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This is Chapter -3 (the first chapter of the prologue) of my NaNo this year. NaNoWriMo is where you have to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days (that's 1667 words a day, roughly). Because it's quantity over quality - this has not been edited. Therefore, there may be some errors and it might seem clunky, but at a later date, I will come back and make it better. Note: I've given up on finishing before December: I kinda abandoned NaNo, because I fell bloody ill, and went three days behind (I can’t write on paper for toffee). I should point out that I'm going to continue to write this, it just won't be complete before Dec 1.
Comments are still appreciated though.
PROLOGUE - Chapter -3
"Prime Minister," the aide said quietly, so as not to make a scene. "Prime Minister, you need to wake up." He stood back, his arms folded slightly impatiently, waiting for the Prime Minister to become alert.
The man in the bed murmured something incoherent, then with a groggy opening of his eyes, looked round deliriously for the source of his awakener.
"What is it?" posed the Prime Minister, a hint of anger in his voice. Glancing over at the red numbers on the clock on his bedside table, he sighed. "It's three o'clock in the bloody morning! Just leave me alone."
The aide looked down on him, slightly annoyed. "Sir, it's unavoidable." He took a deep breath in, knowing the reaction that would come. "It's the UN, sir. They've called an emergency meeting of the Security Council. The Foreign Secretary is going crazy – it's pandemonium downstairs."
The Prime Minister stood up with a start, pulling the dressing gown that was draped over the end of his bed over his nightclothes. "The UN?" he posed. "But why? There wasn't a meeting scheduled for, well, weeks!"
"I honestly don't know, sir," replied the aide. "But they're saying it's big. Really big."
The Prime Minister grunted slightly, and thinking better of his attire, began to get changed into his suit. Nothing like this had happened in a long time. Ah well, he thought. Probably the Koreans with their nukes again. "Bentford," he said. "I appreciate your help, but I would rather like some privacy to get dressed in?"
"Of course, sir," replied Bentford, the aide. He was an average man. Middle aged, he had been working as the Prime Minister's secretary for seven years now. Seven long, tiresome years. And there was the election coming up as well now. His hair bore all the signs of the stress of politics. Where once a large amount of straight brown hair could be made into something rather handsome, all that was left was less hair, which was all turning grey. Bentford's once brilliant blue eyes now looked tired and, they too seemed to be turning grey. Deep wrinkles on his forehead gave him the impression of somebody who always frowned, which wouldn't be a particularly bad guess at the character of the Prime Minister's aide. Respecting the Prime Minister's wishes, though, he turned and left the room, waiting in the hallway outside.
The Prime Minister himself was left inside his bedroom. He slept alone, after that messy divorce that had been all over the papers. Somehow his advisors had managed to turn it into an opinion poll increase, something that never happened these days. He was younger than Bentford, and looked it as well. He had come from a well off background, and no doubt that was what helped him get into Parliament in the first place. But nevertheless, the position was exciting to him. John Attingley, MP. He could remember how proud his mother and father were after that particular by-election. And then he rose up the ranks of his party. Going from a mere Treasury minister, he rose to the position of Shadow Chancellor in the space of eight years. And then, suddenly old Randy Clarke dies, and the position of Leader of the Opposition is open. And of course, with his political expertise, Attingley secured that particular position by a landslide vote.
From then on, though, everything had been a struggle. Prime Minister's questions were easy enough, but then when the election results came, and he became the new Prime Minister, they seemed to be a whole lot more difficult, with MPs from all sides of the Commons keen to blame every tiny mistake any cabinet minister made on Attingley. The re-election was just as difficult, having to beat a Labour Opposition who couldn't help but continue to highlight the fact that levels of unemployment were on the rise.
All of this flashed through the Prime Minister's mind as he showered quickly. Drying his brown hair quickly, he forgot to have a shave. The Security Council were never particularly good at accepting lateness. Finally, dressing in a black suit and dark blue tie, he left his bedroom and met Bentford in the corridor.
"We've chartered a private jet for you, sir," he said. "Mr. Moreton is going to meet you onboard." Mr. Moreton was the Foreign Secretary, an intelligent man who was a genius at diplomatic "calming down" of rogue nations.
"I'm guessing we're flying to New York?" asked the Prime Minister.
"Yes," replied Bentford. "The Yanks wouldn't have it any other way, would they, sir?"
The Prime Minister laughed. "One question though," he said suddenly. "Why didn't they get Smith to go to this meeting? He is our Ambassador over there."
"I told you this already, sir," replied Bentford. "This is big. All the Heads of State are being called over there."
The Prime Minister grimaced slightly. He had the feeling that something bad was happening, and he didn't like getting that feeling.
Bentford and Attingley came to the car, a black Jaguar. They both entered, and the car drove off into the night, heading towards the runway which would take them to New York.
Comments are still appreciated though.
PROLOGUE - Chapter -3
"Prime Minister," the aide said quietly, so as not to make a scene. "Prime Minister, you need to wake up." He stood back, his arms folded slightly impatiently, waiting for the Prime Minister to become alert.
The man in the bed murmured something incoherent, then with a groggy opening of his eyes, looked round deliriously for the source of his awakener.
"What is it?" posed the Prime Minister, a hint of anger in his voice. Glancing over at the red numbers on the clock on his bedside table, he sighed. "It's three o'clock in the bloody morning! Just leave me alone."
The aide looked down on him, slightly annoyed. "Sir, it's unavoidable." He took a deep breath in, knowing the reaction that would come. "It's the UN, sir. They've called an emergency meeting of the Security Council. The Foreign Secretary is going crazy – it's pandemonium downstairs."
The Prime Minister stood up with a start, pulling the dressing gown that was draped over the end of his bed over his nightclothes. "The UN?" he posed. "But why? There wasn't a meeting scheduled for, well, weeks!"
"I honestly don't know, sir," replied the aide. "But they're saying it's big. Really big."
The Prime Minister grunted slightly, and thinking better of his attire, began to get changed into his suit. Nothing like this had happened in a long time. Ah well, he thought. Probably the Koreans with their nukes again. "Bentford," he said. "I appreciate your help, but I would rather like some privacy to get dressed in?"
"Of course, sir," replied Bentford, the aide. He was an average man. Middle aged, he had been working as the Prime Minister's secretary for seven years now. Seven long, tiresome years. And there was the election coming up as well now. His hair bore all the signs of the stress of politics. Where once a large amount of straight brown hair could be made into something rather handsome, all that was left was less hair, which was all turning grey. Bentford's once brilliant blue eyes now looked tired and, they too seemed to be turning grey. Deep wrinkles on his forehead gave him the impression of somebody who always frowned, which wouldn't be a particularly bad guess at the character of the Prime Minister's aide. Respecting the Prime Minister's wishes, though, he turned and left the room, waiting in the hallway outside.
The Prime Minister himself was left inside his bedroom. He slept alone, after that messy divorce that had been all over the papers. Somehow his advisors had managed to turn it into an opinion poll increase, something that never happened these days. He was younger than Bentford, and looked it as well. He had come from a well off background, and no doubt that was what helped him get into Parliament in the first place. But nevertheless, the position was exciting to him. John Attingley, MP. He could remember how proud his mother and father were after that particular by-election. And then he rose up the ranks of his party. Going from a mere Treasury minister, he rose to the position of Shadow Chancellor in the space of eight years. And then, suddenly old Randy Clarke dies, and the position of Leader of the Opposition is open. And of course, with his political expertise, Attingley secured that particular position by a landslide vote.
From then on, though, everything had been a struggle. Prime Minister's questions were easy enough, but then when the election results came, and he became the new Prime Minister, they seemed to be a whole lot more difficult, with MPs from all sides of the Commons keen to blame every tiny mistake any cabinet minister made on Attingley. The re-election was just as difficult, having to beat a Labour Opposition who couldn't help but continue to highlight the fact that levels of unemployment were on the rise.
All of this flashed through the Prime Minister's mind as he showered quickly. Drying his brown hair quickly, he forgot to have a shave. The Security Council were never particularly good at accepting lateness. Finally, dressing in a black suit and dark blue tie, he left his bedroom and met Bentford in the corridor.
"We've chartered a private jet for you, sir," he said. "Mr. Moreton is going to meet you onboard." Mr. Moreton was the Foreign Secretary, an intelligent man who was a genius at diplomatic "calming down" of rogue nations.
"I'm guessing we're flying to New York?" asked the Prime Minister.
"Yes," replied Bentford. "The Yanks wouldn't have it any other way, would they, sir?"
The Prime Minister laughed. "One question though," he said suddenly. "Why didn't they get Smith to go to this meeting? He is our Ambassador over there."
"I told you this already, sir," replied Bentford. "This is big. All the Heads of State are being called over there."
The Prime Minister grimaced slightly. He had the feeling that something bad was happening, and he didn't like getting that feeling.
Bentford and Attingley came to the car, a black Jaguar. They both entered, and the car drove off into the night, heading towards the runway which would take them to New York.