Devolution (13 page)

“I’m good, Delores. It’s nice to hear your voice. I was wondering if the prime minister has any time today to talk with a little guy like me.”

She snickered. “I’m sure he’d love to. Let me see…” Chris heard her shuffle some things, and then she said, “He’s in his office now, and might be available. Should I try?”

“Please.”

“Okay, hold on.”

Being placed on hold reminded him of the old days—the classical hold music,
Love on the Dole Suite
by Richard Addinsell, was the same as a decade earlier.

“Chris Nash! What a surprise!”

“Sir, it is a pleasure.” Nash was honored to have received such a jovial greeting from the nation’s highest ranking elected official.

Chris Nash and the prime minister had known each other for years. They’d developed a strong professional relationship when Nash worked the political beat. They fought and scrapped their way up their respective vocational ladders together, and the hundreds of encounters they had in the early part of their careers made them lifelong acquaintances, with a mutual respect for one another. At the same time, however, their guards were always up.

“What can I do for you, my friend?” asked the PM.

“I need to talk to you. I have nowhere else to go.”

The PM was already intrigued.

“A few months ago, I received this anonymous letter that caught my attention,” Nash told him. “I followed it and got an interesting piece of literature. It describes government dealings over the last couple of decades. I am not sure what to make of it.”

“What do you mean, government dealings?”

Nash held the pamphlet in front of him, trying to decide which section to use as an example. “Remember a few years back, large reserves of oil were discovered in Angola? And the FLEC, which everyone thought disbanded, led a failed rebellion against the Republic? A massive civil war erupted over the oil rights.”

“Of course.”

“Well this, um,” he paused, looking for the right word, “
document
says the FLEC was revived by the Crown. It claims we funded them in exchange for oil rights once the FLEC took power. But when the Republic got the upper hand, we bailed out of the agreement. It details the murders of hundreds of thousands.”

The other end was silent.

“Sir?”

“S-sorry about that, Chris,” the PM stammered. “My secretary needed something.”

Nash knew better.

The skilled politician quickly regained his composure. “I’ll be glad to take a look. Do you have time this afternoon?”

The PM’s response, and willingness to meet on such short notice said it all. What Nash held in his hand was legitimate.

“When is good for you?” the prime minister prompted.

“You’re a busier man than I, sir.”

“I love that about you. You’re always so accommodating.” The forced chuckle between them was terribly uncomfortable. “How about two o’clock?”

Nash looked down at his calendar, tracing his finger along a continuous string of meetings and corporate conference calls. “I think that should work.”

“I’ll see you then. Hey, Chris!” Nash raised the phone back to his ear. “When you were given the document, did the person say anything to you?”

Nash paused briefly, solely for dramatic affect. “No. He didn’t say a word.” The newsman always played by the mantra: less is more. The phone went dead.

Daunted by this revelation, the PM sat back in his chair, loosely spinning the phone in his right hand. He dialed a familiar number.

“Mr. Prime Minister,” answered a raspy, passionless voice. “You know I don’t like receiving calls from you.”

“Major General,” the PM said unapologetically. “Are you sitting down?”

*

“Society and power.”

Professor
John Nolan felt more uncomfortable than he thought he would as he took command of his first college class. He forced a hearty breath and fought through his fear of unfamiliar groups.

“Every aspect of our lives contains a tiered hierarchy. Whether in sports, literature, fashion,” he gestured towards his surroundings, “higher education.” His dynamic, yet smooth, baritone voice fell gracefully over the students.

“The people who sit atop the pyramid, in many aspects, dictate how those below behave. If you step outside this world of unwritten rules, you risk banishment from that society or glorification of your maverick ways—a distinction for which you have little control.”

The small class appeared captivated with John’s inaugural lecture. He’d spent the whole night crafting it. Similar to their professor, this was for many their first college class and the novelty of advance thought and critical thinking was stark. The question was: Could John manage to command the same level of attention by semester’s end? “In this class we will look at the hierarchy of power in our government. Her Royal Majesty, the House of Commons, the House of Lords, the prime minister, our military and so on. We will examine how they control our lives—in ways we may not want them to.” He lowered his voice as if the following words were secret. “Or ways we don’t even realize.” He briskly inhaled and continued as normal. “We’ll briefly look at the history of our government and how it came to be. And we’ll examine where we think our society is heading in terms of government influence. Questions?”

The classes’ hearty acceptance of John’s opening monologue sent a rush of confidence and pride through his being. His new career, which he planned to take to the grave, had begun in that cramped, undecorated, and otherwise unmemorable classroom. And only twelve students were there to witness it.

The crooked smile on his face served as a sponge, soaking up the spirit of the moment. He knew it would never feel like this again.

That night the Nolans met at the dinner table to celebrate John’s professional leap from student to teacher.

“To John!” toasted Theodore, raising his beer high into the air. “Congratulations, John,” Theodore could not have been more proud. The family kitchen was filled with the harmonic ring of chiming glass.

“John, I’m so proud of you,” his mother beamed. “We are all really proud of you.”

His sisters expressed their regards with authentic smiles.
Yeah, John, congratulations.

The table was made complete by April Lynn. She sat to John’s immediate right. She and John had now been dating for a few months. Whatever awkwardness existed around his family was minimal.

“I wonder what kind of nickname my students are going to have for me,” John wondered aloud, half-joking. The other half was true concern:
Old Sores.

“So how many classes are you teaching?” Rose inquired.

“For this first summer session, only one.” John reached for April’s hand underneath the table. “By the fall, I should have a full schedule.”

The couple shared a celebratory gaze.

“What if you’re not any good?”

“Lizzy!” scolded her mother.

“What? It’s a valid question.”

“That’s why he only has one class,” Theodore bellowed.

Effective comedy must contain an element of truth. And John’s father was right.

Charlotte even found herself chuckling. However, her motherly instincts caught herself. “The City University of London is lucky to have you.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“So do you have a curriculum planned out?” Rose asked, refilling her Chardonnay glass.

“I have the course materials from my predecessor. I’ll follow that, then introduce my own work.”

April beamed up at him, locking eyes. “That’s the plan.”

“The plan?” Lizzy asked, puzzled.

It took John a second to break April’s alluring stare. “My old professor from Cambridge encouraged me to get my paper published.”

“Wow!” his sisters blurted out.

“What does that mean?” Charlotte asked.

“Well, in order for me to use literature in my class, it has to be published. So Professor Sorenson set me up with a small publishing company. They might publish my thesis as a book.”

“It will contain all the research he did on the civilizations. The Constitution, too.” John mildly blushed under April’s excitement.

“Oh! Haven’t y’all read it?” She looked around at the family. The answer was obvious, they hadn’t. “It’s quite good.”

“I had to do some work to get it book-ready. But that’s pretty much it.” John could have regaled his family for hours about the process, but he figured he’d spare them the minutiae.

His father was stunned. Charlotte quietly radiated with pride. “I always knew you had it in you, John,” she said.

His sisters looked at each other as if to say,
we didn’t.

John had been waiting for the right moment to tell his family. This was as good as any. “Since I am teaching about society and power, the government plays a large role. My plan is to teach my book in class.”

“That’s awesome, John,” Rose said. “And who knows, maybe it’ll catch on and your ideas will spark some sort of change. That’d be wild.”

The family chuckled at the statement’s absurd degree of optimism. But for John, he simply laughed out of courtesy. How sweet a revenge that would be.

*

The reticent storefronts and lack of commerce on Bridge Street typified the dreary weather that had befallen London. Chris Nash sat nervously in his silver vehicle parked below the magnificent Gothic vaults and pointed arches of Westminster. His watch ticked ever closer to 2:00. The anticipation of his meeting sent his emotions on a wild ride of uncertainty. He didn’t want things to get contentious, but he understood the sensitivity of the material could lend itself to such an encounter. Nash believed everything in the pamphlet was true. He knew the prime minister would deny its authenticity.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

With each pulse of the second hand, the knot in his stomach tightened.

Two o’clock.

Nash inflated his slender chest with a deep drag of balmy spring air. Under a controlled exhale, he grabbed his briefcase off the passenger seat and reached for the door handle. It was time.

“Hello, Mr. Nash.” Delores’ warm welcome scarcely served to calm his nerves.

She walked out from behind the desk, greeting her guest with an embrace. “It is

nice to see you after all these years.”

For the moment, the scope of Nash’s upcoming parley escaped him, replaced

with friendly reminders of a past life. The customary sights and familiar sounds of the office assuaged his near crippling anxiety. And perhaps none brought back such powerful feelings as the pungent aromas. Much like the classical hold music still in use, Delores’ sweet perfume had also remained unchanged.

For many years, Chris Nash was the Capital reporter for the British News Network—the largest media conglomerate in the United Kingdom. He always revered the Gothic Revival characteristics and old Victorian feel of the office. With its tall, ornate cathedral ceilings and busy, yet simple, stained glass windows, it perfectly exemplified the power and prestige of the elected official it housed.

“The prime minister will be out momentarily.” Delores gestured towards the short procession of chairs that lined the wall. “Please take a seat. There is coffee in the break room down the hall, if you would like.” She smiled warmly. “We also have a cappuccino and a hot chocolate-maker now.”

“No kidding!”

Delores was the only person he knew who had a delightful snicker.

“I love how you use my own money to make me feel at home.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” She strolled back behind her desk, grabbing her purse. “I’m off to lunch. Try to keep in touch, stranger.” The door closed behind her as she exited the room. Nash was now alone.

The newsman took a seat in one of the newly upholstered, dark mahogany chairs.
I could go for some French vanilla.
He immediately stood back up.

Nash received his promotion to news director a few years after the fall of the United States. The influx of people caused a boom for every industry, especially the media, which up to that point had seen years of cuts and layoffs. The press once again had become viable and influential. They had proved that professional reporters were a vital part of a healthy and stable democracy, mostly by holding government accountable. Chris felt he had anonymously led this media revolution. And somehow, the pamphlet in his back pocket was his reward.

To Chris Nash, this room meant power. During his time inside these walls, the UK saw the spawning of its greatest years. However, this time around, he didn’t feel that same awe or sense of patriotism. The energy had changed.

With his nerves reappearing, Nash made his way down the hall for a tall French vanilla, ultra high-fat, cappuccino.
Hell, if I’m paying for the fat, why not?

Twenty minutes, and one-and-a-half cappuccinos, later there was still no sign of the prime minister. Nash’s anxiety had morphed into an unpleasant mixture of irritation and guilt. The second cappuccino tasted fatter than the first.

The long wait was not a pleasant one.
Is he playing with me?
Nash watched the time creep by, as it always did when one was obsessed with its progression. The gravity of the situation only weighed heavier on his mind as three o’clock approached. His years of reporting on-air, sometimes in front of large tempestuous crowds, had taught him how to eliminate nervous energy and internal discomfort. But that strategy only suppressed the symptoms, and nothing he had ever done prior quite compared to this.

Eventually a loud clamor jolted Nash in his chair. The large wooden door across the room creaked open, revealing the prime minister. The PM may have been the same person Nash first met decades ago, but their rich past could not make up for lost time. Both men had reached the pinnacle of their respective careers, and the scars they bore in the process seemed to separate them like strangers. Under different circumstances this overdue reunion may have been more of a celebration of the other’s success. However, it was not meant to be. On the phone their discourse was smooth and cordial, but in person it became awkward, coupled with a tenuous peace.