Wherever the working man finds himself, know that his is the path of righteousness, of self-denial and of self-intuition, his character lending itself not to the way of things as they are but to the way of things as they should be. It’s not the working man but the working man’s enemies who seek to drown him in a sea of excess, in drunkenness and in lechery and in insanity, in so drowning him rendering him incapable of fighting back. But this is different, this is new, in the early part of this century the working man finally realizing the wherewithal to resist the agency under which his is subjugated.
22. Veil of Doom
The revolutionary Elijah and the popular front resists the urge to escalate the war on behalf of the working man, knowing full well his role in waiting for the anti-revolution to escalate their war on behalf of the wealthy man. Still, it’s a tempting urge, and every day that passes sees him remind himself on the necessity of the long war, on the need to preserve his own strength and in so preserving forcing the anti-revolutionary to give in to his own mounting urges and make a mistake. It’s as it’d been when a steadily mounting pressure had erupted in the form of a massacre in the streets. And as the revolutionary quietly gathers his strength and awaits the course of history to deliver him an opportunity, other events soon force his hand, events he foresaw but made no effort to forestall. “I’m not done yet,” says Valeri, still thinking to get Hannah away, “but I’ll be done soon. You can count on that.” A pause. Hannah’s on the other end of the call. She’s not been home in days, the current crisis seeing her work twenty hours a day and sleep four, all at the hospital. “You must always do what’s right,” Hannah finally says, her voice a nearly-inaudible murmur. “I always have,” Valeri says, “and I always will.” With that, he ends the call, resisting the urge to tell her he loves her. Every time they speak could be the last time they hear each other’s voices. But without the certain knowledge of death there comes the freedom of life. After ending the call, Valeri turns back to the work at hand, and looks over the pathetic arsenal he and his fellow residents have assembled. A veil of doom has descended on them, with no lifting of it in sight.
Underway, the cruiser Borealis makes through the North Sea for a destination still unknown to the crew. Cut off from the outside world, they have only terse, infrequent announcements from the Captain to inform their feelings and feed the revolutionary fervour already simmering in the hearts of ordinary sailors like Dmitri Malinin, the son of common labourers, them the children of migrants to Britain from Russia who fled their homeland in the midst of its deep depression following the breakup of the Soviet Union forty-five years ago. It’s this past he thinks on, whether lying in his bunk or manning the guns, while the Borealis proceeds towards its fate at twenty-five knots. Dmitri, like Elijah and Valeri, comes from a long line of the lowest among us, the poor, the tired, the prostituted, the addicted, the hopeless causes. It’s in this quiet before some insidious event is about to descend on them like a dark cloud; Dmitri can sense it, even if he doesn’t realize it. As the decks of the Borealis heave while she powers through the waves of the North Sea, men like Dmitri consult their past in search of a way through to the future.
Still, the counter-revolutionary forces the revolutionary’s hand. As the troopers advance in a long column of armoured vehicles into the working man’s quarters, the revolutionary Elijah watches, waiting for the right moment to strike. As the troopers stop halfway along a city block and fan out to cover the street, the revolutionary holds fast, resisting the urge to strike at the first target to present itself. As the troopers take their positions and ready themselves to fire, the moment comes when neither strike nor withdrawal will suffice. Then, an explosion, the thunderous boom cracking across the sky. A column of smoke rises. Flames colour the night a dull orange. From across the skyline, Valeri recognizes this explosion as having struck at the area around the hospital where Hannah works. “Are you ready to go out?” asks Tonya, stepping into his flat. “As ready as I’m going to be,” Valeri says. “Don’t be nervous,” says Tonya, “we’ve got nothing to lose but our lives.” In response, Valeri nods grimly, then looks out the window and onto the street below. It might seem, for a moment, he’s lost in the minutiae of his own thoughts, but still his heart brims with a confidence born from a self-assurance in the righteousness of the cause. They’ve come too far to allow the weakness of doubt into their hearts, and the spirit of the revolutionary cause surges in him, in each of them with every moment that passes, with every beat of their hearts and with every rhythmic contraction of each muscle in their bodies.
But Valeri is fully committed to the cause for which he’s already sacrificed so much, for which his parents gave their lives in the failed rising fifteen years ago. “If we can summon the courage to stand for what’s right,” he says, “then we can never fail.” He thinks only of the struggle even as his thoughts are dominated by concern for Hannah. “I don’t know if you realize what’s going on in there,” says Tonya, gesturing towards the door and by implication into the hall, “but things are getting grim.” Valeri stands and starts towards the door. “Show me,” he says. Together, they inspect the building. From the basement, floor by floor to the roof, they look through every room, accounting for the residents left, the new residents having moved in, their food, weapons, and what little they have in the way of medical supplies, a few rolls of gauze and some paracetamol. They look ragged and haggard, the last working men and women still living in the building, for the imposition of martial law has had some serious effects on daily life for the residents of Dominion Courts. Many residents have fled, others occupying their flats without registration. No one’s paid rent in months. Graham hasn’t been seen in weeks; Valeri, Tonya, and another tenant named Roger force their way into his suite, finding it empty, with no sign of where he might’ve gone. They’re left to wonder what’s become of him, a question to them forever in search of an answer.
Overnight, eviction notices bearing the seal of the police are posted to the building’s front door. A sign goes up outside in front of the building just like the sign once put up in front of the building next door. Tenants of Dominion Courts are surprised but not shocked. They’ve been expecting this for a long time. The notices gives no date. No date is needed to make the point. Still, it’s some small wonder the police have bothered even with this measure, instead of simply deploying bulldozers escorted by troopers to demolish the working man’s homes while still he lives inside. Amid the chaos of the war in the streets, it seems the new government, or at least elements within it, have decided to muster their strength in one great offensive against the working class districts, hoping to smash the revolutionary cause while it can still be so stopped. But Valeri, Tonya, Roger, and all the others don’t know this. They can’t. All they can know is the time to commit themselves irrevocably to the cause is almost at hand.
“They’re clearing us out,” says Roger. “It’s all right for them,” says Tonya. “It’s not all right for us,” says Roger. “They’re coming to evict the working class apartments,” Valeri says, “one by one. Like driving a bulldozer across a homeless camp. They just want to force us out.” Tonya and Roger nod their grim assent. But none of them can know what’s happening, why it’s happening to them, nor can they surmise the policeman’s next move. They can only sense the coming strike against them, in a visceral, almost instinctive way. Valeri notes the uncertain spirit of his working class brothers, later to report on it to the slowly-expanding alliance of parties. But no one will hold their tentativeness against them; with every step forward into the future, they’re making history. The streets encompass a triumphant spirit which remains steadfastly so in the face of withering attacks on its people, the working man and his natural allies in the struggle against dominion. The streets may yet seek deliverance from those who would take from the working man and give to themselves, for the streets themselves will always be, no matter what setbacks the working man should suffer in his struggle. Every tenant evicted, every dollar the rent raised, every working-class block levelled to make way for luxury apartments, all are a strike against the working man, and as he looks from within his cramped apartment over the street scene, home at the end of another long day at the factory, he thinks to reach out to the young woman he sees crying and offer a helping hand. Still, he knows better, having been taught better by a lifetime lived as a working man in a wealthy man’s world. A factory closes, then another, then another, soon the landscape littered with darkened shells sticking out of the ground like so many tombstones, marking the place where once industry had not only lived but thrived, the working man cast out, thoughtlessly discarded like some old piece of furniture left to rot in the rain on the side of the road.