Fifty-First State by Hilary Bailey Page B

in his chair. He was wasting his time sitting here, in silence, while Muldoon refused to speak even to his own Private Secretary. Or the Defence Secretary. Or the RAF. Or Kim Durham’s parents. Or the Europeans. And certainly not to Alan Petherbridge. He was only present so that Muldoon would not be alone, waiting for a call from the President of the United States, the only person who could save him from this wreck. But without that call, it was, Canning estimated, twenty to one that Muldoon, unpopular head of a party with a majority of three, would go.
    Frozen in horror, Canning watched Muldoon pick up the phone and call Hollander again. He couldn’t wrench the phone from his hand but he knew – everybody knows – that phoning again so soon after the first call reeked of desperation. Listening, he gathered that the Pentagon already had reports from the senior officer at Hamscott Common and the Marine commander in charge of the raid. They were being studied as a matter of urgency. ‘Has the President been told?’ asked Muldoon. Pointless to ask – of course she hadn’t, thought Canning. The President would be informed when the assessments were made, Hollander told him. Withinhalf an hour he would have a statement ready, in time for the press conference.
    Canning was astonished that Muldoon put the phone down without even asking for details of the military reports. ‘Hollander going to wake the President at any point?’ he enquired.
    â€˜He didn’t say,’ Muldoon said, adding, in a low, grumbling tone, ‘Ray Hollander’s never liked me.’ Oh God, Canning groaned to himself, Muldoon’s cracking. The phone rang again. Muldoon snatched it up. He steadied. Canning wondered if there’d been a miracle and the President was on the line.
    Muldoon composed his face and said, ‘Prime Minister speaking, ma’am,’ and although, over the next five seconds his face completely drained of colour, he continued to speak steadily. Meanwhile, Canning had picked up the phone on the table in front of him and heard the crystalline tones of the Queen of England asking, ‘Can you tell me exactly, Prime Minister, what happened at Hamscott Common?’ There was no picture on the screen in front of him – the Queen never used videophone.
    Muldoon gave a smooth but inadequate answer. He was instantly picked up on various points and examined more fully. He responded calmly. He was asked more questions by a plainly displeased Queen.
    When Muldoon put the phone down he was ashen and sweating, like a man with flu, but the episode reminded Canning of one of the reasons why Muldoon was Prime Minister – his nerve. He wondered if, even after all this, Muldoon would survive.
    At that moment Alan Petherbridge, uninvited and immaculate, his long, dark-complexioned face set in stone, came through the door. How he had got through Muldoon’s defence system Canning could not tell. But here he was, fresh as paint, taking in the situation at a glance, giving Canning a look indicating, if not sympathy, at least some understanding, and saying, ‘Prime Minister, I apologize for the intrusion, but there are matters that can’t wait.’
    May 2017
    If you had to point to the real beginning of our present crisis, it was not the death of Kim Durham. For that we had to wait another four months, until the election of October 2015. But the image of young Rory Durham at the US soldier’s feet still symbolizes what happened – what is still happening. There’s always a picture – Jackie Kennedy’s pink suit, stained with her husband’s blood, the naked girl in Vietnam, running. And then there was, and still is, the photograph of Rory Durham kneeling in the road, clutching at the armed soldier’s knees. Strange that this image came so early, long before the corruption began, the country was plunged into cold and darkness, the nights were ripped by