There was very little traffic in Parliament Square and the iron gates to the entrance of the Palace of Westminster were closed. Here once a year Parliament meets, the Members elected by the District and Regional Councils. No bills are debated, no legislation is enacted, Britain is governed by decree of the Council of England. The official function of Parliament is to discuss, advise, receive information and make recommendations. Each of the five members of the Council reports personally in what the media describe as the annual message to the nation. The session lasts only for a month and the agenda is set by the Council. The subjects discussed are innocuous. Resolutions by a two-thirds majority go to the Council of England, who can reject or accept as they will. The system has the merit of simplicity and gives the illusion of democracy to people who no longer have the energy to care how or by whom they are governed as long as they get what the Warden has promised: freedom from fear, freedom from want, freedom from boredom.
For the first few years after Omega, the King, still uncrowned, opened Parliament with the old splendour, but driving through almost empty streets. From being the potent symbol of continuity and tradition, he has become an unemployable archaic reminder of what we have lost. Now he still opens Parliament, but quietly, wearing a lounge suit, stealing in and out of London almost unnoticed.
I could remember a conversation I’d had with Xan the week before I resigned my post. “Why don’t you get the King crowned? I thought you were anxious to maintain normality.”
“What would be the point of it? People aren’t interested. They would resent the huge expense of a ceremony which has become meaningless.”
“We hardly ever hear of him. Where is he, under house arrest?”
Xan had given his inward laugh. “Hardly house. Palace or castle arrest, if you like. He’s comfortable enough. Anyway I don’t think that the Archbishop of Canterbury would agree to crown him.”
And I remembered my reply. “That’s hardly surprising. You knew when you appointed Margaret Shivenham to Canterbury that she was a fervent republican.”
Just inside the railings of the park, walking in line along the grass, came a company of flagellants. They were naked to the waist, wearing, even in the cold of February, nothing but yellow loincloths and sandals on their bare feet. As they walked they swung back the heavy knotted cords to lacerate already bleeding backs. Even through the car window I could hear the whistle of the leather, the thud of the whips on naked flesh. I looked at the back of the driver’s head, the half moon of meticulously cropped dark hair under the cap, the single mole above the collar which had irritatingly held my gaze for most of the silent journey.
Now, determined to get some response from him, I said: “I thought this kind of public display had been made illegal.”
“Only on the public highway or pavement, sir. I imagine they feel they’re entitled to walk through a park.”
I asked: “Do you find the spectacle offensive? I gather that was why the flagellants were banned. People dislike the sight of blood.”
“I find it ridiculous, sir. If God exists and He’s decided He’s had enough of us, He isn’t going to change His mind because a rabble of no-hopers dress up in yellow and go wailing through the park.”
“Do you believe in Him? Do you believe He exists?”
We had drawn up now at the door of the old Foreign Office. Before getting out to open the door for me he looked round and gazed into my face. “Perhaps His experiment went spectacularly wrong, sir. Perhaps He’s just baffled. Seeing the mess, not knowing how to put it right. Perhaps not wanting to put it right. Perhaps He only had enough power left for one final intervention. So He made it. Whoever He is, whatever He is, I hope He burns in His own hell.”
He spoke with extraordinary bitterness, and then his face assumed its cold, immobile mask. He stood to attention and opened the door of the car.
The Grenadier on duty inside the door was one Theo recognized. He said, “Good morning, sir,” and smiled almost as if there had been no lapse of three years and Theo was entering as of right to take his appointed place. Another Grenadier, this time unknown to him, came forward and saluted. Together they mounted the ornate staircase.
Xan had rejected Number Ten Downing Street as both his office and residence, and had chosen instead the old Foreign and Commonwealth building overlooking St. James’s Park. Here he had his private flat on the top floor, where, as Theo knew, he lived in an ordered and comfortable simplicity which is only achievable when buttressed by money and staff. The room at the front of the building, used twenty-five years ago by the Foreign Secretary, had from the first been both Xan’s office and the Council chamber.
Without knocking, the Grenadier opened the door and loudly announced his name.
He found himself facing, not Xan, but the full Council. They were sitting at the same small oval table he remembered, but along one side only and closer than was usual. Xan was in the middle, flanked by Felicia and Harriet, with Martin on the far left, Carl on his right. A single vacant chair had been placed immediately opposite Xan. It was a calculated ploy obviously intended to disconcert him, and momentarily it succeeded. He knew that the five pairs of watching eyes hadn’t missed his involuntary hesitation at the door, the flush of annoyance and embarrassment. But surprise gave way to a spurt of anger and the anger was helpful. They had taken the initiative, but there was no reason why they should retain it.
Xan’s hands were lying lightly on the table, the fingers curved. Theo saw the ring with a shock of recognition and knew that he was meant to recognize it. It could hardly have been concealed. Xan was wearing on the third finger of his left hand the Coronation Ring, the wedding ring of England, the great sapphire surrounded with diamonds and surmounted with a cross of rubies. He looked down at it, smiled, and said: “An idea of Harriet’s. It would look appallingly vulgar if one didn’t know that it was real. The people need their baubles. Don’t worry, I’m not proposing to have myself anointed by Margaret Shivenham in Westminster Abbey. I doubt whether I could get through the ceremony with the appropriate gravity. She looks so ridiculous in her mitre. You’re thinking that there was a time when I wouldn’t have worn it.”
Theo said: “A time when you wouldn’t have felt the need to wear it.” He could have added: “Nor the need to tell me that it was Harriet’s idea.”
Xan motioned towards the empty chair. Theo took it and said: “I asked for a personal interview with the Warden of England and I understood that was what I was getting. I’m not applying for a job, nor am I a candidate for a viva voce.”
Xan said: “It’s three years since we met or spoke. We thought you might like to meet old—what would you say, Felicia?—friends, comrades, colleagues?”
Felicia said: “I would say acquaintances. I never understood Dr. Faron’s precise function when he was Warden’s Adviser and it hasn’t become clearer with his absence and the passing of three years.”
Woolvington looked up from his doodling. The Council must have been sitting for some time. He had already massed a company of foot soldiers. He said: “It never was clear. The Warden asked for him and that was good enough for me. He didn’t contribute very much, as I remember, but neither did he hinder.”
Xan smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s in the past. Welcome back. Say what you’ve come to say. We’re all friends here.” He made the banal words sound like a threat.