PRIME MINISTRESS AND DEATH
THREATS
Most powerful is he who has himself in his own power
– Seneca
Ψ
Hazel did not want to meet Marina Allen. Marina’s husband was bad enough, his government had come in a massive mandate and the goodwill to change the way things were done. They had made some steps towards change, but mostly they liked it just the way it was. As more time went by it became obvious that they were just as bad as the last lot: Acting for ill-defined reasons of political expediency, bowing to the knee jerk reaction of some fictitious middle England. The wants and needs of the vast majority of the party’s core followers were ignored. It looked like Charles Parson thought they would vote for his party no matter what. The equally large majority he got at the most recent general election seemed to confirm that and he moved ever further to the right.
His wife was not her husband, but she was one of them.
But Hazel would not be intimidated. She reminded herself that her professional life had fared worse. She had faced down men who had killed infamously. She had attempted to understand those whom even a mother couldn’t love. She had connected with near catatonics and extreme narcissists. She could manage Marina Allen. Therefore, Hazel prepared for the dinner as if this was a clinical encounter. She had read what case notes she could find. The opinions of Wikipedia were not quite as good as a consultant psychiatrist but at least she could read the writing.
* ¢ ?
The day after the fire John had received a call from Eric.
“I thought you’d be calling.”
“Great news about the fire, wasn’t it? I think we must be getting through to people,” said Eric.
“So you’re calling to make fun of my situation?”
“Actually, you called me about something a few days ago. You didn’t call back so I assume it wasn’t important.”
“I had a question.” John said. It didn’t seem so important any more. Not after someone had tried to kill him. Maybe if he could just get out of this. But telling Eric he wanted to quit was no better as an option. He’d have to work his way up to it.
“Yes?”
“I cannot understand how you can pay me so much. How are we going to make any money out of me?” John asked.
“Aha, an excellent question Mr Smith. Maybe we will make a rock-star out of you yet. Do you know who is number one on Mick Jagger’s speed dial?”
“Keith Richards?”
“No, it’s Rupert Löwenstein, his accountant* Come to the office, I have a surprise.”
In the Clarion offices, Eric was ready with another lecture.
“You are selling a lot of newspapers, which is always good. We released the video package and license some broadcast rights we will be doing okay. But as I told you, I am doing this for principle rather then money. But, there is no reason in principle why one can’t have both.
“I have a little dirt on just anyone you care to mention. Though the secrets of politicians and celebrities are not nearly as interesting as you might think. And you have probably heard them all down the pub anyway, along with a load of utter rubbish. That is the difference, I know which tall tales are true and often I have even seen the pictures that prove it. But I do not see fit to print this tittle tattle.
“So what if some national television weatherman has a gambling problem, that spokesperson X of her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition likes to take late night walks on Clapham Common, or this disc jockey has a nasty disease? Seventy percent of any given political party are incompetent and as many again have abused their authority. Chase after too many soft targets and you discourage the well meaning from ever signing up and you’re just left with the real bastards. Only a tiny minority are pro-actively corrupt or criminally hypocritical. They are the ones I go for in print.
“I have met Gandhi, Kennedy and Martin Luther King, and try as I might I didn’t like any of them. They all had the same flaw: great though they undoubtedly were they could never stop being politicians. I think every politician who has succeeded has the same flaw. However strong your principles when you start out, once you enter the political game it is going to change. Sooner or later you are going to have to compromise one or other of them. And when you’ve done it once, you’ll do it again. At first, you can rationalise it, because you can’t change the world if you don’t have power. So a little idealism must be sacrificed at the altar of expediency. But the further you go the more you do it. You become a bigger and bigger hypocrite. I fucking hate hypocrisy. “
___________
* This may or may not be true. But what is a fact is that before the band took off Jagger had a scholarship to study business and accounting at the London School of Economics.
Eric paused. If this rant was going anywhere, John wasn’t aware. Maybe Eric was drunk. Or maybe he was just old. It was easy to forget that a man was 91 when you had to run to keep up with him.
“Where was I?”
“I’m not sure. Something about money and principles and bastards?”
“Ah yes, let’s forget about the bastards. Money and principles. That was your question wasn’t it? You are big. Just like I said you would be. A bunch of students in Leeds have renamed their bar after you and in Dundee University they are nominating you for Vice Chancellor. Some idiot in Swanage has got you tattooed on his back. Though you are wearing England football kit and scoring a goal because he had started getting Wayne Rooney and changed his mind after seeing a video of your performance. Apparently there are even a couple of people have changed their name to John Smith.”
“What? Who? Why?”
“And ‘where’ and ‘when’. You’re getting the hang of this.”
“Why would they do that? Who would even know?”
“But who won’t know? Meet a new John Smith, there’s always a chance he’d changed his name to yours. That’s what makes it great story.”
“So my job is just to keep on selling papers?”
“No, you happen to sell papers because that isn’t a job. You have principles not a product. The students like you because they see you as a rebel. They’ll never rebel themselves but they don’t know that yet. Everyone else wants to know what you’ll do next, ready and waiting for you to fail. They’ll follow your story and they’ll pay money to see you because they simply can’t guess what happens next. Right now almost no one is listening to what you actually said. Your popularity is your unpredictability.”
“That’s mostly your unpredictability,” John said.
“Parlour tricks. We need to get their attention before we can tell anything. Before you tell, another performance, bigger, better, more shocking. Then people will listen. And everything else will follow.”
“Money? I don’t see how.”
“The fastest way to make money is to start your own religion.
This is the next best thing. Just ask Jagger. That reminds me, what music do you like? What bands?” Eric asked.
“All kinds really. Almost everything, except Phil Collins, he’s dreadful.” John replied unsure what sort of test this was.
“Yes, he’s a cunt. Let me put it another way; who would you like to open for you at Wembley?” said Eric, springing his surprise.
Ψ ?
It was only after long thought that Hazel had agreed to have dinner with the prime minister’s wife. She convinced herself that Marina Allan could not be all bad and not very scary. But Hazel kept coming back to the fact that she was some high flying corporate warrior queen, who reminded Hazel of Snow White’s evil stepmother.
Shona tried to suggest that the meeting took place at the studio. Marina Allan could watch the Friday show where Doctor Cole and Shona solved the audience’s problems and she could meet the pair of them after. She was told that Marina Allan was far too busy. Fortunately the alternative arrangements that Marina Allan’s office suggested was extremely acceptable to Shona. Marina Allan would like to meet the doctor for dinner at some fashionable and expensive restaurant. And it was suggested that Shona’s company could pay. (Although she could easily afford it, Marina Allan was not the sort to pay for her own dinner if she could avoid it.) This was a perfect compromise for Shona. If Shona was paying then no one could stop her attending and the meeting would be highly public. Especially once Shona had tipped off the press. (Though she did not need it, Shona was not the sort to pass up the publicity if she were dining with the Prime Ministress.)
When Marina Allan arrived, she was swept into the building in a swarm of six or seven menacing close protection officers. Unknown to Shona and Hazel, there already another eight in the building. Every entrance and exit was secure, armed officers sat at each of the tables on either side of them pretending to be businessmen having dinner. Crop-haired muscle bound businessmen wearing para-boots and drinking only mineral water. To be fair to them, that was their point.
They were there as an obvious deterrent to anyone who might be looking for them, but not so obvious as to spoil the rich atmosphere of Crivelli’s for everyone-else. Entering into the spirit of their roles, they even ordered food. (Which Shona would be billed for.)
One final officer patrolled the kitchen, alert to anyone attempting to sabotage the food destined for ‘the baggage’. He made sure that no ‘terrorists’ or other kitchen radicals tried to poison her with strychnine, cyanide or balsamic vinegar.
Especially not balsamic vinegar. Her Bach Flower therapist had expressly forbidden it. In a double Michelin starred modern Italian restaurant it was a clear and present danger. His presence also discouraged the deliberate adulteration of her food with human bodily fluids. A more common occurrence than you, she and especially her Bach Flower therapist might like to think.
“Julio, the twins personal fitness instructor, had a copy with him during their junior Pilates class the previous week and he was so enthusiastic about it that I asked Esme what she thought,” Marina explained.
Esme O’Brien was a tabloid editor’s dream. She was Marina Allan’s best friend and her husband’s worst nightmare. She was a former glamour model with even fewer O-levels than Princess Diana, any number of dodgy friends and an outlook so New Age that it was almost as if she had been born yesterday. She may well have been - re-birthing was an almost monthly activity for her. She was Marina’s most trusted friend and closest confidante. She advised Marina on everything; her wardrobe, her aromatherapy selections, probably even on Government policy.
Shona hated Esme O’Brien.
“Esme said that you possessed deep knowledge and wisdom but that you repressed your spiritual essence, but then that’s normal of Taureans,” Marina said.
“Really?” said Hazel biting her tongue, in a way not typical of Taureans. But then she was not a Taurean.
Naturally, Esme had not read ‘Help Yourself’ but she did like the title. As someone who did not have the mental capacity to think too much about anyone else, it had appealed to her. She worried when she flicked through it and found there were no pictures. Not one diagram mapping chakra meridians. Not even any rainbows or flowers. But when she had looked at the author photograph on the back fly-cover, she had sensed that Hazel was a good person. (And that she was a Taurean.) And Hazel was a good mother earth pleasing name, so the book had passed the Esme test.
Marina Allen reached into her brightly coloured authentic Bedouin Ha’goof and brought out a copy of ‘Help Yourself ’.
“Look, I’ve got your book.” She said to the frosty atmosphere at the table.
“Have you read it?” Hazel asked politely in a tone that Shona could not help but recognise. She dropped her fork.
“Oh no, I am far too busy,” Marina replied and the knife went too. “I was hoping you could tell me about it?”
Shona’s dreams hung on this answer. She saw a pained look flick over the doctor’s face. Then Hazel glanced fleetingly in her direction. When Hazel had agreed to this meeting, she knew she’d have to be on her best behaviour. She smiled a fake smile and had her first ever go at the cynical art of diplomacy.
For the first course she managed it. She spoke in empty statements. She ignored the absurdities that came back. She deflected difficult questions. She involved Shona as much as possible. Her food was most probably delicious but she had no respite to enjoy it. Her wine went down quickly.
The main course went better. Marina gave up on Dr. Cole and reluctantly conversed with Shona. To Marina’s surprise they bonded quite well. Shona was eager to agree with her potential new friend. They knew a lot of the same people. How funny that Madame Amethyst, a terrible gossip and name-dropper, had never mentioned that Shona was a client too. She and Shona spoke the same language. They talked it among themselves and left Dr Cole to enjoy her cod and her Chablis.
It was only at dessert that something snapped. Perhaps it was all the talk of crystals and auras. Perhaps it was listening to the checklist of ingredients that Marina Allan wouldn’t eat. Perhaps it was the three glasses of wine. In any event, Dr. Cole decided that she was a therapist, not a diplomat. The prime minister’s wife had just said something preposterous about happiness and Hazel could stay silent no longer.
“I am afraid I don’t agree.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Mrs Allan, Marina, you could not possibly be more successful. It seems to me that you have everything you could wish and have succeeded at everything you have attempted and yet you want something more? If the newspapers are to believed you go to psychics and healers. But surely you are the very last person that should need any help.”
“Oh, I disagree, we could all use spiritual help.”
“What you want is someone to tell you it’s okay? You want approval? Be successful because that is what you are supposed to do but when you close the office door and there is no-one watching, what then? That’s what you are scared of. You’ve reached the top and there is no one left to set you tests.”
“There’s God.” Marina Allen QC was not about to fold under cross-examination.
“Oh please, Can’t you see that God is just another father figure for you? You cling to Him because you need someone bigger than you, better than you to turn to when it all gets too much. To tell you it’s going to be okay.”
“I … my husband …” The moment she said it, she and the rest of the table knew it wasn’t true.
“Mrs Allen, It’s okay …”
There was a very long pause. Shona couldn’t read it at all. Her nails dug into her palms. At length, the prime Ministress spoke.
“My father died when I was thirteen…”
“And you still really miss him?”
“Every day”
“What about your mother?”
“She wasn’t really there. She didn’t cope very well.”
“But what about now?”
“I … We don’t speak. It easier. We don’t get on.”
“Mrs Allen, you have to stop this, stop worrying. You are doing okay. You are an inspiration to many, many women.” Hazel gestured at Shona “Shona is incredibly successful and has an amazing career but she looks up to you. She sees what you do and it inspires her. It is what you have done. What you have achieved, yourself.”
Thankful for the attention, Shona nodded earnestly. She crept her hand up onto the table. In reaching distance, should Marina need it.
“You have to believe in yourself too, as a woman. No man will ever replace your father, so there’s no man who’s approval is going to give you peace. You have to do that for yourself.” Hazel waited a second. “Your mother must be very proud of you too.”
There was a silence. And then, Marina Allen, the most powerful woman in the country, second only to Madonna in the eyes of Chat magazine, dissolved softly into tears. They were quiet and they were small but there wasn’t a person in the restaurant that did not notice.
* ¢
Apparently Eric was deadly serious about Wembley stadium. It was booked in four weeks time and tickets would go on sale as soon as they had selected a support act. It was only at the end of a very long day that John remembered he had another question.
“Eric, have there been any more death threats?”
Eric sent him in the direction of the letter editor.
It was one thing to ask Eric but putting the question to a total stranger, he reflected how ridiculous it would sound.
“Do you have mail for me?”
“Oh yes, so you are John Smith?” the letters editor chuckled to himself, “You have had fifteen proposals of marriage, and inevitably a fair number of far more indecent proposals, which are usually accompanied by helpful explanatory photographs. That is just the emails, I have not touched the mail bag, there’s a lot of angry looking ones and some of those parcels are just a bit too squishy for me.”
“Angry?” John asked worriedly.
“Yes, well there have been surprisingly few death threats.”
“There have been death threats?”
“A few but that is e-mail. Even deranged psychopaths know not to sign their names to their threats.”
“But there have been some?”
“A handful ten or twenty maximum by email. Judging by the bad spelling and atrocious grammar, none them would be bright enough to launch a decent assassination. They might manage an assault, which could be quite ugly judging by what they can do to the English language.” With some distaste, he gave John a sheaf of printed emails and handed him a grey mail sack.
John took his time to go through everything. It was pretty much like the letters editor had said. None them stood out as the sort of person who might set fire to your house. Though he wasn’t sure he knew how to spot that. He needed to speak to an expert. The policeman of the previous night entered his mind, and was summarily dismissed. John realised he was putting off the inevitable.
“I wouldn’t take any of them seriously.” Eric said. “But it shows you are on the right track.”
“For martyrdom?”
“Well, I guess that depends on how serious you are.”
“Death is the proof I’m living, not the prize”
“Okay, okay. Don’t worry about the death threats I’ve been getting them for years and I’ve not known a single writer who meant it.”
“But someone was actually trying to kill me.”
“There you are then, the chances of two crazed assassins...”
“And look at this one ‘Life is preparation for death, I hope you are well prepared.’ What is that? It’s not some froth-mouthed, armchair assassin, this person has an education”.
“Lots of people hate me. I don’t worry about it. Neither should you.”
“Wait a minute, you drive around in an armoured limo.”
“That’s business. I don’t have enemies, I have competitors.
They’ll only try and take me out if makes sense on the bottom-line. But the funny thing is, the more ruthless my competitors the better I seem to be able to do business with them.”
“I wonder why”
“You are in the religion business. If anyone wants to take you out it will be an Al Sharpton or the Vatican. But you are not even on their radar yet. And I doubt they would write to you in advance.”
“So, in summary, I keep going until I offend Opus Dei?”
“That’s the spirit. Speaking of which, Wembley Stadium needs a little more showmanship than a Covent Garden basement.
We’ll need a miracle and a sermon on the mount.”
? ¢
Maybe Eric was right about Dr. Cole. She was dangerous.
Shona dialled Eric’s number.
“I’ll do it.”
“I knew you’d see it my way.”
“I do,” Shona said. “You know how in the films Hannibal Lecter is supposed to get inside your head? Well Hazel Cole is a bit like that except that as far as I know she doesn’t eat any of her victims.”
“Who has she ‘helped’ this time?”
“Well she hasn’t helped me. She made Marina Allan cry in front of everybody at the best table in Crivelli’s.”
“Really? Perhaps I was wrong about Dr. Cole. Not that it matters, she’s queering the pitch for my boy and we’ve got to do something about it.” Eric paused as if checking something “The money will be in the account by tomorrow. I hope you are in a taxi.”
“No, I’m at home already.”
“Well, get in a taxi and get over here. There were two conditions to this deal. Remember?”