Jeremy Corbyn at 10 Downing Street: Saturday
Jeremy Corbyn enters 10 Downing Street for his first day in office.
He marches into the Cabinet Room, trips over at the threshold, and rolls a few feet along the floor. The gathered senior bureaucrats and ministers watch silently, the air close and tense.
Corbyn rises to his feet, winks at a junior staffer, and twists his face into an imitation smile. She looks back at him, her eyes cold and glassy.
“Good morning…” he says, trying to sound prime ministerial. The crowd utters a muted response.
He opens his suitcase. Markets crash, breadlines form.
He’s halfway through describing his grand vision for Britain when, suddenly, his Chief of Staff bursts into the room.
“Prime Minister!…” she says, trying to regain his breath. “Sir…the European Court of Human Rights has just declared imprisonment incompatible with the European Convention.”
“Yippee!” says Chancellor McDonnell.
“One moment, comrades,” the Prime Minister says and storms back out of the room.
He lumbers through the corridor, arrives on the street, and begins to address the gathered press.
“I endorse the Court’s decision,” he proclaims. “It’s high time for the prison-industrial complex to fall under the weight of social progress. I invite those formerly known as prisoners to accept a second chance in our new socialist future, a just society in which every man, woman, and child receives the same quantity of moldy bread every day regardless of class, ethnicity, or religion.”
He walks back into the Cabinet Room.
“Diane,” he says in a huff. “Diane, stand up. Everyone congratulate Diane Abbott, our new Minister for Reintegration.”
There is a quick round of applause.
“Me?” she says, looking around wide-eyed. “But…”
“Congratulations, Diane.”
Corbyn adjourns the meeting and the ministers make their way towards Parliament for an urgent sitting.
The Prime Minister tables the legislation which passes without amendment.
Sunday
Prisoners are released nationwide. Pedophiles, terrorists, murderers flood the streets of London, raping, mugging, brutalizing every man, woman and child they encounter.
Terry and Lyin’ Ted collect their suits and flee the Belmarsh grounds, keeping an eye out for their many enemies and benefactors from inside.
They hide behind a large cypress tree in a back street beyond the Northern Wing.
“Is the coast clear?” says Ted, too afraid to look.
“Follow me,” Terry replies and approaches the solitary car on the street.
“Looks like a setup,” says Ted as Terry begins to work the lock with a coat hanger. Terry laughs. “We’ll take our chances,” he says.
The lock pops up. Terry opens the door, climbs in, unlocks the back door. Ted bolts inside and curls up on the floor behind the driver’s seat.
“Hurry,” Ted says while Terry works the wires near the ignition.
The car squeaks and sputters, rocks back and forth. Finally, the engine roars.
“Thank the Lord!” cries Ted as he climbs onto the seat.
Terry puts it in first gear and pushes the accelerator to the floor. He flies wildly around corners, smashing into cyclists, street signs, and parked cars while Ted sings “Amazing Grace,” tears of joy streaming down his face.
“Terry,” he says, regaining his composure, “Terry, where are we going?”
“City Airport. Won’t be long.”
They race by cargo stations, abandoned factories, and highway access ramps until the car screams to a halt in the airport pick-up area. They jump out, change into their civilian clothes, and run inside like bank robbers.
“We’d like to take your next flight, please,” Ted says to the woman behind the customer service desk.
“Where to, sir?”
“Anywhere! Anywhere but here…” Ted says, still regaining his breath.
“I’ll have to ask you stop being aggressive if you want to board a flight today, sir; is that okay?” she says in her check-in lady voice, her blonde hair pulled so tight Ted can’t tell where her scalp ends and her face begins.
“Sorry, ma’am. We’re in a bit of a situation is all.”
“I have a flight to Frankfurt leaving in 90 minutes.”
“We’ll take it.”
“Any check-in baggage today, sir?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Noxious materials? Sharp objects?”
“Nuh-uh.”
They pay for the tickets and pass through the security area.
***
They arrive in the departure lounge 45 minutes before their flight is due to board.
“Time for a quick cold one. What ya say there, Terry?”
Terry nods and they head to the bar.
“So what’s the plan?”
“We get off this Godforsaken island…for a start…”
“And when we get to Frankfurt?” Ted says, emphasizing the second syllable.
“We’ll be all right.”
“You got contacts?”
Terry shoots Ted the murder eye.
“It’s my job to have contacts…was my job, anyway…”
Ted looks straight ahead, envisioning his return to glory.
“Still…no commercial flights to America any more…and those communists in the Resistance froze our bank accounts…credit card works…but we got no cash…”
“That’s a problem…but this…” he picks up the newspaper sitting on the bar, “is a bigger problem.”
The headline on page three reads Interpol Warrant for Ted Cruz and Associate, both believed to be in the London area.
“Jesus,” says Ted, scanning the departure lounge. “Should we hide?”
“They ain’t gonna stop us now. Too many other problems on their plate. The Germans…now that’s another question. We’ll have to keep a low profile…I’ll find my contacts and we’ll bust on outta there…one way or another…”
Terry looks around the bar as if scanning a meadow for bunnies.
“Wait here,” he says.
He leaves the bar and returns three minutes later with two cowboy hats. They put one on each, finish their beers, and board the plane.
***
Arriving at Frankfurt Airport, they shuffle through the arrival lounge, their faces angled towards the shiny faux marble floor as they approach the terminal exit.
They arrive outside and enter the car park.
“Follow me,” Terry says.
On the second level, they stop near an old BMW. Terry walks to the driver’s door and jimmies it open. Ted keeps watch while Terry hotwires the engine. It fires up. Ted jumps inside and they both close their doors.
They drive slowly through the car park. Terry stops by the boom gate. He turns the headlights off, leaves the engine running.
“Now, when a car comes,” he says, “run over and hold up the gate, okay?”
“You bet,” says Ted.
A car arrives. A hand emerges from the driver’s side window to put a ticket into the machine. Terry revs the engine. The BMW roars as it pulls up behind the car, the driver looking at Terry wide-eyed through the rear vision mirror. The gate flings open. The car in front pulls slowly forward.
“Go!” Terry says.
Lyin’ Ted jumps out of the car, runs over to the gate, stands on his tiptoes, and leans against it.
“Is this thing gonna hold?” he says as Terry follows the civilian under the gate. It begins to swing closed. Ted jumps out of the way and it smashes the rear of the BMW.
“That ain’t good,” Ted says, stepping on pieces of broken glass as he walks back towards the passenger door.
Terry shoots Ted the murder eye.
“It happened,” Ted says, climbing back into the car. “I tried my best, but it happened. Let’s just keep going.”
The car races out of the car park and within minutes, they’re driving on the autobahn at 120 miles per hour, the bumper bouncing off the road at semi-regular intervals.
After 20 minutes, Terry takes the Frankfurt city centre exit. He pulls into an alleyway and turns off the engine.
They jump out and run back towards the main road. Terry hails down a cab and they both climb inside.
***
They arrive downtown, enter a bar of ill repute, and order Schweinshaxe and a stein of beer each.
“Something troubling you, Terry?”
Terry says nothing.
“Have some beer…take a load off…we just got outta prison…”
“Not for long if we hang around here. This is Germany. They deal with their fugitives like they do with everything: with ruthless efficiency.”
“What you lookin’ for?”
“Ever heard of the Fold?”
“Well, yeah…little things…rumors, mostly…it’s some kind of intelligence network…I thought it was a conspiracy theory.”
“It’s real.”
“How do you know?”
Terry unbuttons his shirt and reveals a tattoo on his chest.
“I’m retired now, but I still hold water.”
“I heard they tried to knock off the Clintons.”
“That’s a lie. We’re in the protection business. Leave us alone, we’ll leave you alone.”
“How do you join?”
“By invitation…members are usually deep state turncoats…ex-military…people made of the right stuff.”
“They’re here?”
“One of ‘em is.”
“Who?”
“Rapid DNA.”
“Rapid what now?”
“They work under code names. There’s Rapid DNA Reynolds, Diet Pill Sophie, Neurodiverse Nadia, Zig Zag Xavier, Ricky the Incorruptible, Comprehensive Steve, and Giovanni “The Egg” Perez. All are fast shooters, handy with locks and car alarms and conversant in Enhanced Manipulation Tactics, if you know what I mean…”
“Course I do,” Ted says, trying to sound informed. “I was Chair of the House Committee on…” He can see Terry is not listening. “Never mind…”
They each take a large swig of beer.
“So that’s where you learned all those…skills.”
“A man needs tactical training. You’re not gonna see the revolution coming. And ‘less you prepare for it, you’re gonna you find yourself swinging in the breeze, a synthetic man in a natural world.”
Terry looks around at the sailors, bikers and gays, all wearing leather or denim.
“Well, what’s he look like…this…Rapid DNA?”
“Don’t matter. He’s a master of disguise. Like all members of the Fold. But they can be spotted by subtle gives.”
“Like what?”
“They work alone for a start. Usually in bars of world cities. They always appear short on time despite doing little more than spinning a coin or watching a game. All of us have the same hazel eyes which non-members only see fully if they look at one of us for too long, something they’ll normally live to regret.”
A group of tattoo artists stand and walk towards the exit. Beyond them, a man with greasy hair and a purple print shirt sits alone by the bar. He says something to the bartender and goes back to reading his paper. Ted observes the scar on his face which extends from the corner of his eye to his lip. The man turns and, through his bung left eye, peers at Terry. They lock eyes for a moment. Then he turns back around, looks straight ahead, and continues to read his paper.
“Wait here a minute,” Terry says.
He stands and approaches Rapid.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so.”
“Go on.”
“Me and my buddy over there are in need of…a few supplies…”
“That so,” he says, turning towards Ted who’s face is invisible beneath his wide-brimmed hat. “What you cowboys after?”
“A piece. High caliber. Smith and Wesson if you have it. A jet would be good too. And some passports. Swiss or German.”
“The passports and the piece we can sort out tonight. Jet might take a few days.”
“All right.”
“You’ve got the bread, I take it.”
“Afraid I’ll have to take it on credit. Firm’ll vouch for me, of course.”
“If you say so…what’s the bird for?…if you don’t mind me askin’…”
Terry gestures at the paper Rapid is reading. Rapid looks down, sees the wanted sign, and looks back up at Terry.
“Well, I’ll be…”
“Diplomatic issues…”
“Lucky you all found me…”
“You ain’t hard to find.”
“We’ll weigh in tonight.”
Suddenly, the bar door flies open. A flash grenade explodes. The room fills with thick smoke and blinding light. Terry jumps behind the bar. Ted scrambles into the bathroom.
“Oh shit!” one of the bikers screams. “It’s Highly Conflicted and the 13 Angry Democrats!”
“…Otherwise known as…Crossfire Hurricane…”
Two or three Angry Democrats menace a group of patrons as Highly Conflicted approaches the bar. Everything else is silent. The bartender watches on, still, with a tea towel inside a stein glass and another flung over his shoulder.
“C-c-can I h-help you?”
The barkeep looks down at Terry, who’s lying at his feet like a sick dog. Terry shoots him the murder eye, makes slashing gestures across his throat.
“I’m from the Resistance.” Mueller flashes a badge. “I’m looking for these men.”
He shows the barkeep a sheet of paper marked top secret at the top. Lower down, there’s a mugshot of Terry—bearded but unmistakable—and Ted with his I-just-farted-smile, each below the word wanted.
The barkeep looks at Mueller. He can feel Terry pulling on the cuffs of his trousers.
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen them.”
“Our intelligence says they’re in this area…we got pretty good intelligence…” He looks around with disgust. “Anyway…if you see something, say something, capiche?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now…if you don’t mind…we’re gonna take a little look around.”
“Be my guest.”
“Lover Boy,” Mueller yells.
“Yeah?”
“Check the can.”
“You got it, boss.”
Lover Boy walks into the bathroom. There’s a urinal and three stalls with their doors shut.
“Cruz…Cruz, you in here?”
Ted is squatting on the toilet in the far stall. His eyes are closed tight, his hands around his shins, his head resting on his knees while he says a quiet prayer.
Lover Boy pokes his head inside the first stall. He finds nothing. He walks towards the second stall.
“Smells like shit around here,” he says. “…worse…smells…Republican…”
He enters the second stall.
“Maybe I won’t get you today, boy…but it won’t be long…social media…mainstream media…the Goddamn Yoo-nited Nations…you’re dead, Cruz…you can’t hide from the Resistance for long . . . “
Lover Boy let’s out a hideous cackle and re-enters the saloon, where Rapid DNA Reynolds is still sitting silently on his barstool.
“Hey, you,” says Lover Boy.
Rapid looks straight ahead.
“Hey…I’m talking to you, buddy.”
Rapid turns towards Strock slowly.
“Can I help you?” he says and holds Strock’s stare.
“Can you help me what.”
Lover Boy is about to pistol whip Rapid when he’s restrained by another Resistance member.
“Strock! I’ve already questioned this man. Is the can clean?”
“It’s clean, boss.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
“I don’t like the look of you boy,” Lover Boy says in Rapid’s face.
“You ain’t the only one.”
He sniggers.
“You better watch yourself.”
“Lover Boy!” screams Highly Conflicted.
“Okay, boss…let’s go…”
Lover Boy takes one last look at Rapid DNA Reynolds and the Hurricane rolls out.
***
For all installments of “Terry’s Weekend,” click here.
Previous installments:
R.J. Dyar is an Australian writer subsisting in the world’s prettiest cesspool. He is working on a trilogy of novels set in contemporary Rio, Paris, and London which explore the theme of the city as antagonist.
