by David Harley
Inside the building, Matt solemnly made his way past the marble statues of imperial heroes to the central lobby, where he was greeted by the Serjeant-at-Arms, who was wearing his traditional court dress and black patent leather shoes. Matt was then escorted to the prime minister’s office in the North Wing: he gingerly sat down at the centre of the long mahogany table. Sam took some more pictures and sent them to the main agencies. After he had asked the Serjeant-at-Arms to take one of him and Sam together, Matt stretched his legs under the table. Against all odds, they had done it. Tomorrow at the latest, he would enter Downing Street.
They returned to the waiting crowd in Parliament Square. As Sam took up position at the front of the crowd, Matt, light-headed and awash with happiness, leaped up the steps on to the makeshift stage that had been erected next to the statue of Winston Churchill. As he approached the podium, two special branch officers emerged from nowhere, staying close behind him. Matt bent down to adjust the height of the microphone. Looking across the heads of the jubilant crowd, he thought he recognised Sophie and Jack standing at the back with Jenny, and waved in their direction. He noticed that Sam was gesticulating excitedly, shouting something, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. A few paces behind her, Rob was talking into his phone, his hand over his mouth.
So many hard-won battles – not just against Crouch and the ENP, but also with himself and his insidious demons – had brought Matt to this moment. He raised his arms, looking around the crowd, smiling broadly, taking in the deafening cheers. His eyes searched for Sam, but she seemed to have disappeared.
‘This victory is yours!’ he began. The crowd roared its approval.
‘Are you ready to take Downing Street?’
‘Yes!’ they all shouted, and the chanting broke out all over the square, louder and louder: ‘Number Ten, Number Ten …’
As he waited for the noise to die down, he looked up at the wide-open window on the fifth floor of Portcullis House, where he saw the glint of the sun on the long barrel of a sniper’s gun.
‘Just for your protection, sir,’ said one of the men beside him.
Then Matt heard the crack of a single shot. His legs buckled and he saw Sam’s blurred face as she fell on top of him. Her mouth was open and her eyes were shut, with blood spurting from the side of her neck.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Dazed and desperate, Matt was led away from the platform, while the first aid team attended to Sam. They staunched the blood and put her on a drip, before carrying her on a stretcher to the waiting ambulance.
The hours waiting in the corridor at St Thomas’s while they operated were the longest of his life. The thought that she had saved him and now might die was unbearable. He wished it had been the other way round.
After six hours, the surgeon came out of the theatre. He looked grim and exhausted.
‘The operation went as well as could be expected. There’s a good chance she’ll pull through.’.
Matt sank on to a hospital chair, weak with relief, thanking the gods.
The next morning, before entering Downing Street at last, he brought a bunch of peonies to the hospital and sat next to her bed for an hour, holding her hand, talking softly to her from time to time and giving thanks. He would look after her and make sure she recovered. He promised they would spend the summer recess together, doing whatever she wanted. She could choose – they could lie in the sun somewhere under an umbrella pine or on a sandy beach, or fish for salmon from an old boat on a still loch, with no sound but the wind and the water rustling through the reeds. Or they could walk hand in hand over the hills, buy a dog, or potter about the Downing Street garden. Go to the opera or watch old movies in front of the fire. He would bring her breakfast in bed and lovingly cook her favourite meals. Whatever she wanted, he would give her. Always and forever.
As he was talking, every so often her eyes half-opened, and he felt a gentle pressure from her hand. Matt knew this was Sam’s way of telling him to stop bullshitting and get back to work. In case he’d forgotten, he had a country to run.
Later that morning, when Matt finally arrived at Number Ten, he found that the real wielders of power had one last surprise in store for him.
As was the custom, before going inside, he stood in front of the shiny black door with the bronze number, posing for the photographers and TV crews. He was looking forward to meeting Christopher Jenks and the Downing Street staff, who by tradition would be lined up in the hallway to welcome him into his new home. When Matt judged the photo call was over, after a last wave to the media, he turned round and the door opened from the inside.
Amid the sound of affectionate cheers and clapping, to his astonishment Matt found himself face to face with Giles Penfold.
‘Welcome to Number Ten, Prime Minister. I’m the new cabinet secretary. Jenks went off on gardening leave – his health wasn’t too good - and they asked me to step in. We hope you’ll be very happy here. I’m so pleased about the good news from the hospital. Now let me introduce you to your secretaries – I’m sure you’ll find them a brilliant team.’
They never found the sniper.