“Halifax had my full explanation weeks ago—not that he bothered reading it—and there is a full, if slightly biased, account on my desk in London of all my doings on behalf of Queen and Country. It may not be something that can be written up in my own lifetime. For all that, those in the know will be aware how an elderly Cabinet Minister, single-handedly and with reckless courage, pulled his country back from the edge of catastrophe.”
“And you really think they’ll believe that?” I sneered. I moved the lamp forward slightly, so my face couldn’t be seen, and looked about for a weapon. Perhaps I could throw a wine bottle at his head….
“Do pull that light back a little,” he said quietly. “I know what you’re thinking. Whatever trick you pulled on Michael downstairs, you’ll not be repeating with me.” As he spoke, I heard a faint shuffling and grating behind me. I looked round. We were alone in the wine cellar. I thought at first it might be rats or mice. But the sound was becoming more distinct. It was coming from behind the door that I’d just closed. I swallowed nervously and let my mouth fall open.
“Help me!” came a ghastly croak from just the other side of the door. “Help me!” Because it had no latch, I’d only pushed the door to. Now, pushed from within, it swung open. I stepped further back to avoid the clouds of sulphur gas that were illuminated a dirty brown by the lamp still burning below. From those dense clouds emerged a tiny figure that crawled and dragged its way slowly across the floor.
“Help me!” it croaked again, moving with slow but desperate concentration away from the place of its utter shipwreck. I tried to look away from the blackened, hairless scalp and the claws, almost devoid of flesh, that served in place of hands.
“Oh, my poor, dear Michael,” Macmillan crooned. “You do look a mess.” He stepped past me and looked down at what had, just minutes before, been a cackling, triumphant Michael Foot. “You know, I can’t help but suspect that you’d been planning to shit all over me. Nevertheless, I forgive you.” He bent forward and pushed the barrel of his gun into the exposed neck. He pulled the trigger and the body jerked once. It was over.
“The punishment was just,” he said to me. “And it was a mark of my forgiveness. Michael was, after all, a most distinguished President of the Oxford Union. Such a loss when he fell in with those ghastly Moscow people.” He kicked the body and flipped it over. I tried to look away from the burned away face and the almost eyeless sockets. It was like beholding the face of an unwrapped mummy. But Macmillan pushed me with his weak right hand and pointed at the far door. “Come on, Anthony,” he said. “Time and tide wait for no man—not to mention Russian bombs.
“And—ah—I’m putting my gun away. But I must warn you that, if you speak one word beyond this door, I will blow off both your kneecaps. I can tell you, from my experience in the trenches, that it is a most exquisitely painful injury.”
Macmillan’s butler had taken charge in the outermost of the cellars. He’d got servants and guests sat on the floor as if they’d been schoolchildren. The impression was heightened by the faint moan from about half of them of O God, Our Help in Ages Past.
“Excellent, Bellamy,” Macmillan said with a return of his Edwardian manner. “You’re a good man. Keep them together. Keep telling them that this is the best place for everyone to be when the bomb goes off.”
Despite the threat, I wanted to shout a warning. But Macmillan already had me across the room and on the steps that led up to the main house. The door firmly shut, the hall was now empty. Still, however, the flares shone through the fanlights, casting a lurid glow over the paintings and the polished wood.
Macmillan stopped just before the main staircase and looked mournfully about.
“This was a beautiful house,” he said—“yes, truly beautiful. My father would have been proud of the improvements I made to what was already one of the best houses in Sussex. Still, I can take if off the insurance.”
“You’re a bloody murderer,” I cried, finding my voice again. I pointed back towards the cellars. “You’ll kill them all.”
“Oh, the staff, the staff!” he replied with a groan. “The house can be rebuilt. But how will I replace the staff? Oh, the sacrifices one must make.” He righted a hat stand that had been knocked over and began a slow progress up the stairs.
“Come on, Anthony,” he urged, pointing his gun at me again. “You aren’t coming with me, of course. But I’d like you to see me off. After all the trouble you’ve caused me these past few days, it’s the very least you can do.”
“Harold!” a man cried from the first landing above us. “Harold! There’s a helicopter on the roof. But the pilot won’t take off without your instructions.” It was the fat Welshman who’d been lecturing Foot on law reform. Macmillan paused and looked up.
“That is the case, Roy,” he said. “Think of it as a lifeboat. But, you see, as with any lifeboat, it has limited room. And there is most decidedly no room in it for your bulk.” Without seeming to aim, he raised his gun and fired off a shot. He got the Welshman in the stomach, who fell backwards and writhed screaming on the carpet. He hurried up the remaining stairs and silenced the screams with another bullet. He turned to me and smiled.
“I had promised young Jenkins that he’d be Home Secretary in my Ministry of All the Talents,” he explained. “I don’t suppose anyone else now will be so eager to abolish hanging.” He looked at his watch. “But we must hurry,” he sighed. Even on the most optimistic counting, we are fast running out of time.” He looked once more at the solid elegance of polished wood about us, and stepped over the still body towards the next flight of stairs.
Up on the roof, the pilot already had the helicopter engine ticking over. Lit up from within, its glass and aluminium body gleamed from what was now a single, diminishing flare. Either sound didn’t reach too well this high, or the battle was finally coming to an end. Had Stanhope’s men given up? Or had they broken through? It was impossible to say.
“The battle looks to be over, dear boy,” Macmillan said as if he were reading my thoughts. “Even now, in the relative dark, attackers will be creeping forward. It really takes me back to my young days in the trenches. Time, then, for such farewells as we can manage. I’d like to take you off with me. All else aside, you are a writer of most promising talent. The problem is that your account of what I’ve been up to would jar with my own.” He moved towards the helicopter.
“You won’t get away with this,” I cried above the rising sound of the helicopter engine. “Stanhope at least will never believe your lies.” Macmillan stopped and looked back.
“Anthony,” he said, speaking loudly, “you must understand that the first thing anyone wants after a disaster like this is a narrative that makes sense of it. If my proposed narrative might seem bald and unconvincing to you, I am a politician. I will add to it a degree of artistic verisimilitude that will silence all doubts. When I am put down beyond that clump of birch trees in the distance, friendly hands will help me out, and uniformed men will salute me as I express my grief for all those I was unable to save.” He put his good hand onto the frame of the helicopter and prepared to heave himself aboard.
“Oh,” he shouted, turning back, “I’ll make you one final promise. While you were alive, The Times was always too sniffy to carry anything by the likes of you. Once I have a spare moment, I’ll see to a most glowing and regretful obituary. I may even write it myself.” He laughed and made an ironic bow.