The charcoal stick scraped across the grey concrete wall, completing the tally which he had been recording since he’d been locked in here. He counted the tally again, just to be sure. Yes, today was the day. He ground the stick into the wall until it was just black crumbs. He stared at the wall, its neat lines punctuated with the great smudge at the end. In a sudden fit of rage, a last scream of defiance, he smeared away the tally marks with his hands, until the black blended with the grey. If there is no tally, then today isn’t the day. He looked at the nothing he had made. He looked at it for a long time.
He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there when he heard footsteps in the corridor outside. They’re coming, he thought. Because today is the day. In a way, the long wait was not so different to what he had been doing all his life. Waiting for the revolution. He had always believed the revolution could be achieved through the ballot box, and wasn’t that why he had worked so hard up until 2015. He had never guessed The Revolution would come in his lifetime. Or for it to have been... what it was.
The steel door was unlocked, and a muscular guard entered. He wore the black vest-and-shorts uniform of the Safety Squads. He didn’t recognise this guard, and as he looked, he could see that the tribal tattoo that covered his right arm, and told those who knew how to read it the rank and achievements of the wearer, was new the skin still peeling from the ink. He wondered where the usual members of the Squad were, why they had chosen a fresh recruit to escort him. On this day.
‘Come on then.’ Said the guard. It was pointless to resist. He could tell from the size of the man that he did indeed lift, and a few months in a cell living on gruel and bread hadn’t done much for his own stature. He’d learnt a while ago that trying to fight back earned only a contemptuous level of physical violence. He nodded silently, and shuffled out.
The air was bracing today. Wind blew in off the North Sea and there wasn’t much to stop it. He shivered, the thin jumpsuit doing little protect his emaciated body from the cold. Then again, he supposed, the same chill must be felt by everyone nowadays, what with the new uniform of the Revolution. Especially considering where the Council had chosen to place their new capitol. He could see that the Firing Squad assembling, readying their rifles. They were slightly more practically dressed, wearing neat khaki v-necks as opposed to the loose vests of the Safety Squads. He guessed they had to be outside more often, and less fuelled off adrenaline and intoxicants.
There was a man waiting for him, beside the Firing Squad. Only a few years ago, if he had seen this man dressed as he was now, he would have laughed. Now it was deadly serious. He noticed that he had lost a lot of weight since he had left Parliament in 2015, he could even by described as ‘hench’. It looked like he had added lifting to playing the piano. Did they still play the piano in the new republic? His hair was dyed and shorn to the skin at the sides, long and gelled back on top. He wore the simple grey vestments of the Revolution, baggy board shorts, a vest, a leather jacket and flip-flops. How can he stand the cold, he wondered.
‘Its been a long time, friend.’ said the waiting man. He placed a lot of emphasis on friend. Of course, a little jab at him, he used to say ‘friends’ a lot, in place of ‘comrades’. Now they used different terminology again.
‘I’m surprised you don’t call me “lad” like all of your friends behind you,’ he spat in reply, ‘why are you even here?’
‘Officially I’m here to see the last dregs of the old order swept neatly away. But I want to be here for old time’s sake. Walk with me.’ He waved away the Safety Squadman. They began to walk a circuit around the compound. ‘It didn’t anticipate being on this side of the barricades you know. I was lucky enough to be outside Parliament when the economy crumbled and the people lost faith. You know none of us could have anticipated what happened.’
‘And yet here you are,’ he said, ‘how is it exactly that you ended up where you are and I ended up here?’
‘You should know, its proper Marxist stuff. The people needed a vanguard. They didn't need to know what they were doing, they just needed to whip the people up into a fervour and the Revolution followed. But that vanguard needed people who knew what they were doing afterwards. I could be one of them, because I was outside the Westminster bubble and I was suitably established in popular culture,’ he stopped and they faced each other, ‘don’t you see, I hate this whole charade as much as you. But we can really build something out of this, in a few years we might not have to wear these ridiculous clothes any more, we can build real socialism in the 21st century, just like we talked about.’
‘You might. But the worms will have chewed me up by that point.’ He turned away. They stayed and began to walk back toward the concrete wall where the Firing Squad were waiting. He opened his mouth again, ‘It’s mad you know. That I should die, and you should thrive, because you were the subject of a stupid Twitter fad. Is Twitter even still a thing in the Lad’s Utopia?’
‘The People need somewhere to put photos of their cheeky Nandos. Though its called British Nando now, it got nationalised not long after the Revolution.’ Of course, he thought. How ridiculous, the priorities of the Lad’s State. ‘Besides, you remember the Milifandom, don’t you? So easily our positions could be reversed. The only difference was that I lost my seat in 2015, and whatever happened to you, you kept yours.’
One of the Firing Squad came forward and tied his hands together behind his back. His back was against the cold concrete. His old friend began to read out the indictments he had heard a hundred times. Traitor. Collaborator. Un-Lad. The words washed over him, without meaning. He looked at the former Shadow Chancellor, and said his name. The Firing Squad repeated it in unison, chuckling from such old banter. Ed Balls looked back at him, his face red.
‘How tough are you really?’ Balls said.
‘Am I tough enough?’ Ed laughed, and looked straight down the barrels of the rifles. ‘Hell yes, I’m tough enough.’ This time, he didn't trip over his words.
He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there when he heard footsteps in the corridor outside. They’re coming, he thought. Because today is the day. In a way, the long wait was not so different to what he had been doing all his life. Waiting for the revolution. He had always believed the revolution could be achieved through the ballot box, and wasn’t that why he had worked so hard up until 2015. He had never guessed The Revolution would come in his lifetime. Or for it to have been... what it was.
The steel door was unlocked, and a muscular guard entered. He wore the black vest-and-shorts uniform of the Safety Squads. He didn’t recognise this guard, and as he looked, he could see that the tribal tattoo that covered his right arm, and told those who knew how to read it the rank and achievements of the wearer, was new the skin still peeling from the ink. He wondered where the usual members of the Squad were, why they had chosen a fresh recruit to escort him. On this day.
‘Come on then.’ Said the guard. It was pointless to resist. He could tell from the size of the man that he did indeed lift, and a few months in a cell living on gruel and bread hadn’t done much for his own stature. He’d learnt a while ago that trying to fight back earned only a contemptuous level of physical violence. He nodded silently, and shuffled out.
The air was bracing today. Wind blew in off the North Sea and there wasn’t much to stop it. He shivered, the thin jumpsuit doing little protect his emaciated body from the cold. Then again, he supposed, the same chill must be felt by everyone nowadays, what with the new uniform of the Revolution. Especially considering where the Council had chosen to place their new capitol. He could see that the Firing Squad assembling, readying their rifles. They were slightly more practically dressed, wearing neat khaki v-necks as opposed to the loose vests of the Safety Squads. He guessed they had to be outside more often, and less fuelled off adrenaline and intoxicants.
There was a man waiting for him, beside the Firing Squad. Only a few years ago, if he had seen this man dressed as he was now, he would have laughed. Now it was deadly serious. He noticed that he had lost a lot of weight since he had left Parliament in 2015, he could even by described as ‘hench’. It looked like he had added lifting to playing the piano. Did they still play the piano in the new republic? His hair was dyed and shorn to the skin at the sides, long and gelled back on top. He wore the simple grey vestments of the Revolution, baggy board shorts, a vest, a leather jacket and flip-flops. How can he stand the cold, he wondered.
‘Its been a long time, friend.’ said the waiting man. He placed a lot of emphasis on friend. Of course, a little jab at him, he used to say ‘friends’ a lot, in place of ‘comrades’. Now they used different terminology again.
‘I’m surprised you don’t call me “lad” like all of your friends behind you,’ he spat in reply, ‘why are you even here?’
‘Officially I’m here to see the last dregs of the old order swept neatly away. But I want to be here for old time’s sake. Walk with me.’ He waved away the Safety Squadman. They began to walk a circuit around the compound. ‘It didn’t anticipate being on this side of the barricades you know. I was lucky enough to be outside Parliament when the economy crumbled and the people lost faith. You know none of us could have anticipated what happened.’
‘And yet here you are,’ he said, ‘how is it exactly that you ended up where you are and I ended up here?’
‘You should know, its proper Marxist stuff. The people needed a vanguard. They didn't need to know what they were doing, they just needed to whip the people up into a fervour and the Revolution followed. But that vanguard needed people who knew what they were doing afterwards. I could be one of them, because I was outside the Westminster bubble and I was suitably established in popular culture,’ he stopped and they faced each other, ‘don’t you see, I hate this whole charade as much as you. But we can really build something out of this, in a few years we might not have to wear these ridiculous clothes any more, we can build real socialism in the 21st century, just like we talked about.’
‘You might. But the worms will have chewed me up by that point.’ He turned away. They stayed and began to walk back toward the concrete wall where the Firing Squad were waiting. He opened his mouth again, ‘It’s mad you know. That I should die, and you should thrive, because you were the subject of a stupid Twitter fad. Is Twitter even still a thing in the Lad’s Utopia?’
‘The People need somewhere to put photos of their cheeky Nandos. Though its called British Nando now, it got nationalised not long after the Revolution.’ Of course, he thought. How ridiculous, the priorities of the Lad’s State. ‘Besides, you remember the Milifandom, don’t you? So easily our positions could be reversed. The only difference was that I lost my seat in 2015, and whatever happened to you, you kept yours.’
One of the Firing Squad came forward and tied his hands together behind his back. His back was against the cold concrete. His old friend began to read out the indictments he had heard a hundred times. Traitor. Collaborator. Un-Lad. The words washed over him, without meaning. He looked at the former Shadow Chancellor, and said his name. The Firing Squad repeated it in unison, chuckling from such old banter. Ed Balls looked back at him, his face red.
‘How tough are you really?’ Balls said.
‘Am I tough enough?’ Ed laughed, and looked straight down the barrels of the rifles. ‘Hell yes, I’m tough enough.’ This time, he didn't trip over his words.
