NIGHT WATCHMAN

by Rolf Richardson

  “A comforting thought,” said Damian drily, adding: “Any clue when this present plague will start dying down?”

  “Not the foggiest. The nineteen eighteen version drifted on until the end of nineteen twenty, so we can expect plenty more fun. Whoever wins the next election will have their hands full.”

  “Keep me posted,” said the Prime Minister. And rang off.

  43

  They ended the day with another Chinese takeaway and a bottle of Australian Sauvignon Blanc. Crazy, of course. Here they were in Number Ten Downing Street, nerve centre of a rather diminished British Empire. They were masters of one hundred rooms and a posse of staff, but were behaving like a hard-up couple in a suburban semi.

  However, it had been a tough day emotionally. First Gerry Farthing. Then discussing the nation’s growing pile of corpses with the leader of the funeral mafia. Finally Sir Marcus’s forecast that the show might continue for another couple of years. A day of death, with barely a respite.

  In all this gloom there had been only two glimmers of light: in spite of media forecasts of mayhem, the British public seemed to be achieving a degree of stoicism: as yet no riots or signs of disaffection: and Adam Tichbold had jumped at the chance to get the nation’s crematoria up to speed.

  By 6.30 Damian had had enough. There was little more he could do that day. After all, he was only the interim prime minister. The Night Watchman. No mass of legislation to worry about. His only job was to keep the ship of state from sinking until the next lot took over. No one could begrudge him an evening off with his new girl friend.

  Girl friend: Chloe Pettigrew. Could there ever have been a weirder romance – if one could use that word. Still only... what was it, less than two weeks? Fourteen… thirteen days since chance had placed them in the same room the moment the earth had shaken for them. AfroAir had hit with a helluva wallop.

  Thereafter, she had used him to access the biggest story of her life. He had used her because… well, he had recently been chronically short of female company. And she was turning out to be a very smart lady: many talents wrapped up in an attractive package.

  It had been a chaotic scramble from one crisis to the next, so opportunities to murmur the traditional sweet nothings had been reduced to brief moments in bed between passion and unconsciousness. Days had been so hectic they had slept the sleep of exhaustion.

  Damian was beginning to realise he had been very lucky with his new companion. She was not only beautiful and sexy, but also competent, having fitted into the job of Number Ten Chief of Staff as though tailored for it. Chloe was a people person. Got on with everyone in Number Ten. Got on with everyone, period.

  For the first time since wife Mandy had abandoned him, Damian was beginning to feel human again, so it might be worth an effort to try and hang on to his new treasure. Which was why he had set aside this evening for relaxation. A ‘get to know you better’ evening. No TV, just a candle-lit dinner. The bait should perhaps have been something more exotic than a Chinese takeaway, but there was plenty of wine in the fridge to enhance the eating experience.

  Chloe took the king prawns with ginger and spring onions, sweet and sour chicken, special fried rice, and stuck them in the microwave. From its temperature on arrival their dinner appeared to have travelled the length of London.

  Damian lit a couple of candles, arranged Number Ten’s chopsticks artistically on the table, opened a bottle of Barossa Valley’s best and drew the curtains.

  When the reheated food had been served and the wine poured, they clinked glasses and looked soulfully into each other’s eyes. His beloved was dressed in a revealing maroon dress, hair flowing over her shoulders, a hint of some unknown scent.

  “Another crap day at the office then,” she said, having been brought up to date on the day’s events.

  Damian nodded. “Not a lot of laughs. But probably brilliant for your best seller.”

  She smiled. “Give me a day of disasters and I’ll never complain.”

  “So your editor, what’s his name…?”

  “Forrester.”

  “Yea, Forrester. He’s happy for you to keep playing truant from Oxford?”

  “Of course. We hacks follow the news, which is now being made right here. I’ll probably return to the dreaming spires after the election.”

  “Prime ministers have been known to sack their Chief of Staff,” said Damian mischievously.

  “Maybe. But never a Chief of Staff who attends to other needs.” Chloe leant over and stroked his hand, causing a king prawn, wedged precariously between his chopsticks, to take a dive onto his lap.

  He recovered the wandering crustacean, which had made a nasty mark on his trousers and conceded: “Very well. No reshuffles.” He then retired to water down the prawn stain, which made it look as though he had done a pee in his pants.

  On his return Chloe said: “Talking of Oxford, while you were entertaining that funeral fellow, I had a call from an old pal of yours: name of Warbeck.”

  “Alec Warbeck. With all that’s been going on, I’d almost forgotten him.”

  “Well, he hasn’t forgotten you. Asked me to remind you what he’d said: that the last shall be first. Whatever that might mean.”

  Damian sat back, wiped his mouth, remembered: “It’s thanks to Alec I’m sitting here now. He rang me at once when the previous Mid Oxon candidate died unexpectedly, did a rush job to get me selected, then became my election agent. Said that Tony Blair had been the last candidate in the country to be selected when he first stood for Sedgefield and it wasn’t long before he was standing in Number Ten. Joked that I also could be the ‘last one that came first’.”

  “Seems he was right.”

  “Blair was here for ten years. I’ll be lucky to last ten weeks. But I don’t suppose Alec was ringing to remind me of old times.”

  “No, he wants to advise you not to neglect your home patch. Power corrupts and absolute power…that sort of stuff.”

  “I’ve hardly had time to get corrupted,” said Damian grumpily. “Give me ten years and yea…. by then I might enjoy a bit of corruption.”

  “Alec also pointed out there’s an election coming up and nothing can be taken for granted,” continued Chloe. “Especially with this new system you’ve let yourselves in for. No more shoo-ins for Tories in safe seats. You’ll now have to work for it.”

  “He’s right,” admitted Damian. “Seems I’ve been seduced by Westminster.” He grinned. “And by one of Westminster’s visitors. But I really should get back to my roots in the provinces. I’ll give it my attention.”

  “Alec thinks you should give it your attention pretty smartish….”

  “…Alec has been free with his advice….”

  “…Says the natives are becoming restless. Not happy to wait forever for your fancy new election. Want to get the job done pronto.”

  “Funny he should say that. I’ve been thinking along the same lines. It was Gerry who suggested early June. Seemed to think we needed that long. But the Electoral Reform Bill is now an Act of Parliament. Legally we could have the election next week.”

  “So only the practicalities are holding us up?”

  Damian nodded. “Except I wouldn’t use the word ‘only’. The old system was absurdly easy. First count all the votes to find the turnout. Then separate them into piles for the various candidates. Agree any questionable voting slips with the returning officer – not everyone put a cross in the space provided. And that was it. Unless it was so close you needed a recount. Constituencies racing to be first to declare could manage the whole thing in about an hour flat. Even those working at a more sensible tempo could often do the job in three or four hours.”

  “Compared with how long for STV?”

  “In difficult cases maybe the same in days. It’s not so much complicated as tedious. But done to a formula. Gerry wanted to make sure everyone was fully trained to use it, but he’s no longer with us and I wonder whether perfection on this first outing is really necess
ary. If a returning officer runs into difficulties, he only has to call in the experts. The bits of paper – the votes – won’t go away. If necessary shut up shop for the day, sleep on it, come back refreshed. I think Alec may be right; we should accept possible hiccups during the count in exchange for more rapid implementation.”

  “I’ll bet your Minister for Speed would agree.”

  Damian thought for a moment, then got up and went to the phone: “Let’s see.”

  Chloe: “Won’t Adam be busy making the crematoria burn faster?”

  “Maybe. But it’s getting late, so he should be back by now. Anyway, I’m only asking for his opinion, not more work.”

  His call was answered on the fourth ring by Hermione: “Oh…it’s you again.”

  Damian laughed. “Is that the way to greet your prime minister!”

  “You’ve got Adam working his socks off. Only arrived home half an hour ago. Go on like this and he’ll be a customer for one of those burners.”

  “Bet he’s enjoying it.”

  Hermione sniffed: “Says if he’s not re-elected he’ll go into the funeral business. A licence to print money.”

  “No danger of a recession, that’s for sure. And in boom times like now he’d be making a killing - pardon the pun. But my impression is it’s pretty much a close shop. Family businesses going back generations. Don’t like outsiders feeding at the trough.”

  “Damian, dear boy!” Adam cut in from the upstairs extension. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like a few words about the timing of the election…”

  “Excellent idea. But not now. I’m just back from a day dealing with death. Gasping for my snifter. I need one more session to put some real rockets up their backsides, so let’s say the day after tomorrow. Sunday here at the ranch again? Becoming quite a habit.”

  “I’ll do another roast,” interjected Hermione, now back to her usual self. “And of course bring Chloe.”

  “And don’t forget sugar lumps,” added Adam. “Sugar lumps for Fidget.”

  “I’ll make a note of it in my diary.”

  Britain’s population may have been dying fast, but the prime minister’s priority had to be treats for a horse.

  44

  APRIL 7th.

  The trip to the Tichbold estate was becoming almost routine: Damian and Chloe in the PM’s limo, with security boys Bill and Ben on hand to make sure they behaved themselves; the familiar crunch round the gravel drive to be greeted by the master himself, the Minister without Portfolio – alias the Minister for Speed.

  “Slight change of plan,” announced Adam as they got out. “The weather man is forecasting a postprandial deluge, so Hermione has seen fit to take her charger for a gallop while it’s still dry. Affairs of state must defer to my domestic schedule, which now places the prandial bit at one fifteen, when the carving knife is now due to meet the roast.”

  “Don’t see why your wife’s nag should be the only one to benefit,” said Damian. “Could do with a gallop myself. Too much sitting around recently. Hardens the arteries.”

  Like many a former athlete, Damian’s departure from top flight sport had still left his body with the need for stimulus. It had rebelled at going straight from a tightly-strung instrument to a couch potato. The life of an MP was hardly conducive to maintaining a fitness regime, but even when parliament was in session it did have long weekends, when members were expected to make their presence felt back in their constituencies. Damian certainly did that, but he also tried to keep in shape by joining a squash club; made an effort to play every day during his release from Westminster: Friday evenings and at some stage during Saturday and Sunday. Squash is one of the most intensive sports known to man and just about satisfied his craving for exercise.

  That worked fine when life had been normal, but the past couple of weeks had been anything but. During this time he had not once been on a squash court, hardly even walked any distance. He was going to seed.

  He heard Chloe say: “Looks like it’ll stay dry for another hour or two. Why not go off on your gallop? Might even meet Hermione and Fidget.”

  Although clouds were gathering in the west and the wind strengthening, Chloe was right. Even if he did get soaked, it would hardly matter, indeed would cool him down. He immediately discarded the absurd notion of asking Adam if he had any sporty clothing to borrow. His Minister for Speed was at least a head taller, so nothing would fit.

  “Yea, I could do with a workout.” Damian took off his pullover and gave it to Chloe. He would have to go off in what he was wearing.

  “What about us?” wailed Bill – or it might have been Ben.

  “What about you?” replied Damian.

  “We’re supposed to be your security.” He clearly didn’t fancy his chances of keeping up with a man credited with once having some of the fastest legs in the country.”

  “The chance of an assassin lurking in Adam’s undergrowth must be pretty remote. I’ll take my chances. Everyone heard that?”

  They all nodded.

  Adam smiled and said: “Prime Minister’s statement noted. We are hereby absolved from any harm that might befall him.”

  Damian grinned: “If anyone does get me, I aim to be the fittest corpse in the morgue.”

  45

  He started his gallop at little more than a trot. Although running was a bit of a bore, he had done a fair bit of it during his top sporting days and always took care to warm up. No need to pull a muscle. He reckoned his best distance had been the non-olympic event of twenty yards, where he’d have given Usain Bolt a run for his money, but stamina had also been on the agenda: not a full Marathon, but certainly ten to fifteen miles.

  The Tichbold estate and its protective undergrowth did not last long. Within minutes he found himself in a country lane, lined with trees wondering whether it was time to burst into leaf. With intermittent sun, clouds racing across on a brisk westerly, temperature around eight Celsius, it was ideal running weather. It was also ideal running country, England being covered in a maze of public footpaths and bridleways. He soon managed to get off the road, along muddy lanes and edges of fields still awaiting their spring growth. All the while gradually upping his running tempo.

  After a little over an hour he estimated the Tichbold estate to be three or four miles over to his right: somewhere. He had a good sense of direction, but they had always approached the Tichbold’s in a chauffeur driven car, so he had taken little notice of the route or surrounding area. He knew he was somewhere in Berkshire, but that county meandered in a confusing fashion, from rural uplands in the west to England’s industrial silicon valley in the east. On their first visit the drive from Reading station had not taken too long, but beyond that…..

  The most frequent arguments with his ex, Mandy, had been over a reluctance to ask for directions when ‘unsure’ of his position: that’s to say, lost. He was now ‘unsure.’

  A few minutes later the footpath he was following emerged into a B-road lined by a gaggle of houses. Hardly even a village, but it did have a newsagent, where middle England was busy collecting its Sunday papers. It was time to swallow his pride and fix his position, so he approached a man who had just emerged from the shop carrying a copy of Mail on Sunday.

  “Tichbold? Nah, never heard of the place,” he replied.

  “Tichbold is the name of a person,” Damian explained. “Not where he lives.”

  “You mean you don’t know this guy’s address? Or the name of his village?” The man peered suspiciously at Damian and added: “Ain’t I seen you before somewhere?”

  “Probably on a Police Wanted poster.”

  Uncertain whether this was meant as a joke, the man hesitated, then blurted out: “Sorry, mate, can’t help you. Ask inside.” Then departed as if pursued by a thousand devils.

  Damian did as suggested and found the newsagent temporarily without a customer. The middle-aged man behind the counter was well built with thinning sandy coloured, wearing a navy blue pullo
ver and striped tie. Who on earth would wear a necktie on a Sunday morning?

  This time the reply to Damian’s question was positive.

  “You mean Tichbold, our local big noise,” he confirmed. “Something to do with the government. Large house, lots of land.”

  “Can you tell me how to get there?”

  “You in a car?”

  Damian realised he couldn’t have been a reassuring sight: hot, sweaty and out of breath; long sleeved shirt rolled up to the elbows; hair all over the place; muddy town shoes. A runner, perhaps, but not one geared for running. He shook his head and replied: “No car. I’m trying to keep fit.”

  “Got it!” The man waved a finger triumphantly. “Knew I’d seen you before, the moment you walked in.”

  Shit! thought Damian. I’ve been rumbled.

  “In my younger days I was a big Hammers fan,” said the man gleefully. He was well-spoken and quite pukka, as if he had come down a few notches in the world. “Never forget a face. You were their star striker back in…. well a while ago. Am I correct?”

  Damian nodded, bemused. No mention of Strictly Come Dancing, when he’d been on view to the whole world. And no mention of politics. This fellow was running a newsagent, for goodness sake, a place where Damian’s face had hardly left the front pages for days, yet he appeared to only connect him with football. Maybe it was a context problem: as prime minister, Damian was always well groomed and in a suit, whereas this scarecrow apparition could only be someone from sport; a former West Ham player minus his claret shirt.

  “I follow the team’s fortunes even now,” continued the man, still into identity failure. “This season’s been a bit of a disaster – as always. They’ll need to buy some decent players on the summer transfer market. As for their manager….”