The Supreme Lie, page 1
Fifteen-year-old Gloria is maid to Afalia’s tyrannical Head of State, Madame Suprema.
When the country is hit by unprecedented flooding, Madame Suprema runs away, fearing she will be blamed for the crisis. To cover up this cowardly act, Gloria is made to step into Madame Suprema’s shoes and is thrust into a world of corrupt and desperate politicians. As Gloria becomes aware of the forces toying with her every move, she must take decisions that could save or end thousands of lives – including her own…
A brilliant and darkly funny commentary on our present times by one of our greatest writers.
For my marvellous brother NEIL, who started me writing.
(And IWONA, of course, who entered the family like a beam of sunshine.)
CONTENTS
About this book
Dedication
Map
CHAPTER ONE – Whether the Weather Will or Won’t
CHAPTER TWO – Washout
CHAPTER THREE – Clearly a Good Day
CHAPTER FOUR – Parting Company
CHAPTER FIVE – Shutting the Gates
CHAPTER SIX – Night on the Tiles
CHAPTER SEVEN – Morning Glory
CHAPTER EIGHT – Landfall
CHAPTER NINE – Celebrity
CHAPTER TEN – Rubbish Island
CHAPTER ELEVEN – Found Out
CHAPTER TWELVE – Found and Lost
CHAPTER THIRTEEN – Problems, Problems
CHAPTER FOURTEEN – Rescue Mission
CHAPTER FIFTEEN – Feral
CHAPTER SIXTEEN – Judgement Day
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – Biter Bit
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – Pardon?
CHAPTER NINETEEN – Help
CHAPTER TWENTY – Whispers
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE – Banquet
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO – The Old Man of the Woods
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE – A Rosy Solution
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR – Trust Nobody
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE – Making Contact
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX – Ghosts
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN – Voting Day
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT – Treachery
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE – A Rosy Future
CHAPTER THIRTY – The Pied Piper
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE – Liquefaction
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO – Blackmail
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE – Between Big Rock and a Hard Place
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR – The Simple Life
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE – Flight Turbulence
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX – Bird Down
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN – Plea for the Defence
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT – Nowhere
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE – The Bell Tower
CHAPTER FORTY – Appis
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE – Liquidation
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO – On the Beach
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE – The Necessary Lie
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR – Good People
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE – Myld
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX – Rose in Ruins
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN – So Much To Do
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT – Happy and Gloria’s
A NOTE FROM GERALDINE
MY THANKS ARE DUE TO…
In a mansion at the top of Praesto’s highest hill, the maid Gloria sat on the stairs, reading the newspaper while she waited for the visitors to arrive. She was nervous about serving teas and coffees to so many people, and not spilling anything on anyone important. And the newspaper worried her with its talk of flooding up north. She tried to picture her home in Sawmills, water lapping at the door and the chickens all sitting on their coops to keep from drowning; the shirts on the wash-line dipping their cuffs in the muddy flood. She dared not even picture water inside the shack: Ma was so house-proud, so particular about keeping the rag-rugs clean…
When Gloria looked at her hands, she realized she had gripped the newspaper so tightly that her fingers were black with newsprint. She ought to wash. There was a white dog, asleep on the crimson hall carpet, too, who really shouldn’t be there, what with the Senators coming. Gloria would have to sweep up the white hairs before they arrived.
But Daisy was such a soothing sight, breathing out sighs of contentment, dreaming with her paws. All over the city, dogs had been howling and carrying on, sensing something was wrong with the weather, trying to warn their people… Gloria had heard them. Not Daisy. If there really were bad things coming, no scent of it had reached her leathery nose or made her hackles rise. Gloria went and sat beside her, so that the two of them could feel safe and carefree together. The dog rolled onto her back without waking, and stretched out luxuriously. “Wish you were mine,” Gloria whispered, and the dog’s tail thump-thumped on the carpet.
The doorbell startled them both. Gloria leaped up in panic. Daisy merely lifted her head to see if food had come to call.
It was only Madame’s husband, his hat-brim full of rain and his trouser cuffs sodden.
“Have they arrived?” he asked.
“No, sir. Not yet.”
While he was still trying to close his umbrella, the dog seized her chance to escape into the garden and stand in the rain. She squeezed between his long legs, leaving white hairs in the arch of his trousers.
A voice called from the Grand Salon: “Is that you, Timmy?”
Gloria peeled him out of his wet coat, opened the double doors to the Salon, and announced him, as if he were a visitor. “Mr Timor is home, Madame.”
Madame, a doll-sized woman of regal majesty, with tiny feet, sharp fingers and an even sharper voice, lay along her sofa, cradling a second, smaller dog in her shawl. She wore net gloves and, when she was expecting visitors (as she was now), a wide-brimmed hat with a veil. Her face had not been seen by the world-at-large for several years, though her bright red lipstick glowed through the veil. The pug was new to the household. With his flat, snuffling face and bulging eyes, he had quite stolen Madame’s heart away from Daisy.
“Did you go to the railway station as I told you?” she asked, recoiling from her husband’s cold, rain-wet hands.
“They’re planning to run a train at two o’clock,” he said, “and then no more until the rain lets up. They’re worried about the track flooding or embankments collapsing. But the rails are still above water as far as anyone can tell. The train’s there already and a lot of people are aboard it. Apparently, this morning’s paper said folk up north are getting flooded out of their houses. I suppose the crowds at the station have got relations up there and want to help out. If this weather forecast of yours turns out to be bad, they’ll be going nowhere. Has it arrived yet?”
“The weather people are due at ten, along with half the Senate. And look at your trousers, Timmy. Do something about them.”
On his way to change, Mr Timor passed the hall cupboard where the maid was rummaging about for umbrellas.
As soon as Gloria heard the cars arriving, she knew to carry umbrellas out to the Senators to shelter them on their walk up the drive. The umbrellas had seen a lot of outings over the last few weeks. For Gloria, it was a chance to see powerful people up close and hear what kind of things they talked about. Disappointingly, they were only complaining about the rain, which the wind was blowing in all directions at once.
The Senators cast glum looks at the sodden dog in the garden. Then they put on hopeful smiles and entered into the presence of Madame Suprema, ruling head of Afalia.
Madame held sway over the great walled city of Praesto, with its forest of factory chimneys and its swarming, soot-stained streets. But her realm was far larger than that. Beyond the city’s ancient, encircling walls lay the whole of the Furca river basin, the cliffs and forests and wetlands and farms of all Afalia. These, too, were the Suprema’s domain.
The visiting Senators did not bow, but their shoulders stooped in deference to the tiny lady on the vast sofa. Despite her size, the Suprema commanded a respect bordering on fear. But they, too, were eager to know if the weather people had arrived yet. One dared to voice his anxiety.
“Is it time to declare a State of Emergency, Madame?”
“And just what would that achieve, Mr Kovet, beyond panic in the streets?” said Madame scornfully. “There is really nothing to worry about. I’m sure the meteorologists will put our minds at rest. This filthy rain will stop and the sun will shine.”
“But, Madame! Have you not seen today’s newspaper? About the telegrams from the north? The river near to bursting? Houses flooded? It’s raining like this the whole length of the river! And now it’s in the newspaper, everyone is getting anxious. We could at least close the city gates. Have you heard anything about the towns in the north, Madame?”
“Not a word,” said Madame Suprema. “And who believes every rumour they read in the newspaper?”
“Quite a number of people, I’m afraid, ma’am,” said the Senator for Home Affairs. “It has, after all, been raining for two months!”
“And? Do they suppose Praesto City – bound round by high walls that have defended it from wind, war and water for centuries – will suddenly be swept away by a spell of rain?” Madame gave a bell-like laugh, which was a cue for everyone else to smile and shake their heads.
“No, but outside the walls…” began the Senator for Agriculture. “The farmers and foresters and smallholders and—”
“That is precisely why I have asked the best meteorologists in the country to give us the true facts – here – today. One cannot base policy on half a dozen telegrams from a few bac
“But since yesterday the telegrams have stopped coming…”
“Well, there you are then,” purred the Suprema.
“I mean, the telegraph poles must be down – washed away – struck by lightning – who knows? You’ve only got to look over the walls, ma’am, to see how the river levels are rising! These people wanting to travel north – should we let them go? I mean, is it safe for them to go?”
The Suprema made a noise, something between a sneeze and a snort. “It’s their money to waste, but if they have any wits, they’ll stay here where they’re safe.”
“We should stop them going anyway,” growled the Senator for Labour. “Can’t have the workforce gallivanting off to visit family.”
“Perfectly right,” said Madame Suprema. “I’m glad someone is keeping a sense of proportion.”
Out of sight, Gloria had lingered to listen by the parlour door, her arms full of wet umbrellas that were dripping onto her shoes. “Why don’t they just send up a plane to take a look?” she murmured under her breath.
“Quite,” said a voice, and she was dismayed to find the Suprema’s husband standing right behind her. He, too, had been listening. He stepped round her now and into the room.
“Why not send up a plane to take a look?” he asked. “We do have an Air Force.”
The Senators turned towards him as one.
“Leave us, Timmy,” said his wife sharply. “You should not be here. You know you are not entitled to attend Senate meetings.”
“Even so…”
“The weather has hardly been suitable for flying, Timmy. Now go.”
Everyone in the room waited in embarrassed silence until Timor shrugged and left again, blushing a little.
The meteorologists – a man and a woman – arrived, having travelled to Foremost Mansion by bus. Their long grey raincoats dripped on the hall carpet. Their faces were as grey as their coats. Bowing awkwardly to Madame Suprema, they brought out a damp envelope and, unsure which of them should hand it over, presented it jointly into her net-gloved hands.
“I’m sorry…” murmured the woman.
Madame Suprema cut her off with, “Don’t apologize. You are not very late. But we are eager to read your findings.” Then the veiled face tilted quizzically, as if surprised they were still there. “I have instructed my chauffeur to drive you home in the limousine. Wait for him by the gate. We mustn’t keep you from your work.”
Not until they had gone did Madame Suprema open the envelope and read the paragraphs typed below the crest of the Society of Meteorology. There was a long and agonizing silence; perhaps the veil made reading difficult. Then the red lips parted in a broad smile.
“Good news, gentlemen, ladies! The weather forecast is for the rain to die out very soon and be replaced by hot, dry weather. It is already sunnier upriver. We have the full assurance of the Meteorological Society. Close the city gates? Ha! Close the railway station? Storm in a teacup.”
The room breathed out a single sigh. The Senators congratulated each other and heaped admiration on Madame Suprema, as if she personally had arranged a change in the weather. Then they left, telling each other that they had known all along there was no danger.
Their leaving allowed the dog Daisy to dash back through the open front door and into the parlour, where she shook herself dry. Astoundingly, the Suprema did not curse her or banish the dog to the scullery. She simply screwed up the letter and batted it playfully at Daisy, who caught it in her mouth.
“You there! Girl!” called the Suprema. “Pack for me, will you? I have laid the things that I wish to take out on my bed. And be quick. I am leaving on the afternoon train. You may come with me – the dogs will need someone to mind them.”
Gloria gasped. “Oh! Thank you, Madame!”
Timor walked in on the remark. “Leaving? Why? Where?”
His wife patted his sleeve playfully. “I think we should see for ourselves if there’s any truth in the newspaper’s gloomy rumours. If a few poor souls have been flooded out, I can spread comfort and joy. Anything less might lose me popularity with the public, don’t you think?” And she slid Boz off her lap in a thudding heap and went to speak to the cook.
Daisy appealed to Gloria for help. The ball of paper had wedged behind her top teeth and she could neither spit it out nor chew it. Gloria tugged the paper free, then hugged Daisy fiercely (despite her being wet as a sponge).
“Herself’s going north, and she says we can go too!” Gloria told her. “We’re going north, Daze! On the train! I haven’t been on a train since I come down here from home. It’ll maybe stop at Sawmills and you could meet my folks! D’you think she’d let us? While she’s busy being kind to people? And think! The sun’ll be shining, and nobody will be drowning, ’cos the weather’s going to get fine again! So Grandpa won’t have to climb on the roof with his bad leg, and the chickens won’t drown – ’cos you know how close-to-the-ground chickens are and they might’ve drowned, mightn’t they? I want you to meet everybody…”
And then Gloria was gone, upstairs, to bang suitcases about with a noise like the thunder banging outside. Daisy looked around for the screw of paper, in case it was worth another chew. But that was gone too. Boz had probably eaten it. So, she lay on her side and thought about her hackles and why exactly they were bristling. Boz the pug couldn’t be the reason. Somehow Daisy was not heartbroken to lose the love of the woman with sharp fingers. For a long time now, Daisy’s heart had been given wholly to Gloria, with a bit held back for The Husband. And the cook, of course.
The good news would not reach the people in the streets until tomorrow. Tomorrow they would be laughing again, fearless of the puddles and overflowing gutters, knowing sunshine was on its way! Tomorrow Gloria would be happy, too. Right now, she was struggling to push a wheelbarrow with three suitcases in it…as well as a parcel of unspoken questions. Why had they not waited for Appis the chauffeur to come back from taking the weather people home? She had never known Madame go anywhere on foot and in the rain.
And why the big opera cloak with the deep hood? Madame generally enjoyed jolting gasps from people who caught a glimpse of her as she passed by.
And why on earth had Madame sacked Cook? Cook made the best cheese soufflé in all of anywhere! What would happen the next time a foreign bigwig visited and there was no Cook to make a soufflé?
Where were the Civil Guards to clear a path for her along the crowded platform? Why was Madame having to share an umbrella with her husband, when she generally had some security guard holding it over her at arm’s length?
The crowds at the station had clearly not heard the good news about the weather. The train building up steam in Praesto Station North was full to bursting with passengers, and the platform was swarming with people still trying to board it. Guards, porters, footplate-men and hired-muscle had formed a cordon to stop them, but men and women were crawling under the carriages to try and force the windows open on the far side. There was no disguising their desperation to go north. Gloria instantly pictured her family wading waist-deep through water, penniless, homeless, nibbled by water rats – or worse! – and resolved to ask Madame’s permission to visit home.
As soon as the Suprema was in the shelter of the station, Timor closed the umbrella and took over pushing the wheelbarrow, carving a path through the crowds. A porter with a rounders bat blocked their path to the first-class coaches at the front. He jerked his head to indicate the tightly-packed carriages.
Gloria fully expected Madame to snap her fingers and commandeer the whole train for her own use. But no!
“Timmy, pay the man,” she hissed, and Timor dutifully took out his wallet. Ten, forty, sixty afal changed hands, and the boy with the bat set about emptying one carriage of passengers.
“No luggage,” said the porter, pushing the wheelbarrow away with one foot.
Astonishingly, Madame did not throw back her hood and render the man speechless with awe at finding himself in the presence of the Suprema herself. She simply snapped her fingers in her husband’s direction.
Timor pulled out his wallet again, but the porter held his ground. “We’ll store it for you.”
The luggage was not the only casualty.
“No dogs,” said a guard, pointing his rolled-up green flag at Daisy.
“My good man,” snapped Madame, “her grandmother was the very first golden retriever to set foot on Afalian soil!”
