In this sane, level and pleasant land which we inhabit; one of the more prevalent actions in political life outside what is perhaps selectively described as ‘civilised Nations’ is political assassination. It is not normally even thought of in Western Democracies as either possible or expected: except as a ‘working tool’ of the Muslim Jihadi who attempts to change the very way in which we live by terror, murder and self-immolation. True, we have seen political murders on Great Britain & Northern Ireland’s streets, but they were, in the main, accomplished by yet another terrorist group and their entwined supporters; namely the IRA & their blood-accomplices SinnFein, with the deaths of Airey Neave and Ian Gow: as well as the death of Sir Anthony Berry which occurred as a direct result of IRA/SinnFein’s attempt on the life of Margaret Thatcher. In mentioning those deaths and sacrifices, it should be also noted that the betrayal of everything which those people stood for was accomplished under the weasel-rule of Blair and his brood of pit-vipers when they surrendered to those same bullets and bombs under the name of the Belfast Agreement: welcoming in to the devolved Assembly, the very leaders of that blood-soaked alliance.
In another life, I have written two novels, and about five / six shorter novellas / stories. I am not one for conspiracy theories. I reckon JFK was murdered by Lee Harvey Oswald; who in turn was killed by Jack Ruby. The Twin Towers’ collapse enabled the fires which caused Building 7 to collapse some seven hours later. But when the conversation turned recently to the late Jo Cox MP, and the ‘outing’ of her oh-so-saintly husband as an alleged ‘sex pest’; I remembered a piece I wrote a while back, just around the time of the ‘Brexit’ Referendum.
The scene is set in the present, with two partisan sectors, with vastly differing ideas, opinions and motives: both attempting to capture the public’s minds and intentions before a vote, a Referendum ballot; finally takes place to determine whether their Country stays within a large group of Nation States: or takes a decision to leave that group forever.
A tiny number of scheming but deeply cynical politicians, of varying political colours but with strongly-held views and ambitions, gather in a smoky room in a Georgian house in Lord North Street: all intent upon one thing and one thing only, to agree on a plan, a single act, which would bring public opinion strongly across towards their viewpoint.
The most cynical man in the group, a former advisor and master-spinner himself, addresses the group seated around the highly-polished table towards the conclusion of their secret debate. No notes were to be kept, all mobile phones had been switched off, batteries ejected, before the conspirators had departed their homes and offices before their separate anonymous journeys to a house which had already been ‘scrubbed’ and tested for electronic and recording devices; for this was one meeting which could not, and would never, be referred to again, once the meeting had concluded its truly terrible purpose. The speaker tapped his pen against the exquisitely-cut and decorated crystal water jug, and the ringing tone sharpened the attentions of the listeners.
“We are agreed, gentlemen, on the proposal which has been discussed. As our plan calls for one, and only one, sacrificial ‘lamb’ for the stewpot, I will now access the names which have been placed in the bowl before us; one candidate from six of the main areas within the Kingdom. All preparations are in place, and the scapegoat ‘patsies’ already seeded and in place, with a formidable team to finally mould his mind, already tormented by his own mental instabilities, once the target has been chosen. The rest of the ‘patsies’ will receive the mental health treatment and medications which those unfortunate people should have received immediately their diagnoses were completed. The back-up evidence; of instability, of threats, far-right-wing beliefs, and of weaponry preparations; are already in place, via the Internet, so we can proceed.” As he finished his sentences, he leant forward, dipped his hand into the bowl, swirled the papers around; and brought out a single slip of paper, folded over three times. He spoke the name revealed by the paper, and the eldest of the six other men, one who had sat silently for most of the meeting whilst sat around the table flinched, hesitated for maybe five seconds, then slowly nodded his assent to the choice.
The speaker remained standing. “Again, gentlemen, we are agreed, we do this terrible thing, because our opponents are gaining upon us in the race towards the Referendum Vote; we sacrifice this one; so that we might, by inference alone, blame this one death on our opponents: and the fools who follow us will leap upon this tragedy as if it were Manna from Above: and our Colleagues in Brussels, in all the capitals of Europe, will breathe easier because we, above all else, know that might is right!”
The chosen slip of paper, was gathered together with its five fellows, and deposited upon the flames of the wood-fuelled fire burning in the set-back fireplace. The words on the paper, shrivelling fast in the hungry flames, spelled out a single name; Cox!
Now that the reader has read the small imaginary scene I wrote, just recall, for a moment, the REACTION to the tragic death of the late MP. Am I mistaken, or was there a significant pause to the ‘Leave’ vote?