The Young Dictator

by Hughes, Rhys

  Jenny saw him out of the corner of her eyes. “Stop him!” she barked at one of the statues. It stepped forward and knocked the Prime Minister down with a stone punch. Then it jumped up and down on him for ten minutes until he stopped screaming and his smug chin was flat and coated with a thick red sauce, like pizza.

  “Let that be a lesson to the rest of you!” snarled Jenny.

  When the other politicians saw that this girl was the new source of power in the land, they rapidly did what politicians are best at doing. In other words they grinned, fluttered their eyelashes and thought about protecting their own interests and saving their own skins. They had a quick vote and decided to award Jenny every possible medal for every reason they could devise.

  “I don’t care about trinkets!” yelled Jenny.

  Gran rubbed her hands together in glee. “Why don’t you herd all these buffoons into the cellars and lock them up securely? You don’t need their praise. You own the year, remember?”

  “Good idea, Gran. Shall we keep them as hostages? We might be able to ransom them for hard cash.”

  “What’s the point of that? You can snatch as much money as you like directly from the banks. Just give the order to have them all beheaded. I’m sure those statues are strong enough to actually pull their heads off their necks, so an axe won’t be needed.”

  Jenny nodded. Despite the fact she was a dictator, she wasn’t too full of self-importance to ignore a wise suggestion from her top adviser. It was clear she intended to avoid the pitfalls that previous tyrants had fallen into. When the chamber was finally cleared, she sat in the highest chair in the room and dangled her legs.

  “I suppose we ought to break the news now.”

  Gran said, “I’ll inform the BBC and all the papers immediately. Within the next hour, the entire population of Britain will be aware that a radical new regime has just taken over!”

  Jenny rubbed her face thoughtfully. “Do you think there will be much resistance to my administration?”

  Gran smiled. “I’m sure there will, but it can be smashed easily enough. When I look to the future I seem to see the rivers flowing with blood. Ah well! You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, and you can’t forge a dictatorship without breaking heads. But at the end of the day, the citizens of Britain will count themselves fortunate. The only thing they truly have to fear is fear itself.”

  “That sounds very wise,” approved Jenny.

  “I was joking!” chuckled Gran. “They have more to fear than that! A lot more! I’m glad I’m not them!”

  “What shall I do about the Queen?” wondered Jenny.

  “Kick her off the throne, of course!”

  A proud figure in an ermine cloak with a crown balanced on its head stood in the doorway. “No need for that,” it said in a posh voice. “I intend to abdicate as soon as feasible. I had a strong feeling about you, Jenny. I knew you were a figure of destiny.”

  “Come inside, Mrs Queen,” said Jenny.

  “Thanks. When we had those biscuits together, something magical happened. I realised that you were the solution to my problem. I have been very bored all my life. I need the excitement of a revolution and civil war to make me feel young again.”

  “You are offering me your support?” asked Jenny.

  “My loyalty, loot and life too.”

  Slowly, with appropriate humility, the Queen stepped forward and knelt before Jenny, kissing her feet with reverence. “It will be the greatest honour of my reign to serve you!”

  “Welcome to the team!” roared Jenny.

  Gran was right about the levels of resistance. The poor people of Britain were happy to accept Jenny as their supreme leader, and the rich people didn’t really care because they were too drunk to realise what was going on, but the Middle Classes decided to fight back. For some odd reason, they didn’t want a dictator in charge.

  Mr Zosimus handled the conflict that erupted.

  The Middle Classes organised themselves into small bands of rebel fighters armed with hedge trimmers, strimmers, petrol bombs and various kinds of silver cutlery. They applied guerrilla tactics, but that doesn’t mean they lived in the trees and ate bananas, not all of them anyway. They had to be taken seriously, especially when they managed to launch an attack against Parliament itself.

  A group of about thirty accountants and dentists tried to sneak past the guards and enter the House of Commons.

  They carried their own shotguns, which they used on weekend breaks in the country for clay pigeon shooting, and their plan was to assassinate Jenny Khan and restore democracy.

  But the guards weren’t fools, despite the fact they had mineral brains, and they moved quickly to block the doorway. A fierce battle raged at the entrance to the debating chamber. Loud bangs and smoke spoiled the afternoon tranquillity and the statues were pitted with holes all over their bodies, but they defended themselves.

  Five minutes later they had won…

  The only survivor was a dentist who limped away as fast as possible and managed to disappear in the crowd that had gathered outside. When Jenny heard the news of the attack she went to consult her Gran. There was a private room where meetings were held to decide what to do next whenever the regime was under threat.

  The Queen was also present. She had offered to help Jenny in any way possible, so Jenny had given her the important secretarial job of making careful notes about every meeting. She sat with crossed legs on a stool and held a notebook and pencil. Her crown caught the light of the single lightbulb that illuminated the room.

  Jenny slammed down her fist on a wooden table.

  “I can’t stand the fact that the Middle Classes refuse to accept my rule. It’s not fair! How can I convince them to follow me?”

  Gran shrugged. “It may be too late for that. I think it will be better to exterminate all of them, just to be on the safe side. I know that dentists and accountants are needed in society but we’ll have to train new ones from the ranks of the poor people.”

  “Is that feasible?” asked Jenny.

  “It’s certainly worth a try,” said Gran.

  “Very well,” agreed Jenny, “I’ll give the order for total war. The time for showing mercy is long past!” And she reached across the table to the fruit bowl and seized an apple in her hand. “The hour has come to crush the opposition like rotten fruit!”

  She squeezed the apple as hard as she could, but nothing happened. The Queen leaned forward, took a plum from the bowl and passed it to Jenny. “These are better for crushing.”

  Jenny squeezed the plum. Juice spurted up her arm.

  “Ha ha ha!” laughed Gran.

  “Ha ha ha!” laughed the Queen.

  “Ha ha ha!” laughed Jenny. She knew that dictators were supposed to laugh in a certain way and despite her inexperience she managed to make the required noise like an expert.

  “You ought to hold a parade,” said Gran.

  “A military show, you mean?”

  “Yes. It will demonstrate your strength to the rebels and cause them to tremble in their expensive shoes!”

  “Very well. Make the necessary arrangements!”

  Jenny called an end to the meeting and stood up, but suddenly there was a knock on the door. Before she could shout, “Come in!” it opened and Mr Paracelsus ran into the room.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Jenny demanded.

  “I have some news,” said Mr Paracelsus.

  “Tell me what it is!” cried Jenny.

  “I have discovered that your parents aren’t on the side of the rebels. Even though they are Middle Class, your mother and father have made a promise to remain loyal to you.”

  “Well that’s a relief! How did you learn this?”

  “Through my secret agents. Remember that I am head of your secret police! That’s the job you gave me.”

  “Good work, Mr Paracelsus! I’ll find some way of rewarding you. Go back to work and I’ll summon you when I have thought of a reward. I’m so
happy that Mum and Dad made the right choice! I didn’t have much regard for their intelligence before this.”

  But Gran seemed troubled. After Mr Paracelsus had gone, she turned to Jenny and said, “I don’t remember you giving him that job. I didn’t even know you had a secret police.”

  “Neither did I,” admitted Jenny. “I just assumed they were there, but too secret to reveal themselves to me.”

  Now there came another knock on the door. Mr Zosimus entered. He wore a homemade uniform and his cheeks were very red. He gasped for air and wiped sweat from his brow.

  “I have some news!” he spluttered.

  “Tell me what it is!” cried Jenny.

  “Mr Paracelsus is a double agent. He defected to the other side. He’s working for the Middle Classes!”

  “I thought as much!” snarled Gran.

  “I learned this from my own secret agents,” said Mr Zosimus. “He’s a disgrace to all other alkies!”

  “What shall I do?” asked Jenny. “This means that what he told us can’t be trusted. In other words, my parents are disloyal to me! In fact, they are probably the rebel leaders.”

  “Typical!” grumbled Gran.

  “My advice,” said the Queen, stretching to take another plum, but chewing on it rather than squashing it, “is to make an example of the traitor. Do it in public during the parade. In fact, why not make it part of the parade? A warning to all defectors!”

  “Good idea,” agreed Jenny.

  The following day, the vast parade took place in London. Jenny’s army of statues marched down the street outside the Houses of Parliament and the ground vibrated as thousands of heavy stone feet came down hard on the tarmac. But this was only half of her available force. The other half was too busy fighting the rebels in the provinces to take part in the show. The people stood and watched in silence.

  London was now full of empty pedestals and plinths, for every single statue in the city had been drafted to serve Jenny. She kept a straight face as she reviewed her troops. Dictators are supposed to look very serious in public, Gran had said. Jenny saluted the statues as they matched past her with a wave learned from the Queen.

  “The citizens don’t seem very enthusiastic,” she sighed.

  “Maybe they are feeling shy. Why don’t you order them to clap their hands? It’ll improve the atmosphere,” suggested Gran. Jenny nodded and gave the order. When the applause came, it seemed artificial and a bit hollow, but it was better than nothing.

  Instead of marching in ranks, as is normal when an army is paraded, the statues marched in single file.

  There was a reason for this, though it also meant the show would last longer. The reason was as follows:

  Mr Paracelsus had been captured and now had his hands tied behind his back. His feet were also tied together and he was stretched out on the road in front of the soldiers. As they statues reached him, they stepped on him with their cold brutal feet. He squeaked as they trod on him one by one. “Ouch! Yow! Glak! Ooof!”

  Over time his squeaking grew more and more feeble. After treading on him, the statues left red footprints in the middle of the road and these would have to be cleaned up. Eventually Mr Paracelsus was completely quiet, but the statues continued stepping on him. When the soldier who was last in line reached him, there really wasn’t much left. Jenny gave a final wave and turned to go inside.

  “I think we made a good example of him,” she said.

  “Yes indeed,” nodded Gran.

  Jenny went to have a snack, but her mood remained sour. The war was going well and the Middle Class rebels were being swept from the entire land, but she still felt dissatisfied. The thought that her own parents were leading the enemy depressed her.

  And this bad feeling slowly grew worse…

  The days passed slowly but they eventually turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months. The war continued. The rebels only controlled a small area centred on Carrington now and they were clearly getting ready to make a last stand there.

  One day, instead of staying indoors and signing death warrants, Jenny ordered Tubbs, who had remained loyal, to drive her about the capital, but none of the usual attractions of London cheered her up. Not even the fact that a waxwork of herself had been added to the ‘dictator’ section of Madame Tussauds made her smile. Back at the Houses of Parliament, she confessed her worries to her Gran.

  “What you are feeling is perfectly normal,” said Gran.

  “Is it really?” asked Jenny.

  “Yes, it’s called ‘disillusionment’ and it happens to every dictator. It’s a stage in a psychological process.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” said Jenny. “What if I get stage fright?”

  “Not that kind of stage,” explained Gran.

  “Are you trying to tell me that even power doesn’t bring happiness and that controlling other people is not always a satisfying thing to do? I don’t think I’m ready to believe that!”

  “You have made the mistake of confusing power with happiness. The point of power, Jenny, is that it’s worth having for its own sake. When the rebel leaders are brought to you in chains, you’ll feel a lot better, trust me. It will do them a lot of good too.”

  Jenny said, “Mum and Dad always took me for granted. I look forward to teaching them some humility.”

  Gran nodded. “I’ll help you with that as much as I can, but all this talk is making me tired. I think I’ll have a nap.”

  Jenny ordered one of her servant statues to carry Gran to her bed. The statue picked up the old woman in its muscular marble arms and began to walk out of the room. Then suddenly it froze.

  “What’s wrong with it?” demanded Jenny.

  “I have no idea,” said Gran.

  “Something has broken,” frowned Jenny.

  “I’m not sure about that,” replied Gran. “A statue isn’t a machine. I fear that the magic has worn off.”

  “Impossible! I own the year! I paid for it!”

  “Did you keep the contract safe?”

  Jenny reached into a pocket and pulled it out. “Here it is!”

  “It all seems to be in order. I don’t think any clause has been violated. This really is strange…” said Gran.

  Mr Zosimus appeared and he looked very worried.

  “More bad news?” asked Jenny.

  Mr Zosimus took off his cap and wiped sweat off his forehead. “I’m afraid so. All the statues have frozen, every single one of them! So we are defenceless against the rebels! When they realise this, they will probably regroup and launch a counter-offensive against London and there will be nothing we can do to stop them!”

  “I just don’t understand,” fretted Jenny.

  “Maybe we should surrender?” suggested Mr Zosimus.

  Jenny was shocked. “Never!”

  Gran said, “We ought to make preparations for our own last stand, but I do need a little nap first.”

  “And I need a big milkshake,” replied Jenny. “By the way, do we have any bazookas at our disposal?”

  Mr Zosimus shook his head. “None at all, I’m sorry to say. They don’t sell them in the shops anymore.”

  “Can I get them online, maybe on eBay?” asked Jenny.

  “You’re not over 16,” Gran said.

  Jenny logged onto Fascbook and updated her status. She wrote, ‘Tide of war turning against me. Hope my regime isn’t doomed!’ and she waited for some advice from her contacts, but she only got one thumbs up, from a fellow by the name of Idi Amin, and the only comment came from the always sarcastic Adolf who said, ‘Better stock up on the cyanide capsules. LOL!’ And that was of no use at all.

  She switched off her computer and called for her driver. He appeared and bowed very low, as she had instructed him to do. “Take me to the London Eye!” commanded Jenny.

  In silence they drove over Westminster Bridge to the giant wheel that dominated the south side of the River Thames at this point. Jenny entered one of the capsules and was slowly taken in
to the sky. At the highest point she had a superb view over London.

  And there to the southwest, on the actual horizon, she saw a column of black smoke and flashes of orange. Then a dull booming sound came and vibrated the glass of her capsule windows.

  Explosions… Heavy artillery?

  Had the counter-strike already commenced? Were the Middle Classes already on the outskirts of her capital?

  Jenny felt like crying with frustration but she restrained herself. There was always hope in any situation. If there were no statues to fight for her, why not force the citizens of London to fight instead? Even the remaining alkies could be sent to fight! Perhaps she would also send the Queen into battle, and as a last resort even Gran.

  The important thing was never to give in!

  When her capsule reached the ground, she returned to the Houses of Parliament and gave orders to her followers. The citizens of London were going to be conscripted into a militia, a force of largely amateur soldiers that would ensure that every square mile of territory would be defended to the bitter end. Jenny didn’t expect this force to win against the more determined Middle Classes, but she hoped it would buy enough time for her to get her magical powers working again.

  Mr Zosimus was put in charge of the new militia.

  Each recruit was given only one hour’s training and sent off to fight with whatever weapons were available. Then Jenny held an emergency meeting with Gran and the Queen.

  “I need to go back into the pit under the basement,” she said. “The skargill who sold me the year is the only one who can explain why my special powers no longer work.”

  “That’s a good idea,” agreed Gran.

  “At the very least you deserve a refund,” said the Queen.

  “Let’s go there now. You can hold the rope and lower me down. We are running short of time, it seems.”

  They got up and hurried along corridors to the stairway and down the stairway to the bottom and along more corridors and down more stairways until they reached the secret room with the long wooden table and large carved chairs and fireplace full of dinosaur bones. The circular hole in the floor was still there, with the rope coiled next to it. Jenny tied one end around her middle and nodded.