POWER CUT (OR HOW TO POST A STORY AND ANNOY YOUR SISTER!)

So there I was all set to give Kath this story (which was written five months ago) when lo and behold the one thing that I didn’t want to happen happened.  It started to come true.  Unfortunately this has forced my hand and meant that I here I am having to post the story early on my own blog (sorry, Kath.)  

So here is my latest and greatest story outside of my book...

POWER CUT

The rest of the house had been rendered free of clutter.  The linen from the bed was the house’ own, the toilet had no carpet, the bathroom no shower gel and the children’s rooms had a show home look that no real child’s bedroom would ever have.  The only room that held any of its previous occupants stay was the office, the central power station, engine room to an entire nation.  Gerard Kingman packed the box with all his photo’s and personal objects with pride and care.  Everything in this box meant something to him, everything left held nothing for him.  The removal men had long since gone and the house was now a blank canvas for the next incumbent, that was the way things were, the way they had to be, everyone needed that blank slate when they started this job.  Packing all the artifacts away was like taking a personal journey through his own premiership,as he checked all the drawers, making sure that everything was in its proper place and that, when he left, everything would be proper.

  Outside Kingman heard a few cheers as a car headed into Downing Street and as he peered out of the window he saw his successor emerging from the vehicle ,beaming grin, eyes full of hope, heart full of pride as he started the same journey as Gerard, a journey that would inevitably have the same conclusion.  The door to ten Downing Street opened and Gerard could hear the new PM being congratulated by HIS staff on the new guy’s win.  To be fair they wouldn’t be his staff for much longer, but Gerard couldn’t help but feel slightly betrayed, like seeing an ex start up a relationship with someone before you; you know you have no right to feel jealous but that doesn’t mean you can stop those feelings from happening.  As he placed a picture of himself, the US President and their respective families carefully away in the box, Tom Broad, current opposition leader and the new Prime Minister in waiting appeared in the doorway, his hands in pockets, he stopped as he saw Gerard packing his stuff away and knocked gingerly on the door in a vain attempt at humility.

  “Knock, knock!” said Tom, timidly stepping over the doorway into the office.  “Mind if I come in?”

  “It’s your office now,” replied Gerard without looking back at Tom.  There wasn’t really a need as Tom was busy scanning the office with eyes like a birthday boy, slavering over a cake.

  “Not yet,” said Tom, finally bringing his attention back to Gerard.  “I have to ask the Queen first if I can form her Government.”

  “She’ll give her blessing,” replied Gerard as he test lifted the box to make sure it was liftable ...it was.  “That’s just a constitutional formality.”

  Gerard looked up to see his counterpart.  In a way Gerard felt like the picture of Dorian Grey.  He was looking at a man who was not much different from himself when he started out; boyish good looks for a guy in his forties, hair gone back a bit but retaining its colour, and a devilish glint in his eye.  In five years, Gerard had gone from being that to a man who looked like he was pushing sixty.  His hair had gone completely white, his skin was now mottled with liver spots and he had bags under his eyes that were so big it was like he was carrying the weekly shopping there from an endless amount of sleepless nights.

  “Any advice for me?” asked Tom with a grin that said he wasn’t about to listen.

 Gerard felt like telling him to run, to get in his car and head for another country and let history pick some other poor bastard to run the UK and have their health ruined while he got on with having a stress-free, satisfying and healthy life.  But he knew he would laugh it off in exactly the same way he would’ve five years ago thinking it would never happen to him.

  “I can’t give you any advice because I know you won’t take it,” replied Gerard.

  “You don’t know that,” said Tom, cheerily.

  “Yes I do, because I didn’t listen to my predecessor’s advice and he didn’t listen to the predecessor before him.  That’s the way things go ...always,” replied Gerard while taking a good look at the cocky young man in front of him, wondering where his own cocky young man in the mirror went?  “But I will make a prediction for how things will go for you.”

  Tom just looked at him for a moment, hands still in his pockets.  He had gone from arrogant to curious with those few words. He wanted ideally to tell Gerard to stick his predictions up his arse, but he couldn’t help but want to know what he had to say.

  “Go on,” Tom responded.  Gerard smiled, placed his hands on the desk and began.

  “I remember how I felt after I won the election, how all leaders feel.  I felt a huge wave of satisfaction ...self-satisfaction!  It’s not about the team as you get into number ten and begin to work out what you want your premiership to be about.  It’s all about you!” said Gerard.  Tom looked at the floor, slightly embarrassed at the accuracy of his assessment.

  “But the reality is, although you won the election, your team are as much responsible for that win as you are.  Over the last five years they have invaded the public’s mind on every issue; home affairs they think of George Lancaster, foreign affairs and Sarah Claymore is the name, likewise Treasury ...Brian Dix and orchestrating your party’s affairs, Graham Fairweather, making sure your message gets across in any climate.  Most people could name your opposition numbers better than they could name my actual ministers.  They’re your big- hitters,” Gerard continued.

  “Yes they are,” smiled Tom, genuine affection in his voice.

  “Yes they are,” repeated Gerard, gravely.  “And everyone of them will go.”

  “Pardon me?” asked Tom, brow furrowed at the change in tone.

  “Power doesn’t so much corrupt as it makes men fools and women too, actually.  For some reason people tend to think that because they are at the top they are in position where they can’t be knocked down, when in reality the only way is down,” said Gerard.  He stopped to take in his counterpart whose confidence had been replaced by a certain contemplativeness.  “Scandal will engulf some of them as their stupidity will trick them into thinking that they can get away with insider training, fraud and a whole host of unethical escapades, some will die and others will fall foul of their own consciences.  It seems unlikely now with the sacrifices you and your team have made to get to the top but it does happen.  When that does happen, when scandal’s bright lights wipe out your big-hitters you will be isolated, from then on its just a matter of time, like it was with Thatcher, like it was with Major, like it was with Blair, Brown and now, like it is with me.”

  Gerard picked up his box and strode round the desk shifting the weight of it to his left arm he held out his hand to Tom Broad who looked at it like it was a cursed artifact for a moment before grabbing it with both hands and shaking it vigorously.

  “Good luck, Prime Minster,” said Gerard, stopping Tom mid-shake.

  “Thank you,” said Tom.  Gerard withdrew his hand and left ten Downing Street via a back door, far from the press pack and with at least a little private dignity, while Tom Broad sat behind the highly varnished desk of power and leaned back in the ultimate big comfy chair.

  That night Tom Broad lay in bed considering Gerard’s words...

  “when scandal’s bright lights wipe out your big-hitters you will be isolated, from then on its just a matter of time.”

  “What are you thinking about, sweet?”

  “Just something that Gerard Kingman said.  He said that scandal would bring down those around me and that power makes fools of all men,” said Tom, staring at the pitch black ceiling trying to find something of comfort in those words, but finding only empty darkness.

  “Do you believe him?” she asked, her head on his chest, one ear listening to the conversation the other hearing his heartbeat.

  “I don’t know,” said Tom, sounding strangely edgy.  “It’s possible I guess.  I think my lot are a pretty squeaky clean bunch, but you never know do you?  Maybe he has a point; maybe one of them is doing something dodgy right now, just waiting to trip me up.”

  On the bedside cabinet the watch of the most powerful elected official in the country beeped an alarm.

 “Jesus!” said Tom looking at the time.  “Has it been an hour already?”

  “It’s your watch, you set it,” she replied.  “You can’t accuse me of trying to rip you off then,  remember?”

  “Oh yeah, oh yeah, of course, of course, of course,” Tom responded while stepping into his boxers and trousers at remarkable speed.  “So how much do I owe you?”

  “The usual,” she replied demurely.  “Nine-hundred.”

  “Right, right, right,” repeated Tom while removing the cash from his wallet.

  “When will you be able to get away from your wife again?”

  “This weekend should be,” Tom responded while doing up his tie.  “The wife’s got a function.”

  “Cool,” she said reaching for twenty Lambert and Butler.  “Bye then.”

  “See you, then,” Tom called out while leaving the door, eager to seek out a fate he believed others were creating for him, unaware that in his case, he was actually in the process of manufacturing his own demise.

Fin.    


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Thanks for reading.


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