PoW: Chapter 1: keep Ithaka always in your mind
-=-=
"Mr. Nick Clegg is back."
Even now, it wasn't necessary for Cameron to grow his own vegetables, but it had never been necessary and he had always liked gardening. It could not be anything but flattering to be essential to the growth of living things, the fruit of his labours visible, appreciated. He even liked seeing the soil on his hands, a reminder that the earth of Britain was still kind. Also, it was green.
He stood up from his inspection of a bright green shrub, the young tomatoes were still only pale yellow.
"Where is he," he asked, rolling down his sleeves and strolling toward the house. "What does he say?"
"He boarded a ship in Calais last week. France sent word. We are expecting his official report any day now. There is still no word from the Chancellor."
The aide was new. The news was old. Cameron managed a smile nonetheless. "Thank you, you may leave now. Keep me updated."
The door shut. He pressed a button beneath the desk, careful to catch the drawer as it fell out, sliding out the contents before pushing it back in. The folder was worn, the leather faded at the edge, the red dulled to rust. With a sigh, he opened it and ran his fingers along the stiff pages, a bit gray after having been fished out, water logged, from his desk in Downing Street. But the words were still visible- the paragraphs neatly printed, dated, and signed, through the signatures had ran into swirls of blue and black.
He read it through again though it wasn't necessary. He knew the seven page document by heart. He could even reproduce the signatures, were it ever necessary.
It had been a fortnight since his office had heard from Nick Clegg, even longer since anyone had heard from George Osborne.
David Cameron, Prime Minister of Britain, turned and looked out from the window: the neatly trimmed hedges, the vegetable and fruit garden. Not far away, he saw members of his new cabinet spreading a blanket under an oak tree while loaded with lunch hampers. From a distance, it was difficult to tell whether it was a meeting or a picnic, but these were very young men who had never had an office in Whitehall; it could very well be both.
-=-=
The Thames Barrier failed in the Winter of 2015, fifteen years earlier than anyone had predicted. The Queen, ailing and sequestered at Windsor, refused to call an election.
While the people were still reeling from the new measures in the third emergency budget, London flooded in the last year of the Coalition government. Perhaps, that was why, when George Osborne disappeared, no one paid any attention. The Guardian's lone comment had been that since he had done his bit in his destruction of his country, it could only be expected that, millionaire and baronet, this jowly grandee of the cabinet excuse himself from the public eye, who might just twitch violently enough to dislodge the speck.
Someone had brought George the column to read, a few years after it was published, the newspaper already yellowed. He laughed at him from outside the door.
"No one misses you," said the voice. "You have no practical skills. You would be killed out there. You see, no one has come for you. Not even your dear Tory friends. He is too busy trying to decide whether he should send Nick Clegg abroad, begging for help from the rest of Europe. You would like that wouldn't you, seeing Clegg beg? You never liked him much, especially not after Cameron gave in to his policies. It started with alternative voting, didn't it? What did that take, I wonder?"
Every few weeks, the voice would speak to him, updating him on the government While George Osborne, who had never spent a single day of his life in deprivation, found the injustice cruelly balanced inside a concrete room with no windows and nothing except the speaker of the voice to keep him company. It was a soothing voice, the accent terrifyingly familiar. He tried to not listen to the words, but they were the only words he could have so he still clung to them. Furthermore, for all the insinuation -- he refused to consider the truths in them -- they brought news of the people who would save him. At least, they would, theoretically.
The hope faded a little very day.
-=-=
"Follow us." The bodyguards wore black suits and dark sunglasses, the polarized lenses hid their eyes and only reflected the sun. They lead him through house.
He reached a man sitting in an armchair in the library. He stood as Nick approached, stretching out a wrinkled hand. Clegg shook it.
"Mr. Murdoch."
"Mr. Clegg. What can we do for you?"
Nick was ready to speak. He had the speech ready. He had his argument, counter argument, the whole contrapuntal composition at the tip of his tongue when the secretary suddenly approached and whispered in Murdoch's ear. He waited, tapping his feet, while Murdoch frowned, the smiled. He turned toward Nick again.
"Before anything else, would you like George Osborne back?"
"Where is he?"
Murdoch started laughing. It was an alarming sound. "In Korfu, where else. In Mandelson's sea fortress! Now, Deputy Prime Minister, what would you trade for your Chancellor?"
-=-=
The metaphors had grown more elaborate by the year, but a Coalition Government that ruled by reasons more akin to a dictatorship than a democracy must know when to compromise, and David Cameron had always been a good politician, even a great one. The Dispatch Box had been rescued, enough of the MPs had survived, or putatively re-elected, and the Bercows found a venue sufficiently like the House that he could still suffer through the form and formalities as if nothing had ever gone wrong.
Lately, he had been compared to a pining Penelope, waiting for the return of Clegg-Odysseus, while spinning vague promises of policies and unraveling them almost overnight. It had been taken up with great enthusiasm in the House, and he found himself sitting, flanked by two empty spaces, propped only by the reassurance that if he survived this term, he could be remembered, at least by history, to be equal or greater than Churchill- for leading his country through a combination of natural crises, global recession, and civil unrest.
They knew it, too, which was why, when Harriet Harman, the intensity of her voice unfaded, said that he will remain "Faithful till the bitter end while we suffer and he wait for the return of a doubtful connubial bliss. Has our Prime Minister already thought of a question, of such nature that only Mr. Clegg knew?" he could answer that yes, he did, but was hardly going to share with the public. It was, after all, a question that belonged to the privacy of the marriage and would the members of the Opposition respect it?
They laughed. The Tories cried "Hear, Hear." They could hardly do anything else. In the echo of the hall, converted from a large ancient barn, it sounded like the hootings of owls. It was not only David Cameron who was waiting, but all of Britain. Quarantined from the rest of the world, Nick Clegg was their only official representative abroad. The document had contained the signatures of all three parties.
-=-=
"What are you thinking today, Gideon?" the voice asked. "You were restless last night. I watched you toss and turn all night."
"My name is George," George said perfunctorily. The revelation that he was on twenty-hour surveillance no longer offended him as much as it did the first time. He even derived a small sense of pleasure from it- that someone was watching him and cared what he did.
"Bad dream again?"
"I wake up in a bad dream. It was a good life."
"What were you dreaming about? Dashing David coming to the rescue? Flowery wallpaper, perhaps? One with gold trimmings?"
George didn't reply. The taunts were very mild compared to what he bore in what seemed like two lifetimes away. At least, here, there was no physical violence.
"I have good news for you today, Gideon. You're looking peaky lately. Perhaps we can wait until after lunch."
"You'll come back?" asked George, disgusted by the pathetic plea that came out. Their exchanges never came twice in one day.
"I will, if you ask."
George stood, stunned, and approached the door.
"Nick Clegg met up with Murdoch today. He might even negotiate for your release."
After a moment, George said quietly, betrayed, "Murdoch's holding me prisoner?"
"Of course not, silly boy, but he knows who is."
"Who is?"
There was no reply. Panicked, George pressed his mouth against the slot where the food usually came through.
"Will you come back? Today? After lunch?" After a moment's thought, he added, "Please. You don't even have to tell me who's holding me prisoner." Englishman, well-educated, funded. He had very little else to think about in the time he had been inside this cell.
"As I said, you only had to ask, arrogant boy," answered the voice in an almost sing-song manner. "You only had to ask and you'll tell me where Eden is, won't you?"
-=-=
"Peter Mandelson?" His surprise was unseemly, but Nick couldn't help that now. "Lord Peter Mandelson?"
Murdoch nodded, looking at him with a disturbing mixture of pity and glee.
Friendships among politicians were always precarious things. Cross-party friendships even more so, but Nick Clegg had called George Osborne a friend. It was difficult not to, after being lambasted together after the second emergency budget while David- Well, David was David Cameron, the new face of an old party, the sort of politician for whom criticism slid off like water off a duck, the same sort of qualities Nick once imagined he himself to possess.
Furthermore, he was one of George's oldest friends, quietly supportive when George found himself inadequate for the role he had been assigned. Cameron had given most of the economic speeches while Osborne bore the public blame. Nick supposed they have it on a system.
"I wasn't aware that our Chancellor of Exchequer was missing. If Lord Mandelson," Clegg struggled with the idea, "is holding George Osborne hostage and demanding a ransom, then I cannot lightly enter into any agreements that would compromise the duties my government has entrusted me. However, the safety of his person necessarily has my utmost concern."
"Oh, Mr. Clegg. There are many things you don't know and I think you'll find your terms too strong to describe the delicate situation they find themselves. The English has a certain ruthlessness about them and even amongst themselves I find fascinating. Still, George Osborne has been a a good friend and so I have agreed to facilitate the exchange, in this and other matters you have come to discuss. Britain, as you know, must be on the Euro for any plans our group would implement. Europe has missed your country's involvement. We now admit it was a mistake."
It was his opening, Clegg knew. He had never been at a lack for words. The library had filled with European economic leaders. If Murdoch had thought to unsettle him with the news of George Osborne, he had been greatly mistaken. Clegg entered politics to change his country for the better, to support his country. He tagged a "Tell Cameron" to the information and abandoned all thoughts and memories of George Osborne from his head.
-=-=
He still reached toward the right side of bed in the mornings, expecting a kiss, the warmth of a familiar body. And he still listened, his hearing strained for the high-pitched sounds of childish words. It was the air, so wholesome and damp it reminded him of Oxfordshire, of holidays and of family, but of course the Prime Minister's family had been among one of the first to evacuate Britain. They had gone to Wales first, when he still thought everything could be "sorted" quickly. Last time he heard, they were in Paris, apparently doing well. At least his children will grow up bilingual, like Nick Clegg, who could speak to Europe, sometimes in their own language, pleading Britain's case as family instead of a haughty fallen empire. He was a Tory, he knew what sometimes the rest of Europe saw.
And the reality of the empty room, his head cleared of idle hopes and imaginings, was still disappointing. David Cameron sighed and readied himself for the day, skipping any examination of how much Nick occupied his thought even in that quiet space between dream and waking up. He looked at the photograph of his family on their last seaside holiday on the bedside table before walking to the wardrobe to change.
He glanced at the tie-rack before he left, but couldn't make himself to pick up one. No one cared anyways. At least, not now. He had always hated them anyways, encircling his neck like a noose and setting him apart from the people whom he would like to vote for him. Only during the early days of the Coalition when the colours still meant something had he ever felt it was anything other than an unnecessary ornament. It had been a symbol- an alliance, an accomplishment for the Conservatives, for him.
The green tie had been silk, and slipped, prettily and neatly through his fingers when he had untied the knot during the last DPMQ. Nick had looked down at his hands, the beginnings of a faint blush tinting his face-
"Thank you," he had said, "I really think Miriam packed all of my ties. They boarded the last flight to Spain last night and the packing was rather frantic."
David knew all this; Nick had stood in his office, his neck surprisingly bare, and awkwardly asked for a loan that morning, and David had taken off his tie. Now they were standing very close. They were of a height, and when Nick looked up, his eyes met David's. They were both tired, but impeccably groomed for government.
"You're welcome," David heard himself say. It would be the last session. Already, the puddles along Canon Row were joining together to render the street into a river. The best engineers in the world couldn't raise the barriers quick enough. All the trains to London had been indefinitely suspended.
David still had the tie in his hand, suspended in the air. He probably looked like an idiot as Nick took it from his hands and wrapped it around his neck, the long fingers deftly folding the piece of cloth into place, the back of Nick's hand grazed the skin of his neck for a moment.
"Your turn to face the wolves. Prime Minister. Good luck, David."
-=-=
George waited, holding his breath, counting. He had became quite good with numbers over the years. He still lacked the instinctive mathematical aptitude that he knew men like Law or Cable had, but he could read a graph and he could see when anything would go black or red. Perhaps, in the end, "quite good" was still wasn't "good enough" not that he would ever admitted it aloud. He was the youngest chancellor of the exchequer Britain ever had and, as far as he know, he was still chancellor.
Breakfast to lunch was four hours, or twenty-four hundred minutes, which was 14,400 seconds. The macadamized ground of the cell still hurt to walk on. He didn't like pacing. The place echoed. After breakfast, he was given towels, basins of fresh water -- always lukewarm and lightly scented -- for a wash and and fresh clothes. He had attempted refusing to eat, but had always given up.
He didn't like to think about who cared for the temperature of the water or the quality of the clothes, but he liked being clean and no one he knew had ever made reference to his daily toilette, not even the voice.
The voice was coming back soon and he still wanted to know where Eden was. And every time George refused to answer, something horrible happened. In the beginning, he had pillows.
Eden was in Southwest England, that was all George Osborne knew. It was a green project which aimed at producing a self-sufficient and sustainable community. It shared the name and the ambition, as far as George knew, with the current seat of government and perhaps the only long-term viable source of food in Britain.
It shouldn't be difficult to find if they were in England. For the first time, George entertained the idea that he wasn't. The thought frightened him. The sounds at night, the sloshing of water which he had imagined to be leaking pipes, might be something more sinister.
And if the voice, working on behalf of whoever was holding George prisoner, wanted to know where Eden was. Well, surely it meant George shouldn't tell him. But- He looked around. There was nothing they could take from him anyways. And they did, in their way, took care of him and didn't the voice reveal that he could just ask for things?
-=-=
"Mr. Clegg, if you would just look at our proposed agreement."
"Already?" His speech had been for nothing then. It was a mere presentation, a puppet-act. He should have expected it. Nick disliked dealing with businessmen. It was part of the reason why he didn't join the Conservative party. The concessions and the help Britain was going to give and receive had been predicted and evaluated before his arrival. Decisions had been made without his input.
"We are working against the clock, as you reminded us, multiple times." And the man still looked so serene while Nick could feel the heat rushing to his face.
"We will leave you to read alone. If you find it to the liking, the agreement is ready. You'll notice that we have all signed it. We only await your signature."
With that, they left.
"George, what have you gotten us into?" Nick muttered to himself when he sat down at the desk and opened the folder. The meeting in Spain, then Germany, then Italy -- the Bilderberg Group -- he had never quite realised the exact reason for their existence and had dismissed it as another exclusive club that made its members feel important. That it was a venture to unite the Western countries against the East had flashed across his mind, but it had seemed unimportant compared to the immediate threats of VAT increase and cut to child benefits.
In retrospect, he should have known that any powerful European alliance was at best, an economic alliance, and at worst, an illegal economic cartel that fixed prices of essential goods for whatever aims it had. And of course George Osborne, right honourable and chancellor, all the signs of a bullied boy who never quite outgrew the idea that he wasn't important enough, should be a speaking member while dragging his entire country into a global political game that it could not afford.
The pressure for Euro was the least of it. For the first time, Nick Clegg found himself agreeing with the Euroskepticsm popularized by the Conservatives. Pity the Conservatives themselves weren't aware that their representative member, while making a valiant effort, may just not be valiant enough against his own ambitions.
Nick read through the agreement, steeling himself, but growing bewildered. Pages and pages of economic reforms for Europe but nothing for Britain. The lifting of the economic barricades, some aid, but nothing substantial. Only, at the end, he realised what was happening. It was an invitation for him, Nick Clegg, to be on the governing board. What they could do for Britain were what they could do for him, with or without the title of Deputy Prime Minister.
He threw the pen across the room and marched toward the door. The door opened.
"Miriam!" He was so surprised by her presence that when she reached to embrace him he took a step back.
-=-=
They were still on about the Odyssey, the House filled with tittering. It was entirely too reminiscent of his schooldays, though the idea of the practically nonagenarian Berlusconi seducing Clegg with false promises of Italian comforts was ridiculous. Silvio was no Caesar, no matter how much he would like pretend to be. Nick was smarter than that. David thought of his tomatoes. There would be a good crop this year. He could see all the signs. And, as long as the weather held, there would be a surplus for the granaries. Prince Charles had personally declared the season a success already.
"Is the Prime Minister aware that the government still has no chancellor? Is it because we still have no budget? In fact, has any effort been made to find the right honorable George Osborne?"
Behind David, the benches erupted.
"Order! Order! One question at a time," Bercow said mildly. He sounded amused, sitting in his green armchair but the House was silent. George would like that, David thought, when his name would evoke such silence from others. He always became flustered if anyone spoke when he was trying to speak.
But George was missing. The worst suspicions had gradually all fallen on him. BBC had caught him at a party speaking to Mandelson- a scene immortalized by a series of increasingly lurid political cartoons: you can't blame him for the floods, perhaps, but certainly the economy, for he cavorts with the Dark Prince. In a way, David hoped that George enjoyed the holiday he deserved before the world locked down on Britain. Mandelson's last known presence could only be an unfortunate coincidence.
For all the criticism of the Conservatives as an "Old Boy" party, they do stand behind their own. If George returned now, they would still support him, regardless, though the entire Opposition Party brands him as traitor.
In the last report he received, against all expectation the water level seemed to have stabilized in all the cities and some even showed sighs of receding: Newcastle upon Tyne, Scunthorpe, Bristol, Plymouth, Norwich, Peterborough and Bournemouth. It seemed that Britain would not become a series of islands after all.
He could open with that, David thought. Then, afterwards, he would need to somehow maneuver all the health ministers into a room. It should be provide enough matters for the parliament to focus. Pantomime was not his forte and he really didn't like Penelope. If only Nick Clegg would return, there would be no test and no question. They hadn't spent long enough for that, yet.
-=-=
"I've come back," said the voice. "I keep my promises." It was a jibe at something. Politics still- Never mind.
"How long have I been here?"
"Six months, give or take."
"How did I get here?"
"I bought you."
"Bought me?!" George couldn't keep the outrage out of his voice.
"You would have died there. The people who kept you before, they didn't like you much, did they?" George fell silent. It was true. They beat and starved him, called him "Tory boy" and made him say things. But he had swallowed it all, promising himself revenge.
"And the people before that? They didn't know what to do with you other than to keep you silent. The doctor was surprised that you didn't die from the excessive dose of oxalate crystals, but breeding will tell. You are from a hardy stock, Gideon."
"George," George reminded the voice again.
"But I'm nice to you, Gideon. I give you food, I keep you clean. You have a bed and you have me. Have I ever treated you without courtesy? You cost me a country but it grieves me to see you maltreated. You deserve many things, and perhaps a spot of pain, Gideon. But who doesn't? Those curs were being entirely excessive."
George took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, growing uncomfortable and regretting his request, "I am in a prison. Where am I?"
"The Irish Sea, I think. Navigation is not an ability I cultivate, but I hear your good friend, the current Prime Minister, David Cameron, is very good with cultivation. A man with a green thumb; he cultivate his gardens, his friends. You, Boris, and Nick Clegg. It brings us back to today's topic, where is this Eden, undetectable by radar. And don't lie to me, boy."
"I can't tell you, I signed a secrecy act. It would brand me a traitor," George confessed. He couldn't. And whatever people say about him, he couldn't tell the location to a man who could imprison him on a ship and buy him with the price of a country, or something,
"Another invitation-only club is it? You're good with obtaining invitations. Very well, strip."
Not for the first time in his life, George cursed his inability to keep silent.
-=-=
Correcting himself, Nick walked forward again and embraced his wife, letting her fall into his arms.
"What are you doing here?" he asked against the dark hair. They broke apart with difficulty. He kissed her, retrained, but kept hold of her hands in his.
"To support you, of course. You've signed it, haven't you?" she asked anxiously in Spanish. "They promised everything. I went over the agreement myself. You can live anywhere. We can live anywhere. The children miss you. I miss you. "
"I miss you, too," Nick said, "but you know about this?"
"They approached me almost immediately after they learned that you have been sent abroad. I thought they were trying to reach you, but I had no idea where you are most of the time-"
"I'm sorry, but secrecy had been important. There had been threats-"
"I knew you were well, that was enough, then I realised you were trying to reach them. What else could you be doing? The United States could only guarantee a short term resolution. The rebuilding of Britain would require the resources of Europe, a long investment. The IMF has its own agendas and the pound could only depreciate so much. When they presented the agreement to me I said I would help. I knew you could never be selfish. There were still opposition in the group, especially now since George Osborne is missing, but I fought for you and for Britain. I knew you could never sign it if it conflicted with Britain's interests."
Nick was looking at her, as if seeing her for the first time. He had not seen her in a long time, but she was still beautiful, intelligent, and she knew him.
"You haven't signed."
"And I won't sign it. "
"What does it matter? The coalition government is long past its terms of office. Another general election would have ousted the lib-dems from office. I love you Nick; you're a wonderful man, a great father, but an idealistic politician. Is there anything in the agreement that you found lacking?"
"I can't," said Nick, pained. "I am still Britain's Deputy Prime Minister. My duty is toward my country. I have signed on to serve her. I can't sign an agreement whose primary beneficiary is myself," he said, "though I do want to go home. You know I can't."
"There is nothing I can do?" she asked in a small voice. It hurt him.
He swallowed, but his throat still felt dry. "It is good to see you. Send my love to the children," he said hoarsely.
She didn't want to leave, neither did he. She turned her face away from him when he reached to cup her face so he might preserve the fiction of gallantry. Those were tears in her eyes she was trying to blink away.
"Did they ever mention George Osborne or Peter Mandelson to you?" He tried to distract himself.
"No. Why?"
"No, nothing. I hope to see you all soon. Goodbye for now." Then they kissed again and parted.
After her back disappearing from his view. Still heavy with guilt, Nick bent down and picked up the pen he had thrown and returned to the desk. Biting his lip, he began crossing-out and rewriting parts of the agreement.
-=-=
The waters were receding. The bodies were a problem. No one had an accurate figure of how many people had lived or died.
"Estimate," David had snapped. "We have more MPs here than existing constituencies. We also still have the NHS database. We just need a sense of magnitude of the problem." He gentled his voice and said, "I think simple arithmetic will do."
Then he was left with some weak tea and a desperate urge to chop logs to while away the time. Nick was still out of communication. Discontent was brewing among the Conservatives and the Lib-Dems yet again. The Opposition was prodding old wounds, again.
Giving in to the urge for some fresh air, David stepped outside. He knew it was ridiculous- he could blame all the references to the Odyssey in the that was bringing back Classics; Boris would appreciate it-- but David looked up as a flock of birds flying overhead, the formation listing slightly to the right, and thought it auspicious.
The day he said goodbye to Nick Clegg in yet another rose garden, the shadows cast on the ground had been the same. They had shook hands for the last time, almost unable to look at each other yet knowing it would be unbearable not to do so. And because David Cameron was media-trained, and Nick Clegg was photogenic and this, also, was a historic moment -- though all these reasons had merely been supplied in order for him to give into an impulse -- David had pulled Nick into a hug and whispered ardently, "Keep safe, I'll wait," in his ear.
Maybe the Penelope analogy wasn't far-fetched after all.
-=-
"Don't be shy."
George hesitated.
"I've seen it all before."
"The thought is not comforting. I find the reminder invasive," he said icily.
"I am asking nicely." The unspoken consequences of doing otherwise finally forced George's hands to move to the hem of his shirt.
"Trousers, too," the voice reminded him. "You're not looking yourself, Gideon. Perhaps a mere three quarters of yourself with the addition of some most intriguing scars. Do a turn, or three, as you were."
They didn't give him socks. He threw the clothes on the bed. The edges of things began to blur in front of his eyes. And he was naked, cold, and feeling utterly humiliated. His face was wet.
"Poor boy, what are you expecting? You see, I have been quite courteous to you all along."
George didn't answer. The door remained shut as always. It stared at him, dark and immovable; the rough iron was bitingly cold. At the first sound of metal, he clenched his fists. He was quite prepared to-
Then a slim box was shoved through the slot. It fell to the ground with a muted thump.
"Hurry up."
Gingerly, George approached the box and opened it. It was a suit of clothes. At least, half a suit. There was no jacket.
"Put them on, then put your hands through."
George dressed, efficient through desperation rather than practice, his fingers fumbling on the buttons, all the time aware of the eyes or pairs of eyes undoubtedly watching him. At the bottom of the box, wrapped in more tissue paper, were socks. Then, gritting his teeth, he put his hands through the slot.
There was something like a caress across the back of his hands. He opened them involuntarily, trying to grab on. Instead, a slip of thick weaved silk, oddly warm, draped across his palms.
"Tie that around your head. And, I forgot to mention, you are walking out today, Chancellor. Your friend made a deal."
Quietly raging, feeling like a mouse who had been played by a rather smug cat, George nevertheless couldn't suppress the sense of elation at the words. "David?"
"No." The voice was kind again. "Nick. Now then, a moment of darkness then light."
-=-=
Nick opened his eyes then closed them quickly again as the sunshine of Brussels attacked through the window. And he ached. All his muscles were sore and his tongue felt swollen. Eighteen hours on his feet, most of which spent negotiating with some of the most adept negotiators on the planet could do that. At the end, they wanted everything in German and that had proved a strain.
Still, he had succeeded. The British bonds will be bought without compromising the currency, the economic blockades lifted, and international banks subject to Britain's regulations. He himself would still be a marked man by the group and genuinely disliked by those opposed to his membership, but that would be later.
Now it was time to return. June in Britain; the summer hot, likely humid, but home. And perhaps, in a little while, Miriam and the children, they would be almost teenagers now, could join him. It had been a long time since he was with them that the idea had faded into some phantasmagoric vision. And even Miriam, whom he had held, all too briefly, not long ago, was more believable as another incredibly intensely vivid dream.
Nick swung his legs off the couch. Someone had left a tea tray. He opened the pots and sniffed: one of coffee and one of tea. On the plates was the usual breakfast affair, but the cake caught his eye. Someone had made it. It was larger than the ones he remembered, store-bought, before they went out of production. Carefully, he sliced off a piece, took a bite, his mouth filling with the taste of chocolate and oranges.
In a little while, he would start drafting the letter to the Prime Minister's Office. To David, who didn't protest when Nick said he would go and speak for Britain and who was still waiting, for the success Nick could deliver and a conversation that Nick was uncertain he could finish without guilt.
He cut another piece from the Jaffa cake and savored his tea while he waited for the second part of the agreement to arrive.
-=-=
The chocolate coins arrived on his desk in the evening in an ice-box.
The aides stood around it with hungry expressions. David was surprised that they hadn't devour it already, never mind protocols regarding comestibles. As it were, the only people who knew the address were trusted. But who would send chocolate coins?
In the early days of the Coalition, he remembered hearing rumors but had dismissed it as a Labour prank. It seemed even more likely now; it wouldn't be beyond some of them to hoard sweets. He mentally started preparing himself for a new line of attack. People do tire of the Odyssey-
"It arrived, sir, from Belgium."
David could swear his heart skipped a beat. There was no one abroad who knew where they were. It could only be one man.
"We think it is the Deputy Prime Minister," someone said unnecessarily. "We looked for a letter, but there was nothing. We even disabled the spam filter on the e-mails."
"It may be code," another ventured, unable to keep the happiness out of her voice. "It may be his way of telling us that he had succeeded."
Except, Nick had never been about secrecy and codes. From the beginning to the end, he was all about transparency of the government and the person. And David Cameron had given in, mostly, warily, suppressing his anger, the sheer hypocrisy of the man.
"Speculations are not going to help us," he said finally. "Share them amongst yourselves."
They left him three pieces, but he had no one to share them. The gold foil was stamped with the head of the Queen and he couldn't bear to put into his desk, out of sight.
Perhaps it was Nick after all. Years abroad could change a man even as years together, alone, colleagues fighting one crisis after another, could change a political partnership of convenience.
-=-=
The hand at his back was disturbing. George found walking difficult until he realised he was leaning backward into the touch. Then he straightened and walking was easier. At least, as easy as it could be while blindfolded.
He kept his hands clenched at his sides, resisting the urge to turn around, pull off the blindfold, hit his guard, his most recent tormentor. But he told himself he could wait, he was patient. He was promised his freedom and he was still chancellor. If Nick was involved in his release, it meant that it would have to be official. Nick Clegg, as far as he knew, remained worryingly conscientious about everything even as the rioters broke the windows of Downing Street. He was the sort of man who could stand on a balcony and pontificate to the masses without being pelted by vegetables or bullets though they could dislike or even detest him. That was George's job; he seldom ventured onto the balcony after the establishment of the Coalition.
Around and upwards, the ground beneath his feet smoothed from tiles into smooth wooden flooring. Somewhere civilized, he thought to himself, and was briefly disconcerted when the touch disappeared. He turned his head, but it seemed as if the man behind him had disappeared. He reached his hands up.
"You are angry with me, Gideon." The voice came from in front of him, different without the wall muffling its tones. George frowned. The man walked like a cat, but he didn't stop him from untying the blindfold.
"You!" he managed to snarl.
"And on a boat with you, again."
He was probably going to say more, but George had launched himself at him, fully intending to throttle the other man. And yet, choked with anger, resentment, and he found himself clasping Mandelson to himself instead. The disconnect between the murderous thoughts crossing his mind and what he was actually doing was horrifying; his treacherous body wanted the familiar and Mandelson was familiar despite everything.
He felt a pat on the back of his head and, unbelievably, a kiss on his cheek. Gently but firmly, Mandelson pried his arms away.
"There, there, Gideon. We've docked already and there's no press waiting. I've saved you, you know, and now I must let you go. The shoes are over there. You can wear the tie."
George followed Peter's eyes and spied the shoes. As if a man in a trance, he put them on. Then he saw the tie which he had thrown on the ground. It was blue, with subtle green stripes.
"My own, you know," Peter was saying as he brought out a smaller box from his suit pocket, "and the cufflinks."
-=-=
He was checking his plane ticket and mentally reviewing his schedule when the door opened.
"George, you look-" he didn't look well, being rather thinner and paler than Nick remembered, nor did he smile, "like you enjoy the sun," Nick finished lamely.
"I do enjoy it," said George tightly, closing his eyes briefly. He looked well-kept, every line of suit in place. He looked, probably, a lot better than Nick himself, but he was also looking bored, his expression closed. He was older, but the thinness had only made him look boyish, as if time had reversed itself around him.
"And Lord Mandelson." Rupert Murdoch looked like he was a century old, but Mandelson, too, looked like he had been inhabiting the same time-distortion space that George occupied.
"Mr. Deputy Prime Minister."
When Nick refused to take his hand, he merely glided the motion into the removal of a nonexistent lint. Nick could no longer contain himself. "Kidnapping the chancellor is an act of treason!"
"Oh, I didn't kidnap him. He came to stay with me quite willingly, didn't you? We were talking about the possibilities of how the EU was going to coordinate its economic policies against Britain and I said that I knew people he could talk to. We didn't know that the flood would prove so impossible to control."
It was years ago; the speech was undoubtedly rehearsed. Nick looked expectantly at George who was looking at Peter, as if puzzled.
"He didn't kidnap me," George said at length. "I think he might have saved me. The mob would have had me hanged."
"The Prime Minister wouldn't have allowed it. I paid a ransom for you," Nick said. He didn't think there could anything more clear-cut than that in the definition of kidnapping.
"And when the water rose above the barriers of London for the final time, he would have had to hide me, offered my head on a platter to the Opposition. David is a good friend, but- "
"No one can expect the chancellor to control the weather." Nick pointed out, reasonably enough.
"But people don't need reason to dislike someone," George said.
Nick looked from George to Peter, who looked smug, like a cat that had just gotten the cream.
"And I was that, for Britain, for David, for you. Neither of you could be what I did. I could bear the guilt of everything that went wrong and leave. "
"But you shouldn't-" Nick began.
"I did, nonetheless. It is what I've always done!"
They had forgotten Peter, who was, Nick thought, trying to compose his features into a model of sincerity and failing abysmally. But whatever happened, George Osborne would have to take care of it himself. And whatever Nick's role had been in the Coalition government, he wasn't as naive as to suppose that the Conservatives had not looked at him askance since George's sudden disappearance. David Cameron had been his only ally.
"And you will come back with me to Britain, of course. We have missed you," he said deliberately then turned to Mandelson. "You have both been away. Britain's much changed. London, seemed unlikely to emerge from beneath the waters. We have relocated and will have to travel by plane, boat then helicopter. I'm afraid," Nick said, not feeling very apologetic, "that only I and the chancellor will be able to travel home for now. I'm certain your own resourcefulness would not let you feel abandoned."
For the first time since Nick saw him. George's expression changed. He smiled as if finally, the reality was setting in. Nick could sympathize. But then Mandelson whispered something and Nick, refreshed after a good night's sleep and a breakfast and the sense of accomplishment was certain that George trembled from fear.
-=-=
The tomatoes were ripe. Red and heavy, bending the vines with their weight, David declared them ready for harvesting and plucked several for dinner for himself.
He was in a good mood. Everything was well.
Excellent work, David, he thought, and went to the kitchen.
David started dicing the shallots for the entree. For dessert, he think he could finally share the chocolate coins, perhaps the final touch on sorbets. He had saved a few sticks of vanilla just for the occasion. As triumphs go, it would just be just the first taste.
Nick had not failed them. Furthermore, he had found George. It was a beautiful Friday afternoon. His friends will be back in a couple of hours. By the time of the session next week, any criticism would seem petty. He had saved Britain. The Liberal Conservatives had saved Britain. In a nation rich of history, their chapter would be memorable.
Neither Nick nor George hadn't even seen how Big Society has been realised here, albeit on a Britain reduced in size. Nonetheless, the principles were working beautifully.
-=-=
There were speeches, of course. George didn't quite want to leave the lectern. until Nick grabbed his wrist and George was going with him before his mind caught up to his body. The disconnect was starting to worry him.
But Nick Clegg had never been a difficult man in company. He could even be amusing, as long as the topic stayed away from politics. Being on a plane with Nick Clegg was not difficult. The man spent most of the time asleep when George refused to answer any of his questions.
It wasn't that George didn't want to answer them, but he had a question of his own that had Nick close off, nodding vaguely, and clearly casting about for another topic.
More than anyone, George knew that oftentimes it wasn't what you said or you did, but how it looked that was important. They were in the same boat (rather, plane) and sharing it with the strangely silent European press was still better than sharing with Peter Mandelson, of all people. He was glad Nick got rid of him.
They landed in Paris and George wanted to go shopping. He didn't say it aloud, but Nick was meeting the French president in the morning so he said he thought he should see David's family, would Nick come along?
It wasn't obvious, but the corner of Nick, mouth, always sensitive to his moods, would drop at every mention of David's name. George had noted it and found the fact curious. And as expected, Nick declined the invitation, but then he asked, out of the blue, whether George would be meeting any Russian oligarchs he made on his "tour".
The man now sleeping beside him looked even thinner than he remembered, time had sharpened the angles of his face, giving him an almost vulpine look, but he still had no subtlety.
Hurt, resentful, George merely narrowed his eyes at him. It was a final ploy. He remained silent, watched Nick fell sleep, and divulged nothing to the whispered questions of the press though he chatted amiably with them- the variety of voices and accents diffusing Mandelson's voice in his head.
He asked them for the names of good Parisian tailors and found himself wandering the streets of Paris at night as he waited for his suit to be made. He refused to sleep and it was convenient that Paris would keep him company. It had just rained. The air was humid and hot. The lights from the Arc de Triomphe glittered a little distance away and everywhere, lights puddled in cobblestones.
A man had been trailing him. George had no watch; he made to step inside a cafe when he realised that the man following had quickened his step. Heavy with dread, he turned.
It was a gypsy, a beggar, the sort you see all over Europe working alone or in groups with complicated schemes, and he was asking for money.
"Rien," he said automatically, reaching into his pocket nonetheless. The expression that overcame his face must have been sufficiently deterring because the man moved away without another word.
George turned toward the lamp post. There were things in his pocket: small, round, and flat. He brought them out. The gold and silver foil shone beneath the light. Stamped with the crowned head of Elizabeth II, slightly misshapen in the heat, dark liquid was seeping through the edges, smelling cloyingly sweet. Early in the government, the same week he found Byrne's note, his aides had received the package of chocolate coins, and a letter which they told him was generally supportive.
But this was Mandelson, mocking him, and who else could have placed them in his trousers?
He threw them into the rubbish bin nearby; then, after a moment's consideration, undid his cufflinks and threw those in as well. He rolled up his sleeves and undid his tie. It was a good tie. He draped it on a bush. Perhaps someone would take it.
Glancing up at the clock in the square, he made his way to the tailor's.
No one owned him. He would purge Mandelson from his memory.
-=-=
There was something very wrong with George Osborne.
He seemed happy in Paris, pleased with the updates David had sent them. He laughed at the jokes and was entirely gracious to the diplomats they saw. But alone with Nick, the strangeness became more obvious.
For one thing, he sat entirely too close, as if they were still on the front bench of parliament instead of side-by-side on a ship bound for Dover.
The man looked like he hadn't slept. There were circles under his eyes and he had been drinking tea and orange juice almost nonstop.
"You have had a long day," Nick hinted, but George merely looked at him in a way that was possibly nothing, or possibly a glare. He hadn't mentioned anything about seeing David's family and Nick hadn't asked. George had been the family friend. Nick was the colleague. Also, he doubted that Samantha Cameron wouldn't see what else he was just from looking at his face.
He cleared his throat, said, "There's a bed in the closet," and regretted it. George lifted his eyebrows before taking another sip from his cup.
"You look like you should sleep."
"I'm never going to sleep again," George replied. "There is no time to sleep. Sleep is a rather dangerous business, Nick. You can think you've woken up but only to realise that it was another dream, or another nightmare. And every time you think "this is real" it is not. So, I have decided to not sleep. We should all be busy, working for our country's future, together as two parties pledged to each other." At the end, he grabbed Nick's hand, who was so startled he didn't even protest when George leaned forward and pressed their lips together.
Pressed from shoulder to thigh, his hand in the other's grip, Nick couldn't even extricate himself, but George seemed content with their position. His other hand had came around to wrap around Nick's waist.
The moment stretched on. Then, finally, George's face, looking almost as shocked as his own, moved back. He was frowning, but he didn't let Nick go.
"Mandelson did imprison me. He spoke to me through a wall. I believe that he didn't kidnap me, but for six months or longer I was his prisoner, kept in isolation. Now," He snatched his hands away from Nick, "I'm not quite myself at times, but I'm going to be all right, soon."
"It is all right," Nick said when he knew it wasn't. George was still sitting very close; he had closed his eyes, the confession had not been easy. "Everyone will be brought to account for what they did."
Parts of Kent was still underwater; the people who remained understandably angry and, according to the last communication from the Prime Minister's office, quite willing to raid any ships that came too close. This ship wouldn't even anchor. They would have to be quick. The helicopter would land on the water and wait for three minutes. Then, there would be David, who knew George, and who was waiting for him. And perhaps, with time, his reassurance could become a reality.
-=-=
Chapter 2: twice five miles of fertile ground