The door was ajar, but of course I knocked politely and waited on the threshold.
“Ah, Whipple, there you are!”
“You sent for me, your Majesty?”
“Yis, yis. Come in, my good fellow. Do sit down.”
I stepped into the King’s private suite and perched nervously on the edge of a plush leather sofa to which he’d gestured with a wave of his hand.
“Is everything alright, your Majesty? Are you feeling well?” As the Royal Physician, I was responsible for the health of the King and his entire family. In recent years, things had become a tad … shall we say … rocky.
“Yis, yis, all good,” said the King. “I, ah, wished to speak to you on another matter.” He paused, and began to pace to and fro in front of his large desk, frowning a little. “Whipple,” he said eventually, “I’d like to ask you a favour.”
“A favour, your Majesty?” I tried not to sound too surprised. “You mean, as your doctor?”
“Yis … and no.” He hesitated a moment. “We’ve known each other a long time, Whipple. Thirty years, is it?”
“Indeed, your Majesty. Since the mid-nineties.”
“Well, you know, Whipple, I must say I regard you not only as my doctor, but also as my … friend.”
“I’m honoured, your Majesty.” I inclined my head towards him slightly.
“No need for that,” he waved an impatient hand. “What I’m about to ask you, I ask as a friend, you understand, although it will also, ah, bring your medical expertise into play. And, of course, I’m speaking to you in the utmost confidence.”
“Absolutely, your Majesty. You may rely on my total discretion.”
“Good man,” he said, “I thought as much. You’ve always been very …” He began to pace again.
I awaited his next utterance with mounting curiosity. Finally, he spoke.
“You know we have that dreadful man coming to dine next week?”
I nodded. It had been in all the papers that the man now widely-regarded as the worst president in American history would be attending a state banquet at Windsor Castle. Indeed, the news had caused surprise and some consternation in the Royal household, following the man’s boorish behaviour on his previous visit. I knew for a fact the kitchen staff were still smarting from his derogatory comments about Chef O’Bamagh’s speciality, the Taco Cordon Bleu.
“Well, Whipple,” the King suddenly sounded pensive, “the thing is … I was wondering if … ah … you might be able to provide some kind of … potion … that would, ah, incapacitate him? For a while.”
“Incapacitate, your Majesty? For how long? Do you have a time-scale in mind?”
“Ah … well … a longish time, I suppose.” The King sighed. “Actually, as long as possible.”
“You mean, kill him?” I asked.
“Dear lord, Whipple … ‘kill’ is such a brutal term. Can’t we just say ‘incapacitate on a permanent basis’?”
I looked thoughtfully at the King, who felt moved to justify himself.
“I mean, the man is loathsome, Whipple, utterly loathsome. A self-confessed ‘pussy-grabber’, a rapist, a fraudster, a convicted felon … he should be in gaol! And his views on drilling for oil are insane, he’s fuelling climate change, killing nature. I mean, the trees are on fire, the flowers are all burning … we’d be doing the planet a favour.”
I guessed the King had been talking to his favourite rose-bush again.
“Suppose I could provide a … potion. How would we administer it?”
“Ah, I’ve taken care of that,” said the King. “Another, mm, friend of mine has agreed to slip it into his food.”
“Not Chef O’Bamagh? The Taco fiasco?”
The King nodded. “Yes, poor Berach, he was very upset about that. Quite rightly so, it was a totally uncalled-for rant. I mean, the man really is obnoxious … he’s a … he’s an oik!”
I felt a pang of sympathy for the King. To be so stressed out that you’d be driven to use a word like ‘oik’!
“How would we disguise the deed?” I inquired.
“That’s where you come in again, Whipple. This time, in your official capacity. Once the potion has worked and the oik falls headfirst into his soup, you simply rush in and pronounce him dead of a heart attack.”
“But won’t he have his own medical team with him?”
“They’ll be dining below stairs, of course. And the Royal Physician takes precedence anyway. Besides, his own team are always proclaiming he’ll outlive God Himself, so either they haven’t got a clue or they can be ‘persuaded’ to say anything. I’ve put some money aside, just in case.”
“I’m not sure that’d be a good idea, your Majesty, but as for the rest, well … yes, alright,” I said. “This potion, how quick-acting would you like it to be?”
The King pondered for a moment. “If it was quick, at least we’d be spared the man’s small-talk. He spouts the most appalling drivel, you know. ‘I’m bigly this, I’m bigly that.’ Bigly bloody liar is about the truth of it. On the other hand, it’d be an awful shame if most of the banquet went to waste. Do you have anything that would hold off until, let’s say, after the desserts? I believe Chef said something about an enormous Orange Fool.”
“I think I can find something untraceable,” I nodded. “And let’s hope he doesn’t cast further aspersions on Berach’s culinary expertise. We’d have a new Irish uprising on our hands!”
The King and I shared a moment of conspiratorial laughter.
“I must say, your Majesty, you’ve clearly thought this through very carefully. It’s a brilliant plan.”
“Oh …,” the King looked a little embarrassed. “That’s very kind of you, Whipple, but I can’t take all the credit.”
I looked at him inquiringly.
“The truth is,” he leant forward confidentially, “I saw this story on the internet … “
_____
The moment I was back in my office, I mixed myself a celebratory drink, then picked up the phone and dialled.
“Hello? Yes, it’s me, Prime Minister. The plan worked a treat. Yes, he saw the story online… ha, death by fiction, indeed … oh, thank you …. well, I do like to dabble a little … I think I may be MI5’s first undercover short-story writer, ha, ha … Yes, the King’s fully on-board with it… no, he doesn’t suspect you’re involved … My guess is he’s realised he may not be around much longer and he wants to do a good deed before he goes. Some act that will benefit the entire planet. Legacy, I suppose.
“Anyway, I thought you’d like to know it’s all arranged. He’ll die of a heart attack at the banquet … Yes, you can tell Bond to stand down. He won’t have to shoot the bastard, after all . . . What? An exploding golf-cart! . . . Hmm, I suppose it is more his style—very cinematic! Well, always good to have a Plan B.”
I replaced the receiver, sank back in the chair and raised my glass to toast the future. A Kir Royale cocktail had never tasted more delectable.
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Graham Lock
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