Thatcher’s Final Wash: Aaron Murdoch

You have no idea how much I shivered at stepping into this bath. It was under a bath that the bomb was hidden. It was the Brighton bomb. All the time in the massive hall, the delegates. The party workers. All excited about being in power. All keen to shape the future in our image. And then the explosion that night. But I didn’t fear the bathtub as much as the darkness that followed. Being unable to see the walls but feeling the dust on my face and hands. And the silence.

The water is warm enough, now where was I? Let me remove my bathrobe and enter the water. And let the water enter me. The traffic is noisy. But the doors are locked. Nobody can get me now. I’m safe. Safe and right. I hear my staff, my glorious, loyal staff moving about this historic building. The clock ticks quietly. This water feels great. As if the most purest from the land has made it’s way to my bathtub. I don’t want everyone to have this level of water. But at least have a bathtub in their homes. And what power I gave to people in their homes! Well to those who accepted my conditions. It all seemed a long way from my beginnings, but I was due for greatness. Destined to lead.

With no help from the editors! Those blind, rancid idiots. Sitting behind desks handed down to them as opposed to worked for. Yes, work. That marvellous circus trick of futility. Keep people walking down the corridors we determine. Keep them watching the movie. No thought of what technology created the projector. No idea what form the projectionist has taken. Not really questioning even what power source is powering the light. Or even what the screen is made from. Just following the light and generating tax. I didn’t create this system. But I improved it. Yes, not everybody got on board. But they were asking to be left behind! And it’s not even a shudder of evil behind this. Just a reaction of programming through following the evidence. Their tired, monotone voices. Barely enough strength to roar. The reports already waiting to be signed, blaming these mouse voices for a perceived curse. I kept order. I kept them in line. As I wash my breasts knowing it’s more evidence that can never be linked back to my people. Will Thursday bring vindication of my kicking lesson that people still shouldn’t trust them? Over the traffic I can still hear my beautiful, brave Jets through my wonderful blue skies. I made this country great!

A fool would buy a separate kettle to boil and strain through mesh, those wretched insects my gorgeous forces captured for protection. It’s not that people can’t contact the dead, it’s more that they shouldn’t! But never switch off the light. I no longer live in a world of black and white anymore. My world is so serious I can no longer rest. I remember the rage wasted on shopkeepers. That sinking concern they would stay for the van to sabotage deliveries. But there is more to this country than prejudiced and confused young men. Only a woman can be trusted to stick in the knife first. After they had fooled every one of their senses in their attempts to fit into my Conservative mindset over their liberal delusions. Even the smartest can have their brains fooled the easiest. Then compress them into pulp. Their slowing heartbeats of whatever named underneath. My legacy is restored and preserved.

Even this statement, I have written it out, one letter at a time. With my one favourite digit along the surface of the bathwater. A code that will never be detected by the Soviets. Undecipherable by the greatest of future computers. These waters recycled and filtered again to be spread through this city. To be drank by the people who despised me. To drop from shower-heads onto the naked cheeks of my most loyal supporters. If every drop in this pool was collected, put together, tested with equipment then maybe the echo of one sentence could be deciphered. But nothing could recapture the beast of it’s glory! And now the water has gone cold. My wash unfinished. This is my final day as Prime Minister. Put it down not to experience or the desperation of wanting to cling to power. My work is done. In a moment, I shall climb out of the bath, towel and robe myself and then call for a Downing Street member of staff to prepare both my breakfast and my finest dress. Not dressed for a funeral, nor the stereotype of blue, but a thoughtful light purple. One that will absorb the flashbulbs as I leave. I will not cry just yet. I can be proud of my achievements. This faithful bathtub. How many leaders have washed inside you? How many of those wrote upon your water their inner thinking? And now the plug. I will remain seated as the water drains away.

The End

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