Eye of the Storm
He pushed the box of files aside. The clock was ticking, down to the last minute of the day. Another box rolled toward him, passed through a flap in the wall, transported on a conveyor belt. Dutifully, he picked it up, uncapped a pen with a click, and signed his name on top of it. Alexander Rykov. A stamp was pressed on top of the first folder. Hesitating, he turned the page.
The face of the topmost rebel in the folder was stained with blood-red ink. Staring at him, limp. He took the page out to be replaced - but stopped as the sharp sound of a bell filled the room. He took a second to gather himself, looking down over the faces. Shuffling them around, flicking through. The faces, excepting one, that had been sentenced to death, with a single stamp.
He looked past the glass wall in front of him, into the office. They remained seated, writing at their desks. He pressed a button to activate the Intercom, and spoke.
“You may leave.” was all that was necessary. His employees stood, proceeding to the hallway in an orderly fashion. Alexander followed suit, opening his own door. Outside, a single picture remained hanging. The Union Jack. Imposing, with the word “BRITANNIA” emblazoned in bold capital letters underneath it. It stood almost three times your height at the end of the hall, growing larger as it was approached.
Alexander reached the base of the flag, and stopped briefly to salute, his boots positioned neatly aside one another. “Rule, Britannia. Still more majestic shall you rise.” As with the national anthem. A sharp turn to the left left, to join the line.
A line of suits, carefully trimmed hair, and pockets stitched without threads out of place. The sounds of footsteps, in unison. He was in sync, stepping forward slowly as the queue progressed. Stomps on the floor, as if the beating of a heart.
Each figure at the front raised their arms in turn, and placed their beige Labour Card through a slot in the wall, by the exit. There was no glass, no window to view inside. An employee sat inside, operating facelessly, a faint shadow - barely visible through the small rectangular hole. The men in suits did not wish to look at whoever it was. The figure did not wish to look at them. They remained in the darkness.
The same scene as always. A disembodied hand stretched out to grasp the card, skeletal, a small hole punched through one corner, marking another day. The second stamp brought out, heard before it was seen. Clacking as the clock inside of it turned, churning the gears. The metallic typewriter sound of the spinning parts invaded the space-- until it was paused for a moment.
A button was held down, forcing a clamp upon it. He could hear the voice of the gears inside, straining to rattle and spin, to turn and scuttle up a shirt sleeve. The clamp held, and the hand descended to brand the card with the exact time of the employees’ departure. To the second.
Alexander did not look at the machine when it was his turn.
As he walked out of the building through the sliding doors, he was greeted with mild weather. No hint of wind, as if he were in the eye of a storm. Or the calm before one. Either way, as it moved on without him, he would be unable to move, left watching as the stillness turns into a breeze, a gale, roaring winds. It would capture him eventually, twisting his body like a house caught in a tornado. Or he could remain intact, be transported by it. From sepia, to colour. Away from the ‘London Filing Division’ nameplate that was pinned to his blazer. Three clicks of red shoes.
These thoughts occasionally entered. They never showed on his face, a perfectly practised blank demeanour. He was better at it now than when he first began. He turned to walk down the path back home. The Filing Division was in Mayfair - it was called Mayfair, once.
When he arrives back, the Labour Card will be stamped again. He has a book in his apartment, “The History of Britannia” - a gift from a superior. The Heads of each division are rumoured to be allowed films. It must have been around twenty years since the last screening he attended. He pictured it inside his head, remembering that it had singing. And music. The closest to films now were the roughly-weekly broadcasts, projected upon the sides of the skyscrapers.
You would cheer with the crowd, a patriot, and then forget. Back to the daily routine. The bad ones were projected upon single apartments, or single houses. Sometimes, a small crowd would gather, sometimes no crowd was present - it played solely for you. A traitor, their crimes would be described aloud, blared for all to hear. Occasionally, the crimes were too upsetting - and must be censored. Some were the opposite, described in detail. Close-ups. The projections close to the ground, you could make out the slight imperfections in their faces. A day-unshaven beard and moustache, or stray hairs crossing the forehead. It was harder to cheer for.
He wondered what films the Heads would watch now. Perhaps propaganda-laced. Or even drop the lace. How would they produce a new one? Even - could they? The thought rolled around, simmering inside of Alexander’s head. Reason and his conscience came back into play. He sensibly removed and ignored the thought. It attempted to worm in, intruding, becoming invasive and threatening permanent occupation, direct challenges to superiors. He found the honourable courage to purge the thought, kill it, gut it with his axe. A degenerative influence.
He’d been distracted, his physical body walking back through muscle memory. He shook his head to snap out of it. His unfocused eyes looked directly at a passer-by, meeting her gaze. It was magnetic, both their heads instinctively turning to meet. He was mentally stuttering, thinking of something to do. She continued to look back, unfazed. She was of a lower rank, a Quota-Worker, the symbol of a hammer pinned to her grey coat. Eye contact was not recommended.
He moved his eyes downward. A black-on-white name tag was seen, emblazoned across the right pocket of her chest. Lydia Demille. He felt an odd electricity between them, as if a stone had been dropped into a lake, a ripple emerged, speeding and spreading outwards. A supernatural feeling. The dirt specks on the path, the clouds tinge of white and grey. The obscured sun, a possibility of rain. He filled his mind with the surroundings to get away from it.
Alexander sat on the chair in his room. For some reason, he couldn’t get her out of his head. Her eye contact was unusual, as was her stance. Leaning casually against a sign, almost lounging. Like she didn’t have anything to worry about at all.
