Mr Huxley and the Case for Sedition

By Maiya Elali

He turned and went to the far wall where he had a contraption – a music player – and he began adjusting dials and knobs. The men turned inwards and we each looked at the other – and for the first few seconds camaraderie bound us in our disquiet, but then as the time was whittled down, expressions became stony and we turned away from one another. I remember I had looked at Huxley – and he gazed at me with his round blue eyes that were unmistakeably filled with fear – and I looked away. I removed my coat and threw it on the floor. I loosened my tie and rolled up my sleeves, as did the others.

The music had begun. The song was a catchy upbeat jingle, quite unsuited to the wave of anxiety that abided in each of us. The first man to miss a chair did so simply because he did not immediately realise what was happening. Those that had sat down gazed at him with sadness, but also with relief that they were not him. Ashamedly, I did this too.

The next four rounds passed similarly, but there was jostling and cries of anger and distress. Still, I had found a seat, being quick on my feet. The Chief was evidently deriving great pleasure from watching the game – he sat on his own chair and although he sat very still, his lips curled up at the edge and his eyes watched animatedly. Each of the men was coated in a fine sheen of sweat, for one round sometimes lasted five or ten minutes, and great energy was expended maintaining hyper-vigilance during that time.

In the sixth round, Horatio elbowed Murphy so violently in the chest there was an audible crack, and he stumbled back, gripping his ribs and shrieking.

In the second last round there remained Horatio, Benjamin, Huxley and I, as well as three other men I was not familiar with. I had been lucky at this point, but my heart was beating so uncomfortably fast and I felt that my legs would give way at any moment. I managed to yank a chair out of the hands of one of the men, to his great dismay, and the chair looked as if it were about to fall apart. Although I was tired, I was driven on by the conviction that I had displayed my loyalty to the Company and deserved this. But I know now that I was being compelled by fear. I knew how little I had in my life besides the Company and the horrific things I had authorised – yes I can resign myself to this truth – and selfishly, I could not imagine a life as one of ‘the people.’

The final round began with a jaunty tune, and the piercing sound of violins and saxophones filled the room. The atmosphere had become eerie, the music like a thin veneer of merrymaking – and any person looking in might see a group of sweaty, loud men shoving and jumping raucously and judge it just a game – but truly, the entire event was one of perversity and malevolence. We had paced for perhaps six minutes. I was looking at the back of Huxley’s head. He was looking down at his feet, perhaps concentrating, or more likely wondering how he even got himself into this situation. I knew Huxley – he was not a man of competition or viciousness, and regrettably I admit that I had begun to analyse him as a predator does their prey. For I knew the time was upon us, and he would be the one I would have to contend with.

Finally the tune stopped and the Chief had shouted out something like “That’s it!” and I immediately reached for the chair between myself and Huxley, and we collided bodies. I grabbed at the chair, as did he, and he looked at me and said, “Earnest,” and I did not know if he was pleading with me or warning me, or what…but I felt furious, and knowing that the others had sat and they and the Chief had fixed their gazes on me, and the entire City was sprawled out before us and perhaps every citizen was looking up at me and wishing I would simply disappear…well I don’t know what came over me, but I growled and I punched Huxley right in the jaw. He stumbled back but he was a sturdy man, as I knew him to be, and he did not relinquish his grasp of that chair but instead he looked at me with such disbelief – I couldn’t stand it, and with one hand left on the chair I threw my shoulder and punched him again, this time landing the blow on the side of his head. His head jerked awkwardly and he crumpled to the floor. I was gaping at him but I still managed to sit down. The Chief was clapping, I think, and I and the others were staring down at Huxley lying on his side, his golden hair brushed over his red face. We were waiting for him to get up, but he didn’t. He didn’t get up because I had killed him.

The Chief walked over to us and he said,

“Brilliant play! I know now the men I can trust, and those I cannot,” and he did not even look down at Huxley. He sent us on our way and none of us spoke in the elevator for assuredly each of us was ashamed for what we had revealed of ourselves. But I, the most.

I am dictating this now because for the murder of Huxley I was not prosecuted. It was, actually, seen as a great display of my devotion to the Company. This has tormented me and I am haunted by the image of Huxley’s face as he murmurs my name.

Now as I sit, I can hear shouts and banging on my apartment door. That sound brings me some comfort. In my years of service, I knew only one thing for sure – to commit this to record, as I do now, is death.

For the Company I have only seething hatred, and for the things we have ‘done for the people’ – those things are lies – deceptions of the greatest magnitude. Ironically, my time in service of ‘the people’ has taught me nothing about people, except about the sort of person I have become.

At last, I can turn off the recorder and be silent. They are here, and the time is upon me.

Maiya Elali is undertaking a Bachelor of Laws at the University of Technology, Sydney. She enjoys writing in her spare time.