For a while, his ideas were popular talking points in the press and on current affairs shows, but soon the campaign started to lose momentum — helped by the naysayers and lobbyists, painting pictures of political chaos and wasted taxes. The turnaround in fortunes for the True Democracy movement was unexpected and ironic.
In an effort to kill the idea for all time, a media mogul arranged for his most popular television talent show to add the ‘No’ vote to its phone poll for contestants. At the same time, the political media made sure to give Charles full credit for the ‘flawed’ idea, in anticipation of a glorious failure. The show presented eight contestants with varying degrees of talent. In total almost two million people voted, but to the surprise of many, more than a million of those votes were to eliminate all of the contestants.
Although this rejection was a very public display of people power, it supported the argument that True Democracy would inevitably lead to political chaos. The panel of expert judges selected eight more contestants, and the producers invited the public to vote again. This time over nine million people voted and again the majority chose the ‘None of the above’ option. The show’s viewing figures were sharply increasing, and the producers were delighted. The lobbyists and politicians were considerably less happy — but the process had started and it was now far too public to stop.
By this time, the social media was buzzing. People were publically refusing to vote for the next group of candidates; they wanted their own choice. Eventually the show’s producers had to give in to such overwhelming public pressure. At the end of June, a third round of voting took place. Six new contestants were presented, including four that had received the most support from social media. Almost twenty-two million people voted in the third poll — a television record. The winning contestant was a seventeen-year-old comedian from Manchester, chosen with the support of social media; she received over fourteen million votes.
The conclusion was clear, people loved the idea of True Democracy; they felt engaged and empowered. Suddenly, Charles Rathbone the war hero had also become a political hero — and a safe bet to win a seat at the next election. Now he was a man who was about to die.
As Charles Rathbone entered Finchingfield post office, he found that there were several customers queuing at the counter. On hearing him enter, one elderly lady turned around and Charles smiled widely as he came face-to-face with Mary Heffernan. Many years ago when she was a tall and dangerously attractive young woman, Mary had been an English teacher to the young Charles Rathbone. He was saddened to see her now, bent over with age, and confused by her developing Dementia. Back then, this beautiful woman, with her razor sharp mind and ready wit, had won the heart and mind of that hormonally challenged teenager.
Charles still addressed her as Mrs. Heffernan, even though they had been friends for well over forty years, and despite her repeated pleads for him to call her Mary.
“Well, good afternoon, Mrs. Heffernan. And how are you today?”
She looked up and assessed him with watery grey eyes that gave little indication of the intelligent blue sparkle that had once lived within.
“Goodness me, if it isn’t Charles Rathbone,” she said in a voice as cracked and dry as old paint. “I heard that you are going to be the next Prime Minister.”
Charles smiled at the thinly veiled compliment.
“Well, perhaps next year. Right now I am just hoping to become a Member of Parliament.”
They were blocking the doorway and had to stand aside when another customer entered the post office — it was the young man who had been riding his bicycle in the street. He had a black eye and seemed rather surprised and embarrassed by the crowded room. He stepped to one side and began inspecting a display of elastic bands on the stationery counter. Charles and Mary exchanged a knowing glance.
“I’m sure you will win handsomely, you can count on my vote.” She put her hand on his sleeve. “But only if you promise to call me Mary.”
“Good gracious, Mrs. Heffernan,” Charles said in mock surprise. “Attempting to bribe a candidate, and in a public place as well — I am shocked! Whatever will people think?”
“People will think that you are a naughty schoolboy who still won’t do what he’s told,” she replied, patting his arm.
Charles smiled.
“And they would probably be right.” He tilted his head and gave a dramatic sigh. “OK, I give in. If I win the election, I promise to call you Mary, Mrs. Heffernan. You have my word.”
“Well then, I had better go and campaign for you. Once you have reinvented democracy, perhaps you can do something about the price of vegetables — this cucumber cost a pound at the market; it’s an absolute scandal!”
“Goodness! That seems expensive. I promise that I will make salad pricing for the elderly my first priority,” he quipped. “It is a lovely looking cucumber though.”
“The man said it was special, one of those orgasmic cucumbers.”
Charles’s heart sank at her confusion and the barely concealed titters from the other customers.
“I think you mean ‘organic,’ Mrs. Heffernan,” Charles replied kindly.
“I know exactly what I mean,” she said, giving him a sly wink as he held the door open for her. “Good luck with the election.”
Charles went to the greeting cards display. After a brief inspection, he smiled and selected a birthday card showing a picture of a car. He paid for a stamp and the card, and using a borrowed pen, he wrote an address on the envelope and added a birthday wish to the pre-printed greeting. Charles stood very still for a moment, before suddenly turning to face the young man who was standing by his side.
“How’s the cycling today?” Charles asked.
For a moment the young man seemed confused and a little startled, but he recovered quickly, mumbling a polite ‘Fine, thanks’, before turning away to inspect another packet of elastic bands. As soon as the man turned away, Charles pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and quickly slipped it inside the card. He carefully sealed the envelope shut and dropped it into the internal mail box, then gave the post-mistress a friendly wave goodbye, and headed back to his car.
As he watched Charles drive away, the young man stood by his bicycle and used his cell phone to make a call.
“It’s me, Darren Jeffers. It looks like he’s heading back home.” He listened to a question and replied, “No, nothing else to report. He just sent a birthday card to some guy called Stone.”
Eric Stone was annoyed. His golden rule in life was always, ‘Don’t get involved,’ and now he was about to break it.
At the age of fourteen, battered and bruised from yet another beating at the hands of the school bully and his sidekicks, Stone had joined a local Wado-Ryu karate club. After his second night of training, the Sensei, an aging Japanese man who had an 8th Dan black belt, pulled young Stone to one side.
“I’m worried about you, Eric. Clearly, you have a natural aptitude for karate. I can see that already. But these bruises you carry on your face tell me that you may want to learn karate for the wrong reason.”
“I don’t understand, Sensei,” Eric pleaded. “I just want to learn to defend myself. What’s wrong with that?”