pads of oil across the narrowest section of the Strait of Hormuz, rendering this crucial shipping lane impassable. Yesterday’s talk was all about how an oil stoppage was going to affect the UK - what exactly this all means to me and mine.
Clumsy misdirection. Adam was sure that, no matter how much everyone cared passionately about our boys trapped abroad, what they really wanted to know was exactly how screwed are we here in the UK?
Charles Harrison rounded his prepared speech off with some assurances that order was going to be maintained and all possible measures were being put into place to minimise the economic damage done.
Adam was surprised to hear no mention of any ‘safe zones’ being set up, or of the implementation of any sort of martial law. Perhaps that was going to come later? Perhaps what was needed right now were some calming assurances, not the announcement of a raft of specific emergency measures.
He realised the PM was doing his best not to spook the press or the general public. No one’s ready for a stampede, for a mass panic. This is about buying another twenty-four . . . forty-eight hours of prep-time.
Adam looked at his men.
It’s about getting more army boots back on the ground first.
The PM rounded off and then opened the floor to questions.
They came in noisy volleys. The first few he answered calmly with more assurances that this was a blip that the UK was well-placed to ride out. Then Adam heard one of the assembled journalists cut in - a sharp female voice that sounded as if it had already been spoon-fed enough bullshit for one morning - with a question specifically about how much stockpiled oil and food was on UK soil right now.
The Prime Minister blanched.
‘How long, Prime Minister?’ the journalist asked again, the press room silent. ‘How long can we feed ourselves whilst this oil crisis is playing out?’
Harrison froze for too long with a rabbit-in-the-headlights expression on his face.
Shit, that looks bad.
‘Twat,’ one of the gunners muttered. ‘He doesn’t fucking know.’
‘Look . . . th-there really is no need for anyone to panic,’ the Prime Minister replied, his voice wobbling uncertainly. ‘There has been a lot of planning, a lot of forward thinking about a scenario like this.’
A shouted question from the back of the press room. ‘Prime Minister, is the army being brought back to enforce martial law?’
A pause. Another too-long pause. They listened to dead air for nearly ten seconds.
‘All right.’ Despite the small tinny sound of the television’s speaker, Adam could detect that the Prime Minister sounded tired, resigned. ‘All right . . . look, that’s probably enough crap for one day. So, I’m going to tell you how it is.’
Adam and Bushey looked at each other.
Did the PM really just say ‘crap’?
‘The truth is, everyone, the truth is . . . we are in a bit of trouble. Whilst this mess is sorting itself out we’re going to have to make do with the resources we have. I’m afraid nothing is going to be coming into the UK for several weeks. So we’re all going to have to work together. We are going to need to ration the food that is out there in the supermarkets, corner shops, warehouses, grocery stores. Food vendors are going to be asked to cease trading as of now. We’re also locking down the sale of petrol and diesel from this point on. That has to be reserved for key personnel and emergency services.’
The Prime Minister paused for breath. It was silent except for the rustle of an uneasy press audience stirring. Adam noticed a subtle tic in the man’s face. He looked like someone on the very edge of a nervous breakdown.
‘Look, it’s going to be a very difficult few weeks . . . perhaps months. But, if we all pull together, like we did once before, during the Second World War . . . we’re going to be just fine. If we panic, if people start hoarding food and water . . . then . . .’ His voice faded.
Prime Minister Charles Harrison suddenly stepped away from the podium, knocking a microphone clumsily with his arm. He walked quickly to the press room door flanked by his advisor and a bodyguard. The stunned silence was filled a second later with an uproar of questions shouted at the Prime Minister’s back, as the Home Secretary replaced him at the podium and attempted to call the press conference to