Clothesline Martyr

 Sunday, 3:32pm.  A single shot rang out, the noise echoing off the surrounding buildings and drawing the inhabitants of the tower blocks cautiously to their windows.  Net curtains twitched as curious eyes peered past them, wondering what had caused the noise; if it was really a gunshot or just a car backfiring; if the kids were messing around again or if something more serious were afoot.  When nothing seemed to move and no more noise sounded the curtains were pulled further back and windows were opened and heads poked out.  People looked this way and that, hunting for the source of the noise and not finding it.

On top of Clarence Abbabas Building (Block A), nine stories above the ground, amidst the washing lines strung up by the residents the martyr slumped over a peg-basket and bled out. The bloodstain soaked into the tar-paper roof and would see out six winters before finally fading so much that even its memory passed from the public mind.

Sunday, 9:39pm.  “This is ridiculous,” said the Minister as an assistant to an assistant adjusted his tie.  “Why are we making all this fuss over one person?”

Both assistants carefully realised they shouldn’t have heard that and immediately went, for all intents and purposes, deaf.  The Ministerial Aide, a young woman with hair so heavy sprayed and pinned in place that a gale wouldn’t have shifted it and make-up so heavily put on she looked like holding her head up was an effort, seemed unconcerned.

“Because it is one person,” she said, emphasising the last two words with care.  “And one person is as important to the government as one city.  Or one nuclear warhead.”

“I think I know Party Doggerel,” said the Minister testily.  He longed to rip the tie off and return to Chartiers, his favourite restaurant.  He’d been dragged from there, almost literally, by his bodyguard to attend to the news and make a statement about this idiot who’d managed to get himself shot on a housing estate somewhere in the city.

“Party Dogma,” said the Aide automatically.  The Minister’s malapropisms were often rather more accurate than she was comfortable with.  “And yes, you are basically reiterating what the news tells people every day, but the difference is that it is you doing it.  In response to a tragedy.”

“A tragedy?”  The Minister swatted at the annoying hands at his neck, deciding at last that he could sort his own tie out.  A few seconds was all it took to smooth it into place and then he buttoned the lowest button of his suit jacket.  “He was poor, wasn’t he?”

“Many people are,” said the Aide, who wasn’t.  “And since there are lots of them, and they believe that their votes count for something, they need to be humoured.  By you, Minister.”

“By me, Minister,” mimicked the Minister.  His riff on the Aide’s voice was near perfect and she looked startled.  That lasted only for a few seconds before she composed herself again and opened her mouth.  “It was a poor idiot who ran away from the police,” said the Minister before she could complain.  She suspected he’d waited for her to be ready to speak just so he could cut her off.  “That’s not news.  That doesn’t need an apology.  That just needs a clean-up crew and a hole to bury him in.  Or burn him in.  We do burn pits, don’t we?”

The Aide considered what she could say here.  There were burn pits, most used for mass cremations and keeping people warm who couldn’t afford to heat their houses.  The mass cremations helped cover up the mass starvation, but it wasn’t perfect and although warm people complained less, they were still hungry and the cremation was a measure to prevent cannibalism.  She decided that that was the wrong approach to take with the Minister though as she wanted him smooth, eloquent, and polished.

“He was running from police,” she said, speaking quickly to avoid the Minister cutting her off again.  “After shoplifting a loaf of bread, for his starving two-year old daughter.”

“Good,” said the Minister, unwilling to let anyone else talk for too long in case people started forgetting he was there.

“Morality aside, Minister,” said the Aide with just a hint of a sigh, “this captures the popular imagination.  Think, Robin Hood.”

“Thief, con-man, criminal,” said the Minister promptly.  “I think I covered this with that therapist in June, didn’t I?”

“The people,” said the Aide, pressing on, “want to believe that a man who commits crime for the benefit of others — an altruist! — is somehow better and more worthy than them.  They want to celebrate him.  He’s becoming a martyr very rapidly, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.  He will be the headlines tomorrow, and we need to control the situation.  And that, Minister, means that you have to endorse his martyrdom.  Make him a martyr for the state and not the people.  Take their victory away from them—“

“And dance on it!”

“And appropriate it, I was going to say.”  The Aide looked suddenly old and tired.  “It’s a disgraceful thing to do, and I’m slightly appalled that I came up with it, but it’s Sunday night and I was planning on having a long bath and hot chocolate so I’m putting it down as PMT.  Which I can do because I’m a woman, Minister.  You can’t.”

“Bah, humbug,” said the Minister who’d tried claiming he had PMT twice already and ignored the complaints made to the House Committees.

“But yes, you have to go out there, and own this martyrdom.  It will make the population stronger.  The surviving population, I should say.  It’s good for the country.”

“And dancing on their victory will be fun,” said the Minister.  “You know, I’m quite looking forward to this now!”