We Have Lost The President

by Paul Mathews

  After another half an hour, something snapped in Howie’s brain. He jumped to his feet, rushed up to the door and screamed. ‘I am not a celebrity stalker!’ He punched the door. ‘I am not a royal renegade!’ He kicked the door. ‘And I am not a demented Democrat!’ He shoulder-charged the door. ‘I am Howie Pond. And I am not a 24-7!’

  A gruff voice echoed through the room from a speaker behind the camera. ‘Mr Pond – or whoever you are. Listen carefully. You will only be told this once. Sit down. And shut up. You’re upsetting the other prisoners.’

  Prisoners? The realisation hit him. It didn’t matter who he was. Or who the police thought he was. He was a prisoner now. And 24-7 prisoners could be held for up to seventy-two hours without charge. He knew this because he had masterminded the Government’s media strategy during the new Penal Code’s passage into law. Howie had robustly defended the new 24-7 rules, in the face of months of hostile media questions. He’d lost count of the number of times he had replied with the words, ‘The innocent have nothing to fear – only the guilty.’

  Howie felt a little better. He was innocent. But, then again, he was here on the word of the First Lady. He had no security service – or any other – ID. And he looked like he’d slept in a field. He had everything to fear. If the police didn’t believe his story, and the First Lady maintained her pretence – so she could be interviewed by whoever she liked this week without Howie interfering – he could be held without charge for three days.

  Then a thought occurred to him. Had the First Lady pretended not to know him for more sinister reasons? Could it be that she didn’t want Howie investigating her husband’s disappearance? She had been so cool about it yesterday. Maybe she was involved? With the president out of the way, she could make her American dreams a reality. It didn’t seem such a stupid idea after this morning’s madness. He hoped he was wrong. But he might be right.

  Howie sat down again. He was starting to feel weak. He hadn’t eaten properly today. Just a cream cake for breakfast. And they hadn’t offered him any food at the police station. He forgot about the First Lady and thought back to last night. How ironic that he had been dining with the chief of police. And now he was sitting here, hungry and friendless, in one of Freddie’s police cells.

  Then he remembered. Freddie had given him a card containing his personal bleeper details. What were his words when he handed it over? Ah, yes. ‘If you get into any bother, don’t hesitate to contact me.’ Howie’s body juddered with excitement. He had an escape route. But there was just one problem. Both bleeper and wallet were in a plastic bag in the custody suite. He would have to get access to them.

  The cell’s automatic door opened and a serious-looking police officer popped his head around it. ‘Mr Pond?’

  Howie rushed to the door. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘You look like you’ve just crawled from a pond.’

  ‘I fell over.’

  ‘Yes. In your rush to kidnap the First Lady of this great nation and hold the entire country to ransom, no doubt.’

  Howie was so shocked at the accusation, his tongue wouldn’t work.

  ‘Is that a “No comment”?’ sneered the officer. ‘It usually is with you 24-7s. You could be looking at five years for this.’

  Howie’s tongue still wasn’t working.

  ‘I’ll give you some advice,’ continued the officer. ‘It’s better if you confess quickly. It can get very unpleasant in those interview rooms.’ He paused. ‘The atmosphere, I mean. Very heated. Very stuffy. Very … close.’

  Howie was still speechless.

  ‘If you confess in the first fifteen minutes, you get a microwave meal and a fizzy drink. If you maintain your innocence for longer than that, it’s bread and tap water. The choice is yours.’ The police officer looked Howie up and down. ‘We can make it pond water, if you prefer.’

  His tongue finally sprang into life. ‘I’m innocent!’

  The officer chuckled. ‘You 24-7s always are. Until the Republic’s justice system says otherwise. Now, come on; follow me. We’re going to have what’s called a “friendly chat”.’

  Howie didn’t move. ‘First I need to bleep my solicitor.’

  The officer scowled. ‘There is no requirement for you to have a solicitor present at the friendly chat stage of our enquiries, Mr Pond. We haven’t charged you with anything.’ He smiled. ‘Yet.’

  Fortunately, Howie’s knowledge of the updated Penal Code stretched beyond section 24, subsection 7. And while solicitors were not proactively offered at the friendly chat stage, he was perfectly within his rights to ask for one. ‘Section 13, subsection 12 of the 2043 Penal Code explicitly states that I am entitled to bleep my solicitor.’

  ‘What makes you such an expert?’

  ‘As I told your colleagues, I work for the president.’

  The officer smirked. ‘His wife doesn’t seem to think so.’

  Howie would have to choose his words carefully. Calling the First Lady a liar probably wasn’t a good idea in front of this smart-arse. ‘She didn’t recognise me. I was covered in mud.’

  ‘Who’s your solicitor?’ grumbled the officer.

  ‘That’s my business. But his details are in my wallet. I’ll need that and my bleeper, please.’

  ‘Sorry. But all personal possessions must be kept in custody for the duration of your stay with us, Mr Pond.’

  ‘The prisoner must be given access, where those possessions are required to exercise their rights under section 13, subsection 12.’

  The officer stared at Howie for a full ten seconds. ‘You can forget about that microwave meal. Even if you do confess in the first fifteen minutes.’ Then he left the cell and closed the door.

  Howie smiled to himself. He would be out of here by lunchtime. Or would he? Before he could send his message, he needed to remember his cat’s birthday. What the hell was it?

  He sat down on the metal bench and focused his mind. He had to get this right. He only had one more attempt before the bloody thing locked him out. How old was Indie-Day? Five. He was sure of that. So she was born in either 2038 or 2039. And they’d called her Indie-Day because of her date of birth. Britt had chosen the name. It was short for ‘Independence Day’. Not the British one. An American one. But which one? The Old States – 4 July – or the New States – 30 March? He remembered that they bought the cat during a heatwave. So it was more likely to be July than March. That meant she would be six this year. Born in 2038. So the PIN was 040738. That sounded familiar. He wasn’t a hundred per cent certain. But he would go with it.

  The cell door opened again and the police officer walked in. He handed Howie his wallet and bleeper. ‘I have to supervise you. And as your supervisor, I’m giving you sixty seconds to perform whatever tasks you need to perform.’

  Howie couldn’t remember section 13, subsection 12, saying anything about a time limit, but there was no point wasting valuable seconds arguing about it. ‘What’s the name of this police station?’

  ‘East London 27.’

  Howie flicked on the bleeper’s screen and read the message:

  ‘E-COMM ALERT – CLASSIFIED message from MARTHA BLAKE. Enter your six-digit PIN to view. It’s one more try and then I die!’

  Howie punched in the six digits – 0, 4, 0, 7, 3 and 8. He took a breath. Then he pressed the button to confirm his selection. A second later, Martha’s message from this morning flashed up. He didn’t have time to sigh with relief. Instead, he scrolled down to the bottom, so the machine would think he’d read it, and selected the ‘New Message’ option. With his other hand, he manoeuvred the chief of police’s card out of his wallet and tapped the bleeper code on it into the ‘Recipient’ box.

  ‘Thirty seconds remaining, Mr Pond.’

  Howie’s bleeper suddenly felt like a ticking time bomb in his hands. His palms became sweaty. His breathing quickened. His throat went dry. This must be how James Bond felt with half a minute to disable an explosive device, he thought. Only this was probably more st
ressful.

  Howie typed: ‘Freddie. It’s Howie Pond. President’s spokesperson. Need help ASAP. Super-mega urgent.’

  ‘Fifteen seconds.’

  Howie wiped his sweaty brow and continued writing his message: ‘In cell at East London 27 police station.’

  The countdown continued. ‘Five, four …’

  Howie selected ‘Send Message’. This didn’t always work first time. But it better had this time. Or he’d be throwing this bleeper in the Thames – when he eventually got out of here. The bleeper bleeped. The display reset. The message was sent.

  ‘One and zero,’ announced the officer, grabbing Howie’s bleeper and wallet.

  Howie smiled to himself. He’d done it in true Bond style – with just a second to spare.

  ‘If your solicitor isn’t here in half an hour, Mr Pond, we’ll start without him.’

  ‘Half an hour?’ protested Howie. ‘Come on, he’ll need a bit of time to get here.’

  ‘If you check section 13, subsection 12, you’ll find there are no specific time limits stated. It’s just a “reasonable period of time”. And half an hour, round here, is reasonable.’

  Howie sighed. ‘Can’t you make it an hour? That’s reasonable in my book.’

  The officer thought about it for a few seconds. ‘No. Half an hour.’

  This was like dealing with a difficult journalist on a deadline. And he’d handled hundreds of those. So he wasn’t giving up just yet. ‘Can we meet halfway – forty-five minutes?’

  The officer thought about it some more. ‘No.’

  ‘What about ten more minutes, eh? Ten minutes is nothing.’

  ‘Well if ten minutes is nothing to you, Mr Pond, I could always reduce it by ten minutes to twenty minutes.’ He adopted a smug smile. ‘How about that?’

  This guy was the Maurice Skeets of the law-enforcement world. Howie would have to admit defeat. ‘Okay, okay. Thirty minutes it is.’

  ‘I’m glad we’re agreed. Now you must be thirsty after all your exertions this morning. Can I get you something to drink while you’re waiting?’

  This act of kindness seemed a little out of place. But Howie wasn’t going to argue. His throat felt like sandpaper. ‘Thanks. I could murder a cup of tea.’

  ‘As long as that’s all you’ll be murdering. Milk, sugar?’

  ‘Milk, three sugars.’

  ‘Coming right up, Mr Pond,’ replied the officer, looking pleased with himself. Then he left the cell and closed the door behind him.

  There was nothing left to do. Just wait for his cup of tea. And his chief of police.

  Chapter 28

  Britt was hurtling eastwards on a Jubilee Line Metro train towards Canary Wharf. The only other passengers in the carriage were a group of American tourists. They looked lost. One of the men turned to her and spoke in a New York accent. ‘Excuse me, ma’am. Are we heading in the right direction for that giant dome thing?’

  Britt answered in her normal accent. ‘Yes. It’s North Greenwich station – two more stops.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ The man turned back to his group. Pellie Cann might have engaged him in further conversation. But she was no longer Pellie Cann. She was back to being Britt. That was because she couldn’t risk the terror of Trafalgar Square being recognised again. And it was why, after escaping the iron grip of Conor O’Brean in St James’ Park, she had continued on to the safety of her pod and changed out of her disguise into a white blouse and slim-fit jeans. It meant Britt was on her own now. It would be up to her, and her alone, to get this story.

  After saying goodbye to Pellie, she hadn’t headed straight out. Instead, she’d sprawled out on the bed for almost two hours – trying to fit together all the pieces of the puzzle she had collected so far.

  The train juddered to a halt in a tunnel outside the next station. The group of tourists stopped talking and there was complete silence. It was a perfect opportunity to run through her conclusions once more, with no interruptions.

  The searches of the palace had found no trace of the president. So he must have left on Monday night. Whether he did so voluntarily, or against his will, she didn’t know. But whoever managed to mastermind it knew exactly what they were doing. They had to be someone with Tech knowledge, high-speed transport and high-level contacts.

  Britt had revisited the interview with the First Lady and considered whether she might be involved in the president’s disappearance. But she’d quickly decided that it was very unlikely. Neither a suspected affair with Cherry Blush nor an obvious desire to live in the New States seemed strong enough motives. Britt might be wrong, but her instincts told her otherwise.

  Zayn Winner probably wasn’t involved either. He wasn’t a political heavyweight. He wasn’t even a political lightweight. More a featherweight. Yes, he was an opportunist – someone who might be deluded enough to think he could run for president, if the chance came along. But there was no way he was a criminal mastermind who could arrange a presidential kidnap – or worse – to further his political career. He was too dumb. Too nice, even. Anyway, he would never be allowed to run for president. His vice-presidential colleagues simply wouldn’t allow it. There were other, much more obvious, candidates for the presidency should Jan Polak not be around to confirm a third term.

  Lying on her bed, she had asked herself who could be devious enough to dispose of the president, on either a temporary or permanent basis. A political rival? It was possible. But surely not a Democrat. They were too dull. Too docile. No. It could only be another Republican. Just one name came to mind – Oskar Polak. And then there was the Pierogi Pact between Jan and Oskar – exactly the kind of thing that could create bad blood between brothers. Yes. Oskar was the prime suspect.

  Britt had imagined what might go through the mind of a man who had waited so long to be president. The mind of a married man having an affair. That, too, was obvious. Most vice presidents were involved in improper personal or business relationships at some point in their careers. In Britt’s experience, only the stupid ones got caught. And Oskar wasn’t stupid. Britt’s guess was that he was ending his relationship with Cherry because it would be an inconvenience if he were to run for the highest office in the land. And with Oskar holding the sensitive post of vice president for defence, maybe there were other secret relationships to uncover?

  Cherry Blush was the person to unlock this mystery. She would know who Oskar’s friends were – the movers and shakers he spent his time with. And Oskar would surely have communicated something about his political future to Cherry. Britt would love to know what had been said on that park bench yesterday. Was it the usual break-up script? Or maybe Oskar revealed his true intentions? There was only one way to find out. Track down Cherry Blush and ask her. No. Not just ask her. Interrogate her. And if she didn’t want to cooperate, Britt knew exactly what to do – threaten to expose their affair.

  ‘We’re moving again, folks!’ announced one of the tourists.

  The train pulled into Canary Wharf station. It was her stop. She left the train. The platform’s digital clocks showed the time as 11:54:20. She rushed up the escalators and out of the station.

  Britt then hurried the few hundred metres to American Fitness. She had already bleeped them to confirm Cherry was working there today. How easy it would be to meet with her was another matter. The gym receptionist’s e-comm claimed Cherry was fully booked. But this kind of place always said that. Britt would find a way to get to her.

  Chapter 29

  It had been twenty-five minutes since Howie bleeped Freddie English, requesting his urgent help. But the door to the concrete police cell had remained shut all that time. The only arrival was his cup of tea – pushed through a small flap at the bottom of the door. It had a strange taste. The officer must have let it brew for too long. But badly made tea was the least of his worries. He needed to find a way out of here.

  Howie paced up and down the cell. The camera on the wall still wasn’t following him, so he wandered up to the d
oor to see if he could hear anything. He pressed his ear against the cold metal. There were no exchanges between police officers about the chief of police arriving unannounced, asking to see the crazy guy covered in dried mud. In fact, there weren’t any conversations at all. Just silence, punctuated by the occasional sound of a prisoner screaming in the distance.

  Howie swallowed hard. This was getting serious now. If Freddie didn’t show up, Howie would soon be dragged into an interrogation room with only bread and tap water to keep him going.

  As he walked back to the bench, Howie started to feel odd. He stared at the wall opposite. It seemed to be closing in on him, millimetre by concrete millimetre. He checked the other walls. They were doing the same. Then he examined the ceiling. That was advancing towards him at the same millimetric rate. This couldn’t be real. Maybe it was? Could it be a new tactic to obtain confessions from prisoners – the incredible shrinking police cell? Given Howie’s experience of police procedure so far, that didn’t seem such a crazy idea.

  Howie staggered to the centre of the cell. It felt like the safest place to be. He stood tall and shouted. ‘Get back! My name is Pond. Howie Pond. And no one kills Howie Pond!’ He wasn’t sure why he said it. But it did the trick. The walls and ceiling began retreating to their original positions. Seconds later, he felt light-headed and closed his eyes. When the dizziness subsided, he opened them again. He stared at the cell’s grey walls. And he realised he had no idea where he was or why he was here. For a full thirty seconds, his mind was a complete blank.

  Then his whole body juddered and everything came back to him. But his head and limbs felt heavy. He sat down on the bench and slumped against the wall. His blood-sugar levels must be low. It was the only explanation. Tiredness hit him like a slap in the face.