EXTRACT TWO

The Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland was focussed on sitting very, very still. He was determined to show not so much as a shred of emotion. Were they watching? Probably. They probably had some kind of in house expert reading his face. For what? Stress? Determination? Chronic, gnawing, exhaustion?
Whatever.
As his teenage daughters would say.
Let them watch and analyse. It wouldn’t get them anywhere. He analysed himself in the bathroom mirror every morning as the razor moved mechanically across his face. Every morning he watched his skin and hair go greyer and the lines run deeper. In the beginning he had hated the fact that he had to wear make up so much of the time. Now he would feel naked without it.
Sometimes he would watch the footage of himself and Linda and the girls as they stepped into Number Ten. Beaming and waving and all ready to make a better world. The day he reached the top of the pile. The day he was added to the list that included Peel and Gladstone and Disraeli and Lloyd George and Churchill.
And Thatcher.
And Blair.
And now Pendleton.
Oh there was no Empire anymore. Only the Falklands and the six counties of Northern Ireland. And it seemed highly unlikely that he would be required to lead his people into a war with France or Germany. My God though, there had been plenty of times when he had been bloody tempted. There had been times when he had lain awake at night and fantasised about getting the High Command to enter the co-ordinates for Paris and Berlin into the box that controlled the Trident subs lurking deep beneath the Atlantic. Paris and Berlin and bloody Washington DC.
Bastards, the bloody lot of them.
Bastards.
Five minutes into his new home with the famous door with the famous number and they had shown him how to work the box. The ultimate code. In a world of code numbers for bank accounts and websites and gym lockers, he was given the big one. The end of history code. And it was supposed to make him feel like he was powerful. All conquering. Mighty.
As if.
The Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. The Chief Executive of Great Britain and Northern Ireland Plc, and from the get go it was clear that the liquidators were already waiting outside the door. By the time he won the big prize, nine years had passed since the casino bankers had tipped the country over the edge. Nine years of borrowing from anyone daft enough to lend and crossing fingers and toes and cheques.
And like his predecessors, he had done the brave face thing. Done it bloody well. Oh of course, times are tough. Really tough. But of course Britain will be fine. Britain is always fine. We saw off Napoleon and Hitler and the Red Peril and the IRA. And now we’ll see this one off, just you wait and see. Britain will rise from the ashes and resume our rightful place at the top table.
And before he had taken up residence in the famous house with the famous door with the policeman outside, he had probably just about believed it.
Not any more. Not having had the truth stare him in the face for three endless, gruelling years.
Britain was a busted flush.
End of.
As his teenage daughters would say.
And this time there would be no magic fix to stave off the baying creditors.
No more slaves to sell.
No more opium to punt into China.
No more billion cowed Indians to bully into buying cotton socks form Rochdale and cartons of salt from Cheshire.
No more North Sea oil.
No more telephone companies to sell.
No more tax bounty from the square mile of the City.
No more nothing.
Only a country way past its sell by date.
Like Greece.
Like Spain.
Like Turkey.
Like Mongolia for Christ’s sake.
A country that had once supplied the whole world with cotton and coal and steel and steam engines and machine tools and medicines.
And now? Now it was Premier League football and a few anorexic celebrities with their estuary English and desperate exhibitionism.
For three years he had done what was expected of him. He had made his telegenic face look right on television. He had done the earnest thing and reassured his people that it would all be OK in the end. Of course it would.
And he had done his best to fly the flag around the world and persuade the creditors that their money was safe.
Like a sharp salesman.
Like a con man in a cheap suit.
And now this. This room with its oil paintings of the old aristocracy in all their finery. Who were the people on the walls? The Duke of this and the Duchess of that. Smug faced and fat from all their acres. And their slave ships. And their sugar plantations. And their opium deals. And their bloody derivatives. And no doubt their ancestors would all now be skulking somewhere in Monaco or Nassau. The rats who had left the sinking ship as fast as their private jets could carry them once the City Casino had hit the bricks back in 2007.
Bastards.
Who owned the great eighteenth century mansion now? Some corporation with paperwork lodged in a bank vault somewhere. Not the Duke of this or Duchess of that. No chance of that. Maybe oil money. Probably oil money. Oil money seemed to own more or less everything these days.
He had first come to the big house a month earlier. He had been summoned. Ordered. Like he had once been ordered to go to the headmaster’s office to be caned. He was the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and he had been ordered to attend at 10pm sharp. They hadn’t actually said not to be late, but it had been implied. Come and come alone. Oh, you can bring your security of course. They can wait outside. But no colleagues or advisors or civil servants or spin doctors. Just you Christopher. And don’t tell anyone. What we have to say is for your ears only. Got that? Good. Because it is very important that you do get it. You see, we’re in no mood to be pissed about Christopher. OK?
Good-oh.
He could still hear the voice on the phone. ‘Good-oh’. The bastard. The arrogant, octogenarian Australian bastard.
Gall.
Lester Gall.
The man with all the newspapers and TV channels and radio shows. The man who made the anorexic celebrities and broke them when they were all used up. The man who boasted about how he could swing a General Election any which way he pleased. The man who seemed to have bought and paid for half the MPs of the Prime Minister’s Party. And half of those on the benches of Her Majesty’s Opposition.
And on the phone, Lester Gall had called the Prime Minister ‘matey’ and told him to attend a meeting at 10pm and to keep it to himself. And when the Prime Minister had agreed, Gall had said ‘good-oh’ and killed the call without saying goodbye.
Bastard.
And Christopher Pendleton had done as instructed. He had left by the back door and been secreted out of the city and into the rolling acres that had once upon a time been the domain of some great Duke.
And they had made him wait in this very same room with the oil paintings and the high ceiling and the chandelier and the heavy velvet drapes and the Persian rug. And no doubt they had watched him via some carefully hidden camera, and maybe they had chuckled at his weakness.
The Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland made to wait like some naughty schoolboy.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Until a door opened and a power dressed young woman with a perma-tan and pearly, pearly teeth had told him they were ready for him.
They.
The money.
Oil and telecommunications and retail and pharmaceuticals. The men of the super corporations. $20,000 suits and private jets and share options and bulging accounts in banks in tax havens.
Ten of them.
Hard faced bastards.
Smug faced bastards.
And Lester Gall in the middle.
“Ah. Chris you old bugger. Look, you best have a scotch matey. Have a bloody big one. Reckon you’re going to need it sport.”
Matey. Sport. Bastard.
They had a spokesman. More perma-tan and teeth. A three hours a day in the gym type. No doubt a coming man. Smooth. Deadly.
He ran a power point presentation covering everything the Prime Minister knew only too well. The debt was out of hand. The creditors had decided that enough was enough. The IMF had made draconian demands.
Britain was a busted flush.
Gall listened with a sneer and when the presentation was done he rose to his feet and splashed more scotch into the Prime Minister’s untouched glass.
“We’re all pissed off Chris. And we’re all wondering whether it’s worth staying in this shitty little country of yours. We got wind of what the IMF had to say to your Chancellor when he called round with his begging bowl.”
The Prime Minister stared ahead. Of course it was supposed to have been a secret, but nothing was secret to these men. They owned everyone. Maybe they owned the Chancellor.
Gall ground on. Strutting the room. Waving his arms. An angry, skinny old man with way, way too much power.
“Seems like it is a pretty up and down choice Chris. You either hammer up taxes or you slash costs. Simple as that. So we decided we best have a little chat. Maybe you might just get tempted to jack up a few taxes. Maybe you might have a go at hitting on the big corporations to drag yourselves out of the shit. Well, you might as well know that if you do, we’re off matey. As in up sticks and head for the hills. You’re not going to bail yourself out by scalping us matey. No bloody way. It ain’t going to happen. End of. Hear what I’m saying matey?”
The Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland nodded and stared ahead into space.
“Just so long as that’s clear sport. You either cut costs or we piss off. Simple as that. Our people have run the numbers and we pretty much agree with the IMF. 20% Chris. 20% and 20% now. No kicking the bastard into the long grass until the next election is done and dusted. We’re talking an announcement within two months and immediate implementation. No spinning it Chris. No spin and no bollocks. It’s 20% or we’re all off and then you really will be screwed. We’ve got a few ideas, but really it is your job to decide how you’re going to do it. Shit, you’re the Prime Minister matey. So we’ll leave it to you to make the call. But it’s going to have to be real Chris. No trimming around the edges. It needs to be real and it needs to be bloody huge. And it needs to be now. Yeah? This is Price by the way.”
Gall nodded to Mr Perma-tan and teeth who had run the power point analysis of Britain’s doom. Price nodded.
“Bloody sharp cookie our Mr Price. Oxford and Harvard and the whole bloody nine yards. Hire him as a special advisor. He’s the only one you discuss this with. OK? No bugger else. Just Pricey here. And Pricey has access to all our collective resources and quite frankly that is a bloody sight more than your resources. So you kick it around with Pricey and you find an answer that will make us happy. Otherwise it’s bye, bye time. Clear?”
The Prime Minister nodded.
“Is that all?”
Gall smeared a grin across his wizened face.
“Yeah. I reckon that’s about it. Not drinking your scotch then?”
“No thank you.”
“Fair enough. You might as well bugger off then. We’ll see in a month then.”
And so he had burned the midnight oil for night after night. Just him and Price who was so high flying that it was scary. They crunched their numbers and ran their scenarios and no matter what Christopher asked for, Price always had it by the next day. The man didn’t seem to need any sleep. And his tan never faded. And slowly but surely Price had eased him to finding the right answer. The only answer. The answer that the big money had wanted all along. The only answer that they would be willing to accept.
A month of laying awake at night and just wishing that it could have been someone else’s job to own up to the cold, hard truth. Anyone else. Anyone but Christopher Pendleton. Oh and course he had thought about chucking in the towel and resigning. To ride off into the sunset and do a Blair. Write his book and charge top dollar on the speaking circuit. But he knew in his heart of hearts that such an option wasn’t on the table. The big money men wouldn’t allow him a sunset to ride off into. There would be no big pay off like Blair. Instead they would crucify him in the media and make sure that his life would be a prolonged misery. Destiny had decreed that he was to be the one to own up to the fact that the ‘Great’ in Great Britain was nothing more than an outdated joke.
And now the time had come to present his plan to the men of the big money. It was all just show of course. A silly game. An extra humiliation. Of course Price would have already briefed them in every detail. But they needed to hear it from the mouth of the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. The horse’s mouth. They had deemed that the humiliation was a part of the process.
Bastards.
The door opened and Miss tan and teeth ushered in James Hawkes, the leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition. Chris wondered if he was surprised. Not really. Not at all in fact. Hawkes greeted him with a rueful smile.
“Hello Chris.”
“James.”
At noon every Wednesday the two of them tore into each other like rabid dogs at Prime Minister’s question time, but whenever they were away from the cameras they got along well enough.
For a few moments the two men stared at the pictures on the wall, not really sure what to say to each other. Pendleton broke the spell.
“So when did they call you in James?”
“Just after you. Or so I gather.”
The PM nodded thoughtfully. “They wouldn’t what their plans buggering up by a pesky back bench revolt. All party support and all that.”
“Quite. Can I assume that you have proposals?”
“Oh yes James. I have proposals.”
“Right.”
A door opened and Miss tan and teeth beckoned them forward.
“Ah Chris. Jim. Just the bloody job. Here. Grab a pew. Drink? No? Fair enough.”
Like an aged elf thought Christopher.
Evil elf.
Bastard elf.
“Well no point beating about the bloody bush then. Let’s hear it Chris.”
The Prime Minister quietly cleared his throat and straightened his tie.
“I will be brief as no doubt Mr Price has already fully briefed you all.”
He slowly moved his eyes along the line of faces. The men in front of all the billions. Trillions.
“The demand as you all know is an immediate 20% cut in government spending. This of course is a quite enormous figure. Quite unprecedented. Such a task will require the kind of drastic action only usually taken during a time of war. The actions will be hugely unpopular and public order will be a major consideration. In the light of this I must say that I am very happy that you have brought my honourable friend here.”
James Hawes gave a short nod to the room. Christopher ploughed on.
“I have addressed the task at hand whilst maintaining two key principles. In order to stand a chance of maintaining public order, two key elements must be in place. Number one, there must be no cuts in expenditure on either the police or the armed services. In fact, I anticipate extra expenditure. Secondly, and vitally, the government must retain at least an element of moral authority in order to be able keep control. What does this mean? It means we keep the NHS with a few modest tweaks. It means we keep old age pensions and all programmes which help the elderly. We will also maintain public spending on education and public transport as to do otherwise would be to write off the country’s future. For the sake of morale, we will also maintain expenditure on many seemingly non-essential programmes such as the Arts Council, museums, libraries etc. This we hope will help to maintain an element of public morale.”
He took a sip of water before jumping off the cliff.
“To reduce public expenditure by 20% we will cancel most state benefits with immediate effect. Unemployment benefits, sickness benefits for all but the very most infirm, child benefit, family tax credits, housing benefit, council tax benefits. These savings will come to a great deal more than the 20% target that has been indicated. The savings are made firstly by not only paying out the monies in question, and secondly disposing of the required administrative structure to make the payments. These savings are in fact in excess of 30%. We will therefore be making some changes that will eat up some of the savings. There will be no tax payable on any earnings below £15,000 per annum. There will be no National Insurance payable on earnings below £15,000 per annum. We will abolish the minimum wage with immediate effect.”
Another pause. Another sip of water.
“Over the last few years we have heard a great deal of talk about the Nanny State. Quite frankly, this is not a label that I have ever had much time for. That however is immaterial. These changes will herald the end of the Nanny State. Britain will become a much harsher country. Millions of our citizens are woefully ill equipped to thrive in such an environment. They will be angry and confused and the prospect of widespread public disorder is more or less a certainty. I will have some contingency plans in place to deal with this. These plans are none of your concern. Neither are they the concern of Mr Price. You are businessmen. You live in a world of balance sheets and share options. You have no conception of how to deal with a public revolt. That is my realm. The political realm. And I am afraid it is a very secret realm and none of you are welcome.”
He stared out the bloated faces one by one.
“All of you are very impressed by your own power. Understandably so. But don’t allow yourselves to get carried away. None of you have the power to make a single phone call to Hereford to summon up ultimate force. I have that power gentlemen. I could make that call and any one of you would disappear of the face of this planet within twelve hours. Oh you all have your silly security around you, but I would dearly love to see them try and take on the SAS. This is my world gentlemen. And James’s. Keep out. Order will be maintained in this country, that is all you need to know. That is all you are going to know. This is no place for shopkeepers…”
“Now you just wait a bloody minute here……”
Gall was jumping to his feet.
Angry elf
Bastard elf.
“Sit down Lester. And shut up. You have your deal. Now you get the terms.”
Gall was crimson faced, but he sat.
“I will not allow anyone to starve in this country and if any of you demand it, then you are more than welcome to up sticks and go. Every town with a population greater than 20,000 will have a feeding station. These stations will provide breakfast, lunch and dinner to anyone in possession of the required identity. Essentially this means anyone. They will be the ones who at present are unemployed or signed off sick. The food will be plain but nutritious. It will contain all the required minerals and vitamins. I very much doubt whether anyone in work and thereby in funds would be remotely tempted to freeload. If they do, then they are welcome. All meals will be delivered in liquid form by tankers – porridge for breakfast, soup for lunch and stew for dinner. We will initially make use of the fleet used by milk companies. In time the government will invest in its own fleet. Initially the meals will be manufactured by existing food companies following a tendering process. Foreign companies will not be invited to tender. All ingredients will be grown and sourced within the UK.”
Another sip of water.
“I will not countenance any citizen of Great Britain sleeping rough unless it is their choice. We will therefore instigate an immediate programme to construct dormitory facilities in all towns. These will be basic facilities offering a bed with clean sheets, warmth and washing facilities. Once again, use of a dormitory will be available to anyone who requires it. They are unlikely to be particularly happy places. Once again we do not anticipate any freeloading.”
Again he allowed his eyes to meet other eyes around the table.
“Our country is about to become a harder place. However nobody is going to starve and nobody is going to have to sleep in the rain. In our new future, even an hour’s work will be a thing to be valued. We have a generation who will be quite unable to cope and we will have to keep their bodies and souls together. Maybe for the rest of their lives. Future generations will see the world in a very different light. We anticipate academic achievement to rise dramatically over the coming years as young people channel a fear for the future into better attainment. In time, our country will find its way back onto its feet. Until that time we will have to rule with a firm hand. We are going back to the Autumn of 1940 gentlemen and somehow we must rediscover the spirit of those dark days. I ask that every one of you plays your part in this, especially you Mr Gall. The time for pushing the gaudy wealth of non-entity celebrities and footballers in the faces of the public is over. Up until now it has been merely been distasteful. Not any more. Now such inappropriate nonsense could easily be a trigger for rioting. We are entering a time of sobriety and I expect that to be reflected in the media. I will not tolerate any more of your pathetic celebrity culture. If you cross me on this, then you will be leaving this country and your leaving will not be dignified. The rest of you will be happy enough I am sure. The end of the minimum wage will ensure that your profits will rise dramatically. On your instructions, Mr Price has been insisting on a cut in Corporation tax. This will not be happening gentlemen. You are being granted your pound of flesh. Two pounds is out of the question. I will also require you to make some further changes. No longer will you come in and out of this country on private jets. You can park them in Paris if you like and take the train. I also expect all of you to close any overseas accounts that you might operate. And do not try and hide this, gentlemen. I have a place called GCHQ remember. I can find out when each and every one of you goes for a shit. If you spend more than a fortnight in this country, then you will pay the appropriate rate of tax on any income derived in this country. And that is non negotiable. Bang the table if you wish but it will not make a jot of difference. I am granting you the most motivated, best educated and cheapest labour force in the developed world. That will have to be enough. You will all make huge fortunes. All that I demand is that you do not flaunt these fortunes and that you pay a fair amount of tax on those fortunes. If this idea sticks in your throat, I suggest you buy yourselves some history books and take a look at what happened to the super rich in Russia in 1917. It wasn’t pretty.”
Another pause.
Another look at angry faces. There was much he had said that Mr Price had not prepared them for.
Well screw them.
“If you don’t like it and want to go, then just go. If you are going, then make your announcements in the next month. If I hear nothing, then I will assume that you have agreed the terms I have outlined and decided to stay. The changes I have outlined will be announced a month’s time. There is no question of doing so any sooner as many things will have to be put in place.”
Now Pendleton turned to the leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition.
“Can I rely on your support James?”
James Hawkes gave a grave nod. In fact he really felt rather like cheering. It wasn’t every day that Lester Gall got it with both barrels and he would have happily laid out big money for his seat in the front row. Gall by now was all out of patience. Up on his feet and looking like something out of Lord of the Rings. A bad something.
“Now you listen here you jumped up Pommie bastard….”
Pendleton’s voice snapped like the crack of a whip.
“No you listen Mr Gall. You started this thing and I’m going to end it. If you’re not happy, then piss off. I’ll take you to the door myself with a song in my heart. We don’t need you and your scummy rags. In fact we would be a whole lot better off without you. The same does not go for the other gentlemen around the table. They make things. They employ people by the thousand. They contribute. You don’t Gall. You’re a leech. A cancer. You peddle puerile crap day in day out and all the while you help dumb down our citizens to drooling bloody morons. So if you want to go, then for Christ’s sake, just go. And go now. But if you stay, consider your card well and truly marked. You play ball or I’ll personally crucify you. No more celebrity bullshit and no more tax dodging. Are we clear Mr Gall?”
“Oh yeah right. I’m quivering in my bloody boots here matey.”
“Do any of your staff break the speed limit in their fancy cars Mr Gall? Do any of your beautiful people carry grammes of coke in their designer suits Mr Gall? Do any of your people have child porn on their laptops Mr Gall? Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. It doesn’t matter you see. Because I can make all of these things happen. I can make them happen to you Gall. I can fill your personal PC up with the worst paedophile images you’ve ever dreamt of. And then I will sign off on SO19 crashing down your front door and dragging you our in plasticuffs. And I will personally ensure that every last one of your competitors are waiting on the pavement outside to get the pictures. So don’t try my patience Gall. Don’t even think about it.”
Christopher Pendleton hadn’t noticed getting to his feet. He hadn’t noticed the rise in his voice. He hadn’t noticed crossing the room to stand so close to the media baron’s face that his spittle had splashed onto wizened cheeks.
Now he noticed.
Now he saw the naked fear in the watery old eyes.
And he liked it.
Loved it.
He slowly stepped back.
“That’s all. You all have a month. If you stay, you pay your share. If any one of you tries to dodge so much as a penny of tax I will wipe you out. I will be issuing instructions to GCHQ to monitor every phone and computer you own. 24/7 gentlemen. 24/7. Stay and you can make a pot of money and pay a more than fair proportion of tax. Cross me and you’ll wish you had never been born. Good evening.”
And with that he strode out. Taller. Prouder. The Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.