Poisoned by His Love

1

Theresa May had just finished putting on her makeup and studied herself in the bathroom mirror of 10 Downing Street. Ready for a long day of parliamentary debates, she felt strong, stable and energetic. Her husband Philip was sitting next door in bed, reading the Financial Times.  

"I have got to go, my car is here," Theresa said to her husband Philip, and she walked over and gave him a peck on the cheek. She thought wistfully of the days when they first met at the Conservative Club all those years ago. Life was different then. He had swept her off her feet and remembered the days when they ran through fields of wheat together, free and happy. Life was very different now; he worked for a hedge fund, while she was the most powerful woman in the country. She didn't always feel powerful, though, especially when Jeremy Corbyn was around.

"See you later, darling," Philip said, squeezing her hand. Philip was sensible and predictable, there was no excitement with him any more as there had been in the early years at the Conservative Club. Sometimes Theresa missed that. Her work was what gave her the real pleasure in life, life at the top was so much better than being a mere home secretary. She just wished that Jeremy Corbyn would stop trying to make her life difficult, she had enough trouble with Jacob Rees-Mogg and the other members of her party recently.

And then there was Russia and its leader Mr Putin, who had just been elected with a 76.3% majority. Every time she thought of his winking face, anger rose inside her. Even the election result seemed designed to annoy her, since she had almost lost to Jeremy Corbyn after calling an election that she 'could not lose'. And then there was the newest incident, the poisoning of Sergei Skripal in Salisbury. Now everyone would think she was weak. After all, how could she have let this happen?

She walked out of the house briskly and got into her black armoured limo. She was due at the House of Commons to make a speech about the Skripal poisoning and lay out more sanctions on associates of Russia's infuriating leader, although to her disappointment, the existing ones hadn't had much of an effect. She settled into the back seat and took out her phone to look at the news.

Then she had a text appeared on the screen, from a number she didn't recognise - a +7 number - the dialling code for Russia. As she read, she gasped in shock. Oh goodness me, she thought.

'Hello Theresa,' it said. 'It is Vladimir. I would like to invite you to the Kremlin, to clear up this little misunderstanding. I hope we can find some agreement, I'll tell you my side of our story.'

Theresa stared at the phone in shock as another message arrived from the mysterious Russian number.

'PS. I loved your outfit. You are a classy lady. I look forward to our meeting. From Russia with love.'

"Is everything all right, Mrs May,"  her driver said, and when Theresa finally looked up from her phone and saw out the window, she was nearing the Houses of Parliament. Had her phone been hacked? How had Vladimir found this number?

"Fine, fine," Theresa said. "I just - had a message from an old friend, that's all."

Once they had arrived, Theresa May walked through the long, dark corridors of the Houses of Parliament. Once in her office, most of her time was taken up by talking about the Skripal poisoning. Yet the text and its contents had seeped into her mind like polonium seeping into Alexander Litvinenko's cup of tea. Every time she mentioned Vladimir Putin she thought of him watching her on television and admiring her outfit, and an unfamiliar feeling would spread over her.

"I will tighten control of the funds of Russian oligarchs," she said, and suddenly imagined Vladimir tightening control over her. She tried hard to get the image out of her mind, but it was no good. The fabric of her trousers felt like the wheat fields brushing against her legs when she did the naughtiest thing she had ever done.

In the Commons chamber the atmosphere was electric. "Can I ask the right honourable member, are you going to expel more Russian diplomats from the country," a Tory back bencher asked.

'There are no plans to expel more diplomats to Russia until I have consulted with NATO allies about the Skripal attack." Theresa replied.

"Don't you think we should have more evidence, before definitively deciding that it is Russia," demanded Jeremy Corbyn. "Why not bring a sample of the Novichok nerve agent to Russia so they can analyse it?"

"That is not worth a response," Theresa sneered, but as Jeremy was asking the question, a thought formed in her mind. What would happen if she did in fact take a sample of the Novichok nerve agent to Moscow, where she could confront Vladimir himself personally? She would demand an explanation from him. She imagined wrestling with him the way he wrestled with bears - except this time she would be victorious.

"Why is it not worth a response, right honourable lady, I'm not saying it is not Russia, but we need more evidence," Jeremy insisted. Why couldn't he just leave her alone? Why did he have to always make things difficult?

"We have enough evidence that Russia was responsible for the poisoning," Theresa answered. "Mr Putin has a track record of these events. He flagrantly disregarded international law during the annexation of Crimea. Many other Russians have also died suspiciously in recent years on British soil. We have to let him know he will not get away with this outrageous attack."

She took a deep breath, discreetly glancing at her phone and seeing that Vladimir had sent her yet another message. 'Yes or no? Don't leave me waiting.'

"And so," The Prime Minister said, sounding like the school headmistress she sometimes wished she could have been when Jeremy was being particularly annoying. "I have decided. I will travel to Moscow myself, and confront Vladimir Putin in the Kremlin, and demand he gives me an answer about the poisoning of Sergei Skripal. I will not leave the territory of the Russian federation, until Vladimir Putin has explained everything!"

Theresa could hardly believe the words escaping from her mouth. Had she really said this? Had she been a victim of the Novichok nerve agent herself? Perhaps a foreign substance had indeed got into her blood. Perhaps she had been poisoned - but it felt like an exhilarating type of poison.

"Are you sure that's a wise choice?" the Leader of the Opposition retorted, trying to sound outraged, but mostly he was just shocked. But by now, Theresa was convinced. After all, she rarely changed her mind - as the EU bureaucracy had learnt.

She had to do it.

She had to meet with Vladimir Putin.