Yes, Prime Minister

“So, I assume Christmas is cancelled?”

“Afraid so mate.”

“I’ll text Rachel, the kids might as well open the presents without me.”

Liam sighed. Craig had been his deputy for two years and already the cracks were beginning to show. Crow’s feet and grey hairs had come early to the young man opposite him and the guilty look in his eye suggested another early morning row with his wife. Liam recognised the look. He’d seen it in the mirror almost every week during his first year working in No. 10 Downing Street. Of course, Liam was now divorced.

“The story broke at around 2am from what I can gather. Obviously, we’ve issued a statement to the press saying it’s all bollocks but they’re claiming to have a reliable source.”

“Well, looks like we have a saboteur inside Downing Street.” 

“Indeed. Once we’ve dealt with these lies, I’ll launch a leak enquiry that’ll make the Spanish Inquisition look like a sodding picnic….   Anyway, what’s the initial polling looking like?”

“Well, starting with the positives, our denial seems to have cut through. Of those surveyed, only 58% actually believe the PM is having an affair with a government advisor.”

“That’s good at least.”

“Furthermore, among men, there has been no significant impact upon the PM’s personal popularity ratings. The bad news is…”

“Let me guess…”

“…It’s gone down catastrophically with women. He’s down 20% with the gentler sex and, as you know Liam, if we’re going to get a third term, we need more woman onside.” At this point Liam began to sidle towards the main office.

“There’s more.” Something in Craig’s tone stopped Liam in his tracks. “The target voters in the ‘red wall’ of Northern seats are outraged. Basically, they think he’s sleeping around and we’re just covering it up. We did a word cloud on the PM this morning. Can you guess the most common response?”

“Liar?”

“Wanker.” Liam winced. “I know it’s a complete lie but it’s already damaging our electoral prospects. The boss is struggling in there, but you must be honest with him about the scale of the problem.”

He’s growing more assertive. “Of course, Craig. I’ll tell him. Thanks again for all your work on this. We’ll catch up at 11.” Liam took a deep breath, gathered his thoughts, and proceeded into the main office.

Lifting his head only momentarily to acknowledge Liam’s entrance, the PM cut a diminished figure leaning against his desk. Sunken eyes and pursed lips told of a sleepless night spent fretting and pacing and shouting down phones. The trials and tribulations of the past 12 hours, and the past 12 years, were etched into every line of his greying face.

It stung Liam to see the PM in such a way but there was a job to do. Sat on the sofas in front of the desk were three men in the midst of a heated discussion. The man closest to the PM had been in full flow as Liam entered though he paused to give him the briefest of nods.

Lord Barrowfield was a tall, slender man whose suits, no matter how well tailored, seemed to hang from his cadaverous frame as though he were a mannequin. His hair had disappeared but for a few white tufts which, combined with the long, hooked nose, made him resemble an oversized vulture. His enemies in the press had long been referring to him as Mr Burns due to his likeness with the Simpsons character – further evidence for Liam that, in politics, appearances could be deceiving.

The old man was the son of a miner. From a young age he’d taken to political activism as a means of saving his community in the wake of industrial decline. After giving his working life to the Trade Union Congress, he joined the party’s central office. Rowing in behind the PM during the leadership race, he’d gone on to mastermind the last 2 General Election campaigns. Arguably, nobody alive had done more for the party than John Barrowfield.

“…saying it’s picking up traction. What’s needed now is a carrot-and-stick approach. We reach out to the editors and offer them a few juicy policy announcements if they admit their mistake and retract the story. Meanwhile, we leak to a few friendly journalists that we’re looking into legal action. They’ll blink first, trust me.”

Liam opened his mouth to speak but was beaten to it by a squat, pug-nosed man sitting on the sofa opposite. Damian Brakes, ‘the PM’s mad dog’ as he was known in Westminster, was the Director of Communications. Another veteran of the party machine, he’d joined straight from Oxford though, in the melee of party politics, the wide-eyed academic had soon given way to the ruthless professional. Every slight on the PM – from policy criticism to the alleged affair – Damian took as a personal insult. He seemed to run on cigarettes, espresso and pub lunches alone, though traces of something more had been found in the toilets opposite his office.

“I agree with John, a carrot-and-stick approach is needed.” Interesting. “We take the carrot and shove it up their arses! Followed by the stick, followed by a larger, rougher carrot!” Never mind. “These guys in the press are hand in glove with the chinless fuckers in opposition trying to take you down Prime Minister.” At this, the PM frowned. Liam knew he abhorred swearing, but Damo always got away with more than the others.

“No doubt that’s partly true Damo,” Liam reasoned, “but how does that translate to a strategy? Surely…”

“I’ll tell you the strategy mate, we go full ‘MAGA’, we come out and say it’s fake news and the media are conspiring to bring down the PM, which they basically are.” He let that hang for a moment, daring the others to challenge him. “Prime Minister, you’re still quite popular, why not use the budget announcements on schools, nurses, defence etc to say ‘look, we’re working for you, the people, whilst the enemy within is manipulating you with lies?’ If we manoeuvre into an anti-establishment platform before the election, I reckon we’re in 1997 territory!”

Liam surveyed the room. The PM looked uncomfortable, but the third man was nodding pensively. An ashen-faced John Barrowfield muttered “There was another chap who ran against ‘the enemy within’ almost 100 years ago.” But nobody seemed to hear him.

At this point the third man interjected. “I agree with John, we must take legal action, but Damo’s right about the press. I’m sick of us kowtowing to these guys every time they go for us. These are lies. Simple.”

“Spot on, Charlie,” crowed Damo, “At least 2 shadow cabinet members were at Eton with the Editor of The Telegraph and the Leader of the Opposition used to work at The Times. It’s a fucking cabal! They’re basically terrorists and we won’t bloody negotiate with them!” At this, the third man shifted uncomfortably. Weren’t you at Eton, Charles?

Charles Bletchley-Worthington (rebranded as ‘Charlie’ since becoming an MP) was the PM’s closest political ally. They’d come up together as special advisors and, upon winning the leadership, the PM promoted him to Home Secretary. Increasingly, however, within the party and the press, Charlie was seen not just as the PM’s supporter but as his heir. He was tall and lithe, with curly black hair that fell perfectly into place, as though parted with a scalpel. Liam’s hair had been retreating ever since the first General Election win.

A subtle glance at John’s face told Liam he had made the same calculation. His mind drifted back to the party conference, when John had publicly rebuked Charles for undermining the party line on immigration. The Old Etonian had made all the right noises and the PM had accepted the implicit apology but – for Liam – it left a sour taste. Far from leaving the sinking ship, this rat would commandeer it as leader of the party.

“Steady on Damo, most editors still prefer us to the party opposite, at least publicly.” Charlie flashed them an assured grin, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. You’re more dangerous than the party opposite, Charles. “But this behaviour is completely offside, way beyond the rules of engagement. We’ll get them back somehow.”

“Why don’t you speak to Alan at The Guardian?” Asked John, his face the picture of innocence, “you two have developed quite the friendship this past month.” A shot across the bow. 

“I’ll go where the PM needs me, as always”, replied Charlie, with icy courtesy. 

“I’ll handle The Guardian,” Damian interjected, oblivious to the subtle atmospheric shift, “I know where the bodies are buried over there. Trust me, they’ll be denying the story by the time people sit down for Christmas dinner.” There was a brief silence. Liam realised once again he wouldn’t be home for Christmas dinner. Perhaps they were all thinking the same.

“Look guys, sorry to drag you in on Christmas but we need all hands on deck.” The PM’s gruff, apologetic tone absorbed the silence at once. “John, Damo I need you guys out there dealing with the press. Unlike most, this is a story we can categorically deny so they’re on the back foot. Pull strings, call in favours, do whatever it takes. I can even give them some facetime this afternoon after the NUF meeting if that helps.”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

“Oh, and let it be known that if they use any photos of the kids, the SAS firebomb their offices.” With a curt nod and a wide grin respectively, John and Damo left the room.

“Charlie.” The PM turned to his ally, who was lounging on the sofa vacated by John. “I want you out on the airwaves. People need to know that these journalists have overstepped and reported a false story. If it’s a long one, try to pivot onto the housing reforms we announced on Monday, see if they fancy discussing policy for once.”

“Yes sir,” the Home Secretary gave a mock salute then turned to march out.

“Also, Charlie, I need something else.”

“Yes, Prime Minister?” 

“I need you to speak to the parliamentary party. Let them know this isn’t spin. Let them know there really is nothing to see here and they can take that to their local associations. I realise trust is low at present and I want to personally reassure them – they know you speak with my voice.” 

Oh, deftly done, the old dog’s twitching to life again. If Charlie was seen to be batting for No. 10 within the Parliamentary Party, it would be extremely difficult for him to succeed in a leadership contest should the PM be brought down over the issue. Charlie’s dark eyes were normally inscrutable, but the flash of uncertainty told Liam that he’d understood.

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

The door closed, leaving Liam alone with the PM. There was a fire in his eyes that Liam had first seen decades ago. Back then the PM was Shadow Environment Minister, and he was on the ropes after his brother accepted a place on the board of Shell plc. Rather than hiding away, as encouraged, he toured the TV studios demanding interviews in which he praised his brother’s working-class background and ‘aspirational ambition,’ before turning on the ‘net-zero zealots’ trying to destabilise British energy companies.

Liam realised that day that this politician was at his best with his back against the wall and he’d been proven right countless times since. Still, it was taking its toll on the great man. Not for the first time, Liam wondered if he was right to seek a third term. Despite the political games they played, perhaps it was time to hand over to Charlie. Maybe even a younger model…

“Liam?” The PM’s insistent tone dragged him back from his meandering thoughts. “You have the most important job. These lies were fed to the press from inside No. 10. I need to know who.” His voice had taken on a somewhat manic tone. “Charlie’s right, this is outside the rules of engagement and if they’re willing to lie about this, they’re willing to lie about anything!”

“Quite right, Prime Minister, we’ll get to the bottom of it.” To his surprise, his voice almost broke as he said it. There was a brief pause as both men reined in their emotions. “How’re Mary and the kids?” The PM sighed as the twin fires spluttered and died. He’d wear a brave face for the others but not for Liam. 

“Not great if truth be told. Obviously, Mary knows it’s a lie, but she hates the limelight. Even if they retract the story, the first editions have already gone out with her on the front page.”

“At least she’s wearing that nice dress you got her last Christmas.”

“She hates that dress.” Great. “The kids are struggling. They’re at that age now where they know what’s going on but pretend not to, which is even worse.” The PM’s eyes froze for a moment. Was he about to cry? Shit. “Anyway, I’ll see you at the 11:30, Liam,” he finished despondently.

“Yes, Prime Minister….   Merry Christmas.”

Liam closed the door behind him, leaving the PM slumped against the grand, mahogany desk. A few moments passed as he listened to Liam’s footsteps fade away. Then, he sprung up and took two steps forward. As he turned, the worry and doubt fell from his face like an ill-fitting mask to reveal a winning smile. His eyes twinkled as he announced to the empty room, “You can come out now.”

A young woman’s head emerged tentatively from beneath the desk. Her bright blue eyes scanned the room furtively as she continued to rise. “Where are my clothes?” She whispered.

“In the briefcase by the window.” He checked his watch. “You won’t be needing them for another half hour anyway.”

“Will we be alright?” Her voice trembled.

“Of course,” he replied, smirking, “I have my star players on it now. It’ll go away, along with the fucker who leaked it.”

“Who was it?” 

“Fuck knows, probably the prick who walked in on us at Christmas drinks,” he stared at her appraisingly, “now…  I think I want you on your knees again,” he mused.

“Yes, Prime Minister.”