To play the king fu-2

by Michael Dobbs

  In a City office a few miles away from Broadcasting House, Landless switched off the radio. Dawn was still a brushstroke in the sky but already he was at his desk. His first job had been delivering newspapers as an eight-year-old, running all the way through the dark streets because his parents couldn't afford a bike, stuffing letter boxes and catching glimpses of negligee and bare flesh through the badly drawn curtains. He'd put on a bit of weight since then, and a few millions, but the habit of rising early to catch the others at it had stuck. There was only one other person in the office, the oldest of his three secretaries who took the early turn. The silence and her greying hair helped him think. He stood lingering over his copy of The Times, laid open on his desk. He read it again, cracking the knuckles of each of his fingers in turn as he tried to figure out what – and who – lay behind the words. When he had run out of knuckles he leaned across his desk and tapped the intercom.

  'I know it's early, Miss Macmunn, and they'll still be pouring the milk over their wholemeal cornflakes and scratching their Royal rumps. But see if you can get the Palace on the phone…'

  He had wondered, very briefly and privately, whether he should consult them, take their advice. But only very briefly. As he gazed around the Cabinet table at his colleagues, he could find no patience within himself for their endless debates and dithering, their fruitless searches for the easy way ahead, the constant resort to compromise. They had all arrived with their red Cabinet folders containing the formal Cabinet papers and the notes which civil servants felt might be necessary to support their individual positions or gently undermine those of rival colleagues. Colleagues! It was only his leadership, his authority which prevented them from indulging in the sort of petty squabbles that would disgrace a kindergarten. Anyway, the civil servants' notes were irrelevant, because the civil servants had not known that he was about to hijack the agenda.

  There had been no point in seeking opinions; they would have been so pathetically predictable. Too soon, too precipitate, too uncertain, too much damage to the institution of the Monarchy, they would have said. Too much chance they would lose their Ministerial chauffeurs sooner than necessary. Oh, ye of little faith! They needed some backbone, some spunk. They needed terrifying out of their political wits.

  He had waited until they finished smiling and congratulating each other at their favourable showing in the opinion polls – their favourable showing! He had called on the Chancellor of the Exchequer to recite for them just how wretched it was all going to be, particularly after the chaos in the markets had knocked the stuffing out of business confidence. A tunnel which had been dug deeper and longer than anyone could have expected, the Chancellor recited, with not a flicker of light to be seen and a Budget in the middle of next month which would blow holes in their socks. If they had any socks left.

  While they were chewing nauseously on those bones he had asked the Employment Secretary about the figures. School holidays beginning on March 15, some three hundred thousand school leavers flooding onto the market, and employment prospects which looked as welcoming as a witch's armpit. The jobless total would rise above two million. Another election pledge out of the window. And then he had turned to the Attorney General's report about the prospect for Sir Jasper Harrod's trial. From the ague which crossed one or two of the faces he suspected there were other individual donations which had not yet come to light amongst the high and, for the moment, mighty. Thursday March 28 was the trial date. No, no postponements likely, the dirty linen being hung out to dry within days of the first rap of the judge's gavel. Sir Jasper had made it clear he did not wish to suffer on his own.

  The colleagues had begun to look as though they were sailing in an overcrowded dinghy through a Force Nine before he put his own twist to their discomfort. A strong rumour that McKillin was considering resignation at Easter. Only that twerp of an Environment Secretary Dickie thought it good news; the rest had recognized it immediately for what it was – the Opposition's best hope of salvation, a new start, a clean break with McKillin's fooleries and failures, a leap for firm new ground. Even the other dunderheads had seen that – all except Dickie. He would have to go, after the election.

  Only after silence had hung in the air for many seconds did he thrown them a lifeline, a chance to be hauled towards dry land. An election. On Thursday March 14. Just enough time if they hurried and scuttled to tidy up the parliamentary loose ends and a dissolution which would squeeze them through before the next storms hit and overwhelmed them. Not a suggestion, not a request for opinions, simply an indication of his mastery of tactics and why he was Prime Minister, and not any of the rest of them. A strong opinion poll lead. An Opposition in disarray. A Royal scapegoat. A timetable. And an audience with the King in under an hour to issue the Royal Proclamation. What more could they want. Yes, he knew it was tight, but there was time enough. Just.

  'Your Majesty.' 'Urquhart.'

  They did not bother sitting. The King showed no signs of offering a chair, and Urquhart needed only seconds to deliver his message.

  'There is only one piece of business I wish to raise. I want an immediate election. For March 14.' The King stared at him, but said nothing.

  'I suppose in fairness I must tell you that part of the Government's manifesto will be a proposal to establish a parliamentary committee of inquiry into the Monarchy, its duties and responsibilities. I shall propose to that commission a series of radical restrictions on the activities, role and financing of both you and your relatives. There has been too much scandal and confusion. It is time for the people to decide.'

  When he replied the King's voice was remarkably soft and controlled. 'It never ceases to amaze me how politicians can always pontificate in the name of the people, even as they utter the most absurd falsehoods. Yet if I, an hereditary Monarch, were to read from the Testaments my words would still be regarded with suspicion.'

  The insult was delivered slowly so that it sank deep. Urquhart smiled patronizingly but offered no response.

  'So it is to be outright war, is it? You and me. The King and his Cromwell. Whatever happened to that ancient English virtue of compromise?' 'I am a Scot.'

  'So you would destroy me, and with me the Constitution which has served this country so well for generations.'

  'A constitutional Monarchy is built on the mistaken concept of dignity and perfect breeding. It is scarcely my fault that you have all turned out to have the appetites and sexual preferences of goats!'

  The King flinched as if he had been slapped and Urquhart realized he may have gone a step too far. After all, what was the point?

  'I will bother you no longer, Sir. I merely came to inform you of the dissolution. March 14.' 'So you say. But I don't think you shall have it.'

  There was no alarm in Urquhart's demeanour; he knew his rights. 'What nonsense is this?' 'You expect me to issue a Royal Proclamation today, this instant.' 'As I have every right to do.'

  'Possibly. And then again, possibly not. An interesting point, don't you think? Because I also have rights accorded by the same constitutional precedents, rights to be consulted, to advise and to warn.'

  'I am consulting you. Give me as much advice as you want. Warn me, threaten me for all I care. But that cannot prevent you from granting the dissolution I demand. That is the right of the Prime Minister.'

  'Be reasonable, Prime Minister. This is my first time at this, I am new to the job. I need to take advice myself, talk to a few people, make sure I am taking the correct constitutional action. I'm sure I could be in a position to grant your request by, say, next week? Not unreasonable, is it? Just a few days?' 'That cannot be!' 'And why not?'

  'You cannot expect me to hold an election on Maundy Thursday when those who are not on their knees are flat on their backs for the Easter holidays. No delay. I will not have it, d'you hear!' The composure had been peeled away; Urquhart's fists were clenched in consternation and his legs braced as if he were about to launch a direct physical attack against the Monarch. Instead o
f flinching or drawing back, the King began to laugh, a frosty, hollow noise which echoed around the high ceiling.

  'You must forgive me, Urquhart. My little joke. Of course I cannot delay your demand. I merely wanted to see how you would react.' The muscles continued to pull his face into the expression of a smile, but behind it there was no sense of warmth. The eyes were like frost. 'You seem to be in something of a hurry. And so, I have to tell you, am I, for your eagerness has helped prompt a decision of my own. You see, Urquhart, I despise you and all that you stand for. The ruthless, relentless, utterly soulless way you pursue your ends. I feel bound to do everything within my power to stop you.'

  Urquhart was shaking his head. 'But you cannot delay an election.'

  'No. But neither can I accept what I know to be a fact, that you have destroyed my friends, and my family, and now you attempt to destroy me and along with me, the Crown. You know, Charlotte may be a foolish woman but she is basically a kind soul. She didn't deserve what you did to her. But then, neither did Mycroft.' He waited for a second or two. 'I see you don't even feel the need to deny it.' 'I make no comment. You can prove nothing.'

  'I don't need to. Only to myself, at least. You see, Urquhart, you have used those I love as a doormat on which to wipe your boots as you wade your way through the sewers. Now you wish to trample on me. I won't allow it.'

  'There's nothing you can do. After this election the Crown will never be in a position to play politics again.'

  'On that, Prime Minister, we are agreed. It's taken me much anguish to face up to the fact that what I have been doing these last months, the ideals I have been trying to cherish, the interests I wish to propagate, are politics. Sadly, there is no clear dividing line anymore. If I hold a view in public, even about the weather, then it is politics.' 'At last we are making progress.' 'I am. I'm not so sure about you. I have a duty, a divine duty almost, to do everything within my powers to protect the Crown. I have an equally strong commitment to myself and those things in which I believe. But conscience sits uneasily beneath a modern Crown. You have made certain of that.' The people will make certain of that.' 'Perhaps. But not on March 14.'

  Urquhart wiped a hand across his mouth in exasperation. 'You are wearing my patience thin. It shall be March 14.'

  'But it cannot be. Because you must delay the dissolution of Parliament for an unexpected piece of business.' 'What business?' 'For a Bill of Abdication.' 'Another of your silly jokes!' 'I am not noted for my sense of humour.'

  'You will abdicate?' For the first time Urquhart began to feel he was losing his grip. His jaw betrayed the slightest quiver.

  'In order to protect the Crown and my conscience. And in order to fight you and your kind by every means possible. It is the only way.'

  There was no mistaking the earnestness, that had always been the man's weakness, a complete inability to hide his honesty. Urquhart's eyes flickered rapidly as he tried to calculate the political fall-out, and how much damage any delay might inflict on his plans. He would still win, surely? The People's Parliament before the Crown. He would have to squeeze another week's grace out of the calendar, even if it meant Maundy Thursday – a propitious day for giving Kings their comeuppance. Unless… my God, he wasn't going to replace McKillin as Leader of the Opposition, was he? No, it was too ludicrous.

  'What role do you expect to play in the campaign?' The words were hesitant.

  'A modest one. Highlighting the issues of concern to me – of poverty, the lack of opportunities for the young. Urban and environmental squalor. I shall ask David Mycroft for his help. He has a flair for publicity, don't you think?' The King had changed, the habitual tension in his face seemed to have eased, grown softer, no longer plagued by nightmares and self-inflicted guilt. He seemed almost to be enjoying himself. 'But whatever I shall do shall be done entirely properly. I will not engage in personal confrontation or debate with you. Although others, I suspect, will be less fastidious.' He moved to a button hidden behind one of the window drapes and pushed it. Almost immediately the door opened, and in walked Benjamin Landless. 'You!' 'Me.' He nodded. 'It's been a long time, Francis. Seems like a lifetime ago, almost a different world.' 'Bizarre bedfellows, a King and a low-born thug like you.' 'Needs must.'

  'I suppose you intend to publish and promote the Royal witterings.'

  'Possibly, Francis. But not to the exclusion of other important news.'

  For the first time Urquhart noticed that Landless held something in his hand… a clutch of papers? 'Photos, Francis. You know about photos, don't you?'

  Landless held them out towards Urquhart, who took them as though offered a goblet of hemlock. He studied them in complete silence, unable to engage his tongue even if he had found the words. 'There seems to have been an outbreak of this sort of thing recently, don't you think, Sir?' Landless offered. 'Regrettably,' the King responded.

  'Francis, you'll recognize your wife, of course. The other person, the one underneath – sorry, on top in the one you're looking at now – is an Italian. Possibly you've met him. Sings, or some such nonsense. And doesn't draw his curtains properly.'

  Urquhart's hands were trembling such that the photographs were in danger of falling from his grasp. With an angry cry he crushed them within his fist and hurled them across the room. 'I'll disown her. People will understand, sympathize. That's not politics!' The King could not restrain his snort of contempt.

  'I sincerely hope you're right, Frankie,' Landless continued. 'But I have my doubts. People will find it very lumpy porridge when they find out about your own outside interests.' 'Meaning?' A haunted edge was creeping into Urquhart's eyes.

  'Meaning a particular young and very attractive lady who has not only been seen a lot in Downing Street since you got there, but who has also recently made a huge killing on the foreign exchanges. Anyone might think she knew something – or someone – on the inside. Or will you try to disown her, too?'

  The cheeks were suddenly drained, the words tumbling between trembling lips. 'How on earth…? You couldn't possibly know…'

  A huge bearlike arm was placed around Urquhart's shoulders and Landless lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. As if on cue, the King walked over to a window and turned his back on them, preoccupying himself with the view of his garden.

  'Let you in on a little secret, old chum. You see, she's been my partner as well as yours. I have to thank you. Did very nicely out of the currency wobbles, switched out of sterling just in time.'

  'This isn't necessary,' he gasped, bewildered. 'You could have done just as well with me…'

  Landless looked the other man carefully up and down. 'Nope. 'Fraid you're not my type, Francis.' 'Why, Ben? Why are you doing this to me?'

  'How many reasons do you want?' He raised his hand to count off the pudgy fingers. 'Because you so obviously enjoyed treating me like shit. Because Prime Ministers come and go, as you'll soon be gone, while the Royal Family endures.' He nodded his huge head in the direction of the King's back. 'And perhaps mostly because he welcomed me, just as I am, Big Bad Benjamin from Bethnal Green, without looking down his nose, when I was never good enough for you or your high and mighty wife.' He twisted over his hand so that it became an upturned claw. 'So I'm squeezing your balls, as hard as I can.' 'Why? Oh, why?' Urquhart continued to moan.

  Landless's fist closed tight. 'Because they're there, Francis. Because they're there.' He chuckled. 'Talking of which, I have good news of Sally.' Urquhart could only raise mournful eyes in enquiry. 'She's pregnant.' 'Not by me!' Urquhart gasped.

  'No, not by you.' The voice, which had patronized, now sneered. 'Seems you're not man enough for anything.'

  So he knew about that, too. Urquhart turned away from his antagonist, trying to hide the humiliation, but Landless was in full pursuit.

  'She's played you for the fool you are, Frankie. In politics, and in bed – or wherever it was. You shouldn't have used her. All that brains and beauty, and you threw it away.'

  Urquhart was shaking
his head, like a dog trying to rid itself of an unwanted collar.

  'She's got new business, new clients, new capital. And a new man. It's a different life for her, Frankie. And being pregnant, too… well, you know what women are like about things like that. Or rather you don't, but take it from me. She's an exceptional and very happy lady.' 'Who? Who did she…?' He seemed unable to finish.

  'Who did she prefer to you?' Landless chuckled. 'You idiot. You still can't see it, can you.'

  Urquhart's whole body had shrunk, his shoulders sagged and his mouth gaped open. He couldn't, wouldn't, take it in.

  A look of triumph suffused the publisher's rubbery face. 'I've beat you at everything, Frankie. Even with Sally.'

  Urquhart had an overwhelming, primal desire to crawl away, to find a dark place, any place, to bury his humiliation as quickly and as deeply as he could manage, but he couldn't depart, not yet. There was one more thing he had to do first. A final chance, perhaps, to buy a little time. He made an attempt at straightening his shoulders and walked stiffly across the room until he was facing the King's back. His face was contorted with the effort and he drew a deep, gulping breath. 'Sir, I have changed my mind. I withdraw my request for a dissolution.'