Queen Camilla (3 page)

If Caroline had a weakness it was her inability to pass a handbag shop. She currently had her name on a
waiting list for a black Italian handbag, costing £2,000. When Jack grumbled that she already had eleven black handbags, she screamed, ‘I can’t be seen with last season’s handbag. I’m the wife of the Prime Minister.’

Jack’s mother had used the same navy-blue handbag for forty years. When the handles had become frayed she had taken the bag to a cobbler, who had repaired the handles for one and sixpence. When he told Caroline this, she said, ‘I’ve seen photographs of your mother. She made Worzel Gummidge look positively elegant!’

Caroline had a pale beauty that mesmerized the picture editors of the English newspapers. She appeared on the front pages of most of them on a daily basis, often on the flimsiest of pretexts: ‘CAZ BREAKS NAIL!’ had been one recent headline.

Big Ben struck eleven times. A statement was issued to the press that the Prime Minister was ‘indisposed’. The pound fell against the dollar.

Jack’s Government was sometimes accused of being totalitarian, which made him laugh. He was far from being a Stalin or a Mao; it wasn’t his fault there were no viable opposition parties. He had been forced to detain some of his potential opponents, but only because they had been stirring up trouble. He could not take chances with the security of the country, could he? He was hardly responsible for the political apathy that hung over England like a fog, was he?

A little crowd of agitators, Republican purists, had stirred themselves enough to hold an unlawful protest outside the Palace of Westminster, accusing the Government
of revisionism. They had been dealt with but Jack could not help feeling that the tide was about to turn and cut him off from the shore. Perhaps he should not have put Stephen Fry under house arrest. It hadn’t done any good: Fry had continued to mock the Government on the Internet, from his Norfolk home. He should have sent Fry to Turkey to have his cuticles seen to by one of their security forces’ crack manicurists. That would have wiped the smile off Fry’s satirical face. Jack laughed briefly under the duvet, but soon resumed his gloomy thoughts.

His workload was unremitting, remorseless. Just lately, Jack had begun to fantasize about walking away from his desk and never going back. Let some other poor bastard make the decisions, chair the meetings, deal with the arseholes and fools he was surrounded by. Had nobody noticed he was going mad? Were they unaware that he had developed a tick in his right eyelid? That he was forgetting the simplest of words? Didn’t the strain show in the way that he occasionally found himself weeping real tears in public? What did they think he was doing when they saw him mopping his eyes?

He was not a quitter; he couldn’t give the job up of his own volition. His mother’s last words had been, ‘Jack, get rid of the monarchy.’ Though this was disputed by others round her deathbed, who thought she had said, ‘Jack, give Sid me front-door key.’ It was hard to be sure because of her oxygen mask.

He knew the Chancellor was after his job. Jack wished Fletcher would make his move and stick a metaphorical
dagger in his back; he couldn’t do it to himself. He couldn’t let his mother down. He pulled the duvet over his head and reviewed the past thirteen years. He’d failed to win England’s independence from America; he was spending billions on an asymmetrical intractable war in the Middle East. The roads and motorways were almost at a standstill. He was still subsidizing British farmers for doing fuck all. The rich were vastly richer, and the poor seemed to be morphing into a deviant subculture. The one thing he could be proud of though, Jack thought, was the removal from British life of hereditary titles. He had, with the stroke of a pen, destroyed the monarchy, forever.

Inspector Clive Lancer, the senior officer in Arthur Grice’s private police force, was giving new recruit Dwayne Lockhart an induction to the Flowers Exclusion Zone. Dwayne was uncomfortable, not only because his uniform was slightly too small for his lanky body but also because he knew most of the people in the Fez and from now on he was expected to order them about and report them for various misdemeanours. As the two men walked around the almost deserted streets, a little plane circled overhead.

‘Spotter plane,’ said Inspector Lancer, throwing back his huge head. ‘He’s doing aerial photography, looking for illegal sheds.’

‘Is it against the law to have a shed now?’ asked Dwayne.

‘It is if they’ve not got planning permission and they’re evading council tax. A shed counts as a home improvement,’ said the inspector. Sensing Dwayne’s disapproval, Lancer said, ‘We’ve got to keep on top of the scum, lad. Give ’em an inch an’ they’ll thieve the sodding ruler.’

Dwayne thought, yesterday I was one of ‘the scum’, the only difference between then and now is that I’ve took this job and had my tag took off official. I can go where I want now.

He couldn’t wait to visit the lending library in the town. He had heard that there were thousands of books on the shelves.

They walked down Bluebell Lane; known locally as Slapper Alley because of the preponderance of teenage mothers living there.

‘We’re on slapper territory now, lad,’ said Inspector Lancer. ‘Some of these slappers can intoxicate a man and make him lose his head. You’re replacing Taffy Jones, who was lured on to the metaphorical rocks by a slapper called Shyanne Grubbett.

‘Taffy told me at the disciplinary hearing that he took one look at her white tracksuit, stilettos and hooped earrings and he was already halfway to losing his job. When she unzipped her tracksuit top and he saw her knockers spilling out of her skimpy Nike vest, he said he was lost.

‘So keep your guard up, lad. The Jezebels are always waiting for fresh meat.’

Dwayne was extremely well read, but as was so often the case, he was relatively sexually inexperienced. There had been a few fumblings with an older girl at school, but he was still technically a virgin.

Inspector Lancer said, ‘We’ll stop here and wait for a slapper to come along. I want to demonstrate stop and search procedure.’

They leaned against a wall covered in obscene and possibly libellous graffiti about a woman called Jodie and her relationship with her dog. It wasn’t long before a sweet-faced girl pushing a fat baby in a buggy came towards them.

Lancer sprang to attention and said, ‘Right, I’ll demonstrate a female stop and search.’ He held his arm out and the girl sighed and stopped. Lancer said, ‘First, ascertain the name and tag registration number of the suspect.’

The girl said, automatically, ‘Paris Butterworth, B9176593,’ and produced her ID card. She pointed at the baby, who was chewing at the corner of an unopened packet of Monster Munch crisps. ‘’E’s Fifty-cents Butterworth. ’E ain’t been tagged yet, ’e ain’t old enough.’

Lancer said, ‘Ask to see the baby’s ID, Dwayne. You can’t believe what these slappers tell you.’

Dwayne said, ‘Would you mind if I had a look at Fifty-cents’ ID, Miss Butterworth?’

She unzipped the baby’s mini-anorak, delved beneath his sweatshirt and pulled out an ID card hanging from a blue ribbon. Two of the card’s corners had obviously been chewed.

Lancer examined the card closely and said, ‘Note the damage to this card, Dwayne.’ Then he said to Paris, ‘That is damage to government property. I could give you an on-the-spot fine for that.’

Paris said indignantly, ‘’E’s teethin’, ’e’s chewin’ owt ’e gets ’is ’ands on.’

Lancer said quickly, ‘We’ll let it go this time, Miss Butterworth. Right, having ascertained the identity of the suspects, we proceed to the search. In the absence of a female officer we must proceed carefully, Dwayne. So, avoiding the obvious erogenous zones, give Butterworth a quick pat down.’

Dwayne and Paris exchanged a glance. Dwayne thought, she’s got lovely eyes.

‘You’re looking for drugs, stolen goods, concealed weapons and bomb-making materials,’ said Lancer.

Paris said, ‘As if! I wouldn’t know a bomb-making material if it come up an’ smacked me in the gob.’

Lancer said, ‘Al Qaeda are known to have infiltrated slapper society in the past, Dwayne. So we take no chances.’

Lancer took his truncheon out and pointed with it at various parts of Paris’s slim body, before saying, ‘Now you pat her down, Dwayne.’

Dwayne tentatively ran his hands around her waist and shoulders, down her back and around her shins. He could feel her trembling and said, ‘Sorry.’

Lancer continued, ‘Then, once you are satisfied that the suspect is not concealing anything on her person, we search the baby.’

Dwayne bent down and said, ‘Hello, Fifty-cents. Can I tickle your tummy, eh?’

Fifty-cents stared back warily. He wasn’t keen on men. Men shouted and made his mother cry. Dwayne quickly ran his hands around the squashy body of the stern-faced baby, finding nothing unusual apart from a chewed-up plastic giraffe, which had fallen inside his vest. Dwayne held the model giraffe out to Paris; she took the animal from him and said, ‘’E’s mad ’bout giraffes.’

Inspector Lancer searched the bag that was hanging from the handles of the buggy and pulled out a letter addressed to Mohammed Yousaf at Wakefield Prison.
He handed the letter to Dwayne and said, ‘Why am I going to confiscate this letter, Dwayne?’

Dwayne tried to remember the half an hour that had been devoted to correspondence in his week’s training. He said, ‘Residents of an Exclusion Zone are prohibited from corresponding with serving prisoners.’

Lancer said, ‘You’re a naughty girl.’

Paris’s face crumpled, and she began to weep. Nothing in Dwayne’s training had prepared him for this situation. He stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do.

Paris sobbed. ‘It’s Mohammed’s birthday next week.’

‘Well, I’m sure we’ll all wish him many happy returns,’ said Lancer. ‘Be on your way.’

Dwayne wanted to apologize to Paris. He hoped that she could see from his expression when he looked at her, that he would not have confiscated her letter. He didn’t know how long he could stand this job if today was anything to go by. Paris zipped up the baby’s coat, gave him the giraffe and walked away in the direction of the shops.

As Dwayne and Lancer were crossing the patch of grass in front of the One-Stop Centre, Camilla approached them, followed by Freddie, Tosca and Leo. She said to Lancer, ‘Inspector, could you tell me the time, please? My watch has packed in.’

Lancer said, ‘Before I tell you the time, madam, I should warn you that there is now a charge for this service.’

Camilla said, ‘How extraordinary. All I’m asking of you is that you glance at your watch and tell me the time.’

Dwayne sneaked a look at his own watch. It was 11.14 a.m.

Lancer said, ‘We are a public–private partnership and if we want to stay in business we have to charge for our services.’

Camilla said, ‘So how much are you going to charge for telling me the time?’

Lancer answered, ‘There is now a standard charge of one pound an enquiry.’

‘A pound!’ said Camilla. ‘That’s outrageous.’

Lancer said, ‘So you no longer want to know the time?’

‘No,’ said Camilla. ‘I can see from the position of the sun that it’s almost midday.’

Dwayne pulled the cuff back from his right wrist, exposing his watch. Then pretended to shield his eyes from the wintry sun.

Camilla said, ‘Ah, I see it’s eleven fifteen. Thank you, Constable.’

Leo lolloped over to Dwayne and dropped a stick he’d been carrying in his mouth at Dwayne’s feet. Dwayne picked up the slimy stick and hurled it as far as he could. The three dogs raced towards the stick, which had come to rest in a patch of mud.

Camilla said to Dwayne, ‘I hope you’re not going to charge me for throwing that stick.’

‘No,’ said Dwayne. ‘There will be no charge.’

When Leo brought the stick back and dropped it again at Dwayne’s feet, Lancer said, ‘Leave the stick where it is, lad. We’ve work to do.’

Walking on, they came to a district that was separated from the rest of the Flowers Estate by a high wall.

‘This,’ said Lancer, as he turned a key in a door in the wall, ‘keeps the kiddie fiddlers penned up and out of harm’s way.’

He opened the door and they walked through. Dwayne had expected to see furtive-looking men in greasy overcoats maundering around the streets, but to his surprise the men here looked as ordinary as the men on the rest of the estate.

When he remarked on this to Lancer, he was further surprised when Lancer said, ‘Most of the poor sods are as innocent as a lamb in springtime, lad.’

Dwayne said, ‘What are they doing in here then, sir?’

‘Malicious ankle-snappers have borne false witness against these poor blokes, boy. The evil little tykes have led ’em on and once they’ve eaten their sweeties they’ve gone squawking to ChildLine.’

Dwayne said nothing, but he wanted to defend abused children. His swimming teacher had often fumbled inside Dwayne’s Speedos, claiming he was checking for genital abnormalities. After a quick tour of the area housing the struck-off professionals (where Lancer and Dwayne were abused by a human rights lawyer who shouted, ‘You’re the puppets of a police state!’), they arrived back at the Control Centre. Inspector Lancer scanned Paris’s letter into a computer, showing Dwayne how to do it. The letter said:

Hi Mohammed,

I have wrote you a poem for your birthday, don’t laugh. I writ it last night when Fifty-cents was asleep. It took me a long
time, I had to keep checking the spelling in that dictionary I nicked from school.

How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the…

Dwayne realized from the second line that she had attributed the authorship of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s famous poem to herself. He was bitterly disappointed in Paris.

Lancer said, ‘That’s not a bad poem. I wonder where she went to school?’

He keyed in Paris’s name and registration number and the screen came up with Paris’s life history:

Name: Paris Butterworth (19).
Father: Lee Butterworth (47), recidivist, prescribed methadone, currently unemployed.
Mother: Lorna Butterworth (51), currently employed at Grice-A-Go-Go as cloakroom attendant, many convictions for petty theft.
Sister: Chelsey Butterworth (19), pole dancer.
Sister: Tropez Butterworth (12), Arthur Grice Academy.
Brother: Dallas Butterworth (4), special needs nursery.
Paris Butterworth: 5' 1", 8 stone 3 lbs.
Medical record: Bronchitis every winter, otherwise healthy.
Menstrual cycle: First week of every month, complains of severe pain.
History: Unsettled at nursery school, constantly cried for mother. At four years could not handle eating implements. Vocabulary v. poor, when showed a picture of a cow could not name it.