Your Vote Is Important To Us

There’s nothing more depressing than a mainline train station on a Sunday evening. The weekend isn’t over yet, but the concourse is near deserted apart from the occasional straggling traveller, and parting lovers clinging onto the final minutes before another temporary separation.

And that’s how they caught me. Stupid place to go really. But I had to get out of the city and being unable to drive this was the only way apart from walking. Yes, I could have gone to the coach station, always bustling, always chaotic, but I would have attracted more attention there, not being one of the underclass. Even if I’d planned in advance and grown stubble, not washed for days and knocked a few teeth out, I would have still been noticed. Too well nourished, you see? And how do you make your clothes shabbier? Plus it was a spur of the moment decision. There was no planning involved.

Three men were now approaching me. They knew I couldn’t run. The pistols that two of them carried ensured that.

“Ed Wilson?” asked the unarmed agent.

I nodded.

“Do we need to confirm your ID?”

I stood and held my hands out for cuffing.

“No need for that, Mr Wilson. Just come along with us.” Then almost as an afterthought, “You really should have voted.”

I suppose, I should have. I’ve done it for the past twenty years since I reached the legal age. It was always simple too; nothing complicated to think about. No manifestos. No political broadcasts. Just a box to tick that said ‘the government’. Everything was easy. Everybody did it. Tick the box and the government governed. But today I didn’t. I walked to the polling station, and had my retina scanned as I entered the booth. I looked down at the screen with the single box to touch and make my vote. There must be some link between the scan and the touch-screen. That’s how they know if you haven’t voted, I presume.

Every single person of age in Britain voted, whether employed, unemployed, visiting from Europe, or a refugee from the RSA. The Secular States of America were too full to take any more of their former citizens fleeing the Religious States. You could only cram so many people into the eastern seaboard which constituted the SSA. Britain and, what was in essence, the original thirteen New England colonies had never been closer since 1776.

Yes, everybody voted. Every year people were crushed or run over in the rush to vote. It was like the deaths in Mecca during the Hajj pilgrimage.

“Are you comfortable enough, Mr Wilson?” asked the agent, as I sat squashed between his two gun-toting colleagues.

“I could do without them poking into my ribs. It’s not like I’m going far.”

“My apologies. Richards, Garner, put the artillery away. Give Mr Wilson a bit of space.” They obeyed his orders, “Do you have anything to ask me, Mr Wilson? Ed? Can I call you Ed?”

“Of course.”

“I’m Inspector Mortimer, do you have any questions?”

“I thought you’d be asking me.”

“Later. That can wait for a while.”

“Where are we going?”

“The Ministry.”

I looked out of the car window. We were heading south from King’s Cross toward the river. The Ministry was on the south bank of the Thames in Vauxhall.

“Obvious, I suppose.”

Inspector Mortimer smiled.

He was still smiling an hour later as he sat across from me in an interview room. No tape-recorders or cameras were evident, but in a place like this they could be hidden anywhere. I sipped my coffee and waited for the questions. Mortimer pulled a packet of cigarettes out of an inside pocket.

“Do you mind?” he asked.

“Not a problem with me. Might be a problem with others, though. Workplace, smoke, you know...”

Mortimer shrugged and lit up, “Sod ‘em.”

He flipped open a file. They knew everything about me, which was to be expected. University librarian, no children, recently widowed, even what my average monthly grocery bill was. That would be the loyalty cards. So the questions were straight to the point.

“Why didn’t you vote?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. You’re an intelligent man. Look,” he passed me two pages of A4 clipped together, “you’ve voted in each election for the past twenty years.”

“I didn’t feel like it.”

“You can’t just, not feel like it. There’s always a reason.”

He was right. There is always a reason.

“I can’t use laziness, I suppose?”

Mortimer chuckled through his cigarette smoke, “Of course you can’t. If you were too lazy, you wouldn’t have left the house this morning. So there has to be a reason.”

I shifted in my chair, “It’s personal.”

“Well then, it has to be your wife’s death.”

I didn’t reply.

“Then I’m right?”

I nodded.

Mortimer sighed. He wasn’t without sympathy, “Believe me, I do understand. But what sort of reason is that? Thousands die each year; husbands, wives, children, but people still vote. They have to.”

“I didn’t see the point.”

“Of course there’s a point; to vote for the government. You don’t strike me as some sort of revolutionary.”

“There are revolutionaries?”

Mortimer waved his hand, dismissively.

It was my turn to sigh, “I just don’t see the point anymore. Living without her. my…life has no focus.”

“If it’s that bad, why didn’t you kill yourself?”

I gave him the honest answer, “I’m a coward. And it’s illegal.”

He smiled, “I think I can see where this is going,” Mortimer stared at me as I looked down at my hands. “Come on, out with it.”

“I thought by not voting I’d be…well…disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“There are rumours.”

He laughed, “Oh, I’ve heard them. If you don’t vote you’re never seen again. You’re killed. You’re disappeared.”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” I agreed.

“But you still ran?”

“Like I said, I’m a coward. And, well...when I said my life had no focus, what I really meant to say was...since my wife’s death, my focus has shifted outwards.”

Mortimer scrutinised me closely, his cigarette hanging from his lips, the smoke curling upwards toward an unseen extractor fan. It was the first time his attitude had changed from friendly inquisitor to an astute professional.

It was now late into the night and we were stood in a plush office overlooking the Thames. Earlier, Mortimer had taken me to a control room deep in the bowels of the Ministry. It was huge. It looked like old photographs I had seen of NASA mission control before all the funding was withdrawn from the space programme. There was about twenty staff, each with five monitors before them and one supervisor in front of a single screen. Mortimer tapped him on the shoulder and he stood, removing his headphones.

“Take an hour’s break, Mitchell.”

Mitchell grinned, “Thanks Mort…erm…you’re…” he pointed to the cigarette.

“So sue me.”

They both laughed as Mitchell took his jacket from the back of his chair and sauntered off.

“Be my guest,” Mortimer indicated the swivel-chair.

I sat, and he pointed to a keypad in front of the monitor, “Tap in a number and you’ll see the interview room. There are a hundred.” He punched in the number thirty-seven and an empty room appeared on visual, “That was ours, see? It’s empty. Have a look around.” And then Mortimer had left me to it; without a guard or any other instructions. None of the other staff had taken more than a cursory interest in me.

I rubbed my eyes and yawned as I gazed across the river to the lights on the north side, “So what now?”

“Tell me what you think. What did you see?”

“Well, out of nearly a hundred interview rooms, most seemed to be raving lunatics or drunks.”

Mortimer nodded, “There always are a high percentage of them; not in a hospital yet, or as you say, drunk. We find places for the mad ones and the drunks we scare the life out of, take them to a voting booth and warn them to remember next year. What about the others?”

“Some genuinely seemed like they did not want to vote at all. They actually looked as though they could get violent.”

“And?”

“And they had interesting reasons for not voting.”

“Very interesting reasons, verging on treason. Revolutionaries and dissidents,” said Mortimer. “And the remaining few?”

“Seemed normal and non-descript to me.”

Mortimer laughed, “You’re describing yourself, Ed. What did they have to say?”

“Not a great deal. Some did seem to want to…disappear.”

“We do get some criminals who think we don’t know who they are. They may have been threatened by some other underworld types and would rather risk not voting than the consequence of their activities or finally being caught by the police.”

“Where does that leave me?”

Mortimer looked downriver to Westminster, “There are probably a few thousand people up and down the country detained for not voting. As you say, a high proportion of them are either mad or drunk. They’re easily dealt with; there are hospitals and scare tactics. The revolutionaries and criminals are dealt with too.”

“You do make them disappear?”

“I suppose it is a bit fanciful that people get crushed and die in their enthusiasm to cast a vote. This is politics not religion.”

“You kill them?”

“They’re revolutionaries and criminal scum,” Mortimer turned to face me. “Of course, we don’t kill them. We’re not barbarians. We sell them to the RSA. With all the refugees fleeing they need manpower. They do rely, after all, on their own agriculture.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, “We sell them?”

“Oh don’t be so naïve. West Germany bought East German citizens freedom throughout the Cold War. Cuba emptied their jails into the old USA. There are plenty of precedents.”

“But they weren’t sold into slavery.”

“The RSA assure us that they are not slaves. They need the manpower. Their fledgling state is finely balanced. And where better to send revolutionaries, dissidents and criminals into the workforce? They may just tip the balance.”

Mortimer was grinning as he read the expression on my face.

“You still haven’t said where I fit in.”

“There are a few. A few each year who have no ties. As you said, your focus has shifted from inward to outward. You have no wife, no family. Your focus has changed from the inwardness of your married life to the outside and how the country is run.”

“Doesn’t that make me a revolutionary?”

“No. You don’t rage against the system. You think. I can see that. Small measured changes are fine. Outright change is revolution, sir.”

“There’s no point in being polite now, Mortimer.”

“Yes there is, sir. We are now going to go to the basement of the Ministry and take a short ride underneath the Thames to those grand looking buildings downriver. There you will meet the rest of the government. It can be a bit strange being one of the new boys, but if you’re lucky there may be a few more of you on this intake.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Mr Wilson, sir, I have told you the government’s biggest secret. If you do not accept your responsibilities as an elected member, you will not disappear, it will be worse than that. And as you said yourself, you are a coward. Now if sir will follow me?”

We walked to the corner of the office where a lift door opened. Stepping inside, I had a final question,

“What about the people who, like me, don’t vote but still have families?”

“They are the real victims in all this. They’ll be off to the RSA too. Should have voted.”

I thought about this as we descended through the building.

“Mortimer?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Put that damned cigarette out.”

“Of course, sir.”

One for the Road

The bar of the Flying Dutchman was already smoky. No mean feat considering there were only six customers present.
“Mornin’ mate,” said Mick, the barman, “what are you having?”
“Afternoon. Well just…,” I replied, nodding at the clock above the bar. It stood at a few minutes past noon.
Mick shrugged, “Morning, afternoon, evening. You all still end up in here.”
“Where everyone knows your name…”
“…and your business. So, what’s it to be? You’re looking a bit rough. I told you to go steady last night.”
“Yeah,” I sighed, “but that brew of yours is such a good year.”
“1967. One of the best!” declared Mick, rightfully proud.
“Summer of love,” I agreed. “But l think I’ll stick to some of your usual watered down lager of the Australian variety today, if you don’t mind.”
Mick nodded, “One on its way for the man who can’t handle his beer.”

As he walked to the far end of the bar I looked around at the few regulars dotted here and there. Those taking any notice of my presence gave slight twitches of their heads, barely a nod really. The rest had their faces buried in the racing pages of the daily rag.

“Here you go, mate,” said Mick, delivering my pint with a quick wipe of the bar.
I barely had a word of thanks out of my mouth, when my good friend Dave burst through the pub door.
“And I thought you looked like crap,” uttered Mick, his eyes wide.
Dave had a cut to his chin, a shirt covered in blood, the collar of his jacket was half-ripped and the left knee of his jeans had a fresh hole in them. At least it matched the right knee now. The look of rage on his face was warning enough not to say anything until he had calmed down. His dark eyes looked blacker than usual, but deep within, there was a small spark of something. Excitement? Mischief? Fear? It could have been all three.
I nodded to the barman to pour my friend the same watery brew I had, then I waited for Dave’s heavy breathing to stop.
“Ta,” he said eventually and reached for it, with a noticeably shaky hand. After a couple of sips, he let rip with a string of curses, mostly Anglo-Saxon. A few extra heads rose from the racing pages not alerted earlier by Dave’s semi- dramatic entrance. He waved an equally semi-apologetic hand at them and they returned to the business of the day.
“Right,” said Dave, “you can tell me you told me so, now I’ve had a sip or two.”
“Well, it’s not like I didn’t warn you. "
“I know, but I couldn’t resist it. It was just too tempting. You went off on a jaunt too.”
I shrugged, “What I did was a lot less dangerous. You don’t have a skinful then go looking for trouble.”
“I didn’t start the trouble!” Dave’s voice began to lose some of its defiance. He remained silent for a few seconds and stared at his beer. I allowed him the silence. It is never fun to be beaten up, especially where he had been. Still looking through rather than at his pint glass, he started to speak again, this time in a much quieter tone.
“The worst thing is I think I saw her. My grandmother. Standing on the street corner, crying.”

Then I understood.

“We need to sort this out, Dave. We can’t leave it like this.”
He looked at me, smiled slowly, then rose to his feet, “I’ll need to clean up a bit first.”
“Fair enough,” I turned to Mick, “Two glasses of the ‘34, please.”
Mick smiled and disappeared into his cellar.

A short-lived summer shower caused the cobbled streets to glisten under the gaslight as we walked along a winding alleyway, lined with shuttered shops.
“Quaint”, I mused.
“Should see it in daylight,” said Dave, “beautiful, stunning even.”
“Yeah, easy to forget, isn’t it?”
We both gave a shudder. Our feet clattered noisily as we strode toward a larger street, just beginning to reveal itself around a bend. It always surprised me how silent a city could be at night. The warmth of the evening and the recent shower caused a lively freshness in the air. We could have been heading to a tavern on a European weekend break. As we approached the street, a shadow loomed towards us and shortened as we turned the long bend. Out of the night, a huge, middle-aged man approached, staggering slightly. He spotted us and threw his arms out wide,
“Guten abend! Guten abend!” he shouted.
We replied in kind but with less gusto. The beer on his breath was quite overpowering. He continued his shouting, launching himself into a hug that encompassed the both of us, and he seemed to be asking us to come to “Herr Muller’s Bierkellar”. We shook our heads and released ourselves from his grip before the man, laughing uproariously, disappeared toward the direction we had come.
“Nice fella,” said Dave.
“Seen worse,” I agreed, “not sure that I haven’t smelled worse, though.”
‘“Oh, I’m sure some of the states we’ve been in have been a little aromatic.”
I nodded, “We nearly there yet?”
“Getting close. We need to keep our wits about us now,” and immediately, Dave’s demeanour became more alert, his voice lowering perceptibly. We were here for a reason, after all.
The larger street appeared to be a main thoroughfare; couples walked hand in hand, a few street vendors were still plying their trade and numerous cafes were open. I gave Dave a “where to” look and he nodded in the direction of a brightly lit bar, its colourful awning stretched out across the paving. It would have been an extremely pleasant place to watch the earlier summer shower, even more pleasant now that evening life was emerging onto the newly cleansed streets.
“Is that the place?” I asked.
“Yeah, if we park ourselves at one of the tables, we’ll be able to spot them before they spot us.”
“Okay. Looks a bit busy. Could things get out of hand?”
Dave chuckled, “I thought you was up for this? You don’t have to hang about, you know.”
I thought about this. Did I really want to run the risk of getting into a fight? Moreover, about something that really had nothing to do with me? There was the involvement of Dave’s grandmother, though. I sighed and looked around me. It was so beautiful. We selected a table and a waiter immediately appeared at our shoulder.
“Bitte?”
Dave looked up at him, “Err, zwei..um..beers..bitte?”
The waiter laughed, “Let me guess, Englanders? English?”
We both nodded, dumbly.
“I should have guessed at your clothes. You wear the strangest things. I saw a man with those trousers with the socks?”
I sat in silence.
“Plus-fours?” Dave offered.
“The plus-fours, that is it,” replied the waiter. “Two beers on their way. Danke”
He gave a small bow of his head and I watched him retreat into the bar. I turned to Dave, but he was staring across the road at a closed-up shop.
“There she is! My gran.”
An elderly woman accompanied by a couple in their thirties and a young girl appeared in the doorway of the shop. They were all carrying suitcases. The man turned and shut the door, locking it up.
“This is when it happened,” said Dave. “Exactly the same weather, everything.”
From around the corner, three men appeared, uniformed in brown shirts, black trousers and highly polished Sam Brown belts. They were laughing as they approached us, their hobnailed jackboots rattling the cobbles. I looked at Dave in alarm then across the road at the family. The man seemed to be agitated and searching along the street for something. I turned back to Dave. His knuckles were white as he gripped his chair.
“About now,” Dave said.
I mentally prepared myself for trouble. Get stuck in and give as good as you get. Don’t hesitate or you’ll end up in as much as a state as Dave was.
The brownshirts reached the bar. They were huge! A braying voice breeched the evening peace.
“I say chaps, come and join me in a drink!”
The voice was grating, upper class and very, very English. I turned round thinking that maybe he had noticed we were his fellow countrymen.
“We need a few of your types back home, I can tell you! Mind you, they are trying to organise. Some chap called Moseley.” He was addressing the brownshirts.
Dave swore under his breath and began to rise from his seat.
“Is this what happened?” I asked.
“Yeah,” replied Dave, his face full of fire.
I grabbed him, “Then sit down!”
“But that total twa...” Dave’s face changed before me, the anger slipping away, “Look!”
He was pointing across the road. The family and Dave’s grandmother were climbing into a taxi, all smiles, not a care in the world.
“She’s gone,” he said.
“So?”
“She didn’t see me beaten up.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the brownshirts moving on. They had obviously declined the invitation from the Englishman.
“But, what now?” I asked. I was at a total loss.
“Nothing,” Dave shook his head, “we go home.”

Back in The Flying Dutchman, I contemplated the pint in my hand, wondering what it would look like decorating Dave, “I thought I was going there to save your gran! I thought you had put her under risk!”
“No. That very evening she came here on holiday with her grandmother and her parents. They decided to stay when they found out their shop back in Hamburg had been smashed up by the Nazis. Got out in the nick of time, as it happens.”
“But why the difference this time? You were raring for a fight earlier.”
“With the brownshirts? You must be kidding; did you see the size of them? It was that upper class twit. Couldn’t stand him sucking up to them. You noticed they pretty much ignored him. They weren’t impressed. Laughed at me getting a pasting, though. Boy, did he have a punch! Queensberry rules, I expect. But, you saved the day there.”
I gave him a look, “Go on.”
“Just by telling me to sit down. It came to me. What was burning me up. I can’t have my gran seeing me, or anyone beaten up. Not when she’s only five.”
Dave paused as I took this in.
“And she always did say she was amazingly lucky to get out of Germany without seeing anything awful back then.”
I nodded, slowly understanding.
“We’ve got to stop drinking, you know? It’s not good.”
“I agree,” said Dave knocking his pint back. “Tomorrow.”

We both laughed, then suddenly, two meaty arms engulfed our shoulders.
“I told you, you should visit my Bierkellar, gentlemen!” his laugh was deafening, the beer on his breath was overpowering,
“You speak English well,” I stated, recognising him.
I looked at Dave, and then at Mick, who had sauntered over to us, carrying some glasses. Mick winked, “So you’ve met Herr Muller on your travels, I see.”
I turned to Herr Muller and studied the huge, jovial man; he was less drunk than earlier.
“Our German is awful to the extent of being non-existent.”
Muller made a small explosive sound with his lips, “Typical of the English.”
An idea crept into my head. I looked at the clock above the bar. It was just gone nine.

What the hell? Why not? He spoke our language. He knew Hamburg!
I turned to my friend and the beaming, friendly German, then to the
barman, “Mick? Four glasses of your finest vintage 1960, please. Fancy seeing a band?”
They looked at each other then back at me and nodded.

Mick smiled and disappeared into his cellar.