The Final Cut Read Online Free PDF Page B

spots an oasis, only to discover it is a mirage. Power. But not for its own sake, not for a place in the history books like Urquhart, but for now. Today. For all the things that so desperately needed doing and changing.
    Both Brynford-Iones and Digby had a strong interest in change, editor and lobbyist, professional revolutionaries by their trade. Having the world standing still was no more an option for them than it was for him, Makepeace thought. Perhaps they would make useful allies, one day, if war ever came. After his friend Francis had left the field. Or perhaps they would all go to hell together amongst the rogues.
    And then there was laughter. Caesar had made his first appearance on stage with a face adorned with heavy make-up that made him look uncannily like Francis Urquhart. The same long profile. Piercing eyes. Receding silver hair. A straight gash across his face for a mouth. A mask that showed neither mirth nor mercy. The arguments backstage had been long and furious when they had learnt of Urquhart's imminent presence. Harry had argued vociferously for a boycott and threatened to throw his body into all forms of picket lines and protests but, as the property manager had so successfully argued, 'Give it a rest, love. It's been years since your bottom 'alf lived up to the promises of your top 'alf. Bloody years since you last saw your bottom 'alf, I'll bet. Must do it all from memory.'
    So they had compromised. In true thespian tradition the show would go on, laden with a little ideological baggage. Yet Harry, once more sneaking a look from prompt side to test the mettle of his protest, was to be disappointed. The living mask slipped. From his privileged position beside Booza-Pitt at the front of the stage Urquhart, an experienced trouper in any public arena, had spotted the danger and responded. Not only was he leading the laughter but he also made sure that everyone knew it by taking out a white silk handkerchief and wav ing it vigorously at his protegé .
    As the play progressed, Makepeace agonized. Loyalty meant so much, for him it was a political virtue in its own right. Yet he hadn't been sleeping well, a disturbed mind and troubled heart had robbed him of rest, doubts beginning to crowd in on his dreams. And he knew that if he did nothing, simply chafed beneath those doubts, he would lose his dreams as well.
    'The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power . . .'
    Loyalty. But to what? Not just to a single man. Great men have their day, only to find that their reputation must fall from the sky like leaves before the autumn storm.
    'And therefore think him as a serpent's egg which, hatch'd, would, as his kind, grow mischievous . . .'
    Every Prime Minister he'd ever known had demanded too much, been despatched. Sacrificed. Bled. By colleagues.
    And finally the deed was done. 'Et tu, Brute!' An exceptionally pitiless portrayal of the assassination, and at every step Urquhart's handkerchief waved and waved.
    'Sodding man!' Grime snapped as he stamped about the quick-change box helping the deceased Caesar into his ghost's garb.
    'Your little plot didn't work, luvvie,' Julius mocked. 'Didn't you see him? Laughing his bloody head off at us, so he was.'
    'Hold still, Big Julie, or I'll run this pin up your arse,' Harry snapped. 'Anyway, what would you know about plots? The last miserable screenplay you spawned didn't even make it as far as the typist.'
    'It had a few developmental problems,' Julie acknowledged.
    'As much sense of direction as a horse up a hedgehog.'
    'At least I act. You couldn't even play the skull in Hamlet on a good day.'
    'Bitch,' Harry pursed, and subsided.
    In the auditorium the house lights had announced the interval and thunderous applause reflected the audience's appreciation of a production remarkable for its freshness. It had been a long time since anyone could remember laughing so much through a tragedy but, up in the First Gallery, Digby appeared distracted. Makepeace