The Lords' Day (retail) by Michael Dobbs

Zaman Khan. Only been here a few weeks. Reputation as a bit of a hard man, apparently. But then, they all are, in their new
government.’
    The director began searching his pockets for a nicotine stick; he’d sell his daughter for the real thing right now. ‘What did he shout, when he jumped up?’
    ‘Sounded like Azadi . It means freedom.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘And . . . nothing. That’s all. So far.’
    ‘I hope to God they’re Bin-Men,’ the director said, sucking furiously on his stick, gathering his wits. ‘Make sure they are, whatever you do. Don’t let any of them
be home grown, not domestics, not a single one.’
    ‘We’ll do our best.’
    The director sighed and began punching buttons on his phone. ‘And then, perhaps, we can blame this entire catastrophe on those delinquents across the river at Six . . .’
    11.53 a.m.
    As he stood on the steps to the throne, Masood sounded like a schoolmaster. Some will have to stay behind . . . He made it sound as if he were handing out detentions.
    ‘All members of the Cabinet,’ he announced, ‘along with the ambassadors, the judges, the bishops – you will remain seated. And, of course, we must ask those members of
the Royal Family who are here to stay with us.’ He even turned to offer the Queen a little bow – a nod of deference? ‘But I must remind you,’ he said, returning to his
audience, ‘we know who you are. We know your faces. Those people I have mentioned – please, do as you are told. Don’t try to sneak out.’ He paused, his youthful face
composed, his eyes casting slowly around him. ‘Otherwise, I very much regret that we will kill you.’
    He was clearing out those who were not essential to his plans, making room, giving him and his colleagues killing space.
    ‘We will use those doors on either side of the throne,’ he declared. ‘Now, please move.’ He shot a burst of gunfire into the ceiling to get them on their way. They began,
mostly calmly, trying to be British about the whole thing, moving forward slowly, as if they were queuing for lifeboats.
    From her seat which had given her such a perfect view of events, Celia Blessing rose and tried to pretend she wasn’t shaking. Behind her, Archie Wakefield remained in his place.
    ‘Come on, Archie. Get yourself moving.’
    ‘Think I’ll stay.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’m staying,’ he repeated.
    ‘What in the devil’s name for?’
    He paused, and ground his teeth. ‘I might be useful.’
    ‘You?’
    He let out a deep, slow breath, which seemed to deflate and crumple his whole body. ‘I’m dying, Celia. Got no more than six months. Nothing to lose. Not like most of the people
here.’
    ‘But you—’ She began to protest, to argue, as had always been her way with him, but as she looked into his eyes she saw something she hadn’t noticed before. Behind the
pupils, buried deep, was a milky paleness that was beginning to take over inside and drain it of its proper colour. She knew what he had told her was the truth and his logic, at least on this
occasion, was impeccable. ‘Damn you!’ she spat.
    ‘What . . . ?’
    ‘If you’re staying, then I’m staying, too.’
    ‘Why?’
    She was scared, she didn’t have any great yearning to risk her life, but she was of an age when she knew she didn’t want to live for ever. Anyway, if he stayed and she left,
he’d lord it over her for the rest of eternity, even if eternity in his case stretched to only six months. And she, too, wanted – how had he expressed it? – to be useful. To do
her bit. It was what had always brought her to this place, this House of Lords, to turn out for her team even on those occasions when she knew they had no chance of winning. And she was a long-time
widow, lonely; it was a pain that had shown itself all too often through her politics, making unnecessary enemies, like Archie Wakefield – and suddenly she was beginning to see him in a
different light.
    ‘Why?’ he demanded once