The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (40 page)

 In his flat Arthur dialled the evening
news. Instead of the news, what came up on the wallscreen were two intensely
bright green orbs. ‘Merlin?’ Around the orbs, bits of Merlin’s face
materialised like pieces of a jigsaw – eyebrows, mouth, cheeks, ears, forehead
and hair, chin and nose, until finally the whole face was assembled. The last
thing to appear was the smile.

‘What’s to be done, Merlin?’

The mouth formed the words
‘Come with me.’ No sooner had it done so than the face receded into darkness.
Under a starry sky lay an island in a moonlit sea, on the island a glimmer of
white buildings. A fast zoom, and the camera focused on one of them. There
stood Merlin pointing at a sign over the entrance – the one word, NIWIS. ‘Mean
anything to you?’

Arthur shook his head, puzzled. ‘No.’

Reaching up, Merlin dabbled
his fingers in the heavens and drew down a handful of stars. For a few moments
they chased each other round and round his head, then broke away and streaked
towards Arthur, seeming to burst in his face, dazzling him. When he opened his
eyes again, there onscreen was the full-length magus, white robe, linen jacket,
shoulder-length blond hair. ‘Remember now?’

Arthur’s eyes dreamed. ‘Yes .
. . NIWIS . . . Nothing Is What It Seems.’

‘Suggest anything to you?’

The words came back to him.
‘
We make our enemies see
what isn’t there. And not see – what
is.’

Merlin spread his hands. ‘Precisely.’ ‘How does
that help me?’ asked Arthur.

‘Simple. Make Uther see what
you want him to see, even though what you want him to see is not there.’

‘Riddles, Merlin,’ complained
Arthur. ‘Why is it always riddles?’

‘You want your bread sliced
and buttered on both sides,’ said Merlin tetchily, his image fading from the
screen.

For hours Arthur’s thoughts
ran here and there chasing elusive ideas with no hope of catching them, like a
friendly dog half-heartedly chasing a rabbit. At the end of every blind alley
stood Merlin shaking his head and pointing in the opposite direction. Mentally
exhausted and thoroughly exasperated, Arthur fell into a deep sleep.

When he woke the following
morning, there it was – the solution – bright and shining and clear as a full
moon. Yet around the solution was a dark ring. Arthur was troubled. His father
had to be brought down, and he was the one to do it. But by deception and
cunning? Was Leo right? Did the end justify the means? By the time he had
shaved and dressed, he had convinced himself that he was being over-sensitive.
Corruption was a disease. If it were not rooted out, the whole system would
become infected.

He laid the text on Uther’s
desk. ‘What’s this?’

‘Your letter of resignation.’

Uther sighed wearily. ‘We’ve
been through this before. You’re wasting my time.’

‘If you refuse to sign it,’
said Arthur, ‘I shall e-mail your MI5 file to the
Daily
Telegraph
.’

Uther leaned back in his chair
and considered Arthur through narrowed eyes. ‘And see our whole political
system tainted and your father disgraced?’ He shook his head. ‘Somehow I don’t
think so. You see, Arthur, you are one of that rare breed, a good man, and like
all good men, you have a conscience. You care what happens to people.’

Arthur produced his palm
computer and sent a signal to the computer on Uther’s desk. The wallscreen
flickered, and on it was the text of a letter signed by Arthur.

Uther frowned. ‘What the hell is that?’

‘My covering letter to the
editor. And now . . . ’ Slowly Arthur scrolled down several more pages,
allowing Uther plenty of time to read them. ‘Your MI5 file.’

‘You’d never dare send it.’
Uther was less confident than he sounded. Being confronted by that damned file
up there on the screen was a little unnerving. If this was poker, then Arthur
had certainly raised the stakes. Was he bluffing? Most probably, though there
was a resolute look about him that Uther found disquieting.

A few more taps on the palm
computer, and there on the screen was Charles Meadows, editor of the
Daily
Telegraph
. It was clear to Uther from Arthur’s greeting that he and
Meadows had already discussed this. ‘Morning, Charles. You’ll have the story in
the next few minutes.’

‘Can I have an exclusive?’ ‘No
guarantees,’ said Arthur.

‘At least give me a clue what
it’s all about,’ pleaded Meadows.

Uther was studying every
nuance of expression, every word and every inflexion. Never for a second did he
take his eyes off the screen.

‘It will be of great interest
to your readers,’ promised Arthur.

Though it was less than
Meadows had hoped for, he would take whatever he could get. ‘Is that all you
can tell me?’

‘For the moment,’ said Arthur.

‘Why am I onscreen in Number
10?’ Surely the story must have something to do with the PM. But what? And why,
Meadows asked himself, was Arthur Pendragon involved? Was it personal? A family
problem? Ill health, perhaps? Or . . . wait a minute . . . could it be divorce!
Was that it? Was Uther’s wife leaving him? There had been rumours over the
years. Was this an exercise in damage limitation?

‘That would be telling,’ said Arthur, giving
nothing away.

For a journalist this was more
than frustrating. ‘If it was anyone but you, Arthur . . . ’ And with that the
screen went blank. Charles Meadows knew he had all he was going to get

– for the moment, at least.

Uther was trying to read the
expression on his son’s face, but it was impenetrable.

‘Which is it to be?’ asked
Arthur, ‘resignation or exposure?’ Uther was beginning to feel the pressure. ‘I
can’t believe you’d be such a fool – you, Westminster’s golden boy.’ Uther
smiled ruefully. ‘As you know, I’m a realist. You have to be in this business.
I hate to admit it, but next time round the chances are that United Labour will
win the election. And then . . . think of it, Arthur. You will be Prime
Minister of the United Kingdom.

Are you ready to throw all that away?’

‘With great reluctance,’ admitted Arthur. ‘But
if I have to

. . . ’ He shrugged. ‘There
comes a time when a stand has to be made.’

My God, thought Uther, he
isn’t bluffing. He really means it. He had heard of such men, men who were
willing to sacrifice everything for a point of principle, though this was the
first time he had had the misfortune to meet one. And to think it had to be his
own son! ‘Don’t do this to me, Arthur,’ he begged, making his plea shamelessly
personal. ‘Whatever our differences, you’re the one man in the whole world I
can trust, the only friend I have. Don’t abandon me when I need you most.’

‘That’s what you did to me,’ said Arthur
quietly.

Uther sat with head bowed. ‘So
that’s what this is all about. Getting even.’ Though Arthur wanted to deny it,
in his heart of hearts he wasn’t sure. Abruptly Uther switched to ingratiating
mode. ‘Come now, my boy,’ he said, beaming benevolently,

‘why quarrel when we can work together? Leave
United Labour. Cross the floor of the House. Join me in the great crusade.
Think what a team we would make. You would be my trusted lieutenant. I would
give you anything you wanted – a knighthood, a peerage, a cabinet post,
anything at all. No terms. No strings. I offer you an Aladdin’s cave of
choices. Take what you want.’

‘Nice try, father.’

A reproachful look. ‘There
must be something you want.’ ‘There is,’ said Arthur.

A glimmer of hope in Uther’s
eyes. ‘Name it.’ ‘Your resignation.’

Uther could not conceal his
disappointment. ‘That’s one thing you’ll never get.’

A tap on the palm computer,
and the first page of MI5’s file on Uther was onscreen. Fingertip resting
lightly on the send key, Arthur looked at Uther. ‘This is it, father. The
moment of truth. When I tap this key, Meadows will have the file in seconds,
and nothing you or I do can stop it going to press. There’ll be no going back.’

Uther’s mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘You
wouldn’t dare.’

All Arthur had to do now was
pull the trigger, and it would all be over. If only it were as easy as that, he
was thinking. It was painful enough when you had the enemy in your sights but
when it was your own flesh and blood you were about to consign to oblivion . .
. ’Last chance, father.’

‘You haven’t got the guts.’

A tap on the send key and
Uther watched in horror and disbelief as the story of his treachery scrolled
swiftly to its end. Onscreen now was the
Daily Telegraph
answer back,
confirming receipt of the text.

‘Jesus Christ, what have you
done?’ Head in hands Uther repeated over and over again, ‘What have you done?
What have you done?’ He looked up, his eyes wild. ‘Phone Meadows. Now! For
God’s sake phone him! Tell him it’s all lies. Tell him it’s a forgery. Tell him
anything you like but get that report back while there’s still time.’

Arthur did not stir.

‘What the hell are you waiting
for? You don’t think he’ll believe you? Is that it? Offer the man a peerage
then. He’ll sell his soul for a peerage. I know these journalist types.’

‘It’s no use, father.’

‘Don’t say that.’ Uther looked
pleadingly at his son. ‘For God’s sake help me, Arthur. There must be something
you can do.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘It’s too late.’

Such was the tension in his
mind and body that for several seconds Uther actually stopped breathing. Then
he lay back in his chair and gave a sigh so profound that it seemed to draw the
very soul out of him, and with it all his hopes and dreams. He was beaten and
he knew it. He had gambled and lost. ‘Dear God, Arthur, you’ve ruined me.’

Arthur shrugged. ‘I’m sorry it
had to be like this.’ ‘What happens now?’

‘You must sign the letter,’ said Arthur.

Uther summoned up all his
courage. ‘Ah, but should I sign it now, or should I sign it tomorrow? Or should
I not sign it at all?’ As he toyed with his predicament Arthur watched him,
half in astonishment, half in admiration: Nero fiddling while Rome burned. How
typical of his father. ‘Will I? Won’t I? Will I join the dance?’ Sliding open
the left-hand bottom drawer of his desk, Uther produced a bottle of cognac and
a glass. ‘You know something, Arthur, I don’t think I will. At least not now.
I’ll wait until the story hits the headlines.’ Uther looked at his watch. ‘They
deliver the morning papers at six a.m.’ he said. ‘Did you know that, Arthur?’
Arthur shook his head. ‘No? Well, we all live and learn in politics, isn’t that
so?’ He poured himself a triple brandy. ‘Cheers! I shall celebrate my last
twelve hours as Prime Minister in an alcoholic stupor.’

‘If you don’t jump now, you’ll be pushed in the
morning,’ said Arthur, trying to sound casual. ‘Wouldn’t it look better if you
did the honourable thing?’ This was the moment on which everything turned. How
would his father respond? If he refused to resign now, all would be lost. There
would be no reason for him to resign in the morning.

‘The honourable thing?’ Uther
poured himself a large cognac and downed it in one gulp. ‘Why not? It’ll be a
new experience.’ He shrugged, took out his pen and signed the resignation
letter. Arthur scanned the letter onto his palm computer and transmitted it to
the Web Channel’s News Service. Seconds later every newspaper in the country
had the full text of the Prime Minister’s resignation.

A number blinked on Arthur’s
palm computer. He transferred the editor of the
Daily Telegraph
to the
wallscreen. ‘I have your story, Arthur,’ said Charles Meadows, ‘or I presume
that’s what it is. I need the key code to unscramble it.’

‘Forget it,’ said Arthur,
‘it’s a non-starter. There’s a bigger story on the Web Channel.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Meadows.
‘The Prime Minister has resigned.’ ‘Jesus!’ The screen went blank.

Uther looked uncomprehendingly
from Arthur to the screen and back again. And then the penny dropped. ‘You
bastard! You scheming bastard! You tricked me!’

Arthur said nothing. What
could he say? The cat was out of the bag. He would rather his father had not
found him out but now that he had, he was not going to lie about it.

‘You put the text onscreen to
bamboozle me. I assumed that because I could read it, Meadows could too, but he
couldn’t. You sent it to him alright, but you sent it encrypted. You conned me
into resigning.’

‘I’m afraid I did, father,’
said Arthur. ‘
Mea culpa
,’ he added mischievously. He expected another
outburst, but to his astonishment a hint of a smile disturbed Uther’s features.

‘Damn me,’ he murmured, ‘damn me if you aren’t
a chip off the old block.’

It was dusk. Uther poured himself yet another
drink from a near empty bottle of cognac, and staggered across the room to the
window. In the street below a tabby cat licked his paw with great
concentration. He watched it, fascinated. To that cat nothing else in the world
mattered. Prime Ministers could come and go, and what the hell was it to him?
He would go on licking his paw. He envied it. My God how he envied it.

The heat of the summer’s
evening was oppressive. Apart from the cat, Downing Street was deserted, as
were many other streets up and down the country. At this very moment millions
would be watching the late news, though did anyone really care what they were
looking at? Of course not. Why should they? They had no say, no influence, no
real involvement in what was happening in the world. For them the news was just
another game show, only without prizes. A new millennium had dawned, but what
was really new about it? Nothing. Democracy was a sham. People never had any
control over their lives, and they still hadn’t.

One thing was certain, his
story would sell a hell of a lot of newspapers. As for the telly, he shuddered
to think what they would do with it. What would it be – Soap or Reality TV? A
bit of each? What did it matter? No one could distinguish fantasy from reality
any more. All those channel-hoppers looking for a real life experience wouldn’t
recognise one if they had a head- on crash with it. Tomorrow’s Reality
Celebrity show would be the Prime Minister – da dum – in – wait for it –
The
Crucifixion of Uther Pendragon!
with repeats at hourly intervals from
breakfast to midnight, and from midnight to dawn for the benefit of shift
workers. To enhance the illusion, real nails and actual blood would be used.
His torment promised to be first class reality entertainment, like all the
other news the great British public so enjoyed watching – floods, fires,
earthquakes, tornadoes, famines, plagues, surgical procedures, rape, murder,
torture, massacres, sexual abuse, executions, crimes of greed and passion, wars
and terrorist incidents.