Blue Sky Thinking
The car , an antique Jaguar , trembled as it bounced over the cobbled Belgian streets . Cries of anger , exultation , amusement even , pervaded the brushed aluminium hull of the ship sailing a laboured path between onlookers . Light crawled past from the bars and clubs of the city , punctuated by the strobing camera flashes of reporters waiting for their moment . The sky hung , dark and dead , in the cold night air like the spoiled monochrome canvas of a war-ravaged Goya , splashed with the viscous red wine of the city ’ s shadow .
Inside the car , enclosed from the evening ’ s urban din , anxiety wrapped its choking tendrils around the passenger . He breathed it in , savouring the sharp scent of his own adrenal-filled sweat , calming his nerves , slowing the synapses of his over-alert mind . It was obvious that now would be the perfect time for a hostile strike , to end the peace , to prevent the signing of this final treaty which would seal the evils back into Pandora ’ s Union Jack-draped box . But he was safe . For now , at least , with his boots on foreign soil , he was defended from his native enemies , and defended by his foreign friends .
The motorcycles heading the international cavalcade pulled over to the sides of the avenue , slowing , to allow the Jaguar to glide along the forecourt of the European Commission at the head of the triumphal procession . To the passenger , a history graduate , it was strangely reminiscent of the customs of Stalin ’ s USSR , in which , upon sighting the Dacha of the great man himself , his car would pull ahead so as to enter first . There had been hope that Britain could remain without a self-proclaimed emperor after the events of the past 20 years , and to an extent that dream had come true : he was a strongman , not a tyrant .
A European lackey , for want of a better term , rushed forward to spring open the door . His hand shook , fumbled with the complex handle on the ancient vehicle , and eventually clicked open the lock as the cogs in his mind clicked into place . The young man swung himself out , swiftly , gracefully , like a dancer , like a soldier . The Chelsea boots of Mr Chalk landed softly on the forecourt paving . A banner , flickering and jinking in the Flemish breeze , read ‘ 2039 Brexit summit ’, and as Chalk gazed up at the glass and metal and starry blue of the Commission , the realisation hit him : this was the end of the war , of Brexit , of his unparalleled power . Hell , he had been only 15 when the voters had first scrambled to the booths to protest against the system . Yet it had fallen to him to incarcerate them , to clean up the mistakes of his
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