The Invisible Witness

Uncle always told me to recognise that everyone around you is a living, breathing human being with their own pasts, presents, and futures, so treat them as such. I wish he was still around so he could tell that to my employers. I, regretfully, inhabit a world in which people are fit into boxes - the upper class, and working class. And those uppers have an attitude about them in which they are the only humans worth bothering with, everyone else may as well be draft horses - useful for a purpose, until they're not. Yes, I was one of the working class. A cleaner working for the Herald's Assembly, responsible for scrubbing our leaders' shit off toilet seats and buffing the imprints of their asses from the benches of the House Court. One of the only honest jobs in the place, besides the other custodians of course - I have no quarrel with the cooks, groundskeepers, or other maintenance.

Everyone else? Well, they got paid for their falsehoods. Not even the apprentices, receptionists, or assistants were without such sin.

And as a result of this economic and societal divide imposed between us through the blood we inherit, I went about my days unseen. There were odd moments when I'd impose on their comfort as a direct result of my work, to which was their fault by not keeping to their hours, but even then they would not see me as human, I remained just a thing that was in the way.

It became a perk of my position, one I took full advantage of, to be able to study politics through their forgotten papers or casual conversations. I was lucky in that, unlike workers who did their jobs outside of government, I could catch onto the goings on among the nation's leadership before anyone else. I knew which taxes would be raised months before the decision went through and they were announced. I knew which leaders were part of which discussions, who was taking more than their due from public funds, and just who it was that rejected proposals before implementation.

Therefore, I knew it was Lord Leander Clement, the Head of the Board for Public Health, that voted against a ban on heavy industry pollution of rivers and lakes. Lord Pleasant Clarke, Head of the Board for Military Operations, voted against the veteran's pension scheme. Lord Lester Whitlock, Head of the Board for Education, voted against proposed funding for schools in disadvantaged areas. And all the while, all of them had no less than ten acres on their personal estates, located far outside the city, with private pensions and private schools for their children.

Curiously enough, the bill to overturn the hunting of endangered game was passed within days of being presented. The proposal to remove rights to roam on private land was pushed ahead of the plan to improve public transportation in the capital. And tax cuts for the upper class would be brought up over morning meetings and passed before lunch.

It was surreal to exist and work under the same roof as these men and yet live in separate worlds. To be present but remain unseen.

Of course they'd notice if I wasn't around to do my job. A bin left filled, a toilet left clogged, a patch of dirt left undusted, and then, like a mouse in a room of cats, then they'd see me. My invisibility cloak whisked off my head. More eyes on me than I could count. So long as I didn't let that happen, I could easily get away with learning what I could from these people without getting caught.

What I did with the information I gathered? Nothing much, I suppose. I was waiting for an opportunity to present itself. In the meantime, I made a mental note of everything and took it home to a journal that lived under the bed. The only other person who knew about it was my husband.

"What's this, darling?" He once asked me.

"My life's work," I'd said. "And if anything should happen to me, I'd like you to publish it."

I was supposed to disclose my partner's occupation when I took up the job. I told them he worked for the papers, and that was enough. They filled in the blanks themselves, assuming that meant he was as much under their control as I was. It's funny how those sorts of people always fail to ask the right questions.

Like how we were approached by a friend of a friend, who worked with the Network - revolutionaries determined to bring down the Heralds and their corrupted governance. We were in positions that gave us connections, and that made us valuable. Though we never agreed to join them, that window remained ajar, just enough that should something go wrong for one of us, the other should have a means to exact revenge. Without compromising ourselves, we held onto that line of communication, and we carried on as Loyalists.

No one ever needed to know we'd been contacted, or that helping stage a revolution was even on the table.

I did my job day after day, bringing home a pittance. It just about kept the lights on and food on the table, and so my husband's wage covered the rent, and a respectable savings pot, should anything happen. We had no children or parents to provide for, and so we were perhaps better off than many of our class. Better off, maybe... But there remained a vast distance between us and the lowest of the upper class.

Days came and went. Each shift brought new challenges and more work than I was qualified or paid for. With it came ample opportunity to eavesdrop.

The thing about being a cleaner, is that even if you're in the same room as your employer while they're talking, they'll remain adamant that you're too stupid and ignorant to know what they're talking about. The more private conversations might call for code - again, they assume I haven't been paying attention all these years, and won't be able to decipher it. They wouldn't expect me to understand Old Gresmian either (their secret language of choice), despite the fact that I was raised with it.

The trick is to present oneself as unlearned at all times, keep a straight face, and listen without looking like it. The upper class build their own narrative off of that. They see a woman with her head in the clouds, who's good for sweeping and dusting, and that's about it. They imagine I did my eight years of compulsory education, then went straight into the workplace like everyone else of my status. Then, I suppose they thought I must have married young for convenience, and remained unable to bear children. It couldn't be further from the truth. But I don't suppose that's so important. No one cares where you started from or how high you've climbed if they perceive you as standing on the bottom rung, if they perceive you at all.

So when I started on the mouldings of the House Court with a duster and polish after the last of the day's sessions, I don't suppose it ever occurred to them that confessing their sins before me would be a problem. Lord Pleasant Clarke returned after forgetting his briefcase, and in behind him came Lord Dalton Keating, Head of the Board for Foreign Affairs.

In their secret language, I heard them make a joke, and I struggled to keep from reaction. I had prior knowledge of the Ministerial debate of the neighbouring Osban - and how a nominee born of the working class was ahead in the polls. What I learned from overhearing that conversation was that our government planned to assassinate him, and pin the blame on their rival nation, Eastrad. The goal? War. Gresmia would swoop in and "save" Osban, and use that as leverage to claim access to rare earth materials.

A war would also mean our own elections would be delayed, and so we'd remain with our current High Minister for another term or longer. Meanwhile, Eastrad would be decimated and free for the plundering. It was a poor nation anyway, still recovering from the last conflict, and under fragile governance. But all nations involved had powerful allies that would rally together if necessary.

A false conflict, incited by a lie, saturated in the blood of the working class for the rights to resources. Tale as old as time.

And where would our politicians be throughout it? Safe and well in their homes while the rest of us would be drafted to give our lives for our country.

I knew our government were heartless, that they were capable of terrible things and had very much acted on such capabilities time and time again. This was another beast entirely.

As they laughed, I forced myself to carry on with my work as if I was as clueless as they imagined. In fact I finished my full shift as normal, ready to head out the door exactly on the hour.

When I got home, I wrote down exactly what I'd overheard and waited for my husband to return. We discussed it long into the night.

"We should give this to our contact now. This is the opportunity we've been waiting for!" He claimed.

I questioned his choice of words for a moment. Opportunity? As if this should stand on par with a better job offer, or a sale at the market? I shook my head, "If I leaked this now, they'd know it was me. What if this was planted to test me? I've overheard no one else speak of this."

"But if we do not act and it is true, it might be too late if we wait."

I saw his point, yet I could not overlook my own. I would leave it until I knew more.

When I returned to work the next day, I played it like nothing had changed. I did my cleaning as always, despite the ravenous thoughts gnawing on my brain. When I reached Lord Pleasant Clarke's office, I hesitated. He wasn't present - he didn't actually come in until eleven, despite what his clock-in sheet said. While I polished his desk, without calling attention to myself through the open doorway, I may have glanced over his papers a few seconds longer than usual. Nothing pertaining to their plans, of course.

He arrived as I swept the floors, taking his seat without so much as looking twice at me. And yet he did speak.

"Make sure to do the restrooms as soon as you can. It stinks like a farmyard in there."

I had already done the restrooms, so I knew without a doubt he had made the mess he described. I gulped, "Yes, my lord."

I hurried, still he caught me. "Hold on..."

My heart beat in a flurry, as if it bore wings, trapped in the cage of my ribs. I turned with a false smile.

He held up his bin. "You forgot to empty this."

"Oh, of course! My apologies, my lord, I-"

He snapped a newspaper in his hands. "I don't care. Get on with it."

I had been too quick to assume he had registered my presence the previous night, or that he would see fit to bring it up at all. He still didn't see me. I was so insignificant in his periphery, he had noticed his half-full rubbish bin before me.

After that, I made a decision. I would give them two weeks. My two weeks. I claimed to the receptionist that I had discovered I'd become pregnant, and planned to leave, as was expected of women in that condition. Being a mother always came before being a worker. She gave me a fake, sugary congratulations, and I imagine put it in her notes to find a replacement.

Two weeks to find evidence. If nothing came up, I'd go elsewhere with no consequences - the upper class are always looking for cleaners to do their dirty work. If I found something, I'd be cut from suspicion for giving my notice. Had I uncovered evidence, left suddenly, and the details of my findings come to light within days, I'd be a suspect. This way, I may have time to distance myself from culpability and remain the anonymous tipoff that exposed an assassination plot.

I told my husband all this, of course, and he agreed it was our best course of action. He held up my ruse at his workplace too. In the meantime, I used my two weeks wisely.

Unfortunately "pregnancy" has a habit of attracting more attention than I'd anticipated. My husband's colleagues and mine asked their questions, but we'd prepared our answers. I was three weeks along, expecting in April. After a few weeks if nothing happened, I could claim there had been a mistake, or I'd lost it. We'd carry on our lives more or less as normal, with me in a new location, and my husband playing his part of a man in mourning for a child he never got to meet. That was if I didn't find answers.

I'd reached my final day of work and found nothing. Desperate, I stayed late and actually did some proper digging instead of passively looking over desktop papers. I knew the answers were there, but where to find them?

Then it hit me.

I cursed myself for being so stupid.

I ran outside around the back of the building to the large dumpsters that had yet to be emptied. They would be early the next morning, so I only had a few hours to search. Fortunately, I knew every bag that had been mine, and I had the foresight to make each one identifiable. My uncle had taught me that valuable lesson. Mark the rubbish. He had used it to recover things he'd accidently thrown away. Being a cleaner himself, he'd made that mistake and learned from it, passing on those lessons to me, albeit much less painfully. He had adopted the habit after being struck with a belt by his employer, I'd fortunately picked it up without.

Two bags tied with a blue thread. The one underneath would be what I was looking for. And if anyone noticed me jumping in the dumpster and rooting through rubbish, I could pass it off as having accidently tossed something I shouldn't have. I found my way to the papers I'd scrapped from Lord Pleasant Clarke's office. I took them all, stuffing them into my clutch, returned the bag to the pile, and hurried to the basement restroom that was the only one permitted for auxiliary staff to use.

I looked, and looked, and read between every line for something, anything that could prove useful... And there it was, an exchange between Lord Pleasant Clarke and I assume one of his contacts in the secret service. It was encoded, though no match for my skills. The plan was to go ahead at the end of the month, which rapidly approached. I had to get home, and I was clever enough to know to avoid leaving out the front, nor my usual exit. If anyone suspected me, they would stop me before I left the building.

I may have taken things too far by stealing away through the sewers, though I have to admit, it was a thrill to play pretend, as if I was a spy on a mission. And I couldn't risk being followed, under any circumstances.

I made it. My husband was there. We didn't wait another minute. He'd already packed our things just in case. When I'd handed in my notice, we'd also notified the landlord that we planned to move elsewhere. He understood... Well, he'd stared at my husband and said, "that apartment is for couples, not families." We told no-one from either of our workplaces where we would move to. But before we made our way there, we met up with our contact. I handed over my journal, the coded message, and gave them the cipher. We headed to our new home, undiscovered, unsuspected, and unaffiliated with anyone that should endanger our lives. A shame, thinking back on it. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if we'd actually joined the Network, instead of watching the curtain fall from afar.

To this day, no one knows who leaked those plans to the Network. They only know that the truth was printed in an independent newspaper secretly operating under the cover of a government-controlled one, and plastered on windows and walls across the capital and beyond. They discovered when news arrived in Osban and Eastrad about the attempted assassination and redirected blame. We had another election within the year and no war came about. We remain suppressed under the upper class, however our country is watched by its neighbours with closer scrutiny. The Network has more followers than ever before, and the topic of revolution is often the feature of meetings at my new workplace. Still, no one notices me. My cloak remains secure, for now.