Political Capital by Stuart Grigg
“This is the only remaining record of Operation Becket,” said the spook, before she dropped the letter on the minister’s desk and disappeared into the night. Left alone in his imperial relic of an office, he read the summary aloud like a child learning the words.
“The contract has been fulfilled.”
The remainder of the letter consisted of a full invoice. The minister had considered not paying the price, to embody the “openness” and “integrity” he was elected on. For a week or more, he woke up with a head full of principles. But there were predators around, and he was certain they would feast on his citizens, as well as his career. And there was a special offer on traps.
Maybe he could spin the purchase in his favour? He stood before a mirror, shoulders back, desperately searching for his inner Obama.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we got him.”
His party would want him in The Hague. Even the Victorian faces in their portraits looked ashamed. The minister turned away from his reflection, clutching the letter once more. Though it was merely a single page of metaphors, it was worth far too much to leave behind.
The minister’s wife dreamed innocently whilst her husband sneaked into their bathroom and found a shower cap. He put it over the smoke detector, as if he were back in Oxford smoking a joint. On the third strike, the match ignited, and he lit the bottom two corners of the letter, letting it burn until the flame was at his fingers. The heat was punishment, but the ash was liberation. History is written by the victors, unless they keep receipts.
Stuart is a software engineer and part-time writer from Devon. Political Capital was long-listed for FFF Competition Twenty-Five.
Photograph © Andrew Dunn via Wikipedia
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Great story, with the perfect ending.