The Final Cut

by Michael Dobbs

  Urquhart rose to examine the oil above the fireplace, gripping the white marble mantel. 'I've been thinking about that a great deal in these last days,' he said softly. 'They accused him of corruption, condemned him, even imprisoned him in the Tower. Called him a warmonger, even before Mr Mackintosh got his hands on the media.' His eyes seemed to dissolve like children's sweets. 'They compelled him to resign. Yet he always found a way to bounce back from disaster. Always.'

  'A shining example.'

  'History has a devilish strange way with the facts. I wonder whether history will be as kind with me.' 'Is it important to you?'

  He turned sharply, his eyes burning with mortification. 'It's the only thing I have.'

  The bitterness, hemmed around by dogged humour, was .about to burst forth but at that moment there was a commotion from the door. It burst open, and in bounced Bollingbroke, breathless.

  'Et tu, Brute!’

  'Beg pardon?'

  Urquhart closed his eyes, shook from them the venom and self-pity, and smiled. 'My little joke, Arthur. What news of Brussels?'

  'Full of bloody foreigners. Sorry not to have got here earlier, Francis.'

  'You are with me?'

  'Till my last breath. I dictated a statement of support to the Press Association from the car telephone on my way in.'

  'Then you are doubly welcome.'

  'Bloody thing is, Francis, it won't do either of us the least bit of good.'

  'Why not?'

  "Cos you and me are for the high jump, there's no denying it. That bugger Makepeace has got this election by the balls.'

  And Makepeace marched on. To Luton. Every hour brought Makepeace more support, and closer to London. With every step the march grew in size, slowing him down and giving the Metropolitan Police Commissioner cause for concern. But after the fiasco in Birmingham, he dared not bar the march from the nation's capital.

  So they marched, onwards to Trafalgar Square. To Francis Urquhart's funeral pyre.

  He had stolen away by moonlight. Through the Downing Street press department, down into the labyrinth of corridors which connects Number Ten to the Cabinet Office on Whitehall, past the old brick walls where the Tudor King's tennis court used to be. Not even Corder was with him.

  Even at midnight the centre of the city was bustling with activity, mostly vehicular, Whitehall becoming something of a race track for delivery vans and late-night buses. The activity helped hide him, ensure he did not stand out. As he came down the steps from the Cabinet Office, past the startled security guard, he ducked away from the police presence which stood at the entrance to Downing Street. George Downing himself had been a rogue, a spy for both sides in the Civil War, a man steeped in duplicities and lacking in either principle or loyalties. Educated at Harvard. And they had given him a knighthood and named the most important street in the kingdom after him. Whereas he, Francis Urquhart, would be fortunate if they allowed his name to be placed even on a headstone.

  There were monuments to the dead everywhere. The Cenotaph. The Banqueting Hall beneath whose windows they had with one blow severed the head of their liege lord and king, Charles I. Statues to fallen heroes, in memoriam and immortal. The entire avenue stood on what had once been the old funeral route from Charing Cross to St Margaret's until the King, disgusted with the wailings of the common herd outside his window, built them a new cemetery at St Martin-in-the-Fields so they could bury the dead without spoiling his dinner. At night in the shadows and with a scimitar moon overhead you could all but hear the creak of ancient bones in this place, a place of remembrance. And he so wanted to be remembered. What else was there for him?

  He stood on the stone bridge at Westminster, gazing down into the silty-ink tidal water which lapped against the piers, its gentle murmurs haunting like the witching calls of Sirens. An emptiness yawned beneath him which seemed to offer peace, release, as easily as falling into the open mouth of a grave. What fragments he had left to lose could so readily be given up. Yet he would not do it, take the coward's way out. Not the way to be remembered.

  He rattled the spiked and rosetted gates to New Palace Yard - the Members' entrance to the precincts of the House of Commons. Members of Parliament were forbidden access to the Palace of Westminster while an election was being fought, except for the sole purpose of collecting their letters. Even during elections constituents still complained, about drains, about neighbours, about missing social security cheques, all the things that burdened a politician's life, and a carefully worded response might yet win a vote. The policeman who swung back the gate in answer to his call offered a respectful salute - Urquhart was well past, his heels clicking on the cobbles before the semi-slumbering officer had recovered sufficient wit to register what he had seen and wonder why on earth the Prime Minister was calling in person and at midnight to collect his mail. But he was entitled.

  Urquhart did not head for the Members' Post Office, which in any event was closed, instead he made his way up the stairs and through the stone archways to the rear of the Chamber; he met no one. But he knew he was not alone, the echo of his footsteps accompanied him like a cohort of distant memories. He had come to the long corridor which ran behind the Chamber, usually noisy with the bustle of errands and anticipation, now ghost still. Before him stood the great Gothic doors to the anteroom of the Chamber. They should have been locked, as should the second set of doors into the Chamber itself, but electricians had been busy rewiring the sound system and the constant unlocking and relocking of doors would have put them into double-overtime. The doors swung open on their great brass hinges.

  The darkness was intense, split only by pale splashes of moonlight from the high windows of the west wall, but he knew every inch by instinct. He had stepped onto this stage, the greatest stage of all, so many times yet it never failed to impose its majesty. The atmosphere, heavy with history, clung to him, lifted and elated him, he could feel the memories of centuries crowding round, the ghosts of the great whispering in the wings and waiting for him, Francis Urquhart, to join them.

  He pushed his way past the waving Order Papers and jabbing elbows, stepping over the outstretched legs, making his way towards his seat. At one point he stumbled, forced to rest a hand on the lip of the Clerk's Table for support, sure he had been tripped by some extending ankle - Gladstone's, perhaps, the rakish Disraeli's or recumbent Churchill's? Did he hear the clip of a closing handbag, smell stale Havana? But then he had reached it, the space on the bench left for the Prime Minister, waiting, as it always had been, for him. He sat, embracing the formal subtlety of its leather, savouring the spice of great events which lingered in its fabric and brought forth the familiar rush of adrenalin. He was ready for them. But they were quiet tonight, everyone waiting to hear him, hanging on his every word, knowing that these were momentous times.

  He stood to face them, his legs propelling him firmly upwards until he was standing at the Dispatch Box, gripping its sides, rubbing his palms along its bronzed edging, afraid of no one. He would have his place in history, whatever it cost, show them all, those faint hearts and foes who surrounded him like men of Lilliput. He'd make them remember Francis Urquhart, and tremble at the name. Never let them forget.

  Whatever it cost.

  He pounded the Dispatch Box and from around the Chamber came answering echoes like the thunder of applause washing down across a thousand years. He could hear them all, great men, one woman, their voices a united chorus of approval, emerging from the dark places around this great hall where history and its memories were kept alive. They spoke of pain, of the sacrifice on which all legend is raised, of the glory which waited for those with character and audacity enough to seize the moment. And their thumping acclaim was for him. Francis Urquhart. A welcome from the gods themselves.

  'Excuse me, Mr Urquhart. You shouldn't be here.'

  He turned. In the shadows by the Speaker's Chair stood a Palace policeman.

  'You shouldn't be here,' the man repeated.

  'You are
of that opinion, too? It seems the whole mortal world is of the same view.'

  'No, I didn't mean that, Sir,' the policeman responded, abashed. 'I merely meant that it's against the rules.'

  'My apologies, officer. I only came here for ... one final look. Before the election. A chance to reflect. It has been a very long time.'

  'No worries, Mr Urquhart. I'm sure no one will mind.'

  'Our little secret?' Urquhart requested. 'Course, Sir.'

  And with a low bow of deference and a little light from the policeman's torch, Francis Urquhart bade farewell to the gods. For the moment.

  It was Passolides' custom to rise before dawn, the habit of mountain warfare lingering in the mind of an old man. And while he embraced the cover of night and paid silent tribute to past times, he would gather the freshest of fish from the local market. A habit with purpose.

  Unfriendly eyes watched him leave and it was while he was pondering over shells of crab and fillet of swordfish that hostile hands went about their work. Grateful, as Passolides had once been, for the cover of night.

  When he tried to turn into the street, laden with paper-wrapped parcels of food, he found his way barred by a large plastic ribbon and a police officer.

  'Sorry, Sir. No one allowed in until they've finished damping down.' The parcels slid to the pavement. 'But that is my house.'

  A hundred yards away, hemmed in by fire engines, the windows of his home stared out sightless across the street, his newly restored restaurant now a gaping, toothless grin. He had been gone little more than an hour. It had taken considerably less than that to destroy almost every possession he had.

  They set out that morning for Watford, on the very outskirts of London. It would be the final stop before their triumphal entry into the city itself, and already the route was lined with images of Makepeace and other trophies, strewn along their path like rose petals. A conqueror's welcome for a man of peace. And one day to go.

  Claire, in answer to his summons, found him writing letters in his study. He brightened as he saw her; he appeared pale with exhaustion but more at ease, as though he had ceased to battle against the impossible current and was finally reconciled to being carried downstream. 'Can I help?' she offered.

  'You may help yourself, if you want. I'm writing out a list. Disposing of a few baubles and trinkets to those who have been kind.' He looked at her intently. 'My Resignation Honours.'

  'You have decided to go?'

  'That has been decided for me, I no longer have any say in the matter. But in the manner of my passing ...' He waved the piece of paper. 'Can I find something for you?'

  'There is nothing that I want,' she replied quietly.

  'For Joh, perhaps?'

  She shook her head.

  He fell to pondering. 'My doctor. Corder, too. Elizabeth, especially Elizabeth. She must have something.'

  'You sound,' Claire suggested slowly, 'like a man disposing of his most personal possessions from his . . .'

  'Deathbed?' He completed her thought. His cheeks filled with a little colour, an expression of defiance began to erase the bruises around his eyes. 'No!' he said with feeling. 'I intend to live forever.'

  He returned to the papers on his desk. 'Tell me, what do you think Geoffrey deserves?'

  'You want to give him something?' The words stuck in her throat like dry biscuit.

  'But he surely merits some recognition.' An ironical smile played about his lips but reached no further. The eyes remained like old ice. 'You may have noticed he was unable to attend our little session in the Cabinet Room yesterday, sent a message saying that he was away campaigning around the country. So I tracked him down by phone. He swore loyalty. To me. Which was why he was working so hard in the constituencies, he said. Tireless, the man is tireless. D'you know, it sounded as though he was almost in tears.'

  She shook her head in evident bewilderment.

  'You misjudge him, my dear, our Geoffrey has never been idle or lacked passion.'

  'In his own cause most certainly, but in others'?'

  'Why, I even asked if he would issue a public statement of support, which he readily agreed to do. I have obtained a copy.'

  He indicated a press release on the comer of his desk. She read it quickly. An appeal for party unity. Emphasis on achievements. A call to arms, of battles still to be fought and victories to be gained even through difficult times. Of faith in the future.

  'But there's not a single mention of your name.'

  'Precisely. His trumpet sounds, but not in praise of me or even in epitaph. It's the first rallying cry in his own leadership campaign. He wants my job.' 'You expected any less?' 'Absolutely not.'

  'So why do you want to give him something?'

  'Language is important in this job and I've learnt to use my words with care.' It sounded almost as if he were embarking on a lecture. 'I asked you what he deserved.'

  'Disappointment. But are such things still within your power?'

  'I may be mortally wounded but that makes me dangerous, not incapable. I am still Prime Minister. I can prick him, prick them all. If I want.'

  'Do you?'

  'In his case?' He pondered, one last time. 'Yes.'

  'Why are you so unrelenting?'

  He picked up three envelopes, as yet unsealed. 'Because some people are born to ruination. Geoffrey is one.' He sealed the first envelope, addressed to the chairman of Booza-Pitt's local association, regretting that 'in light of the new circumstances' the offer of an honour would have to be withdrawn.

  'Because in that process of personal ruination,' Urquhart continued, 'Geoffrey would also ruin the party.' He licked the gum of a second envelope, intended for the Chairman of the House of Commons Committee of Privileges, containing a copy of Geoffrey's letter of resignation with its tale of marital and financial malpractice. It bore the day's date.

  'And because he has tried to betray me.' The third envelope, also with a copy of Geoffrey's letter, was sealed. It was addressed to the editor of the News of the World.

  'Power is there to be used, Claire. To command people and their destinies. We talk of economics, of ethics. But we mean people.'

  'Destroy others. Before they destroy us. Is that it?'

  'No!' His eyes were sharp. 'You must understand, yet you don't. We all talk about a vision for a better future but it is our vision and their future. People are our building blocks and you cannot build a temple without breaking a few bricks.'

  'As I said. Destroy others, before they destroy you.'

  He shook his head, but not in anger. 'No. In politics, we destroy ourselves. We do such a good job of it we scarcely need the assistance of others. Although such assistance is so readily given.'

  He sealed a fourth envelope. It was for Annita Burke's husband. A photograph of her and Riddington engaged in the sort of detailed discussions which were impermissible even under the loosest interpretations of collective responsibility. A double blow to the ranks of those who might succeed him.

  'It is given to few to cast their shadow across the land. If you desire success then you must stand tall, not constantly be bending down to commiserate with the masses huddled in the shade. That is for nuns.'

  'I am no nun.'

  'But I wonder what you truly are, Claire. Whether you know yourself.'

  'I am not you, Francis. Nor am I like you. That is why I want nothing from you. I already have what I want.'

  'Which is?'

  'A view of power. From the inside.'

  'At the feet of a master.'

  'A man who has destroyed himself.'

  'Who may yet save himself.'

  'I can't see how.'

  'That's because, as you said, you are not like me. Because, after all, you are another who has turned away from me.' She could detect no animosity in his tone. He sealed another letter. To the editor of the Mail. In it was a copy of Max Stanbrook's birth certificate which showed him to be both illegitimate and a Jew. A doubly burdensome cargo which would surely sink his shi
p in the storm waters of a leadership contest. Pity. Urquhart liked Max Stanbrook and he was good. Perhaps too good, that was his problem.

  'I haven't turned my back on you, Francis. I'm still here.'

  'And I ask myself why.'

  'Because I'm not a silly girl who flees in tears at the first sound of gunfire.'

  'No. Leave that to the grown men of my Cabinet.'

  'And because I can still learn from you. From all this mess. If you'll let me.'

  'You want to watch the autopsy.'

  'To find out how to do it better. When my turn comes.'

  'Oh, you have ambition?'

  'I thought for a while you'd destroyed it, turned me off politics and their ways. But I want to find a better way.'

  'You won't have long in which to learn. But you may still have much to learn.' 'Such as?'