Authors: Mark Gatiss
Kingdom giggled his sing-song giggle. ‘Sure, baby. If you promise
not
to behave.’
I held up my hand. ‘Scout’s honour.’
T
he afternoon sky outside the window was fresh as paint, a wonderful hazy blue streaked with jet trails. I was in a certain Palace at the end of a certain Mall, the flapping flag on its pole indicating that a certain personage was
in
.
The young queen stood before me, arse exposed.
‘Blimey!’ he cried. ‘You’re a caution!’
‘Well, to coin a phrase,’ I said, running my hand through the footman’s Brylcreemed locks, ‘you’ve never had it so good.’
The young man (his name was Dennis, I think. Or Desmond) and I were in the throne room. Not
the
throne room, of course. This one, despite its dado railing and creamy Georgian hue, was disappointingly functional. I ran my fingers over the curve of his buttocks and kissed him, far more interested in his surly charms than the prospect of that afternoon’s pomp.
There was an urgent knocking at the lavatory door.
‘Mr Box? Mr Box, sir, are you quite all right?’
I pulled Dennis or Desmond closer. ‘Just…coming!’ I said brightly.
The mortified young man turned quite scarlet and pulled up his tight trousers. ‘Don’t give us away,’ he warned me. ‘I’ll get the push.’
The elderly flunky outside the cubicle cleared his throat and said ponderously, ‘Her Majesty is waiting, sir.’
I kissed the boy, and then helped him to clamber onto the toilet seat. ‘Number Nine, Downing Street,’ I whispered in his neat little ear. ‘Pop over later. I’ll be…entertaining.’
He grinned happily. ‘So will I.
Promise
.’
I opened the cubicle door and shut it carefully behind me to obscure the footman’s crouched form. I moved to the washbasin and caught sight of my reflection. Not in bad nick, I concluded, given the bashing I’d recently received. And there was a glint back in those cold blue eyes that I rather liked.
I followed the other, less appealing servant out into the damask-lined corridor. Champagne glasses tinkled, medals shone and the susurration of small talk was like the roar of the Jamaican surf.
And then, though my shiny shoes sank deep into the thick pile of the carpet, my thoughts were drifting far, far away. I was back in a hammock, strung between two curved palms on a white beach, the blue flash of a parrot fluttering into the branches above, a lizard scuttling by, quicksilver fast. Kingdom Kum lay facing me, opening one eye and leaning over the side of the hammock to grab a freshly opened bottle of Mouton-Rothschild. My fingers were running over the arch of his brown back and I felt the tender touch of the boy’s kisses
on my neck. Then his warm body locking against mine, wonderful, comfortable…
I was pulled back to reality as I spotted, squeezed comically into a morning suit, the immense form of Whitley Bey. He had a spindly glass swamped in one great paw and was deep in conversation with a servant. I moved closer.
‘What–
none
?’ he was saying.
‘No, sir.’
‘No beer
at all
?’
‘Not even for ready money,’ I said, steering him away by the elbow. ‘They don’t run to Newcastle Brown at Buckingham Palace, Whitley.’
‘I’m not asking for that, man,’ he opined. ‘Just something other than this cat’s widdle. Anyway…’ He looked me up and down, grinning. ‘How the hell are ya?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said at last. ‘Just dandy. Enjoying my retirement.’
‘Haddaway and shite, man,’ muttered Whitley. ‘You’ll never retire.’
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘It’s true. I’m perfectly sanguine about it. Everything’s been handed over to Allan Playfair and the Service. I’ve hung up my pistol for good.’
‘That no-mark get,’ sniffed the big man. ‘Bloody hell, if the Secret Service is in the hands of buggers like him, God help us.’
‘Oh, he’ll be all right,’ I said charitably. ‘I think he learned a lesson or two with the Black Butterfly business. And he’s handled the mopping up rather well.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Yes. The New Scout Movement has been thoroughly
purged. Comprehensive re-education for all the poor little sods they indoctrinated.’
Whitley Bey sipped gingerly at his champagne. He pulled a face. ‘Including your young ’un?’
‘Most definitely. Then it’s off to his new school. It is to be hoped that the austere regime there might instil something worthwhile into the little brute.’
‘What if it doesn’t?’
‘Oh, he’ll probably end up joining the Army and taking out his fascist tendencies on the natives of some obscure British Dependency. Doesn’t matter, so long as he finds his own way. That’s what I did. And, in any case, I shan’t be around to see it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I’m not getting any younger, Whitley.’
‘Bollocks, man,’ he guffawed. ‘You’re bloody indestructible, you.’
‘You’re too kind.’ I steered a waiter in my direction and liberated a bottle of Mumm.
‘What are you gonna do with yourself?’ asked Whitley.
I shrugged. ‘Paint pictures. That was always my first love.’ I caught a glimpse of Dennis or Desmond, slipping into the room as unobtrusively as he could manage, adjusting his waistcoat. ‘Well,’ I admitted. ‘Maybe my
second
love.’
Whitley followed my gaze. The sovereign screwed into his eye socket caught the light from one of the room’s great chandeliers and twinkled. ‘Anyone in mind? To sit for you, like, I mean?’ He nudged me, painfully, in the ribs. ‘That lad, eh–Kingdom whatsit. You got pretty close, by all accounts.’
‘Gone back to the States,’ I murmured. ‘Duty called.’
‘I see,’ said Whitley. ‘That’s a shame.’
I nodded. Yes, it was. But I’d get over it. I always did. ‘Probably for the best. Given my newly exalted status.’
‘Hell, aye!
Sir
Lucifer Box,’ he grinned. ‘What do you think of that?’
‘Insultingly tardy,’ I said. ‘But better late than never.’
‘You been here before? The Palace?’
‘Well, naturally,’ I said. ‘When you’ve been around as long as I have. Though, I once missed out on a hand-shandy from Prince Eddie because I couldn’t choose between a gardenia and a carnation for my buttonhole.’
‘I never know when you’re being serious or not.’
‘You can safely assume, usually
not
.’
Suddenly Whitley Bey grabbed the champagne bottle from me, and shook his great head. ‘No more of that, petal. I think it’s time.’
‘Time?’
He nodded towards the throne-room doors which had just opened. Ahead, at the end of a long, red carpet, sat young Bess.
The Second, that is.
The elderly flunky appeared at my elbow and raised his eyebrows. I drained the last of my Mumm. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Here goes.’
Then I was processing slowly down the carpet towards the throne. I didn’t look at the Queen as I knelt, but winced a little at the kindling-crackle of my joints. I felt the light touch of the sword and then I got to my feet.
It was only then that I realised quite how lovely the young girl was. Those eyes! That pursed but foxy mouth. That glossy dark hair…
‘Sir Lucifer,’ she said quietly. ‘One has heard such a lot about you.’
‘Really, Ma’am? From whom?’
Her Majesty gestured towards another regal personage, seated on her left. I started.
It was her mother, and suddenly, in the soft radiance of that opulent room, I saw the familiar features in an altogether different light. The years fell away.
Armistice Night! 1918! Fox-trotting across the floor at Maxim’s and–well, now, I remembered. Pink champagne, a fumbled brassiere, the well-cushioned embrace of the future Duchess…
I met her twinkling gaze and bless me if the old girl didn’t wink.
I smiled what my friends call, naturally enough, the smile of Lucifer.