Michael Dobbs - To play the king

'In his capacity as Privy Councillor, Chairman of the Party, Chief Bottle Washer or honorary president of his football club?' Urquhart swung his feet down from the green leather sofa on which he had been propped reading Cabinet papers as he waited in his House of Commons office for a series of late-night divisions. He couldn't remember what they were voting for next. Was it to increase punishment for offenders, or reduce subventions to the United Nations? Something, anyway, which would get the tabloids going and reveal the Opposition in the worst possible light.

'Mr Stamper didn't say,' responded the humourless private secretary, who had still put no more than his head and left shoulder around the door. 'Wheel him in!' the Prime Minister instructed.

Stamper appeared, offered no word of greeting, and made straight for the drinks cupboard where he poured himself a large whisky. 'Looks like bad news, Tim.' 'Oh, it is. Some of the worst I've heard for ages.' 'Not another selfish swine in a marginal seat gone and died?'

'Worse, much worse, Francis. Our latest private polls put us three points ahead. What's even more worrying, for some reason people seem to like you, you're ten points ahead of McKillin. Your vanity will be uncontrollable. Your ridiculous plan for an early election looks as if it could work after all!' 'Praise the Lord.'

'There's something even more fascinating, Francis,' Stamper continued in more serious demeanour. Unbidden he had filled a glass for Urquhart and handed it to him before continuing. 'I've just been having a quiet chat with the Home Secretary. The cock-up theory of politics rules supreme. Seems that little shit Marples has at last got himself caught with his trousers down, late the other night on the towpath at Putney.' 'In January?' Urquhart asked incredulously.

'Absolutely in flagrante. With a fourteen-year-old. Apparently he's into little boys.' He made himself comfortable behind Urquhart's desk, his feet up on the Prime Ministerial blotter. He was deliberately pushing his luck, teasing. His news must be particularly weighty, mused Urquhart.

'But lucky. The police were going to charge him so he broke down and told them everything in the hope they'd go easy on him. Lots of names, addresses, gossip, suggestions of where to look if they wanted to find an organized prostitution ring.' 'Castration's too good-'

'And it appears he came up with a very interesting name. David Mycroft.' Urquhart took a deep swig.

'So all of a sudden our boys in blue have gone coy and are asking for a little informal guidance. If Marples gets prosecuted, he'll implicate Mycroft and all hell will break loose. The Home Secretary's given a nod and a wink that prosecuting the Honourable and Upright Member for Dagenham would not be in the public interest. So we're saved a by-election.'

Urquhart swung his legs down from the sofa. 'What do they have on Mycroft?'

'Not a lot. Just his name and the fact that Marples was tangling with him at some gay club on New Year's Eve. Who knows where that could lead? But they haven't interviewed him.' 'Maybe they should.'

'They can't, Francis. If they go after Mycroft they've got to do for Marples as well, which in turn will do for us all. Anyway, if spending time at a gay club were a crime we'd have to lock up half the House of Lords.'

'Listen to me, Tim. They can have Marples kebabbed on a rusty skewer for all I care. But he wouldn't be charged for weeks, not until after the election, by which time it won't matter a bent farthing. Yet if they can put pressure on Mycroft now, it may be just the insurance policy we need. Don't you see? Pieces for position. Capture the low ground today, in exchange for giving up a player later, when it no longer matters. I think they call it a queen sacrifice.'

'I think I need another drink. Problems like that, so close to the heart of the Palace. If this were to come out…' 'How long's Mycroft been with the King?'

'Known each other since they were both spotty youths. One of his longest-serving aides. And closest friends.'

'Sounds distressingly serious. It would be awful if the King knew.'

'And were covering up for Mycroft, in spite of the sensitivity of the work he does. Must know half the nation's secrets in his job.'

'Be even worse if His Majesty didn't know. Fooled, bamboozled, defrauded for thirty years by one of his closest friends, a man he has put into a position of trust.'

'A knave or a fool. A monarch who didn't fulfil his responsibilities, or couldn't. What will the press make of all this, if it gets out?' 'Terrible news, Tim. This is terrible.' 'Worst I've heard in ages.'

There was a long moment of silence. Then, coming from inside the Prime Minister's room, the private secretary heard a sustained, almost uncontrollable bout of gut-wrenching laughter.

'Damn them! Damn them all, David! How could they be so cretinous?' The King hurled one newspaper after another into the air as Mycroft watched the pages flutter down to lay strewn across the floor. 'I didn't want the Civil List increase, but now I'm attacked for greed. And how can it be that only a few days after informing the Prime Minister that I wished the Royal Family to pay full taxes on our income, they report it as if it's his idea?'

'Downing Street's unattributable briefing…' Mycroft muttered feebly.

'Of course it is!' snapped the King as if talking with a backward pupil. 'They even suggest I'm caving in to pressure in agreeing to pay tax, that I've been forced into it by the hostile press coverage. That man Urquhart is abominable! He can't help but twist everything to his advantage. If he even stumbled by accident upon the truth he would pick himself up and carry on as if nothing had happened. It's preposterous!'

A copy of The Times was hurled to the farthest corner of the room, settling like huge flakes of snow. 'Did any of them bother to enquire after the facts?'

Mycroft coughed awkwardly. 'The Telegraph. Their story is fair…'

The King snatched the paper from amongst the pile, scanning its columns. He seemed to calm a little. 'Urquhart is trying to humiliate me, David. To cut me to ribbons, piece by piece, without even a chance to explain myself.' He'd had the dream again last night. From the pages of every newspaper he could see staring at him the wide, expectant eyes of the grubby boy with the dribble of crumbs on his chin. It terrified him. 'I will not let them drag me like a lamb to the slaughter, David. I must not permit that. I've been thinking: I must find some way of explaining my views. Get my point across without Urquhart getting in the way. I shall give an interview.'

'But Kings don't give newspaper interviews,' Mycroft protested weakly.

'Not before they haven't. But this is the age of the new, open Monarchy. I'm going to do it, David. With the Telegraph, I think. An exclusive.'

Mycroft wanted to protest that if an interview were a bad idea, an exclusive could be even worse, giving all the other newspapers something to shoot at. But he didn't have the strength to argue. He hadn't been able to think clearly all day, ever since he had answered a knock at the door early in the morning to discover a DC and Inspector from the Vice Squad standing on his front step.

Landless had driven himself, simply telling his staff that he would be uncontactable. His secretary hated mysteries; when he presented excuses she always assumed he was off being grubby with some young woman who had a strong back and weak bank balance. She knew what he was like. Some fifteen years earlier she, too, had been young and grubby with Landless, before things like marriage, respectability and stretch marks had intervened. Such insights into the inner man had helped her become an efficient and outrageously overpaid personal assistant, yet hadn't stopped her being jealous. And today he had told no one, not even her; he didn't want the whole world knowing where he was even before he had arrived.