Not long after, news breaks of the impending closure of a factory not altogether far from the shop Valeri was recently fired from, a brief note made on the screens of the hundreds of men put out of work. Left unannounced but widely understood is the factory’s new home half a world away, to be manned not by men but by children, as so many factories already moved are manned, paid a fraction the wages British workers were paid. But the game’s afoot. In the morning a new gathering takes place, occupying the square around Victory Monument as all the others have, only this time the gathering fills the air with singing and shouting of slogans in one voice. It’s as though someone has begun to manipulate these people like a skilled conductor slowly teasing a symphony from his orchestra. And he’s almost got it. In this advanced stage of historical development, the way of things seems strong as ever, the wealthy man’s power so firmly entrenched that it seems as though it’s always been. As the storm troopers take their positions it becomes lost in the moment that they’re wearing the insignia of a forbidden army, one thought lost to the pages of a long-dead history. As these storm troopers look on, the working man assails himself against an imaginary foe, never more confident in his own assured tomorrow, losing sight of another’s today.
10. Days of Rage
There’s trouble in the streets. The sound of horns braying and of men angrily shouting slogans fills the air among the crowd gathered not far from the city centre. There’s always trouble in the streets, but today those troubles have surged to the forefront, if only for a short time. The face of our common enemy appears calm, dispassionate as he methodically contains the anger venting in the streets. He’s done this before, many, many times. Standing in front of the crowd, he adopts a wide stance and readies his truncheon and shield. But it’s more for show than anything else. His is a routine well-rehearsed, his nerves steady and his motions smooth, rhythmic, his work a ritual requiring him only to allow his body to re-enact from memory. After the speaker at the hall filled the polytechnic’s students with old ways of thinking, Sean Morrison has joined the crowd. To him, this is their occupation, a moment when they have seized control of the streets and deprived the enemy of the control they’ve had for too long. But when the end comes, they will yield control back to the enemy, having won little for their cause. It’s a frustrating cycle, and in the streets Sean can’t foresee an end to it, looking into the future revealing only still more occupations to end in yielding control all the same. Little does he know the mysterious speaker at the hall has this in mind; it’s important the pressure is kept unrelenting in the mounting struggle against the way of things.
This time, at first, it’s no different. This time, the crowd of some thousands gathers, then disperses, in the aftermath the smoke-filled streets to be cleared in the days to come, the police withdrawing to their stations and the usual troublemakers who’d made up this particular crowd returning to the universities, the pubs, the union halls and the churches, to return when next the occasion calls for it. But Valeri doesn’t take part in this mass action, having taken in with the crowds of day labourers who turn up at every construction site, every factory, every shop left open looking for a day’s wages, most turned away. Today he’s among those chosen, working with a burly, bearded man named Michael on one side and a short, thin, red-head named Samantha on the other. Between the three of them, the ninety-pound girl works the hardest and the fastest. On the floor it’s cold, but Samantha wears thin pants and a short-sleeved shirt and never complains about the cold. “Do you ever think we should just stop doing this?” asks Michael. “All the time,” Valeri says, “every day, in fact.” But Samantha says, “we should never stop. This is the only thing that’s made the years bearable.” She speaks of her work with a passion admirable if misguided. Although Valeri has come to know his labour is sold for the benefit of his bosses, he can still only articulate his knowledge in the sort-of basic, instinctive way he can. In this state of despair, only instinct can be relied on to guide men like Valeri through. At the underground church, the rogue priest urges his new flock to join in, his gospel of sedition taking a new turn. Darren remembers his dead family, those cast out of work like disposable tools only so the wealthy man might profit, and his heart hardens against the way of things. He feels his pulse quicken and his fist clench whenever the rogue priest calls forth the faithful to take to the streets; his friend Sheila stands with him, one look into her eyes proving she’s as committed as he is. But their time is not yet come. “I don’t know what will come of this,” he says to her as they sit in the pews together, “but I will never forget what’s been done. This is not the Britain I’ve ever wanted to live in, and it’s not the Britain I want to leave for the next generation to live in. it’s a certainty that God is on our side.” They sit not in the underground church but in the pews of the Anglican church, surrounded by opulence and ritualism, their surroundings dead but either of them alive once more. “I place my faith in the liberation of Christ,” says Sheila, “and we will be delivered from the evils of poverty and deprivation only through him.” But theirs is belief sincere and steadfast, as is the beliefs of the rogue priest, he one of many rogue priests across Britain preaching this new gospel. This is not merely the product of worsening poverty but a spiritual awakening, the essence of liberation making itself felt like the warmth of a tired man coming in from the bitter cold. As it is written in Proverbs 31:9 says, ‘Open thy mouth, judge righteously, and plead the cause of the poor and needy.’ Men like Darren intend to fulfill this commandment, and in so filling will play their role in the coming revolution.
As yet, the revolution is a young child, still learning to walk and talk, but surely destined for greatness. They leave behind broken windows, smashed-in storefronts, and burnt-out cars. But there’s one thing that’s made a difference, one little change, a young woman, a young mother struck in the face by a canister of gas fired haphazardly into the crowd, her death so sudden, so violent, leaving behind a young child with no father to be raised by a rotating cast of characters and in so leaving a young child alone setting off a chain of events rooted in the common history we all share. In the midst of a simmering crisis, a calm emerges. At times, it may seem like there’s no greater purpose at play, no higher cause to ennoble the weakest and most pathetic among us, but it’s not true. In the night, an agreement is struck, in the morning news breaking across the screens of a new pact signed between countries, a corollary to the agreements already in place. Not a military alliance, this pact commits all parties involved to the removal of all impediments on the flow of capital across their borders, making it easier than ever for the wealthy criminals to abscond with their ill-gotten gains. Valeri reads this, and it inspires in him a quixotic mix of fatalism and rage. From his mother-in-law’s flat in Surrey, Garrett Walker reads this news as well, inspiring in him that same mix of emotions. “This can’t stand,” he says, assembled with a small crowd of angry, out-of-work men at the office of their member of parliament. The MP isn’t a conservative but a member of the so-called Labour Party. “This won’t stand,” says another man. In the moment there’s that dark essence coursing through the working man’s veins, nestling in the hearts of every unemployed worker there and in the hearts of every unemployed worker not there, the announcement of this new treaty ill-timed.