Pierce Hawkins stood by the large window, his left hand resting against the bright London night as his right hand cradled the half empty glass of whisky he was cautiously sipping. He had only just started drinking and the sharp brown liquid still felt like warm broken glass cascading down his throat. His father lost his job due to alcoholism and later; his life. This had always dissuaded Pierce from pursuing the comfort of the bottle but now all the threat and danger seemed meaningless in the face of larger problems. ‘How long can this all last?’ he began to wonder as he watched car lights slowly dance along the streets. His eyes scanned the horizon to the faint glimmer of fire and smoke near the river. Blue lights still streamed their way to where another Unite Against Fascism rally had ended in violence. With one more sip and grimace Pierce stepped over to his desk and reclined on the wooden chair behind it. Setting down the glass on the polished mahogany he lifted the phone receiver for the seventh time that evening. His breath quickened in tense anticipation while the line rang twice before shifting to answerphone.
“…… Hello. Mum. I guess you – uh – you rejected my call again. I really need to talk to you. I’m not going to say why. Or outline reasons for my actions or anything over the phone. I can’t – I mean I won’t… But I need to see you. Whether or not you answer these calls I’m coming over. I won’t tell you when. But I am. I will try again later – or you can call me back. Please, this isn’t my fault.”
The phone went back and Pierce scratched his beard. It was getting too hard for him these days. The decisions he had to make were breaking his heart and his plan was no longer clear. Things were moving fast and he was quickly becoming another worthless cog in a machine that was building incredible momentum. Reclining further he began to survey his room solely illuminated by the desk light and whatever filtered in from the offices across the road. It was the office of a much older man, his predecessor specifically. A rich, dark brown touched everything; the floor continuing up into the furniture before meeting with the green leather of sofas or multicoloured bookends. It was a big room and made bigger by the large windows that ran alongside it and in the dark the corners promised hidden threats and secret observance. Pierce’s eyes met his own in the reflection in the window. He could see the bleak sadness resting there within a man who looked nothing like the civil servant he was supposed to be. The coarse beard had completely taken over his chin and upper neck merging with the long dirty brown hair that fell down the back of his head. His blue shirt was faded and discoloured and there was a small cigarette burn in the shoulder of his jacket. No one cared about his appearance or if they did; it did not matter. The old rules were gone. The only thing that mattered now was loyalty and diligence. If Pierce was prepared to sign the right papers and say yes to the right things then he could afford to wear whatever had at least a semblance of professionalism. But if he took a step in the wrong direction he risked more than his job. His gaze returned to the room and the images separated themselves from his thoughts except for white triangles that stood out from the polished surfaces. After ten minutes Pierce realised that he was staring straight at one book in the bookcase. Pierce wandered over and drew the book out slowly as he could feel the spine disintegrating beneath his grasp. Human Rights in the UK ran down the length of the spine in faded gold lettering against the wrinkles and bathroom green of the cover. The state of the book was puzzling; it could not have been more than ten years old; he guessed. ‘Then again, the fact that it still exists here at all is strange.’ Carefully opening it up he watched a page fall out and hit his leg in the unusually hard way that falling paper does. On the page was the edition and date. It was the same book he studied from at University only six years ago.
Well what do you think?
