The cellar room was huge, dark, cold and damp, with a lowering, foreboding atmosphere which was distinctly offputting.
Nick shivered, peering through the shadows. He knew perfectly well that this newest Liberal Democrat Prospective Parliamentary Candidate did not handle daylight well. Quite how their new recuit was going to cope with the open spaces of Portcullis House - or even the atrium of the House of Commons - was something which the Election Candidates Committee had not discussed with Nick, beyond a vague comment about 'eldritch powers' and 'a remarkably dominant personality' overcoming 'these minor difficulties'.
However, that wasn't Nick's problem. He was here purely in his capacity as party leader, to assure this new chap that he had the full support of the Liberal Democrats in his (her? Its?) campaign to right centuries - millennia - of injustice and ensure that the oldest intelligent race on the planet had a voice in at least one national Parliament. The residency qualification could be taken as read, as long as one ignored any suggestion of a subterranean depth limit on national boundaries.
Flattering, really, that this most ancient race had approached the Liberal Democrats, reflected Nick, as he edged warily into the room, keeping a weather ear out for any sound of movement. What kind of noise did scaled, enormous tentacles make anyway? And the beak - did that click, or rattle or... what? Dammit, he knew he should have talked to Mandelson before coming down here, but his PR team had been unanimously against anything which might suggest to a rival party that they might be uncertain. Or plain bloody terrified...
“ARE YOU THE HIGH PRIEST OF THOSE OF MY WORSHIPPERS CALLED THE DEMOCRATIC LIBERAL ONES?”
Nick let out a distinctly undignified squawk, clapping his hands to his ears as the huge, inhuman voice thundered about his head, then lowering them as he realised that there had been no audible sound. That voice had been inside his skull, echoing about the walls of his mind until almost every thought had been drowned out by the Great Old One's demand...
But only almost. Nick was not just a British politician, he was a Liberal Democrat. He was the leader of a party that most of his country's media viewed with more or less tolerant scorn. He had coped with Andrew Neil, had seen off Alan Boulton and Andrew Marr, and had even handled Jeremy Paxman in Rottweiler mode - this new candidate might be one of the eldritch and ancient powers of the universe, but compared to Piers Morgan it was a puppy dog. He moistened his lips.
“Erm... not exactly,” he said cautiously. “But I am their leader. I understand you wish to stand as the Liberal Democrat MP for the Deep Places of the Earth at the next General Election?”
“I DO. WE HAVE SLEPT TOO LONG, AND HAVE AWAKENED TO A CHANGED WORLD.”
“You've slept? Really?” Effortlessly Nick slipped into his 'get to know the candidate' persona. “So... how long have you slept in the, the er.... the 'Deep Places of the Earth'?”
“EONS.”
“Gosh, that's a long time,” said Nick sincerely. “Are you sure you want to go straight into politics, without taking a little time to adjust to the changes -”
“ - I MUST SET ABOUT REBUILDING MY POWERS! THE MINDS OF MEN ARE WEAK, BUT TO GAIN THE INFLUENCE I REQUIRE I MUST PUT MYSELF IN A PLACE OF POWER AND RENOWN! ”
“And you think the British Parliament is such a place?”
Despite himself Nick's voice was tinged with incredulity, and he winced, screwing up his eyes at his own clumsiness. The prospective candidate, however, did not seem to notice.
“IT MATTERS NOT WHETHER IT BE SO IN TRUTH OR ONLY IN THE MINDS OF MEN. I REQUIRE ONLY THAT I GAIN A POSITION THERE. THE REST,” the candidate continued with magnificent unconcern, “FOLLOWS....”
“THERE WILL BE A PLACE FOR YOU AND YOUR DEMOCRATIC LIBERALS AT MY RIGHT HAND, WHEN CTHULHU COMES INTO HIS POWER,” it added.
Nick was just opening his mouth to thank him - and hoping that he could keep the irony out of his voice - when the vague darkness on the far side of the room, which Nick had guessed to be the Prospective Parliamentary Candidate in person, shifted and grew, and there came the whispering sound of multitudinous tentacles slithering across the stone-flagged floor...
…swallowing hard, Nick took a step back, trying hard to control the terror chittering at the corners of his mind. Then he recalled facing down Peter Bone in an argument over whether children should be banned from bike-riding unless wearing a full array of safety equipment, straightened abruptly to his full height, in command of himself once again, and stood waiting.
The huge, wavering multi-tentacled shape gradually coalesced out of the darkness as it slithered closer, and Nick cleared his throat, determined to bring the interview to an end as soon as possible. All he wanted to do now was find a nice warm bar and a steaming hot toddy - preferably an extremely alcoholic one. It was bloody freezing down here!
“Was, um, was there anything else?” he enquired. “If you have no further questions, may I welcome you to the party and wish you all the best for the -”
“I HAVE ONE REQUEST,” said the great, octopoid shape now hunched only a few feet in front of Nick's shivering form. He, or it, sounded suddenly tentative. Almost... shy.
“Yes?”
“MIGHT I HAVE MORE THAN ONE ROSETTE. THEY ARE SO BEAUTIFULLY YELLOW. LIKE LITTLE SUNS...”
“I think that can be arranged,” said Nick cautiously. He stepped back, turning to go, but one final impulse of curiosity had him hesitating.
“May I ask...” he said slowly, “If I could... why, um, what made you pick the Liberal Democrats? Was it our record of support for ethnic minorities, or our long history as a party, or -”
“I LIKE YELLOW, AS DO ALL MY KIND,” said the Prospective Parliamentary Candidate matter-of-factly. Then it moved back until its unearthly shape was swallowed by the shadows.
“I WILL SLEEP NOW. WAKE ME WHEN IT IS TIME TO START CANVASSING. I WISH TO CAST MY ELDRITCH INFLUENCE OVER AS MANY MINDS AS POSSIBLE.
“NOW BEGONE!”
Carefully Nick closed the great oaken door to the cellar and climbed the many steps to where the rest of his team were waiting in the National Liberal Club foyer. He would keep that final comment to himself, he decided. So the Great Old Ones were suckers for the colour yellow? Hmm... perhaps it was time to suggest a new campaigning strategy to the Federal Executive...
Humming softly, Nick made for the bar - and a hot toddy.