A progressive society

Christine stared at the white front door, her mind filled with questions. What reaction would greet her exit from 10 Downing Street this time? What fallout had occurred since she’d stormed out with the budget on fire? Had she induced a panic? Was she responsible for any loss of life? Would any hysteria have been reduced if the news had been more carefully handled?

“Madam Chancellor, your car is here,” said a Police Officer.

“Thank you, but I would prefer to walk. Ten minutes of fresh air will do me good.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

Christine turned to the burly man. “I beg your pardon?”

“With all due respect, it will take a lot longer than ten minutes, and it’s not safe.”

“I have walked many times, it’s-”

“People have taken to the streets and are marching on Parliament. You will not be welcomed amongst them.”

Christine looked down at the black and white checkered floor. “I understand. Thank you for considering my safety.”

“That’s my job,” he said in a strange tone. Christine knew what he meant: he protected her because he was obligated to, and if he had his way, she’d be thrown to the wolves. How many other people felt like this? Had she singled herself out as a pariah?

Christine turned to the door, straightened her back, held her head up high and walked out. The immediate area was surprisingly quiet, just a few Police Officers guarding the building. At the end of the street however, a line of Police stood behind the black gates and on the other side people hung off the iron railings. A lack of movement in the sky then caught Christine’s attention. The London Eye was static, a small example of the bigger picture. The City of London, the whole country, had come to a standstill. With the sun setting, Christine wondered what atrocities would be committed under cover of darkness. They're had to be a way of sorting this.

“CHANCELLOR!” yelled one of the protesters at the gate. Instinctively, as she had done her entire career, Christine raised her hand in the air and waved. “F**K YOU!” Christine lowered her hand. That was a force of habit she needed to break. There would be no more electioneering for her.

“Chancellor,” said a Police Officer, opening the door of the black Jaguar right outside 10 Downing Street.

“Thank you,” she said as she got in, but instead of saying ‘You’re welcome,’ the Officer slammed the door behind her. Christine sighed and clipped in her seatbelt, and the driver set off, performing a sharp three point turn. “How are we going to get through?” she asked.

“They’ll have to get out of the way.”

“And if they don’t?”

“My job is to get you to Parliament.”

By implication was he saying he was prepared to run people down in-order to reach his destination? Is this what the world had deteriorated into in a matter of hours? “No one is to be hurt, do you understand?”

The car slowed as it approached the gates and Christine leaned to the middle to look through the windscreen. The protesters shouted at the Police and the Police shouted back, while raising their guns. Surely they weren’t going to open fire? Fortunately, whatever the Police said it worked and people began to climb down and back off. The gates opened and the car drove past the Police line. Exiting the safe confines of Downing Street, Christine felt intense vulnerability, a feeling she would probably have to get used to. The car eased into the road as the crowds parted to allow passage. Angry faces were just a few centimeters away on the other side of the glass window, and when they recognised her, their expressions turned to rage. They banged on the windows and screamed obscenities. Because so many spoke at once, a lot of it was indistinguishable, but Christine clearly heard one Indian woman’s demand: “GET OUT! GET OUT!”

Christine had no intention of complying. “The doors are locked, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” said the driver.

“Just checking.”

With the crowds walking in the road, what should be a short journey of three minutes to Parliament was going to take a little longer. The driver continually revved the powerful engine, alerting people that he was coming up behind, and they willingly stepped aside to let them through, before they realised who the occupant was. The abuse continued, as did the banging on the windows, roof and boot, prompting Christine to rest her elbow on the car door and cover her face with her hand. 

Distracting herself, Christine considered how she was going to regain her dignity and reestablish the respect of her colleagues. There would be more than a few raised eyebrows over her earlier stunt, more cross words and possibly more confrontation. Brooke Dougherty for one would undoubtedly launch a tirade. Christine must get in first and take the sting out of their reaction. She needed to show that she was in control. She needed to make them believe that there was meaning behind her action, steering them away from the belief that she’d lost the plot. Lying was never to be tolerated, unless the greater good was at stake; that’s what her Father taught her. And if misleading her colleagues resulted in a unified front and greater solidarity, the Government would be stronger to fight the battle ahead. So, she needed a convincing argument, explaining away what she did. Devoid of ideas, Christine came back into the present and noticed they were driving over the crossroads with Bridge Street. The usually manically busy road was full of people and deserted of cars. “Where are all the cars?”

“The Police set-up roadblocks to divert vehicles away from the protest.”

Christine was reassured that the Police were still doing their job, under very trying circumstances and when they effectively had permission to down tools. Through her fingers, she saw Parliament Square filled with people lying on the grass, some holding their head in their hands, others weeping openly. One little Chinese girl, around ten years of age, stood alone just a few feet from the car. She wore a white mask over her mouth and nose and stared into space, looking totally lost and bewildered. “Where is her Mummy?” asked Christine.

“What?”

“Stop, stop the car,” she said, straining her neck to look out of the back window at the girl.

“I’m not stopping here.”

“But…” Christine stopped as sight of the girl was swallowed up by the volume of people behind.

The crowds became thicker the closer they got to Parliament, and about twenty feet from the Police checkpoint they were forced to stop. The car was quickly surrounded on all sides. Christine held both hands over her face, but they soon worked out who was in the car.

“Get out, b***h!”

“I’m going to set you on fire!”

“What are we going to do?” asked Christine. The driver pressed the horn and hooted continuously. Instead of raising the alarm though, all he achieved was drawing more attention. The car began rocking as people banged on it from all sides and climbed onto the bonnet and roof. “Oh my God,” said Christine, covering her mouth. Her vision of a public execution was looking more like a premonition.

One man approached from the front, wielding a plank of wood his home-made banner was fixed to. “Watch out!” He smashed it into the windscreen, and the driver flinched back, but the reinforced glass held strong. Christine narrowed her eyes as she saw a surge in the crowd up ahead. The sight of yellow jackets fighting their way through brought massive relief, with the Police swinging their batons and aiming their guns. They formed a gap sufficient for the car to fit through and the driver didn’t hesitate to proceed, sending the protesters on the roof flying off backwards. Christine glanced around and the Police fell back into line, forming a human barricade between the protesters and Parliament.

As soon as the car stopped a female Police Officer opened the door and the sound of the protesters immediately intensified. Christine stepped out and stood staring at the vocal crowds. Tens of television crews filmed the action and helicopters hovered above. Christine’s body tensed and she felt sick. The country really was falling apart. “This is it, this is where it ends,” she whispered.

“How dare you talk like that,” said the gruff Police Officer, clearly rattled and annoyed. “You should be doing your f*****g job and trying to sort this, not whining about it.”

Christine looked into the Police Officer’s judgmental eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“And so you should. You triggered this.”

“I did.”

“Do you know what you’ve done?”

“I do.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I am.”

The Officer had no further response, Christine’s agreement depriving the woman of any verbal ammunition to hurt her with. Christine turned to walk into Parliament when she felt a smack on the side of the head. She spun back around and glared at the Police Officer. “You have no right to assault me.”

“I didn’t.”

“I felt-” Christine was struck again, on the other side of her head. She turned to the crowd and another object landed on the top of her head. She reached up and felt thick, sticky gunk matted in her hair. She looked down at the ground and saw broken eggshells. She glanced at the cameras, praying they weren’t focused on her, but it was a forlorn hope. So much for restoring her dignity and reputation. Father would not be pleased. Previously proud and well presented, Christine had lost everything today. With more eggs in-bound, Christine lost the will to move and accepted public humiliation as the price she had to pay for her sins. However, the Police Officer jumped in-front of Christine and spread her body to take the impact. “Lock them up!” the Officer shouted to her colleagues in the line. “Go,” she said to Christine. “And find a way to end this.”

“I will.” Christine had failed in her first task, but there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d fail at task number two, saving the country. Fire rose up inside and drove her legs to storm into Parliament. Christine ignored the sniggering men as she passed through security and walked down the quiet corridors. She guessed where her peers were, debating in the House of Commons. Without any form of preparation or thought to what she might say, going against her natural instinct and coaching, she paced to the lower house and burst in through the doors.

Christine could have been forgiven for thinking it was any other day. Everyone was in their usual seat and the Prime Minister stood at the despatch box trying to get his point across against a wall of noise. Christine stopped at the white line across the width of the Chamber near the entrance and waited for her raucous colleagues to notice her arrival. She didn’t have to wait long and soon felt like a Gladiator entering the arena where a baying crowd craved to see her blood. “ORDER! ORDER!” demanded the Speaker of the House.

Everyone shut up, sat down and stared at Christine, except the Prime Minister who stood where he was. “Chancellor?” he said, speaking into the microphone in-front of him.

“I have something to say,” she said loudly so that all could hear her.

“You’ve already said too much,” said Brooke in her Irish accent. She sat on the front bench a few feet from the Prime Minister in a short skirt and with her bare legs crossed, revealing far more skin than the House was accustomed to.

“If the Cabinet had listened to me when I first took office, we may not be in the midst of this crisis now.” The odd silence prevailed, Christine taking ownership of the room. “We’ve made mistakes. I’ve made mistakes.”

“You sure have,” said the Prime Minister. 

“Well, now it’s time to clean up this mess.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Brooke.

Had Christine found an unlikely ally?

“Someone please fetch Miss Spencer-Parker some shampoo and conditioner.”

The sound of laughing was deafening. Christine had intended for her words to provide inspiration, not amusement. Was it any wonder the country was in such a mess, if this pantomime was where the key decisions were made? Perhaps this forum worked a few hundred years ago, but it had become a talking cliché. A mindset of oneupmanship railroaded any constructive discussions and endless debate dragged out each and every issue.

That was it… A moment of clarity allowed Christine to catch a glimpse of the future. She considered how to draw back everyone’s attention and then remembered the candlelighter she’d retrieved from the Cabinet Room before leaving 10 Downing Street. She hadn’t really known why she’d taken it, other than as a memento of her moment of madness, however she suddenly found a more positive use for it that could perhaps lead to redemption, for both the lighter and herself. She pulled it out of her pocket, pressed the button and held the fire above her head. Gradually, the Ministers quietened down again. “Do you know what this is? This is the lighter that lit the fuse on today’s bomb.”

“The bomb you set off,” said the Prime Minister.

“The bomb you built, strapped to me and sent me out in. Now tell me, how many laws have you passed in the last few hours?” Christine glanced to her left and right, but there wasn’t a peep. “I’ll take that silence to mean, none.”

“You can’t just bang out a law!” shouted the Prime Minister.

“Exactly,” said Christine, in a calm and controlled tone. “And that is why I advocated pursuing a different path. But, what’s done is done. You have led us to a place where we are no longer compelled to obey the rules of the past. In 1605, Guy Fawkes tried to blow up this historic building in his Gunpowder Plot.”

“You’re not suggesting we do the same?” asked Brooke.

“Good heavens no. But I am suggesting we blow away any trace of tradition.” Christine began stepping forward, the flame flickering above her head. “Tradition tells us that it takes days, weeks, months to pass a law. But to hell with tradition.” It was a good job her Father wasn’t hearing this heresy, but there was no getting away from the fact that change was essential. “Prime Minister, you stand there at the despatch box, conforming to an etiquette that is no longer required. We need laws, we need lots of laws. So, lets make them. Forget bureaucracy, we are pioneers of a new order. We must play God, and we must give our disciples commandments to abide by. They needn’t be wordy, complicated or intricate, we tried that and it didn’t work. If we can agree on a fundamental framework for people, then we will have done our job. But we must give them something.” Whispers and murmurings swept through the benches and Christine felt a swell of support.

“Why will people listen to anything we say after today?” asked Brooke, her tone implying that rather than wanting to catch Christine out, for once she hoped to be convinced.

“Thousands of people are screaming and shouting outside of these walls. They’re not complaining about big Government or oppression, they’re angry because they have no structure. Three hours without laws is quite enough, it’s time to put the pieces back together.” Christine reached the despatch box and stopped. “They elected us to look after their interests, so lets give the voters what they want, what they need. The Government must set the constitution.”

“What’s that then, law number one?” said a backbench heckler.

“It’s not a law, it’s a commandment.”

“That’s too simplistic,” said the Prime Minister half-heartedly as he stepped back from the the despatch box and sat down on the front bench.

“It will never work,” said Brooke.

“If we don’t try, we will never know. And what’s the alternative?” Brooke had no clever riposte? Maybe Christine really was on to something. “All those in favour of passing commandment number one, raise your hand.”

“I’m sorry, what exactly are you proposing we vote on?” asked Victor, the first black Deputy Prime Minister. He’d kept quiet for most of the day, but Christine knew he supported her contradicting viewpoint on the action that had been taken.

“It’s simple, the Government is empowered to set the constitution. Surely that is something we can all agree on? And if we pass that, more commandments will follow, and before the end of the day, we can present the public with the template of the future. By being decisive, and all parties putting aside their differences to work together, we will have demonstrated true leadership and given people hope.” Christine spun around, looking for a show of hands, but all she saw were bewildered faces. “Seize your chance to end this madness and lets shape a progressive society.”

Did anyone have the courage to make that leap of faith? The atmosphere was muted and there was a distinct lack of support. Christine felt disheartened and suddenly very self-conscious. Admitting defeat, she released the button on the candlelighter and placed it on top of the despatch box. On the Government front bench the Prime Minister and Brooke shook their heads at Christine, while Victor refused to look her in the eye. He’d let himself down having lacked the conviction to stand up for what he believed in-favour of protecting his future career aspirations, the fool not realising he had no chance of ever removing ‘Deputy’ from his job title if they didn’t arrest the situation quickly. Christine stared at the green leather of her usual seat on the front bench in-between the Prime Minister and Brooke. She desperately wanted to leave the room, but her Father would never forgive her, even if she did feel the urge to tidy up her appearance. So, she forced herself to sit down alongside her two least favourite people. Aware that all focus was on her, Christine closed her eyes and the day’s events ran through her head.

Her thoughts were brought back into the House of Commons as the eerie silence gave way to muttering and commotion. Had someone stuck their neck out and given others the confidence to follow suit? Christine’s heart fluttered and she could barely bring herself to open her eyes and check.

When she did, she was sorely disappointed. There wasn’t a single hand raised. Some Ministers chatted in small groups, others walked out of the room and the Prime Minister had retaken his place at the despatch box, from where he brushed the lighter onto the floor and glared back at her with contempt.

What more could she do? She’d proposed an innovative solution and made an impassioned statement, but her plea had been universally ignored. Defeated, she bent down to pick up her souvenir, and in another moment of madness, pressed the trigger and lit the PM's trouser leg.

Realising what she'd done, Christine immediately released hold of the lighter, dropping it on the floor. She sat back up and glanced around. No one seemed to have noticed, not even the Prime Minister, who must have been too drunk and numb to feel his sizzling trousers.

The smell of burning cotton began to waft up and she couldn’t prevent herself from smirking. Who knew she had such a devilish streak? Her personal rulebook had gone the same way as the country's statutes today. Clearly neither she or her colleagues were ready for a progressive society, and would instead be leading the country on a one-way trip back into the dark ages.