Going Underground

by Denison, L. N

  *

  All that could be heard in the back of the van was banging and muffled moaning. Myosin had been placed in the van in the most uncomfortable position he had ever experienced. The two henchmen had shoved him in on his front, but had pulled his head back off the floor using more rope, arching his body painfully. It was the henchmen’s own devilish idea, but Howard didn’t say a word about the prime minister’s added discomfort—in fact, he revelled in it.

  The journey towards the war-beaten forest was nearly at its end, and Edward Myosin’s slow death was imminent. A hole had already been prepared to house his coffin. He would slowly asphyxiate therein with only the air passing through his nostrils to keep him alive, unless of course, he could somehow rid himself of the sock that had been forced into his mouth. This was unlikely, as the rope holding his head in place also firmly held the gag. Even the great Harry Houdini himself could not escape from this predicament.

  The van jolted to a screeching halt on the outskirts of the forest, forcing the sock even further down Myosin’s throat. The henchmen were in tucks at the prime minister’s distress.

  ‘You halfwits! Get that sock out of his mouth—now!’ Howard roared, hearing the commotion. ‘I want that monster to suffer to the last breath, not choke to death on a bloody sock! But don’t forget to replace the rope—I still want him kept quiet!’

  Once the sock had been removed and the rope tightened back over Myosin’s mouth, Howard trotted around the back and unlocked the van’s hatch. The henchmen jumped down and pulled Myosin after them like a sack of potatoes. Next, the coffin was offloaded. Still wearing his sleeping shades, Edward was unaware he was about to be buried alive.

  The henchmen lugged the coffin towards the hole, which had been dug so deep into the forest it would be impossible for anyone to find it. The henchmen unceremoniously dragged Myosin on his knees to the burial site, his silk pyjamas shredded to pieces by brambles, his knees cut and bleeding. He didn’t make a sound, resigning himself to what had been referred to by his captors as ‘a fate worse than death’ throughout the journey.

  The coffin lay open and waiting for its new occupant. John Howard stood beside it, leaning against one of the shovels and waiting impatiently.

  ‘Come on, hurry up, will you! I want to get this over and done with!’ he barked.

  The henchmen finally reached the coffin and dumped Myosin face-first in the dirt.

  Howard reached down and whisked the sleeping shades off the Prime Minister’s face, before removing the rope from his mouth. For the first time, Myosin saw the coffin and guessed his fate.

  ‘Hope you like your final resting place, Edward,’ sneered the Brigadier.

  ‘Why are you doing this, John?’ asked Myosin pitifully. ‘I thought we were friends!’

  ‘Friends? Hah! I want to make you suffer, Edward, and I want your job. And I know for a fact that I wouldn’t have got it going the electoral process.’ John turned to his henchmen. ‘Put him in the coffin and nail the lid shut!’

  ‘You’ll burn in hell for this, John!’ Myosin screamed.

  ‘Maybe. But you’ll be there before me!’

  The two men lifted Edward’s trussed body off the ground and placed him in the coffin face down. The lid came down and Edward let out his last few muffled squeals as each nail was knocked into place.

  ‘Get him in the ground!’ Howard ordered tersely.

  The coffin was quickly lowered into the hole, and all three men shovelled dirt on top, with Edward’s squeals fading into nothingness with every layer.

  ‘Rest in eternal torment, Edward Myosin! May you have a long and painful death!’ Howard made his way back to the van, beckoning his henchmen to follow.

  Howard had a sinister warning for the two men who had been forced to accompany him. Under no circumstance were they to mention this night to anyone, under penalty of death. The prime minister’s ignoble fate was to remain in the darkest chasms of their minds for the remainder of their natural lives, or until such a time that John Howard would fall foul of his own ambition.

  *

  Concern was beginning to run high within the Houses of Parliament. Nobody had any idea where the prime minister was, not even his top cabinet ministers. He had been missing for over a week, and the election was in full swing. In the event that something were to happen to him, Myosin had drafted a resolution naming Brigadier John Howard his successor as prime minister—an eventuality Howard had cajoled, finagled, and flattered Myosin into authoring. Everything was working out just as Howard planned, and his two accomplices had wisely held their tongues. With the reigns of power firmly in hand, Howard had ordered those who knew the location of the prime minister’s retreat, to stay away. He ruled that he would be the only one to go, and nobody argued the fact.

  News that the prime minister had suddenly gone missing did not escape Myron, Jen, and Oscar’s attention. All kinds of theories began to fly around London as to what had happened to him. Many suspected foul play, but there was no solid proof.

  The fifth newsletter was devoted entirely to rumours of Edward Myosin’s demise, with a little help from an inside source. It was not clear whether one of the henchmen had dared to speak out about what happened that night, or if someone else had overheard the conversation John Howard had had with his two accomplices. It was a moot point: the brigadier automatically assumed they had something to do with the publication and ordered their execution.

  The brigadier had to think quickly. What could he do to make the situation go away? A rather ghoulish scenario came to mind: digging up Myosin’s body and placing it back in his bed in his country house, and trying to make it look like he had died in his sleep—the only problem being, decomposition. Would he be too far gone to look like he had died of natural causes? After all, he had been buried alive, and all kinds of creatures could have been gnawing away at his flesh over that period. Maybe, Howard mused, he could place him back in his bed and then cause a fire. Edward had a bad habit of smoking in bed. The brigadier reached this conclusion when he broke into his bedroom. There was an ashtray on his bedside cabinet, and the bedroom smelt strongly of stale smoke. It would be the perfect ‘get out of jail free’ card, and nobody would ever suspect his death was the result of murder.

  *

  Howard went back to the burial site alone, taking only a shovel with him. He remembered exactly where he had buried Edward, and freshly disturbed earth marked the site. This could only mean one thing: forest animals had tried to get at Myosin’s body, even though it was concealed in a wooden box.

  Howard quickly dug up the coffin, noticing several tiny bore holes as he prised the lid open with the shovel’s cutting edge. Apart from the odd insect trying to make a home in the late Prime Minister’s ears, Myosin’s body was surprisingly well-preserved, but his face had frozen in a rictus of horror as he realised that, no matter how hard he pummelled and kicked at the coffin lid, he would never escape his grisly tomb.

  ‘Edward, old boy, you never looked so handsome!’ Howard quipped sardonically.

  He removed the ropes that Edward had been bound and gagged with and then lifted his stinking, urine-ridden carcass out onto the forest floor, ready to drag it back to the same black van that he had used to carry out the dastardly deed in the first place.

  ‘Too many questions were being asked—if I had my way I would leave you here to rot!’ Howard muttered to himself as he dragged the Prime Minister’s stiff and slightly bloated body towards the van.

  ‘I need to make it look like you died an accidental death, mate,’ he said, keeping up a morbid conversation with the silent corpse. He caught himself and said, ‘Blimey, I’m beginning to sound like a madman!’

  Howard was almost exhausted from dragging Myosin’s lifeless, six-foot carcass, but finally he had him stuffed inside the van.

  ‘Best put on your seatbelt, Eddie,’ the Brigadier chortled, ‘it’s going to be a bumpy ride!’

  The drive back to Myosin’s country home was uneventful. Ho
ward’s mind was preoccupied with how to start the fire that would confirm the prime minister’s death.

  He pulled up outside the humble, rustic house, and backed up as close as possible to the steps. After opening the front door wide, he went back to the van and swung open the double doors to reveal a pair of size twelve feet. Howard grabbed Myosin’s ankles and pulled him out of the van, his head bouncing off the gravel it hit. It didn’t matter what happened to him now; he wouldn’t feel a thing. The coarse grit ripped and tore at the skin on his face, turning the ghastly death grin into a scary, lopsided clown’s smirk.

  Howard dragged Myosin inside and hefted him up the staircase, the prime minister’s head banging against every step until he was completely unrecognisable. Every five steps Howard would stop and take a rest, wondering if he had bitten off more than he could chew with this scheme.

  *

  The scene was set. Myosin was in his bed, clad in his torn and dirty pyjamas, a lit cigarette in his hand with the butt conveniently touching the sheets. The silk began to smoulder. The brigadier waited a while for the fire to get going on the bed and then took his leave. As quickly as he could, he ran back to the staircase and skated down it to beat the now raging fire.

  Howard sailed out the front door, closed the van doors, dove into the driver’s seat, and sped back towards London. In the rear-view mirror he saw that the fire had engulfed the whole house; it was blowing out windows, causing small explosions as it hit the kitchen area, and bigger explosions as the fire hit the gas mains.

  The main explosion, Howard reckoned, would probably be visible to folks in Central London. A ball of flame shot at least forty feet in the air, scattering debris for hundreds of yards. Howard was far enough away not to get caught in the shards of splintered wood and glass that showered the area. Would there be enough of Edward’s body left to identify? the brigadier thought to himself. What could possibly be left after such a ferocious blaze?

  It didn’t take Howard long to reach the outskirts of London. Now his main priority was to get home as quickly as possible. The smell of smoke had attached itself to his clothes, and he had to get rid of the evidence before returning to his position at the Houses of Parliament the next morning. The smell was only slight, but it was enough to arouse suspicion.

  *

  Howard pulled up outside his dwellings, a place the previous tenant had abandoned to escape the witch-hunts that had persecuted so many. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside, and had required a lot of restoration and tidying up on the inside. The residence was lavished with fine furnishings, a reward Myosin had extended to him for his loyalty and efforts during the war.

  Howard quickly went inside, took off his jacket and shirt and made his way to his damp-ridden bathroom. Every time he entered, he would have to check if the water was still running or if someone had stolen his rations for that day. There was nothing stopping anyone from walking away with everything that he held dear, even though he was still regarded as a national hero for technically winning the war single-handedly; alas, people’s respect for him was slowly dissipating in the light of recent rumours.

  He turned on the tap and a trickle of water appeared. Then the pipes started banging with the pressure, and finally the trickle became a gush, spraying Howard’s trousers and vest. He quickly stripped bare as the sink began to fill.

  The water always ran cold. John had never known the water to be hot in all the time he had been there. Maybe hot water was another thing that the government held back for use in their own homes, like other precious commodities—but Howard would not have to worry about cold water for much longer.

  The brigadier reached for the little bit of black market soap that he had procured and began to wash as hard as he could to rid himself of the smell of smoke that had attached itself to his torso. It seemed that no matter how hard he scrubbed, he still couldn’t get it out of his pores. He was beginning to draw blood through the constant scrubbing.

  *

  An hour and two layers of skin later, Howard had finally given up trying. He dried his tender skin gently and wrapped the towel around his waist, before walking over to the pile of clothes on the floor. He gathered them up and took them to where he had earlier dropped his jacket and shirt. Howard retrieved the can of lighter fluid that sat on the mantle above the fireplace, which was regrettably bricked up. He had to get rid of his clothes in the wood burner that sat in the middle of his dingy bedroom, which was also his living room and kitchen.

  Howard threw the clothes into the wood burner and doused them liberally with the lighter fluid. He picked up matches from the kitchen and rushed back towards the wood burner to set the clothes on fire before the fluid dried. The resulting fire barely smouldered. Howard grabbed hold of the remainder of the fluid and squirted it at the miniscule flame. With a whoosh, the flame jumped into life, forcing him to take a step backwards as the heat hit all at once. He quickly shut the door and watched the fire through the window for fifteen minutes, until every last thread of the incriminating clothes had disappeared.

  ‘Done and done!’ he crowed to himself. ‘No one will ever suspect me now!’

  *

  Even after the events of the previous day, Howard woke up after what he considered a good night’s sleep. He was rising to a new chapter in his life: the day he would officially become the new prime minister. He removed his military uniform from storage, donned it gingerly over his raw skin and prepared to be received by his cabinet.

  Before he left for his journey into Westminster, Howard took a glance at himself in a broken mirror shard. He straightened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair, realising he hadn’t washed out its smoky smell. It was too late to do much about it, though, as time was of the essence. He tried to find something to disguise the smell, anything deodorising. He ran to the bathroom and rummaged frantically, knocking what little toiletries he had all over the floor. Among them was the remainder of hair pomade he had used for a few years to tame his unruly and luxurious waves; now the waves were just about gone, and he had no real use for it. It would, however, disguise the smell of smoke with an even more pungent aroma. Quickly, he picked up the cracked jar and stuck his fingers in the dwindling contents, before slicking back his thinning hair. Now he was ready to make the journey to Westminster.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The newsletters were proving successful beyond Myron, Jen, and Oscar’s wildest dreams. The people had come to the conclusion that one of the existing rebel cells was responsible for opening their eyes to the staggering extent of the government’s treachery; they never considered that members of the younger generation had masterminded the whole thing.

  ‘We’ll have to give the people what they want,’ Oscar mused. ‘They think that a rebel cell is responsible for the newsletter. Therefore, we will make it so. We have to think of a name for a cover—any ideas?’ he asked both Myron and Jen.

  After a brief silence, Myron replied, ‘What was the name of the cell that my father was a part of? Oscar, you know!’

  ‘Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? We could resurrect The Independent Mind—the government won’t know what hit them!’ Oscar replied excitedly.

  ‘Who was The Independent Mind?’ Jen asked curiously.

  ‘The Independent Mind was dissolved a long time ago,’ Oscar answered, puffing up as he always did when he got the chance to pontificate. ‘All its members were killed or imprisoned as part of the early witch-hunts at the beginning of the war. Many were rebelling against the segregation of the races, and were government members at that time.’

  Had Jen been a bit older and more attuned to what was going on around her, she would have realised that the people under Waterloo Bridge were a part of that exclusive cell. She had been in the presence of some of the most influential people in London, in the sense that they had the government over a barrel.

  Did Lavinia know she was amongst members of The Independent Mind? She would take the answer to the grave along with answe
rs to many other things, such as why she had risked her life for one quick shag with a passing soldier—or so the accusations against her specified.

  *

  Jen was quite taken by the new name; it had a certain ring to it, and it made her feel important for the first time in her life. The next newsletter would evoke the name of The Independent Mind, and by doing so would bring some hope back to the people of London and the Southeast—or so the trio of young journalists hoped.

  Oscar had already started drafting the next newsletter using the heading “The Independent Mind Resurrected,” the issue being dedicated to the memory of those who had once been members of the ill-fated cell—and to the success of its reformation. The hope was that being more established would help the three current members to find more people to join the fight against the growing tyranny of John Howard.

  The verdict on Edward Myosin’s death was ‘death by misadventure,’ clearing the way for John Howard to stake his claim to the prime minister’s mantel. In the few short weeks that he had been in power, people had already given him the label of dictator. His choice to run the country with an iron fist had not gone down too well with the majority, and the new rebel cell would find themselves with some willing volunteers sooner than they thought.

  An anonymous source had given Oscar some very interesting information. He suspected that it may have come from someone close to the Brigadier—maybe from one of his cabinet members, but he couldn’t be sure. Whoever it was, this informant knew more than they should about the workings of John Howard’s mind, and had the power to destroy him if he or she so pleased. Oscar realised with delight that he and the informant had similar goals: to slowly damage Howard’s psyche. Oscar needed to know who his mysterious informant was, and next time he would insist they reveal their true identity.

  *

  Gerick Meyer was employed by John Howard to undertake the much-talked-about cloning experiments within the Parliament walls. The only problem was he hated everything that the new prime minister stood for in every way, and took pleasure in trying to bring him down—feeding as much information as he safely could to Oscar for the next and future editions of the newsletter. He couldn’t bring himself to share his identity with Oscar so early on in his involvement; he was risking enough already, without making the situation even more difficult.