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  ‘I love you, Elizabeth,’ he had said, last New Year’s Day. ‘I love you, Miss Mariner.’

  Hah!

  Where are you now, Martin Reamse?

  Rotting in the ground with the rest of them. Cold ashes blowing on the wind across the memorial gardens, being crapped on by rabid dogs terrified of the curfew.

  I love you, Elizabeth. She could hear his voice again, yet that recollection was growing dim, and dimmer still, as Liz fell away into a deep and troubled sleep.

  Love conquers all.

  But not always.

  Fifty-Five

  Snow flurries drifted through the air as Liz’s car drove into the grounds of Buckingham Palace. It squeezed beneath the archway and on into the inner sanctum. She tugged her black coat about her. Such a pity her friends and family couldn’t be there to witness the day. It was the price people paid for reaching the summit in the security services, Liz knew that well enough, yet it still rankled.

  Everything was to be held in camera, for the fewer people who set eyes on the overall head of the SPATs, the safer she would be. She understood that well enough, though it would still have been better if her mother had been there to watch her curtsey before the doomed monarch.

  Liz had practised that curtsey time and again before the mirror at her home back at Blue Reef Point, and in the newly acquired luxurious Whitehall apartment too, that came as a perk of her position. Indeed, she had taken the best advice on the manoeuvre.

  Under no circumstances must one be intoxicated.

  Made a great deal of sense. She had no desire to become the first person in recorded history upon whom a Damehood was about to be conferred, who, whilst curtseying, fell down dead drunk. Hic, giggle, giggle.

  Sitting alone in the rear of the black Bentley she smiled to herself. The driver stopped the car before the double part-glazed doors and hopped out, and went round to Liz’s door.

  ‘We are here, ma’am,’ he said, a superfluous comment, if ever there was one.

  ‘Thank you, Hodges,’ she said, and she stepped out and smoothed down her coat.

  A footman was on hand to meet her, hovering around, just inside. He pulled the door open and presented his official smug smile.

  ‘Elizabeth Mariner?’ he cooed, recalling her pretty face from the computer security program he had been studying, but twenty minutes before. ‘Please follow me. I will show you to the cloakroom where you can leave your coat and freshen up.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘I will see you again in five minutes and we can go through one or two things,’ he muttered, before disappearing.

  What things were there to go through, she wondered. Just give me the darn thing, and let’s be done with it and away.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said again, ‘that would be fantastic.’

  That would be fantastic, she heard herself reciting the words like some star-struck school-kid about to meet the latest hot pop sensation. Pathetic, really. He was an ordinary human being like any other, except he wasn’t. He was about to be sidelined forever. If only he knew. Liz wondered as she stood before him might she betray anything through her eyes. Some people can see things in other people’s eyes. Could he? She really didn’t care that much, because this King was working his notice. It had happened before of course, hundreds of years since, not forgetting that pathetic abdication palaver in the middle of the last century, and now Thelma Bletchington seemed determined to sweep away the whole peculiar business, once and for all. Good for her.

  The cloakroom was ordinary and tired and not what one might expect at Buckingham Palace. Elizabeth recalled something about a recent round of budgetary cuts pushed through by Mrs Bletchington herself. It seemed that no one was exempt from Mrs B’s prudency.

  Repeated smiled greetings followed, as the same footman led Liz down a long corridor, all the while uttering in hushed tones on the weather, and what was to follow, and onward they crept, to and through a pair of tall polished doors.

  There he was, standing on the far side of the room on a low platform, the King himself, the doomed one. He wore an ultra smart Royal Navy uniform, weighed down with numerous medals, and a fair sprinkling of scrambled egg on the cap that was set to one side. It is true what they say about a man in uniform, and especially a naval outfit. Two chaps in civvies attended him, whispering advice, handing him appropriate decorations to be dispensed to the great and the good. Set before the platform were perhaps fifty small polished wooden chairs, each bedecked with a thin red cushion.

  Only two chairs were occupied, one by a man, and one a woman, who didn’t appear to know each another, for they sat on the second row, several places apart. They didn’t speak, so far as Liz saw. One of the attendees close to the King began reading a brief recitation.

  ‘Your Majesty, this is Mrs Helena Carpenter. She is to receive an MBE for fifty year’s service within MI6.’ The words resonated around the cavernous room, urged on through four old loudspeakers, set high on the walls.

  Liz watched the aging lady rise and proudly present herself before her monarch. She was much older than she looked at first sight. One of the attendees stepped forward and tightly held her hand, as Mrs Carpenter carried out what passed for a brittle-boned curtsey. Apparently, she had insisted on it. Liz watched the King suppress a grimace, as he reached down and held her hand and began speaking. She strained her ears, yet could not hear a single word, as the King’s lips animatedly moved for fully two minutes.

  What did he find to say to these people on such occasions that he hadn’t said a thousand times before? Not to worry, there wouldn’t be a New Year Honours ceremony next year, not for him, anyhow. Liz sat in silence and began to daydream.

  A crazy thought entered her head.

  Thelma Bletchington planned to make herself the Head of State, but not only that, she also planned to issue her own honours list in future, and no doubt she would present the baubles to the oh so carefully selected, all of whom would certainly have done Mrs B a huge favour, and might be expected to do so again. The baubles themselves would probably be engraved with a likeness of Mrs B, taken of her favourite profile. But more than that, Liz correctly guessed that Thelma plotted to annexe Buckingham Palace itself. It was true, she had said something like: They can keep their houses, a throwaway line if ever there was one, and a gesture that Liz did not believe. He couldn’t possibly keep the damn thing, if he were dead, could he?

  There would be a New Year Honours ceremony next year, Liz could see it all now, and it would take place in this very room, and Thelma Bletchington would preside over it, flashing her best camera smile, performing that grab and squeeze business she did so well, all the while smirking and issuing awards.

  No doubt she would slink down from the staterooms above, having taken up residence, still attended by Henderson the Hunk, of course. Liz grinned at the thought of it, and disguised it behind her lace handkerchief. What was the betting the freshening up rooms would be extravagantly refurbished long before then, gold taps serving sumptuous marble basins, and in this main room, brand new red leather chairs bearing Thelma’s newly designed golden crest, the whole room decked out in immaculate fresh décor.

  Liz could picture the scene, and she didn’t care. She didn’t care about a thing, just so long as Thelma came through with her promise that All of Britain’s police forces would eventually come under Elizabeth Mariner’s icy control. That would make Liz the second most powerful person in the kingdom, correction, the Republic of Great Britain, correction again, the Most powerful person in the Republic. If the proposed police reforms were pushed through, no one, not even Thelma Bletchington herself, would be able to stand in Elizabeth’s way, should the mood take her.

  You have no plans to enter politics, I take it?

  Thelma’s words flooded back into Liz’s head. It’s funny how some phrases lodge in the mind like jagged splinters.

  You have no plans to enter politics, I take it?

  The woman had actually sounded concerned
, frightened even. Perhaps she was right to be. Well of course I haven’t any plans, thought Liz, but then again, what was that old maxim?

  Never say Never.

  Never rule anything out.

  Too true.

  The King was presenting an award to the chap who had been sitting quietly on the second row, not that Liz had heard or seen anything of that, for her mind had been dancing through her rosy future.

  The double doors at the back opened again with a muffled bang, and a man hustled in. Liz glanced over her shoulder.

  It was Henderson.

  He hurriedly eyed the King, and did that little nod thing toward the sovereign from the neck up that people do in church before the altar, and MPs in the House of Commons. Then he looked around the room and caught Liz’s eye, and hustled toward her and sat beside her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered.

  ‘There has been an urgent change of plan.’

  He was speaking like a ventriloquist.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It’s been brought forward.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘He is to be disposed of.’

  Liz gaped at Henderson, and back across the room toward the King. She already knew the answer to her next question before she issued it.

  ‘The King?’

  Henderson nodded. ‘Of course. Who else?’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Thelma’s orders. Apparently, he has got wind of her plans. It’s us, or them. No delay. Everything depends on it. Are you with us, or are you agin us?’

  Liz didn’t think twice.

  ‘You know I am with you all the way. I always have been, Thelma knows that, for God’s sake.’

  Henderson nodded and unbuttoned his jacket, letting it fall slightly open for Liz to glimpse the jagged knife.

  ‘Now?’ she whispered. ‘With that thing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was an electronic coughing sound.

  ‘For exemplary service to the SPATs, the new Head of that Service, today created a Dame, Miss Elizabeth Mariner.’ The words came to Liz from behind, through a vibrating speaker high on the wall. They arrived as if referring to someone else, a total stranger. She paused.

  ‘That’s you,’ whispered Henderson. ‘Off you go.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she whispered, as she stood and walked down toward the King, her mind in utter turmoil. She saw him smiling at her through those kind eyes. There was something unnerving about that smile, she thought, gentle, decent, honourable, something special in those pale blue eyes. He was a ladies’ man, she had never thought of him in that way before, but standing there before him, he slightly higher than she, it was crystal clear he loved the ladies. She could tell.

  Or was it the old thing of power being an aphrodisiac? The greatest aphrodisiac of all. At that moment no one in the country was as powerful as he, for a few seconds longer, save perhaps Thelma herself. Liz noticed he had cut himself shaving under his chin, or someone had. The gash had hastily been covered with ointment of some kind, but fresh blood was seeping from the tiny wound. It would not be the last blood spilt that day, if Henderson had his way.

  It seemed something of a pity that such a man was to be eliminated in such barbaric fashion. If Liz had her way she would opt to have him incarcerated in Ludlow Castle for the rest of his days, à la Katherine of Aragon, century sixteen, out of sight, out of mind, or if not that, a quick trip to the Bletchington Clinic might suffice. It sure saved all that bloody mess, though in truth, she was happy the decision was not hers to take.

  She curtseyed before the monarch, the last person ever to do so, so the history books would say. She performed the act slowly, carefully, perfectly, just as she had planned. The thought of his imminent bloody demise did not interfere in any way with her well-rehearsed manoeuvre. The very act itself brought a smile to her face, and her smile teased a smile from him.

  ‘Very well done,’ he said, with genuine feeling.

  For a stupid moment she thought he was referring to her gracious salutation, and she felt like reaching out and kissing him.

  ‘I have been reading such wonderful reports about you. Never was an award so merited as this, and at such a tender age. You are to be congratulated, my dear. I am so pleased to be able to....’

  ‘Excuse me!’

  Liz glanced round.

  Henderson was shouting and walking briskly toward them.

  ‘What is the matter?’ said the King.

  Henderson was now standing between them, the King on the platform, Liz watching, wide-eyed.

  ‘Justice must be done,’ said the hunk, drawing the gleaming steel from his jacket. ‘Ultimately, we all receive justice!’

  ‘What the hell?’ shouted one of the attendees. ‘How dare you interrupt the ceremony!’

  Henderson glanced at the King and Liz in turn. Time seemed to stand still. Hunk paused for an age, thought Liz, and then in one sharp thrusting movement, he stabbed the knife deep into the neck muscles.

  Liz’s eyes almost bulged from her head.

  Blood spurted from the wound and splashed to the polished floor.

  Elizabeth Mariner fell down dead at the King’s feet.

  ‘Henderson!’ yelled the King. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘They planned to kill you, Your Highness. She confirmed it to me, but two minutes ago. She is one of the ringleaders. She knew why I was here. Did she make any effort to prevent me? Did she make any effort to save you? I gave her every opportunity. Every chance.’

  ‘Well no.... she did not.’

  ‘We must make haste, Sir. Now that it has begun, we must move rapidly.’

  Henderson switched to talking on his mobile, mobilising his troops, ordering them immediately to Number 10.

  ‘They had no idea?’ muttered the King, kneeling down, looking into Elizabeth’s still and startled face.

  ‘About what, Sir?’ asked Henderson.

  ‘That you were a key part of Palace Security these past six years?’

  ‘Clearly not, Sir,’ he said, ‘and just as well, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the King, getting to his feet. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Come along, Your Majesty,’ interrupted one of the attendees, taking the King’s arm and tugging him from the heinous scene. ‘You must leave this place. We have arranged for you to be moved to Sandringham until everything is clear.’

  The King glanced back at Liz’s prostrate body and the scarlet blood meandering away. She seemed such a nice young lady. What a wicked waste. He would never have believed that she could be party to a plot to assassinate him. What was the world coming to?

  ‘Will you deal with her?’ he sighed, taking one last glance down. ‘Look after everything here?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, Sir,’ said Henderson, extracting his knife from Liz’s neck, and wiping it on his laundered handkerchief. ‘Everything is in hand. We live to fight another day.’

  We live to fight another day.

  ‘But did you really have to do that?’ the King muttered.

  ‘Us or them, Sir. It’s us or them.’

  ‘Yes,’ the monarch wheezed, though it came out as Ears, ‘I suppose it is. Ears!’

  Fifty-Six

  It took the happy band three days to return to the Hampshire forests. The journey was uneventful, Ged opting for the ultra rural route that seemingly only he knew. Traffic on the roads and lanes was light, and all of them, especially the horse, appreciated that.

  Not long out of Windsor, Ged yawned and said, ‘So what did you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘Thought you weren’t interested,’ said Adam.

  ‘Maybe I am.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Eve, ‘tell him.’

  ‘We have to find people,’ muttered Adam, noticing a fresh hole in his trainers.

  ‘What kind of people?’ asked Dolores.

  ‘People against the government.’

  Ged guffawed. ‘That shouldn’t be so
damn difficult!’

  ‘No wait,’ said Eve, ‘let him finish.’

  ‘We believe this government is evil, no, we don’t believe it, we know it to be the case, don’t we Eve?’

  ‘Yep, we sure do.’

  ‘Evil is a strong word,’ said Ged.

  ‘Not strong enough, in this case,’ said Adam.

  ‘Go on,’ said Ged.

  ‘The more people we can find, the more chance there is we can change things for the better.’

  ‘That kind of makes sense,’ said Dolores.

  ‘And how many have you got so far?’ asked Ged, lighting a cigarette.

  Hawkeye watched his father flick the match on the box, and gurgled at the swooshing sound, as it caught, and the forced flame that followed. Hawkeye swooshed too, like an African grey parrot repeating strange sounds. Dolores gently patted the baby’s back.

  Adam glanced nervously at Eve.

  ‘That’s the problem, not so many.’

  ‘How many?’ repeated Ged.

  ‘There’s the vicar at the Priory,’ said Eve.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Adam, ‘and the girl in the cake-shop.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Eve, ‘and who’s she?’

  ‘Just someone I know,’ grinned Adam.

  ‘And?’ pressed Ged.

  ‘Well, there’s us two,’ said Eve.

  ‘And you two,’ added Adam, in a hurry.

  Ged inhaled big-time. ‘That makes six. Eve’s right, not so many.’

  ‘And my parents,’ added Eve, desperate to think of others.

  ‘Yeah, hopefully,’ added Adam, not wanting to follow that line of thought too closely.

  ‘And the King!’ said Eve.

  ‘How do you know the King is in on this?’ asked Ged, grinning.

  ‘We met him,’ said Eve.

  ‘We sure did,’ said Adam, all doubt in his mind now banished.

  ‘Yeah?’ said Dolores. ‘Where? What was he like?’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Eve, ‘lovely eyes.’

  ‘He’s descended from gypsies, you know,’ said Ged.