What If Gordon Banks Had Played, Part 22
They had left, and Powell was left alone, standing under the harsh flicker of the fluorescent lights, twenty meters below the ground. All was silent. Quietly, Robert Armstrong stepped from the gloom at the edge of room.
“Do you wish me to organise an audience with his Majesty?”
Powell nodded — a short, precise movement of his head, wasting no more energy than strictly necessary. As Armstrong turned to leave, the Prime Minister spoke.
“No, tarry a while.”
“Something you wished to say, Prime Minister?”
“Do you consider me a failure, Sir Robert?”
“Of course not sir,” Armstrong said smoothly.
“You are wrong, and it is a waste of your time and mine for you to seek to ingratiate yourself with me now,” he said, staring toward Armstrong. “My time is over. I am dead, nothing but a shade in the corridors of power. I failed, Sir Robert, as we all do, as all in politics do. The greatest contribution I can now make is to remove myself from the scene. I am no longer a facilitator of the solution, but a cause of the problem itself.”
“You are too harsh on yourself. Could anyone have done any better?”
“There is no point in wasting our time with counterfactuals,” Powell continued. “It was I who was called to be Prime Minister, nothing can change that. I was honoured enough to be requested to form Her Majesty's Government, and I cannot seek to escape the responsibilities that such a task entails. The duty was mine alone, as is the resultant burden of failure.”
The Prime Minister fell silent, his eyes swivelling across the table, still littered with the detritus of endless briefing meetings — cups and tea and coffee spoons — to fall upon the overflowing ashtray in front of Nicholas Ridley's seat. “A revolting habit; a disgusting yellow fog. Why would a man kill himself with leaves?”
“You should have made cabinet meetings non-smoking.”
“It was not my place — I am first among equals, and no more than that,” Powell looked up, staring at Armstrong with piercing eyes. “I did not wish for things to occur in the fashion that they did, Sir Robert. It should not have happened like this. The levers, when pulled, did not react as one expected, as one was entitled to expect.” Powell paused, and a weak smile crept across his face,
“There once was a man who said 'Damn! // It is borne in upon me I am // An engine that moves // In predestinate grooves // I'm not even a bus, I'm a tram!'”
He gave a brief, wheezing laugh. “It is perhaps forgivable for a man to think that, upon assuming the uppermost role in government, that he should have had some freedom of manoeuvre, some choice in how he carried out the role. That proved, however, not to be the case, much to my dismay. There are forces at work, Sir Robert, forces of which we remain ignorant as we go about our lives. Like astronomers discovering satellites through disturbances in the orbits of their brethren, we only become aware of their existence through their effects upon other, more visible processes. I can see that your questioning my sanity. 'The Prime Minister has finally lost it' you will say, and I can understand that response. I ask you this though: what happened to James Molyneaux?”
“Prime Minister?” Armstrong did indeed ponder for a second if the Prime Minister had lost his mind.
“I apologise. I was imprecise in framing my question. What factors led to his death, Sir Robert? How did it come to pass?”
“I couldn't say, Prime Minister. You've read the inquiry's report.”
“You do us both a disservice by persisting in such a charade. The report was a cover up, a whitewash, and not even a convincing one. When I said, many times, that it was my intention to restore the country's freedoms at the earliest opportune moment I spoke the truth, not empty promises. At every possible instance however there was another bombing, another assassination. Events conspired to to ensured that the terrorist threat never quite receded to the point where a relaxation of controls was practicable. For the situation to remain in such an equilibrium for a short period is plausible, to to remain such for four years?”
Armstrong didn't speak, and began to quietly collect his notes from the side table.
“James was not assassinated by the IRA,” Powell continued, “and I have increasing doubts about many of the other atrocities that have stricken the nation over the last four years. There are those who benefit from a continuing state of terror, of increasing power being invested in the secret services, equally there are those who wish for nothing more than for Britain to remain for every a junior partner to those across the ocean. Just as I am certain that those responsible for James's murder, or for that matter Julian Amery's, are not those who received the blame, I am sure that the events of the last few weeks are not unconnected with the desire of the CIA to have me removed from power. The world would be a far better place if the United States of America did not believe that they are authorised, possibly by the deity, to intervene, openly or covertly, in the internal affairs of other countries anywhere in the world”.
Armstrong finished collecting his papers and slid them carefully into a box.
“It is a tragedy that James should have had to die because of such interventions,” Powell continued, “though I have little idea of which party was responsible for his death. It should have been me. I cannot accept that any other man should have to sacrifice his life in place of mine. That I, who never saw the field of battle, should send...”
Powell fell silent. Armstrong looked up at him, and saw to his amazement the old man's pale blue eyes filling with tears. “It would have been better had I been killed in the war,” he said finally. “I should have died — the world would have been better.”
“Prime Minister?”
“Forgive me. I should not allow myself to be overcome by such emotions. Old emotions. You must go and arrange an audience with His Majesty.”
“Sir,” Armstrong collected his box of papers and turned to the door, leaving the Prime Minister standing stiffly by the side of the table. “Prime Minister?”
“Sir Robert?”
“There is one thing. There is bound to be some sort of investigation, some sort of commission. The Americans are already talking about putting you on trial. If any of things you have said to me are accurate, there are people who may not want you to have the chance to say such things in a courtroom. It may not be in your best interests to remain in the country, if you see what I mean.”
“I will remain, and accept the consequences of my actions.”
“If I might be so bold sir, if you wish to be a martyr...there'll be no blaze of glory. You'll end up killed in a bungled burglary or a fall down a staircase or suchlike....If you are interested, I have spoken to the Rhodesian High Commission, there may be...”
“There is no need to — it is not your concern. Your duties to me as Private Secretary cease once I have informed His Majesty of my resignation.”
“Then let me arrange it as a favour from one man to another...”
Powell gave a wan smile, and Armstrong took his leave.