‘This is total shit, an outrage. I knew the government was crap, but I never thought it was that bad. And the King! What’s he doing, letting himself be forced into it? A state visit is meant for the great and the good, not for vicious murderers. Hasn’t he seen your film or read the newspapers?’
‘You must remember, Emma, it’s pragmatism and business, not a game of political ethical correctness.’ Jeremy rarely contradicted his beloved, but he disapproved of members of the group merely letting off steam instead of getting on with the real work of political protest, exposing the iniquities of dictators and their acolytes, trying to bring some semblance of love and kindness into an unfair and vicious world. ‘He controls half the continent’s untapped cache of rare minerals. The government wants to butter him up so some of it comes our way at a reasonable price. What’s done is done. If the bastard’s being received anyway, what are we going to do about it?’
‘No pussyfooting around.’ Emma’s famous fury has been aroused by Jeremy’s contradiction. ‘No soppy demonstrations waving placards or chaining ourselves to the palace railings, getting locked up without so much as ten seconds coverage on the evening news.’
‘Who watches the television news nowadays?’ Marco, the youngest of the group, has a profound contempt for what he terms ‘snail news’. ‘First step, we completely snow social media. Launch every piece of visual evidence we can find. Push Jeremy’s film onto all the free channels, pull in the world’s influencers, infiltrate all the podcasts you’ve ever heard of. Start with the hangings, then the burnt villages and the bodies in the street.’
‘You can’t publish the hangings!’ Even Emma is aghast. Despite their propaganda value, the sight of twenty naked women hanging from piano wire, their bodies gashed and violated, objects stuffed into mouths and vaginas, makes her turn from the thought in horror.
‘Everything,’ emphasises Marco. ‘Let the world see what he’s like. He’s not merely one dictator among many, easing his way from resistance fighter to respected President. What did he do? First, he imprisoned as much of the opposition as he could in the name of an anti-corruption drive. What was his slogan? “lock them up now so they can’t run away with your money.” Then, when the judges started having them released, he sacked the judges and replaced them with his own men. The first sight of any dissent, he had family, village, tribe destroyed, loosed his own “people’s militia” on them to do whatever they wished: looting, raping, killing.’
He pauses for breath and glowers at the assembled group. ‘Use every film, photograph and piece of writing we can find. Force the world to look at it. Colonise as many online accounts as possible. I have plenty of friends who can do that, whatever the world’s anti-cyber crime enforcers do to stop us. It takes them days to clean up one account, by which time our message has spread to thousands or millions of followers. Give me full rein and I can make this man the most reviled creature in the whole universe!’
There is much discussion of the ethics of Marco’s plan as well as of its efficacy. In the absence of an alternative it is adopted unanimously. ‘To begin immediately,’ demands Emma.
*
‘The Group’ (as it now calls itself) has morphed into an international collaborative organisation. Financially unstable, it is true, but with contacts and adherents across the globe. Marco has done wonders in spreading word and images throughout the technosphere, bringing the atrocities to millions of phones, computers and laptops irrespective of continent, language or religion. Official government broadcasters and agencies have unwittingly spread the word, which even the most efficient have been unable to remove fast enough to prevent large swathes of their population from viewing them.
Jeremy is chairing the latest meeting, backed by Emma, Marco and the others in front of a huge video screen displaying the names and images of the most highly populated cities in the land. Cross-country discussions are far advanced, and it only remains for Emma to sum up the conclusions.
‘The state visit is to take place in five days’ time. Our action must be well coordinated, effective and non-violent. It must also be such as will attract the attention of the media, the visiting Dictator and the King himself. We thank Professor Annigone for his research and suggestion of adopting the traditional medieval mode of insult, one which is telling, humorous and effective. He has been kind enough to reference a work of fiction in which this insult plays a leading role, alongside the relevant page reference.
‘I note the fictional character here receives an unpleasant bullet wound, which I hope will not be the lot of any participants next week. Please make all your delegates aware of the reference so they can be prepared for the appropriate action or withdraw their participation should they wish. I emphasise the need for as much discretion as possible surrounding the protest and for complete discipline at all times. Remember, timing is of the essence.’
The place names on the screen flicker and die away. Jeremy is exhausted, Emma elated. Marco is dementedly tapping away on his mobile phone. ‘Well done, everyone,’ stutters Jeremy. ‘Only one thing left to do. A quick drink down the pub.’ His suggestion achieved the fastest agreement of any which had been postulated over the previous four hours.
*
The day of the state visit is bright but cold, with little wind. Government officials have been in talks with the Palace concerning transportation. The King is undecided. At his age, he prefers the warmth of the official limousine, whilst the Queen feels an open carriage is better for her complexion and shows off her jewels to their best advantage. An official mutters that the Dictator is very desirous of riding in the horse-drawn open carriage with its baroque gold ornamentation. All present turn up their eyes in disgust. Still, if they must entertain a murderous barbarian, it should be done with the maximum pomp and ceremony. The open carriages it shall be.
Outside, the crowds are gathering. Buses have decanted protestors from across the country, who are making their way to the ceremonial drive by way of various bars and coffee houses. Most are wrapped up against the cold in long padded coats, making them look like a herd of penguins.
Along the road to the palace, the police have no need of overcoats, sweating as they line its full kilometre with metal crowd barriers, asymmetrically weighted with concrete slabs to prevent them being pushed over from behind, the ‘foot’ of the block adding extra resistance. Senior officers patrol each pavement, urging their men on, ordering them to stop grumbling about breaking their backs to protect ‘some murderous foreign fascist who would deserve everything he got’ in the event of a riot. They know there will be no riot since they will perform their duty and do everything in their power to prevent one.
People are beginning to gather, alerted by the news the visitor has been delivered from the airport to his hotel, where the royal carriages await. The King and Queen are driven away from the palace by the back entrance to assume their place in the cortege. Plainclothes security personnel try to remain inconspicuous as they mingle with the public.
Royal processions normally attract crowds nine or ten deep along the route, people jostling closely together, to the joy of local pickpockets. Today, perhaps because of the deep unpopularity of the King’s guest, the attendance is more like that at a lower-division football match. Only three rows at most line up against the barriers, standing shoulder to shoulder in a military fashion. Behind them, older demonstrators stand several paces back, while the senior police officers confer anxiously about the unconventional behaviour of those they are meant to control.
Whispers down the line. ‘Two minutes.’ Suddenly, all the overcoats disappear into the aged arms of those on the back row, revealing women and girls in floor-length dresses or short skirts and men in baggy trousers or shorts.
‘Here they come!’ A patrol of police motorcycles straining in first gear, the steady clop-clop of well-shod horses. A groan from the crowd, which rolls and thunders along the whole kilometre to the palace gates. Police, carefully spaced an arm’s breadth between, turn their backs on the barriers and spectators, surveying the people opposite for any sign of dissent or disturbance.
All they see is lines of people turning their backs. The crowd barriers collapse, pulled inwards rather than outwards to negate the effect of their concrete feet, sounding like a lorry full of scaffolding poles being unloaded by a gang of builders. All are undressing; miniskirts and dresses are hoicked upwards and trousers are dropped to the floor. The whole avenue is transformed into parallel rows of cold, blue bare bottoms turned towards the visiting dignatory. Distracted senior police officers rush up and down, urging their men to do something, to make arrests. To no effect. Quite the contrary. As if answering their commanders’ cries, the officers themselves turn face to the crowd, bending over and exposing their own rear ends to the procession.
In his carriage the Dictator is overwhelmed with fury, jumping up and down, tearing at the lapels of his exorbitantly expensive jacket, shouting obscenities at the people, urging the mounted military escort to ride in among them, to shoot them down, impale them on their swords. The soldiers remain impassive, though muffled sniggers and grins can be discerned. The King wears a smile larger than his crown as he beats his hand upon the side of the carriage, while his wife pretends to be shocked, peaking round the edge of the silk handkerchief she holds to her eyes to hide the disgusting sight around her.
Amateur and professional cameras are everywhere, catching every moment, every cheer, obscenity, grin, giggle, shake of a buttock. Respectable news outlets turn from naked flesh towards their reporters on the mounds above the palace, but even here the sight of bare bottoms is inescapable as casual passers-by join in the spectacle. Within minutes the scene has been distributed across the world, news bulletins have been interrupted, social media overwhelmed, posters painted, jokes written by comedians, condemnations penned by hard-line commentators and clergy.
In the dictator’s home country, it is still the middle of the night. Lights begin to go on in houses, people are woken by telephone calls from friends. Ignoring the curfew and the shortage of petrol, cars speed across the capital city. Security at roadblocks is lax, the soldiers too interested in what is new on their mobile phones. National television has ceased broadcasting. The streets are filling up, bringing those speeding cars down to a crawl.
At dawn, roads are impassable because of the crowds of shouting people. Army vehicles appear from side streets. The people do not pull back. Shots are heard in the distance. The noise grows, a humming of worker bees caught between storm and honey. Army vehicles push forward, slower than walking pace. The soldiers do not dismount, rigid on their benches, stone-faced.
More shots, vast fusillades, honking of car horns. State television is back on air. Word goes round, unmediated by electrical impulses. ‘The dictator is overthrown, deposed by the army. We are free at last!’
Until the army installs its own new dictator. Who can not, surely, be as evil as the previous one?
