Finally all gone quiet
Aug. 10th, 2009 10:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mymetalphantomLast week was a big week of craziness! I can go for months without seeing some people and then suddenly they want to see me all the time. Oy.
I really wanted to write some fanfic last week but didn't have the time. Hopefully I might get something done this week. Unless more old school friends feel the desperate need for my company :)
Anywho, a few weeks ago I told![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elaby about the House of Cards fic thing I wrote for a creative writing exercise years and years ago, detailing Stamper's view on events. Well, I then promptly forgot all about it until I a TV advert reminded me and I went and dug it out of my archive (it was on CD! How old must that be?). I was interested reading it, seeing how far I've actually come with my writing. I mean it's not bad like "My Immortal" or anything but I must only have been about sixteen or seventeen when I wrote it (maybe even younger).
Also, I thought it was first person but found out that I'd actually written it in restricted third person. I almost never write anything in first person.
I'm rather pleased with my take on the canon though.
Anyway, get on with Emma!
AN: Just a quick note to say that the views stated in this fanfiction are the character’s and not the author’s and I do not advocate any of them. No, really I don’t!
Part One - “My Other Self”
Timothy Stamper, Member of Parliament, Junior Whip. Tim to his friends, “that little rat” to his enemies. He was hard right and proud of it and was perfectly willing to accept that strong views always made strong enemies, and besides, he really wasn’t worried about what the bleeding heart, middle class lefties in the Party thought of him or his ideals. He whole-heartedly supported the old school Tory laissez-faire attitude. We all make our own destiny in this world. He knew that more than anyone.
He knew that the left of the Party called him a bigot, to which he always raised a sardonic smile. To be a bigot surely meant that you preferred one group of people over everyone else and nothing could be further from Stamper’s mind. No, he held everyone equally in contempt.
Everyone until he had met Francis. It came as no surprise when he was made a Junior Whip; it seemed like a job that had been made solely for him. Urquhart always said that Tim was good at frightening people, putting some stick about. Making ‘em jump. Finally for Stamper, being that odd child in the playground that everyone was a bit scared of was paying off. Yet Francis taught him the fine art of subtlety, of casually sticking the knife into an opponent whilst maintaining a serene smile; twisting arms politely. The Chief Whip had taken a keen but “rough round the edges” backbencher, polished him and moulded him into his perfect “sidekick”. Someone with a similar outlook but none of the Oxbridge finesse. As Urquhart’s protégé Stamper soon found himself more respected than he’d ever been in his life. It was a heady feeling and one that he quickly became addicted to.
He saw Urquhart as something of a kindred spirit; same ideals and views and beliefs. Even though there was a mile wide class divide between them, Stamper felt a connection with him so keenly that the desire to always be with him became sometimes unbearable. They would sit in his office, a young backbencher before them, snivelling with remorse after being caught with his hand in the till, up someone’s skirt, or down someone’s trousers. They were always fearful about seeing the Chief Whip and Francis had a way of striking the fear of God into one even when speaking in the calmest and most gentlemanly tones. Bright blue eyes could turn steely grey in a second. To watch him at work was electric and Tim would feel a tingle down his spine as he watched the whole thing through cold eyes, but with a glimmer of humour if you cared to look closely enough. Those daring enough to look closer still may see the faint trace of excitement too.
Francis never told him that he wanted PM; he didn’t have to, there was a twinkle in his eyes that told him, “Work it out for yourself, Tim my lad.” And he had. He had knew about the conspiratorial conversations with Landless, and worked out that something important was unfolding. You didn’t talk to Ben Landless unless you really wanted something. When Collingridge bit the dust (politically speaking of course) it was no stretch of Stamper’s sly, suspicious mind to work out that his ambitious boss was playing Richard III. If Stamper had ever read Richard III, he would have realised the danger he was putting himself in.
Their precise and effective assassination of Urquhart’s opponents had been a thing of beauty; poetry in motion. Stamper himself had meticulously planned Peter McKenzie’s downfall and to see the outcome printed bold on the “red tops” the next morning had made his heart thud thud in delight. He watched them topple one by one; the idiot McKenzie, weak, shirt-lifting Earl, bully boy Woolton and the most satisfying of all Samuels. Despite what Michael Samuels said, Stamper didn’t hate him simply because he was Jewish, that was beside the point. No, he hated Samuels because he was a smug, self-righteous hypocrite, who hedged his bets with his warmed-up old Socialist ideas and a dose of capitalism just to appease both sides of the electorate. How could a man who stood for nothing run the country?
Urquhart was a better, stronger prospect for Britain and Stamper believed he would do anything for his mentor; a belief that was tested to the extreme on the day Urquhart became Prime Minister.
It was the first time he’d ever talked to Mattie Storin in person. He had spoken to her on the phone and of course he had read between the lines in regards to her relationship with Urquhart. She was a pretty little thing and she recognised him, which gave him a bland little thrill. He looked her up and down, slowing sliding his dark eyes along her body. He grinned maliciously when she shifted uneasily at his scrutiny and shuddered in more than a little revulsion. Good, he thought, silly cow. He hadn’t suspected anything sinister when she asked to see Urquhart. He’d assumed that she was looking to congratulate him on his success so he’d happily sent her bouncing off to the roof garden, hating her more and more with every step she took towards Urquhart.
He’d been talking to one of the other Whips when they heard a shriek then the bang and sickening crunch of a soft body hitting cold, hard metal. They had run to the window and his heart sank to his shoes when he saw who the tragic young woman on top of the car was and realised what must have transpired on the roof garden. This could ruin everything! Everything they’d worked so hard for, plotted for, schemed for; ruined by some silly little tart stupid enough to believe that a man like Urquhart could truly love her.
When a breathless Junior Whip had handed him Mattie Storin’s tape recorder he’d almost stamped on it there and then, certain that he knew the contents. But he didn’t and as he sat in his office alone that evening he gave into temptation and listened to it from the beginning. It was breathtaking and he felt his heart rate increase as Urquhart and Mattie’s conversation became more and more dangerous. He was breathing heavily by the time she began pleading with him and declaring her love, quicker and heavier as Urquhart’s tone got low and she became more desperate. Quicker and heavier. Until she screamed. He listened intently, hypnotised by the sound of her death played on low quality tape. He closed his eyes, blocking everything but the sounds and he found himself gripping the tape hard, trying to control his trembling. Sickened, frightened and excited all at the same time, he felt his stomach churn and sweat prickle his brow.
Urquhart had committed murder. Cold, brutal murder. And he was the only other person who knew the truth. He suddenly felt the weight of this heavy burden on his shoulders and a dull throb started at his temples.
Hands still trembling, Stamper’s eyes slid open and he looked down at the tape. He knew probably should destroy it. Despite what the shredded tatters of his conscience was saying to him he knew he had to get rid of it. If that tape fell into the wrong hands it could spoil everything, not just for him but for Urquhart, his friend who had been there for him from the beginning. Where would Stamper be without him?
With that thought in mind Stamper pulled the tape from the recorder. So delicate and so easy to break.
The phone rang shrill in the quiet office, making him jump guiltily. It was Urquhart, delivering on his unspoken promise to promote him to Chief Whip. Stamper tried to keep the tremble out of his voice as he cheerfully accepted the post and gave the new Prime Minister his congratulations. Urquhart laughed but then cut short their conversation with a “can’t talk, important people to see.”
It was that short sentence that gave Stamper pause for thought. Perhaps a small alarm went off in his mind that in his uneasy state he had failed to recognise fully.
Chief Whip? It would do for now but not forever. As much as he enjoyed being a Whip, he hadn’t gone into politics to work behind the scenes, to slave tirelessly and never be recognised. It hadn’t been enough for Francis and it wasn’t enough for him either. Of course, he believed that Urquhart would come good in the end.
But he kept the tape all the same. After all, Urquhart had taught him well the value of always having the upper hand.
*****
“My other self, my counsel’s consistory, my oracle, my prophet, my dear cousin:” (Richard III Act 2, Scene 3)
He he!
BTW, when I wrote "How could a man who stood for nothing run the country?" that was my calculated attack on Tony Blair. That all seems such a long time ago now. Wasn't I a rebel? *rolls eyes*
I sort of want to write some more HoC fic now. Something...better.
For those not interested in this, I just saw an icon that made me laugh. It said "curiosity may or may not have killed Schrodinger's cat". I liked that.
I really wanted to write some fanfic last week but didn't have the time. Hopefully I might get something done this week. Unless more old school friends feel the desperate need for my company :)
Anywho, a few weeks ago I told
elaby about the House of Cards fic thing I wrote for a creative writing exercise years and years ago, detailing Stamper's view on events. Well, I then promptly forgot all about it until I a TV advert reminded me and I went and dug it out of my archive (it was on CD! How old must that be?). I was interested reading it, seeing how far I've actually come with my writing. I mean it's not bad like "My Immortal" or anything but I must only have been about sixteen or seventeen when I wrote it (maybe even younger).Also, I thought it was first person but found out that I'd actually written it in restricted third person. I almost never write anything in first person.
I'm rather pleased with my take on the canon though.
Anyway, get on with Emma!
AN: Just a quick note to say that the views stated in this fanfiction are the character’s and not the author’s and I do not advocate any of them. No, really I don’t!
Part One - “My Other Self”
Timothy Stamper, Member of Parliament, Junior Whip. Tim to his friends, “that little rat” to his enemies. He was hard right and proud of it and was perfectly willing to accept that strong views always made strong enemies, and besides, he really wasn’t worried about what the bleeding heart, middle class lefties in the Party thought of him or his ideals. He whole-heartedly supported the old school Tory laissez-faire attitude. We all make our own destiny in this world. He knew that more than anyone.
He knew that the left of the Party called him a bigot, to which he always raised a sardonic smile. To be a bigot surely meant that you preferred one group of people over everyone else and nothing could be further from Stamper’s mind. No, he held everyone equally in contempt.
Everyone until he had met Francis. It came as no surprise when he was made a Junior Whip; it seemed like a job that had been made solely for him. Urquhart always said that Tim was good at frightening people, putting some stick about. Making ‘em jump. Finally for Stamper, being that odd child in the playground that everyone was a bit scared of was paying off. Yet Francis taught him the fine art of subtlety, of casually sticking the knife into an opponent whilst maintaining a serene smile; twisting arms politely. The Chief Whip had taken a keen but “rough round the edges” backbencher, polished him and moulded him into his perfect “sidekick”. Someone with a similar outlook but none of the Oxbridge finesse. As Urquhart’s protégé Stamper soon found himself more respected than he’d ever been in his life. It was a heady feeling and one that he quickly became addicted to.
He saw Urquhart as something of a kindred spirit; same ideals and views and beliefs. Even though there was a mile wide class divide between them, Stamper felt a connection with him so keenly that the desire to always be with him became sometimes unbearable. They would sit in his office, a young backbencher before them, snivelling with remorse after being caught with his hand in the till, up someone’s skirt, or down someone’s trousers. They were always fearful about seeing the Chief Whip and Francis had a way of striking the fear of God into one even when speaking in the calmest and most gentlemanly tones. Bright blue eyes could turn steely grey in a second. To watch him at work was electric and Tim would feel a tingle down his spine as he watched the whole thing through cold eyes, but with a glimmer of humour if you cared to look closely enough. Those daring enough to look closer still may see the faint trace of excitement too.
Francis never told him that he wanted PM; he didn’t have to, there was a twinkle in his eyes that told him, “Work it out for yourself, Tim my lad.” And he had. He had knew about the conspiratorial conversations with Landless, and worked out that something important was unfolding. You didn’t talk to Ben Landless unless you really wanted something. When Collingridge bit the dust (politically speaking of course) it was no stretch of Stamper’s sly, suspicious mind to work out that his ambitious boss was playing Richard III. If Stamper had ever read Richard III, he would have realised the danger he was putting himself in.
Their precise and effective assassination of Urquhart’s opponents had been a thing of beauty; poetry in motion. Stamper himself had meticulously planned Peter McKenzie’s downfall and to see the outcome printed bold on the “red tops” the next morning had made his heart thud thud in delight. He watched them topple one by one; the idiot McKenzie, weak, shirt-lifting Earl, bully boy Woolton and the most satisfying of all Samuels. Despite what Michael Samuels said, Stamper didn’t hate him simply because he was Jewish, that was beside the point. No, he hated Samuels because he was a smug, self-righteous hypocrite, who hedged his bets with his warmed-up old Socialist ideas and a dose of capitalism just to appease both sides of the electorate. How could a man who stood for nothing run the country?
Urquhart was a better, stronger prospect for Britain and Stamper believed he would do anything for his mentor; a belief that was tested to the extreme on the day Urquhart became Prime Minister.
It was the first time he’d ever talked to Mattie Storin in person. He had spoken to her on the phone and of course he had read between the lines in regards to her relationship with Urquhart. She was a pretty little thing and she recognised him, which gave him a bland little thrill. He looked her up and down, slowing sliding his dark eyes along her body. He grinned maliciously when she shifted uneasily at his scrutiny and shuddered in more than a little revulsion. Good, he thought, silly cow. He hadn’t suspected anything sinister when she asked to see Urquhart. He’d assumed that she was looking to congratulate him on his success so he’d happily sent her bouncing off to the roof garden, hating her more and more with every step she took towards Urquhart.
He’d been talking to one of the other Whips when they heard a shriek then the bang and sickening crunch of a soft body hitting cold, hard metal. They had run to the window and his heart sank to his shoes when he saw who the tragic young woman on top of the car was and realised what must have transpired on the roof garden. This could ruin everything! Everything they’d worked so hard for, plotted for, schemed for; ruined by some silly little tart stupid enough to believe that a man like Urquhart could truly love her.
When a breathless Junior Whip had handed him Mattie Storin’s tape recorder he’d almost stamped on it there and then, certain that he knew the contents. But he didn’t and as he sat in his office alone that evening he gave into temptation and listened to it from the beginning. It was breathtaking and he felt his heart rate increase as Urquhart and Mattie’s conversation became more and more dangerous. He was breathing heavily by the time she began pleading with him and declaring her love, quicker and heavier as Urquhart’s tone got low and she became more desperate. Quicker and heavier. Until she screamed. He listened intently, hypnotised by the sound of her death played on low quality tape. He closed his eyes, blocking everything but the sounds and he found himself gripping the tape hard, trying to control his trembling. Sickened, frightened and excited all at the same time, he felt his stomach churn and sweat prickle his brow.
Urquhart had committed murder. Cold, brutal murder. And he was the only other person who knew the truth. He suddenly felt the weight of this heavy burden on his shoulders and a dull throb started at his temples.
Hands still trembling, Stamper’s eyes slid open and he looked down at the tape. He knew probably should destroy it. Despite what the shredded tatters of his conscience was saying to him he knew he had to get rid of it. If that tape fell into the wrong hands it could spoil everything, not just for him but for Urquhart, his friend who had been there for him from the beginning. Where would Stamper be without him?
With that thought in mind Stamper pulled the tape from the recorder. So delicate and so easy to break.
The phone rang shrill in the quiet office, making him jump guiltily. It was Urquhart, delivering on his unspoken promise to promote him to Chief Whip. Stamper tried to keep the tremble out of his voice as he cheerfully accepted the post and gave the new Prime Minister his congratulations. Urquhart laughed but then cut short their conversation with a “can’t talk, important people to see.”
It was that short sentence that gave Stamper pause for thought. Perhaps a small alarm went off in his mind that in his uneasy state he had failed to recognise fully.
Chief Whip? It would do for now but not forever. As much as he enjoyed being a Whip, he hadn’t gone into politics to work behind the scenes, to slave tirelessly and never be recognised. It hadn’t been enough for Francis and it wasn’t enough for him either. Of course, he believed that Urquhart would come good in the end.
But he kept the tape all the same. After all, Urquhart had taught him well the value of always having the upper hand.
“My other self, my counsel’s consistory, my oracle, my prophet, my dear cousin:” (Richard III Act 2, Scene 3)
He he!
BTW, when I wrote "How could a man who stood for nothing run the country?" that was my calculated attack on Tony Blair. That all seems such a long time ago now. Wasn't I a rebel? *rolls eyes*
I sort of want to write some more HoC fic now. Something...better.
For those not interested in this, I just saw an icon that made me laugh. It said "curiosity may or may not have killed Schrodinger's cat". I liked that.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-10 11:56 pm (UTC)Finally for Stamper, being that odd child in the playground that everyone was a bit scared of was paying off.
Ooh, yes, yes. This is exactly it. I love the idea that he was good at being intimidating before he met Urquhart (and of course he calls him Francis in his POV), but Urquhart is the one who taught him to be subtle.
If Stamper had ever read Richard III, he would have realised the danger he was putting himself in.
Oh gosh, oh gosh. Chills. I wish he had, for his sake, poor bastard!
Everything they’d worked so hard for, plotted for, schemed for; ruined by some silly little tart stupid enough to believe that a man like Urquhart could truly love her.
Oh, he's so deliciously bad. I love that he felt something, and this in particular, when he saw her dead.
Despite what the shredded tatters of his conscience was saying to him he knew he had to get rid of it.
See, it's still there, his conscience, it's just that the Urquhart-love is bigger.
“can’t talk, important people to see.”
Everybody's more important than Stamper. Bad Urquhart!
“My other self, my counsel’s consistory, my oracle, my prophet, my dear cousin:” (Richard III Act 2, Scene 3)
Oh, Buckingham. *pats him*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-11 02:32 pm (UTC)I rather liked the idea that Stamper was an odd kid. The one that seemed a little bit twisted. I also like the idea that Urquhart chose Stamper not just because he was a bit scary but also because he considered him to be beneath him, that way he is always in charge. Urquhart might not have been bad in the beginning but I certainly think he was quite devious.
Oh, he's so deliciously bad. I love that he felt something, and this in particular, when he saw her dead.
I know, I mean talk about strange priorities. The poor kid is dead! Bad Tim!
Yeah, there is a conscience there somewhere...or at least there was.
Ahh, poor Tim. He's rotten but I can't help but feel for the guy. *hugs him* *gets glared at* *backs away slowly*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-11 10:43 pm (UTC)Yes! I totally agree. He might not have been totally evil, but he had the potential, and I don't think he would have balked at doing lesser bad things.
I LOVED these fics, seriously! Hee, hugging Stamper is probably dangerous ^_^
(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-10 11:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-11 01:21 am (UTC)The fact you wrote this when you were 16 or 17 is impressive. You got into Stamper's head perfectly. More please, if you find the time and energy. I'll go sit over there with elaby and wait patiently.
“can’t talk, important people to see.” Ooh, ouch, owie! *pets Stamper*
Oh, I love your icon btw. (Sorry I am a little flighty with my random comments here, its just that sleep deprivation makes me that way.)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-11 02:43 pm (UTC)You got into Stamper's head perfectly
Yikes! Now that's a scary thought, even though it's a flattering one in this context. Seriously though, I am glad about that. I love this character even though he makes me cringe at times.
Poor guy just gets kicked around once too often.
Thanks! I was meant to make a load of HoC icons but my dissertation tutor still has my DVD and I won't get it back till Sept. *shakes fist* A keen eye will note that this icon is from To Play the King...not that it really matters.
I just love any comments, random or otherwise! ;)
Hope you manage to get some sleep!