Ducie by Chris Freeman

  Chapter 57. Smoking kills

  Prime Minister Lex McGivern sat in his office chair, nursing a glass of Fitzgerald’s Kentucky whiskey. He sipped at the sharp, bitter, pungent liquid. His upper lip tingled with heat. He necked the entire glass in-one and quickly poured another twice the size. He walked to his door. He knew it was locked, but he needed to be sure. He sat back at his desk and rummaged in his drawer, quickly locating what he was after; a pack of Marlboro Lights cigarettes. A throwback to his 20-a-day habit before he took office and he’d forced himself to quit. He hadn’t wanted to stop the smokes; he’d enjoyed the place of release they gave him. But he needed that element of control. He needed to make that statement. To show everyone who knew him that Lex McGivern didn’t let himself be controlled by anybody, anything, any chemical habit, any cigarettes; even when he’d just taken on the most stressful job of his career. He flipped open the packet. 3 cigarettes rested at different angles at the side of the box. He withdrew one and let the filter rest between his lips. Lighter and smaller than he’d remembered. He lit the cigarette and pulled the smoke down into his lungs. It felt like an old, warm, familiar cuddle. He necked the glass of Fitzgerald’s Kentucky. One more….He poured…. Any more than that and he’d risk being in no state to carry out what needed to happen. The cigarette burnt down to its nub quicker than he’d expected. He’d smoked most of it without even realising. He lit another. Sipping at the whiskey this time; making it last. Savouring, but still hurrying. Always against the clock. He stubbed the cigarette out and walked to the drinks cabinet. Reaching behind the wine section that contained bottles he’d received as gifts from diplomats around the globe, he pulled the lever of the hidden hatch. Down it fell, the clatter of the gun against glass seemed amplified. Lex carefully manoeuvred the weapon through the maze of bottles and out into the open. This was it. He sat back down, necked the remainder of the whiskey and instantly regretted doing so. Another? Yes….No….Yes….He poured a final glass. The whoozy feeling that came with drinking strong alcohol too quickly snuck into his reality without him even realising it was on its way. If he passed out, it’d all be over. He needed to stay awake and in control. There wouldn’t be another chance. A final cigarette. He watched the tobacco paper intently. Every microscopic curl and distortion of plant and paper against the heat as he smoked. The hiss and crackle of the burning, so unnoticeably slight that it would never even register with the ears under any other circumstance. But here was the Prime Minister, taking in every last sensory offering the world had to give, no matter how slight.

  There were no more excuses. 1 cigarette remained in the box and the whiskey bottle was far from its dregs, but he wanted neither. The time had come.

  The barrel of the gun felt warmer on his temple than he’d expected. He held it there for a second and closed his eyes, imagining the blackness. The noise. A rush of adrenaline went through him, but didn’t quite reach the part of the brain that pulled the trigger. A thought stopped him. What if he didn’t die? Was this the right way to shoot? He put the gun in his mouth momentarily, quickly changing his mind and resting it back against his temple. This was the way.

  - Our father, who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thine will be done…..

  The Prime Minister wasn’t a religious man, but it’s surprising what the thought of impending, eternal nothingness can do to a man’s beliefs.

  - ….Forever and forever. Amen.

  Silence. Was he dead? A tingle in his foot and a churn in his stomach advised him that he was still very much part of the material world. He tried to focus. Pull the trigger. He wanted to. Needed to. He just couldn’t send the signal from his brain to his finger.

  The door knocked. The handle rattled.

  - Sir….Sir…..

  Steve.

  It was now or never.

  Lex shut his eyes tight and allowed himself to drift.

  - Sorry Eduardo.

  He heard no bang, he felt nothing. He was gone.

  - Sir…Eduardo is back on the line. Open the door. Sir….

  Steve was too late.

  Eduardo Rey died of a heart attack on the island of Ducie, a couple of moments after his counterpart had taken his own life at 10 Downing Street, London. It was at Prime Minister Lex McGivern’s insistence that his own counterpart be tracked down in order to run the island. A moral safety net that afforded him the ability to live with what he was doing to the test subjects, but which arguably had credentials no more honourable than that of a suicide bomber. Ultimately though, his plan had served its purpose. The Prime Minister was able to take his own life to stop the man who was threatening to pull the plug on Ducie; his counterpart Eduardo Rey. Had the Prime Minister been one of the many test subjects over the years that didn’t seem to have a locatable counterpart, the whole story might have played out very differently, but as it was, the Prime Minister’s CROP-fuelled sleep state led them to Eduardo. The equivalent of £3,000,000 up front and a further £5,000,000 on completion of the project and Ducie had itself its first leader. Eduardo had strongly suspected that he’d have been killed anyway had he declined. He may well have been right about that.