Gambit

Britain’s Prime Minister James Marshall had exactly one hundred and ninety five seconds of political life left. What he didn’t appreciate was that he would use up exactly seventy five of those seconds arguing with a stubborn Windsor knot in his dark blue, silk tie.

Having shared the stage with numerous American Presidents during his time in Office, he had never understood the fascination with the way that their knots folded in the middle underneath the bow. He had tried to look up the name of it once, but had never succeeded in finding it. But it deeply annoyed him.

He looked into the mirror and tried to catch the eye of his Chief of Staff, Michael Evans, in the reflection. Michael had been with James since the beginning; he ran James’ successful campaign to be the leader of the Party, and then the General Election campaign that saw him sweep to power not once, but twice.

“This is the right thing to announce,” James said.

Michael stopped the frantic typing on his phone and looked up, catching James’ line of sight in the mirror.

“Jim, no, this really isn’t,” Michael said firmly.

“It must be serious,” James replied, almost jokingly, his nerves betraying him. “Only two people call me Jim, and that’s you and my wife, and only when I’m in trouble.”

“You are about to be in almighty trouble,” Michael responded. “You’re nine points behind in the polls. You’ve had an Education Secretary resign for lying to Parliament. You’ve lost a Health Secretary for giving contracts to people he used to work for. You didn’t do those things. But the public really don’t like us at the moment. And we are haemorrhaging donors. You mustn’t do this.”

In the reflection, James could also see his wife, Jennifer, and his two Parliamentary Private Secretaries (PPS). They were standing just outside the open door to the ready room he was preparing in. And streaming past them were members of the Downing Street staff heading out on to the street through the famous black door into the private central London street, to provide a backdrop for his announcement.

His PPSs were Ethan Daniels MP and Jessica Holliday MP. They were his eyes and ears on the Parliamentary backbenches who could act as a liaison with other MPs.

Temperature checking the febrile mood of colleagues; more often they just filtered out the constant requests for fundraising visits between the sensible and daft Members. They were destined for higher offices at the next reshuffle.

“Have you sent the teleprompter the final version of the speech?” James asked, having ignored Michael’s final plea. Evans had returned to his screen, tapping away.

“It’s a test of my integrity, and my authority. If I don’t finish the job, I’ll have failed. I can’t fail. And that’s why we can settle this in a General Election, once the King agrees to dissolve Parliament.”

The familiar sound of a text message pinging its way to its recipient came from Michael’s phone. Whilst the distance from where they were preparing to the TV cameras was short, much like that message, the contents would also make its way around the world fast.

“Three minute warning then. I’ll take them outside with me. Good luck.”

Michael turned around and walked out of the room towards Jennifer, Ethan and Jessica. He can feel his heart hammering as he starts to put everything into place. Michael closed the door behind him. As James looked up at the television screen, which showed a live feed from a news channel, with a commentator talking about staff pouring out of the door, he wasn’t sure if he heard the door click a second time. He thought nothing of it and carried on with his tie.

To make this plan work, Michael had to move quickly and nimbly. He told the assembled trio to walk with him outside. They walked through the foyer of 10 Downing Street towards the exit onto the street.

“Ethan, Jessica wait with me a moment, won’t you?” Michael asked. He took Ethan by the arm to lead them into a small, clandestine huddle to the side of the door, so any cameras from outside couldn’t see. Jennifer followed behind the three of them and then walked out the door.

“Slight change of plan. The PM is held up. Whilst the PM gets ready, Ethan: you’re going to go out there and introduce him. Get the audience warmed up and bring a little energy, won’t you? I’ve texted the news channel producer to let him know.”

Ethan looked at Michael squarely in the eyes. “You sure? Anything for the boss,” Ethan replied.

“Jessica, you come outside with me and wait with Jennifer and I. Ethan, when you walk out, look straight into the camera and walk like you mean it. Give it some of that hopey/changey stuff you’re so good at. Good luck,” Michael said.

James could sense something was up when he saw Jessica and Michael walk out and the famous door close behind them, but Ethan wasn’t with them. He noticed it was two minutes until he was due to speak and so he had one last tug at his tie to straighten it.

Then he stopped as he heard the news commentator say “And a slight change in the order, you can see, I think, it’s Ethan Daniels there, his PPS coming out now to say a few words.”

A powerful dread overcame James there and then. The shiny, black door opened and Ethan strode out, his blue eyes piercing through the camera and into the homes and offices of those watching.

James turned to rush out. But the door wouldn’t open. He had heard right - it had been locked. He could hear Ethan start talking.

The story of our country isn't found in the corridors of Parliament. And our history wasn’t written in the meeting rooms in Westminster. They’re found in the quiet persistence of the British people.

Lately, there’s been a narrative taking hold—a story that says our best days are behind us. There are those who look at the world, the debates in the pubs, and the noise on the news, and they conclude that the challenges are too great and the divisions are too deep.

James rushed to get the key out of his pocket, fumbling to get it into the lock and release him from this terrible fate.

They tell you it’s time to change direction, not because they have a better map, but because they’ve lost faith in the journey.

Progress has never been a straight line. It’s been a race where we stumble, we catch our breath, but we keep moving forward.

Staying the course isn't about stubbornness. It’s about the belief that the foundations we’ve laid together and the strength of our communities from the cities of Cardiff to Edinburgh to Belfast, with the resilience of our villages and the grit of the shopkeepers on the local High Street—that those things matter.

The dread inside him had turned panic and fear as he heard Ethan speak proudly and confidently from the historic lectern, the camera beaming this around the world. This had been him so many times, facing that camera, its lights and the cacophony of journalists’ phones and microphones.

People want an economy that works for them and their families. A fair crack at a decent home, a good job and a better school. And a nation that plays its part with integrity on the world stage, that treats people with dignity and respect.

That is the British spirit, that our small islands can do great things together and punch well above our weight.

James got the door open, and scrambled across the corridor into the foyer. The doorkeeper was also watching the live feed on the screen, the volume so loud he didn’t hear him desperately trying to escape his room. Ethan was entering his final flourish.

Don’t let any politician or pundit talk us down or tell us that the dream is over. Stay the course, keep with us as the economy improves, and we deliver fairness, new opportunities and renewed vigour. And together our best days will be ahead, not in the past.”

Ethan was about to continue but behind him, he could hear someone start a round of applause. A slow trickle started, and then grew quickly into something more raucous and sustained. Ethan waved at the camera and walked back towards the door. Michael caught up to him and took out his phone, which was screaming with messages.

They walked together back through the door and saw James there just transfixed at the screen, his mouth wide open.

Michael’s phone pinged a message from Sir Ellis Edward-James, one of the Party’s top financial donors.

Ditch James. This kids good. Really good. Make it happen and I’m back in.

Michael tried to wake the Prime Minister from his daze. He showed him the message.

The Prime Minister’s phone pinged too. It was the Chief Whip; not just the arbiter of discipline but also shop steward for their MPs. The message was a short, sharp, stab of finality.

It’s over.

He had always thought the end would come with a flourish. Never like this.

Michael started to type his reply to Sir Ellis. His face betrayed a knowing grin, as he replied:

I told you so. That’s the plan.

“You’re fired,” James tells Michael coldly.

“So are you,” Michael replies.

Michael walked down the corridor and sat on one of the old benches that lined the walls. His phone pinged notifications with flame and hand clapping emojis whilst he scrolled through social media. Ethan sat down on the bench to Michael’s right. He turned to greet him.

“Congratulations, Prime Minister,” Michael said, showing him the comments coming in.

“Not yet. But I couldn’t have done it without you, Michael,” Ethan replied.

“Let’s just call it teamwork,” Michael responded with a grin. “But I have to say, locking James into the room behind you was a masterpiece.”

“That wasn’t me,” said Ethan, an air of confusion about his face.

“Then who was it?” Michael asked, quizzically.

A female voice suddenly chimed in.

“I’m the only other person who calls him Jim, so he must have been in trouble.”