THE CORBYN PROTOCOL

Chapter One

Jeremy Corbyn sat in the study of his Islington home listening to the radio. Arsenal were playing West Bromich Albion, and the commentator was describing how Granit Xhaka had just lost posession in the middle of the pitch as Jeremy sipped on a cup of tea. His mind was filled with Granit Xhaka losing the ball. He glanced down at the sidetable, where a copy of The Guardian lay. The headline was about Brexit, but Jeremy didn’t think about Brexit. All he thought about was Granit Xhaka’s inability to keep possession.

After a short period he was jolted out of his Arsenal-induced stupor by a sudden burst of static from the radio, which subsequently went dead silent, save a very low, almost inaudible hum.

Perterbed, Jeremy got out of his seat and went over to the radio and began fiddling with the knobs. Waves of static came and went as he tried to find the signal. Eventually, in the depths of the white noise, he heard a voice. He raised the radio to his ear to see if he could detect any mention of Aaron Ramsey or Mesut Ozil. After a while he realised that this was not Jonathan Pierce talking. The accent was not English, nor male for that fact. A woman…a Russian woman?, with a monotonous, robotic voice. Reading something. Numbers?

Jeremy put the radio down and fiddled with the antenae, hoping to clarify this signal. He was intrigued. Eventually the transmission became much clearer; the noise rolled back revealing the voice. A Russian woman, definitely, continuously reading numbers, in English.

“Nine. Nine. Eight.
One. Two. Eight.
Six. Nine. Eight.”

With that a sudden dread filled Jeremy and he stumbled backwards from the mantlepiece where the radio sat. He reached around blindly behind him for his armchair and he sank into it. His face had become deathly white, his gaze transfixed on some point in infinity. He didn’t know why but he knew those numbers. They meant something. A corner of his mind, which had long lay dark, was suddenly illuminated.

Once again he was jolted out of his trance by a burst of static. And just as quickly as it had left, the football returned.

One nil to West Bromich Albion. Defensive mixup.