house of cards 1

Chapter 5

Jesus earnestly told us to forgive our enemies, and I did not have the courage to doubt this Almighty God.But the Son of God, whose wisdom is boundless, never said a word about whether to forgive our friends, or at least whether to forgive our relatives.I'd love to hear his opinion on the matter.Anyway, in the crunch time, I found that it was easier than anything to forgive myself.

The 88 bus roared past the window of the apartment, rattling the windows and finally waking Charles Collingridge.This small one-bedroom apartment is located above a travel agency in Clapham, south London.Most people would never have imagined that the brother of the dignified British Prime Minister would live in such a place, and this was a last resort.He had emptied his wallet in the midst of drinks at the bar and had to go home and figure out what to do.Now he was slumped in an armchair, still wearing his crumpled suit.And his toes were completely numb.

He raised his wrist to look at the old watch and cursed.He had slept the full four hours, but still felt exhausted.If you don't hurry, you won't make it to the party.But first he had to have a drink to cheer himself up.He poured himself a large glass of vodka.But now he can't afford Crown Vodka, and the drink in his hand is just a random brand bought in the local supermarket.However, drinking this kind of wine and spitting it out will not leave any unpleasant smell.

He took the wine glass into the bathroom, buried himself deep in the tub, and let the hot water slowly work its magic on his tired limbs.Now, this arm and leg is becoming more and more ineffective, as if it belongs to another complete stranger.Must be old, he told himself.

He stood in front of the mirror, trying to hide the traces of last night's indulgence.He seemed to be in his father's face, more sullen and reproachful than ever, urging him to achieve the things he always failed to achieve, asking why he couldn't do what his brother Henry had done big business.The two were born in the same family and went to the same school, but for some reason, Henry was always better, and gradually achieved much more brilliant career achievements than him, and even had a happier marriage than him.Charles was not reconciled to this.He had a big heart, one might even say so big that he indulged himself.However, when he needed help, Henry never said a word.After Mary left him, Henry also advised him and comforted him patiently.Yes, especially after Mary left him, the younger brother's performance became more and more touching.However, even Mary once compared Henry's success with his, "You are not that material, you are nothing!" In addition, since entering Downing Street, Henry has not had so much time to care about Charles's bad things up.

As children, the two had shared everything; as teenagers, they were still inseparable, sometimes even sharing a short-term girlfriend or two.They also once shared a car, one of the original BMW Mini series.Finally Charles drove the car into a ditch.He staggered out, trying to convince the young policeman that his unsteady gait was due to his panic and bruises, and not from a lot of alcohol.But in recent years, Henry basically couldn't care less about spending time with his brother.So how does Charles feel?What is the most honest thought in his heart?It was rage, a consuming rage that would make him drink a whole bottle of wine at a time.Not for Henry, of course, but for life.Life was so hard on him, and he couldn't figure out why.

He manipulated the worn-out razor mechanically to clean up the fine stubble on the sagging face, so that the nose was a nose and the mouth was a mouth.Comb my thinning hair again, put on a washed shirt and a new, clean tie.Soon he will be ready for a joyous election victory night.Because of his family background, Charles is still able to attend such occasions.Wipe the shoes with a tea towel, and the uppers look a little brighter.He's basically ready.Another glance at his watch.Oh, it doesn't seem like a big deal.Just in time for another drink.

On the north bank of the river on the outskirts of Soho, a taxi was stuck in traffic and could not move.Already a traffic bottleneck in its own right, election night seemed to see the streets flooded with celebratory crowds.On the back seat of the taxi, Roger O'Neill snapped his knuckles impatiently, and looked helplessly at the bicycles and groups of pedestrians flashing past the window.He was getting more and more anxious that time was running out.He had received clear instructions. "Come over here, Roger," said the men, "we can't wait a damned night for you. And we won't be back till Tuesday."

O'Neal never expected special treatment, and in fact he never got it.It never occurred to him to abuse his power.He is the head of the propaganda department of the ruling party, but he prays that those people know nothing about it.It had also occurred to him more than once that they might have recognized him, had seen his picture in the paper.But when the sense of panic subsided slightly, he realized that these people had probably never read a newspaper, let alone voted.What is politics to these people?They wouldn't care if the damn Hitler came to power.What does it matter who's in the government when there's an opportunity to make easy money tax-free?

At last the taxi lumbered across Shaftesbury Avenue and into Ward Street, only to find that it was also blocked.Damn, he must have missed them.He flung open the car door.

"I'll walk myself," he called to the driver.

"I'm sorry, buddy! It's not my fault. I've lost a lot in this jam," the driver said, hoping the impatient passenger would not forget to tip.

O'Neill, who jumped onto the street, quickly stuffed a piece of money into the driver's hand, dodged a motorcycle, and struggled through the ubiquitous peepshow toys and countless Chinese restaurants.He entered a narrow, Dickensian street lined with high piles of rubbish, barely weaving his way through plastic trash cans and cardboard boxes, and set off at a gallop.His figure is obviously not an athlete, running makes him feel sore all over, but fortunately, the road ahead is not too long.When he reached Dean Street, he turned left, and after running less than 100 meters, he plunged into a narrow door.This is one of those stables conversions that you can see all over Soho, and most people won't notice.They are preoccupied with having fun, or dodging traffic.On the side facing away from the main road, the door leads to a small courtyard surrounded by workshops and garages converted from old Victorian warehouses.The courtyard was empty, casting a deep shadow of the building.His footsteps tapped and rattled on the cobblestones.He came hastily to a small green door in a dark corner at the back of the yard, paused, and looked around again without knocking before going in.

In less than 3 minutes, he appeared at the door again.Without looking to either side, he hastily blended into the bustling crowd on Dean Street.What is he doing here?Obviously hadn't slept with anyone.

The party headquarters is in Smith Square, and behind the high brick front wall, facing the marble towers of St. John's in the distance, the atmosphere is eerily subdued.There has been endless activity here for the past few weeks, but on the most crucial election day, most people disappeared, running to different constituencies, places that were usually far away from them, but now are. A crucial outpost of the political world.They've been trying to get them to make up their minds to vote for their party.At this time, many people who are still sticking to this place have an early dinner in a nearby restaurant or club, trying to make themselves appear confident, but often inadvertently talk about some recent rumors with a little panic, what about the turnout rate, Exit polls [Public opinion surveys conducted after voting. 】Ah, key seats or something.Everyone basically didn't know what to eat, and soon began to retreat, squeezing through more and more onlookers, crossing the cordon, and passing piles of scorched moths like hills.

Over the past month, the offices have grown overcrowded, overheated, and a mess.But tomorrow, everything will change.Elections mean change and sacrifices.By the end of the week, no matter how it turns out, many will be out of work, but nearly all of them will come back crying and screaming with greater expectations, scrambling to suck the teat of power.And now, they continued to stay in the office, waiting for what seemed to be an extremely long time.

Big Ben struck ten o'clock.it's over.Polling stations are closed, and no amount of propaganda, explanations, attacks, insinuations, slander, or horrific mistakes can affect the outcome of the election.As the last evening bell of the ancient clock tower melted into the night, some members of the political party shook each other's hands silently and firmly with respect, saying that everyone has done a good job.How well they did it, they'll soon find out.As on countless nights before, they turned their attention to the television news screens as if in a religious ceremony, listening to Sir Arisdell Burnett (Sir James William Alexander Burnett) Sir James William Alexander Burnet, also known as Sir Alastair Burnet (July 1928, 7 - July 12, 2012), was a British anchor and reporter who hosted TV news programs for many years.In addition, he is also the editor of The Economist and the Daily Express. ] That familiar voice.He looked like a modern-day Moses [the leader of the Jewish nation in the 7th century BC recorded in the Bible. ], with a soothing voice, lovely rosy cheeks, and silver hair fluttering in the wind.The right lighting behind him made him seem to be surrounded by a sacred halo.

"Good evening," he greeted the audience in a voice like a gentle rushing stream, "the election campaign is over. Just seconds ago, thousands of polling places across the country closed, and we now await the verdict of the people. For the first time The tally will be published in 45 minutes. We will soon be live streaming an interview with Prime Minister Henry Collingridge from his Warwickshire constituency. There will also be an interview with the Leader of the Opposition in South Wales. But first I would like to inform you about the exit poll conducted by the Harris International Research Center commissioned by the Independent Television News Corporation during today's election period outside 150 three polling stations across the country. According to the poll, the predictions for the election results are as follows..."

Britain's most respected news anchor opened a large envelope in front of him, acting reverently and respectfully, as if the A4 manila paper bag contained his own death certificate.He took a large card out of the envelope and glanced at it quickly.Then he raised his eyes unhurriedly, faced the camera again, held the opinions of 3000 million people in the palm of his hand, and fiddled with them gently.This is his moment, and it's not too much to do.He has been in the industry for 28 years, and he has been a key TV anchor in nine general elections.He has announced that this is his last general election as an anchor.

"ITV News Exclusive Exit Poll Forecast, I repeat, this is a forecast, not the final outcome. The forecast is..." He looked at the card again to make sure he had announced it correctly.

"Announce it, you old bastard!" a voice yelled from one part of the Smith Square complex; from another there was the pop of a champagne cork, and someone had already Celebrated early.But most stood in deep silence.History is happening, and they are a part of it.Sir Arisdell stared at them and told them to wait one more heartbeat: the government would be re-elected with a majority of 34 seats.

The building itself seemed to tremble as the building erupted in a roar of triumph mixed with relief, fuck 34!This is victory!In such a game of life and death, the only thing that matters is victory, no matter how the game progresses or how close the result is.Then there is plenty of time for serious reflection and history to judge.But to hell with history.At this moment, as long as you win, that's enough.There's joy and relief around every corner, exhaustion and tears of relief, and to some it's as close to orgasm as sex is to some, and to some veterans, it's even better.

The silent faces of the leaders of the different parties when they heard the predictions flashed across the screen.Collingridge on TV nodded with acceptance, a smile far from satisfied.The leader of the opposition party laughed and shook his head, and observers on the left believed that the opposition party had room to turn around. "Wait and see!" he muttered triumphantly.Then he moved his mouth again, and some lip-readers later took him to mean "Walsh sees it," which was inappropriate.

"Nonsense!" Preston yelled, his hair hanging between his eyes, revealing the bald scalp that usually hid it. "What the hell did they do?" He looked at the scrapped first draft and started scribbling furiously in his notebook. "The majority of the government has been greatly reduced!" he tried to write the words.Then it was crumpled up and thrown into the trash can.

"It's too close, it's hard to tell now." Mattie reminded, trying to hide any trace of pride in herself.

"Collingridge's narrow escape." The editor changed the title again.

All titles end up in the trash.

He looked around desperately, looking for help, for inspiration.

"Let's wait," Marty suggested, "The first round of statistics will be available in three or ten minutes."

(End of this chapter)