Chapter 19

My office door burst open and Sir Anthony danced in. He stopped, smoothed an imaginary tutu with his fat hands and stood up on his toes. He did a dainty pirouette, a careful spin and tip-toed towards me, his arms bowed outward. He stopped in front of me and squatted in a grotesque curtsey. All this while shrilly whistling the "Flight of the Bumblebee". He burst into his merry old "ho-ho-ho" and slapped his knee. 'What do you want first, Dick? Shall I give you the good news, Dick, or shall I give you the better news?' he asked.

'Why not give me all of it?' I snapped sullenly. 'I could do with a lot of that sort of stuff for a change.' I was about a low as you could get without ending up on the other side. The lines to Lizzie were down. I hadn't talked to her for a week. And the last time I'd called, we'd squabbled bitterly about some stupid fucking thing and she'd hung up on me. She said she was leaving me if I didn't get home right now. If I wouldn't look after her and the children, there were those who did care and would. My fault, too. All my fault; always my fault.

'Cocky's being wrapped up,' said Sir Anthony. Even he called COCE "cocky" now, not "cokey". 'We've done our job. You'll be able to go on back home next week.' He beamed benevolently at me.

I leapt up. 'You're pulling my leg,' I asked, frowning. I hardly dared believe him. I thought we'd be here up to the last day, D-Day, D-for-Drowning-Day.

Sir Anthony grinned from ear to ear. 'Nope,' he said, 'I'm definitely not pulling, Dick. You'll be free to go next week. As a bird is free, free to fly home to your nest at last.'

'Yippee!' I shouted, 'Yip-yip-yippee!' I did a couple of little capers like a kid. 'But when, Tony, when? When can I go?' I demanded eagerly.

'Well, that's part of the good news, too, Dick,' he said and smiled that sly little smile of his.

'What do you mean?' I asked, suddenly very much less happy. 'I suppose there's some catch, isn't there?'

'No catch, my dear!' he cried. 'There is gratitude, too, my dear.' He cleared his throat, straightened and grasped the lapels of his jacket. He looked around wildly. 'Where's my soap box?' he cried, 'Where's my soap box?' He scouted around the room, found the imaginary box and stepped on it. 'Ahem,' he grunted. 'My noble and trusty Dick,' he started. 'My sword, dammit, my sword. Where the hell is it?' He groped wildly about his trousers and pulled out an imaginary sword. 'Kneel, plain Dick, kneel. And rise, Sir Dick, rise up.'

'You're kidding,' I gasped.

'Would I kid about something like that?' he asked.

'Yeah,' I said, 'You certainly would.'

'Well, I'm not kidding about this. Even I have my limits, old boy.'

'But ... but.'

'Didn't I tell you that gratitude would be shown?' he asked.

'Yeah, but, ...'

'Yeah, but you've been a total pain in the arse?' he asked.

'Yeah, well, I guess so,' I admitted.

'And somebody had to be one, Dick. All committees need a pain in the arse. It might as well have been you as anyone else,' said Sir Anthony graciously.

'Yeah?'

'Yeah.'

'I ... I really don't know what to say, Tony,' I stammered.

'Then, say, "yes, thanks",' suggested Sir Anthony.

'Yes,' I said, 'Yes, thanks, of course. Of course, thank you, yes, Tony. Yes, thanks!'

'Good,' murmured Sir Anthony. 'Now let's go and get ratted, Sir Dick. I've got a brace of bottles of bubbly cooling in my office. Let's go and put those blighters out of their misery.'

'No Peters?' I asked hastily. 'No more coppers?'

'Oh, good grief, no, Dick,' he said, 'No Peters, no more police, please, no.'

'Then, lay on, Macduff,' I cried, drawing an imaginary sword.

Sir Anthony squared off to me with his. 'And damn'd be him that first cries "Hold enough!"' We fenced and duelled, laughing wildly, down the hall to his office. A haughty secretary sniffed at us as she passed. Boy playing, dirty little boys. Outside his door, Sir Anthony placed his hands on his chest, fell into his office and collapsed onto his settee. His hand immediately fell to the dull silver champagne cooler, dripping with condensation. 'Shall I do the honours, Dick?' he asked.

'Why, yes, thank you very much,' I replied.

'See how easy it gets with practice?' he asked. '"Yes", "thanks"; those magic words that hardly hurt a bit.' Sir Anthony popped the cork expertly and poured the tawny, frothing wine into a thin flute. He handed the glass to me and filled his own. We clicked the glasses and quickly sank a couple without speaking. He smacked his lips. 'Ah, not too dry. I do like it a bit sweet. Frogs are welcome to all that sec rubbish. At least Champagne, even Cava too, should be spared the Flood. But, alas, how sad.'

'Not too fussy about wine myself,' I said, 'But I must say, this is uncommonly good, Tony.'

'Only the best for our chaps,' he said, smiling broadly at me. 'Guess you thought this business would never end, eh, Dick.' He filled our glasses again. We clicked glasses again and tossed them off.

'Seemed like it never would some times,' I admitted.

'I suppose you think I'm an egotistical prick, don't you?' he asked smiling.

'Always calm. Occasionally egotistical, like all of us,' I demurred politely.

Sir Anthony snorted, 'Well I don't mind your saying that, Dick. I'm sure you'll understand that having a big ego is rather like having a big prick. It may cause pain on occasion, but it gives better results, all in all. Oh, and of course people do get envious, too.' He drained the bottle into his glass and swirled it thoughtfully. 'Still, some terrible decisions have had to have been made, Dick,' he said seriously. 'A weakling couldn't have done it.' He twisted the wire from the neck of the second bottle and eased out the mushroom-shaped cork expertly and without a wasted drop. 'A terrible price still will have to be paid, too. It's just starting now, really.'

I wasn't at all sure I knew what he was talking about, but I'd decided that my pain-in-the-arse days were over. At least for a while. 'Too true, Tony,' I muttered sagely, 'All too true.'

'And this is only the beginning, Dick, only the beginning,' he added sadly. He filled our glasses and we sipped them quietly. 'You could well be the last knight knighted in London, do you know, Dick.'

'Really?'

'You're supposed to be taken down to the Palace for a quick tap with the old blade on Thursday,' he said gloomily. 'Then the Royals will be dashing off to the high ground during the weekend. Locking themselves up in their high fortresses and waiting for the Deluge to finish.'

'When will the PM leave?' I asked.

'I've heard, reliable source, that The Boss has decided to go down with the ship of state,' he said. 'In the bunker, Blondi and all, so to speak'.

I shrugged: it couldn't happen to a nicer person. 'So I guess the Bulge is still on for the night of the 21st?' I asked unnecessarily.

'The 21st at the Lizard,' he sighed unhappily. 'The sea's piling up in the western Channel approaches already and the Bulge is beginning to accelerate rapidly. I'm afraid that we lost touch with the Channel Islands this afternoon. All those poor little tax havens lost. It should all be over for Britain by the end of the month, more or less. The end of the world, my boy.'

'As we know it, old chap,' I finished. We finished off the bottle in silence.

'At least the wind's calmed down for a bit,' commented Sir Anthony. 'For now, anyway.'

'That's a blessing,' I said. 'I guess it'll make the shutting down operations a lot easier.' The Chief Meteorologist had told me the week before that winds peaking at 175 miles per hour had been recorded in south London that month. The waves had fairly crashed over the Oval, he'd said.

'Thank God,' breathed Sir Anthony. 'I just hope the Army doesn't balls this one up. I hate to think what might happen if all those nuclear stations along the coast aren't deactivated in time.'

'We've got quite enough problems as it is. That hardly bears thinking about,' I said. 'Do you think everyone else'll have time to close their reactors down?'

'I most sincerely hope so,' he said heavily. 'As you say, it hardly bears thinking about if they don't manage that.' Sir Anthony heaved himself upright and poured out the last glasses of wine. 'And now, my dear boy, I am empowered by Her Majesty's Government to invite you to dinner at the Ritz.'

I flushed with pleasure. They certainly were trying to make up for the shitty wicket they'd handed to me over the last two years. They were succeeding handsomely, too. 'Why, thank you, Tony. Thank you most kindly,' I said with surprise. 'I'd be most honoured; honoured again.' I held up my glass and Sir Anthony clicked it. I was beginning to think that I'd just had one of those silly attacks of paranoia.

'We may as well enjoy it while we can. They're closing the Ritz tomorrow,' Sir Anthony mentioned gloomily.

'Word's getting out, is it?' I asked.

'Discreetly, in certain circles, I suppose so,' he admitted. 'The Queen-in-Exile, the Ritz-in-Exile; who'd have thought it? Even the Huns couldn't manage that, even if they took out the luxury car market for Britain.'

I opened my mouth to rail against the injustice of a certain class of people being told and another class not, but shut it instead. No more pain-in-the-arseness until I was shot of this place, shiny new K gleaming merrily on my chest.

'Shall we get along?' he asked. I nodded and stood. He reached for his phone and tapped out a quick sequence. 'Mary, Sir Dick and I are off to an early dinner at the Ritz.' I really burned with pride at the "Sir Dick". 'No, we'll be taking the Tube at Charing Cross. The weather's good and it's only a couple of stops. Enough trains are still running. Good night, Mary.' He hung up and lurched out of his chair. 'I must say, I'm feeling pleasantly squiffy,' he laughed. 'What about you, Dick?'

'Just tingling very nicely, thank you, Tony,' I replied. Actually, I was pissed. We strolled out of his office. My stomach quivered as I passed 112. We walked in silence to the station. The early evening air was unnaturally hot and oppressive. Things looked more-or-less normal around Whitehall and Trafalgar, except for the lack of rush hour crowds, trees or protrusions from buildings. The most noticeable missing protrusion was the top of Big Ben and Nelson's Column. The Government had tried to keep this area in as good nick as was possible. Couldn't have the seat of Government looking like a Third World bomb site, could they?

We slapped the gates with our oysters and descended into the Tube. The station was packed, absolutely packed, with defeated-looking, grubby little shadow people. Like the Blitz, only more morose. They were obviously living down there. Smoky little cooking fires burned and grey washing hung all over the once smart stainless steel. Babies squalled lustily. Gangs of small, dirty children played merry hell all over the station. A boy Bobby's age bumped into me. 'Sorry, mister!' he cried. He pushed away and dashed off. I felt a sharp pain of loneliness. I should be home with my family, not on my way to the Ritz.

'What on earth are all these people doing down here?' I whispered to Sir Anthony. Remember, I hadn't been allowed outside for almost a year by then.

'They're homeless from the storms and whatnot,' he replied in a low voice. 'It's better having them down here than roaming around on the streets or, worse still, getting themselves out of London.'

'But couldn't something more be done for them?' I asked, looking in disbelief.

'You know very well, Dick, that the Government do not believe in interfering with people's lives in that way,' he replied. 'Self=help is its policy'.

'Oh, for Christ's sake,' I whispered, 'What possible harm could it do to make their last few days a little bit more comfortable? It's all going to be lost anyway.'

'It's the principle of the thing, Dick. These people simply must learn to help themselves if they want something doing for them,' said Sir Anthony sternly, apparently without irony for once. 'It's quite enough that they're permitted to stay down here without charge.' He scanned the station nervously and glanced at his watch. He moved towards the front of the platform.

I'd never seen Tony looking so jumpy. Usually he acted as if his life support system could use cranking up a notch or two instead. 'What's the matter with you, Tony?' I asked. 'I'd almost swear that you're nervous.'

'Oh, nothing, old boy,' he replied casually. 'I just never have liked being down in the Tube all that much. You know how it is, a touch claustrophobic, eh? Silly, really, but there you are. I always take taxis, you know, if the driver's off.'

'Well, we won't have to worry about the Tube much longer, will we?' I asked consolingly. 'It'll all be underwater by the end of the month.'

Sir Anthony looked around again nervously and sidled right down to the tail of the platform. I tagged after him. 'Yes, well, I suppose that's something to look forward to, at least,' he agreed. He peered down the platform and his eyes went calm. I stared down the platform with him. It was Peters and two of his biggest goons. They pushed through the shabby campers and spread out on the narrow platform, walking straight towards us in a purposeful manner.

I turned on Sir Anthony. 'What the hell is this about?' I demanded. 'You asked me to come out with you, Tony. So what the hell's going on, then?'

Sir Anthony cleared his throat and stepped away from me. 'I am truly sorry, Dick,' he said sadly. 'I'm afraid this one really can't be helped.'

I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him towards me. 'What do you mean, "It can't be helped", you fat old fuck?' I hissed.

'No point in making a fuss this time, Dick,' he said placidly. 'There's just too many of them to fight.'

'What in the hell's going on?' I repeated.

He smiled pityingly at me. 'It was the K, old boy, She wanted it. That finally sealed your fate,' he explained. 'There's been a great deal of pressure to terminally process you for some time, Dick. I kept them from doing away with you for as long as I possibly could.' He shook his head sadly. 'You really do have a way of irritating dangerous people, Dick, and I must say that you were warned, definitely warned. But there was just no way we could let you get anywhere near the Royals at the moment. They don't really have much of a clue what's really going on, you see. Potempkin villages and flowers at public openings keep them happy. Can't have you letting any of our nasty, secret little cats out of their secret little bags, can we? Not in front of them. Certainly not right now. I'm really sorry, Dick, I really am.'

Peters grabbed me and pinned me back against a battered old sand box. Sir Anthony straightened his jacket sleeve. The faint wind from the approaching train could be felt and then its clacking, louder and louder. Sir Anthony stepped back from us and stood to a sloppy attention. 'Well, this is it. Good bye, Dick,' he said. His face was full of sympathy, possibly genuine.

Peters nodded curtly to his two men. They stepped to either side of Sir Anthony and gripped his arms. A look of absolute horror eclipsed his bloated face. His jowls simply collapsed and his temples turned green with terror, literally green. The train's bright white headlight reflected dimly off the yellow band along the side of the platform. The men lifted Sir Anthony and smoothly moved him backwards, right up to the edge of the track; do not stand forward of the yellow line. Sir Anthony's eyes rolled back into his head and the train's light glittered briefly off their whites. The big men casually pitched Sir Anthony off the platform and on to the track. The train rolled past. There was no scream, no unusual noises, no nothing. Not even a thud or a bang. Then, the two big men grabbed me.

* * *

So what did I do then? Well, gentle reader, quite simply, I pissed myself. One second my bladder was full, post-champagne. The next second it was empty, post-terror. The legs of my trousers were hot, wet and clinging. Even my shoes were squelchingly full of hot piss. Not very elegant, was it? Funny, though, how your body can let you down at times when it really matters. I felt like a baby again. Perhaps nappies should be issued. I suppose one shouldn't complain; much, much greater indignities are probable, even in the fullest of lives.

Of course I didn't piss myself on purpose, Lizzie, and it's not "bloody typical" at all. I do resent that. I was under tremendous stress, I'll have you know, and it just happened involuntarily. It could have happened to anyone. Don't be so smart, Lizzie. It's a perfectly natural thing to do under those circumstances.