The Masque of the Red-Faced Boris

This is the twelfth entry in the satirical series at https://www.abctales.com/collection/pandemic-tales-bojo-and-co

 

The Masque of the Red-Faced Boris

It had been a hard year and a drink was well deserved. At least that’s what the erstwhile politician thought. Hunched over the bar, his brown sackcloth cowl masked his face keeping his identity a secret. For Now. The man’s eyes scanned across optics and glass panels on a back wall, looking for a barman. A young man on duty wondered whether he recognised the round, stooped shoulders of what looked like a rotund character.

“Can I have an…um….yes….how about a scotch on the rocks?” The accent was old-Etonian and bumbled in a vaguely recognisable voice.

“Coming up. Don’t I know you?”

“I shouldn’t think so, young man. I’m here having an…um….quiet drink don’tcha know….and would appreciate some privacy.” With that, the barfly shook his head and dust drifted down onto the wooden surface.

“PM…is that you?” A voice from behind prompted the large man to spin around on his stool.

A pudgy faced-individual with round-rimmed glasses dressed in a sharp, black jacket, white shirt and tie was peering at the faux monk, his neck craning with effort to see through the disguise.

“Oh it’s no good is it? I’m just too bleddy famous.” With that the hood was flipped back over his head down using both hands and an equally pudgy-faced individual with blond hair and twinkling eyes stood up.

“Ah I knew it was you. I could tell by your deportment. Of course, I should correct myself and say former pm.” This drew a wince from the now standing man.

“So how are you, Michael? I hear you have moved onwards and upwards. Aren’t you still the face of a major tyre company? Michael Gove – Michelin Man.”

Michael glowered.

“No former PM. That was just a malicious story circulated by enemies of mine. In fact…come to think of it….by you.” The blond haired man chuckled.

“As you well know, I am kept busy as Secretary of State for Levelling Up. We should be starting work on things….” he stared down at his watch “….probably sometime soon. Yes very, very soon. All I need is maps showing towns and cities north of Watford. The atlases in the Parliamentary archives haven’t been updated in centuries.” 

“Well you…um…oh….might want to get a move on….HS2 has already been squashed by Squishy Rishi in the Grim North. I see he was buying mince pies for front line workers in London the other day. I suppose it’s better than a round of applause on his doorstep.” The squat parliamentarian’s eyes lit up with mischief. He winked at a female glass collector as she brushed past eliciting an eye roll from the young girl.

“Goodness gracious me. Is that Boris?” The question came from a man returning from the toilet and was re-joining Michael Gove. He was wearing an olive-green waistcoat, beige-coloured trousers and wide-brimmed hat.

“Now Matt…um… come on….you came out of the jungle some time ago. Move on, sir.”

In a snug, a solo drinker sat a small table with a copy of The Times newspaper opened wide so that it covered his face. His head was leaning to the side so that he could see the men at the bar, a laptop with “Dom’s Blog” strung out across the screen humming close at hand next to a half-full pint glass. He brushed his hand through thinning strands of hair, a sneer across his former mandarin lips. A mobile phone lay prone by the laptop with the recording function active. From here, it could pick up every word of the conversation nearby.

The Red Lion was getting busy. A pub full of old world character, it was a charming place with low ceilings, old oak beams, open fires and brass horse shoes hanging on timber pillars. Tonight was a ticket-only affair and optional fancy dress to celebrate the eve of a new year. Through the squared-leaded front door came a group of four girls in various guises including Harley Quinn from the DC comic, superhero universe. Trailing after them was a man in his twenties dressed as Batman who immediately sought out friends whilst, right behind him, two women wearing dark purple capes with high collars swept in from the cold. The temperature in the pub seemed to drop a couple of degrees with their arrival.

“Ah…here comes Priti and Suella….otherwise known as the Cruella twins.” Matt stared at the approaching creatures of the night, his gaze drawn to the specks of dried blood just visible on their lips. Amulets dangled from gold chains around their necks.

“I see you..um….have been busy already this evening ladies. Can I get you both a drink? Bloody Mary, perhaps?” The blond-haired man shifted uncomfortably as the latter-day vampires glared back at the quip.

“Have you noticed a trend with former home secretaries?” Michael whispered to Matt half smiling.

“Good to see you Boris, Michael, Matt. Yes, gin sling for me and, I believe, a nice big goblet of fresh blood for my associate.”

For a few seconds there was silence before Priti chimed in.

“Only kidding. That will be a gin and tonic for the lovely Cruella. I mean Suella, of course.” A wicked leer fanned out across her dark features.

As Boris turned to order, he noticed a tall, spectral figure adorned in a garish red robe drifting around small groups of revellers on the other side of the pub. It was as though it was gliding, its face completely hidden under a hood. The sight sent a shiver down his spine. There was something sinister about whoever was under that disguise.

“So how are things with the Covid Inquiry?” Michael Gove’s expression was lofty with the smugness that he wasn’t in the firing line for blame; certainly not compared to Matt and Boris.

The young bartender from earlier finished pouring another pint for the loquacious, previously right honourable member and added it to the neatly compiled round of drinks now sitting on a silver platter.

Matt’s eyes lit up at the thought of being in the public spotlight again. Underneath his fatigues he wore a Superman tee-shirt that reminded him of his constant efforts to save lives during the Pandemic. He knew the public adored him, even more so after his efforts in the Australian jungle.

“All I can say is…it’s a good job I clear out my WhatsApp messages. Some of those exchanges were a tad incriminating; especially the ones awarding the PPE contracts.” Sounding as nasal as ever, Matt visibly exhaled with relief.  Boris looked pained.

Matt continued in a hushed tone “It’s a good job that balding gnome isn’t around listening to this. I’m sure he would use stuff like this against us.” A few yards away a newspaper rustled, the hands holding it trembling with anger.

“Yes....um….oh….yes….” The hero of Brexit stood looking dazed and confused. It had been a long time since declaring that he would rather die in a ditch than fail to deliver Brexit. Memories flooded back of weighing up the financial consequences of leaving the EU on the back of packet of Benson & Hedges cigarettes whilst on the tube journey into work one morning. Maths had never been his strong suit.

The gathering of politicians glanced at each other concerned for their colleague’s welfare.

Michael Gove gently took the crook of the blond man’s arm.

“Is it time for your medication, former PM?

The offer of help was repudiated with a theatrical brush off.

“Um…no…I was just thinking about that diagram on the whiteboard. The one where consideration was being given to who should be saved from the virus. Um….people grouped by age and….oh…..yes….those old, crinkly non-contributors to the economy….and….ah..”

“It’s best forgotten, sir. Along with all those non-parties that happened. The pics taken with you grinning and holding a glass of champers to a packed room full of government employees were all part of a frame up. I appreciate there were numerous photos of numerous parties but I’m sure they didn’t tell the real story.” Michael Gove smiled as he replayed in his head the verdict of the panel that had investigated potential parliamentary breaches of conduct.

Meanwhile, the scarlet-robed figure continued to meander serenely, carving a path through party people talking loudly and swapping anecdotes related to Yuletide and life in general. Nobody took much notice of the wraith; it blended into the background in a similar way to its first experience of life after escaping from a laboratory.

“How are things now that you are a Dame then Priti? There’s nothing like a dame…nothing like a dame.” Kneeling with a jazz hands flourish, the last sentence was sung in an off-key tone that made the entire group grimace. Michael Gove was better known for his dancing in night clubs than his singing in pubs.

“Oh..I like it well enough, Plenty of fresh victi….people to meet and help.” Priti seemed to be shaded in her own shadow. Light danced on the tips of her fangs.

Again the group grimaced.

The balding figure continued to earwig knowing that he was recording most of what was being said. He had already explained himself at the Covid Inquiry. Yes, the trip to Barnard Castle had been ill conceived and his conduct in the Rose Garden to explain things afterwards had been tacitly passive aggressive but he had always been trying to do his best. Not like those parasites in government. His conscience was clear. All he lived for now was to bring BoJo down to the lowest point he could. Although marrying Carrie Antoinette had done much of his work for him.

Once more the attention of the blond parliamentarian wandered. His eyes were drawn to the figure in the blood-red robe. Like a moth to a flame, he excused himself and shuffled over to the other side of the packed pub. As he left, a mental image of a slug leaving behind a trail of slime trekked through Michael Gove’s mind. He knew it was disloyal to think that way but disloyalty was the essence of politics.

The route was busy with merry-makers. Pints were being drunk, shorts consumed, flutes of champagne quaffed by men and women of all ages. Before he knew it, he was clear of human traffic and waiting in a quiet corner by the toilets was the ethereal, floating figure now hovering inert.

Boris peered at the robed figure as it silently bobbed up and down facing him. On closer inspection, it was wearing a skull mask that made it look a bit like Skelator from Masters of the Universe. Tension was tangible, a deep-rooted fear that was surfacing from inside. He always knew that things would finally catch up with him and a day of reckoning was overdue.

Inside the scarlet costume, millions of microscopic particles ebbed and flowed, greedy in their thirst for revenge. They wanted the portly former premier; they wanted him so badly. They had come close to claiming him as a victim once.  So close. This time there would be no second chances. A stream of disease flowed from its mouth. It headed straight for the tunnel-like dimensions of the man called Boris’s throat.

“POINT OF ORDER. NOOOOOO. PLEASE DESIST AND MOVE AWAY FROM THE FAT MAN.”

The voice resounded with authority. Wearing a judge’s black cape complete with court wig, an intimidating woman with red hair stepped in between the whirling virus and the frozen politician.

The invisible train of death was about to enter the large man’s mouth but was now static. It had heard the remonstration and thought more about the demand. It had waited so long already. There was time; always more time. With so many brothers and sisters around the world it was here to stay and decided to delay. Things could wait and, besides, this woman looked scarier than it was. The swarm swooped into the air looking like an infinitesimally small murmuration of starlings and out of the pub. The red cloak fell to the floor.

“Um….Baroness Hallett. What brings you here?” The question was loaded with apprehension.

“There will be NO retribution from anyone or anything until due process has been served and the Covid Inquiry completed.”

Boris peered back at the esteemed interloper and quietly mouthed “Bugger”.

 

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

 

Image free to use via WikiCommons at: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Phantomtechnicolor.jpg