The Zima Confession

“OK, let’s agree, as usual, that only revolution will really change things. So how do you do it?” said Richard.

“How would you do it?”

“Just what I was trying to say a moment ago. You need something to trigger it, an act that causes significant damage to the existing system so that it’s unable to function properly. Once that happens the socialists will rise up and the system will be unable to defend itself.”

Stuart didn’t say anything but nodded briefly in agreement. Then, remembering there were more important matters to attend to, he stretched his head back and began tipping half a tin of Tennent’s Super Lager down his throat, seemingly oblivious as Richard continued his monologue:

“We’re just kids right now, students. We know nothing. We don’t know anybody who knows anything or has any influence. Even guys like Eddie are half-way to Walter Mitty; they’re kidding themselves. But all this education we’re getting might eventually be good for something. If we could keep in touch with the people we know who really want to change things and make a difference then one day we might be useful.”

Stuart had stopped gulping the lager. His head lurched back down to its default position as he crushed the empty can into his fist. He studied Richard for a long time, as though he was somehow having difficulty recognising him. But finally a glimmer of comprehension flickered to life.

“What exactly would you do?”

“Sabotage. I mean something big. Something fucking big. Remember what I was telling you about Georges Sorel?”

“And you’re volunteering…?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Count me in, man.”

A wall of sound slammed through the room as The Sex Pistols’ God Save The Queen blasted out. The punks immediately started pogo-ing in a frenzy, forcing the hippies lazing on the floor to reluctantly create space for them. The guy who had been singing Leonard Cohen songs left the room, meekly cradling his guitar to prevent damage. Stuart had to shout:

“We should go and see Eddie with this idea. He’ll know what to do about it, or he’ll know someone that does.”

2. Eddie’s Kitchen

“This idea of yours is aw very well but you realise it could put us aw in jail?” Eddie’s mean, feral eyes stared at Richard accusingly through heavy black-rimmed glasses, making him look every inch the wee Glasgow hard-man he aspired to be. Richard had been invited round to his flat to go through the sabotage plan for the third time and it was becoming clear Eddie had little faith in either him or the plan. They sat in the cold kitchen to avoid disturbing Eddie’s dad who was watching TV in the living room.

“It could, but this is what we’re here for isn’t it? Handing out pamphlets to people who chuck them into the first bin they walk past will never get us anywhere. We’re supposed to be a revolutionary party not a pamphlet distributing party.”

They sat in silence. Richard wondered if he’d pushed Eddie too far. Anyway, he was past caring. He looked round the cold, outmoded kitchen. There wasn’t much there to soothe their nerves; an old-fashioned pantry, solid enough to withstand nuclear attack, had been painted yellow in an attempt at modernity. A worn-out Tricity cooker, covered in grease. Pitted brown linoleum on the floor. A ceiling pulley for hanging washing on.

The council had vowed to build modern flats ‘fit for heroes’ but, somehow, they had created drab, grey schemes instead. Out in the street there were no facilities; no shops and nothing to do. Inside there was no comfort. Attempts to cheer up the interiors of these houses nearly always ended in tragicomic kitsch – in this case exemplified by the wallpaper with its repeated pattern of crowing cocks. Perhaps the cocks had provided a few moments of jollity once, but they had been crowing at least since the mid-sixties and looked a bit worn-out. To top it all, there was a lot of tyre screeching and occasional gunfire coming from the living room. The TV was blasting out at maximum volume to compensate for Eddie’s dad’s deafness.

“So what sort ay event do you think’d be sufficient tae trigger revolution in the UK?”

“It would have to be big, Eddie.”

“So big it’s impossible?” Eddie asked slyly.

It was clear Eddie thought he wouldn’t or couldn’t go through with it and was just looking for an excuse to avoid marching and agitating – the sort of party work that Eddie thought was essential. “Eddie,” Richard was trying to contain his anger.

“Eddie, when Marx was writing he expected a revolution eventually, but he never lived to see it. Well, we’ve had dozens of attempts since then. We’ve got the USSR and China to show for it – OK, Cuba and stuff like that too. None of these were good or real revolutions. We still haven’t seen what Marx was expecting. We need something better, more final. And it has to be in an advanced economy not a backward one. So if this puts me out of action for a while as far the Party’s concerned – even if it takes my whole life – then so be it.”

“Richard,” Eddie was obviously annoyed too, “yur always making excuses. Nothing is ever good enough fur yuh. You think no socialist country ever succeeded in improving the lot of the people? Well yer wrong. The USSR is an improvement on the Tsarist Empire. Things huvney worked out perfectly but this is the real world.”

“Yeah, but…”

“And don’t forget the USSR’s always been at war,” Eddie said, ignoring Richard’s attempt to interrupt. “They hud tae fight the revolution, then the counter revolution, then World War Two. Now we’ve got the Cold War. So they’ve been fighting proxy wars all over the world. But in spite ay aw rat thur still making progress.”

“Yeah, but the USA’s made greater progress.”

“The USA did well frae both world wars by sucking the British dry. All I ever hear from you is how great these Capitalist countries are, nothing about the achievements of Russia or China.”

Richard could tell Eddie needed more evidence of commitment before he could take this risk. He wondered if he should perhaps tell Eddie about his Uncle Bobby who, according to family legend, had gone to the USA and had tried to start up a union to improve working conditions. He was immediately arrested and soon after that died in prison. Reason for death – unknown.

But he decided not to bother. It was only a story anyway. It had all happened before he was even born. Furthermore, it proved nothing. He wasn’t aware of any sense of following in Uncle Bobby’s footsteps. Moreover, particularly now that he’d come up with this plan, he preferred his motives and beliefs to remain invisible in order to be more effective. So he decided to bite his tongue.

To prevent himself blurting out any story about his Uncle Bobby, he dug his nails into the palms of his hands and glowered at Eddie.

“They’re more advanced Eddie, just like Marx expected. That’s all.”

3. The Black Worms

(Moscow – 2012)

Years of nothingness had passed. The promises, the beliefs, the hopes, had turned to numbness.

Richard paused in the middle of pulling his left sock off and stared – confusion oscillating between fascination and horror. There were awful dark indigo bulges on the top of his foot in the flesh just beneath the skin. It seemed that parasitic worms of some sort had hatched out in his bloodstream.

Tentatively, he traced a finger over the bulbous nodes where their translucent, tubular bodies overlaid one another, half expecting to see them begin to writhe and twist deeper into his foot, or burst out leaving trails of filthy, contaminated blood. But as he examined them he knew they wouldn’t. For they were not parasitic worms – they were something even worse – more portentous.

Varicose veins. He was starting to get varicose veins now! He sighed. Of course! Of course – this was just one more thing he was going to get as he got older. Varicose bloody veins! He shuddered at the ugliness of it – and sighed again. The inevitable was happening; as the inevitable always would. He removed the other sock.

And now he would have to face it. Another day had ended. Another night of sleeping alone in a strange bed would bring it to a close, leaving him to trust his subconscious mind to guide him to the next dawn, through whatever voyage of darkness or dreams that sleep would bring.

He glanced over to the far end of the room. The pale, naked creature he saw there made him flinch momentarily. But he consoled himself that being an unremarkable middle-aged man with mousey hair was a strength. It was a form of camouflage

The glance into the mirror had been unintentional. At home there would have been no mirror to glance into, intentionally or not. But, as usual, thanks to VirtuBank, he was staying in a hotel. This time he was spending a few days in Moscow, though for no particular reason, because the technical problem their client had reported had turned out to be trivial.

And this was how his adult life had been measured out – moving from one hotel to another, sometimes returning briefly home (if his flat near Baker Street could be called home) to seek out a few acquaintances to get drunk with.

But he was lucky. He was still here, and his life still had purpose too. The period of numbness was over. Now, at VirtuBank he had a glimmer of hope. He had stumbled into a job which gave him a real chance of achieving his dream.

He hadn’t been in touch with his friends from college for years. The only people he had known since that time were workmates that came and went as he changed job. Even so, he was lucky. He was well aware that, by now, many of his lost or forgotten friends would already be dead. He knew that for certain. It was both surprising and obvious.

For example, he was aware, from the media, that so many of his teen idols had passed away already. Admittedly, film and rock stars seem likely to die younger than normal due to suicide or substance abuse. Nevertheless, a good proportion of them had also died in accidents or of natural causes, indicating that a similar fate would have befallen some, or perhaps by now, many, of the people he had ever known in the past.

So he was lucky. If he had been John Lennon he would have been dead long ago. But time was running out for him too. Had he cut himself off from any kind of normal life, that fateful day in 1977, for nothing?

The cause he had sacrificed his life for was worth more than the life of one man, but somehow he was not ready to accept his contribution to that cause would amount to nothing. He still wanted his place in history. He climbed into bed, weary and close to tears, trying to convince himself there was still a chance; that the promise he had made all those years ago was worth the misery and loneliness.

4. In Plato’s Cave

(Helsinki – 2013)

Andy Mitchell sat at his desk, staring at the paper in front of him. Somehow it had all become too much. Past failures crowded in on him. Even Richard. Especially Richard – he was going to be the biggest failure of all. What were they doing to him? What use was any of it? Everything he had ever done had unravelled.