World King

Pericles Nicholas Van Zijl Thompson’s mother didn’t dream of a lion before his birth, but she did say of her son, “He is a bit like a dandelion -appearing where he isn’t always wanted but a delight to some and often difficult to remove.” Pericles’ parents were of a class that produced children but didn’t concern themselves with the ordinary details of rearing them as that was a bit common, and not very interesting as hobbies went. His father Neville thought that children were like a garden to enjoy when one was in the mood but there should always be a wife to tend to the practical upkeep, and hired help was there to make sure they didn’t invade his study like the wisteria on the house. Pericles’ mother Madeleine felt at times like a magician who kept producing rabbits from a hat. She wasn’t always entirely sure what to do with them, but she found children to be a diverting curiosity and when they were too much there was always someone to lead them away to bed while she returned to her pursuits of telephoning friends for lunch, or ordering the latest book reviewed in the Sunday papers.

His mother did her duty very well by producing Pericles straight away, as well as a number of spares in case he had the misfortune to drown in a pond, or fall down the well. Much to the dismay of his younger siblings, he never did. The children did not aspire to any hopes of a title or the acquisition of a sizable manor but generally found his rule a bit tyrannical. If he agreed to play -it was always his game. Pericles (Peri to his family) assumed that rules were to be negotiated -even if they had been printed on the back of a board game. He would argue his way to the finish line, or just quit and claim the others were cheating. Peri’s one sister Shiphrah (who inherited the calm of her brother’s namesake) would later say to a member of the media in an unguarded moment at the champagne-filled charity event popular with those who found paying taxes to be uncouth,

“He will only share the light if it shines on him a little brighter.”

As children, she would alway smile when she would beat him in a ball game and he would be pulled away in a cyclonic tantrum powered by his robbed expectations. She loved it when the dark storm appeared in his eyes as she would tell him, “Peri, you did your best.”

Shiphrah often remembered the day Veritas the Nanny up and quit after a long winter of trying to care for semi-feral children, and averting the increasing attentions of their father. As the ex employee stood in the hall with her suitcases, waiting for her taxi, Shiphrah watched from the stairs as her departing nanny turned to Pericles’ Mother and said, “You love Master Perciles very well but you forgot to teach him how to love others.”

Pericles’ Mother covered the receiver of the phone with her hand and said, “I suppose you will want the fare for the taxi?”

Siphhrah learned on that day that some do not wish to see the unpleasant truth, especially when it came to her brother. He would eat up the best chocolates and his mother would say, “Well he is so very hungry and he knows what he likes.”

It wasn’t long after the departure of the great truth teller, that the children were scattered like seeds into the wind at various boarding schools as it was decided that it was high time the children learned the ways of their people.

Cranachan College was where Nick Thompson was born. It was the school that took ancient pride in producing the finest boys that were to leave their mark across the world. Some were benign while others were a melanoma that innocent people were struck down by via colonial policy. The students were spoken of as raspberry seeds that got stuck in the teeth of life and made their presence known. This was Pericles’ destiny. The day before he arrived at his school he had a rare interview with his father Neville who said, “I don’t know what your Mother has told you, but I would advise you to not to be too loud about your Roman faith. All that incense and Mary worship is fine in a girl but suspect in a boy. And don’t make friends with just anyone because they are nice to you. We aren’t putting all of this effort into you just for you to bring home some strange half-breeds, or vulgar upstarts at the weekends.”

It was a curious statement from Neville Thompson as he was descended from a long line of people with backgrounds that were carefully rewritten with each generation. The Eur-Asian grandmother who became an exotic French woman, The minor official who had three wives across the empire, the hustling industrialist ancestors whose wealth came from the black market, and many other outsiders who were never to be invited to clubs that now found the present Thompson clan acceptable. Pericles took careful notes and arrived at school with a ruffled appearance as if he had the right to set the dress code, and that there would always be someone else to set the kettle to boil. He was to be an Englishman. Dominion was his right.

By the standards of his class and the one he aspired to, Nick Thompson flourished. He excelled at being liked by those with presumed futures, and at avoiding any effort towards scholarship. He felt he was worthy of every opportunity and found it offensive that one might be expected to try. The only thing he felt was worth doing well was being seen and admired at the right places. His brothers Felix, and Matthew later joined him at college and found that most initial attention given to them was out of the hope of access to the imperious lord that was their brother. Between the two of them they privately referred to him as Il Duce as Nick was always considering his appearance and how best to look powerful to his friends. His brothers remained publicly loyal as they benefited from his flashy style, but they knew to keep any tenderness away from him as he would tear it apart like an untrained dog with a throw pillow. Nick Thompson had a passion for Ancient Greek and Latin but found that the mores of the Florentine Republic were more to his taste in approaching life and power. Both he and his sister Shiphrah entered university at the same time after he spent a year wandering the old empire and seeing what might one day be his. They both chose to read the Classics but Nick always made sure it was known that he was reading Literae humaniores. On the few occasions he and his sister socialised together, she would correct his Latin pronunciation in front of his mates who would laugh and pound the table like savages. Their mother would telephone Shiphrah after these encounters, and remind her daughter how Peri was quite soft-hearted and didn’t need to be poked like that. Shiphrah would sigh away from the receiver before saying, “I suppose that is one belief.”

Shiphrah was patient with her mother as the woman had only just left her husband after one too indelicate phone calls over the years from women or the husbands of women who were caught up with Madeleine’s husband Neville Thompson. The only thing Madeleine ever said to her only daughter was, “I found it impossible to keep the line free for my own telephone calls. And getting a new number after all these years would have been too much trouble since everyone knows it. Here is your father’s new telephone number.”

Shiphrah did admire her brother Peri (Nick to the world.) For he could talk thorough nonsense about anything at any occasion. He never seemed uncomfortable at a party. It was as if they were all thrown for him. She was at peace with the fact that she would always have to make the effort to figure out the mood of any social occasion and that not everyone was going to adore her.

Nick Thompson triumphed at university when it came to being king of the social world and debating anyone about anything. Nothing mattered except winning people in the moment and he ticked that box with the ease of a professional gambler at the track. The odds were his. After university his sister became the first to enter a world full of men in suits and while this achievement was briefly admired; everyone turned to glorify Nick Thompson who managed to obtain a degree, and then went and married the prettiest girl of the moment. Achlys Fortescue-Leke came with the right name, family connections, and a cool personality that wouldn’t get in the way of his. She looked good next to him and he had won her against all others and he liked that. Nick Thompson tried a kind of work for exactly one week. He discovered that being expected to appear in an office at an appointed time was something he did not want to make a habit of as it was gauche. The people in charge also expected results, whatever that meant. That Friday he left with little notice. He took the boss to drinks, apologised profusely, “Non possum old chap.”

He raised his drink and felt he should be generous and create the opportunity for someone who would be satisfied in such a line of work, and then he left before paying for his round.

Nick Thompson knew his future lay in the greater world. For there was journalism (And most important, a job offer arranged by his father’s old university friend.) and he knew it was time to follow in the footsteps of his hero, the great leader Sir Portland Templevale. When Nick Thompson was young, he read a biography of the leader who had led the country through so many trials. Young Peri decided that was the life for him -minus serving in the military or being in war zones as there were people better suited to that sort of routine. Nick Thompson knew that he wanted to be great and admired. Nick liked to imagine being a noble elder statesman with statues of himself to inspire young people who would come to him for wisdom and advice on achieving things for themselves in his name. He found newspapers to his liking as he got to talk to people at parties, and no one seemed to be too bothered about him not appearing anywhere before noon, other than the missus who didn’t seem so fond of his constant need to attend every party and pub in the central part of the city. He needed someone to be enthralled with him and if she wouldn’t he would seek another city and other people to conquer. He told himself it would be his own sacred war. A new oracle would be put in place. He wanted to be a sultan and speak to the people back home.

One evening, Nick Thompson met up with his sister Shiphrah for a meal, before they each were to depart to far off capitals to cover the jetsam and flotsam in the rapidly moving tides across the world of politics and diplomacy. She had decided their country was a bit small and it was time to see what she could learn from the wider world beyond the social set she had been raised among. She was one of a few girls that hadn’t immediately married some brother of a friend. (And she knew she wasn’t sapphic or interested in academia.) She had not been invited to take up a position in publishing that paid little but sounded glamorous, and everywhere else seemed populated by godparents or people who knew her parents. On her very own merits she had found work abroad and she was comfortable with the idea of being an outsider. Her mother’s only words of advice to Shiphrah were, “Make sure you know who the father is of any boy that takes you out -especially as your father worked in that city.” She didn’t mention this new position to her brother until the last moment. Over steak frites, Nick Thompson raised his third glass of claret, and said, “I like that you are following in my footsteps Shipster, I hope you discover laganum that leads to great treasure.”

She smiled and said, “Thank you Peri. I hope you learn…. much.”

He snorted with laughter and said, “Always teasing. I love that about you.”

Shiphrah began to cut her steak with exacting care and said, “I am sorry that your pretty wife Achlys could not join us. Is she well?”

She knew exactly where Achlys was but she couldn’t help the delight she took in getting one smarting remark each time she saw her brother. She watched him as he gulped his wine down as if to find an escape. Nick Thompson set down the empty glass and said, “Oh you know, we are both busy and she will eventually join me. Takes time to sort furniture.”
Shiphrah nodded and enjoyed the meal she knew she was to pay for, as Nick Thompson would always say he had to rush and could she cover him this time. Always this time. She enjoyed his jokes, and the bits of gossip, and they stayed on the safe subjects. She viewed it as an easy last meal before two separate paths were forged.

For several years Nick Thompson had the luxury of living life as the quirky English Popinjay of the continent. He kept a certain class of people back home enthralled with his view on the world. His lines scanned well as long as no one asked for truth or any firm knowledge about policy and reason. Nick Thompson would glance at any accusations about lying, with a smile and mutter words about the nature of inherent vice when trying to cover politics in the modern age. A few in power saw his capacity to charm and be a court jester who could advance their ideas. The media baron Sir Keith Southcliffe knew that Nick Thompson would be incredibly valuable in this new age of information that he was forming. Nick Thompson loved to be loved as long as he didn’t have to make any effort at it, and it was a mutually beneficial partnership. It was time to create a new life once again and come home. He brought with him a new wife called Valencia Glover. (The old wife was most agreeable about her exit, and much like Anne of Cleves she came away with a bit of property, and little damage to her reputation.) Valencia was to make him look serious. For he wanted to be a serious man with ideas worth watching. Valencia had known Nick as a child -back when he was Peri to everyone around him. When they met again, he didn’t throw things at her and occasionally paid for dinner. He wooed her with jokes and bits of poetry he had remembered. When a baby was on the way it seemed sensible to do a little paperwork. This union was seen by the families as a good alliance between two rather international clans who had joined the establishment. Nick Thompson promised his present masters that he would entertain and promote the ideas of old that had been dressed up as the new power of shock and awe in politics. While he wore his cap and bells of disordered tweed, and waved a marotte with the head of Sir Southcliffe around in public, Nick Thompson desired the crown. When he had one too many drinks (which was often) he would tell his nearest and dearest that he knew he was meant to lead the nation. Gesticulating with his gin and tonic and offering many poses, he would declare that there would be statues of him because of what he would accomplish for himself in the name of the nation. He would sputter that it was destiny before laughing and suggesting it was time to break open another bottle. Many of Nick Thompson’s peers found him a great deal of fun but there were few who could see backing him. Many would whisper in the private clubs that it was easy to support the man who had not been elected to anything other than media personality. As Nick was becoming a bigger presence, his sister Shiphrah returned home. Each began to take on the media and culture. For her, frivolity was something to use as a slight of hand to show the more concrete truths. In her time away she had learned to enchant the public with her cheerful irreverent nature. She couldn’t play a fool. Instead she chose to point out all of the fools in her midst, except for one Nick Thompson. There were rules of loyalty and she didn’t want the telephone calls from her mother, or the feigned dementia of her father who would forget her name if she was sharp about her older brother. At most she would make comments to her brothers Felix and Matthew who would snigger but never speak up in defence of her. She was there to listen to their woes, and offer advice and cheer them up. Good old Shiphrah who wasn’t hurt by anything. She watched as her older brother took the most serious things and treated them as nothing important, just like when they were children and he would blow out other people’s birthday candles.

Nick Thompson never would have made that first successful leap into politics without the wisdom of his wife Valencia. She was the wife, mother and oracle that made his dreams happen. Some were surprised when Nick became an elected official, and initially Sir Southcliffe was offended to lose that tight control over his fool. Then he saw that Nick could be useful so close to the heart of a party and government. If only Nick could exercise a little restraint. It was the question of many. Could this bon vivant be taught? Could he find direction? Valencia had hope. She wasn’t utterly blinded by his act of bungling charm like some women of their set, but she was much like his mother. It was one thing for a mother to love without expectation but for a wife to forgive without amends being made, is to slowly be robbed of one’s dignity and heart. Nick Thompson assumed hearts regrew those lost pieces he needed for his own selfish purposes. He loved Valencia and needed her, but he also needed more adoration than she could give. He liked what he got from the public but it just wasn’t enough. Ever. That ever hungry part of himself found quick satiation in assorted mistresses. Nick Thompson’s father Neville had sat him down for another interview the day before his second marriage. Explaining that some men need a few more women in life. He had heard rumours of men being satisfied with one like Portland Templevale but he didn’t quite believe it. And that it was important to not let a mistress phone when the missus was at home. “I might still be married to your mother if we had had multiple telephone lines.” Nick Thompson took such advice to heart and always kept two telephone lines under the reasoning of “So we can keep at least one line open for practical measures.” Valencia wasn’t stupid but she knew she had the upper hand in one area -the larger income and an inheritance like no other. There might be mesmerised women but unless they had a Georgian estate in the family, and the ability to pay Nick’s wine bills, she would always rule. She made sure she had cemented that hold by providing him with a brood of children. He liked the children well enough as they accepted his rule but he didn’t like it when they told him the truth about himself to his face. Valencia would tell him, “Think of it as practice for life as a leader of the nation. Survive this lot and not one single underling can hurt you.” Nick Thompson would say, “Of course darling but could you make them be nicer to me as I did buy them all ice cream last Sunday.”

More than a few times Valencia wondered when husbands grew up.

With a family well established, as well as a regular column to share his view of the moment, and the occasional book tidied up by a good ghostwriter, Nick Thompson was looking for openings to move somewhere important in the party. It wasn’t enough to just be a minor official with a big name. He wanted a portfolio or a title. He was either admonished or given some responsibility so small that he felt insulted. He would grumble in the tea room, “Don’t they know I have ideas? I am not some upstart from the North who is only there to make the party look well-rounded.” He attempted to overstep things and made one potential route to power fall apart when the leader discovered that a paramour of Nick Thompson’s had used certain government information from Nick, to form a business with a figure who had connections with a suspect nation’s intelligence services. Nick Thompson was sent into the political wilderness where all he could do was make appearances and provide speeches about agriculture and good times. He was tired of being seen as a clown. He told himself he was just like Sir Portland Templevale who found his own party a bit strange and no one wanted him. Nick Thompson wrote but did not reflect upon his choices. He seethed. He draped himself in self-pity and stayed stuck. Nick Thompson was not a man of ideas. His great cause was himself, and he kept going round in circles trying to find the quickest way to the coveted seat on the front bench. Nick Thompson was to be visited by the right man to make such a dream possible. It wasn’t Satan as the dark lord had style, charisma, and an appreciation of how much his time cost. Instead he sent one of his agents who liked to disrupt things. Benedict Highcock was a man who, like Nick Thompson, didn’t really believe in anything except chaos that benefited himself. He hadn’t ever really held a career that anyone might recognise on paper. After he left university (“With a First” as he would later remind Nick Thompson if Nick dared to question the Wisdom of Benedict) he dabbled in a loose idea of work in a far off country experiencing its own seismic disruption. He was there to witness history and make contacts. What he did was never truly known. He would answer in a long-winded way that made people’s eyes glaze over, or make them nod when they heard a few words like, “paradigm” and “severance of the old world”. Benedict Highcock didn’t make anything. He merely created pandemonium, and found the idea of picking up a mess, or creating sincere order to be a tedious activity meant for small minded little bureaucrats. His favourite phrase in his occasional newsletter or in speeches to wealthy people at conferences in elite alpine towns was, “The Civil Service is the perfect place for people without imagination, why do we let them run so much?”

How did a man who traded in trendy thought experiments, and looked like Ötzi the Ice man if he had been woken abruptly from a nap and had never quite relaxed into modern life, come into the orbit of Nick Thompson?

Nick Thompson’s “old mate” Stephen Tinch introduced the two men. If Benedict was sent by Mephistopheles, Tinch was a toady who was obedient to Sir Southcliffe and anyone else who might help him become the establishment. Tinch had known Nick Thompson at university and had admired him though Tinch wasn’t likely to be at the top of the list of any invite to the best parties. Stephen Tinch’s people had been in “trade” which still showed the imprint of try-hard. His ancestors were of a humble variety who had not committed the right kinds of crimes to allow them entry into high society. It fell to Tinch to climb and find his place in the sun. Stephen Tinch who was a great observer of people, even if he lacked any natural magnetism. He was described by his editor at the paper, as “looking like a haunted toddler who had wandered the earth since the time of Nero.” Stephen Tinch had followed a similar path as Nick. First journalism, but his byline wasn’t as flashy. Then he dabbled in the medium of television but lacked the cool of the age. Tinch’s marriage, while respectable, didn’t bring him any property or access to the good and ancient. Tinch was patient and made friends with people who could ruin others. Stephen Tinch came into the world of politics at the same time as Nick Thompson and they had a kind of reunion. Both sized each other up as someone to build their careers. While Nick insisted upon love from the world, Tinch had to rely on secrets and watch for weakness. He did pick up that one had others do their dirty work for him, so that he could adorn himself in gentility. That is where Benedict Highcock came in. A man who relished in filth and discord. His immense talent lay in sentences that used clever words of the moment. He relied on semicolons to make it seem like a point was being made when it was propaganda, massaged data and history being sold to any client as bold thinking for people who were brave and wanted to own everything. Benedict Highcock could have sold the sinking of the Titanic as a “new venture in individualism on the high seas.” Telling people that the real question was, “Does one really want a lifeboat or is that the decayed thinking of the welfare state?”

When Nick Thompson introduced Benedict Highcock to Valencia, she saw a flash of the future and knew it was time to make her own plans. Benedict saw her as an obstacle and knew enough that his time shouldn’t be spent trying to defeat her or make her an enemy. Nick Thompson could do that on his own. Nick Thompson was soon back among the party, inching closer to the front bench. Briefs were coming his way. And then the finest opportunity came to him. He found a movement that could be tied to him.

Benedict Highcock and many other strange fellows supported this strange campaign. Even Stephen Tinch was enthusiastic. They were to convince the nation to maim themselves to show the world how powerful they were. They hadn’t expected it to work so well. Nick Thompson had used every single ounce of his star power, and whatever lie that came into his head and given it away like it was bread and fishes. He always had a little more. And this time enough people were sold.

Shiphrah was utterly shocked in the morning after it had happened. She had to have a drink before she phoned her brother and said, “Peri, Mother won’t be able to sort this one out with a chat over tea with a headmaster.”

Nick Thompson said, “I didn’t do a thing. The people wanted it.”

Shiphrah told him, “You can’t quit this ballgame.” and hung up. They did not speak for six months.

Instead Nick Thompson bragged to the world that everything was grand. He was tired of his wife asking him how he might fix this one and if he had thought about the details? He listened to Benedict who told him that it would come together with ease. He was tired of the questions and having to explain what he was doing. Even the new leader who was brought in to make his dream work wasn’t so interested in his thoughts. He wanted infatuation. It arrived at a party cocktail do where a sparkly doll-faced creature admired him. Sophia Morgan flitted about in different departments of the party, never in one place for very long as her skill set never seemed to match anyone’s need. She was very good at attending parties, knowing which tie an elected official ought to wear, and being seen with men on the rise. She wasn’t interested in living in a semi-detached, or running anyone’s office. She did have something in common with Nick Thompson, her background wasn’t all that neat and tidy, she was keen to promote herself, and most importantly, she liked to make Nick Thompson feel special. She was young, didn’t tell him to pick up his socks, and she knew people who were generous with their money. He thought her the perfect sort of mistress and if he kept her near at work he didn’t have to worry about her phoning at home. He had it all so perfectly planned. But like all affairs (and he had had many of them, they were like super market sandwiches to him: easy to pick up and so much variety.) there came a point of violating further rules. Nick Thompson liked the danger and invited her into his home while everyone was away. Except the maid. And the maid was loyal to the woman who paid her wage. Valencia thanked her maid and doubled her wages. She waited until Nick went off to work and did three things. She sent the sofa to the tip, changed the locks, and had a brief telephone conversation with one Nick Thompson explaining a great change was coming to his life and she would be sending his things to his mother’s home as he lacked one with Valencia. Nick Thompson had a minor tantrum in his office but Benedict Highcock told him to stop being so middle class. “You don’t need the distraction of a family and sofas. You have things to win.” Sophia invited him to live with her. Nick Thompson didn’t like how she decorated (Her flat looked like a bordello run by the East India Company. Like the famed joint-stock company Sophia had a habit for kleptomania, and much of her cutlery had come from the members’ dining room.) but he liked that someone wanted him so much. Benedict reminded him he had something important to focus on -taking the leadership. He was to get his heart’s desire. And nothing was to stop him now. Nothing in the world. It was finally before him when the present leader couldn’t find a way to make the great self-maiming a success. Nick Thompson knew he could. For he had the best. But he had some minor competition: Stephen Tinch. But the fact was no one really liked Stephen Tinch that much. Every politician knew the weasel (his nickname in the bars) had dirt on him and that wouldn’t do. Yet every politician there had dirt on Nick Thompson and that might mean a plum job. On the hottest day of the year, Nick Thompson finally had his dream come true. A pretty girl, and he was now the ruler of the land -other than the Queen of course but to him that was a bit like being head of the family and being polite to one’s Nan who was still kicking about even after Granddad had died. You offered her mints when you visited but you didn’t listen too closely to her chat about what happened during the war with three soldiers one very cold night when there was only one bed. One nods and gets on with selling the house or something. Nick Thompson had never really sold a house but he imagined it was like that. (Wives always sold the house in his experience.)

Nick Thompson felt that the honeymoon as leader lasted about as long as a holiday in Greece and the aftermath brought a kind of pain much like a sunburn. From the moment he woke up, until he passed out at night, he felt it. People always wanted something. Someone always wanted a decision. And while there were advisors he was the one who had to make the plans and set a course. People kept saying no to him, or threw paperwork in his direction that he was supposed to go through every single day. The cabinet was filled with people who brought him bad news, or they were fighting with each other. He replaced some with those who would say yes and agree to take on tasks he did not want to do. Some would remind him of what they knew and insisted upon promotion. It was wretched. Where were the parades? The chatty interviews? It was always churlish questions from every corner. Sir Southcliffe would invite him to dinner and ask him how he was going to help his wealthiest friends and if he was going to promote his agenda? He would remind him weekly that he was responsible for Nick Thompson’s position. “You would hate to be on the other side. Ask the others what it is like when you are forced into the cold?”

Benedict Highcock was helpful but even he wasn’t so fun anymore. Always sitting him down and telling him, “You must do this today or the opposition will think you are weak. Are you weak Nicky?” And in the corner was Stephen Tinch watching, making notes. He gave him jobs that kept him far away but he feared letting Tinch be too independent, as that was how he made several unions angry at the government. How does one contain a weasel but put him to work? Then Sophia wanted to know when they were to have a baby and be married. She wanted the vacant post, and was going to make it happen. No one wanted to make him happy. He couldn’t get rid of Sophia as she was known to the public and he couldn’t find someone else to amuse him. He married her as it was expected. She did look pretty and he knew he needed something pretty on his arm. Though she was rarely around anymore. She had a new interest, “The leader’s wife.” And that meant parties must be attended -without him. Nick Thompson had no money as it went to the children with Valencia, and other bills. Nick Thompson tried calling up old mistresses but they did not see the appeal of sneaking in the backdoor for 35 minutes of fun. 20 minutes would be spent listening to him complain about no one being impressed with him in the chamber. Plus he tired easily and was never all that imaginative. A few lines of Latin and a quick grope was his version of foreplay. It wasn’t worth the rush to the Marie Stopes clinic.

The crusade that brought him power and attention had become an oil spill that could not be contained and was making everyone angry at him. Everyone was realising that it was all a lie. Everyone was damaged by what had been done. He had lied every single step of the way and no one was going to be rich except for a few people who were already very wealthy, nor was anyone having more control over the world. He kept trying to hide each lie but they kept appearing in front of everyone’s eyes. There was so much anger. He had to find a way to make the world love him. The universe gave him something that made the cause look simple: a plague.

Nick Thompson thought plagues were for the likes of those in the old empire. Those sad people one attended charity galas for. It seemed like a case of damp before it turned into a full flood and the house was crumbling and he was forced to act. It was to leave a great stain that would take some time to scrub out. Maybe he could be the hero? But how? He thought of Sir Portland Templevale -posing with people. Making speeches. He could make a speech. He could stand in front of something. He would shake hands with people so as to show he was not afraid of this plague.

That great idea of his brought the plague to his home and his body. Sophia ran off to her old flat with a rich donor to the party, supposedly the donor was to comfort her as her new husband was possibly dying. Nick Thompson was very ill. He didn’t want to die. He was terrified for the first time in his life. He spoke to his sister on the telephone and said, “Promise me you will make sure there are statues of me. I don’t want it to end like this. But maybe if I go this way they will love me.”

Shiphrah was at a loss. She said, “Peri, you will be remembered. There are so many like you right now. There are people dying, so I don’t think a statue is what is needed.”

“Shippy, you don’t understand a thing. You don’t know how miserable I am. I need this.”

Shiphrah once again sighed away from the telephone before saying, “Peri, you will not be forgotten, I promise.”

Nick Thompson was tended to by the very best people who made sure he did not die. He told everyone he knew he was going to live because this plague was nothing. He stood on his doorstep once again to show the world he was not defeated. But he didn’t tell most people he still wasn’t well. Sophia saw he wasn’t so keen to leap on her. She wasn’t so bothered as the rich donor who had been her source of comfort was now the source of her allowance, and she liked it like that. Benedict Highcock eventually left as there was another novelty waiting for him. His parting words to Nick Thompson, “you overestimate what you’re worth. Politicians are like cheap little toys.”

Nick Thompson carried a secret. This plague had not quite left his body. This was a side effect some suffered from. Some were quite disabled but as always Nick Thompson played it off.

“Just a bit creaky now and then. Everyone needs to get out and walk it off.”

He would pretend he was jogging but as soon as the photographers were out of sight, he would limp into the back of a car and lay down like a dying animal, and unable to work for the rest of the day. There was always a joke for everyone, but every single day he woke up feeling like he had been set on fire after running a marathon. The only thing that helped were opiates. Some at breakfast, more at lunch. Just enough to get through some briefings and then some in the evening with a few drinks. He was in a haze. He forgot so much and didn’t care. One thing he didn’t pay attention to was his digestion. The opiates slowed everything down and nothing was happening at all. He had ceased to have any movements. He kept nodding off in meetings, and aides had to cover for him when he passed out and couldn’t make a morning briefing. In his desperation to escape all obligations, he would lay on the £30,000 sofa of pea green raw silk, that Sophia had insisted upon buying from Fifi Fenton (Friend to all wives of oligarchs) and attempt to masturbate. The longer he tried the more sweaty and agitated he became. Nothing was happening. His right honourable member laid there in his hand like a wrinkled sausage that had spent too much time under the heat lamps at a hotel breakfast. He looked around for inspiration and all he saw was gaudy wallpaper and a carpet more fitting for a children’s nursery. He was in hell, and the only slick left was a sweat stain on the sofa. Nick Thompson had no one to confide in. As long as no one knew, they couldn’t use it against him. He was very uncomfortable but he also thought of a predecessor who was notorious for waiting to use the toilet until he was ready to burst when doing trade negotiations. Nick Thompson decided he would show that prat, and he wouldn’t use the toilet for anything. Then one day the pain couldn’t be stopped by the opiates. He knew he had been gaining weight in his stomach -which he blamed on rich meals ordered for him by a wealthy donor. But this was something else. It wasn’t indigestion. He nearly overdosed in trying to stop the most incredible stomach ache of his life. He was covered in a sheen of sweat and wanted to vomit. His arms itched. The sight of every colour made me want to scream. He was found laying across the toilet with his trousers around his ankles. Aides called for him to be taken to the hospital but it was too late. Somewhere between his official residence and the preferred hospital, in an ambulance with workers trying their best in terrible traffic, Nick Thompson died. The opiates did not kill him exactly but when they later opened him up, they discovered that there had been a massive obstruction in his bowel. It looked as if he had not had any relief in nearly a month. He had literally died full of shit. No one wanted to tell the public but there were rumours alongside the official declaration that poor old Nick Thompson had had a heart attack while working for the nation. His critics would laugh and say, “Of course he was full of shit, I could have told you that from day one.”

Nick Thompson did not leave much behind. There was the widow who quickly remarried the donor who had money. She held a famous ball every year in honour of opiate awareness. The money never seemed to make it to the appropriate charities but Sophia always had a notoriously decorated house and the best gowns. Nick Thompson’s children viewed him as an uncle figure who didn’t leave them much of an inheritance. There was one final manuscript on Ben Jonson that wasn’t quite finished, and was three years late. The publishers let it lapse quietly and it never spoke of it again. Stephen Tinch showed deference in waiting until the body was in the ground before announcing he was standing for the leadership. He inherited all of Nick Thompson’s messes and was just as unhappy but he left the position alive and made a lot of money, and still wasn’t invited to the best parties, or the most exclusive orgies at Italian castles.. Benedict Highcock later died in a skiing accident at a global forum that he had attended as a speaker. The strangest thing about Benedict’s death was that his lungs had been full of water, and he had also been poisoned. There had been rumours he was working for the Russians but nothing could be proved.

At Nick Thompson’s funeral which was attended by many out of morbid curiosity, including the old Queen who made few public appearances unless horses or dogs were involved. Shiphrah spoke for the family. She ended the eulogy with, “Peri, you did your best.” Some noticed that her eyes held no tears.

After a period of mourning had passed, Shiphrah flew off to Portugal and Spain for a holiday. Sorting his debts had been a chore and she wanted to eat good food and remember what the sun felt like when it shined brightly on her. She didn’t turn on her phone so her mother couldn’t phone her with guilt. During her holiday, she saw something that reminded her of a promise once made. When she returned home Shiphrah licensed the image of her late brother as an El Caganer. Pericles Nicholas Van Zijl Thompson had wanted statues of himself for everyone and this seemed to be the most accurate depiction of his rule and legacy upon the nation. Except, it would be the one time he was not full of shit.