Theresa sighed as the carriage clock astride her antique fireplace ticked its fingers around to midnight. Her first post-premiership Christmas was starting as inauspiciously as her career ended: alone with only a glass of malt for company. She downed the whisky and patted the arms of her chair, readying herself for the climb to her bedroom when a shift in the shadows drew her attention. Her hand reached for the panic button.
“It won’t work,” said a voice. It was both commanding and gentle. “We are in the time between moments.”
“Who are you?” she demanded, pushing the button anyway, but instead of the door flying open and Special Forces troops bursting in, there was only the soft footfall of the tall, well-dressed man approaching from the shadows.
“I said it wouldn’t work,” he nodded at the button. He removed his hat to reveal neatly cut silver hair above dark blue eyes, a geometrically straight nose and a wry smile hovering on full lips. “I am what the Dickens fans would call ‘The Ghost of Christmas Unfulfilled’. Actually, they probably wouldn’t, they don’t like him messed with.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“I’m here to show you what might have happened,” he said, then winked, “if you’d done things differently.”
He clicked his fingers and Theresa found herself sat at her desk in 10 Downing Street. In front of her was a copy of the Times dated Friday 19th May, 2023. The headline declared “May wins third term”.
“Yes, he said, “You could have been a three times winner. If only you’d played your cards differently.”
“What happened?” She felt her heart beat rise. “Boris? Brexit? Farage? Corbyn?”
“Boris is editing Private Eye now,” he answered, “And Hislop is in the House of Lords. You elevated him to make way for Boris.”
“Brexit? Farage?”
“Long grass,” he said. “You set up commissions to look into corruption in the referendum and the feasibility of Brexit. The reports are on your desk waiting for you to sign them off. No rush.”
“Farage,” he smiled widely, “Ah yes, he’s sitting in an American jail awaiting trial. President Hillary told me she thinks he will get off, but they’re stringing it out as a favour to you for giving her the tape of that awful Trump fellow and the Russian hookers.”
“Is this just a dream, or can you make it happen?” She could barely breathe.
“Oh, I can make it happen,” he nodded, “but there is a price to pay.”
“Anything,” she said, “I would do anything to make it right.”
“Done,” he said, “but you haven’t asked me about Corbyn.”
“What about the horrible man?”
“Retired,” he said placing a folded piece of paper on the desk, “But.”
The door swung open to reveal Jeremy Corbyn carrying two mugs of cocoa.
She glanced at the paper.
Written on it were the words: ‘Be careful what you wish for’.
“Ready for bed?” asked Jeremy.
