Anthony Flair paused by the mirror and adjusted his
perfectly tied tie, checked his crisply starched collar one more time, and
dismissed any lingering doubts about the smile. They accepted the smile now. It
was okay.
The door was opened for him – Rupert, this morning, wasn’t
it? Or David – and he stepped out into the grey, unrelenting drizzle of yet
another day in office. It was brightened temporarily by the pinging flashes of
a handful of bored paparazzi across the way. There, too, was that Nick guy from
the Beeb. Pleasant chap, wasn’t he? Must keep his guard, though, can’t be too
friendly with the press, never know what they’re going to say next.
The car door thunked closed behind him with a satisfyingly
British air of Jaguar solidity. Something in that, perhaps, some rhetoric about
nationality? Could do with a bit of that these days. Perhaps mention it to Alex
Clodwell later – he always knows the right thing to say. The driver was new
this morning, wasn’t he? Normal pool was all off with avian flu or something,
hadn’t that been the note on the table? Nearly ate it instead of the toast
again. Darling Charlie had grown so exasperated with him about working at the
breakfast table, but he’d promised her another baby and everything had been
alright.
A towering pile of papers sat on the crumpled leather seat
beside him, a permanent passenger on his daily commute. He idly wondered who
put these files there, and whether or not he was meant to do something with
them. No-one had ever said, and no-one had checked that he had ever done so
much as glance at them. Not for the first time, he wondered whether there was
one of those yellow books on Prime Ministering for stupid people.
Traffic was bad this morning. Nothing new there, not that
the mayor seemed to be doing anything about it. He’d have to have a word.
Actually, perhaps not. Scary little guy, the mayor. Glad he could ship him out
of the party to look after the city, really. Better to just imagine he was
doing something. He was bound to be. There was no reason to haul him up about
it if he didn’t have to. Yeah, that was it he would just –
Funny. He didn’t remember the car being upside down this
morning. Yet here he was dangling awkwardly from his seatbelt. Why would that
be? And what were all those sounds, those wailing ones? For a moment his heart
leapt – there wasn’t a terrorist attack somewhere in the city was there? Oh,
the sounds were getting closer. Maybe it was somewhere nearby. And he still
seemed to be upside down for some reason. Oh, and the papers, the papers were
scattered all over the car. Someone would be angry. He had no idea who.
Ah, a friendly face. She would know what was going on. He
tried to speak, but nothing came out. She just smiled at him and said nothing,
and out came a hand with something shiny in it, and suddenly things were a bit
wobbly, and was it getting dark?
---
Oh, the sumptuous pleasantness of waking between crisp white
sheets on a sunny morning, with the breeze playing through an open window.
Perhaps it was early, and he could stay in bed for a while. No sound from the
kids’ room, good. A quiet, insistent beeping from somewhere though. Whose alarm
clock was that? Damn. Still, keep your eyes closed, pretend you’re asleep,
Anthony. Don’t break the spell.
Perhaps Charlie was enjoying it, too. Maybe she was awake
and they could, well, you know. Look the other way, Lord, we are about to make
another believer. He stretched a hand sideways to feel for her. Hmm. Metal.
Cold metal. Why was there cold metal on the bed? Maybe this was one for the
eyes to deal with.
He tried to open them. Hmm, must have slept well, they were
welded shut. He tried again. That’s better, open now. Blink once, twice. That
doesn’t look like the ceiling. Why doesn’t that look like the ceiling? The lights
are different, that’s why.
Suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps this wasn’t his
bedroom. He raised his head and looked around. A small room in a hospital. Why
was he in a hospital. His heart started beating faster, and the beeping became
more insistent. Sitting up was out of the question, his muscles wouldn’t
respond. Why not? A sedative, maybe? He’d had one of those once, paralysed him
almost completely. Bit of an overdose.
He sank back into the pillows, breathing deeply to calm
himself. OK, so he was in a hospital. Something must have gone wrong somewhere,
but he was safe now. He didn’t even feel too bad. Perhaps a nurse could tell
him what was going on. Ah, there was one now, maybe she would be able to help.
“Excuse me.”
Nothing. She just carried on fussing around the bed, tucking
him back in, twiddling dials on the machine next to him. Try again, perhaps.
“Er, nurse?”
Nothing. She just adjusted the angle of the bed slightly,
sitting him up, and then walked out of the room without a backward glance, the
door shutting softly behind her.
Time passed unevenly. Sometimes glancing out of the window
at the grey, anonymous buildings which made up the entire view would waste a
whole quarter of an hour. At other times, minute examination of his
surroundings passed no more than thirty seconds, whilst feeling like an aeon.
The door opened smoothly, on silent hinges, and a
middle-aged doctor with greying temples entered the room. Classic, competent
British doctor. Heart and soul of the NHS, that sort of thing. A silver fountain
pen in his coat pocket. He came and sat in the chair at the side of the bed,
reading his notes for a few moments before raising his eyes – they were a
startling blue.
“Good morning, Mr. Flair. How are you feeling?”
The voice was low and resonant, and deeply reassuring.
“I, er, I’m fine doctor. What’s wrong with me? Why am I
here?”
“Do you not remember the car crash, Mr. Flair?”
The man on the bed shook his head.
“No, nothing after breakfast. What happened?”
“You were hit by a bus, Mr. Flair. Turned the car over. No
real harm done though, bit of muscle damage in your back and neck, and a scrape
or two from broken glass. Nothing that ought to keep you out of action for too
long. Just need to rest for a few days.”
“My wife. Can I see my wife?”
The doctor rose again, the warm smile back on his face.
“She was here whilst you slept, Mr. Flair. I’m sure she will
be able to return this afternoon.”
Once again he was alone with his thoughts.
---
When the door opened again, another middle-aged man entered
the room, this time with an unblemished head of black hair and a far more
serious look on his face. He was followed in by a tall, slim, younger man, who
has an earpiece in. The younger man went straight to the window, glancing out
and around carefully before turning the blinds to exclude the world.
“Clear, sir,” he said to his boss, but remained facing the
window.
Ah, thought Anthony, this will be the security debrief. All feels
rather familiar. That’s why Charlie isn’t allowed in yet. She’ll understand,
obviously. He scratched around the corners of his mind for the month’s
password, and eventually alighted upon it.
“Rhubarb,” he said to the elder man, who looked at him with
an expression of utter and bizarre confusion.
The younger accomplice helped him
out.
“That’s MI5 for the month, sir. I did pass on the list.”
“Yes, yes,” said the elder irritably, as if it was all too
regular an event to be shown up by his junior. “Well, Mr Flair,” he continued, “it
seems you have your wires crossed. We’re not from security. Or rather, not from
the security forces with which you are familiar.”
Anthony’s heart beat faster again, causing the machine to
his side to start bleeping furiously. The younger man crossed the room quickly,
and with skilled fingers instantly silenced it.
“Thank you, Roberts,” his superior said. “Now, Mr. Flair. A quick
question, and then some answers. First of all, what does QDF mean to you?”
Anthony racked his brains. Nothing. Abolsutley nothing. He
shook his head.
“Ah, good. As I’d hoped. It may help to know that when we
have a male monarch, we are the KDF. It
means Queen’s Democratic Force, Mr Flair, and if even our illustrious Prime
Minister is unaware of us, we are doing well. Her Majesty will be pleased.
“What are we, then? Well, most of the time our work is done
in the background. This is certainly the most impressive, public thing we’ve
done since I joined the service. Don’t like the style myself, but there you go, it's not my place to make the decisions.”
“Why?” asked the now thoroughly flummoxed PM.
“Ah, you see, that’s to the very core of what we do, Mr.
Flair. We help, where possible, to make sure the right thing is done. We are
interventionaries, you might say. A little tweak here, a quiet word there, a
subtle blackmail from time to time. All in the name of ensuring that this
country stays on the straight and narrow, you see, no matter who happens to be
at the helm.”
He paused, folding his hands on his lap, apparently
satisfied for now. Anthony summoned the strength to speak.
“Are you telling me the Queen has a roving force of
mercenaries enforcing her decisions about how the country is run? That’s
dictatorial!”
The man shrugged slightly, a benevolent smile still upon his
face.
“You might look at it that way, Mr Flair, though there is no
need to be quite so dramatic. You yourself have been accused of ignoring the
people on occasion, yes? We do nothing more than Her Majesty’s bidding. She
wishes the voice of the people to be heard, Mr. Flair. We are their megaphone,
you might say.”
“And what does Her Majesty want me to hear that she could
not tell me herself?” the Prime Minister spat.
“Come now, Mr. Flair. No need to take that tone. Her Majesty
merely cares that her subjects are listened to on key topics.”
Anthony Flair sighed. He couldn’t understand how it could
come to pass that Her Majesty felt unable to discuss policy with him, and that
she needed to reach him in this manner.
“What would Her Majesty like to suggest?” he asked wearily.
The man smiled and leaned forward, whispering into the Prime Minister’s ear. The
PM’s reply was immediate and resolute, his voice filled with horror.
“Never!”
“Very well, Mr. Flair. We will pass your response to Her
Majesty. She will make a decision.”
“A decision about what? What decision?”
But the question went unanswered. Both men swept from the room,
and the door closed silently once more. He was left alone. Lengthening shadows
hinted at the closing of the day, and yet there was no sign of Charlie and the
kids. And what of the press secretary – surely he should be preparing a note to
the nation? And there never was a proper security debrief, was there?
---
Newsflash
Government sources say they are still puzzled by the
vanishing of the Prime Minister on Tuesday morning. He was seen on CCTV leaving
Downing Street in his usual car, but both car and driver mysteriously left
their police escort seven minutes into the journey, somewhere near Pall Mall. The
car vanished and cannot be traced, along with the driver and the PM. Mr. Flair’s
emotional wife, Charlie, made this plea on the steps of No. 10 today:
“If anyone has Anthony, please just let us know he’s alive.
Please. All he wants to do is serve the people. Please just let us know. His
children miss him so terribly.”
---
When Anthony Flair woke the next morning, the two men were
once again in his room. He tried to speak, but found that he could barely lift
his head. The older man smiled at him.
“Good morning, Mr. Flair. Her Majesty has given her answer.
Do you want to hear it? I believe you should just about be able to nod. Is that
right, Roberts.”
“Correct, sir. Just his head.”
“Excellent. Down to business, then. I shall ask a series of
questions, Mr. Flair. Just nod or shake, OK?”
Nod.
“Good. Now, do you remember why we came to see you
yesterday?”
Nod.
“Do you remember what I asked you to consider. Or, rather,
asked you to consider not doing?”
Nod, nod.
“Good. Now, Her Majesty was quite emphatic last night. She
was terribly upset that you seemed unwilling to change your mind. ‘Such a waste’,
I believe she said. But she was unwavering, Mr. Flair. She sees your decision
to go ahead as being utterly against the will of the people. She has sanctioned
me to ensure that you do not go ahead. Do you understand?”
Shake, shake.
“Ah, I see. Well, if you decide to go ahead, we will be required
to stop you, using one of our fascinating range of specialist techniques. And
if you decide to change your mind, you may return to your family unharmed and
unaltered. So, would you like you change your mind?”
Stillness for a minute. Shake, shake.
“Are you sure, Mr. Flair? One last time. Would you like you
change your mind?”
Shake, emphatically this time.
“No? Very well, then. Her Majesty will be upset, but she was
very resolute on this one, I’m afraid. Mr. Roberts, if you would be so kind.”
The young man turned from the window and produced a thin
syringe from his coat pocket. He flicked off the cap as he approached the bed,
then roughly grabbed Anthony’s arm, turning it so that he could access the
veins on the inside of the elbow. There was no pain as the needle bedded home,
and no sensation as the orange liquid entered his body.
---
Newsflash
The Metropolitan Police anti-terrorist branch today
confirmed that they have no solid leads in the case of PM Anthony Flair, whose
mind has been left irreparably altered by non-surgical means. Mr Flair was
found in a central London location last Friday, stripped to the waist and with
the phrase ‘No war in Iraq’ tattooed onto his chest. Unconfirmed reports of an
arrest in the case were made last week, but no further details have emerged.
Mr. Flair has himself spoken for the first time, apparently expressing surprise
that he was once allowed to run the country, and asking why he was allowed to
do so.
