The Plan part two

At the airport he is met by precisely no one. He doesn’t exit the car till he’s at the foot of some stairs leading up to a large unmarked aeroplane. A large man runs to the car from behind the stair module, throwing a black cloth over him, ‘for security’, guiding him to the plane and up the stairs. Kier figured it would turn out this way, having had the afternoon to sit and mull over the situation. So long as he got on that plane and wasn’t poisoned or stabbed or shot or strangled or whatever along the way to fuck knows where he was going he couldn’t give two shits about anything. Or so he liked to think, such was his heinous despair.

The Plan? Fuck The Plan. The Plan could manage itself, as Dewsbury had suggested quite rightly. As for his family, he had already mentally begun with the wait, knowing full well they were far better off where they were. The grieving and the aggrieved always need time, which he had in buckets.

While Kier was stewing in the basement room, Dewsbury had tipped off one particular photographer (£20k for a fuckin’ phone call!) asking him to hurry along to Heathrow, the exact GPS for the shot pinged to the photographer’s phone. He was there at the airport anyway, cruising about on a tip-off that Robbie was back on the sherbets.

The picture of Kier’s profile was indeed a picture, his slashed, blood encrusted cheek accentuated by the fiercely bright runway lights and the shadow from that eerie black drape held over him. It was the picture of a slippery devil on the run. Red, black and white. A masterpiece of political treachery. £100k for the press of a button. A genius shot. A nice touch.

By the time Kier is on the plane, turning to his left to find nothing, just row upon row of seats, all empty, the prize picture has already been sent to the three important news agencies. As he ambles idly towards nowhere in particular, along an aisle, the news agencies are sending it on to the channels. It’s gone, he’s gone.

‘Good evening, sir.’ A woman appears before him. ‘My name is Laura and I’ll be your flight attendant today. If there’s anything you need, just press the button.’

Laura turns and leaves. Kier stares at the back of her head, right through her, speechless, knowing that Laura fuckin’ Kuennesburg is his flight attendant for a twenty-three-and-a-half hour nightmare ride to nowhere. At precisely the same time, a bulletin from Whitehall is being kicked together by some Labour cog that no one knows, some vicious, hungry uni leaver fresh from disassociation treatment over at Unilever. She’s on the BBC, blabbing on about Kier’s sudden, inexplicable disappearance. All the flags are out so you know they mean business. News of the picture comes through on her earpiece. 

‘Kier Starmer is no longer leader of the Labour Party. He has left the party in utter disarray. We will carefully decide who will take over as leader, and that process is likely to be concluded over the next few days. To all Labour voters and indeed all British people, let it be known that Labour is about unity, not just one person. Kier Starmer has failed British people and we will do everything in our power to put this right!’

As Kier watches the bulletin from his phone at a window seat, an awful stench suddenly hits him. He has had an accident. Normally, he eats a sandwich with miso soup at lunchtime, and today he has had nothing. It was just a squeaky little fart but arrived in liquid form.

Waddling off to the loo he wipes himself down and starts thinking about food. Can he eat? He’d try at the very least. But maybe they’ve poisoned it all. Maybe Laura’s been designated as my murderer. Who the fuck else is on the bastard plane?

Returning to his seat, he inspects it to find no blemishes, and then wonders whether to choose a different seat altogether. Plumping on the same window seat he sits down just as Dewsbury pokes his head around the corner at the door. He looks at Kier, smiling.

‘Got here OK?’ he asks.

‘Are you coming too?’

‘No, I'm just here to see you off.’ Kier's bottom judders in his seat. Dewsbury hides a wiggle of joy by sitting down next to him, taking the aisle seat. ‘It’s a hell of a coup but all for the best, hey.’

‘Yes, all for the cause. Who do you think they’ll put it in my place?’

‘Fucks knows. Who cares? They'll never win now. My money’s on the Lib Dems. That’s what Pluto reckons. Even put it on his Insta.’

‘Fuck,’ says Kier, the shit sinking in once more. Dewsbury orders a gin and tonic from Laura. Kier waves her away with an ugly wince, parched. ‘So, this place in New Zealand. Looks fine to me…’

‘Oh yeah,’ says Dewsbury. ‘They’ve had a rethink on that, mate. Well, actually, it’s the owner of the house. He’s furious about what you did and doesn’t want you near the place so we’ve had to make alternative arrangements.’

Kier says nothing, knowing that he will be quicker to the truth if he lets Dave carry on. 

‘So the new destination is Maine.’

‘Maine? Fucking Maine? That’s insane! The Shermans’ll fuckin' kill me!’

‘Hold on, buddy. Listen, there’s this cannabis farm.’

‘A fuckin’ cannabis farm? What am I going to do in a cunting cannabis farm?’

‘Kier, if you’ll let me speak.’ Silence reigns. Kier’s hands are carefully tucked into his tummy like a good boy. Dave is in love with life as he watches it getting sucked out of Kier. ‘It’s owned by Jez Cheddar, the media mogul out in LA. The whole place is run like an army base, a bit Colonel Kurtz but it’s a legal concern and a very viable business.’

‘I’ve heard of him, Cheddar The Faceshredder. Should have got fifty years for fraud and now he's sniffing around senators’ tails.’

‘That’s the guy. He’s really weird... but cool.’

‘But why the hell there? Of all places, a cannabis farm. My kids will think I’ve gone insane.’

‘That’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about,’ says Dewsbury, a little judder of a smile trying to tease its way onto his lips. No chance. 

‘What do you mean, the other thing?’ Kier feels like farting, knows he mustn’t.

‘Right,’ says Dave, leaning in for some friendliness points. ‘I know you’ll balk but it’s already written in and scheduled for air this time next week.’

‘What is?’ The tiniest of farts, like the ‘pop' of a pea, escapes his almost empty bowels, trickling into his boxers. ‘Shit.’

‘All they want you to do is plead a temporary loss of mind, just till…’

‘Insanity? They want me to say I’ve gone fuckin’ mad? Oh well that’s great, isn’t it. Thanks a bunch, I’ll be the laughing stock of England. And my kids. What… the… fuck…are… my… kids… going… to…’

Neither of them say another thing. Not for a bit. Then Dewsbury, right on cue, pipes up with ‘It’s all for the…’

‘Oh shut up, arsewipe.’

Dave takes a large swig of drink and then resumes. ‘There’s a large house in the grounds of the farm, which is actually the size of fuckin’ Wales. You’ll be completely undisturbed. I’ll send pictures of the place toot sweet.’

Kier is very quiet.

Dave pipes up again. ‘Anyway, this whole thing blows over in about a year, when you return to your natural state, thanks to advances in the field of groundbreaking AI neurosurgery.’

‘I don’t want fuckin’ neurosurgery.’ The words fall from his mouth like dead ants.

‘Cool it. It’s just a scam selling some medical Sherman shit. You won’t need any surgery.’

‘So go on. Tell me about The fuckin’ Plan,’ asks Kier, sure that he’ll get his answer now he’s screwed to the floor.

‘The Plan has been set in motion today, Kier mate. You set it off and it’s burning bright right now. Labour’s down the drain. Finished forever. You’ve done it, you old fox.’ 

Kier takes a moment. ‘Yes, but what is The Plan?’

‘Don’t be a dimwit. No one knows what the plan is till, well… when did we know about today?’

Kier is already beaten. ‘This morning.’

‘Exactly. We only know when we need to know. I’ve already told you about next week, which is all I know. You’ll have to start thinking about what to say but mark my words, mate - you’ll come out of this smelling of fuckin’ Monet’s lilies on a virgin’s wedding bed. A year from now, when you make your comeback speech…’

‘Yeah right.’ 

Under normal circumstances, Dewsbury would bring out the bag of chang and leave the poor sod with a little mound for the trip. Not this time. No need. He’ll be dead by the time he’s over Ireland.

Dave gets up to leave just as the turbines are set in motion, whirring slowly at first, warming up with cool intent. 

‘Your phone can only call two numbers, mine and Janet’s. Let me know when you’re settled in.’

‘They’re not going to turn me into Julian fuckin’ Assange, are they?’

Dave laughs uncontrollably. The moment he disappears from the plane, Kier understands and bolts upright, racing over to the door. It’s too late. The stair module has been removed with Dewsbury still walking down it. The door can be heard shutting tight as Kier stares through its rounded window. In its reflection he can see something as Dewsbury slams the door of the limo.

Turning slowly, Kier realises that he is surrounded. Six large men dressed in white overalls, all masked up, hands to their sides. 

‘Go on then, you fuckin’ quack nut jobs, get on with it.’