Charles stared at the BBC journalist, realising he was utterly trapped by the question, realising it wasn’t one he could dodge by looking for someone else to pick. They were all of them, smelling something. If he tried to dodge it, it was going to look bad, very bad. Still, he needed a few more seconds to think how best to answer the man.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘could you repeat your question?’
‘Prime Minister, there’s a real prospect of our oil supply being cut off. What’s our exposure to this?’
CHAPTER 30
1.37 p.m. GMT Whitehall, London
‘What’s our exposure?’ The Prime Minister asked, repeating the question and buying himself another few seconds to pull together an answer.
He shook his head wearily, hoping that he looked like a man who was becoming tired of having to deal with a complete non-issue. The first prickling beads of sweat were starting to dampen his forehead.
Jesus, it’s so hot in here.
‘Listen,’ replied Charles, ‘of course there’s a knock-on effect with what’s going on. Of course there is. Which is why, for example, trading in the City has been suspended. The unnatural spike in the price per barrel that this is causing could be very damaging to the economic—’
‘I’m not talking about the price of the stuff. I’m talking about the availability,’ the journalist pressed him.
‘Well naturally, whilst this problem is playing itself out, supply of oil from the region is going to be reduced. That is, of course, entirely predictable, and whilst the big Middle East suppliers are dealing with their problems, we are simply sourcing our needs from other places.’
A voice from the back of the room broke into the pause that Charles had deployed for effect.
‘And what other places are these?’
Watch it. You’re losing control of this.
The journalist continued, ‘Caspian oil has been cut off with the bomb blasts in and around Baku. The remaining east-flowing pipelines are going to be contested by Russian, Chinese and Indian interests. Are you also aware of several minor explosions in Nigeria effectively disabling the refineries at Alesa-Eleme, Warri and Kaduna?’
Charles nodded, he was. He’d been hoping that the big Middle East story would have eclipsed a detail like that. There’d been few reported casualties, the explosions had been minor; but of course, they’d been large enough to ensure all three refinery complexes were effectively neutralised.
‘My question is this; where exactly is the oil we need tomorrow coming from, Prime Minister?’
‘Well yes, you’re right, there’s not a lot coming into the UK at this moment in time . . .’
Here we go.
Charles shot another glance at Malcolm, who calmly nodded, again, almost imperceptibly.
‘But we have reserves in this country that will see us through this . . . blip.’
Inside he cringed at using the word ‘blip’. He wondered if that was a soundbite that was going to come back and bite him somewhere down the line.
‘And how long is this blip going to last?’ called out another journalist in the audience.
‘How long will our reserves last?’ called out yet another.
It was obvious to Charles, the whole religious war spin was being pushed roughly aside. The bastards were smelling blood, and like a pack of hunting dogs they were going for the kill. The room became suddenly silent, everyone leaning forward, keenly interested in an answer to the last shouted-out question. Charles realised a point had been reached. He could bullshit them and have a go at trying to pull this press conference back on script, or he could take on the question and actually answer it.
They’ll find out it’s all about oil by the end of today . . . if not in the next few hours.
All of a sudden, Charles realised the best tactical move was an outburst of honesty. At the very least, he might buy himself the tiniest bit of political kudos; best-case scenario - an impassioned, heartfelt plea for calm and co-operation aimed squarely at the general public, might just mean the emergency measures they were putting into effect would keep this crisis manageable.
He took a deep breath. ‘We have reserves that’ll last us some months. But obviously, we will have to deploy some good old-fashioned common sense in how we use what we have.’
Janet Corby from News 24, stood up. ‘Are the airport closures and the shutdown of railway lines linked to the oil issue?’
Before he could answer, another question was shouted from the back of the small room. ‘Prime Minister, there are rumours that several large oil distribution points have been taken over by the army. Is this the first step towards controlled distribution? Petrol rationing?’
‘Uhh, well, there will have to be some degree of rationing, of course,’ he replied quickly. ‘It’s only common sense at this stage that we—’
‘What about power supplies?’ shouted another. ‘Can we expect blackouts?’
Charles shook his head, ‘It’s too early for us to worry about shortages in power, food—’
Oh shit.
Several in the audience jumped on that.
‘Will there be an effect on the supply of food?’
‘What about the transportation of food supplies? Imports?’
He knew that he had to nail this down quickly. He raised his hands to quieten them down, before speaking. The chorus of voices in the room amongst the assembled journalists took a long while to settle down to a rustling hubbub that he could be heard clearly over.
‘There is no need for anyone to panic here. No one needs to panic. There has been a lot of planning, a lot of forward thinking about a scenario like this, a scenario in which there’s a temporary log-jam in the global distribution of crude oil—’
‘Is the army being brought back from Iraq to keep order?’ someone shouted out.
That comment left the room in near silence; a silence that Charles quickly realised he’d allowed to last one or two seconds too long.
They know that keep-the-boys-safe shtick was bullshit.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘we will require the army to help keep order.’
‘Does this mean we will be facing some form of martial law in Britain?’
He realised now that too much of the truth was out there. They had done as much as they could during the last eighteen hours under the veil of misdirection and various cover stories but, frankly, they were lucky not to have been vigorously challenged before. Perhaps this was the only opportunity, possibly the last opportunity, he would have to call upon the general public to keep calm, to pull together and not lose their heads.
There was a gesture he had once seen in a film, he couldn’t remember which film it was, but it had starred someone like Morgan Freeman playing the President of the United States. He remembered it being a powerful gesture, something, during the last three troublesome years in office, he had fantasised about doing himself. Well, here was the best opportunity he was ever going to get to do it. And at an instinctive level, he knew it was the right thing to do.
It was what the people of this country needed to see right now; something visual, something strong, something powerful - not just another politician puffing more hot air. Charles picked up the index cards from the speaker’s stand in front of him and silently ripped them up, tossing the shreds of card over his shoulder.
‘Okay, that’s probably enough crap for one day. You people deserve better than that.’
Once more the room was brought to an instant standstill. A droplet of sweat rolled down the side of his face.
‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘all right, the truth is we are in a bit of trouble. Whilst this mess is sorting itself out, we’re going to have to make do on the resources we have. We do have enough oil and we do have enough food to last us until normality returns. All right, it’s not stockpiled in some giant, secret government warehouse, but spread out across every city, every town, every street. Our corner shops, our supermarkets, our local grocers, our nearest petrol stations . . . all t
hese places contain the reserves we’re going to need to draw upon to ride this thing out. I am asking all of you to work together with me. We are going to need to ration the food we have, restrict the sale of petrol and diesel to key personnel, in short, pull together, like we did once before, sixty years ago during the Second World War.’
And that was it. Charles realised he’d dried up. That was all he had to offer. The silence that followed was truly terrifying.
Oh God, what the fuck have I done?
In that moment he realised he’d been too bloody candid. Instead of inspiring the nation to dig deep and find within it some inner reserve of Dunkirk spirit, to pull together as once they had, and ride this thing out, he had effectively incited every person in the country to make a mad dash to the nearest shop before it was too late.
The press room once more erupted with a deafening chorus of voices. Charles found himself staring in shock at the sea of cameras and faces. Everyone was on their feet now, hands raised. He turned away from the lectern a little too quickly, realising what that would look like on this evening’s news.
Running away.
He shot a glance at Malcolm as he strode towards the door. He expected him to be shaking his head grimly, realising too that Charles had really screwed things up, but instead, there was the slightest hint of a smile on the man’s face.
CHAPTER 31
2.15 p.m. GMT Hammersmith, London
Wheeling the trolleys out across the supermarket car-park towards Daniel’s van, Leona noticed the first of many, many cars turning into the parking area from the high street. One after another, a steady procession, stopped only when a pedestrian light further up the street turned red.
Dan noticed too. ‘It’s getting busy.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are we going home now?’ asked Jacob. ‘Or are you taking me back to school?’
‘Home,’ she replied, distracted as she watched a woman slew her car carelessly into a parking slot, scramble out quickly and run across the tarmac towards the supermarket’s entrance. She watched as another driver did the same, this time coming in too quickly, and bumping another parked car, which set off its alarm. The driver climbed out oblivious to this, hastily zapping his car with the key-lock, and sprinted away from it towards a trolley station.
There were more and more cars coming in.
‘Let’s hurry up,’ she said to Daniel.
He nodded, unlocked the back door of his van and started hastily shovelling in the mountain of tinned goods and bottled water they’d managed to buy, emptying Leona’s bank account in the process. Leona joined him, tossing in what she had in her trolley.
I think they’re beginning to realise.
She had hoped they would make it home safe and sound, triple-lock the front door, and be able to heave a sigh of relief before things started to get panicky. But it looked like it was starting already.
Maybe someone’s made an announcement?
Yes, there was the Prime Minister. He was due to be on the telly at lunchtime, wasn’t he?
A hefty 4x4 swung around into their row in the car-park and with a screech of tyres lurched forward towards the empty slot next to them. The woman behind the wheel spun it around into the parking space at the last moment, clipping one of their trolleys and knocking it over, spraying the last few dozen cans across the ground.
She climbed out quickly, locking the vehicle after her husband had emerged from the passenger side, and stepping over the scattered cans. ‘Go get a trolley, Billy!’ she shouted, as she began to make her way past, Daniel and Jacob staring at her in dismayed silence.
Leona stood in her way. ‘Look what you just did,’ she said icily.
The woman, a hard-faced bottle-blonde with an orange tan, barely registered her. ‘Out of the way, love.’
‘Hey, you just sent our stuff flying!’
The woman didn’t respond, and simply pushed Leona back against the van, and stepped past.
Leona grabbed her wrist. ‘Excuse me?’
The woman acknowledged her presence now, of course. ‘Fuck off!’ she snarled.
‘But you just—’
‘Let go or I’ll fucking break your nose.’
Leona recoiled instantly, and released her grip. At which point Daniel stepped in.
‘Hey! That’s out of order,’ he said walking around the other two, nearly empty, trolleys to join Leona.
The woman glanced at him with undisguised contempt. And then called out to her husband. ‘Billy!’
The man, thickset with middle-age flab beginning to cover a muscular frame beneath, and equally orange in colour, stained with the blue of fading tattoos on each forearm, turned round and immediately began striding towards them.
‘You better get out of my fucking way, you little prick,’ said the woman.
Daniel stayed where he was, but Leona could see he was trembling like a yappy dog left tethered outside a pub.
‘Just let her pass, Dan. It’s not worth it. We need to just go.’
Daniel took another look at Billy, and then reluctantly stepped back out of the woman’s way, allowing her to get past.
The woman hurried towards her husband, not even bothering to look back at them; jabbing her fingers towards the trolley station. The man, however, aimed one long menacing glare towards them, before turning around to go grab one of the few trolleys left. Leona figured if they weren’t in such a big rush, ol’ Billy-Boy would quite happily have slapped Daniel enough times to leave a spattered blood and snot trail down the side of his scruffy little van.
Daniel wheezed with relief. ‘Shit, I thought he was going to have me. I really did.’
‘Oh God, so did I.’
She surveyed the car-park. Whereas thirty minutes ago it was half full, now it was jam-packed, with cars, and people on foot, flooding in. She could see several minor altercations occurring in different places, as people squabbled over shopping trolleys, or jostled in the entrance to get inside against the flow of shoppers coming out.
‘Let’s get out of here as quickly as we can.’
‘Okay,’ said Dan, scooping up the last of the cans off the floor.
This is just the start of it. What are people going to be like tomorrow? Or in a week’s time?
‘This is how Dad said it was going to be,’ muttered Leona anxiously, as she resumed loading the last of their cans into the back of the van.
Dan wasn’t sure he understood what she meant by that. ‘What are you talking about?’
She nodded towards the 4x4 couple, now jogging with a trolley towards the entrance of the supermarket and finally shouldering their way through the customers surging out with groceries piled high.
‘Law of the jungle.’
Goldhawk Road, leading away from the bustling green at the centre of Shepherd’s Bush towards the quieter, more suburban end, was normally quite sedate in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. Right now it was as busy as Leona had ever seen it. The pavements on either side were packed with people laden with plastic grocery bags, pushing trolleys and wheelie baskets. Traffic along the road was crawling, log-jammed with vehicles. Occasionally it got this bad during the morning rush-hour, or when there was a match on at the nearby White City football ground.
She looked at her watch, it was only three in the afternoon.
‘Everyone’s going home early,’ said Dan, ‘to get what they need from the shops.’
She noticed a news-stand outside a convenience store that had so many customers, a queue was beginning to form outside on the street. She saw a headline hastily scrawled across it, beneath the Evening Standard banner, ‘“Please Don’t Panic” - PM’.
Another stand next to it had another early edition headline, ‘Oil and Food Will Run Out!’
Leona pointed them out to Daniel. ‘That’s it then. Everyone knows now.’
Daniel looked at her. ‘Is it really going to get as bad as you say?’
‘I’m just telling you what my dad’s been telling
me these last few years.’
She studied the desperate faces on the pavements either side of them. Most of the pedestrians were heading towards the Green or towards Hammersmith where the big supermarkets were. She wondered if there was still food on the shelves, or if they’d already been emptied.
‘Look at all these people Dan. How many of them do you think know how to do something as simple as grow a tomato plant?’
‘What?’
‘When they’ve finished stripping the shops clean, and they’ve eaten what they took home, they’re all going to starve.’
Daniel shook his head. ‘It’s not going to get that bad Leona, trust me.’
‘Yeah? So where’s all the food going to come from then, if the oil problem continues?’
Jacob leaned through the front seats. ‘Leona,’ he said, ‘is the world going to end?’
‘No, don’t be silly Jake,’ she replied, ‘but things are going to be a little difficult for a while.’
She hated the dismissive way she’d said that, because, in truth, it was going to be a lot worse than just ‘difficult for a while’. However, right now, she couldn’t face the twenty or thirty million questions she was going to be bombarded with if she’d answered him more truthfully.
Just then they heard a police siren, and a moment later a police van nudged its way through the traffic, the cars on the road obediently pulling over. As the van passed by she looked up, through the rear windows, and saw the grim faces of the officers inside. She could see the thin black stalks of what looked to her like gun barrels poking up from below. She suspected they were attempting to keep the guns out of sight as best they could. But failing . . . or maybe that was deliberate.
‘The police have got guns,’ she said quietly, as the van whisked by.
Jacob piped up cheerfully. ‘Oh cool!’
CHAPTER 32
2.45 p.m. GMT M6 motorway, north of Birmingham