His early years were fraught with drama. On receiving word of his birth, Margaret Thatcher, blinded by sorcery and high on M&M’s, dispatched a team of special operatives to strangle the infant in his crib. They limped back four days later, spirits broken, voices an octave higher, singing the praises of Neil Kinnock and flashing peace signs at bewildered field officers.
Thatcher sent a second team. They never returned. There were reports for years afterwards of British soldiers, survivors of a mission too secret to name, regaling tourists in Nepalese hotels with tales of their time in Edinburgh. They had been charged by the Lesser Lizard to kill the Greater, they said, and had barely escaped with their lives. In 1989, a journalist flew to Katmandu to track them down. He was led to a trio of drunks, too frail and demented to be the men he was after.
Other assassination attempts followed. Lucas survived them all. He convinced his parents to take him to Jos, the Nigerian town they had left seven years before. The city’s tin deposits would protect him from Margaret’s Eye. At that distance he would be safe.
Mrs Thatcher was not dismayed by his departure. When an aide brought her the news, it warmed her reptilian heart. Her infant enemy was gone. And to Nigeria. Was it not fitting, she asked her advisers, that the child who had so tormented her should suffer this fate worse than death?