Angel Manifesto

by Michael Foot

  And then?

  All Andrew heard was a short burst of gunfire. Everyone afterwards argued about the number of shots. But Andrew had at least trained with and under gunfire in the Army, so he had more faith in his own recollections than what Chloe or others told him afterwards. He heard 3 shots in very quick succession. When he turned to look at the big monitors, the figure at the top of the steps had collapsed. The next 20 seconds seemed like an eternity; but he checked afterwards, 20 seconds was all it had taken for someone (he thought Gabrielle who had already descended) to shout “Get him away, back in the chopper; get him away from here.” Gabrielle and several of her companions raced back up the steps; 3 of the men bent over the slumped figure and, with Gabrielle’s help, each took an arm or a leg and bundled him back into the helicopter. The door then shut, the rotors started up – they had barely ceased rotating after landing a minute earlier – and about 45 seconds later the helicopter lurched into the sky and was gone.

  Around Andrew, it was pandemonium. Roughly half those around him there were turning to flee, clearly having been terrified by the gunshots and fearing more. The other half – including nearly all the Angels themselves were already running towards the scene of the shooting, some in silence, others screaming in anger. Among the photographers themselves there was equal disorder. A few had flung themselves on one of their number and were pinning him to the ground. The few police around were moving in on that group. From their starting point 100 yards away, angry Angels were now arriving outside the photo pen. And it didn’t take a great mind to foresee that something very nasty might be about to happen to the individual on the ground.

  That this didn’t happen was the serendipitous combination of two things. First, there must have been a senior officer among the police; and by the time the helicopter had taken off, she had detailed the men with her to surround the struggling pile of humanity on the ground. Second, most of the TV crews themselves had decided that it was their job – and probably a lot safer – to record these events for posterity; and a rough ring of cameras had, in that same time, surrounded the police cordon. Such is the deference which people now show to cameras that, by the time the first groups of angry Angels had arrived, this twin cordon was established; and it soon became apparent that the arrivals would take things no further.

  27

  Andrew remembered little of the next few hours. Chloe had had hysterics and nothing Andrew could do seemed to help much. Within about 20 minutes of the shooting, large extra numbers of police had turned up and at least one person from the pack of photographers had been hurried away. The police then systematically began clearing the area, starting at the photographers’ pen. Andrew, as one of the more senior Angels present, was able to round up 100 or so Angel stewards who, under police direction, helped get people away.

  Eventually, about 4 p.m. the police and a few Angels were the only ones left in the area. Andrew decided he had to get Chloe out and back somewhere safe. His flat was the only place he could think of. But, as he was doing that, his Angel watch vibrated and a light came on indicating an urgent message. This said merely ‘Be at Higham Hall in Hertfordshire by 10 a.m. tomorrow. Come tonight if you can, food and beds available. Gabrielle.’

  Andrew checked that Chloe’s watch had produced the same message; it had. Now there was, at least, something they could do, Andrew eventually managed to calm Chloe down a little and tell her they had to get back to his flat, take his car and get to wherever Higham Hall was.

  Afterwards, Andrew always found it distasteful to recall any detail from the hours that followed. Chloe did as she was told but looked and acted like a doll whose stuffing had been completely knocked out of it. Andrew pretty well dragged her out of Hyde Park, found a taxi within a couple of hundred yards and bundled her in.

  Even the taxi driver had caught the mood around the area. As Andrew settled her on the back seat, the driver relayed the information that the police were apparently holding several people for questioning; but that nothing else was known. The rumour mill and the conspiracy theorists, however, were already in full cry.

  Somehow, Andrew got Chloe back to his flat. He packed a bag for himself and one for her – she was now effectively living with him, so that was easy. They watched the early evening news bulletin, which led with ‘Party leader shot at rally’ and reprised the relatively limited footage that the news channel had managed to acquire. Nothing new. He got Chloe down to his car and, having set his satnav, headed off through North London. Chloe just lay in the passenger seat behind him, crying when she had the energy, but otherwise relapsing into awful, ominous, silence before bursting out again. Andrew quickly decided there was nothing he could do or say that would make any difference, though he also knew he would never forget these awful few hours.

  With the satnav, Higham Hall proved easy enough to find. They arrived about 8 p.m. and were bundled in. Chloe was immediately taken off by friendly female hands, some of the women obviously knew her well. Andrew was taken for some food – hot soup, bread and cheese, after it had been quickly established that he was in a fit state to help others and didn’t need the help himself. Roughly half the Angels who had already got there were sufficiently in control of their emotions to work, helping the Sisters who had been there from the start. Andrew spent most of his time up until midnight meeting late arrivals, sorting out the ones who most needed help and enlisting the others to help. Part of the time, he found himself in the kitchens – Heaven knows how the Sisters had coped with this totally unexpected influx of grieving humanity. But tinned soup and bread seemed to be in endless supply; and, as the evening went on, a few bottles of spirit found round the place got very short shrift.

  When he finally collapsed onto a small mound of bedding around 1 a.m., he guessed perhaps 300 Angels had got there. By common consent, no-one spoke about the day’s events, save sometimes to hug someone near them and, more often than not, burst into tears. Andrew’s Army training left him a little better able to function than many; but when he did have five minutes to reflect to himself, he felt a sick hopelessness that he guessed was what was being felt all around him.

  28

  Higham Hall had been built in the days of innumerable country weekends and elaborate entertainment. Even with 300 unexpected guests, there was room once some of the outbuildings had been reconnoitred and declared fit for sleeping. Several of the Sisters seemed to know the estate well, so Andrew guessed the Angels must have used it before.

  As people awoke the next morning, they were chivvied into groups and provided with what breakfast was available – certainly with lots of hot drinks and a great deal of cereal. Andrew guessed – rightly it later turned out – that all the local Balden stores had been emptied on Saturday evening, to make this possible.

  It also became clear quickly that a large number of journalists and TV hacks had been invited too, though they had all been told to get there on Sunday morning. The Hall held a huge ballroom; and that is where the journalists were put as they arrived. Some Angel group had clearly been at work there. One end of the ballroom had been cut off by a theatre curtain – in its heyday Higham had played host to a number of small plays on the stage that lay behind the curtain, so maybe this had already been there. The stage itself jutted out just a little beyond the curtains and, in the centre of that visible flooring, there was just a free-standing mike.

  The invitees gathered on the main floor. He could see a lot of Angels, including a number he knew. But, whoever was organising the Angels today, clearly they did not need him. Most of those he saw and knew, not surprisingly, were keeping to themselves and looking thoroughly downcast. Most of the media arrivals looked like their attendance had been settled by the relevant editor or producer only that morning; and some looked like they either hadn’t been to bed on the Saturday night or had only recently been hauled out of that bed to attend. Certainly what coffee and pastries there were took a hammering, especially given that, at mid
-morning, even hardened journalists would have been surprised to find alcohol available.

  Andrew had got one of the girls to find Chloe, help her dress and bring her to him. She was better than the previous night but totally withdrawn. He found her a cup of coffee and did his best with her. But what could he say that might be of any use? All he could think of was to point her towards the announcement that presumably Gabrielle was going to make. “We have to stay strong” he urged Chloe “Michael wouldn’t have wanted anything else”.

  Like him, the few people he did talk to thought that some kind of statement would be forthcoming from Gabrielle; and it would depend on that what happened next. Would she take on the leadership? Presumably so. Would they go on contesting the Election? Who knew?

  Andrew listened to some of the journalists’ conversations around him and sought to catch up on the news. There was little hard news. Apparently, the police were not yet willing to say whether there had been one assassin or more, or whether the one man they did have in custody was the one who had fired the shots. Many of these journalists were fierce rivals, or at least their papers were. But there was – he had seen before – also a grudging camaraderie among them. So, Andrew overheard several shared stories about how X had been rung by his editor at 10 the previous evening and told to haul his butt over here by 10 am Sunday – or else. It turned out the one good thing the shortage of time had meant was that one of the TV camera crews was being paid to provide photographs as needed for all, so the press people had for the most part been able to leave their own photographers behind. When the conversations strayed onto why they were here, Andrew could establish that – like himself – the media could see no reason why they were there other than the one he had come up with. And most of those media obviously felt it was a pretty poor reward for a ruined Saturday night and no lie-in on a Sunday morning.

  As 11 a.m. approached, the noise in the room and the apprehension that was swirling around, unseen but felt by all, rose several notches. The Angels were known for sticking to pre-set timetables though this of course was an unprecedented occasion. But by 11 a.m. itself, the camera crews were in place and most of the individuals had edged to somewhere that they thought would give adequate view of whatever was to happen. Andrew realised that no chairs had been put out – whatever this was, it was clearly going to be short if not sweet.

  At 11 precisely, Gabrielle stepped out from behind the curtain and, with the mike on, called for attention. She got it within 10 seconds. No doubt the visitors were as interested as Andrew was to find out what was happening.

  Gabrielle was wearing a long plain flowing dress, interestingly with no outward sign of mourning. She looked like what she was, the Number 2 of a large and important organisation. Like nearly all the Angels Andrew had met, she radiated self-confidence and inner calm. Nearly all those present would know who she was; so Gabrielle made no self-introduction but launched straight into what she had to say.

  “I want to thank all of you for coming at such short notice. I promise you, though, that whatever you are currently thinking, you will within 20 minutes be glad that you made the effort. Within the hour you will be downloading a great story, an almost miraculous story, to your readers and listeners. Indeed, I can imagine many of you are already poised on social media to spread whatever that story is; though I must warn (and apologise for the fact) that – until we have finished – the jamming devices we have here will mean that none of your output – even the TV feeds – will be going anywhere. We want you to hear and understand before you communicate.

  Enough prelude. The past is easy to describe. Around mid-day yesterday, three shots (we think) were fired at a man about to walk down the steps of a helicopter in Hyde Park. He was hit, he collapsed and, as our own internal procedures have always provided for in the case of such an awful event, those surrounding him bundled him up and back into the helicopter. In case there should be further shots or more trouble. The helicopter took off; and then there was almost complete radio silence from us until the messages that went out from here last night calling you in today.

  Gabrielle paused and looked around. She certainly had the audience’s attention though they were almost radiating incomprehension. She continued.

  “The man who was about to walk down those helicopter steps was – tragically for him, wonderfully for us – NOT Michael. His name was Adrian Cowley and, in a short while, you will be able to see his body and the bullet marks on him. You will see that he bears more than a passing resemblance to Michael, though those of us who know Michael would never have been fooled for more than a minute. When you have seen Adrian, we will be handing his body over to the police, as well of course as making ourselves available to them.

  I now need to explain how this came about. The day before the concert, we received word from the intelligence authorities of rumours of a planned attack on Michael. This is not the first time we have had such warnings; up to now all had been false alarms.

  We didn’t want to do what the authorities would have liked – which was to call off the concert or, at least, for Michael not to go. But this latest warning had more ‘legs’ than previous rumours. So, what to do?

  The authorities thought that the arrival by helicopter would be the point at which any assassin would likely strike. The front rows to the stage where Michael would be speaking from were already set significantly well back; and the expected occupants of those first seats were all known and pre-vetted. The opportunities for an assailant there would be very limited.

  After much debate among ourselves and with the authorities, Michael agreed that someone would stand in for him in walking from the helicopter to the dais. The idea was concocted that this person would get to the stage and immediately introduce the ‘real’ Michael who would be sitting directly in front of the stage. The explanation would be that we need to remind people that we must all avoid preconceptions. We wanted to warn that now, and in the future, people – and by that we particularly mean voters next week – need to be sure that they are getting the right message from the right source. He would highlight this by pointing out just how many people there would have been shouting for him just a few minutes earlier, when actually they had been hailing a complete stranger.

  Now, the authorities offered to find someone to impersonate Michael. But, as some of you will know, Michael is surrounded by people who love him deeply, many of whom have been with him for years. One of these, Adrian Cowley, insisted that he would stand in for Michael. Indeed, he pointed out that this would not be the first time that people had actually mistaken him for Michael in real life. He would not be budged. In the end, Michael agreed.

  You may well think this ruse was fraught with danger and that, if it had gone ahead as planned, would have appeared as a not very clever party trick. But we were stuck between a rock – the rumour of an attack – and a hard place, not wanting to deprive so many loyal supporters of a last chance to see Michael before the Election.

  Tragically, Adrian paid the ultimate price; but, I stress, it would otherwise have been Michael himself. When the shots rang out and Adrian had obviously been hit, Michael and his two helpers immediately faded into the crowd, much of which – you will recall – was by then already surging angrily towards the man who we think fired the shots. So all that really required was for Michael and the helpers to move slowly away from the scene, as others surged towards the action. In a minute we will be showing you TV footage taken at the time by our own Angel cameraman, who had of course been let into the secret of what was intended, so that he could pick out Michael at the right time.

  Why didn’t Michael stay? Why haven’t we said anything before this morning? Well, simply because Michael and I decided, as soon as we spoke to each other, that the assassination attempt could well be part of a wider, unfinished, plot. For all we knew, there were other would-be assassins around to finish the job. We wanted a little time – and at least the initial investigatio
ns of the Metropolitan Police – to make as sure as we can that Michael would be safe when we revealed what had happened. In the meantime, it would be no bad thing if the killer or killers thought their efforts had succeeded. I apologise now to any of you who came this morning who got grilled by Security as you came in. I should also tell you we have hidden official marksmen round you right now. We will not willingly run risks in future. We think Michael is safe; but we are going to make sure that Adrian’s death is not wholly in vain.”

  At this point, a curtain on the wall behind Gabrielle opened to reveal a huge TV screen. “We have edited what you are about to see, to show the whole event. But I can assure any doubters among you that, later, anyone can have access to all the TV footage we have.”

  The screen sprang into life, split into two. The audience then watched mesmerised and in almost complete silence while events unfolded. On the left screen, the camera picked out what now looked obviously to be Michael sitting quietly in the front row of the VIP seats immediately in front of the dais. On the right, the camera showed the helicopter landing, ‘Michael’ i.e. Adrian getting out and about to walk down the steps, the shots ringing out, the body falling. Then the sudden freeze that had hit the scene – followed by those around the fallen ‘Michael’ scooping him up between four of them, getting back into the helicopter which then took off. As these events materialised, the left hand screen showed the look of surprise and horror on the face of the real Michael, his putting a hand on each of his companions and then the three of them rising to slip away in the confusion and hubbub that had already surrounded them.

  The presentation ended and Gabrielle slipped from the stage, almost unseen. It stood bare for a few seconds, then the lights over it shone even brighter. And, to a barely heard but physically felt collective intake of breath, Michael walked out on the stage and seized the microphone.