The Final Cut

‘In life, Ross, timing is everything.’

‘In death an’ all,’ the Clydesider responded, indicating MacPherson.

‘What the hell’s your problem, Corporal?’

‘To be honest, Mr Urquhart, I dinnae hae much stomach for the killing of weans.’ MacPherson had a son not much younger than the boys hiding in the rocks. ‘I’ll do it, if I huv tae. If ye order me. But I’ll tak nae joy fae it. You’re welcome tae any medal.’

‘I’ll remember to include your little homily when I write to MacPherson’s parents. I’m sure they’ll be touched.’

The tangerine sun was chasing through the sky, splashing a glow of misleading warmth across the scene. Delay would bring darkness and failure for Urquhart and he was a young man as intolerant of failure in himself as he was in others. He took a Sten from the shoulder of one of his men and, planting his feet firmly in the forest floor, unleashed a fusillade of bullets against the amphitheatre of boulders at the back of the bowl. A second magazine followed, dust and sparks spitting from the orange-blonde rocks; the noise was awesome.

‘You boys,’ he shouted. ‘You cannot escape. Come out, I promise no one will get hurt.’

There was silence. He directed two other members of the section to empty their magazines against the rocks, and suddenly there was a youthful cry of pain. A spent bullet had ricocheted and caught one of the lads a glancing blow. No damage, but surprise and distress.

‘Can you speak English? Come out now, before anyone gets hurt.’

Silence.

‘Damn them! Do they want to die?’ Urquhart beat his palms with frustration. But Ross was on his knees, fiddling with a Mills grenade.

‘What on earth…?’ Urquhart demanded, but could not avoid taking an involuntary pace backwards.

The corporal had bent the pin so that it could not fall out, then with meticulous care and using the stock of a Sten gun for torque he proceeded to unscrew the top of the grenade, lifting it away from the dull metal body complete with its detonator. The powdered explosive poured out easily into a little pile on the rocks beside his boot. He now reassembled the harmless bomb, and handed it to Urquhart.

‘If this doesnae scare those rabbits out of their hole, nothing will.’

Urquhart nodded in understanding. ‘This is your last chance,’ he shouted to the rocks. ‘Come out or we’ll use grenades.’

‘Eleftheria i Thanatos!’ came the reply.

‘The EOKA battle cry. Freedom or Death!’ Ross explained.

‘They’re only children!’ Urquhart snapped in exasperation.

‘Brave wee buggers.’

Angrily, Urquhart wrenched the pin from the grenade, letting the noise of the spring-loaded firing pin drift out across the rocks. Then he threw the grenade into the bowl.

Less than two seconds later it came hurtling out again. The reaction was automatic, the instinct for self-preservation overriding. Urquhart threw himself to the ground, burying his head amongst the pine needles and cones, trying to count the seconds. There came a muffled pop from the detonator, but nothing more. No blast; no ripping metal or torn flesh. Eventually he looked up to find the figure of Ross towering above him, framed in menacing silhouette against the evening sky.

‘Let me help you tae yer feet. Sir.’ Derision filled every syllable.

Urquhart waved away the proffered hand and scrambled up, meticulously thrashing the dust from his khaki uniform to hide his humiliation. He knew that every Jock in the section was mocking and by morning the tale would have filled all four corners of the officers’ mess. Ross had exacted his revenge.

A rage grew within Urquhart. Not a blind rage that blurs judgement but a wrath that burnt and whose light brought appalling clarity.

‘Fetch two jerry cans of petrol from the Champ,’ he instructed.

A soldier went scurrying.

‘What are you intending to do, Mr Urquhart?’ Ross asked, the triumph evaporated from his voice.

‘We need information or examples. Those terrorists can provide either.’

Ross noted the change in the boys’ status. ‘Examples? Of what?’

Urquhart met the other man’s gaze; he saw fear. He had regained the advantage. Then the jerry cans arrived.

‘Corporal, I want you to get around behind them. Use the cover of those rocks. Then empty the petrol into their hide.’

‘And then what?’

‘That will depend upon them.’

‘They’re nothin’ but bairns…’

‘Tell that to MacPherson. This is a war, not a tea party. So they can come out in one piece or with their tail feathers scorched. Their choice.’

‘You wouldna burn them out.’

‘I’ll give them far more chance than EOKA would.’ They knew the bloody truth of that, had both seen the blackened carcasses, hands stretched out like claws in charred agony, fathers and sons often dragged out of church or from the desperate clutches of their families, burnt, butchered. As examples. ‘And the message will get round, serve as a warning. Make it easier for us next time.’

‘But, Sir…

Urquhart cut him short, handed him a jerry can. ‘We’ll give you covering fire.’

Ross took one step back, shaking his head. ‘Ah’ll no’ burn them oot. I dinna fight that way. Against bairns.’

There was an audible stirring of support from the section’s other members. Ross was able, experienced, some of the men owed their lives to that.

‘Corporal, I am giving you a direct order. To disobey is a court-martial offence.’

‘I hae lads of my own.’

‘And if you don’t follow my orders I’ll make sure you’re locked up so long they will be grown men by the time you next set eyes on them.’

Agony had carved deep furrows across the corporal’s expression, but still he refused the jerry can. ‘Rather that, than never being able to look my boys in the eye again.’

‘This is not me ordering you, Ross, it’s your country.’

‘You do it then. If you hae the stomach fer it.’

The challenge had been struck. Urquhart looked around the others, five men in all, saw they had sided with Ross. He knew he couldn’t court-martial the entire section, it would reduce him to a laughing stock. Ross was right; if it were to be done, he would have to do it himself.

‘Give me covering fire when I’m round behind them.’ He eyed the corporal. ‘No, not you Ross. You’re under arrest.’

And he had gone. Ducking low, pacing rapidly through the trees, a can in each hand, until he was well behind the hide. He signalled and one then another of the troops opened up, sending barrages of sound across the scene. Quickly and as quietly as he was able, Urquhart edged up to one of the taller boulders, almost the height of a man which stood directly behind where the boys were hiding. The cap was off one can, he stretched and spilled all four and a half gallons of stinking fuel down the rock face and into the bowl. The next four and a half gallons followed immediately. Then he retreated.

‘You have thirty seconds to come out before we fire the petrol!’

Within their rocky hide, George and Eurypides’ faces spoke of their dread. As fast as they tried to crawl away from the swamping fuel, they were forced to duck back beneath the blanket of ricocheting bullets. What was worse, the fuel had begun to make the elevations of the rocky bowl slippery, the nails on their boots finding little purchase on the smooth stone. The inevitable result in such a small place was that their clothes became soaked in foul-smelling petrol. It made them retch.

‘Fifteen seconds!’

‘They won’t do it, little brother,’ George tried to convince himself. ‘But if they do, you jump first.’

‘We mustn’t tell. Whatever happens, we mustn’t tell,’ Eurypides choked.

‘Five!’

It was longer than five. Considerably longer. Urquhart’s bluff had been called. There was no turning back. He had retained a rag half-soaked in petrol; this he tied around a small rock so that the fuel-impregnated ends hung free. He brought out his cigarette lighter, snapped it into life, and touched the rag.

Events moved rapidly from that point. The rag burst into flame, almost engulfing Urquhart’s hand, scorching the hair on his arm. He was forced to throw it immediately; it performed a high, smoky arc in the sky above the rocks before plunging down. Ross shouted. There was a crack. Hot vapour danced above the hide like a chimney from hell. Then a scream, a terrified, violent, boyish shriek of protest. Two heads appeared above the bowl, then the tops of two young bodies as they scrambled up the side. But as the soldiers watched the smaller one seemed to lose his footing, to slip, stumble, he disappeared. The older boy froze, looked back down into the ferment, cried his brother’s name and sprang back in.

It was impossible to tell exactly what was happening in the bowl, but there were two sets of screams now, joined in a chorus of prolonged suffering, and death.

‘You miserable bastard,’ Ross sobbed. ‘I’ll no’ watch them burn.’ And already a grenade had left his hand and was sailing towards the inferno.

The explosion blew out the life of the fire. And stopped the screaming.

In the silence that followed, Urquhart was conscious that his hands were trembling. For the first time, he had killed – in the national interest, with all the authority of the common weal, but he knew that many would not accept that as justification. Nothing was to be gained from this. Ross stood before him, struggling to compose himself, his fists clenched into great balls which might at any moment strike out. The other men were crowded round, sullen, sickened.

‘Corporal Ross, this was not what I had wanted,’ he started slowly, ‘but they brought it on themselves. War requires its victims, better terrorists than more like MacPherson. Nor do I wish to see you ruined and locked away as a result of a court martial. You have a long record of military service of which you can be proud.’ The words were coming more easily now, his hands had stopped trembling and the men were listening. ‘I think it would be in everyone’s interests that this incident be forgotten. We want no more EOKA martyrs. And I don’t want your indiscipline to provide unnecessary work for the Military Provosts.’ He cleared his throat, uncomfortable. ‘My Situation Report will reflect the fact that we encountered two unidentified and heavily armed terrorists. They were killed in a military engagement following the death of Private MacPherson. We shall bury the bodies in the forest, in secret, leave no trace. Deny the local villagers an excuse for retaliation. Unless, that is, you want a fuller report to be lodged, Corporal Ross?’

Ross, the large, lumbering, caring soldier-father, recognized that such a full report might damage Urquhart but would in all certainty ruin him. That’s the way it was in the Army, pain was passed down the ranks. For Urquhart the Army was nothing more than a couple of years of National Service, for Ross it was his whole life. He wanted to scream, to protest that this had been nothing less than savagery; instead his shoulders sagged and his head fell in capitulation.

While the men began to search for a burial site in the thin forest soil, Urquhart went to inspect the scene within the rocky bowl. He was grateful that there was surprisingly little obvious damage to the dark skin of their faces, but the sweet-sour stench of scorching and petrol fumes made him desperately want to vomit. There was nothing of military value in their pockets, but around their necks on two thin chains hung crucifixes engraved with their names. He tore them off; no one should ever discover their identities.

It was dusk when they drove back down the mountain with MacPherson’s body strapped in the back. Urquhart turned for one last look at the battle scene. Suddenly, in the gathering darkness, he saw a light. An ember, a fragment of fire, had somehow survived and been fanned by the evening breeze, causing it to burst back into life. The young pine which stood in the middle of the bowl was ablaze, a beacon marking the site that could be seen for miles around.

He never spoke of the incident on the mountain again but thereafter, at times of great personal crisis and decision in his life, whenever he closed his eyes and occasionally when he was asleep, the brilliant image and the memory of that day would return, part-nightmare, part-inspiration. The making of Francis Urquhart.

CHAPTER ONE

I prefer dogs to humans. Dogs are easier to train.

The door of the stage manager’s box opened a fraction for Harry Grime to peer into the auditorium.

‘Hasn’t arrived, then,’ he growled.

Harry, a leading dresser at the Royal Shakespeare Company, didn’t like Francis Urquhart. Fact was, he loathed the man. Harry was blunt, Yorkshire, a raging queen going to seed who divided the universe into thems that were for him and thems that weren’t. And Urquhart, in Harry’s uncomplicated and unhumble opinion, weren’t.

‘Be buggered if that bastard’ll get back,’ Harry had vouchsafed to the entire company last election night. Yet Urquhart had, and Harry was.

Three years on, Harry had changed his hair colour from vivid chestnut to a premature orange and shed his wardrobe of tight leather in preference for something that let him breathe and allowed his stomach to fall more naturally, but he had moved none of his political opinions. Now he awaited the arrival of the Prime Minister with the sensibilities of a Russian digging in before Stalingrad. Urquhart was coming, already he felt violated.

‘Sod off, Harry, get out from under my feet,’ the stage manager snapped from his position alongside the cobweb of wires that connected the monitors and microphones with which he was supposed to control the production. ‘Go check that everyone’s got the right size codpiece or something.’

Harry bristled, about to retaliate, then thought better of it. The Half had been called, all hands were now at their posts backstage and last-minute warfare over missing props and loose buttons was about to be waged. No one needed unnecessary aggravation, not tonight. He slunk away to recheck the wigs in the quick-change box at the back of the stage.

It was to be a performance of Julius Caesar and the auditorium of the Swan Theatre was already beginning to fill, although more slowly than usual. The Swan, a galleried and pine-clad playhouse that stands to the side of the RSC’s main theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon, is constructed in semi-circular homage to the Elizabethan style and has an intimate and informal atmosphere, 432 seats max. Delightful for the performance but a nightmare for Prime Ministerial security. What if some casual theatre-goer who loved Shakespeare much yet reviled Francis Urquhart more, more even than did Harry Grime, took the opportunity to…To what? No one could be sure. The Stratford bard’s audiences were not renowned for travelling out with assorted weaponry tucked away in pocket or purse – Ibsen fans, maybe, Chekov’s too, but surely not for Shakespeare? Yet no one was willing to take responsibility, not in the presence of most of the Cabinet, a handful of lesser Ministers, assorted editors and wives and other selected powers in the realm who had been gathered together to assist with celebrations for the thirty-second wedding anniversary of Francis and Mortima Urquhart.

Geoffrey Booza-Pitt was the gatherer. The youngest member of Francis Urquhart’s Cabinet, he was Secretary of State for Transport and a man with an uncanny eye for opportunity. And for distractions, of all forms. And what better distraction from the shortcomings of Ministerial routine than to block-book a hundred seats in honour of the Master’s anniversary and invite the most powerful men in the land to pay public homage? Two thousand pounds’ worth of tickets returned a hundred-fold of personal publicity and left favours scattered throughout Westminster, including Downing Street. That’s precisely what Geoffrey had told Matasuyo, car giant to the world and corporate sponsor to the RSC, who had quietly agreed to pay for the lot. It hadn’t cost him a penny. Not that Geoffrey would tell.

They arrived late, their coming almost regal. If nothing else, after the eleven years they had lived in Downing Street, they knew how to make an entrance. Mortima, always carefully presented, appeared transported onto a higher plane in an evening dress of black velvet with a high wing collar and a necklace of pendant diamonds and emeralds that caught the theatre’s lighting and reflected it back to dazzle all other women around her. The wooden floors and galleries of the playhouse complained as people craned forward to catch a glimpse and a ripple of applause broke out amongst a small contingent of American tourists which took hold, the infection making steady if reluctant progress through the auditorium to the evident embarrassment of many.

‘Le roi est arrive.’

‘Be fair, Bryan,’ chided one of the speaker’s two companions from their vantage point in the First Gallery, above and to the right of where the Urquharts were taking their seats.

‘Fair? Can we possibly be talking about the same Francis Urquhart, Tom? The man who took the professional foul and set it to Elgar?’

Thomas Makepeace offered no response other than a smile of reproach. He knew Brynford-Jones, the editor of The Times, was right. He was also clear that Brynford-Jones knew he knew. Lobby terms. But there were limits to what a Foreign Secretary could say in a public place about his Prime Minister. Anyway, Urquhart was his friend who had repaid that friendship with steady promotion over the years.

‘Still, you have to admire his footwork, a true professional,’ Brynford-Jones continued before offering a wave and a smile in the direction of the Urquharts who were turning to acknowledge those around them. ‘There’s not a man here without the marks of your Prime Minister’s studs somewhere on his anatomy. Good old FU.’

‘Surely there’s more to life than simply providing you with copy, Bryan.’ On Makepeace’s other side a third man joined in. Quentin Digby was a lobbyist, and a good one. He not only had an involvement in professional politics but, in his own quiet way, was also something of an activist, representing many charities and environmental concerns. Makepeace didn’t know him well but rather liked him.

‘I wondered which of us three was going to play the moralizing toad tonight,’ Makepeace mocked.

The house lights dimmed as the Managing Director of Matasuyo stepped forward onto the stage to claim his place before the public eye and offer a speech of welcome. The light thrown onto the stage bounced up onto the faces of Makepeace and his companions, giving them a shadowy, conspiratorial look, like witches attending a cauldron.

‘Seriously, Tom,’ Brynford-Jones continued, anxious to take advantage of the Cabinet Minister’s presence, ‘he should have gone on his tenth anniversary. Ten bloody years at the top is enough for anyone, isn’t it?’

Makepeace made no comment, pretending to concentrate on the Japanese gentleman’s homily which was attempting to establish some form of spiritual connection between culture and car bits.

‘Wants to go for the record. Outscore Thatcher,’ Digby offered. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but what’s the point? What’s he trying to achieve? We’ve got half the country’s dustbins crammed full of Harrods wrapping paper, which local councils can’t afford to collect, while the other half go begging for something to eat.’

‘You lobbyists always spoil your case with exaggeration,’ Makepeace rebuked.

‘Funny, I thought that was a politician’s prerogative,’ the editor came back.

Makepeace was beginning to feel penned in. He’d felt that way a lot in recent months, sitting beside editors or standing before his constituents with a pretence of enthusiasm when there was only weariness and disillusionment inside. Something had gone stale. Someone had gone stale. Francis Urquhart. Leaving Makepeace with much that he wanted to say, but little he was allowed to.

‘He’s had a good run, Tom, the country’s grateful and all that, but really it’s time for some new blood.’

‘His blood.’

‘A fresh start for the Government.’

‘For you, Tom.’

‘We all know the things you hold dear, the causes you stand for.’

‘We’d like to help.’

‘You know the country isn’t what it was. Or could be. This country has too big a heart to be beholden for so long to one man.’

‘Particularly a man such as that.’

‘Hell, even the illegal immigrants are leaving.’

‘It should be yours, Tom. Makepeace is ever as good a man as Urquhart.’

Respite. The man from Matasuyo had subsided and the play was about to begin; Makepeace was grateful. His head was spinning. He wanted to dispute their claims, play the loyal hound, but couldn’t find the words. Perhaps they were right about Urquhart. Without doubt right about himself. They knew he wanted it, enough that at times his mouth ran dry like a man lost in a desert who spots an oasis, only to discover it is a mirage. Power. But not for its own sake, not for a place in the history books like Urquhart, but for now. Today. For all the things that so desperately needed doing and changing.

Both Brynford-Jones and Digby had a strong interest in change, editor and lobbyist, professional revolutionaries by their trade. Having the world standing still was no more an option for them than it was for him, Makepeace thought. Perhaps they would make useful allies, one day, if war ever came. After his friend Francis had left the field. Or perhaps they would all go to hell together amongst the rogues.

And then there was laughter. Caesar had made his first appearance on stage with a face adorned with heavy make-up that made him look uncannily like Francis Urquhart. The same long profile. Piercing eyes. Receding silver hair. A straight gash across his face for a mouth. A mask that showed neither mirth nor mercy. The arguments backstage had been long and furious when they had learnt of Urquhart’s imminent presence. Harry had argued vociferously for a boycott and threatened to throw his body into all forms of picket lines and protests but, as the property manager had so successfully argued, ‘Give it a rest, love. It’s been years since your bottom ’alf lived up to the promises of your top ’alf. Bloody years since you last saw your bottom ’alf, I’ll bet. Must do it all from memory.’

So they had compromised. In true thespian tradition the show would go on, laden with a little ideological baggage. Yet Harry, once more sneaking a look from prompt side to test the mettle of his protest, was to be disappointed. The living mask slipped. From his privileged position beside Booza-Pitt at the front of the stage Urquhart, an experienced trouper in any public arena, had spotted the danger and responded. Not only was he leading the laughter but he also made sure that everyone knew it by taking out a white silk handkerchief and waving it vigorously at his protégé.

As the play progressed, Makepeace agonized. Loyalty meant so much, for him it was a political virtue in its own right. Yet he hadn’t been sleeping well, a disturbed mind and troubled heart had robbed him of rest, doubts beginning to crowd in on his dreams. And he knew that if he did nothing, simply chafed beneath those doubts, he would lose his dreams as well.

‘The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power…’

Loyalty. But to what? Not just to a single man. Great men have their day, only to find that their reputation must fall from the sky like leaves before the autumn storm.

‘And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg which, hatch’d, would, as his kind, grow mischievous…’

Every Prime Minister he’d ever known had demanded too much, been despatched. Sacrificed. Bled. By colleagues.

And finally the deed was done. ‘Et tu, Brute?’ An exceptionally pitiless portrayal of the assassination, and at every step Urquhart’s handkerchief waved and waved.

‘Sodding man!’ Grime snapped as he stamped about the quick-change box helping the deceased Caesar into his ghost’s garb.