Epilogue 1 - Executive Decisions

16th November, Twynham

 

Prime Minister Atherton tapped at the tablet’s screen, pausing the audio recording. “Damned by her own words,” he said. “Cavendish knew that Emmitt was waiting to shoot her?”

“Almost certainly,” Mitchell said. “The tyres on her getaway truck were slashed. She was trapped. I suspect the only reason her people didn’t abandon her is that Emmitt was taking pot shots at them.” He stretched out his legs, and briefly closed his eyes. It had been a frantic twenty-four hours, but so far there had been no new crisis in Britain, no more murders, and no insurrection.

“So that was Cavendish’s death-bed confession,” Atherton said. “The question is whether we can believe it.”

“Yes,” Mitchell said. “At least in broad strokes. It mostly confirms what the evidence has already proven.”

“And Emmitt is dead?”

“You should have a report from the Dover coroner by tomorrow morning,” Mitchell said. “But, yes. He’s dead.”

“You’re sure.”

“I am.”

“Then that brings us to what we do next,” Atherton said. He picked up his glass, and only then seemed to realise it was empty. He swivelled in his chair, turning to face the decanter by the door, and seemed to catch sight of the two portraits watching him. He sighed, and put the empty glass back on his desk. “What do we do? We can’t use that recording in a trial.”

“Since Cavendish is dead, there won’t be trial,” Mitchell said.

“Not of her, but what of her co-conspirators?”

“I doubt there are many,” Mitchell said. “Not who knew what the woman really planned. Not who are still alive.”

Atherton picked up a sheet of paper from the desk. “We’ve almost won a victory in Calais. That’s what the admiral is calling it, though I don’t know if I agree. She says that our objectives have been achieved now that the pirates have fled their positions.”

“The Marines call them cultists,” Mitchell said. “Personally, I’d prefer we just called them murderers, but I’m not I’m not the one putting my life on the line. Are they really retreating?”

“Some have fled,” Atherton said. “But Calais is not yet entirely secure. There are…” He glanced at the sheet of paper again. “There are three groups who have gone to ground on the outskirts. One is in an old supermarket to the east, one group is in a church to the north, and the last is in a school three miles to the northeast of the city. Until they are dug out of their positions, we can’t chase those who fled. Without pursuit, they’ll have time to create a new bastion, this time further from our own supply lines. But our losses have been severe. Two hundred and seventeen are dead. At least four hundred will never return to frontline duty. A further eight hundred and ninety-two have been brought back to Britain for medical treatment.”

“That many?” Mitchell said.

“Not from the battle, not directly,” Atherton said. “Dysentery has swept through the ranks. This was our first major conflict and we were woefully unprepared. No, best we use the next few months to get ready, because this is only the beginning.”

“It does seem that way,” Mitchell said. “What are you doing about the Railway Company?”

“There I am on the horns of a dilemma,” Atherton said. “The Railway Company directly employs thousands. Indirectly, it employs tens of thousands, and they all have families. They all have friends. And they all vote.”

“You’re worried about the election?” Mitchell asked.

“Since the conspiracy centred around placing a puppet in this chair, shouldn’t I be? There are too many to lock-up. I can’t conscript them, nor send them to one of our overseas outposts, as that would risk creating the insurrection that I am trying to stop. I will nationalise the railway, and bring it under direct control of the cabinet, but there is little else that can be done.” Atherton fixed his eyes on the portraits that hung by the door. “Can one absolute good erase a lifetime of sin? We would not be here if it wasn’t for Cavendish. The same can be said for many of her people.”

“You want to hush this all up?” Mitchell half turned in his chair, and gestured at the paintings. “I bet Wilberforce once said something about how the motive didn’t justify the ends. Either way, the truth will come out. Best to get ahead of it. Broadcast the recording. Let people decide for themselves.”

“They tried to win power through disrupting the election, and though they are dead, they still might achieve that goal. My only true opponent is Alasdair McPherson, and he is a Luddite. Not like your deluded witness. I mean that McPherson is a genuine revolutionary, and is the only candidate I would even call a real politician. The others are venal, corrupt, and care for nothing but power. They are too busy fighting over which of them gets the right to call their party Conservative or Labour. No, they want to rule simply so that history can say that they did. They want their portrait on the wall, nothing more. There is even a growing movement that wants a monarch. Some of those say we should give the position to the King of Albion, mostly because the man knows how to sit on a horse.”

“You mean you want to suppress this recording so as to guarantee your victory?” Mitchell asked.

“No. I want to impress upon you the delicate situation we are in,” Atherton said. “I am not so naive as to assume that you haven’t made copies of that recording. Nor do I forget that you believe yourself above the civil power.”

“No,” Mitchell said. “I believe that the law applies to the governors as much as the governed. You know what my father hated about politicians? They always thought that some policies were too complex for the average voter to understand. What you lot never grasped was that it was you who didn’t understand what we, the electorate, actually wanted. After all, who is a newly elected politician but an elector a few hours after the last vote was cast?”

“Very pithy,” Atherton said. He picked up a report from the desk. “We will take Calais and put a garrison in Boulogne, but we will need three months to resupply and retrain, and for our troops to recover. The offensive will start in March. The bodies will begin coming back in April, just in time for the election in May.”

“Are you going to broadcast that recording?”

Atherton looked at the tablet. “If doing so has the opposite effect? If the nation falls apart?”

“Do you remember twenty years ago, when we first met?” Mitchell asked. “Do you remember that underground railway station?”

“Almost every night,” Atherton said.

“And it’s twenty years later, and we’re still here,” Mitchell said. “Have some faith in people, and they’ll have faith in you.”

“Hmm. Very well,” Atherton said. “I will have it broadcast.”

Mitchell stood. “I’ll leave you that, too,” he said, nodding at the tablet. “There’s a few good books on there.”

“Where are you going now? Home, or Dover?” Atherton asked.

“I was hoping to retire,” Mitchell said. “I really was, but war will make bloody work for soldier and police officer alike. No, I’d like to retire, but I can’t. I’m a copper, and I’m glad I’m not a soldier.” He smiled. “But I’m even more glad I’m not a politician.”