Michael Dobbs - The Final Cut

'Mr Speaker, with your permission I would like to make a statement. This afternoon in the House, a Member crossed the floor in an act which not only reduced this Government's majority but threatens a period of damaging uncertainty…' Others would say it, would already be shouting it as they prepared the morning newspapers, so there was nothing to be lost by the admission. 'Such uncertainty can only do harm to the good governance of this country. Moreover, claims were made that my Government had lost its moral authority to govern. That is a challenge no Government can ignore.'

He leaned back from the Dispatch Box so that he could survey his audience and, more importantly, keep them dangling, impatient upon his words.

This Government prefers to take its authority not from self-appointed moralists but from the people. It is the people to whom we listen and in whom we trust; it is for them to say who should sit on these benches and who amongst the Opposition. It is the people who must decide.'

From the comer of its collective eye the whole House was looking at Makepeace, who sat impassive, aware that Urquhart was challenging every line of his credentials, and awkward on a crowded bench where not a single one was numbered amongst his friends or supporters. He looked isolated; he'd jumped too soon.

'In order to bring an end to the uncertainty, it is my intention to ask His Majesty for a dissolution and a general election at the earliest practicable moment, after the passage of certain essential pieces of parliamentary business. That moment should be in four weeks next Thursday. Thank you.'

Picking up his piece of paper, Urquhart left the Chamber.

For several long moments the House reacted in the manner of some prehistoric beast under attack. A bemused silence, before sounds of confusion began to rattle amongst many throats. Then a sustained bellow as the creature finally became aware that its tail had been torn away. Cries of determination and rage rose on all sides.

'Good God, I never thought I'd see it. The day when Francis Urquhart ran up the white flag of surrender.' A young scribe in the press gallery tore at his notebook, infected by the air of anarchy which prevailed.

Beside him Dicky Withers appeared unmoved, eyeing the scene below him with no apparent display of heat, drawing in his cheeks as though sucking on his favourite pipe. 'Bloody fool.' 'What, Urquhart?' his junior colleague enquired.

'Not Urquhart. You. He's not running away, he's called Makepeace's bluff.'

'But he's behind in the polls, now his party is split…'

'You watch 'em. Faced with an electoral drowning, not many will be keen to join Makepeace in jumping ship.'

He nodded towards the former Foreign Secretary, who was walking alone out of the Chamber. In an arena where everyone was shouting, rebuking, gesticulating, only he seemed to have nothing to say, and no one to say it to.

Nicosia swelters by day, by night, life is lived on the street, in the open-air eating places, on corners, at coffee shops, in parks beneath the stars. The hot pavements chatter, gossip flows along every gutter; at traffic lights young men lean out of their car windows or from mopeds to exchange banter and cigarettes with passers-by, for everyone seems to be connected either by business or by blood. But, since the Turks invaded, mostly by blood.

And in the stifling atmosphere the soft wind of rumour sweeps through the back streets, is passed from balcony to bus queue like a mistral of mistruth. Blow your nose by the Famagusta Gate and it has become a full-scale epidemic by the time, an hour or so later, it has reached Makarios Avenue. One day, perhaps, television may rescue the Cypriots, replacing febrile excitement with numbing uniformity and squeezing conspiracy into the commercial breaks. One day, perhaps, but until then, the Cypriot will believe anything. Except politicians.

Beneath a roof of woven palm fronds in the shadow of the great Venetian walls of the old city, a waiter served two British tourists, patiently explaining the menu, imploring them to try the boiled brains which were a speciality of his cousin, the cook, and warning them off the squid. 'Last week's. Too old.' He shook his head as though at a graveside.

A young boy, no more than ten, passed between the tables distributing leaflets. He stopped before the couple, clearly identifying them as British. 'Good mornings,' he offered, along with a full smile and a leaflet each, before continuing with his task.

'What does it say?' the woman enquired of the waiter.

'It says we want the British out of Cyprus,' he responded cheerfully, before spying the look on her face. 'No, not you, Madams. The bases. Only the bases. We want the British to stay, we love you. But as our friends in our homes and our tavernas. Not in the bases.' His cheerful clarification suggested not a trace of rancour. 'Now, how about some suckling pig, freshly butchered…?'

Suddenly a scooter, under-powered and hideously over-throttled, squealed to a halt at the kerbside and the waiter exchanged greetings with the driver. The noise grew, however, as did the animation of both waiter and driver, who were gesticulating as though warding off an attack of ravenous vampire bats. Then the waiter turned to his cousin who was leaning from the window of the kitchen. More shouts -the waiter abandoned his pen, pad and corkscrew on the table cloth – and the battle with the bats continued as he backed away in the direction of the scooter. Pursued by cries from his cousin that clearly fell well short of endearments, he climbed on the back of the scooter and disappeared into the night.

The cousin appeared at the guests' table carrying an expression of wearied forbearance, wiped his hands on his apron and reclaimed the pad. 'But… what was all that?' Madams enquired.

He shrugged. 'Bones. They've found more bones. So there's another demonstration at the Presidential Palace. Don't worry, ladies, he's only gone for a quick shout. Be back in half an hour. Now, what can I get you? Has he told you about the squid…?'

There were bones, uncovered in the hills behind Paphos beneath a pile of rocks in an olive grove. They weren't of an age which matched with graves from either the British or Turkish wars, and it turned out they weren't even human. But it would be days before forensic analysis established the facts and in the meantime there would be protests, rumours, inventions and outright lies.

Through dragging Cypriot days and beneath hard blue skies, truth rots like a gangrenous limb. The Presidential Palace in Nicosia is an unlikely affair. Built to house the imperial trappings of an early British Governor after the old headquarters were wrecked by a popular uprising, it was in its own turn burnt to the ground by the coup against Archbishop Makarios which opened the door to the Turkish invasion. This would have been an opportunity to erase the British stamp upon the presidential home once and for all, and to create a palace of entirely modern Cypriot design. 'But the British are our history,' the Archbishop was supposed to have said, 'they are our friends.' So, along with the Archbishop, the Palace was restored in the old style, complete with the dominant British coat of royal arms carved in sandstone above the main entrance. Dieu et Mon Droit. An unlikely affair.

Aristotle Nicolaou was a similarly unlikely affair. Tall, stooped, of uncomfortable construction, the President had a leanness and a blue intensity in his eyes which set him apart from most Cypriots. He was a philosopher rather than a politician, a man who had encountered no greater pleasure in his life than teaching economics at the London School of Economics and marrying an English wife. His happiness had disappeared with the Turkish invasion that had torn the island apart, and he had returned for no better reason than to assuage his sense of guilt at missing the hardships being endured by his fellow Cypriots. It was not a sense of guilt shared by his wife. Nicolaou was a man of broad ideals who had never fully reconciled himself to the tactics and daily concessions required of political life, any more than he had to those required in his marriage. As he sat at the small desk in his office, surrounded by family photographs and the paraphernalia of power, he felt adrift. Through the great Moorish stone arched windows came the sound of protest from beyond the palace gates – louder than ever tonight – and from the telephone came the sound of protest from the British Prime Minister. He didn't know how to handle either.