“So, cheers, gentlemen.” Thome’s father is here with the most closely trusted members of his staff; the collective age in the room is 777 years, and the liquid assets exceed a few hundred thousand billion. Thome’s father looks into the pale faces with red noses and spider veins. None of those present admits why he is willing to submit to the stress of high office again at such a wizened age. Thome’s father knows, though. He smirks with his knowledge. He has used the word smirk ironically so often that at this point he can no longer expunge it from his vocabulary. What drives the urge for power during the final stretch is rage. At the fact that your bones ache and that it has all been so little fun. Which is crazy. It has generated so little true happiness. But not that being-rich-doesn’t-make-you-happy unhappiness; rather the feeling of always coming up short. Always someone who’s richer, who’s a closer relative of the former royal family, more important. Furthermore everyone here is united in despair at how they will go down in history. Because they know better. They know what the people want, know what is good for England, the country they’re fond of because they breathe it in. The goal of all the years of preparation and the huge financial outlays is within reach. Reform of the government, direct voting. And now: the crowning achievement. Abolishing the remnants of democracy. That’s why they’re here. To celebrate the electoral victory. Today. Thome’s father coughs quietly. And as always when he quietly coughs, he lifts his hand to his mouth, and as always when his hand enters his field of vision he sees the hand. Lying in a grave with his body. Above which is nothingness, dark night that never ends

“It just won’t go away,”

Says

HANNAH

Though it’s not even raining, it is only. Damp.