It was a fierce mild day in September and the hover-clocks were indicating thirteen. The New(ish) Journalist, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile drizzle, slipped quickly through the portal of Consensus Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent the laser scanners piercing his aged retinas.
The hallway smelt of damp croissant and cheap Bulgarovian wine. At one end of it a plasma fusion screen hovered two metres above the floor. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a newborn baby of about twenty five minutes, with the virgin inclinations of a smile. As always the face slowly began to fade away, the inclination vanquished, to be replaced by the mantra - NOT IF WE CAN HELP IT. The Journalist made for the lift. It was no use trying the instant teleportation matrix. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the wireless electric flux was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was fifty flights down, and The Journalist, who was one hundred and one years old and in constant agony, cursed the fifteen seconds he had to wait. All those seconds he waited, from each panel of the fusion wall reverberated the reminder, BRUSSELS IS WATCHING YOU.
Inside the flat he turned on his fusion screen. The communal leisure pursuit (or hurling as he once knew it) was on. The Northern Quadrant were leading the Eastern Quadrant by 3-16 to 2-10 in the All-Eurotopia Communal Leisure Pursuit Championship Final. The Easterners seemed completely indifferent even though there was nineteen minutes plus stoppages remaining. The Journalist sighed. The game was never the same once the players started getting paid. He moved over to the window: a decrepit, pathetic figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the constant tears smearing his gaunt cheek flesh. Damn leaky retinas. Damn lasers.
The Journalist reached for his eye ointment. He stopped. He gazed at the fusion screen once more. There was no change in the score. Northerners coasting to another triumph in the communal leisure pursuit. How surprising. "Ah fuck 'em! Just like those ould bastards from Kilkenny!" he muttered, as he turned once more for his ointment. He froze instantly, paralyzed by a long ingrained terror. How could he have been so stupid? Mentioning the forbidden ways out loud. Stupid, stupid old man. After all, his flat, like all others, was saturated with Ministry of Remembrance surveillance equipment. It was now only a matter of minutes.
New tears were forming. However these were not born of gappy retinas, but of regret. All of this suffering could so easily have been avoided. The stale hell that was Eurotopia would never have been if he and others like him had stood tall and done their diplomatic duty all those years ago... There would have been no mandatory decade of service in the Eurotopia Corps... There would have been no thirty year war with the Hated Chinese... There would have been no obligatory abortions in the aid of the communal fuel consumption... There would still be some ice at the North Pole... There would still be a Christmas... Damn it, there would still be hurling... If only he and others like him - the Irish, yes, that's what they were called, the Irish - had voted no in The Glorious Treaty. The callous benefit of hindsight, the ferocity of the lessons learned.
He heard the sirens outside Consensus Mansions. This was it. It was off to The Correctional Booths for him, to suffer for as long his rotten body would permit... Unless... He dived under his bed. He searched frantically for a few moments until he pulled out what he was looking for. A rudimentary homemade bodhrán, fashioned from a commemorative Consensus dish cloth won in a raffle many Hate Weeks ago and an antique smart car wheel. He began to bang on the bodhrán, weak yet insistent. It seemed time for one last wild one. He summoned every ounce of strength... "Yeeeeeeeeeooowwww!" The Banner Roar, alive and well in the Western Quadrant. He smiled broadly. He continued to beat the bodhrán, the rhythm emboldening him further. It was time for a song.
"Sinne Fianna Fáil,
A tá fé gheall ag Éirinn,
Buíon dár slua
Thar toinn do ráinig chugainn
Fé mhóid bheith saor,
Sean tír ár sinsir feasta..."
The hallowed couplets were being bellowed out for all to hear, at a volume which surprised even The Journalist himself. He stopped. He had caught his reflection in the window. A collection of small red dots were slowly making its way up his chest. There would be no booth for him. Not now. Not with such a large threat of remembrance amongst his neighbours. He needed taking down, and fast. He was glad his life was not flashing before his eyes. Why? Most of it was a twisted maelstrom of shite caused by his own indecision. Who needs to be reminded of that at their moment of passing? His smile grew broader still.
The dots were between his eyes now. There was a flash. The body of The New(ish) Journalist slumped to the floor, the bodhrán falling in unison. The instrument hit the ground and rolled clumsily away from the corpse, not stopping until it was once more concealed beneath the bed.
The drizzle continued unabated. The Remembrance Police cursed their luck. A soggy body was harder to burn.
