1985

7.30

London lacked new cars. The regular party member was not allotted a vehicle and only the inner party received chauffeur driven limousines. The proles kept vehicles going from 50 years ago. Frankenstein deathtrap labours of love kept on the road by backstreet mechanics and ingenious owners, with recycled frames, rehashed parts and ingenuity.

But pollution persisted, a toxic yellow smog rested on the city. The smog came from the war factories that dominated the banks of the river Thames and the Floating Fortresses that urinated oil into its water.

Dave and Mike took tea at a dockside cafe on the river. As the vendor handed over the paper cups of liquid the detectives didn't fein they would pay, and the vendor didn't offer a price, he knew who they were.

'And four slices of bread with margarine.' said Mike. He burnt his mouth on the tasteless grey liquid. 'Damn it.' he said, spitting it out.

Mike wiped his gloved fingers on his stained white shirt. He wore a dark blue suit with pinstripes which stretched over his Gorilla like shoulders, his belly stained against the midriff of his shirt. He and Dave were party members but not required to wear the uniform. As Thought Police they were meant to blend with the general population, but they were instantly recognised, they were so clearly members of the general public could smell it before they rounded a corner. Mike pushed the slices of bread whole into his mouth still wearing his gloves. Crumbs caught in his beard and margarine on his rusty brown moustache.

'And two Victory gins.' said Dave. He leant in to eyeball the kiosk employee, Dave's face was creamy yellow and gaunt. The vendor hurried and avoided eye contact. Dave Looked like he'd been dug up, his teeth were like a dry stone wall and he dressed in black like an undertaker. He was over six foot even with his hunched back. Dave sipped his tea with one hand in his pocket. Taking the smallest sips while sucking air over the liquid so it did not burn his tongue.

'I'll never understand how with all this rationing someone could get fat.' said Dave accusingly.

Mike offered no reply and drank the gin, swishing the oily clear substance before swallowing with a bitter face he rasped. Dave dashed the remainder of his tea under the kiosk, he knocked back his gin.

'An early gin today Dave? Not that I'm complaining.'

'I've got a feeling, it's going to be one of those days Mike.' Dave put his gloves back on and nodded they were leaving. The pair walked away from the kiosk as a misty rain swept through the port. They popped up their collars, paced past a faded and torn fifty foot tall poster which looked out over the port. The poster dominated the area, it was a red and black silhouette of their employer; Big Brother.