Manifesto

by Ian Gouge

The sound of footsteps in the corridor. You look up to the closed door, your pen suspended a centimetre above the paper. And you wait.

Outside, the floorboards creak in response to the feet pressing upon them, and you try to imagine exactly where their owner might be, a figure presumably walking either to or from the main chamber. It’s as if you are trying to see through the solid wall of your small office, project yourself into another space; or, if not that, perhaps to inhabit the eyes belonging to one of the portraits which adorn the corridor and thus track the progress of the walker. “The eyes follow you”; isn’t that what they say?

You wait for a slackening of pace, the pause outside the door, bracing yourself for the knocking which will follow… But the rhythm of the walking does not vary; the floorboards keep up their song; the danger passes. For it might have been danger.

From nowhere you are suddenly grateful that the Council chose not to spend the vast sums of money required for a full renovation of the old building, preferring to settle on the minimum allocation possible, where repairs could no longer be put off. Particularly with respect to the roof. You are thankful, even though you campaigned for the total revamp; but your star was already on the wane by then, and losing the vote became inevitable. Every day it had seemed that someone else was starting to give the rumours credence, and allegiances shifted as a result. In private conversations you complained that the draining of support was unfair, that the charges — were any to ever be brought against you — could never be proven, merely fabrications based on jealousy. For there were those who were jealous: of your meteoric rise; of the infectious nature of your speech-making; of the way your policies struck a chord with the populace. The first time you stood for re-election, the country witnessed the greatest landslide in history.

But now here you are, less than five years later, turning your gaze back to the paper as you listen to the receding steps. You re-read the last few words written — “and so it is with a heavy heart” — and try and recapture the emotion of that moment, just a few seconds ago, which saw you commit them to paper.

It is not too difficult to do so. The words have already made your case: the gratitude that you weren’t condemned after your fall from grace; how you had openly wished the new administration well, but had become increasingly dismayed as you watched the very fabric of the country unravel; your concern over the direction of travel, the threats from outside, the dubious alliances the Council seemed hell-bent on making. By this point in the speech you will have forecasted the calamity waiting in the wings; and now it is time to draw your conclusions, set down an alternative vision, play the hindsight card.

The very few you trust — those who have remained discretely loyal — have encouraged you to look back, to play on the heartstrings of a population cherishing remembrance of past times, even if they were no better off then. Yet it is not the populace you must win over; you need to re-persuade those who once sat on your side of the chamber, who agreed with your policies, danced to your tune. It is a risky business. There are those who would happily stab you in the back again, disappointed that their blades missed the mark five years ago. You know who they are. Indeed, elsewhere in your desk (the second drawer down, hidden between the pages of a Bible) is a list of all Council members, a list split into two columns. The difference between the columns is not as great as you might wish, but you hope there are sufficient on your side. Almost automatically you try to push on — “and so it is with a heavy heart that I draw the following conclusion:” — only to be thwarted once more by the sound of footsteps, this time accompanied by two individuals talking quietly. Recognising the voices, you relax; both are on the positive side of your list. They will be heading to the chamber, that self-same place where soon enough you will be delivering your manifesto, distributing your statement to those who might yet be friends, throwing yourself on the mercy of the whole — and hoping you have done enough to turn the tide.

Distracted by your thoughts, you miss the additional footsteps now marching the corridor from the other direction; you fail to notice the heavier tread, and how full of purpose it seems. It is only when you hear voices raised that you look up, pen poised once more.

There is a moment of silence — then a knock at the door.