Two per cent

Two per cent of the files so far.

This anger is white hot. It burns, it’s fit to burst out of me, messily, dripping off my skin onto the carpet like so much lava, setting fires as it goes.

Two per cent of the files so far.

To watch a president say he’s been exonerated, to know that for millions, he alchemises lies into truths just by speaking them aloud. To hear a prince charged us for massages, ten girls a day to the suite on a trip we funded. To wonder who and what else will fall.

Two per cent of the files so far.

The defensive posturing is sickening, the too little, too lateness of it all. Two arrests, a bitter celebration. The knock came not for the worst crimes, power abused, perversions imposed. What matters are financial misdemeanours, treason to the state. That’s what got the handcuffs out.

Two per cent of the files so far.

They will be hung out to dry not for who they hurt, but for what they chose to put at risk: other powerful men, the banks, the bonds, the institutions. These boys broke the rules of the club. They will pay. But this is a club that doesn’t close.

Two per cent of the files so far.

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25 February 2026. Drafted in a workshop on Voice in Non-Fiction led by Rae Earl, hosted by the London Writers Centre. She asked the group to write about something that made us angry.

Photo by Alen Kajtezovic on Unsplash