An Urgent Question

January 2028.

Westminster, Central London.

Mike stood at a nondescript gate in the freezing cold, waiting for his escort. He was well aware he needed to be more supportive. But this was par for the course for her. When she used terminology he didn’t understand, he’d ask what it meant. And she’d simply smile and say ‘never mind’. When she was off somewhere for work, she needn’t bother explaining, as he lacked the context. And now she felt he needed an escort just to get inside one of the world’s most-visited tourist attractions. An escort who was late. He rubbed his hands together, glove-less as he was, as pins-and-needles shot through them. He wasn’t even sure who he was waiting for, but presumably they’d find him. As he looked around, he caught sight of a police officer looking back at him, a rifle hung around their shoulder. Extremely comforting. Though he supposed it was, in a way. These people kept Elizabeth safe. Even from her husband, it should seem.

Somehow he’d never been to the Palace of Westminster, even though his wife had been serving as an MP for years now. He’d gotten the odd invite for a tour or drinks, but never felt totally comfortable taking her up on it. And now here he was, presumably about to be led inside, for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of, but got the impression were quite serious.

“You must be Mike.” A female voice came from behind him, terse and impatient. He spun around and saw her, and towered above her. Maybe 5 feet tall, she came up to Mike’s chest, her blonde hair perfectly parted and straight, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to stare a hole straight through him. He stuck his hand out.

“Hi, yes, Mike Fernsby. Elizabeth Marsh’s husband. I was supposed to meet her here.”

“Cassandra Cooper, MP for Poplar and Limehouse.” She shook his hand, avoiding eye contact, watching the handshake itself.

“Poplar, that’s in the Midlands,” Mike replied with a nod.

“It’s Canary Wharf, not far, right here in London,” Cass replied through a grimace, also nodding.

“Right, no of course,” Mike said. “I must be thinking of… honestly, you know, I think I was thinking of Call The Midwife.”

Cass nodded even harder, a pained smile crossing her face. “Right, yes, same Poplar, over East London, hasn’t moved!”

Mike also kept nodding, unsure how to break out of this, his face feeling like it might be going a bit red. “Right of course! It looks quite different in the show.”

“Believe they film it on a set somewhere,” replied Cass, also clearly unsure how to move forward. “Shall we, erm, I don’t mean to be rude, shall we get on with it? Not much time I’m afraid.”

“I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I,” he squeaked.

“Give me your phone, please?” She put her hand out and tapped her palm impatiently. He dropped his phone into her hand, and she swept it straight into her handbag.

“Phones aren’t permitted inside I take it?” He fumbled for a reason why he’d just agreed to that.

“We’re not going inside, I’m afraid. There’s been a bit of a change of plan.” She nodded up at him, clearly hoping he would just sort-of agree. He stared down at her in confusion, his face contorting.

“Listen I’m sorry, I should, explain. I don’t have much time to explain, but I’m happy to try.”

Mike nodded. “All I really knew was that Elizabeth said something was going on, and I should meet her here and she’d pop out and explain.”

“Ah, anything she might’ve told you is probably worthless now I’m afraid.”

“Right.” Mike smacked his lips.

She looked up and down the street they were on. It was oppressively grey outside today, oddly dark even at just past Noon. A small smattering of tourists moved past them, in a security queue to get into the Palace. Cass stepped close to Mike, looking up at him. She spoke in a low whisper. “To cut through it, we had a plan in place, and it’s since spiralled a bit.”

“Right,” he nodded. “Okay.”

“Mike, it’s bad.” She looked very upset suddenly, under her professional facade. She kept putting stray hairs back into place as the wind caught them. “I told her I’d fetch you and we’d keep you close in case there’s any press.”

He kept nodding. “Okay.” He started to feel like a bobblehead.

“Reporters, paparazzi. It might be nothing. People might not care. But it’ll depend… it’s probably easiest to just… go watch.” She sounded a bit deflated. “I’m honestly not sure how it’s going to go. It’s gotten away from me a bit.”

She walked him to the front of the security queue, to a small separate lane. A terrifying, well-kitted officer handed him bins for his things and gestured at the metal detector. They both went through quietly. Cass put her hand on Mike’s back and walked him to a door then in, and down a dark hallway. She held up a security pass on a lanyard and smiled uncomfortably at him. He lowered his head down, letting her put it around his neck.

“Miss…” Mike stammered.

“Cooper.”

“Miss Cooper, what’s going on?”

“Mike, there’s about a thousand things I need to tell you. But we need to get through the next few minutes first. And I hope you can still be supportive of her when she needs you. Okay? Because I’m not going to be able to help her.” She looked up at him with sanguine eyes. He’d never met this woman, never been in this building, and now he felt like he’d gone through the looking glass.

Mike nodded. Cass shook her head.

“Not good enough, say you’ll try.”

“I’ll try.”

“Okay.”

She gathered him up and brought him down a corridor at a brisk pace, up some dark stairs, and suddenly he was looking out over the House of Commons. “It looks a lot smaller in person,” he muttered to himself, then thought how pedestrian of a remark that was. Stupid.

“I’ll come get you after. Stay here. I have to go down. Mike, I’m so sorry.”

Before he could react, she was off. He squirmed relentlessly in the seat and tried to watch the proceedings, his escort having deposited him and immediately fled. He looked around and noticed everyone else in the gallery had their phones. He’d been conned. And he was now deeply troubled.

Finally, after who knows how long, he noticed Cass appear downstairs, sat on a bench near the back. He wondered if Elizabeth was also somewhere, and as if she was cued, she entered as well, slipping into the chamber from a different entrance and sitting on the front bench opposite. It was, otherwise, quite a sparse attendance, and Mike couldn’t help but be extremely cynical about how Members of Parliament were off wasting precious taxpayer money instead of being sat in here, listening to what appeared to be an extended debate about funding for new climbing frames at primary schools in Durham.

“Thank you, thank you, that’s all for questions.” Whatever it was, the woman who’d been overseeing proceedings appeared to be wrapping it up. “Please let the chamber clear for the urgent question.” People shuffled around, some came in, others left, and within a minute it had gotten even more empty than it was for the climbing frames debate. “Right, thank you,” the speaker continued. “We now come to the urgent question. Alastair Mitchell.”

A man had risen part-way through and was now standing at the front. He cleared his throat and held up his notes on a piece of paper. “Thank you, Madam Speaker, I’d like to put a question to the minister for Works and Pension, if I may, regarding an article that’s appeared only a short time ago in The Guardian, which has made some rather shocking allegations. Allegations that this government, quite frankly, has been colluding in depth and in secret with the American tech conglomerate Magenta during the drafting of the Public Works Act.”

Mike leaned forward, craning to see if Elizabeth was down there. They’d had some blazing rows at home lately about this bill, and her stress over it, and most recently, how she’d come home in tears and hysterics over Magenta’s involvement. He’d told her to calm down, to trust the others around her, not to jeopardise her position so early into her political career. But that had just sent her spiralling, and she’d disappeared and been quite distant ever since. Mike’s head started to spin. Had she run off and… had they somehow gotten to the press?

“Madam Speaker,” the man continued with a practised fury, “can the minister please put our minds at rest, and tell us these allegations are in fact completely false. And if they are not false, tell us that they will immediately agree to withdraw this terrible legislation that many have taken to calling the Conscription of British Workers Act, the Betrayal of the British Public Act, the Surrender to Artificial Intelligence Act. Madam Speaker, will the government withdraw this bill?”

As he finished, he was increasingly jeered from the opposite benches, which had started to fill toward the end.

Mike was absolutely flabbergasted. It all seemed so sick. He told himself this must just be how it always was with these people, these politicians. He regretted ever helping Elizabeth get elected. Now she was exposed to this, corrupted by it. He regretted having come here.

The speaker shouted for quiet. “Minister for Works, Elizabeth Marsh.”

Elizabeth now stood at the dispatch box and opened a folder neatly in front of her. “Thank you, Madam Speaker, I’m happy to field this question. We are at a pivotal moment in this nation, indeed in the world. We’re seeing unprecedented job losses, unprecedented economic hardship. A cascading effect of widespread automation, aberrations in the financial sector, the crash of the American stock market, and rapid industry consolidation have devastated the British economy. No national government can control these effects Madam Speaker, they are global, as I’m sure my esteemed colleague knows. We can only seek to limit the damage, to do right by our citizens. It is not an economic crisis but a humanitarian one, Madam Speaker. Millions of unemployed across the nation now look to us for answers, for help and for hope. And we have sought support from our friends in the private sector, and we will not apologise for it.”

As she spoke, jeers and cheers would rumble from the respective sides of the room. But on that last bit, the jeers were deafening. Mike found Cass again, and she was sat motionless, alone, not watching. She had her head tilted down, her eyes closed.

“Madam Speaker,” Elizabeth continued, “the British state cannot pay the wages of every unemployed citizen while also paying for the infrastructure they use. We cannot put food on the table for millions while also subsidising the farms that grow it. It is not possible for the Treasury to sustain that level of spending. We have therefore sought solutions from industry, including yes, as The Guardian has pointed out, the CEO of Magenta, Rebecca Prue.”

Eruption. It was chaos. A deafening wave crashed onto Elizabeth from the opposing benches.

“CORRUPT!”

“RESIGN!”

“IT’S A BETRAYAL!”

“KILL THE BILL!”

The speaker once again demanded order. “Minister, please continue.”

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “I only admit the facts are true. They have been tremendously misconstrued.” The jeers continued at pace, and Elizabeth shouted over them. “At the time this government feel a public private partnership to be in the best interest of the British public, to immediately stop the spread of foreclosures, of homelessness, of this epidemic of unemployment and misery. To get Britain working again, to get Britain building the infrastructure we need—” the shouts became too much.

The speaker demanded everyone be silent. Elizabeth looked remarkably unmoved.

So many nights they’d sparred. Sloppy, drinks in hand, screaming themselves hoarse over a jam jar lid left out, damp towels in the closet, Mike’s lack of ambition. How messy and ridiculous it always was. If she could be so composed here, in the face of all this, why not at home?

“—Madam Speaker, Britain needs clean energy. As evidenced by the recent blackouts, we need more energy, more than ever. But we’re not blind to the optics of the situation. Given the appearance of impropriety I will take this away to discuss with my office, with the Cabinet, and with the Prime Minister, with a view to shelving this bill until it can be properly re-drafted.”

A surprise uproar of cheers from the opposition bench, including Cass, who rose instantly to her feet, cheering. They were clearly not expecting this. Nor was anyone, given the extremely angry shouts from behind Elizabeth. Mike had assumed they were on Elizabeth’s side, as they were quite literally on her side. But in that moment, she appeared to stand alone. The speaker thanked Alastair several times but he remained standing in place.

“Madam Speaker one follow-up,” he said. The speaker nodded. “I’m sure all the members do appreciate the minister’s agreement to consider a re-draft of this bill. I personally do appreciate it. Can we ask that when doing so, would the minister and her staff please do their best to recall this time in 1833, the Parliament of Great Britain passed a bill in this very chamber, titled the Slavery Abolition Act!”

A cacophony of shouts and jeers came from all sides. Elizabeth’s mouth was open, her head askew. She was aghast. The speaker shouted desperately for order. Mike felt his stomach tie in knots. All the blood rushed from his head. He felt faint. He leaned back in his seat, sliding his feet back and forth across the wooden floor. He pushed his hands back and forth along the fabric of his trousers. He closed his eyes and waited for it all to end.

A hand touched his shoulder. He jolted sharply. “Jesus christ!” came the startled voice of Cass behind him. He wasn’t sure how long it had been. Other business seemed to be going on in the chamber below now. Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen.

“Sorry, sorry, I must’ve spaced out.” He looked and saw who it was. “Excuse me, excuse me, what the absolute fuck—” Mike was interrupted by Cass raising a finger to him.

“Not here.” She squeezed his shoulder and lifted, and he stood to follow. They eventually found themselves back outside, once again on the street. Anger and confusion swirled through Mike’s brain, but he felt as if he were on rails, unable to deviate or even speak for himself, as this woman appeared to lead him to a Westminster pub.

He followed her through the door, not even knowing the name of the pub or the street they were on and feeling unable to go his own way — partly from curiosity, partly from intimidation, and mostly due to the fact that she still had his phone. Maybe she’d planned that bit to ensure this bit happened. But now, in a snug at the back, he sat barely a foot away from her. He parted his lips to speak, but his throat felt so dry. By the time he found any words, she pointed at him. “Lager?”

“Um, sure.”

She nodded and excused herself to the bar. And so, he sat there alone in the tiny, oaken snug in a pub he didn’t know the name of, with a woman he’d only just met, desperately worried about what was happening with his wife. He craned around a wooden pole to see the television hanging in the corner. He could make out a clip playing, video of where they just were. The text on the bottom of the screen read “SOURCES: WORKS MINISTER LIZ MARSH HAS ‘GONE ROGUE’, WORKS BILL WILL NOT BE WITHDRAWN.” He felt flush.

Two pints of lager landed on the table in front of him, and Cass slid into the booth, blocking his view of the television. He immediately picked up his pint and took a sip, then a bigger gulp. He put it down and sighed, looking down at the glass. When he finally looked up, Cass had set her pint down half-gone. Mike tried to chuckle, but it came out as a cough. He took another gulp. “Miss, can you please tell me what the hell was going on today? The TV says Beth’s ‘gone rogue?’”

Cass put her head in her hands. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“Then why are we here?” Mike was extremely uneasy. He needed to assert himself. Gain control of the situation. “I need my phone back. Right now.”

“Please, I just need to keep us off the grid for a bit. I promise it’s⁠—”

“You can’t just keep my phone,” Mike fired back anxiously. “That’s, that’s theft. You’ve stolen it!”

“Stolen what,” she answered with a grim smile. “Give me one second, though.”

Mike slumped back into the booth. He wrapped his hands around the bottom of his pint. Cass had produced her phone and was tapping away on it. He sat helplessly and watched her. Over Cass’s shoulder he could see the TV was now showing some kind of sport. Useless. He was in a total information blackout. He sighed and pouted, rotating his glass quarter-turns between his palms, over and over and over. Cass finally glared up at him. “Can you please stop? That’s extremely annoying.”

“You sound like Beth,” he replied.

Cass flashed a sarcastic grimace and went back to her phone, which was vibrating constantly. “Can you at least tell me everything’s okay with her? This is all very, very bizarre. Please. I’m worried.” She looked up at him over the top of her phone and sighed.

“Mike, right now, your wife has likely been pulled aside in some suite at The Grand Hotel, and she’s being told the consequences of what she’s done today. Her bosses are not going to be happy with her. As you saw, she’s, well, ‘gone rogue.’ There’s a principle called collective responsibility, a minister cannot publicly disagree with the⁠—”

“I’m a graphic artist!” Mike rapped his hand on the table, shouting. “I don’t know any of this shit, okay? Can you not condescend me for five minutes?”

Cass groaned. “Listen. Drink up. We have to talk through some stuff that I really don’t want to have to talk about, and I can’t be sober for it, and maybe you shouldn’t be sober for it either.”