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| The New Guy Fawkes | |
| By CameronS | ||||||||||||||
| 24 October 2006 | ||||||||||||||
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His hand trembled as he wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with the delicately embroidered handkerchief handed to him that morning by his loving wife. The unforgiving sun beat down on the unfortunate souls in the baking city. The man looked across from his elevated position and surveyed the world famous outline in front of him. His soft hazel eyes drank in the powerful but somehow frail image of the umber coloured building on the opposite bank of the river Thames. The London skyline was dominated by the time-worn facade of the Palace of Westminster. The streets far below were heaving with people enjoying their day out in the mid-summer sun. Westminster had been full with protesters for as long as he could remember, each holding their own placards. No-one had ever taken much notice. His short, tense breaths clouded the window, temporarily obscuring his view. A previously insignificant muscle to the side of one eye twitched betraying his inner nervousness. This was to be his moment in glorious history. He was about to succeed where Guy Fawkes had tried and failed so many centuries ago. The irony was not lost on this educated, thoughtful and God-fearing man. He felt a cold wetness down his spine as a droplet of perspiration trickled through the dense black hairs on his back. The sound of the people below seemed to fill his ears to bursting. The laughter. Why did the laughter trouble him so much? He closed his eyes and tried to compose himself. His God was with him. This was to be the culmination of all those years of study and training. God willing, his efforts would be rewarded. He had been chosen. He had been chosen by his seniors to carry out the final act of destruction of the ancient British Parliament. He had been chosen by God. His shoulders were those of a military man. They had been conditioned to carry such weight of responsibility. He looked down, more closely this time, at the faces on the people beneath him. Women, children, old men, young men, men and women in uniform. Still the laughter troubled him. Lifting his gaze again across the river he took a last look at Pugin's masterpiece. His detailed research into the building over the last few months had given him an appreciation of the architect's craft, but the stone had long since been tarnished. The mother of all Parliaments had spawned so many descendents. But did she really deserve this fate? She seemed so small and inconsequential now, dwarfed by her offspring across the globe. She also seemed to sum up the reasons why he had hated the British so much. From such a relatively small structure of stone and wood had been built the largest empire history had ever known. She had been so powerful, yet so modest in her immaculate splendour. Her empire had been as much of an illusion as her upper floors, using the deception of architecture in her progressively smaller windows, each of a lesser size than that below. The sole intention to fool the observer into thinking the structure was larger than it really was. Soon she would be reduced to rubble. There would be no more deception. No more lies. God had chosen him but was this really God's will? Did she have to be completely destroyed? Would there be no room in the new world order for such relics? No, it was the will of God and he had been chosen to carry out God's will. His eyes narrowed, his mouth as dry as parchment. He looked across at his accomplices. Each laid down their prayer mats and kneeled. He had been given the signal. He picked up the remote control. A small steel box of military khaki. His left hand gripped the sides tightly as his right index finger hovered over the black button. A thought flashed quickly through his mind. Strangely, it was the words of that old British warrior Churchill, "Those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it." He felt the gentle pressure of the steel button under his rough finger-tip. He whispered softly, not only to himself it seemed, but also to the fabric of the building. He spoke in two languages as he had done his entire life - Arabic and then English, "God be with you." The air bowed the glass in the window and depressed the executioner's cheeks before the boom ruptured the peace across the city. The massive explosion disturbed the starlings and created ripples across the water. Her lower floors erupted outwards propelling bricks and mortar sideways. A great cloud of dust rose to form a skirt around her Victorian modesty. She stood motionless, noble to the end, almost refusing to die. Then, like the great oak she had been for so many centuries, she slowly and gracefully toppled to the ground. Floor dropping through floor, dropping through floor. In a direct downwards motion she imploded. The massed crowds fell silent, attending a funeral. They seemed momentarily unable to take in the gravity of what they had just witnessed. They stood in awe as the old lady's cries echoed around the Thames. A policeman standing in front of the crowd barriers lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. "Praise be to God," he muttered. His sentiment seemed to pass through the watching crowd like a gentle wave, gathering momentum as it went. "Praise be to God" said another, followed by another, and another. The swell built up to a crescendo of joyous cheers. It had been over a hundred years since the Parliament was last occupied but in the demolitionist's mind she had deserved better. 'Why do we always have to destroy the past?' he thought. 'Are we afraid of the future?' He removed his hard hat as a mark of respect and placed his hand over the crescent decal. The accomplices gathered around the new Guy Fawkes. They kissed him on the cheek and shook his hand. "Well done!" they exclaimed as they turned excitedly to face the site on the opposite bank. For the first time in over three hundred years, Parliament Square was visible from the South side of the river. The dust finally settled over the remaining pile of rubble. The crowd raised their hands to shield their eyes from the bright summer sun as it reflected off the dozens of golden domes of the world famous skyline of London minarets.
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