Citizen Survivor Tales (The Ministry of Survivors) by Richard Denham Page A

him for all my life; he stopped moving after a while. The other guards came running over to deal with me, and Harold impaled one of them with his pitchfork, one of the other lads took a scythe to another guard’s neck, half hanging off his head was, half gurgling until another scythe blow to his back ended all that and then it, it just erupted. Those men who were involved, probably about thirty of us, just fought, we fought our away through the guards, through the grounds, into the estate itself, until we got to the Viscount who was with his family. His family cried and pleaded but we were deaf to it, we took him up to a window on the top floor, threw a rope around his neck, and hanged him. Then, there was nothing, no cheers of applause, no cries of protestation, no guards coming to storm us, just quiet, and the workers looking up at the window in curiosity.
    We weren’t monsters though, we let his wife and kids go with their servants and whatever they could carry. We did in the rest of the guards who we rounded up and we ordered everyone to the steps of the estate. We explained what had happened, those who wanted no part of it could go with no reprisals, some did and we let them go as we promised. Those who stayed would be welcome, most did. Me and the fighting lads drank that night, did we drink! We were like hooligans, smashing windows and statues, throwing paintings and books onto the fire, parading in fancy clothes; that was a night I’ll never forget. The next day, when we had calmed down, we started talking about what we were going to do but, truth be told, everything was already in place, we’d just taken the figurehead and hanged him. The lads talked, and it was agreed that I should be the new Viscount for now, but it wouldn’t be like before. The fighting lads all moved into the estate too and became my barons and we decided it’d be put to another vote in a years’ time for who would be the new viscount.
     
    Was there no repercussion?
    That’s the most bizarre thing, there were none, not really. We had a load of coppers turn up at the Estate once, we fought them with petrol bombs and hand to hand, it was glorious. Me and the Barons were like Bowie and his lot at The Alamo, except we won. The workers stayed out of it, but soon we had a nice set of custodian helmets to add to the collection. After we dealt with them after that – nothing, except one thing. We had some bloke in a bowler-hat and suit turn up in his car and tell us he was from The Ministry. He spurted out some nonsense and told us if we pledged allegiance to His Majesty and supplied a percentage of our crop to them, they would officially recognise the change in leadership at Cliveden. Of course we agreed, I don’t think either us or the Ministry had the stomach for a scrap, and they probably wanted Cliveden to be in order so there we were. I was now Viscount Alfie Sark! I suppose I don’t really belong in the world of privilege, but then again who does?
     
    How do you feel about all the pain and suffering you’ve experienced?
    The thing about life is, it's a load of bollocks ain't it? You can try to find meaning to it; your nippers, your job, your partner, but it doesn't mean anything, except in your head.
    No, no, life doesn't mean a thing and what you do won't be remembered for long. That's why there's a time limit on gravestones ain't it? You get through this life and cling on to whatever symbols and causes you like if it gets you through the day, but no one cares. Nothing you do matters, which I'm sure is a great disappointment to those who've wrapped themselves in illusion, but an absolute blessing to those to those who ain't. The lower down the ladder you are the less you have to fear.
    That's why suicide rates increase the older you get, time ain't a healer, it's a cruel, viscous bastard who peels away all the layers of illusion you've made for yourself.
    When you think about it, that's what's so pure and good about it all, death is