Fortress

8

The solitary police van started to rock. It was surrounded and prone, like an animal separated from its herd, with half a dozen uniforms trapped inside. Several of the mob wore white robes. With each shove the van tipped further until it teetered tantalizingly in the balance, then crashed onto its side. A huge roar went up from the mob in the street and the spectators on the balconies of a nearby block of flats. The back doors of the van sprang open as some of the occupants tried to make their escape. Flames erupted from underneath.

Sarah Garvey aimed the remote and froze the picture. ‘Jesus Christ.’

She slumped back on the sofa. Her eyes were sore and gritty from three days of semi-sleepless nights. She reached for the glass on the coffee-table and downed the remains of the Evian.

Roger Spate leaned against the fireplace. ‘I do advise you to keep going, Home Secretary.’

‘I think I’ve got the gist.’

‘We can stop, of course, if it’s upsetting.’ There was a small twitch of mock pity around Spate’s mouth.

They were in the front room of her Georgian town house with the blinds down, the muffled chat of the press pack camped on her doorstep filtering through the reinforced windows.

‘It does get better, trust me,’ he added.

Trusting her press officer was an indulgence she had so far not allowed herself. Screw you, Roger, she thought, knowing that her glare would say it for her. She pressed play.

He pointed at the screen, excited. ‘Stand by for the money shot.’

Spoken like a true hack.

Just as the mob fell on the escaping cops, a huge white truck lurched round the corner.

‘Remember the water cannon you okayed? Voilà — just off the boat from Belfast, courtesy of the PSNI.’

The jet of water from the turret above its cab simultaneously doused the fire and scattered the mob, like skittles, leaving the cops drenched but safe.

‘Thank Christ for that.’

Spate coughed quietly into his fist.

Typical of him to look so pleased with himself, as if he had personally saved the day.

‘What one could almost call a very welcome good-news story. The media haven’t exactly been co-operative when it comes to showing us getting a grip. And the ones in the white robes. We’re just getting confirmation that three of them are returnee jihadis, back from Syria.’

She could only marvel at his gift for remaining smug at the direst of moments. She jabbed at the screen. ‘Good news for whom? When did we last see water cannon trained on mainland British subjects?’

Spate gazed at her, clearly surprised at being wrong-footed. He said nothing while she pressed on.

‘The ring-leaders may be jihadi returnees. Yes, it shows the police getting stuck in, but what’s the fallout? What kind of message does it send to the rest of the Muslim community? You think this is going to make people think twice about taking to the streets? Think again.’

Spate sagged a little as if he could sense a speech coming. Garvey was in full flow. The only option was to keep mum and listen.

‘See that orange glow in the background? That’s the Leafhaven Mall left to burn out of control. The BBC’s claiming that the fire brigade are so stretched they’ve decided to let it burn and concentrate on the surrounding dwellings. There are major blazes in five other cities. This isn’t going away, Roger. People are starting to wonder if anyone’s in charge.’

Spate lifted a finger. ‘Are you suggesting we fly the PM back from Camp David?’

We? Who the fuck does he think he is?

In any case, she knew damn well that neither wild horses nor even parts of the country in flames would make the PM abandon his love-in with the President.

The news package cut to a line of people wrapped in blankets being ushered into a school hall, which had been commandeered as a temporary shelter. Spate was pointing again. ‘Well, Home Secretary, if I may, this does look like someone’s in charge — caring for the victims.’

Garvey looked at him, amazed by his capacity to detect the thinnest silver lining in even the darkest cloud. That was a talent, she supposed, of sorts.

‘Those people.’ She jabbed a finger at the group of residents being ushered towards the hall. ‘Who d’you think they’re going to be voting for in the next election?’

Her phone buzzed: the prime minister. She snatched it up, at the same time shooing Spate out of the room.

‘Sarah! So sorry I’ve been incommunicado. POTUS has been keeping us under lock and key.’

‘Bit hard to hear you — there’s a loud buzzing.’

‘Cicadas: the trees are alive with them. It’s practically tropical here.’

The photo call with the President — on a golf course, for fuck’s sake — had been a disaster, an absolute gift for Private Eye and Mock the Week.

‘You’ve seen the latest, Prime Minister?’ She had just forwarded him a briefing, a stark rundown of the latest casualties: twenty dead and at least six hundred injured. All police leave cancelled indefinitely; army medics drafted into overflowing A and E departments.

‘Yes, yes. Very troubling.’

She knew he hadn’t read it, and he knew she knew.

‘Look, Sarah, we really appreciate all you’re doing.’ We? As if the President himself were patting her on the head. ‘We’re cracking on here…’ Cracking on eating twelve-course fucking banquets and downing the President’s personal bourbon. ‘And they’re talking openly about us speeding up our exit from Afghanistan. But for that fracas in Helmand…’

‘Sorry to butt in, Geoff.’ She couldn’t give a flying fuck about Afghanistan. ‘May I speak bluntly?’

‘You always do, Sarah. That’s why I put you in the job.’ He gave one of his falsetto laughs, which she recognized as a sign he wasn’t amused.

‘The war on everyone’s minds is right here on their doorstep, not three thousand miles away in Helmand. It’s not going away.’

‘Yes, yes, I appreciate that — but, Sarah, this is a win-win. We get our boys home and we’re not fighting Islam any more. Should send the right messages to both sides. We — that’s the President and I — see this as a real opportunity to press the reset button on our relationship with the Muslim world, and he’s prepared to put some real economic muscle behind it. And, by the way, just to give you a little bit more… support, I’ve asked the office to go hard on finding some young Muslim voices — you know, who we can put up to show we’re inclusive.’

Seriously? ‘I think we’ve rather passed that point.’ His feeble Tiggerish enthusiasm made her want to beat him to death with his own golf clubs.

‘Come on, Sarah, positive thinking. Crises can bring out the best in us. Let’s use this opportunity to shake the Party up a bit. With all this kerfuffle at home, it’s a good moment to start widening the gene pool.’

Kerfuffle?

She felt the chill of despair setting in.

‘Look, just do whatever you can to keep a lid on things. You’ve got my total confidence. And — you never know — it could be your finest hour. Anyway, must dash. The President wants us to get going again.’

The line went dead just as Spate slid back into the room. ‘The car’s ready, Home Secretary.’

A second, and her mental diary had gone blank.

‘For COBRA.’

She let out a low groan and reached for her bag. ‘I’m not getting into a car to travel three hundred metres down Whitehall.’

‘Under the current circumstances, Home Secretary…’

‘There’s a press scrum on my doorstep. I’m bloody well not going to be photographed climbing into a bulletproof Range Rover to go half a block. People need to see that someone’s got some fucking balls around here.’

‘Absolutely, Home Secretary.’

Was that the hint of a smirk she detected? It had better bloody not be. The PM had already put her in a foul mood and, if necessary, she was prepared to get the nutcrackers out. In fact, she was looking forward to it.