Many wondered how Clayton could bring himself to do it. A law abiding citizen, a man totally unknown to the police, killing the prime minister, PM, I e murder, certainly not manslaughter, I e an altercation in a bar, the outcome a body.
But Clayton did not see it like that and not without justification. He was eliminating a menace. And this view was shared by others. But this of course was not the majority opinion and certainly not that of the police.
The eulogies sang psalms of praise, a hero done down by a vile and loathsome killer.
But again there was not unison, other voices spoke, a microscopic few, the brave who dared to speak out.
Predictably they were swooped on by the police. If they could ensnare others in some plot the mood of public horror would win kudos. There was a massive search for the most incriminating blogger, but there was disappointment, the hounds were bound in, tethered by the borders, provenance came from foreign shores.
This brought further worries, was this some scheme of foreign intervention? There was plenty to keep policemen and politicians from peaceful nights of sleep.
But this belief of foreign intervention persisted. Clayton’s family and close associates were watched. There was surveillance of all communications and bank accounts were scanned for foreign payments.
Does one man create history? A reasonable question. Napoleon’s incarceration was followed by 99 years of peace, at least in Europe. Dredge history and more examples will emerge.
And this was how Clayton saw the current situation. A new PM installed in office paid for by promises he knew were unaffordable. Unaffordable perhaps, but paid for they would be. To become PM the candidate had convinced the country of his magic. Once in office for many a free lunch.
And this many was a calculated number, the total added to a victorious election.
But this idea hit the rocks at least in Clayton’s head. To pay for the promises there’d be borrowing, to pay for the borrowing there’d be. And what would there be? Clayton unfortunately knew the answer or more precisely a reasonable approximation of what would follow. The PM and his cronies would disappear, their innings would continue,
they would bat on, unseen in comfortable retirement. So far so good, no one hurt, unfortunately it would not continue like that.
And unfortunately Clayton could see the denouement. Unemployment and its outcome. It haunted Clayton, he had no peace. Worthy people without work, without dignity, often estranged from children. The young could take an exit, depart for foreign lands, exiled, fleeing from an existence on rat bait.
Clayton discussed this often with his friends. They agreed, but what could be done, the PM was ensconced, he had the mandate, an overwhelming victory, the voice of the people was behind him.
This was no comfort for Clayton, he knew his friends were right.
His friends correct, ok, but there was a parting of the ways, he took it one step further.
The PM, the new PM did not give a ‘you know what’ about anyone or the country. There was one priority and only one and how it was achieved was an irrelevance. And this irrelevance was the worry, the cost and its disruption in people’s lives.
The desire for power. But would the other members of cabinet be so driven?
Clayton could not believe it would be so. With the PM gone some kind of sanity would prevail. The irrelevant would become relevant, costs and their outcome would not be ignored. In short reason would rule the land. Napoleon went and there was peace.
Clayton’s reasoning was not without precedent, he was not some loonie raving and screaming sought by men in white coats.
So there was the deed and its likely outcome, prison. Would that be a hardship? He’d have to manage without his wife’s moaning, that would be possible. There would be no responsibility and plenty of time for reading. In short a rest from the tyrannies of daily life.
He knew he would not be welcome in the best clubs. The most he could hope for would be the annual reunion for jailbirds at Murphy’s bar.
And his family, the stigma, they knew Dad, he had convictions and his wife, she would be staunch. Clayton was a nice guy, he was well liked, he was definitely no psychopath, self centered, angry, easily annoyed, he had friends.
Then there was the deed. It was not an easy moment for Clayton, taking the life of another, then came the moment, it was done. He felt relief. He was not a suspect despite
the evidence. The police could not believe it could be him. His profile ruled him out, no hint or wiff of malevence and his age, it was not the time when careers in crime commenced, but their termination when most offenders had reformed.
But all roads lead to Clayton, it could not be ignored and of course there was the pressing need for a conviction.
The police attempted a deal, a guilty plea m,, a lenient sentence, this was the wish of cabinet. They wanted the case shut down, the late leader a hero, they wished it to remain so. Was there some hidden scandal?
But more important and more palpable was the risk of division within the party. Merit barely ticked the box for inclusion in cabinet, malleability and a willingness to cringe before the leader took the pencil.
To summarise, the country was to be run by one man and a team of barking yes men.
Clayton knew this, he remained firm. He knew he would be eternally infamous, his name not in the hall of fame, but in some prison record. He had not done what he did to say yes it was me and then vanish into some comfortable prison.
I say comfort, but it is a relative term. To a former occupant of a park bench, the bed in boo, prison, would be ranked 5 star, but to someone whose slumbers had occupied a goose feather bed no description would fit the transition.
And so the plea was not guilty. He would be heard, that was his right.
The prosecution discussed the evidence, it seemed damming enough. Clayton had barely bothered with an alibi, others were never involved. This had been his wish, he did not want family or friends to be entangled with the police.
“And so you think you know best who should run the country? It is you who should decide, not the people?” The prosecution was trying a new ploy. They were attempting to portray Clayton as an arrogant individual who knew what was best for all.
Despite the forensic evidence, that was convincing enough, the prosecution was having its problems. It was Clayton’s testimony that was creating doubts. He did not come across as a man who would take the life of another. It would be obvious to the jury he was a decent guy, this impression would be reinforced by a total absence of any record of crime. The prosecution dug and searched, but could find nothing. His private life was examined, again no blemishes. No extra marital involvements, and only one wife, there
was no quick flick and hello here’s a younger model. They even discovered the flower beds in his garden were completely weed free. There was much they wished to withhold from the jury.
“Squeeze Germany till the pips squeak.” Was Clayton’s answer to the ploy.
This had been the slogan of the victorious party in the 1919 election.
It might have seemed like a good idea to a nation smitten with grief. But what did it mean?
You cannot squeeze a country, but you can squeeze its inhabitants, the ordinary German who had also gone through the war. There had been privation, many had lost their sons, sons had come back with limbs missing, there was trauma.
The flaws in the democratic system were being exposed. The slogan and its outcome, the rise to power of Nazi Germany.
How responsible were the leaders who rose to power on that slogan, with its advocacy to squeeze? It got them what they wanted, office and power, but then?
This then, it was fearsome, war, misery and worse for millions.
I would like briefly to digress and point out that then as now not all were convinced by the slogan and the need for squeezing.
There was Skimpy’s famous cartoon The Lemon Sqeezer.
The new prime minister is in miniature, his feet unattached to the ground, he is suspended holding the top of a
gigantic lemon squeezer. Of course lemon juice does not flow from it, but blood and munitions.
It was prescient.
The defense lawyer did not attempt to introduce this to the trial, it would be inadmissible as evidence, but he had the cartoon on the cover of a large book which he brandished from time to time in view of the jury.
The prosecution found this very annoying.
A point was being rammed home.
Clayton’s trial was becoming an embarrassment for the government. There was an inconvenient parallel between 1919 and the irresponsible promises that had won them power.
This did not go unnoticed on the media. The cost of the promises were being examined. Even the blind could see the outcome.
But the greatest damage came from social media.
Skimpy’s cartoon was resurrected. There were only two changes. The new finance minister’s face and instead of blood and munitions, bodies with unemployed stamped on them flowed from the gigantic lemon squeezer.
The government was in disarray. The bullying leader was gone, the yes men had no ideas.
Then came rescue. Brilliance, call a fresh election. Most of the yes men vanished into oblivion, they were grateful to escape the glare. There were other benefits too, retired ministers perks and their overweight pensions. Their ordeal was over.
The trial and the election had become intertwined. It was impossible to separate them. It was totally unforeseen.
The prosecution had slipped. They were aware that their attempt to further blacken Clayton was a serious blunder. They could not back track and try and paint him white, the good guy, that was definitely off limits. There was no salvage attempt, the prosecution gave up.
They had changed the public’s perception of Clayton. The public was no longer baying for blood.
Clayton was no longer the bad guy, the hated killer. And the victim, the late prime minister, he was now not seen as being virgin white , his mantle of great and goodness had withered, it had gone.
A question mark now hung on his eulogies, they looked odd.
Thus the jury was exposed to the tumult of discussion and debate. An impartial decision would be impossible.
Predictably there was a hung verdict. The police were half furious. The evidence pointed to a certain outcome, but they realised the jury had been overwhelmed.
Clayton knew he was tainted, the best clubs would be off limits. He’d had a close call with the law, he’d escaped from justice. The incoming government owed him a debt. It could not be admitted publicly, but his trial had got them elected.
Clayton had some remorse but one serious regret, he did not qualify for the annual reunion for jailbirds at Murphy’s bar.
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About the Author.
Educated Lancing College, Sussex England. Served in Royal Navy for two years. National Service. (The draft.U.S). Occupation accountant. Other challenges married life and being a Father. Relaxation. Cycling, walking with pooch and a kitchen garden and of course reading. A resident of New Zealand
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