Prime Minister Camemblert adopted a thoughtful frown. He held it for exactly five seconds and did a little chin rubbing while he was at it for good measure. Then he thrust his jaw forward and gave his visitors one of his best-ever determined Churchillian looks.
“Leave it with me, gentlemen,” he said. “I won’t let you down.”
The burghers of Huddersfield, who were all Tories, had come to him with their caps in their hands seeking funds to rebuild their town. They felt reassured by this.
Prime Minister Camemblert had ordered the bombing of Huddersfield to cleanse it of zombies; and they knew from the Churchillian look he was giving them that they could rely on him to secure funds for them to repair the damage it had caused.
“Thank you Prime Minister,” they chorused, with much tugging of forelocks. “Thank you ever so much.”
As if hypnotised, they all stood up and allowed themselves to be ushered by the PM out the door of Number 10, without any promise of any money whatsoever. He waved them goodbye from the door, a cheery smile on his face for the benefit of the waiting press, as flashbulbs popped all around him.
He was vaguely aware of the burghers giving interviews to the press as they made their way down Downing Street.
“I won’t let you down,” he heard them saying.
He finished waving and shut the front door of number 10, and allowed himself the luxury of a satisfied smile. They were quoting his very words! That would be great for his image.
He went back to his office, and then he had a terrifying thought. What was he going to do, so as to avoid letting them down? He had no idea.
He picked up the telephone and called his Aide.
“Johnson,” he said. “Get in here at once. I need you for a brainstorming session.”
A few minutes later, Johnson entered the P.M.’s office with his ‘House of Commons’ ballpoint pen and pad, the ones with the portcullis logo on them. He sat down opposite the P.M.
“What are we brainstorming about, Prime Minister?” He asked.
“Huddersfield,” said Camemblert. “The town’s burghers came here asking for money, and I sent them packing saying I wouldn’t let them down, but I can’t give them any money, the Chancellor wouldn’t stand for it. And besides, it’s against my tory principles. So I need to think of some other way to make them happy; or at least, to not get any bad publicity out of it.”
“Quite, Prime Minister. Who’s going to start with the brainstorming session? You or me?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I do. Me. No, you.”
“How about asking the Chancellor for money from his contingency budget?”
“I’ve just told you, the Chancellor won’t stand for it.”
“Well, there’s nothing to be lost by asking him.”
“Yes there is, I don’t like him and I don’t like spending time with him. Have you ever seen those looks he gives me? I’d sack him right now if it wasn’t for the fact that his supporters would use it as an excuse to get rid of me.”
“We seem to have an impossible problem then, Prime Minister.”
“Nothing is impossible, Johnson. Look at me. I’m Prime Minister and people said that was impossible.”
“They’re still saying it,” Johnson muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, prime Minister.”
“Wait a minute, I’ve got it. I’ve got the answer. Trickle-down.”
“What’s trickle-down?”
“It’s where rich people spend money somewhere, and the poor people benefit as a result.”
“You mean like living off the scraps that fall off the table?”
“A bit like that, yes. No, no. What are you saying Johnson? It’s a way of helping people to help themselves, rather than creating a nation of scroungers. Now let me think. How can we get people to spend money in a place like Huddersfield?”
“How indeed Prime Minister? There are no shops there any more to spend money in. You bombed them all flat, remember?”
“We can set up market stalls then. Or the people of Huddersfield can set them up. Wait, it’s just come to me, I know exactly what we should do. We’ve got an approved budget for entertaining the American President while he’s over here. We can use the money to pay for the V.O.Z day celebrations that take place in Huddersfield, and we can take the president there. We’ll send our best troupes of clog-dancing zombies up to Huddersfield to impress him. That way, we can revive the fortunes of the ailing little town without actually spending any money on it, as such. I bet you the townsfolk will make a mint on V.O.Z day just by setting up a decent tombola stand in St George’s Square.”
“A tombola stand? — Brilliant, Prime Minister. That’s just what’s needed to revive the flagging fortunes of a once-proud woollen town in the north of England.”
“Well, you better get to it Johnson.”
“Get to what, Prime Minister?”
“Telling the people of Huddersfield about their good fortune.”
“What good fortune would that be, Prime Minister?”
“That instead of simply taking the easy way out, and giving them a pile of cash to rebuild their town with, we’re dealing with their problem in an imaginative way. We’re trickling down funds to them from the private sector, and we’re using V.O.Z day to do it.”
“Oh I see. That good fortune Prime Minister. I rather thought you’d want to tell them about that yourself, as it was your idea.”
“I would, Johnson, but I’m busy preparing for P.M.Q.’s, and anyway, I know how you like to hob-nob with the press whenever we’ve got a good story to tell, so I’m putting it in your capable hands.”
“I will be eternally grateful to you for that, prime Minister.”
CHAPTER 4
The news of the many deaths in the sleepy Yorkshire village of Nobblethwaite was reported nationally.
A spook, intrigued by the news, hacked into the police computers at the Nab police H.Q., and read the reports of eight deaths, all of them seemingly caused by a wild animal, which some witnesses described as a domestic cat, and others as a tiger. There was even a suggestion that it was a were-cat.
The forensic analysis of the corpses was baffling. It confirmed that the creature that was responsible was indeed a cat. But no domestic cat could have wreaked such havoc.
Unless, of course, it was another zombie cat like the one that had been on the rampage in London and Huddersfield during the recent war with the zombies.
The spook compiled a report and sent it to the head of MI5, and the head of MI5 sent it to Johnson, the P.M.’s Aide. Johnson decided he should bring it to the attention of the P.M. immediately.
The P.M. was burdened with paperwork as usual.
And as usual, he couldn’t be bothered with it. He left it lying on his desk in ever-bigger piles and read the morning papers instead. He found that far more enjoyable than any of the official documents he was supposed to read.
When Johnson brought the report from MI5 into his office at number 10 Downing Street, the P.M. looked up from the Daily Mail.
“What’s that you’ve got Johnson?” He asked. “It’s not another bloody report is it? Because if it is, I’m sick to the back teeth of them. Just put it there, will you?”
He waved his arm airily over the many piles of papers, some of them as much as two foot high that were stacked up on his desk.
Johnson didn’t move.
“What are you waiting for?” The P.M. asked.
He pointed at the biggest pile of papers, which had a patina of dust on top it. “Put it there, man. I’ll get around to it.”
Johnson ignored these instructions and thrust the report towards the P.M.
“There’s no time to lose, Prime Minister. You have to read this right now,” he said.