“You’re posh enough to know that was Admiral Nelson.”
“Who did you think it was?”
“Stormzy?” Sunny held out a hand expectantly. “Come on. Chopper fuel isn’t cheap, and it’s the taxpayer footing the bill for this.”
I grabbed Sunny’s hand, and he hauled me out of the seat. Once vertical, I let him go, pulled my bag over my shoulder, and followed him down the aisle of the coach, past Torsten, through the front door, and towards the helicopter I was absolutely, definitely about to redecorate with the contents of my stomach.
Chapter17
Sunny
My heart was thumping in time with the thud of the blades. My legs had gone to jelly with the excitement of my first chopper ride. Ludo, though, seemed way less enthusiastic. Instead of his usual olive complexion, he looked as pale as me—and I’ve had dead people tell me I needed more colour. I was low-key enjoying seeing him so uncomfortable. But all the same, the second our headsets were on and we could speak to each other, I checked in on him.
“All good, mate?” I asked.
He was looking straight ahead, chewing his own face like he was off his chops at Glastonbury, moshing to Anthrax. Or possibly having taken anthrax? I plucked my phone from my pocket.
“We need a selfie!”
Ludo shook his head, but I would not be deterred. I framed up Ludo in the back of my picture.
“Come on, smile! This is awesome!”
Ludo grimaced and raised his hand in a timid little wave. I snapped the picture—Ludo’s discomfort preserved for eternity—then spun around and took one just of myself to send to Mum and the Brent Boys. The helicopter lifted off the ground. Ludo gripped his knees.
“You got your WAG Bag?” I asked. The pilot had handed us spew bags the second he saw Ludo’s pastiness. Ludo nodded. We shot up higher into the air, tilted, rotated, and flew out over the water towards the oil rig. The second we crossed the cliff face and were over the sea, the air became bumpy, and we jolted and fell and lifted and swayed. I looked at Ludo. He was still in his mosh pit. I burped. My stomach was not enjoying the turbulence either. It was an enclosed cabin, but the smell of aviation fuel was strong, and two minutes into the flight I felt queasy. A minute later, I was chundering up Mrs Gallacher’s fry-up into my WAG Bag as intently as if a gameshow host was on standby with a cheque for £100,000 if I managed to fill it. Tears streamed down my face from the effort of puking so violently. I felt Ludo’s hand slide onto my knee and squeeze it. What I really needed was terra firma and a nurse to inject Kwells straight into my bloodstream. The helicopter jolted against something solid, and I realised we had arrived on the oil rig.
“Thank God for that,” I said, my face still buried in my WAG Bag.
“That was…so muchfun!” Ludo said.
I looked at him. My cheeks were wet with tears of exertion. My eyes felt puffy, fuzzy, and bloodshot. And there was Ludo, grinning and clapping his hands like a toddler who’d spent the morning mainlining Irn-Bru.
“What a rush!” he said, beaming. Then before I could stop him, he pulled out his phone, framed me up in the background, and took a revenge selfie.
“I hate you,” I said.
* * *
When the press contingent was eventually all present and accounted for on the oil rig and I was feeling much better, the conversation among the reporters turned to what the announcement was going to be. None of us had any idea, but the location had raised a few questions in my mind. I jotted them down on my notepad.
The helicopter made its final trip back from Shetland. Torsten Beaumont-Flattery stepped out first, keeping his head low and dashing over like a suited superhero to join us.
“The minister won’t be a moment,” he said.
The pilot shut off the helicopter’s engine, and the blades slowly whirred to a stop. Then, and only then, the lady herself appeared, one hot pink stiletto heel emerging from the door at a time. Jemima Carstairs, the secretary of state for the environment, glorious in a flamingo-pink pantsuit, was the reason we were all gathered on this bleak, remote oil rig. This had the beginnings of an Agatha Christie about it. Would one of us be dead before the press conference was complete?
Jemima Carstairs was smart. She had a reputation as a reformer and an effective minister, and she’d been tipped for the top job. She was in her mid-forties, much younger than most of the cabinet. She had perfectly coiffured long brown hair and eyebrows sharp enough to cut flesh.
“Thank you all for coming,” Carstairs said, taking her place in front of the press pack. We all extended our arms towards her to record the audio on our devices. In my free hand, I held my notepad with my questions, clasping it against my chest to stop the pages flapping in the wind. Terry, the cameraman, said he was rolling. Ludo stood beside me, his curls bouncing in the breeze. I could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“Today, the world stands on a precipice,” Carstairs said. “We have a choice. We can continue on the trajectory we have been on. The trajectory that created the modern world, that made Britain great, but which will ultimately cause not only our downfall but that of our entire planet. Or we change course. We can set off in a new direction, harnessing the spirit and ingenuity that saw our small island nation build a great global empire. We take the reins; we seize the opportunities of Brexit and become the world leaders in tackling climate change. We become, once again, through our greatness and our example, a country and a people the entire world looks up to, emulates, and envies.”
Holy shitballs, she’d murdered the whole cabinet in some kind of Night of the Long Manolo Blahniks and planned to rule Britain from this oil rig like she was the führer and this was the Eagle’s Nest.
“Today, as the secretary of state for the environment, with special responsibility for tackling climate change, I announce the end of the United Kingdom’s reliance on fossil fuels. We will aggressively pursue our net zero commitments through whatever means possible, including creating a sovereign wealth fund to heavily invest in new renewable energy projects and technologies—investing in British ingenuity and British companies. We will encourage polluters and the fossil fuel industry itself to make the change to cleaner, greener energy sources and to decommission and rehabilitate outdated, climate-destroying technology like this oil rig, the Viking XI.”
The minister continued cosplaying as Winston Churchill for another five minutes, announcing a huge suite of new policies, regulations, and legislation, before we could finally ask questions. Press conferences were a bit of a free-for-all as far as asking questions went. The strategy, generally, was to shout loudest to get the minister’s attention, to make eye contact, to keep eye contact, and to keep asking your question even if you could see a madman in your peripheral vision coming at you with an axe. Ministers tended to choose questions based on a vague triage of professional seniority and the likelihood of getting softball questions from friendly outlets. If Carstairs was going on the former, I’d get to ask a question before Ludo. If she went by the latter, he’d get to go first. The minister finished answering a question from Annabelle, and the press pack erupted into a squawking mass, like seagulls on a bucket of chips.
