NIGHT WATCHMAN

by Rolf Richardson

  When Bessie reckoned all her flock in Portcullis house had been accounted for, she suggested some refreshment in the atrium cafeteria. The party included the third member of their involuntary troika, Chloe Pettigrew.

  Chloe had started the day with the abortive Damian White interview, after which no one had objected when she stayed. During the curfew there had been no choice and now she was part of the scenery. With historic events taking place under her nose, Chloe vowed they would only be able to remove her yelling and screaming. She would stay the night; if necessary the next one as well; however long it took. Where didn’t matter. If necessary, sleeping on the floor. She might have had no success so far in getting any closer to the action across the road, but access to the Chief Whip and what appeared to be the tattered remnants of any government was a prize worth hanging on to.

  The three of them had just sat down to enjoy a cup of builder’s tea and some fattening buns when a shadow appeared over their table. It was a bedraggled Foreign Secretary; black hair, which he always wore long, was in disarray; shoes had fought a losing battle with too many puddles; and his normally jaunty breast pocket blue hankie was drooping.

  “May I join you?”

  Bessie paused just long enough to hint she’d rather not before replying: “Of course, Adam. Fancy a cuppa something?”

  He shook his head. Said: “Had a bite at the airport.” Sat down and continued: “Can anyone tell me what’s going on?”

  “Thought you might enlighten us,” replied Bessie.

  Another shake of the head. “Apparently that old tyrant Zumweski decided to take a header into the Mother of Parliaments. Looks like he made a mess of it. Any news of the Prime Minister?”

  Bessie shook her head. “Presumably under the rubble with the rest of them. It was Prime Minister’s Questions, remember, so it would have been a full house.”

  “Who’s running things? Whose finger on the pulse?”

  “Good question. Just had a call from Jacob Wells asking the same question.”

  “Wells the spook?”

  “You know he hates people calling him that. Says the James Bond boys are the ones across the river in Six. But yes, it was Wells, Director General of MI Five. He sounded concerned. Said he no longer had anyone to report to. Insisted we fix it a.s.a.p.”

  “I see what he means,” said Adam. “With the finger on our nuclear button under six feet of rubble, the Russkies could zapp us with no fear of reprisal.”

  “Don’t be frivolous, Adam. No one is going to nuke us just because our PM is out of the loop.”

  “Exactly the point I’ve been making all these years,” said Damian, suddenly coming to life. “Do Spain, Germany, Italy, Sweden, all the rest lose any sleep because they can’t obliterate the world? Trident is dangerous and expensive. Get rid of it.”

  “You silly little unilateralist.....” Bessie’s newfound admiration for Damian went into reverse.

  “Shut up, you two,” snapped Adam. “This is not the time to revisit that argument. My fault, I suppose, for bringing it up. We have work to do, so let’s not squabble.”

  “Agreed,” said Damian. “Did Jacob Wells say anything else, Bessie? Like the latest from across the road? If anyone knows, it should be Homeland Security, or whatever they call themselves.”

  “Jacob said he would be holding a news conference at five thirty: that’s in just over an hour. He added that the media mob would then descend on us, so we’d better have some answers ready.”

  “Then we can’t afford to waste time,” said the Foreign Secretary. “I’ll commandeer the Attlee suite, which can seat about a hundred people. Meet me there in five minutes.”

  “May I suggest we let Ms. Pettigrew sit in on our discussions,” said Damian. “She’s a journalist from Oxford.”

  Chloe shot Damian a grateful glance and explained: “My interview with Mr. White seems to have been overtaken by events, but you’re always talking about open government, so....”

  The Foreign Secretary hated open government. On the other hand he found it hard to resist a pretty face. There was also his place in history to be considered. Every politician is obsessed about his place in history. Today was HISTORY in bold capitals and he was determined that one Adam Tichbold should have the starring role. Having a scribbler present to get his version of History straight might be a good idea.

  15

  The Attlee suite on the first floor of Portcullis House is a light and airy room with five rows of grey-green seats. Facing the audience is a long oak-coloured desk with half a dozen chairs for those running the show.

  A room of this size was needed because Bessie had told the Portcullis information machine to summon all Conservative MPs to the Attlee as soon as possible. She had no idea how many would turn up, because most members would have been lured to the weekly excitement of PMQs, therefore still trapped. Maybe dead.

  Adam Tichbold opened up the room and sat himself down in the central position. He appeared to be the senior government minister to have escaped the carnage, therefore the obvious one to chair the meeting. So he told himself. No one was prepared to argue with him. Bessie Robotham sat down on the Foreign Secretary’s right, with Damian White on his left.

  Damian wondered whether either of the two big beasts of the political jungle would object to him, a mere backbencher, grabbing a place at the top table, but you didn’t get on in politics by being a shrinking violet. In the event they said nothing.

  Chloe Pettigrew selected a prime spot in the front row of the main section, took out an iPad, crossed her lovely booted legs, and smiled. The two men smirked back. With a figure-hugging fawn top over that tartan skirt and strands of auburn hair starting to stray from the bunch on her head, she was a great improvement on the human scenery one saw at most political meetings.

  After ten minutes only about twenty people had made it to the Attlee. Stragglers would no doubt continue to roll in, but Adam could wait no longer. He banged on the table. The hubbub died down. He began:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for turning up at such short notice. By now we would normally have been briefed by the Home Secretary, but he is.... unavailable. In his absence I have been promised a preliminary report from Jacob Wells of our security services in forty minutes from now, at five thirty. I won’t try and pre-empt Jacob’s findings, but the salient facts are already clear. Horribly clear. As the party of government we shall shortly have to make some difficult decisions, and I’ve called you here so that we can do just that. Meanwhile, this is what we know so far.....”

  The Foreign Secretary and Chief Whip shared what information they had with the rest of their MPs, who continued to trickle in. And waited for the clock to reach five thirty.

  16

  As the BBC News logo appeared on the TV screens, a hush descended on the Attlee suite. Adam Tichbold had been preparing his followers for the scenario that they, the rump of the Conservative party, would have to assume the reins of power. At least until a general election could be held. Now he stopped talking.

  After a brief introduction, the newscaster transferred them to a BBC reporter in the MI5 building on Millbank. Opposite him sat Director General Jacob Wells, a spare and ascetic man in his fifties, who looked more like an Oxford don than head of the country’s security. Normally Jacob kept well out of the limelight, leaving all that to the Home Secretary, but with his political master unavoidably detained he had to face the music on his own.

  Jacob started with a resumé of how AfroAir had run out of fuel, then moved on to what everyone was waiting to hear: the latest from the scene.

  “In its attempt to avoid the Elizabeth Tower - Big Ben - The Airbus crashed directly onto the House of Commons Chamber,” he began. “The rest of the Palace of Westminster - the corridors, Committee rooms, bars, House of Lords, were unaffected and quickly evacuated. But the Commons Chamber is a major disaster area. How bad we have yet to establish, but we fear the worst.”

  “Prime Minister’s Questions is the mo
st public event of the parliamentary week, so there’s good TV coverage of the moments leading to impact. We don’t have an overview of the whole chamber, but there’s enough coverage to suggest that it was, as usual, pretty near full. As the House of Commons can seat four hundred and thirty seven members, that will probably be roughly the number still buried beneath the rubble.”

  “Rescuing survivors is of course our most immediate concern, but we face severe obstacles. An Airbus Three Thirty with full payload but empty tanks weighs in the region of two hundred tonnes. It’s last recorded forward speed was just under one hundred miles per hour, which is a stalled condition, so its vertical speed would have been rapidly increasing. Imagine that hunk of metal striking a fragile old structure with this sort of violence and you’ll have some idea what our rescue services are up against.”

  “Earthquakes involve a similar type of damage, so we have a good idea what to expect; highly unstable wreckage that can collapse further if you so much as sneeze. The biggest hazard is the Elizabeth tower - Big Ben - which is leaning at such an angle it may at any moment capsize onto the rescue site. Rushing things may cause further deaths, not only amongst those still buried, but also the rescuers. Patience is therefore our only option. We’ll let you know as soon as there’s anything more to report.”

  The BBC reporter thanked the Director General, then signed off with the comment: “For the political implications of this extraordinary day, over now to my colleague at Portcullis House, where Foreign Secretary Adam Tichbold has been meeting surviving members of the ruling Conservative party.”

  The Attlee suite TV screens went dead, allowing the waiting BBC team to swing into action. Cameras in place, the reporter welcomed Adam and invited his comments. The Foreign Secretary had contemplated a quick repair job in the men’s room, but decided instead that wild hair, a crumpled suit and further disarray of his trademark blue hankie might give the impression he had been heroically scrabbling around in the wreckage. He had of course only been taking a windy walk in St.James’s Park.

  The Foreign Secretary remained silent for a moment. He may not have been trained at RADA, but like any good actor he knew the value of the pregnant pause.

  Finally he began: “Ladies and gentlemen, all our thoughts and prayers are with our colleagues trapped in the wreckage.”

  He stopped, wiping a phoney tear from his cheek. The “thoughts and prayers” mantra was obligatory at such events. Even card-carrying atheists like Adam couldn’t avoid calling up the deity. In fact, his thoughts and prayers were very much on the fate of his colleagues, but not in the manner most would have assumed. His most fervent prayer was that the whole lot should remain immured for all eternity, allowing him a free run. It’s not every day that fate eliminates all one’s major rivals in one go.

  When he judged that a suitable degree of emotion had been exhibited, Adam continued: “However, those of us that have been spared have a job to do. The Conservative party has a clear mandate to govern so we, the survivors, will not shrink from carrying out the wishes of the people. We now have to decide who shall lead us in that endeavour.”

  “May I propose the Foreign Secretary, Adam Tichbold.”

  All eyes turned to the back row and the bald, rotund figure of Jasper Maitland, Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport. Jasper was embarrassingly camp and known as the “Luvvies’ Minister”. Unlike Adam, he had been trained at RADA, but had failed to hack it on the stage or TV. So he had turned to politics, where his talent for toadying had propelled him nicely upwards. Jasper was not only a well-known stooge for the Foreign Secretary, he was also the only Cabinet Minister other than Bessie and Adam so far known to have escaped the carnage.

  “I’m deeply touched by the words of my cabinet colleague, but am I worthy of that honour?” asked Adam, with a heartrending display of humility. He had, in fact, promised the Luvvies’ Minister all sorts of goodies for popping the question, but tradition dictated that some hesitation be shown before grabbing the prize. The best example of this was the election of House of Commons Speaker, who always had to be seen protesting loudly before being installed in his chair, even though he would have been stabbing rivals in the back to get there.

  “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of seconders,” replied Jasper, beaming.

  A dozen hands went up. Bessie Robotham pointed to a middle-aged woman in a pleated skirt sitting in the front row. Said: “Thank you, Amanda.”

  There was nothing the Chief Whip wanted less than to see Adam as leader, but the Foreign Secretary clearly had the wind in his sails so she was helpless. For the moment. Adam could hardly be seen to be engineering his own elevation, so, as the next most senior person present, Bessie announced:

  “Let the record show that the motion was proposed by Jasper Maitland and seconded by Amanda Smith: That Adam Tichbold be elected our provisional leader. All in favour?”

  Just about every hand in the Attlee suite went up, including that of Chloe Pettigrew, who found herself so swept up by the fervour of the occasion that she promoted herself to a Tory Member of Parliament. Fortunately no one seemed to notice.

  Next day the image was all over the front pages: Bessie Robotham manufacturing a smile as she shook the hand of the new Conservative leader. Also the country’s new leader.

  17

  Adam Tichbold thanked the assembly for its support, then declared a recess until nine thirty the following morning. There was little more they could do now. The situation should become clearer overnight and everyone could do with a good night’s sleep. The surviving Conservatives filed out of the Attlee suite in a daze.

  The Foreign Secretary rushed off on some unannounced errand, leaving the troika of Bessie, Damian and Chloe to shut up shop. As the Chief Whip closed the door of the Attlee suite, Chloe asked: “What now?”

  No one had an answer.

  Parliament is like a school, with short intensive sessions (terms) relieved by lengthy recesses (holidays). MPs only spend about 150 days a year in Westminster. When Parliament is in session the days follow a well planned schedule - like school lessons. But now? Now MPs suddenly found themselves without a purpose in life. The mass of legislation that had so occupied them until a few hours ago, was either postponed indefinitely or dead in the water.

  Damian looked at his watch and announced: “Sun over the yardarm. I need a refresher. Any takers?”

  Bessie looked doubtful. And, unusually for her, helpless.

  “As Adam said, there’s nothing more we can do,” prompted Damian. “Or were you planning something?”

  Bessie shook her head. Asked: “What do you suggest?”

  “My pad for when I’m in Westminster is an apartment in Pimlico. Plenty of pubs and eateries around. I usually walk from here. Clears the head after a day of hot air. Takes about twenty minutes. I suppose we could try for a cab, but under the circumstances....”

  “No, we’ll walk.”

  As Bessie started galumping off, Chloe asked: “Mind if I join you?”

  The Chief Whip stopped in mid-galump and asked: “Shouldn’t you be getting back to Oxford?”

  The reporter grinned. “Mr. White still owes me an interview.”

  “So I do.” Damian rubbed his chin. He was beginning to enjoy having Chloe around, so said: “An interview in a pub? Why not. When we’ve finished I’ll point you in the direction of Paddington, make sure you don’t miss the last train home.”

  Damian wondered whether it was wise to take on two women - two very different specimens at that - but hey, life was a challenge! So off they went, Bessie at a rapid waddle, initially skirting Parliament square, still closed to vehicles, but now open to pedestrians. With half of London up to see the latest home disaster, everyone was kept moving by the police; nevertheless, snatched views of the rescue proceedings were possible. The scene was lit by a gaggle of floodlights - it was now nearly dark - and dominated by the face of Big Ben, a one-eyed yellow monster miraculously still lit up. It appeared to be about to topple o
nto the ants below. The Leaning Tower of London.

  They pressed on, initially down Victoria Street, then south towards Damian’s pied-à-terre and sustenance. Little was said, everyone preoccupied with their own thoughts. Finally they arrived at the promised land, a traditional pub with much dark wood and an impressive row of beer handles. The sign outside said ‘Dog and Bacon’.

  They found a table and ordered up, while Chloe busied herself texting a piece back to the Oxford Herald. Although TV had already broadcast the salient facts, the reporter felt she had plenty of interesting background to add. Few members of the media could have been closer when AfroAir crashed and this piece of luck had enabled her to build up a rapport with the Foreign Secretary, Chief Whip and member for Mid Oxon. All destined to be crucial players in the days ahead.

  A familiar face is a reporter’s greatest asset and Chloe intended to work this to her advantage, her ambitions now reaching beyond provincial Oxford. If she could come up with the right stuff, her editor, Bert Forrester, would send this on to the national dailies - from where the sky was the limit. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein would be forever linked with Watergate. Could Chloe Pettigrew manage something similar with the Leaning Tower of London? She had already hinted to Bert Forrester that this headline was her patent, but it was difficult - nigh impossible - to claim originality for the written word and her rivals were a ruthless bunch. But she could try. And dream.

  Eventually the food had been ordered, drinks were on the table and Chloe had finished tapping out her piece to Forrester. They could relax.

  “Don’t get many days like this,” said Damian, his upper lip newly moustached with foam from a pint of Guinness.

  “Thank God,” said Bessie, starting on her Chardonnay.

  “What happens now?” asked Chloe, aware that she was in danger of repeating herself.

  Two pairs of eyes turned towards the Chief Whip, the oldest and most senior of them. But Bessie just sat there, ruminating. She was perfectly happy in a structured environment, updating her database of MP’s facts and foibles, then whipping any backsliders into the correct voting lobby; but she didn’t like uncharted waters. So she replied, rather lamely: “I expect Adam will come up with something at tomorrow’s meeting.”