Avalon (56 page)

“That’s right, Jonathan,” replied the reporter. “The entire referendum might very well swing on the influence of the grassroots religious community of Britain — which appears to be a much-underestimated power in this country. I very much doubt whether the political pundits and spin doctors reckoned what might be termed the ‘spiritual quotient’ into their calculations — but it is beginning to look as if they should have.” She smiled, signaling the end of her report.

“Thank you, Deirdre,” said Trent. “We’ll be coming back to you as soon as polls close for an early exit-poll survey.”

“We’ll be ready and waiting, Jonathan.”

Trent swiveled back to look at the main camera. “We will of course be bringing you full coverage of today’s historic voting on the fifth and final referendum which will decide the future of the monarchy of Britain. We invite you to tune in at nine o’clock for our extended broadcast, ‘The Monarchy: A Nation Decides.’”

Taking the top sheet of paper, Trent turned it over and placed it facedown on his desk. “In other news tonight, scientists report yet another minor earthquake off the Cornish coast in the area which has been dubbed ‘Avalon’ by the popular press.

“Although the tremor — the fifth in almost as many days — measured only two point three on the Richter scale, it produced the extremely rare effect of reversing the flow of many of the southern region’s rivers and streams. Normal flow was reversed in tidal basins from the Severn estuary in the west to the Thames in the east. Geologists and oceanographers, many of whom have been studying the region in extensive detail over the last few months, are warning that these minishocks may be a prelude to a major seismic event.”

Gazing into his desk monitor, he said, “We have this report from Ronald Metcalf, filmed earlier today aboard the research vessel
Polperro
in the Celtic Sea.”

The picture changed to a gray expanse of water beneath a colorless sky, and a scattering of low rocks around a larger island which was itself a barren rock in the middle of the sea.

“For the crew of the
Polperro
,” Metcalf began, “it is business as usual: measuring the effects of the phenomenal forces which are involved in creating nothing less than a new landmass off the southern coast of Britain. Before setting off, I talked to the project coordinator, Dr. Christine Fuller, Director of…”

Prime Minister Thomas Waring aimed the remote control, and the television set flicked off. He could not care less about any new landmasses; it was landslides he was worried about. If the referendum was defeated, it would effectively end his political career. Delivering an election victory for the British Republic Party after a setback like that would be tantamount to raising the
Titanic
.

Who would have imagined the Church to wield such influence? Could it be true? Waring passed a hand over his tired eyes. The Church — he had never even remotely imagined it might be a factor one way or the other. And now it was too late.

The phone balanced on the arm of his chair rang; he punched a button on the console. “Waring.”

“We’ve got some new indicators, PM.” It was Dennis Arnold again. He had been calling periodically through the day with reports from his various sources. When Waring failed to respond, Arnold said, “You wanted me to call as soon as I received the latest projections.”

“Of course,” Waring replied softly. “What have you got?”

“Good news,” Arnold said. “We’ve picked up a point and a half, maybe even two.”

“Terrific,” Waring muttered.

“Two points,” repeated Arnold. “We can still pull this off.”

“I don’t call two points a vast improvement, Dennis. We went into this referendum with better than ninety-percent support from an estimated thirty percent of registered voters. We’re struggling to hold on to a two-point lead with every bleeding housefrau and pensioner in the country standing in the rain waiting to vote — and you think that’s good news. I’ll tell you what I think: I think it’s a flaming bloody disaster.”

“So it’s close. What the hell? The trend is running in our favor,” Arnold argued, “and there’s still two hours to go before —”

Waring replaced the phone. He didn’t want to debate the issue. The unarguable bottom line was that in less than two weeks the anti-monarchy camp had lost 40 percentage points. In his book, that was a catastrophe — and all the spin doctoring in the country would not convince him otherwise. For the past 48 hours the pollsters had been trying to pinpoint when it was that the mood of the people had changed.

Waring did not need any opinion surveys to tell him when the slide set in. He
knew
the exact moment — hell, the precise nanosecond — that public opinion had begun to shift and his dreams began to crumble: when the young monarch climbed back onto his soapbox and stood, bloody but unbowed, before the shocked Hyde Park crowd and told them that Avalon was waiting in the wings.

Confronted with such a fresh and indisputable example of his personal courage and integrity, the hardheaded media muckrakers had crumbled into a limp, groveling heap. Even the harshest critics of the new-style monarchy had embarked on a sycophantic frenzy of royalist propaganda. Where, two weeks ago, the success of the final referendum had been a foregone conclusion, the King’s spectacular barnstorming performance had turned the tide of public opinion in mid-flow even as his heroism had revived the moribund monarchy. Quite simply, people had never seen anything like it from a royal and were astonished and elated. Who could blame them? Waring had never seen anything like it, either.

A body couldn’t move three paces in the capital without bumping into another fresh convert to what the media were calling “the rejuvenated monarchy.” Like all new believers, they carried the gospel with unflagging zeal. London cabbies had traded the usual weather banter for, “How about our King, then?” Suddenly every commuter on the Underground was an expert on constitutional monarchy. Even the Leicester Square winos took a newfound personal pride in defending the King’s character to all comers. “You can say what you like ’bout the rest, mate. But don’t go takin’ the piss outta our Jimmy.”

There were usually only two things a politician could do when confronted with such an enormous inundation of goodwill: stand aside or be swept away. So Waring stood aside and watched as public sentiment underwent a dramatic sea change and his once-invincible lead in the opinion polls dwindled away point by precious point. Any attempt to counter the tideflow would have been like trying to divert an avalanche with a paper fan.

The phone rang again, but Waring switched off the ringer. He got up from his chair, went into his bedroom, and stretched out on the bed. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. After twenty futile minutes, he abandoned the attempt, and decided to go down to the kitchen and arrange supper instead. He was supposed to dine with Nigel, Dennis, and Martin tonight. They had planned an all-night referendum vigil, but any interest he might have had in such an event had withered and died days ago. An evening of forced bonhomie seemed dire beyond endurance. He decided to have one of the aides downstairs call around and cancel it.

He walked to the lift and was about to step into it when the buzzer sounded at the apartment door. He answered it without enthusiasm.

“Sorry, I’m early, PM,” said Nigel Sforza, stepping into the room with a plastic carrier bag in his hand. “I tried to call a little while ago, but your phone is switched off apparently, so I just came on ahead.” Hoisting the bag, he said, “I brought beer. I hope that’s all right. Here.” He handed two tall cans to the Prime Minister. “Martin should be along shortly. I’ll just pop the rest of these in the fridge till he gets here.”

Sforza proceeded to the small kitchen in the rear of the apartment. Waring watched him for a moment. “Sure, come on in, Nigel. Make yourself at home.”

“Anything wrong?” came the voice from the other room.

Idiots and imbeciles, thought Waring hopelessly; they were all idiots and imbeciles, boobs and bozos. “Not a care in the world,” he replied, and added under his breath, “not after tonight, anyway.”

“What about having Chef send up some of those buffalo wings, or whatever they’re called?”

“Anything to make you happy, Nigel.”

Dennis Arnold and Martin Hutchens showed up around seven-thirty. By nine o’clock they had drunk all the beer Sforza brought and sent down to the kitchen for more. They had eaten two dozen hot and spicy chicken wings, a large pizza, and huge plates of the chef’s special Caesar salad, and were well-fortified to begin the night’s vigil.

They decided the BBC had the best coverage, and switched on the set in time to hear Jonathan Trent say, “Voting records were shattered today in what surely must have been the largest turnout in the nation’s history. Early indications from exit-poll surveys point to a referendum victory by the narrowest of margins.”

Trent, sober before a subdued purple backdrop with the words “Royal Referendum” and the logo of a crown above a question mark, turned to his left and said, “With me in the studio is Peter Bancroft, our veteran exit-poll analyst, to explain the state of play. Peter —”

The picture switched to a middle-aged man with hair like an Albert Einstein fright wig. He was whizzing around before a large screen on which two computer-generated columns — one purple, one blue — of roughly equal height were superimposed.

“Thank you, Jonathan,” said the resident expert. “As we can see from this graphic, the evening begins with both sides at extremely level pegging. The blue, which represents the ‘yes’ vote to abolish the monarchy, and the purple, which represents the ‘no’ vote, are within half a percentage point of each other — the advantage at this early hour going to the ‘yeses.’ However,” he quickly pointed out, gesturing with blithe incoherence, “we should remember that when a plus or minus accuracy rating of three percent is factored into the equation, that slight advantage disappears, and we can see that this referendum could go either way.”

“Christ,” groaned Waring, sinking further into his seat.

“He’s blowing hot air,” Arnold declared. “Our own surveys show a solid eight-percent advantage.”

Waring turned his face to regard the Special Committee Chairman skeptically. “You told me two percent a little while ago.”

“I said it was a
trend
, remember? You’re just going to have to cheer up, my friend,” Arnold chided jovially. “We’re going to win this referendum whether you like it or not.”

The next hour improved the picture considerably. As the voting precincts began reporting their tallies, the blue areas on Peter Bancroft’s computer-generated map of Britain began to spread. By eleven o’clock it looked as if the greater London region would remain true blue with Kent the only holdout in the southeast.

Waring’s hopes began to revive. If they carried London, they could conceivably carry the vote. Press Secretary Martin Hutchens, who had been on the phone for the better part of an hour, entered the room to announce, “It’s in the bag, gents.”

“What have you got?” asked Sforza, tipping up his half-empty can.

“Latest exit poll stats.” He waved a piece of paper. “You’re going to love this. It’s from
The Times
— they’re showing a referendum victory by an eight-point margin.”

“Are they printing that?” asked Dennis Arnold.

“Uh, no,” replied Hutchens, “they’re holding the presses until they get a few more returns. But it’s great. We’ve done it!”

Waring sucked his teeth. “We’ll see.”

Another hour passed, and the returns as posted on the BBC map did appear to bear out
The Times
’ prediction. The blue was spreading outward now to include portions of the Midlands. True, there were some tiny purple bits showing — mostly in the sparsely populated areas of northern Scotland. Nevertheless, as Arnold pointed out, “Hell, we can give away
all
Scotland, and it won’t make a blind bit of difference.”

Sforza left a short while later, declaring himself satisfied that the trend would hold and that the referendum would carry by a narrow but sufficient margin. When Peter Bancroft predicted that the southwestern Cardiff-London corridor would go solid blue, Dennis Arnold departed. “Congratulations, Tom,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow and we can begin concentrating our full attention on our reelection campaign.”

Waring returned from seeing Arnold out, and settled into his chair once more. “Want a drink or anything, Hutch?” he asked, feeling expansive for the first time in many days. “I’ve got some good single malt — twenty-four-year-old Springbank. What do you say?”

“Sure, why not?” Hutch agreed. “We’ve dodged the bullet. Let’s celebrate.”

The two sat and sipped their Scotch and watched as the BBC map of Scotland gradually turned purple. This did not alarm Waring unduly. “Arnie’s right,” he mused, “we can afford to give up the whole of Scotland and never miss it.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Hutch. “Whatever you say.”

“Ever been to Scotland?” asked Waring.

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never had a reason to go.”

“You should. Fresh air, sea, sky. It’s nice — apart from the midges.”

“Well, I’m more of a city man, you know?”

They chatted like this for a while, and watched the purple stain spread down through the glens and seep southward. When it crossed Hadrian’s Wall and started bleeding into the North Country, Waring grew irritated. When it claimed Yorkshire and the Lake District, the Prime Minister grew agitated. By the time the royal purple tide had swept down the west coast and into North Wales, Waring was anxiously pacing the floor in front of the TV, and Hutchens was on the phone to the pollsters, demanding to know what was happening.

BBC political commentator Peter Bancroft leapt around his little set like an overactive elf, excitedly pointing to this, that, or the other amazing development. Meanwhile, Newcastle, Sunderland, and Middlesbrough fell beneath the advancing purple flood. Once into the old industrial heartland of Britain, there was no stopping it. Sheffield, Leeds, Manchester, and Liverpool blushed bright purple, and were followed in quick succession by Nottingham, Birmingham, Leicester. The rout continued as the rural provinces around Coventry, Northampton, and Peterborough fell beneath the purple onslaught. Cornwall and Devon, long-time royal haunts, were swept away, followed by Somerset, Dorset, and Wiltshire.