by Ian Mcewan
On the short ride down Whitehall to the Palace of Westminster, he had time to relish the moment ahead when he would stand at the despatch box to make the intentions of his government clear. What stirred him was the thought of the hidden, silent audience crouching behind the wainscoting. Even now they would be amassing in the darkness. How proud of him his family would be.
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From Hansard, 19 September, Vol. 663 Priorities for Government
The Prime Minister (James Sams)
With permission, Mr Speaker, I shall make a statement on the mission of what is, in effect, a new Conservative government. When the bill returns to this house, Mr Speaker, our mission will be to deliver Reversalism for the purpose of uniting and re-energising our great country and not only making it great again, but making it the greatest place on earth. By 2050 it is more than possible, and less than impossible, that the UK will be the greatest and most prosperous economy in Europe. We will lie at the centre of a new network of reverse-flow trade deals. We will be the best on the planet in all fields. We will be the earth’s home of the electric airplane. We will lead the world in not wrecking our precious planet. That same world will follow our shining example and every nation will reverse its money flow in order not to be left behind—[Interruption.]
Mr Speaker
Order. There is far too much noise in this Chamber. Too many members think it is all right for them to shout out their opinions at the prime minister. Let us be clear: it is not.
The Prime Minister
Mr Speaker, I applaud your intervention. This government is no longer divided. Myself and all the ministers are one body and we speak with one mind. We are formidable in our unity. The Bill will therefore pass. Nothing will stand in our way. We are turbocharging the civil service to prepare for the transition. We will move swiftly to accelerate and extend our trade deals beyond brave St Kitts and Nevis. Until that time, we proclaim Reversalism in One Country. We will stand alone just as we have stood alone in the past. A lot of negativity about Reversalism has been wildly overdone. This is no time for faint Clockwise thinking. Let no one doubt it, the money flow is about to change direction – and about time, too. On day one, on R-Day, the beneficial effects will be felt on both macro and micro levels. On R-Day, for example, our newly empowered police might pull over a recklessly speeding motorist and hand through the window two fifty-pound notes. It will be that driver’s responsibility, in the face of possible criminal charges, to use that money to work and pay for more overtime, or find a slightly better job. This is just one example, Mr Speaker, of how Reversalism will stimulate the economy, incentivise our brilliant citizens, and render our democracy more robust.
Reversalism will bless our future – clean, green, prosperous, united, confident and ambitious. When, together, we bend our sinews to the task, the dead hand of Clockwise economics and its vast bureaucracy of enterprise-denying rules and Health and Safety impediments will be lifted from us, all of us, one by one. And very soon, it will be lifted from all the nations on earth. We stand at the beginning of a golden age. Mr Speaker, I commend this future to the house just as much as I commend this statement.
Several hon. Members rose—
Mr Speaker
Order.
[Continues.]
THREE
The youth who threw the brick at the French embassy that morning ran off and no arrest was made. This was noted in Paris. At the time of the incident, the crowd in Knightsbridge was estimated at around fifty. By late afternoon there were more than five hundred, some of whom were trawlermen who had travelled from Hull in buses laid on by the Reversalist Party. There were chants and shouts, but otherwise it was a peaceful demonstration. The five extra policemen drafted in had little to do but stand by the main doors of the embassy and watch. But just after four thirty someone threw ‘an incendiary device’. It landed harmlessly on the damp grass by some laurels under a window and did not ignite. It was a milk bottle containing an inch or so of lighter fluid. It was reported as a petrol bomb, which may have been technically correct. This attack was also noted in Paris.
Earlier that afternoon, the French ambassador, Le Comte Henri de Clermont L’Hérault, was summoned to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office to account for the deaths of the six English trawlermen. The meeting was officially described as ‘constructive’, with the ambassador expressing sincere and heartfelt condolences to the families and profoundest apologies for the tragic accident. Little of this was picked up by the press, for the prime minister came out of Downing Street at 5 p.m. and made a statement of untypical resolve. The so-called bomb, deplorable as it was, had been examined and was a firework, in fact, ‘a damp squib’, and likely nothing more than a joke in extremely poor taste. Then Sams read out the names of the dead men, whom he described as ‘English heroes’. He too expressed deepest condolences to the bereaved families and said that he was ‘disturbed’ by this tragic incident and was ‘not wholly satisfied’ with the explanations given by the ambassador earlier. The PM had heard expert advice. Modern technology, especially on an up-to-date naval vessel, was such that it was hard to understand how a thirty-foot fishing boat could not be detected in a fog, however thick. He understood that the skipper of the boat might not have known that he was inside French territorial waters and that he was fishing illegally. Sams accepted that in a rules-based international order, territorial rights must be respected. However – and here he paused – where violations occur, ‘responses must be considered and appropriate’. He was therefore ‘seeking further clarification from our very good friends, the French’. Refusing questions, he abruptly turned away and went back inside Number Ten.
In an instant, out of tragedy a diplomatic crisis was born. President Larousse, already baffled and irritated by l’inversion britannique and the disruption it threatened to French exports of wine and cheese to the UK, was, his spokesman said, ‘disappointed’ that the English should ‘doubt the word of a very good friend’. That the Sams administration should imply that it was French government policy to ‘murder innocent fishermen who wandered into our coastal waters was an insult to all that France holds dear’. Clearly, M. Sams, in difficulties over a decision that had divided his country, was positioning himself behind ‘a nationalist wave of manufactured anger fed by an irrational Twitter storm’. Reluctantly, the president had decided to recall his ambassador. Le Comte Henri de Clermont L’Hérault would be returning to Paris for consultations.
Reasonably enough, Jim decided to recall the British ambassador in Paris. Things were shaping up well. In a difficult time such as this, the country needed a staunch enemy. Patriotic journalists praised the prime minister for facing down the French and speaking up for ‘our lost boys’. The priorities statement to the Commons had also gone down well with important sections of the press. An opinion piece in the Mail was headlined, ‘Who Put the Fire in Jim’s Belly?’
At the end of that first, crowded day, the prime minister had retreated to his small apartment at the top of the building and busied himself with understanding Twitter, a primitive version, so he decided, of the pheromonal unconscious. He read Archie Tupper’s recent output and began to suspect that the American president was, just possibly, ‘one of us’. An obsequious fellow sent by a Whitehall IT team helped the PM open his own account. Within two hours he had 150,000 followers. An hour later, that number had doubled.
While he stretched out on the sofa, Jim found that a tweet was the perfect medium in which to reflect sagely on the Roscoff Affair, as it was now known. His first attempt was feebly derivative. ‘Clockwiser Larousse is just a loser, and in my view the least effective French President in living memory.’ In my view – as if there were others. Limp. And no calling it back. The following day the American president was awake early to head the debate from his bed and demonstrate how it was done. ‘Tiny Sylvie Larousse sinking English ships. BAD!’ It was poetry, smoothly combining density of meaning
with fleet-footed liberation from detail. Larousse was emasculated, then diminished with a taunt that, true or not (his name was Sylvain, he was five foot nine), must forever be his badge; the fisherman’s boat became a ship, the ship became ships; no tedious mention of the dead. The final judgement was childlike and pure, memorable and monosyllabically correct. And the parting flourish of those caps, that laconic exclamation mark! From the land of the free, here was a lesson in imaginative freedom.
Later, with pencil poised over notepad, Jim considered some refinements to the Reversalism Bill. He could see opportunities for criminals. Be unemployed, shop relentlessly, stuff a suitcase with cash, hop abroad to some dirty EU economy, open a bank account. Work to earn in Calais, shop to earn in Dover. Bastards. The solution was clear – it was happening anyway. The cashless society would create a digital trail for every pound earned in the shops, and every pound spent on work. Hoarding sums above twenty-five pounds would be a criminal offence, well advertised. Maximum sentence? Best not to be too harsh, not at first. So, five years.
He wrote notes at high speed in a neat copperplate, taking pleasure in forming the letters. An opposable thumb was not such a bad idea. Upstart young species like Homo sapiens sometimes came up with a useful development. As for the elaboration or broadcast of ideas, writing, despite its artisanal charm, was lugubriously analogue. He paused only once from his labours to devour a plate of parmigiana brought to him on a tray. He didn’t bother with the salad.
Next. As soon as the bill was passed, his immediate concern must be to persuade the Americans to reverse their economy. From that, everything would follow. The Chinese would have to reverse in order to be able to afford their exports, so would Japan and the Europeans. Getting Tupper on board needed forethought, nice treats. Jim was on his fourth pages of notes. Problem: AT not drinker/state visit softener/banquet with HM gold carriage flunkeys fanfares address parliament etc/Most Nob Order of Garter plus Vic Cross plus hon. knighthd/memship White’s/gift Hyde Park as priv golf course.
But the American president was a serious man of big tastes, with his own moral certitudes, by background not trained up to value the subtle ribbons-and-medals allure of the honours system. What were White’s or Hyde Park to one who owned more expensive clubs and bigger courses? Who cared for ‘Sir’ when one was ‘Mr President’ for life? In the late afternoon of that day, the prime minister had given the matter some serious thought. He had set his staff to research certain legal niceties of the American system, and the extent of presidential power and how both might fare in a reverse-flow economy. Jim now had all he needed to know about article two of the US constitution. He was aware of the force of law and astonishing reach of a presidential executive order. Like most people, he already knew that the president was also the commander-in-chief of the United States Armed Forces. The Cabinet Office had provided Jim with a general overview of the process by which the American defence budget was negotiated and effected. He had in his notes the precise figure in billions of dollars for the year ahead. The attorney general had come to Downing Street to explain the position. The US president could, by his own order, devolve the defence budget as agreed by congress, to his own office. By standard Reversalist processes, funds would flow back up the system, from the army, navy and air force personnel, and all their suppliers and all the manufacturers, directly to the president. Seven hundred and sixteen billion dollars would be his.
‘Personally his? Legally his?’ Jim had asked the attorney general.
‘Legally, yes. It would set a precedent that might surprise his opponents. But with this president, most people have grown accustomed to surprises.’
‘Let me be clear,’ Jim said. ‘He could bank that money?’
‘Of course. Cayman Islands, perhaps. The Russian president should be able to help. Even at low interest rates he could live reasonably well on seven or eight billion a year without touching the capital.’
‘What about US defences?’
The attorney general laughed. ‘Congress would ratify the budget again. These days, they love borrowing money.’
But now, as Big Ben up the road sounded a dolorous eleven o’ clock, Jim worried how he would pitch this on the phone. Tupper was not one for the simple life. Would 716 billion do it? Should he suggest the president appropriate the education budget? Along with healthcare? But that might require three executive orders. Too complicated. He would have to take a chance. It was 6 p.m. in Washington. The president would be busy watching television and might not appreciate the interruption. Jim hesitated a few more seconds, staring into the swirl of encrusted colour, purplish reds and creamy whites, on his empty dinner plate, then phoned down to tell the night staff to put through an unminuted call. It took them twenty-five minutes to exchange identification protocols, enable the voice scrambling encryption, and get the president’s attention, and another ten to patch him through. Not bad for an unscheduled conference.
‘Jim.’
‘Mr President. I hope I’m not disturbing you in the middle of important—’
‘No, just, um…I hear you’re sticking it to the French.’
‘They murdered six of our lads.’
‘Murder isn’t good, Jim.’
‘Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more.’
For an anxious moment their accord drained the exchange of purpose. Jim could hear down the line shouts and pistol shots in the background and the neighing of many horses, then a sudden change of scene, expansive orchestral music with French horns and strings, suggestive of open desert with cacti and buttes. He cast around for safe small talk. ‘How is Mel—’
But the president spoke over him. ‘What’s the latest with, you know, that thing, the Revengelism project?’
‘Reversalism? Fantastic. We’re almost ready to go. Great excitement over here. It’s a historical turning point.’
‘Shake things up is good. Give the EU a bad time.’
‘Mr President, this is what I wanted to discuss with you.’
‘You got two minutes.’
So the prime minister laid out the matter in the terms his attorney general had used, adding some colourful plumbing and weather imagery of his own. Up the pipes came a counterflow surge of newly released energy that explosively blew old thinking, blasted old blockages aside and at the end, the release point or outlet, there shot up high into the air a fabulous fountain of trade deals and also funds, electronic dollars that fell earthwards like longed-for rain, like a storm of spiralling autumn leaves, like a vortex-blizzard of snowflakes pouring down into…
‘My account?’ the president said in a husky voice. ‘You’re saying into my business account?’
‘Offshore, of course. You should get your own people to check.’
A silence, broken only by the rippling sound of TV laughter, and of a honky-tonk piano and the clinking of glasses, and celebratory gunfire.
Finally, ‘When you put it that way I can see there might be something in it. Definitely. I think together we could make Revengelism work, Jim. But now I’ve got to, um…’
‘One last thing, Mr President. May I ask you something personal?’
‘Sure. As long as it’s not about—’
‘No, no. Of course. It’s about…before.’
‘Before what, Jim?’
‘Six?’
‘Say again.’
‘All right. Are you…Did you once…’
‘Once what?’
‘Have, erm…’
‘Jesus! Get it out, Jim! Have what?’
It came in a whisper. ‘Six legs?’
The line went dead.
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The weather, that dependable emblem of private and national mood, was in turmoil. A five-day, record-breaking heatwave was followed by two weeks of record-breaking rain across the entire country. Like all the lesser rivers, the Thames rose, and Parliame
nt Square languished under four inches of water and much floating plastic and waxed-cardboard detritus. The best photographers could not make the scene picturesque. As soon as the rains stopped, a tall heat strode in from the Azores once more and a second, longer heatwave began. For a week, as the floodwaters receded, there was thick smooth silt underfoot everywhere in riverine London. The humidity never fell below ninety per cent. When the mud dried, there was dust. When the scorching winds blew, which they did with unusual ferocity and for days on end, there were novel urban sandstorms, brownish yellow, thick enough to obscure from view Nelson on his column. Some of the sand, it turned out on analysis, came from the Sahara. A live black scorpion four inches long was found in a consignment of fresh dates on sale in Borough Market. It was impossible to persuade feverish social media that these venomous creatures were not wind-born, and had not breezed in from north Africa on a south-westerly. A deluge of scorpions had biblical echoes. Real or not, they added to the profound unease among the substantial minority of the electorate convinced that a catastrophe was at hand, driven by a government of reckless ideologues. Another substantial minority, slightly larger, believed that a great adventure was at hand. It could hardly wait for it to start. Both factions were represented in parliament, though not in government. The weather was right. Turmoil and reduced visibility was everywhere.
Unhelpfully, the French released the dead fishermen in their coffins one by one, after post mortems, over a week. They were flown to Stansted, not the sort of airport Jim wished to be seen in. The dead, at government insistence, were not released immediately to the families. Instead, they were held in cold storage outside Cambridge and when the last man had been brought in from France, all six were flown to Royal Wootton Bassett by an RAF transport plane. Jim took charge of the planning. He decided that there would be no brass band. Instead, he would stand alone on the airstrip, silently facing a camera crew and the massive four-engine propeller plane as it taxied to a stop. A brave lonely figure confronting the giant machine. Jim’s antennae were finely attuned to public sentiment. As it happened, it was the first day of the heavy rains. The coffins, draped in Union Jacks, were brought out in single file, by members of the Grenadier Guards, marching in funereal slow step, and placed at the prime minister’s feet. The rain played well. He correctly refused an umbrella as he stood to attention in the downpour. Were those tears on his face? It was reasonable to think so. The nation came together in a passing frenzy of grief. In Hull and near HMS Belfast in London, flowers, teddy bears and toy fishing boats were piled forty feet high.