The Final Cut fu-3

by Michael Dobbs

  It stank. He was surprised and disgusted at the overwhelming stench of rancid ashes and charred remnants of what a few hours before had been his life. It scraped his nostrils and stung his eyes, which began to pour.

  'Upsetting, Sir,' the fireman commiserated, 'but think of it this way. You were lucky to be out of the property. Particularly at that time of the morning. Have insurance, did you?' Passolides detected the edge of suspicion.

  'We'll have to put a report in. Some evidence that the fire was begun deliberately…'

  The fireman prattled on as Passolides wandered desolate through the ruins, poking at the sodden ashes with his walking stick. 'Vangelis'' seemed so much smaller now that the upstairs floor had collapsed and all the partition walls had burnt down. Everything was black, charcoal, rafters and jagged wreckage scattered around like smashed bones at the bottom of a medieval burial pit. On a wall where the first floor had been, a washbasin hung at a drunken angle; the old enamel bath now lay overturned in his kitchen. In what had been his kitchen. He scratched, he prodded, hoping to find something of value which had survived the blaze when his stick struck metal. It was the British military helmet which had adorned the back of his door. Flattened like a plate. 'Vangelis'' had gone.

  'Know of anyone who might want to burn you out, old man?'

  Passolides was standing on the site of his food store. The walls had gone, the freezer had melted and all that remained amidst the other odours was the reek of scorched flesh. He closed his eyes. Was this how it had been, with George and Eurypides? Burnt by the same people, these British whose game of war and death never seemed to stop, even after all these years? 'They have taken everything from me.'

  'Got nothing?' the fireman enquired, compassion beginning to squeeze aside the suspicion.

  'My clothes. My stick,' Passolides responded. Then he remembered the gun. Tucked in his belt. He still had the gun. It hadn't all gone. 'Social services'll take care of you.'

  'I have a daughter!' he spat, fiery proud of his independence; he needed nothing from these British. Then, more sadly: 'She'll be back tomorrow.'

  He sank onto the seat of the overturned bath, his forehead coming to rest on his stick, a bent and bleary-eyed old man, overflowing with miseries and exhaustion. In his dark clothing and beret he seemed to melt into the soot-smeared surroundings as though he would never leave this place. The fire officer, wanting to check the stability of the party wall at the rear of the premises, left him to his private sorrow.

  As Passolides contemplated the end of his world, something caught his eye, a figure standing in the screaming hole where yesterday had been the doorway. The stranger was clad in black leather and a motorcycle helmet with a courier's personal radio at his shoulder, and was calling his name. 'Package for Passolides.'

  A clipboard was thrust at him and, in exchange for his signature, he was rewarded with a padded manila envelope. Without another word, the courier left.

  The gnarled fingers fumbled as they sought to open the package. Tentatively he spilled the contents onto his lap. For a moment he did not understand. There was the photograph of Michael Karaolis, the young EOKA fighter with the defiant eyes and exposed neck around which in the morning they would put a noose. The photograph that, the night before, had hung on the restaurant wall. There was another photograph, a fading portrait of a young British army officer whom Passolides did not immediately recognize. And two scorched crucifixes that fell from his shaking fingers – God, how the memories pounded at him, made him gasp for breath, almost knocking him to the floor. The small engraved crosses were those he had given on their name days to George and Eurypides.

  The dark world around Passolides seemed to stand still, only his tears had life, washing clean the ash-covered crucifixes as he retrieved them from the floor.

  It was not finished. Two further pieces of paper slipped from the envelope. The first was a photocopy of a British Army service record, tracing the short career of a junior officer in a Scottish regiment from his induction in Edinburgh through service in Egypt. And onward to Cyprus. In 1956.

  Passolides found the name at the top of the service sheet – now he recognized the officer in the photograph. Lieutenant, one day Prime Minister, Francis Ewan Urquhart.

  And the second piece of paper. A primitive leaflet. Appealing to all to come tomorrow to the rally in Trafalgar Square.

  At last Passolides knew the identity of the man he had been searching for. The man who had murdered his brothers. And, with a passion for Hellenic honour fermented over endless centuries, he knew what he had to do. Elizabeth woke to find he had stolen from their bed again. She followed the noises to the narrow galley kitchen. He was busying himself at the refrigerator when she walked in. 'I am sorry if I disturbed you' he apologized. 'Why can't you sleep, Francis?'

  'There seems so little to sleep for.' There was a finality in his tone. 'Anyhow,' he offered in mitigation, 'I was hungry.' He had before him a large slice of Dundee cake and cheddar cheese, a favourite childhood delicacy which the family ghillie always produced during their beats across the Perthshire moors in search of grouse and deer. It had been years, he'd almost forgotten the sharp-sweet flavour. He began to consume the pieces slowly and with considered relish.

  'You pay your midnight feast more attention than you do me in recent days, Francis. You've locked yourself away from me, looked straight through me, you've neither heard me when I've spoken nor offered answers to my questions. There's an anger, an impatience within you which drives you from my bed.' 'Bad dreams. They distract.'

  'I've been your wife long enough to know it's not dreams which bother you,' she rebuked. 'Go to bed, Elizabeth.'

  He took another mouthful, but she would not be moved.

  'You're not running from your dreams, Francis, you're no child. And neither am I. You've never been like this with me before.' Her distress was evident. 'You are angry with me.' 'No.' 'Blame me for my folly with the letter.' 'No!'

  'Think that I have helped destroy you.' She reproached him and reproached herself still more.

  'We destroy ourselves. All that I have done would have been done whether the letter existed or not. And all that must be done, too.' 'What will you do?'

  He looked at her but would not answer. He began munching again, carefully breaking morsels from both cheese and fruit cake, gathering up the crumbs. 'You shut me out.'

  'There are some journeys we can only take on our own.'

  'After all these years, Francis, it's as though you no longer trust me.'

  He pushed aside his plate and came to her. 'Nothing could be further from my mind. Or from my heart. Through all these troubled times you have been the only one I could rely on, could reach for in the darkness and know you would be there. And if I've hurt you through my silence then the fault is mine, not yours, and I beg for your forgiveness. Elizabeth, you must know that I love you. That you are the only woman I have ever loved.' He said it with such force that there could be no doubting his sincerity.

  'What will you do, Francis?' she repeated, demanding his trust.

  'Fight. With all I have, for everything I have achieved.' 'In what way?'

  'So many men spend their lives in fear of doing something wrong, of making error, that they do nothing except live in fear and slip uselessly away.' His eyes blazed contemptuous defiance. 'I will not go meekly into the night. The world will hear of my going. And remember.' 'It sounds so very final, Francis. You scare me.'

  'If my life were to end at this moment, Elizabeth, there would be only one regret, that I would be leaving you behind. Yet we both know that the time must come. What matters is what I leave behind, for you. A legacy. A pride. Dignity. A memory people will applaud.' He smiled. 'And that Library.' 'I can't imagine life without you.'

  'As I cannot imagine life without all this.' He waved his arms around the most private trappings of power. 'But there comes a time when the body is worn, the spirit tires, the sword is blunted by battle – and even love must have its rest. What survi
ves, for those chosen few, is the name, even after all else has faded away. Immortality. I want you to trust me, Elizabeth. To support me in whatever it is I have to do.' 'I always have.'

  'And know that whatever it is I do, I do for us both.'

  'Then nothing has changed.' She seemed to relax, understanding bringing a measure of reassurance. She had always known he was not like other men; he lived by his own rules, it could come as no surprise to her that he intended to depart by his own rules, too. Whenever the time came. A time perhaps of his own choosing. She managed a smile as she reached for him.

  He kissed her with great tenderness. 'I have so many reasons to be grateful to you, I scarcely know where to start. But let me start with your cake. It's delicious, Elizabeth. I think I shall have another slice.' 'I'll join you. If I may.'

  TWELVE

  The morning broke wound-pink beyond the cupola of St Paul's Cathedral and already the preparations had been underway for many hours. Road diversions had been posted along the route to Trafalgar Square, lamp posts and shop windows festooned with posters and his portrait, banners were being painted, reporters were turning phrases such as 'an Armada of faith' and 'the irresistible gale of revolution'. Makepeace was everywhere, the word upon all lips.

  No one knew precisely how many would be joining Makepeace on the final stretch of his march from Watford or how many would be there to welcome him on his arrival, but after the derision which had been piled upon the West Midlands force following the fiasco in Birmingham, the capital's Police Commissioner had decided it was not a time for taking chances. Although there was no indication of trouble beyond the pressure of unknown numbers, the fountains in Trafalgar Square had been emptied, the great pump rooms beneath inspected for suspect packages, the metal crowd barriers collected like supermarket trolleys in neat rows across the square. The population of pigeons, avian mongrels, complained at the unexpected clatter and noise, rising in feathery spirals of protest and darkening the sky before trying to settle once again, furious at the continued disruption. Their homeland was being invaded; for the day, at least, the square would be snatched from them.

  Urquhart had bathed early, Elizabeth bringing him a great soup cup of tea in the bath while the steam and hot waters restored the colour in his sleep-starved cheeks. She thought she heard him muttering, perhaps calling for her, but when she enquired he answered that he was simply practising a few lines for his final election speech. She had noticed that the bulky draft provided by his team of speech-writers remained untouched. 'They believe I can't win,' he explained, 'and it shows.' Neither had he touched his Ministerial boxes.

  By the time he had completed his ablutions with a meticulous manicure, as though he had all the time in the world at his disposal, the crowd barriers were being put in place and interlocked around the square. A small number were left at sensitive points around Whitehall and particularly near the entrance to Downing Street, just in case. To keep the hounds from the bear. But little trouble was expected; in less than a week Makepeace's militia would be occupying the corridors of power as of right.

  He selected from his wardrobe his favourite dark blue suit and a white cotton shirt, laying them out across his bed for inspection. He tried several silk ties against the suit; he wanted to wear the one Elizabeth had bought for him from the craft stalls beneath the castle in Edinburgh, a token from her last visit to the Festival, but it was hand-painted, a little florid perhaps. He put out his regimental tie instead. Then, attired in his silk dressing gown, he breakfasted. He was in good humour and of hearty appetite, the crossword was finished before his eggs had boiled.

  There had been only two disputes concerning the organization of the rally that day. Superintendent Housego, the police officer responsible for security, would not allow into the square the two mobile kebab vans that had accompanied the march from its very first day. They were like mascots. Makepeace argued, veterans of some great battle who claimed their right to be present at the victory ceremony, but the Superintendent insisted that the congestion around them would be simply too great and potentially dangerous; in large crowds people could become so easily crushed, and in violent crowds such vehicles might become battering rams, barricades or simply bonfires. No. Not worth the risk. Makepeace resolved the problem by inviting Marios and Michaelis, the two owner-drivers, to join him on the small podium that was being erected for his speech between the Landseer lions at the foot of Nelson's Column. 'And next week you can drive all the way up Downing Street,' he joked. It was the first time he had allowed himself even to hint that he would be there to greet them.

  The second dispute concerned the numbers themselves; Housego wanted a limit of fifteen thousand but on this issue Makepeace was unable to offer any guarantee. He had no idea how many would be joining in. He did not control the marchers; on the contrary, as he explained to the Superintendent, they controlled him. But in any event the problem would be much reduced, he suggested with only a hint of perceptible irony, since it was customary for the police count at demonstrations to be so much lower than the reckoning of the organizers. Discretion being the better part of promotion, the Super decided to take his cue from Nelson and turn a blind eye. He would put on a couple of extra serials – self-contained police units, twenty-two strong – as a precaution. He saluted and departed content. Others were also busy. St John Ambulance set up a field station in the crypt of St Martin-in-the-Fields, grateful at being able to borrow the facilities of the homeless shelter, while all morning television crews haggled to gain access to windows and rooftops around the square, determined to find the optimum vantage point and paying a handsome 'disturbance fee' in hard cash to office maintenance staff. Even if they numbered only fifteen thousand it would still be the largest election gathering in living memory.

  To it all Urquhart appeared oblivious. He nestled in his favourite leather chair, still wrapped in his dressing gown, and read. First from Margaret Thatcher's memoirs, The Downing Street Years. The final pages. Scenes from a great drama. Anger. Heartache. Betrayal. Then Julius Caesar, his favourite play. Another great assassination. Yet how much kinder they were to him than to her, Urquhart reflected, ending great Caesar's misery with a single blow, a final cut. Not lingering. In death to find the acclaim which those jealous and petty men around him would not confer in his lifetime. The way to finish great lives.

  And Makepeace marched. All the way down Watling Street, the old Roman thoroughfare which led from Chester to the heart of London. Like the legions of old they tramped, five or six abreast, in a great phalanx which stretched for over two miles and which grew ever longer as the morning progressed and the great column drew nearer the heart of the capital. Two brass bands and a group of Scottish pipers appeared as if from nowhere to add to the carnival atmosphere, and garlands had been placed around the necks of Makepeace and Maria as they passed before a Hindu temple in Edgware. Even the mobile police control van which hovered in constant close attention had been decorated; policemen in shirtsleeves smiled and waved at the children as though competing to rub salt into the still-weeping wounds of their colleagues in Birmingham. The noise of celebration grew so enthusiastic that Makepeace had difficulty in making himself heard to the radio and news reporters who accompanied him all morning, but there were others keen to make up for any deficiency of sound bites. Waiting for Makepeace in Trafalgar Square was a patchwork quilt of pressure groups spread right across the political spectrum, all chewing media microphones and trying to identify themselves with Makepeace. Even Annita Burke was there, arguing that her 'old colleague and friend' represented so many of the values that lay at the heart of what she and her party had traditionally stood for. When asked if tradition excluded the present, she smiled. 'Perhaps the immediate past,' she conceded.

  As they proceeded down Piccadilly they passed by what had once been the town house of Lord Palmerston, a great Victorian Foreign Secretary who had become a still greater Prime Minister. Omens all the way; the flags which decorated the route seemed to stiffen in sa
lute. The window of Hatchards was laden with copies of a book Makepeace had penned several years earlier and which until a few hours before had been heavily out of print; he signed several without breaking his pace. Drivers leaned on their horns, people waved from buses, tourists asked for autographs. The March for Peace had turned decisively into a celebration of victory. Yet even Makepeace was astonished as he came out of Pall Mall and into the amphitheatre of great buildings which surrounded Nelson's victory column. He had lingered behind in Hyde Park, allowing the body of the march to move ahead of him. In that great river alone he knew there were some fifteen thousand souls, but what he had not known was that the river was flooding into the still greater sea of those gathered to greet him in the square. As they sighted him, led by a skirl of pipers, they broke into an emotional tide of waving hands and banners which washed back and forth across the basin of the square, growing stronger as it did so in shouts and accents which represented all parts of the country and some parts even beyond its shores. More than forty thousand people were gathered under the unseeing eye of Lord Nelson until Trafalgar Square brimmed and overflowed with their enthusiasm. Makepeace walked through their midst like Moses carving his path through the Red Sea, his hands raised, clenched above his head, and they thundered their approval.

  Even behind the thick shatter-proof glass of Downing Street, Urquhart could not mistake the roar, like the cry heard by Christians as they waited in the pit of the Colosseum, armed only with their faith in God. Urquhart had never placed much store in Faith, not if it meant being devoured by lions and the bones being quarrelled over by rats. How much better to believe in oneself, to die a Caesar rather than a humble sinner. There came another clamour as Makepeace mounted the podium. Only then did Urquhart set aside his books and begin to dress. He had forgotten to put out any cufflinks; he chose the pair of nine carat gold engraved with the family monogram that had once belonged to his father. He stood in front of the dressing mirror, checking all aspects of his appearance in the manner of a suitor about to propose marriage. He asked Elizabeth for her opinion. She approved, apart from the tie.