You or No One

by Olivier Bosman

  The king sighed. He took a sip of his whisky then leaned back in his chair. “You should take a leaf out of your sister’s book, Eric. Win by making an eloquent argument instead of walking away like a petulant toddler and throwing your toys out of the pram!”

  “I can’t make eloquent arguments,” Eric said. “I’m not as clever as Petra. That’s why I always have such trouble with those bloody essays!”

  “Well, you need to learn that, Eric,” the king said. “You need to be able to defend yourself with rational arguments if you’re going to be king.”

  Eric suddenly turned to look at the king. “Wait. Does that mean you’ll give your approval?”

  “I have no choice, do I? If you’re both going to renounce the crown, then my sister will be queen, and we can’t have that. She’s a complete lunatic!”

  Eric rushed back towards the desk, sat down, and grabbed his father’s hands. “You won’t regret it, Father.” He was beaming. “I’ll make you proud of me.”

  The king frowned and pulled his hands away. “The battle’s not over yet, Eric. You still need to persuade the prime minister. And that will not be easy. There are a lot of things we haven’t discussed yet. There’s the matter of issue, for instance. Who is going to be heir?”

  “We can adopt.”

  “No, you can’t adopt. The child must have royal blood. Bloodline is crucial. It’s the only thing that gives us legitimacy.”

  “There are ways around that, Father.” It was Petra who spoke. “Artificial insemination, surrogate mothers.”

  “I know that, Petra, but the question is whether these are acceptable methods to produce a royal heir.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be?”

  “You must remember that as king, Eric will also represent the Doggerland Church. Some people might consider these methods to be unethical. But that’s just one of many obstacles that lies in Eric’s path. The main obstacle right now, though…” Suddenly the king turned to face me. “Is you.”

  “Me?” I said feebly.

  “Yes, you, young man. Last time we spoke, we agreed that Eric would meet your mother. Has that happened?”

  “Yes, it has,” Eric said. “She’s a wonderful woman. She’s living with us now.”

  “Well, the prime minister will need to know all about her.” The king was still staring at me. “And not just her, but also your dead father.”

  I gulped. I’d forgotten about that.

  “And he’ll want to know about your grandparents, and your great grandparents, and your whole family history. You’re an unknown quantity, Joel. We need to know exactly what kind of person Eric is bringing into this family. You’ll be thrust into the spotlight. The prime minister will be checking your criminal record and that of your family. He will grill you about your past. You must be prepared to answer personal questions. About previous relationships, your sexual history, etcetera. No stone will be left unturned, Joel, believe you me. So, I hope for Eric’s sake that you and your family have led impeccable lives.”

  “He knows,” I said.

  “He knows what?”

  “He knows everything. That I lied to him.”

  “You didn’t lie to him.”

  “I told him my father was dead.”

  “You meant that he is dead to you.”

  “I told him he had cancer.”

  “You meant that he was like a cancer.”

  We’d gone back to Eric’s apartment after the meeting. He was sitting on the sofa, playing a game on his phone, while I was restlessly pacing up and down the room.

  “He knows all about me, Eric. He knows I will never make the grade. That’s why he was so easy to persuade.”

  “He was not easy to persuade.”

  “He made a complete U-turn. One moment he was talking about marrying you off to some German divorcee, the next he was telling you that you had to learn how to make rational arguments if you wanted to be king.”

  “That’s because we had him over a barrel, Petra and me. What’s worse than having a poofter for a king? A deluded crackpot who believes in spiritual messengers and astral planes, that’s what.”

  “I think he’s bluffing. He’s just humouring you. He knows the prime minister is going to turn me down. And then he’ll persuade Petra to take over the throne.”

  “Petra doesn’t want to be queen.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because a monarch doesn’t have any power. It’s just a ceremonial role. A monarch isn’t even allowed to vote or express any political opinions. Petra doesn’t want to be a puppet. She wants to be the puppeteer.”

  “And you’re going to let her puppeteer you?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? She’s cleverer than me.”

  “What do you want to be king for if you’re only going to be a puppet?”

  “I don’t want to be king.”

  I stopped pacing and turned to look at him. “Then what are we doing all this for?”

  “We’re making a political statement. I want to marry you, but I don’t want to lose the throne over it. That’s a political statement. I thought you wanted the same. Isn’t that what we talked about in the car to Brighton?”

  “I suppose so.” I sat down next to him and rested my head on his shoulder.

  He kissed me on the forehead. “You’re just panicking, that’s all.”

  “Of course I’m panicking. The king told me I’d have to face a whole panel at that grilling.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What do you mean don’t worry about it! I have the worst family in history!”

  “I’m not marrying them, I’m marrying you. So stop worrying, Joel. You’ll be fine.”

  The grilling took place in one of the palace halls. Eric and I watched from his apartment window as a convoy of four shiny black cars brought the panel members to the palace doors. The prime minister was the first to step out of the car. He was a young-looking man with a boyish haircut and round spectacles. There was something of Harry Potter about him. The minister of foreign affairs followed him, a corpulent middle-aged man who strode to the palace door in an important manner, carrying a briefcase under his arm and not looking at anyone. The chief of defence was the third to arrive. He wore his white admiral’s uniform and strolled casually towards the door as if he was inspecting a parade. And finally, the bishop of Roggerog, head of the DoggerlandChurch, stepped out of his car, wearing a black suit with a white dog collar, and leisurely swung his umbrella as he wandered towards the palace.

  “Well,” Eric said, slapping me on my back. “You’d better go down there. Won’t do to be late for the grilling.”

  I took a deep sigh.

  “You’ll be fine.” Eric flashed me that pearly smile. “They’ll love you. Who wouldn’t?”

  The meeting was set up in the dance hall. The three ministers and the bishop sat at a table at the end of the hall. An empty chair stood before them. I felt like Jennifer Beals in Flashdance as I walked towards the chair, with my heart in my throat and my footsteps echoing behind me.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Bottomley,” the prime minister began. “Or may I call you Joel?”

  I nodded my consent.

  “You look tense.”

  “Well, I am a little bit nervous.”

  “No need to be. We won’t bite. Although this is a new situation for us too. This is the first time a crown prince of Doggerland has asked to marry someone without a royal lineage. Not to mention someone of their own gender.”

  The prime minister stopped and stared at me, as if expecting me to say something. But what could I say?

  “You are the son of…” The prime minister looked at his notes. “Owen Bottomley, who worked for a while installing double glazing, but who has been unemployed for the last seven years; and Marjorie Evans, who’s never had a job.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “You are studying Philosophy, Politics and Economics?”

  “Yes.”

&nbs
p; “How is that going for you?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “It is unusual, don’t you think, for someone from your milieu to go to Oxford University? You must be a very bright young man.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Who did you inherit your clever brain from? Was it your father or your mother?”

  “Neither, I think.”

  “Perhaps you inherited it from your grandparents?”

  “I don’t know my grandparents.”

  “Your grandparents are…” Again, he consulted his notes. “On your mother’s side, Warren and Janice Evans, greengrocers, and on your father’s side, Owen and Angharad Bottomley. Owen was a miner, and Angharad was never employed, but she has been convicted several times for extortion.”

  Blimey! I thought. So that’s where the money in her mattress came from.

  The prime minister looked at me again through his Harry Potter glasses, waiting for a reaction. So, my grandmother was a criminal. What did he want me to say about that? I kept quiet.

  “It says in my notes that you have no contact with your father. In fact, you told the king that he was dead, although according to our information, your father is still very much alive.”

  “He is dead to me.”

  “What caused this estrangement?”

  “My father walked out on me and my mother at a time when our house was being repossessed. It caused my mother a lot of stress.”

  “And it seems he is causing stress still. We suspect him of having leaked details of your relationship with Prince Eric to the press. I predict that your father may become a problem in the future. How do you plan to control him?”

  “I can’t control him.”

  “Mr Boersma mentioned something about paying him an allowance.”

  “I don’t agree with that. I don’t want him to be paid anything. I don’t want him to profit in any way from my relationship with Eric.”

  “But then he might leak further stories about you and Prince Eric.”

  “He has no further stories about me and Eric. He’s never met Eric, and he never will. He knows nothing about us.”

  “But he can still try and sell a lie.”

  “Anyone can try and sell a lie. It’s up to the press not to fall for it. If they do, we’ll sue them for libel.”

  The prime minister seemed content with this answer.

  “How many relationships did you have before you met Prince Eric?”

  “None.”

  The prime minister raised his eyebrows.

  “So, you are a virgin?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “So, you had sexual relationships with other men before you met Prince Eric?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many men have you had sex with?”

  I hesitated.

  “More than one?”

  I nodded.

  “But less than ten, I hope.”

  “There were two men before Eric.”

  The prime minister raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite a lot for someone your age.”

  I shrugged.

  “Were these actual relationships or were they one-night stands?”

  “Something in between, I guess.”

  “Are you still in touch with these men?”

  “No.”

  “Are there any pictures or videos of you floating around that may come back and haunt you?”

  “Pictures or videos?”

  “Of you having sex.”

  “No!” I was genuinely shocked by the insinuation.

  “It’s pretty common, nowadays, for people to film themselves in the act. Can you be sure that nobody recorded you without you knowing?”

  “How can I be sure?”

  “Have you ever had sex in public spaces?”

  There was a brief pause before I answered. “No,” I lied. Harry Potter didn’t have to know everything.

  The prime minister leaned back in his chair, closed his file, and turned towards the bishop.

  “Are you a religious man, Mr Bottomley?” the bishop asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Have you been baptised?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  The bishop raised his eyebrows. “How can you not be sure?”

  “I may have been baptised as a baby. I don’t know. I’ve never spoken about it with my mother. My parents were not church-going people.”

  “Would you object to being baptised by the Church of Doggerland?”

  “Well…”

  “It would be a legal requirement for you to be baptised if you want to become prince consort.”

  “Well, in that case, I have no objection.”

  “And yet you hesitated.”

  “I don’t see the point of being baptised if I’m not religious. It would be an empty gesture.”

  “You don’t believe in God?”

  “Not really.”

  “You believe you’ll cease to exist in any form after you die?”

  “Well… I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I like to believe that the spirit lives on, but I just don’t buy the whole virgin birth story. And Jesus being a miracle worker. And rising from the dead.”

  “You might be surprised to know that most theologians don’t consider these stories to be fact. But they express better than anything else the essence of Christianity, which is love and forgiveness. Are these principles you believe in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, that’s good enough for me.” The bishop leaned back and turned towards the chief of defence.

  “Have you done military service, Mr Bottomley?” he asked.

  “There is no military service in Britain.”

  “Let’s pretend that there was military service in Britain. And let’s pretend that you had the option of substituting military service with community service. What would you do?”

  “I think I’d go for the latter.”

  “You would choose community service?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Are you a pacifist?”

  “No. I understand that war can be inevitable sometimes. But I’m just not a fighting man. I wouldn’t feel comfortable in the army.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m a bit of a wimp. I don’t think I’d be able to complete an assault course. And some of that military gear looks very heavy. And also, I’m afraid of loud bangs.”

  The prime minister and the bishop smiled at my honesty, but the chief of defence was not impressed.

  “Thank you,” he said, leaning back and turning towards the minister of foreign affairs.

  “Mr Bottomley,” the minister said, opening a file and scanning through it. “In your university application, you said that you were a socialist.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you still a socialist?”

  “I believe in equal opportunities for all.”

  “It also says that you are an anti-royalist.”

  I paused before answering. “Yes.”

  “Are you still an anti-royalist?”

  “Well… um… I’m not sure whether the royal family represent good value for money. It seems to me a lot of taxpayer money is wasted on them. In Britain, at least.”

  “You don’t think that a monarchy gives a country allure? That it makes it attractive to tourists and investors?”

  “To a certain extent, perhaps. But France doesn’t have a monarchy. Does France have less allure because of it?”

  “Why do you want to be part of the royal family if this is how you feel?”

  “I don’t care to be part of the royal family. I just want to marry Eric.”

  The four men looked at each other, surprised. This clearly wasn’t the answer they were expecting. But I didn’t care. As far as I was concerned, this whole spectacle was just a charade, anyway. Put on for Eric’s benefit. My rejection was a foregone conclusion. There was no way the government would allow someone with my past to marry into the royal family. I knew tha
t, the king knew that, and deep down inside, Eric must’ve known it too. That’s why I answered everything so honestly. I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of watching me grovel.

  We went back to England two days later. When Eric asked me how the grilling went, I told him it went fine. I lied to him about the answers I gave and the way the panel reacted to them. I just couldn’t bring myself to burst his bubble. He’d been in such a great mood ever since the king gave his consent. He even threw himself completely into finishing his dissertation. He’d been struggling with it for so long, stopping and starting and second guessing himself with every word. It was painful to watch. He’d been tempted on several occasions to go back to the essay mill, but I wouldn’t allow that. This was his final term dissertation. This had to be his own work. But since our return to England, he had become more confident. He found his voice. His dissertation was about gay rights, and about how they found their way into a country’s official policy.

  We received the news two weeks later. Eric’s phone trembled on the dining room table when we were having dinner. I saw Button-eyes’ name appear on the display. I didn’t want to be there when Eric received the bad news. I didn’t want to see the look on his face as his whole world crumbled around him and his fragile self-confidence shattered and broke. So, I rushed upstairs to my bedroom.

  I spent an agonizing ten minutes lying on my bed, wondering what was to become of us. Eric would feel lost if he didn’t become king. There’d be blame and recriminations. It would destroy our relationship. That phone call marked the beginning of the end.

  I heard Eric mumbling downstairs. He was speaking Doggerlandish, so I didn’t understand a word. When the call ended, I heard him walk up the stairs. The bedroom door swung open. I braced myself for the bad news and dug my fingernails into the bed sheets.

  Eric stood in the doorway, his phone still in his hand. “It’s on,” he said. “The wedding is on.”

  I sat up and gaped at him. I wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Was he having me on? How could he be joking about something like this?

  “They loved you!” Eric said. His face was gleaming. “Your honesty, your down-to-earthness. The prime minister says you’re going to be like a fresh wind blowing through our stuffy old royal family. He says we’re going to be the most famous gay couple in the world! We’re going to put Doggerland on the map, you and I!”