
Tony Trubeard had been detained too long at his majesty’s pleasure. That, at least, was his own verdict when he was at last released from custody three whole months after the coronation of said majesty. Tony’s release was an inconspicuous event. The unmarked police car had dropped him off at the pavement outside a very ordinary-looking terrace house in Newton Aycliffe, the address he had always given as home during his incarceration and countless interviews. The two policemen watched as Tony walked up the short path, made to search for the key in his small duffle bag until the door was opened from the inside, and then slipped across the threshold. Finally. Away from the gaze of the United Kingdom law-enforcement agents. There were no paparazzi, no reporters. The general public had no knowledge of Tony Trubeard; few people had even noticed his quiet removal from Westminster Abbey on the 6th of May 2023 or his absence from society in the meantime; no one knew how close King Charles’ coronation might have come to disaster.
Later that evening at the King’s Head, his aptly named local pub, Tony and a handful of friends sat at a table in a secluded corner. He didn’t have many of them, friends or family, but some had dropped their plans and joined this impromptu gathering. Even his brother Michael drove up from Halifax in response to Tony’s brief text. They were curious to hear of the escapades of this so unlikely terrorist. A police car, a different one now, was parked outside the pub, their occupants condemned to a dreary vigil.
“Three months!” Tony complained over the rim of his pint glass. “That’s three months of my life – gone.”
“What life?” they teased.
Tony scowled. Little did they know. But his invitation to attend the coronation ceremony down in London at Westminster Abbey had been highly improbable by anyone’s expectation. He had no royal blood, he was no dignitary, and he was certainly no cultural icon. It was the charity for whom he sometimes did some voluntary work, The Northern Veteran’s Society, that had received the invitation by virtue of its rather obscure but nevertheless royal patronage. A Society representative was invited to join the ranks of those favoured with a seat in the Abbey. Tony had not been the preferred person to go – there were far more deserving, and frankly, more attractive candidates within the charity for such a high-profile appearance. Perhaps it was his recent insistence on going to London to view the late Queen’s coffin and to stand long in the streets for the funeral procession, or the way he featured royalty in his blogs. Still, he was small fry in every respect. But when Linda Ribsdale had been forced to pull out because of some unmentionable medical condition, Tony was elated and emboldened to find himself her appointed replacement. Amazing! His appointment with destiny. After a swiftly obtained clearance, he was on the train down country for the coronation weekend, personal invitation in hand.
Tony met Layla at breakfast in the hotel in Westminster early on Saturday morning, coronation day. It was a tiny room in the Premier Inn Hub just off Victoria Street that Linda had booked months previously and then transferred to Tony, but it was wonderfully located. He had intended to grab a coffee-to-go at Pret, to wander the streets of central London, ponder the imminent events, psych himself up, and take in the excitement. But the weather was gloomy, and when he caught sight of Layla in the restaurant, he felt a sudden craving for bacon and beans. The young lady immediately fascinated him. She sat alone, minding her own business, eating a bagel with such elegant poise that he could hardly take his eyes off her, or the bagel. She was certainly not unattractive, dressed to go out, made up in tasteful moderation, face and complexion that spoke of some more exotic heritage than his own, Middle Eastern perhaps.
Tony hastily filled a plate with the nearest fare. “Do you mind if I sit at your table?” he said. “You’ll excuse me, but do we know each other?”
This was hardly the most original of openers. It was not just a clumsy chat-up line: he did have an inkling that he recognised the lady. She showed no recognition, but neither dismay nor disdain as he took his seat opposite, clattering his plate loudly to the table and sending a sticky pastry sliding towards her. He was rough and ready, still in stained track suit bottoms and ungroomed. He had shaved though. A slight nick on his chin was still bleeding.
“Was it the concert in Hyde Park, perhaps?” she countered gallantly, and smiled. It was a smile that was to stay with him for a long time.
No, it hadn’t been. Tony introduced himself and apologised for the imposition. Despite his appearance and clumsiness, he was disarmingly polite and assured in speech. She set down her bagel, wiped her lips delicately and introduced herself as Layla Revantholt. She was, of course, in town for the coronation.
“Celebrating alone?”
Layla smiled again, showing perfect white teeth. “Well, yes, I suppose. But not really alone – I’ll be in the Abbey. I have an invitation. Representing my organisation.”
“Well, fancy that!” It was Tony’s turn to smile.
So it was that their brief acquaintanceship started. He forgot exactly whom she worked for, the name didn’t mean anything to him, and it was unlikely to have been the reason he may have known her. Their breakfast conversation was short; they had little time to play with.
Entrance to Westminster Abbey today, though exciting, was likely to take more time than boarding a cheap flight to Mallorca or getting in to watch Boro at the Riverside for a local derby, Tony reckoned. They were not celebrities. At least, he was not. Security would surely be a nightmare, something he had mulled over a lot. The coronation proceedings were intricately planned. The doors to Westminster Abbey opened at seven a.m. for the invited congregation of two thousand people, and it was only the prominent ones – royalty, international dignitaries, the most well-known faces among the celebrities – who could arrive later, closer to the absolute sit-down time of 10:45.
Buoyed by Layla’s promise to walk with him to the Abbey, Tony swiftly ascended to his room to transform from layabout to gentlemen. He had hired a suit and assembled various accoutrements suitable for the grand occasion. His phone he lay carefully on the tiny table by his bed, as if it were fragile. He had checked it for any obviously incriminating content, now it was best he left it here. He did have his watch, though, which he wore on his right wrist. It was important to track the time. Its rather over-sized body made it a mite conspicuous, perhaps, but that could not be helped.
They looked quite the elegant couple as they left the Hub. He wore his suit well. Layla sported a red and white dress under her beige mac and strode out purposefully in matching red high heels. Still on time, and close to the Abbey, they could afford to take an indirect route through the streets as they negotiated the gathering, milling crowds. They talked freely and companionably. She was curious about him and kept him speaking for much of the walk until Tony managed to deflect the conversation.
“Pity the weather isn’t better for such a big day,” he said. The sky was a solid sullen grey and there were murky puddles underfoot.
“It’s more than the sky that’s clouding this coronation,” Layla said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that it might not be as nice as people hope. There are forces that want to hijack it.”
“There is always a threat of terrorists trying to get in, I guess,” Tony said, vaguely.
“That’s easy. It’s what’s already inside that’s nasty.”
This was not really what Tony wanted to talk about with Layla. But he let himself drawn in. “Do you think there is someone already inside the Abbey to sabotage the coronation? Or … or inside the very institution?”
“Inside the very institution!” Layla repeated, now the one appearing to be fascinated. She tut-tutted in enjoyment. “My goodness, Tony! What kind of conspiracies are going through your mind? Maybe it’s the King himself, his own worst enemy.”
He should not let himself be drawn in further.
“Let’s save him, then, shall we? God save the King!” she said.
Who was this woman? Was she unhinged, or just inspired? She looked the very picture of elegant, controlled decorum. Was she playing with him? What did she know? Perhaps they had met before after all.
They passed a rowdy group of anti-royalty protesters, holding placards and heckling in the faces of the passing people. They had to make up for their low numbers by shouting and screaming. But dissenters were a disappearing minority in London today. The police were encircling the group. One young man was putting up violent resistance and was being wrestled to the ground by three uniformed officers.
Layla and Tony barely broke stride.
“Maybe you should be protesting with those guys,” Tony suggested, happy for any diversion.
Layla laughed. “No, no, I’m not against the monarchy at all. I’m going to save it, remember.”
Tony wondered if he had not perchance stumbled across some social media personality who loved to provoke to get her clicks. Should he know her from the web? No one in the hotel or in the street seemed to recognise her though. No one spoke to her. He looked back to the disturbance around the group of protesters. Subsequently, it was reported that fifty-two arrests had been made in the city in connection with the coronation. That was not many, all told, but this guy squirming on the ground was one of them. Tony never bothered to find out whether his own detention was included in that number.
Raindrops began to fall. Tony put up the umbrella he had had the foresight to bring, and he held it over both their heads as they quickened their pace. Layla edged closer to his side and took his arm tightly. “And you’re going to do it with me,” she said in his ear.
He was quite sure that was what she had said. He did not want to ask. They were being slowly funnelled into the queue for entrance to the Abbey, showing their invitations and identifications at checkpoints. It was quicker and more efficient than he had expected, though all the time Layla held his arm, interlinked with hers, as if captive. Even after a last toilet break, she found him unerringly. They were in, ready to find their places in the grandeur of the towering cathedral nave, buzzing with excited guests in their finery. Most of those already there were unfamiliar to him, but occasionally he recognised a face from somewhere. The grander the suit or the more flamboyant the hat, the more famous the wearer was.
Westminster Abbey itself was very familiar to Tony. He had visited on several occasions, fascinated as he was with things historical, and particularly of royal import. He had studied the layout of the premises and the security arrangements assiduously, located his assigned seat on the plans and all possible access routes well ahead of time. As they moved forward, his eyes darted around to seek assurance that all appeared to be as anticipated.
He knew he would have to say goodbye to Layla when they split up to find their individual seats. It would be a pity, in a way, but it was for the best. She was still at his side though. He turned to her and smiled, not wanting to appear distracted. “You know where your seat is?”
She smiled in return. “Right next to yours.”
How was that possible? He froze. He blinked. “But how …? Did …?” Finally, he simply said, “What a lovely coincidence!”
Her smile was genuine amusement. “It’s amazing what my staff can do.”
Tony was glad to have to turn his head away from her to see his way between the tightly packed rows of chairs. Misgiving had erased his smile and creased his eyes. He knew he was on a row near the back, to their left, midway up the north side of the nave. His place was, as he expected, next to a pillar, with a gap just wide enough to allow a quick entrance and exit. Snugly to his right, sure enough, Layla’s took her seat.
Once settled, he was once again awe-struck by the realisation of what had happened here over the centuries. It was seventy years since the last coronation, since the young Elisabeth had taken the throne, been crowned, and taken her solemn oaths to church and country, vows that she had so eminently fulfilled. Compared to the deep history of this place, that was only yesterday. The thought gave him peace. And confidence. People would be here today and gone tomorrow. All those coming to this place today, the brave, the erudite, the statesmen, the priests, the entertainers, those that made the world what it was today, were resplendent. Good so. This flourish of life was glorious. But soon we’d fade. Those who were lucky might get a stone engraved in this magnificent monument, like many greats before. What we needed was lasting purpose and the guts to make it happen.
There was music as they waited. And there was the spectacle of the famous stepping down the blue carpet to find their places. That was Katie Perry, he thought, in a striking pink gown and huge matching hat. Emma Thompson and Greg Wise, a couple clearly enjoying themselves. The shock of dishevelled blond hair, yes, was Boris Johnson, Carrie at his side looking coy. Tony looked to his own side, to Layla. They had both been quiet for minutes, watching, thinking. Perhaps this was right after all. Layla was the partner he needed.
Layla sensed his look and turned. There was her smile again. Reassuring now. She took an object from some concealed pocket of her dress and held it in her left hand between their seats. Tony looked down at it, intrigued. She released her grip to reveal a rod-shaped object that fitted comfortably in the curl of her fingers and that was little longer than the width of her hand. It was dark in colour, slick, of a material he could not yet make out. Metal perhaps, wood even, or some composite. Simple, but belying complex technology beneath the exterior. Responsive to touch, pressure, movement, maybe to sound and voice, sensitive even to time and space.
“This is our key,” she said.
“Key to what?” Tony whispered.
“Don’t whisper. Just speak normally. And look normal.” Layla sat upright yet relaxed and confident, nothing surreptitious about her attitude, nothing conspiratorial about her tone of voice.
“There are plenty of cameras in here,” Tony said, making an effort.
“Yes, there are.”
Camaras had been mounted in countless positions throughout the abbey, most of them small and remotely controlled, supplying the outside world, and posterity, with images of the historic proceedings and the illustrious invitees. And of course, these served security too. Most of the pictures of the nave, the seated guests and the processions down the central aisle would be taken from the north side, as well as from back and front, but still Layla and Tony, seated rows back near the north aisle, would not remain unseen by the backstage security people scouring the screens for anything untoward.
“And microphones?”
“Don’t worry about them.”
Tony shot a questioning look at her. She glanced down at the thing in her hand and waved it surreptitiously.
“That …?” he began. “What exactly is that thing? What does it do?”
“This thing, as you say, is powerful,” she said. Then, suddenly but very deliberately, she leant heavily towards him and turned her head so that her mouth was by his right ear. He felt her warmth and the heady sweetness of her scent. “This is all we need,” she breathed. “With this in hand, your job is as good as done.” She kissed him on the cheek and sat back again in her seat, all perfectly naturally.
Tony’s tingle of excitement was edged still with apprehension. He thought quickly. He was ready to entrust himself to this woman. She had been so remarkably put into his path today. She seemed to know his mind and purpose. She was supremely self-assured and in possession of all the faculties he so coveted. And apparently also the equipment. This gadget she held. How had it even passed the security check?
Layla appeared perfectly at ease. For all the world, they looked like old friends, or a couple. Tony had wanted to blend in, be no-one, one of many similarly suited men on a back row. With this beautiful woman by his side and the clock ticking on, though, he felt conspicuous. He craned to scan the rows of people looking at them from the opposite side of the nave. He saw the well-known faces of Ant and Dec, sitting together of course as the inseparable comic duo they were. And they even seemed to be making faces right at him. Tony shifted and tried to ignore the tiny cameras all around the building and not to think of all the images being recorded, tried to banish the glamorous picture forming in his mind of Layla and him, full-page in People magazine. Better Ant and Dec, please.
Layla was studying the order of service. She placed a painted fingernail on the word ‘Crowning’. “We will not get as far as this,” she said.
Tony’s heart beat so forcefully that he felt sure that she must have seen him jump. She knew.
The expression of his intent, so matter-of-factly, at the very place, just minutes away, the people almost all here … it was almost overwhelming. He was sure, but he was afraid. Looking at her gave him courage; the nervous twitch at the corner of his eye quietened as she smiled back at him knowingly and confidently.
“You will do what you have to do,” she said. He saw her grip tighten on the thing in her hand.
He nodded and gave a deep breath. This woman was surely a gift of God, an angel sent to help him right the wrongs of man.
“We will not get nearly as far as the crowning,” he said. He was emboldened enough to speak loudly. A glance quick around assured him that others were too preoccupied to hear them. Ant and Dec were not looking. Nevertheless, he lowered his voice and inched closer to Layla’s side. “I should move before that. The oaths.”
He had committed the order of service to memory. His ideal time of action was once the service proper was underway, everyone in position, the king’s attention riveted, the whole world watching. The recognitions would be made – from east, south, west and north. Charles would be presented as ‘your undoubted King’ and homage made. Then the Bible would be presented to the king: ‘the most valuable thing that this world affords. Here is Wisdom; this is the royal Law; these are the lively Oracles of God.’ Indeed. If Charles were to swear his coronation oath to ‘maintain to Laws of God and the true profession of the Gospel’, that would be still be fine, Tony thought. But Charles thereafter, with hand on Scripture, to profess to be a ‘faithful Protestant’ and to uphold all the enactments accordingly ... even thinking about it, Tony’s hand began to shake.
His ideal time was then, in the middle of the oaths. Prime Minister Rishi Sunak would not get to read from Holy Scripture. The anointing and investiture of Charles III would be grand plans never to be realised.
Layla nodded. They said little after that. Both were content to sit back in their chairs and watch the proceedings unfold. The seats in the long nave filled, and as time progressed the guests entering became more and more important, public figures, heads of state and their spouses or delegates. Majestic music was played and sung, echoing from the vaulted ceiling high above them: Bach, Holst, Purcell, Handel, and more. Tony looked at his large watch face. It was 10:37. Not long left. The King’s coach procession would be past Trafalgar Square and the Charles I memorial, now well on its way down Whitehall. Now the transept was filling, those seats with an actual view of the throne and the sanctuary and not wholly dependent on the monitors to see what would transpire.
At last, 11:00, the procession of the King and Queen. At the fanfare, all stood and watched and marvelled at the dignitaries in their regalia proceeding from the Western door down the nave and through the choir. It was splendid. Pure pageantry. The right reverends, the pursuivants, the heralds of arms, the sceptre, the orb, the crown, Her Majesty the Queen in white with her train. Finally His Majesty the King stepping regally, flanked by two bishops, cloaked in white and crimson.
The choir chorused Vivat Regina Camilla! Vivat Rex Carolus! Long live Queen Camilla! Long live King Charles! The guests in the front rows bowed and curtseyed as their Highnesses proceeded to their thrones.
The congregation, after its excited anticipation, was now still with the import of what was transpiring within these ancient walls. Another layer of grand history was being applied. Age-old rites, present-day amendments, for an uncertain future.
This was a future Tony was set on disrupting. And as the ceremony began, the more intent he became. If he backed out, he would live the rest of his life in regret. And Layla was here, with her device. To steel himself, he fixed his gaze on the back of the chair in front of him, breathed slowly, and concentrated his thoughts. The congregation, the music and the splendour receded into the background, significant only as his signposts and prompts for the task ahead.
Bryn Terfel, famed bass-baritone, would be up soon to sing a Welsh composition of Kyrie Eleison. Tony knew the piece would last about two-and-a-half minutes during which time the King would move forward with the Archbishop from his chair of estate to receive the recognitions. Layla stirred at his side. Tony realised she was holding out her device. She was proffering it.
“Take it. Now.”
Obediently he took it from her, barely daring to look. It was surprisingly light for something of such substance. It felt just right in his nervous grip. Comforting.
“What …?”
“Just do your job. It knows what it needs to do.” She looked into his eyes now with such piercing persuasion that questions were redundant, and her subtle smile he took for encouragement.
Things went fast from there. He stood up, unsteadily, and edged awkwardly through the gap beside him. He stepped back deeper into the north aisle that ran down the side of the building until stopped by stone. Here he paused. His head swam and he swayed on his feet. The couple of people who swivelled in surprise assumed he was feeling unwell. No one else was alerted, yet. He gripped Layla’s gadget for fortitude and stepped out, as if being drawn to the transept and, beyond that, his goal, the sanctuary.
Tony was walking, still slowly, in the shadow of the north wall, doubts beginning to form fatefully in his mind. Not far away Sir Bryn was squaring up on the blue carpet in the centre of the Abbey. A boy in resplendent red ceremonial finery stepped quickly past Tony, seemingly oblivious to this stranger standing in the aisle, intent himself on his task, heading for the choir and the theatre of coronation beyond it. Before he knew what he was doing, Tony reached out and caught the boy’s coat. The boy swung round and gaped, shocked at being stopped in the tracks of a such a well-rehearsed performance.
“Take this with you!” Tony held out the device in his other hand, urging the boy take it from him. “Go on! Take it!” Somehow, if the thing got into the heart of the proceedings, it could do its job alone. Explode. Wail. Emit a toxin. Whatever it was programmed to do.
But the boy was having nothing of it. He shook himself loose and proceeded. He had been held up by ten seconds at the most, but at last he emerged into view in the nave to make his way through the choir as planned. Very few noticed any delay. And of those who did, it was the director of the television cameras who was most annoyed. The cut from one camera to the next had been planned to the second, and cutting from the wide view to Sir Bryn magnificently singing the first line of Arglwydd, trugarhâ was not intended to show the boy walking past his elbow. Awkward, clumsy, unprofessional. The broadcast director cussed in her cabin outside the Abbey.
It was the point of no return for Tony. He slipped the device safety into the deep pocket of his coat and collected himself. He was too early really. Sir Bryn was still imploring the Lord for mercy. The congregation was enthralled. One suited security agent in the aisle, though, had his eye on Tony and was poised to move. It was now or never. He ran.
Forcing his legs to pound the stone floor and arms swinging wildly, he made it to the level of the choir as the King made it to the middle of the sanctuary. But that was as far as he got. There, shielded behind the stalls, Tony was apprehended by two large men and his arms pinned behind his back. For a moment he considered shouting out, not in pain but in proclamation. But his voice failed him. Meekly, he let himself be strong-armed to the nearest exit, the north porch, with such efficiency that barely any of the guests seated in the transept noticed anything untoward. Before the assembled subjects could declare their first recognition of ‘God save King Charles’, Tony had been bundled into a police van.
They never found a motive. Tony was detained and questioned with little result. They never even found Layla’s device. His pockets had been empty, no weapon, nothing that seemed incriminating, not even a phone was on his person. Tony said nothing about the gadget. He did, however, mention Layla. In his increasing bitterness at being held in a cell for days without end, he decided he owed Layla no loyalty and, on his third or fourth interrogation, threw her right into the frame. He described Layla in detail, said what her seat number had been, told them that she had encouraged him to get up and disrupt the ceremony. But, of course, Tony knew nothing more about her. No trace of a Ms Revantholt was found.
At length, they concluded that Tony was stupid, possibly retarded, but essentially a harmless member of the public. Tony himself succeeded in keeping his reasons to himself. Generously detained by the Met in London, then later transferred nearer home in the north, he had time enough to deliberate, to wonder, to regret, and to hope. Layla and her strange gadget baffled him and kept him awake at night, staring in the cold at his dark ceiling, looking at the luminous hand of his huge watch ticking in interminable circles, playing all manner of scenarios through his mind. He was angered by the ease with which the police could deprive him of his freedom for three whole months, yet he could not blame them entirely. What would have happened, if he had succeeding in reaching the sanctuary on the 6th of May, could have shaken the world.
As it was, Charles had been crowned king with Camilla his queen, the people had been duly enchanted, and history was taking its course.
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