Passionfruit 22 [Heroes of the Revolution]
Title: Ashes and Dust
Author: lost_spook
Story: Heroes of the Revolution
Flavor(s): Passionfruit #22 (time is the fire in which we burn)
Toppings/Extras: Caramel
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 3290
Notes: late 1992; Charles Terrell, Marian Dalton, Edward Woodfield, Louise (Liesa) Seaton. Post-canon; the new government is becoming more established, when there’s an unexpected attack in London. (It's been a while since I wrote the actual canon and this takes place a few months on from the main events, but (No) More Than Love and whatever is true, whatever is right cover most of the Charles & Marian aspects. This fic has been hanging around for about two years now, and the handwritten version probably at least three. I get there in the end... /o\)
Summary: One revolution leads to another; that’s the way it goes.
***
The first explosion was so small that nobody knew exactly what it was. The second, however, went off on Westminster Bridge, stopping the traffic, killing a cab driver, and swiftly making the news.
Marian Dalton had been making her way over to New Parliament House when she heard it. She stopped and turned to look, much as the rest of the people around her did - and probably they were suddenly remembering the bad old days, just as she was.
The third explosion shook the new Parliament buildings. Charles Terrell was in the lobby, talking to Edward Woodfield, and they and everybody around them turned. There was no immediate sign of what had caused it, but they could hear the sounds of unusual activity elsewhere filtering through the sudden wary silence here: shouts and hurried footsteps from all directions.
“Sir,” said the nearest police officer. “Prime Minister. This way. You, too, sir,” he said to Woodfield.
Woodfield followed, but raised his eyebrows at Charles as they went. “Good God, what now?”
“Déjà vu,” said Charles under his breath. He was sure he could also hear shooting now, just as they had that morning a year and a half ago. Was it all happening again? He couldn’t help thinking it might be, and as the first shock began to recede, he felt only anger and frustration. Not now, he thought, not when they were getting somewhere. What idiot was going to step in at this moment and throw all that away, only to start the whole bloody cycle all over again?
“Terrell!” Woodfield said as the hall echoed with a shot that sounded even louder than the explosion. The policeman beside them fell without a word.
Charles darted a hasty glance around, then grabbed at Woodfield, leading him out of the hall at a run, and into one of the offices.
Woodfield directed a quick, observant glance around the small room while Charles locked the door. He moved across to the window before turning around. “Damn you, there’s no other exit.”
“Well, then, shut up and help me barricade the door,” said Charles, and they shunted the filing cabinet over in front of it, and then the desk, political rivalry temporarily cast aside in favour of survival for a few more minutes.
Woodfield leant against the wall. “They will find us, you know. They’re bound to be after you.”
“Time is all we need,” said Charles, hoping it was true. “The security services will have everything under control soon.”
Woodfield tilted his head to one side. “It’s not reminding you of anything, is it? I remember being locked in one of these rooms before, only last time it was your lot. I seem to recall hearing that you were, too - until your friends dragged you out. The benefits of being a double agent, eh? I never ran to treachery, despite my many other sins.”
Charles couldn’t deny it. He crossed to the window, hoping to see something that would suggest Special Branch or the police or someone was beginning to get a handle on things. This lot, whoever they were, couldn’t be as organised as Colonel Seaton’s people had been. Seaton had known what he was doing and he’d had people already in the government. This had come so out of the blue, it had to be a more random rebel group, or maybe a terrorist organisation, most likely after a specific aim.
“They’ll kill us both, you know,” Charles said. “If they find the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition handily shut in together, they’re not going to let either of us go.” He winced, hearing more shots outside. “I don’t think they’re the type.”
Woodfield nodded. “I’m fully aware of that. So, forgive me if I distract us from our likely impending deaths with less dangerous arguments.”
It wasn’t like last time, anyway, Charles thought, leaning his head against the wall in weariness. Last time he’d been locked in, Anna had come and let him out. It was Anna who’d organised everything, Anna who’d made him Prime Minister, Anna who’d come to rescue him and Woodfield once before when an angry rebel had made targets out of them. Today Anna wasn’t here, and he wasn’t sure he had the same faith in anyone else.
The intruder who made it into Louise Seaton’s private quarters in the palace hesitated before raising his gun to shoot her. It was a costly error, since Mrs Seaton - Liesa - made no such mistake.
“Ma’am,” said the soldier who reached her moments later only to find her bending over the body.
Liesa looked up briefly and then held up a hand as she removed the gun and searched the fallen rebel for ammunition. He wasn’t much more than a boy, she thought, but it was merely a detached observance. Liesa had been a fighter for a long time before she had been an important state figure and she slipped back into the role with ease.
“Please, ma’am,” said the soldier again. “I must get you to safety. They’ve already taken hold of New Parliament House and we’ve got fighting here, too.”
She straightened herself and faced him. “Captain Alcott, isn’t it? I’m not going to safety. We need to take back first the palace and then Parliament House. They may have struck an impressive blow, but they’re clearly amateurs - or this young man certainly was. They can’t hold the place for long, not against any serious resistance.”
“It’s imperative you reach safety -”
“I understand,” said Liesa. “However -” She stopped, catching sight of more movement behind him in the corridor. “Stay still!” she ordered, and fired again, past Captain Alcott, hitting the second rebel.
Alcott swung round and caught hold of the man as he fell, pulling his weapon from him and shoving him to the ground.
“Amateurs, you see,” said Liesa, with a wry little smile. “Get him in here and we’ll see if he’s got any idea about their strength, numbers and strategy.”
Captain Alcott ceased to argue, and nodded. “Yes, ma’am!”
“Tell us what it is you want,” Charles said, as he and Woodfield were marched out at gunpoint into the open space between the buildings. He kept his mind on his efforts to reach his captors and not on the situation, which had not yet been rectified by the security services after all. “We might be able to reach an agreement. You’ve got no chance of holding the country, not like this. You can kill us, but you’ll also wind up dead. How about we try to work out an alternative?”
“I don’t care,” said one of them. “No bloody point to anything anyway, is there?”
Woodfield raised an eyebrow. “How pessimistic in one so young.”
“Angry at the world, I suppose?” said Charles, ignoring Woodfield and focusing on the rebel who was willing to talk. “How is this going to help?”
“We’ll get rid of you - all of you,” he said. “What’s changed, since you lot took over? We’ll do better to kill you all and burn this place down. And if they kill us, at least we’ll have done that - it won’t be so easy for anyone to start again.”
Charles could recognise the urge to give up on everything, just to destroy it all instead and hope something better would rise from the ashes, but that wasn’t how the world worked. “You really want to take us back even further? When you disrupt government, it’s not just about politicians like us - all the infrastructure, the vital services need to be maintained or people are going to suffer even more than they already have.”
“And if that’s your agenda,” said Woodfield, “why haven’t you killed us already?”
Charles darted a dark look in the other’s direction, but Woodfield either didn’t see it, or didn’t choose to see it, ignoring him.
“It’s not a bluff,” said the rebel. “We just want people to know you’ve gone. We’ve got a couple of the BBC people here, and we’re going to use them to let everyone in the country see it.”
That was a chilling thought. Even aside from the idea of someone hanging him, Marian was supposed to be arriving this morning. Charles didn’t want to think of her instead watching his execution live on television. That was definitely not what they’d planned. He took a deep breath and made himself continue the conversation. It might be their only hope.
“So,” he said, “You’re going to kill us. Fair enough. But what do you give people? If not a new government, what? Get rid of as many of us as you can and then what happens? Panic? Anarchy? Starvation and disease? Is that what you want?”
Another one of them turned. They didn’t have uniforms, but he had a red armband tied round his sleeve - one of their leaders, perhaps? “Shut up,” he barked, and shoved Charles to the ground.
Charles landed awkwardly, grazing palms and knees, and wincing as the impact jarred his bones. He had never been one of the resistance’s fighters, and he was too old to start now. His acts of rebellion had always been through paperwork. Now he managed speeches instead, but it wasn’t so very different; it was all about the words.
“No more lies,” said the leader, glaring down at Charles out of dark eyes. “It’s over - and they’re going to know that it is. Maybe then we can get somewhere.”
Charles closed his eyes. He might never have been a violent man, but he was angry now. He’d watched Hallam’s rise to power, or what he could of it from being frequently in and out of a prison cell. It seemed to him that the previous generation had tried to burn and then freeze the world in turn, and he felt the rage that came with the thought all over again. There was nothing new under the sun, that was what they said, but they needed to go back to some something like the country they’d had before all that, not relieve the oppression and the revolution.
He drew himself up on his knees. “And what if it’s not all over?” he asked. “What then? We’ve got a chance here - and you’re throwing all that away!”
“You all lie,” the man said, and kicked at Charles. “But you needn’t worry. You’ll be dead - for your crimes.”
Woodfield waited until the leader had moved back towards the building, and looked at the other, younger rebel. “So, what are we waiting for, then?”
Why did Woodfield still have to come out with the worst possible thing, even in these circumstances? Charles wondered, before realising that there was a painfully obvious answer to Woodfield’s question. He looked again at the makeshift scaffold, forcing himself, making mental measurements.
“At a guess,” said Charles to Woodfield in a low tone, “Mrs Seaton. Head of State, Prime Minister, and the Leader of the Opposition. One big spectacle, us all finished together, caught on the same piece of film.”
Woodfield watched as Charles got to his feet, cautiously, with an eye to their guard.
“This rabble can’t succeed for long,” Woodfield said. “But the lack of response from the military and security people is appalling. I shall be raising this in the House if we ever get the opportunity again.”
The guard turned then and barked an even ruder request for Woodfield to shut up. Charles felt almost in sympathy with him. He looked ahead again, at the would-be scaffold and told himself that at least he wouldn’t have to be Prime Minister for much longer. He supposed he could be grateful for that small mercy.
Marian had decided to watch what she could from the Embankment, staying near Westminster Bridge, with the Parliament buildings visible across the river. It was impossible to get any nearer just yet, and she had still retained old habits of being part of the resistance: no point in effectively handing herself over, so she didn’t go up to either the police or the soldiers. She surveyed the site again and satisfied herself that at least New Parliament Buildings were standing and the authorities were onto it, and nipped back into the nearest public house where they had a television and a radio. She wasn’t the only one, she thought, old, cautious habits creeping back again - no one would note her behaviour as out of the ordinary or suspect that she had more reason to need to hear the news than most.
The television was only intermittent at the moment, but the radio was still broadcasting: there had been a series of minor explosions in central London, including at Westminster and a rebel group were currently holding several cabinet minister hostage. It was not yet known what they wanted.
Marian moved aside when someone pushed forward. She didn’t shake or look for a chair. She kept her expression to one of mild concern, and ordered a drink from the barman. “Terrible business, isn’t it?” she said.
“Well, at least it’s happened to the people who deserve it for a change,” said the barman, but he glanced anxiously at the radio again; it was a poor attempt at humour. He passed her a glass of apple juice. “Sure you don’t want anything stronger?”
She smiled. “No, of course not. We’ve been through worse - you’ll see.” Then she moved across to a corner where she could set her drink down on a small, battered and sticky table, and try not to think about Charles. You’d think the reporter could have damn well said whether or not one of the cabinet ministers in question was the Prime Minister. Then she took a drink and thought with dismay that that probably was an answer in itself: if the PM had been safe, they’d have said so. It would have been a reassuring note to add. If they hadn’t, then either he was being held hostage, or they didn’t know what had happened to him. And Marian didn’t think Charles was any more deserving of that than she was, even if he was a politician.
Anna had once told Charles that the new government needed him because the future lay with people who could fight with words and not with weapons. It was just that sometimes you needed the people who could fight with weapons, and Charles wondered where the hell they all were at this particular moment. If they’d still had Anna or Colonel Seaton, someone would have been here by now. Most likely this would never have happened. It was the loss of Seaton that was still the problem; no point in pretending otherwise.
Even as he thought, one of the rebels standing nearby fell with a short cry, and Charles realised the man had been shot. Up ahead of them, one of the other rebels fired at the reporter, falling himself only moments later.
The young rebel beside Charles and Woodfield reached for his own gun. The boy was shaking badly, Charles could see - he might hit anyone if he fired, although at this range, it’d probably still be Woodfield or Charles. Charles acted almost without thought, stepping forward to grab the young man’s arm until he dropped the gun.
“Let it go,” said Charles. “And for heaven’s sake - get down!” He pulled him to the ground with him as he spoke; Woodfield having already ducked.
Charles held his breath, lying next to both of his enemies on the cracked concrete. There were a few more shots that echoed round the yard, and he saw one other rebel not far away fall to the ground with a soft thud. After that, everything grew quiet. Charles risked pushing himself up only to see Louise Seaton looking down at him.
“Mr Terrell,” said Liesa. She looked far less tidy than usual, and she had dirt on her face, but she was otherwise unhurt, he was relieved to see, and now she managed a smile for him. “I hadn’t given permission for you to dissolve the government, you know.” She held out a hand and nodded to Woodfield beside him. “Mr Woodfield. I hope you’re also unharmed.”
Charles got to his feet hastily, unable to help a grin despite the gravity of the situation. Not all of their fighters had left them yet. “You should have got to safety, not led the cavalry, you know. I can’t approve, ma’am.”
“I was trying,” Liesa said, “but people kept getting in my way.”
The next hour or two was split between being checked over by a doctor (and being told what he already knew - that he had a few cuts and bruises, but he’d live), and discussing the matter with various people in various military positions, and then with Special Branch, who informed him that they had the core of the group; that this lot had been it and they’d have the last few soon, which news Charles used in the reassuring and rallying speech he gave with Liesa. He met his private secretary and cancelled his appointments for the rest of the afternoon, but it wasn’t until nearly four that he could finally see Marian, waiting for him in someone’s office.
He approached her, uncertain what she’d want to do after this interruption. He felt the weariness of it; that all that they had done, all that they could do was never enough. There was always still more to be done, always somebody who wasn’t happy. You just tried all you could, Charles thought, and no matter how much you failed, you kept on trying.
“Charles,” said Marian, closing the space between them. “At last! I was worried.”
He gave a small smile, hearing that edge of an Irish accent intensifying in her concern. “I wondered about you, too,” he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“I didn’t go to the flat,” she said. “I stayed close and observed what was going on. Old habits die hard, it seems.”
“They do,” he agreed. He shook off the nervousness he seemed to reacquire each time he saw her and stepped nearer instead, putting his arms around her. “Marian.”
When they pulled apart, he saw, to his surprise, that she was wiping her eyes and fumbling for a hanky. She caught his look and gave a laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. It only - you called me Marian, just like that, without thinking. Not Alice. I’m glad.”
“Some things do change, then,” he said. “I know you better now. Alice had her limits, after all. I couldn’t ever take her home, could I?”
She smiled with all her usual warmth. “When can we see each other now - or are you going to be too busy?”
“I’m so sorry,” said Charles. “It is going to take a while. We’ll find a slot somewhere tomorrow, I promise.”
She touched his arm. “Don’t worry, Charles. I’m not going to run away. I always knew it would be a challenge, seeing the Prime Minister, but I’m not about to give up yet.”
“Neither am I,” said Charles. “But on the other hand, I still have to go. Everyone’s in an uproar, and will be for some time, I should think. You are all right?”
Marian nodded. “Oh, yes. Nothing that won’t come out in the wash. Go and do what you have to, love. I’ll be at Ellen’s when you want me. Give me a call, as long as the lines aren’t down.”
Charles walked away, feeling at least a little more optimistic about the future, and more grateful than usual that he had one. On the downside, though, he reflected, he was still Prime Minister; there was no getting out of it yet.
***
Author: lost_spook
Story: Heroes of the Revolution
Flavor(s): Passionfruit #22 (time is the fire in which we burn)
Toppings/Extras: Caramel
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 3290
Notes: late 1992; Charles Terrell, Marian Dalton, Edward Woodfield, Louise (Liesa) Seaton. Post-canon; the new government is becoming more established, when there’s an unexpected attack in London. (It's been a while since I wrote the actual canon and this takes place a few months on from the main events, but (No) More Than Love and whatever is true, whatever is right cover most of the Charles & Marian aspects. This fic has been hanging around for about two years now, and the handwritten version probably at least three. I get there in the end... /o\)
Summary: One revolution leads to another; that’s the way it goes.
***
The first explosion was so small that nobody knew exactly what it was. The second, however, went off on Westminster Bridge, stopping the traffic, killing a cab driver, and swiftly making the news.
Marian Dalton had been making her way over to New Parliament House when she heard it. She stopped and turned to look, much as the rest of the people around her did - and probably they were suddenly remembering the bad old days, just as she was.
The third explosion shook the new Parliament buildings. Charles Terrell was in the lobby, talking to Edward Woodfield, and they and everybody around them turned. There was no immediate sign of what had caused it, but they could hear the sounds of unusual activity elsewhere filtering through the sudden wary silence here: shouts and hurried footsteps from all directions.
“Sir,” said the nearest police officer. “Prime Minister. This way. You, too, sir,” he said to Woodfield.
Woodfield followed, but raised his eyebrows at Charles as they went. “Good God, what now?”
“Déjà vu,” said Charles under his breath. He was sure he could also hear shooting now, just as they had that morning a year and a half ago. Was it all happening again? He couldn’t help thinking it might be, and as the first shock began to recede, he felt only anger and frustration. Not now, he thought, not when they were getting somewhere. What idiot was going to step in at this moment and throw all that away, only to start the whole bloody cycle all over again?
“Terrell!” Woodfield said as the hall echoed with a shot that sounded even louder than the explosion. The policeman beside them fell without a word.
Charles darted a hasty glance around, then grabbed at Woodfield, leading him out of the hall at a run, and into one of the offices.
Woodfield directed a quick, observant glance around the small room while Charles locked the door. He moved across to the window before turning around. “Damn you, there’s no other exit.”
“Well, then, shut up and help me barricade the door,” said Charles, and they shunted the filing cabinet over in front of it, and then the desk, political rivalry temporarily cast aside in favour of survival for a few more minutes.
Woodfield leant against the wall. “They will find us, you know. They’re bound to be after you.”
“Time is all we need,” said Charles, hoping it was true. “The security services will have everything under control soon.”
Woodfield tilted his head to one side. “It’s not reminding you of anything, is it? I remember being locked in one of these rooms before, only last time it was your lot. I seem to recall hearing that you were, too - until your friends dragged you out. The benefits of being a double agent, eh? I never ran to treachery, despite my many other sins.”
Charles couldn’t deny it. He crossed to the window, hoping to see something that would suggest Special Branch or the police or someone was beginning to get a handle on things. This lot, whoever they were, couldn’t be as organised as Colonel Seaton’s people had been. Seaton had known what he was doing and he’d had people already in the government. This had come so out of the blue, it had to be a more random rebel group, or maybe a terrorist organisation, most likely after a specific aim.
“They’ll kill us both, you know,” Charles said. “If they find the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition handily shut in together, they’re not going to let either of us go.” He winced, hearing more shots outside. “I don’t think they’re the type.”
Woodfield nodded. “I’m fully aware of that. So, forgive me if I distract us from our likely impending deaths with less dangerous arguments.”
It wasn’t like last time, anyway, Charles thought, leaning his head against the wall in weariness. Last time he’d been locked in, Anna had come and let him out. It was Anna who’d organised everything, Anna who’d made him Prime Minister, Anna who’d come to rescue him and Woodfield once before when an angry rebel had made targets out of them. Today Anna wasn’t here, and he wasn’t sure he had the same faith in anyone else.
The intruder who made it into Louise Seaton’s private quarters in the palace hesitated before raising his gun to shoot her. It was a costly error, since Mrs Seaton - Liesa - made no such mistake.
“Ma’am,” said the soldier who reached her moments later only to find her bending over the body.
Liesa looked up briefly and then held up a hand as she removed the gun and searched the fallen rebel for ammunition. He wasn’t much more than a boy, she thought, but it was merely a detached observance. Liesa had been a fighter for a long time before she had been an important state figure and she slipped back into the role with ease.
“Please, ma’am,” said the soldier again. “I must get you to safety. They’ve already taken hold of New Parliament House and we’ve got fighting here, too.”
She straightened herself and faced him. “Captain Alcott, isn’t it? I’m not going to safety. We need to take back first the palace and then Parliament House. They may have struck an impressive blow, but they’re clearly amateurs - or this young man certainly was. They can’t hold the place for long, not against any serious resistance.”
“It’s imperative you reach safety -”
“I understand,” said Liesa. “However -” She stopped, catching sight of more movement behind him in the corridor. “Stay still!” she ordered, and fired again, past Captain Alcott, hitting the second rebel.
Alcott swung round and caught hold of the man as he fell, pulling his weapon from him and shoving him to the ground.
“Amateurs, you see,” said Liesa, with a wry little smile. “Get him in here and we’ll see if he’s got any idea about their strength, numbers and strategy.”
Captain Alcott ceased to argue, and nodded. “Yes, ma’am!”
“Tell us what it is you want,” Charles said, as he and Woodfield were marched out at gunpoint into the open space between the buildings. He kept his mind on his efforts to reach his captors and not on the situation, which had not yet been rectified by the security services after all. “We might be able to reach an agreement. You’ve got no chance of holding the country, not like this. You can kill us, but you’ll also wind up dead. How about we try to work out an alternative?”
“I don’t care,” said one of them. “No bloody point to anything anyway, is there?”
Woodfield raised an eyebrow. “How pessimistic in one so young.”
“Angry at the world, I suppose?” said Charles, ignoring Woodfield and focusing on the rebel who was willing to talk. “How is this going to help?”
“We’ll get rid of you - all of you,” he said. “What’s changed, since you lot took over? We’ll do better to kill you all and burn this place down. And if they kill us, at least we’ll have done that - it won’t be so easy for anyone to start again.”
Charles could recognise the urge to give up on everything, just to destroy it all instead and hope something better would rise from the ashes, but that wasn’t how the world worked. “You really want to take us back even further? When you disrupt government, it’s not just about politicians like us - all the infrastructure, the vital services need to be maintained or people are going to suffer even more than they already have.”
“And if that’s your agenda,” said Woodfield, “why haven’t you killed us already?”
Charles darted a dark look in the other’s direction, but Woodfield either didn’t see it, or didn’t choose to see it, ignoring him.
“It’s not a bluff,” said the rebel. “We just want people to know you’ve gone. We’ve got a couple of the BBC people here, and we’re going to use them to let everyone in the country see it.”
That was a chilling thought. Even aside from the idea of someone hanging him, Marian was supposed to be arriving this morning. Charles didn’t want to think of her instead watching his execution live on television. That was definitely not what they’d planned. He took a deep breath and made himself continue the conversation. It might be their only hope.
“So,” he said, “You’re going to kill us. Fair enough. But what do you give people? If not a new government, what? Get rid of as many of us as you can and then what happens? Panic? Anarchy? Starvation and disease? Is that what you want?”
Another one of them turned. They didn’t have uniforms, but he had a red armband tied round his sleeve - one of their leaders, perhaps? “Shut up,” he barked, and shoved Charles to the ground.
Charles landed awkwardly, grazing palms and knees, and wincing as the impact jarred his bones. He had never been one of the resistance’s fighters, and he was too old to start now. His acts of rebellion had always been through paperwork. Now he managed speeches instead, but it wasn’t so very different; it was all about the words.
“No more lies,” said the leader, glaring down at Charles out of dark eyes. “It’s over - and they’re going to know that it is. Maybe then we can get somewhere.”
Charles closed his eyes. He might never have been a violent man, but he was angry now. He’d watched Hallam’s rise to power, or what he could of it from being frequently in and out of a prison cell. It seemed to him that the previous generation had tried to burn and then freeze the world in turn, and he felt the rage that came with the thought all over again. There was nothing new under the sun, that was what they said, but they needed to go back to some something like the country they’d had before all that, not relieve the oppression and the revolution.
He drew himself up on his knees. “And what if it’s not all over?” he asked. “What then? We’ve got a chance here - and you’re throwing all that away!”
“You all lie,” the man said, and kicked at Charles. “But you needn’t worry. You’ll be dead - for your crimes.”
Woodfield waited until the leader had moved back towards the building, and looked at the other, younger rebel. “So, what are we waiting for, then?”
Why did Woodfield still have to come out with the worst possible thing, even in these circumstances? Charles wondered, before realising that there was a painfully obvious answer to Woodfield’s question. He looked again at the makeshift scaffold, forcing himself, making mental measurements.
“At a guess,” said Charles to Woodfield in a low tone, “Mrs Seaton. Head of State, Prime Minister, and the Leader of the Opposition. One big spectacle, us all finished together, caught on the same piece of film.”
Woodfield watched as Charles got to his feet, cautiously, with an eye to their guard.
“This rabble can’t succeed for long,” Woodfield said. “But the lack of response from the military and security people is appalling. I shall be raising this in the House if we ever get the opportunity again.”
The guard turned then and barked an even ruder request for Woodfield to shut up. Charles felt almost in sympathy with him. He looked ahead again, at the would-be scaffold and told himself that at least he wouldn’t have to be Prime Minister for much longer. He supposed he could be grateful for that small mercy.
Marian had decided to watch what she could from the Embankment, staying near Westminster Bridge, with the Parliament buildings visible across the river. It was impossible to get any nearer just yet, and she had still retained old habits of being part of the resistance: no point in effectively handing herself over, so she didn’t go up to either the police or the soldiers. She surveyed the site again and satisfied herself that at least New Parliament Buildings were standing and the authorities were onto it, and nipped back into the nearest public house where they had a television and a radio. She wasn’t the only one, she thought, old, cautious habits creeping back again - no one would note her behaviour as out of the ordinary or suspect that she had more reason to need to hear the news than most.
The television was only intermittent at the moment, but the radio was still broadcasting: there had been a series of minor explosions in central London, including at Westminster and a rebel group were currently holding several cabinet minister hostage. It was not yet known what they wanted.
Marian moved aside when someone pushed forward. She didn’t shake or look for a chair. She kept her expression to one of mild concern, and ordered a drink from the barman. “Terrible business, isn’t it?” she said.
“Well, at least it’s happened to the people who deserve it for a change,” said the barman, but he glanced anxiously at the radio again; it was a poor attempt at humour. He passed her a glass of apple juice. “Sure you don’t want anything stronger?”
She smiled. “No, of course not. We’ve been through worse - you’ll see.” Then she moved across to a corner where she could set her drink down on a small, battered and sticky table, and try not to think about Charles. You’d think the reporter could have damn well said whether or not one of the cabinet ministers in question was the Prime Minister. Then she took a drink and thought with dismay that that probably was an answer in itself: if the PM had been safe, they’d have said so. It would have been a reassuring note to add. If they hadn’t, then either he was being held hostage, or they didn’t know what had happened to him. And Marian didn’t think Charles was any more deserving of that than she was, even if he was a politician.
Anna had once told Charles that the new government needed him because the future lay with people who could fight with words and not with weapons. It was just that sometimes you needed the people who could fight with weapons, and Charles wondered where the hell they all were at this particular moment. If they’d still had Anna or Colonel Seaton, someone would have been here by now. Most likely this would never have happened. It was the loss of Seaton that was still the problem; no point in pretending otherwise.
Even as he thought, one of the rebels standing nearby fell with a short cry, and Charles realised the man had been shot. Up ahead of them, one of the other rebels fired at the reporter, falling himself only moments later.
The young rebel beside Charles and Woodfield reached for his own gun. The boy was shaking badly, Charles could see - he might hit anyone if he fired, although at this range, it’d probably still be Woodfield or Charles. Charles acted almost without thought, stepping forward to grab the young man’s arm until he dropped the gun.
“Let it go,” said Charles. “And for heaven’s sake - get down!” He pulled him to the ground with him as he spoke; Woodfield having already ducked.
Charles held his breath, lying next to both of his enemies on the cracked concrete. There were a few more shots that echoed round the yard, and he saw one other rebel not far away fall to the ground with a soft thud. After that, everything grew quiet. Charles risked pushing himself up only to see Louise Seaton looking down at him.
“Mr Terrell,” said Liesa. She looked far less tidy than usual, and she had dirt on her face, but she was otherwise unhurt, he was relieved to see, and now she managed a smile for him. “I hadn’t given permission for you to dissolve the government, you know.” She held out a hand and nodded to Woodfield beside him. “Mr Woodfield. I hope you’re also unharmed.”
Charles got to his feet hastily, unable to help a grin despite the gravity of the situation. Not all of their fighters had left them yet. “You should have got to safety, not led the cavalry, you know. I can’t approve, ma’am.”
“I was trying,” Liesa said, “but people kept getting in my way.”
The next hour or two was split between being checked over by a doctor (and being told what he already knew - that he had a few cuts and bruises, but he’d live), and discussing the matter with various people in various military positions, and then with Special Branch, who informed him that they had the core of the group; that this lot had been it and they’d have the last few soon, which news Charles used in the reassuring and rallying speech he gave with Liesa. He met his private secretary and cancelled his appointments for the rest of the afternoon, but it wasn’t until nearly four that he could finally see Marian, waiting for him in someone’s office.
He approached her, uncertain what she’d want to do after this interruption. He felt the weariness of it; that all that they had done, all that they could do was never enough. There was always still more to be done, always somebody who wasn’t happy. You just tried all you could, Charles thought, and no matter how much you failed, you kept on trying.
“Charles,” said Marian, closing the space between them. “At last! I was worried.”
He gave a small smile, hearing that edge of an Irish accent intensifying in her concern. “I wondered about you, too,” he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“I didn’t go to the flat,” she said. “I stayed close and observed what was going on. Old habits die hard, it seems.”
“They do,” he agreed. He shook off the nervousness he seemed to reacquire each time he saw her and stepped nearer instead, putting his arms around her. “Marian.”
When they pulled apart, he saw, to his surprise, that she was wiping her eyes and fumbling for a hanky. She caught his look and gave a laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. It only - you called me Marian, just like that, without thinking. Not Alice. I’m glad.”
“Some things do change, then,” he said. “I know you better now. Alice had her limits, after all. I couldn’t ever take her home, could I?”
She smiled with all her usual warmth. “When can we see each other now - or are you going to be too busy?”
“I’m so sorry,” said Charles. “It is going to take a while. We’ll find a slot somewhere tomorrow, I promise.”
She touched his arm. “Don’t worry, Charles. I’m not going to run away. I always knew it would be a challenge, seeing the Prime Minister, but I’m not about to give up yet.”
“Neither am I,” said Charles. “But on the other hand, I still have to go. Everyone’s in an uproar, and will be for some time, I should think. You are all right?”
Marian nodded. “Oh, yes. Nothing that won’t come out in the wash. Go and do what you have to, love. I’ll be at Ellen’s when you want me. Give me a call, as long as the lines aren’t down.”
Charles walked away, feeling at least a little more optimistic about the future, and more grateful than usual that he had one. On the downside, though, he reflected, he was still Prime Minister; there was no getting out of it yet.
***