Right, so for English I had to find a hole in 1984 and elaborate on it; I chose to centre it on Mr. Charrington, the antique shop owner. To make it more authentic i lifted some conversation and actions and characters straight from the text.

Daniels allowed himself a wry smile at the irony of it all. It was only when he had undergone the transformation into Mr Charrington, aged antique-shop owner and relic of a bygone era that he was free to be himself. His smile faded as he remembered his purpose. 6079 Smith W had broken every code imposed by Big Brother – he had committed thoughtcrime, sexcrime and harboured desires to overthrow the Party – the only reason he hadn’t been taken in already was his value to the Thought Police. Minds as free as Winston’s were rare and offered a way of honing the Thoughthear, the device used by the Thought Police to hear people’s thoughts.
At the back of Mr. Charrington’s dusty old shop was a door, and behind that door was a room quite out of character from its antiquated surroundings. A bank of screens displaying feeds of the various telescreens trained on, among others, Winston Smith was fitted to a wall. Although the screens were numerous, it was in fact just one small section of a much larger organisation which scrutinised the thoughts and actions of those deemed to be threats to the Party. The whole contraption sickened Daniels to the pit of his stomach.

At present, Winston was in Victory Square, waiting for Julia. Winston had positioned himself sufficiently far from nearby telescreens to avoid being in their audible range, however, to rely on telescreens would be folly; they were an imperfect technology. Daniels had wired-up several informants to merge into the thronging crowd and co-ordinate passes past Winston, allowing the conversation to be heard more-or-less uninterrupted.
The convoy of trucks carrying the Eurasian prisoners began to make their way through the square and the din of the crowd increased. The first informer moved into position. He was an obnoxiously fat man, with an equally obnoxiously fat wife.
“Get closer, Rhys,” Daniels said into his mouth-piece. “We need every word.” Rhys moved towards Julia, forcing Winston to shoulder his way between Rhys and his wife, the hidden mic relaying a sequence of muffled pops as it rubbed against the inside of Rhys’ jacket.
“Can you hear me?” said Julia.
“Yes.” Winston.
“Can you get Sunday off?” Daniels had a day.
“Yes.” A shift in the crowd separated Winston and Julia from Rhys, and the second informant swiftly moved in. He was a tall thin man, and was giving the prisoners hell, loudly and vociferously.
“Contain yourself, we need to hear them!” barked Daniels down the line. A surge in the crowd swept the informant close to Julia. The exchange between the two was brief, and inwardly Daniels was impressed at the lengths they were prepared to go to escape the watchfulness of the Party as Julia outlined the route.
“You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gates got no top bar.” said Julia.
“Yes. What time?” Winston replied.
“About fifteen.” That was all Daniels needed. He logged the audio and began preparations for the next meeting.


Winston’s time was up. He and Julia were in the room above Charrington’s shop. The Thought Police taskforce was ready. It was just a matter of timing.
“And by the way, while we are on the subject, ‘Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head!”’ Daniels said to Winston, via the telescreen. A crash sounded above him – that was the taskforce bursting through the window. Another squad came in through the door, who Daniels – and it was Daniels and not Mr. Charrington – followed up the stairs. It was a sorry scene which he entered into. Julia was writhing on the floor beside the smashed remains of the coral, all the while Winston stood stock-still, unable to react, though his eyes widened when he recognised
Daniels.
Daniels looked Winston full in the face, but was forced to look away. He was sickened at the destruction to he had wrought on Winston’s life, though he let no hint appear on his face. The Party well knew it could not be overthrown, so where lay the harm in letting one man conduct his futile resistance?