Ivory Nation Andy Maslen (best short novels of all time TXT) 📖

position. And you know what Granny is like about that sort of stuff. “Leave politics to the politicians, Sasha”, that’s what she always says. “However much of a balls-up they make of it”.’

He took her hand in his.

‘Hey, come on now. You were talking about poverty. Education for those kids we met. Medical supplies. Nobody could object to that, surely?’

‘The Telegraph did. They published an editorial, for god’s sake. They said I was, and I quote, “gullible at best and misguided at worst”. Told me I should stick to fashion design.’ She turned and gripped his hand in hers, remembering at the last minute to keep her smile in place for the crowds and the TV cameras. ‘How was I to know the charity had links to Hezbollah?’

‘You weren’t, baby. Nobody could have known. Let it go.’

‘I can do so much more, Thad. I’ve got it in me!’

‘I know, baby, I know. Now, let’s wave to our fans. This is going to add millions to your Insta account.’

She turned away from him, smiling, waving. Then turned back again.

‘That’s another thing. Those awful Knights of Albion people on Twitter. You saw what they called me.’

‘Hey,’ he said, softly, intentionally deepening his voice. ‘So, you married a black man. This is 2019. They need to get over themselves. Anyway, you’ve got protection, haven’t you? Look around. I bet half the people in this crowd are packing heat.’

She giggled.

‘Packing heat? Oh my god! Where did you learn that? The Big Boy’s Book of Gangster Slang?’

3

Turning away from the scene in front of the church’s magnificent front door, Farrow checked his tie knot in a handheld mirror wielded by Rosie, the new gofer, adjusted it by a fraction, and practised his smile.

‘You look great, James,’ she said, smiling. She was remarkably pretty. Wide-set eyes that radiated intelligence. Like Rachel’s used to.

His producer’s voice in his earpiece snapped him back to the present.

‘Coming to you in five, James.’

In front of him, the camera operator signalled he was running and the sound woman nodded to him, raising the boom mike into position on outstretched arms. He listened to the studio feed. Millie Campbell, the lunchtime co-anchor, was doing her link.

‘And let’s go back to our royal correspondent, James Farrow. James, she looks beautiful, doesn’t she?’

He switched on the smile, and looked into the camera lens.

‘Millie, I think radiant is probably the most overused word to describe new brides, but in the case of Princess Alexandra, I can’t think of a better one.’

Christine Webster leaned into her husband’s side and sipped from her glass.

‘Mmm, this really is very nice. Doesn’t she look pretty, Eli?’

Gabriel watched Eli from the corner of his eye. She smiled as she answered.

‘That dress. It’s…’

Gabriel knew what was coming. A meringue. No good in a fire fight. So girly. He smiled inwardly.

‘…beautiful. If she wasn’t already a princess, it would make her look like one.’

OK, I did not see that coming.

‘I agree,’ Christine said. ‘She’s just… Oh, I know it’s such a cliché, like James Farrow said, but she looks radiant, doesn’t she?’

As Farrow delivered his pre-written lines, he turned from time to time to look at the bride and groom. It was true, he reflected. She did look happy. Twenty-three years old: the same age as his daughter had been before breast cancer drew a red line across her life, leaving twin boys motherless and her husband devastated.

The treatment that might have saved her was not available on the NHS. That’s what Rachel’s oncologist had told them. Austerity was still biting.

Then came the day he knew he would never forget. The short, apologetic call from the doctor.

James had rushed to the hospital straight from covering yet another royal event, raging internally at this privileged family for whom nothing would ever be ‘unavailable’. He’d been stuck in traffic and arrived in time to find his son-in-law and the twins in a state of shock. The doctors had let him see his daughter’s emaciated, waxen-skinned body, from which the life-force had faded and then winked out ten minutes earlier.

‘James?’

He started. Millie was asking him a question. Never dry on camera. Ever. His golden rule. He smiled.

‘I missed that, Millie, sorry. I was caught up in the moment.’

Her bright-as-a-button voice bubbled in his earpiece.

‘I think we all are. I was asking what the crowd’s reaction to the royal couple has been.’

‘Well, Windsor is used to royal events, but I have to say this wedding has really brought out the best in people.’

‘Even the leader of the opposition is there, isn’t he? Joe Tammerlane?’

‘That’s right, Millie. Or supposed to be, at least. Apparently there was a train delay and, as you know, he doesn’t run a car, preferring to use public transport.’

She laughed.

‘Well, if this doesn’t change his mind about supporting the monarchy, what will?’

Farrow laughed dutifully.

‘Yes, Millie. He’d have to have a very hard heart indeed not to be moved by this magnificent spectacle.’

The screams and shouts from the crowd caught him by surprise. These weren’t the usual noises of joy and welcome for newly married royal couples. Shock and anger mixed into a swelling roar.

Farrow swivelled instinctively towards the sound and quickly saw the reason for it. Two shaven-headed youths had unfurled a banner on which the words RACE TRAITOR = RACE WAR had been professionally rendered in a font that suggested dripping blood.

Four men acted as a barrier as some of the braver members of the crowd lunged towards them, intent on tearing the banner out of their hands. Farrow saw a man and a woman filming the fracas on phones. He even had time to think very professional before several heavily built men in jeans and bomber jackets converged on the banner-wielding group and wrestled them to the ground, still under the watchful lenses of the cameras.

Don was still extolling the virtues of the country he’d pledged his life to protect.

‘The monarchy is one of the most flexible, adaptable—’

‘Oh my god, look!’ Christine said, sitting forward and