PoW: Chapter 4: an echo murmured back

[motleypatches]

"You think you are right."

Around George Osborne lay the debris: memos, briefing notes, meeting notes, and reports for everything in the last three years that pertained to regulation changes, interest payments, government bonds, and slightly more inexplicably - at least, according to the advisers - though by no means irrelevant, the shipping forecast.

"Dr. Fox, I presume," said George. He schooled his features then looked up, glaring. He had given express instruction not to be disturbed.

"And the elusive Mr. Osborne, finally back with us. Will you be here to stay? How long this time I wonder."

"Take a seat, if you like."

But Liam Fox didn't sit. He stayed standing, hovering over George and the aftermath of what looked like a shell that exploded in a library. "I advise you strongly not to offer a new budget or to go through with the revelation. Even if the House may seem quiescent now, no committee is going to stand for it."

"We do need a budget," George said simply, then discreetly covered the title of his notes.

"I think I've been remiss in greeting you," Fox continued, changing tactics, "but I have been quite ill."

No one could have faulted him for it even if it had been otherwise, thought George, but he merely wanted Liam Fox to leave. "I am not slashing the defense budget," he said.

"Of course not. How could you," Liam laughed, the timbre of his voice oddly hollow. It suited him now, of course. He was a shadow of his former self. His cheeks were sunken, as if the years had permanently drained him both of flesh and the bluster that had him and Duncan practically howling behind closed door meetings. George, for his part, regretted none of it. The slashes had been necessary then and the government would be a very different place if he could actually foresee the future. Why was Fox here?

“There is no economy, George. There is no country. You’re offering a story that you think will become true if repeated often enough or said with enough authority except we won’t have the authority once the country knows where we are.”

“This is politics. This is what we do. And we are still the government,” George reminded him. “Whatever you think of the people of Britain, I think they would welcome the relief after so much suffering.”

Fox frowned. “Relief after suffering, yes. Comfort, even. But, Chancellor, they’re not masochists and eight is still different from thirteen years. The generation of people who voted in the last election is the same generation of people who experienced the recession and the flood. They won’t be able to associate a brighter and more pleasant past with us because there has been none. We came into office with austerity measures which, in the end, did little good.”

“What do you suppose we do, then?”

“Stagger the announcements of the revelation and the budget.”

It wasn’t actually a bad idea, though a paradoxical one. A budget meant for the population of Britain would be difficult to enact without any of the constituents knowing about it and the revelation of the location of the government would do little good if it had no plans for the country it was nominally governing.

“I’m listening,” George said.

“The budget would be announced to the House, of course, and no one could accuse us of lack of transparency. The resources and the acting ministers and committees would be carrying out the policies. By the time the revelations come, people would know that a strong government has been looking out them all this time. We would have enough to ensure that the Opposition would be concerned with appearances of pettiness in their criticisms.”

“It would effectively bind them to us,” George said. “They would have to lend their support so that the entire parliament present a united front.” He smiled, realising what this meant. “But the Tory party would still be in power and would continue to be so with their help.” He dropped his pen. “I would have to talk to David about it, of course, and Nick,” he added.

“You are convinced then,” Fox added, a trace of his old smugness came into his face.

“For now,” George demurred, suddenly defensive. “I would offer you a drink, but it seems we are going dry over the Summer."

“Inevitable consequence.” Fox waved a hand, nonchalant. “As I see it, if you’re to stay this time, you and I are in the same precarious position in government; neither of us would prove very popular to the people, no matter how unjust the perception may be, which makes us natural allies.”

George had been considering how to phrase this proposal to David, who was disappointingly preoccupied with Nick at the moment when Fox’s words caught him off-guard. Disaster-relief had been within the purview of the Ministry of Defence, but he was still the one who slashed the budget. It was difficult to believe that the words “natural allies” were absent of resentment. Then again, he could not see any trap for himself in Fox’s proposal, if they go through with it. He needed time to consider.

He carefully closed the folder in front of him and locked in his drawer before standing up and offering his hand. The man did not seem to be making a movement. At least, not that George could see telegraphed, so he did not expect to be clapped on the shoulder. He twitched. Barely, he thought.

Liam narrowed his eyes, but the look in them was kind. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," said George hurriedly, but Fox was still looking at him, assessing. Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, George crossed the room and poured himself a glass of orange juice, turning his back to hide his shaking hands. He kept his fingers tight around the glass. “Merely thirsty.”

"What happened to you?" Fox asked. “You don’t look well.”

“It is the heat,” George replied. “And probably all the paperwork. I will give your idea to David,” he said, turning around.

“It is been very informative talking to you. There I was, thinking that it would be a very difficult case to make when I know it’s almost impossible for you to change your course. It is very good to see back onboard with us.”

O God, he knew, was George’s first thought, then rallied and chastised himself for unseemly paranoia. Those were phrases anyone might use.

-=-=

Nick no longer excused what he thought of David Cameron, though occasionally he still tried to argue "extenuating circumstances" to himself in terrible intervals of uncertainty, but those occasions were becoming rarer when any energy he could muster was devoted to reasserting the authority of their Coalition government.

The rumours of David and George’s closed door meetings reached him courtesy of an indiscreet remark overheard after lunch. A young aide, or perhaps an adviser to some Tory MP with an regrettable sense of timing was leaning against the wall and engaged in a spectacular display of inappropriate coquetry just as Nick walked through the door. The cluster of people opposite of him scattered leaving him expounding to the remaining few, still at great length and colour, the ways the Conservative party would return to the fold of the 1922 Committee ideology without the Lib-Dem interference. It was doubtful whether he had even been in government before David and George had obtained the right to sit in the meetings.

Nick stayed, listened with amusement, until the solemn conclusion of “It’s high time for David to hop in bed with someone more appropriate. He must’ve realized all that pining wasn’t worth it at the end” before purposely made his shoes squeak on the newly-cleaned floor. The young man flushed scarlet, then white, but had the grace apologise for the language before making his escape with the rest of his audience.

So Nick had imagined himself mentally prepared when he was informed by David’s secretary that the Prime Minister was in a meeting with the Chancellor and was not to be disturbed by anyone for at least ten more minutes. She had given him a sympathetic look, but it was not so out of the ordinary that he registered it. He waited in hall with the curved ceilings and stone masonry gave the place a feeling disturbingly like a mausomoleum. And perhaps, because of that, given buttresses in warm wood and so many small high windows that their temporary parliament the appearances of a Gothic church despite the Renaissance elements. He had not had a chance to examine the building in detail before but he thought the resemblance sound, especially considering the half-haphazard relocation of Whitehall’s paintings and its staff and ministers.

The fifteen minutes passed. He saw George and David walked out together. They were still talking. Nick was quickening his step when he realised he could actually hear the whispers as if they were next to him instead of at the other end of the hall. He stopped. They haven’t seen him and it was not a faded echo he was hearing. Their words seemed to be broadcasting directly next to his ear.

“When I said do anything, I didn’t mean do anything,” George was saying. “Appeasement is one thing, blatant bribery another, whatever means.”

“The same could be said about you,” David said. “But you went harrying after Mandelson again anyway and look where that got you.”

“I didn’t have a choice. You do. Have him step down.”

“I will give it some more thought. Personal skeletons are best left in the closet.”

“A week, David. It’s a week until parliament resumes. We have three days. You know I’m right.”

They couldn’t know he was listening, Nick thought, sick at heart. But he was not a child. He could consider alternatives. It might not be about him at all. He strode forward and greeted the two men.

“Who do you have in mind to step down, George?” he asked, casually.

“You heard us?” George asked, looking aghast, confirming some of Nick’s worse suspicions. It must have shown in his face because David widened his eyes.

“We shouldn’t speak here,” David said quickly.

“How did you hear us?” George was still asking. “Are we bugged?”

“This whole place is bugged,” said David, crossly. “It’s on national radio half the time. There’s probably hidden microphones and a secret radio channels.”

It was Nick’s turn to look horribly surprised. He was still weighing the implications by the time they entered the Prime Minister’s office.

“How did you hear us?”

It wasn’t that Nick didn’t want to answer the question, but there was something in George’s attitude that was grating on his nerves. “Who are you talking about stepping down?”

“You were all the way at the end of the hall,” David said, “I know you were.” He smiled at Nick, which was reassuring, if not the answer he wanted.

“If you could hear. Who else could’ve heard us? David, are you certain there are hidden microphones?”

“Of course there are. At least, the more public areas,” David amended. The two men in front of him looked stricken with the reply.

“What channel did you hear us on then, Nick?” George demanded.

“For goodness sakes, I didn’t hear you on a radio channel. I’m not carrying a music player.”

“Then how in the world-” George was doing a very good impression of man going apoplectic. Nick was having problems suppressing his own temper.

“I told you, I don’t know. I hardly have super-powers. That would be you and your insistence on whittling any lib-dem proposal of welfare to nothing. Who are the private businesses that wil pick up the slack? I’m all for British entrepreneurship, but not when there’s no capital and excess of politicial rather than economically motivated regulations. I thought that had been the lesson we are still learning. If you’re discussing something in a public venue, perhaps you should consider yourself overheard on principle. Who are you having stepping down?”

“There had been never a failure of policy. No man could know the future. The economy was picking up before the floods.”

“Every man could prepare for the future,” Nick countered, seething. “The economy was a disaster. The income gaps were widening. Then of course you conveniently disappeared just before the worst of the riots started.”

“You-”

David looked between them and covered his face, either embarrassed or angry, Nick didn’t know. “It’s not microphones,” he said quietly, but it caught their attention. “It's the construction of the ceiling. The first time I saw it, one of the staff mentioned something about the shape of the ceiling and foci being like St. Paul's. I didn’t know what she meant at the time, but perhaps there are locations that any sound generated there would bounce equally to the other locations. I think it's our own whispering gallery.” He faced Nick. “George wants to announce the budget before going ahead with the public revelation. He wants those who oppose the idea to step down.”

At that, Nick had nothing to say; it was Conservative party politics and as much as the idea of announcing the budget to merely the House irked the liberal side of him, he could see the wisdom. He had promised David, after all, and he had fought all he could. “So where are those locations?” he asked instead. “What was overheard what perhaps, shouldn’t be?” He cast an eye toward George, who started chewing on his pen.

-=-=

David was blushing, but it was Nick’s fault. The word “discretion” had fled his vocabulary in a sad political way after the man’s affection was, if not secured completely - tied down and fastened - at least declared and given no way out. Of course they all worried about the future, but the immediate future. Rather, the immediate hours that could give him Nick Clegg, current darling of all three political parties, agreeable and pliant, was haunting David more than the alarming shower of morning rain, conspiracy theories, or architectural oddities.

Thus he was staring, unabashed, at Nick during Urgent Questions as he absently rubbed at his lower arm. The reason for it occurred sometime between 4am and 5am and was silently killing David’s concentration. He hadn’t slept for 24 hours, the latter half of which was spent with George doggedly extracting every last ounce of knowledge he had about information security out of him, again; he felt rather like a wrung out teatowel afterwards. Nick had, out of loyalty, affection, or fear of what David might reveal while sleep deprived, had stayed with him.

Then there was the shower - David smiled at the memory - and very strong coffee for the first day of Parliament.

Listening to people speak without being required to do so seemed easier after the last three days. George’s mounting paranoia aside, there were the Party Whips and more political wrangling within his own party than he had to do for a year. Nonetheless, in the end, the combination of good sense, well-rested humour, and basic self-preservation instincts prevailed. Everyone agreed. No one was stepping down, and if Cabinet saw Iain Duncan Thomas tight-lipped and Liam Fox happier than he had been for a long time, David counted small changes as these mercies of God.

“You’re falling asleep,” Nick whispered to him.

“One good thing about radio,” David said, avoiding the microphone in front of him, “is that they can’t see us.” Very deliberately, he placed his right hand, the one hidden beneath a folder, against Nick’s thigh.

“It doesn’t prevent anyone from actually describing what they see,” Nick said. He didn't move his leg. “And the Prime Minister falling asleep during the first day of Parliament will bear mentioning. Perhaps we should leave, and come back later for the vote.”

David nodded. They left before the next speaker began and made their way to Number 10. Napping in his office, though no more appropriate than at parliament, could at least avoid unnecessary commentary, he thought, though he would miss Nick’s company. Nick went to his own office. David thought the precaution unnecessary, but Nick reminded him of “hidden microphones,” clearly still somewhat alarmed over the fact no matter how much David assured him that Andy Coulson was long gone and in no way involved in their placements. For a man who had started stripping in his office in front of an open window, he had became difficult to convince. David was too tired to quarrel and let him have his way.

He was just stretching out on his sofa, drifting off, when he heard a knock.

“David, it’s me.”

David sighed and dragged himself into a sitting position. “Come in.”

George entered, his hair still damp from the rain. The winds had become stronger than usual. There were dark rings under his eyes, but the eyes themselves were feverishly bright and his cheeks had two uncharacteristic blooms of pink. David would be concerned if he had more energy.

“What is it? Aren’t you suppose to be in chamber?”

“So are you, but I thought I should try anyways.”

“Is it urgent?” David asked. He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I thought I needed a nap. Don’t you need sleep?”

“Oh.” He actually seemed embarrassed. “It can wait, I suppose.”

“As long as you’re here,” David said. “Can it be summarized?”

“I thought you should know that I think it was the OBR who had me removed.” He said this all very quickly. It took a moment before the meaning sunk in.

“You’re ridiculous,” David declared. The OBR were their own.

“I’ll wait until you’ve slept.” George said stiffly, then shut the door softly behind him.

-=-=

After leaving David's office, George regretted barging in on him. He hadn't wanted to disturb David's rest or forego his own, but lately and perhaps it was because it was quite late, that he was experiencing a disturbing amount of deja vu. Politicking had never bothered him when it had been merely a game of the mind. There were scars. He couldn't bear the sight of mirrors. He didn't recognize himself.

“Good morning, my boy.”

George stood still. Someone jostled him on the shoulder and threw him a strange look. He would know that voice anywhere. So, too, he thought, would anyone else who ever worked in Westminster or Whitehall in London.

“It is not morning,” he said out loud reflexively.

“What?” Vince Cable's interest seem piqued, which was unfortunate. The last thing he wanted was to give an impression of madness- he had seen enough accusation for a lifetime and speaking to the air apropos of nothing actually would be one. There was no one else about.

“The sky,” he said, casting for an excuse. “Autumn has barely begun. I had begun to look forward to brighter mornings before the days shortened.” Though the revelation had been delayed, George was still wary of what Mandelson might do, especially now.

Cable was merely amused. “I see you've caught our disease.”

“Disease?”

“Preoccupation with the weather, more than usual. I'm afraid it's infected all of us. It can only be expected,” he continued blithely. “We have had these good spells before but the weather forecast are always notoriously unreliable.”

“You don't look forward to fine days, then?”

“Looking forward to them is one thing. I'll be glad for them if they arrive.”

On that somber note, he continued on his way and George finally had the chance to look at the ceiling, but it was neither curved nor rounded nor did it seemed subject to unsettling physics of sound. If anything, the plaster on the molding look cracked. In a corner, there was a spot of mold. So where had that greeting came from? Unless Peter Mandelson suffered from some fatal disaster and was now a ghost haunting him... He killed the thought; ghosts didn’t exists and Mandelson’s ghost, presumably, would have better matters to occupy himself than merely greeting him.

He glanced down at his watch and steeled himself. The budget speech was in an hour. Then afterwards...Geroge sighed at the prospect. Going through his own ordeal seemed irrelevant at this point, but he owed it to David and perhaps Nick as well if he could have at least some justice extracted from this mess. It would’ve been less complicated if it had been merely discontented constituents.

The grandfather clock chimed at the end of the hall. He looked at it then found his gaze drifting toward the window. The curtains were open and awash with watermarks. Preoccupation with the weather indeed, he thought. There was good reason to be when the weather reduced them to this state. And then there was the Labourite plot to consider, though perhaps, if the Lib-Dems retained their principles, at least the prospect of war should alarm them enough that there would still have some predictable and exploitable aspects of high-mindedness to guarantee their cooperation.

Brooding on the thought, George saw a flash of a familiar figure across the window. He stepped back and leaned against the wall. In a moment, he was going to knock on David’s door and collapse in one of the chairs. In a moment, he would reveal everything, never mind his damned dignity or his possible culpability. David had been there for most of it. The Treasury did not operate solely on his authority. If it really came down to it, even Saint Nick would go to the mire with him. In fact, at the moment, that seemed the best way. The only way.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

George didn’t know who was speaking. It didn’t matter. “I didn’t see a ghost,” he answered. “That was not a ghost. This is worse. He’s a living man. Listen, he knocks.”

-=-=

Nick didn’t think he was holding court. Aside from the fact that HRH was living not too far away, his own Republicanism rebelled against the metaphor. Except, the man had said it seemingly in good-nature and Nick, by now, could recognize when fatigue was making him oversensitive to any stray comment, especially by a fellow Lib-Dem who had watched him and David weave through the cluster of MPs in the House.

And yet, he couldn’t shake the idea that he had, through a series of unhappy quirks of fate, became not merely a figurehead of the compromise between the political radicals of the 17th and the 20th century --an oxymoron to begin with- but now the figurehead of 21st century British politics. And, unfortunate enough to be made of flesh and blood, he was fighting and losing against shadows who could not tire.

“What do you want me to do?” Nick asked wearily, seeing Vince sitting in his office looking over a very familiar graph.

“I don’t like it at all, Nick,” Vince said. “The afternoon’s not going to go smoothly. I’ve heard more than whispers. Speeches have been typed. Personally, I find I am unable to disagree with them.” He did not offer names.

“And yet you agreed to the announcement,” Nick replied, annoyed. “You sat in the same meeting where the Cabinet decided that the revelation would wait until after the budget speech.” He had not shared the measures that David and George had considered relevant and necessary.

“Circumstances have changed,” said his friend. “That had been a Coalition cabinet, but I was not aware that you were reluctant to leave the Coalition behind.” When Nick didn’t answer immediately, Vince sighed. “We can’t afford to wait. If we-” he paused, eyed Nick beneath his eyebrows and said, “If you don’t decide whether we will accept Labour’s proposal, it is as good as deciding that we are now fully absorbed into the Conservatives party. Don’t you see, Nick, there is no Coalition if the negotiated government is enacting de facto Tory policies when the revelation takes place. Is that your decision?” Vince closed the binder he was holding abruptly. The papers made a sound like a gasp. The other man was angry. “This is practical politics, not a dilemma personal relationships. We who have remained Lib-Dems intend to remain so. There should be another general election coming up and this time, we would be able to negotiate better terms for better causes.”

“It is not like before,” Nick protested.

“Before what? Before the election we were suppose to have, before the election that we did have almost ten years ago or simply before this discussion? I’ve tried to give you my best advice. As always, whether you take them is up to you. You already know the consequences of allying with the Tories.” There was something almost ominous in Vince’s tone.

“I hope you’re not referring to the floods,” Nick said, surprised. He had not known Vince to be particularly religious. “It was a global deluge.”

“Natural disasters happen, a single event at a particular time, but what happens afterwards are not always natural results. We name them disasters because we were inadequate in dealing with the aftermath, whether it’s a flood, a series of floods, or a recession.”

“You think a Coalition with Labour would’ve been better?” The idea had plagued the Lib-Dems through government though no one in government had outright stated their opinion. At least, the last opinion Nick heard had been so long ago that he had already forgotten it.

“Maybe it would,” Vince answered, “maybe it wouldn’t, but we are here and we can’t afford to indulge in speculative history.” He stood. “Neither you nor I can stop what will happen this afternoon. I will not be there and I recommend that you find an excuse as well. We had tacitly given our assent and condoned anything Cameron or Osborne might say or do by not dissenting. Without the revelation, there will be suspicions, like before- of backroom dealings, coupon deals, compromises on selection once Britain resumes normalcy. There is tomorrow, next week, next month, and all the years afterwards. No one can deny what you, Nick Clegg, did for this country, but how will Lib-Dem principles stand to scrutiny? How will we answer to the generations after us? We are being offered a second chance.”

Vince had been kind, Nick realised. He had not phrased it as a threat, though both of them know that even as the Lib-Dem wouldn’t be in government without Nick Clegg, so Nick Clegg without his party and everything it stood for would be merely a puppet for the propaganda machinery for the two major parties.

Just before the door closed, Nick called out: “I’m not a Tory."

“Yes, I know, Nick.” He couldn’t see Vince’s face, but the voice was affectionate. “Perhaps you should let others know as well before the weather become colder.”

When he was gone. Nick collapsed into his chair. All sleepiness had left. He had passed that invisible threshold where even the energy to feel fatigued had been sapped.

Inside the folder Vince had left on his desk was the last campaign strategy and review. He had pored over the figures and the charts in what seemed like a lifetime ago.

With the twin prospects of a general election and proportional representation hanging over their heads like Damoclean swords, by late April 2015 the Coalition government had reached such a state of tension that its intensity had passed beyond visibility. If more of Nick’s smiles took on a perfunctory edge and David’s manners became more deliberately casual more often those differences were hardly remarkable. After the journalist frenzy of the previous few months, all news articles seemed hackneyed; all editorials platitudinous; and all opinions trite. To anyone whose sole contact with politics was through the media, it would’ve seemed as if there was a temporary ceasefire.

The first rain fell on the last day of Spring and continued into Summer, interspersed with patches of sunshine just enough to bolster the hope that it might just merely be an uncharacteristically wet season until the first storm arrived. Seemingly overnight, all the Northern cities and towns were partially submerged. It was the worst flooding since 2009. Discussions about the weather, formerly a safe topic offered to strange and awkward company, were now discreetly avoided, like the economy.

Six years ago, then Prime Minister Gordon Brown had offered his deepest sympathies and concerns for “Dreadful flooding across Britain”. Six years later, Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg found himself at a loss for words other than the ones already used. There could no fresh “spin” though they seemed inadequate and no amount of speeches and nodding at the cameras was going to return people their houses and their livelihoods. It was all he could do until policy trickled down the administration and translated to mobilization of more helicopters and more supplies. Modern politics were simply not designed for crises.

His resignation had already been submitted in view of the upcoming election. Sensing David’s reluctance to declare the end of parliament with London threatened by imminent flash floods, Nick had come to the conclusion that it would be ignored.

It was ignored. And, at the time, he had been angry. Every circumstance was against him and he had never been philosophical enough to accept obstacles with equanimity. He had been given very little reassurance by the decreasing morale of his own party, the defections to either Conservatives or Labour and the unforgiving national polls. He had no one, politically, except the personal promise from David that they were still working together for the betterment of the country. Isn’t that what Nick wanted, regardless of the method?

The question had almost hurt at the time. It came between the last course and dessert- a trifle, memorable for the irony. They talked of everything but the resignation, putting off the inevitable. Then David used what they know of each other and forced Nick into almost untenable situation. Sensing Nick’s mood, he caught Nick’s eyes, then placed both hands palms up on the table, and promised the delay would be temporary, until everything was “sorted.” His happiness had seemed sincere when Nick agreed.

Yet, at the time, Nick didn’t realise how long temporary was going to last, how much he would come to rely on the promises exchanged between them and how these promises would alter in nature causing unexpected changes to ripple across the country.

There was no such thing as sorting “everything”, especially when what was between them could not be resolved. Nick closed the folder in front of him, thought of the years sitting in Opposition against Labour and let out one short and bitter laugh.

-=-=

“Where’s George?” David asked. He had half-expected the man to be pacing outside his door; therefore, it was a little strange and slightly alarming not to see him ten minutes before he gives the speech. The accusation against OBR aside - David still could not figure out how George came to the conclusion - Andrew Tyrie had left a list of questions with the Party Whip he thought George should know.

Now George had disappeared. No one in the House had seen him leave Number 10 either.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. David turned, half-expected to see Nick, and thus had to freeze the look came into his face when he found Peter Bone instead.

“I don’t think the Deputy Prime Minister will be joining us this afternoon.”

“Is he all right?” David asked. He had assumed that Nick had already left. He hadn’t answered his phone or his text, but both of them would be having meetings all day.

“Yes, why wouldn’t he be?” Bone said, curious. “It is merely that I heard he would not be in chamber to hear the chancellor’s speech. Neither would, I believe, Vince Cable.”

“Are the Lib-Dems leaving us?” David asked, feeling hollow at the thought and angry at himself for having it at all.

“Just the important ones,” said Peter dismissively. “So it would be back to a more normal state of affairs, Tories at Government and the Labour in Opposition. I believe it would hasten the proceedings. The sessions might even end before dinner.”

There was a way he said the last word that implied a departure from the normal definition that made David shiver involuntarily. “How did you hear about this? “

“A rumour that’s becoming the truth. It was inevitable, Prime Minister,” said Peter, shaking his head. “The Coalition had been living beyond its allotted time.”

“We have been living beyond the allotted time if not for the Lib-Dems,” said David. “If not for Nick Clegg-” He trailed off, uncertain of how to continue. The thought of Nick’s probable absence was gnawing at the back of his mind. Something unforeseen must have occurred if he had not told David. But then, David could only remind himself that Nick Clegg was also the leader of the Liberal-Democrats and he himself the leader of the Conservatives despite what they were to each other. The identities were confused in this affair and for the first time, David realised how dangerous it was, not only in regard to the public but for him as well. He could admit that his efforts at keeping the Tories in government were now partly motivated to keep the Coalition intact but also Nick Clegg by his side.

“Yes, Nick Clegg. We should do something about him,” Peter said, rubbing his hands together.

“What?” David couldn’t help it.

“Why, Prime Minister, we should have him on our side. We can’t have a Coalition if the Coalition partner is showing rebellious tendencies.”

He was ancient. Ancient in age, character, and thought, David thought, disdainful until he remembered these were the people in his party to whom he owed his position. and who had been generous to him, in their way. “The Coalition terms has expired already.” David still hoped that either George or Nick will show.

“All the more reason to keep Nick Clegg in good faith with us.”

David had no intention of doing otherwise. The conversation had been disconcerting. enough without knowing his and probably other people’s plans for Nick Clegg. They could have no ally except for possibly George, except George was nowhere to be seen and it was time.

Bracing himself, he entered the chamber and saw both George and Nick sitting in their customary seats. George, white as a sheet and Nick, stiff backed as if strapped to a board.

Bercow called for the speech.

Then the dissent began.

-=-=

The roof was leaking, the water slipping down the wallpaper before slithering down the door frame, leaving the white wood gleaming.

George stared at the door where the black glossy surface showed only himself and his eyes, like two dark pits, staring back.

The knocking continued.

“Is someone going to answer that?” he finally snapped, then turned and walked away. The clip of his steps echoed in the hallways, faster and faster. He was fleeing. He was a coward. He was the bloody chancellor of the bloody exchequer. Courage of this sort was not a quality required for the job.

He made his way all the way to the car before a voice stopped him.

“Ah, I found you, finally.”

He refused look at the speaker. “I’ve never been deliberately hiding.” Quite the opposite, in fact.

“No, you don't do that." He sounded amused. “A certain effrontery has been a mark of the Tory political nature. I think you hid the numbers because you really had no idea how they are calculated. This is why, George, you must always show your work.”

“This is not school,” answered George.

“No. We should come to office fully prepared. And if not fully prepared, do an commendable job of acquiring what we lack. That had been the foundation of our responsibilities. I’m not here to lecture.”

"Why are you here?"

"To ask you the same."

"Hah!"

“I can't believe you have the gall to show your face again and even give a speech knowing that anything you say now would not count because you can't now as you couldn't then, to adjust for the living situations of the people in the immediate present never mind the near future.”

“And I suppose your New Labour can?” George scoffed. He should leave, now.

“At least Labour makes the attempt. They may be punished for it, but intent still counts as something for most people.”

“Intent doesn't justify every action taken.”

“We could say the same for every political party, but this is not a rhetorical debate. It's rather late for it. I'm here to remind you that you'll be speaking about nothing if it's not true. And if it's not true, neither the current political atmosphere nor the public sentiment will be as forgiving as last time. The past will catch up with you. You are the man with the past now.”

“I consider myself warned and thank you for your concern,” George said. He had already considered everything.

“It would be useful to know what Boris and Mandelson were thinking of engineering to tell the world. Apparently they just happened to be at the same place at the same time, but they were talking.”

“Peter Mandelson met with Boris Johnson.” George repeated, staring at Miliband dumbly, who was looking irritatingly triumphant. The man was here to gloat, then. George didn't know. No one told him. How could Miliband know?

“I think they have the making of a strange beast for Britain. I wouldn't be surprised if between both of them, they offer the world an epic of British ingenuity. We need all the help we could have from the countries that have recovered, help independent of individual characters or their personalities-”

But George was no longer listening. He made a hasty exit and made his way back to Number Ten. One of his aides was standing, nervously holding an envelope, seemingly lost.

“I answered the door, but it was only the postman. I thought about opening to check it, but I'm still not sure about protocol. There was something familiar-”

George didn't wait for her to finish. He opened the envelop. There were two short lines. He didn't recognise the handwriting.

I hope you like the gift congratulating your return to office.Chapter 5: all influence is immoral