Alright? It’s that time again, where I dip your tiny minds into the ever growing vat of hate which is the world of Paul Carter, from my novel, Paul Carter is a Dead Man. This one, Le Roi Est Mort, is a flashback to 2009. It’s a slightly deeper insight into the day that Robert Lodge took over. Please, enjoy. Links of course are at the bottom, if you want to follow the story further and buy the novel. It’s my best one yet, but the others are still pretty good too, so yeah, if you like my writing, buy my writing!
Le Roi Est Mort
This is what they want. Five words which created his argument. His justification, for being there. This is what they think they want.
Where there was, was Downing Street. Number ten. His hands gripped tight around the Prime Minister’s neck. Measured breaths. Calm. Eyes closed. This is what they want.
Behind him stood his closest friend. Watching on as he squeezed the ever diminishing life from coward’s body. Behind his closest friend stood two others, guns in hand. When the Prime Minister stopped breathing and his heart gave up, one man’s eyes flickered with the slightest hint of a satisfied smile, the other showed no emotion. This is what they need.
Outside of the building there were more. Soldiers. Police. Teachers. Labourers. Call centre operatives. Window cleaners. Prostitutes. Children. The noise was cacophonous as the people cheered loudly when he and his closest friend carried the corpse of the Prime Minister from the door. This, is what they think they want.
They bundled the body into the back of the van. No ceremony here, just a job which needed to be done. No men spoke as the van made the journey from Westminster through Newington and Southwark. Around them car horns bleated. Victorious fists pumped in their direction. His closest friend nodded and blinked slow acknowledgment to all that offered them support. He himself stared straight ahead, wary of the nature of the growing support in recent days. The blanket of hate. The ignorance of the uneducated. The blinkered masses. But. This is what they think they want.
As the hatred grew, the more sporadic and without focus it became. The people. They needed a leader. They needed a voice which held more sway with important people. They needed a voice that had access to a larger vocabulary than only text-speak and coarse vulgarities. The reservoir of animosity needed a tap which could focus effort in places where it might make a difference, instead of being left as an ignored message on some ridiculous social network. A derided and misinformed opinion. He saw his opportunity to become that tap. That focus. That leader.
In the months prior to now, he spoke out through the newspapers. He forced them to bear continued witness to the horrific images from that day, when the bomb went off. Images of royalty, decapitated. Women butchered. Children, maimed. He asked his government, his employer, what they planned to do to satiate the country’s thirst for revenge. No answers came. He questioned the sanity in the continued practise of leaving the troops overseas, in countries that wanted no help. Countries whose own populations hated the British, and the God damned Americans, who foisted help onto them like a bad Christmas sweater from a despised relative. No answers came. The support of this voice. His voice. It grew so much, and so quickly. Television broadcasters invited him to say his piece live to the country. He said it. The words he spoke with so much ferocity and resolve, they filtered into the minds of every man, woman and child and they worked into their hearts. Their desires. Their every waking need became consumed by one Robert Lodge, and the sense he seemed to speak. This, is what they think they want.
Now, is the time for change, he’d said. Now, is when we take back this once great island, and we make her great again. It is time to show the rest of this disease riddled planet that we do not need them anymore. We can survive perfectly fine on our own.
The protests in his favour steamrollered those against him. He was the man who would carry the country into a new age. The age of New Britain. Of course, the liberals and the socialists would cry that anything he proposed would breach every kind of human right that each person held. Robert Lodge simply told them that if they didn’t want to be here, then they knew exactly where the nearest airport out of there was. The support grew ever still, and it became almost bigger than Lodge himself. It became so words were useless. They demanded action. They demanded that the Prime Minister be deposed with immediate effect. The leader of Britain refused, he clung on to the slimmest shreds of hope that the situation would blow over. He’d managed to ride out the scandal of his sending pictures of his erect member to the married, and quite heterosexual Chancellor, and had somehow survived Mars Bar Arse-gate, so was sure that he would surf this latest wave of disillusion and come out of the other side unscathed. How wrong he was.
Today was March sixteenth, 2009. Robert Lodge spoke with his increasing team of recruits. Boys, this is the most important day of your lives. Of my life. Today is the day we make this country what its people want it to be. Today is the day that we make history. After today, there won’t be a Britain. After today, we will be a new Britain. His men cheered. They each updated their Facespace statuses to call every person who supported the cause to come with them and witness a new dawn. They climbed into the van, and made their way slowly through the riots to Westminster. Thousands of people greeted them, and cheered as they smashed their way into the house of who would soon be the former most important man in Britain, and killed every person in there.
“Robert, you’re going to be a fucking legend, do you know that?” asked his closest friend as the Tower Bridge appeared in the distance. Robert Lodge shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and turned to his friend with a disapproving scowl.
“Do you really need to use such coarse language, Garner? It’s most unbecoming. It’s part of what I hate about this awful country. Vulgarity has managed to squeeze every last drop of beauty from our mother language.”
“Sorry mate, I didn’t think you felt so strongly about it.”
“You can give the mate a rest too, Garner, this is my country now, and you’d do well to remember that. I think you can address me as sir, from now on, okay?”
His closest friend was visibly horrified by him. The body of the Prime Minister was still warm in the back of the van, and yet somehow Robert Lodge had convinced himself that he now owned the country. There was still a long way to go. He would do well to remember that.
“I said, okay?”
Harry Garner shook his head, and turned his attention back to the people outside, he wasn’t getting into this now. They all had much bigger fish to fry, and this was not the time to bicker. Robert Lodge venomously glared at the side of his closest friend’s head, through outrage at the cheek of the man, but also silently conceded that now was indeed not the time.
The cheer broke out once again as they exited the van. Pulling from it the heavy corpse of the Prime Minister. Cars were halted by the mob. Told to move no further. Anybody that thought to argue was dragged from their vehicle and beaten senseless, before having their unconscious bodies cast into the murky depths of the Thames. Two or three of these and car doors were locked. Engines shut off. Tears cried. Prayers muttered. This was huge. It was bigger than all of them. No amount of fight could stop it. No amount of will in the world could halt the million man mob, with their unofficial and glorious leader, Mr Robert Lodge.
“People of New Britain,” he shouted down from the upper levels of the bridge to yet another cacophonous cheer, “this is what will happen to all who get in the way of making this country great again!”
He and his closest friend strapped the legs of the former Prime Minister together, and lifted the corpse above their heads. Robert Lodge turned to Harry, the warmth that he may once have held behind them now gone, having made way to a cold glare. He nodded, and they launched the corpse into the air, for it to free fall from the upper level of the Tower Bridge, toward the road. Some people ducked or flinched as the ropes with which he was tied pulled taut and the body swung, like a pendulum through the air above the ravenous jackal-like members of the New British public, all yelling in delight, throwing bricks and wood, and ripped-off wing mirrors at the oblivious corpse of an Eton educated sycophant who had a distinct, and retrospectively fatal lack of empathy for the working classes, and what they wanted. The man that stood above the corpse, the bringer of death to those who didn’t truly understand what Britain was about anymore, he knew them. He knew what they wanted. This, was what they wanted. Action, not words. Fight, not flight. Robert Lodge was their leader now. They would follow him wherever he may go. They would accept his word, because he knew them. He would ensure that they followed the right path for a better life. For a better Britain. A New Britain. He couldn’t fail. How could he? This was what they wanted. This is what they thought they wanted. The Prime Minister was dead. Long live the Prime Minister.