The Lords' Day (retail) (30 page)

And the Bank of England let it be known that in order to protect the value of sterling they would be doubling overnight interest rates from ten o’clock and would double them again if
necessary. Homeowners everywhere wept as they watched.

It was estimated that more than eighty per cent of the entire adult population of the country tuned in that morning to what was going on in the House of Lords, and it wasn’t far short of
that in many other countries, particularly the United States. In living rooms, at their places of work, on portable radios, on mobile phones, on podcasts, in high streets, pubs, clubs, on screens
that seemed to have sprouted from nowhere, they watched, and they waited. Britain ground to a halt.

6.12 a.m.

As the approach of dawn began to flush colour through the night sky, a change began to occur inside the House of Lords itself. It was astonishing how many hostages had managed
to snatch a little sleep, yet as the bells of the clock tower struck six and the air about them began to vibrate, they opened their eyes and tried to prepare themselves for the most difficult day
of their lives. It was also the time when Masood was roused from his two hours off watch. He had slept soundly, but with his hand on his gun. He began to stretch the life back into his limbs,
walking in front of the throne, and as he did so the Archbishop of Canterbury watched him carefully, attempting to peer inside his soul. He found nothing but darkness. Awkwardly, for he, too, had
grown stiff through the night, the archbishop fell to his knees upon the claret carpet and began to pray, silently, his hands clasped in front of his face. He hadn’t asked permission for his
act of faith, he knew it might spark outrage amongst his captors and even lead to his death. He didn’t think he was a brave man, and certainly he had no wish to die, not here, not in this
sordid manner. He’d always rather hoped to pass on rather late in life, on a couple of soft pillows, surrounded by his family and with a game of cricket somewhere in the background, England
thrashing the Aussies. Yes, he was willing to wait that long. But he would die, sometime, and if this were to be his moment then he wanted to be in direct contact with his Saviour and show no fear
in it. So he eased himself on to his knees, his hands gripped in prayer, and waited. Masood strode by, hesitated for a moment, wondering. Then he moved on. He wasn’t a fundamentalist, he
could live with other people’s faith, if they were willing to die with it. And soon others were on their knees, even the Chancellor, who was a well-known atheist.

The Queen did not kneel. She remained seated in her throne, as she had done all through the night, but she bowed her head, joining with them. And when she had finished praying, she nodded to one
of her captors, who nodded back, and she rose to attend to her morning toilet, accompanied as ever by the gunman with the explosive jacket. And even as Archie Wakefield remained on his knees, he
watched her every step, chewing at the inside of his cheek, making his calculations.

‘Didn’t realise you were God-fearing,’ Celia Blessing whispered to him.

‘Try anything the once, excepting your party, of course,’ he muttered back. ‘Now help me up, woman. Me knees are so stiff I can scarcely move.’

‘And you so keen to play Robin Hood.’

‘You make a pretty ridiculous Maid Marian yourself. Just shut up and haul away, will you?’

She held out her hand and tugged, and tugged some more, and between them they managed to hoist him back into his seat. But still they held hands, neither wanting to let the other go.

6.18 a.m.

The only view of the chamber given to the outside world was provided by the camera set high at the far end of the chamber, the one that had been hastily abandoned by its
operator. He had jumped down his ladder so fast that he’d sprained his ankle rather badly; he would, in time, apply for extensive sick leave from the BBC, but only after he had milked his
sudden notoriety for a fistful of fifties in appearance fees on rival channels. The other remote cameras were still operating and controllable from Daniel’s den within Black Rod’s
Garden, but there was no basis for switching the television coverage from one angle to another. This wasn’t a game of football, and any sudden changes so beloved of directors ran the risk of
arousing the suspicions of the gunmen. Anyway, Daniel was too tired to make decisions; he, like so many, had been at his post all night and the police wouldn’t let anyone else in to relieve
him. So the one view stayed. It was only by chance that the abandoned camera had been left on a shot that was a little like looking out of a bedroom window on to the street below, giving a
reasonable view of what was going on, although individual figures in the picture were indistinct. The Queen could be seen clearly, but at a distance, and viewers couldn’t see the expressions
of her face, which after a night of misery on her throne was a blessing to all concerned.

It was as the hostages took their turns to set about the slow process of their morning toilet that two important changes occurred to the picture. The first was when the SAS sniper, cocooned
inside the tiny television tower, decided he needed to take his own leak. Normally he would have been rotated every two hours but they daren’t run the risk of being spotted as they clambered
up and down the ladder that gave them access to the tower. They’d been lucky once but they couldn’t stretch the elastic of fortune any further. So he had stayed. He had brought with him
water containers and a little high-energy food, mostly Mars bars, and one of the water bottles now did service in the other direction. It was as he was peeing, very cautiously, in the confined
space, that his cramped muscles momentarily seized and he lost his balance. He knocked into the camera; it shuddered, and for a moment the picture wobbled for the entire world to see, a telltale
sign that something was going on in the television tower. It might have been the end of it all, but no one in the chamber was watching. By some chance or delightful miracle the moment passed
unnoticed. Perhaps someone had been listening to the archbishop’s prayers.

The other change was taking place on the floor rather than up in the rafters. As William-Henry and Magnus walked back from their turns in the closets towards their seats, they were stopped by a
gunman. They were prevented from taking their place amongst the other hostages, instead they were forced towards a place on the benches set away from the others. They were being taken to their
dying place. Prayers only reached so far, it seemed.

There had been those who, after a snatched sleep, had hoped that the world had turned and yesterday was simply another piece of the planet’s bleak history, a nightmare that would dissolve
with the fresh breezes of day, but the nightmare was still amongst them. The gunmen were declaring their intent. Death still called.

6.23 a.m.

Harry didn’t want to go back in. He had no choice, of course, but he was filled with a sense of foreboding, aware of what he was likely to find. There was no Stockholm
Syndrome here, that condition where hostages wrapped up in sieges begin to identify with their captors. There hadn’t been time for that, and the separation of Magnus and William-Henry from
the other hostages had changed things, drawn the life out of the rest of them like the gutting of a chicken. He pushed his cart into the chamber but they had little appetite for food or drink;
instead they sat, the men unshaven, the women untidy, the pallor grey, the spirit sagging, all of them in their turn casting furtive glances towards the boys. In every corner, on every bench,
expressions told the same story, of how fear had eaten through their hopes and left nothing but dust. These were faces Harry had seen before, in war zones around the world, where Moslems had found
themselves surrounded by Serbs, or Tutsis by Hutus, inside African villages stripped by AIDS where the oldest surviving inhabitant had been a twelve-year-old girl, and amongst the rubble in Iraq
and Afghanistan. The previous day some of the hostages had caught his eye with a look that spoke of continued defiance; now most seemed lost within an inner world that shut Harry out. There was,
however, a few who left an impression. That madman Archie Wakefield was still tapping his forehead and gaping at Harry with a ferocious glint, as though demanding the keys that would let him out of
the asylum. On another bench, the arch bishop behind his beard seemed to have found his peace, as if he had battled with private fears and found the means to overcome them. Behind the archbishop
sat the Japanese ambassador, and for a second Harry thought he had winked mischievously at him, but it turned out to be no more than a nervous tic. The ambassador glanced away, embarrassed.

When he looked towards the throne, Harry found the Queen wearing an expression that at first he didn’t recognise. As both a soldier and a politician he had seen her in contrasting moods, sometimes
looking stern on parade, sad and sombre at the Cenotaph, or gritting her teeth as she read out yet another prepared speech. There were occasions when the real woman burst forth, as when she
accepted flowers from a young child on her birthday, or watched her mother’s coffin pass by. He’d even watched her burst into laughter in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, dancing a gentle
jig like a young girl as her horse came home. He thought he was rather good at reading what was going on behind the royal mask, but on this occasion he couldn’t read her at all. She seemed
far away, staring at some distant star, her mouth cast down, her expression betraying a little fear, he thought. It took him a moment to realise she was looking at the boys, unable for once to hide
her heart. Her fear was for them. She caught him staring, knew he understood, and for a single heartbeat she allowed him to share her emotion before she looked away and hid once more behind the
mask.

Of all the hostages it was John Eaton who appeared to be faring worst. Ever since their captors had separated him from his son, he seemed to have shrunk, as though the core of him had been
hollowed out like an old tree. His shoulders hunched, his hands were clasped round his knees, his head bowed in a manner that had his normally carefully groomed hair falling about his face. It made
him look not only unkempt but strangely old. His body rocked stiffly, back and forth, as though trying to force out the dread that had infested it.

They were all suffering. Most were over sixty years old and some older still, even older than the Queen. And there were those who were sick, chronically so, with weak hearts, or
Parkinson’s, or MS, or some other malady for which they required daily medication. In the cart, along with the food and drink, Harry had a bag of medicines that had been supplied by worried
loved-ones and doctors. Somehow it seemed a futile gesture – what, after all, were they trying to save them for? – but he had promised to try to hand them over. Attempting the delivery
would also be a test of the captors; what mood were they in, how would they react? He trundled his cart towards one of the gunmen – the one who had been ready to shoot him in the back of the
head. ‘I have these,’ he said, holding out the bag.

‘What are they?’

‘Medication. Pills. For some of the people here who are sick.’

‘But why do they need pills?’

‘To keep them alive.’

‘And what is the point of that?’

Before Harry had a chance to reply, the stock of the gunman’s weapon came down across the back of Harry’s hand, very sharply, causing it to explode in pain. He knew it was broken. As
the pills dropped they scattered like rats across the floor.

‘I’m going to kill you!’ Harry screamed, but only to himself, yet he couldn’t control the look of hate that flushed into his face, and that, like the pills, was also
wiped away by the stock of the weapon, sending Harry reeling to the floor with a gash that went down to the bone at the top of his cheek. He could taste blood inside his mouth. The gunmen were
growing impatient.

He looked up, staring into the barrel – that bloody barrel – for what seemed to Harry to be a good chunk of eternity. Then it was waving him on. He could go, get up and leave, bind
his wounds, live a little longer. But still he knew he would have to come back.

6.34 a.m.

The sight of Harry, bloodied and beaten, dragging himself from the chamber, had a profound effect on the hostages, throwing them into a still deeper state of gloom. The mood had
infected the prince. For a while he seemed lost in a world of his own, his face creased in concern, twisting his signet ring in a manner that betrayed inner turmoil. To those who knew him best, it
was a sign of an impending outburst. Finally, he turned to his mother. ‘I can’t do this any longer,’ he declared.

‘What is that?’

‘Sit here and be utterly useless.’

She sighed. ‘I fear we are all rather redundant at the moment. Anyway, no one could ever accuse you of being useless.’

‘That’s not always as I remember things.’

‘Don’t rake up the past, Charles. Not today.’

He sat silently for a while, wearing away at his ring with its three-flowered crest. He felt a deep sense of futility, not just today but for most of his life, a life that had been without use
or clear purpose. ‘I hope it doesn’t sound cruel, Mama, but I so envy you and what you’ve had.’

‘What have I had, Charles?’

‘Love. Respect. From the people.’ His tone was wistful. ‘For sixty years I have watched you enchant them as their beloved monarch—’

‘Oh, your memory plays tricks. It has rarely been like that. Some wonderful times, yes, but more than the occasional
annus horribilis
.’

‘No, Mama, the failings were never yours. They have always adored you, and when the rest of us let you down and they couldn’t perhaps adore you, still they admired you. For almost
sixty years you have sat on the throne and found fulfilment while I . . . I may not get sixty minutes.’

‘The role of heir, it’s always a troubled chalice, Charles. If I could make it otherwise. . . .’ For a moment she paused, trying to understand his confusion. ‘There are
no auditions. It’s a duty imposed upon us, regardless of our talents or personal interest. The only common factor is that it must be done with dignity.’