The Society

It was impossible to avoid getting the fabric in his mouth. It tasted of corduroy and sweat, which meant he was probably tasting some other guys dead skin. His head was in a bag, he was eating somebody else’s skin, and he was starting to be able to smell his own fear. Bob wondered if it was too late to ask for a tic-tac.

It had begun two days previously, when he had been elbow deep in the guts of his kitchen sink, trying to fix the blockage that was currently preventing him from doing the washing up. It wouldn’t take long to fix. Then he’d have to find something else to prevent him from doing the washing up.

It was as he was at his most inconvenienced, both hands occupied trying to manoeuvre the loosened u-bend into a bucket without releasing the noxious contents all over himself and the kitchen floor, when the doorbell rang.

“Are you alright?” asked the man at the door, when Bob answered it, “only I heard swearing.”

“I’m fine,” said Bob, a firm clench to his jaw.

“Also,” said the man, “you’re covered in fat and potato peelings, and you smell like a sewer.”

“I’m absolutely fine,” repeated Bob tightly. “This is how I always spend my Sundays. Did you have something for me?”

“Oh yes,” said the man. “Forget my own head, I would, if it wasn’t nailed on.”

He handed Bob an ornate looking envelope.

“What’s this?” asked Bob.

The man gave him a funny look.

“It’s an envelope, innit.”

“No,” said Bob. “I mean what’s inside it?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said the man. “It’s not my envelope. It’s more than my jobs’ worth to go around looking in other people’s envelopes. If I were you, I’d open it and find out.”

“Right,” said Bob. He looked at the man’s expectant face. It was, after all, a very intricate and intriguing looking envelope. Then he shut the door on the mailman and went to wash himself off.

The noise level was beginning to rise now. Even through the fabric of the hood, Bob could make out excited murmurings. They had put the hood on before they had brought him in, but he knew he was in an auditorium of some kind. Now, clearly, it was beginning to fill. He felt like a violin being tuned before the start of an orchestral concert: stretched to tension, and with a very strong feeling that at some point he was going to be plucked.

When he had opened the envelope, he had been surprised to find it almost empty. For such a big envelope, the contents inside had been a very tiny card.

It had been enough though. On the card had been a simple message. ‘It’s your turn’.

Now, the hubbub was almost unbearable. Surely, Bob thought, surely the auditorium must be full now. Not that he was anxious to get started, but the waiting was beginning to get to him. He had known it was coming. Known that he could only put it off for so long. Now, it was his time, and Bob wished he had been more prepared: spent more time thinking about what to when it happened, and less time trying to pretend that it would never come.

A movement nearby startled him. Someone was approaching. The murmuring increased in volume. Too late to get out of it now. It had seemed such a sensible solution when it had first been proposed. Everyone in the country to take their turn. Everyone to sit in the hot-seat. It had seemed so sensible when he had thought it would be everyone else and never him.

Bob took a deep breath of sweat, and stale skin, and unwashed fear and desperation. Then the bag was whipped from his head, and Bob was blinded by bright lights, and blurred faces and the sheer noise of rapturous, tumultuous, applause.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” said the man who stood by his side. Bob shivered in dreadful anticipation as the applause died down, as the crowd noise dropped to an acceptable buzz of whispered silence.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” repeated the speaker, “may I present to you the next Prime Minister of Great Britain.”