The Sure Yank Redemption

This is a sequel to: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/most-vial

 

The jet plane roared as it penetrated trans-Atlantic airspace. The ocean rose and fell with waves covering sea life like an undulating blanket over an aquamarine mattress. Not that the occupants of the luxury flier knew particularly with a bed of cloud forming a layer between them and the expanse of water lying 36,000 feet below. A man with an orange complexion looked out of the window, sipping a glass of tonic water with ice.

Crackle

“We should be landing in approximately 15 minutes. That’s fifteen, one five minutes.” The pilot’s announcement fed back into the cabin as the round faced man with wispy hair looked across at a glamorous woman, both seated in magnolia leather chairs.

“This will be the greatest break we’ve ever had. The greatest of aaaall great breaks. No break will have been greater.” The man promised everything like he had done on many occasions before. So many pledges to so many people. He elongated words emphasising every noun and vowel. Sentences slid off into never ending hyperbole.

“I know.” She said simply, avoiding his direct gaze and flinching inside. She should really hold his hand when they disembark after the Press picked up on it last time. It wasn’t as though she didn’t love him; it was just that….well….he could be so annoying at times. The whole losing the election thing had dragged on for too long and she half expected court officials to turn up at The Whitehouse to evict them. It was all in the past now but the embarrassment remained and she would not tolerate events like those again. Melania had sharp cheek bones, long, flowing hair and the slenderest of fingers affording her model status which had morphed into prominent business woman in recent years. Her jump suit showcased her figure in contrast to her partner’s polo shirt and green, baggy cap which, for now, sat on his lap.

“Don’t worry honey, I will be back in 2024. Bigger and better. America First. Again.” He still considered himself to be the President, what with all the vote rigging that had clearly gone on to deny him another term in office. His dreams of overthrowing those that would seek to seize his crown had descended into chaos as his supporters messed things up by getting carried away. He definitely did NOT ask them to start taking selfies whilst storming government buildings although he admired the sense of purpose to carry firearms. This was the Land of the Free where anything was possible. Having lots of money to start with did help, though.

Donald looked down at the small, compact mirror that lay on the table next to cut crystal glasses and his favourite book Being Me. His eyes caressed the image on the front cover. Surely the most handsome of men. He reflected fondly on his many quotes including “To be blunt, people would vote for me. They just would. Why? Maybe because I am so good looking.” The truth never sounded so… great!

He stroked his hair back, ran a line across his eyebrows with his fingers and pouted. He would always remember his first love – himself.

Crackle

“Please fasten your seatbelts. We are about to start our descent to our destination.”

Both Donald and Melania did as instructed, staring out the window drinking in the changing scenery as sky eventually become land once more.

Nicola wasn’t much for Mondays. The weeks seems to blend into each other and her stint as First Minster felt like it had lasted for a hundred years. She looked at her face staring back in the bathroom mirror. Her red hair was as ablaze as it ever was and she still felt that her cheeky grin was a vote winner. Determination was her life mantra and “once in a generation” referendums in 2014, 2021, 2022 and finally 2023 had got her what she and her associates wanted. Granted the final vote was sweetened somewhat with the offer of a six pack of Irn Bru and a deep fried Mars bar for everyone putting their tick in the right box but then anything goes when you have been trying for so long. Her first decree as Prime Minister of the New Scotland had been to buy materials to extend Hadrian’s Wall around the entire country including a new fortification to the north of where the existing structure stood. Hard borders were now established and rifle carrying guards wearing kilts were stationed next to the “Welcome to Scotland” sign that denoted successful entry into a land of Tartan and a warm welcome (as long as you weren’t a Sassenach).

The aircraft flew lower as it approached Scottish airspace. The illustrious passengers continued peering out at the changing views from porthole style windows. Cloud had given way to crashing, undulating water topped with white crests. As sea gave way to land they could see a stone barrier approaching that ran the length of the horizon. Donald seethed inside. He had tried so hard to build his own wall only to be plagued by opposition the whole way. The project had never made it to completion. More defiance of his supremacy but he would get revenge, you could be sure of that.

As they passed high over the wall, tiny figures could be seen patrolling along the top, sporrans indistinct from this height but still a frightening thought. The former president had seen the British movie Carry on Up the Khyber so he knew what a decisive threat they could be although his new appreciation of tiffin from the film had held him in good stead in many a romantic setting. Land rolled past: fields of heather, hedges and sheep and cattle. Spring brought with it a rush of colour – reds, purples, blues and yellow flowers dotted the landscape and hid in amongst forests and copse.

“Not long now.” Donald grunted in a satisfied manner.

Replacing woods and pasture now were bunkers filled with sand and fairways hemmed in by longer grass and trees. A thin, stretch of concrete formed a landing strip upon which grateful wheels touched down bringing the flight across the Atlantic to a successful conclusion. The jet taxied to a stop just as a line of cars with windows blacked out screeched along the runway and stopped next to the small passenger plane.

The exit door opened and a flight of steps unravelled mechanically with a whirring noise. The new arrivals emerged arm in arm, descending the temporary stair case, scanning the welcome committee that had scampered out of the unexpected cortege. The couple were greeted by a ginger-haired woman flanked by two officious looking men wearing suits and sun glasses.

“Welcome to Scotland, Mr and Mrs Trump” the lady announced. Her accent was pronounced with “Scotland” sounding more like “Scortland” even if she was softly spoken.

“Are you our safe escort to the first tee? I do have my own entourage.” Replied the former president as the pilot followed them down the stairs, a gun clearly visible in its holster under his jacket.

“It was made clear to you that this country is no longer part of the United Kingdom. I appreciate you have prior clearance from London but that has since been revoked by the current status of our independent nation. You will all need to accompany me, please.” Nicola looked at the scene with steely determination, a resolve that had carried her through many difficult years.

All three Americans were bundled into the back of a regal looking, silver Mercedes and it sped off towards its destination.

The blonde, shaggy haired man watched the green paint peel from his wall in whorls. He felt a sense of déjà vu. The bed was a single, steel framed affair with thin mattress and pillow. He glowered at the thick door that kept him from freedom. He had been captured at the top of a scaling ladder attempting to circumvent the extended Hadrian’s Wall that separated Scotland from England. His partner had been right behind him carrying mini-Boris in her arms. They had tried to convince the waiting guards that they were simply trying to escape accusations of scandals and hounding by the Press in their own country. Scotland was a favourite camping spot. No dice, though. Off to the dungeon it was.

He could hear a muffled noise coming from the corridor outside. With a hum and a click, the door opened and strip lighting cascaded into the cell. A man with what looked like a wig on his head stumbled in as one of the guards gently shoved him over the threshold. The captors closed the large, steel partition locking the oversized American in with his British counterpart. The man on the bed stared and enquired “Donald? Is that you?”

“Boris! You old son of a gun. Fancy meeting you here.” Donald had forgotten his anger for a few seconds, delighted to see a friendly face at last. He looked his associate up and down surreptitiously, wincing at the creased, tieless white shirt and black trousers that were unbecoming for a political supremo.

The men shook hands as Boris realised there was only one bed in the room. Surely they didn’t expect them to bunk together.

“So what are you…are you…in for then? Boris asked in his ever genial but fumbling tone. Even a sentence as short as this sounded like Etonian, upper crust bumbling.

“Hey man, I was over to visit one of my golf courses when a Scottish pixie intervened and sent me here. I wish I knew where they’ve taken Melania.” The concern was genuine.

“Oh I shouldn’t fret too much. You’ve arrived at a good time.” Boris whispered this, cupping his hand over a flinching Donald’s ear. “I’m getting out tonight.”

The two old friends talked for hours only interrupted by the opening at the bottom of the door opening to slide food into the room. Boris checked his watch which now indicated it was 22:00 hours. He reached for the poster of Mel Gibson roaring, face covered in blue woad as Braveheart at the end of the bed and peeled it carefully from the wall to reveal a hole and a tunnel beyond it. Donald’s eyes lit up.

“How long did you say you had been here?” the American asked.

“Nearly a year now. I do hope Gove has looked after things for me in my absence.” Boris sounded forlorn at this. The government in London had made a series of offers for his safe return. The administration in Edinburgh has declined the final suggestion of £50 insisting that Boris must be worth at least twice that amount (even the offer of throwing in Jacob Rees-Mogg had fallen on deaf ears although, for years, Boris had thought that J R-M was the cat at Number 11 Downing Street).

Both men scrambled into the tunnel and, on all fours and hunched over, scuttled down the escape route. After what seemed an eternity, the chasm dropped down sharply and promptly finished with a shallow drop into what looked like a shallow storm drain in the gloom.

“You might want to...um…hold your nose here.” The Englishman suggested.

His Yankee counterpart looked back quizzically until the smell suddenly assaulted him. They had found their way to a prison sewer. The stink was overwhelming. Fortunately, the light was dim enough to spare them sight of the worst aspects as they sank knee deep in the effluence. The roof of the tunnel didn’t allow them the luxury of standing. Small shadows darted as rats scurried in the gloom. An observer could be forgiven for thinking that disease carrying rodents had detected the presence of their larger brethren in human form and made for the opposite direction. With a low crouch, they ploughed on until they eventually came to the end and an opening that took them across grassland and into woods.

The men’s disappearance had been discovered by a routine check during the night and the alarm sounded. Nicola was now staring at the gap in the wall where the poster once was. She grimaced and reached for her phone. She knew who to text to sort this one out.

The two escapees walked for miles in the dark. They heard the rustling sounds of wildlife many times and imagined wolves and tigers stalking them in the bushes. Sooner or later they would chance hitching a lift. Neither had their phones as they had been confiscated.

It was now 5am and the dawn would be arriving soon. Boris was tired, smelled distinctly awful on account of the sewer and was ready to flag down a car. They both saw the road at the same time, sprawling forests surrounding it at the sides. Leaves and twigs crunched under foot as they made for the haven of the smoother surface of the thoroughfare.  There they stood resting for a while. Just as they were about to set off on foot again, headlights beamed from the distance and a Land Rover came into view. The haggard figures of two people on either side of the lane were picked up by the headlamps as it skidded past and then stopped and reversed to where they were standing. The engine went silent as a door and opened and man jumped down, fledgling daylight bounced off his balding head.

“Dom? Is that you?” Boris asked, amazed at this coincidence.

“Ah PM. I see you have a guest.” The rescuer held his nose. “It looks like you could do with a lift and a shower.”

“Those are the best words I have heard since the last time I spoke.” Said the American.

They all turned and Dom opened the rear doors as the two men slipped into the back seat.

“What a coincidence seeing you out here, Dom.” The Englishman bumbled.

“Ah yes. I was out testing my eyesight. It’s a habit these days. It seems to be OK.” Dom looked at the men in the rear view mirror, his weasel eyes darting from left to right and back again. Thoughts raced in his head. He remembered the instructions he had received from his new paymaster based North of the border. The balding mandarin had once been at the centre of everything. The episode in the Rose Garden had precipitated an eventual fall from his grace as his career hit the skids and his fade to relative obscurity had led to his latest role roaming about his family estate whilst firing off insidious text messages to anyone that would read them. His incendiary evidence at an enquiry about the Pandemic had been going well until someone had pointed out that Dom had actually been a key part of the very institution he was testifying against. After that, the wheels had come off. His bitterness knew no bounds and revenge was best served cold as part of a haggis dish.

“I should get some sleep gents. Don’t worry, I will take care of you both.”

With the politicians now slumped on the back seat, the four by four hurtled along its track, passing a road sign that said “Scottish Border 10 miles.” They would both be back under lock and key again soon enough. Boris mumbled in his sleep “Keep my mobile number available online so anyone can get in touch with me you say, Dom?” he dozed.

Dom smirked and thought “Of course, PM. That would be the sensible thing to do.”

 

 

Image available at WikiCommons and free from Copyright https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hadrianswall2007.jpg

This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents
are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental