In the commons chamber, the prime minister was on his feet. He’d drained his first glass of water in one gulp. A colleague was refilling it, but he hadn’t the energy to look round to thank them.
“Madam speaker, I regret to inform the house that without further assistance, England will be unable to meet its international financial obligations – and our debts have been called in.” Richardson took a moment. He could feel his words jar with the self-serving political brains in front of, and, more importantly, behind him.
He wasn’t yet prepared for the inevitable disregard for his statement, his leadership and himself. He reached for the glass. He stared down at it as it approached his mouth – the water shaking like the storm inside him. Cries of “Shame! Shame!” brought him to his senses with all the pungency of asafoetida.
“Sterling is suffering enormous international speculation. The Bank of Britain has already spent almost 50 billion pounds today to maintain the value of sterling at $1.40. But we continue to suffer attacks from global actors.”
Richardson felt the sharp intake of breath across the chamber from the ashen faces of the many hundreds of legislators.
“We believe this pressure on the pound is being coordinated, and I have tasked the UK’s intelligence agencies with identifying the sources. And swiftly bringing their actions to an end and the individuals to justice, wherever they are.”
“Don’t just catch the bastards. Bomb them,” someone shouted. A note was being passed along the government benches. Richardson saw it out of the corner of his eye. He picked it up.
“I am reading this aloud. I understand the prime minister of India has given a media interview in New Delhi to say that she will cease all bilateral cooperation with England.”
Khalid sat his papers down. This wasn’t in his version of the prime minister’s statement. The government’s chief whip had called to say things were bad but not apocalyptic.
The house now sat in silence as if listening to their collective last rites. Their stillness gave Richardson the strength to keep going, “Her statement continued, British banks, which rely on data held in India, will be unable to trade. British energy companies, which rely on Indian software and workers, will cease to function.”
Richardson knew he was reciting his own political death warrant. Knives were being sharpened on all sides. He could hear them and was resigned to his fate. “Just so long as it isn’t that bunch of bastards in front of me,” he thought. He’d told Karan’s team to keep him out of the chamber, telling him he needed a clear run at the imminent leadership election the statement would launch. Or had they told him?
“Madam speaker, data from sitara – the anglo-indian satellite company – will be withheld: meaning that all mobile communications will stop; our naval and armed forces will be unable to operate.”
The uneasy quiet broke. There were murmurings. Then, from up behind Khalid came a low, guttural, “Resign!” A starting pistol had been fired. It set off a cacophony of sound coming from all sides. “Resign.” “Shame.” “Disgrace.” “Call it quits and call an election.” It was as if a pressure valve had been opened. Anger flew out like the sewage that needed parliament’s Victorian steam-pipe network to expel it from its bowels deep below the chamber. Like the sewage, the abuse couldn’t be stopped once it had got going. Khalid turned to the particular troublemaker who had initiated this wall of shit and gave him a nod. It was always better to have the wolves at your neighbour’s door. But if they only knew how bad it truly was, they’d not waste their time with sedentary interventions.
The noise grew to unheard-of levels. Richardson struggled on as if he were running through water. “Order, order.” Madam speaker shouted and then stood, “Mis-ter Jen-ner,” hitting every syllable, “I think we’ve heard enough from you for one day. One more injudicious grumble and you’ll be out.”
Richardson caught her eye. The chortle she generated was sufficient for him to plough on. His head was bowed, and eyes transfixed on the large-type, double-spaced statement in front of him. He knew by the timbre of the voice from whom and from where it had come. It took what was the last reserve of all of his energy to bring his chin up and fix his stare.
“They shout, ‘Resign’. They call for elections. That’s all they know. But there is nothing the party opposite can do. We are at a moment of national calamity. And, fast approaching the limits of this house. Maybe even this country.”
Khalid’s backbenchers screamed at Richardson. Some called, “Point of order!” Others jeered, “Resign! Where’s the chancellor!” The overexcited cries of Khalid’s troops could be heard like the piccolos atop an orchestra. His wolves were pushing him to get to his feet.
“Order!” Madam speaker leaned forward in her chair. Her feet lifted off their footrest. This slight gesture was sufficient to convey extreme discomfiture to her 591 charges.
In this final crucible of English parliamentary democracy, it was Khalid’s moment. The wolves now running alongside him. Eyes trained on the prey opposite. They’d been chasing the fatally wounded animal for many miles. Richardson’s end was now in their sights. “Madam speaker, the Prime Minister has told this house the country is hurtling towards bankruptcy. He lost Scotland.” Khalid pointed at him. “Killed our united kingdom. Now his incompetence alone will lead to the death of all that we have left. A litany of losses. He should be ashamed to stand at that government despatch box. It is time for a new government. A new prime minister and a new plan for this great country. He must call an election!”
“What’s the plan?” the wolves continued to chant as Khalid sat back down. “Even your chancellor’s given up on you. Where is he?”
Richardson smiled. He knew Karan’s absence would draw fire. Misdirection with Khalid’s clowns was as easy as being a magician at a five-year-old’s birthday party. “Madam speaker, my right honourable friend the chancellor is working on a rescue package as we speak – with assistance from our international partners.”
“Which international partners do you have left?” someone shouted from high up in the labour benches.
“His father-in-law?” Another hollered, “How much will it cost him to get you out of the shit this time!”
Khalid was up and bouncing on his feet as if in a parliamentary boxing ring. “Madam speaker, it is time for the prime minister to have an audience with his majesty, hand over the seals of office and go! The country needs fresh momentum. For that, we need a new government. And that government needs a new leader.”
Khalid had promised his team he’d never miss an opportunity to punch the privileged arses of the party opposite. He knew the public wasn’t tired of politics. They were tired of the piss-poor politicians forced on them time after time.
“For God’s sake, go!” The wolves could sense fear and taste blood. “And give us a chance to run this country. You’ve run it into the ground!”
Richardson shook his head, “As ever, the leader of the opposition focuses on self-advancement when selfless service is what’s needed. Well, madam speaker, I am able to speak for England – no, thank you. Not today. Not ever! No matter how dire and desperate, madam speaker, I could never advise his majesty to appoint as the king’s first minister someone who believes in neither king nor country – but only in himself.”
Richardson knew it was his last act in this particular parliamentary circus. He was out of time. Out of energy. Out of luck. Soon he’d be an audience member again and watch them tear down all that he’d built. His shoulders hunched. He fixated on the thick wooden table that separated him from the barbarians opposite. But his real enemies were behind him. His throat dry. Forehead moist. Back sodden. This fresh sweat joined the fetid scent emanating from his jacket. The cries of ‘What’s the plan?’ and ‘Resign’ continued unabated. Madam speaker had given up any semblance of refereeing.
He closed the binder and rubbed off what was left of its government gold crest. Another note was slowly making its way to him. He read it, then took off his reading glasses and with little ceremony put them in his inner pocket. If he wasn’t reading, they knew he was making it up as he was going along. It was all he’d had left. The final throw of the prime-ministerial dice, like putting the last of your chips on black and waiting to see where the ball landed. “Of course, there is a plan, madam speaker. But thanks to the right honourable member’s exhortations in this chamber, the spivs and speculators are continuing to do their best to bring the pound, the government and the country to their knees. I will be instructing the governor of the Bank of Britain to use all of the bank’s reserves to maintain sterling at 1 dollar 15. If needed, I will also raise interest rates to 10 per cent this afternoon. The markets can expect a statement from the bank governor imminently.”
The wolves screamed, “Resign! Resign! Resign!”
Excerpted with permission from 30th State, Alan Gemmell, Bloomsbury India.
