Chapter 3
‘Buckingham Palace has been captured for you, sir.’
‘I don’t want it any more.’ Says Evans, ‘It was just an idea.’ He is speaking to the Minister of Defence, Tim Anderson.
Mr. Anderson looks absolutely exasperated. ‘Do you realise the work that went into that operation? Why do you have to be so ungrateful? Why do you want the palace anyway?’
‘In response to the first question: yes, I know, and I don’t care. To the second, you are there to serve me and you do what I tell you, so why should I have to be grateful? To the third, that is none of your business, so go fuck yourself.’
Anderson inhales sharply, and continues: ‘I commanded the operation for you, so it is in my interest to know.’
‘Look, I’ve already told you. I haven’t got all day, so you can fuck off now.’
‘What are we going to do with the palace?’
‘Call me “Sir!”’
‘I said: what are we going to do with the palace?’
‘You will call me “Sir!”’
‘Why should I when you won’t even answer my questions properly?’
Evans throws his hands up and starts shouting: ‘I’ve listened to you, and you... You have the fucking nerve to disrespect me!’
I need him to fulfil my dreams of conquest. But I can always find another minister....
‘When you treat others the way you do, why should they respect you?’
‘Don’t you answer back! I’m your leader, you do what I say!’
‘Well, I think that you need to change your attitude, or let someone else be the leader.’
Evans screams. ‘How dare you! How dare you say that! Get the fuck out right now!’
‘What happens if I don’t?’
‘I’ll give you a serious hiding, that’s what! So get out of here!’
‘You realise that other people will know about that?’
Evans twitches for a moment. Suddenly, he smiles. He throws his hands up as if he is pushing something away. ‘I’m sorry. I just had a bad day, that’s all. I get angry when we have these arguments because I want the best for all of us and it upsets me so when there is a dispute between us. You can be in charge of the palace, as you have been so faithful to the government. Also, I promise: no more arguments.’
Anderson stares at Evans, trying to decide whether he is serious or whether he is making this up.
‘It’s fine: I’ll do without the palace. If I organise another campaign for you, I don’t want to be told that you are no longer interested in the goal of it. Is that clear?’
I can’t guarantee that. However, it may be a laugh to pretend to just to get on his nerves. Trouble is, he’ll leave. Maybe it’s time to find a new minister...
‘Well, no it’s not. That’d be organising it on your terms, and I don’t think that’s appropriate.’
Anderson ponders this for a moment. ‘Well, in that case, I have no option but to resign.’
‘Of course. Off you go then.’
Anderson raises his eyebrows, but he makes his way out of the room. He can’t help thinking that something like this is not supposed to happen; although he is becoming dissatisfied with it, he will remain in the political world a little longer, just for surveillance.
*
‘Surname?’
‘Holmes.’
‘First name?’
‘Simon.’
‘You are arrested on suspicion of making a false claim.’
He can hardly believe it.
‘I’m sorry.... you what?’
‘Rules are rules. Everything you say from now on will be taken down in evidence.’
‘But you.... you just can’t....’
He feels the iron grip on his wrists. He know what’s going to happen next.
‘No way! No fucking way!’
‘That’s another year for you, you swearing bastard.’
‘Don’t I get a trial?’
‘You’ll get a trial, alright.’ The officer guffaws. ‘Just not the kind you thought.’
As his coerced parade to the van takes place, the mob appears.
‘Go! Get him!’
‘No, no!’
‘Bloody pigs! Go on, fuck ‘em up!’
‘No! No!’
Six hands grab the potential attacker, pulling him back. The back doors of the van are opened, and Holmes is thrown in. As the doors slam shut, his fate is sealed.
‘Let me out!’
‘Let me out, you cunts!’
‘Fucking let me out!’
He starts banging on the doors, but soon he is no longer in denial about what is happening.
*
The room is around 10 metres by 8 metres. There is a bed at the far right corner which resembles the kind you might find in a psychiatric ward. It does at least have some colour: blue and white stripes.
‘You can make yourself useful and clean that crap off the floor.’
Holmes is disgusted by this blatant abuse of authority. However, there seems like no way out at this moment.
‘Is there a bucket? A mop? Anything like that?’
‘You clean it off with your tongue, douche bag! What do you expect? Get that outfit off first, though. You don’t want you getting it wet, do we?’
He sighs and peels the thing off. There’s no way he’s cleaning blood with his tongue though.
The two guards guffaw.
‘Look at him! I could swear he’s actually got shit on his arse. If you look closely, you can see. It’s alright, you little fucker, you can clean it off with a toilet brush. But you’re cleaning that floor like this.’ He moves his tongue upwards and downwards while sticking it out in an exaggerated format, and closing his eyes. His lips contort into a sarcastic grin.
‘Don’t you realise that I could get AIDS from licking blood?’
‘Yes, I realise that.’ Says the guard, who he has been speaking to. He is not one Holmes has seen before. He has curly black hair, which is shoulder-length, and vaguely round features. He is relatively thin, but has some sturdiness to him. ‘I don’t fucking care. Do you think that you have rights? Clean the fucking floor now!’
There’s something about the way he says this that suggests that he means trouble. Holmes decides that AIDS is the lesser of two evils. Reluctantly, he lowers his mouth to the floor and begins to lick the pool of the dead in a spiral motion. He hears further guffawing and ‘ahem-aheming’. One of the guards steps nearer to him. He hears the sound of a zip and feels something spilling onto his back. He turns around and sees something that he instantly tries to forget. They say that a picture paints a thousand words, but this one paints only two: shame and humiliation. He knows, at this very moment, that what he has just seen will haunt him forever.
‘Alright, that’s enough!’ he shouts, raising himself up.
The guard tries to push Holmes back down. Holmes overcomes the force easily, but the other guard, who has recognised the situation, comes over his way. He has blond hair, which is shaved to grade 4 or so, and oval features, which are spotted with freckles. He has a little more mass than the other guard. They both pin Holmes’ arms to the floor. Holmes kick out with his heels.
‘Oh no, no, no. There’s no need for that. We know that you fuckers try and struggle. We have reinforcements.’ He laughs, smugly.
‘And we’re willing to call them in.’ Says the other one.
Holmes stops kicking out. ‘Let me finish the job.’ He sighs.
‘Ok, I will. I’ll leave you in peace: once we’ve got the cack off your arse. I’m going to get the brush, and when I come back I expect you to have cleaned all the blood. Otherwise it’ll be yours getting spilt.’ He utters, in a menacing tone. ‘My friend will watch you.’
Holmes tells by the knowing smile that erupts on the face of the silent one that, in actuality, they both hate each other, but they are working together for a common cause. He continues with the spiralling motion, enduring the guffaws, which is just as difficult as the task itself. He puts the acrid taste, and the cold, rough sensation, to the back of his mind, and focuses on the end of this task, when he will be free. As he drifts into a daydream, he hears footsteps. These are quickly followed by another rough sensation on his anus. He keeps on, focusing on the portrait of azure blue sky and ignoring the much more real, tangible happenings. The judge in him is trying to decide the most tortuous of the messages which his sense of touch is sending to him.
‘Ok. I reckon you’ve cleaned enough. I’m sorry for pissing over you by the way, but it has to be done. We’ll give you a wash, ok?’
He nods. He makes his way out. HIs sentry looks nonchalant. He focuses on the dark brick wall ahead of him, trying not to accept that this may be his future. He is interrupted by a very cold, wet sensation. He shivers, uncontrollably.
‘Ok. Done. Now, piss off to bed. Lights out in fifteen minutes.’
For seemingly hours, he stares at the ceiling, planning an escape route. He wakes, suddenly, only realising that he has been asleep for some time at this very moment. Soon, he drifts off into the same deep, meditative slumber which he has experienced before. As the light shines into the cramped room, it occurs to him that he now has an addiction to sleep.
*
The first reading of the new Education Act results in considerable disapproval among the members of the House of Commons, including two MPs from the New Way. Evans glares at them, menacingly. The following day, he asks the suspects, Keith Anderton (the Minister for Costs) and his wife Joanne (the Minister for Debt) to be summoned to his personal office in Westminster.
They find themselves in a room which seems to be totally bare, except for a generic desk, four seats, and a few posters on the wall: the first shows a picture of Simon Evans with a halo above it, with a crowd of people smiling and cheering and looking up at him. The second is a world map showing two hands grasping it: a caption in a strange blood red sans serif font reads ‘New Way, New World’. The third shows what appears to be the corpse of Michael Turner, with a caption in size 20, orange capital letters: ‘RIP Dickhead’. Evans swiftly removes the last two posters and throws them into a corner. He points to the first: ‘What do you think?’
‘Uh..... ok.’ Says Joanne.
‘Ok’ he screeches, mockingly. ‘All you can say about that is ok. And that’s why you’re here today.’
‘What is it?’ asks Keith.
‘You don’t ask me questions. Call me “Sir”.’
Keith shakes his head. ‘No way.’
‘Either you fucking call me “Sir” or the meeting doesn’t continue.’
‘I can’t stand anymore of this...’
‘Call me “Sir”!’
‘I resign.’
‘You won’t fricking call me “Sir”! That’s all you have to do!’
He looks over at Sheila, then at Evans. In front of him is someone who, he suspects, would not hesitate to do some serious damage to his skeletal structure in a dark alley. But here.... they’re safe. And there is no way he can let his pride be diminished like this, not when she’s here.
‘I resign.’ He repeats.
Evans stiffens for a moment, and clenches his fists.
‘You can’t do that. I have to dismiss you.’
‘Well, there’s no need. I resign, so you don’t have to dismiss me.’
Unnoticed to the others, a tear falls from one of Evans’ eyes. ‘You sodding twat!’ he blurts out.
‘Uh... so what? What’s the matter with that?’
‘It’s ok... go on. You can resign after all.’
‘Well, thank you, Mr. Evans.’
‘Bastard.’ Mutters Evans.
‘So why am I here?’ asks Sheila.
‘Well, I called you both in, because you’re both fired. But your little friend has decided to resign. I suppose you’re going to tell me you are too?’
‘Well, in the circumstances, I have no choice.’
‘You fucking bitch.’
‘Alright, there’s no need to insult me!’
‘Yes, there is. Well, I don’t care. You both go on, go!’
They look at each other with puzzlement, but they get up and depart.
Once they are gone, Evans starts to sob. ‘Why isn’t this approach working?’ he moans. ‘I never thought it would be this difficult. If I can’t subjugate anyone, there is no point in this, no point at all!’
He starts to wander up and down the room. He finds the two posters and puts them back on the wall. Eyeing the ‘RIP Dickhead’ poster, he cheers up.
‘Now, that’s an idea. Well, actually, no. Too boring.’
His shoulders slump down, and he carries wandering around, aimlessly. ‘What is the point? Just, maybe, I’ll just give up. Maybe that twat’s right. But what I will do instead?’
*
‘Something tells me they aren’t going to have elections. They promise them in a certain number of years, but I know Evans, and, to be honest, I think he is simply trying to convince everyone that they will take place because that’s what everyone wants to think.’
‘But, how? He just wouldn’t do that.’
Tim Anderson is at the home of Michael Butler, his friend, and his wife, Sheila. They are having an evening meal: sausages, roast potatoes and asparagus. However, the main reason why Anderson is here is to discuss his plan.
‘In public, he is amicable. When I am alone with him, he shows something very different: he is argumentative, disrespectful and fickle. He also likes to turn it all onto you. Apparently, you are disrespecting him if you ask him anything. He tried to make a plea but I got so fed up that I decided to resign.’
Michael & Sheila listen, with concern.
‘Once I made the decision to resign, he suddenly became very dismissive. I thought that this was very unusual behaviour. I want to know what it is with him. Why does he act like that?’
‘I’m not certain.’ Says Michael. ‘It certainly seems strange.’
‘I know all the mental health disorders,’ says Sheila ‘I’m always reading about them. This doesn’t seem like anything I’ve found.’
‘Why are you so preoccupied with mental health disorders? What’s supposed to be wrong with me?’
‘I never said there is anything wrong... I’m just interested.’
‘Well, it’s got to be for a reason. I know you prefer him. Always glancing at him like that. He’s the sane one, isn’t he? I’m not!’
Tim raises his hands. ‘Please.’
‘I do not want to leave you! How many times have I told you! Come to think of it, yes, perhaps you have paranoid personality disorder!’
‘Oh, do I! So, there’s something wrong with me, is there?’
‘No!’
’Don’t you try to deny it!’
‘Ahem’ coughs Tim. At once, the couple pay attention to him. He continues: ‘I’ve thought of forming my own political party, but with the election not being certain, I wonder if it is worth it. We will have to see what happens in the future, but I want to know what to do now. I’d like to stay in the political world, and I’m certainly not willing to go back to the New Way! What do you suggest?’
‘I really don’t know.’ Says Michael. ‘I still can’t believe that Evans is not what he seems.’
‘He really seems to want the best interest for all of us.’ Says Sheila. ‘The only issue is that since they have taken over, the television is much worse. Neither of us can bear to watch it any more.’
‘I wonder if anyone will find the solution?’ wonders Tim, out loud.
‘We’ll just have to see if the elections go ahead.’ Replies Michael. ‘I’m sure they will.’
Tim decides simply to carry on eating. If he leaves enough time, perhaps a plan will formulate in itself. At the very least, he can follow what is happening politically. He wants to pay attention to it 24/7, but he knows there are other things to do. He would consider becoming an officer in the army once more, but he does not wish to belong to one which attempts to fulfil the New Ways’ wishes. Perhaps, for the time being, he will find another political party to join: even though the threat is overwhelming to the resistance offered by this option, it will offer him the opportunity for meaningful employment and to keep watch of what is happening.
*
At the secret headquarters, it is now accepted that the cohort of Simon Evans, Mary Evans, Henry Reeves and Nigel Stant will attend every meeting. This particular meeting also has a guest: Angela Robinson, the Minister for News, Media, and Blogs.
‘I am here today,’ announces Angela ‘as I would like to propose the possibility of a new national newspaper.’
‘And what is the point of that?’ snaps Simon Evans.
‘It will send people the message that they should vote for New Way in the next election, without their even so much as realising it.’
‘Ah, I’m with you now. That’s a great proposal. I entirely accept.’ As he leans towards her, Mary Evans can sense a trace of meekness mixed in the more obvious signals. She looks at her husband in disgust, before moving away from him slightly.
‘In that case, I’ll start looking for staff from next week.’
‘Could I...’ says Reeves.
‘Shut up!’ roars Simon Evans. ‘I go first!’
‘But you let her....’
Realising that his wife is in the room, Evans has no idea what to say in reply. Instead, he simply ignores Reeves: ‘So, are there any other proposals?’
Reeves speaks again: ‘I was just going to say that after that disastrous first reading, it is bleeding obvious...’
‘No swearing!’ commands Evans. Mary points her feet towards him.
‘...it is obvious that there is no chance of passing any of the laws that we want to create through the current process. I therefore propose that we abolish the House of Commons.’
‘And how exactly are we going to do that?’ asks Evans, contemptuously.
‘We abolish it by burning it, like we did with the television centre.’
Evans turns bright red. ‘That’s just a fantastic idea!’ he shouts. Reeves assumes that he’s being sarcastic, before he sees Evans rub his hands and start sweating, while the rest of the attendees burst into applause. Reeves wonders if he’ll be promoted, then he remembers that there’s nowhere to be promoted to, except for the role of Prime Minister. Perhaps he could ask for a new role to be created?
‘Would you like to take on a Deputy Minister?’
‘No.’ Evans would normally be infuriated by the question, but is simply too jubilant at the proposal to care.
‘I’ll organise it.’ Says Stant. ‘We can get the police to keep shtum. Perhaps, if anyone asks, they can pretend it’s people rioting.’
Once more, Evans’ skin turns a roseate hue, but this time it’s for a different reason: ‘But why in fucking hell would my fucking people want to riot?! How dare you disrespect me and my fantastic government!’ He clenches his fists again, by now so familiar to the others that it is regarded as a trademark gesture.
‘OK, ok!’ protests Stant.
‘I’ll keep you on, but don’t be so bloody cheeky! How dare you say that!’
Stant can barely get a word in edgeways.
‘Don’t insult me ever again, otherwise I’ll.....I’ll.....’
I can’t get rid of this guy, or I’ll have to execute my plans myself.
‘....I’ll get very pissed off!’
Reeves is becoming infuriated about the rules. ‘Can I go now?’ he asks.
‘No, you can’t! Sit down and shut up!’
Reeves sulks, but does as he’s told. Mary edges closer to her husband, and starts to stroke his back. He pushes against her.
‘Don’t do that!’ he yells.
Mary looks very put out, but obliges. Stant is becoming extremely fed up. ‘What happens next?’ He asks.
‘Nothing.’ says Evans. ‘You all piss off now.’
‘But before we go....’
‘Before we go,’ echoes Evans, mockingly ‘before we go, before we go, before we go!’
‘But how...’
‘Oh just go away!’ he shouts. The rest of the attendees are getting up and leaving. Stant gives up and joins them. He is tempted to hand in his notice, but he knows there will be no chance of advancement in the hierarchy if he does so. He hisses at Reeves, suspecting now that he also has designs on the most senior role within it. If Reeves takes over before him, he will have to wait forever. He simply cannot let this happen.
*
It is another day in the House of Commons. The second reading of the Education Act is to take place later on. For now, everyone is making themselves comfortable: a number of them converse to MPs that they know, but no-one is too concerned about going about their business until later. As they fill their seats, they wonder why there is no-one from the New Way in here.
‘We’d better telephone them: they must have forgotten.’ Says Keith Anderton, now an independent MP. He is here with a view to joining a new party, as he is tiring of campaigning.
‘Maybe they have given up on it, unprofessional though that is.’ Responds Sheila.
‘I just don’t find this right. Maybe we’d better go and find out what’s happening.’
The couple announce to everyone that they’re leaving, and that they should be back within a couple of hours. Everyone carries on chattering, mainly about the latest issue of what is happening with VAT: the New Way promised to abolish it, but this does not seem to have happened. Half an hour, there is still no sign of anyone else, so they commence the second reading.
Suddenly, the fire alarm goes off. Everyone lines up and prepares to go to the assembly point: they all get out through the fire exit. Looking behind them, they notice a fire engulfing the west side of the building. Gradually, it spreads to the south, growing denser. They are visited by the fire team, who tell them to go home.
*
While Reeves is riding in the speeding taxi, which he has taken to avoid the angry throng of reporters and civilians who are demanding, via vocal questions and placards, to know what has happened to parliament, he receives a phone call.
‘Hi, it’s me: Nigel. It’s alright, you can hide at mine.’
‘Great!’ exclaims Reeves. ‘Where are you?’
On being given the address, he eagerly tells the driver where to go. On arriving, he gets out and considers underpaying the driver by a few pounds, but decides that it is not worth it. On paying, he waves, and wishes the driver a very nice day, which he doesn’t really mean. He sneers at the dwelling that Stant seems to have chosen: some semi-detached, probably built in the 1930s. He is puzzled as to why he has not moved into one of the special government residences. There are rumours that some of the ministers are beginning to live at the secret headquarters.
He keenly makes his way up the driveway, until he meets a dark blue door, with a black letterbox somewhere in the centre, reading: ‘Letters’. He raps his knuckles on the door. Almost at once, it is opened.
‘Hello, come on in!’ says Stant.
He steps into a hallway with a marble-coloured carpet, an umbrella stand and a wide mirror, into which Reeves flexes his arms, and poses with his hands on his hips. Stant gives him a withering look. ‘Are you finished yet?’ he asks.
‘Err... yes. Of course.’
They turn to the right, into a room with the same carpet, a coal fireplace in the centre of the room, a sofa to the left, and a television which is blaring a rather familiar sound. With haste, Stant takes the remote control and mutes the television before switching it off at the wall.
‘Sit yourself down.’ he says, somewhere between a request and a command.
‘Sure.’ He takes his place on the sofa.
‘Would you like anything to drink?’
‘I’ll have a coffee or something.’
‘Of course. I’ll go and get one.’
Reeves considers switching the television back on, but decides perhaps it will be too obvious. He simply watches the world from the window: leaves fall from their unforgiving providers, traffic makes its way to unknown directions, the sky....
He hears a thud, and turns round to look. Suddenly, he sees Stant charge towards him with a baseball bat in his hands. Desperately, Reeves makes his way up off the couch, and runs out of the room. Stant takes a swing at him, but hits the wall, which resounds with another thud. Quickly, Reeves turns the lock, opens the door and runs to the end of the driveway, not caring that the door is open. Stant thwacks the door, causing part of it to splinter onto the porch, wood spraying like solid blood. On seeing that Reeves has got away, he decides not to give chase.
*
With no clear process for the introduction of new laws, there is now nothing to curb the government’s power. Police suspicion is dealt with by bribes and threats of redundancy. At the next meeting, it is decided that the general test will be introduced. A plan is drawn for its implementation in all schools and colleges in the country by the following year. Any that refuse to replace GCSEs with the new test will suffer the same fate as the House of Commons. A few people notice that Reeves is not here today, but assume that perhaps he is away on business. The election issue is temporarily put on hold. The issue of economic policy is also brought up:
‘In order to compete with other global superpowers,’ announces Evans ‘we need to promote economic growth. There must be no limit to this. We will aim for an increase of GDP by 5% in the next year. To encourage this, we will check on people’s spending habits.’
‘What are they meant to buy?’
‘I don’t know, do I? It’s up to them. Actually, it is best if they put money in our coffers so we’ll take over as many businesses as possible. That’s another point.’
‘Um.... ok.’
‘For that reason, we’ll also introduce a tax which will apply regardless of income. Let’s just pretend that it contributes to their pension or something. That should get them to cough up.’
‘I’m not sure I quite agree....’
‘If you don’t agree, feel free to leave.’
Robinson ponders how important her job is to her. She decides the best thing for now is just to tell a little white lie.
‘In that case, I agree after all.’
‘Good good. Fitting in.’ Evans rubs his hands together. ‘Ok, meeting closed.’
Robinson has started to form a less than flattering opinion of Evans. Stant looks around him, suspiciously. He hopes that no-one knows about what happened. He breathes a sigh of relief as he notices that the others are not paying him attention.