Introducing Lucifer Ogilvie
“And now for something completely different!” Lucifer beamed as he flexed his fingers in his customary manner before strenuously signing a piece of paper.
“Honestly, Lucy, what is different about you building yet more bridges.” Russell Fidget-Jones sighed, checked his pocket-watch and looked out of the window. “It's your favourite trick. Every time there is a problem, along comes yet another bridge. How many bridges have you started now? Nineteen or something? Don't you think someone will catch on eventually?”
“Of course not! Bridges are wonderful! Everyone loves bridges! They are a symbol of hope!” Lucifer grinned.
“Let us take a rational look at this, Lucifer. You make some of the worst speeches I have ever heard, you accidentally persuade the population to make a disastrous decision to leave Europe, and you think you can make it all go away by building a bridge to take people to …..umm....... Europe?”
“Yes! I'm a genius!” Lucifer was unusually pleased with himself.
“And what about this dangerous haggis-eating revolutionary that wants to make you Prime Minister? Where did she come from?”
“I don't know? I've never met her. She has spiffing taste in politicians though?” Lucifer looked up brightly.
“You're asking me to believe that a revolutionary Scottish Nationalist is prominently supporting a senior hard-right Tory for no reason at all?” Fidget-Jones looked stern. “You don't think the Services will start taking an interest?”
“They haven't mentioned it. I am sure it's nothing serious.” Lucifer frowned. “I'm not all that hard right really, and I don't think she is really all that revolutionary.”
“The public think you are. You vote as if you are. Why would she see something different?”
“I'm sure I don't know?” Lucifer swallowed.
“Just as long as you know where your loyalties lie Lucifer. People will talk.” Fidget-Jones looked fondly at Lucifer.
“I really don't think it's a problem. She's an artist. It's probably just the hair. They all like the hair.” Lucifer looked down at his paperwork with an unusual level of interest. His mop of unruly white-blond hair had been his best asset for most of his life.
“Honestly, Lucifer, did you see the video she posted this morning?”
“Yes, yes I did.”
“Probably best if your supporters don't include flag-waving rebel nationalists wearing masks really, all things considered, Lucifer.”
“I think it adds a touch of mystery and glamour, personally. I especially liked the chest-beating.” Lucifer assumed his most beguiling expression as he flirted with Fidget-Jones' elusive sense of humour.
“Very well, Lucifer, we shall wait and see how the situation develops. We mustn't let anything get in the way of the 'Liliput government' project......The investors must be kept happy, you know.”
“Yes, sir.” Lucifer nodded sagely. “Although technically speaking, we are supposed to be serving the voters too, you know.” Fidget-Jones snorted as he laughed.
Three hundred miles north Kira and Leon worked tirelessly on the props for their project. A host of new skills and visualisations were required to create Kira's vision. Lucifer must be put in charge of the UK. Vision and motivation were required to move the country forward, she reasoned.
“Why are we helping the English again?” Leon looked confused.
“There are sixty million or so people that aren't Scottish on this island. They are too stupid to know what is about to happen to them if we don't do this.”
“Yeah, and not only do they hate us, they keep voting for these idiots. Look at your stupid pal across the road. You tried to help him, and look what he is doing to you now. Tories are all dumb as rocks.”
“We can't help them with that. Now and again, however, the Great British machine gets a chance to operate properly, and it would be nice if it was actually in our lifetime.”
“When was the last time that happened? They don't know what their class is for any more, even if you and daft Lucifer do.”
“Oh gosh, the fifties? Tiny Rowland and Jimmy Goldsmith killed off the end of it. Remember them? I was only five or six, and even I knew Tiny was gorgeous.” Kira looked wistful. “If only I had been old enough to run off with Tiny. He was quite a dish.”
“Enemies of the people!” Leon bristled. “Kill them all!”
“Odd to think that income distribution was actually fairer then, isn't it?” Kira strapped a large flag-pole to her forearm. “How about this one? It's a bit lighter than the one this morning.” She pulled her mask up and balanced the flag on one hip.
“Don't let the sixty million English people you want to save see you with that. They will probably want to kill you.” Leon shook his head.
“Too funny.” Kira giggled. “We had better make some special ones up, just for them.”
Three thousand miles to the west, Sam wondered why this made him so mad? It was just a video of a little fat lady waving a flag. He couldn't even see her face. Why wasn't she working on his book? Why wasn't she strapped up in a corset so she would look right? How much patience was he expected to have?
This was totally irrational, of course, he realised as one of his children messily clutched at his ankle under the computer desk. He must try to forget about it. People often strayed from the path, particularly ones that you carefully ignored. He tried to feel happy for her, whilst being dimly aware of boiling with rage that she appeared to be warming to a speaker so careless, so offhand, so irritatingly relaxed whilst messing with world politics. How dare she!
He often quite enjoyed his rage. The exhilaration of the unadulterated selfishness; the internal visualisations of punishment; the unfairness that he was not, for the moment, the centre of the universe. He liked being unfair. Unfairness made him feel special. Feeling special was a nice sensation. He smiled. He would savour his fury later, for the benefit of one of his friends. At least Kira was useful for something.
Kira worked on her manifesto for weeks. The music video format seemed like an oddly natural process. The changes she had underwent whilst thinking about Sam had meant that communication was a vastly different process than it had been at university. In many ways she was ruined, she thought. Instead of bothering to write anything, it was expedient to do everything visually. The music had to be right. The visuals had to be right. The content had to be well-reasoned, and yet very simple so that the viewer didn't have to work too hard. Most interesting, like writing a child's book........