A visit from the commissioner

An excerpt from Mario Theodorou's debut novel Felix Grey and the Descendant

Last Thursday saw the launch of Mario Theodorou’s fast-paced new novel Felix Grey and the Descendant. It was one of the best launches I’ve been to in some time. The venue, the Jealous Gallery in Shoreditch, which is run by the legendary Dario Illari, is famous in the world of contemporary art. It’s hosted everybody from Jake and Dinos Chapman to Quentin Blake, and Dario himself is fascinating. After the party, we all retired to the pub where Dario told me about his love of collecting chestnuts, with his Grandad, when he would visit rural Italy as a boy.

The novel itself is really something. The pace and the economy of language are remarkable and Mario’s ability to create immensely detailed scenes in just a few sentences is the work of a truly gifted writer.

In tomorrow’s issue of Boundless, we’ve got a piece by Mario on what it’s like to turn your hand to novels when you’ve been a lifelong screenwriter and we’re looking forward to hearing from him on the Boundless podcast in the coming weeks.

Patrick Galbraith

Heavy raindrops dappled the black gates surrounding 10 Downing Street. It had been a wet start to autumn, and the slow march of feet usually heard outside had disappeared along with the summer sun.

Inside, Humphrey set about lighting a fire for his master, Felix Grey. He placed the heavy logs on top of the tiny embers and fanned the gathering until flames appeared, filling the study instantly with heat.

Humphrey stood up, straightening his stiff back. The cold weather had brought on his arthritis earlier than usual, and he was thankful for the fire’s warm relief.

Felix had offered to bring in some help, but Humphrey refused. He’d been with the Grey family for over four decades and had practically raised the young prime minister, ever since the early passing of Felix’s mother, Leonora Grey, to cholera. A strong-willed petitioner for women’s rights, Leonora had made Humphrey promise to always remain by Felix’s side, and he was not prepared to break his oath or see his life’s work handed over to a stranger. Besides, he liked to stay active. It was hard work, but Humphrey had seen first-hand what happened to people in semi-retirement; their joints began to seize up, and their muscles wither away, bringing on old age quickly. No, he would continue in his role and keep his strength while he could.

He circled the room, checking everything was in place before allowing himself a moment’s rest. He’d barely taken a seat and closed his tired eyes when he heard the door to Number 10 open and the house staff spring into action.

Humphrey let out a long sigh. He was used to the furore that usually accompanied Felix’s return from Parliament. It was as though the house itself had awoken from a long rest, with every room and all its staff readied and waiting to receive the prime minister.

Humphrey slowly pushed himself up from his warm seat and straightened out his suit. Within moments, the door sprang open, and Felix bounded in, accompanied by his friend and the Home Secretary, Thomas Percy.

Percy was a rotund man, heavily built, with flushed cheeks and a loose suit that made him appear older than his forty-four years. In contrast, at only thirty-four, Felix was young for a prime minister, with an athletic figure and the odd speck of grey in his neatly combed black hair. He wore a cleanly pressed suit with polished shoes, and a handkerchief rested on the brim of his chest pocket. “Afternoon, old man,” he said, approaching his steward.

“I am beyond your cajoling, Felix,” replied Humphrey. “The fire is lit, and I am content. How was Parliament?”

“In an uproar, as always.”

“And what, pray tell, do they have to moan about today?”

“The list is both long and infuriating,” replied Felix, pouring himself a large scotch.

Over the past few months, he had become accustomed to the taste of scotch whiskey and enjoyed a stiff measure or two to wash away the day’s cobwebs.

“They have no stomach for reform,” declared Percy, lowering his plump frame into one of the seats facing the fire. “They like to cling to their outdated traditions.”

“There is nothing wrong with tradition, Home Secretary,” countered Humphrey, “only its application. Greedy men will find advantage in any idea, old or new. Now, will you be staying for dinner?”

“Unfortunately not. I have a mountain of work that requires my immediate attention.”

“I won’t hear of it, Thomas,” protested Felix. “There is nothing that can’t wait until you are properly fed and watered. Humphrey, have another place set for dinner, will you please? And let Mrs. Hughes know that she will be feeding an extra mouth.”

“Very well,” replied Humphrey, setting off to coordinate matters.

“You do realise that he’s wasted here,” said Percy, when the study door had closed behind him. “He should be in the backbenches, whipping the members into shape.”

“He’d have them running for cover,” agreed Felix, amused by the thought. “He’s been with the family ever since I was a young boy. I don’t know what I would do without him.”

Felix crossed the room and held his hands over the fire for warmth. It had been a short journey back from Parliament but a cold one. On the mantelpiece sat a picture of Felix, taken on the night of the general election. Crowds had gathered outside Downing Street to welcome their new prime minister. It was a night he would never forget; the clapping and cheering, the warmth and optimism he had felt from the British people.

Having been parachuted into office at the tender age of thirty-two, Felix had become the second youngest prime minister in British history, with only William Pitt the Younger having been more junior. With little experience to draw on and few alliances in either Parliament or his coalition government, he’d found the first two years in office difficult. Many of his reforms had been blocked in the Commons, and Felix was finding it impossible to effect any meaningful change, let alone live up to the public’s inflated expectations of him.

Had he known how easily people’s opinions could change, how quickly the dissenting voices would appear, he may have held back a little, detached himself from the euphoria that would inevitably fade with time, instead of standing on the steps to Number 10, smiling broadly and waving.

Hindsight would make an excellent companion for any man, but particularly a prime minister.

Felix’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the study door. “Come in,” he called out.

A young footman, dressed in full livery, entered the room.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” he began, “but Police Commissioner Thompson is here to see you.”

Felix exchanged a surprised glance with Percy. The commissioner had never visited Downing Street without prior arrangement. He would usually send an officer ahead to make enquiries before arriving in person.

“This is most unorthodox,” said Percy. “Shall I ask him to come back at a more suitable time?”

“No need,” replied Felix, preferring to confront the unknown head-on. “Send him in,” he instructed the footman.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” began the commissioner, entering the room. He was a short man in his late fifties, with greying hair and a tightly cropped moustache, and his perfectly polished boots and precisely pressed creases bore the mark of a former British army officer. “Apologies for the abruptness of my visit, but I come with grave news. I thought it best to inform you directly before you heard the undoubted whispers in Parliament.”

“Go on,” replied Felix, his interest piqued.

“In the early hours of this morning, Lord Monteagle was abducted from the East India Club while engaged in a game of poker with his associates. The perpetrators drugged him with an organic compound known as ether, a common anaesthetic, colourless and easy to mask when poured into a person’s drink. They then switched Monteagle’s carriage with their own, ensuring his lordship’s associates unwittingly delivered the stricken man directly into their clutches, swiftly disappearing with him into the night.”

“What cowards!” exclaimed Percy.

“Indeed, sir. The men were clearly organised and had been planning the abduction for some time. They knew of his lordship’s arrival and had made the necessary arrangements to extract him swiftly and with minimal fuss.”

“Military men?” asked Felix.

“It’s a possibility, Prime Minister.”

“Have they issued any demands?” asked Percy.

“No,” replied Thompson, producing a small envelope from his pocket. “They did leave this, however,” he said, handing the envelope to Felix. “We found it in one of the backstreets, lying on the cobbles alongside Monteagle’s driver, Jacob Moore.”

Felix opened the envelope and took out a small rectangular card, no bigger than a half-pound note. It was light in weight but rigid to the touch and had a series of strange markings on both sides. He turned the card over in his hands, noting the odd shapes and symbols.

The first, an image of a common five-pointed star, had been crudely drawn and was faded and out of shape. Felix had seen many like it in the history books and encyclopaedias at Number 10, and on the walls and paintings of his Mayfair club. The second image, however, was less obvious to him. It seemed to depict a giant goat’s head with four horns pointing in opposite directions, surrounded by a cluster of stars with fire and smoke swirling around them. The goat’s face was strikingly human, and its black, marbled eyes seemed to stare back at Felix from the paper.

Felix Grey and the Descendant will be published on March 6 — pre-order here