DESPERATE DAYS. ELIZABETH Wilson ran a hand through her hair. She looked demoralised. She looked old and broken. She sat behind her desk in her office at Millbank, elbows on the desk, head in her hands. “I should have done as Fuad asked and stepped aside,” she said. “No,” said Christine Murray. “He wanted to humiliate you.” “And this isn’t humiliating?” “Liz, we haven’t lost yet. The polls only opened three hours ago.” Wilson snorted. She was right, thought Murray. It was a disaster. She glanced out of the office window. It was a sunny day. But few people wandered the streets. Those that did looked downtrodden as usual. A beaten population. A crushed electorate. “It would have made no difference had you thrown in the towel,” Murray finally said. “What do you mean?”
