Bertie and the Kinky Politician (31 page)

‘What career! I had one fifteen years ago but it went on a day trip to Skegness and never came back. No, surprisingly, this won't do me any harm at all – those media vultures out there will ensure I'm handled with kid gloves from now on.' Wilf did not mention his visit to Hugo. She did not need to know what threats he'd employed to secure his own future. ‘Besides, my boss has finally realised I've got a bit of talent and has put me forward for promotion at last.'

‘Wilf, that's wonderful news. Thank goodness something good has come from all this.'

‘For you, too. You're a global celebrity now. A hop, skip and jump and you'll have your own TV show. Milk it, Celeste, milk it while you're hot!'

‘Me? On TV? That's a joke.'

‘You'll be on television tonight, however much you try to avoid it. God, listen to them out there!'

‘Wilf,' she said firmly. ‘We have to do something. Bertie is getting very frightened. Those flashguns terrify me, so imagine how he feels. Can't you go out and talk to them, get them to back off so that we can go home?'

‘They won't go. They just won't. You could set up camp in here and stay until hell freezes over but that lot will be still waiting outside. You have no idea how tenacious they can be. No idea at all. Sooner or later you'll have to face them, either now or …' His voice tapered off slowly.

‘Or what?'

‘We might just be able to persuade them to let us through if we promised a press conference, but only if Bertie is there. He's the star – Britain's going macaw mad at the moment!'

Celeste looked dubious. ‘Surely that'll be just as stressful.'

‘Not if you have it at home. At least there he'll be in a familiar environment.'

She thought for a long while, teeth gnawing at her lower lip, then nodded dubiously. ‘Well, OK, but I want you there as well just to make sure matters stay civilised.'

Bertie sat on his perch behind the sofa, watching all the fuss and bother with great interest. The normal tranquillity of the house had been turned upside down since lunch, and now the far end of the salon was filled with wall-to-wall cameras. Hacks sat cross-legged on the parquet and made last-minute adjustments to their equipment. Cables snaked across the floor, through the patio doors, across the lawn and into vans parked in a line down the street beyond the garden wall, their roofs sprouting all manner of antennae and dishes.

Celeste fussed him, always there to keep him calm, and Bertie took comfort in her continual attention. Having witnessed the events in court the previous day, the assembled journalists sincerely hoped her presence would have a soporific effect on the macaw. Wilf sat on the portmanteau beside the bureau looking, to Bertie's eyes, even more faded than usual. Why on earth didn't he wear something a little more colourful? A splash of vibrant yellow wouldn't go amiss. Perhaps then he'd pull. No female in her right mind, it seemed to Bertie, could possibly find grey attractive.

Wilf glanced at his watch. It was almost four, the appointed hour. Celeste had wanted as much time as possible for Bertie to settle back into his domestic routine while the press had asked for it to be no later so they could report back to their editors in plenty of time for their evening deadlines.

Celeste regarded the group of technicians and reporters with wary concern. She now just wanted to get the interview over and done with as soon as possible and return to her quiet life. She was also desperate to see James again. He'd been gallantly discreet in the weeks leading up to the trial and felt it wouldn't be wise to be seen at Greenwich. The press had been keeping a close eye on them both, but now Celeste felt a real need for his company. She'd been surprised by the depth of her feelings. She had also greatly missed their enjoyable little scenarios and promised something very special indeed for his next visit. An innocent Wilf was sitting on the new clothing and equipment she'd ordered.

‘We're ready now, Miss Gordon,' said a man from the BBC, identifiable by his beautiful shiner of a black eye. ‘If you would like to sit here on the settee then Bertie will be in shot over your shoulder without having to leave his perch.'

Celeste did as she was asked, feeling exceptionally self-conscious, and sat with undisguised apprehension while carrying out a quick final check on her make-up in a compact mirror. A touch of powder reduced the sheen of her skin, she'd applied minimal eye shadow and her lips were tinted with a colour known to women as ‘Exotic Arabian Ruby' and to men as ‘red'. She wore a sober black suit and a pale cream blouse with a single beryl brooch at the throat. However, her appearance was, as always, dominated by her hair. Those long, flowing tresses flamed under the lights like waves of molten copper, beautifully vibrant and voluminous. There was no doubt she was an extraordinarily striking woman. ‘Is this all right?' she asked. ‘I'm a little nervous.'

‘Smashing. Perfect. Now, just relax, Miss Gordon. Everyone ready?'

The room was suddenly filled with the muted whisper of cameras. Bertie cocked his head to one side and listened intently.

‘Right, here we go. Miss Gordon, how do you feel now that the trial is over?' This was a predictable start, something which made everyone feel comfortable. It was a question taken straight from chapter one of the
Ladybird Guide to Post-Trial Interviews
.

‘Very relieved. I've been under a tremendous strain over the last few months and I'm just glad it's now all over.'

‘Did you have any doubts as to the outcome?' asked ITN. Routine. Boring. Everyone was still settling down.

‘None. I always knew we'd win.'

‘But it could have gone the other way?'

‘That's true, but the judge was brilliant. He was prepared to give Bertie as much time as he needed to remember.'

‘Was Bertie's evidence vital?' There was a distinct rustle of interest. This was what they were after – the Bertie angle. Celeste was pragmatic enough to realise these people wouldn't give her the time of day if it wasn't for him.

‘Oh, yes, absolutely vital. He was the only witness to the actual assault apart from me, and I was knocked about a bit and stunned. I can only vaguely remember his assault on those two but I can assure you it was pretty terrifying. Well, you all saw what happened in court yesterday. That was a big chamber. The attack in here was frighteningly more concentrated.' A wave of unease rippled through the reporters. They all seemed suddenly conscious of the fact they were in extremely close proximity to a creature which displayed all the sprightly psychological instabilities of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde! ‘Then the three of them crashed through those doors and out into the garden.'

‘And was that the last you saw of Bertie until he was returned by the police?' This was polite and gentle questioning, very British – they appeared to be anxious indeed to avoid arousing the wrath of the big bird sitting behind the sofa.

‘Yes. Bertie was returned by Detective Constable Thompson here.' Celeste smiled at Wilf.

‘Hello, Wilf,' said Bertie suddenly. ‘Got any nuts?'

‘Now then, Bertie, don't be rude,' chided Celeste gently. ‘Perhaps later.' The press thought this sudden interchange highly interesting and waited with bated breath for another casual interjection by the macaw, but he appeared disinclined to oblige and turned to cleaning a feather or two. ‘Anyway, he was still attacking those two horrible men as they ran away.'

‘Better than a Rottweiler, eh, love?' sniggered a dubious-looking character who represented that ultimate bastion of serious journalism,
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.

‘Much better, I would say. I've never known him do anything like it before. It was – well, quite a surprise.'

‘Can you get him to sit on the sofa beside you and say something else?' asked a representative of the Israeli State News. She sat sandwiched between two Iranian and Libyan correspondents who had obligingly shuffled up to make room.

‘I'll try. Bertie, come here.' Celeste patted the arm. Nothing happened. Bertie refused to move. She glanced back at the cameras and grinned ruefully. ‘Sorry. Never work with animals.'

‘Can you try again? Please?'

‘Well, OK. Bertie, Mummy loves you. Come on, come sit.' Wilf found her tone of voice intoxicatingly persuasive. He would certainly have leapt to her side had the invitation been directed at himself.

Bertie recognised the comforting familiarity of Celeste's voice, leaned forward and with a minimal flutter, hopped onto the back of the sofa. He waddled back and forth for a moment, then moved carefully onto the arm and sidled up to her, staring steadily at her face. His tail feathers were so long they almost brushed the parquet floor beside the settee. Some of the journos looked a trifle uneasy at the proximity of his scimitar talons. He enjoyed the fuss given by Celeste and dutifully stretched out his chin so she could tickle under his bill. He liked that very much and began to purr, which caused a great deal of amusement amongst their crowded guests. ‘That's nice,' he said dreamily. Several reporters shook their heads in disbelief; the damned bird was more eloquent than most Premier League footballers.

‘Can't he say something else?' asked another American journalist, perhaps more familiar with the concept of trained animals. Disney parrots could take the lead roles in any Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.

‘Are you hungry?' asked Celeste.

Bertie perked up. This sounded much more promising. Here was something plain and simple he had no difficulty in understanding. ‘Hungry. Yes. I like nuts.'

‘Yes, Bertie, I know.' Celeste produced a bag of walnuts. ‘What do you say?'

‘Thank you.' Bertie was impeccably polite and began to dispose of the nuts in a quick and professional manner, his interest in the proceedings momentarily diverted. He was quite happy to graze while Celeste answered further questions and worked his way through half a dozen shells, then his attention was suddenly drawn to a technician who, while the interview was proceeding and keen to stay out of shot, crawled forward on his belly to place yet another microphone at Celeste's feet.

This movement triggered a strange train of thought in Bertie. He paused, cocked his head to one side and sat quite still. Something struggled up out of the jumbled lumber room that was his memory.

Something about crawling.

And kneeling.

Kneeling! Yes, that was it. The Kneeling Man. He hadn't visited for a while now but Bertie well remembered him. The Kneeling Man was always so polite. The Kneeling Man was fun. His head made an excellent perch. He always brought fruit or some other tasty little snack, but most important of all, The Kneeling Man was the only person in the world who made his mum a very happy woman. Not unnaturally, he made the simple association between the actions of the technician and his friend. He cleared his throat theatrically, as he had seen many times on the television, and was rewarded by the instant attention of the world's media.

‘The Kneeling Man,' he announced precisely in received English.

No response. There was a collective puzzlement.

‘The Kneeling Man,' he repeated a little louder. What was wrong with these people? Did he have to spell it out for them? ‘Hooded, gagged, and strapped in the bondage wardrobe!' A stunned silence filled the room. Were they all deaf? ‘James Timbrill,' he said, even louder still, enunciating as clearly as he could. ‘The Kneeling Man. Here. Leather. The bondage wardrobe.' He executed a perfect reproduction of a cracking whip and the accompanying yelp of pain. ‘Here. With the handcuffs. Many times.'

There was a speechless moment of absolute shock. Frozen faces stared in gaping, slack-jawed disbelief.

‘Bertie!' shrieked Celeste. ‘Oh, no!' Her ashen face was a mask of anguish. Her eyes bulged. She tried to say something but only a strangled mewl came out. Totally mystified by this entirely unexpected response, Bertie turned his attention back to the walnuts while the room around him erupted …

The PM sat in the privacy of his study, the door firmly shut. He did not want the staff around him to see the wide grin of satisfaction on his normally grave face. They would wonder why he was so happy. They would whisper that he knew something they didn't. This they would not like. They would want to find out the reason for his contentment and he would then find himself fending off a wearisome barrage of polite and not-very-subtle enquiries as to the reason for this unusual good cheer.

That needed to be avoided.

The flat screen monitor on his desk displayed the usual BBC News 24 channel as a reduced window set within a full-sized exterior scene of a quiet Downing Street. An external security camera pointed to the left and he could see the traffic passing back and forth along Whitehall the other side of Mrs T's unscalable gates. He glanced at it occasionally while working his way swiftly through a series of papers covering such diverse subjects as the preparations for a state visit by the President of Mexico to an amendment advocating an increase in the spacing of urban lamp posts to save on running costs.

Ah, the delights of running a country!

The smile broadened. It came easily. He was in high humour. A scheme long planned had finally come to fruition, a scheme of his own making, one so subtle and ingenious even Hugo Chaplain remained entirely unaware of its existence. The scheme had, by necessity, been concocted in his own mind and executed by his own hand. No one else had been involved. No one else knew or guessed or even imagined of such a scheme, and therefore no one else would ever disclose its secrets. It was his and his alone, and it had been entirely and satisfyingly successful.

The scheme had been to rid himself of JSON.

Oh, clever scheme!

It had all started with a carefully orchestrated but outwardly coincidental meeting in the House of Commons. The PM had bumped into Quentin Austerly on his way to the chamber and during their hurried conversation, casually mentioned he thought it odd the MoD was the only major Whitehall ministry not possessing a relaxation and entertainment suite for its senior officials. Perhaps there was room at the back of the building, well out of the way, that might prove a suitable location? Always so embarrassingly eager to please, Austerly acted with predictable energy while also demonstrating his impertinence by claiming the idea was his own. This, the PM knew, would certainly upset Chaplain – the man was paranoid about secrecy – and so Hugo moved to deflect the course of events in his habitually vicious manner. Exit Austerly and Sharples. Alan Denmark, too. Pity. A talented man, but sacrifices needed to be made. This left the stage open for the spectacular rise of James Timbrill – the whole point of the exercise – thus successfully completing the first stage of the PM's plan.