince Edward’s own regiment. The guardsman was dressed in his smart funereal black and grey uniform and he was wearing the traditional tall black Busby. He was standing to attention and holding the reins of Prince Edward’s huge white Arabian charger Churchill. The horse looked nervy and restless as it waited to lead the awful procession from the gates of St James’s Palace. Great plumes of frosty air shot out from its nostrils as it tugged on the reins. Behind the unmounted horse, there stood the four senior male princes of the Royal House of Windsor. They were trying desperately hard not to look frozen as they stood in the courtyard on the bitterly cold February morning: David, the Prince Regent, in his full blue-grey RAF Air Marshall-in-Chief’s uniform, Georgie, the young Duke of York, and now the new heir to the throne, his younger brother William, Earl of Sussex, and the Queen’s cousin the Duke of Kent, in his dark-blue naval uniform. Behind the four princes, stood four very patient and glistening black stallions, mounted with four Welch Guards. They were dressed in tight black and grey gun carriage drivers’ uniforms.

  An awful thought went through Gary’s mind that they reminded him of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, those harbingers of doom foretelling the end of the world. The four black horses were hitched and reined to the old World War I gun carriage which was mounted with the Prince of Wales’s coffin, wrapped in the Union Jack, with his Colonel-in-Chief’s cap for the Welch Guards lying atop the flag. Behind the gun carriage sat the bullet-proof electri-limousines, which would carry Queen Elizabeth III and the other royal and military dignitaries. The procession would be completed by a troop of immaculate red-jacketed Horse Guards also in Busbys followed by grey-coated bandsmen, then massed soldiers, sailors and airmen representing the Armed Services. Down at Westminster Big Ben solemnly boomed out twelve o’clock. Wispy ghostly freezing fog blew up off the River Thames and swirled up towards St James’s Palace. The armed bands began to play the blood-chilling chords of Frederic Chopin’s Marche Funebre. The BBC commentator lowered his voice to a respectful whisper.

  “And now with head bowed the Prince’s great white charger Churchill is slowly led out of the gates of St James’s Palace. It will lead the funeral procession and the coffin of His Royal Highness, Prince Edward of Wales: down Pall Mall, past Trafalgar Square, along Whitehall and into Parliament Street. The funeral procession will then turn into Victoria Street where it will arrive at the Prince’s final resting place at Westminster Abbey…”

  Gary sat riveted to the TV broadcast. He was not really a Royalist supporter at heart, but it was one of those terrible moments in history that people felt compelled to watch. Those terrible moments when human beings can place themselves in time and space and would state, “I remember where I was when President Kennedy was shot….when Princess Diana died.”

  “That’s the procession started, Ewan.”

  “I’ve got one eye on it, Gary. Now will you leave me alone please?”

  Gary fell into a silent huff as he watched the long procession pace forward to Chopin’s slow metre. He thought drearily to himself, God, I’ve spent half my
life leaving you alone, Ewan. Gary remembered that other moment in his own history when he first met Ewan Sinclair, the lad from Lagavulin, Islay. Gary’s upbringing had been much different to that of the red-haired son of a Wee Free Minister from the rural island community. Gary was born on 25 February 2056, over a month after Ewan, also in the Maternity Wing of the South Glasgow University Hospital. Gary was raised in the deprived housing estate of Castlemilk in the south east suburbs of the city. Gary had been brought up by his parents, Frank and Annie Mackintosh, to practise in the Roman Catholic faith, but Gary could never see the point of religion. He rejected the faith to the eternal dismay of his mother, who was a devout Catholic. Instead Gary grew up worshipping his own two gods - the Computer and Money. He soon found out at an early age that he was adept at the altar of both his gods. He learned computing pretty quickly and started to get into the gaming circuit. A professional online gaming circuit had emerged about twenty years before he was born and huge amounts of money could be made. Of course, it was illegal for children under sixteen to enter the circuit but talented players could always find a way in. Gary, who was only nine when he started, created a clone, an avatar of his older self, on the circuit and started playing on the small stakes local online sessions. By the time he was eleven he had graduated to the big international gamers’ leagues and although he had sometimes lost big stakes in the beginning, he soon found that he was competing with the Big Boys. The money started rolling in to his various online and offshore bank accounts. In his last year at primary school, Gary asked his father Frank, a moderately paid council worker, if he could sit the bursary examination for Glasgow High School as his teacher had recommended that he give it a try. The bursary only covered the first three years and fees were required from parents for the last three years. Frank looked at Gary reticently.