‘You OK, Zack?’ breathes Kathy from the front seat.
Of all the manifold ludicrous replies, I settle for ‘I’m fine’.
She turns to face me. ‘You’ve got to stop him. He’s going to kill us all.’
The car pauses at the north end of Horse Guards Road where it joins the Mall. As we wait to make the turn, the pulse of the crowd – one-two-three, one-two – one-two-three, one-two – courses through the conduits of Admiralty Arch like a torrent from a hydro-electric dam. Britain’s Great, end of! One-two-three, one-two.
To our right drones dance to the beat high above Trafalgar Square. A giant screen shows us the action in the Square: the performer is the twenty-four-year-old white rapper Dizzy V in his reversed baseball cap and ripped jeans. A sub-machine gun is slung across his T-shirt. Celebrity gossip says the gun is fake but made of gun metal to hang right. The T-shirt is in Vigilance colours: a Great Britain, Great Artists gig no doubt. The Guardian commented on Annabel Wale’s talent for crowds – give her even a hint of one and out of nothing she’ll whip up a show to please.
Unnoticed, two devotees half his age slide up to the Jaguar on motorised skateboards. They spot me and excitedly hammer the three-two beat with their fists on the Jaguar’s armoured glass. I give them a thumbs up and check my Rolex (heavy, the same model as Bob’s).
The roaring torrent rolls down the Mall and I, the people’s chief representative, follow. I try to remember to breathe. My blood flow must be pure adrenaline, of which there is no hint at our destination: stare as much as you like, Buckingham Palace gives off that it’s seen it all before. Or tries to.
‘You’ll be on your own with His Royal Highness for the conversation,’ says Shima, ‘but Kathy and I will be just outside. You call him ‘guv’nor’, by the way – for some reason he seems to like it. If you get into trouble, ask about the vegetable garden.’
The car pulls into the Ambassadors’ Courtyard on the Palace’s south side. I wasn’t shown any Palace footage in Brixham; clearly it was one of the places which defeated the ubiquitous cameras. But Mary’s training pays off. There’s no hesitation or repetition in the way I greet door-keepers, aides de camp and other flunkeys, one of whom leads the way. I can distinguish Shima’s and Kathy’s footsteps in the gaggle following me, but as prime minister and First Lord of the Treasury I don’t look behind. We stride corridors with red carpet the length of an airport, guarded by pairs of marble pillars. Then three flights of back stairs take us to the first floor. The aide de camp abandons me to my fate in the White Drawing Room.
Someone has run a bath of gold paint above the ornately-carved four-tier ceiling and left the tap running. The ceiling includes two friezes of intricate sculpture and geometric patterns. Everything in the room from about twenty feet up reads like a four-stave orchestral score. Crotchets, minims and quavers interlock on each level and the whole thing is saturated in gold paint. Leaking from the bath above, the gilt dribbles down pairs of white pilasters and around mirrors and cabinets before finally staining the rest of the furniture – a roll-top marquetry table, the frames of settees and chairs and more red carpet. Restrained patches of white wall beneath the gold rush don’t provide much relief. From a portrait at one end of the room, Queen Alexandra waits for my performance. I’ve played to an audience of one before, but whatever this production lacks in bums on seats, it makes up in the set.
A tall mirror and cabinet swing open together. The Prince Regent steps through the hidden door wearing a double-breasted pinstripe. ‘Bob,’ he says.
Bob is what I do, a quick nod rather than a bow. ‘It’s good of you to see me, guv’nor. I’m really sorry for the short notice.’
‘Not at all. It’s been rather a busy morning.’ The Prince rests his left hand inside his jacket pocket. He makes no move towards the settees: we’re going to stand. With my raised soles I have two inches over him.
‘The telephone has been falling off the hook,’ he continues. ‘I’ve just been offering fraternal ministrations to brother Philippe, the vexed King of some rather vexed Belgians. Apparently the Pope, the President of France and the Secretary General of the United Nations are also hoping for a word with one.’
A possible nuclear coshing has handed the Prince a piece of the action. Well, the seventy-one-year-old has waited long enough for it, and so have I.
I begin to speak but his right hand halts me. ‘Given the unprecedented circumstances I had a word this morning with Jennifer. On a precautionary basis.’
I’m blank. So far as I know the top of British public life is a Jennifer-free zone. A mistress, presumably? They form part and parcel of the royal job description, it seems.
‘I expressed my wish to be consulted before the release of any nuclear codes.’
A mistress with the nuclear codes? Shit! The Prince’s expression leaves no doubt that I’m expected to find all this makes sense, so I nod. The clock speed of my grey cells must have doubled.
‘But you asked to see me. You have news?’
‘I do, guv’nor. I am tendering the resignation of the Cabinet.’
This information proves cranially divisive. The Prince’s left eyebrow starts breakdancing while the cheek beneath makes a mad lunge for the right side of the face. His pursed lips expel the words, ‘I see,’ while his eyes probe me every which way. Maybe a speech bubble will pop out of his side saying ‘but’ or ‘only joking’? ‘Will you remain the leader of your party?’ the Prince asks.
‘I suspect I’ll be lying low, guv’nor. General Wale already does an outstanding job.’
‘I agree. What she’s done getting unemployed youth off the streets and into The Vigilance is quite remarkable. In fact, I’m hoping some of these youngsters will work here at the Palace. I’m sure the next government will want to keep The Vigilance. Certainly I’ll encourage them to do so.’
For a minute or two his concentration is somewhere else, thinking (I imagine) which politician to call first in order to get as wide a coalition as possible. My instincts are telling me to end on a high and get out, but I’m struggling over how to end the conversation. My understanding of royalty is that they end conversations with you, not the other way around.
Unexpectedly from the Prince, ‘Before you go, tell me what you think of my vegetable beds.’
I join him at the window. Buckingham Palace’s manicured lawns, incongruously large in central London (also the city’s largest no-drone zone), stretch in front of us, bordered with shrubs, flowers and a high wall. The wall removes the traffic coagulating around Victoria Station and Hyde Park to another planet. But today gardeners on mini-tractors are tearing gashes of brown in the green. ‘Food needs not just to be organic, but grown at the shortest possible distance from the table. I’m putting in three vegetable beds. It’s a shame you won’t be in office to taste the results.’
The shapes of the vegetable beds have been pegged out. The Prince explains that there will be a crescent, a cross and a star of David, making the Palace organic, locally sourced and multi-faith all at the same time.
I reach for a Bob response and find one to hand. ‘If you ask me, guv’nor, that idea is a pile of shit.’
The Prince emits a sound perfected in the BBC’s Radiophonic Workshops – canned laughter. ‘I will say this for you, Bob – you never gave me guff.’ He glances at a clock on a nearby mantelpiece. If it’s true that the Palace has more than 300 working clocks, why are they so behind the times? ‘Goodness, we both need to be getting on. But what about ACERBIC? You promised to spill the beans.’
‘Acerbic, guv’nor?’
The Prince frowns. ‘Absolutely. Our Super Secret Squirrel conversation. You suggested I ask mater whether any of her prime ministers had mentioned ACERBIC.’
‘And?’
‘She doesn’t remember. Which, alas, doesn’t mean –’ He breaks off quietly.
Thank God a door opens. Shima and
Kathy are waiting outside: it’s time to get off stage. But I’m Bob, and Bob doesn’t slink. I say with exaggerated firmness, ‘I’m sure that should be a matter for my successor.’
‘Of course. We should do the proper thing. And if an ageing monarch-in-waiting may be allowed to say so, I think that’s exactly what you’ve done just now – the proper thing. Thank you. I believe Britain and history will thank you.’
I know what Bob would do. I’ve trained. I don’t have to think about it, except in my mind to say yes. I clench my right fist for a fist bump. The Prince doesn’t move. You can do fist bumps right-right or right-left. With my left hand I reach over and grab his unpocketed hand and apply a little pressure on the fingers. They fold. We bump. ‘Take care of yourself, guv’nor,’ I call out, to Shima’s and Kathy’s amazement. ‘See you around.’
I reckon he enjoys the brief flirtation with cool, but within a couple of seconds the regal gaze dismisses me in favour of another perusal of the organic, locally sourced, multi-faith vegetable beds. I exit. My hormones are like two tribes of football supporters getting steamed in a seaside town – one lot elated to have got out in one piece, the other crestfallen that showtime is over.
48
London, Tuesday 30 June 2020 (4)
In the Ambassadors’ courtyard the Jaguar and the Land Rover are ready to go. Kathy is now in the back seat of the Jag with Frank next to the driver. He smiles and points at the Tesco shopping bag. Kathy and I kiss.
Shima taps me on the shoulder. Having bawled endlessly for a script, I’ve never been less happy to be given a page and a half of 14-point font.
‘You were wonderful.’ Not knowing how to gush, Shima extrudes unconvincing product from a sentiment factory. ‘The moment you’ve been waiting for and then you’re done. The steps of Number Ten – the famous door – the government has resigned, goodbye world. Our media team reckon about three hundred million people are watching live. You should reach over a billion in twenty-four hours.’
I skim two minutes of government-speak mixed with more product from the same factory. It’s a funeral oration for a desk chair. When I say ‘Who wrote this shit?’, the bad-tempered slam of the car door tells me. There’s something I meant to tell her, but the Cabinet Secretary has gone. She has a coalition to fix. Oh, that’s it – the Prince has a mistress who has the nuclear codes.
The gates open and the car inches forward. ‘I can’t say this,’ I say to Kathy as I show her the sheets of paper. ‘In a million years Bob would never say anything like this.’
‘Didn’t your coach say you would come out with something strange, quite different from what Bob would say?’
Mary’s black gilet and a fish-needs-bicycle T-shirt flash into my mind, along with a white horse on the moon. Focus – focus on the right problem. A white horse on the moon? No problem. But I need to rip the covers off it Bob’s way.
We’ve started down the Mall. Bob wouldn’t go to Number Ten and announce the government’s resignation to the media – that was the old way. He’d announce it to the people (and, of course, the media). Like the Red Lion, stuffed full of cameras. But this is a whopper of an announcement – I’ve just pitched BG out of power – even if less of a whopper than why don’t we nuke Brussels? So he would...
I lean forward to speak to Frank and the driver. Frank jabbers excitedly into his communication device.
The stage ramp erected in Trafalgar Square is guarded by the lions at the base of Nelson’s Column. Armed police form a box around me as we access the ramp. Backstage Dizzy V is tearing into an assistant who has forgotten the right moisturiser. The fake sub-machine gun is slung over the back of a folding director’s chair.
Dizzy high-fives me, I high-five back. ‘Bob, great you came to catch the show.’
‘Always a fan – hardcore. Look, Dizzy, any chance I could say a few words?’ I gesture towards the stage. His T-shirt colours, the way he’s looking at me, I see he’s going to play ball. Duh! – of course he is – I’m his hero, for about four more minutes.
‘No sweat. Look, do you want to use my hand-held or have the guys check for a lapel mike?’
Theatrical training to the rescue – if you’re pumped and haven’t practised with a hand-held, most of your words get lost.
Dizzy calls to a bloke with headphones, wild hair and pebble glasses. A lanyard round his neck tells me his name is Arvind. He tells me that the sound feeds the broadcasters direct as well as the amps for the gig.
I bounce up the ramp onto the stage. In front of me is the re-named Gallery of National Art; the sculpture of the Queen on her favourite horse is on the fourth plinth. Between me and them dances a cauldron of centipedes splashed with Vigilance colours. Ten thousand uplifted arms clap three-two, three-two. When the crowd see me a gale of chanting re-starts, and the drones above us start their new ‘firework’ move – four or five form a circle, almost touching, and accelerate vertically upwards before cascading gently back towards the crowd like falling leaves. I smile and wave, sometimes with both hands, sometimes with a half-clenched fist. I point to individuals in the crowd, particularly in the Vigilance, and give them the mock-salute which Bob has taken up lately.
It takes two or three minutes before the crowd quietens down – enough time for the TV channels to start broadcasting live. I look at the faces near me and realise that the brother who trained to read audiences is me.
‘It’s great to see you all (applause), here in this place which celebrates our country’s fantastic victories (cheers) over the French (hysteria). Britain’s Great! End of! (applause and chanting) I love Dizzy’s shows, a big hand for him please for letting me say a few words.’
I lead a round of applause to Dizzy V who is standing to the side.
‘Let’s not forget a great show this morning from our drone pilots (cheers). Thanks guys and gals. Could you calm it down for two or three minutes?’
There’s a delay of thirty seconds and then the drones stop fireworking and slide off to hover next to Admiralty Arch.
‘This morning I want to say some special words to those of you in BG. Do you remember when you joined BG? Because I do (laughter). We created Britain’s Great because we were angry.
‘Angry that people like you and me were not being listened to (applause).
‘Angry that people like you and me were being treated as stupid, foul-mannered, selfish and generally full of shit (whistles and applause).
‘Angry that whenever there was any good stuff to go around, we didn’t get any of it (cheers and applause).
‘Angry at a country brought low by contempt. Contempt for you and me – contempt for people never thought good enough to run Britain, but only to work for it, to play the Lottery, to pay taxes, waiting for housing which never came, waiting for healthcare which only came too late (shouts of ‘Tell them!’). Meanwhile the doing-nicelys were too busy dialling Uber and telling the rest of us to jump’ – I snap my fingers – ‘to notice their boots pressed against our necks (silence).
‘Bringing this country low was taking away the greatest thing many of us have.
‘This needed to stop – and thanks to BG, and thanks to you – it has (applause). Thanks to you, British politics, whoever is in power, will never be the same again (applause). Britain is great, and will be greater, because we have stamped on this contempt. We have said no to the people who arrogantly assume they understand their neighbours’ lives, their brothers’ and sisters’ lives, and know them to be worth less than their own (prolonged cheers and applause).’
On stage next to me, Dizzy V is clapping his hands together above his head. Okay, so much for the toboggan ride so far – now comes the difficult bit.
‘I knew what this contempt, this poison, had dmne to Britain. But only through the chance to become prime minister have I realised how much this same poison is screwing up our planet. As a country, we have neighbours, across the Channel an
d beyond. And on both sides of the Channel, there is too much poisonous conviction that we understand our neighbours’ lives and know them to be worth less than our own (silence).
‘The games from the President of the European Commission made all of us angry. Anger is pain. To ignore pain is to be a fool. But threatening to nuke Brussels was no medicine, it was an extra helping of pain.’
Dizzy stops mid-move, his arms and one leg at an angle, awkward, a dancer with an intuitive sense for any music other than this one.
‘That threat was a step too far. Of course we had no intention to nuke anything, but the world didn’t know that.’
The people in the Square are like fresh grounds of coffee brought to boiling point. Into their cup I’m pouring sour milk. The silence in the Square curdles. The first scraps of something unpleasant begin to surface. Dizzy moves to the side of the stage.
‘Here’s a great British rule: when you make a bad mistake, resign. Too many ignore it. BG won’t. Threatening to kill innocent men, women and kids like you was a bad mistake. Evil, to be honest. So I’ve just come from Buckingham Palace, where I have tendered my government’s resignation. No missiles will be fired on Friday.’
There are scattered cheers, more boos, but also a growling. The scum takes shape: black, triangular velociraptors move in my peripheral vision. From the front rows of the crowd two beer cans are thrown but fall short. Dizzy’s gone but my police protection is on stage.
I look at the TV cameras. ‘Thank you for your support – and because we’re doing the right thing, I hope we will go on having it.’
An angry black triangle hits the lighting gantry and falls into the crowd. I see it but hear nothing – not the clash of metal against metal, not the crowd, not the police officer to my right who may be shouting. I’m not numb, I’m happy – happier than I’ve ever been in my life. I’ve nailed it, or come damned close. Who knows, maybe I’ve also saved some lives.
Time of Lies Page 22