The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (26 page)

Though she worshipped her
friend, there was still a great deal about Guinevere that Lanky found hard to
understand: Ginny’s cool, analytical mind was much to be admired, but what use
was it when it came to feelings? Love was Lanky’s absolute best thing. Hardly a
day passed without her falling in love with someone or other, and she asked little
enough in return. She would fall in love with a pop star for a signed
photograph, or a classmate for a friendly glance, yes, even if they were not
compatible and he was of no consequence at all. But understand her or not, oh,
how Lanky wished she were half as mature, half as sensible and one tenth as
beautiful as Guinevere. Most boys in the school were openly in love with her
and the rest were too shy to admit it. Ginny, of course, was indifferent to all
of them. A lot of girls thought her big-headed and vain for being so
stand-offish, but not Lanky. Ginny deserved someone special; she had proved
that, hadn’t she? Only thirteen years old, and already she had a mature
admirer, and not just any admirer, but dishy Arthur Pendragon. This was no
teenage fantasy, this was the real thing.

One day, for sure, she would
marry Arthur. For never for a single moment did Lanky doubt that what Ginny
wanted, Ginny would get.

 It came as a surprise and something of a
shock to Uther to hear that Arthur had resigned his commission in the army. His
son’s service career had been distinguished, and it was an open secret that he
would have become Colonel of the Regiment. Even more disturbing to Uther was
certain information he had recently obtained from his sources; Arthur was
spending a great deal of time in the company of Leo Grant, Leader of the
Opposition. Fraternising with the enemy? What could it mean? If, by any chance,
Arthur was considering a political career, why had he not consulted his father
who was in a better position to help him than anyone else? By nature
suspicious, Uther tried to convince himself that his son’s behaviour, though
odd, was innocent enough. Arthur was, after all, a novice in the ways of the
world. Neverthless the fact was, whether by accident or design, that his son’s
ship was heading the wrong way and needed a swift course correction. Who but
Uther could do what was so obviously necessary? He invited his son to lunch at
a smart Westminster restaurant much frequented by politicians. Being seen in
Arthur’s company would send the right message to M.P.s, journalists, and anyone
else of influence who might be dining there.

There seemed little point in
rushing things. Over starter and main course Uther chatted amiably about this
and that, studiously avoiding anything contentious, confining himself to some
chit-chat about the family, some choice Westminster gossip, and a couple of
political jokes which Arthur laughed at politely. Over coffee Uther lit a cigar
with some deliberation, leaned back, blew an aggressive stream of smoke at the
ceiling and dangled the bait. ‘A little bird told me you might be interested in
becoming an M.P. Is that right?’

Arthur grinned. ‘I have to be elected first.’

‘We’ll soon find you a
suitable constituency,’ said Uther confidently. ‘Shouldn’t take long. People
die all the time.’

‘How do you mean, suitable?’
said Arthur warily.

‘A
safe
seat,’ Uther
extended his arms in an expansive gesture. ‘What else would be good enough for
my son?’ His cigar glowed red as he drew on it.

Arthur fiddled with a bread
roll. ‘That’s good of you, father, but I would rather take my chances.’

‘Of course, of course.’ A
shrewd look from under lowered brows. ‘If that’s how you prefer it,’ said
Uther, confident that his son would change his tune when he discovered how
difficult it was to find a ‘safe’ seat without his old man’s blessing. ‘Just
what the party needs. A man of principle.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘On the other hand . . . ’ – Uther leaned back,
eyes narrowed

– ‘you might like to consider
short-circuiting the usual tedious procedure.’ Another stream of smoke hit the
ceiling and bellied out, sending long tendrils of smoke wriggling snake-like
down the walls. A few diners coughed ostentatiously and looked indignantly in
Uther’s direction. Uther stared right through them. Arthur toyed with his
starter and waited for his father to explain.

‘I’m looking for a
Parliamentary Private Secretary,’ explained Uther. ‘That way you would avoid
all the hassle of getting yourself elected. Interested?’ Why wouldn’t he be,
for God’s sake?

‘Isn’t that a rather senior
post for a new boy?’ asked Arthur. ‘Possibly. But . . . ’ – Uther bared his
teeth in a mirthless smile – ‘it would be an excellent career move.’

A moment’s hesitation, then
Arthur said cautiously, ‘I’m not sure I’m ready for such an exalted position.
May I think about it?’

‘Don’t think too hard,’ said Uther huffily,
piqued at his son’s guarded response, ‘my offer may not be on the table for
long.’ Then, with a characteristically abrupt mood swing, his voice became
seductive and his facial expression ingratiating. ‘You would be surprised at
the number of admirers you have in the House, my boy. And the absurd questions
they ask! How many terrorists has your son killed? Who has he rescued lately?
That sort of thing. Of course you never tell me anything, so I have to make it
all up. I do a pretty good job, if I say so myself. You’re a legend, I can tell
you. I bask in the warm glow of your reflected glory.’

‘Wild exaggeration, father,’ said Arthur.

Uther leaned across the table
conspiratorially. ‘You are destined for great things, son. All I’m doing is
offering you a chance to set your foot on the first rung of the ladder. What is
there to think about? PPS to the Foreign Secretary. What! In a few years you
could write your own ticket. How many newly elected MP’s get a chance like
that, d’you think?’

‘Isn’t that rather the point?’

Uther played dumb. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘You don’t think,’ said
Arthur, ‘that it would raise a few eyebrows if I accepted such a plum job from
my own father?’

A blank look. ‘Why should it?’

It had to be said. ‘Some
people might say it smacked of nepotism.’

Uther feigned surprise.
‘Nepotism! I doubt anyone would think such a vile thing of me – or of you,’ he
added hastily. ‘If they did, it would only be sour grapes. And frankly, who
gives a damn anyway? Politics isn’t about soul-searching, Arthur. It’s about
ambition, it’s about success.’

‘I’m sorry, but that’s not how I see politics.’

‘No?’ This time Uther was genuinely surprised.
‘Really?

How do you see it, then?’

‘I see it as a way of helping people,’ said
Arthur.

‘How very noble of you,’ said Uther with heavy
irony. ‘I see it as a way of helping myself.’

Surely his father was joking?
‘You don’t mean that.’ ‘Oh, but I do,’ said Uther.

‘Then I’m afraid I can’t accept your most
generous offer.’

Uther’s nose wrinkled as if it
had been assaulted by a repugnant odour. ‘I do hope you’re not going to turn
into one of those sanctimonious do-gooders.’

Arthur was accustomed to his
father’s swift mood transformations – one moment smiling like the Cheshire Cat,
the next red in tooth and claw. ‘I know I have a lot to learn but I intend to
learn in my own way and in my own time. I prefer not to be beholden to anyone.’
A moment’s reflection. ‘Above all not to you. Not to my own father.’

‘I hear,’ Uther remarked
cattily, ‘that you are palsy-walsy with Leo Grant.’

‘He and I exchange views on
world affairs from time to time,’ said Arthur, trying not to sound defensive.

Uther’s eyebrows arched.
‘World affairs indeed! And what are your views on world affairs, if I may ask?’
The tone of his voice suggested that Arthur’s views on world affairs were of no
consequence whatever.

Arthur refused to be riled.
‘We have not discussed domestic issues like health care, education, pensions
and so on. Obviously those are vital matters for most people. It seems to me,
though, that Leo Grant is right when he says that the single most important
issue in the world today is the one that affects the security of every citizen
– terrorism, and how the free world is dealing with it, or rather failing to
deal with it.’

Uther did not attempt to
conceal his irritation. ‘And what conclusions have you reached?’

‘Leo thinks, and I agree with
him,’ said Arthur, ‘that serious mistakes are being made.’

‘No doubt he would handle it
much better,’ said Uther sarcastically.

‘He says many world leaders secretly believe
they are fighting a war they cannot win. He is convinced they are wrong.’

A sardonic smile. ‘Well now,’
said Uther, ‘it’s easy to criticize when you are in opposition. It is quite
another thing to run the country.’ Uther had a very shrewd idea what lay behind
this, and he could have kicked himself for having come clean about Sadiq, a
mistake he was paying for now. ‘Let me ask you, Arthur, how would you tackle
the problem of terrorism if you were in charge of the country? Remember they
have the advantage of surprise, and their aim is to kill as many innocent
people as possible. They want to destabilise the free world by spreading fear.’
He considered his son. Should he be blunt? He lifted his shoulders. What did he
have to lose? ‘Ok, I admit it. Sadiq is no exception. Deals are done all the
time. Not just here in the UK but all over the world governments are making
compromises, paying huge ransoms, releasing convicted terrorists, trying to buy
time and save lives. Maybe it’s not such a great idea, but what else do you
suggest we do?’

‘Fight them,’ said Arthur.

‘We
are
fighting them.’
Uther stubbed out his cigar savagely and lit another one. ‘Our military
resources are stretched to the limit and beyond. From time to time we invade
someone. It never works.’ Yet another funnel of cigar smoke flattened itself on
the ceiling and billowed down the restaurant’s walls. ‘Iraq was a disaster and
we are still living with the consequences. There’s a limit to what tanks, bombs
and missiles can do. Or the threat of nuclear weapons for that matter. Let’s be
realistic, there will always be terrorists and they will always have the
advantage over us. We can contain them, perhaps, but we can never defeat them.’

‘We can if we stand up to
them,’ insisted Arthur. ‘If we don’t, they’ll destroy us in the end.’

‘No they wont,’ said Uther
confidently. ‘The fact is, when all is said and done, they’re nothing but a
nuisance.’

‘A nuisance! You can’t be serious, father.’

‘Oh, but I am. Deadly serious. Look at the
figures. Since September eleventh 2001, terrorists have killed probably no more
than ten or fifteen thousand people worldwide. Last year a hundred and twenty
people died in the UK in terror attacks. The year before there was a bomb
explosion at that nuclear power plant. Nasty, I’ll grant you. Over three
hundred dead, but the effects of radiation were not nearly as bad as we
feared.’

‘What is your point?’ asked Arthur.

‘Every year about three
thousand people die in traffic accidents in the UK alone. In France it’s nearly
three times that number. In the USA it’s over forty thousand. I don’t speak of
the maimed and injured. And then there are natural disasters: earthquakes,
hurricanes, droughts, floods. How many died in the Tsunami of December 2004? A
quarter of a million people? More? No one really knows. What about disease?
Every year millions – no hundreds of millions – die of cancer, heart disease,
AIDS and so on.’ Uther paused for effect. ‘I rest my case.’

‘One thing has nothing to do
with the other,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s not a matter of statistics. Many terrorists
are dedicated to a cause, and that cause is the overthrow of the free world. We
are talking about a global threat to our civilisation.’

Uther snorted. ‘A gross exaggeration.’

‘So your policy is to allow
terrorists to kill and maim innocent people with impunity,’ said Arthur
bitterly.

‘That is a malicious
simplification of what I just said.’ Uther stubbed out his cigar, all the time
casting venomous looks at his son. ‘What I am saying is, because we can’t
eliminate the problem, we have adopted a policy of damage limitation. We let
the terrorists make their point, knowing there’s not a hell of a lot we can do
about it anyway. Containment, Arthur, is the political buzzword of our time.’

‘I acknowledge that sometimes
compromises have to be made,’ said Arthur.

‘Very decent of you,’ said his father with
heavy irony.

‘But not with terrorists. We are talking about
sick evil men with no conscience and not a trace of human compassion. No,
father, you don’t make compromises with the devil. It can’t be right. And
morality aside, it’s counter-productive. It only breeds more terrorism. The
first duty of a government is to protect its citizens. If it doesn’t do that,
it is not doing what it was elected to do.’ Arthur stood, thanked his father
for lunch and left.

What a waste of a good meal
thought Uther savagely, and a damned pricey one too, even if it was on
expenses. He gulped down two large brandies, signed the bill and walked slowly
out of the restaurant, doing a ‘triumphal’ tour of M.P.’s and media people on
the way. On the drive back to the House Uther continued to think about Arthur.
He had always seen his son as a rather quixotic figure, a knight on horseback
tilting at windmills, certainly not someone who could ever be a serious
contender. It seemed he had made a serious error of judgment. Arthur was
developing a most unfortunate tendency to think for himself. Whatever next? It
was all very worrying. As his PPS, Uther would have been able to keep a
watchful eye on him, control him even, but now he would be a loose cannon, a
menace to himself and everyone else. Uther’s unease was heightened by the
memory of that disturbing exchange with Merlin.

It
is
written
that
he
will
overthrow
you.

Are
you
saying
I
should
be
afraid
of
my
own
son?
Many
men
are.

It was all nonsense of course,
and Arthur would come round eventually. It was only a matter of time.

A few weeks later he learned
that Arthur had been adopted as a prospective candidate by a United Labour
constituency in the West Country; in another couple of months he took his seat
as a backbencher in the House of Commons. Uther was mortified. What was that
old saying about blood being thicker than water? Not in the Pendragon family it
seemed. So be it; his son had thrown down the gauntlet. Uther would not
hesitate to pick it up.