Реджинальд Хилл - Matlock's System

“It’s all been my fault, it seems,” said Matlock bitterly. “Tell me, how did we get here?”

“Well, I’d just been planted in Edinburgh — I’d only been in the place about twelve hours when we met! — to find out what was going on. There’d been a bit of a purge, it seems, and lots of our men had been picked up. We thought you’d be there. We believed you’d be helping them, but we had to find out more. You can imagine how I felt when I bumped into you like that, wandering around unattended in that part of town! Anyway, I got in touch with my contact on the Wall right away, put you in the back of my car and drove out, up into the hills where a ’copter picked us up. I didn’t know about the broadcast till we got back here. I’m sorry, if I’d have known, there wouldn’t have been any need to knock you out. It would have made things easier for both of us. But I thought you’d really gone over!”

“Broadcast!” snapped Matlock. “You mean it went off all right? What’s happened?”

“Let me tell you that, Mr. Matlock,” said a voice from the door. Matlock turned and stared at the tall, grey-haired figure who stood there, recognizing the thin face, long nose and archaic steel-framed spectacles.

“Sedgwick,” he said, recognizing the leading Minister of Browning’s cabinet, the man who had taken over his old office when he resigned all those years before. He too had been young then.

“We haven’t met for a long time, have we?” said Sedgwick.

“You were saying about the Scots ...”

“Ah yes. Well, the broadcast came on at six-thirty. I do not know how you got that piece of film in, but I take it that it was not part of the original programme. Boswell spoke briefly, saying that a Scots force was being sent at your request to assist the uprising against the Browning government. Then you came on. If you had spoken in support, I dread to think what kind of civil war might have resulted. As it was you picked your words quite magnificently. You were only on thirty seconds before they cut you, but it was more than enough.”

“And the invasion?”

Sedgwick looked serious.

“I’m afraid that we are in a state of war with Scotland. They managed to breach the Wall in several places and despite the slight warning we had and fierce resistance, they have managed to occupy most of the Carlisle multicity but we are holding them at a line along the fells north of Kendal. Where they would have been if your broadcast had supported the attack it is impossible to say. We are most grateful.”

Matlock began to laugh. He lay back on the bed and let the great peals of mirth come forth unhindered.

“So this is it!” he gasped between outbursts. “So the net result of all my efforts has been to save Browning! I bet he’s grateful. I bet he laughed all the way to the House this morning.”

Exhausted, he lay still regaining his breath.

“No, Mr. Matlock,” said Sedgwick sternly. “You are wrong. The crisis facing the country as a result of the Scottish invasion has had far reaching effects. A vast number of members of this House in view of Mr. Browning’s recent performance could not feel any great confidence in his ability to cope with this situation. He had assured the country only two days ago that he had had long talks with the Scottish Ambassador and that the situation was well in hand. There was no chance of war, he told us. And in any case, such was the state of our Northern defence line, that the Scots would be quite incapable of breaching it. He has been proved miserably wrong on every count. This morning, acting on the advice of his Cabinet, Mr. Browning has recommended to his Majesty that you, sir, be invited to form a new government. We have transport waiting outside to take you to the Palace. I am here, sir, to say that if you accept, you will have behind you the unanimous support of the Uniradical Party and, I believe, of all the minority parties in the House.”

“But ...” said Matlock. “But ...”

He stared wildly round, his eyes finally coming to rest on the clock.

It was ten-fifteen.

Sedgwick followed his gaze and smiled coldly.

“You were examined on your arrival, sir,” he said, “and when it was realized you had a heart clock which would not respond to our own Adjusters, you were sent for Op. The clock has been removed.”

Matlock’s hand automatically went to his heart.

“No. Nothing has replaced it. We have an X-ray machine available if you wish to check.”

“Yes,” said Matlock gently, his mind beginning to surface from the whirlpool into which it had been sucked. “Yes. I will check. But later. Later. I must not keep his Majesty waiting. Are there clothes? I cannot go dressed like this.”

“Through here, Prime Minister,” said Sedgwick, leading the way into a neighbouring room.

Matlock paused in the doorway.

“Colin,” he said. “What happened to Ernst? Was he one of… ?”

He left the question unfinished.

“Oh no,” said Colin. “The bloody fool. He was killed resisting arrest.”

“I see,” said Matlock half to himself. “The fool. He was the fool. The other fool.”

He went to change his clothes.

As he drove back to Westminster some time later he was only dimly aware of the cheering crowds lining the streets. Already the need for decision was pressing hard upon him. There were the immediate decisions to be made about the conduct of the war. Should he use planes to smash the enemy armies occupying the Carlisle multicity? Should low-fall-out nuclear weapons be employed against the Scottish towns? And then there was the composition of his Cabinet. Dare he omit such old enemies as Sedgwick whose support he realized was linked more with personal survival than altruistic patriotism? And then in the long run there were the questions of his policy for the future. What support could he expect for economic and age reforms once the war was over?

And the question kept on bobbing up to the surface of his mind like a playful dolphin — would he be able to afford such reforms after the expense of such a war?

And how much would it matter to him if he couldn’t?

He walked quickly into the House not responding to anyone.

Where was Lizzie? Would they ever meet again? And poor Ernst? The fool. The poor loyal fool.

“The House is assembled, Prime Minister. The Members are waiting to hear you.”

It was Sedgwick. Courteous, deferential. Could he be trusted? Or rather, how far should he be distrusted?

“Give me one minute please,” he said, turning into the Premier’s great office. As he did so, he recalled the last time he had been here, listening to Browning’s offer. The miniature was back on the wall he noticed.

And tidying up the desk with care and affection was an old, bent, familiar figure.

“Hello, Mr. Matlock, Prime Minister, sir,” said Jody with a welcoming smile. “It’s very good to see you back again.”

Matlock looked around carefully, thoughtfully. And a whole minute elapsed before he said in a low voice, as though speaking to himself:

“Yes Jody. It’s good to be back.”

Reginald Charles Hill FRSL was an English crime writer and the winner of the 1995 Crime Writers’ Association Cartier Diamond Dagger for Lifetime Achievement.