The Prime Minister is electable

"There you are Prime Minister" said the Permanent Secretary, bright and breezy while choking down his horror. The PM was sat alone at a round table in a meeting room. It shifted in its chair to acknowledge the PS, who was standing in the doorway clutching a set of briefs. The Prime Minister smiled. "Is that a new fang?" the Permanent Secretary asked. It was. The Prime Minister extended a limb in a fluid, boneless, indicating where the PS should sit, three seats away it seemed. 

The Prime Minister was a political bioweapon, a politician genetically altered to be permanently electable. No one knew its original name or identity, which was Very Above Top Secret, a category made up for this experiment. The PM's sex had long been indeterminate. These days its shape was pretty malleable too. 

The Permanent Secretary sat carefully. "Why are you here, Prime Minister?" the PS asked in his best concerned voice. "I've been looking all over for you. You've missed two meetings so far this morning."

The Prime Minister shook what was still probably its head. The PS waited. There was a gurgling sound, a voice rose up from within the Prime Minister. "Me... no like... Foreign Secretary... make flavours taste for chicken and Brexit not Brexit anymore" it said and shook it's 'head' once more. It's voice was tinny, echoing and distant.

"Well" said the PS, "you could reshuffle your cabinet, get a new person in at the FCO..."

The Prime Minister made a mournful mooing sound and covered four of its eyes. "Poisoned vector" it said "stand still challenge unable no flavours..." The Prime Minister glowed a little and seemed truly anguished. The Permanent Secretary let it stew in its sadness for a moment, resisting the urge to hug it, before sliding some papers across the table toward the PM.

"I have some news" said the PS, "something you might like to hear..."

"Hamster...?" said the Prime Minister, looking up again, hopeful.

"No, the President hasn't returned your call" said the Permanent Secretary, "but something good has happened. Operation Quantum Orange is underway" he whispered the last part reverently. Tides of muscle shifted up the PM's face:

"Selective violence?"

"Selective violence indeed" said the PS, also smiling. "Our friends in the south have moved into action."

"Query the visage and enumeration of traitors?" asked the Prime Minister as it pawed through the documents.

"Page four" said the Permanent Secretary, "there's a list of them, seven students and one lecturer... from the University of London..." The PM seemed pleased. "I know" said the PS, "it's an interesting place to start. This is all entirely the Friends initiative mind you, though we have agents tracking and gently guiding them if needs be but do not worry Sir... Madam... It, whatever happens your hands are clean." They were. The Prime Minister looked at the Permanent Secretary, beaming with delight. It thrust out its arms, fingers purple and engorged, and grabbed the PS by the shoulders, extended its tongue and licked the PS's face up and down. "Thank you" said the Permanent Secretary, trying not to gag on the slime, "it's much appreciated."

The Prime Minister then let go, sat back in its chair and let off a blubbery howl. "Brexit means Brexit!" It was heard all the way across in Number Eleven where the Chancellor of the Exchequer had hidden himself in the toilet to masturbate over pictures from the BaE Weapons Catalogue. 

The Parliament of House is in session.

Given I'm now properly trying to turn this into a novel this might be the last I post of this (like you're bothered). With "Now..." or whatever it becomes, I'm going to try to make it a series of short episodes written in a pseudo-dramatic style, i.e. with no internal monologue and the minimum direct author intervention. Anyhoo, let's see how this turns out... Also, yes, it's meant to be silly.

"We have to face facts, the Spirit of Fascism has moved..."

"We don't know that" said a Dissenting Voice, "we don't know anything at this at this moment in time and what we do know doesn't make much sense. 

The Original Speaker tried to respond. "It doesn't..." But:

"I mean, why a physics lecture...?"

"It's doesn't have to..."

"Just kids that..." the Dissenting Voice was exasperated. The Chair held up a hand to say enough. The Original Speaker resumed:

"It's doesn't have to make sense, Dave..." He realised his mistake instant. "Sorry..."

The Dissenting Voice sighed. "It's too late now I suppose" he said and shrugged, irritation. His name was Dave, everyone present knew but but his codename was Wrecked Train. 

"We're all friends here..." said another delegate, AKA The One Man Crowd, "comrades..."

"We don't know that" said the Chair, the Disco Bison, stern as a mid-week comedown. He was the oldest and most experienced of the group. He spoke slowly and surely. "There are many, we can be sure, who would like to infiltrate our organisation, and not just the Fuzz." Silence reigned across the table for a moment. The Disco Bison nodded to the Original Speaker, known to the group as The Sheriff, to continue.

"We have to up our game" said The Sheriff.

"Really?" said a woman known as Many Tentacles. She was the long-standing Promotions and Intelligence delegate, practically the Disco Bison's second in command.

"Enough!" barked the Disco Bison. It was quite a harsh comedown. The office-warehouse reverberated. "Go through the chair" he said to everyone. "We're not here to barney."

"Sometimes" said the Sheriff, resuming, a little bashful, "you have to state the obvious to start with." The One Man Crowd nodded ostentatiously to this. He was seconding the Sheriff's motion. "The Spirit is on the move" said the Sheriff. "Look at the reaction to this attack in the press or on the streets. We've been expecting something like this for months" he said, looking directly at the Wrecked Train, then around the room. "Now it has finally come... what...? Nine people are dead, like you say 'kids.' What's been the reaction? Shrug the shoulders, it's so sad but can't be helped. That's the public response anyway" he shrugged. "Behind closed doors" the Sheriff glanced around meaningfully, "you can bet someone authorised this, someone in power had to" he could sense he was losing the room at this. "I can't prove it, no one can but we must assume it, even if we're wrong. This is big!"

"Are the police involved or have the DoM been brought in?" the Disco Bison asked.

"Sources suggest" said the Many Tentacles, "though I've yet to speak directly to my chief contact I'm pretty sure DCI Lightfoot is on the case." There were sighs and frowns across the table.

"Well" the Sheriff shrugged, "maybe the state has been caught on the hop but that's all the more reason for us to take the fight. If we don't move now we could find the ground disappearing beneath our feet."

"You have a plan I take it?" said the Wrecked Train.

"Of course" said the Sheriff, seemingly no longer embarrassed. He handed out sheets of A4 holdings lists, maps and schematics.

"These are not the full details I take it?" said the Disco Bison.

"Of course not" said the Sheriff. "With your permission though I will take this forward to Ops and Acquisitions to take forward." He ploughed on before any of the delegate could object. "The Parliament of House has been underground for too long. We need to take a space, publicly, a high-profile space that cannot be ignored, there's a non-definitive list of potential targets included but, uh... the point is we need to take a space and hold it for as long as we can. If the Spirit of Fascism wants to take this city we have to take it first. Sure it's going to take a lot, we're going to be calling in all sorts of favours but... if not now... when?"

Now - another excerpt

I'm going to have to try again to get my politics/crime/urban fantasy ideas wrapped into a full story. I've tried twice. The last time failed mostly because the lead character was undeveloped. I need a proper story arc but I'm slowly getting towards a decent lead, Detective Yara Lightfoot, see below. I picture her as a charming cynic, actually a nihilist with a hidden idealism that makes her an unusual police officer. This side should come to the fore as the story develops. Maybe I'll work on her and the character will provide the plot. Meanwhile, I've definitely got plans for Little Frank.

DCI Yara Lightfoot strode into her office. "What have you got for me?" she asked. "What crazy crap has the world dropped for us today?"

"Let's see" said Little Frank, who had been waiting for her, ready, at his desk. He brought up some cases on his computer. "We've got a dead cult leader..." he peered at the screen, "Martin Ranfurly-Smythe, funny name, an actor in real life apparently."

DCI Lightfoot smiled at this. She sat in her chair at her desk, leaned back and listened. "And...?"

"He led the First Order of Odobena" said Little Frank.

"What's that...?"

"Walrus worshipers" said Little Frank.

"Really...?"

"You can worship anything you like" he added. 

DCI Lightfoot wasn't impressed it seemed. She fetched a box out from under her desk, eventually asking "what did he die of? It must be suspicious, violent, something like that..."

"Broken neck" said Little Frank, "fractured skull, a few ribs... They found him like that in Old St Pancras churchyard."

"What was he doing there?"

"Well" said Little Frank, "according to this, word has it, Lord Hufflepuff and his followers were trying to revive the walrus that was buried there."

"Buried there...?"

"Yeah, some time in the 1820s" said Little Frank, "though it was dug up in 2003."

"OK" said Yara, cautiously. She started nibbling on a doughnut. 

"But, anyway, despite this obvious difficulty, according to SAMCS sources they succeeded."

"Ah..."

"And the walrus killed Wotshisface..."

"A bit ungrateful" DCI Lightfoot grinned. "Doughnut...?" she offered.

"No thanks" said Little Frank. "Anyway, the walrus is now at large, somewhere in London."

"Or someone's got an angry magic walrus" added DCI Lightfoot. "Interesting, but until we find this magic walrus it sounds more like a cult-squad job and what would we charge anyone with?" Little Frank shrugged. "What else is there?" Lightfoot asked. "What about the parakeet situation?"

"All quiet on that front" said Little Frank. He looked a little crestfallen. "The gangs are sticking to the postcodes, respecting the truce." There was a pause, guilty sounding silence then Little Frank added, "there is one other thing."

"What...?"

"The shooting" said Little Frank, "the university shooting..."

"Why...?" DCI Lightfoot seemed shocked. She sat forward in her chair.

"The Regulars have been in touch already" said Little Frank. "They're preparing to hand it over as we speak. The thing is..."

"What?"

"The police on the scene got the footage back, the CCTV footage and... well. The shooter wasn't carrying anything. Eyewitnesses said he had an assault rifle but the footage disagrees. Then a man came in..."

"A man...?"

"A man, unarmed, halfway through the massacre. He goes up to the killer, says something to him and the killer shoots himself... with nothing and the guy just... leaves..."

"He shoots himself...?"

"With nothing" Little Frank confirmed, "just his empty hands."

DCI Lightfoot sat back again, finished her doughnut, and after a moment's silence, exclaimed, "brilliant! Let's do it!"

Witness statements

Inspector Huizen: "So, what have we got?"

"It's a mixed bag, Sir" said the Constable, holding the file. "I'm not sure what to make of it."

"Data" said the Inspector, "that's important thing, though it's rare in eyewitness accounts. We need data, the rest will solve itself."

The Constable seemed unsure. 

"Examples, Constable, please..."

"OK..." He opened the file, flicked through a few pages, picked out a transcript from the folder and began to read.

1.

Witness: There was three of them. I saw it. I saw most of it anyway. I didn't see the start of it though but I was standing outside of the garage, having a quick puff before my shift, you get me? Anyway, like, I heard this shouting and I looked over, yeah? There was this guy he was fighting with a woman on a bike, trying to grab a bag off her I think.

Interviewer: What did the man look like?

W: I couldn't see his face.

I: Could you describe him.

W: Well [pause] I mean I [pause] I don't know to...

I: Age, height, build, ethnicity...?

W: It's difficult to say. I was a bit of a blur, see? I guess he was white.

I: Caucasian?

W: No, I mean white, like, really white. I don't know [pause]. He was sort of average height. He seemed slim. He was dressed in [pause] it's hard to say.

I: As best you can, Sir.

W: You're going to think this is [pause]. I'm not crazy or nothing. It...

I: Please, Sir, just say what you saw. Let us do this thinking.

W: He looked like [pause]. He looked like a mannequin, you know those things in shops that they hang clothes on.

I: I understand. [Pause] What happened after that?

W: Well, then this other guy appeared out of nowhere and he looked a lot like the first one, I mean a lot. He was, like, running down the hill. The Woman on the Bike had got away from the First Man, started peddling, and the Second One he got out a hand gun and started shooting.

I: How many shots were there?

W: Two, I think. I hit the deck. I think everyone did. There was screaming and shouting all over the place. I was crouching. I looked up again and the other two men had gone.

I: What happened then, did you hear any more shots?

W: No, it was like everything had [pause]. It was like it had gone back to normal.

"That's interesting" said Inspector Huizen, "any more?"

2. 

I: What did you see?

W: I didn't see much. I was just was going to the tube station, by the entrance, when I heard a lot of noise and there was this woman, crazy looking, riding her bike along the pavement. There was people shouting at her.

I: At her?

W: Yeah, for riding on the pavement. [Pause] That's what it seemed like, anyway but there was this thing following her.

I: A thing?

W: Like a wind or a black cloud. The Woman, she jumped back on the road. The cloud was following her. It was growing as well. I saw it. I don't know what it was but I saw it. [Pause] I swallowed the Woman whole like a [pause] pair of jaws.

Pause.

I: Did you hear any gunshots?

W: No.

"I think I know where this is going" said the Inspector. "One more, if you may?"

The Constable searched for one more interview.

3.

W: I don't know what I saw but I never want to see anything like that again.

I: I understand [pause]. Please can you...

W: It was unholy, oh Lord, what is the world coming to? I...

I: Please, Madam, if you could describe it.

W: I'm so sorry, I am very shaken. [Pause] I was sitting in me car at the light when I heard this awful, awful screeching sound, very loud it was, unnatural. Then I saw this figure running toward me. It was on fire. I thought my time had come. My life flashed before me, I thought of my children, I thought of me Mother and Father. Then these men came out of nowhere, I don't know, perhaps they weren't men, but they were three of them, carrying these cloaks. They wrestled the burning figure to the ground, right before me. There was sparks and ash flying everywhere and the screeching got louder and louder and then [pause] there was nothing. Gone. What do you think it could have been?

I: We're trying to find out, Madam.

"I know who we need to speak to next" said Inspector Huizen.

"Really?"

"Yes" said the Inspector. "Let's be off."

Marsha and the Mage

I've been in desperate need of a new short story (as opposed to vignette) for a while. Today is a day off for me. I picked a card from my Oblique Strategies deck, "give way to your worst impulses," then went out for a walk. I've come back with a short story only it's not short. If it's finished it will involve using up a excerpts from other attempted novel AND I'm writing a proper full novel as well. Hmm. The picture is a word cloud of this story/chapter.

Sat down: she looked around. This was not what Marsha was used to, not your usual job. She could get used to it she thought. For starters it was good money. Two-fifty now, upfront and in cash 'the rest' on delivery. Very good.

At the door: "don't stand around like a lost girl, please come in, come in..." Marsha was happy enough to be patronised by a client for that amount, but she was a nice old lady, inviting Marsha into her home like that. Once inside, in the front room it was, "sit down, please, make yourself comfortable... Would you like a cup of tea?"

Marsha declined, she'd heard about these types, but the Woman persisted.

"Water...? Juice...?"

She was about to decline again but Marsha's professional instinct kicked in. "Actually, yes" she smiled, "a glass of water would be lovely, thank you." Humour her.

"Certainly" said the Woman, already padding off toward the doorway to what must have been the kitchen. Marsha sat down on a sofa, soft, large and very comfortable. Sitting down felt like being gathered up in a giant hand. Marsha was alone. She looked all around. Such a beautful house it was, a pleasant daydream of suburban comfort, spacious yet filled with so many wonderful things that she could barely describe; all the furniture, the decor, the extended mirror on the wall behind her, the full bookshelf in front of her, to the left a white sliding door that led to a dining room; inside, the carved table, the antique wooden globe; beyond that, the wide patio windows showing a garden, green and lush and, at the bottom, a tree, she didn't know what kind, but it was in full bloom. She did have the words after all. But what did these things mean to a bicycle courier? They meant arrival, they meant safety, they meant rest. She wondered. How did someone who lived like this end up as a radical?

"Here you go" said the Woman returning from the kitchen with a glass of water. She handed it to Marsha who said:

"Thank you, uh...?"

The Woman hovered over Marsha. She seemed puzzled for a moment then said: "Oh... you may call me Cynthia" and she started to sit down in a chair opposite.

"Thank you, Cynthia..." said Marsha, clutching the glass. "Is, uh, is that your real name?"

"Real enough, Dear" said Cynthia. She sat down slowly.

A moment's silence, then Marsha drank the water... with satisfaction, all in one go. She had been thirstier than she realised. "That's very kind of you" she said and started to get up again.

"Oh, no, no..." said Cynthia, leaping up, suddenly quite spry. "Not while you're my guest." She took the glass back and smiled. "Besides..." But she thought better of it and made once more for the kitchen.

"Besides what?" asked Marsha.

"Well" said Cynthia, stopping in the doorway. She turned to look at Marsha. "We'll get to 'besides' in a moment... I'll, uh, bring you the package."

The Old Woman was away a little longer this time. Marsha sat and she wondered what it was she'd be carrying. The description she'd been given was vague: "important package... small... not fragile but handle with care..." Vague but it was often the way with moonlighting, off-the-books stuff; you kept your head down, don't ask too many questions, just do the job. That was the idea. That was how you got on in the world, or in Marsha's case got by. Rules were meant to be broken, yes, until you got caught, but that didn't bear thinking about. Marsha needed the money. Keep your head down, no questions, do the job... that was the idea. But curiosity is an ineffable force. What could a well-to-do elderly lady possibly want shipped across London in secret?

"Here's your motivation..." Cynthia was standing over Marsha now, holding an A5 envelope in her left hand, unmarked. Marsha came to with a snap:

"Sorry..."

"That's OK" said Cynthia, now wearing a purple robe with golden symbols for some reason. Marsha ignored this, took the envelope from her gingerly, prised it open and peered inside. "It's all there" said Cynthia, smiling again. "You can count it if you like..." But Marsha just fanned the stack open for a second, then said:

"Thank you, um..." She put the money away. Before Marsha could ask though, Cynthia gave a theatrical, creaky but deft swish of the robe. There in her right hand was a small, sealed cardboard box:

"Your commission" she said, holding it out. "You are to take this to the Mage of Herne Hill."

"The what?" Martha blurted but Cynthia now looked serious. "Sorry, sorry, I, um..." Cynthia did not respond. "I'm sorry, the Mage of Herne Hill?"

"That's right" said Cynthia, still holding the box.

"OK" said Marsha. She had a rough idea who she was dealing with beforehand. No secrets can be complete secrets. But 'mage...' really? She took the box from the Old Woman's grip, again tentatively. "What's his..."

"Or hers..." said Cynthia smartly. She folded her arms.

"What's his or her..." Marsha stopped and shook her head. "Is he or she a he or a she...?" But Cynthia did not answer. There was an awkward silence before Marsha asked: "What's the address then, where am I taking it to?"

"Herne Hill" said Cynthia, almost severe. "More I cannot say."

"What, am I supposed to just..." Marsha shrugged, "go there and ask?"

"You can" said Cynthia, softening a little, "but ask the right people, and be discrete... I cannot move this myself. Too many people would know..."

"Know what?"

But Cynthia continued, "you are being offered a considerable reward for the difficulty involved and the risks..."

"What risks?"

Cynthia stepped forward and tapped the box. She lowered her voice. "Lots of people would like to get their hands on what's in this box."

The box felt largely empty to Marsha but, she thought, no matter.

Cynthia stepped back again, resuming her arms-folded pose. "You are talented and you are motivated. You will find a way, Ms McDuffus."

"How'd you know my name?" Marsha shifted in the sofa.

"Research, my dear." Cynthia tapped her forehead. "I know what I'm doing. You are the right woman for the job."

"And what is my motivation?" asked Marsha.

"What is your debt?" Marsha wasn't sure:

"I think it's twenty-five, thirty grand... something like that."

"Yes, that's your monetary debt. What about other kinds of debt?”

“I don't get... I don't get what you mean...?”

“Oh you do...” said Cynthia. “Remember, I've researched you. Yes... your debt... That's your motivation. You will get to the end. You will recognise the Mage. Do all this and you will be relieved of your debts... Do we have a deal?" Cynthia held out her hand, a little odd but Marsha stood poised to shake.

"We have a deal" she said, “but...”

“Hmm...?”

“Show me, at least, show me how you could do that...”

“OK” said Cynthia. “That I can do” and she smiled once more.

...

Stepping outside the front door Marsha felt so light.

"I'll show you" the Old Woman had said, "yes, but not too much."

Too much? Too much relief, too much release, too much liberty, was there really such a thing? Oh, she'd shown Marsha alright, a vision, somehow. She'd shown her freedom, the end of modern peonage, no more working for the cash machine, the credit card or the Student Loans Company. And the other debts too... Yes, she could almost see the future in front of her, at the end of her journey. Now that was motivation.

Everything was light as she stepped outside. Yes, everything felt right. The Sun shone down a kind of fatherly smile, through dappled leaves that were dancing in the wind, the maternal caress of the breeze sauntering along the peaceful, suburban street. Marsha picked up her bike, from where she left it in the alcove, untethered, and wheeled it along the path to the garden gate.

"Not too much."

Too much? Marsha could have stayed like, feeling like this forever. Her bag, slung over her shoulder, held the prize, the box, the key to her future within her grasp. She put it away, safe. Too much? Marsha opened the gate, went through and shut it after her, checked for traffic, here was none, and got back in the saddle.

She felt it instantly. Back to work, back in the saddle. Now she knew what Cynthia had meant by 'too much.' Marsha looked back at the house. Cynthia was watching her from the living room. She smiled and waved once more and Marsha felt a pang. The perfect future was still future conditional. She would be free if she delivered the package, and she hadn't been given the clearest of instructions. But, yes, any more of the vision and it would have been practically addictive. She had wanted to stay like that forever. Now it was back to work, the blackmail of survival, back to work, pedalling her bike, gently to begin with. Marsha began to feel normal again back in the saddle.

As she rode alone she thought. It was one of the pleasures of cycling. The function of movement, self-propulsion was so basic it cleared her mind. She did not have to think about where to go or what to do. Marsha did not even really navigate by streets. Roads were roads. Instead her world was marked out by things, junctions, signs, railway arches, shops, offices, monuments, parks, venues, even crime scenes. They were all part of her instinctive map of the city. She crossed the junction at North Circular.

Marsha rode along, she thought and felt and she remembered. That feeling, the sense of possibility and openness that Cynthia showed her, somehow, she thought back and she realised that she hadn't felt anything like that since her college days. Of course that was the time when she discovered her two vocations, her desired future and her actual one. Oh my, it wasn't even ten years ago that she graduated. So much had changed since then it felt like an age... or an eon... one of the two... She passed Bounds Green, down the A109 she rode.

She had come to London as a student. Marsha studied English Literature. She wanted to be a writer and she still was, when she found the time to nurture her small flock of short stories, occasional poems and the novel, stalled about five thousand words in, spread out across two laptops and about half a dozen USB sticks. She gone for literature because she wanted to learn how to write. The course was actually about how to read. Yes, that was it, she had a degree in reading. Her parents, promised that they would put her through university, and they kept their promise, even after they... well... Marsha was never able to save enough for an MA in Creative Writing. She reached the junction at St Michael's.

Marsha loved riding from an early age. On her eighth birthday she had a mountain bike. At eighteen she got a racing bike, a present for getting her grades. She loved that bike, cared for it, took it to university and she still had it today. When she wasn't going out Marsha cycled almost everywhere at uni, before it became the hippest thing. It kept her fit, saved her money and cleared her mind. Now it was her living. Marsha stayed on in London after university, getting a job with a courier firm. The work suited her, especially back then, when there were fewer obligations, when the money was good. How times change, she thought, while free-wheeling down the hill toward Wood Green Tube.

"Bang!"

Something shoved her, hard from the left, into the side of a stationary car. For a slow moment she could see right inside, shocked faces casting around.

“GIMMETHAFUKKINBAG!”

No, not something, it was someone, a human blur, tearing at her. Despite the initial shock survival kicked in, literally. With an adrenalised roar Marsha threw that someone, the Human Blur off her, kicked it nimbly in the chest. It grunted. She got back on her bike and started pedalling. Still surging. Hop on the pavement! Fuck the lights! Get away!

“BANG!”

What was that? Marsha glanced over her shoulder. There were yells and screams. The Human Blur was up and chasing after and:

“BANG!”

Shooting at her. SHIT! PEDAL! She almost ploughed into a railing, not looking where she was going. GET AWAY! She scorched across the junction. Pedal! GET AWAY! Marsha kept peddling, hard as she could... There looked back then ahead. GET AWAY! The road was clear except. There was a figure in front of her in the... BANG!

Darkness.