Defiance

It happened, as these things usually do, in the middle of the night. Perhaps it was for the fear factor, to strike a blow against thoughts of speaking out when people are at their most vulnerable. Perhaps it was to lend that air of sinister mystery. Perhaps it was because jackbooted goons burn easily in the day and sunscreen is too expensive to buy in bulk.

Whatever their motive, it was inevitable that they would come, eventually. Oh, you could hold out for a while, maybe to the point where you thought you had beaten they system. But that’s not how it works. Not now, not ever. It always starts the same way. A collection of small, seemingly trivial things build up. And then the anger grows, and it froths, and it boils, and it spills over, until, ultimately, you stand up to the regime and the regime pushes you backwards so you fall over another conveniently placed part of said regime that is crouching behind you.

So when they arrived, I wasn’t really surprised. From the moment I began, I suppose I was always resigned to my eventual failure. Still, a man can dream.

A man can dream.

***************

It began, as angst-filled flashbacks usually do, in the past. It was a hot day in The Glorious Summer, and I was walking through the packed streets of The Capital. My eyes had never really been opened to the atrocities of The Organisation before; I knew that they disliked free speech, but I had never presumed it was to the extent that it would appear they did. They were bizarre, in a way. The symbol on the side of a van, doors ready and open for the screaming man who was being led towards it, was apparently omnipresent. They said it was meant to be. But woe betide you if you didn’t get permission first. The Organisation was very... particular about that. Their reasoning was, as ever, vague and unenlightening. Some spiel about ‘proper interests’ and ‘economic implications’. It was the same with other symbols, as well as words and phrases. They were all in favour of their name being spread –how could the ignorant be ruled, after all?– but only by the right people, lest the ideas they coveted be slighted and smeared. This was apparently what the man, who had been running a market stall, had done. ‘Undue permission’ was what the uniformed men had said as they dragged the offender away. Some more smashed up the stall, and confiscated the wares. Soon, they were gone, leaving little trace behind. I sometimes wondered if these were faux raids, pre-planned to instil fear and obedience. The despairing face, streaked with tears, threw this into doubt.

Seemingly, not a day went by where there wasn’t another such event recorded. A deli here, a hair salon there. Some of the big companies, of course, laughed smugly at all this. Others gritted their teeth with resentment. But there was little they could do. The Organisation had government backing. At times, it seemed they were the government. Hell, there was little anyone could do. You could conform or confront. But only one of those options guaranteed safety.

I don’t fully know why I did it, in the end. I guess the endless reports wore down my indifference. The Glorious Summer had recently turned sour as the heavens opened. Anger seemed to grow, both for those in The Organisation and those against it. ‘Pre-emptive detentions’ suddenly rocketed in number; all those who may have caused trouble for the Event, which grew ever closer, were detained. Better safe than sorry, they said. I guess that was really the last straw.

One day, open rejection of The Organisation’s policy seemed the only option. I walked to work eating unofficial chips, drinking unofficial soft drinks. I marvelled at their speed; it was barely ten minutes before a black car seemed permanently within 100 metres. Well, I say permanently. I own a small café, with one of those blackboard menus outside. I dared, that morning, to write some of the forbidden words on that menu for all to see. For all to be inspired by. Shortly after, the black car sped away. And, for the time being, that was the end of it.

That night, I packed a small bag containing some essential belongings, some changes of clothes, all that jazz. I put some food in the fish bowl. Left a note for the milkman. It wouldn’t be long.

***************

“What makes you think you can flout the rules so publicly, Mr Foster? They’re there for a reason, you know.”

I raised a finger. “Uh! Can’t use my name without permission” I said, with what I thought was a wry smile. For some unknown reason, I thought a little (attempt at) humour wouldn’t go amiss. Now, I’m not great at reading emotions, but from what I could gather from the way they pummelled me, the goons thought otherwise.

The relentless beating must have worn me out, because I soon found myself asleep, and the next thing I knew I was tied to a chair in some dank and damp grey room. A couple of thugs –they may have been the same ones; they all seemed largely interchangeable– were in the room, as was a man in a suit. He wore a gold watch and an irritable expression.

“Mr Foster,” I thought about repeating the gag, but for some reason my swollen mouth couldn’t quite bring itself to utter the words. “Do you know exactly what you are trifling with?”

“If I did, would I be allowed to say so?” Mistake. Beatings were lashed out again.

“I suppose concessions can be made, occasionally. You seem so intent on treasuring this ‘free speech’ business. Quite why, I couldn’t begin to even hazard an answer.”

I shrugged. “Got to have something to do.” I swallowed, painfully. “I can name you now, if you like.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “And where exactly would that get you?” The goons cracked their knuckles.

I looked down, and blinked. Where would it get me? “Defiance starts with small steps,” I mumbled.

The man laughed. “Very well, then. Name us.” The thugs took a step towards me. “Name us! Sully the air with words that you are not fit to utter!”

I took a deep breath. I raised my head with an aching neck, looked out through puffy, swollen eyes, and spoke through a mouth filled with blood. “I name you,” I coughed.

“I name you... LOCOG.”