NIGHT WATCHMAN

by Rolf Richardson

  48

  APRIL 25th.

  The Prime Minister was bushed. But happy.

  It had been a hectic eighteen days, but in that time he had managed to steer most of his legislation through the House. There had been compromises, of course, never got one’s entire wish list, but the essentials had passed their second reading. Tomorrow the king would add his scrawl, making the NHS Reform Bill and Benefits Reform Bill, Acts of Parliament. The law.

  The Great Plague had also settled into a routine, so much so that the media had more or less lost interest. Every few days Damian had phoned Sir Marcus Merton for an update, enjoyable chats because the epidemiologist was always so cheerful.

  “Mortality rates are holding at about eight percent,” Sir Marcus would say breathlessly, as though commentating on a horse race. “Although that figure can only be an estimate. People are panicking less, just taking to their beds until they recover. Or don’t. So we can only guess at the total number of cases, which makes any sort of statistical survey rather suspect.”

  “But your graphs have hopefully stopped rising?” asked Damian.

  “Indeed. They’re flat-lining. As in those hospital dramas, when someone snuffs it. Lots of bells go off, heart monitor flat lines.” Sir Marcus giggled.

  “Any signs that your graphs might start going down?”

  “Dear me, no! If nineteen eighteen is anything to go by, this epidemic still has lots of life left in it.”

  “Or death.”

  It took a moment for Sir Marcus to catch on. When he did, he was contrite: “An inappropriate phrase I’m afraid. Yes, I regret that several million souls are still due to die from this virus.” He did not sound too regretful.

  I guess what keeps people going is the knowledge the odds are heavily stacked in their favour,” mused Damian. “For a start, most people will not catch the bug. And if you do, there’s less than a one in ten chance of dying from it.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Sir Marcus. “By the time it fizzles, I’d expect the virus to have accounted for maybe three percent of our population: five percent tops. No comparison with the devastating plagues of the Middle Ages. In fact, hardly worth bothering about. The last substantial cull of civilians in this country must have been the German bombing raids of the nineteen forties. People soon grew to accept them. Life continued almost as normal. And you seem to be doing a good job disposing of the extra bodies.”

  “Credit for that must go to the Chief of Defence Staff, Admiral Horrocks,” said Damian. “At first he didn’t like being diverted from playing with his boats, but I must say he’s come up trumps. Thanks to his troops, we now have conveyor-belt crematoria. Corpse to cinder in a couple of hours. Twenty four, seven.”

  “Brilliant!” said Sir Marcus. “I like things nice and tidy. No loose ends. Allows me to continue gathering data with a clear conscience.”

  “I imagine you’ll eventually have plenty of figures to work with.”

  “Unprecedented, I hope. Trouble with those Middle Ages plagues is lack of reliable information. Records sketchy, no proper attempt at collation. Even with the Spanish flu, little more than a century ago, there’s a lot of guesswork.”

  “I thought you said this present outbreak was also guess-prone,” said Damian, perhaps unkindly. “Due to not knowing how many people actually caught the virus.”

  “We’ll never reach perfect knowledge, but record keeping is now so thorough we’ll know with precision not only how many have died, but also their sex, age and location. A breakthrough in epidemiology.”

  “And doing your reputation no harm.”

  Sir Marcus laughed. “We live and die by our reputations, prime minister. You, of all people, must know that.”

  “Too true. And in three days time I’ll have to defend that reputation in an election. So, if you’ll excuse me….”

  As he put down the receiver, Damian reflected that his future in parliament, never mind as prime minister, was looking increasingly precarious. He had always wanted to get rid of First-Past-the-Post, which was grossly unfair, highly unpredictable and on two occasions had left the party with the most votes as number two in seats. He had therefore been one of the main supporters of Farthing’s Electoral Reform Bill. Unfortunately, it could also be the vehicle for kicking him out of parliament.

  Under the old system, he’d had the constituency of Mid Oxon sewn up. A solid mass of Tory blue plus many floaters won over by his fame and personality. A majority of at least twenty thousand in the bag.

  But Mid Oxon was now history and his agent, Alec Warbeck, was saying that new constituency of Oxfordshire would return three MPs, where the projections for Damian were not good. Tory and Labour would almost certainly win one each, leaving Tories and Lib Dms battling for the third.

  There would be an even more ferocious internal fight to head the polls in one’s own party. In the old days, this would have been decided by a handful of the faithful in a smoke-filled room, but now it was up to the voters, who no longer had the task of just putting a cross against one name from a short list, but could select as many preferences as they felt like from a much longer list. Most people would go ‘One-two-three’ for candidates of their party, then maybe further down the list ‘four-five-six…’ until they got fed up. Or they might venture across party lines. Unless they were fans of the Monster Raving Loonies, they should end up by electing someone. More fun than the old way. And simple enough.

  Not so for the people running the show, which was why Gerry Farthing had wanted a long training period. To get elected a candidate had to achieve ‘the quota’, calculated by a formula involving total votes caste and seats to be filled. As it was rare for anyone to reach the quota on their first preferences, votes would then be transferred from the no-hopers at the bottom of the pile and then excess votes from those already elected until, in the case of Oxfordshire, three candidates had reached that quota.

  It was a complex business, which would probably cause hiccups on this first outing, but experts were on hand to sort things out. The full result would probably not be known for several days, but so what? They would get it right in the end.

  Damian had quite another worry. Maybe it was hubris, maybe not paying attention, but he had started off by assuming he would easily sail into the Tory’s pole position, therefore guaranteed a place in Westminster. After all, his had been a household name for years, first with West Ham, later with Strictly Come Dancing. And now he was Prime Minister. What could go wrong?

  What was going wrong went under the name of Rupert Delahaye, another of the Tory candidates. Damian, sitting smugly in his Mid Oxon bubble, had been slow to realise that he now had the rest of the county to consider. Not only the largely Labour city of Oxford, but more importantly the rest of the shire, which was as true blue as his part, but ruled by a seigneur of impressive lineage, Rupert Delahaye.

  The Delahayes claimed descent from a knight who had landed in Pevensey Bay with William Duke of Normandy in 1066. This first De la Haye must have wielded his sword to good effect, because he soon found himself the proud owner of several thousand acres north of a city called Oxenford. His descendents still lived there, albeit under reduced circumstances, now with a mere three hundred acres.

  Damian White, the one they called the Whisky Man because his name was white while his skin was black, could only offer an ancestor that landed with the Empire Windrush in 1948. In the snobbery stakes it was no contest.

  Had family background been Damian’s only handicap it might not have mattered, but there were more serious obstacles. From their estate just west of Banbury the Delahayes had controlled the constituency of North Oxon since….well, it seemed like since 1066. Cedric Delahaye had entered parliament in his late twenties and was tipped to one day become the ‘Father of the House’, it’s oldest serving member. AfroAir had put paid to that.

  Cedric had been the perfect constituency MP, not so ambitious that he was too often absent on affairs of state, instead he was assiduous in attending
to the needs of his domain: patting equine muzzles at gymkhanas; snipping ribbons to open new buildings; speaking at Rotaries, Lions clubs, Women’s Institutes. The best type of country squire. A man respected and loved.

  You don’t survive as a family for a millennium without taking seriously the business of procreation, so when Cedric had been confirmed as one of the Leaning Tower victims, the next in line was there to effortlessly step into his shoes.

  Colonel Rupert Delahaye was in his mid forties, well into a distinguished military career and tipped to go all the way to the top. Unlike his father, Rupert was ambitious, so when he promptly resigned his commission in mid-stream to follow the family trade of politics, he was in no mood to take any prisoners. Rupert Delahaye was going flat out to be the voters’ first Tory choice. The signs were that he would succeed.

  Damian and his election agent Alec Warbeck had thrashed the problem around over countless drinks until they were punch-drunk.

  “Rupert is so damned sound!” grumbled Warbeck, implying that Damian was not. The ultimate political insult is to be labelled as ‘unsound’.

  “His dad always followed the party line,” continued the election agent. “And I’ll bet Rupert will do the same. Sandhurst training. Discipline and all that.”

  As opposed to Damian White, who had made his name by defying the party.

  The Whisky Man might have been the darling of West Ham fans, a Strictly winner and currently prime minister of the United Kingdom, but all the signs were that he would be pipped to the post as top Oxford Tory by Colonel Delahaye.

  After a week crunching the numbers, moaning to himself and dithering, Warbeck had finally delivered his verdict: “I reckon your best bet – maybe your only bet – is to make a play for that third spot.”

  “I thought Elwyn would get that?”

  Elwyn Evans was the leading Lib Dem candidate, considered to have a decent chance of making it as number three.

  “He won’t if you pull your finger out,” replied Warbeck. “Although Mid Oxon will vote you solid number ones, in the county as a whole Delahaye looks to have you beat. So you need to set your sights on Elwyn; fight for those second, third, fourth preferences, when they start transferring votes from the rubbish at the bottom and left-overs at the top.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “You’re a rebel at heart, Damian, so go for the rebel vote. Take a trip home to Blackbird Leys, rebel territory if ever I saw it. And spend some time in the dives of Oxford city. Students normally detest Tories, but they love you. In their eyes you’re hardly a Tory.”

  The prime minister had taken his election agent’s advice and hit the Oxford highspots. And lowspots. On Saturday he was due to visit the Kassam stadium, for an Oxford United end-of-season home game. Some fans had not forgiven him for deserting his sporting homeland for the brighter lights of London, but most realised that no one with true ambition signed up for Oxford; the Kassam would be sure to welcome a famous local lad – hopefully also with votes.

  It had been an exhausting period, Chloe a tower of strength by his side. Now it was nearly over. Three days to go until the election. He’d done his best. Couldn’t do more.

  49

  APRIL 26th.

  It was still dark when the phone rang. Which in late April meant early. Damian thrashed around for the receiver and succeeded in knocking his alarm clock on the floor. Chloe turned in her sleep and mumbled what sounded like an obscenity. Could one dream obscenities?

  At last he found the receiver: “What the hell is it?!” Although they were not in Number Ten, but on the campaign trail in Damian’s Wheatley flat, he had made the usual arrangement to be disturbed only in an emergency. This had better be an emergency!

  It was Home Secretary, Bessie Robotham: “Sorry to wake you, but I’ve just had a call from Jacob…” She sounded as groggy as he felt. “You know….Jacob...”

  “Jacob Wells? The spook?”

  “S…right. He says there’s been an invasion.”

  “Christ! Not Afghanistan again?”

  “No, Hampshire.”

  “How can anyone invade Hampshire? That’s in England.”

  “Exactly. That’s why Jacob rang me. And why I’m telling you.”

  “Admiral Horrocks said this might happen. Said our armed forces were now so feeble, the Vikings could take Lindisfarne if they felt like it.”

  “This lot don’t sound like Vikings. Call themselves the Heroes of Hattin.”

  “Heroes of Hating, what the hell does that mean?”

  “Not Hating: Hattin. That’s Hotel, Alpha, Tango, Tango, India, November.”

  “Okay, Hattin. I’m none the wiser.”

  “Jacob says it’s an Islamic thing. Going back a thousand years. Bottom line is they’ve taken over Fort Brockhurst.”

  “Fort where?”

  “Just shut up and listen….” Bessie had forgotten she was speaking to the prime minister. Damian had forgotten he was the prime minister.

  She continued: “…Some time during the night a group calling themselves the Heroes of Hattin broke into Fort Brockhurst. Claimed the place for the Islamic republic of Hattin. Said they were heavily armed and would repel any attempt to remove them. That’s all we know.”

  “What….where is this Fort Brockhurst?”

  “Hampshire. Gosport.”

  “How many…. ‘invaders’?”

  “No idea. When you’ve woken up, turn on the telly and find out. BBC, ITV, all the media’s there. They’ll know a fat lot more than we do.”

  “Any sign that these…heroes of wherever are planning to march on London?”

  “Don’t think so. Sounds more like they’re digging in for a siege.”

  “In that case there’s not much I can do at the moment. Give me a couple of hours more kip; ask Jacob to call me at, say, seven-ish. Suggest you do the same. Good night, Bessie!”

  He replaced the receiver gently, trying not to wake Chloe, a needless precaution because she was one of those girls who could sleep for England. Once gone, nothing seemed to disturb her.

  Damian himself was not so lucky. He tossed around for half an hour and dawn was breaking when he finally gave up. Dragged himself out of bed, put on the kettle for coffee.

  And turned on the TV. Might as well get himself up to speed on events.

  He surfed the channels, but all offered much the same fare. Something dramatic had occurred, but then everything had gone quiet, so reporters were desperately trying to stretch what little information they had.

  Which amounted to the fact that the inhabitants of Gunners Way Gosport had been woken shortly after midnight by the sound of heavy vehicles thundering outside. No attempt had been made to keep quiet, so it was assumed the noise was deliberate. Annoyed by the disturbance, some sleepyheads had got up and drawn back lace curtains to see what was going on. A Mr. Fred Smith described how he had seen some dark figures break the locks on Fort Brockhurst’s landward gate, after which the convoy of nineteen - he had counted - army type lorries had driven over the bridge that crossed the moat, through the main gate and into the fort.

  Just after 1am the BBC had received a message from an organisation calling itself ‘Heroes of the Horns of Hattin’, announcing that Fort Brockhurst was no longer part of the United Kingdom, but had been captured by the Islamic Republic of Hattin. Any attempt to retake the fort would result in what they described as ‘a thousand infidel corpses’. A similar message had appeared on social media networks. No ransom demands had been made, nothing more said, except to stand by for further announcements.

  These stark facts being the sum total of actual knowledge, reporters had fallen back on speculation. A dip into the history books established that the Horns of Hattin had been a notable victory for the Moslems against Christian Crusaders during the twelfth century. So motivation appeared to be the all too familiar one of Islamic extremism.

  Beyond that, guesswork reigned supreme, in particular as to how well equipped this invading ‘army’ migh
t be. Military experts were hauled out of bed for clarification, but this was an impossible task seeing that the trucks had been battened down to hide their cargoes. Nineteen large vehicles could accommodate an awful lot of soldiers and military hardware. Almost anything, really. One expert even flirted with the notion of a ‘small nuclear device.’

  On one fact the experts were all agreed: the Heroes of Hattin could hardly have chosen a better target to attack and then defend. Getting in had been absurdly easy, the fort apparently uninhabited, its landward approach guarded only by a ramshackle fence with a lock any child could break. After that it had been a matter of moments for the convoy to drive across a narrow bridge that spanned the moat, through the main gate and into the fort.

  On the other hand, removing the invaders would not be easy. Looming behind the moat, which was wide and surrounded the fort on all sides, were ramparts, not that high, but immensely thick and pierced by slits designed to give an all-round field of fire. Trying to gain intelligence about the occupying force would also be difficult, because only the bare and forbidding walls could be seen from the outside. Fort Brockhurst may have been designed in another age to stop the French, but the basics of infantry assault had barely changed in two hundred years: it would still be a difficult and dangerous place to re-take by conventional means.

  In an effort to find something interesting to talk about, the media then turned their attention to the strip of cloth that had been hoisted on the fort’s flagstaff. As night turned to day and a breeze sprang up, the design began to reveal itself: a green background with what looked like a curved silver sword in the centre. The Saracen sword of Saladin.

  After half an hour telly watching, Damian reckoned he had learnt as much as he was going to, so went off to shave and get dressed. After that, he gave Chloe a dig in the ribs and a ‘wakey wakey’ in the ear. They were a reasonably compos mentis couple having breakfast by the time Jacob Wells rang at the appointed hour of seven.