The Monster At Home, Chapter Two

Outside, the country is falling to pieces. In between MRIs, pin prick tests and catheter cleanings, Juliet watches the news on television.

One of the security detail tells her in a whisper that Harry's been arrested. She nods stoically, but the back of her throat burns when she tries to swallow. Gallant, foolish Harry Pearce. She hopes they don't make him suffer.

She wonders, idly, if any of the hospital staff might be in Collingwood's employ. Not that there's anything she can do to defend herself, if so. A toxin surreptitiously added to her drip might very well succeed in achieving what the car bomb failed to do. Then again, perhaps not. After all, Collingwood and Sir Jocelyn hadn't even bothered approaching her to see if she would join them. That either meant they knew better -- in which case she hadn't done a good enough job cultivating her right-wing reputation -- or that they thought her irrelevant.

Strictly speaking, the former explanation should be more of a worry. Somehow, however, it's the latter that stings more.

***

She hasn't had visitors for quite some time now. Everyone she knows is in hiding or out in the streets. Even the hospital seems nearly empty; the few staff who pass by her room are silent and fearful. They forget to bring her lunch, but she's not hungry anyway.

When the police begin herding the protest marchers to slaughter, she mutes the sound but can't quite make herself turn off the set. Instead, she keeps watching, fingers tight around the remote control, while she whispers obscenities to herself. Then, somehow, nothing happens, and the tension slowly dissipates, floating away like the remnants of tear gas that drift off in the breeze.

She turns the sound back up, but the announcers are as confused as she is. All she can tell is that it's over. Over. Just like that. She's not sure how, and she hates not knowing. It's her business to know things. It's her business to know everything. Not knowing is impotence, insignificance -- paralysis.

An apologetic attendant finally carries in a dinner tray. She switches off the television and stares into space until the food grows cold.

***

Eventually, she ceases to be an afterthought, and a trail of visitors forms to deliver flowers, well wishes, and briefings. The last comes across more as ritual courtesy than anything else; the planet has resumed its regular rotation, but she remains trapped in stasis.

The Home Secretary is one of the first to stop by. His face is ruddy with triumph and mutual congratulations, as if the two of them had accomplished something other than being rendered superfluous. Like him, she'll gladly take credit for helping thwart the coup; that's just political common sense. The difference between them is that he actually believes it's true.

He is, however, full of useful details that the others have omitted. "Ros Myers switched sides at the eleventh hour," he tells her, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "According to Adam Carter, she was instrumental in bringing things to a peaceful conclusion."

How very heart-warming. The contemptible woman had no qualms about installing a Latin American-style dictatorship, but apparently the prospect of bloodshed made her squeamish. Was backing out of the plot at the last possible moment supposed to make up for everything else? Turn her from a criminal into a heroine, just because she was too gutless to see her misdeeds through to their ultimate consequences?

Juliet isn't impressed in the least. She actually respects Collingwood more. Madman though he was, he understood that committing to a cause means going all the way. Harry, in contrast, appears to think a lack of conviction is something to be rewarded. He's actually hired Ros. Juliet is appalled, but she'll deal with that later. One Myers at a time.

***

Twenty years for Sir Jocelyn. The PM dithers about offering a deal for half that, but Juliet is adamant.

He can't tell her no. She's a living martyr to democracy, after all. She can tell by the way he rigidly holds his gaze above her shoulders that the mere presence of her wheelchair shames him, rebukes him for his cowardice. In the end, he gives her what she wants, and she lets him believe he's absolved.

Her weakness is a potent weapon. She intends to make the most of it, even as sensation seeps back into her thighs like a prickling tide.

***

Her muscles are atrophied from lack of use. With the physiotherapist, she makes a token effort at doing the mobility training drills, but quickly pleads exhaustion. "At least you can get in and out of the wheelchair without assistance," he says, with a cheerfulness more mechanical than genuine. He dutifully notes her lack of progress in her medical chart, all too willing to let her give up.

At night, however, she lies propped up in bed religiously doing every exercise. After weeks of trying, she manages to flex the muscles around her knees. She repeats the movement so many times she nearly vomits with the effort. When the cramps bring her to tears, she stops -- but only long enough to wipe her eyes.

Sir Jocelyn will die in his prison. She vows to escape hers.

***

"I don't need your pity," she tells Harry during her first week back at work, and perhaps with him, it's true. But in fact, pity is precisely what she counts on.

She wheels around Whitehall at whim, free as a ghost who can pass through walls. She's become utterly invisible, not because they don't notice her, but because they're trying so hard to pretend that there's nothing to notice.

Being invisible means no one asks questions. Being invisible means she acts with impunity. Being invisible means she can go places and look at things that she really has no right to.

It opens her mind to new opportunities.

For Yalta, in particular.

She sees now that they've lacked the proper ambition. They thought it was enough to worm their way into positions of power; they assumed that afterwards, as insiders, they could change the course of history by the miraculous effect of moral suasion. In reality, all their supposed influence has accomplished nothing. They're little more than a glorified debating society, dressed up with a clever name and a secret handshake. She's disappointed in them -- no, to be honest, in herself -- for having harboured such a passive, utopian fantasy.

It took her enemies to teach her another, nobler way. A way of action, rather than of wishful thinking. Sir Jocelyn, Millington, Collingwood: they may have been morally wrong, but they were also bold. They knew what they wanted, and they risked everything to achieve it. They failed, true -- but only just.

Her gamble is going to outdo even theirs in sheer audacity. She might fail, too, but failing is better than merely pretending to try.

***

Certain members of Yalta express discomfort with her new vision. "Incompatible with our principles," some protest. "Crossing a dangerous line," argue others. She concludes, most reluctantly, that these doubters must be silenced. She doesn't want to hurt anyone, least of all comrades, but there's too much at stake to tolerate dissent.

"Did you hear about Campbell?" Harry asks as he escorts her from a late-morning meeting with the DG.

"Shocking," she says. "Whatever possessed him to drive in such a bad storm? I always thought he had more sense."

"As did I." He presses the button to summon the lift, then gives her a downwards glance. "You didn't have him killed for some nefarious reason you're not telling me about, did you?" His mouth twists in a repressed smile.

"Oh, Harry," she says, placing her hand above her heart, "I'm touched that you think I still have it in me to be nefarious."

They both laugh, and he drops the subject.

Such a pity she can't recruit him. Yet. But there's really no need at the moment. He's fighting the good fight right out in the open, and he's more valuable there than anywhere else. She'll bring him on later, after she racks up a few victories -- maybe even a few at his expense -- and they'll have a good laugh together at how long she fooled everyone. It will be like old times. She misses those days, more than she likes to admit. They were young and thought themselves invincible, and lying for a living -- much like lying to their spouses, much like lying to each other -- was just a droll little game.

No longer young, and far from invincible, she's lost her taste for games.

The lift arrives with a ding and a rumble of opening doors, and she waves him off. "I know how to see myself out."

To her secret disappointment, he stands back and allows her to roll away by herself.

***

At home, she's had a treadmill installed. In the evenings, she straps braces on her legs and drags herself along in agonising, slow-motion steps. She barely manages to cover any distance to speak of, but the effort makes her gasp and sweat like a marathon runner.

Across the room, a news report drones. Flooding has devastated parts of Costa Rica for the second week in a row; a rail workers strike looms in Italy; rising unemployment figures are no cause for alarm, claims the Chancellor. Juliet only halfway pays attention, until a familiar face flashes across the screen.

"The Court of Appeal has upheld the record twenty-year sentence of energy magnate Sir Jocelyn Myers for accounting fraud and tax evasion," announces the newsreader. "Myers had pleaded guilty in a bid for leniency, and appealed the sentence as disproportionate. He's scheduled to begin serving his prison term next week."

She should feel vindicated. And she does, but she also feels unexpectedly sorry for the man. He'd come so close to victory, yet when he reached that final step below the summit, he stopped in his tracks and headed back down. Whether it was out of fear, a twinge of conscience, his love for his daughter, or whatever other human weakness might have made him hesitate, Juliet will never know for sure.

She can't allow herself that sort of weakness. She won't allow herself that sort of weakness. She won't allow herself any weakness.

With renewed determination, she increases her pace, but her foot lands at an odd angle. She lacks the ankle strength to compensate, so she topples to one side and starts to fall. Just in time, she catches herself on the handrail. She hangs there for a few moments, panting with exertion, then grits her teeth and hauls herself up to begin again.

She'll begin again as many times as it takes.