Passionfruit 9, Prune 2 [Divide & Rule]
Title: Pen and Sword
Author: lost_spook
Story: Heroes of the Revolution (Divide & Rule)
Flavor(s): Passionfruit #9 (Bright is the ring of words/ When the right man rings them); Prune #2 (it might save your life one day)
Toppings/Extras: Malt - Birthday prompt (Who is the lamb and who is the knife? from likelolwhat)
Rating: PG/Teen
Word Count: 1547
Notes: Sept/Oct 1958; Edward Iveson, Lewis Evans.
Summary: On this particular Friday, the Foreign Secretary’s eleven o’clock appointment wants to kill him.
***
Edward was on the telephone when the man entered. He tried, during a brief gap in the conversation, to glance again at the schedule on his desk and remind himself of the man’s name, but he seemed to have hidden it under the piles of other documents. He closed down the call and turned his attention to his visitor. “You’ll have to forgive me. There was another call after I asked you to send them through, but -” He stopped short, realising that the man was holding a gun.
“Just - don’t move,” said the man.
Edward held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m not going anywhere, I assure you.” He tried to remember the man’s name from the list - he’d seen it, it was therefore in his head somewhere - and finally dredged it up: “Mr Harris, is it?”
The man started alarmingly at Edward’s use of his name, and then nodded.
“You obviously have something important you want to say,” said Edward. “Well, I’m listening.” He was struggling to get past his sense of unreality of the situation: he had to turn it around somehow. The chances of the telephone ringing again or someone interrupting to ask him something were high and Mr Harris, whose hold on the weapon was already visibly unsteady, would very likely fire in reaction. At this distance, it was almost impossible that he could miss. If he continued to panic, he might well also shoot whoever walked in on them.
“Someone’s got to pay for what’s been happening,” Harris said. “All of it - the bombing raids - everything. It didn’t even mean anything, did it?”
Edward carefully kept his expression blank, but he had a sudden memory of sixteen or so years ago: facing prisoners over a desk, much like this, except that none of them had been armed, of course. He’d questioned them and looked for what it was they were here for, what they cared about, some key with which to turn them. In Mr Harris’s case, he’d now handed him vital information. “You lost someone?” Edward said, keeping his voice even, only just making it a question.
“Does it matter who?” Harris said. “How many d’you think could say the same?”
Edward risked pushing him slightly further. “But it was someone close to you? If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t be here. Whose loss has to be paid for?”
“Celia,” said Harris, taking another step nearer. “Her and the rest of the family.”
Edward leant forward fractionally, his every sense alert. It was funny that; the way the nearness of death made one so suddenly aware of being alive. “Your -?”
“My sister,” said Harris, and screwed up his face, his hands shaking as he psyched himself up to the act.
“One thing,” Edward said. “Just one thing, one last question. Why this? Why another death, even mine?” It was all so ironic, he thought, not in the least steady himself, either. He was grateful he’d been sitting down. But, God, in protest at the same incident he’d committed a crime of his own; something that could bounce back and destroy him far more thoroughly than any shot from a gun.
Harris lowered the weapon by a fraction, shaking further, so much so that Edward felt a lurch in his stomach in anticipation, but it didn’t go off. “I said. Someone’s got to pay and you’re the one that makes those decisions, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid I’m not,” said Edward. “A good many things, yes, but that particular decision comes down to Mr Fields and the heads of the armed forces. But I can see that I would certainly do as well as any of them for you to make your point. I won’t argue.” He had to pause for breath; it was a speech that required more effort than any he’d yet given in the Commons. “However, there is one question I’d ask myself if I were you: I considered resigning over the bombings, but I decided it was better to stay and try to dissuade Mr Fields from similar actions than to walk away and let him appoint someone more amenable to this office. I think he would, you see, and what would that gain you, after all this effort and sacrifice?”
Harris swallowed. “Shut up!” he said. “Just - shut up! I’ve come this far and I going to finish it, I don’t care what you say.”
“I see,” said Edward, as if it was his normal sort of eleven o’clock appointment and his heart wasn’t thudding so hard in his ears he felt sick. “Then would you mind terribly waiting just two or three minutes while I sign these?”
Harris stared, lowering the gun again. “What?”
Edward gestured at the piles of documents on his desk. “Well, it will save people trouble if I get some of this paperwork out of the way first. If this is an execution, then am I not supposed to be granted one last request?”
Harris said nothing, so Edward carefully kept his head down, despite the effort it took not to look up to watch the man’s reaction. He straightened out the sheets of paper, signing the topmost, although his hand was so unsteady, he thought he’d probably have to get the whole thing drawn up again if he survived this encounter. He was relieved, however. If Harris hadn’t killed him by this point, then there was a good chance that he wasn’t going to; that he wasn’t really prepared to go through with murder. The downside was that the odds of an interruption grew ever greater with every passing second. Nevertheless, Edward made himself read the next document at an apparently leisurely rate, allowing at least another minute to pass.
He glanced up again at Harris, who was pale now and shaking alarmingly. “Come on,” he said, quietly. “Sit down. Let’s not add two more to the death toll. You know that’s how it would be, don’t you?”
Harris hesitated. He looked down at the chair by the desk, but he still didn’t move.
“Sit down, sir,” said Edward, not raising his voice, but using all the authority he possessed.
The man obeyed, almost collapsing into the chair opposite.
“And you really had better put that gun down,” said Edward, holding onto his own nerve, not allowing himself to relax until they were well past the point of danger. “Then it’s over. You’ve made your point.”
Harris put the gun down on the desk, Edward flinching at the movement in case it went off at the last moment, but it didn’t. Harris sank down further, putting his head in his hands. Edward picked up the gun and made sure the safety catch was on, before putting it in the drawer beside him. He struggled to think what to do next, feeling unpleasantly light-headed with relief.
There was a knock on the door and, while Harris seemed to have gone past even registering it, Edward started violently.
“Sir,” said Lewis Evans, his private secretary, peering round the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’ve had a memo from Sir Malcolm about the weekend and it seemed rather urgent -” He stopped and looked at Edward. “Is something wrong, sir?”
Edward fought to collect himself again and find his voice. “Lewis,” he said, and then wondered what came next. “I mean, yes, thank you. If you could ask the policeman at the door to come up here, I’d be grateful.”
“Sir?” said Evans. His gaze travelled to Harris. “What’s happened?”
“Please, just do as I ask,” said Edward. “Mr Harris can’t stay here.”
Evans hesitated, and then turned to the door and shouted for one of the others to join him while Edward stared ahead at the man in front of him; Harris still with his head in his hands, lost in his distress and failure to get to the point. It all began to feel ridiculous and unreal again; such a foolish thing to make a fuss over when nothing had actually happened. Yet it had brought the truth home to him as nothing else had yet. If what he had done ever got out, then it would have been better if the man had shot him. He wondered what they’d do: remove him from office, certainly, but trying the Foreign Secretary over such a case? He might well be quietly disposed of by someone rather more efficient than Mr Harris - anything to save the nation from embarrassment. And if the news travelled too fast for them, if it got into the papers, then he would face ruin, arrest, a trial, and possibly the rope at the end of it, and maybe even Julia along with him. A bullet, in comparison, would be a mercy.
“Sir,” said Evans from somewhere to the side of the room. “Sir?”
A mercy only for him, of course, thought Edward. It wouldn’t have been for the unfortunate Harris. He wondered vaguely what Evans wanted, and then looked up at his secretary.
“Are you all right, sir?” Evans asked.
Edward wasn’t sure what to say to that. “I think,” he managed in the end, “that I may need a moment or two before we move on to the next item on the schedule.”
***
Author: lost_spook
Story: Heroes of the Revolution (Divide & Rule)
Flavor(s): Passionfruit #9 (Bright is the ring of words/ When the right man rings them); Prune #2 (it might save your life one day)
Toppings/Extras: Malt - Birthday prompt (Who is the lamb and who is the knife? from likelolwhat)
Rating: PG/Teen
Word Count: 1547
Notes: Sept/Oct 1958; Edward Iveson, Lewis Evans.
Summary: On this particular Friday, the Foreign Secretary’s eleven o’clock appointment wants to kill him.
***
Edward was on the telephone when the man entered. He tried, during a brief gap in the conversation, to glance again at the schedule on his desk and remind himself of the man’s name, but he seemed to have hidden it under the piles of other documents. He closed down the call and turned his attention to his visitor. “You’ll have to forgive me. There was another call after I asked you to send them through, but -” He stopped short, realising that the man was holding a gun.
“Just - don’t move,” said the man.
Edward held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m not going anywhere, I assure you.” He tried to remember the man’s name from the list - he’d seen it, it was therefore in his head somewhere - and finally dredged it up: “Mr Harris, is it?”
The man started alarmingly at Edward’s use of his name, and then nodded.
“You obviously have something important you want to say,” said Edward. “Well, I’m listening.” He was struggling to get past his sense of unreality of the situation: he had to turn it around somehow. The chances of the telephone ringing again or someone interrupting to ask him something were high and Mr Harris, whose hold on the weapon was already visibly unsteady, would very likely fire in reaction. At this distance, it was almost impossible that he could miss. If he continued to panic, he might well also shoot whoever walked in on them.
“Someone’s got to pay for what’s been happening,” Harris said. “All of it - the bombing raids - everything. It didn’t even mean anything, did it?”
Edward carefully kept his expression blank, but he had a sudden memory of sixteen or so years ago: facing prisoners over a desk, much like this, except that none of them had been armed, of course. He’d questioned them and looked for what it was they were here for, what they cared about, some key with which to turn them. In Mr Harris’s case, he’d now handed him vital information. “You lost someone?” Edward said, keeping his voice even, only just making it a question.
“Does it matter who?” Harris said. “How many d’you think could say the same?”
Edward risked pushing him slightly further. “But it was someone close to you? If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t be here. Whose loss has to be paid for?”
“Celia,” said Harris, taking another step nearer. “Her and the rest of the family.”
Edward leant forward fractionally, his every sense alert. It was funny that; the way the nearness of death made one so suddenly aware of being alive. “Your -?”
“My sister,” said Harris, and screwed up his face, his hands shaking as he psyched himself up to the act.
“One thing,” Edward said. “Just one thing, one last question. Why this? Why another death, even mine?” It was all so ironic, he thought, not in the least steady himself, either. He was grateful he’d been sitting down. But, God, in protest at the same incident he’d committed a crime of his own; something that could bounce back and destroy him far more thoroughly than any shot from a gun.
Harris lowered the weapon by a fraction, shaking further, so much so that Edward felt a lurch in his stomach in anticipation, but it didn’t go off. “I said. Someone’s got to pay and you’re the one that makes those decisions, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid I’m not,” said Edward. “A good many things, yes, but that particular decision comes down to Mr Fields and the heads of the armed forces. But I can see that I would certainly do as well as any of them for you to make your point. I won’t argue.” He had to pause for breath; it was a speech that required more effort than any he’d yet given in the Commons. “However, there is one question I’d ask myself if I were you: I considered resigning over the bombings, but I decided it was better to stay and try to dissuade Mr Fields from similar actions than to walk away and let him appoint someone more amenable to this office. I think he would, you see, and what would that gain you, after all this effort and sacrifice?”
Harris swallowed. “Shut up!” he said. “Just - shut up! I’ve come this far and I going to finish it, I don’t care what you say.”
“I see,” said Edward, as if it was his normal sort of eleven o’clock appointment and his heart wasn’t thudding so hard in his ears he felt sick. “Then would you mind terribly waiting just two or three minutes while I sign these?”
Harris stared, lowering the gun again. “What?”
Edward gestured at the piles of documents on his desk. “Well, it will save people trouble if I get some of this paperwork out of the way first. If this is an execution, then am I not supposed to be granted one last request?”
Harris said nothing, so Edward carefully kept his head down, despite the effort it took not to look up to watch the man’s reaction. He straightened out the sheets of paper, signing the topmost, although his hand was so unsteady, he thought he’d probably have to get the whole thing drawn up again if he survived this encounter. He was relieved, however. If Harris hadn’t killed him by this point, then there was a good chance that he wasn’t going to; that he wasn’t really prepared to go through with murder. The downside was that the odds of an interruption grew ever greater with every passing second. Nevertheless, Edward made himself read the next document at an apparently leisurely rate, allowing at least another minute to pass.
He glanced up again at Harris, who was pale now and shaking alarmingly. “Come on,” he said, quietly. “Sit down. Let’s not add two more to the death toll. You know that’s how it would be, don’t you?”
Harris hesitated. He looked down at the chair by the desk, but he still didn’t move.
“Sit down, sir,” said Edward, not raising his voice, but using all the authority he possessed.
The man obeyed, almost collapsing into the chair opposite.
“And you really had better put that gun down,” said Edward, holding onto his own nerve, not allowing himself to relax until they were well past the point of danger. “Then it’s over. You’ve made your point.”
Harris put the gun down on the desk, Edward flinching at the movement in case it went off at the last moment, but it didn’t. Harris sank down further, putting his head in his hands. Edward picked up the gun and made sure the safety catch was on, before putting it in the drawer beside him. He struggled to think what to do next, feeling unpleasantly light-headed with relief.
There was a knock on the door and, while Harris seemed to have gone past even registering it, Edward started violently.
“Sir,” said Lewis Evans, his private secretary, peering round the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’ve had a memo from Sir Malcolm about the weekend and it seemed rather urgent -” He stopped and looked at Edward. “Is something wrong, sir?”
Edward fought to collect himself again and find his voice. “Lewis,” he said, and then wondered what came next. “I mean, yes, thank you. If you could ask the policeman at the door to come up here, I’d be grateful.”
“Sir?” said Evans. His gaze travelled to Harris. “What’s happened?”
“Please, just do as I ask,” said Edward. “Mr Harris can’t stay here.”
Evans hesitated, and then turned to the door and shouted for one of the others to join him while Edward stared ahead at the man in front of him; Harris still with his head in his hands, lost in his distress and failure to get to the point. It all began to feel ridiculous and unreal again; such a foolish thing to make a fuss over when nothing had actually happened. Yet it had brought the truth home to him as nothing else had yet. If what he had done ever got out, then it would have been better if the man had shot him. He wondered what they’d do: remove him from office, certainly, but trying the Foreign Secretary over such a case? He might well be quietly disposed of by someone rather more efficient than Mr Harris - anything to save the nation from embarrassment. And if the news travelled too fast for them, if it got into the papers, then he would face ruin, arrest, a trial, and possibly the rope at the end of it, and maybe even Julia along with him. A bullet, in comparison, would be a mercy.
“Sir,” said Evans from somewhere to the side of the room. “Sir?”
A mercy only for him, of course, thought Edward. It wouldn’t have been for the unfortunate Harris. He wondered vaguely what Evans wanted, and then looked up at his secretary.
“Are you all right, sir?” Evans asked.
Edward wasn’t sure what to say to that. “I think,” he managed in the end, “that I may need a moment or two before we move on to the next item on the schedule.”
***