The Prince
Almost a fairytale
‘Even the military ones?’
‘Those too.’
‘Well, I won’t say I think it’s fair,’ said the Prince. ‘I won those by my own valour in combat, which a succession of my inferior officers remarked upon.’
On the silver tray were a collections of his medals, a cap, and three credit cards already neatly snipped in half.
‘Well, I’m sure you understand that times have changed. Not that there was ever a time when what you did was acceptable; it might just have been less likely to get out.’
‘Is there any way round it? Someone I can phone?’
‘You’re welcome to undertake lobbying actions as a private citizen,’ said Inglethorpe. ‘But as far as the Family is concerned the matter is now closed.’
Closed! The titles stripped, the NDAs signed, the final lump retainer paid to his account, the political obituaries written. From a bumbling but essentially humorous presence within the Family, one who might have found the odd defender in a golf club saloon bar, to a persona non grata both within the family and the public at large. Now he was reviled, the nation’s butt, and still had perhaps twenty years to go.
‘What do you think I should do, Binky?’ he asked Binky, his oldest and dearest friend.
‘Don’t call this number again,’ Binky replied.
The Prince wandered the world for a bit, as you can do when you have money but no real purpose. There wasn’t a lot going on. People loathed him; he read the press for a bit, but found even arts reviews sections were sometimes coloured by passing references to his depravity. This was what victims of racism must feel, he thought, this constant low level interference of prejudice into your life which meant much more to you than to those producing it.
He contacted a few PR firms who offered scrubbing services but the fees they offered would have wiped him out for good. Instead, he paid them to seed a few good news items about his charity work and distinguished military service – he had been brave, admittedly only in certain contexts – but found them soon disappear into the tidal wave of hate. Afterwards, when he tried to volunteer for a charity, not even seeking publicity for it, controversy erupted when his involvement emerged, and the charity premises were daubed with the word ‘PAEDO’, which was only true in certain territories and not at all in Japan.
A few private investments of his had paid off enough to keep him alive and eating out nightly, but he had no long-term plan. His reputation was junk, his bank balance was disappearing but worst of all, people would turn away from him in the street and it was only that which truly hurt him. It was that, he realised, that he longed to change – at which point he received a call from an ambitious young man.
