Three hours later, Truss blinked her sore eyes yet again, still struggling to get a word in edgeways.
”Boris… The quill,” she reminded him forlornly, staring at the blank paper in between them, upon which Boris had yet to write a word.
”Righto, absolutely!” Boris replied enthusiastically, with a charmingly self-effacing grin. “I think what the British people really want, Laura, sorry I mean Liz, is more Latin. Maybe some limericks. Carpe diem and veni, vidi, vinci.”
”I’m sorry?”
”Sieze the day! This is why grammar schools are no good, not enough Latin, don’t know why everyone doesn’t just go to public schools. Righto, now about that Cabinet job. Afraid I have to say no to Foreign Sec, already been there, and as you well know, it’s a job for dum dums. Well, it was when I did it. ”
”But I didn’t offer—“
”It’ll have to be Chancellor. We can be the new Blair-Brown team! Except, erm, without the, you know, strong leadership and boring geeky numbers, maths never was my strong point.”
“You want to be a Chancellor who doesn’t do numbers?”
”Cracking idea, old chum. Cogito, ergo sum.”
”Are you sure about that?”
”Whatever. Look, veni, vidi, vinci. I came, I saw, I conquered.”
Truss’ restraint finally snapped. “But you didn’t! What did you conquer?! You only got voted in because the other candidate was Corbyn and he only got made leader because half the Tory party paid £3 to join Labour for a laugh! Look.” She rubbed her sore eyes. “I get you supporting ‘remain’ then switching at last minute to ‘leave’ when it became more popular to do that, so did I. I even get the whole hard Brexit thing, who wants freedom of movement and goods? Europe is jolly awful for holidays, a disgrace, and I never buy foreign stuff. But… The illegal prorugation? The disastrous mismanagement of the pandemic? The lockdown parties? The lying about the parties? The lying about lying about the parties? What exactly, Boris, did you ‘conquer’?”
He looked thoughtful for a moment, the scribbled something on the paper with the quill. “Bloody hell!” bellowed Boris, peering at his hand. “Something about this quill is jolly odd. My hand stings like the devil. And there’s something written on it…”
”What does it say on your hand?” asked Truss firmly, determined to take back control of the conversation.
Boris peered at his sore hand. “It seems to be a doodle of a willy. Jolly odd.”
“Avada Kedavra!” A voice shrieked from
the hall, and a blaze of green light filled the room.
Truss blinked, her eyes dazzled. As the light faded, she could just make out a silhouette in the doorway. It was Teresa May, staring scornfully into the room, eyes blazing. Ms May was elegant as always, her pencil skirt, smart jacket and kitten heels concealing the kind of competence and integrity rarely seen, and never appreciated, in Downing Street. Another unusual thing was the wand in Ms May’s outstretched hand.
”Theresa?” gasped Truss.
May replied with a sharp nod. “Just came to say goodbye to Boris. Now I’m off to Ibiza. Because fuck this shit.”