Stream of Conscience Part 2

She took another sip of the still cold coffee, pausing momentarily, throat dry, requiring lubrication.
‘My husband was furious with me and, honestly, who can blame him? All those plans we had made. The ideas we had. The thoughts we had shared about the life we would spend together: gone. Not forever, I hoped. No, it was just a temporary set back. That’s what I tried to tell him. That’s what I tried to explain. But he wouldn’t listen. He just kept telling me it was all my fault. Kept saying that he had stuck with me when all of his friends and family had told him he should leave.
Why?
Because I was trouble.
He came from a reasonably wealthy family. They weren’t millionaires, not by any stretch, but they were successful enough. Me? I’d been dragged up on a Black Country council estate. No prospects, no chance of doing anything with my life. Not that I’m complaining. I was happy enough with what I had. Then, we met. Total chance. In a supermarket. As clichéd as it gets, really. He took a shine to me, and I was suitably flattered to agree to a first date. We never looked back.
But they never forgave me.
His friends.
His family.
Never forgave me for my upbringing. They couldn’t see beyond the accent and the lack of qualifications so, when I was prosecuted, it gave them the opportunity to squawk ‘I told you so,’ to him. He resisted for a while, I’ll give him his due, but they got to him in the end. He hit me that last day. I was in his face, calling him every bastard under the sun as he was packing his stuff. He’d agreed to pay for the upkeep of the house for six months, to give me time to sort myself out.
Decent of him, really.
But I didn’t see it like that at the time. Instead, I was shouting and cursing at him, playing every bit the manic nutcase, effectively proving the diagnosis correct, and reinforcing his commitment to leaving me. Our boy as well, of course. He couldn’t get over that. So he’d made the choice. He could take custody of his son, but only if he had no relationship with me.
His son or his wife?
A tough choice if you think about it, and he made the one that most men would, I suspect.
I wouldn’t let it lie as he tried to leave, started pushing him, threatened him even then, in the blink of an eye, he snapped, took a swing at me, caught me on the chin and knocked me off my feet. It took the wind out of me, physically and mentally, so I just stayed on the ground whilst he finished his packing.
I’ve never seen him since.
Nor my boy and, for a couple of months, I was lost, adrift.
Desperate.
What purpose was there to my life?
What point continuing?
I contemplated suicide at the time, but I simply didn’t have the stomach for it back then and, given my medical condition, the doctor was hardly likely to prescribe me something strong enough to do the job efficiently. I could have found the means, I suppose, but the thought never crystallised sufficiently powerfully to explore it.
Then, I found my calling.
It was like something I should have been doing all along. I couldn’t believe I had never considered it previously because, once I started, it was like a drug.
I couldn’t stop.
I became an activist.
Name a political cause. Name a grievance against the government, big business, the banking world, I was on it. Using the internet, I started out joining forums, rallying people, trying to stoke up annoyance, dissent, hatred if I could manage it. Then, when sufficient people were engaged, we’d take to the streets. Placard waving warriors, we thought of ourselves as, a small but dedicated band of business and bureaucrat botherers.
To begin with, they paid us little attention. Who were we, after all? A cluster fuck of nobodies, armed only with permanent marker daubings on pieces of cardboard. They didn’t have to worry about us. They mocked us sometimes, but that was progress, was the way I saw it. One of my proudest moments came when a Conservative politician mentioned our group on Have I Got News For You. He was sarcastic about us, of course, made a quip that got him the laugh he wanted – humanising him, perhaps – but still that seemed to me a small victory. If he was talking about us on national television, we’d clearly started to get under his skin.
Then, a strange thing happened.
Almost overnight our ranks began to swell. We went from a few dozen dedicated souls to several hundred, several thousand and, before you knew it, each time I arranged a rally or a march, hundreds of thousands took to the street.
We were shaking things up, and no mistake.
Suddenly, the politicians began to take notice.
Gone were the snide quips on satirical panel shows, in their place came forthright and worrisome interviews on Newsnight, Question Time and the like.
We had arrived.
But the best thing about it all?
Nobody knew who I was.
I was the ringleader, but nobody had a clue. Not even the people who attended the marches. As far as they were concerned, I was just another one of them, following orders, doing as I’d been asked.
And I kept the secret for six months.
Then a journalist broke the story. Revealed my identity. And, by doing so, for a second time, my life was taken from me.

Aston4 typed urgently, hammering at the keys with barely a pause, eager to spread the message. Forum after forum was visited, both friendly and enemy territory, urging those online to watch the video feed, to fan the flames.
Online, news travels fast.
Within twenty minutes of the commencement of the broadcast, the ‘active viewers’ figure read 87,000.

‘Of course, my past was soon exposed. Front page stories ran about my prosecution and mental health diagnosis, both used to sully my reputation, as well as various stories cut straight from clean cloth, just plucked from the air by a journalist with an overactive imagination. Strangely, though, the public didn’t seem to buy any of it. To this day I have no idea why they rejected the claims – even those that were true – so instead of dampening the flames down, the constant headlines disparaging me only served to spur me on and, as more and more people flocked to our events, so the tactics used against us, but me specifically, intensified.
It was like something from a movie.
The moment I realised just how deeply I was in over my head was when I visited a cash point to take out a small amount of money. Maybe twenty pounds, I can’t remember now. I knew the money was there, but the machine informed me that I had insufficient funds and, to add further irritation, swallowed my card. I thought nothing of it at the time, instead walked into the branch itself and explained what had happened, asking that they check my balance and retrieve it. To begin with, the woman behind the counter was polite enough, smiling and nodding as I spoke but, once my details had been entered into the computer, her manner changed completely. In an instant, she became frosty; hostile even. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth pinched and, awkwardly, she excused herself, explaining that she had to speak to the branch manager.
I sat and I waited, wondering what the hell was going on.
The manager himself emerged soon enough, sat opposite me whilst the original clerk hovered nervously behind him. I couldn’t have my card back, he explained curtly, and the reason the request for cash had been refused was that my account had been frozen, pending criminal investigations.
I was flabbergasted.
Criminal investigations?
What kind of criminal investigations?
He had no details, he replied then, unable to look me in the eye, he mumbled something about the Prevention of Terrorism Act.
Did I look like a terrorist?
He had no response to that, but I could see in his eyes that there was some doubt. Maybe mud did stick, after all.
I left without another word, which didn’t please him, calling after me that the police were on their way and that I should wait. I had no intention of following his advice, headed straight for home, only to find that a welcoming committee awaited.
Handcuffed, I was dumped in the back of a police van, without explanation.

Sam recognised her now. Though familiar, it wasn’t until the monologue turned to protest marches that the penny dropped. A quick Google later, Sam had the name she needed.
Sally Harker.
Sam looked up the address, grabbed her phone from her bag and brought the video feed up on the small device, boosting the volume so she could hear every word clearly, then dashed from her desk, heading for her car, determined she be the first journalist on the scene when the broadcast ended.
The mystery caller had contacted her. Indirectly, true, but she had no intention of wasting such an opportunity.
She checked the address again.
A fifteen minute drive on a normal day.
Today, she would make it in ten.

The cell was bare, save for a seat and an information leaflet on the wall reminding those within the room that drink driving is a crime.
Christ, I could have used a drink right about then.
The journey to the police station had been short, so I knew I was still in my own locality, but nobody would speak to me. The officers remained resolutely silent as they marched me into the building, emotionless. I may as well have been accompanied by droids. The door was locked and I sat in the cell, alone, for the best part of four hours before anyone arrived, and only then to offer me some water.
I accepted.
No use going thirsty for the sake of pointless defiance.
Another couple of hours passed before I was escorted to an interview room. But this was a room like no other I had seen in a police station. The door leading into the room was made of thick metal, and was only operable by means of an electronic lock. Within the room, nothing at all. Just two seats and a desk between. I scanned the room on entry. No cameras. Nothing. No proof that I had ever been in the room.
I became very, very scared.
Dumped into the chair, again I was forced to wait before a tall, suited, bespectacled gentleman entered. He didn’t give his name. Gave no clue as to his identity or his status. He merely spoke at me.
‘You are being detained as a suspected terrorist. You are a menace to this nation, and you will desist from your anarchic activities with immediate effect, else face severe consequences.’
I just blinked at him.
‘Your life is no longer your own. We control it. We say what you can and cannot do. Where you can and cannot go. Who you can and cannot see.’
He reached into his pocket, and threw something onto the desk between us.
‘Read it,’ he snapped.
It was a large piece of paper, the size of a tabloid newspaper cover and, indeed, what I was looking at was a mock up of an edition of The Mirror.
‘Protestor’s Paedo Palace,’ screamed the headline, accompanied by a photograph of myself, clearly taken using a telescopic lens from great distance, but with sufficient detail to show me looking gaunt, tense.
‘This is bullshit,’ I began, but he stopped me with a raised hand.
‘Read it, he repeated.
I did so. In the sensationalised style of the tabloid press, the article detailed how my flat was used as a headquarters for the production and distribution of child pornography. My aberrant behaviour was explained away by the loss from my life of my own son, that this somehow twisted my mind and made me hate children. Desperate for money after being cut off from my husband, I turned to this most horrific source to generate income.
‘No-one will believe this,’ I said to him.
‘You have no choices here, Miss Harker. Retreat from the spotlight, tell those that follow you to cease in their activities, and resume a normal life. We have set up a job for you at your local supermarket. You will want for nothing. But you must stop. We will tolerate your interference no longer.’
I just sat there shaking my head.
‘Oh, one last thing.’
Once more, he reached into his pocket and again, he dropped something on the desk, a photograph this time and, with trembling hands, I scooped it up.
My boy.
Older though.
‘That was taken yesterday,’ he informed me.
‘Why are you showing me this?’
‘Think of it as a warning,’ he said. Then, to remove all doubt. ‘We’ll kill him if we must.’
He left and, shortly afterwards, I was escorted from the building, to make my own way home to Stourhampton. Oh, and for the sake of clarity, that police station, that interrogation room, was in Dudley. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want you to know that.
So, here we are. It’s come to this. Every aspect of my life has been eroded. All reasons for wishing to continue have been removed, but the fight must go on.
Just not with me.
So here’s what’s happening. I started this broadcast with a clear purpose. Of course, I still have no way of knowing if anyone is listening. Maybe it’s been shut down but, assuming you are out there, loyal followers, and those beyond, this is my message:
Take my life as the price of freedom. We live in a society blinded, side-tracked, distracted. You think they want you thinking about what’s actually happening? Of course not so, every night, on the news, they give you the football scores instead, or talk about the latest celebrity scandal.
You think they want you questioning why most of us are getting poorer by the week whilst those at the top gather enormous sums - more money than anyone could ever need – to bloat their own estates. No, so they feed us reality TV and brainwash us with lies about the financial collapse.
I do this not for me, not even for you, but for those that follow us.
Don’t worry. It won’t take long.’

Sam pulled up outside the block of flats, snatched up the phone from the passenger seat, watched as, on screen, Sally held her left wrist up to the camera and slowly, with great deliberation, drew a razor blade across it.
Blood spurted, blinding the camera for a little while before a tissue appeared to wipe it away.
Sam leapt from the car.
Sprinted towards Sally’s home, glancing at the screen intermittently, cursing as the woman on screen repeated the action on her right wrist.
‘Each drop of blood has meaning.
Drip: a life ruined.
Drip: a life forgotten.
Drip: a life not given the chance to thrive.’
Sam pounded up two flights of stairs.
‘Not long to go now, but remember this day, please, and make sure my sacrifice is not a futile one.’
Sam reached the door of the flat, tried the handle – locked, of course – and, without hesitation, shoulder barged the wooden obstacle.
The door did not yield.
‘I can feel the life draining from me. Can feel my energy sapping, but know this: I have no regrets, nor would I change what I have done here, this day. If my blood can help forge a better future, I can die content.’
She barged once more with her shoulder, again with no result, so stepped back and aimed a hefty kick at the jamb. It didn’t give, but at least it splintered a little.
‘They can slander me; they can accuse me of crimes I did not commit. They can even silence me, but they cannot erase this moment from history.’
Sam kicked again and this time, the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a resounding thud. She plunged straight through, into the corridor beyond, glancing at her phone, pleased to see Sally still speaking. She tried the first door off the corridor – kitchen, no use.
‘I love you all. Keep fighting the good fight.’
Sam burst through the second doorway.
Found Sally.
Slumped over the keyboard.
Blood pooled all around her, on desk, clothing and floor.
Sally did not move.
On screen, the voice continued to speak.
Numb, Sam moved nearer, reached out a hand, touched Sally’s neck, searching for a pulse, knowing it was useless, the cold, rubbery feel of her skin telling Sam all she needed to know.
Sally was dead.
And yet still she spoke.
Sam looked at the computer.
In the centre of the screen, a small dialogue box.
‘Time delay: 1:00:00’
‘I’m too late,’ she thought.
‘Goodbye. I love you all.’

© Ian Stevens (2012)

Other shorts and full lengths at: http://smellthewriting.blogspot.fr/