Fighting Against God

The whole country was falling into disarray.

Poverty had reached astronomical levels. The war raged on with North Korea. The Republicans had threatened conflict with the UK, as a second cold war started to grow between the two nations.

And a new ideological war was brimming, jeopardising to tear the whole of the UK into two.

It had been three months since my encounter with Cunningham; yet his words still rang clear in my ears as if I’d just heard them, watching intently as his predictions came to life.

Christmas had been and gone – the first year I was able to get Stacey a decent present. The article, despite with no pictures, had sold, though the amount of material I had stolen from Cunningham that night greatly outweighed my own contribution. As such, a lovely pay check and a new, permanent, job had made the start of the New Year a very pleasant one.

But each month another zero was added onto the end of my wage, the cost of living rising each day, with people’s savings going to waste. It was a miracle we had managed to hold onto our flat – many of our neighbours had been kicked out, not able to afford the ever-climbing rent.

As good as my life was slowly turning out, my stomach churned when I thought about how long it would last.

Turning on the news didn’t help. Europe was being overwhelmed by floods, the effects of climate change having a much quicker impact than ever hypothesised. With the USA’s irrepressible efforts in multiplying their armed forces, their contribution to the levels of toxic gases filling the atmosphere had doubled, year on year since Young’s rise to power. Any environmentalist groups had been silenced – arrested and thrown into jail, on the trial of being an obstacle in the Republican government carrying out God’s testament. Climate change had fast-forwarded, with black factories manufacturing dirty war instruments all over the globe, facing the onslaught of the American menace.

As such, last year a huge block of ice had melted off the coast of Greenland, the freshwater lakes behind it penetrating the sea in hot pursuit. Sea levels had risen over three metres, with continued growth, flooding entire countries.

The Netherlands was the first to go – a whole country, a whole history, a whole culture, completely wiped off the face of the Earth. Shanghai and Bangkok were suffering from immense submergence too, leading to millions of people homeless and stranded.

Of course, this was put increasing pressures on borders. If your country flooded, you’d want to move.

But no one wanted to know. The UK was one of the only countries left that still had an open border policy for European refugees.

Well, tough shit, there’s no room for any more foreigners in this country. We’re full as it is. I barely felt British anymore, but Labour didn’t seem to understand that. I wanted to keep my culture, proud of who I belonged too.

Plus Stacey was still looking for a job – but they’d all been taken around this area of North London, in Tottenham. Taken by European refugees. I can understand that they’ve come to the UK for a better way of life, but being British, we should get priority! We should be allowed these jobs.

It was in this train of thought when I turned over the channel, that something caught my attention, that before I would have completely switched off.

A man, of at least his late sixties, balding on the top with fine grey hair surrounding his head like a crown, stood in front of a crowd of, what looked like several hundred people. He was stood on a stage, dressed in a smart black suit, talking into a microphone that was far too low for a man of his height. A line of men, all around the same age, stood behind him, his few other close supporters.

‘…can’t continue this façade,’ he began shouting, in an strong British accent, as the aging, cube television adjusted. ‘This country cannot afford to continue with it’s war against the world. I can barely afford to buy a new pair of shoes, for goodness sake.’
I leant forward on the brown leather sofa in my flat’s lounge, intrigued by what I had just heard.

‘Our economy is on the brink of destruction. The damning thing is, everyone knows the cause of this ridiculous amount of inflation! You know, I know, everyone in the entire Labour government knows. But what do they do about it? Nothing!

‘It breaks my old heart to see a country that once stood so strong, fall to it’s knees because of careless governments pointlessly tearing up foreign relationships. America, will soon be knocking on our doors with tanks and grenades, and we will most certainly loose.

‘So why are we letting Labour commit this atrocity amongst it’s people? Stand with us, and protest against the torture to the British public! We will not start a war with America. We need to rebuild our bridge across the Atlantic Ocean, promising peace with President Young.’

Whilst there was cheering, what seemed like, betwixt each of his sentences, there was an astounding round of applause at the end, as the man stepped down.

He was speaking sense. Speaking the mind of the public. Speaking my mind.

‘Good, isn’t he?’

I jumped, not knowing someone had been leaning on the sofa behind me. She laughed as I stood up, walking around the sofa to kiss her on the lips.

Stacey. My love of three years, from a strict conservative background. Her parents were not best pleased when I told them what I did for a living – but since my sudden climb up the career ladder, her dad was the first one to phone and congratulate me on getting a proper job; or in other words, now someone who could provide for his precious daughter. The amount of times I’d overheard him tell Stacey I wasn’t good enough, not responsible enough…

I brushed my hand across her beautiful face, brushing back my own angry thoughts of her father at the same time, stroking her dark blond shoulder length hair behind her ears. Looking into her deep blue eyes always reminded me of how any hard work, and perseverance, was all worth it in the end. God knows how many times the threat of her dad tearing her away had kept me going.

‘Really good,’ I surprisingly responded back, looking at the television again to him shaking the audience’s hands. ‘Who is that?’

‘Dominick Etah? I think he’s the leader of that new party.’ She paused, thinking. ‘Dammit, I can never remember their name.’

Suddenly my stomach dropped, remembering the conversation with Cunningham on the train. ‘Dues Mos?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one!’ Stacey smiled and playfully slapped my shoulder, before walking across the cream carpet to pick up the remote from a small table in the centre of the room, turning up the volume.

Etah was know within the crowd, shaking hands with a beaming public.

‘Mr. Etah there, leader of breakaway party from the Conservative’s, Dues Mos, outlining their stance on Labour’s decision today to ignore President Young’s last chance to withdraw the ‘Godless’ policy, started by the previous coalition government.’

‘Labour twats!’ Stacey exclaimed at the screen, turning it off. ‘This country’s fucking falling apart.’

I took a deep breath, thinking about what to say back her; I’d heard her last comment repeated so many times in the past year, I was almost beginning to accept it as the inevitable.

I had no idea what to say back. The truth was, though I couldn’t believe my change of heart, Dues Mos did speak sense. I couldn’t argue against them, the UK wouldn’t stand a minute against the USA. But what could they do about it? Labour were twats. But we were stuck with them for another five years. The public can’t wait five years to sort this out.

The telephone rang, thankfully breaking the silence.

‘Hello?’ I answered, picking up the phone from the other side of the room.

‘Cyrus?’

‘Yes, speaking?’

‘It’s Pete.’ My new boss. An extremely pleasant man; pleasantly plump at the same time. He had so many distinctive features: short, bright auburn hair for a start, with glasses far too big for his small, round head. ‘I’ve got your next assignment.’

‘Shoot.’

‘I need you outside the Houses of Parliament, this Thursday. We’ve had word that Dues Mos are planning a protest there, and we need you to get an interview with Etah.’

‘Oh yeah, just saw them on the TV. What sort of stuff do you need?’

‘I’m thinking it’s going to be tense. There are a lot of supporters, but equally as many against them. A good chance there’s going to be drama. I want every move recorded.’

Brilliant. Handed on a plate, the chance to see what this Etah guy was really about.

‘It starts at midday, get there early though.’

We said our goodbyes, and I turned round to face Stacey, putting the phone down. She had turned the television back on, and was sat in front of it on the floor, like a child.

I’d noticed a slow change in Stacey over the past year. More tense, more angry with the world. Here, she was nothing but a battery chicken, cooped up, unable to let out any energy.

I needed to let her free.