Uhura's Mazda
Banned
Chapter Twelve
09:25 AM, 19th August 1995
Sixteenth Day of the Revolution
09:25 AM, 19th August 1995
Sixteenth Day of the Revolution
Sir Rhodes Boyson had got into the ministerial car from the old Churchill War Rooms as soon as the majority of Liverpool had been pacified. Thousands dead; millions – maybe billions – of pounds of property damage; the very nature of the United Kingdom shaken utterly to the core… The Prime Minister just wanted one last nap, in his own bed in Downing Street, before the Press came after him for victory speeches and – well, perhaps it wouldn’t be victory speeches. Perhaps this last nap really would be the last in that bed. He should have sent the troops in immediately, like he’d done in Coventry. He should have negotiated a compromise. He should –
He should have stayed in the War Rooms.
At the entrance to Downing Street, the rioters were back. They had never really gone away, just gone… elsewhere, and waxed and waned depending on who had the best news that day. When the traitors had smuggled Ringo Starr into Liverpool, the demonstrators had numbered over 500,000. Now, there were fewer. Much fewer, actually, but they were angrier. Sir Rhodes could see at least four Militant MPs for non-rebelling constituencies in the mass of frothing flesh, along with a frankly unreasonable number of obvious queers, long-haired hippies, women, children – and all were baying like rabid dogs. Pitiful. If they’d only had a bit of self-discipline, they could have reached Sir Rhodes’ place in life, instead of descending to animalistic passion, looking for a quick fix for their horrible lives.
“Drive through all this, driver.”
“No good, sir.” The rabble had seen their quarry turning into Downing Street, and rushed forwards to surround the car. They sat on the roof like monkeys in a safari park, and the crush forced the driver to abandon any attempt to proceed forward. Right. Boyson had not paid attention to the agent who gave him his safety presentation on that first day, after the Queen had recovered from the shock of him barging into her bedroom demanding to be told the Trident codes and given the key to Number 10. The car was supposed to be made of a special metal, and unbreakable glass and all mod cons, anyway. Just to be safe, Sir Rhodes rolled up the partition between the back seats and the driver’s compartment, apologising for his rudeness in doing so – if anyone was to die, it ought to be that sarky driver. Boyson could see him rolling his eyes right there and then. He’d have him replaced as soon as he got to a telephone.
A hairy, tattooed fist as large as a small man’s head came crashing through the toughened glass window.
“Bloody British manufacturing” said the driver, his voice muffled but understandable behind the silencing partition. Sir Rhodes, however, uttered a single, helpless whimper as the fist opened and then closed solidly and implacably around his fleshy neck. The nameless, bodiless assailant yanked the Prime Minister out of the rear window of the car, the remaining jagged spears of glass digging into his torso in a way that would have been a lot more painful to Rhodes if they had mattered at all in the scheme of things. As soon as the fist had appeared before him, Rhodes knew that he was dead. What was next? A hammer? A sickle? He tried to get this point across – decent last words, if not barnstormers – but all that came out was a pitiful gurgle that Rhodes knew was – was not the dignified way to bow out.
The anonymous fist of the People – well, the eighty-odd people who cared enough to turn up to the mobbing of their leader, anyway – was not what killed Sir Rhodes Boyson, though. As his head hung out of the rear window of the car and the deep glass-wounds in his chest welled up red, he saw below him a child – ten, eleven years old, maybe, and of indeterminate gender – with very badly bruised hands. This was evidently a very naughty young person. It was carrying a little twelve-inch plastic ruler, one corner of which had been rubbed away by repeated impact, and the child smiled as it poked this end of the ruler into the right eye of Sir Rhodes Boyson.
He recoiled in pain, causing yet more window-glass to become embedded in his back. Somehow, he got an arm free and clutched it to his face. It was too late, though: as his hand approached, the gelatinous egg of his right eye plopped into it. This was extraordinarily painful. Sir Rhodes regarded the back of his eye with other, intact one for what seemed like forever. That eye was almost the only thing that existed. But the child kept pushing, and pushing, and pushing, and as it did so, Sir Rhodes lost more and more of himself. It took seconds, all in all, as the mob ripped at his protruding head and upper body and the smiling child destroyed Sir Rhodes Boyson from below. He did not feel his childhood memories detach from the rest of his brain and become mere matter – contrary to popular belief, your life doesn’t pass before your eyes, so he had no reason to revisit them at that point – but he knew that something was missing that he would never get back. Likewise, he was unable to move of his own accord at that time due to the pack of wild humans, but when his motor functions were split apart, he knew that there was no going back. Very soon, Sir Rhodes Boyson knew nothing at all.
In the history books and the hand-wringing BBC documentaries, the death of Rhodes Boyson is described as the only assassination of a British Prime Minister since Spencer Perceval. In reality, it was not an assassination. It was so much worse than that.
He should have stayed in the War Rooms.
At the entrance to Downing Street, the rioters were back. They had never really gone away, just gone… elsewhere, and waxed and waned depending on who had the best news that day. When the traitors had smuggled Ringo Starr into Liverpool, the demonstrators had numbered over 500,000. Now, there were fewer. Much fewer, actually, but they were angrier. Sir Rhodes could see at least four Militant MPs for non-rebelling constituencies in the mass of frothing flesh, along with a frankly unreasonable number of obvious queers, long-haired hippies, women, children – and all were baying like rabid dogs. Pitiful. If they’d only had a bit of self-discipline, they could have reached Sir Rhodes’ place in life, instead of descending to animalistic passion, looking for a quick fix for their horrible lives.
“Drive through all this, driver.”
“No good, sir.” The rabble had seen their quarry turning into Downing Street, and rushed forwards to surround the car. They sat on the roof like monkeys in a safari park, and the crush forced the driver to abandon any attempt to proceed forward. Right. Boyson had not paid attention to the agent who gave him his safety presentation on that first day, after the Queen had recovered from the shock of him barging into her bedroom demanding to be told the Trident codes and given the key to Number 10. The car was supposed to be made of a special metal, and unbreakable glass and all mod cons, anyway. Just to be safe, Sir Rhodes rolled up the partition between the back seats and the driver’s compartment, apologising for his rudeness in doing so – if anyone was to die, it ought to be that sarky driver. Boyson could see him rolling his eyes right there and then. He’d have him replaced as soon as he got to a telephone.
A hairy, tattooed fist as large as a small man’s head came crashing through the toughened glass window.
“Bloody British manufacturing” said the driver, his voice muffled but understandable behind the silencing partition. Sir Rhodes, however, uttered a single, helpless whimper as the fist opened and then closed solidly and implacably around his fleshy neck. The nameless, bodiless assailant yanked the Prime Minister out of the rear window of the car, the remaining jagged spears of glass digging into his torso in a way that would have been a lot more painful to Rhodes if they had mattered at all in the scheme of things. As soon as the fist had appeared before him, Rhodes knew that he was dead. What was next? A hammer? A sickle? He tried to get this point across – decent last words, if not barnstormers – but all that came out was a pitiful gurgle that Rhodes knew was – was not the dignified way to bow out.
The anonymous fist of the People – well, the eighty-odd people who cared enough to turn up to the mobbing of their leader, anyway – was not what killed Sir Rhodes Boyson, though. As his head hung out of the rear window of the car and the deep glass-wounds in his chest welled up red, he saw below him a child – ten, eleven years old, maybe, and of indeterminate gender – with very badly bruised hands. This was evidently a very naughty young person. It was carrying a little twelve-inch plastic ruler, one corner of which had been rubbed away by repeated impact, and the child smiled as it poked this end of the ruler into the right eye of Sir Rhodes Boyson.
He recoiled in pain, causing yet more window-glass to become embedded in his back. Somehow, he got an arm free and clutched it to his face. It was too late, though: as his hand approached, the gelatinous egg of his right eye plopped into it. This was extraordinarily painful. Sir Rhodes regarded the back of his eye with other, intact one for what seemed like forever. That eye was almost the only thing that existed. But the child kept pushing, and pushing, and pushing, and as it did so, Sir Rhodes lost more and more of himself. It took seconds, all in all, as the mob ripped at his protruding head and upper body and the smiling child destroyed Sir Rhodes Boyson from below. He did not feel his childhood memories detach from the rest of his brain and become mere matter – contrary to popular belief, your life doesn’t pass before your eyes, so he had no reason to revisit them at that point – but he knew that something was missing that he would never get back. Likewise, he was unable to move of his own accord at that time due to the pack of wild humans, but when his motor functions were split apart, he knew that there was no going back. Very soon, Sir Rhodes Boyson knew nothing at all.
In the history books and the hand-wringing BBC documentaries, the death of Rhodes Boyson is described as the only assassination of a British Prime Minister since Spencer Perceval. In reality, it was not an assassination. It was so much worse than that.
---
21:42 PM, 19th August 1995
Last Dusk of the Revolution
21:42 PM, 19th August 1995
Last Dusk of the Revolution
That night, the makeshift camp on the Pier Head was full of activity. Soldiers were fed, watered and allowed to sleep for a while. Food was distributed to starving survivors and work parties were sent to clear the main roads and railways of rubble. Prisoners were documented and fed, before being set to work. The exception was the Quorum and their associates – including Bert and Lesley – who were left to stand around in the middle of a vast expanse of rows upon rows of dead bodies, covered in sheets. The Bobs (Parry and Wareing) were having a conspiratorial peek under some of these sheets.
“Look here, this is one of my constituents. Used to write every week to tell me to do something about her son’s disability benefit or something or other.”
“Not anymore.”
“Oh, I expect the kid’s sister will take over the epistles from now on.”
“They always do.”
“Oh, wait, not this one. She’s right here.”
“Hey, Bob, have a look at this. Old Degsy – well, most of him, anyway. Looks as if he’s been flattened by a tank.”
“Not nice. You have to feel sorry for him in the end.”
“Not really. He set us all up, didn’t he? All these bodies are on him.”
“Still. Not a nice way to go. Hang on, this is John Hamilton. Look at him, riddled with bullets.”
“Must have gone out a hero. Or a fool.”
It had been about 12 hours since the last pockets of resistance had been mopped up. Nobody had declared an armistice or a truce; the Army had just run out of people to fight. And the Revolutionaries had run out of people willing to fight. A squad of Yeomanry had come upon a bin full of People’s Volunteer armbands and badges, just discarded as the white heat of the proletariat shed their self-image and went seamlessly back to being fathers and brothers and co-workers. Maybe some of them would be dobbed in, or cornered in an alleyway. Most wouldn’t. There was no point fighting anymore.
Presently, an adjutant approached the Quorum group. He was young but ramrod-straight. He probably listened to Nirvana, and here he was standing in the dark, cast into silhouette by burning buildings behind him like a soldier from a war movie.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I beg to inform you that your surrender, and your… Eighteen-point list of demands, were received by Her Majesty’s Government at 0945 hours. This morning.”
“And?” asked Tony Mulhearn, “Are they agreed to?”
“Well, there was an issue over whether you had any right to surrender on behalf of your fellow rebels. And as the Rump Committee for Public Safety rang the Government at 0927 hours offering unconditional surrender – “
“The Rump Committee?” shouted Lesley Mahmood, “Me and Ted are on the CPS. If anything, we’re the Rump Committee!”
“You were both deemed to have abandoned your posts” replied the adjutant, calmly.
“And the Rump Committee didn’t, did they?” Ted Grant was shaking like an autumn leaf.
“Correct. She was very accommodating, apparently. Anyway, some of you may be subject to investigations for grievous crimes committed during the Incident, while others will subject to the general amnesty which the Government is proposing. Until then, please rejoin the rest of the prisoners. You will be detailed to Corpse Disposal, since you are here already. Carry on.”
“Look here, this is one of my constituents. Used to write every week to tell me to do something about her son’s disability benefit or something or other.”
“Not anymore.”
“Oh, I expect the kid’s sister will take over the epistles from now on.”
“They always do.”
“Oh, wait, not this one. She’s right here.”
“Hey, Bob, have a look at this. Old Degsy – well, most of him, anyway. Looks as if he’s been flattened by a tank.”
“Not nice. You have to feel sorry for him in the end.”
“Not really. He set us all up, didn’t he? All these bodies are on him.”
“Still. Not a nice way to go. Hang on, this is John Hamilton. Look at him, riddled with bullets.”
“Must have gone out a hero. Or a fool.”
It had been about 12 hours since the last pockets of resistance had been mopped up. Nobody had declared an armistice or a truce; the Army had just run out of people to fight. And the Revolutionaries had run out of people willing to fight. A squad of Yeomanry had come upon a bin full of People’s Volunteer armbands and badges, just discarded as the white heat of the proletariat shed their self-image and went seamlessly back to being fathers and brothers and co-workers. Maybe some of them would be dobbed in, or cornered in an alleyway. Most wouldn’t. There was no point fighting anymore.
Presently, an adjutant approached the Quorum group. He was young but ramrod-straight. He probably listened to Nirvana, and here he was standing in the dark, cast into silhouette by burning buildings behind him like a soldier from a war movie.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I beg to inform you that your surrender, and your… Eighteen-point list of demands, were received by Her Majesty’s Government at 0945 hours. This morning.”
“And?” asked Tony Mulhearn, “Are they agreed to?”
“Well, there was an issue over whether you had any right to surrender on behalf of your fellow rebels. And as the Rump Committee for Public Safety rang the Government at 0927 hours offering unconditional surrender – “
“The Rump Committee?” shouted Lesley Mahmood, “Me and Ted are on the CPS. If anything, we’re the Rump Committee!”
“You were both deemed to have abandoned your posts” replied the adjutant, calmly.
“And the Rump Committee didn’t, did they?” Ted Grant was shaking like an autumn leaf.
“Correct. She was very accommodating, apparently. Anyway, some of you may be subject to investigations for grievous crimes committed during the Incident, while others will subject to the general amnesty which the Government is proposing. Until then, please rejoin the rest of the prisoners. You will be detailed to Corpse Disposal, since you are here already. Carry on.”
---
11:02 AM, 22nd September 1995
11:02 AM, 22nd September 1995
The Liverpool Revolution was already a memory. For some it was a good memory, but most weren’t so foolish. They’d lost family, friends, homes and, most importantly, pride. Liverpool could no longer hold it’s head up high – it was the Belfast of Great Britain, but maybe that had always been the case, really.
Bert had spent the last month in various prisons, being interrogated by a series of unpleasant men with unpleasant methods and unpleasant ideas about what the simple handcuff could be used for. Finally, they had accepted that he was not a Militant bigwig and mass-murderer, and let him come home to the chippy.
The front wall had been blown away, as had most of the rest of the street. They were all sleeping in the open air, on piles of rubble. All of Bert’s regulars. He had a chat to a few of them as he walked down from the newly re-opened station. They couldn’t afford fish and chips any more.
But was there anything to salvage? There had been a fire in the place, and people had used the tiled floor as a toilet. To be honest, that might have improved the smell slightly. What of the equipment? Well, someone had ripped the sneezeguard off to use as a riot shield, apparently, and the deep fat fryer was bent all out of shape. Even the last, tiny, insanitary cod had gone, though whoever had eaten it probably lived to regret it. At least they’d lived. Bert hoped so, anyway.
There wasn’t anything for Bert here but memories. He looked around one last time, and went back out onto the street. It was more of a theoretical distinction now. A sheet of newspaper blew past, snagging itself on Bert’s leg. He picked it up and started reading:
Ugh. Politics.
Bert had spent the last month in various prisons, being interrogated by a series of unpleasant men with unpleasant methods and unpleasant ideas about what the simple handcuff could be used for. Finally, they had accepted that he was not a Militant bigwig and mass-murderer, and let him come home to the chippy.
The front wall had been blown away, as had most of the rest of the street. They were all sleeping in the open air, on piles of rubble. All of Bert’s regulars. He had a chat to a few of them as he walked down from the newly re-opened station. They couldn’t afford fish and chips any more.
But was there anything to salvage? There had been a fire in the place, and people had used the tiled floor as a toilet. To be honest, that might have improved the smell slightly. What of the equipment? Well, someone had ripped the sneezeguard off to use as a riot shield, apparently, and the deep fat fryer was bent all out of shape. Even the last, tiny, insanitary cod had gone, though whoever had eaten it probably lived to regret it. At least they’d lived. Bert hoped so, anyway.
There wasn’t anything for Bert here but memories. He looked around one last time, and went back out onto the street. It was more of a theoretical distinction now. A sheet of newspaper blew past, snagging itself on Bert’s leg. He picked it up and started reading:
Country rallies round Government of National Security
Prime Minister Norman St John-Stevas has, together with his coalition partners Dave Nellist and Peter Shore, issued a statement outlining all the wrongs that have “been committed by all sides, be they needlessly violent Militants or oppressive bosses – Ugh. Politics.
---
17:38 PM, 3rd August 2015
17:38 PM, 3rd August 2015
Lesley Mahmood sat in her cell, enjoying her mandated hour of Internet access per day. By admitting to being responsible for the death of Peter Kilfoyle from the off, she had been extended certain privileges over the years. She probably wouldn’t ever see Liverpool again, but it had gotten through to her eventually that Liverpool probably didn’t ever want to see her again.
She skimmed the Chat page of a forum she frequented, and saw a thread – ‘Twenty Years Since Liverpool Revolution’. Of course. It was today. Could be an interesting thread.
Ameriyank said:Hey, I’m a pretty Liberal kind of guy, so I love hearing about the mini-Revolution that you British people had twenty years ago. Now, I live in Phoenix, AZ so we don’t learn about foreign history in school. But I feel like it was a pretty cool time, full of heroic Liberals like that Daniel Nellist guy and all the others, and I just feel like you guys would be in a much better of a place as a nation if you had a Republic and became an actual democracy instead of keeping the Queen and the House of Lords which is just so quaint lol.
Like, I wish that the Liverpool and Coventry thing (Three Days of Coventry is such a fucking awesome name for a battle
Lesley did not even bother to read the retorts against this drivel. She hoped that the author was being torn a new one by people who were actually there, but… it hurt. It hurt to be seen as a historical curiosity; as a ‘cool story bro’. It hurt to have her ideology reduced to buzzwords and her motivations explained away by arrogant historians. It hurt that the trauma which she lived with every day now should be consigned to the past. Today it was only American children who physically couldn’t understand the events of that summer, soon it would be British children, teenagers and adults. They would be free of the pain of lost loved ones; free of the national shame of having to suffer so much strife; free of the special kind of Hell which Hatton had led Britain into. But they would never be free of the oppression which was meted out to them second by second until it became mere background noise. And Lesley Mahmood, Murderer and Traitor, would never be free of this cell, even if she could escape into cyberspace. She shut down the computer and turned away to the barred window, and she wept as she sang…
I wish I knew how it would feel to be free;
I wish I could break all the chains holding me;
I wish I could say all the things that I should say:
Say ‘em loud, say ‘em clear
For the whole round world to hear.
I wish I could share all the love that’s in my heart;
Remove all the bars that keep us apart.
I wish you could know what it means to be me
Then you’d see, and agree,
That every man should be free.
