The Beast of Buckingham Palace. David Walliams
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Buckingham Palace had been home to the British royal family for centuries, since the time of George III. From his history books, Alfred had learned that it had become a royal residence way back in 1761.
The palace used to be a sanctuary.
Now it was a fortress.
Members of the royal guard were stationed all along the perimeter wall. The soldiers were instantly recognisable by their long flowing red robes, hoods and horrifying gold skull masks. On their arms they wore black bands, with the golden griffin at the centre, just like on the flag. Despite looking almost medieval, the royal guards were armed with laser guns. Just one zap was enough to blast someone into oblivion. These soldiers guarded those who lived inside Buckingham Palace.
The palace had seen better days. The carpets were worn and the wallpaper was peeling off the walls, but it was still a special place. The prince’s bedroom was furnished only with antiques. He slept on a four-poster bed in silk pyjamas, though the bed creaked and the pyjamas had holes in them.
The palace kitchen was stocked with every dish imaginable, as long as it came out of a tin. There were food stocks to last a hundred years or more.
Alfred was safe inside the palace. Or so he thought.
The boy pressed his face closer to the window as the domed roof of St Paul’s Cathedral caved in. Despite the horror, Alfred couldn’t look away. Then, in an instant, he became distracted. There was a commotion in the corridor. He could hear a struggle and shouts just beyond his bedroom door.
“TAKE YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF ME! HOW DARE YOU! I AM YOUR QUEEN!”
It was his mother’s voice.
As fast as he could, which wasn’t very fast, Alfred limped across his bedroom, and opened the door. The Queen was being held roughly by two members of the royal guard. They were meant to protect the royal family, so why were they dragging her along as if she were a criminal?
These were strange times, but this was the strangest time of all.
“MAMA!” cried Alfred after her.
The Queen was wearing her long lace nightdress and one slipper. Even though she was being manhandled, she was trying to maintain some sense of dignity. This was a lady who prided herself on never having a hair out of place.
Alfred had not seen his mother without her hair perfectly lacquered in a “do” and her face painted with make-up. Right now, her do was unravelling fast. Instead of make-up her face was covered with thick night cream. She looked a sight. Alfred idolised his mother, and it was weird seeing her like this.
“ALFRED!” she shouted over her shoulder, struggling with the soldiers to make them stop.
Because their faces were hidden behind gold skull masks, it was impossible to guess what they were thinking. The royal guards remained silent throughout, which only added to the sense that this was a nightmare.
“Mama! Where are they taking you?” demanded Alfred.
“GET BACK INSIDE YOUR ROOM, ALFRED! AND LOCK THE DOOR!” she shouted back.
“But…!”
“NOW! AND PROMISE ME YOU’LL STAY THERE!”
The boy did not reply.
“Promise!” she pleaded.
“I promise!” he mumbled.
Shocked at what he’d just witnessed, Alfred retreated and slammed his bedroom door shut.
SCHTUM!
He stood dead still, unable to move. It was as if he were underwater. That too made it feel like being in a nightmare.
But this was no nightmare. This was really happening.
As if to prove that, tears welled in the boy’s eyes, then streamed down his face. His mother, who he loved more than anyone, was being dragged away in the night, and he was helpless to stop it. Alfred looked around his bedroom. There were silver-framed photographs of her everywhere.
Here she was reading him a bedtime story.
There she was pushing him on a rocking horse.
Here she was helping him draw a picture.
There she was playing with his train set.
Here she was painting his face like a lion.
There she was helping him blow out all the candles on a birthday cake.
Here she was giving him a teddy bear.
In each picture, the young boy was basking in the glow of her love.
In one of the photographs, Alfred was dressed up in a suit of armour as Richard the Lionheart. Richard I was a heroic king from the twelfth century, who led crusades in far-off lands. Alfred picked up the picture, and studied it.
Lionheart.
That was his mother’s pet name for him.
Tears welled in the boy’s eyes. He always felt unworthy of that name. He felt nothing like a hero. Having been ill all his life, Alfred was used to being an object of pity. Sometimes he even pitied himself.
Tears ran down his cheeks.
He felt helpless to stop his mother being dragged away by the royal guards.
Other important people had mysteriously disappeared in the night over the years.
The prime minister.
The chief of police.
The head of the army.
Even Alfred’s grandmother had suffered the same fate.
Lionheart.
His mother’s voice calling him that name circled round and round in his mind.
Lionheart.
Lionheart had been a mighty warrior. Alfred needed to summon some of his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-ancestor’s spirit, and do something. Anything.
“Lionheart!” he said out loud, and, despite what he had promised his mother, he opened his bedroom door.
Alfred limped down the corridor, steadying himself on the sideboard to catch his breath. Quite a few paces ahead, the royal guards’ cloaks fluttered as they bustled the boy’s mother along. Alfred tried