Always look on the bright side of life … At any other time, an appearance before the Covid inquiry might have been a bit of an uphill struggle. A nightmare, even. But compared with facing down all factions of an increasingly feral Conservative party over what his own home secretary calls the “batshit” Rwanda policy, a day out in Paddington answering questions from the ultra-smooth Hugo Keith was like a spa treatment. A gentle exfoliation.
Hell, what was the worst that could happen? Who cares if everyone thinks you’re an incompetent dweeb who wasn’t that bothered if people lived or died. Right now, his priority was surviving in Downing Street until Christmas. Something that was by no means guaranteed. The Tories were now so certifiable, the Daily Telegraph and the Daily Mail were campaigning for the dream team of Boris Johnson and Nigel Farage. Arise Lord Boris. Arise Lord Nige. Because the answer to batshit crazy is to get batshit crazier.
There were a few heckles on his way in – so much more polite than the slavering Mark Francois on College Green – but Rish! could zone out from the background noise. He had far too much to remember. Principally he had to remember precisely what he had been briefed to forget. For it was to turn out that like Johnson before him, the lasting effect of the Covid pandemic had been near total amnesia. Time and again, Rish! would scratch his head and look blank. It wasn’t just the past that was another country. It was also the truth.
After a brief apology from Sunak – he was terribly sorry for all the things that he couldn’t remember and weren’t his fault – Keith began by asking about the missing WhatsApps. Again, just like Boris, it turned out that all his messages had inexplicably deleted themselves. Just imagine the coincidence. That the prime minister and the chancellor had been in possession of the only two phones in the UK whose messages could neither be retrieved nor had automatically transferred themselves to a new phone. How unlucky can you get.
Sunakered was desperate. No, devastated. Inconsolable. Could he take a break to recover while he spoke to his therapist. Because he was absolutely certain that if those messages had been available, they would prove that he had done absolutely the right thing at all times. And that he was unusually forgetful. But look, he told the urbane KC, here’s what he would do to make it up to the inquiry. He would pass a law saying that he had handed over all his WhatsApp messages after all. And what’s more they had all exonerated him. What more could he do? It had worked for Rwanda. Unsafe to safe in the twinkle of a prime ministerial eye.
We then got on to the metaphysics of the pandemic. Because it wasn’t just that Rish! could remember next to nothing – memory loss was the main symptom of his long Covid – but he wasn’t even entirely sure if he had even been in 11 Downing Street at the time. Not just a virus but an existential breakdown. One that had led him to question everything. He now wasn’t sure of anything. He couldn’t be certain if this even was the Covid inquiry or just a Black Mirror image. Or if he and his surroundings were even real. He was merely living from minute to minute, trying to second guess the truth.
Keith breathed in deeply. Trying to keep cool. Not to be rattled by an over-indulged tabula rasa. Do it in baby steps. It was like this, said Sunakered. If he had been working in the Treasury then he was sure he had taken an entirely passive role. Just passing on helpful pieces of information to the Cabinet Office and quite happy to have his advice ignored. But then he couldn’t remember anything so that was only how he assumed it must have been. He was sure if he had actually been responsible for anything, then someone would have told him?
Had he noticed anything unusual about No 10? Not at all. Everything looked fine. So the chaos and parties just felt normal. And what about the Spectator interview in 2022? The one in which he had boasted to the editor of not leaving a paper trail and having been anti-lockdowns. Sunak shrugged. He was baffled. He had no idea how Fraser Nelson might have got the idea from an interview with him that he had thought such things. So many mysteries in the Rish! Miniverse.
Ommm. Time to get Zen. Clear the mind with the downward dog. What the inquiry really had to remember was the nature of insignificance. Sunak was a mere speck of dust – we all were – the chancellor no more than human flotsam. He had been at most a conduit. Passing on ideas to a Greater Being. A semi-sentient Ouija board. His contribution to whether the prime minister imposed a lockdown was infinitesimal. Whether he was in favour of lockdowns or against them, whether he was in favour of the science or not, was just semantics. He wasn’t there. Just as he wasn’t here. The Nowhere Man.
For a brief while after lunch, Sunak’s synapses briefly fired. The memories came flooding back. It had been the scientists who had been wrong to call him Doctor Death. They had forgotten they had always loved him and applauded the far-sighted way in which he sensitively combined the needs of the economy with the risk to public health.
They had loved his eat out to wipe out scheme. Which had only ever been a micro-policy. A mere bagatelle. Here was a lash of the familiar Rish!. The chippy, tetchy Rishi. The man who can’t stand having his word questioned. Who expects undying love even when he was actively trying to kill us all. Because he was only ever killing us with kindness. It was for our own benefit that more people had to die.
Then fatigue set in again. Sunak was Sunakered. The act of remembering had been exhausting. So the brain cells clouded over again. Je ne regrette rien. Je ne me souviens de rien. Everything was a blur. If you could remember working in Downing Street during the pandemic, then you hadn’t been there. He was sorry that he couldn’t help more. He was lighter than air. Float, float, floating away.
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