Purple People

by Kate Bulpitt

  Eve looked at him. ‘I think I should be brave,’ she said. ‘So let’s give it a whirl. What do we do next?’

  *

  In the living room, there was the surprisingly restrained sound of a choir singing, as Womble prepared a lesson featuring songs of worship. He studied a record cover featuring young cathedral choristers sporting red robes and bowl haircuts, then held up the LP sleeve and, mimicking the choir boys, pulled a mock innocent expression.

  ‘Look at that face,’ said Helena, sweetly prodding his cheek. ‘Though I hope your lesson is also going to include some livelier options.’

  ‘It will, my love,’ said Womble, reaching behind him to retrieve a pile of records which included country and gospel platters, in addition to some less likely suspects that he’d shoehorned in.

  Eve smiled, enjoying their interaction, the increasing lack of tension. There was a way to go, still, but the incident at the vets’ had helped, as had Womble’s conversation with the mysterious recruiter he’d been due to meet. When the chap had called to find out why Womble had missed their meeting, Womble had excused himself from the scheme, as Helena looked on. The man hadn’t been best pleased, in response to Womble’s apology, saying, ‘And I’m sorry that you’ve wasted our time’. Womble had, with a sheepish smile to Helena, held up crossed fingers as he assured the caller that he wouldn’t breathe a word of their communication to another living soul.

  Eve looked at her lap, where her notebook lay with an assortment of papers piled on top – documents hurriedly prepared by the Humane lawyers, some newspaper cuttings, and a copy of her all-revealing piece about the Purpleness.

  Her breath had caught in her throat when she’d called Magnus that next day, Rory lying Purpled nearby. She worried that he would think – what? That there was more she hadn’t said that she wanted to share? That now she’d seen him again she’d want to maintain this oddly rekindled contact? In fact, the thought of facing him again after all she’d said was more daunting than the prospect of confronting Theo Fletcher. But of course her reason for contacting him couldn’t have been more redeeming (if she’d needed it to be), and he’d practically whooped down the phone.

  ‘Eve Baxter, that is breathtaking!’ he’d said.

  Phew, Eve thought. She laughed. ‘I thought you might be pleased.’

  ‘That is unbelievable, completely unbelievable. Wow. This sounds like quite a story. How does it feel to have solved the riddle?’

  Eve had pictured the final bunch of cherries whirring into place.

  ‘Satisfying. Mostly,’ she said.

  She didn’t feel any less distressed by her inaction, back in the day. The dull ache of regret was just the same when she thought of him, of the trail of disasters since. Short of a time machine, how could she ever put it right? Oh, how she wished… She stared at her younger self. Keep trying, she thought. Better late than never.

  *

  Eve entered the kitchen, where Womble and Helena were harmoniously preparing supper.

  ‘What’s news?’ said Helena.

  ‘The lawyers are waiting to hear, but they’re pretty sure we’ll get the meeting,’ said Eve.

  ‘They were quick,’ Helena said.

  Eve nodded.

  ‘No time to snooze, what with Rory—’ said Womble.

  ‘Yeah, what’s happening with him?’

  ‘Still helping Humane with their enquiries.’

  ‘He must be thrilled,’ said Helena, adding, ‘Magnus is lovely, but I don’t think I’d want to be on the wrong side of a grilling by him.’

  ‘Speaking of grilling,’ said Womble, serving up plates of hot crumpets.

  Sven and Mr Bailey wandered close to the table, tails wagging.

  ‘And if they don’t agree?’ said Helena.

  ‘Adio will post the video and my whistle-blowing article, as will Humane. And Adio’s got copies ready to go to all the news outlets.’

  ‘Did Bob finish editing the video?’ Helena asked.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘It looks great,’ said Womble. ‘You come across as very professional. An old hat.’

  ‘Um, thanks,’ said Eve.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ said Helena.

  ‘Terrified,’ said Eve.

  It had all happened so quickly that she’d barely had time to think, and now she had the time, the cogs in her brain would barely turn, stalled by the glue of petrification.

  ‘Bringing down the most gobsmacking government scheme of our time – what could possibly go wrong?’ Womble joked.

  Helena rolled her eyes.

  Eve tried not to pass out. She bit into a crumpet.

  *

  ‘Who’d have thought it,’ said Womble, as he drove up to the Downing Street gates.

  He showed his pass, and the guard nodded, letting them through; inside another guard directed them to where they should park.

  Eve bit her lip. She turned to Womble. ‘I think this will turn out for the best,’ she said, ‘won’t it?’ She looked out of the window towards the ominous black door, wondering just what was in store for her on the other side.

  Womble nodded. ‘I don’t mean to be all soppy or anything, but I’m really proud of you – even if you are about to bring down the Purple Scheme.’ He smiled. ‘You might have made a bit of a detour, and an extended one at that, but you got there in the end. I think you get an Annie Morris-worthy gold star.’

  ‘Thank you. Though you might not want to congratulate me until afterwards. Who knows what could happen? It could go horribly wrong. They could still cart me off to the Tower.’

  ‘If they do, make sure they let you stop in the gift shop. The kids from school went there and they loved it.’

  Womble was quiet for a moment.

  ‘Break a leg,’ he said, adding with a grin, ‘hopefully not on the rack.’

  Eve got out of the car. It was such an early morning meeting that the sun hadn’t long risen. Eve liked that; the serene daybreak hours when anything was possible.

  The Humane lawyer, Sonia Aziz, was already waiting for her, smart and crisp-looking, despite the time. As Eve got closer, she noticed Ms Aziz was wearing a small smiley face badge on her lapel. The lawyer looked down at it.

  ‘My daughter insisted I wear it,’ she said. ‘She was sure that it was good luck.’

  ‘I’ll take any help I can get,’ said Eve.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Ms Aziz.

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ said Eve, feeling fairly sick.

  *

  Eve’s head felt fuzzy as they approached the door. While they stood on the step, Eve noticed Ms Aziz’s smiley badge reflected in the shining varnish; hopefully a good omen, she thought. One of the police officers on straight-faced sentry duty glanced towards the door, as though surprised it hadn’t yet opened. Eve looked questioningly – was this usual? – at Ms Aziz, just as the mirroring blackness retreated. They stepped across the threshold, where an aide was waiting for them. He wore navy trousers and a surprisingly crumpled shirt.

  ‘Hello, I’m Louis,’ said the aide, with a fleeting, efficient smile, and the air of someone who had pressing things to return to. ‘Follow me.’

  He led them through the entrance hall and down a long corridor. Eve blinked, taking in the deep carpet, the elaborate cornices, and the medley of artwork – mostly grand old oil paintings – hanging on flocked-papered walls in between. She attempted to play guess who? with the portraits, but found her historical-political knowledge was rather lacking.

  They turned off into a small, sparsely furnished room with wood-panelled walls. There were two tiny tables, each supporting an ornate lamp, and then a larger, round table, surrounded by a quintet of chairs covered in moss-green velvet. In the centre of this table was a large Chinese bowl, intricately painted. It was empty and, her thoughts rambling nervously, Eve wondered if Theo Fletcher ever had the urge to fill it with fruit, or toffees, for waiting guests. Which then reminded her of a Say Fantastique! story about a dog that loved toffees; even the
thought of the video clips of him, jaw stretching as he chewed, made Eve laugh. She felt a nervous giggle rise in her throat, and tried to swallow it back down.

  Louis gestured that they take a seat.

  ‘Tea, coffee, something herbal?’

  As someone whose time was priced by the minute, Sonia Aziz was accustomed to swift actions and gave a quick shake of her head.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ said Eve.

  ‘Right. Excellent,’ said Louis. ‘The prime minister is running late this morning, so you may have to wait, I’m afraid. Unfortunately at the moment I can’t confirm an estimated time of arrival. Of course, we can reschedule if that’s easier…’

  ‘Obviously, that won’t be necessary,’ said Ms Aziz, taking a seat at the round table and placing some files neatly in front of her. She gave Eve a reassuring smile.

  ‘We’ll wait,’ said Eve.

  Louis closed the door behind him, though the latch didn’t quite catch, leaving it ajar. As it swung very slightly open, Eve heard Louis’s footsteps retreat down the hall, the floorboards creaking below him (just think of the significant figures who’ve also creaked along those, Eve thought).

  ‘Have you been here before?’ Eve asked Ms Aziz.

  She shook her head. ‘No. And it turns out that of all the places I’ve been to for work, this is the one that has most impressed my mum.’

  ‘Really? The grandeur of Ten Downing Street?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Ms Aziz. ‘She really likes Theo Fletcher.’ She sighed. ‘But then, don’t they all?’

  Eve kept thinking of the prime minister’s impassioned comments about his fiancée, and how he wanted to protect everyone, and she felt guilty. Eve was about to destroy – hopefully – the Purple Scheme. Her feelings still flip-flopped about that. Helena and Magnus were ecstatic, and Duncan was cautiously optimistic. Womble was pleased that Helena was pleased – and he was aware that his agreement beside the operating table had had a significant effect on the future of his marriage. Those tiny moments with huge consequences…

  Fifteen minutes later, Louis returned.

  ‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said. ‘The prime minister has been detained by a call with the American president, and may be a little while. Due to the urgency of the matter they’re discussing, I’m afraid I can’t guarantee how long they’ll be.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Ms Aziz, with a look that implied there was no wool being pulled over her eyes. She opened one of her folders, and took out a pen: she wasn’t going anywhere.

  ‘The American president?’ Eve asked.

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘In America?’

  Louis nodded, his face registering surprise that such an apparent simpleton had an important meeting with the prime minister.

  ‘Goodness, you’d hope he’d be in bed with a cup of cocoa at this hour, wouldn’t you?’ said Eve.

  Ms Aziz pursed her lips, hiding a smile.

  Louis took a deep breath, his chest puffing out, before he responded. ‘I’m sure you can imagine that being a leader of the free world is not a nine to five job. They’re not working in Woolworths.’

  ‘I can indeed,’ said Eve, politely. She sensed something fishy was afoot, which was confirmed by Ms Aziz.

  ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘I was under the impression that the president was in Brazil at a security summit this week.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Louis, his eyes narrowing. ‘Yes, you’re right, of course. That slipped my mind – I look after the prime minister’s diary, after all, not the president’s. The progress of the talks will be what they’re discussing.’

  He turned and left the room.

  ‘What time is it in Brazil?’ Eve asked.

  With a look at her watch, Ms Aziz said, ‘Three fifteen am.’

  They heard a small shriek, followed by the creaks of quick footsteps somewhere in the corridor outside.

  ‘What on earth do you think is going on?’ said Eve.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Maybe they have mice,’ said Eve.

  ‘I knew they would make us wait,’ said Ms Aziz. ‘Trying to rattle our nerve, underline that they’re in charge. Standard tactics.’

  Unruffled, Ms Aziz took a flask of coffee from her bag, and returned to her papers.

  *

  Forty-five minutes later. Eve’s mouth felt dry. She swallowed.

  ‘I think I’m going to take Louis up on that tea after all,’ said Eve. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  Ms Aziz shook her head.

  Eve peered out into the corridor to see if there was anyone in view whose attention she could get. Nothing.

  ‘Hello?’ she called hesitantly, and not daringly loudly. ‘Louis?’

  How unusual that there wouldn’t be more staff around, Eve thought (though it was still early), if only to be keeping an eye on Ms Aziz and her, particularly given that they were surely considered to be troublemakers. Eve noticed a woman at the far end of the corridor, but she rushed past and almost as soon as she’d appeared was again out of sight.

  Eve stepped out carefully into the hallway, listening for the sound of Louis’s voice. She heard part of a conversation from within a nearby room, and made her way towards it, as quietly as she could. As she got closer she noticed this next door was also ajar – you’d think they’d be better with locks and latches, Eve thought, thinking of hushed conversations and all the state secrets that must be floating around.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Eve heard someone say, before the sound of a chair scraping. Eve could see a flicker in the increasing light, indicating movement. She knocked. There was no answer. She heard a cough and assumed someone must be in there, so pushed the door and peered inside. There was no one in the room, but then she heard the cough again, the sound seeming to be emanating from a computer on a desk to the left of the room; the screen was facing away from the door.

  ‘Louis?’

  The voice also came from the computer, and it sounded distinctly like Theo Fletcher.

  Eve took a couple of steps towards the screen, and peered around at it. There was the prime minister alright. And he was Purple.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Eve took a seat in a chair close to the desk, rolling it back and swinging round to face the screen. Theo Fletcher’s attention was caught by the sound, and he looked up.

  ‘Hello, Prime Minister,’ said Eve. Too surprised to effectively censor herself, she added, ‘I have to say, sir, you’re looking a bit peaky.’

  ‘You must be Eve.’ Theo Fletcher stared out sadly from the screen. ‘I suppose this,’ he said, ‘is what could be described as me being a victim of the scheme’s success.’ Then – and Eve couldn’t detect any irony in his voice – he added, ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’

  It occurred to Eve to comment on the curfew – not to worry,Prime Minister;after all, you’re not allowed out before seven am – but she held her tongue.

  ‘If I’d realised you’d come looking for me… Always on the trail of something, are you?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Eve, not admitting that the thing she had actually been on the trail of was a cup of tea, and she wouldn’t have stumbled across him had she not been parched.

  A second door in the room opened and Louis appeared.

  ‘What are you—’ he began, at the sight of Eve at his desk. ‘You can’t be in here. You need to leave.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ said Theo, looking towards – beyond – the edge of the screen.

  Louis scrambled towards the computer. ‘Sir, I’m so sorry – I told her to wait—’

  ‘Just leave us now, please, Louis,’ said Theo.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Louis hesitated, took a few steps backwards, still looking at the screen, then turned and walked out. When he closed the door, Eve noted that this time it clicked shut.

  There was a momentary silence. Theo Fletcher sat, facing forward, a slight hunch to his shoulders, his eyes cast down, as if he was looking at something on the
table in front of him, or was just lost in thought (Eve had seen that look often enough recently with Duncan). He was wearing a wrinkled white shirt, was unusually unshaven, and his thick hair was unbrushed. Despite his pallor, there was something strangely appealing about this unkempt prime minister – and Eve wasn’t usually so susceptible. Unpolished, subdued, vulnerable; Eve almost felt the odd air of morning-after intimacy, and to see him so quiet was disconcerting – he was never without something certain to say, always had a steady gaze and a sure answer. She wanted to reach through the screen and hold his hand (would he flinch at any touch the way Duncan did?).

  ‘What happened?’

  Theo Fletcher looked up. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘What happened, that you’re… Turned?’

  He stared at her. Eve couldn’t detect anger, or upset, just melancholy contemplation.

  ‘Obviously that’s not something I can talk about,’ he said, twitchily shifting an object that was out of view, which Eve could hear slide across the desk. A pen, perhaps.

  ‘But you must feel… out of sorts.’

  The prime minister shifted in his seat.

  ‘That’s somewhat accurate, yes.’

  ‘I can imagine because I’ve a friend who was Turned recently. He’s a good guy, was in the wrong place at the wrong time, trying to help someone else. To see the change in him… the humiliation, the hopelessness. He couldn’t leave the house. Could barely go to the shed at the end of his garden.’

  Eve expected Theo Fletcher to be pleased, a flickering acknowledgement of success. Instead he just gazed off to one side, his focus somewhere she couldn’t see.

  ‘Maybe you can imagine that,’ she said.

  His head was bobbing gently, but Eve wasn’t sure that he was nodding – he was still looking away from her, and she couldn’t tell if he was listening to what she had said.

  ‘What do you think of the initiative?’ he asked.

  ‘I…’

  Theo was now facing her; still, focused.