by Andy Marlow
Chapter 3: Aftermath
“Peter! How was it?”
“Okay. Simple. She croaked like a frog. Quick, easy, I’ve had worse.”
“It’s all over the news, man. Every station.”
“How’d it get there so quick?”
“Wi-Fi. Who knows?”
Peter Robinson had entered the barracks of Number 10 Commandos on the outskirts of Jamahiriya at two o’clock that afternoon. After killing Miriam early in the morning, he had chosen to walk the long way back through the scrubs and bush land that surrounded the city. Time had passed quickly; it had almost been an indescribable blur since half seven that morning, as if nothing had happened since then, or he had been absent from his own body.
Only Johnson was present when he entered, and only he had known about Corporal Peter Robinson’s secret mission to assassinate the spiritual leader of the Jamahiriya Resistance Army and their Church of the Holy Tabernacle. Given the news reports, he had presumed it had been a success.
The news was on now, and Peter settled down to watch it in the silent company of Johnson. He caught the presenter in mid-sentence:
“…was arrested today for the murder of Jacob Klein, nephew of Prime Minister David Weinberger. Jacob Klein was an Air Force pilot who served his country for nine years before transferring to work for the Urban Police Force. He was killed today in clashes with the Jamahiriya Resistance Army in the eastern suburbs of Jamahiriya city by one Mohammed Amjid, a powerful figure in the Resistance Army who has been wanted by police on charges of treason and terrorism for several years. Mister Amjid gave himself up without a fight and is now being questioned by police.
David Weinberger issued a press conference today condemning the latest terrorist action by the Jamahiriya Resistance Army and expressing his grief over the death of his nephew:”
The view changed from the face of the female newsreader to a packed room where, at the front, the familiar form of Prime Minister Weinberger was standing. He was still, frozen; far from the normal wildly gesticulating and charismatic statesmanlike persona which normally addressed his nation.
“Today’s atrocities have affected us all: from rich to poor, young and old, men and women. And they have affected me personally. I lost my nephew today, a brave soldier who nine years ago pledged to lay down his life in the service of his country, should he be called to do so. Today, he was, and myself and my family have spent the day in mourning.
Rest assured we will not let this stand. The ongoing war against terrorism and religious extremism will go on. The Community will defeat the extremist element among us, who act with such flagrant disrespect for other people’s lives. Innocent men have died today: brave, heroic, patriotic men. We will not let their deaths go unpunished.
I am today going to go before Parliament and request that they give me emergency powers to fight the terrorist scum with greater force and firepower than ever before. If, when, they do, I can promise you, citizens, that the terrorist threat will be eliminated within the year. Thank you.”
The Prime Minister stepped down from the podium to rapturous applause and the screen switched once more to the newsreader, whose poker face remained as stone-cold as ever. She switched from this story to the next as if the emotional content of it had not penetrated her professional shell:
“In the economy, stocks in petroleum giant General Oil have plummeted…”
Johnson turned the TV off.
“Bloody terrorists,” he muttered. “Evil, aren’t they? I can’t understand for the life of me why they do it.”
Peter nodded in agreement, only half listening. He had returned to his state of emptiness, soullessness, waiting for the next set of orders from his superiors; until then, he would remain in this state.
“Peter, that’s your next target. Find the leader of the so-called “Resistance Army” and take him out.”
He nodded and stood up, happy to be once more given the chance of living through taking another’s life. His feet walked forward mechanically to the exit and the killing machine was off again, driven by a blind purpose to take a life in the name of his country.
***
Mo sat quietly in his cell. He had seen the same news report as Peter had, and it filled him with shame. And anger. The media, as expected, had painted him a terrorist, and by that word had cancelled out any criticism of Weinberger’s men and any questioning of the Army’s cause. They had painted Jacob Klein, the killer of his wife and child, as a “hero”- just as expected.
Jacob had been no hero. But equally, neither had Mo. He had sat by the side of his erstwhile nemesis while the life faded from his eyes and he tried desperately to prevent the blood loss, to keep him in this world. He had failed; Jacob had died, and, as the Enemy forces of Weinberger’s government came forward and the fighters of the Resistance Army were forced to retreat, Mo had stayed by his victim’s side silently weeping.
For he had become the very monster he sought to destroy. Now he was in prison, but his iron cage did not phase him; rather, the prison of his soul, the loss of his personality beneath the weight of another man’s life, was his jail cell. If the state chose to release him and pardon him now, he would not be free. His soul would still be imprisoned.
He could still see his wife and child, his old martial arts teacher, there in his mind’s eye- but they could not look at him now. They were ashamed of him. The hatred they had held for their killer was now transferred to their former husband, father and pupil; the evil of Jacob’s crime had been absorbed into Mo’s soul and he, Jacob, had been the one who now enjoyed the blissful lightness of liberty.
Such was the situation in Mo’s mind. In the real world, he was just sitting on the bed in his cell, gormless expression on his face and dusty light pouring through the windows.
His execution was soon. In Weinberger’s Community, ‘terrorists’ did not get trials or juries; not that he would have needed one. He had already openly, bitterly confessed to his crime, filled with shame and remorse and ready for his death. He deserved it.
The clock said seven; the sun was setting. Its red rays poured in through his iron bars and as he watched the sun disappearing behind the horizon, as he saw his guard returning to take him away on the last journey he would ever take, he felt his life going down with it too.