THIRTEEN
WE'LL WIN WORLD CUP FOR DIANA

...The Royal Family often seem to behave in ways which could actually be called unpatriotic, and their denial of Diana, the world's sweetheart, was the biggest betrayal of all. But then, what can you expect from a bunch of Greeks and Germans...

Her brave, bright, brash life will forever cast a giant shadow over the sickly bunch of bullies who call themselves our ruling house. We'll always remember her, coming home for the last time to us, free at last—the People's Princess, not the Windsors' ...We'll never forget her. And neither will they.

Julie Burchill,
News of the World
September 7, 1997

"WE MIGHT HAVE GUESSED the yellow press would be here first." Trixi had the air of one who was glad she had anticipated the right make-up for an unexpected situation.

She glared furiously down into the empty grave.

"Who are you calling yellow?" Frank Cornelius brushed dark earth from his cords. "Anyway, I wasn't here first, obviously." His features had a blighted look, as if he had suffered severely from greenfly.

"But you know who was, don't you?" Una Persson poked impatiently at him with her long-barrelled Navy Colt. She had chosen it because the brass and cherrywood went best with her coat, but it was a bugger to load. "That earth's still fresh. And the coffin looks recently opened."

Bishop Beesley was shattered. He sat on the edge of the empty grave licking the wrapping of his last Rollo.

"This is sacrilege." Mo paced about and gestured. "I mean it's inconceivable."

As usual at times like these, Jerry had risen to the occasion.

"I think we're going to have to torture you for a bit," he told his brother. "To get the information we need."

"That won't be necessary, Jer'." Frank's smile was unsure.

"Yes it will," said Jerry.

"It was all legit." Frank spoke rapidly. "The upkeep of the site was tremendously draining, as you can imagine. After the old earl went down outside South Africa House at the battle of Trafalgar Square, there was a bit of a hiatus. The surviving family has responsibilities to its living members, after all. They brought a copter down while you were shelling the house. She'll be in Switzerland in an hour or two. Procter and Gamble have acquired the cloning rights. This is democracy in action. Think of it—soon, anyone who can afford one gets one! Charities will snap them up. Live! Oh, Jerry, this is what we've dreamed of! Of course, she doesn't actually belong to the people any more. She's a corporate property. It's Princess Diana™ from now on. A dually-controlled subsidiary, People's Princess (Kiev) PLC, own all the copyrights and stuff. But there'll be more than enough of her to go round. Charity gets a percentage of those rights, too. PP are a company with compassion. Their chairman's a notorious wet."

"I wish you'd tell us all this after we've tortured you," said Jerry.

Frank sank to his knees.

"Sorry," he said.

"You're fucking sorry." Mo unhitched his big shooter, unsnapping the safeties, going to Narrow Ribbon Fire and pulling the trigger in one fluid, chattering movement which cut Frank's head from its body. It bounced into the grave and rested in the desecrated mud looking up at them with mildly disappointed eyes. A groan came out of the torso as it slumped onto the stone. Blood soaked the granite.

"Loose cannon." Mo seemed to be apologising.

Jerry was getting pissed off. He rounded on Trixibell. "I told you this was strictly cash. I should have got it from you up front. And now this little bastard's robbed me of my one consolation."

But Trixi had been thinking.

"Wait here. Come with me, Mo."

She began to tramp through the mud towards their raft. She boarded it and Mo poled his way to the shore.

While Una Persson did something with the grave, Jerry squatted and watched the Hon. Trixi.

She and Mo walked up the shore to where they had parked their Ford Flamefang.

Una came to stand beside Jerry and she too studied Trixi and Mo watched as they dragged old Baroness B. from the cab. Trixi's mother made peculiar stabbing motions at the air, but otherwise did not resist. Her teeth were half out of her mouth and her wig was askew but the worst was the noise which came from her mouth, that grating whine which people would do anything to stop. In her heyday, men and women of honour had agreed to appalling compromises just so that they might not hear her utter that sound again.

Even after Trixi had stuffed her mother's moth-eaten wig into the rattling mouth, the old girl kept it up all the way back to the island.

Jerry was beginning to realise that his recovery was temporary. He reached for his purple bag and looked on while Trixi and the rest bundled the noisy old woman into the coffin and tacked the lid back on. There were some unpleasant scratching noises for a bit and then they knew peace at last.

"It's a pity we didn't keep one of those gun carriages." Mo was polishing the top.

"They won't know the difference in Coventry." Trixi pushed Jerry towards their car. "Check the raft. Have a root around. We'll need all the bunjee cords we can get for this one. Once we get to the car, she'll have to go on the roof."

"I'm not sure of the wisdom of deceiving the Church." Bishop Beesley fingered himself in unusual places. "Where does devotion end and sacrilege begin?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Trixi started to haul the coffin back through the mud towards the waiting raft. At the waterside Jerry and Una took it over from her.

She paused, catching her breath. "Nobody can go further than the great British public. Besides, mum's an authentic relic in her own right. Surely she's well worth a lorryfull of Smarties ? It'll be the muscle we need to get us out of trouble. And if she's still alive when they open the box, they've got an authentic miracle. Who loses? A deal's a deal, vicar. Any port in a storm. Isn't modern life all about responding appropriately to swiftly changing situations ? And isn't the Church all about modern life?"

"Besides," Mo gestured in the direction of the real world, "we haven't got much choice. We're going to have to buy petrol."

"Well," said the bishop, "we'd better not tell the men."

"We'll divvy up after Coventry, say."

This began a fresh round of intense bargaining.

"There is another alternative..." Nobody was listening to Mo. He shrugged and stepped down towards the raft.

"But I understood I would receive part of my share in confectionery." Bishop Beesley was close to panic.

At a signal from Una, Jerry helped Mo aboard, then loosed the mooring rope. He and Mo began to pole rhythmically through the detritus towards the bank.

It was some minutes before Trixi and the Bishop noticed what was happening and by then Mo and Una were loading the coffin onto the roof while Jerry got the Ford's engine going.

"Now Church and State will have time to establish a deeper and more meaningful relationship," Una opened her Diana of the Crossways and began comparing it to her charts. "Someone has to preside over the last rites of that unsatisfactory century."

After his brief flurry of energy, Jerry was winding down again. "It suited me."

Major Nye's face appeared at the window-slit. He was puffing a little. "Hope you don't mean to leave me behind, old boy."

"Can't afford to, major." Una's spirits were lifting. "We need you to drive. Climb aboard."

As Major Nye's legs swung in, Jerry shifted to let the old man get into the seat. The others settled where they could. The cab had not been cleaned and the smell of vomit was atrocious. From overhead on the roof there came a faint, rhythmic thumping which was drowned as Major Nye put the car into gear and Mo took his place in the gunnery saddle.

Their followers limping behind, they set off towards Coventry, singing patriotic songs and celebrating the anticipated resolution.

"All in all," Jerry sank back onto his sacks and rolled himself a punishing reefer, "it's been a tasty episode. But it won't go down too well in the provinces. I'm beginning to believe this has been a poor career move. Market forces abhor the unique."

What would I know? I say. What would I know? I am dead and a friend of the dead.

We get no respect these days.

THE END