Long Live the Resistance - Dee & Thy

The room was dark and damp. It smelled like dust and grease. A single light shone on a worn wooden table. Around it stood four figures. On it lay a metal object.

"That's a whore's gun"

The person who had spoken was a tall red-head dressed in a plain grey skirt and brown blouse. She looked like a dutiful college girl in her mid-twenties. Keeping her arms crossed in front of her she eyed the shiny object with a concerned expression.

The older man in a working overall sitting at the table promptly objected.

"This is a Derringer. It's reliable, easy to conceal and at short rang..."

A middle-aged woman who looked like a victorian teacher touched his arm, interrupting him.

"Sorry darling, but she's right. That's a whore's gun"

Her husband tried to defend the instrument he had brought.

"Let's look at the practicality of ..."

He was interrupted again, this time, by the fourth person in the room.

"Peter, they are right. It a whore's gun. But, hey, it's the perfect weapon for killing a whoreson."

Nobody laughed.

The young man stepped closer to the table. He was dressed in a respectable tweed jacket with a somber tie. He turned toward Deborah.

"Well, anyway, why your boyfriend isn't here? He was busy beating up some beggars on the way?"

"Adrian, I don't see how MY boyfriend is any of YOUR concern."

Deborah felt nervous and her words were spoken with a little more venom than she had intended.

"Look, I'm not looking for a fight. He had an urgent call. May I remind you how useful he has been for our cause? We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the information HE has provided."

"Yeah, yeah, you're right, sorry. It's just that ..." He never finished his sentence.

"Well, nevermind then. He isn't here and neither are Cate, Sally or Rick. So what? We have an operation to plan so let's bloody move on!" This time, it was Peter's turn to raise his voice.

Nobody seemed to object.

"Alright! Now, I don't care how does it look. The question is, do you know how to use it?"

As an answer, Deborah picked up the gun, cocked it, disengaged the safety and shot it aiming at a nail the wall. After the first shot, she cocked and shot it again. The two bullet holes were about a foot apart.

"How am I doing, grandpa?" She inquired with a confident smile.

"Oh, bloody hell, I guess you got it. How about the ..."

"The emergency exits? There are two on every floor. The fire alarms? One in every room, they are paranoid about possible fires. The alternative escape routes? The main door, the roof, the laundry chute, and the bathroom window. I've been working there for a week. I know the place."

The old man began muttering in protest, but his wife intervened.

"There, there, darling. You know that Deborah always does her homework. Everything is ready for tonight." Turning to the red-headed girl she added: "Oh, I've got you "dress" ready, it's in my bag"

The quotation marks could be heard clearly. Nobody inquired, but they all knew what she meant. This would be a delicate night and she needed a dress that would draw all the stares away from her face.

Deborah only response was a curt nod. She didn't like to think about it. One thing was to dress provocatively in the intimacy of your home, with the person you loved and trusted. Another thing was to do it in front of a bunch of lecherous strangers. It was something that she had to do and she had done it without complaining. Yet, she was happy that tonight would be her last.

"Yes, everything is in place. Tonight the whoreson dies."

A crowd of the nation's elite mingled in the foyer of the Royal Edward Hall. The swirl of silks and tuxedos shone like a pool of liquid gems beneath the gilded trappings and glowing chandeliers. Throughout the room ran a susurrus of spirited conversation, fuelled by the endless glasses of champagne distributed by discreet attendants in cream suits. Among the broad spectrum of gowns and men's evening wear were the manifold uniforms, a testament to the current state of the Realm. Khaki and deep blue punctuated the ensemble, with the coal-back and silver of the King's Bodyguard making a particular impression. Despite the reservations of those who opposed changing the ceremonial uniform to adopt the new fascist style, there could be no arguing with the striking appearance of the new praetorians of the United Kingdom.

Chief among them was Colonel Raphael "Rafe" Fiennes, head of counter-intelligence in the capital and one of the regime's rising stars. Certainly he turned a fair number of elegantly-coiffured female heads as he made polite but inattentive small talk to acquaintances among the ensemble. Society columns made much of the Colonel, especially his bachelorhood and the succession of attractive companions occasionally draped on his arms. But on this particular night he was most definitely alone, and despite the formal courtesy he appeared disinterested and more than a little bored. The evening's entertainment - a series of Handel's harpischord suites - had left them largely unmoved. Instead his mind - the cool reptilian brain that bedeviled the Resistance, as hard and smooth as a stone in a stream - was focused on much more worldly and carnal matters.

Making his apologies and farewells with a beaming yet cold smile, the Colonel exited the foyer to the pungent, raucous street outside. Limousines and luxury cars clogged the cobblestones, their drivers waited expectantly for their charges. He gestured to Phillips, his uncouth East End chauffeur whose muscle and amorality earned him far more of his pay than his lacklustre driving skills. "To the Salon, now, Phillips" said the Colonel, knowing without looking at a smug grin had split the lean redhead's face. "Right awa', sah), drawled the driver, as he returned to the front seat and plunged the long Bentley into the London night.