Reconstitution
by Olga Wojtas
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: What could be better than an independent Scotland? An independent Scotland with John Knox.
_____________________________________________________________________
Ross Ritchie poured himself a large malt and settled down to watch Newsnicht on the SBC. It started off with the usual post-independence hysteria about the power struggles in the government.
He glazed over at the graphics showing the current balance between the proto-Nats, the pseudo-Nats, the neo-Nats and the fundo-Nats. He had not the slightest interest in any of it; he was a scientist. But unfortunately, the worlds of science and politics sometimes had to meet, and this had been one of those days. He drained half the glass in a single gulp. Smiling, flattering, fawning – what did that have to do with cutting-edge research? But the director had insisted on it.
“We want money – she’s got it,” he’d said. “Do whatever you have to to make a good impression. She’s young, free and single, so let’s see that old Ritchie charm.”
It had been hard going. The petite brunette had a veneer of affability, all “call me Shona”, but she was impervious. He was quite unnerved until he remembered she’d been a keen supporter of same-sex marriage. And she didn’t seem to think much of the Roslin Institute. Molecular and quantitative genetics were passé as far as she was concerned: marine renewables was the key area for government investment. In the end, he’d been obliged to tell her about the new project, although he was careful to stress that it was at a very early stage and they definitely weren’t ready to go public.
And there she was on the screen.
“So,” said the presenter, “Shona McMonagle, cabinet secretary for higher education and research, and pin-up girl for the proto-Nats. Just when are you going to announce your bid to become First Minister?”
“Not going to happen,” she said. “I’m a loyal cabinet member, and I’ve got quite enough to keep me occupied in my current job.”
“You can say that again. The higher education sector’s in even more turmoil than the government. We’ve got a brain drain of researchers heading south of the border because they say there's no funding for anything in Scotland except nodding ducks in the Pentland Firth. That’s a fair criticism, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “There’s no room for narrowness of outlook in a confident independent Scotland. We will fund excellence wherever it’s found, and that’s why I’m announcing a £5 million grant to boost the work of our world-leading researchers in the Roslin Institute.”
This was far, far better than Ross Ritchie could ever have expected. He raised his glass to the television.
“Slainte, Shona,” he said.
“Supporting innovation is key to delivering a prosperous and successful knowledge-based economy,” Shona went on. “The Roslin Institute is a very innovative place. It’s just made a very exciting breakthrough, reconstituting John Knox through his DNA.”
“The Roslin Institute has cloned John Knox?” asked the startled presenter.
“Of course not," said Shona. "Cloning is last century’s technology. This is something much more ground-breaking. Scotland stands on the brink of a great opportunity, thanks to the pioneering work of Professor Ross Ritchie and his team. Let me try to put it in simple terms -”
Ross Ritchie clutched his whisky glass. He had told her. He had told her that she mustn’t on any account tell anybody about the new project. Bloody dyke. And she was getting the science all wrong.
The phone shrilled at his elbow and he jumped, spilling whisky over his trousers. He knew it was the press, or the director. And he didn’t want to speak to either.
*
“Thanks for coming, minister,” grated Ross Ritchie.
“Shona,” said Shona. “I hear you’re not happy about me talking about your research. You should have said. I can’t stay long, I’m supposed to be at a meeting with the academic trade unions.”
“Very good of you to make the time,” he said. “I just thought it might be useful for you to see the problem.”
He ushered Shona and her entourage of civil servants into a small room with a two-way mirror. John Knox stood in the adjoining laboratory, immediately recognisable from his statue outside Edinburgh’s Assembly Hall, a tall, commanding figure with a lengthy beard, dressed in black robes and a shapeless black cap. A lab assistant cowered in the corner.
“Tremble, therefore, fear, confess and unfeignedly repent, that you may escape the vengeance prepared!” Knox bellowed. “Too late it shall be for you to howl and cry, when the flame of God’s hot displeasure shall begin to burn!”
“Sorry, I think I’ve left something on a Petrie dish,” the lab assistant mumbled, trying to edge towards the door.
Knox barred the way with an emphatic arm. “God the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the power of His Holy Spirit so illuminate and move your heart, that clearly you may see, and perfectly understand, how horrible has been your fall from His verity, how fearful and terrible it is to fall into His hands without hope of mercy!”
Ross Ritchie turned to Shona. “You’ll understand that we can’t possibly let the public see him like this.”
“Absolutely not,” agreed Shona. “All that black, it’s terribly draining. The hat has to go, and the beard, definitely.”
Ross took a deep breath. “It’s more the hysterical ranting.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Shona. “You just need to get him to slow down a bit.”
Ross’s lips compressed. Time for Shona to get a wee reality check.
“Why don’t you let me introduce you?” he said, propelling her out of the monitoring room and into the lab. The lab assistant scuttled past them to freedom.
Knox fixed the newcomers with glittering, alert eyes.
“This is Mr Knox, minister,” said Ross, emphasising the last word.
“Shona,” said Shona, putting out her hand.
Knox took a step backwards, the furrows on his brow deepening. “St Paul declares plainly: ‘Let women keep silence in the congregation, for it is not permitted to them to speak’.”
“Not a minister of religion, Mr Knox, a government minister,” said Ross.
Knox clutched his robes around him as if he feared contamination.
“It is more than a monster in nature that a woman shall reign and have empire above man!” he roared. “To promote a woman to bear rule, superiority, dominion or empire above any realm, nation or city is repugnant to nature, contumelious to God, a thing most contrary to His revealed will and approved ordinance, and finally, it is the subversion of good order, of all equity and justice!”
He advanced on Shona, glowering. “Yea, it is plain, that all woman is commanded to serve, to be in humility and subjection.”
Ross wasn’t sure what the insurance situation was if the reconstituted Knox turned violent. He quickly ushered Shona out of the lab and slammed the door behind them.
“How very refreshing," said Shona. "A man who’s not afraid to speak his mind. Anyway, no more time to waste. Let’s get this sorted.”
She turned to her entourage. “We need a colour analyst here right away, a personal shopper from Ralph Slater on standby, a senior hair stylist from Charlie Miller, and a voice coach from the Royal Scottish Conservatoire. And somebody go to the nearest library.”
She turned back to Ross Ritchie. “You won’t mind if I bring my dad in? He’s a former Church of Scotland Moderator. He’s got all John’s books and I know he’d love to get them signed.”
*
The First Minister crushed the sheet of paper into a ball and hurled it across the room, not even aiming for the bin.
“The Roslin Institute,” he snarled at his special adviser. “Praising Shona for her invaluable help in getting their world-class project off the ground. She’s been down there every day for a week.”
He drummed his fingers on the desk. Then his expression cleared.
“What’s the one thing Shona wants that she hasn’t got?” he asked.
“Your job,” said the special adviser. He realised this was the wrong answer as the latest NATO summit declaration whizzed past his ear.
“A man,” said the First Minister. “We can say that’s why she’s spending so much time at the Roslin Institute. No real man would go anywhere near her, so she’s having to get it on with this Night-of-the-Living-Dead freak. Get over to the media tower and start spreading a bit of rumour and speculation among the hacks.”
“A sex scandal?” said the special adviser. “We haven’t had a decent one of those since Sheridan.”
*
Zombie Knox Romps With Monstrous Shona. The Scottish Sun.
Research Minister’s Experiment With Love. The Scotsman.
Daughter of the Manse Dates Father of the Kirk. The Herald.
*
“Damn,” said Shona. “How did they find out?”
She had always believed that politics and romance couldn't mix. But now she understood she had simply never met a man who was her intellectual equal. A man strong enough never to compromise on his beliefs - unless she pointed out that his beliefs were mistaken. A man who didn't go in for furtive affairs but believed in the sanctity of marriage, and had had two wives to prove it. A man she could do business with.
*
The press conference was packed out.
“Nice to see so many of you taking an interest in the indicative funding allocations for our higher education institutions,” said Shona. “You’ve already got the press release with my comment, so any questions?”
“Shona, is that an engagement ring?” asked the Daily Record.
Shona blushed attractively. “Yes, I can tell you John and I will be getting married this summer during the parliamentary recess.”
“Aren’t you worried about the age gap?" asked the Press & Journal. "You’re 38 and he’s 441.”
“That’s a basic misunderstanding of the science underpinning reconstitution,” said Shona. “John’s actually 58 and I’m 39 in November. Not much of an age gap compared to Joan Collins and her husband.”
“Whatever age he is now, he’s still been dead for centuries,” said the Herald. “You can’t have that much in common.”
“We’ve got a great deal in common,” said Shona sharply. “We’ve both got a solid Presbyterian background, we’re both fundamentally committed to reform, we’re both Glasgow graduates, and then there’s the French connection – I’ve spent a lot of holidays in Paris, and John was a French galley slave for over 18 months.”
She paused. “We’ve also decided to take direct action to improve social justice in a confident independent Scotland, so we’re standing for the post of First Minister as a job-share. And I’d like to ask John to join me on the platform here as we outline our plans.”
There was a blinding eruption of camera flashes as Knox walked on to the platform, clean shaven and wearing a grey cashmere suit with a mint-green shirt and coordinating tie.
The female reporters nudged one another.
“Tasty,” said one.
“It’s the galleys,” said another. “Kept him fit. Like Mandela breaking rocks on Robben Island.”
“John, this challenge to the First Minister, are you a proto-Nat, a pseudo-Nat, a neo-Nat and/or a fundo-Nat?” asked the Times of Scotland.
“From a corrupt and venomed fountain can spring no wholesome water,” Knox said.
“John’s an independent,” explained Shona.
“But the First Minister has to be the leader of the party in government, so how can you possibly stand?”
“And what harm should the commonwealth receive, if that the corrupt affections of ignorant rulers were moderated, bridled by the wisdom and discretion of godly subjects?” Knox riposted.
“John thinks that the hallmark of a confident independent Scotland should be openness and transparency, and the choice of First Minister shouldn’t just be up to the party in power,” translated Shona.
“John, you’ve never been too keen on women being in charge of things,” said the Sunday Post. “How do you square that with the joint ticket for First Minister?”
Knox leaned over to take Shona’s hand. “Deborah did rule Israel, and Huldah spoke prophecy in Judah,” he said. “In those matrons, we find that the spirit of mercy, truth, justice and of humility did reign. God by His singular privilege, favour and grace made Deborah prudent in counsel, strong in courage, happy in regiment, and a blessed mother and deliverer to His people. He declared Himself able to give salvation and deliverance by means of the most weak vessels.”
The media pack looked puzzled, apart from the Scottish Sun, who had caught the “blessed mother” reference and rushed off to file a story about Shona’s love-child.
Shona patted Knox’s hand affectionately. “What John’s saying is that if a confident independent Scotland is going to be a world leader, we need to use the skills of all our people – men, women, the disabled, and ethnic minorities. We also pledge an open door on inward migration.”
“Bit of a U-turn for you there on policy, John,” said the Herald. “What led to your change of approach?”
Knox held up a copy of Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch. “The people should give unto this matron reverence and honour, as her godliness and happy counsel do well deserve,” he said.
“The budget is already grossly overstretched with commitments on student support and the Forth & Clyde hovercraft,” said the Scotsman. “Do you envisage targeting higher earners in order to fund your programme for government?”
“Some rich man might have given a thousand shekels with less hurt of his substance than some poor man might have paid the half shekel,” said Knox. “And yet God makes all equal, and wills that the one shall pay no more than the other, neither yet the poor any less than the rich.”
“That’s a definite no on any higher tax banding,” said Shona.
“So are you planning a general increase in tax rates?” the Scotsman persisted.
“Sorry, we’ll have to wrap up the questions there. We’re seeing the university principals in ten minutes.”
*
Superstud John Knox Up Sexy Shona. The Scottish Sun.
Love Duo’s Gender Balance Bid For Top Job. The Herald.
Universal Tax Hike Imminent. The Scotsman.
*
“At least the Papes will never stand for it,” said the First Minister.
“Dream on,” said his special adviser. “After Shona sold feminism to him, ecumenism was a doddle. They’re going to the Scottish Catholic Bishops' Conference for tea tomorrow.”
He cleared his throat. “And we’ve just got the results of the System Three poll. Ninety-five per cent support their bid to be First Minister. The other five per cent want them to be life president of the European Union. They like his plain speaking and they like her hair.”
Muttering came from the First Minister. The special adviser could only just make it out.
“Will no-one rid me of this turbulent cabinet secretary for higher education and research and her metrosexual partner?”
The special adviser’s task was clear. Martyrs they might be. So what? Martyrs appeared on no ballot paper.
*
Ross Ritchie put down his pint. “But the science does work,” he said.
“For the moment,” said the special adviser. “His life expectancy would have been what, 45? And that’s before access to fried food. He’s already on borrowed time. We’re just asking that if anything goes wrong with the project, you abandon it.”
“The higher education minister’s just given us £5 million to take it forward.”
“She’s given Roslin £5 million. We’d like to come to a personal arrangement with you.” He pushed the sports bag across the table.
Ross unzipped it. Then he zipped it and held it very tight. “How - ?” he said. “Where - ?”
“There’s still a bit of oil in the North Sea. Brings in a bob or two. So, deal?”
“Deal,” said Ross.
*
The special adviser slipped out of the modern part of the parliament building into the 17th century Queensberry House, and pressed the secret panel. The wall opened just enough to let him squeeze into the soundproof cubicle. He had never used the hotline to Mc, and as he lifted the receiver, he realised too late that, as with Ms, he wasn't sure how to say it.
"Muck?" he stammered.
"Who else?" came a patrician voice. "I take it this is a matter of national security?"
The special adviser thought. The First Minister was arguably the embodiment of the nation, and the First Minister was definitely feeling insecure.
"Absolutely," he agreed, and outlined the problem.
"There's only one operative I would trust with a mission of this ... shenshitivity," said Mc.
"Him?" said the special adviser. "Doesn't he work for the other side?"
"Smersh?"
"No, Westminster."
"Westminster got Trident; we got him," said Mc. "You young people know nothing about your heritage. His father was Scottish. He went to Fettes. Stays in Murrayfield, handy for the tram."
"Are you sure he's up to it?" asked the special adviser. "We don't want anything to go wrong."
"Really?" said Mc drily. "I thought that was exactly what you wanted.
*
Shona and John posed with their season tickets outside Celtic Park. Then they got on the seaplane for the first leg of the campaign trail. The pilot wore dark glasses and a seductively sardonic smile. Knox kept a firm hold of Shona's hand.
*
Tragedy Ends Political Aspirations. The Scotsman.
Two Bodies In Loch Lomond Wreckage: Pilot Still Missing. The Herald
Sex And Drugs Shame Of Soap Star Senga. The Scottish Sun.
*
Ross Ritchie hadn’t got around to telling his team to back off, and one of the researchers was convinced they were on the verge of another breakthrough.
“If we apply the Dolly methodology to our methodology, I’m pretty sure we can turn the people we reconstitute into sheep.”
“That’ll be popular in Aberdeenshire,” grunted Ross.
“No, I mean metaphorically. In the sense of following a leader.”
Ross went over to the lab bench. “Let me see that,” he said. A deal was a deal, but this wouldn't be continuing with the project; this would be a completely new project. A project he was determined to lead.
*
Weeping crowds gathered outside the Garden Lobby of the Scottish Parliament for the official lying in state.
Ross Ritchie went up to the officer of the Royal Company of Archers. “We're the team from the Roslin Institute,” he said quietly. “Here to pay our respects before the doors open.”
Four members of the Royal Company stood with bowed heads round the open coffins. Ross’s team squeezed past them, the taller researchers shielding the smaller ones from view as they got to work with swabs and scalpels.
And then they were back out on the Canongate.
“Go back to your benches,” said Ross Ritchie, “and prepare for government.”
With acknowledgements to John Knox's “A Brief Exhortation to England, for the Speedy Embracing of the Gospel Heretofore by the Tyranny of Mary Suppressed and Banished”, “The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women” and “Letter Addressed to the Commonalty of Scotland”.
Swearwords: None.
Description: What could be better than an independent Scotland? An independent Scotland with John Knox.
_____________________________________________________________________
Ross Ritchie poured himself a large malt and settled down to watch Newsnicht on the SBC. It started off with the usual post-independence hysteria about the power struggles in the government.
He glazed over at the graphics showing the current balance between the proto-Nats, the pseudo-Nats, the neo-Nats and the fundo-Nats. He had not the slightest interest in any of it; he was a scientist. But unfortunately, the worlds of science and politics sometimes had to meet, and this had been one of those days. He drained half the glass in a single gulp. Smiling, flattering, fawning – what did that have to do with cutting-edge research? But the director had insisted on it.
“We want money – she’s got it,” he’d said. “Do whatever you have to to make a good impression. She’s young, free and single, so let’s see that old Ritchie charm.”
It had been hard going. The petite brunette had a veneer of affability, all “call me Shona”, but she was impervious. He was quite unnerved until he remembered she’d been a keen supporter of same-sex marriage. And she didn’t seem to think much of the Roslin Institute. Molecular and quantitative genetics were passé as far as she was concerned: marine renewables was the key area for government investment. In the end, he’d been obliged to tell her about the new project, although he was careful to stress that it was at a very early stage and they definitely weren’t ready to go public.
And there she was on the screen.
“So,” said the presenter, “Shona McMonagle, cabinet secretary for higher education and research, and pin-up girl for the proto-Nats. Just when are you going to announce your bid to become First Minister?”
“Not going to happen,” she said. “I’m a loyal cabinet member, and I’ve got quite enough to keep me occupied in my current job.”
“You can say that again. The higher education sector’s in even more turmoil than the government. We’ve got a brain drain of researchers heading south of the border because they say there's no funding for anything in Scotland except nodding ducks in the Pentland Firth. That’s a fair criticism, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “There’s no room for narrowness of outlook in a confident independent Scotland. We will fund excellence wherever it’s found, and that’s why I’m announcing a £5 million grant to boost the work of our world-leading researchers in the Roslin Institute.”
This was far, far better than Ross Ritchie could ever have expected. He raised his glass to the television.
“Slainte, Shona,” he said.
“Supporting innovation is key to delivering a prosperous and successful knowledge-based economy,” Shona went on. “The Roslin Institute is a very innovative place. It’s just made a very exciting breakthrough, reconstituting John Knox through his DNA.”
“The Roslin Institute has cloned John Knox?” asked the startled presenter.
“Of course not," said Shona. "Cloning is last century’s technology. This is something much more ground-breaking. Scotland stands on the brink of a great opportunity, thanks to the pioneering work of Professor Ross Ritchie and his team. Let me try to put it in simple terms -”
Ross Ritchie clutched his whisky glass. He had told her. He had told her that she mustn’t on any account tell anybody about the new project. Bloody dyke. And she was getting the science all wrong.
The phone shrilled at his elbow and he jumped, spilling whisky over his trousers. He knew it was the press, or the director. And he didn’t want to speak to either.
*
“Thanks for coming, minister,” grated Ross Ritchie.
“Shona,” said Shona. “I hear you’re not happy about me talking about your research. You should have said. I can’t stay long, I’m supposed to be at a meeting with the academic trade unions.”
“Very good of you to make the time,” he said. “I just thought it might be useful for you to see the problem.”
He ushered Shona and her entourage of civil servants into a small room with a two-way mirror. John Knox stood in the adjoining laboratory, immediately recognisable from his statue outside Edinburgh’s Assembly Hall, a tall, commanding figure with a lengthy beard, dressed in black robes and a shapeless black cap. A lab assistant cowered in the corner.
“Tremble, therefore, fear, confess and unfeignedly repent, that you may escape the vengeance prepared!” Knox bellowed. “Too late it shall be for you to howl and cry, when the flame of God’s hot displeasure shall begin to burn!”
“Sorry, I think I’ve left something on a Petrie dish,” the lab assistant mumbled, trying to edge towards the door.
Knox barred the way with an emphatic arm. “God the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the power of His Holy Spirit so illuminate and move your heart, that clearly you may see, and perfectly understand, how horrible has been your fall from His verity, how fearful and terrible it is to fall into His hands without hope of mercy!”
Ross Ritchie turned to Shona. “You’ll understand that we can’t possibly let the public see him like this.”
“Absolutely not,” agreed Shona. “All that black, it’s terribly draining. The hat has to go, and the beard, definitely.”
Ross took a deep breath. “It’s more the hysterical ranting.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Shona. “You just need to get him to slow down a bit.”
Ross’s lips compressed. Time for Shona to get a wee reality check.
“Why don’t you let me introduce you?” he said, propelling her out of the monitoring room and into the lab. The lab assistant scuttled past them to freedom.
Knox fixed the newcomers with glittering, alert eyes.
“This is Mr Knox, minister,” said Ross, emphasising the last word.
“Shona,” said Shona, putting out her hand.
Knox took a step backwards, the furrows on his brow deepening. “St Paul declares plainly: ‘Let women keep silence in the congregation, for it is not permitted to them to speak’.”
“Not a minister of religion, Mr Knox, a government minister,” said Ross.
Knox clutched his robes around him as if he feared contamination.
“It is more than a monster in nature that a woman shall reign and have empire above man!” he roared. “To promote a woman to bear rule, superiority, dominion or empire above any realm, nation or city is repugnant to nature, contumelious to God, a thing most contrary to His revealed will and approved ordinance, and finally, it is the subversion of good order, of all equity and justice!”
He advanced on Shona, glowering. “Yea, it is plain, that all woman is commanded to serve, to be in humility and subjection.”
Ross wasn’t sure what the insurance situation was if the reconstituted Knox turned violent. He quickly ushered Shona out of the lab and slammed the door behind them.
“How very refreshing," said Shona. "A man who’s not afraid to speak his mind. Anyway, no more time to waste. Let’s get this sorted.”
She turned to her entourage. “We need a colour analyst here right away, a personal shopper from Ralph Slater on standby, a senior hair stylist from Charlie Miller, and a voice coach from the Royal Scottish Conservatoire. And somebody go to the nearest library.”
She turned back to Ross Ritchie. “You won’t mind if I bring my dad in? He’s a former Church of Scotland Moderator. He’s got all John’s books and I know he’d love to get them signed.”
*
The First Minister crushed the sheet of paper into a ball and hurled it across the room, not even aiming for the bin.
“The Roslin Institute,” he snarled at his special adviser. “Praising Shona for her invaluable help in getting their world-class project off the ground. She’s been down there every day for a week.”
He drummed his fingers on the desk. Then his expression cleared.
“What’s the one thing Shona wants that she hasn’t got?” he asked.
“Your job,” said the special adviser. He realised this was the wrong answer as the latest NATO summit declaration whizzed past his ear.
“A man,” said the First Minister. “We can say that’s why she’s spending so much time at the Roslin Institute. No real man would go anywhere near her, so she’s having to get it on with this Night-of-the-Living-Dead freak. Get over to the media tower and start spreading a bit of rumour and speculation among the hacks.”
“A sex scandal?” said the special adviser. “We haven’t had a decent one of those since Sheridan.”
*
Zombie Knox Romps With Monstrous Shona. The Scottish Sun.
Research Minister’s Experiment With Love. The Scotsman.
Daughter of the Manse Dates Father of the Kirk. The Herald.
*
“Damn,” said Shona. “How did they find out?”
She had always believed that politics and romance couldn't mix. But now she understood she had simply never met a man who was her intellectual equal. A man strong enough never to compromise on his beliefs - unless she pointed out that his beliefs were mistaken. A man who didn't go in for furtive affairs but believed in the sanctity of marriage, and had had two wives to prove it. A man she could do business with.
*
The press conference was packed out.
“Nice to see so many of you taking an interest in the indicative funding allocations for our higher education institutions,” said Shona. “You’ve already got the press release with my comment, so any questions?”
“Shona, is that an engagement ring?” asked the Daily Record.
Shona blushed attractively. “Yes, I can tell you John and I will be getting married this summer during the parliamentary recess.”
“Aren’t you worried about the age gap?" asked the Press & Journal. "You’re 38 and he’s 441.”
“That’s a basic misunderstanding of the science underpinning reconstitution,” said Shona. “John’s actually 58 and I’m 39 in November. Not much of an age gap compared to Joan Collins and her husband.”
“Whatever age he is now, he’s still been dead for centuries,” said the Herald. “You can’t have that much in common.”
“We’ve got a great deal in common,” said Shona sharply. “We’ve both got a solid Presbyterian background, we’re both fundamentally committed to reform, we’re both Glasgow graduates, and then there’s the French connection – I’ve spent a lot of holidays in Paris, and John was a French galley slave for over 18 months.”
She paused. “We’ve also decided to take direct action to improve social justice in a confident independent Scotland, so we’re standing for the post of First Minister as a job-share. And I’d like to ask John to join me on the platform here as we outline our plans.”
There was a blinding eruption of camera flashes as Knox walked on to the platform, clean shaven and wearing a grey cashmere suit with a mint-green shirt and coordinating tie.
The female reporters nudged one another.
“Tasty,” said one.
“It’s the galleys,” said another. “Kept him fit. Like Mandela breaking rocks on Robben Island.”
“John, this challenge to the First Minister, are you a proto-Nat, a pseudo-Nat, a neo-Nat and/or a fundo-Nat?” asked the Times of Scotland.
“From a corrupt and venomed fountain can spring no wholesome water,” Knox said.
“John’s an independent,” explained Shona.
“But the First Minister has to be the leader of the party in government, so how can you possibly stand?”
“And what harm should the commonwealth receive, if that the corrupt affections of ignorant rulers were moderated, bridled by the wisdom and discretion of godly subjects?” Knox riposted.
“John thinks that the hallmark of a confident independent Scotland should be openness and transparency, and the choice of First Minister shouldn’t just be up to the party in power,” translated Shona.
“John, you’ve never been too keen on women being in charge of things,” said the Sunday Post. “How do you square that with the joint ticket for First Minister?”
Knox leaned over to take Shona’s hand. “Deborah did rule Israel, and Huldah spoke prophecy in Judah,” he said. “In those matrons, we find that the spirit of mercy, truth, justice and of humility did reign. God by His singular privilege, favour and grace made Deborah prudent in counsel, strong in courage, happy in regiment, and a blessed mother and deliverer to His people. He declared Himself able to give salvation and deliverance by means of the most weak vessels.”
The media pack looked puzzled, apart from the Scottish Sun, who had caught the “blessed mother” reference and rushed off to file a story about Shona’s love-child.
Shona patted Knox’s hand affectionately. “What John’s saying is that if a confident independent Scotland is going to be a world leader, we need to use the skills of all our people – men, women, the disabled, and ethnic minorities. We also pledge an open door on inward migration.”
“Bit of a U-turn for you there on policy, John,” said the Herald. “What led to your change of approach?”
Knox held up a copy of Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch. “The people should give unto this matron reverence and honour, as her godliness and happy counsel do well deserve,” he said.
“The budget is already grossly overstretched with commitments on student support and the Forth & Clyde hovercraft,” said the Scotsman. “Do you envisage targeting higher earners in order to fund your programme for government?”
“Some rich man might have given a thousand shekels with less hurt of his substance than some poor man might have paid the half shekel,” said Knox. “And yet God makes all equal, and wills that the one shall pay no more than the other, neither yet the poor any less than the rich.”
“That’s a definite no on any higher tax banding,” said Shona.
“So are you planning a general increase in tax rates?” the Scotsman persisted.
“Sorry, we’ll have to wrap up the questions there. We’re seeing the university principals in ten minutes.”
*
Superstud John Knox Up Sexy Shona. The Scottish Sun.
Love Duo’s Gender Balance Bid For Top Job. The Herald.
Universal Tax Hike Imminent. The Scotsman.
*
“At least the Papes will never stand for it,” said the First Minister.
“Dream on,” said his special adviser. “After Shona sold feminism to him, ecumenism was a doddle. They’re going to the Scottish Catholic Bishops' Conference for tea tomorrow.”
He cleared his throat. “And we’ve just got the results of the System Three poll. Ninety-five per cent support their bid to be First Minister. The other five per cent want them to be life president of the European Union. They like his plain speaking and they like her hair.”
Muttering came from the First Minister. The special adviser could only just make it out.
“Will no-one rid me of this turbulent cabinet secretary for higher education and research and her metrosexual partner?”
The special adviser’s task was clear. Martyrs they might be. So what? Martyrs appeared on no ballot paper.
*
Ross Ritchie put down his pint. “But the science does work,” he said.
“For the moment,” said the special adviser. “His life expectancy would have been what, 45? And that’s before access to fried food. He’s already on borrowed time. We’re just asking that if anything goes wrong with the project, you abandon it.”
“The higher education minister’s just given us £5 million to take it forward.”
“She’s given Roslin £5 million. We’d like to come to a personal arrangement with you.” He pushed the sports bag across the table.
Ross unzipped it. Then he zipped it and held it very tight. “How - ?” he said. “Where - ?”
“There’s still a bit of oil in the North Sea. Brings in a bob or two. So, deal?”
“Deal,” said Ross.
*
The special adviser slipped out of the modern part of the parliament building into the 17th century Queensberry House, and pressed the secret panel. The wall opened just enough to let him squeeze into the soundproof cubicle. He had never used the hotline to Mc, and as he lifted the receiver, he realised too late that, as with Ms, he wasn't sure how to say it.
"Muck?" he stammered.
"Who else?" came a patrician voice. "I take it this is a matter of national security?"
The special adviser thought. The First Minister was arguably the embodiment of the nation, and the First Minister was definitely feeling insecure.
"Absolutely," he agreed, and outlined the problem.
"There's only one operative I would trust with a mission of this ... shenshitivity," said Mc.
"Him?" said the special adviser. "Doesn't he work for the other side?"
"Smersh?"
"No, Westminster."
"Westminster got Trident; we got him," said Mc. "You young people know nothing about your heritage. His father was Scottish. He went to Fettes. Stays in Murrayfield, handy for the tram."
"Are you sure he's up to it?" asked the special adviser. "We don't want anything to go wrong."
"Really?" said Mc drily. "I thought that was exactly what you wanted.
*
Shona and John posed with their season tickets outside Celtic Park. Then they got on the seaplane for the first leg of the campaign trail. The pilot wore dark glasses and a seductively sardonic smile. Knox kept a firm hold of Shona's hand.
*
Tragedy Ends Political Aspirations. The Scotsman.
Two Bodies In Loch Lomond Wreckage: Pilot Still Missing. The Herald
Sex And Drugs Shame Of Soap Star Senga. The Scottish Sun.
*
Ross Ritchie hadn’t got around to telling his team to back off, and one of the researchers was convinced they were on the verge of another breakthrough.
“If we apply the Dolly methodology to our methodology, I’m pretty sure we can turn the people we reconstitute into sheep.”
“That’ll be popular in Aberdeenshire,” grunted Ross.
“No, I mean metaphorically. In the sense of following a leader.”
Ross went over to the lab bench. “Let me see that,” he said. A deal was a deal, but this wouldn't be continuing with the project; this would be a completely new project. A project he was determined to lead.
*
Weeping crowds gathered outside the Garden Lobby of the Scottish Parliament for the official lying in state.
Ross Ritchie went up to the officer of the Royal Company of Archers. “We're the team from the Roslin Institute,” he said quietly. “Here to pay our respects before the doors open.”
Four members of the Royal Company stood with bowed heads round the open coffins. Ross’s team squeezed past them, the taller researchers shielding the smaller ones from view as they got to work with swabs and scalpels.
And then they were back out on the Canongate.
“Go back to your benches,” said Ross Ritchie, “and prepare for government.”
With acknowledgements to John Knox's “A Brief Exhortation to England, for the Speedy Embracing of the Gospel Heretofore by the Tyranny of Mary Suppressed and Banished”, “The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women” and “Letter Addressed to the Commonalty of Scotland”.
About the Author
Edinburgh-born Olga Wojtas is
a journalist and writer. She has had a
number of short stories published in literary magazines and anthologies in the
UK and USA. A university psychology
lecturer recently investigated her and concluded that, in one respect, she does
not behave abnormally relative to the population.