Beneath the steel-wool sky that had dragged itself over Portsmouth for most of the day and long into the evening, John Barber, nuzzling his chin deep into the collar of his scruffy parka, strode with some difficulty against the hard wind and heavy ropes of mid-march rain, hand gripping tight on his hood in an effort to keep it from flapping away. Boots splashed in the gutter water as he waded across Queen Street on the Zebra crossing, stumbling to a stop along the pavement as John paused to glance up at the Twenty story Mile High; in an instant, a silent silver bolt cracked across the darkness, followed by a hideous shriek. Balking at the noise, John shrunk deeper into his Parka, long legs insensitivity scurrying him towards and through the wrought iron gate and down the narrow tarmac path flanked by residential gardens. Stopping beneath the overhang of the entrance, he slumped against the shatter-glass wall and, taking deep gulping breaths, ran a damp hand through his hair.
I’m here at least, John thought as he squinted at the dark sky. Beside him the electric entry door suddenly slide open, a resident jogging out into the rain, hunched and fiddling with an umbrella; John slipped into the building as the door began to close. Shaking like a dog, he made beeline across the blue lino lobby, which was perfumed with the heavily scent of disinfectant and paint, punctuated by stale sweat. Reaching the lift, he thumbed the button, and a few moments later the steel curtains pulled apart and he stumbled in. It reeked of chlorine and steel, and the thirteenth floor button was sticky like the residue of a peeled sticker. Trying to remember which numbered flat Mark lived in was as the lift heaved itself up, John took a moment to examine his reflection in the lifts mirrored wall, parting and flatten his unkempt hair, combing at it with his hands, then scowling as he ran his hands down over his unshaven chin and a finger across the bags beneath his eyes. For some reason all he could think of were the lyrics to a Pink Floyd song; ‘
Money… get away… get back, I’m all-right jack, don’t give me none of that do-a-do-goody good bull…shevik’. He was unsure if he was remembering it right. The lift shuddered and the steel curtains opened; stepping into the lino landing, wincing in the pale light, John glanced from side to side, nose curling at the smell of paint. He paced; first to look out the window, out to the abandoned construction yard across from the building, and then to the dark door that he was sure belonged to Mark. With a hesitant smile, John sharply rapped his knuckles again it.
No reply. Furrowing his brow, he knocked again, and pressed the doorbell, which had been disemboweled. With a sigh he lowered his head, peering through a small hole in the door, a hole no bigger than his small finger, which was rough and dark and smelled pleasantly of dry airy wood. He could see all the way through and into the flats hallway; the hole must have been, John assumed, a key latch at some point. From the other side, he could hear the faint noise of conversation pausing, and then shuffling- a few moments later a shadow moved in front of the hole, and as he took a step back, the lock clicked, John’s lips curled into a grin.
“Hey, John.” The pale host grinned as he opened the door.
“Mark,” John nodded, “have I, um, have I missed anything?”
“Oh, err, no, we’ve got- like- five minutes.”
“Rad.” John murmured as he sidestepped into the hallway. As Mark closed the door and began to move around him, John started tugging at the laces of his boots.
“So, did you um, did you vote?” Mark asked, leaning against the freezer that sat in the corner of the hallway.
“Oh yeah, I went up to the Methodists in the morning with Anna before she had to head off.” John replied, kicking off his boots.
“Oh, yeah, didn't she volunteer to count the votes the votes?”
“Yeah, we’ll probably see her when they announce Portsmouth North.” He slipped off his coat, hanging it on the hook, then shuffled down the hallway into the living room. The living room was large with three white walls covered in yellow-orange patterns, a beige carpet dominated by a big cream corner sofa, which was set up in in such a way that one of the backs faced the door, cutting through the middle of the room. On the sofa itself Lewis and Erik were sat, hunched around the geometric coffee table, which had itself been decorated with empty bowls and large unopened bottles of drink.
“John’s here.” Mark announced, giving the two a glance as he shuffled into the kitchen.
“Hey”, Lewis smiled, sitting up and adjusting his glasses as John collapsed onto the Sofa. Erik nodded. There was a pregnant pause.
“So,” John began, his eyes wondering to the large flat-screen in the corner of the room, which was on a detergent advert, “who else is coming?”
“Here?” Mark called out from the kitchen “Um, Brad was invited, but he won’t be able to make it, Kate will be here later, maybe with her Boyfriend.”
“Cool; are we still doing the dead-pool?”
“Yeah, it’s here.” Lewis said proudly as he lifted a small zine booklet off the table, handing it to John. An ad with a talking Alpaca claiming its car insurance was the best now played on the TV. Leafing through the hand-bound pages, John's eyes narrowed on the names he wanted; Iain D. Smith, Nick Griffin, Chris Grayling, and- he hesitated- Helen Hims.
“How much are we betting?”
“I think only a pound per person.” Lewis said after a thoughtful pause. Quietly John scrawled a pound in the free column next to the names as Mark walking back into the living room, handing an empty glass with the faded 2008 Olympics sticker to him.
“Okay, so we have Coke,” Lewis announced, tapping the caps of the bottles, “Lilt, Dandelion and Burdock, which we can mix with some rum, and there's a box of Carlsberg’s in the fridge.”
“I want a Carlsberg.” Erik declared.
“You can’t.” Lewis responded, annoyed.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re ony 16. You can’t even vote yet.”
“Pass the Coke.” John coughed. Lewis lifted the bottle and handed it to John, who twisted the cap and began to pour. As John did this Mark began to opened a bag of crisps, pouring half the bag into a large bowl- the musty smell of sour cream and chive wafted over the room, broken only by the more pungent and heavy smell of cheese, which arrived, rather unpleasantly, when Mark opened a second packet for a another bowl. Suddenly, Erik pointed at the TV.
“Hey, it’s starting!”
The advert faded to a black screen, to a hollow and frigid void of nothing. Slowly the BBCN logo faded into view, deliberately off centre. Beside it, a white diamond faded in, beneath which appeared two more, creating a box; across the top of the box on the first diamond, a small slit was cut by the invisible knife, and the numbers 2016 carved onto the side. With this complete, letters in the company font faded beneath the two, spelling simply; ELECTION NIGHT BROADCAST. The screen held on this image for a few moments, before finally the black once more engulfed the screen. A hesitant pause- then an explosion.
Trumpets blared, and the screen cutting to Big Ben, and then, with the rumble of the drums, it cut to a sweeping shot of a series of television screens, each displaying a different image- the first a snarling lion, the second a flaming torch, then a red rose. The strings came in, backed by a piano and the trumpets, cascading in waves as the camera cut to images of ballots being slipped into boxes, Party Officials canvasing, Jacob Rees-Mogg shaking hands with National Campaigners, then the arm of the swing-o-meter swung over the shot and swept the image to that of Tony Blair and his son at a press conference, and then again to reveal ballot counters, then once more Elizabeth Tuss at a rally beside the Barbican, which had been engulfed in lights of yellows and blues. The image cut to Big Ben, which shifted into the shape a white Rosette that seemed to slowly spin. The Rosettes colour sunk from white and into Navy, and revealed the face of Iain Duncan Smith, then sunk Red, and Smith morphed to Stephen Kinnock. Sinking into Dark Orange, Kinnock’s face morphed into that of Nick Boles. The image fragmented in a volley of trumpets and reformed into a Computer Generated model of the Palace of Westminster, the camera flying through it, darting past photos of the Post-War Prime Ministers without pausing; Attlee; Churchill; Eden; MacMillian; Douglas-Homes; Wilson; Heath; Wilson; Callaghan; Owen; Cook; Major; Brown; Harman; Patten; the camera swung and came to a stop on the clock face, which held for a moment before cutting to a similar shot of a live feed of the Clock Tower; the feed cut to a camera that pulled out of a screen, revealing the BBCN’s circular studio. Out of nowhere, the elderly Sir David Dimbleby marched triumphantly into shot with the confidence and energy of a man half his age, looking to the camera with soft smile, a white envelope in hand.
“The voter’s verdicts have been made, and tonight we will hear what the people have ultimately decided. In a few moments, once the polls have closed, we will be legally allowed to reveal our exit poll, and we will have a good idea of who has won, if indeed a winner is clear; if Iain Duncan Smith can hold onto power and return to Parliament triumphant with a majority, if Stephen Kinnock can be the first Labour Prime Minister in eight years, or if Nick Boles can return the Alliance Party to No. 10 after three year of wilderness. There are six-hundred and fifty constituencies up for grabs, most of which are sending one MP to Parliament, whose fate rests in the hands of a little under fifty Million voters. It has been an eventful last few months, and with an exciting night ahead of us- one that is sure to be full of surprises- we are joined by our Political Editor, Emily Maitlis, and by Times Columnist and bestselling political theorist, Michael Gove-”, the camera began to follow Dimbleby as he made his way around the circular room, walking past the two, who were sat in recliners by a desk covered in documents, “-Karla Wordsmith, who will be presenting us her and her teams, wonderful figures and graphics-”, Dimbleby smiled passing Wordsmith, who was stood proudly beside a large screen displaying the last election map, each constituency an equally sized hexagon, “-Jeremy Paxman, who will be hosting interviews with political leaders, both winners and losers, throughout the night-”, Paxman nodded silently from the shadows of the nook from behind his desk, illuminated by the sickly pale glow of four conjoined television sets, “-and our fantastic and dedicated team of correspondents across the country, who will be giving us a ground view of the nights events as they happen and as the results come in.”
“This is Election Night, 2016.”
