(complete) Sex, intrigues, lies - the Game is like normal politics, just that now people lose their brain over it. Macbeth meets House of Cards and Game of Thrones in a fantastic ride to the Brexit referendum battled out in the reality TV show envir...
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They had sat under the canopy of the library, held up by the slender, Corinthian columns in the red, velvety chairs with the golden trim on shiny hardwood floor, a merry, dancing fire in the fireplace beneath the large, wholesome painting going, and the garden lurking like a sea of darkness beyond the windows. The blue and white, vaulted ceiling with its frescos and medallions had Boris reminded of a chapel ever since his visit at the Vatican, though Theresa had tried to point out the differences to him that made this room baroque and not renaissance.
Without ever having looked inside any of the books that were displayed in this library for their looks not their content, being in his library had Boris always made more fearful that there actually were higher beings out there. He didn't know how he would feel to learn one day that he had been nothing but their toy, but he certainly disliked the idea of landing himself in some kind of hell. And so, while they had eaten, had drunken, and had made their jokes on the expanses of others, Boris had looked at David, had studied Theresa, had dared a look at the others with the idea in mind, of what he meant to do, and had left.
He had crept up the private way, through the ground floor dressing room and via its spiral staircase to their bedchamber. All the way up, one thought had hammered in his head: If it were done when it's done and over with, it would be best it were done quickly. He couldn't just sit there and wait for the time to come for an assassination.
In the refuge of their darkened bedroom, he seized the windowsill in a white-knuckle grip and looked at the world outside, shrouded in its dusty shades of gray under the harsh light of the moon. It was true, there were constantly casualties in the Game. The day's tasks and vote alone had been a carnage. The old Strategy Chair was a mere footnote in history that soon would be edited away. Of what use was yesterday when there was tomorrow? But that was the Game. Whatever happened in the Game, was sanctified.
If the assassination would work the same - the Game, like a safety net, sweeping up everything and preventing all the consequences - then David's murder, of course, would be the be-all and the end-all of the whole affair. It would be the solution of choice. Boris reckoned that not few downstairs would be happy of the result. He would do the deed. After, he would happily leap forward into the future that has been promised to him, and that now only needed to unfold. He wished that he'd be there already. Tomorrow. He couldn't wait for it to be true.
For a moment, the shadows outside seemed to flicker. Light appeared between their gaps. And Boris saw that tomorrow in all its glory. In this glimmer and shine, the deed he had to do seemed insignificant. It was just a small step between past and future. One cut, soon to be buried in time.
And then the moment was over. Boris tore away from the window. He wadded up a shirt from an armchair and thrust it into a corner. It unfolded halfway through the room and sailed like a ghostly parachute to the floor. Boris flopped into the chair as if the throw had taken the wind out of his sails.
