Psefisato

By Philip Hemplow

Freddie Lloyd is a fixer for the British Establishment, working quietly behind the scenes to protect the realm. However, when the Secretary of Defence is possessed by a demon from Hell, even his considerable abilities are tested to their limit. Forced into an uneasy alliance with an evangelical billionaire who claims to have the resources to prevent Armageddon, Freddie must decide who can be trusted and who is doing the devil's work...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Hemplow
• Release date: Jul 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215563205

Book preview

Psefisato

Philip Hemplow

cover art by Fernando JFL

Copyright © 2023 Philip Hemplow

All rights reserved.

PSEFISATO

by Philip Hemplow

We have a problem with the Member for Lichwood and Powl.

The Chief Whip’s voice seemed uncharacteristically tense, his usual laconic drawl inflected by the merest hint of stress. Freddie Lloyd’s eyes narrowed, flicking from his monitor to the speaker phone next to it.

The Defence Secretary? I know you do: he’s an absolute cretin.

No, not that! snapped his caller. "Well, yes, that, obviously—but a rather more burning issue has come up today. I’m told he’s throwing things around in his office. Any chance you could be a splendid fellow, pop over to MoD, and take care of it?"

Chucking stuff about sounds entirely like a Party disciplinary matter, Andrew. I can’t get involved in that stuff. You know that.

Yes, but they’re saying he’s taken the Chief of the Defence Staff hostage, as well. Surely that makes it a security issue? Really, we’d be awfully grateful. I’m down at Chequers and—

I’m sorry, did you say ‘taken hostage?’

Yes. Look, the whole situation seems a bit confused, and I’m not really clear on the details. Someone needs to get over there and take charge of things, just until I get back. Any chance, Freddie? Special favour to me? Thanks of a grateful nation and all that?

Lloyd looked at the rain driving against his office window. It was a grim morning with no sign of the sun. Street lamps and the headlights of cars on Lambeth Bridge still burned in the squall. He had only just got the feeling in his fingers back, after cycling in. The thought of going back out in the cold made him squirm with reluctance. Her Majesty’s Right Honourable Secretary of State for Defence was probably just drunk, anyway. Drunk or, more likely, off his tits on cocaine.

Give me strength, Andrew. Where do you find these berks?

Eton, mostly. This one’s Charterhouse though. Listen, thanks so much! I’ll make it up to you. We’ll do supper at the weekend or something.

Well, hang on just a—

He was too late. The light on the phone had turned from green to red, letting him know the Chief Whip had disconnected.

Bloody cheek!

Lloyd took his time, scrolling through the rest of his inbox while he finished his coffee, making sure there was nothing in it that would trump the Defence Secretary’s indiscretions. Having established there wasn’t, he reluctantly donned his still-damp coat and hat, and made ready to leave.

His secretary looked up in surprise as he passed through the outer office.

I’ll be over at Defence, he told her. Unofficially. Better move my calls.

When will you be back? she wanted to know.

Just as soon as the good Minister has recovered his equanimity.

How long is that going to take?

Quite possibly the rest of his career. Don’t worry, I’ll be back before lunch. It’s just a storm in a teacup.

He had never been more wrong.

***

Every politician had a vice. Many had several. In Lloyd’s experience, it was a life that tended to attract deeply abnormal individuals. Many exhibited nearly insatiable appetites for sex or narcotics. Others were unable to resist the lure of money. Sometimes, by the time they’d been through comprehensive media training, lust, avarice, and acquisitiveness were the only recognisably-human impulses left to them.

Others were more complex and unpredictable, driven by deep-seated neuroses which manifested as fetishes for betrayal, shame, or control. Then there were the true degenerates, deviants and sadists, eager for corruption, growing steadily worse until they were utterly consumed by a generalised, polymorphous perversion.

As he marched down Victoria Embankment in the rain, past Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster, Lloyd tried to remember which category the Secretary of State for Defence fell into.

So far as he could recall, Aubrey Crentice was just a profoundly stupid middle-aged careerist, with a Europhobic column in the Express, a few part-time directorships, and a face like a badly-peeled potato. According to the whips, he was a sexual voyeur, but with sufficient discipline to keep himself out of the tabloids. The expenses scandal had left him largely unscathed, save some gentle ribbing for spending taxpayer’s money on swimming trunks and, somewhat inexplicably, a scarecrow. He had made an idiot of himself about the Black Lives Matter and #MeToo movements, naturally, but, overall, he didn’t seem the type to melt down for no reason. Lloyd found himself growing curious about what had inspired that morning’s aberration.

An unexpected zigzag of lightning split the clouds overhead as he approached Whitehall Gardens. As if upping its game in response, the rainfall increased in intensity too, bringing the Thames to a sibilant simmer. Overhead, the clouds thickened, plunging London into an even murkier gloom.

In front of him, the MoD building’s ramparts of Portland stone jutted into the sky like a row of caried teeth. To his right, the rain-slick black leogryph atop the Chindit memorial gleamed in the flash of another lightning bolt. A sudden, freezing wind sent fallen leaves and fast food wrappers whirling about the gardens, and drove the rain harder against Lloyd’s umbrella. He quickened his pace, eager to be indoors again.

His pass conferred enough authority for him to clear security without inspection, but did not impress the receptionist.

I don’t have you on the list. What are you here for? she demanded to know, handing it back to him.

I’m here to see the Minister. Kindly tell me where he is.

Does he know you’re coming?

It doesn’t matter. Is he in his office? I’ll just go up.

Lloyd took a step in the direction of the elevators.

I don’t think he’s there. If you hold on, I’ll call his Comms Director and find out.

Yes, do that, please, and find out if the Chief of the Defence Staff is still with him, too.

She punched buttons on her phone and gabbled into her headset, gazing listlessly at him while she spoke.

"Connie—it’s Evie on the front desk. Yes. Yes. Is the Minister—did he? Oh, no. Oh dear. So, is that—I