Lee Kerr - Welcome to the Apocalypse

I turn to see that the third visitor is staring at me through eyes as dark as mine. I gasp as my mind takes me straight back to my last American love, to the sense of perfection and meaning I felt back then, even through the eyes of a simple webcam. I look at her again, and it’s as if she’s become one with my previous love, the first and only woman to be of significance to me. This thing of beauty stands before me now, dressed in a tight-fitting black suit, which exposes a pale, perfect body, like the one I remember.

My eyes rest upon her, and I wonder if they will ever be able to leave what I have now found, as she stares back at me, clearly confused by my long hesitation. I take a deep breath, seeing more than what a thousand cameras could ever give me; my loyalties to that forgotten, long dead girl in New York now mean nothing to me.

The man in the suit steps forward, his hand extended. ‘Young prince, I’m Ambassador Richard Nevins. I don’t believe we have had the chance to be introduced.’

I look at him as he stares back at me. His beady, grey eyes look at me through small, wiry glasses. We both wait for me to say something, as everyone else stands patiently. I don’t find that I’m scared of not having anything to say, or of saying entirely the wrong thing, but rather of feeling different. I start to think like I am actually someone of importance, that fate has finally made me into something special, even if it is only for a short time and not what was intended by my elders. I’m no longer on the edge, uninvited; I’m now the centre of all that matters.

‘No, we have not met before, but I welcome you to my palace anyway.’

‘The imperial palace,’ Abdul says, as he leans forward and takes the Ambassador’s hand from me. ‘The king cannot be here right now, for which we offer our sincerest apologies.’

I hold up a hand to the man who has cursed me from the shadows since the day I was born. ‘I am dealing with all matters of state whilst my father is away, so no apology is required.’

‘Well, it’s great to finally meet you,’ Nevins says, looking between us. ‘Perhaps I should introduce the rest of our delegation?’

‘Perhaps you should,’ I say.

‘May I introduce General Martha Edwards, and this is Jessica Adams from the United States Treasury Department.’

General Martha holds out a hand, forcing it towards me, but Jessica Adams just stares at me. I stare back at her, repeating that name, seeing how it feels as I say it in my head in different ways.

She smiles but doesn’t move. It’s like her body is a statue that has been brought into the room to haunt me for what I have missed all my life and may never see again. I watch her face, wondering how someone so beautiful could work in such a boring place. I imagine all those old men staring at her as she walks around the office, much like the programmes I used to watch on television.

I feel the grip tightening around my hand and realise that General Martha has taken hold of it. I look up at her and feel a slight squeeze that demands to be recognised. Whatever words she has just spoken were wasted but the connecting of our eyes seems to placate her as she lets go.

Before I can say anything, I feel a tap on my shoulder, a reminder that the act must begin. I invite everyone to the seating area, realising how little effort I have put into being the host and how little interest I have in these formalities. I sit in the larger chair, the one always reserved for my father, and I realise just how frustrating I have been for Abdul and any other of the aides as they have tried to mould and shape me into the man I was meant to become.

‘We were sorry to hear about the loss of your mother and brother,’ Ambassador Nevins says, as positions are taken and tea is poured. He watches me, waiting for a reaction, clearly hoping for an acknowledgement. He will never understand what she meant to me and when I give nothing back he shuffles in his seat, looking around the open room. ‘We are also wondering where your father is, if I may be so bold to question his absence?’

‘He is not here and I am, and this is all you need to know.’

The big general sighs and shakes her head, and Hamza sits forward, perhaps wanting to confront his opposite number on my behalf. Abdul looks into the shadows around the room but says nothing. He most likely shares their frustrations and it’s clear that none of us want to be here, in this situation, with me as the man tasked to pull this together.

The ambassador leans forward, taking his time to look at each person. ‘With all due respect, young prince, I think I speak for all of us when I say that we worry you might not be enough. Not when we consider the gravity of what we must discuss.’

‘I will be enough or I will be nothing and that is down to you to decide,’ I say, and then sit back, somehow happy with my choice of words – it was like a riddle, the kind that would normally come from Abdul’s sharp tongue, except that this one actually made sense.

She finally takes her chance to speak: the only one I see, the only one I will ever listen to. ‘We’re here to discuss the purchase of oil and we need you to take this seriously.’

‘The world is changing,’ Ambassador Nevins says.

‘I know this, I have heard.’

He looks at his general, then my general and then back to me. ‘Well, I’m not sure you all realise just how much it is changing. We have new intelligence about what is happening and we could put ourselves in a position where we can share this with you.’

‘You have probably heard about everything that has happened in Eastern Europe?’ General Martha says. ‘The whole continent could be a graveyard by the weekend.’

‘We have heard many stories,’ Abdul says, looking at his hands and absently picking dirt from his nails. ‘None of them have proven to be more than what I think you call ‘old-fashioned wives’ tales.’’

General Martha nods, seeming to admit she has heard a few of these stories for herself. ‘The tales of zombies and killer viruses are, as best as we can tell, isolated instances of false information based on variable sources. However, let me be clear, there is a very real threat that affects all of Europe that could soon spread across the planet if not contained.’

‘Europe is not our concern,’ I say, sitting back, trying to make my body represent my views, even though my mind is scattered. I curse myself as these words leave my innocent mouth, because how can I say that Europe is not our concern when I truly have no idea how much oil we pump to them every day? It could be thousands of barrels or it could be none, but my naivety seems to know no bounds and I know the Americans will spot this.

‘Of course Europe is all of our concern,’ Abdul says. ‘Our prince knows the worth of every country but we will not be intimidated into giving you our natural resources based purely on unsubstantiated stories, just so you can fuel your endless military operations. We know that it is only our oil that you want.’

General Martha leans forward, her head shaking as she looks at Abdul. ‘Let me tell you specifically what your precious oil would be fuelling. It will be going into aircraft carriers, fighter jets and tanks. If we are going to get control of this situation then we need these things and you will need us. You should just remember that.’

This is enough of a bold statement to make everyone starts talking, all wanting to have their say – and everyone aims it at me, as if I’m the one to blame for everything. They don’t get a chance to present their individual thoughts as Jessica coughs loudly, which makes everyone else stop to look at her, although I’m sure my keen eyes get there first.

‘If we accept that Europe is in big trouble then it looks to me like you will need a new customer and we’re clearly in the market for buying,’ she says, looking at everyone before winking at me. ‘I suggest you come to a solution, boys. And you do it quickly.’