Muldoon had been waiting for half an hour for the President of the United States to ring back. His office was handling everything else – no other calls would be put through until he had spoken to the President. An aide had woken Hollander in Washington when Muldoon called. Hollander, his eyes sleep-swollen and his hair sticking up on top of his head, had reacted immediately. ‘A terrible accident,’ he said. ‘The President will speak to the victim’s family personally as soon as possible. And there’ll be a compensation package, of course.’
Muldoon looked at the man who had, only an hour earlier, asked for his agreement that the Marines should land at Hamscott. Who had gained that agreement from him and promptly gone to bed, to sleep. Who had put him in the appalling position he was in today. He disciplined himself to stay calm. He needed more from Hollander now, much more. He needed to talk to the President. He needed to record that talk on film before 10 a.m., the time of his scheduled weekly encounter with the press. ‘Will you talk to the President?’ he’d asked. ‘I’d like to speak to her personally.’ There was a short silence. It: was four in the morning in Washington and the head of the most powerful country in the world is not woken lightly. For her, perhaps, the death of Kim Durham and the pictures of Rory at the soldier’s feet, already on TV, were not as important as the hundred other important matters she acted on daily.
Muldoon waited. Would Hollander wake the President, giving Muldoon the appearance of a man so concerned by this random death that he had called the President of the USA, and so influential that the President had responded personally, or would he have to face the world’s press without that backing? ‘Let me make some calls and get back to you,’ Hollander said.
‘As soon as you can,’ Muldoon said. ‘I have a press conference in an hour and a half.’
Now, the press conference was only an hour off and there had still been no call to the silent room, reached only by the muffled sound of traffic and the incessant ringing of phones in other rooms. Muldoon, behind his desk, backed by a vast oil painting of the Duke of Wellington on a rearing stallion, was sweating. The only other man in the room, his Press Officer, Tom Canning, was in a chair by the fireplace, with a pen in his hand and a pad on his knee. In fact, there would be nothing to write until the President’s call came, if it did. Every few minutes one of Canning’s assistants came in with a sheaf of messages and silently handed them to him. The British press and the BBC wanted statements. The European press wanted statements on the statements of their own leaders – the German President had wondered what was the status of the British bases, the French President pointed to that status as anomalous, the Russian President had already sent unnecessary and trouble-making condolences to the family. Everyone wanted the PM to respond, but Frederick Muldoon waited for the presidential call that might not come.
Canning was betting that Hollander would not wake his President and, at the last moment, would produce an uncontentious statement for Muldoon to deliver. Hollander would consider Muldoon’s long-term prospects, never good because of the small majority, worse after this death at the base. Because, technically, only one man could have authorized the Marines to invade the base and that was Muldoon. And Hollander would know the British press would write the story of a puppet Prime Minister allowing foreign troops to gun down an innocent schoolteacher, lone parent of a small boy. It was irresistible. And, Canning thought, also as true as any press story ever got.
Canning’s wife, who worked for Sky News, had told him as he drank a hasty espresso that morning, ‘If the President doesn’t come up with something solid for Muldoon this morning before the press conference, the President will be hanging him out to dry. Goodbye, Muldoon, hello, somebody else. Who will that be?’
Canning hadn’t answered the question – he’d been rushing through the door – but the answer was obvious. That somebody else would be Alan Petherbridge, the Home Secretary. He was capable and respected, if not liked. And as far as Hamscott was concerned he had clean hands – he’d advised using British police to clear the base. He’d been backed at 6.30 a.m. by COBRA, so Canning understood, and at seven thirty he’d confirmed the plan with the Prime Minister. Muldoon had then reneged on all that, pretty certainly after a call from Washington. It would not be long before Petherbridge, one way or another, made this known.
This put Canning in a bad situation. He disliked Petherbridge about as much as Petherbridge disliked him. He was a cold, smug, clever-clever bastard, Canning thought, and he hadn’t recommended a softly-softly approach at Hamscott because he was a bleeding heart, a supporter of people’s right to protest, but only because it was the more intelligent way. Muldoon would be lucky to survive, once Petherbridge let it be known he was the hero of the Hamscott Common affair. Ladbrokes would start offering odds on him as the future Prime Minister. And Canning would be out of a job.
Canning shifted in his chair. He was wasting his time sitting here, in silence, while Muldoon refused to speak even to his own Private Secretary. Or the Defence Secretary. Or the RAF. Or Kim Durham’s parents. Or the Europeans. And certainly not to Alan Petherbridge. He was only present so that Muldoon would not be alone, waiting for a call from the President of the United States, the only person who could save him from this wreck. But without that call, it was, Canning estimated, twenty to one that Muldoon, unpopular head of a party with a majority of three, would go.
Frozen in horror, Canning watched Muldoon pick up the phone and call Hollander again. He couldn’t wrench the phone from his hand but he knew – everybody knows – that phoning again so soon after the first call reeked of desperation. Listening, he gathered that the Pentagon already had reports from the senior officer at Hamscott Common and the Marine commander in charge of the raid. They were being studied as a matter of urgency. ‘Has the President been told?’ asked Muldoon. Pointless to ask – of course she hadn’t, thought Canning. The President would be informed when the assessments were made, Hollander told him. Within half an hour he would have a statement ready, in time for the press conference.
Canning was astonished that Muldoon put the phone down without even asking for details of the military reports. ‘Hollander going to wake the President at any point?’ he enquired.
‘He didn’t say,’ Muldoon said, adding, in a low, grumbling tone, ‘Ray Hollander’s never liked me.’ Oh God, Canning groaned to himself, Muldoon’s cracking. The phone rang again. Muldoon snatched it up. He steadied. Canning wondered if there’d been a miracle and the President was on the line.
Muldoon composed his face and said, ‘Prime Minister speaking, ma’am,’ and although, over the next five seconds his face completely drained of colour, he continued to speak steadily. Meanwhile, Canning had picked up the phone on the table in front of him and heard the crystalline tones of the Queen of England asking, ‘Can you tell me exactly, Prime Minister, what happened at Hamscott Common?’ There was no picture on the screen in front of him – the Queen never used videophone.
Muldoon gave a smooth but inadequate answer. He was instantly picked up on various points and examined more fully. He responded calmly. He was asked more questions by a plainly displeased Queen.
When Muldoon put the phone down he was ashen and sweating, like a man with flu, but the episode reminded Canning of one of the reasons why Muldoon was Prime Minister – his nerve. He wondered if, even after all this, Muldoon would survive.
At that moment Alan Petherbridge, uninvited and immaculate, his long, dark-complexioned face set in stone, came through the door. How he had got through Muldoon’s defence system Canning could not tell. But here he was, fresh as paint, taking in the situation at a glance, giving Canning a look indicating, if not sympathy, at least some understanding, and saying, ‘Prime Minister, I apologize for the intrusion, but there are matters that can’t wait.’
May 2017
If you had to point to the real beginning of our present crisis, it was not the death of Kim Durham. For that we had to wait another four months, until the election of Octob
er 2015. But the image of young Rory Durham at the US soldier’s feet still symbolizes what happened – what is still happening. There’s always a picture – Jackie Kennedy’s pink suit, stained with her husband’s blood, the naked girl in Vietnam, running. And then there was, and still is, the photograph of Rory Durham kneeling in the road, clutching at the armed soldier’s knees. Strange that this image came so early, long before the corruption began, the country was plunged into cold and darkness, the nights were ripped by the sound of the bombers overhead – and long before Mark Moreno died. Before we learned shame, the shame of those who have allowed their country to be betrayed from within, and the shame of defeat.
That picture of Rory was like a prophecy. From that moment on the poster of Rory at the soldier’s feet was used on demonstrations – when demonstrations were allowed – and is still stuck up on bedroom walls and in small committee rooms throughout the land. ‘Kim Durham’ is no longer just the name of a woman. It is the name of a state of affairs.
Young Rory Durham will be seven years old now. After the bruising encounters with the media and the sordid battles with the diplomats, the advisers and the intelligence services of two National Governments, all attempting to get some ‘right’ answers and statements from them, Rory and his maternal grandparents sharpened up and managed to disappear. I don’t know if anyone helped them or if they ever claimed any of the money shoved at them with both hands by Britain and the USA. They’re lost to us now, and to history, or so it seems. But, you never know, Rory Durham, one way or another, may resurface. In real life, as opposed to fiction, there’s always another chapter, another act, another reel, just when you thought the story was finished. But for the time being, they’re gone. Perhaps they changed their name; perhaps they emigrated. The only people who could easily find them are precisely those who want them out of the way, because of what they represent.
So, wishing Kim Durham’s family some peace, temporarily at least, I’ll go back to the way the world changed after Kim’s death. Muldoon was finished by then. Whatever spin his friends and supporters tried to put on it, he was the man who’d agreed to the Marine landings at Hamscott Common and was held indirectly responsible for the death of an innocent bystander. Not only that, he’d sanctioned foreign soldiers firing on British protesters. There are times when spin is not enough, and this was one of them.
What Muldoon did next helped the plans of those working against us. We think the plans were already laid, but Muldoon, acting purely out of pride, egotism and malice, really sped them up. He could not have done more to help the plotters’ cause if they’d been paying him. Of course, it’s been rumoured that they were, but serious people don’t believe it. Even now, when we know so much more about how a man is turned into a renegade, only conspiracy theorists believe Muldoon acted out of anything other than personal motives. But they were enough.
Hamscott Common, Kent. June 3rd, 2015. 11 a.m.
Rory Durham was taken to the hospital and passively endured washing, and being put into other clothes. As the doctor began to talk to his grandparents, Rory, standing beside his grandmother’s knee and holding her hand, began to cry helplessly and insist on going back to his house. This was the last thing Matt and Katherine Arthur wanted, but Rory was unpersuadable. He wept, he demanded to go back to his house; he could not, or would not, explain why. Slender young Dr Mehmet, concerned for the little boy, hesitated and then agreed he would drive them back to Kim Durham’s house in his own car. He suggested that, as the press was camped at the front of the hospital, looking for pictures of the bereaved family, they leave by a back entrance. With Rory holding his grandmother’s hand and crying, the quartet went out into the reception area outside Dr Mehmet’s consulting room to find it empty except for a tall man in American officer’s uniform. He stepped forward respectfully and said, ‘Mr and Mrs Arthur, please accept my sympathy for your loss. A great tragedy – a terrible accident. Our hearts are with you in your bereavement. Now, I apologize for this and I don’t want it to look like I’m rushing you, at this terrible time, but I’d appreciate it if you would let me come back with you to your home. There’s a good deal to discuss.’
Matt Arthur looked at him blankly. Kim’s mother, tightening her grip on Rory’s hand, asked, ‘Discuss what?’
‘The accident – and, more importantly now, what to do about the media intrusion.’
‘We just want to take Rory home,’ said Katherine.
‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘if you think about it, I’m sure you’ll see the need for some help in protecting your privacy—’
The door of the waiting room banged open and another man entered. He was tall, tanned and wearing a cream linen suit. Acknowledging the presence of the other man he said, without pleasure, ‘Captain Struthers.’ He advanced on the little group – the grandparents, trying to contain their grief for the sake of the weeping boy, Rory himself and the doctor. His hand extended as he moved towards them. ‘Mr and Mrs Arthur,’ he said, ‘my deepest condolences. This has been a most terrible event.’ As they shook hands he said, ‘I know this is a dreadful time for you. What we want to do is minimize the pressure from the media…’
‘I want to go home!’ cried Rory. ‘I want to go home! Take me home!’ He wrenched his hand out of his grandmother’s and ran to the door. Mrs Arthur said, ‘All we want to do now is take Rory home.’ She went to the door to talk to the boy.
‘Mrs Arthur…’ said the Englishman.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rory’s grandfather. ‘We have to take Rory home. Then we’re going to stay with family in Brighton.’
‘For your own comfort and protection…’ said the American, Captain Struthers.
Mr Arthur spoke with an effort, ‘No,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your offer, but you – all of you – have already done enough.’ He went to the door and picked up his grandson.
When they got to the small red-brick house where Kim and her son had once lived, but would live no longer, Rory and his grandparents got out of the car. Dr Mehmet, the driver, remained in the vehicle, watching the little group standing on the pavement.
In the car, Rory’s crying had stopped. He sat between his grandparents, staring forward. They had not seen any alternative to taking the hysterical child back to his home, but both were afraid that in one part of his mind Rory had not accepted his mother’s death and dreaded that he thought, perhaps, he would find her when they got back, as if nothing had happened. They had tried to find out why the boy wanted to go home. ‘You won’t be able to live there any more,’ Mr Arthur had told him.
‘I know,’ he had responded angrily. Now they stood on the pavement. Kim’s mother glanced up at the windows, where their daughter had hung curtains when she moved in with the baby, Rory. Beyond the gate was the little patch of lawn with its round, central bed. The roses Kim had planted were in bloom. Below them, in the ground, were the bulbs she had put in, which had flowered in the spring and would flower again in the following year.
The Arthurs were both looking at Rory, so only Dr Mehmet observed a man walk up the road, duck into the garden opposite the house and start taking photographs. He also noticed a car slide into a parking space down the road. Two men got out, and stood on the pavement looking towards the Arthurs.
Rory ran to the part of the pavement where he had thrown the bird’s egg. He knelt down and tried to pick up the small blue fragments, most of which were stuck to the pavement.
‘It’s my fault,’ he shouted. ‘I said to go there! I said to go there!’ He had three little pieces of bird’s egg stuck to his palm now.
‘What are you doing, Rory?’ asked his grandmother. ‘What do you mean?’
Still trying to scrape a piece of egg from the pavement, which broke under the pressure of his nails, he began to cry again. ‘I threw my bird’s egg away. It’s my fault – I threw it away.’
Rory’s grandfather did the only thing he could think of. He knelt down and began to lift tiny pieces of crushed eggshell from the pavement
with his penknife. The photographer began to approach them from across the road. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong,’ Kim’s grandfather told the boy. He dropped a few pieces into an old envelope he had in his inside pocket. ‘Mr Arthur!’ the photographer called. ‘Are you Mr Arthur?’
‘We’d better go, Matt,’ urged Mrs Arthur.
‘Just a minute,’ said Matt Arthur. He lifted up another tiny scrap of blue and dropped it in the envelope. ‘That’s it, I think. Do you think that’s all of it, Rory?’
‘Yes,’ said the boy in a low voice.
‘Mr Arthur?’ asked the photographer, on the pavement now.
‘Go away,’ said Matt Arthur. The photographer backed away as Rory and his grandparents advanced towards the car. He bent down, ‘Are you Rory Durham?’ he asked.
Matt Arthur pushed him. ‘Get out of the way.’
‘Mr Arthur,’ called one of the hurrying men. But the Arthurs’ car was moving. Inside, Rory wept over his palm, in which three little pieces of blue eggshell lay. Kim’s mother burst into tears herself. A car followed them for a while, then gave up and turned back.
43 Basing Street, London. June 12th, 2015. 4.30 p.m.
Julia Baskerville put a mug of tea in front of the Deputy Leader of her party and said, ‘I wouldn’t have asked you round if it wasn’t important.’
She and Mark Moreno were in the sitting room of her small house in Whitechapel. This room, because of the size of the house, a former workman’s cottage, was also the dining room. The dining table stood against the back wall, covered in files and papers. Mark was on the couch, in front of the TV, Julia leaning towards him on a low, buttoned chair. Mark, a very tall, thin and balding forty-year-old, looked weary.
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