Chapter 4: The Rook
In the large ornate hall of the Centre, Eric left out a weary sigh.
He'd been working at the papers for what seemed like an eternity now, and was definitely ready for a rest. Gently, he placed the fountain pen down onto the desk, and sat back in his chair, massaging his temple.
The Centre had once been a town hall – specifically, the town hall in Dibton. It was a small constituency, only a few hundred people in the village limits, but it had prominence to the Party.
Dibton was where they started.
Once upon a time in Dibton, there was a coal mine, which provided the majority of the income for the village. It wasn't the safe place to work, but the miners all knew that. They were willing to take the risk, if it meant bringing home a wage once a month and feeding their families.
But the people upstairs weren't happy with this. So, they shut down the mines, one by one.
The people of Dibton gathered together, and decided to do something about it. Instead of striking against the closures – look how much good it did the other mines – they decided to make a show of it.
A small band of them travelled to London, with the intention of making damn well sure every politician knew about the struggle they were going through. They would bring the fight out of the villages, and into the cities.
Needless to say, it didn't work.
They got as far as Trafalgar Square when one of their members were stopped by a policeman. They'd been behaving suspiciously, and the bobby wanted to make sure nothing was amiss, what with the meeting in parliament that afternoon.
One quick search later, the member was found carrying explosives, hand-to-hand weapons and canisters of tear gas swiped from the police a few months prior. They were arrested immediately, and the rest of the group tracked down in London.
Luckily, they managed to either dispose of or hide the equipment before they were caught, and so were found completely innocent when the lot of them were taken to court over the matter.
Except for the fool who had gotten himself caught over the matter and blown the whole plan – one Eric Chambers.
He was only 19 at the time, so the judge decided it was less of a political conspiracy and more of a juvenile trick, then rambled on about something involving today's society and the lacklustre standard of the education system.
Eric was committed to 18 months volunteer work to pay off his debt to society, then he was, for all intents and purposes, free to go.
The Party wasn't as considerate.
'You idiot!' they called at him, as he trudged his way into the village hall. 'What the hell have you done?!'
As Eric spent his 18 months helping every tier of society, he had time to think. Think about how he can redeem himself to his party, but to his people as well. The scheme in London was to give them the attention they needed, get the general public interested in their problems – maybe even get the support they needed.
And so he listened. He listened to the OAPs moaning about foreigners in the care home; he listened to the police complaining about the homelessness and unemployment issues they have to deal with; he listened to the working classes grumble about the political parties, how all they did was squabble with each other and levy for a speck of power in the House of Commons.
After his time was up, he fully understood who he was representing. He knew what they wanted, and he knew for what they were looking. A true leader.
He composed the manifesto for the Party, compiling every single scrap of information he picked up over his service. And when it was complete, he presented it to them, offering it over as an apology.
Within a week, he was the official face and leader of the Party.
One of the most important things a party needed was a symbol – something that ring in the people's minds, echo the sense of hope and loyalty they feel towards the party. One of the accountants came up with it: A bird.
It wouldn't be a dove, because there wasn't room for peace these days.
It wouldn't be a skylark, because song and joy had no place in a party.
It would be a symbol of the ruthlessness and sincerity with which they would strike, the precision and strength they carry on their banner.
It would be a rook.
And thus, the black silhouette of a rook was emblazoned onto their flags, amongst a sea of brilliant scarlet.
One such flag hung above Eric right this second.
Every morning, when he came into work and sat down at his desk, he'd see it. To others, it would act as a remembrance of what they were striving towards, what they must keep in mind.
To Eric, it reminded him of his youthful arrogance, his former belief that his ideology was too rash, too much too soon. But it was too late by this point. He'd crossed the point of no return.
If he resigned from his post now, whilst they were at the apex of their power, the Party would lose all support; if their founder and leader didn't have the faith, then nobody would.
Every day, he was reminded of his failure ten years ago, and every day it ate away at him, just a little bit more.
It wasn't an easy struggle, climbing to power. They had to contend with the wrath of the press, for starters. Many smart-alec reporters were quick to draw comparisons with the Nazis, P.S.I. or the B.U.F., none of which went down too well with the voters. In fact, there was a temporary rash of vandalisms amongst students up and down the country, as they'd find one of Eric's campaign posters and draw a 'Hitler-moustache' on it.
As if God was smiling on them, it all faded away after their first election, which was a total failure. Over the next four years, they managed to rouse the people by their sides – the unemployed, the sick, the tired.
By the time the next important May rolled around, they were ready to win. Eric could remember that night vividly, the way he sat in the armchair all night, too frightened to even move a muscle, in case it would somehow jinx the Party's outcome.
It was a landslide for them.
They claimed a vast majority, thanks to the combined efforts of some similarly-minded right wing parties, in the House of Commons, which they very quickly used to make a majority for themselves in the House of Lords, one way or another. That's when the laws began.
They started by removing any immigrants from the country – Britain was a land for the British, after all. Any jobs this left free, they gave to the unemployed. Two birds had been pelted with one stone: The migrant crisis and unemployment were both resolved.
Many people stated their discomfort with this; but their cries fell upon deaf ears. The Party was growing stronger and stronger by the day, and were unwilling to listen to even the wisest of aides.
Next, they moved onto the homeless population of the country. After four months, more than 90% of Britain's homeless were off British streets.
Granted, they were now on French, Spanish and German streets, thanks to a secret human-trafficking program, but nobody knew about that side. After all, nobody likes to know how the magician managed to make the elephant disappear, or the rabbit come out of the hat.
Some started to investigate the Party's ways, citing that old adage: If it's too good to be true, then it probably is. They didn't get very far.
They were passed off to the press as political opponents, trying to find a way to spread slanderous nonsense about the Party just in time for the upcoming election. As predicted, the media quickly turned on them, ridiculing them as sore losers, and no better than common thieves.
By the time the election rolled around, the Party had a complete majority in Parliament, which meant that they had absolute power. The first thing they did was solidify this power, by outlawing any other political parties in the UK. They didn't want anyone else trying to cut them off before their work is done.
Next, they removed voting from the general public, and left it as just a facet of parliament. The people started to react negatively, which the Party didn't like. Not one bit.
The Party managed to grab hold of a few choice individuals, who were branded the ring-leaders of the rioters. They were given a short bout of 'questioning', then taken to a camp, just off the coast of Cornwall.
Their story was given to the main news channels, carrying the warning: 'Follow in their footsteps in the mainland, and you'll follow them to the island.'
Eric was rather ashamed to say that the island was his idea. He could remember seeing it on holiday as a boy, on a rare excursion outside of the county. They'd gone to visit relatives in Devon, and rented a boat for a day or so.
The island has a horrid, craggy mess, only a few miles in diameter. The sea around it was notoriously treacherous, and had slain many a boat in its time.
The prisoners were taken to the island and deposited there – then left behind as the boat when into the distance. Every month, a boat was sent there from the mainland, carrying new inmates or supplies they might need. Apart from that, they were on their own. If they wanted to protest, they were welcome to. If they wanted to try and swim back to shore, they were welcome to. If they wanted to jump off a cliff and break their necks, they were welcome to.
There weren't many riots after that.
Eric wasn't quite sure when he gave up hope for the Party. It started with the noblest of intentions, but even he had to confess that he could barely recognise this group of people, who were once a small committee in Dibton, discussing work over tea and biscuits.
And around ten years after sitting in that police cell overnight, he was now sat in a huge round chamber, the sort you'd see in museums – or a mausoleum. Marble walls ran to the roof and back, with paintings and trinkets from every art gallery in the country.
'Hard at work, sir?' chirped a voice from down the hall. Eric glanced up, before returning to the paper.
'More or less…' Eric replied, looking away from the man who had just entered the hall.
His name was Oliver, a particularly obsequious aide assigned to him by the other leaders of the Party. He couldn't have been any more than 21, but certainly made up for it in enthusiasm.
'Good to hear!' Oliver grinned, striding over to the desk. He sat down on the edge, looking down at Eric. 'The press are outside.'
'Tell them to bugger off.'
'I have. Unless one's name is 'Eric Chambers', they don't seem to want to give one the time of day.'
'Alright.' Eric sighed, laying down his pen. 'Tell them Eric Chambers said…bugger off.'
Oliver paused for an awkward second, before letting out a laugh of relief.
'Will do, sir.' He chuckled, walking away from the desk. Eric watched as the man walked away from the desk and through the door. He released his breath. At last, he was alone.
Eric cursed at himself silently, forcing himself to return to his work. In the last half an hour, he'd only completed a handful of pages, far beneath his usual work rate.
Pressing the nib of his pen against the ancient paper, he started to scrawl.
Far across the country in London, in a grotty little café beside a grotty little train station sat a grotty little man, who was reading a paper.
Well, that's what it looked like he was doing, to the untrained eye.
But to anyone nosy enough to keep watching him, they would be able to see that he was checking his watch every couple of seconds, waiting desperately for the minute hand to reach the hour. It was10.59 at this second, with only 40 seconds to go until the hour.
He had abandoned the cup of black coffee, letting it go stone cold.
Behind the counter, the waitress kept an eye on him, whilst she mopped down the work surface and restocked the biscuit tin. This man had been reading the same page of the paper for the last half an hour, and hadn't taken a single sip of his drink.
The watch ticked the most important second in the world. It was the hour.
The waitress wasn't sure, but she couldn't sworn she saw the man smile. He rose from his seat and exited the café, depositing a handful of coins onto the counter for the unused coffee.
As he exited the café, he pulled out a walkie talkie, and clicked it on. Quietly and hurriedly, he whispered in it:
'We're go. Go!', before clicking the button which turned it off.
Then, he dropped the walkie talkie onto the ground and, with a single strike of his foot, he crushed the device into shards.
In Dibton, the press had gathered outside the Centre, like a pack of ravenous bloodhounds, all waiting for the story that would satisfy their hunger.
Amongst the swarm was a woman, small enough to be able to slip through the crowd unnoticed, but with a backpack half her size on her back.
She worked her way to the front of the crowd, right up against the metal rail that ran around the outside of the Centre. Thanks to a mole she'd been connected with, she knew the layout of the Centre like the back of her hand; around the side, up the fire escape and down through the main skylight. Piece of cake.
She rallied herself, taking a scarce few breaths, before making a leap.
In a second, she vaulted over the rail, her feet pounding against the floor as she ran around the side of the building.
'Oi!' called a security guard, dressed in the signature black uniform and white shirt. He started to charge towards her, arms chopping through the air as he did so.
The woman reached into her pockets, and pulled out the device she'd been given. As she ran, she tossed it over her shoulder letting it clang onto the floor.
There was an almighty flash behind her.
The security guard dropped to the ground, his hands clawing to cover his eyes from the light. By the time his vision was restored, the woman was long gone.
Eric heard the bang from the hall, standing up. As countless thoughts and theories poured into his head, he worked to banish or dismiss all of them.
He unlocked the door, and poked his head through. Up and down the corridor, various clerks, guards and aides were dashing about, fixed in a great panic.
'Sir!' cried a voice from down the corridor. Oliver approached the hall door, before sprinting through it. 'Someone's let off a flash grenade outside. They've come into the building. Stay inside your office, lock the door, don't let anyone in!'
'Y-yes, okay…' stammered Eric, obeying his aide. Almost in a trance, he backed into the hall, and then locked the door behind him.
He walked into the centre of the office, crossing his hands behind his back. Outside, the various cries of panic and disarray were muffled by the thick wooden door and walls, but still managed to creep towards him.
There was a creaking. Eric stared around the office in confusion, looking for the source. All around him, nothing appeared to be moving. And then he looked up.
In the roof of his office was a skylight, one of the few parts of the original village hall they'd kept in the renovation.
And standing on the skylight was a figure, opening one of the glass panels, a black rucksack to their side.
They opened the window a crack, and raised a mess of wires and other components to the gap, sliding it through. Eric just stared in horror, too scared to move or call for help.
'Fascist scum!' the figure shouted, dropping the bundle into the office.
Time seemed to move in slow motion. The moment the figure's fingers released their hold on the device, they backed away from the window, running across the roof and out of sight.
The object fell through the air, spinning slowly, the trails of wires whipping at invisible assailants.
And finally, Eric saw the device eventually hit the ground, even crunching a little under the stress. It beeped for a slight second.
There was a deafening bang and a blinding flash.
And then there was nothing.