Time of Lies Read online

  A greylag goose wandered across the bridge on foot with the self-satisfaction of a sergeant major. Oddly for a royal park within sight of the Palace, the railings on the bridge were almost identical to the ones in the council estate she had known as a child – tatty light blue. Bathed in the perpetual collision with the Atlantic, the Scottish railings had rusted more.

  By the time Kathy had stared at the Palace for several minutes, to her surprise she realised that she had the germ of a plan. She stood there unmoving for a further fifteen minutes before she acknowledged that it was more than a germ. She would return with the plan Patrick wanted.

  More than that, Kathy decided, she would return the compliment he had paid her. If he wanted to go ahead with the plan, she would explain, he would need to think it through properly – it involved detail which was far beyond her, and which she didn’t want or need to know. Crucially, she decided to insist, Patrick would need to present the idea to Zack as his own.

  19

  London, Tuesday 12 May 2020

  A quarter to eleven, day five of the BG government. In fifteen minutes I go LiveChat to the whole country from the Green Drawing Room. Angela’s just tweeted that it will be the biggest live audience for any British prime minister since VE-Day. I make her right. Officially we’re publishing a ‘White Paper’ called ‘Housing: Our National Priority’, but as far as I’m concerned, at noon we’re putting on the web the first British priority homes areas – national in dark blue and local in light (Vigilance members will get the info via an added-features app).

  From noon today only Britons will be able to buy homes in the dark blue zones. From next January, only Britons will be able to own homes there. In the light blue zones local authorities will be able to decide whether to copy. And clap your eyes on this – we mean only Britons who have paid proper income tax for the last three years.

  The buzz of making things better just like that for everyone you grew up with is … it’s totally amazing. One hundred per cent. In the next twenty-four hours, this government will deliver more affordable homes for Brits in places we want to live than any government in my lifetime. You don’t believe me, I get it. We’re sick of politicians’ lies, and you’re thinking – who’s to say I’m any different? I say, stick around and see for yourself.

  Thirteen minutes to go and some muppet has hired a truck from Pinewood Studios to turn Downing Street into Santa’s grotto. Snowflakes in May. I mean, really? With global warming?

  ‘The dickhead who fixed that,’ I bellow at Bill, gesturing out the window. ‘Cut his nuts off!’ Bill’s a bird, she’s the youngest of my private secretaries. Friday I found out I have four private secretaries. Quick as a flash I said, ‘OK you’re all called Bill. Economies of scale.’ LOL.

  Turns out it’s for real, a freak snowstorm. After my LiveChat the front page of the Evening Standard screams ‘Hell freezes over’ and underneath: ‘Economists predict 45 per cent London house price fall in twenty-four hours.’

  Calm yourself dearie – forty-five per cent is the fall for foreigners or companies because you’ve got to sell. Makes sense for that to be the Standard’s headline; it’s owned by a foreigner, right? For Brits like you or me, we’re talking fifteen per cent. Price-wise we reckon your gaff will be back where it was back in about 2018, that’s all. OK, we’re talking the pits of 2018, when the bankers and debt crisis had us all by the goolies. Still, we’re dealing with the bankers, right?

  Bill is reminding me of my appointments this afternoon. What makes her so goddamn sexy is Pilates. I asked her, she told me, and all my staff are going to do it. (What’s the point of being prime minister if you can’t get all your staff to do Pilates?) Just look how she hangs it all together, slinking past the desk like a pole-dancer’s python.

  Bill’s not just the youngest of the Bills but the best – by a distance. She got her degree from the same place Jack went (the University of the Elephant and Castle to you and me)... Same place, different bloody outcome. No prizes for guessing where the other Bills went.

  Just this morning it turns out the young Bill and I were both fans of Borgen. ‘The first series came out in my final year, 2010,’ she says. ‘All of us studying politics watched it. And then Helle Thorning-Schmidt became prime minister of Denmark for real.’

  ‘I watched it because 2010 had been my first General Election. Back then, politically I was a waste of space – UKIP, would you believe.’

  ‘The third series was a bit off.’

  ‘Too right. Fortunately, by then Angela and I had started to build a twenty-first century party. The first thing we said was it had to be really popular with youngsters. Did you vote for us?’

  Bill laughs. ‘You know I’m a civil servant, I can’t answer that. But I can wink.’ She winks. I love it.

  Already people ask me what were my first words when I got through the door of Number Ten. I tell them straight: ‘Was any of this tat Churchill’s?’

  Of course, none’s the answer. And we wonder why we went downhill? Now we’ve got one of his desks up from Chartwell and put it in the Cabinet ante-room, roped off like in a museum.

  At the weekend we wrapped a banner around Big Ben saying ‘under new management’. The Union Jack fluttering in a blue sky above the clock face, and underneath that the banner – would you believe the video of that was the hottest thing on the internet on Saturday? That’s the internet like in the whole world, right?

  Britain’s Great! End of! Fancy a pint? This kicking arse is thirsty work.

  ***

  You sit yourself right there, get a good view of the action. No, you’re not in the way at all. Meet my mate Zaf, Zafir Khan. Zaf likes standing, so we’re sorted. What do you reckon: we’re three minutes out of ‘government land’ and into this pub – hand pumps and glass, brass and wood, the whole lot polished up like a tart’s wedding ring. Zaf runs his finger over the tables, no marks or anything.

  ‘What my mother calls “proper English”,’ he says.

  His finger pauses on some unexpected dust. Fair enough, with the occasional thuds from the ceiling. Upstairs Shock News are installing broadcasting gear like you would not believe.

  So this Whitehall boozer, the Red Lion, claims to have been the local for every prime minister until Ted Heath. After that, with the IRA and what not, the later ones bottled it. No doubt they started necking supermarket special offer packs instead like the rest of us (not). Anyway, a pub called ‘The Red Lion’ couldn’t have been more perfect for BG, yes? Annabel came up with the plan.

  Here on the ground floor we have LiveChat cameras. They look slightly larger than the ones every pub has for security. When they’re broadcasting a tiny light flashes. Microphones are in the brass chandeliers. It’s all part of doing Prime Minister’s Questions our new way.

  I explain the deal to Zaf. Every Wednesday we’ll run a raffle for half a dozen MPs to ask questions. No special deal for the Leader of the Opposition – some traditions have to die, and anyway, the rabble still can’t agree who it should be. Right now we’ve got four of them claiming the job. What a shambles! Still, it means we can crack on while the old parties protest to Mr Speaker about car parking.

  Wednesday lunchtime the MPs from the raffle will be here in this pub. We’ll fill it with punters no problem – picked, obviously, but ordinary Brits from all over the country. The tickets for the first Wednesday sold out in three minutes. I’ll arrive, get a round in, show the MPs who’s boss and then get on to the real questions. Trust BG – a prime minister you can have a drink with and he’ll buy his round. Punch and Judy in the House of Commons – end of!

  ‘I love it, boss.’ Twenty-five years as a London cabbie have hardly touched Zaf’s Brummie accent. He takes a gulp of lime and soda.

  Zafir Khan MP, Secretary of State for Transport. When I told him, you could not believe his face. Together we’ve just made the three-minute stroll across Whitehall in t
he afternoon sunshine.

  We bowed when we passed the Cenotaph. Actually, no-one planned that; it’s just something I started yesterday. Then Angela said it would be really good if all Cabinet Ministers did the same. So we get out and stand side by side with our drivers whenever we’re passing in our cars. It buggers up Whitehall traffic but what the fuck? It’s a great message, because it never crossed the mind of the ruling class to do it.

  ‘How’s the Department of Transport coping with a boss who has actually worked in transport?’ I ask Zafir. ‘One who’s done the knowledge, in fact.’

  ‘Well, Uber are wetting themselves.’ We both giggle. ‘To be honest, boss, I haven’t found the civil servants as bad as you said.’

  ‘They’ve made you a private prayer room, facing Mecca?’

  ‘Lambeth Palace, actually. But how did you know?’

  ‘Don’t let me down, Zaf.’ I tap my nose. ‘You’re slacking. Those box sets of Yes, Minister didn’t go round the Cabinet at the weekend because I wanted to shorten everyone’s Christmas shopping list.’

  ‘Yeah right, boss. I’ll definitely watch them next weekend – that’s a promise. Anyway, thanks for seeing me today. That was really helpful – all the departments have got the picture. We’ll announce our drones policy in four weeks.’

  ‘Our backers will cut us some slack, but slack’s not a word I want anyone in my government hanging around with.’

  Zaf and I hug and he waves goodbye.

  ***

  I’ve finished the Japanese craft lager, a very nice drop, but a pint of Pride will be the better image for my next appointment – Patrick Smath. Here, he’s on LinkedIn. Cambridge. Eton as well. Happy days!

  Amazingly, all that pricey education wasn’t completely wasted. I check Patrick out as he comes through the Red Lion’s door. The LinkedIn studio shot looks like it was taken yesterday, which means he’s started looking for his next job. Smart guy.

  ‘You must be Pat.’ It never hurts to land the first blow. Demonstrating my knowledge of the British constitution – we pay him to do what I want – I make him get two pints of Pride and some pork scratchings. ‘I think your office had a bit of a brain failure, Pat? I was never asking you to brief me on the nuclear deterrent in a pub. We’ll walk over to my gaff after just the one. But I like to get the measure of a man over a pint. Best way, I reckon. And best to do it before any shit hits the fan.’

  Pat eyes the foaming head on the hand-pulled ale. He has the lips of a man bracing to drink washing-up liquid. Still, you have to do these things to collect a knighthood. He lets some words out. ‘When that happens, Prime Minister, let me guess – you’ll be the shit and I’ll be the fan?’

  I grin. I do like a bit of class – always have.

  ***

  The black door inscribed ‘First Lord of the Treasury’ is already opening as Pat and I pass under the wrought-iron lamp. The door and the lamp on its arched supports date from the 1770s, when the original house was near enough one hundred years old. On the door this afternoon is Aude from Nigeria, a walrus with a wrinkled nose of kindness and don’t-mess-with-me fangs. She called me ‘Bob’ from the off, so I’ve taken to her. She sniffs my breath.

  ‘Oh my, Bob, and did the Good Lord remind you to settle your tab? I’ll not be going into no record books as the first doorkeeper at Number Ten dealing with bailiffs.’

  ‘It’s all sweet, Aude. Pat paid. Remember, I’m counting on you to get me that chair with neither of us getting nicked.’ I’m talking about the black leather Chippendale beside us in the entrance hall: it’s a hooded number and retro, perfect for my man-cave at home, with sixteen surround-sound speakers recessed into the coving.

  ‘You do it like I told you, Bob, and we’ll both be fine. Paint up your van as Bermondsey Furniture Restoration. Don’t be embarrassed, I can help you with spelling. In the morning I’ll pin a note on Mr Chippendale saying he’s due a clean and then I’ll be at my hairdresser’s all afternoon, having a facial and manicure. You reverse up and finish the job. Trouble is, you politicians are all talk and no action.’

  At the top of the grand staircase I pinch myself. In the last hour a photograph has been installed, knocking all the other inhabitants of the house down one peg. Bowing to tradition the photo is black and white, but shows a shaven-headed man considerably younger than most of the others, wearing a golf shirt with the top two buttons undone. Cameron in 2010 looks as youthful as me but more Starbucks caramel frappuccino. Me, I’m more latte macchiato with no sugar.

  The White Drawing Room is the best room for windows and light. It’s being fixed up as my office. ‘Sorry about the tip,’ I say to Pat, who mutters something about Rome not being built in a day. Two embroidered sofas went yesterday, leaving their cousin arm chairs – yuck. They’ll be gone the minute my white leather ones arrive from the Eton house. My glass desk and lucky white Herman Miller Sayl deluxe are in, of course, and one corner has a couple of rubber gym mats. Gym mats on deep pile carpet is pretty crap, and at the moment I’ve only got stuff for bench presses and squats, but we’re getting there. Wishy-washy landscapes were banished from the walls on Saturday. I swivel round in the Sayl while Pat sorts himself out on an armchair.

  A clock on the mantelpiece announces tea in Downton Abbey – another piece of crap which hasn’t died yet. An old Bill (LOL) is lurking in the doorway – Annabel would like some time with me in half an hour. I nod and signal him to leave us on our own. If Pat can’t tell me how to destroy the world in less than half an hour, he’s not the man I think he is.

  20

  London, Tuesday 12 May 2020 (2)

  ‘This is the first of four briefings on our nuclear deterrent, Prime Minister. All the briefings are secret and personal to you – for your eyes and ears only. The first two normally take place on day one or day two of a new government.’ Pat pauses.

  I tell Pat not to overdo the pointed silences, he might prick himself.

  ‘Prime Minister: be flippant if you wish, but these briefings address the circumstances in which you might order more people to die than have been killed in all wars to date. And our shared responsibilities to our North Atlantic Treaty partners in deploying a force of this magnitude. Call me old-fashioned but so far I haven’t spotted the subject’s funny side.’

  Pat stands up and looks out into Downing Street from the other side of his armchair. I’m engrossed. This man’s intelligence is ornate, painstaking, beautiful if you like that kind of thing – like the armchair’s embroidery. Any use to me? We’ll see. Pat’s right hand smooths the crease in his trousers and then balls slightly, as if he is going to fight. I’ve been spotting give-aways like that since I was six. Well I had to, to make dad bugger off eventually (Jack didn’t do nothing, of course; just got a book on substance abuse out of the library). Now the fingers of his left hand are extended like finely tuned violin bows on the armchair’s top. So, he’s going to try to play me? Good luck to him, he’ll need it. Recently out of a relationship I see – a whiter shade of pale circles his wedding finger.

  ‘Today’s briefing is concerned with the authority which you alone in this country hold…’ – again a pause – ‘…to order the firing of our submarine-based inter-continental ballistic missiles. That is so long as you lawfully remain prime minister. As a safeguard, the authority of the Chief of the Defence Staff is also required.

  ‘In the next few days you need to choose two of your colleagues as your nuclear deputies. These are the individuals, normally Cabinet Ministers, to whom you entrust your authority in the event that you are incapacitated or communication with you becomes impossible. When you have made your choice, the Cabinet Secretary and I will arrange for them to be briefed.

  ‘Today I am also explaining to you the four identical letters which your predecessors since Harold Wilson have written, and which you now need to write, giving instructions of last resort to the commanders of our Vanguard subm
arines. These letters are only opened in the event that any of those commanders, deployed on patrol, determines that communication with the government of the United Kingdom has ceased and will not be recoverable – for example following a devastating nuclear attack on this country.

  ‘Your second briefing will be conducted by your private office. They will show you the video link from this building to the submarine command centre and the procedure for an authorised launch order. You will practise this drill every six months.

  ‘Thirdly, the Chief of the Defence Staff will brief you on the destructive power of different targeting options – for example using different warheads or scatter patterns, or a ground-burst versus an air-burst. He will also cover the schedules of targets held ready to be loaded in the event of a period of heightened threat. More schedules can be prepared if you judge it necessary.

  ‘All the information I have described has the highest national security classification. Except that there is a final piece of the jigsaw, called ACERBIC, which has a higher classification still. That will be for you and I to go through at some point in the next few weeks, in a room in the MOD Main Building set aside for the purpose.’

  ACERBIC? News to me. ‘So my forerunners and yours have been playing footsy in a bunker in the MOD since Harold Wilson. Very cosy.’

  Pat relaxes his guard a millimetre. ‘ACERBIC has only existed since John Major. You could say he invented it.’

  I don’t usually fidget, but I am swivelling to and fro in my Sayl. After Pat’s effortless superiority, I make it time to get the organ-grinder and the monkey back into their places.

  My hands are palms upward. They move in circles. There are forty-two muscles in the human face, and all mine are gym-toned. I strike an awestruck note. ‘All this incredible power. What do the Yanks call it? Shock and awe. Has it worked all these years, would you say Pat? Kept things on the rails? Running smoothly?’