forcon
Lieutenant Commander
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Post by forcon on Jul 18, 2018 15:29:08 GMT
Promises, Promises:
His right hand clasped around a glass of reddish-brown whisky, Malcolm Alexander slumped down onto the plush leather chair. The bottle had been a gift from his grandfather, an ex-general and a prominent cross-bencher in the House of Lords before his death. It had never before been opened, but tonight it was almost a third of it was gone. Taking a perhaps more-than-generous sip from the glass, he thought of those who had occupied that very same chair before him, the elapsed leaders of yesteryear. From the days of Chamberlain and Churchill to those of Blair and Cameron, no Prime Minister had suffered the fate which awaited Malcolm Alexander. The flames in the fireplace crackled gently, occasionally spitting miniscule flecks of ash onto the carpet. The cream-coloured material was very slightly charred where it met with the marble basing around the fireplace, thanks to an ancient design flaw that, amazingly, nobody had ever thought to fix. Feeling the whisky beginning to take its toll, he pondered how history would judge him.
Outside, beyond the cream curtains that cascaded from their rails, snow drifted from a darkened sky, settling on the unforgiving pavements of a city that had once been great, as the wind whistled its ghastly tune. Now the frosty air was warmed by the fires of the riots as London burned once again; the story was the same in Manchester, Birmingham, Glasgow and virtually every other city across the country. Malcolm failed to understand those people. They were the ones who’d voted him into office, and now they wanted him gone. The platform upon which his party had been elected – “England for the English” – had been immensely popular after the atrocities in Paris in 2015, Rome and New York in 2018 and, eventually, London in 2019. Yet, when the government had tried to carry out its policies – the deportation of all those ‘undesirables’ and the security crack-down, it turned out that people - the very same people who had voted the National Patriotic Front into office - were not willing to trade democracy for security. The strikes and the protests had turned quickly turned to riots as people saw the shocking parallels between Alexander’s government and that of the despised failed Austrian art student who had risen to power in 1933 Germany.
He remembered the phone call between himself and Elizabeth – she’d let him call her that, surprisingly enough. “Mister Alexander, your government has overstepped the constitutional boundaries upon which the very democracy of this nation is based,” Elizabeth had said, unable to keep the malice out of her voice. After a moment of icy silence, she had coldly added; “I must therefore ask for your resignation as Prime Minister.”
He had stood in dazed silence for a full thirty seconds, unable to form a reply. When the blow of her words was finally absorbed, he had struggled to control his well-known short temper. A Monarchist through-and-through, he had previously held a great deal of respect for Queen Elizabeth. He recalled how his defiance had been stifled by her uncompromising response; “We can do this with dignity, Malcolm – nobody has to get hurt, but I have sworn a sacred oath to the people of this nation. The very same people whom you seek to oppress. I cannot allow you or your government to remain in office.”
“Your Majesty,” he had eventually said, “Unlike yourself, I have a mandate from the people to carry out the policies of my party. I cannot resign at the request of an unelected Monarch.” The Queen’s response had been preceded by a hearty sigh. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Mister Alexander, you are hereby relieved of your duties.”
With that, the phone call had come to an abrupt end. Elizabeth’s voice, by the time she had hung up, had been dripping with what sounded like a strange mixture of sadness and regret – she almost sounded disappointed in Alexander. This would make her the first Monarch in nearly two hundred years to dismiss a government. Although he was a great supporter of the Monarchy, Alexander was infuriated by the Queen’s intervention; he had been elected! It may have been six years ago, but he had a mandate to carry out his policies! What did she have? A high rating in a few unbalanced opinion polls?He checked the Rolex at his wrist. The big hand was just ticking to half-past the hour. His abrupt exchange with Her Majesty had been nearly an hour ago, and he figured it wouldn’t be long before they – whoever ‘they’ would prove to be - came for him. His panicked phone calls to Army officers whose loyalty he had thought he would be able to beg or bribe had gone unanswered, shattering last hopes of remaining in power.
Although his head was beginning to spin, he poured himself another glass of whisky. At the moment the crisp, honey-coloured liquid began to drip from the bottle, he heard a voice ask “Where is he, Jane?” He recognised it to be that of DCI Jack Ritley, the head of his security detail. In his stupor, it took Alexander a moment of pause before he registered that the ‘he’ in question was in fact himself.
“U-up stairs! In his office!” A nervous, mousy voice squeaked back. He could tell it was Jane Clements, his personnel secretary. Poor Jane, he thought, feeling a strange remorse which he’d never before experienced. She doesn’t deserve to be caught up in this...
Hearing them advance up the wooden staircase, Alexander downed the whisky in a single, agonising gulp. There was no disguising the burning sensation, but he gritted his teeth and reached for the bottle once again. Before his hand made contact with the bottle, the door was pushed open and Ritley walked purposefully into the room, trailed by three other suited men. Ritley’s hand was clasped around a pistol, and the other three officers also had guns in their hands. Alexander opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by the head of his security detail before he could form a sentence.
“Sir, I have orders to place you under arrest,” Ritley said almost apologetically. “Please stand up, Prime Minister.”
The Prime Minister remained seated for a moment, a defiant scowl etched across his face. He exhaled noisily, taking one last look around the office. “Jack, do you really want to be a part of this?” Alexander queried. “This is a coup d’état.”
“I have my orders, Sir. Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.” Reluctantly, Alexander forced himself to his feet. He felt his wrists being placed behind his back and the cold metal of handcuffs snapping around them. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to murder, electoral fraud, and treason. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
Alexander nodded miserably.
Two of the officers stepped forwards, adjusting their positions so that they were standing on either side of the former Prime Minister. He was unsure that he was even walking in a straight line as the two burly individuals escorted him towards the doorway. When the group finally exited the confining hallways of Number Ten and emerged on Downing Street, Alexander felt himself chilled by a cruel gust of wind, as the snowflakes which gently fluttered from the sky settled on his charcoal suit, melting majestically into the fabric of the garment. Four black Rangerovers were parked outside the building, and there were several dozen suited men and women standing, guns drawn, in the street. Glancing over his shoulder, he occasionally made eye contact with a few of them, registering the looks of animosity and loathing etched across their faces.
He counted his blessings as he realised that the press were at least being kept at a healthy distance.
Flanked by his escorts, Alexander was led towards one of the Rangerovers. An officer opened the door and politely-but-firmly manhandled him into the middle seat. The doors were slammed shut and the engine rumbled into life. Alexander didn’t enquire as to the whereabouts of his destination as the car departed. In part that was because he was too depressed to speak, but largely he was simply too terrified to ask. He partially expected to find himself on trial at The Hague, but he couldn’t quell the sneaking suspicion that he would suffer an ‘accident’ at some time during his detention. After all, Malcolm Alexander was one of the few people who knew where the bodies were buried…
He shook his head in despair. So this is my legacy...
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lordroel
Administrator
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Post by lordroel on Jul 18, 2018 16:05:45 GMT
Promises, Promises:
His right hand clasped around a glass of reddish-brown whisky, Malcolm Alexander slumped down onto the plush leather chair. The bottle had been a gift from his grandfather, an ex-general and a prominent cross-bencher in the House of Lords before his death. It had never before been opened, but tonight it was almost a third of it was gone. Taking a perhaps more-than-generous sip from the glass, he thought of those who had occupied that very same chair before him, the elapsed leaders of yesteryear. From the days of Chamberlain and Churchill to those of Blair and Cameron, no Prime Minister had suffered the fate which awaited Malcolm Alexander. The flames in the fireplace crackled gently, occasionally spitting miniscule flecks of ash onto the carpet. The cream-coloured material was very slightly charred where it met with the marble basing around the fireplace, thanks to an ancient design flaw that, amazingly, nobody had ever thought to fix. Feeling the whisky beginning to take its toll, he pondered how history would judge him.
Outside, beyond the cream curtains that cascaded from their rails, snow drifted from a darkened sky, settling on the unforgiving pavements of a city that had once been great, as the wind whistled its ghastly tune. Now the frosty air was warmed by the fires of the riots as London burned once again; the story was the same in Manchester, Birmingham, Glasgow and virtually every other city across the country. Malcolm failed to understand those people. They were the ones who’d voted him into office, and now they wanted him gone. The platform upon which his party had been elected – “England for the English” – had been immensely popular after the atrocities in Paris in 2015, Rome and New York in 2018 and, eventually, London in 2019. Yet, when the government had tried to carry out its policies – the deportation of all those ‘undesirables’ and the security crack-down, it turned out that people - the very same people who had voted the National Patriotic Front into office - were not willing to trade democracy for security. The strikes and the protests had turned quickly turned to riots as people saw the shocking parallels between Alexander’s government and that of the despised failed Austrian art student who had risen to power in 1933 Germany.
He remembered the phone call between himself and Elizabeth – she’d let him call her that, surprisingly enough. “Mister Alexander, your government has overstepped the constitutional boundaries upon which the very democracy of this nation is based,” Elizabeth had said, unable to keep the malice out of her voice. After a moment of icy silence, she had coldly added; “I must therefore ask for your resignation as Prime Minister.”
He had stood in dazed silence for a full thirty seconds, unable to form a reply. When the blow of her words was finally absorbed, he had struggled to control his well-known short temper. A Monarchist through-and-through, he had previously held a great deal of respect for Queen Elizabeth. He recalled how his defiance had been stifled by her uncompromising response; “We can do this with dignity, Malcolm – nobody has to get hurt, but I have sworn a sacred oath to the people of this nation. The very same people whom you seek to oppress. I cannot allow you or your government to remain in office.”
“Your Majesty,” he had eventually said, “Unlike yourself, I have a mandate from the people to carry out the policies of my party. I cannot resign at the request of an unelected Monarch.” The Queen’s response had been preceded by a hearty sigh. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Mister Alexander, you are hereby relieved of your duties.”
With that, the phone call had come to an abrupt end. Elizabeth’s voice, by the time she had hung up, had been dripping with what sounded like a strange mixture of sadness and regret – she almost sounded disappointed in Alexander. This would make her the first Monarch in nearly two hundred years to dismiss a government. Although he was a great supporter of the Monarchy, Alexander was infuriated by the Queen’s intervention; he had been elected! It may have been six years ago, but he had a mandate to carry out his policies! What did she have? A high rating in a few unbalanced opinion polls?He checked the Rolex at his wrist. The big hand was just ticking to half-past the hour. His abrupt exchange with Her Majesty had been nearly an hour ago, and he figured it wouldn’t be long before they – whoever ‘they’ would prove to be - came for him. His panicked phone calls to Army officers whose loyalty he had thought he would be able to beg or bribe had gone unanswered, shattering last hopes of remaining in power.
Although his head was beginning to spin, he poured himself another glass of whisky. At the moment the crisp, honey-coloured liquid began to drip from the bottle, he heard a voice ask “Where is he, Jane?” He recognised it to be that of DCI Jack Ritley, the head of his security detail. In his stupor, it took Alexander a moment of pause before he registered that the ‘he’ in question was in fact himself.
“U-up stairs! In his office!” A nervous, mousy voice squeaked back. He could tell it was Jane Clements, his personnel secretary. Poor Jane, he thought, feeling a strange remorse which he’d never before experienced. She doesn’t deserve to be caught up in this...
Hearing them advance up the wooden staircase, Alexander downed the whisky in a single, agonising gulp. There was no disguising the burning sensation, but he gritted his teeth and reached for the bottle once again. Before his hand made contact with the bottle, the door was pushed open and Ritley walked purposefully into the room, trailed by three other suited men. Ritley’s hand was clasped around a pistol, and the other three officers also had guns in their hands. Alexander opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by the head of his security detail before he could form a sentence.
“Sir, I have orders to place you under arrest,” Ritley said almost apologetically. “Please stand up, Prime Minister.”
The Prime Minister remained seated for a moment, a defiant scowl etched across his face. He exhaled noisily, taking one last look around the office. “Jack, do you really want to be a part of this?” Alexander queried. “This is a coup d’état.”
“I have my orders, Sir. Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.” Reluctantly, Alexander forced himself to his feet. He felt his wrists being placed behind his back and the cold metal of handcuffs snapping around them. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to murder, electoral fraud, and treason. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
Alexander nodded miserably.
Two of the officers stepped forwards, adjusting their positions so that they were standing on either side of the former Prime Minister. He was unsure that he was even walking in a straight line as the two burly individuals escorted him towards the doorway. When the group finally exited the confining hallways of Number Ten and emerged on Downing Street, Alexander felt himself chilled by a cruel gust of wind, as the snowflakes which gently fluttered from the sky settled on his charcoal suit, melting majestically into the fabric of the garment. Four black Rangerovers were parked outside the building, and there were several dozen suited men and women standing, guns drawn, in the street. Glancing over his shoulder, he occasionally made eye contact with a few of them, registering the looks of animosity and loathing etched across their faces.
He counted his blessings as he realised that the press were at least being kept at a healthy distance.
Flanked by his escorts, Alexander was led towards one of the Rangerovers. An officer opened the door and politely-but-firmly manhandled him into the middle seat. The doors were slammed shut and the engine rumbled into life. Alexander didn’t enquire as to the whereabouts of his destination as the car departed. In part that was because he was too depressed to speak, but largely he was simply too terrified to ask. He partially expected to find himself on trial at The Hague, but he couldn’t quell the sneaking suspicion that he would suffer an ‘accident’ at some time during his detention. After all, Malcolm Alexander was one of the few people who knew where the bodies were buried…
He shook his head in despair. So this is my legacy...
Interesting, timeline so far, keep it up forcon. |
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stevep
Fleet admiral
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Post by stevep on Jul 18, 2018 17:19:22 GMT
Intriguing. Not sure where its going and how this came about, although a few good hints in the background story. Not totally clear how far Alexander has gone but obviously too far for many people.
If this is some 6 years minimum after terrorist incidents in 2019 I rather suspect he wouldn't be getting a call from the queen but more likely her son. She would have to be pushing 100 by this date and I'm doubtful if she would still be with us.
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James G
Squadron vice admiral
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Post by James G on Jul 18, 2018 18:50:27 GMT
He might not get an 'accident' nor an international trial. There are always other things that can be done with a public court appearance. Those trying him will control that and the way the British courts work give no room for defensive grandstanding. Sometimes public humiliation in a courtroom can work wonders!
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