Devolution (22 page)

They entered the foyer, finding it exactly how they had left it, orderly and clean.

“I know they went through everything,” Charlotte said. “I saw them.”

John was the first to venture farther into the home. He proceeded delicately. “Looks alright.” He ran his hand along the top of their brown, nubuck leather couch as he walked past. The family carefully searched the home.

Theodore stood in the entryway to the kitchen, looking back at his family. “Are we being too paranoid?”

“Dad’s right,” John stated, popping his head up from behind the television. “We have to live our lives.” He made his way out of the corner and towards his father, briefly stopping to peek under a lamp shade. “Sorry.”

“Y’all think it’s...?” April’s eyes dashed around the room from one potential target to the next.

No one was prepared, or willing, to answer that question.

Charlotte released a deep sigh of exhaustion and buried her head in her husband’s chest. “I can’t live like this.”

Theodore put his arms around her, gently squeezing with his chin resting upon her head. Rose and Lizzy silently consoled each other.

John nudged April and signaled for her to follow. They discreetly made their way up the stairs to John’s room, where April remained at the threshold, leaning up against the wood molding.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

John was already squatted, sifting through his papers and examining the order and contents of the drawers. “I know how I left everything.” He pulled a six-inch thick binder out of the bottom drawer of his desk. He rapidly paged through the color-coded sections of the giant notebook. “This is nearly perfect.” Impressed with their keen attention to detail, he snapped around to look at April. “These guys are good.”

DING DONG.

A flash of terror ripped across their faces.

“Come on.” John grabbed April’s hand and rushed down the hall toward the stairs. They hit the bottom step as his mother opened the front door.

Charlotte was surprised to see her brother, maybe even a bit shocked. “Tony?”

“May I come in?” he asked politely.

“Oh!” Charlotte exclaimed. “Absolutely.” She stepped aside. “I’m sorry, Tony. It’s been a long day.”

April quickly tossed her hair and straightened her outfit.

“I just wanted to stop by and check on you guys,” Tony explained, drifting through the foyer into the family room. His focus nervously shifted around the room. “You’ve been through a lot.”

Theodore smirked at his understatement and vanished into the kitchen. “Beer?” he yelled.

“Sure,” Tony replied. He watched Theodore disappear behind the refrigerator door. He then turned towards John, who was sitting on the stairs. “How are you two?”

John nodded. “Fine.”

April released John’s hand as she addressed Tony. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Manning.” Her tone was awkward, but not uncomfortable.

“Please, call me Tony.”

April smiled.

“I stopped by earlier this evening, but you guys weren’t around.” A beer suddenly appeared over Tony’s shoulder.

As he took a swig, Charlotte flashed a look of trepidation. So did the twins.

Tony’s suspicions were correct. He changed the topic.

“John,” Tony began, “I am tiling my master bathroom and I wanted your opinion. I have the porcelain in my car. Can you take a look? They’re heavy.” Tony chuckled. “It’d be hard to bring them in.”

John and April shared a fleeting glance of incredulity. “Sure, Uncle Tony.”

“Emma wanted to go with marble,” Tony explained as they approached his car. “But I am trying to do this myself and I don’t know if I feel comfortable cutting that.”

He popped the trunk. “This is what I ended up getting.” Tony leaned into the trunk and ripped apart the cardboard box that held the light blue porcelain. He handed a piece to John.

“Well,” John said as he examined the specimen, “porcelain can be sharp. But if you’re careful, this is fine.”

“I wanted to run it diagonal.”

“I wouldn’t.” John handed it back. “Diagonal is risky—less room for error. If something goes wrong, you may not be able to match the pattern. Then you have big problems.”

“Emma likes it.” Tony placed the tile back in the box with the others. “I’ll tell her what you said.”

Tony shut the trunk, and the two casually meandered back to the house. With his hands in his pockets Tony kept his focus on the walkway. “They took you away, didn’t they?” he asked under his breath.

John peered down, blank-faced, at his shorter uncle, confirming his presumption. Their carefree stroll slowed to a standstill halfway up the walk.

John assumed his uncle’s Parliamentarian connections had tipped him off.

“Look, this revolution is building real momentum, John. The Crown is scared. They’ve lost much of this country.” He paused for a second. “They can’t lose you. The government has made you a pawn in its game to control the people.”

Despite the nation’s dire situation and John’s obscure involvement, he embraced the attention. That feeling of prestige and virtue he felt with the major general had returned. He thought of those bastards at the Cambridge history department. He thought of April and of his family.

“I’d like you to meet someone.” Tony turned to the house and continued his walk. John followed. “I think you’ll like him.”

CHAPTER TEN

WHAT IS PATRIOTISM?

W
inter had set in. The abbreviated days and elongated nights only served to augment the depression, a word that only spoke half the story, in the national and psychological sense.

More than a quarter of Brits were in need of work. Foreclosure and For Sale signs became the quintessential suburban lawn decorations. Homeless shelters were brimming with previously employed men and women who had turned to drugs and alcohol. Even those who remained strong and defiant of their circumstances did what they never thought they would—accept a handout. Pride was no longer an issue. Everyone was just trying to survive.

Downtown city districts throughout the UK had lost their brilliance. Some were ghost towns, abandoned. No one shopped along the once bustling storefronts that had been replaced with broken glass, crumbling facades, and scores of vagabonds.

For many, outside the necessities, commerce had largely stopped. Desperation had led to an increase in crime, further crippling the recovery. Some of the only workers remaining were city employees who struggled to maintain essential infrastructure and utility repairs. After all, Westminster was still open for business. But for every pothole fixed, three more would open up in the rotting streets. Hope was lost. However, not
all
activity had ceased.

The autumn riots and protests which became more or less daily occurrences were forced off the streets by the frigid temperatures. Climate-controlled venues were less visual in terms of PR, but proved more effective in terms of solidarity. Winter weather and emotional fatigue limited attendance, making the rebellion appear less formidable. If that were only the case.

“Who’s got the north side of town above Winchmore Hill?”

Warren Wickham stood at the head of a long wooden table lined with his henchman. A giant map of London, pegged with names and artificial boundary lines, hung on the wall behind him. The boardroom in which they sat was drab and cluttered.

“Brooks.” The response came from his immediate right. Like others at the table his dress was casual and unrefined.

“Does he need backup or do we have the support of that area?” Wickham turned, arms folded, to study the map.

“He is making progress,” the heavyset man replied, his chins jiggling. “That town has fared slightly better than others. Those people are a little harder to recruit.”

Wickham stood pondering the board. His chin rested upon a stern thumb, fingers curled along his mouth. “I know there are a few gas stations left in business.”

The husky man nodded as he examined the papers spread out before him. “Yes, sir.”

“Have Brooks take them out. That should convince them to join us. Then we’ll reassign Brooks and send our people to gain the area’s support.”

The rotund henchman dutifully wrote the orders. “The police force just had more layoffs.” He looked up from his notes. “This should be easy.”

“Perfect.” Wickham flipped the map up, revealing a similarly detailed ground plan of Leeds, Britain’s third largest city. “Now, we still have work to do
here.
These people are being stubborn.” He closely studied the map, dissatisfied. “Ideas? We have to control this city before moving forward.”

“Sir?” The young, nervous man slipped into the room interrupting the meeting. “You have a call.”

“Can it wait?”

“It’s Mr. Manning. He says he needs to speak with you right away.”

Wickham reached for the phone. “Yes?”

Tony could barely contain his excitement. “It will happen soon.”

A toothy grin formed on Wickham’s cleanly shaved face.

Wickham lowered the phone to address the room.
“Well,” he stated with a newly found enthusiasm. “We need to prepare for a special guest.”

*

While the rebels held a meeting to plan their strategy for victory, their enemy sat down at a similarly long rectangular table, not far away, with near identical goals.

“Where are they focusing?” asked Major General Bernard Harris, studying the massive amount of paperwork that lay in front of him. The entire table was littered with documentation, surveillance imagery, and half-empty coffee cups.

“Our sources tell us they will soon aggressively campaign in Leeds,” answered the thin, rugged-looking man sitting opposite the table from Harris. He, like others in the room, was either dressed in military fatigues or a suit. “They aren’t polling well there.”

“Do we have resources to send? We must keep their support.” Harris removed his dark oval-cut glasses and looked up from his papers. “Food, clothing, shelter? Even a little bit of street work would be fine. We need a presence.”

“We don’t have much.” The pale woman who sat off to the right of Harris wildly poked at her calculator. “But we have
some
funds.”

“Mr. Prime Minister.” The PM’s head jarred up from his own stack. “Can you go there and gain support from those people?” Harris’ words were hollow. He believed the PM to be incompetent, a sentiment most of the country shared.

The prime minister even questioned his own ability to lead. He had failed within his own party to rally support in the House of Commons or House of Lords. Not one significant bill had been passed since the early days of his administration. Attempts to assuage the withdrawal of foreign monies from the British economy fell short. The effort to garner new investments proved a further embarrassment. The man, who’d confidently promised a “new and more powerful Great Britain” eight months prior, couldn’t even be an effective figurehead. He had lost the support of the nation, his party, and the government. The inevitable vote of no confidence would come at the choosing of the opposition parties.

The prime minister appeared remote and disinterested at Harris’ request. “I’ll try.” He truly felt he could have been a great leader if not for the awful hand he was dealt.

I should be running this meeting, and the nation.

He could no longer use his imposing size and dominant voice to cover his shortfalls. His ineptitude and deep rooted lack of confidence had been exposed.

“Good.” Harris eyeballed the prime minister before returning his attention back to his notes. “Have we confirmed Wickham is behind much of the crime?”

“We have captured some who are setting fires and looting stores” the bitter man averred in disgust. “They aren’t giving us anything.”

“That’s because they don’t have anything to give,” a bald man to Harris’ left said with a slight degree of admiration. “Wickham needs chaos to further his movement, but he can’t be connected to it, so he organized these outside groups. The actual saboteur doesn’t know their orders are from the resistance. This is well-organized.”

“We could bring in the military to guard the neighborhoods.” The suggestion came from the back.

“Perhaps.” The major general thought hard. “Will that scare the people into thinking we have further lost control, or will it reinforce our commitment to them?”

“We don’t have much of a choice,” the rugged man from across the table said. “These people must be stopped.”

“We are wasting our damn time!” the prime minister roared in a thunderous voice, attempting to take control. Every head in the room whipped in his direction. “We should focus on the economy, not this!” He stretched his arms out, indicating the papers that covered the table. “With an improving economy, this ‘revolution,’” he used his fingers as quotes, “would crumble. That is how it started and that is how we end it.”

“Mr. Prime Minister.” The Major General removed his glasses. “The reason we can’t grow the economy is
because
of this ‘revolution’ and the crisis it’s creating.” He mockingly used his own air quotes. “The more they succeed, the more control we lose.
This
is our priority for now.” He tapped the papers on his desk with an index finger. His delivery, as always, lacked any semblance of emotion.

“Let’s inform the media about what this Wickham guy is doing.” The more the prime minister spoke, the less respect he garnered, if that was possible. Through the bereaved expressions on their faces, he could see those in the room feel sorry for him. Their head of state appeared a hapless peon.

A young woman who the prime minister had never seen before answered his question. “Wickham is paying people to cause chaos. But they don’t work for him, and we haven’t located the money trail. The media is not an option right now. Plus, they are not our friends.”

“Then let’s use the military.” The PM’s previously potent voice quivered with frustration. “We can crush them. Let’s go after them.”

Harris kept his voice at a patronizing pitch. “They have grown too powerful. Any aggressive action on our part will only strengthen them. Plus, it didn’t work the first time. Why would it now?”

“Wait!” the sullen PM interrupted with a more passive voice. He now realized his main weapon, the tool he mostly used to garner high office, was useless. “What do you mean ‘the first time?’ Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

Harris continued as if the Prime Minister hadn’t even asked a question. “The people have lost faith in us.” Harris eyed the PM.
Thanks largely to you.
“FreeGB wants to be a political force. That is how we beat them.”

“Wickham has to infiltrate from within,” the bald man continued in his preferred mellow voice. “They used that pamphlet and the economy to demonize us. Then they ridiculed us by saying a Constitution some college kid wrote should replace us. And now, they are overwhelming the system with violence. They could gain majority support. We can’t let them.”

The silence that followed spoke volumes to his analysis. He was right. And it was terrifying.

The prime minister wasn’t even listening. He was too humiliated to even care.

What has happened to me?

BEEP BEEP
.

The incoming text was a welcomed interruption.

“Well, my friends,” stated the major general, reading the message. “Our boy is going in. Hopefully we’ll get some answers.”

*

“All right, class.”

Professor Nolan’s students feverishly began cramming their books and binders into their bags. It was Friday, and they never wasted time getting off campus. Plus, finals week would begin the following Monday. They didn’t have much time to blow off steam.

“Remember, the final is next Wednesday at 10:00.” John now had to speak above the dull roar of whisking zippers, sliding chairs, and rustling papers. “It’s not what you know, but how you apply it.”

He got in his final words as the students swarmed out the door.

John patiently stood at the front of the room waiting for all his students to exit. He would then begin to pack his things. The vacuum left by their departure afforded the young educator time to ponder his first full semester as a college professor. Was he any good? Had the kids learned? Was it a good idea for him to prohibit discussion about the revolution and his involvement? Evaluations would come after grades were submitted
;
evaluations he would never get the chance to read.

This class had been John’s sanctuary
;
his escape from life. He flung his strap over his shoulder and took that first step towards the door, then his shoes squeaked to a stop. Once he walked through that door, weeks would pass before he’d enter it again. Thoughts of winter break, and what may lie on the other side, swirled through his head. There was no doubt things would change in the coming days and weeks. The doubt came from not knowing
how
it would change.

“Congratulations, Professor Nolan.”

John was startled out of his daze by April Lynn’s seductive voice. She stood in the arched doorway with her hands folded at her waist. The dark, 19
th
century lighting cast alluring shadows across her face. Struck by her beauty, John’s thoughts eluded him.

April walked into the room and took a seat at one of the desks near the door. John stood his ground at the front. An amorous smile hung high under his glowing eyes.

“So,” she said, her eyes surveying the room. “This is what your students see?”

A slow nod accompanied his deep adoration.

“How did your first full
semester go?” April had a slight, leftward head tilt, where her flowing blonde hair partially covered her face. It was a seductive look she used when she wanted something.

“I think it went pretty well.” John made his way down the aisle adjacent to hers. “I’ll find out in a couple of weeks.” He removed his strap and sat down in the seat next to April’s. “You know, I’ve never really sat in these chairs.” He shuffled trying to find a point of comfort. “How do they sit in these for three hours?”

April chuckled at the irony. “I’m sure
they
think, ‘how can he talk for three hours?’”

“Yeah,” John’s chuckle echoed off the stone walls of the hollow room. “That’s for sure.”

“John…” April looked down at her folded hands that lay on the desk. Her mood quickly changed. There was no more joy or levity in her voice. “What is going to happen?”

John knew what she was referring to, but asked anyway. “With what?”

She remained fixated on her intertwined fingers. “John, we were kidnapped by our own government.”

He sighed. Words of inspiration eluded him. Not wanting to upset her, he opted for silence.

Much like Emma Manning, despite April’s petite build and delicate good looks, inside lay a very powerful woman. John was always very careful not to trigger her release.

“This whole
revolution
,” she said the word as if it was a euphemism or somehow inaccurate, “has me terrified. And somehow
we
are in the middle of it!” The fervor John wished to suppress began to emerge. “I don’t want this! People have died, John! And you show no emotion at all. It’s like you find this a game. Do you understand what is happening?”

John knew she was right. He didn’t afford the situation the seriousness it deserved. He was too caught up in his own involvement. His new and potent feelings of self-worth and importance trumped that of responsibility and fear. April’s questions highlighted concerns John would have rather ignored. He didn’t want to ponder the alternatives. He didn’t want to recognize the consequences or impact of his decisions. He wanted to blindly enjoy the ride. “I in no way intended this to happen. You know that,” John said, sounding somewhat defensive, as if he had been unjustly ambushed. “I was just as shocked as you when my book appeared in that riot. I don’t know, April! I don’t know what you want me to say.”