Chapter 22
Ludo
I felt jolly tired and, truth be told, I was getting sick to death of it blowing a gale.
Torsten had brought us to a windy knoll overlooking the North Sea.
The skyline was dotted with wind turbines, the blades relentlessly circling like in-crowd Soho gays around out-of-town twinks.
In front of us, at the base of one of these giant machines, stood Environment Secretary Jemima Carstairs and the secretary of state for education and training, Bimpe Lasisi.
Like every other gay boy in Britain, I was obsessed with this woman.
As always, Lasisi was dressed in traditional Yoruba Nigerian attire.
Her hair was wrapped in a magnificent gele of turmeric and gold, and it crowned her face like the halo of a Russian icon.
Her hands were clasped in front of her, preventing her shawl from flying off into the wind to join the guillemots and kittiwakes circling overhead.
“Scotland, and particularly Shetland, is a UK leader in renewable energy,” Lasisi said.
“Today, the government is announcing twenty thousand funded training places for those with relevant skills wishing to retrain and join the renewable sector, annually. We particularly want to encourage those currently working in the fossil fuel industry to retrain, so we can use their valuable skills and experience to help make a cleaner, greener Britain for tomorrow. Today, we also announce five thousand subsidised renewable energy apprenticeships, annually, to encourage young people up and down the country—from Shetland to Penzance—into careers in this exciting, world-beating British energy revolution.”
Carstairs stepped forward. I heard Sunny clear his throat.
I looked over at him, on the far side of the semicircle of the press pack.
His notepad was tucked under one arm. The other arm, outstretched, held his phone, catching the audio.
The morning sun, peering weakly from behind a cloud, shone red through his hair.
It bathed his skin in honey and amber. Why was he so beautiful? Argh!
“We’re putting Britain back to work,” Carstairs said, looking straight down the barrel of the camera.
“Over the next five years, with government support, renewable energy will become the major industry across Britain. This government is building a better tomorrow for our children by investing in a cleaner, greener Britain. We are creating the future our children deserve by building the today we all need.”
No speech notes. This was all off the top of her head.
No wonder people were talking her up as a future prime minister.
I knew what my father would say, though.
It was claptrap. Non-existent apprenticeships in a non-existent industry.
Big announcement, great sound bites, no substance.
I was feeling quite cynical about it myself and, to be frank, uninterested in the whole shebang.
Carstairs opened the floor to questions, and the entire press pack began squawking like the birds above our heads.
All except me, that is. I couldn’t think of a single question.
The more I tried to think of one, the less clearly I could think at all.
When I finally stumbled across a question, I couldn’t seem to keep it in my head, and it slipped away again before I was able to ask it.
Ten minutes later, everyone else in the press pack had asked at least one question.
Sunny had asked three and was shouting out another one.
“It’s a been big week of big, reforming announcements,” he said. “Minister, why are you making them on behalf of the government, and not the prime minister?”
Carstairs kept looking down the barrel of the camera, not making eye contact.
“This is climate change policy, and I’m the minister responsible for climate change,” she said. “OK, everyone got everything they need?” She clapped her hands together, not waiting for anyone to reply. “Torsten will give you a copy of the press release. Shall we get some pictures?”
Just like that, it was over. I stood frozen on the spot, my brain trying to tick over what had just happened.
“Are you OK, Ludo?” It was Sunny. He was standing beside me, a look of concern on his face. I felt the tender tap of his fingertips against my elbow. I pulled away.
“I’m fine,” I said. The fingers returned.
“You didn’t ask any questions, and I—”
I shook his hand off my arm. Sunny seemed taken aback.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Brain fade in press conferences is really common. It’s a good idea to write a few questions down on your notepad before things get started, so you always have a prompt.”
Sunny had just mansplained press conferences to a fifth-generation journalist.
“It wasn’t brain fade. I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep very well.”
In fact, I was starting to feel quite light-headed. Over Sunny’s shoulder I could see the other journos spreading out over the hilltop, phones clasped to their ears, calling the information back to their newsrooms. I should have been doing the same.
“That’s my fault,” Sunny said. He had no idea how right he was. “Too many late nights watching movies. I’m sorry.” He also had no idea how wrong he was. I smiled faintly. Sunny said he had to call the newsroom and turned and walked away. I looked down at my phone.
“You’re still coming to the pub tonight, though, right?
” Sunny called out. He was standing about three metres from me, one foot balanced on a boulder like an idealised Victorian image of British masculinity and derring-do.
“It’s our last night. You don’t want to miss it. You can sleep on the plane.”
I nodded, just to be polite. Sunny smiled and gave two thumbs up, then turned to keep walking along the rocky hilltop.
I returned to my phone and named the saved audio file “Saint Fabulous of Lasisi.” I glanced up at the giant turbine above me.
The majestic blades spun gracefully, swinging around and around effortlessly, like Margot Fonteyn’s pirouettes in Swan Lake.
My eyes landed on the tip of one blade, following it around as it carved a circle in the air.
I felt dizzy. I switched my focus to the horizon to steady myself, took two steps, tripped on a rock, and fell to the ground.