Fifty-First State (6 page)

The soldier ran to the truck and began to shout at the driver. The driver protested. Kim, seeing more and more troops landing on the base with weapons at the ready, saw a space ahead between an armoured car and a camouflaged truck and thought she could get through if the truck would move further on to the verge of the Common. She put the car in
gear and edged forward, followed by the car behind her. As she crept on she saw some of the soldiers running to the perimeter of the camp and taking up positions. Rory wriggled. He said, in a high voice, ‘What's going to happen, Mummy?'

A jeep, containing three officers, moved out in front of Kim's car, forcing her to stop. One leapt out and ran angrily towards her. At the same time, to her right, she saw a group of five men, spread out, advancing on the demonstrators from behind. Two men, finding they were about to be penned in between the advancing soldiers and the force on the front perimeter, broke away from the group and zigzagged between the fighter bombers, probably planning to escape to the side, across the area in front of the administration buildings.

What happened after that was never made completely clear. Certainly, the troops to the rear opened fire on the running men. Both fell. And, certainly, a bullet went through Kim Durham's windscreen and into her head, splattering it all over her windscreen, the interior of the car and her son, Rory, still in the seat beside her. There was a shouted order and the firing stopped as Rory, screaming, managed to release his seat belt and wrench open the door of the car. He toppled out of the vehicle, righted himself and ran sobbing, his face, jeans and T-shirt covered in his mother's blood, towards a young, and horrified, US soldier. He fell on his knees, his bloody face turned up into the face of the man. He seemed to be appealing to him. For protection, asking him to undo, somehow, what had taken place? That was the photograph that went instantly round the world – the boy at the feet of Will O'Neill, an ordinary soldier who had never fired a live round at anyone in his life.

After that, there was a terrible silence. Rory was pulled away, stunned, from the soldier and put in the charge of a nurse from the base while marines rounded up the unprotesting and shocked demonstrators and handed them over to the local police. They were herded into vans which had been waiting further down the road. The two demonstrators who had been shot at – one dead, one wounded – were loaded into an ambulance. Paramedics pulled Kim from her car, put her body on a stretcher and took it to a second ambulance.

The retaking of Hamscott Common by the Marines had cost two lives, that of Damon Jepson, aged 25, a student and anti-war protester, and Kim Durham, aged 27, a primary school teacher and the mother of a young son.

10 Downing Street, London SW1. June 3rd, 2015. 9 a.m.

Frederick Muldoon had achieved the highest office in the land. This is not done without a speed and resilience which in another context might be defined as bordering on the psychopathic.

One phone call, from the White House, had got him into this position. ‘The President feels,' Ray Hollander had said evenly, ‘that this is a US base and therefore something we have to take care of. She asks, “Is that OK with you?”' Muldoon found it easy to agree with his powerful ally even though he knew that by doing so he was completely negating the plan agreed earlier at COBRA and confirmed with his own Home Secretary.

Fifteen seconds after he heard the news of Kim Durham's death he had moved from concern about the messy and needless death of a young woman to acute concern about his own situation. He saw now that he had played into Hollander's hands. He saw that the Marines must have been in the air heading for Hamscott before the call. An innocent woman had died and he, Frederick Muldoon, would be held responsible.

Stalking him like a mugger in an alley were thoughts of Alan Petherbridge, who would pick his time to leak the information that his own plan to retake the base, using the British police, had been safer. All that could save him now was a strong and supportive call from the President of the US, an admission that she had personally backed his decision, her apologies for a tragic mistake, her firm assurance there would be a prompt investigation of the error, and her own words of condolence to the family. He needed it now, and he needed it on screen before the press conference. Importantly, he needed to be able to quote the President's own words of condolence to the family.

Muldoon had been waiting for half an hour for the President of the United States to ring back. His office was handling everything else – no other calls would be put through until he had spoken to the President. An aide had woken Hollander in Washington when Muldoon called. Hollander, his eyes sleep-swollen and his hair sticking up on top of his head, had reacted immediately. ‘A terrible accident,' he said. ‘The President will speak to the victim's family personally as soon as possible. And there'll be a compensation package, of course.'

Muldoon looked at the man who had, only an hour earlier, asked for
his agreement that the Marines should land at Hamscott. Who had gained that agreement from him and promptly gone to bed, to sleep. Who had put him in the appalling position he was in today. He disciplined himself to stay calm. He needed more from Hollander now, much more. He needed to talk to the President. He needed to record that talk on film before 10 a.m., the time of his scheduled weekly encounter with the press. ‘Will you talk to the President?' he'd asked. ‘I'd like to speak to her personally.' There was a short silence. It: was four in the morning in Washington and the head of the most powerful country in the world is not woken lightly. For her, perhaps, the death of Kim Durham and the pictures of Rory at the soldier's feet, already on TV, were not as important as the hundred other important matters she acted on daily.

Muldoon waited. Would Hollander wake the President, giving Muldoon the appearance of a man so concerned by this random death that he had called the President of the USA, and so influential that the President had responded personally, or would he have to face the world's press without that backing? ‘Let me make some calls and get back to you,' Hollander said.

‘As soon as you can,' Muldoon said. ‘I have a press conference in an hour and a half.'

Now, the press conference was only an hour off and there had still been no call to the silent room, reached only by the muffled sound of traffic and the incessant ringing of phones in other rooms. Muldoon, behind his desk, backed by a vast oil painting of the Duke of Wellington on a rearing stallion, was sweating. The only other man in the room, his Press Officer, Tom Canning, was in a chair by the fireplace, with a pen in his hand and a pad on his knee. In fact, there would be nothing to write until the President's call came, if it did. Every few minutes one of Canning's assistants came in with a sheaf of messages and silently handed them to him. The British press and the BBC wanted statements. The European press wanted statements on the statements of their own leaders – the German President had wondered what was the status of the British bases, the French President pointed to that status as anomalous, the Russian President had already sent unnecessary and trouble-making condolences to the family. Everyone wanted the PM to respond, but Frederick Muldoon waited for the presidential call that might not come.

Canning was betting that Hollander would not wake his President and, at the last moment, would produce an uncontentious statement for Muldoon to deliver. Hollander would consider Muldoon's long-term prospects, never good because of the small majority, worse after this death at the base. Because, technically, only one man could have authorized the Marines to invade the base and that was Muldoon. And Hollander would know the British press would write the story of a puppet Prime
Minister allowing foreign troops to gun down an innocent schoolteacher, lone parent of a small boy. It was irresistible. And, Canning thought, also as true as any press story ever got.

Canning's wife, who worked for Sky News, had told him as he drank a hasty espresso that morning, ‘If the President doesn't come up with something solid for Muldoon this morning before the press conference, the President will be hanging him out to dry. Goodbye, Muldoon, hello, somebody else. Who will that be?'

Canning hadn't answered the question – he'd been rushing through the door – but the answer was obvious. That somebody else would be Alan Petherbridge, the Home Secretary. He was capable and respected, if not liked. And as far as Hamscott was concerned he had clean hands – he'd advised using British police to clear the base. He'd been backed at 6.30 a.m. by COBRA, so Canning understood, and at seven thirty he'd confirmed the plan with the Prime Minister. Muldoon had then reneged on all that, pretty certainly after a call from Washington. It would not be long before Petherbridge, one way or another, made this known.

This put Canning in a bad situation. He disliked Petherbridge about as much as Petherbridge disliked him. He was a cold, smug, clever-clever bastard, Canning thought, and he hadn't recommended a softly-softly approach at Hamscott because he was a bleeding heart, a supporter of people's right to protest, but only because it was the more intelligent way. Muldoon would be lucky to survive, once Petherbridge let it be known he was the hero of the Hamscott Common affair. Ladbrokes would start offering odds on him as the future Prime Minister. And Canning would be out of a job.

Canning shifted in his chair. He was wasting his time sitting here, in silence, while Muldoon refused to speak even to his own Private Secretary. Or the Defence Secretary. Or the RAF. Or Kim Durham's parents. Or the Europeans. And certainly not to Alan Petherbridge. He was only present so that Muldoon would not be alone, waiting for a call from the President of the United States, the only person who could save him from this wreck. But without that call, it was, Canning estimated, twenty to one that Muldoon, unpopular head of a party with a majority of three, would go.

Frozen in horror, Canning watched Muldoon pick up the phone and call Hollander again. He couldn't wrench the phone from his hand but he knew – everybody knows – that phoning again so soon after the first call reeked of desperation. Listening, he gathered that the Pentagon already had reports from the senior officer at Hamscott Common and the Marine commander in charge of the raid. They were being studied as a matter of urgency. ‘Has the President been told?' asked Muldoon. Pointless to ask – of course she hadn't, thought Canning. The President would be informed when the assessments were made, Hollander told him. Within
half an hour he would have a statement ready, in time for the press conference.

Canning was astonished that Muldoon put the phone down without even asking for details of the military reports. ‘Hollander going to wake the President at any point?' he enquired.

‘He didn't say,' Muldoon said, adding, in a low, grumbling tone, ‘Ray Hollander's never liked me.' Oh God, Canning groaned to himself, Muldoon's cracking. The phone rang again. Muldoon snatched it up. He steadied. Canning wondered if there'd been a miracle and the President was on the line.

Muldoon composed his face and said, ‘Prime Minister speaking, ma'am,' and although, over the next five seconds his face completely drained of colour, he continued to speak steadily. Meanwhile, Canning had picked up the phone on the table in front of him and heard the crystalline tones of the Queen of England asking, ‘Can you tell me exactly, Prime Minister, what happened at Hamscott Common?' There was no picture on the screen in front of him – the Queen never used videophone.

Muldoon gave a smooth but inadequate answer. He was instantly picked up on various points and examined more fully. He responded calmly. He was asked more questions by a plainly displeased Queen.

When Muldoon put the phone down he was ashen and sweating, like a man with flu, but the episode reminded Canning of one of the reasons why Muldoon was Prime Minister – his nerve. He wondered if, even after all this, Muldoon would survive.

At that moment Alan Petherbridge, uninvited and immaculate, his long, dark-complexioned face set in stone, came through the door. How he had got through Muldoon's defence system Canning could not tell. But here he was, fresh as paint, taking in the situation at a glance, giving Canning a look indicating, if not sympathy, at least some understanding, and saying, ‘Prime Minister, I apologize for the intrusion, but there are matters that can't wait.'

May 2017

If you had to point to the real beginning of our present crisis, it was not the death of Kim Durham. For that we had to wait another four months, until the election of October 2015. But the image of young Rory Durham at the US soldier's feet still symbolizes what happened – what is still happening. There's always a picture – Jackie Kennedy's pink suit, stained with her husband's blood, the naked girl in Vietnam, running. And then there was, and still is, the photograph of Rory Durham kneeling in the road, clutching at the armed soldier's knees. Strange that this image came so early, long before the corruption began, the country was plunged into cold and darkness, the nights were ripped by the sound of the bombers overhead – and long before Mark Moreno died. Before we learned shame, the shame of those who have allowed their country to be betrayed from within, and the shame of defeat.

That picture of Rory was like a prophecy. From that moment on the poster of Rory at the soldier's feet was used on demonstrations – when demonstrations were allowed – and is still stuck up on bedroom walls and in small committee rooms throughout the land. ‘Kim Durham' is no longer just the name of a woman. It is the name of a state of affairs.

Young Rory Durham will be seven years old now. After the bruising encounters with the media and the sordid battles with the diplomats, the advisers and the intelligence services of two National Governments, all attempting to get some ‘right' answers and statements from them, Rory and his maternal grandparents sharpened up and managed to disappear. I don't know if anyone helped them or if they ever claimed any of the money shoved at them with both hands by Britain and the USA. They're lost to us now, and to history, or so it seems. But, you never know, Rory Durham, one way or another, may resurface. In real life, as opposed to fiction, there's always another chapter, another act, another reel, just when you thought the story was finished. But for the time being, they're gone. Perhaps they changed their name; perhaps
they emigrated. The only people who could easily find them are precisely those who want them out of the way, because of what they represent.