Serendipity Foundation_292
Page 14
Michael walked down the second-floor corridor in the House of Commons. He could hear the distant whirr of helicopters, the crowd, the police megaphones. There was danger in the air, and Charlie’s expression revealed that he felt it too.
The Prime Minister entered an anxious chamber. The eyes of every MP and the crammed public gallery followed him to his seat on the front bench. He nodded to the Leader of the Opposition, who returned an empathetic grimace. He nodded to the Speaker, who closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
‘Welcome dearest friends/ Questions for Prime Minister?/ I think we have some
If I could call on/ our honourable colleague/ Edward Hughes to start.’
Most of the crowd had their fingers up, counting the syllables of the Speaker’s introduction on their hands. As five fingers followed the seven fingers that followed the initial raised five, a roar came through the windows and doors of Parliament. For the next minute, Parliament listened to the acclaim from a population that had grown weary with it. Some faces turned to smiles, basking in a rare moment of pride. MPs directly behind Michael patted his back; Michael deflected the praise, and waited for silence to descend.
Hughes stood. ‘Thank you one and all/ Number One Mister Speaker/ I’m pleased to take part.’
Michael stood and approached the despatch box with his notes.
‘Thanks, Mister Speaker/ I’m sure the house will join me/ in paying respects.
First to service men/ who fell so tragically/ in line of duty.
We owe it to them/ to recall their sacrifice/ every single day.’
A backbencher called loudly, ‘Hear hear,’ at which the whole house looked in terror in his direction. Realising his mistake he quickly added, ‘Hear, hear, hear, hear, hear, hear, hear, hear, hear, hear, hear, hear, hear, hear, hear.’ There was a deathly silence within the chamber, but outside they could slowly hear a cacophony of thousands of voices shouting ‘hear’, presumably seventeen times each. Smiles slowly turned to laughter within the chamber, and each MP joined in the one-syllabled heptadecathlon. Michael tried to regain his composure.
‘Tenth Battalion/ Lance Corporal James Heathton/ twenty from Plymouth,’ and Michael listed the other notable deaths over the last week as well as stand-out achievements. He was nearing the end of his prepared section. His initial excitement subsided: he would have to make up haikus on the spot from here on in.
‘So Mister Speaker/ this morning I had meetings/ with my Cabinet
And in addition/ to my duties in this house/ I’ll have more later.’ And with that he nodded at the Speaker, who nodded at Hughes to begin the questions.
‘The hostages saved/ One more day of coward whims/ When are losses cut?’ said the MP, and sat down again.
Michael stood up to the despatch box. He took a breath near the microphone as if about to speak, but laughed and stepped back. Laughter rose within the chamber, but for the first time in years all the members laughed with each other. Michael sat back down and spent thirty seconds with a pen and pad before standing.
‘Once more, but slow friend/ This battered brain unlocks not/ questions laced with Zen.’
The house laughed again, and Michael pointed to the Leader of the Opposition and mouthed, ‘Your turn next,’ with a grin on his face. Hughes rose and repeated his question slowly for Michael to write down. Michael then scribbled a response on the pad and double-checked its syllables.
‘Hands should still be held/ when in unknown worlds we walk/ Hearts of smiling tears,’ Michael replied. MPs nodded earnestly in agreement. Michael was impressed by how profound evading a question could be when delivered in haiku.
Hughes stood once more to respond. ‘Easy to avoid/ seventeen syllable flights/ pretence denial.’ Michael had never had much time for Hughes, but he had to admit he was a tough haiku adversary.
Michael took his time to answer. ‘Easy to disdain/ without power to provide/ action to your rile.’ His Cabinet and backbenchers waved their fists in the air.
The Speaker struggled to be heard. ‘May I,’ he shouted three times before a Mexican wave of shush worked its way around the benches.
‘May I ask to speak/ Leader of Opposition/ Mister Phil Greenham.’
‘Thanks Mister Speaker/ Following the people’s will/ no plagues in our house.’
Although both sides of the chamber admired the Shakespearean reference, Michael was confident he would be able to out-haiku Greenham.
‘I ask my dear friend/ what of the tax we spoke of/ at this time last week?’
Greenham’s attempt at haiku brought a torrent of seventeen-syllable abuse.
‘Order, order, please/ I will not have such manners/ in this house of law,’ shouted the Speaker. But it was hard to silence a crowd when four lives depended on them not falling silent prematurely.
Looking around at his own MPs and pointing at Greenham with a grin, Michael said, ‘My child is better/ at words structured from the soul/ than men of breeding.’
No one understood the second line’s pretence, but there was a haiku class war at stake, and the house erupted with laughter and derision.
‘I’m happy that when/ history writes your failures/ you’ll still have haiku,’ said Greenham, trying to be heard above the ribald parliamentarians.
Michael had not had this much fun in a long time, and clapped Greenham’s attempt with gracious acclaim. ‘I’m praying that when/ electorates come to vote/ all you’ll have’s haiku,’ replied Michael. All parties quickly concluded that debating the details of government policy were futile. ‘Sonnet would allow/ rhyme to undermine your lies/ where haiku will not,’ said Michael.
What took place was a celebration of the ridiculous. Political point scoring was replaced by a desire to hear the laughter from the crowds outside. Agendas were unable to fit through the narrow syllable requirements.
As the session reached a close, Michael said, ‘I’d like to thank you/ Be proud of who we can be/ when forced to behave.’ He nodded at Greenham, who smiled, nodded back, and started a solo clap, which quickly multiplied into a round of applause that dominoed out of the House of Commons, through the Central Lobby into Parliament Square, conducted its way through the streets of central London, then reverberated through TVs, radios, computers and smartphones into the ears of hundreds of millions of people around the world. There was a strange type of warmth and camarad-erie that only a Prime Minister’s Questions conducted in haiku can provide.
For a few minutes, the festivities led people to forget about the four hostages, who were sitting in a luxury basement in Cairo, sipping lattes and planning their response.
Life is Beautiful
Wednesday, May 20th
Lucy, along with all her colleagues, was given compassionate leave on Wednesday, and she spent the day at her mum’s. As she arrived, her mum hugged her tighter and longer than she had done since Lucy’s father had died. Her mum had met Miller and picked up on the confused chemistry between the two.
The tears Lucy had fought all week finally welled over. She had barely eaten or slept.
‘Oh, before I forget, a letter arrived in the post for you yesterday,’ her mum said.
Lucy rubbed her eyes as she walked to the sideboard in the kitchen where she found a brown envelope addressed to her. On the top right of the envelope were two stamps adorned with pharaohs and the word ‘Egypt’. She opened the envelope to find no note inside. She turned it upside down; a lonely SIM card fell into her hand. She retreated to her old bedroom and switched the SIM card in her phone. Two new messages were received. The first welcomed her to the UK and gave the price for calling home to Egypt. The second read: ‘This is your Pinocchio, washing fruit in iodine. Text when you get this. Don’t call the police. I am safe. X ’
She read the text three times. A rush of chaotic emotion took over. She struggled to believe the nonchalant text could be from Miller; she toyed with the idea of it being a sick prank. But they often joked about the clichéd dangers of working abroad: avoiding salads
, pickpockets, Imodium. She quickly remembered their last conversation in the pub: Pinocchio – a codename that no one else could possibly know.
She wiped her tears and texted back. ‘Is this you, Miller? Are you hurt? Where are you? X ’
She found an old phone for the Egyptian SIM. She decided against telling her mum. As the build-up to Prime Minister’s Questions approached, she swung between optimism and despair. Three minutes into the session, with her mum crying tears of hopeful relief, she received a message. ‘I’m safe, but very important you do not contact anybody. Will call at 3. Make sure you are alone. X ’
At ten to three she made her excuses and went for a walk to the nearest park.
‘Miller? Thank Christ. How are you? Are you hurt?’
‘Calm down. Relax. I’m fine.’
‘What the hell’s going on? You’ve no idea how terrified I’ve been. Have you got hold of anybo—’
‘Lucy. Calm down. This phone call’s costing a fortune.’
‘I . . . I don’t understand.’
‘Do you promise you’ll keep this a secret? Before I tell you anything you have to promise.’
‘I . . . I . . . Yeah. Of course. What’s happening?’
‘Listen. Things are not exactly what they seem . . .’ Over the next ten minutes Miller told Lucy everything: the imagined Indian village, the kidnap, who the Foundation were, and why they had decided to join them.
Lucy was silent throughout.
‘Come on . . . say something.’
‘You’re nuts,’ Lucy said, as she struggled to comprehend what Miller had told her. ‘Absolutely crazy. You know how much trouble you could get into? This is insane. The whole world just watched you ransom Parliament. Hundreds of thousands came out to support you.’
‘But everyone had a great day out, right?’
‘That’s not the point. You’ve just taken advantage of people’s goodwill. You’ve lied to everybody.’
‘I disagree. That’s exactly the point. No one came out to save us, but to support the principle that human life should be valued. Imagine what else we could do.’
‘Like what? Is haiku going to overthrow the capitalist regime next?’
‘It has huge untapped potential,’ he said, frustrated.
‘Miller, how long do you think people are going to stand for this?’
‘For as long as people enjoy it. That’s the point: we’re the ransomers who demand what people would demand of themselves. I know theoretically you’d support this, and for once I’m doing it instead of just talking about it.’
‘Miller the pragmatist.’
‘Miller the pragmatist with a heart of gold.’
Lucy laughed and broke the building tension. ‘Where’s my timid Miller gone?’
Lucy could hear Miller breathe out deeply. ‘He got tired of being scared.’
Lucy skirted the edge of the park, past a couple of dog walkers, and looked out towards the grass where three games of football were taking place. Such normality added to the current absurdity; and yet cutting through all her anxieties and questions was a giddy excitement that it was her he had chosen to call.
‘So why are you calling?’ Lucy’s tone was ambiguous; Miller took a moment to evaluate the many potential subtexts.
‘You’re going to think it’s stupid, or that we’re being delusional.’
‘A modern Don Quixote.’
The literary reference went over his head. ‘But what I was hoping you might do is . . .’ He paused. The request was harder to articulate than his last ten minutes of confession. The boundaries between reality and fantasy were in flux. ‘Well, I was hoping you might pretend to be my girlfriend.’
Lucy laughed awkwardly. ‘Miller . . . people know we’re not together. No one will buy it and without you here I could get myself into some serious trouble.’
‘People know we’re not publicly together.’ He had barely slept the night before in panic at how he would explain his request to Lucy. ‘Look, I know we know that we’re not together, but, well . . . look. People in the office constantly, kind of, you know, joke about us . . . you know, about us in the club that one time, and . . . well, I was thinking we could kind of maybe pretend . . .’
‘I get it,’ she said, putting an end to his tortuous reply, although the silence that followed proved even worse. ‘I don’t understand why this helps you?’
‘Because . . . well . . . a worried lover gets opportunities to meet people. Important people. It keeps that option on the table.’
‘I’m an option on the table?’
‘I thought you said you’d help me get out of trouble.’
‘This is not exactly what I had in mind.’
Miller felt suddenly guilty. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry. I guess I just liked the thought of you being a part of it with me.’ Miller could hear Lucy breathing deeply on the other end.
‘Look, Miller. Can you give me a little time to have a think about it?’
‘Of course,’ said Miller. ‘Like Anna Karenina.’ He felt a literary analogy would act as an apology and she was the first female literary character that came to mind. He instantly regretted tingeing his proposition with a narrative that climaxed in suicide.
Lucy laughed at Miller’s attempt and hung up.
Anna Karenina’s decision was between a life of safe comfort, or that of likely ruin by investing in the man she loved. During Wednesday evening, both Miller and Lucy nervously reflected on how accurate the analogy really was, selectively overlooking the train tracks.
Michael and Charlie were sitting in Michael’s office drinking beer out of the bottle. They had not heard from the kidnappers yet, but the safety of the hostages seemed less important now that Michael had done everything he could to save them.
The evening papers were filled with praise. a leader at last chimed the Evening Standard. Internet blogs and media were equally complimentary.
Some 100 million had watched events live. Replays had since gone viral online across the world. Opinion polls had seen Michael’s approval ratings jump an unprecedented 15 points.
‘They’re a fickle bunch.’
‘Who are?’ said Charlie.
‘The public,’ said Michael, taking a swig of beer. ‘But I suppose they pay the bills.’ He sat back in his chair, and let an emotion that he had not encountered for a long time surge through his veins. Pride.
*
The Foundation had sent a brief congratulatory response to Parliament, via an email to Barrett, and were in the process of getting drunk.
None of them had dared hope the day could have gone so well. They started brainstorming for ransom two. But most of their ideas turned out to be no better than poor relations of their first theme: merely substituting haiku with rap freestyle, alliteration, or interpretive dance. Their euphoria soon turned to despondency. Kidnapper’s block had taken hold. They, in turn, had turned to alcohol.
‘No offence, gentlemen, but your imaginations are terrible. It’s best to start with what you know,’ Aiya said, topping up Liam’s glass. ‘Let’s start with you. I feel you’ve broken a few demands you would’ve made of yourself.’
They all looked at Liam. ‘Oh right. So I’m supposed to be the greatest disappointment to myself out of the four of us?’ he said, his small eyes narrowing.
‘Pretty sure you’ve carefully crafted self-loathing to be your niche,’ said Jordie. ‘We like to do ours a little more privately.’
Liam took a sip of the home-brew, grimacing as he swallowed, and scanned his audience. ‘Look at all of you, sitting in judgement,’ he said with a light slur, his eyes also giving firm clues to his intoxication. ‘Did I dream of this when I was young? No. But at least I’m not in denial. Richard can pretend all he wants that he’s been unfairly done by, but if I was him, I’d hate myself. Whether he likes them or not, he made his decisions. He’s a self-made disappointment.’
‘Whereas you’re a victim, I’m guessing,’ said Jordie.
A silence descended. They were all struck by the ugliness of a man who had forgotten how to forgive.
‘I like it,’ said Aiya, nodding at Jalila.
Liam looked confused, as if his outburst should have put paid to any note of positivity.
‘Like what?’ asked Richard.
She smiled at her mum before turning to the others.
‘National Benefit of the Doubt Day.’
Lucy found a bench near Hyde Park Corner, and sipped her coffee as she read a newspaper with Miller’s face adorning the front page. Next to it was a response from the kidnappers to yesterday’s events in Parliament:
Alive! Smiles of hope
On faces that see no sun.
Buoys on melting lakes.
She wondered if they were Miller’s words. He would smile at the academic analysis visited upon them. As an English professor at Oxford put it: ‘The poem is clumsy, yet profound. We are forced to imagine the hostages as b(u)oys, being freed from their icy slavery on the visible surface, yet such buoys remain roped to the bottom of the wintery lake.’
Would the nation believe she and Miller were an item? Could she deal with the intrusion? The spotlight would inevitably fall on her attractiveness and the depth of her grief.
Lucy and Miller. Miller and Lucy. She had stared at her pictures of the two of them together. Would the public confuse the chemistry as romantic, or had she confused it as platonic? She recalled specific moments where joking colleagues had alluded to their relationship. Their blushing denials replayed endlessly in her head. She could no longer imagine turning down Miller’s request.