Band of Gypsys (13 page)

Frowning, chin down, the PM pressed his finger to his ear, one of modern life’s odd, commonplace gestures. His face changed.

Sage was driving the van, wearing hippy-dippy battledress: which took him back. George Merrick beside him was similarly attired. The uniforms were a nostalgic touch, invoking the way the barmy army had earned their reputation—

‘You know what this reminds me of, boss?’ remarked big George.

‘What?’

‘Heaton Park Manchester, on the Rock the Boat tour. It rained like fuck, an’ we took shelter in that folkies’ storytelling tent… Boat People Summer. Fuckin’ frantic times.’ George sighed fondly. ‘Riots in the ports, refugee reception camps burned out, the worst English weather in living memory—’

‘Distance lends enchantment. I don’t remember. I don’t think I was there.’

‘You never remember anything.’ George tipped his head back, ‘Hey, Cack, Bill?
You
remember the boggart story? In that park with all the mud?’

‘It wasn’t Heaton Park,’ called Bill Trevor, from the measureless caverns of the van’s back quarters. ‘I reckon it was the other park.’

‘With the more mud,’ agreed Peter’s (Cack) Stannen’s serious little voice. ‘But in Manchester the grass grows back faster, it’s the toughest grass in the world. It’s the best place in England for rock festivals.’

‘They kept saying that,’ yelled Bill.

‘You may be right,’ George conceded. ‘Anyway, it was a story about a boggart, kind of house-goblin, piskie they have up there. It was driving a farmer’s household up the wall, so they decided to quit. The family’s out in the yard, their gear piled onto carts. Another farmer drops by, says,
what, are you flitting
? An’ a weird little voice pipes up, from deep down in one of the carts—’

‘
Aye, neighbour, we’re flittin
!’ shouted Bill and Peter.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?,’ growled Sage, above the cackling.

‘This isn’t going to work, boss.’

‘It’s not a solution. It’s clearing the ground, so he
can
work.’

‘You’re soft in the head about him, boss. It doesn’t do to get soft in the head.’

The convoy reached the tank trap and drew up. Four figures, one of them notably tall and slender, emerged from the grey van. They jumped up and down, waving, as if trying to attract the attention of the CCTV cameras that topped the deer fence. Guests began to laugh and clap, realising that the skull masks meant this was Sage’s band. Aoxomoxoa and the Heads had arrived, and their strange behaviour must be a planned entertainment. Other figures in Bohemian military dress tumbled from one of the trucks, like circus clowns, and proffered a folding stepladder. The big, broad skull-masked fellow climbed it. He waved (grinning, naturally) to the company under the limes: applied a circuit breaker, and set to work with bolt-cutters.

The PM leapt to his feet, as did Jack Vries

‘
What
is going on!’ bellowed the PM.

Applause faltered. The black and white servants hesitated, waiting for orders. Ax, in his Edwardian-repro deckchair, hadn’t stirred.

Faud Hassim, primed by a little boy’s betraying eyes, felt his heart begin to thud. My God. The perimeter guards must have been dealt with already. He counted eight, ten Wallingham servants with the croquet party; but there was an army of them indoors.
My God
the man is reckless, ruthless! It was a terror coup, an afternoon of long knives, the wicked and the parasites gathered here to be slaughtered—

Albion tugged his sleeve. ‘They’ll hurt themselves. I mustn’t touch the fence. Sage says don’t even think about it. A big deer is much bigger than me.’

Faud recalled that the baby (rumoured to be Ax’s own son), had been sent away. Was this older child doomed, reckoned
disposable
?

Sunny patted his arm. ‘Don’t worry, Faz. It’s going to be fine.’

Ax rolled the cigarette he couldn’t smoke until sundown between his fingers, and gathered Milly, his brothers and his sister, with a glance. Be calm. This is not going to go wrong, this is within my power. He grinned for the audience.

‘It’s a Happening, Greg. Sorry about your fence—’

A section of deer fence flattened, the convoy deployed a field ramp, rolled up it and crossed the lawns. The tall ringleader came ambling over, a rifle slung on his back, and now everyone knew the beautiful, fearsome mask of the living skull. Sage bowed extravagently to Sunny, the skull doing loutish charm with a dash of sober reassurance. He proffered a slim briefcase.

‘Happy Birthday, ma’am. You havin’ a large one?’

‘I’m having a
fine
birthday,’ said Sunny.

‘Well, here’s the deeds. Your new residence awaits.’

The barmies raised a cheer, but thankfully refrained from an Afghan salute.

‘The deeds?
’ The Prime Minister repeated Sage’s words, his lips moving without sound, pop-eyed in dawning comprehension. Jordan stood with his arm clamped round Milly’s shoulders, teeth bared in a frozen grin. Nice one, Jor. If you end up having to convince your masters, over my dead body, that you had nothing to do with this stunt, you’ll be cool—

‘You
broke
the fence,’ remarked Albi, looking up at Sage with worship, and then everyone heard the
taktaktak
of helicopter rotors.

Who can this be? Who can run a helicopter these days? Some fabulously rich veteran rock-god, dropping by for cake? A large, vintage personnel-carrying machine hove into view, the chequered hat-band speedily announcing its provenance.

But who had called the police?

What the hell’s going to happen?

Some of the guests (it was written all over their faces), took a good hard look at the idea of running for cover; no one stirred. The helicopter descended, the rotors slowed. Two spruce young uniformed officers got down, a man and a woman, and stood to attention as Commissioner Kieran Matthews appeared, also in uniform. Commissioner Matthews had worked with Ax Preston since the Islamic Campaign, when he’d been in charge of the policing of the Separatist War region. He now held one of the three top posts in the English Police Service. He acknowledged the Prime Minister and his wife with a nod, looked indulgently askance at the raffish paramilitary display; took off his cap, tucked it under his arm and saluted.

‘Everything all right, Sir?’

‘All good, Kieran,’ said Ax. ‘Glad you could make it, thanks for turning up.’

‘Not at all. I’m delighted to pay my respects.’ A grin cracked. ‘Birthday cake on the lawn. No need to call in the regulars for that, eh Sir?’

‘Hahaha. I don’t think so.’

The Prime Minister looked at Jack Vries, for an unguarded moment, and gave a bark of laughter: he made no other comment. The senior policeman went to offer his birthday greetings, and Ax shook his head at Sage.

‘You couldn’t have come round the front door, like a civilised person?’

The skull-masked one saluted smartly. ‘Tried that, Sah. Cock up, Sah. Couldn’t get through. Service should be back to normal soon.’

At this moment, reinforcements arrived. Servants poured from the house, brandishing firearms and screaming
on the ground, hands behind your heads
! The guests milled in panic. The barmies held the goons at bay, goodhumouredly, shooing them like sheep: until they realised their mistake and retired, crestfallen.

Sage took off the mask, and Ax took off his smile.

‘Hi, soldier. How did it go?’

‘Hi, other soldier. The perimiter is ours.’

‘No misunderstandings, no scuffles, no casualties?’

‘None, zero. Never in doubt, not a shot fired.’

Breaking the hostages out like this had not been Ax’s original plan, not even after he’d discovered that Wallingham was a fucking
fortress
, and that his family were never allowed to leave the grounds all at the same time. But with the Lavoisier scandal hanging over him, he’d had to give up diplomacy. The stunt should be safe, but it wasn’t over yet. The skull reappeared, morphed into a cheery and convivial grimace and Sage turned away, to work the crowd.

‘Greg,’ said Ax. ‘Jack? Could I speak with you?’

The Prime Minister and Jack Vries walked with Ax towards the Elizabethan knot garden. ‘I’m sorry,’ Ax said, ‘about all that. But there is a serious purpose. I’m afraid my family has to leave Wallingham: it doesn’t suit my mother. I’ve found a smaller house. It’s further from town, but I promise security won’t be a problem.’

‘I saw military gauge weapons,’ said Greg, biting off the words. ‘Forbidden to your hippie ex-paramilitaries, Ax. I’m sorry too, but that’s a
serious
infringement—’

Ax shook his head. ‘Nah, they’re all fakes. No firing pins.’

The ones we saw
, thought Jack and Greg, transparently.
The weapons you’ll hand over, another day, if we force the point
… Possibly the barmies really were unarmed, and could be dealt with, at the cost of a horrible public incident. But Commissioner Matthews’ presence warned that Ax was not without heavyweight allies. The PM must realise, also, that many of the party guests were on Ax’s side right now. The
nomenklatura
will accept a lot, if they’re well looked-after: even hostage-taking. But they don’t like the practice much.

Ax waited, gravely smiling.

Greg Mursal nodded. ‘Then that’s settled. If you’re sure, Sir.’

‘Oh, I am. You see, there’s Wallingham Camp. When I found out we had a Celtic ritual site on the doorstep, I didn’t like the association. Although of course, I’m sure Green Nazi blood rites were never practiced there.’

The full extent of the human sacrifice network would never be known. Nor the extent to which associates of these two beauties had been involved. But there’d been a time when illegal, cruel and prolonged animal sacrifice had been stoutly defended by the right wing of the Parliamentary Green Party. The occasional horse was still getting disembowelled, and there were rumours that the perpetrators were protected—

Greg looked shocked, ‘Ax, that site has
never
been active in modern times!’

‘I should hope not. Even so—’

‘The President is right,’ cried Jack. ‘The association gives entirely the wrong message, this should have been raised when Wallingham was proposed! I’m a believer, but I share your feelings, Sir. Especially since there may be hm, excuse me, personal and dynastic considerations. Milly and er, both her children must leave here at once. Immediately! As the Wiccan consultant to the government, I have been shockingly at fault. You have my abject apology, Sir!’

How about your resignation?, thought Ax.

Nah, didn’t think so.

Dynastic
considerations. You can’t complain about colourful gossip you have encouraged, but he was chilled: thinking of those mad Plantagenets in Paris; visions of a little prince on a leash, the inconvenient adults having succumbed to mysterious accidents… They must go, he thought. By democratic process, but these bastards have to go. I’ll lever the “Rebels” into power. It shouldn’t be impossible.

‘Well, that’s the explanation. I wanted to make a happy occasion of the move rather than a scandal. I couldn’t consult without spoiling the surprise, but I was sure you’d be sports about it. I hope that was okay.’

‘Of course!’ declared Greg, looking dangerously flushed. ‘Of course!’

‘Good, that’s good. Thank you, both of you.’

Greg, Jack and the President returned to the party in smiling accord. They’d agreed that immediate departure would be a little extreme, and devised a brief announcement. Ax had no objection to the fiction that the surprise had been long planned. Nor to the addition that though the Prestons were moving, for Sunny’s health, the Wallingham Live Show remained very much a “live” project.

As the guests departed, the barmies were setting up camp all over Wallingham lawns, under the supervision of Sage’s brother Heads. The hippie soldiers were staying, with their military gauge weapons (possibly fake, possibly not): and Greg Mursal, in turn, had no objection to this arrangement. When the Prestons were packed they’d get a barmy army ceremonial escort to their new address.

Ax would have liked to stay and talk with his mum without the crowd, but it would have been tactless, given the circumstances: and anyway he had to get away from Jordan. He knew the signs, they were both of them strung tight, a screaming match was not far off. He and Sage returned to London as planned, by road: Ax driving his beloved black Volvo coupé, the four barmy minders in another car. Sage called Fiorinda to tell her it had gone well. She thanked him in a few words, and got off the air. He sighed and turned his wrist, making the implant time figures flicker, off/on, off/on. Running fast, he noticed. It hadn’t worked right since Lavoisier.

‘I knew it would be okay.’

‘Never in doubt,’ said Ax. ‘That’s the easy part.’

He thought of the tv prison show, his brother as smiling host.

‘We’ll have to keep the new place garrisoned. Jordan hates my guts and I don’t blame him. What’s his life like? A choice of captivities.’

‘Fuck Jor. Don’t all top celebrities live like so?’

The old motorways had become a playground for people who liked to drive (and who had a President’s ecofuel privileges). Traffic, such as it was, avoided them: they were lonely and dangerous. Sage watched the rearview mirror, noting with resignation that the minders had vanished, left far behind. Ax was tearing up the pocked M20, in the mood where he’d be
delighted
to meet some hijackers, and put that charmed life of his to the test again. But someone has to worry.

‘It had to be done. I couldn’t let them hold a gun to my mother’s head. They knew it was unworkable. I called their bluff and we’re all pals. For now.’

‘What about the Extreme Celtic connection?’

‘I don’t think so. Jack and Greg, in another world they’d have been normal, mildly dodgy, right-wing politicians. They’ve just been around riff-raff like you and me for too long. Gun-crazed paramilitaries, giving them ideas.’

Wild verges, awash with speedwell and daisies, bluebells and lacey white chervil, flew by. It need not have been okay. This afternoon could have ended very badly, one good reason why Fiorinda had to stay out of it. But it would not have ended in blood, because that was not going to happen again. Never again.