The corridors of Downing Street had probably always stunk of smoke, some of the greats had notably been famous for their habits after all. No picture of Churchill was complete without his famous cigar, even in the redrafted curriculum after the Hatton reforms. Attlee and Wilson, those two great men, were always renowned for benevolently puffing away at their pipes. Even at the end of those long, long years of Tory rule, Ken Clarke had always been known for his love of cigars.
Nonetheless, he was sure that it had never been so pungent, and certainly not as Cuban, as it was these days.
David Miliband attempted to ignore the Foreign Secretary and his khaki clad, bearded guest, both puffing away at their large Habanos, as he passed them by on his way into the office, his brother's office, the one he had craved so badly. The office that now had a large bodyguard and a PPS who strutted in Doc Martens.
"Hi...Dominique?", he said wearily, recalling having met the young Trot one Christmas, despite looking like she was barely out of University, she'd been with the party ever since the downfall of Fields, and despite her SWP-style appearance, she'd clearly proven her worth.
"David, you do know you're late?" she frowned, at least she was one of the ones that would keep her contempt for moderates at bay beyond light scoldings.
"Sorry, the trains are gridlocked with the strikes" The nationalisation of Virgin Transport hadn't gone down well at all with Branson, he was sure that he was partly to blame for riling his own employees up, but the deportation had seemed a bit harsh.
"Well go in anyways, he'll be with you in a moment, he's just finishing up with the President"
The President, the President of wh- The nasally voice coming from inside his brother's private quarters answered his own train of thought.
"No, you listen Bashar, I don't suffer cock-ups gladly, if you're going to get the 'insecticides' to Libya, then you'd best make sure you watch the skies...fucking French, how hard is it to make your supposedly elite troops look like refugees? The amount you pay them must mean they're bloody used to it by now! Now I'm sending my own man over there, your embassy is going to make the arrangements, if it hasn't already been toppled!"
The phone slammed, the door opened.
"Ah brother, speak of the devil and he shall appear as the theocrats say, it could almost make one...superstitious."
"You know I don't like it when you attack the religious Ed, they're a large part of the electorate you know." Ever since his brother had won power it had become harder and harder to look him in the eye without shuddering.
"Ah the electorate, electability was always one of your things wasn't it? Still, we've always been proud to be a secular nation,"
The end of the Church of England had saw to that David muttered darkly.
"...but elsewhere our secular allies now need our assistance, this 'Arab Spring' business is turning into a quite a different animal than we expected; it looks like Gaddafi isn't going to be able to hold out much longer. He needs a game changer, fast."
"So quiet neutrality isn't enough for you anymore? You're actually going to give this murderer, what, gold? Arms?"
"He has plenty of Gold David, and his troops have plenty of b-grade Soviet shit lying around, but it's being blown away by the NATO blockade. The PAF might be able to restore the balance in our allies favour but we don't want to announce our allegiance that openly. Regardless, there are far cheaper ways to level the playing field. We're sending him plant killer, to deal with his weeds."
David felt faint, he had to sit down.
"Chemical weapons, you're giving Gaddafi chemical weapons?!"
"Insecticide is going to be the official term, they're not going to be ours of course, the Syrians are planning the logistics, they're too afraid of their own stability not to lend a hand, but I'm going to need you to go down there to make the handover."
"Why me?" David pleaded, hoping he was merely in some nightmarish dream
"Because you're in the charitable sector now David, that Thunderbird thing of yours that you became head of when you finished with the Liberals, it seems legitimate, it seems a tragedy when you get 'hijacked' by the very Libyans you were delivering medical aid to, and a triumph when you're returned safely, we get a bounce in the polls, you get a book deal, and our Libyan friends finally get to turn the tide on those Frog backed Al Qaeda bastards.
Because they know you David, the Murdoch scum, they know you resent us, what we're doing, they expect you to condemn us, and I criticise you back, until the handover, then it'll all be tears, they'll eat up the drama, whilst everyone forgets what exactly you were going there to do."
"But it's murder, you're sending me to be an accomplice to murder!"
He had expected Ed to be angry at that remark, he had wished he had gotten angrier, instead the Prime Minister broke out into a broad grin.
"You never did get the big picture did you David? You didn't believe me when Dad sent us to work for Hatton, when I said there was a higher purpose than merely getting elected. Principle first, the electorate will come along eventually I'd told you, and you laughed. You left the party when we got rid of that Welsh bastard Kinnock, only to join those Alliance wankers after they pulled ahead of us in '87, you were so focused on electability that you joined a party that would never be elected in the first place! Thatcher, Major, Portillo, Redwood, Clarke, you would always remind me we would have no chance against them if we remained ideologically pure. And now I'm here, and you still don't see the bigger picture.
It isn't about morality brother, it's not about screaming murder because some kiddies might become collateral in the fight against the capitalists, I built Socialism In One Nation Labour to focus on results, and we can't get results if our allies are falling like dominoes!"
David was finally able to focus,
"You're...this...this isn't socialism, this is...you're evil!"
A large and firm hand clasped itself around his mouth, holding a wet rag over his nose. He struggled, then grew weaker, and weaker, until he collapsed on the floor.
David could barely hear murmurs as his brother talked to a man named 'Jarvis' about a cargo plane.
As the man tied David's legs, the Prime Minister leaned down to pat his brother on the head, the large grin still present on his maniacal face.
"I'm evil? And good is on your side? Is the force of good one of moderation as well? Then evil's on my side, the evil are all good Socialists."
As Colonel Jarvis carried his brother to the waiting car that would take them to the plane bound for Syria, the Prime Minister looked out onto the streets of the newly radical London.
"All Good Socialists."
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