Long live The Anarchy State

21st Century Britain was on the brink of degenerating into the Wild West. Theft, assault, rape, murder, genocide; there would be no end to the horror. Christine couldn't stop envisioning the catastrophic consequences of today’s decision. The repercussions would reverberate for decades, or even centuries. In-fact, how could society ever recover?

“No free man shall be seized or imprisoned, or stripped of his rights or possessions, or outlawed or exiled, nor will we proceed with force against him, except by the lawful judgement of his equals or by the law of the land. To no one will we sell, to no one deny or delay right or justice.”

Christine recited the Magna Carta’s most significant clause word for word from memory. She was unaccustomed to being alone in the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street and disliked the silence, but her words brought no comfort. Nor were they intended to. Christine ruminated over events occurring elsewhere. Events that were a direct result of her briefing, but which she refused to be a party to.

The antique clock on the marble mantelpiece approached 3pm. Presumably the media still waited outside. The longer the day wore on without Christine posing for the obligatory annual image, the more intrigued, or frustrated, they would become.

What would her parents be thinking? She didn’t need to wait to find out, if she so wished; the intermittently vibrating phone in her black handbag under the committee table suggested she had received plenty of voice-mail or text messages, and who else would they be from?

Through the stale smoke filled room, Christine stared at the long green oval conference table cluttered with open laptops, scattered papers, brimming ash-trays, broken glasses and empty bottles of spirits.

Her fingers tightened around the neck of the only bottle still containing alcohol. She slowly lifted it and stared into the clear brown liquid. She had never tasted brandy; she had rarely consumed alcohol at all. Apparently it ‘dampened the mind’ and was therefore forbidden. Dampening the mind was now exactly what she wanted.

“F**k it.” Christine laughed hysterically as a lifetime of restraint was shed. Finishing school had taught her that it wasn't lady-like to swear, and unlike her peers, she obeyed. But what did it matter now? What did anything matter?

Her right hand rose into the air and she wrapped her full red lips around the glass bottle. She gulped the repugnant drink, battling her desire to stop and regurgitate it. Her face contorted at the taste, but she forced herself to swallow mouthful after mouthful. Until she could bare it no more. She spat out the brandy all over the wooden floor.

Unwilling to fetch the handkerchief from her handbag, Christine dabbed her lips with the sleeve of her designer dark gray suit. Ashamed of her crude conduct, which she wouldn’t have dared contemplate under normal circumstances, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. A wave of calm rolled over her, apathy usurping the despair. Could the alcohol’s effects be so fast-acting? Christine realised how her colleagues had so easily accepted the decision, and even found hilarity in it, before toddling off to sign the country’s death sentence.

Christine leaned back to rest her head upon the windowpane and she met the gaze of Sir Robert Walpole, who glared down from his portrait above the fireplace.

He was the first and longest-serving Prime Minister in Britain’s history, and was famous for his efforts in keeping the country at peace. His descendants in office were about to become infamous for the exact opposite. Long tight gray curls hung from his head, reminiscent of the silly wigs the judiciary still wore, for the next hour or so anyway.

Christine pushed her large, sturdy frame up from the windowsill and shuffled on her high heels towards the red budget box on the committee table. Her career journey to this box had been a long and arduous one, but its time under her stewardship all too short. Her hand glided over the cool scarlet leather exterior. She flicked the clasp and opened the lid. There was so much red over the pages inside that at a glance it appeared someone had bled to death over the box.

Christine had been so proud to be the first woman Chancellor of the Exchequer, and in her early forties at that. However, unbeknown to her at the time, and still concealed from the general public, was the scale of the problem. She’d inherited the most lethal of any poisoned chalice and would now be remembered as the Chancellor who bankrupted Britain.

“God damn you, Ketan Malhotra!” Christine slammed the bottle down on the table with such force that brandy flew out of the top and landed in the case. A random memory stirred of her Mother pouring brandy over the Christmas Pudding and setting it alight. Perhaps there was one final rule she could break, before such a notion was banished forever. Her Mother had always said, ‘Never play with fire,’ but the budget deserved to burn, having already burned the country.

Christine’s eyes darted around the room. There had been so much smoking earlier, surely someone had left a box of matches or lighter. She rummaged through the papers on the table, flinging them aside in search of something combustible. With nothing presenting itself, she ran along the table pushing everything onto the floor. When the sound of clattering computers and breaking glass subsided, Christine screamed out inside. Why contain it? She opened her mouth and released her loudest ear-piercing scream.

Starved of oxygen from her prolonged venting, Christine finally stopped and gasped for breath.

“Are you okay, Madam?”

Christine spun around to see a woman in cleaning overalls stood in the doorway. “Do you have a lighter?” asked Christine, panting furiously.

“No, but I can get one.”

“Then hurry up and do so,” she said without a hint of her normal grace or humility.

The cleaner sped off and Christine staggered back to the box.

She took one last swig of brandy. What was it called? Dutch courage?

Christine doused the papers in the budget box with the remainder, before hurling the bottle into the fireplace. The woman returned, holding out a long candlelighter. Christine snatched it from her grasp. “Leave me.” Sending her dreams up in smoke was something she must do alone. Appearing to take no offense, the little lady obediently obliged and scampered out.

Christine squeezed the trigger and a small flame appeared. She held it a few inches above the brandy and paused. Honestly, what was she doing? Christine closed her eyes, unable to think straight. She’d been awake for three or four days, stared at numbers for hours on end, been in heated debates, had a physical altercation and downed brandy. Was it any wonder she was a mental wreck? Almost asleep on her feet, a mental image formed in her mind of everyone she loved strung up by the neck in a public execution. With a small jerk, Christine ignited the flammable liquid. She quickly withdrew her hand and slammed the case shut, leaving the contents to burn in hell.

So, that was it, her lifelong pursuit was over. She averted her gaze from the box and found herself staring into the glass-panelled bookcase. The Downing Street library was full of books that had been presented by retiring ministers. Her eyes searched for the spine of the book that had provided her with the inspiration to succeed and which she hoped would now give her the courage to face failure. There it was, ‘The Path to Power,’ a signed copy of Baroness Thatcher’s autobiography. How would the Iron Lady have dealt with this situation? Not by capitulating, that was for sure.

Christine’s focus switched from inside the bookcase to her reflection in the glass door. She looked surprisingly composed, displaying no hint of her inner turmoil. The heavy make-up on her chunky features was in-tact, her side-parted blond hair remained glossy with perfect ringlets hanging on her shoulders and her blue eyes sparkled as bright as they had done on her Wedding Day. Christine let the lighter slip from her grip as she was overcome with nausea. She had pushed herself so hard to get here, made so many sacrifices, and been so close to striding out and presenting the media with that iconic image…

Her right hand grabbed the box’s handle and she paced out of the room, down the corridor and over the red carpet runner in the entrance hall. She abruptly stopped a few feet from the front door. She saw it frequently, but still felt surprised it was white on the inside. After a deep breath, she stepped forward and swung it open.

The press contingent camped in the sunny street was smaller than would normally be expected, but at least they were still present. All the cameras pointed next door, at Number 11. Of course, the correct etiquette was that she would emerge from her residence. Never-mind, that aspect of tradition would have to be dispensed with.

“Good morning, ladies and gentleman,” she said, closing the black-fronted door behind her and stepping down onto the pavement. The media awoke from their slumber and quickly adjusted position to point at Christine. The sound of snapping brought the first genuine smile to her face in living memory.

“Did you take the long way round?” quipped some Cockney reporter.

“Yes, I most certainly did.” Christine raised the budget box to the customary position.

“What’s in the box, Chancellor? Any surprises in there?”

“The budget’s on fire.”

“That sounds promising.”

Christine chuckled at the journalist’s misinterpretation of her statement of fact and enjoyed the moment of levity.

“Over here, Chancellor.”

She panned from side to side, allowing everyone to get a good shot, before it was too late.

“Do you know what’s going on in Westminster?” she was asked.

Everyone in the Government was under strict instruction to remain silent until royal ascent had been granted and the news officially announced. Until they worked out how to spin it more-like. And how rich for the Prime Minister to make such a decree, considering the legislation he was enacting.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do.”

“Go on then, don’t leave us in suspense, we’ve been waiting here all day!”

“They are passing an Act of Parliament.”

“For what?”

“To revoke all other Acts of Parliament.”

Christine saw no facial reactions, her sight blinded by cameras, lights and flashes of the carnage to come. However, there was a notable lack of audible response, the media stunned into silence.

Warmth radiated through Christine’s body, emanating from her right hand and arm. The red budget box suddenly ignited and burst into flames. Voices gasped, but no one ran to her aid; the cameras just continued snapping. The red-hot blaze engulfed her hand, causing excruciating pain, however Christine refused to let go. Tears streamed down her face and her smile inverted.

“The Nanny State is dead. Long live The Anarchy State!”