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He has close relationships with women, his wife, his daughter—yet women are at the root of his mental instability.
He feels abandoned and betrayed by women. And yet this is not an angry man, not a violent man.
He hears voices, frightening voices.
Alexia smiled. I guess that’s one thing we have in common. Only my voices are real. No amount of ziprasidone is going to make them stop.
On balance, everything she read in Sir Edward Manning’s file confirmed Commissioner Grant’s view. William Hamlin had not poisoned Teddy and Alexia’s dog. Nor, in all likelihood, did he mean Alexia any harm. Even so, the thought of him out there, wandering confusedly around England looking for her, hunting her down, was not a happy one. Commissioner Grant had gotten no further in locating him.
“It’s very difficult with psychiatric patients. Unless they actively seek help, or offend, they quickly slip off radar. As a tourist with no National Health Service number, no fixed address, no National Insurance, Hamlin’s effectively a ghost here.”
Alexia De Vere was afraid of ghosts.
It was time to see just how far Sir Edward Manning’s loyalty might stretch.
James Martin, Downing Street’s chief of communications, put his head in his hands.
Henry Whitman asked, “How bad is it, James? Honestly.”
“Honestly, Prime Minister? It’s not good. I hesitate to use the word ‘disaster,’ but . . .”
The two men sat at a round conference table with a sea of this morning’s newspapers spread out in front of them. Alexia De Vere’s statement on the agricultural workers affair had caused an uproar in the liberal press. It had also lit a fire under the more right-wing elements of the British public, inciting racist violence and public unrest on a scale not seen since Enoch Powell’s famous “Rivers of Blood” speech in the 1960s.
“There’s been looting in Burnley, an arson attack at an immigration holding facility in Dover, and violent protests at the docks in Southampton. The British National Party are calling for simultaneous mass rallies in London, Manchester, and Birmingham on Saturday. They’re calling themselves the ‘Reclaim Britain Movement.’ ”
“Jesus. What do the newspapers say?”
“Nothing you want to hear. The Guardian calls Alexia a ‘loose cannon.’ The Times wonders whether the Home Office is running the government and the Indie thinks the home secretary should be charged under the Incitement to Racial Hatred Act. Then you have the Sun, hailing Alexia as a hero. Oh, and this cartoon from the Telegraph.”
James Martin handed his boss the relevant page. It showed Alexia De Vere, dressed as Lady Britannia and seated on a throne, with the prime minister as a lapdog under her feet. Alexia was offering Henry a bone, labeled European Union. The caption read Chew on that, boy.
“I thought you told her to tone the statement down.”
Henry Whitman said grimly, “I did.”
“We can’t go on like this, Prime Minister. You must be seen to regain control.”
“I’ll fly up to Burnley this morning. Can you organize a press conference for six o’clock tonight here?”
“I can. But I suggest we do it this morning, as soon as possible. The one thing you don’t want is for the Home Office to get in there first.”
Alexia took the call in the car.
She’d expected the prime minister to be angry. But not this angry.
“I told you, I expressly told you, to tone the statement down.”
“And I did tone it down.”
“You changed one word! Have you seen what’s going on out there? It’s a major public order situation, Alexia. People are going to get killed.”
“People are angry, Henry,” Alexia said coolly, “and I don’t blame them. The British public are tired of being held hostage by a bunch of disrespectful immigrants who sponge off our benefits and piss on our flag. I’m standing up for ordinary voters.”
“Horseshit. You’re trying to make personal political capital. If you want to indulge in some power struggle with cabinet colleagues, do it in private.”
“But, Henry—”
“Be QUIET!” It was the first time Henry Whitman had ever raised his voice to he
