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  Cue loud cheering from the English Nationalists, accompanied by much booing and hissing from the rest of the crowd, all except the small band of Tories who stood in awkward silence. One of the Anti-Fascists was caught on camera making a discreet V-sign in the direction of the Nationalists.

  ‘Tracey Jane Norton, Monster Raving Loony Party . . .’

  All eyes briefly turned to a young woman with green hair, a ring through her lips and tattoos on various parts of her anatomy.

  ‘. . . 98 votes.’

  Another pause for the hubbub to die down, and then, ‘Frederick Aneurin’ (yes, that was his middle name, once a source of embarrassment, now an electoral asset) ‘Thompson, the Labour candidate . . . 28,000 . . .’

  The hall erupted, many of the tellers joining in, little Lucy beside herself, applauding, leaping up and down. Outside, the dull roar of the crowd.

  Twice the returning officer had to call for order before he could make himself heard, ‘. . . 28,956.’ More cheers. ‘I, therefore, declare Frederick Aneurin Thompson duly elected as the member of parliament for Sheffield Parkside.’

  Thompson stepped up to the microphone. He thanked everybody who needed to be thanked and then addressed the nation, his every sentence interrupted by cheers. ‘It is absolutely clear from this result, and from results elsewhere in the country, that by tomorrow morning we shall be in a position to form a government. This marks a sea change in British politics. This is the moment when the British people have decided to reject the follies of the past and move forward to a brighter future. We shall do so in a spirit of tolerance and goodwill. Once again Britain shall become an outward-looking country, holding our heads high. It will not be plain sailing. I do not underestimate the difficulties which lie ahead. But to coin a phrase from a previous era, “Things Can Only Get Better”.’

  And with that he shook hands with the returning officer and stepped smartly down from the stage, into the warm embrace of his wife and daughter, as all around people vied to shake his hand, minders looking on warily.

  ‘Sir.’ It was Nigel, from Protection, who had come in person to supervise security arrangements for the big night. He wouldn’t have missed this for anything. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, I think it would be wise to go back upstairs and wait for things to calm down. Then we can depart for London . . . there is a rear entrance. We will bring the car round . . .’

  ‘A rear entrance? You must be joking, Nigel. If you think I’m going to skulk out of a back door on this, the biggest night of my life, you’ve got another think coming. First, I’m going to the front to address a few words to the crowd outside, after that we’ll see . . .’

  ‘With all due respect, sir . . .’

  All around people were snapping him on their mobiles, while the minders did their best to keep them at bay.

  ‘WE WANT FRED,’ came the roar from outside.

  ‘Nigel, get real. These people want to see me. I can’t just slink out the back. We’re going out.’

  With that Thompson began to stride towards the double doors that led through the anteroom to the grand staircase. Lucy clutching his hand on one side, Elizabeth on the other. Well-wishers slapping him on the back, mobiles aloft, Nigel and his team warily clearing a path, people still applauding.

  ‘WE WANT FRED.’ The chants grew louder. Uniformed policemen were holding the doors open. A scrum around them now; the minders grim-faced, not quite in control.

  A hand emerged from the melee, on his right side. At first Thompson took it to be a well-wisher, wanting to shake his hand. He let go of Elizabeth . . . Too late, he glimpsed the Union Jack tattoo . . . protruding from under a long-sleeved shirt.

  * * *

  He never even saw the blade. No one did, until it was too late. Or even felt anything as it entered the soft flesh below his ribcage. Once, twice . . . three times. The minders were a full two paces ahead, eyes elsewhere. Elizabeth screamed. Behind, he was dimly aware of a scuffle and a loud voice bawling, ‘BRITAIN FIRST . . . DEATH TO TRAITORS.’ The minders swung round, surprised.

  The crowd around him had melted. Except for Lucy, who was still clutching his left hand. For a few seconds they stood completely alone. Somewhere to his right someone was screaming. It sounded like Elizabeth, but he couldn’t be sure. The cheers and applause had stopped. It was very quiet. Something had happened, but he wasn’t sure what.

  And then, suddenly, a sharp pain in his right side; he clutched at his shirt, something warm and wet trickled over his fingers, a red stain spreading. ‘BRITAIN FIRST,’ the voice, more distant now, was still calling as he toppled slowly backwards, a tree in the forest falling.

  His eyes were still open. Lucy was hugging him. ‘My dad, my dad!’ she was screaming. Someone pulled her off. Faces peered down at him. Then Elizabeth was on her knees beside him. ‘Fred, Fred, Fred,’ was all she said.

  ‘Sorry, Lizzie . . .’ Quietly. Almost inaudible. She put her ear to his mouth, ‘. . . so, so sorry.’

  He closed his eyes. Darkness. And then, ‘Hello, Dad.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s me, Dad. Don’t you remember?’

  A smiling little face. Radiant. No sign of Malfoy. Her golden curls had come back. It was Little Sunshine.

  ‘See you again soon, Dad. On our island.’

  And then she, too, was gone and the darkness returned.

  * * *

  Later, all in good time, there would be a judicial inquiry. One question above all dominated. How, in the name of all that is holy, had Thomas Walter Merton managed to penetrate the wall of security around the election count? He was, it transpired, an election observer. Not, as one might have expected, for the English Nationalists. On the contrary, security footage of the count showed that he steered well clear of them. No, he had been there as a volunteer with the Green Party. But surely he had been vetted? Yes indeed he had, like everyone else admitted to Town Hall on that fateful night, but it turned out he had another identity, complete with driving licence, passport, bank account. All in the name of Joseph Michael Fortune, a forklift truck driver in an out-of-town warehouse who shared the same lodgings as Merton and was a member of the Green Party. Apparently Merton had been out campaigning with the Greens. Fellow campaigners spoke well of him. He had worked hard, leafleting, door knocking. He had changed his appearance, too. Positively respectable, he looked. Regrown his hair, always wore long sleeves, no sign of tattoos. How, then, had he managed to smuggle a six-inch blade into the Town Hall, past not one but two metal detectors? Turned out he had brought it in three days earlier and hidden it in the cistern of the gents’ toilet. CCTV footage taken during the count showed him disappearing in the direction of the toilets fifteen minutes before the result was announced. As for the real Joseph Michael Fortune, his remains were discovered a month after the election in a peat bog on the moors above Kinder Scout.

  * * *

  The funeral procession set off from Barker’s Pool. Like his mentor, Harry Perkins, Thompson’s coffin lay for three days in state in the City Hall to allow the public to pay their respects. They came in large numbers. Flowers piled up on the steps, many with messages attached. ‘So long, Fred. You were our last hope,’ said one. The crowds that lined the route were every bit as large as those who had turned out for Harry. This time, however, there was no last-minute appearance by the king. He had, however, publicly spoken of his dismay at what had happened and Elizabeth received a long letter of condolence, hand-delivered from Clarence House (still his official residence), regretting that he had not had the chance to get to know Fred, for whom he expressed much admiration, and full of angst about what was happening to the country.

  There was a big turnout from parliament, headed by the speaker and the leaders of all parties. Felicity Mather had been appointed Labour’s acting prime minister and it was widely expected that in due course she would be chosen to replace Fred Thompson. As before, Jock Steeples and Mrs Cook were in the front rank of the mourners, along with Stephen Carte
r, who was for the time being at least, the Foreign Office minister in charge of relations with Europe.

  The wicker coffin was topped by a wreath of white lilies and little posy of flowers, to which was attached a note in large, childish handwriting: ‘TO MY DEAREST, DEAREST DADDY, WITH LOVE FROM LUCY XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX’. To which she had added a postscript: ‘I hope you like these flowers. They came from Granny and Grandpa’s garden.’

  Immediately behind the hearse, a bewildered little girl in her best white dress to which was pinned a single red rose, face stained with tears, clutching her mother’s hand. Elizabeth, ashen-faced, in a dark two-piece suit, a red rose in her buttonhole, staring resolutely ahead, expressionless. Alongside, her parents. Mother upright, sprightly, stoic. Father, ruddy-cheeked, ram-rod straight, white handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket, limping slightly, supporting himself with a gold-topped walking stick. Behind them the lord mayor, resplendent in his gold chain and robes of office.

  Among the wreaths, displayed on the steps of the City Hall, one from an address in Somerset, labelled in an illegible scrawl. Another, the source of much speculation, was signed simply, ‘Hugh’.

  The city fathers had wanted to bury Fred Thompson in the General Cemetery, alongside the city’s other favourite son, but Elizabeth would have none of it. Instead, following a short, private service, his remains were cremated. In due course she and Lucy would travel to ‘their’ island where the ashes would be scattered along with those of their beloved Catherine, on the grassy mound above the beach and the little white cottage in which they had once lived so happily. A small cairn marks the spot.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, in the Taiwan Straits, it was reported that the USS Donald Trump had been in collision with a Chinese warship.

  Also by Chris Mullin

  Novels

  A Very British Coup

  The Last Man Out of Saigon

  The Year of the Fire Monkey

  Diaries

  A View from the Foothills

  Decline and Fall

  A Walk-on Part

  Non-fiction

  Error of Judgement: The Truth about the Birmingham Bombings

  Hinterland: A Memoir

  First published in Great Britain by Scribner,

  an imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2019

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Chris Mullin, 2019

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  Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-8248-8

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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