It's my first real post, and the first story in my Prosaic project. It is my most rapidly ageing piece of work, as when I wrote it Nick Clegg had only just entered into the Coalition after impressing at the debates. He looked a little like a great man, or at least one who thought he was...
Deep within the corridors of power, in the seat of British government and the heart of this still great nation, two men stride with purpose. They are headed for the same destination, a small hallway that branches off to a broom cupboard on the second floor; a ‘hall of power’ if you will.
Though this hall is of smaller stature than the corridor to which it abuts, the occasion of this meeting is so significant that, were there an official responsible for the nomenclature of the sectors of the Houses of Parliament floor plan, he would feel obligated to promote this unassuming space to corridor status. Of course this hypothetical bureaucrat would have to become aware of this meeting, and he never would.
That’s right, it’s that secret.
The smaller of the men arrives first, looking about himself before entering through the door to ensure the utmost secrecy. He is a man small of stature, even then being slightly hunched over to shrink himself further. The prime minister prefers those accustomed to standing next to him to appear shorter than he is.
The second man strides down the second floor corridor coolly observing his surroundings in case of passers by. This man shows no nervousness, but an assured sense of authority. He is certain to remain completely unobserved; he is too well known to risk anyone catching a glance. After casting a final glare up and down the second floor corridor, he too slips quietly through the oft ignored door to his clandestine meeting.
Inside, the small man is slouching nervously, unconsciously wringing his hands in front of him.
“Hello Robert,” says the second man with a cheerful smile, “how are the kids?”
A frown crosses Robert’s face, “Er, very well Deputy Prime Minister…”
“Please, call me Nick.” His smile fixed itself in a slightly unnatural rictus grin.
Robert kicks himself internally, of course he doesn’t like to be reminded of his position as number two. He just prays that ‘Nick’ hasn’t heard the jokes around the office about him being full of number two as well…
Coughing slightly to break his train of thought, Robert briskly movs on to the crux of the matter.
“I understand you have a task for me?”
“You know very well what I’m asking you to do; it’s why I put you in David’s office in the first place. All that matters is the details.
“I have here a box of cigars, Cubans to be precise. Tomorrow, the Cuban President will be arriving in Britain
Robert tilts his head slightly in acquiescence.
“What you may not know is that it has been confirmed that the president will be bringing a box of cigars as a gift and hopes to share a smoke with the PM. In the interest of this relationship, David has agreed to do this, and a small room in number 10 has been set aside for this purpose.
“In this box is a case identical to the one that the president will present tomorrow. I have ensured that you will have an opportunity between the presentation and the smoking of the cigars, to switch the boxes. This you will do”
“And then?”
“You know very well what. I made a promise to the British people that I would lead this nation out of the recession, of solving immigration and cancelling the Trident program. I am a man of my word.”
“And the fact that most of the nation voted not to have you follow those promises?”
Robert recoils slightly at the sight of another of those fixed, darkened smile.
“Irrelevant. This is a matter of personal integrity. You know that. Now get to work.”
Robert takes the small proffered box, clutching it in front of him in such a way that he looks positively squirrelly. Nodding once to the mastermind of this scheme, he hurries from the hall into the corridor. In his head he wonders at how double assassination, misleading the world and seizing control of a nuclear power is a matter of integrity. He doesn’t ever voice these concerns, partly because he knows better than that, and partly because tomorrow he will learn firsthand of the dangers of passive smoking; his death a necessary act of tidying up and a part of the plan he has not been made aware of. He will discover this soon enough.
Inside that ever so significant hallway, the soon-to-be-prime-minister folds his arms and leans back against the wall, dreaming of history about to be made, and confident that the last five minutes cannot form part of it. He sighs to himself and dreams of the future that he promised, a future he will deliver. At any cost.
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