Devolution (14 page)

“Chris Nash.” The PM forced a coarse smile. “Old friend, how are you?” He reached out his hand as Nash rose to his feet. The newsman towered over the much shorter politician. Physicality aside, their intellects were similar in many ways, a quality they mutually respected.

“I am good, Mr. Prime Minister.” Nash was equally as inauthentic. Their cold palms met in an assertive embrace. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

The PM placed a stiff hand on Nash’s rigid shoulder. “We have a short walk, my friend.” With his free hand, he pointed. “This way.”

As they approached the door from which the prime minister first appeared, he asked, “What do you think? We’ve spent a lot of time refurbishing the place.”

Nash looked around.
Really? It looks the exact same.

He reached for the handle. “This was getting pretty run-down.” Nash walked past him and across the threshold. “They did a good job.” The door fastened behind them.

The hallway they entered no longer held that old Victorian feel. The need for certain aesthetics ended where the public’s vision stopped. This section had more of an aristocratic, contemporary feel, complete with detailed crown and chair molding, gold-accented wallpaper, and burgundy-carpeted floors that they seemed to float upon. The soft brilliance provided by stained glass windows was gone. Bright track lights now illuminated the route.

The PM pointed up the hallway. “Straight ahead.”

The Prime Minister of the UK was about as physically average a man as they came. Hovering around five-foot-seven with an unimpressive build, he intimidated no one. His meager 140-pound weight, squeaky voice, and high hair parted to the left supplied his critics with an assortment of punch lines. However, what he lacked in physical stature, he made up for in intelligence and the ability to communicate. At 55 years old, he was still relatively young and had a bright future.

This PM was a strong leader who the people had respected. Yet, with the massive landslide victory of the Centre Party in the April elections, his time was running out. In less than a week he would step down. A scary proposition for not only him, but for a number of Brits who feared what the Centre Party would do to the country. Since they’d never held political power, their governing style was an unknown.

The men entered the PM’s office which, despite the time of day, was depressingly drab with layered shadows eerily strewn in every direction. “Please, sit.”

Nash was quick to oblige.

“I love this office,” the PM stated as he plopped down in his chair. “I don’t want to leave, Nash.” Though his dispirited acceptance of the circumstances was no surprise, his willingness to discuss it was.

Chris had no idea how to respond.
Why is he making small talk?

“I hope they appreciate and understand the responsibility this office brings.” He spoke of the incoming party. “Just sitting in this chair reminds me of all those great men and women who preceded me. I think about all the people we’ve helped. All the freedom we’ve spread. All the prosperity.”

Nash was dumbfounded. This was not how he’d expected the meeting to begin. The awkwardness had vanished, replaced by a sense of weakness and vulnerability on the part of his perceived adversary. Maybe Nash’s first impression of awkwardness was misinterpreted. Maybe to the PM, time had not distanced them. But Nash was too jaded by the system to be fooled by a skillful politician. The prime minister never said a word without its impact being carefully weighed.

“I understand,” Nash replied. “But it is not all—”

“I have so much unfinished work,” he interrupted. “These are hard times and the people turned on us. What we did worked!” He tapped his chest with an open hand. “This market correction had to happen. We even predicted it!
Now
is the time when the ones with the experience are most needed!”

Chris remained silent.
What the hell?

After a few seconds, the PM became much calmer. “I have no idea what the Centre Party is going to do. I fear for our country.” He lowered his head in defeat, releasing a sigh of humility. “They will force major change that this fragile economy cannot handle.”

As if jolted by an instantaneous burst of energy, the PM raised his head, white-faced and wide-eyed, somehow transformed into a new person. “So, Chris, what do you want to show me?”

Nash’s desire to grill the PM for answers had all but dissolved.
Stalling for time he reached into his breast pocket for the pamphlet. “This is what I told you about.” He handed the document desktop the PM.

The PM closely examined it, his face unwavering. “Do you mind if I have this?”

Nash nodded. “That’s a copy.”

He continued to study its contents, occasionally gesticulating as if what he had read was so absurd it was humorous.

“Well,” the PM said with quite the poker face, “I don’t know what to tell you.”

Nash intently looked for any signals that could give away the PM’s true thoughts, but there were none.

“I don’t know what this is.” The Prime Minster placed the pamphlet on his desk. “Who gave it to you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” He seemed incredulous.

“I didn’t see his face or get his name. I met him under the Vauxhall Bridge.”

The location instantly caught the PM’s attention and Nash noticed his intrigue.

“The Vauxhall Bridge? When did you meet this person?”

“Second week in April. The tenth, I believe, around lunchtime.”

“Really?”
The prime minister’s poker face briefly slipped before he corrected himself.

Nash caught the slight infraction; he was getting close to something, though he had no idea what. “All the man said was I should talk to you.”

The PM casually leaned back in his chair and lightly cast himself away from the desk. “Well, I don’t know anything about this. For all I know, it’s a fraud. I will have my people look at it.”

He was lying and they both knew it.

“I would appreciate any information,” Nash said. Despite his ill feelings he remained respectful. Their political game was far from over.

The PM again examined the document.

“Well, Nash, it’s not every day someone like yourself calls my office with something like this. It’s interesting. But I have to be honest, with the new majority party coming in, it’ll be a while before we get back to this.”

Nash now understood the Prime Minister’s initial misdirection. He feared the pamphlet’s release during his administration.

Pretend like we’re still old buddies, right?

Realizing additional efforts at acquiring information would be futile, Nash stood up and extended his hand. “Sir, thank you for your time. I will keep in touch.”

And prove this information without your help.

The PM rose to escort his guest out of the office.

“No need, sir,” Nash announced kindly. “I can show myself out.”

After Nash left his office, the PM carelessly tossed the pamphlet on top of a stack of papers and spun in his chair to face his monitor. “That was interesting.” His hands rose to the keyboard.

“Do you think he believed you?” a hoarse voice said from the far back corner of the room. The lack of light perfectly hid his position behind a bookshelf.

“Not a chance,” the PM replied. “But I didn’t give him enough to go on.” He rotated his chair again, this time to face the blackened windows that overlooked a decreasingly vibrant city. “Thoughts?”

The man emerged from the shadows and into the scattered light, a freshly-lit cloud of cigar smoke encircled his head. Despite the gravitas of the situation, his monotone voice displayed no gravitas itself. It sounded as though his words were dead. “We need to know who met him under that bridge.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE FALL

E
arly September

“L
adies and gentlemen, welcome to Society and Power S151.”

By his time, Professor John Nolan felt like a seasoned classroom veteran. After teaching two summer sessions he felt in command. Yet his shy and quiet nature still had a tight grip.

“I gather all of you are in the correct class.”  His cheesy line received a slight chuckle, mostly out of respect.

“It’s an interesting time in our nation’s history to be taking this course,” John began. “Our economy is weak.  Some people think it’s collapsing and we are heading towards a depression. Others are less pessimistic. To understand our power structure, you must understand economics and government.  By the end of this semester, you will.”

The class staring back at the professor was far from full. The struggling economy forced many students to work to help feed their families or save money for what may lie ahead.

“How well do you follow our economy?” John pointed to a young man sitting in the front row. “What is the unemployment rate?”

The young red-haired, freckled-faced boy, who appeared to be right out of high school, shrugged.

“Does anyone know?” John asked, careful not to damage the student’s self-esteem.

A young, heavyset brunette girl with braces raised her hand.  Before the professor had time to call on her, she blurted out, “15 percent.”

“Right.” John nodded in approval.  “What about inflation?”

The same girl exclaimed, “11.”

John eyed the nameless young woman. “Would you also like to tell me about interest rates?”

Stumped, she sat befuddled a moment before shaking her head.

A young Indian boy sitting in called out, “19 percent?”

“Yes. Unemployment, inflation, and interest rates all in the double digits—stagflation.
  It has drastically changed the power structure in our country.”

John approached the board, grabbed a marker, and wrote in large block lettering,  “S-T-A-G-F-L-A-T-I-O-N.”

“Our new Parliament has tried to stabilize the economy over the past few months. Has it worked?” He paused to let his question sink in. “The government has bailed out a few companies. Did it save them? Or did it make them dependent and encourage others to act recklessly? Did they learn from their mistakes? Do they even have to? Is the government now their boss? The government didn’t
save
other companies that failed. Is that right?”

John snapped the cap back on the marker and dropped it on the aluminum slide at the base of the board. “Global investors are less likely to look at our markets. Who controls the money? Is that who ultimately has the power?”

He paused again. This was a lot for the young minds to process. “If you would have taken this class in the fall before the election, this would have been different. A lot has changed in the past few months.”

John took a seat behind his desk facing the class.

“When the Centre Party took office they had to make immediate changes to appease the nation. That is what they campaigned on. But major changes create uncertainty because no one knows what the affects will be. This is especially true in a fragile economy where companies are hesitant to hire or invest, and rather wait to see what happens. When the first set of changes didn’t work, they said it was because they didn’t change enough. So, they changed more. Now we have this mess of an economy.”

“Who knows who John Maynard Keynes is?” Most all the students raised their hands. “Was he right? Can deficit spending save an economy? Will it save ours?” John asked. “What can slow a recession or stimulate an economy? Hard work or accounting tricks? What message are we sold?” John expected some argument from his students. But that was for a different day.

“So, the government had to increase interest rates to tighten the credit market and decreased the money flow to halt inflation.  As a result, businesses cannot borrow. Now, unemployment is rising and our money is devaluing.  That’s stagflation.”

His students could not have been more confused.  Maybe that was a little much for the first day
.
“What caused this drastic change in our nation’s thinking?  What if we had done nothing? Why did we vote for a party that had never led before? These are types of questions we’ll answer during this semester. You will leave this class with a different understanding of who holds power in our nation. Are there any—” His phone started to vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the incoming number. “Please excuse me,” he said, and stepped out the door.

The empty tile and concrete-laden hallway providing a slight echo to his voice. “Professor Sorenson.  How are you, sir?”

“I am wonderful, John.” Old Sores was far more jovial and mild-mannered outside the classroom.  “I gather your first day of classes is going well?”

“Yes, sir.”  John regretted to have to cut off the conversation.  “I am actually in the middle of lecture right now.”

“Well, this won’t take long. John, the publishing company has agreed to print your book.”

John’s jaw dropped. His body went numb with a paralyzing excitement.

“Congratulations, John!” Although Professor Sorenson was not there, he could picture John’s reaction.  It made the old man smile.  “Call me when your class is finished and we’ll go over the details.”

“Yes, sir!  Thank you, thank you, sir!” 

John stood motionless in the hallway with the phone pressed tightly to his ear.   With his head drifting backwards, his eyelids softly fell, shielding this moment from the rest of the world. 
YES! 
A tingling sensation rushed through his body followed by a cool, mellow charge of pure joy.  For that brief period in time, he felt weightless, invincible.  He had just learned of the greatest achievement of his life.  Nothing could duplicate this overwhelming sensation of pure bliss.

John lowered the phone from his ear and dialed the numbers.  He heard three rings and then, “Hello?”

“Hi.”

Surprised, April said, “I thought you were in class?”

“I got the book deal!”

Her piercing shriek echoed through the hollow halls more than John’s own words. “Oh, my God, honey!  Are you serious? That’s awesome!”

“I know.” He could barely believe his own words.  “It’s finally coming together.” 

I am becoming worthy.

*

CRACK!!!

A shattering glass bottle on the sidewalk outside Westminster only added to the intolerant cries of the already antagonized British people. The enraged crowd of thousands grew even more indignant, shouting down their elected officials and public servants.  Police in full riot gear stood at the gates of Britain’s governance, limiting the people’s advance. The occasional protester would break through the line of officers in a futile attempt to scale the fence, only to be dragged down from behind and taken into custody. These individuals never got far, but they served to fuel the crowd’s belief that the catalyst for revolution was at hand.  The massive citizen army was as angry a crowd as the dilapidated streets in downtown London had ever seen. The harrowing screams and hollers for justice were unmistakable.  And they didn’t fall on deaf ears.

“Equal rights! Equal rights!” bellowed some who had felt the government favoritism was unfair.

“Let us live! Let us live!” averred others who felt the government had already done too much.

“Action now! Action now!” bawled still more who thought the government hadn’t done enough.

Thousands, all with a different solution. How could they please them all?

Homemade signs, many distributed by grass roots organizations, peppered the swelling ranks.  Some contained encircled pictures of Parliamentary leaders with lines through their faces. Others expressed thoughts, like ‘Revolution Now!’ and ‘Break the cycle!’

Kids too young to walk wore shirts of protest while strapped to their parents’ backs.  Older children, tethered to their guardians, contributed with shirts of their own that evinced their personal interests: “I’m Already Drowning in Debt,” “Don’t Kill My Dreams.”

This massive protest had been planned for weeks, and the biting pain on the faces of the beleaguered was contagious.  Food had grown scarce in some parts of the nation.  And for some, food became too expensive. Winter was only a few months away and many feared they would be unable to pay their heating bills.  The government was out of money, and foreign nations were unwilling to invest, either out of concern for their decreased credit rating or eagerness for the superpower’s possible demise.

Some feared without police protection, the building would have been ransacked, and the leaders of the country would be at the mercy of the masses. But fears of a riot were few. Nevertheless, the Centre Party majority was ill-prepared and ill-equipped to deal with the circumstances.

The still relatively new prime minister watched the protest amongst a few of his closest advisers. His mood manifested as a heavy-hearted mellowness. His team stood in the chief executive’s office looking out the window at the indignant and enlarging crowd.

“How did we get ourselves into this mess?”

No one dared to answer his question.

The PM lumbered away from the window and sulked in the false comfort of his chair.  The faint cries of the crowd could be heard off in the distance.  His staff, although slower to exit from the window, followed him to his desk. The wearisome sound of silence filled the room.

In the House of Commons and House of Lords, all negotiations had stalled. Under the fear of further failure, the Centre Party was hesitant to use its majorities to act.  It was those very majorities soon after inauguration that pressed through sweeping reforms that knocked the economy off its axis. Although those immediate measures succeeded in placating the frustrated masses—for a while. As a result, the government had become as unstable and polarized as the country itself.  The leaders had effectively lost control.  And no one in that room had any answers.  They sat staring at each other.

“What now?” questioned the spiritless PM as he fiddled with a pen on his desk.

One of his subordinates mustered the courage to speak. “We take our time and make sure this gets done right.”

That passive, weak strategy, which unfortunately was the only viable one available, would prove fatal.

*

“The pain is palpable,” explained the casually-dressed reporter holding the microphone firmly in her right hand.  Standing a few feet in front of her, the photographer fought off the crowds to keep the camera from wobbling. Despite the scene she managed to keep her composure.

“The people who gathered here today wanted nothing less than a solution.” The people around her realized she was live, and tried to use it to their advantage.  The signs behind her all turned to face the camera. These signs were accompanied by the yelling of slogans that represented each person’s particular hardships.

“Freedom is not free!”

“Unionize the banks!”

“Vote for gold!”

There was no laughter in these people’s hearts; no joy on their faces.  They were scared.

The crowd was reaching the point where its size trumped the ability of the police to contain it. For now, the people knew where that imaginary line was that kept the police at bay, however, that didn’t stop them from inching ever closer to it.

The reporter concluded, “There is no telling when this crowd will disperse.  Their energy is growing and so is the power of their message, even though there’s no consensus on what that message is.  Live outside Westminster, Lindsay Bothwell, BNN News.”

“This is it,” declared a defiant Aasir Abdulah Kabul. He and his most loyal followers stood in an office witnessing the events at Westminster. His deep, powerful voice rumbled in the room. “This is the time we’ve been waiting for. Weak leadership, a struggling economy, people out of work, hungry, angry.” Nodding his head, a sinister grin blended with an already intense stare.  “It is time. We now prepare.”

Kabul nostalgically peered at his subordinates who had all been to Hell and back, together. Their chance to avenge The Cause was finally at hand. That realization was a testament to their storied past and infamous future.  The journey they were about to embark upon would undoubtedly be their last.  With a means to an end within reach, the reason they had survived when few others did not had become clear—they were the chosen ones.

Kabul was a man his people trusted unconditionally.  They believed in him and put their faith in his resolve.  He’d singlehandedly resurrected the Front for the Liberation of the Enclave of Cabina and nurtured it into a viable and powerful entity.  When oil was discovered on their land in Western Angola, he led his people out of the slums.  The seemingly endless cycle of poverty and destitution finally began to reverse itself.  Access to quality education was suddenly possible.  Vaccines for simple illnesses flowed abundantly.  Small communities dotted with respectable houses replaced infested ghettos.  Kabul was able to broker a peace with the Angolan government setting suitable tax rates and mandates that equally benefited both parties. The Cabina region’s spirits and hopes for a better future were higher than they had ever been.  Those spirits translated into productivity and a better life, but it also created a wide wealth gap with the nation’s other citizens.

It didn’t take long for the tenuous peace between the FLEC and the Angolan government to waver.  The hundreds of millions of dollars the FLEC acquired from the oil reserves were put to good use developing infrastructure and brokering global trade contracts.  Meanwhile, the Angolan’s government profits were squandered via corruption—the same
policies
that had kept many African nations perpetually poor.  Skirmishes between the rich Angolans and the rest of nation’s poor arose.  Calls for greater Cabina autonomy rang loudly.

At that time in world history, calls for regional nationalization, within existing states, reverberated globally. The fall of America inspired other successful regions to declare independence.