Act III

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fill! - A Parliament of Owls (2/?)

[anonymous]

-
"Follow us." The bodyguards wore black suits and dark sunglasses, reflecting the sun, leading him through house.

He reached a man sitting in an armchair in the library. He stood as Nick approached, stretching out a wrinkled hand. Clegg shook it.

"Mr. Murdoch."

"Mr. Clegg. What can we do for you?" Nick was ready to speak. He had the speech ready. He had his argument, counter argument, the whole contrapuntal composition at the tip of his tongue when the secretary suddenly approached and whispered in Murdoch's ear. He waited, tapping his feet, while Murdoch frowned, the smiled. He turned toward Nick again.

"Before anything else, would you like George Osborne back?"

"Where is he?"

Murdoch started laughing. It was an alarming sound. "In Korfu, where else. In Mandelson's sea fortress! Now, Deputy Prime Minister, what would you trade for your Chancellor?"

-

The metaphors had grown more elaborate by the year, but a coalition government that ruled by reasons more akin to a dictatorship than a democracy must know when to compromise, and David Cameron had always been a good politician, even a great one. The Dispatch Box had been rescued, enough of the MPs had survived (or putatively re-elected), and the Bercows found a venue sufficiently like the House that he could still suffer through the form and formalities as if nothing had ever gone wrong.

Lately, he had been compared to a pining Penelope, waiting for the return of Clegg-Odysseus, while spinning vague promises of policies and unraveling them almost overnight. It had been taken up with great enthusiasm in the House, and he found himself sitting, flanked by two empty spaces, propped only by the reassurance that if he survived this term, he could be remembered, at least by history, to be equal or greater than Churchill- for leading his country through a combination of natural crises, global recession, and civil unrest.

They knew it, too, which was why, when Harriet Harman, the intensity of her voice unfaded, said that he will remain "Faithful till the bitter end while we suffer and he wait for the return of a doubtful connubial bliss. Has our Prime Minister already thought of a question, of such nature that only Mr. Clegg knew?" He could answer that yes, he did, but was hardly going to share with the public. It was, after all, a question that belonged to the privacy of the marriage and would the members of the opposition respect it?

They laughed. The Tories cried "Hear, Hear." They could hardly do anything else. In the echo of the hall, converted from a large ancient barn, it sounded like the hootings of owls. It was not only David Cameron who was waiting, but all of Britain. Quarantined from the rest of the world, Nick Clegg was their only official representative abroad. The document had contained the signatures of all three parties.

-

"What are you thinking today, Gideon?" The voice asked, "You were restless last night. I watched you toss and turn all night."

"My name is George," George said perfunctorily. The revelation that he was on twenty-hour surveillance no longer offended him as much as it did the first time. He even derived a small sense of pleasure from it- that someone was watching him and cared what he did.

"Bad dream again?"

"I wake up in a bad dream."

"What were you dreaming about? Dashing David coming to the rescue again? Flowery wallpaper, perhaps? One with gold trimmings? Chocolate coins?"

George didn't reply. The taunts were very mild compared to what he bore in what seemed like two lifetimes away. At least, here, there was no physical violence.

"I have good news for you today, Gideon. You're looking peaky lately. Perhaps we can wait until after lunch."

"You'll come back?" Asked George, disgusted by the pathetic plea that came out. Their exchanges never came twice in one day.

"I will, if you ask."

George stood, stunned, and approached the door.