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.
Undeterred, Thatcher sent a second team. They never returned. There were reports for years afterwards of British soldiers in a Nepalese hotel regaling tourists with tales of their time in Edinburgh: how, charged by the Lesser Lizard to kill the Greater, they had barely escaped with their lives. These stories were never confirmed. In 1989, a journalist flew to the resort in Katmandu and was led to a trio of arthritic drunks, too frail and demented to be the men he was after.
Other assassination attempts followed. Lucas survived them all. Eventually he grew weary of playing the game. He convinced his parents to take him to Jos, a Nigerian town whose tin deposits and distance from Westminster would protect him from the Eye of Margaret. The news warmed the cockles of Thatcher’s reptilian heart. Her infant enemy was gone. And to Nigeria. Was it not fitting, she asked her advisers, that the demon child who had so tormented her by refusing to die should now suffer this fate worse than death?