Sean Gabb: The Churchill Memorandum

“And—ah—I’m putting my gun away. But I must warn you that, if you speak one word beyond this door, I will blow off both your kneecaps. I can tell you, from my experience in the trenches, that it is a most exquisitely painful injury.”

Macmillan’s butler had taken charge in the outermost of the cellars. He’d got servants and guests sat on the floor as if they’d been schoolchildren. The impression was heightened by the faint moan from about half of them of O God, Our Help in Ages Past .

“Excellent, Bellamy,” Macmillan said with a return of his Edwardian manner. “You’re a good man. Keep them together. Keep telling them that this is the best place for everyone to be when the bomb goes off.”

Despite the threat, I wanted to shout a warning. But Macmillan already had me across the room and on the steps that led up to the main house. The door firmly shut, the hall was now empty. Still, however, the flares shone through the fanlights, casting a lurid glow over the paintings and the polished wood.

Macmillan stopped just before the main staircase and looked mournfully about.

“This was a beautiful house,” he said—“yes, truly beautiful. My father would have been proud of the improvements I made to what was already one of the best houses in Sussex. Still, I can take if off the insurance.”

“You’re a bloody murderer,” I cried, finding my voice again. I pointed back towards the cellars. “You’ll kill them all.”

“Oh, the staff, the staff!” he replied with a groan. “The house can be rebuilt. But how will I replace the staff? Oh, the sacrifices one must make.” He righted a hat stand that had been knocked over and began a slow progress up the stairs.

“Come on, Anthony,” he urged, pointing his gun at me again. “You aren’t coming with me, of course. But I’d like you to see me off. After all the trouble you’ve caused me these past few days, it’s the very least you can do.”

“Harold!” a man cried from the first landing above us. “Harold! There’s a helicopter on the roof. But the pilot won’t take off without your instructions.” It was the fat Welshman who’d been lecturing Foot on law reform. Macmillan paused and looked up.

“That is the case, Roy,” he said. “Think of it as a lifeboat. But, you see, as with any lifeboat, it has limited room. And there is most decidedly no room in it for your bulk.” Without seeming to aim, he raised his gun and fired off a shot. He got the Welshman in the stomach, who fell backwards and writhed screaming on the carpet. He hurried up the remaining stairs and silenced the screams with another bullet. He turned to me and smiled.

“I had promised young Jenkins that he’d be Home Secretary in my Ministry of All the Talents,” he explained. “I don’t suppose anyone else now will be so eager to abolish hanging.” He looked at his watch. “But we must hurry,” he sighed. Even on the most optimistic counting, we are fast running out of time.” He looked once more at the solid elegance of polished wood about us, and stepped over the still body towards the next flight of stairs.

Up on the roof, the pilot already had the helicopter engine ticking over. Lit up from within, its glass and aluminium body gleamed from what was now a single, diminishing flare. Either sound didn’t reach too well this high, or the battle was finally coming to an end. Had Stanhope’s men given up? Or had they broken through? It was impossible to say.

“The battle looks to be over, dear boy,” Macmillan said as if he were reading my thoughts. “Even now, in the relative dark, attackers will be creeping forward. It really takes me back to my young days in the trenches. Time, then, for such farewells as we can manage. I’d like to take you off with me. All else aside, you are a writer of most promising talent. The problem is that your account of what I’ve been up to would jar with my own.” He moved towards the helicopter.

“You won’t get away with this,” I cried above the rising sound of the helicopter engine. “Stanhope at least will never believe your lies.” Macmillan stopped and looked back.

“Anthony,” he said, speaking loudly, “you must understand that the first thing anyone wants after a disaster like this is a narrative that makes sense of it. If my proposed narrative might seem bald and unconvincing to you, I am a politician. I will add to it a degree of artistic verisimilitude that will silence all doubts. When I am put down beyond that clump of birch trees in the distance, friendly hands will help me out, and uniformed men will salute me as I express my grief for all those I was unable to save.” He put his good hand onto the frame of the helicopter and prepared to heave himself aboard.

“Oh,” he shouted, turning back, “I’ll make you one final promise. While you were alive, The Times was always too sniffy to carry anything by the likes of you. Once I have a spare moment, I’ll see to a most glowing and regretful obituary. I may even write it myself.” He laughed and made an ironic bow.

As he was about to turn again and climb aboard, another flare went up, and then another. Once more, we were bathed in their lurid glow. I thought at first Macmillan had been shocked by the sudden burst of light. Like one who’s been turned to stone, he stood beside the helicopter, still looking in my direction.

I felt a hand strike me from behind and went sprawling onto the rain-soaked lead.

“Get down and stay down,” I heard Pakeshi yell above the rising noise of the engine. He released the catch of his sub-machine gun and fired off a burst into the sky. He pointed it straight at Macmillan, who put up both hands.

“There’s a bomb in the house,” I shouted up at the dark-clad figure. “It will go off at any moment.” I didn’t think Pakeshi heard me, so shouted again. Now, he scooped me up with his free hand and hurried me towards Macmillan. Dropping me, he spun Macmillan about and frisked him. Out came the gun. It fell onto the roof. Pakeshi kicked it hard so that it flew out of sight.

“Get in,” he shouted, pushing me at the helicopter. It was already swaying about a foot above the roof. There was no point asking what the bloody hell was going on. If we had a minute before Foot’s bomb blew everything sky high, we were lucky. As I clambered in and tripped, I caught a glimpse at the pilot, who was pulling on levers and checking dials. I was about to sit up from where I’d fallen. But Macmillan was now roughly dumped on top of me. I heard Pakeshi shouting at the pilot to get us moving. Suddenly, the helicopter pitched and there was a bump that sent my face crashing against the metal floor of the helicopter. We were down again.

“It’s the weight,” the pilot cried. He pointed at the boxes that almost filled the back seats. “We’re carrying too much weight.” I thought of telling Pakeshi that fissile materials need lead sheathing. But he was already pulling vainly at one of the boxes with his free hand. It might have taken all four of us to get the thing shifted. For all he could move it, Pakeshi might have been trying to rip out the seats. The pilot fussed and struggled with his controls. But, even though the blades moved faster and fast overhead, the helicopter didn’t manage more than a wobble.

“Get out!” Pakeshi screamed at Macmillan. He prodded him with the barrel of his gun. “Get out now!” There was a screamed reply, and pleading. But Pakeshi landed a kick in Macmillan’s chest and sent him sprawling onto the roof. I pulled myself up into a seated position and looked out. In just a few seconds, we’d now managed to rise six feet or so above the roof. In the bright but inadequate light of the flares, I saw Macmillan scramble to his feet and raise his arms in a gesture of supplication.