Stream of Conscience

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She clambered up from her kneeling position, dropping the screwdriver down onto the carpeted floor.
Her neck ached.
Grabbing the base unit of the desktop PC, she pushed it as hard as she could, forcing the box against the grain of the carpet with some difficulty at first, gradually finding momentum until the plastic and metal box slid into position.
She grunted her satisfaction, then leant down to hit the on switch, relieved when the familiar sounds of the machine powering up began, flopping into the chair in front of the computer desk, hitting the button on the monitor, waiting patiently as the boot-up process worked through, typing in her username and password when prompted.
“Sally88”
“Indigo451”
As the hard drive clicked and buzzed, the tiny needle scanning the surface, finding the data it needed in order to load the OS, she leaned forward on her elbows, the screen too large in her field of vision, blinding her almost, so she closed her eyes, content simply to wait, emptying her mind of all thought, aware only of the routine sounds, so well known that she could identify the precise moment the computer became usable.
Bzzzz.
Bzzzz.
Click.
Stop.
Bzzzz.
Stop.
Now it was ready.
She clicked on the browser icon on the desktop, waited a second or two for Firefox to load, then, two clicks more, she was on her Facebook profile.
One private message waited for her.
She opened it.
Read the words once, quickly, then again more slowly.
A glance at her watch confirmed she was on time.
She moved the cursor down to the tiny chat box, clicked on the name she sought.
Aston4.
‘I’m here,’ she typed.
‘Are you prepared?’ came the response.
‘I am.’
‘All is ready.’
‘When shall I start?’ she asked.
‘Now.’
The single word blinked at her from the screen.
She nodded.
So it begins.

She leaned forward, staring straight into the lens of the webcam that sat atop her monitor. For long seconds she did not move, simply gazed at the unblinking eye, imagining the world beyond.
‘My name’s not important,’ she began at last, ‘But maybe my story is. Perhaps, if I tell my tale, it can make a difference.
To one person?
To a hundred?
Who knows? I’m going to tell it anyway.’
She sat back, now, relaxing into her chair, taking a quick swig of coffee from the mug on her desk, wincing when she found it was cold, drinking some more regardless.
She sighed.
Then started speaking again.
‘Truth is, I’m not sure if anyone will even hear this. I hope so. I really do. But that’s out of my control.
I’ll start at the beginning.
I’m a nobody, really. A grunt. One of those people you can pass by everyday in the street and not even notice. It’s not a criticism of myself. I like it that way. I prefer being anonymous. Well, I used to.
I worked as a care worker at a local hospice. Elderly people, mainly, though all had something wrong with them besides their advancing years. Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, motor neurone conditions. You name it. Most could fend for themselves to some extent and, fortunately, most of them could tend to the intimate bodily functions –but not all – so my job was mainly about keeping them company, taking them where they wanted to go and generally keeping them active.
See, one of the myths about the elderly is that they like to stay at home, like to be indoors where it’s safe and quiet. Not in my experience. Most of my clients liked nothing better than being out and about, as much as was practical, and I always supported them as best I could. Cinema visits, trips to the park, the swimming pool. Whatever they wanted, if I could help them, I would.
That was my job.
Or so I thought.
I had one guy under my care – let’s call him Alf. Alf was a prickly character, quick tempered, and one sure fire way of setting him off was to make him feel as if you were helping him too much. He liked his independence, liked to do as much as he could for himself, despite the fact his Alzheimer’s was fairly well advanced and his frail old body was blighted by a form of muscular dystrophy which meant he had trouble walking unaided. Still, the old swine had attitude. And he could swear like a sailor when he lost his temper. Nothing malicious, comical in fact, and I never took it to heart.
Admired him in many ways.
His effort.
His resilience.
His insistence on doing all that he could for himself, even though he probably couldn’t tell you what he had for breakfast.
A proper character, you know.
In the home, we had a contraption called a rollator. We had a few of them, but one in particular I’d set aside for Alf’s use so, when we went out and about, he could hold onto the handles, and guide himself where he wanted to go with the four wheels.
He loved it.
Then, an inspector came in, a medical inspector, checking out the equipment and reading lists of clients and their individual conditions and, as soon as he read Alf’s file, that was it. No rollator for you, squire, despite the fact he had been using it for over a year without an incident. Despite the obvious evidence that it was beneficial for him. No, the inspector decreed that Alf should sit out the rest of his days in the home, unable to leave, effectively cutting off the very independence that I was sure was the only thing that had kept him going in the first place.
It would kill him.
I knew it would.
I broke the news to Alf and the look on his face near broke my heart. His bottom lip trembled, and he started weeping, the daft old sod and, wouldn’t you know it, that set me off, too.
Well I couldn’t have it.
It just wasn’t acceptable.
In defiance, I allowed Alf to keep using his rollator. Allowed him the independence he so badly craved and, for my efforts, I got sacked.
No questions.
No discussion.
Just out the door.
I tried to appeal and they pretty much laughed in my face, my manager waving a time-stamped photograph of me with Alf and his bloody rollator at me, citing it as proof of gross misconduct.
Jobless, angry, I was climbing the fucking walls. I didn’t know what to do. I’d never been out of work. Didn’t know what it meant to have a huge void of time spanning out before me, no way to fill it. It only took three days for me to crack. Still raging, I went back to the care home, snuck in really, furtive and nervous, a trespasser now. I made my way to the cupboard where Alf’s device was stored, anxious, wondering if it would still be there.
It was.
Removing it quickly, I exited the building, breathing deeply, now adding theft to my list of apparent crimes against the company. Two streets away from the scene of my felony I began to relax, feeling suddenly elated.
Manic almost.
It was as if this act of defiance had liberated me from the tumult of dark anxieties that had been pressing down on me. I felt like a child, not a care in the world all of a sudden, and I knew I could do anything I wanted. Without thinking about it, I headed for the park, the very place me and Alf had spent our happiest times together, me on the park bench, observing, he ambling about on his four wheeled contraption, watching the people pass him by, sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning, occasionally swearing for no reason, but always vibrant, always alive.
To this day, I don’t know what came over me.
I dashed to the edge of the lake that served as centrepiece to the park.
I folded the rollator up to its smallest state and then – don’t ask me why – I started jumping on it, started smashing the damned thing up. Maybe it was a symbol of all that had suddenly gone wrong, something that needed to be destroyed in order for me to move on with my life. In the past, after a break-up, I’ve changed my hairstyle, changed the way I fix my make-up. Changed something. Perhaps this was similar, though in a destructive way. I needed to rid the world of the bloody thing, to reset the balance of the universe for, in my mind at least, it seemed improper, somehow, for the rollator to still exist, yet not be put to correct use.
So I jumped up and down on it.
I kicked it.
The wheels fell off first, and I picked these up one by one, hurling them into the lake, as far as I could manage, far enough that they could not be retrieved, anyway, and that was good enough. In they went, arcing through the air and, as I released them, I bellowed at the top of my voice: ‘Piss off, wheels.’
I was like a thing demented.
Never having acted in this way previously, I felt so energised by the bold spontaneity of my actions, I didn’t even consider how I must appear to passers-by. Heck, I wasn’t even aware of the crowd that had started to gather to watch the mad woman smash up a stroller and chuck it in the lake.
Who wouldn’t want to watch that, right?
I kicked down again, this time snapping off part of the frame, picked it up, swung my arm back to hurl it, too, into the water, when the backward motion was abruptly halted, so my own momentum caused me to swivel and spin on the spot, bringing into focus what had prevented my intention. A child, no more than thirteen, had apparently snuck up behind me. Why, I have no idea. Perhaps to try to stop my crazy behaviour. Perhaps just to get a closer look. Either way, he wouldn’t be looking at much of anything for some time after. The metal pole I had smashed off the rollator was now stuck into him, jabbed right into his eye socket, so he stood and stared at me with just one good eye, apparently rooted to the spot.
‘That’s gotta hurt,’ was my first, utterly inappropriate thought, the wildness of the spectacle before me preventing any rationale response.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I heard from somewhere else, a woman’s voice, then someone bursting out of the gathered spectators, grabbing at the boy, screaming, holding him, screaming some more, and it took a while to realise she was screaming at me, demanding to know what I had done to her son.
My memory gets fuzzy after that.
Vague recollections of more people shouting at me, of flashing lights, handcuffs. Of questions and accusations.
Then the magistrate.
The man who decided to take away my son.
Perhaps it was fitting punishment for me. After all, I had taken away at least part of another’s only child. The boy lived, but he would never see out of the damaged eye again.
But they took my boy away from me permanently.
I was an unfit mother.
Damaged goods.
Bipolar disorder, they said, with an emphasis on the manic side of the spectrum. I was liable to make rash decisions that could endanger the safety of myself and anyone under my care therefore, it was the duty of the state to absolve me of that responsibility.
Jobless and now childless, things were about to get much, much worse.’

The newsroom bustled with the usual frenzy of activity. Journalists scuttling from desk to interview room, from canteen to computer.
The wall clock read 11:45am as the telephone on Samantha’s desk began to ring. She snatched at it, annoyed that her train of thought had been interrupted.
‘News desk,’ she said.
‘You’ll want to make a note of this,’ the voice at the other end of the line said, a peculiar quality to the tone, distorted somehow, processed, the caller clearly speaking through some form of electronic device to mask his (her?) true voice.
Sam’s pulse quickened instantly.
Only one type of person made an effort to disguise their voice: someone newsworthy.
And she had the scoop.
‘Are you next to a computer?’ she was asked.
‘I am.’
‘Fire up your browser.’
‘Already open.’
‘Type this into the address bar: ustream.tv/sally88’
‘One second.’
Sam did as she had been asked. The screen loaded, quickly, but the media player at the centre of the page took a while longer as the data buffered.
‘What is this?’ she asked while she waited, anxious to keep the caller on the other end of the line.
‘You’ll see. No more talking. From now on, you just listen.’
Not wishing to provoke a hang-up, Sam complied.
The media player finally completed loading and, on screen, a woman, maybe mid-twenties, stared out at her, speaking, though no sound could be heard. Sam cranked up her speaker volume.
‘Who is she?’
‘Name’s aren’t important, Miss Telegraph journalist. All that matters are the words. I’ve given you a heads up, here. Soon, all eyes will be on this woman.’
There was a click, then then phone line went dead.
Sam replaced the receiver.
Stared at the screen.
Listened.

She took another sip of the still cold coffee, pausing momentarily, throat dry, requiring lubrication.
‘My husband was furious with me and, honestly, who can blame him? All those plans we had made. The ideas we had. The thoughts we had shared about the life we would spend together: gone. Not forever, I hoped. No, it was just a temporary set back. That’s what I tried to tell him. That’s what I tried to explain. But he wouldn’t listen. He just kept telling me it was all my fault. Kept saying that he had stuck with me when all of his friends and family had told him he should leave.
Why?
Because I was trouble.
He came from a reasonably wealthy family. They weren’t millionaires, not by any stretch, but they were successful enough. Me? I’d been dragged up on a Black Country council estate. No prospects, no chance of doing anything with my life. Not that I’m complaining. I was happy enough with what I had. Then, we met. Total chance. In a supermarket. As clichéd as it gets, really. He took a shine to me, and I was suitably flattered to agree to a first date. We never looked back.
But they never forgave me.
His friends.
His family.
Never forgave me for my upbringing. They couldn’t see beyond the accent and the lack of qualifications so, when I was prosecuted, it gave them the opportunity to squawk ‘I told you so,’ to him. He resisted for a while, I’ll give him his due, but they got to him in the end. He hit me that last day. I was in his face, calling him every bastard under the sun as he was packing his stuff. He’d agreed to pay for the upkeep of the house for six months, to give me time to sort myself out.
Decent of him, really.
But I didn’t see it like that at the time. Instead, I was shouting and cursing at him, playing every bit the manic nutcase, effectively proving the diagnosis correct, and reinforcing his commitment to leaving me. Our boy as well, of course. He couldn’t get over that. So he’d made the choice. He could take custody of his son, but only if he had no relationship with me.
His son or his wife?
A tough choice if you think about it, and he made the one that most men would, I suspect.
I wouldn’t let it lie as he tried to leave, started pushing him, threatened him even then, in the blink of an eye, he snapped, took a swing at me, caught me on the chin and knocked me off my feet. It took the wind out of me, physically and mentally, so I just stayed on the ground whilst he finished his packing.
I’ve never seen him since.
Nor my boy and, for a couple of months, I was lost, adrift.
Desperate.
What purpose was there to my life?
What point continuing?
I contemplated suicide at the time, but I simply didn’t have the stomach for it back then and, given my medical condition, the doctor was hardly likely to prescribe me something strong enough to do the job efficiently. I could have found the means, I suppose, but the thought never crystallised sufficiently powerfully to explore it.
Then, I found my calling.
It was like something I should have been doing all along. I couldn’t believe I had never considered it previously because, once I started, it was like a drug.
I couldn’t stop.
I became an activist.
Name a political cause. Name a grievance against the government, big business, the banking world, I was on it. Using the internet, I started out joining forums, rallying people, trying to stoke up annoyance, dissent, hatred if I could manage it. Then, when sufficient people were engaged, we’d take to the streets. Placard waving warriors, we thought of ourselves as, a small but dedicated band of business and bureaucrat botherers.
To begin with, they paid us little attention. Who were we, after all? A cluster fuck of nobodies, armed only with permanent marker daubings on pieces of cardboard. They didn’t have to worry about us. They mocked us sometimes, but that was progress, was the way I saw it. One of my proudest moments came when a Conservative politician mentioned our group on Have I Got News For You. He was sarcastic about us, of course, made a quip that got him the laugh he wanted – humanising him, perhaps – but still that seemed to me a small victory. If he was talking about us on national television, we’d clearly started to get under his skin.
Then, a strange thing happened.
Almost overnight our ranks began to swell. We went from a few dozen dedicated souls to several hundred, several thousand and, before you knew it, each time I arranged a rally or a march, hundreds of thousands took to the street.
We were shaking things up, and no mistake.
Suddenly, the politicians began to take notice.
Gone were the snide quips on satirical panel shows, in their place came forthright and worrisome interviews on Newsnight, Question Time and the like.
We had arrived.
But the best thing about it all?
Nobody knew who I was.
I was the ringleader, but nobody had a clue. Not even the people who attended the marches. As far as they were concerned, I was just another one of them, following orders, doing as I’d been asked.
And I kept the secret for six months.
Then a journalist broke the story. Revealed my identity. And, by doing so, for a second time, my life was taken from me.

Aston4 typed urgently, hammering at the keys with barely a pause, eager to spread the message. Forum after forum was visited, both friendly and enemy territory, urging those online to watch the video feed, to fan the flames.
Online, news travels fast.
Within twenty minutes of the commencement of the broadcast, the ‘active viewers’ figure read 87,000.

‘Of course, my past was soon exposed. Front page stories ran about my prosecution and mental health diagnosis, both used to sully my reputation, as well as various stories cut straight from clean cloth, just plucked from the air by a journalist with an overactive imagination. Strangely, though, the public didn’t seem to buy any of it. To this day I have no idea why they rejected the claims – even those that were true – so instead of dampening the flames down, the constant headlines disparaging me only served to spur me on and, as more and more people flocked to our events, so the tactics used against us, but me specifically, intensified.
It was like something from a movie.
The moment I realised just how deeply I was in over my head was when I visited a cash point to take out a small amount of money. Maybe twenty pounds, I can’t remember now. I knew the money was there, but the machine informed me that I had insufficient funds and, to add further irritation, swallowed my card. I thought nothing of it at the time, instead walked into the branch itself and explained what had happened, asking that they check my balance and retrieve it. To begin with, the woman behind the counter was polite enough, smiling and nodding as I spoke but, once my details had been entered into the computer, her manner changed completely. In an instant, she became frosty; hostile even. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth pinched and, awkwardly, she excused herself, explaining that she had to speak to the branch manager.
I sat and I waited, wondering what the hell was going on.
The manager himself emerged soon enough, sat opposite me whilst the original clerk hovered nervously behind him. I couldn’t have my card back, he explained curtly, and the reason the request for cash had been refused was that my account had been frozen, pending criminal investigations.
I was flabbergasted.
Criminal investigations?
What kind of criminal investigations?
He had no details, he replied then, unable to look me in the eye, he mumbled something about the Prevention of Terrorism Act.
Did I look like a terrorist?
He had no response to that, but I could see in his eyes that there was some doubt. Maybe mud did stick, after all.
I left without another word, which didn’t please him, calling after me that the police were on their way and that I should wait. I had no intention of following his advice, headed straight for home, only to find that a welcoming committee awaited.
Handcuffed, I was dumped in the back of a police van, without explanation.

Sam recognised her now. Though familiar, it wasn’t until the monologue turned to protest marches that the penny dropped. A quick Google later, Sam had the name she needed.
Sally Harker.
Sam looked up the address, grabbed her phone from her bag and brought the video feed up on the small device, boosting the volume so she could hear every word clearly, then dashed from her desk, heading for her car, determined she be the first journalist on the scene when the broadcast ended.
The mystery caller had contacted her. Indirectly, true, but she had no intention of wasting such an opportunity.
She checked the address again.
A fifteen minute drive on a normal day.
Today, she would make it in ten.

The cell was bare, save for a seat and an information leaflet on the wall reminding those within the room that drink driving is a crime.
Christ, I could have used a drink right about then.
The journey to the police station had been short, so I knew I was still in my own locality, but nobody would speak to me. The officers remained resolutely silent as they marched me into the building, emotionless. I may as well have been accompanied by droids. The door was locked and I sat in the cell, alone, for the best part of four hours before anyone arrived, and only then to offer me some water.
I accepted.
No use going thirsty for the sake of pointless defiance.
Another couple of hours passed before I was escorted to an interview room. But this was a room like no other I had seen in a police station. The door leading into the room was made of thick metal, and was only operable by means of an electronic lock. Within the room, nothing at all. Just two seats and a desk between. I scanned the room on entry. No cameras. Nothing. No proof that I had ever been in the room.
I became very, very scared.
Dumped into the chair, again I was forced to wait before a tall, suited, bespectacled gentleman entered. He didn’t give his name. Gave no clue as to his identity or his status. He merely spoke at me.
‘You are being detained as a suspected terrorist. You are a menace to this nation, and you will desist from your anarchic activities with immediate effect, else face severe consequences.’
I just blinked at him.
‘Your life is no longer your own. We control it. We say what you can and cannot do. Where you can and cannot go. Who you can and cannot see.’
He reached into his pocket, and threw something onto the desk between us.
‘Read it,’ he snapped.
It was a large piece of paper, the size of a tabloid newspaper cover and, indeed, what I was looking at was a mock up of an edition of The Mirror.
‘Protestor’s Paedo Palace,’ screamed the headline, accompanied by a photograph of myself, clearly taken using a telescopic lens from great distance, but with sufficient detail to show me looking gaunt, tense.
‘This is bullshit,’ I began, but he stopped me with a raised hand.
‘Read it, he repeated.
I did so. In the sensationalised style of the tabloid press, the article detailed how my flat was used as a headquarters for the production and distribution of child pornography. My aberrant behaviour was explained away by the loss from my life of my own son, that this somehow twisted my mind and made me hate children. Desperate for money after being cut off from my husband, I turned to this most horrific source to generate income.
‘No-one will believe this,’ I said to him.
‘You have no choices here, Miss Harker. Retreat from the spotlight, tell those that follow you to cease in their activities, and resume a normal life. We have set up a job for you at your local supermarket. You will want for nothing. But you must stop. We will tolerate your interference no longer.’
I just sat there shaking my head.
‘Oh, one last thing.’
Once more, he reached into his pocket and again, he dropped something on the desk, a photograph this time and, with trembling hands, I scooped it up.
My boy.
Older though.
‘That was taken yesterday,’ he informed me.
‘Why are you showing me this?’
‘Think of it as a warning,’ he said. Then, to remove all doubt. ‘We’ll kill him if we must.’
He left and, shortly afterwards, I was escorted from the building, to make my own way home to Stourhampton. Oh, and for the sake of clarity, that police station, that interrogation room, was in Dudley. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want you to know that.
So, here we are. It’s come to this. Every aspect of my life has been eroded. All reasons for wishing to continue have been removed, but the fight must go on.
Just not with me.
So here’s what’s happening. I started this broadcast with a clear purpose. Of course, I still have no way of knowing if anyone is listening. Maybe it’s been shut down but, assuming you are out there, loyal followers, and those beyond, this is my message:
Take my life as the price of freedom. We live in a society blinded, side-tracked, distracted. You think they want you thinking about what’s actually happening? Of course not so, every night, on the news, they give you the football scores instead, or talk about the latest celebrity scandal.
You think they want you questioning why most of us are getting poorer by the week whilst those at the top gather enormous sums - more money than anyone could ever need – to bloat their own estates. No, so they feed us reality TV and brainwash us with lies about the financial collapse.
I do this not for me, not even for you, but for those that follow us.
Don’t worry. It won’t take long.’

Sam pulled up outside the block of flats, snatched up the phone from the passenger seat, watched as, on screen, Sally held her left wrist up to the camera and slowly, with great deliberation, drew a razor blade across it.
Blood spurted, blinding the camera for a little while before a tissue appeared to wipe it away.
Sam leapt from the car.
Sprinted towards Sally’s home, glancing at the screen intermittently, cursing as the woman on screen repeated the action on her right wrist.
‘Each drop of blood has meaning.
Drip: a life ruined.
Drip: a life forgotten.
Drip: a life not given the chance to thrive.’
Sam pounded up two flights of stairs.
‘Not long to go now, but remember this day, please, and make sure my sacrifice is not a futile one.’
Sam reached the door of the flat, tried the handle – locked, of course – and, without hesitation, shoulder barged the wooden obstacle.
The door did not yield.
‘I can feel the life draining from me. Can feel my energy sapping, but know this: I have no regrets, nor would I change what I have done here, this day. If my blood can help forge a better future, I can die content.’
She barged once more with her shoulder, again with no result, so stepped back and aimed a hefty kick at the jamb. It didn’t give, but at least it splintered a little.
‘They can slander me; they can accuse me of crimes I did not commit. They can even silence me, but they cannot erase this moment from history.’
Sam kicked again and this time, the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a resounding thud. She plunged straight through, into the corridor beyond, glancing at her phone, pleased to see Sally still speaking. She tried the first door off the corridor – kitchen, no use.
‘I love you all. Keep fighting the good fight.’
Sam burst through the second doorway.
Found Sally.
Slumped over the keyboard.
Blood pooled all around her, on desk, clothing and floor.
Sally did not move.
On screen, the voice continued to speak.
Numb, Sam moved nearer, reached out a hand, touched Sally’s neck, searching for a pulse, knowing it was useless, the cold, rubbery feel of her skin telling Sam all she needed to know.
Sally was dead.
And yet still she spoke.
Sam looked at the computer.
In the centre of the screen, a small dialogue box.
‘Time delay: 1:00:00’
‘I’m too late,’ she thought.
‘Goodbye. I love you all.’

© Ian Stevens (2012)
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