Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 10
December 24, 2018
Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE
20 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis The Unpalatable Proposition
Treachery is noble when aimed at tyranny.
Pierre Corneille
Donald sat at the end of a long table; he was alone in the room. There was a long mirror on the wall which he guessed was two-way. He was very confused and by now a little worried. He had been cuffed and hooded, bundled into the back of a van and driven for what felt like hours in God knows what direction, pulled out of the van and frog marched down a long corridor to be dumped here in this chair, thankfully minus the hood and cuffs. Now he wanted some answers.
The door opened and Terry walked in; Donald got an answer he hadn’t expected.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, trying to think quickly about what this meant to his operations and his future.
“Good to see you,” said Terry.
“I’m guessing it’s not so good to see you.”
“Well,” said Terry, “let’s give it some thought.”
“You bastard,” the immediacy of his anger shocked him; he’d been playing for calm. “Where’s Don?”
“Don’s fine,” said Terry, “they’re all fine.”
“Well, Dale’s not fine,” snapped Donald, then he remembered Tom, “And neither is Tom, so to hell with you.”
“I don’t know anything about Tom, or Dale for that matter” said Terry, “I just want to talk.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you do,” said Donald.
He stared at Terry, seeing him as if for the first time, noting the relaxed attitude, the underlying confidence, the clipped speech and smooth assurance. Had it all been there before and he’d missed it?
“It’s not what you think,” said Terry, “though it could be as bad as you think it is, depending on your view point.”
“What the hell does that mean?” demanded Donald, “Stop speaking in riddles…and where’s Sandra?”
“Sandra’s fine,” said Terry, “she’s back on the sink with Darren, no-one’s going to touch either of them; they have orders.”
“Oh yeah, and what makes you think I’ll believe that?”
“Because no-one messes with this department; no-one.”
Donald bit his teeth together, “Yeah I’ll bet, and I’ll bet you’re one of the worst bastards they’ve got as well.”
“Well, I’m their best assassin, if that’s what you mean.”
Donald clenched his fists and stared at the table, that wasn’t what he’d meant at all.
“Relax Donald;” said Terry, “you don’t know what’s happening.”
“Well, it can’t be anything good.”
Terry grimaced, “Well, as I say, it all depends on your view point.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“There’s someone you should meet,” said Terry. “The Head of State Intelligence, Sir Phillip Blackmore” Donald frowned; he was definitely confused now, “Who also happens to be my father.”
“I thought your parents were dead.” Donald knew he sounded childishly resentful, he couldn’t help it.
“My natural parents are,” said Terry, “He’s my adoptive father.”
“What does he want with me?”
“I want to put a proposition to you, Donald,” said Sir Phillip from the doorway.
Terry straightened almost to attention and Donald looked over at a tall, impeccably dressed man, late fifties, early sixties...one who, unlike Donald, would obviously be at home anywhere in the ‘corridors of power’. Donald’s resentment grew. “What the hell do you want with me?”
“Have you heard of the Black Hands?” Donald’s face stretched into incredulity which Sir Phillip took as a ‘no’. He moved easily into the room and sat down, one leg lightly crossed over the other and repeated “The Black Hands, a terrorist…”
“I heard you,” said Donald, “and yes, of course I’ve heard of ‘em, why are you asking me that?”
“Because we would like you to claim responsibility for their actions.”
“What?” yelped Donald, “No way… Terry, tell him I’m not in the Black Hands, I don’t know anything about any terrorists, okay, this is bull, this is ...?”
“In fact, we would like you to admit to being their leader,” continued Sir Phillip, unperturbed.
“Fuck! Are you mad? Or do you think I’m mad? Why would I do that? Why would I ever do that? D’ you know what’ll happen to the leader of the Black Hands?”
“Death by lethal injection, I should imagine.”
“Lethal injection! By lethal injection, he says, you might as well kill me now ‘cause I‘m not ever going to confess to having anything to do with the Black Hands.”
“We could always torture you and get a confession that way.”
“I’m not a terrorist; I’m just an ordinary guy from the sink.” Donald’s voice had sunk now and he spoke to the floor.
“Not exactly ordinary.” Sir Phillip glanced at Terry as he spoke.
“Look, I don’t know what Terry’s been telling you but I’m just an ordinary guy,” Donald took on a pleading tone, “please, you’ve got to listen to me...”
“Are you still using that name, Clayton?”
“No,” said Terry, “But I haven’t told him yet and it’s the name he knows me by.”
“Clayton?” Donald seemed offended by the name.
“Actually I prefer Clay,” said Clay.
“I don’t care what you prefer,” snapped Donald, “I’m not confessing to being the leader of the Black Hands.”
“We couldn’t let you confess just like that anyway,” Sir Phillip spoke calmly. “Realistically no-one is going to confess to being the leader of the Black Hands without being tortured and even if they did we’d be expected to torture them just for confessing to it, for actually being it.”
“Great,” said Donald, “look we can sort this out; I just need to talk to someone.”
“I’m afraid there’s no-one you can talk to.” said Clay.
“You just,” snapped Donald pushing himself up from his chair, pointing at Clay, “you just back off, Terry or Clayton whatever your fucking name is, just back off.”
“The thing is we know you’re not one of the Black Hands,” Sir Phillip’s tone was mild, “because there is no such organisation.”
Donald stared at him, then at Clay then back at his main persecutor, “What?”
“He said there’s no such organisation.” said Clay.
“You want me to confess to being the leader of a fictitious organisation so you can kill me?”
“Not quite,” said Sir Phillip. Donald stared at him, a feeling of being seriously in over his head threatening to overtake him. “If you give me a few minutes I will explain, and then you can think things over.”
“Donald. Just listen,” said Clay, “sit down and listen to what he has to say for a minute.”
Donald sat.
“There is no terrorist organisation known as the Black Hands, because we invented them.” Sir Phillip spoke with quiet authority, giving the words a heightened sense of farce.
“What?”
“It really would be simpler if you just listened and asked questions at the end, Donald,” said Clay.
“Basically one of our people would lay an explosive device, no warning given, and then later the Black Hands would claim responsibility,”
“But people got killed” Donald was outraged.
“Mmm … regrettable but unavoidable.” Sir Phillip’s tone was in dissonance with the words.
“State orchestrated terror,” said Donald.
“Oh no, it wasn’t state commissioned.” Donald stared blankly at him. “There’s a rather influential group of like-minded individuals who don’t agree with the tyrannical way this country is being run …” Donald was now listening intently. “…and they have formed a resistance movement. It is they who arranged the creation of the Black Hands.”
“But why?”
“To invoke the very situation we have here,”
“You’ve lost me …what situation?” said Donald, interested despite the circumstances.
“Well, imagine this scenario,” Sir Phillip intoned, “We send in an undercover agent who implants himself deep into the Black Hands. That is to say, so deep he is able to get close to the leader and identify him. We then intercept one of their missions, involving state security and make numerous high profile raids….”
“…to make it look like there really is a terrorist cell called the Black Hands,” Donald came to the realisation late but fully.
“Exactly,” Clay interjected, looking quite pleased to have played his part in the plan’s success.
“But I still don’t see why you want to pretend the Black Hands exist, and if you do, then why it needs to be so elaborate, why not just fake it?”
“These are high stakes, Donald,” said Sir Phillip, “it has to look real, real people, real locations and a real leader.”
“But why me?” demanded Donald, asking the only question left that really mattered.
“Because you ran the sink,” said Clay, “otherwise it would’ve been someone else.”
“But the O’Connell’s, they run the sink, not me…”
“Come on, Donald … that might convince uniformed but it won’t wash here, besides I know, remember? I was there.”
“But why?” repeated Donald, “Why are you doing this?”
“Imagine it …this undercover agent has crushed the Black Hands organisation at risk of life and limb; he’ll receive a personal commendation from the Prime Minister,” Sir Phillip gestured proudly towards Clay.
Donald looked blankly at him then he turned on Clay, rising out of his chair again “You’re doing all this for a medal? You want to kill me for a medal?”
“No, Donald, I don’t want a medal” said Clay, all patience as if talking to a child, “no, I only need to get close to the Prime Minister, arm’s length.”
“He will stand directly in front of the Prime Minister as he pins a medal on his chest. Bear in mind, no-one but the most trusted of personal security guards ever gets that close to the Prime Minister.”
“And this matters why?” Donald’s fury was out-weighing his fear at this point.
“Because,” said Clay, “I can kill him from that range with my bare hands.”
“Shiiit!” Donald sat back down with a bump.
“As I said,” Sir Phillip’s modulated voice continued smoothly, “the stakes are very high on this one, so we need everything to appear genuine. And your little organisation fits the bill.”
“You’re going to kill the Prime Minister? Are you mad? …And why me? Why us? ”
“You’re the ones who found me, so it’s your group I infiltrated.”
Donald was disgusted “…all this because our Sandra took a fancy to some stranger from Relocations? If you were ever at Relocations…”
“Oh I worked there, Donald, for as long as it took for them to sack me …part of my cover. Don’t forget, this has been planned very carefully”.
“Donald, pay attention; this is important.” Sir Phillip shot Clay a look of some severity. “Your son and the O’Connells have been slipping in and out of Boro now for some considerable time, we just need to fix it so that a couple of their trips out of Boro tie in with Black Hand activity and we have the link.”
“But they’ll be killed.”
“No-one needs to be killed, Donald” said Sir Phillip, “we’re very clear on that.”
“Then how are you going to make it work? How are you going to extract my confession?”
“We’ll make you look like you’ve been tortured, we’ll video you confessing and then we’ll video your faked death, say … under further torture. I don’t know…” he waved his hand airily, “a heart attack or some such.”
“Will that work?”
“It’ll have to unless you want to make the supreme sacrifice,” said Clay, with a grin. “Although, it’d be for a good cause; you’ll get a foot note in all the history books.”
“To hell with that,” said Donald, “I like the faked bit.”
“Then you’ll consider it?” asked Sir Phillip
“I don’t know… I still don’t like it... can’t we keep the others out of it?”
“As I said, this is a very dangerous mission; they have to be real people with real lives. One flawed piece of evidence, one weak character or thing that doesn’t tie up and the whole plot will unravel. Believe me there’s a whole lot more at stake than just us in this room.”
“Oh yeah,” said Donald “the secret resistance, and who are they, if you please?”
“I don’t know their names,” said Sir Phillip, the words tripping easily off his tongue, known by Clay to be a lie and confirmed as such by Sir Phillip’s left eyelid. Clay smothered a grin; if you didn’t know Sir Phillip as Clay did you’d miss it but if you’d studied his face since childhood, then you’d know that his left eyelid fluttered just slightly when he lied. This weakness in so self-assured a man had struck Clay as note-worthy and as such he’d remarked on it on more than one occasion to his boarding school best friend and confidante, Robert Spencer.
“It’s always the real high-ups who keep their noses clean, I suppose.”
Donald’s eyes were friendly, encouraging a confidence and for a moment Clay felt his Father falter then he physically drew back and repeated, “As I said, I’m not in the know...”
“Ok then,” Donald seemed to have come to a decision, all bar the details, “but what happens to Don and the others?”
“They’ll be imprisoned, probably in some fairly nasty hole but it will only be for a brief time, just until Clayton has completed his mission.”
“What happens if he fails?” asked Donald.
“Then your son and your friends stay in prison, but that would be a total disaster and we don’t plan for disasters.”
“But if it was a disaster, my son and friends would be stuck in this ‘nasty hole’ as you put it.”
“I’m afraid so, Donald, old chap.”
“What about me – I’m a marked man, surely?”
Sir Phillip paused as if considering the question, raising an eyebrow, oddly a mirror of Donald’s own trick. Clay was a bit shaken, noticing the resemblance for the first time.
“Well, you’ll need to lie low for a bit obviously.”
“What does that mean?” asked Donald.
“Come, Donald, you’re in a bad spot. We can easily torture and kill you, denounce you as the Black Hand ring-leader post-mortem.” He nodded at Donald’s question, being framed as he spoke, “But we prefer not to and Clayton here has a soft spot for you, don’t you, Clayton?”
“You’re asking me to trust you” Donald appeared visibly shaken, “and it’s not just my life you’re talking about, it’s my children’s’ future and the lives of my friends.”
“We’re doing this for the people, for the nation, and whilst we’re on the subject of futures, I notice you haven’t asked what will happen to my son.” Donald looked puzzled and a bit awkward. “What do you think will happen to Clayton the minute he has killed the Prime Minister?”
“I don’t know… it’s not my plan; I assume you have a plan, an escape route or something.”
“The room will be filled with heavily armed security guards, there is no plan.”
“But why?” said Donald. He turned to Clay, abruptly aware, as when Terry had been abducted by the police, that on some level he cared. “Why would you commit suicide like that?”
“Believe me it’s not my first choice,” said Clay, “but the assassination is necessary. The killer has to be ready to make the supreme sacrifice, to ensure the job gets done properly.”
“Why don’t you just blow him up?”
“Couldn’t get a device anywhere near him,” said Clay, “besides, there would always be the temptation to leave just before it went off, like with von Stauffenberg.”
“The chap who tried to blow up Hitler,” Sir Phillip explained to a clearly baffled Donald, “he left early and botched it.”
“A ‘hands on’ kill is a guaranteed kill,” stated Clay, “and then the resistance can take over and free the nation.”
“And free your son and your friends,” said Sir Phillip
“And me.” Donald was nodding his agreement.
“And you,” asserted Sir Phillip, “we just need the confession of the leader of the Black Hands.”
Donald sat back in the chair, “okay,” he said, “I’ll do it.”
“Be very sure now,” said Clay.
“I am,” said Donald, “let’s get on with it.”
“Then we will begin work immediately, Clayton, fetch the makeup chappie.”
Clay nodded, “On my way.”
“What do we tell the others?” asked Donald.
“Not a thing, the fewer people involved the better.”
“But won’t they need to be in on it?” asked Donald, “I mean they’ll just deny it otherwise.”
Sir Phillip stood up, all resolution now “Real terrorists always deny everything anyway, so that won’t be
unusual.”
Cheers for reading
Arun
More books in the 'Corpalism' series
Compendium editions
Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE
19 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis
Brinkmanship
If you're not living on the edge,
you're taking up too much space.
Anonymous
On the morning of the 28th June all members of Donald’s group were arrested at their homes and taken to different police stations. Sandra was not arrested; and she was out of her mind with worry. Had it been her fault? Had Terry been a mistake after all? Had he let her down? Everyone she had introduced to him was now in a prison cell.
During the afternoon of the 28th she went down to the station where her father was being held; no-one was the least bit interested in her, not even when she offered to confess knowledge of the smuggling operations.
∞
“Hello Donald, this is Inspector Jones and I’m Inspector Smith.”
“Alias Smith and Jones?” questioned Donald.
“Yes I know,” said Insp. Jones, “unfortunate but one of those things.”
Donald stared ahead.
“Listen Don, can I call you ‘Don’?” asked Insp. Smith.
“Everyone calls me Donald,” said Donald, “they call my son Don, same name, you know.”
“Right,” said Insp. Smith, “but for the purposes of this interview do you mind if I call you ‘Don’?”
Donald shrugged, “Do what you want to do.”
“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” said Insp. Smith.
Donald shrugged again, “Fine.”
“Right Don,” said Insp. Smith, “do you know why we’ve brought you in?”
Donald shook his head, “not got the foggiest.”
“Do you know where your son is?” said Insp. Smith
Donald raised his left eyebrow, “No, should I?”
“We thought you might,” said Insp. Jones, “seeing how he lives with you.”
“Kids,” said Donald “who the hell knows what they’re up to. He often disappears for days, got a lady friend I reckon, probably two or three, shouldn’t wonder.”
“Of course,” said Insp. Smith, “so he often disappears, as you put it for a few days here and there then?”
“Kids do nowadays, don’t they,” said Donald, “there’s never anything in it.”
“I have one question though,” said Insp. Jones.
Donald tilted his head and waited. Nothing. “Yes?” he asked.
“Why aren’t you concerned?”
“Concerned?” questioned Donald.
“Yes,” said Insp. Jones, “I mean, we bring you in here with no explanation, leave you in a cell for four hours, most innocent people would be pacing back and forth during those four hours trying to work out what was going on but not you, Don, old son. No, you just laid down and went to sleep and now, here we are asking you where your son is and you don’t ask why?”
“Oh,” said Donald, “sorry about that, I’m just a naturally calm sort of bloke.”
“You’ll have to forgive my colleague,” said Insp. Smith, “he’s unusually suspicious of everyone; he even has this theory that only those with something to hide relax in the cells because they know they’ll need their wits later on, whilst innocent people sweat it and wear themselves down.”
“Naturally calm?” Insp. Jones chipped in, “but what about your son? Aren’t you in the least bit worried or curious as to why we’ve mentioned him?”
“Of course I am, and if something’s happened to him I think you should let me know immediately, because you’ve got me worried now.”
“And what if we said he was dead,” said Insp. Jones.
“Is he?” asked Donald.
“Is he what?” answered Insp. Smith.
“Dead?” demanded Donald, “don’t mess around; is he dead?”
“No,” said Insp. Smith.
“But he is in very deep trouble,” said Insp. Jones, “very deep.”
“As are some of your other associates, Donald,” said Insp. Smith.
“Associates?” questioned Donald. “I don’t know what you mean, I don’t have any associates.”
“The O’Connells for a start,” said Insp. Jones.
“The O’Connells?” questioned Donald. “They’re not my associates.”
“But you often have them round your house, Don,” said Insp. Jones.
“Not by choice, besides I’m not the only one, everyone has to put up with the O’Connells; they run the sink, you know that. If the police were more active or more involved in the community then we wouldn’t have to put up with their bullying or intimidation but as it is, we just have to let them do what they want and go where they want.”
“Right,” said Insp. Jones, “you just have to put up with them.”
“Did you know that one of them was killed the other day?” asked Insp. Smith.
Donald looked surprised and shook his head, ‘so they got Dale,’ he thought.
“Why so surprised?” asked Insp. Jones, “Surely it was inevitable that someone would eventually catch up with them, if not desirable, from what you just said.”
“Is that what happened then?” asked Donald, “Who was it?”
“Who was what?” asked Insp. Smith.
“Who killed…?” the name teetered perilously on the edge of his lips, “Whoever…” he struggled, raising his shoulders.
“Who killed?” copied Insp. Smith.
“You said one of the O’Connells had been killed but you didn’t say which one.”
“Oh,” said Insp. Jones, “we’re not too sure which one it was yet, it’s all very messy, couldn’t make a good ID, you know.”
Donald did his best to look blank. They sat in silence for a few minutes.
“I’m not sure how this affects me,” said Donald eventually.
“How what affects you?” asked Insp. Smith.
“The O’Connell’s,” said Donald, “I mean, one of them being dead.”
“Where was Terry going?” asked Insp. Smith.
‘Shit,’ thought Donald, ‘how do I play this one?’, “Terry?” he asked.
“Yes Don,” pressed Insp. Jones, “Terry, surely you know Terry?”
“Yes,” said Donald, “he’s dating my Sand.”
“Is he now?” said Insp. Jones.
“But where was he going, Don?” asked Insp. Smith.
“Did we bring Sandra in?” Insp. Jones asked Insp. Smith.
“Do you know, I don’t think we did,” answered Insp. Smith.
Insp. Jones pursed his lips and nodded.
“What?” questioned Donald, “what’s going on? What do you want with her?”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that, Don,” said Insp. Smith, “we just need to know if she knew where Terry was going the other night.”
“No, she didn’t,” said Donald.
“How do you know that, Don?” asked Insp. Smith, “Did you know where he was going?”
“No,” answered Donald.
“But I’ll bet Sandra did,” said Insp. Jones, “I mean if he was her boyfriend and all that.”
“No, she didn’t” repeated Donald.
“But how do you know?” asked Insp. Smith.
“I’m just…I’m sure she didn’t.” He took a steadying breath.
“Ah, well,” said Insp. Jones, “that’s not going to be good enough, is it, Insp. Smith.”
“No I don’t think it is, Insp. Jones,” answered Insp. Smith, “you see Don, Terry has gone and done something very naughty.”
“And you’ll never guess who was with him,” said Insp. Jones. Donald just stared and waited for their next thrust. “It was your son, Don, now don’t you think that’s funny.”
“Funny?” questioned Donald, taking a harder tone, “funny in what way?”
“Oh not ‘funny’ HA HA,” answered Insp. Jones, “no, we mean ‘funny’ as in very fuckin’ suspicious ‘funny’.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Donald, “and neither does Sand.”
“But that’s not good enough, Don,” said Insp. Smith, “I mean, you have to understand our position. You say you don’t get on with the O’Connells yet they’re always round your house, you say you don’t know where your son Don has been for the last few days when he was with Terry, your daughter’s boyfriend.”
“And if memory serves me correctly didn’t we read in the file that Jimmy O’Connell and Sandra used to have a thing going?” asked Insp. Jones.
“I’m afraid we did,” answered Insp. Smith, “which all kind of points towards Sandra having the answers to some of our questions, doesn’t it, Don?”
“She doesn’t know anything,” stated Donald.
“Now we understand a father’s concern,” said Insp. Jones, “what father wouldn’t be concerned at this moment, but your daughter does seem to be the common denominator.”
“You’ve said you don’t know anything, Don,” said Insp. Smith, “but Sandra, now she knows all three of our suspects. One is her ex boyfriend, one is her current boyfriend and one is her brother and they all hang out round her house so she must know something.”
“Someone knows something,” said Insp. Jones, “and we intend to find out who knows what.”
“To be fair Don,” said Insp. Smith, “We have to find out, it’s our job.”
“I’ll issue the order to bring her in, shall I?” asked Insp. Jones.
“Reckon so,” answered Insp. Smith, “you can probably go then, Don,”
“What?”
“Well you can’t help us any further,” said Insp. Jones, “perhaps Sandra can, and a few hours in the cells might help her remember things clearly.”
“Sorry to have been of inconvenience,” said Insp. Smith rising to leave the room.
“Wait a minute,” said Donald.
“It’s okay,” said Insp. Jones, “you’re free to go; it’s Sandra we want. My feeling is she’s got the answers we’re looking for, we’ve just got to find a way of unlocking her pretty head.”
“You leave her alone,” snapped Donald.
“Hey, Don,” said Insp. Smith, “nobody’s going to harm her, we just need to bring her in and question her for a bit, okay.”
“No,” stated Donald, “it’s not okay.”
“But that’s the way it’s got to be,” said Insp. Jones, “she has the answers.”
“And I’m afraid we have to ask the questions Don,” said Insp. Smith, “and in whatever way works.”
“What does that mean?” demanded Donald.
“Nothing,” said Insp. Smith, “look, you take care now.”
Both Inspectors started to leave the interrogation room.
“Hey,” said Donald, “what the fuck does that mean?”
“Nothing to worry about Don,” said Insp. Smith, “don’t worry, we understand your anxiety.”
Inspector Jones opened the door and they started to leave.
“Alright,” said Donald, “I know where they were going.”
"It’s okay Don, said Insp. Smith, "we know you’re just concerned about Sandra and will say anything to help her.”
“No, it’s not that,” said Donald, “I really do know where they were going. Sandra doesn’t know anything.”
“But?” questioned Insp. Smith, “Don, you said you didn’t know anything, does that mean you were lying to us?”
“Yes, I lied, okay,” said Donald.
“You lied or you’re lying now?” questioned Insp. Jones.
“I lied about not knowing,” said Donald, “they were outside Boro, and they were going to meet with someone.”
“Meet with who?” asked Insp. Jones.
“Whom,” said Insp. Smith.
“What?” said Insp. Jones.
“It’s ‘whom’,” said Insp. Smith, “Oh, never mind.”
“Look,” said Donald, “they were going to meet someone who had some stuff for us.”
“Stuff? What stuff?” asked Insp. Smith.
“Just stuff,” said Donald, “you know, stuff you can’t get on the sink.”
“Guns?” asked Insp. Jones, “bombs?”
“What?” said Donald, incredulity apparent in his tone, “No, just stuff… films, music, you know entertainment and stuff.”
“Really?” said Insp. Smith, “you think we’d believe they’d risk the consequences for films and music.”
“You’ll have to try harder than that if you want to avoid us bringing your daughter in,” said Insp. Jones.
“Look,” said Donald, “I need to talk to someone.”
“You need to talk to us, Donald,” said Insp. Smith.
“No, I need to talk to someone else,” said Donald.
There was a sound in the corridor and three men appeared in the doorway. Hair shaved to setting number 1; all tall and muscularly built and wearing identical rain coats, light grey suits just visible underneath. Each one was packing a pistol in a shoulder holster, if you knew where to look. Both Inspectors knew where to look.
Insp. Jones switched off the tape summarily bringing the interview to a close.
“We want him,” said the one nearest the door.
“Well, you can’t have him,” said Insp. Smith, “he’s part of an ongoing investigation.”
“He’s ours,” said the spokesman, “check with your Chief Super.”
“Fuck,” said Insp. Jones, “you hold them whilst I check this out.”
“You’re not holding anybody, we’re leaving now and so is he.”
Donald stood up; he recognised superior authority even if Smith and Jones were pretending otherwise.
Cheers for reading
Arun
More books in the 'Corpalism' series
Compendium editions
Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE
18 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis
The Barn
History is written by the victors.
Winston Churchill
“We might as well relax,” said Don, “we can’t do anything ‘til they get here.”
“Is that going to be a problem?” asked Terry.
“Could be,” said Don.
“Will the truck still be there?” asked Terry. Don narrowed his eyes; he’d thought Terry had been kept out of the loop on that one. “Oh, I’m not meant to know about a truck, am I?”
“I’m interested to hear how you do know,” said Don.
“Donald told me.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” said Don.
“Well, Sand persuaded him.”
Don thought about it for a second, “What else did he tell you?”
“Nothing.”
Don shrugged, still not convinced “We just need to bed down and sleep the day out.”
“Okay to knock up a quick brew?”
“Sure,” said Don, “they’re not Apaches you know.”
Terry laughed, “‘course not.”
∞
Working in Relocations had given Terry a healthy respect for Galaxy’s ability to link RR 2 RA, i.e. ‘Resource Requirements’ to ‘Resources Available’ across continents; it had not given him knowledge of other aspects of Galaxy’s achievements.
For example, he knew nothing about a recent insidious software update to Signus and its connection to the newly introduced SpyGrid, a network fed by the satellite permanently stationed above the UK. This satellite homed in on the chip located in the forearm of every UK citizen.
The ubiquitous, innocent chip; introduced two decades previously as a useful aide to the responsible citizen to enable quick access to funds and buildings, implanted on a voluntary and trial basis, now a mandatory tool of the state and as such, introduced in a simple operation at birth.
With the upgrade to Signus, and permission for its use embedded as a paragraph in the recent 400 page amendment to the Enabling Act and other anti-terrorist legislation, amendments required ostensibly to combat the recent spate of terrorist activities of groups like the Black Hands and the Red Freedoms, the chip could be used to inform the whereabouts of any UK citizen at any given time.
The data received from SpyGrid was filtered through the Signus databank; holding GPS information on the controlled location of each citizen and programmed to activate on receipt of location anomalies in the form of a warning notice to the security forces.
On the 24th June Don, Terry and Dale were flagged as location anomalies and, given their status as ghetto inhabitants, within seconds Signus was issuing the relevant alerts to the relevant security forces.
∞
Dale lit a small fire and started to brew up. He couldn’t for the life of him imagine what had happened, where the others were but he knew that somehow it would be his fault.
“Fuckin’ Jimmy,” he muttered, “he’s fuckin’ useless, he’s too fuckin’ slow.”
Dale sat back and pulled his coat tight, it was heavily overcast and he was cold. He looked up through the trees and saw the helicopter far off in the distance, moving back and forth along the same line. He watched it for several minutes before it started to bother him. The water started to boil in his cup so he removed it from the fire and added the tea bag. He wandered to the edge of the wood, saw 3 police vans parked down the bottom of the hill. Then he saw the line of coppers spread out along the hedge at the foot of the hill, “Shit!” Dale tossed his tea and ran off into the woods.
He kept a good pace for the five minutes it took him to get from one end of the small wood to the other where he stopped in his tracks; more police. This time they spotted him and as they started to run up the hill Dale darted off to his left. As he neared the edge of the wood he found more coppers, this time in the tree line. He ran back into the woods and threw himself into a bush but the helicopter had moved in closer and was now hovering above him; the pilot knew exactly where Dale was hiding from the beeping on his console.
He was surrounded. He burst from his hiding place and tried to break through the growing crowd but he was Tasered without warning and fell to the ground, writhing and twitching.
“Taser, Taser, Taser,” shouted another copper as he tasered Dale again.
“Hit him again,” shouted someone and Dale was tasered a third time. Then a fourth and a fifth. Then he stopped moving.
“Cuff him,” ordered a sergeant.
“Won’t need to Sarge,” said one, his finger on the pulse point on Dale’s neck. “ He’s a gonna.”
“It’s one of those O’Connell brothers - fuckin’ stupid mick,” said the sergeant.
∞
Terry was on first watch. He’d made another brew and sat watching the road; he saw the police vans arrive. He lay down and watched as the coppers piled out. Then he saw the helicopter far off in the distance. He wriggled backwards until he felt safe enough to rise to a crouch and scurry back to camp, “Don, Don.”
“What?” said Don shaking himself awake, “what is it?”
“Cops, an’ there’s a bear in the air.”
“What? A bear?” He was on his feet in a second.
“Chopper,” said Terry, pointing.
“But how?” queried Don.
“We should move,” said Terry. Don nodded but stayed where he was. “Which way?”
“I don’t really know,” said Don, “it’s never happened before.”
“Wha…?” asked Terry.
“We’ve never needed an escape route before,” said Don, “so we’ve never planned one.”
“Well we fuckin’ need one now,” hissed Terry, “I tell you I don’t fancy being caught by these fuckers.”
“Me neither,” said Don, “Let’s try this way.”
“Why that way?” asked Terry.
“Don’t ask me,” said Don “seems as good as any. You got a better idea?”
They ran through the wood for five heart-thumping minutes before pausing to catch their breath.
“What do you think?” asked Don. “Do you think they’re following?”
“Well, they’re here for something,” said Terry, “and I have a nasty feeling it’s us so yeah, I think they’re following.”
“Shit,” said Don.
“Hang on,” said Terry, “the chopper’s almost overhead.”
“Where?” asked Don.
“Get down,” said Terry, “let it pass over.”
It held position, hovering directly above them, a whirring arrow pointing to their exact location.
“What’s it doing?” asked Don.
“I don’t know,” said Terry.
“They can’t have seen us,” said Don.
“No,” agreed Terry, “so how do they know where we are?”
“We should move,” said Don.
“No, wait a bit; I need to think. How do they know we’re here? They can’t possibly know.”
“Terry,” hissed Don, “we gotta move.”
“I know that,” said Terry, “but how did they know where to find us?”
“Someone must’ve blabbed,” said Don. “Perhaps Jimmy and the others got caught and talked.”
“I don’t see Jimmy talking,” said Terry, “I don’t know about the others.”
“Sean would crack under pressure,” said Don.
“I guess he would at that,” said Terry, “but that still doesn’t explain how that chopper is hovering right above us”
“Coppers,” hissed Don pointing.
They ran into the trees, hoping to lose their pursuers in the density of the woods, leaping fallen trees and branches, tearing through bushes and stumbling over brambles for what felt like mile after mile, all the time hearing the shouts of police on their heels. Terry and Don were fit and highly motivated and gradually the distance between them and those in pursuit was lengthening; but somehow the helicopter stayed with them. They burst from the woods and ran down the hillside towards the road.
“There,” Terry shouted, pointing.
Don nodded and they headed for the lay by and the nearest car.
Terry ran to the driver’s side and wrenched open the door, “Get out!” he shouted, “NOW!”
The driver, startled out of any form of resistance, complied with alacrity. Besides him the car was empty. Terry threw it into gear and they sped off down the road; behind them the police huffed and puffed.
“How the fuck did they find us?” asked Terry.
“Don’t know,” said Don, “it’s never happened before.”
“But that was a lot of fucking police as well, what the hell kinda shit do you guys nick?”
“Nothin’ of any value” said Don, “not really.”
“Well they seem to think it is.”
“Where’re we going, anyway?”
“Fuck knows,” said Terry, looking at the dash, “not far by the looks of it. Bastard was out of gas…Where’s that chopper now?”
Don stuck his head out the window, “right above us,”
“They’ll have road blokes ahead then,” said Terry, “we need to get off the road, into the woods.”
“Here, quick, here,” said Don.
Terry swung the wheel and they bounced down a dirt track that lead directly to a rundown farm but no woods, no cover beyond a ramshackle barn.
“Good call,” said Terry sarcastically as they got out of the car; above them hovered the sentinel helicopter. “Check the farm house, I’ll check the barn.”
After a few minutes Don reappeared holding an unbroken shotgun. “Whoa, is that thing loaded?”
“No,” said Don, “I couldn’t find any cartridges.”
“Then what good is it?” asked Terry.
“Well it might prove useful,” said Don, “especially if we find some ammo.”
“Yeah,” said Terry, “don’t want to spoil your party but an old thing like that will only get us killed, besides a shot gun isn’t the best of weapons in this situation.”
“Why not?” asked Don.
“Short range and the spread of pellets – we’d need to be close,” said Terry, “what we need is a proper hunting rifle.”
“Yeah, well this is all we’ve got, how’d you know so much about guns, anyway?”
Terry looked up at the helicopter, “Well, it might be useful in a bluff,” he said, “Come on, we’d better move before they get here.”
Don and Terry jogged across the fields, cursing the invention of barbed wire, until they reached a derelict shed; the helicopter kept pace.
“What’s the point in running?” said Don, “We’re never gonna shake that thing off.”
“I know,” said Terry. “That’s why I wanted the rifle.”
Don looked at him with a modicum of respect, dropping the shotgun to the floor. Then he mumbled something and started looking round for somewhere to sit down.
“We don’t have time for that,” said Terry.
“Oh, what, you gonna out run a fuckin’ helicopter, are you?” asked Don, “’cause unless you can I don’t see the point in keeping on going.”
Terry looked up at the chopper just hovering way up in the sky, “Bastards.”
“Why are you really here, Terry?” Terry turned and scoured the fields behind them. “I mean, ‘I got sacked’ is a bit thin, isn’t it?”
“Might well be, but it’s what happened.”
“Come on,” said Don, “you can tell me, cops are about to wrap us up, game over, nothing to hide and all that.”
“As I said,” said Terry, “I got sacked.”
“Really? Why? You had it made, why’d you be such an idiot?” Terry’s expression was not friendly but Don wanted answers. “Look, all I’ve even known is the sink; I’m fucked, always was and always will be, never had a hope, never had a chance but you? From the sounds of it you had everything, why fuck it up?”
Terry turned away, “Dunno.”
“That’s not good enough,” said Don angrily, “you had everything Terry. We got nothing. We struggle with poverty every day and no-one gives a fuck.”
“Cops,” said Terry as the first one crested the hill. He was a way off and seemed in no hurry to proceed; he’d out stripped his mates and appeared to be waiting for back-up. Besides the helicopter place marker was still in situ.
“So, what was so bad with your life that you had to go and fuck it up?” demanded Don.
“We better move,” said Terry.
“No!” said Don, “Not until you tell me why you fucked it all up?”
“Fuck off!” snapped Terry.
“I’m serious,” said Don, “Why’d ‘you fuck it up?”
“I just didn’t fit in, that’s all.”
“Oh! Come on,” yelled Don, “What kinda crap is that? I didn’t fit in. Bollocks.”
“Fuck you,” yelled Terry. Don grabbed Terry’s coat, as he did so Terry turned, breaking Don’s hold with the motion and threw him to the floor, “I said …I didn’t fit in.”
“An’ what?” said Don, rolling over into a seated position, “this suits you more does it? Living on the sink?”
“Actually it does,” said Terry. Don’s incredulous, sneering expression tipped Terry into abrupt fury. “What do you know about life out there? It’s not so fuckin’ great, ya know.”
“Well it’s gotta be a damn sight better than on the sink,” said Don.
“Really? Have you got tuition fee debts hanging around your fuckin’ neck? You got a mortgage you could never fuckin’ hope to pay off? Massive loans with inflated fuckin’ rates of interest bleeding you dry? Credit cards all max’d out to their fuckin’ limit sucking the life out of you?”
Don stared up at him, unimpressed.
“Not to mention the ever increasing rate of inflation, the cost of fuel, and food, exorbitant taxation, VAT. Oh yeah I had it cosy alright, working all hours … the minute we’re born we were saddled with debt. D’you realise that? D’you have any idea how much it costs to have a baby? £50 grand! …who do you think gets saddled with that debt? The parents? No, the baby. It’s marked on your fuckin’ chip,” Terry waved his forearm in Don’s general direction, “as soon as you start earning they start taking the money back. Can you believe that? Giving birth costs money. You have to pay a hospital. You have to pay tax on it. How the fuck did the human species ever get out of the jungle if you need hospitals to have a baby? How the fuck did we progress without taxation? Does any other creature on the planet have to pay to have a baby? Does it? Does it have to pay taxes? NO! But we do in spades and why?”
Don was now on his feet, dusting himself down, he didn’t answer.
“Because the state and the wealthy want us in debt from word go” Terry fairly frothed as he answered his own question, “so we’ll be willing to work and keep the wealthy living a life of luxury, but yeah, you’re right Don, I had it made, we all did.”
“We still have to pay for stuff in the sink, you know,” said Don.
“Oh yeah, what?” demanded Terry, “most of you are on benefits and those who are working are on bare minimum so don’t meet the income ceiling.”
“Babies cost the same for poor people as well, you know,” said Don.
“Yeah, but you’ll never be expected to pay, will you?” snapped Terry, “’cause you’ll never earn enough to activate your chip, but those of us working in the system just get shafted every which way.”
Don smirked, “so that’s why you got sacked – bein’ arsey.”
“Yeah, well, fuck you,” said Terry, a grudging smile in his eyes.
Don scanned the sky line; he counted about twenty coppers, moving in tight formation across the field, “We’d better get moving.”
Terry bent down and picked up the shotgun, “You don’t say.”
Cheers for reading
Arun
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Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE
17 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis June 23
It's not that I'm so smart;
it's just that I stay with problems longer.
Albert Einstein
Terry opened his locker at work. There was a book laying on the shelf that didn’t belong to him. He looked about, there was nobody around. He picked it up, opened it at the marker and read the small piece of note paper, ‘Alice misses u.’ He put the small note in his mouth and started to chew it, feeling slightly ridiculous. He placed his own note, ‘I’ve moved on’, in the book, placed the book back on the shelf, upside down this time, closed his locker and went to work.
Later that day when Terry returned to his locker the book was gone.
∞
The June 23rd op would comprise Don and Terry in one group; Jimmy and his brothers in the other. Don and Terry would catch a number of buses crisscrossing Boro but always heading towards the perimeter of the City. Once at location B they would wait until Officer Jenkins came on duty. The name Jenkins was a pseudonym; only Don knew the officer’s true ID; this kept everyone happy. At 21:30 hrs ‘Jenkins’ would leave his post for 15 minutes, enough time for Don and Terry to slip through the wire, nip across the open ground (the most dangerous point of the mission), scale the 15ft perimeter wall and disappear into the woods on the other side.
Jimmy and his brothers would do something similar two grid references away; they would meet up 10 miles to the South, actual location known only to Don and Jimmy. That was the plan, it was always the plan and it had always worked quite nicely.
As soon as the O’Connells got out things started to go wrong; Sean sprained his ankle dropping down from the wall so they had to leave him hiding in the woods just outside Boro, then Dale who was meant to be on point managed to get so far ahead that they lost him, Brendan started to moan about Sean so much he really pissed off Jimmy. It then fell to Paddy to intervene on Jimmy’s say-so and ended up with him almost knocking Brendan out. At that point Jimmy cut his losses and decided they would go back, effectively closing down the operation.
Don and Terry carried on towards the meeting point.
Traitor in our Midst
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look,
He thinks too much; such men are dangerous
Wm Shakespeare
“Come in Tom,” said Dave, all affable, “Doreen’ll bring tea through later.”
“Right ho,” said Tom making his way into the living room.
“Donald, Eric, Lawrence,” said Tom. They nodded in his direction as he took his seat.
“Right then,” said Dave, “what the fuck went wrong and where is everyone?”
“Regards the first, I don’t know,” said Donald, “re the second, we’ve heard nothing as yet from Don or Terry. As you know Jimmy, Paddy, Brendon and Sean made it back but there’s no word yet on Dale.”
“They’ve been taken,” said Tom, “That’s what’s happened; they’ve been taken.”
“How d’you know?” asked Dave.
“Well I don’t,” said Tom, “not for sure, but that must be it, mustn’t it? I mean they’re five days late, what else could it be?”
“But that raises awkward questions,” said Eric, “for one, how'd the feds find out?”
“Do we have a snitch?” said Dave.
“And if so, who?” asked Lawrence.
“Well it must be Terry,” said Tom, “he’s the likely one, I mean he worked for Relocations and that and he’s only just got here and only just joined the group.”
“Which is why it doesn’t really make sense,” said Donald.
“Eh? Why not?” asked Tom.
“It doesn’t make sense to put him through such rigmarole just to catch Don.”
“Who knows what makes sense to them?” asked Tom, “why do they keep us here in this place?”
“What about the other night, Tom?” asked Eric.
“What?” said Tom, “What do you mean? What other night?”
“You know,” said Dave, “when you got pulled in.”
“Yeah,” pressed Lawrence, “What happened there, then Tom?”
“I told you,” said Tom, “they pulled me in for suspicious activity.”
“What suspicious activity?”
“Hey, Donald” said Tom, “Hey, now I don’t like the sound of where this is going, come on, I just got pulled in, it happens, okay? It happens.”
“Yeah but Tom,” said Eric, “that was just two days before the boys left.”
“Coincidence,” said Tom, “a coincidence.”
“Thing is,” said Dave, “I don’t believe in coincidences, not really.”
“What are you sayin’? I got pulled in, it happens…I wasn’t doing anything and they just pulled me in, right.” He turned from one implacable face to the other “And they questioned me and kept me in for a bit….”
“That’s right,” said Dave, “but it was only for a few hours, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” said Tom, “and then they let me go.”
“But Tom,” said Lawrence, “When does that ever happen?”
“Yeah, when does it ever happen that the pigs pull someone in, ask them a few questions for a few hours and then let them go?” asked Eric.
“That’s right,” said Dave, “they usually keep you in for a couple of days at least and always give you a right old thumping.”
“Look, I’m telling you the truth, that’s all that happened, that’s all they did. I can’t say anything else,” said Tom desperately, “I can’t make it up; that’s exactly how it happened. You have to believe me…”
“Thing is, Tom,” said Dave, shaking his head slowly “We don’t…believe you, that is.”
“But it’s true,” said Tom, wildly now, “Donald, look, they pulled me in, left me in the cell for a few hours then asked me some questions and then let me go.”
“But you see Tom,” said Eric, “that’s just not how they do business, is it?”
Tom stood up to leave, “Look, I’ve a bloody good idea what you’re thinking and it’s not true.”
“What’s not true, Tom?” asked Donald.
“Donald,” said Tom, “I didn’t, I wouldn’t, not Don, you know that, don’t you?”
“I thought I did,” said Donald, “but now I’m not sure, Tom.”
“Please, Donald,” Tom was desperate, his eyes on his old friend.
Dave raised a black straw, “that’s my vote.”
“No!” said Tom.
“And mine,” said Eric raising his straw.
Tom turned to Lawrence his eyes wide.
Lawrence shook his head and raised a black straw.
“Donald” beseeched Tom, “Please.”
Donald dropped his head, rose and left the room.
“NO!” shouted Tom, as Jimmy, Brendan and Paddy
burst in.
Cheers for reading
Arun
More books in the 'Corpalism' series
Compendium editions
Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE
episode 1 Workmen
Barry slumped onto the verge, regretting the decision even as his buttocks hit the turf. He'd struggle to get up from this position and his gang was just up the road and ready to take the piss. He could hear the comments in his head, fat bastard, beached whale and other such insults just waiting to find an outlet. Still, he was here now and he might as well get on with it.
He pulled out his note pad and punched the number into his phone. It was only 30 seconds before it connected but he was through to the usual auto service; if you want blah, blah press 1 or if you want such and such press 2. It took him 4 minutes to get through to the service he wanted, then there was a queue and he had to wait a further 5 minutes before a female voice came on the line.
"Hello, my name is Jane. How may I help you today?"
"Ah Jane," he said, for a moment forgetting why he'd called, "My name's Barry Halliwell, I'm ringing because I got a parking ticket the oth....." He was aware he'd put on his telephone voice, articulating carefully in the hope that a show of good breeding would get a better result.
"We can't take payments over the phone," said Jane, helpfully, "you need to send a cheque to the address on the back of the parking charge."
"Ah, no, that's not what I was after, erm.....I sent a letter with a copy of the ticket that I purchased on the relevant date." He spoke fast hearing her draw breath for her next dismissal, "the letter explained that I had displayed the ticket, but when I shut my car door the ticket must have blown off the dash into the car well and was missed by your warden. So I did in fact buy a ticket and, therefore, shouldn't have to pay a fine."
"Tickets have to be displayed," said Jane, brightly.
"Ah, yes I know that," he kept his voice even, "and it was, but on this occasion the wind must've blown it off the dash when...."
"Tickets have to be displayed," repeated Jane.
"Right," it was getting harder to maintain the even tone, but he managed to swallow his irritation, "I know that but the main point is that people buy a ticket, I mean, that's the whole point right?"
Jane didn't respond.
"That's the whole idea, to pay for the parking space for a given period of time, well I did pay and I have the ticket to prove it...."
"Tickets have to be displayed," said Jane, adding firmly, "at all times."
"I know that, Jane, but I'm telling you I bought a ticket, so I rented the space, and something occurred be it an act of god or what, but something occurred so that the ticket fell from my dashboard into the car well. I didn't avoid buying a ticket, I bought one, still have it and sent you a copy...." He was losing it, and losing her, he knew it but he couldn't stop.
"I'm sorry sir," said Jane, her voice still at the same equable pitch, "but I will have to terminate this call."
"Don't do that," said Barry, wildly, "it took me fifteen minutes to get through."
"Sorry sir," said Jane, sounding anything but, "I've advised you that tickets must be displayed so I can't help you any further, good day," with which she hung up.
Barry clenched his fists, incandescent with suppressed fury, knowing it was bad for his blood pressure but momentarily unable to get a grip. He breathed deeply and counted to 10 then punched the number in again. His heart slowed to normal during the enforced waiting period. He avoided looking at his team idling down the road, working on the childish premise 'if I don't look at you, then you can't see me.'
It was 10 minutes before he heard the voice he'd been waiting for.
"Hello, my name's Gareth, how may I help you today?" Smooth, silky.
"Hi Gareth," said Barry, aiming for instant camaraderie, "I'm having a little problem with erm.....a parking ticket."
"We can't take payments over the phone, sir" said Gareth, helpfully, man-to-man, "you need to send a cheque to the address on the back of the parking charge."
"I know that, Gareth but the thing is, you see, I did buy a ticket so this fine isn't really relevant to me."
"Was it adequately displayed in your car window sir?" asked Gareth.
"Right," said Barry, thinking 'this is going pear-shaped fast', "let me explain ..."
"I'm sorry sir," said Gareth, oil-slick smooth, "unless the ticket was displayed in your car window I won't be able to help you."
"I get that," desperation was taking his breath away, "but can you please explain the purpose of buying a ticket?"
"To rent the parking space sir," said Gareth, happy to oblige, "but the ticket has to be displayed. It's part of the terms and conditions. This is displayed on the sign where you would have purchased the ticket and on the reverse of the ticket."
"So you don't dispute that I bought a ticket?" This is not what he had meant to say, the conversation was getting away from him again.
"I'm not in a position to comment on that, sir."
'Stop calling me sir when you mean shithead', Barry thought savagely, whilst forcing his voice into an even tone, "Surely you have a procedure in place that takes accidents into account?"
"The rules and terms are clear; the ticket must be clearly displayed."
"But that's criminal," now he'd lost it, "that means you get money for the parking and then you get to fine people 60 quid with no recourse or....."
"I'm afraid I can't progress this any further sir," said Gareth, all firm and righteous, "so I'm terminating the call, good day."
"Don't..." shouted Barry to the dial tone, "You fuckin' bastard, right, I'll 'ave you!" he snarled, manhandling the number into his phone, cursing violently as each digit went in, heart palpitating ferociously as he waded through the auto service and this time waiting a further 20 minutes for an operator, neurotically convinced they knew it was him and were making him wait longer on purpose.
"Hello, you're through to Diane," yet another well-modulated voice. Were they churning them out of a fucking sausage machine somewhere? "How may I assist you today?"
He launched straight away into his speech, hoping to catch her unawares, "I bought a parking ticket and I placed it on the dashboard of my car, but when I returned to my car I had a parking fine ...."
"Ah, well sir," began Diane.
"If you could just wait for me to finish please Diane, you see I then sent a copy of the ticket and a letter explaining what must've happened to...."
"Was the ticket displayed in your car window sir?"
"It was when I left the car but it must've fallen off...it was on the floor," he was aware how piteous he sounded; it was all he could do not to cry in rage and frustration.
"If the ticket wasn't adequately displayed we are entitled to levy a fine...."
"Surely once I present evidence that I bought a ticket ............"
"Do you still have the ticket sir?" asked Diane.
Breakthrough, he thought, she's listening, "Yes I do Diane," he said warmly, he could cuddle her.
"Good," said Diane, her voice bright and even more helpful than before, "then if you look on the reverse you will see it says in the terms and conditions...."
He blinked. For a moment he was too shocked to speak, then he rallied, he'd come too far to stop on a technicality, "Yes I know what it says, but you're not listening to me, I paid for the ticket, I paid to park there and now you're fining me for an act of god."
"The rules and terms are clear; the ticket must be clearly displayed."
"Diane, please, am I talking to a human being or a robot here? I'm telling you that I bought your lousy ticket, I paid to park there, this fine is all wrong."
"I'm sorry sir, but unless the ticket is adequately displayed...."
"Right!" said Barry, "in that case give me my money back. The money I paid for the parking ticket, £3.50, I want it back. If you're going to fine me anyway then you have to give me my money back."
"I'm sorry sir," said Diane, sounding infinitesimally off-balance. He felt like he'd scored a goal at Wembley, "there are no circumstances under which we'd offer a refund."
"But I paid for the ticket, I paid to park there, so you owe me a fucking refund if you intend to sting me for 60 quid."
"If you are going to verbally abuse me," said Diane, balance restored, "I will have to terminate the call, good day."
He dialled again, he would do this all day if he had to; it now meant more to him than his job, in fact he would commit the rest of his life to achieving this one thing. Verbal abuse? I'll give you verbal abuse. He readied himself to launch a vitriolic tirade when he heard an electronic male voice on the other end, "We have received several nuisance calls from this number, therefore, I'm immediately terminating this call."
No 10
Sir Phillip Blackmore was shown into the Cabinet room. The PM, Mark Cholmondeley, already seated, flicked his hand at the chair opposite and watched as Sir Phillip duly took up his station. Cholmondeley owed his position to Blackmore and deeply resented the fact.
"How are things with you and Cynthia?" he probed, aware of Sir Phillip's dislike of intrusion into his personal life. He'd heard rumours of a split and was keen to poke at the wound.
"Cynthia is well, Prime Minister," murmured Sir Phillip, deliberately misinterpreting the question.
"Hmm," said the P.M, "and the children? What are their names again?"
"Damned if I know."
The PM looked down at his notes, hiding a wry smile. "To business then."
"The terror threat is back at AMBER, Prime Minister, no other issues in the offing," said Sir Phillip.
"Hmmm," said the PM, looking up, "I think it much more useful for it to be at RED."
"Of course, and so it will be once we have a new initiative in play. In the meantime, there's still the underlying unrest from the recent riots. They should provide ample opportunities to use certain parts of the Bill."
"We really need something bigger." He sounded petulant; a child demanding more.
"Quite so," said Sir Phillip, "I'll get my team working on something, something that will make it easier to concentrate the majority where we want them."
"Mmm," said the PM, it was clear now that he was enjoying a private joke, "well, actually Blackmore, there is a major event pending. Bigger than even 12/12. It's still at the planning stage as I understand it, but it will enable us to use the bulk of the Act."
Sir Phillip's teeth gritted as he strived to show no reaction; this was news to him, "Prime Minister?"
"As you know I recently attended 'the' meeting," said the PM, struggling to hide his merriment.
Sir Phillip conceded that he did know, still determined to show nothing but polite interest.
"I'm not yet at liberty to tell you what that event will be but, suffice to say, when it does occur we will be more than justified in implementing every aspect of the Enabling Act."
"Is there anything the service should be doing at this time?" asked Sir Phillip, trying to find a way in without betraying an interest.
"Not yet, Blackmore," the response was curt. Cholmondeley was annoyed at the compete lack of curiosity, damn the man for his breeding. "The relevant areas have been notified of their obligations, as soon as I get clearance you will also be notified."
"I see," said Sir Phillip.
"Actually it's mainly a military show, and the bulk of it will be carried out by the cousins."
"Is that wise?" questioned Sir Phillip, shocked out of his studied indifference.
"Oh don't worry," said the PM, airily, score one to him, "shan't affect us directly, not like that anyway but we will benefit from the fallout."
Cheers for reading
Hope you have a good week
Arun
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Prologue
For Sir Digby Chalfont, a connoisseur, of all the women in the group, one stood out. She was tall, with impeccably cut, gleaming bronze hair.
He noted the Givenchy Pandora box bag slung over the shoulder of her black crepe trouser suit, a Tyrwhitt, if he was not mistaken, and the raspberry shirt that softened the aquiline face was certainly an Emilio Pucci. He imagined a crop twitching against her Eleonaro black riding boots; the thought causing him to smile as he homed in. He had no idea of her standing in the group, although the clothes gave a hint to her status. He cared little; she was the most attractive person in the room and he intended to make himself known to her; his newly acquired knighthood must be good for something.
The faint silk scent of the window drapes was now combined with the perfume of luxurious colognes. The Chairman, a portly man with a well-used face, experienced the effect without enjoyment; well used to the smell of money. Taking advantage of his central seat on the small platform he surveyed the room. He was impressed all over again at the power of the Committee; to be able to summon two hundred people from the international political, military, industrial and social elites at such short notice and achieve their attendance was no mean feat.
Clusters of men, mostly white and middle-aged, their dark, sombre suits offset by a few in full dress uniform, a scattering of crisp white djellabas and several in multi-coloured dashikis. He noted the women; not enough to tip the balance.
All were veterans of this type of gathering, some chatting easily to each other, most keeping their own counsel. At the Chairman's nod, the man who'd been awaiting the signal detached himself from the group and walked to the podium; tall, slim, dark hair at the distinguished stage.
Kurt Silverman, Head of the Institute of Research. He cut an athletic figure; he looked good and he knew it. He also knew that he was amongst those for whom personal appearance mattered less than power and holdings; in that respect he was not their equal, he was there to serve them.
The view offered to him from the uplifted podium was of rows of seats, each one occupied by a glossy A4 booklet he'd prepared and placed there earlier. Gradually, as if in response to an unspoken suggestion, members of the group began to move to these seats.
After a short time the Chairman rose to his feet, his dark grey Kiton suit struggling valiantly to contain and command his ample body.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome," he said, his voice carrying without effort to the back of the room. Given the ratio of male to female and, more pertinently, the balance of power he might have been forgiven for saying, 'welcome gentlemen'. Having caught the eagle eye of the auburn-haired woman in black, seated next to Sir Digby, such a lapse had been rendered impossible. He waved his hand towards the podium, introduced Kurt in a few crisp words and resumed his seat.
Kurt spoke, his voice betraying a slight nervousness; this was an august company and he would have been a fool not to have regard for their power, "Thank you for inviting me here to deliver, for your consideration, the proposed solution to the most pressing issue of our times; 'Peak Oil'."
He paused, making deliberate eye contact with the front row, then continued, "As you know, in the 70s it was estimated we would reach Peak Oil somewhere around 2015, after which the rate of production was expected to enter terminal decline, giving us a global fuel crisis somewhere about 2075."
He clicked a hand held device and the screen behind him came to life, showing a map of the location of the last known oil reserves, "However, increased warfare, rises in manufacturing and rampant population growth has meant a massively increased demand. We passed Peak Oil in 2005. As a result, we will reach the projected fuel crisis much sooner than expected."
He clicked again and the screenshot changed, "Of course, we took steps over the last few decades to try and contain the situation. Thanks to the work of the Neo Liberals in the eighties and nineties we were able to offset the increasing costs of oil production by shifting costs of manufacturing to the more cost effective labour force of the third world."
Kurt indicated with a smile the six-strong delegation from China, all male, in identical Prince of Wales check suits and to his eye, with identical faces. He gestured to the smaller group from India, two serious-looking men and one elderly, petite, sari-clad woman.
"You may recall it was estimated that we'd need a further three decades before the third world would be strong enough to take over the consumption of the West."
He paused before delivering the punch line, "I'm happy to say our recent studies have revealed that the new consumers are there in abundance as we speak, and more than able to take up the slack."
A few heads looked up at this revelation, most didn't react at all. Kurt had no time to wonder if they'd already had this information, he had to move on to the crux of the matter.
"This being the case not only have we no further need of the northern hemisphere labour market, we now have no interest in their continued ability to buy our products. In short we have no further need to sustain this part of the population."
Kurt was moving with poise now, as another chart appeared on the screen showing world population levels, "You will be aware of various natural phenomena supporting our aims of constraining population growth; the greatest of which are Aids and famine. The policy of appearing to work towards their eradication whilst achieving very little seems to be working. That takes care of Africa. Helpfully, Eastern and Southern European countries are being depopulated via sustained civil war and ethnic cleansing."
He paused, then, "Rapid economic cleansing is also underway; highly desirable areas of France and Spain are being de-populated and in the UK, London is being cleared to make way for settlement by the very wealthy, with the rest of the South-East to follow."
He couldn't prevent the smug grin that crossed his face; he'd recently snapped up some exquisite properties just outside Primrose Hill, so felt he had to follow up with, "Of course, you will get first pick of these prime slices of real estate as they become available. In fact, I believe you can book your plots now, is that right, Mr. Chairman?"
The Chairman rose awkwardly, caught out by the change of subject, but the words flowed with practiced ease, "Superior Homes has created an exclusive brochure, copies of which will be available in the foyer as you leave conference. You'll find outline plans for a deluxe chateau in an average lot size of 3,000 hectares in the new territories. "
An electric buzz swept the room.
Kurt judged the time was right for the big announcement, "However, attritional reduction of population in these areas is not enough for our needs. We must contain America, the biggest oil consumer on the planet."
Kurt looked round the room, then invested his voice with strength, "We now need to move into the last phase of our plan, which we are calling 'Operation Downsize'. I'd like to introduce General Nathan Goldhirsch of the US Army who will explain it to you."
The US contingent stirred in their seats and a tall man in full dress uniform rose to his feet and headed towards the platform. "That's US Marine Corps, Kurt," he said, smiling. There was a smattering of laughter, quickly suppressed.
"Okay," said the General, his frown bringing them back to complete order, "let's get down to business. We need to reduce the US of A population by at least 25% and we can't pussy-foot around. Economic destabilisation brings its own problems and we have one helluva civilian army out there, all armed. If they get a sniff of what's going on all hell will break loose. So, we gotta do it quickly." He turned to the screen and pointed at the image that appeared, "This here is La Palma, one of the Canary Islands."
A hush settled on the room, this was where it started to get serious.
The screen changed. "And this is the Cumbre Vieja volcano, it is extremely volatile." The screen changed again, "This is the western face of the volcano, which is gradually collapsing. One day, in the natural course of things this side will fall into the sea creating a mega tsunami which will sweep across the Atlantic, ravage the Bahamas and reach the Eastern seaboard in a matter of hours."
He allowed the magnitude of the pronouncement a few moments to settle then delivered the coup de grace, "Well, we don't have time to wait for the natural course of things, ladies and gentlemen, so we intend to blow the whole damn thing sky high. And we're doing it soon."
Hope you have a nice week
Cheers
Arun
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The Independents - What price democracy?
The meeting organiser approached the rostrum, he paused and waited for the cheering to stop, and then he spoke, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this, the very first meeting of the Independent candidates. It’s wonderful to see so many of you here in one place. We’ve selected a few people to speak with you today from the hundreds of offers we had …for those of you disappointed this time, we have a list for our next meeting and gradually we hope to give everyone who wants to speak a platform.”
The applause rose again as he gestured to a slightly built, sandy-haired man standing to the side. “Now, please give a rousing welcome to the man who started it all, our inspirational mentor and guide… Colin Carpenter.”
The delegates rose as one and cheered and clapped as the man moved confidently to the centre of the stage and took up position behind the rostrum. As he did so a single file of people walked on stage and sat in the row of chairs behind him.
“Thank you, Chris, for that introduction.” Colin said, beaming, the lights glinting off his glasses, “It’s been a long hard struggle but now we’re here, a visible force to be reckoned with, so…” There were more cheers from the hall. “WELCOME,” he shouted raising both arms, “today is the day we begin to change everything. Today we lay down the marker whereby we reclaim our country, reclaim our world, today is the day we start the new era of real rule of the people, by the people and for the people.”
There were more cheers and scatterings of delegates stood to applaud him; then more followed until the whole assembly was on its feet.
“No longer will we tolerate a corrupt, locked in party system; no longer will we tolerate their machinations, their duplicity, their constant deceptions, and their fake party divisions. We know they’re all the same, that they represent the same hidden wealthy few who own this country, we know they all rub shoulders with this clique of scoundrels and that they pander to their every whim. We will resist, we will stand against these corrupt servants of the rich and we will win.”
There were shouts of ‘win’ from the floor. Colin gestured that they should sit as he prepared to begin his speech proper. He waited a few moments until all were seated and the hall was quiet.
“I set out on this trail barely a year ago, not knowing where it would lead. Like many of you, I watched the Occupy movement in its struggle to take back control from those who hold us in thrall. I admit it, I watched rather than joined them; I supported them in spirit.” He paused, “I tried to make a stand by myself. I tried to keep my business going; I was trading on fumes. I cut costs and used inferior materials, I streamlined processes until there was no slack, I had to lay off staff who’d been with me for years and make the ones I kept work a 3 day week. We missed deadlines and our quality dropped – in the end I closed it down. Rather than be associated with what we were being forced to produce, rather than re-locate to China and do what my competitors had done – take advantage of slave labour in the East, rather than sacrifice my principles, I closed down the business I had started from scratch 10 years ago.”
He stopped talking, leaving a gap as if mourning a lost dream then he spoke again, quietly but with deep passion, “I was deeply unhappy and desperate to do something to make these rogues realise and stop what they were doing; it was something that seared into me until I could stand it no longer. I spent hours thinking about what I could do; without a revolution I couldn’t see anything changing. Then it hit me – I could ‘occupy’ the Political Space! I could stand on an ethical platform as an independent at the next general election.”
He looked slowly round the hall, making eye contact where he could. “I am a loyal Briton, my lineage reaches into all corners of these great islands of ours and I have always loved this country and all it has stood for. I love its people and our culture. I can no longer sit idly by whilst the greedy rich dismantle it, whilst they remove all investment from the UK and place that investment in areas of the world where they use slave labour, I will not tolerate it.”
There were shouts of support from the floor and again people were standing in their excitement.
“It is intolerable that the uncontrolled greed of the few should impact so heavily on the many. It is unacceptable that the political jackals should spin their concoction of lies to justify their plans to run down the state of Britain. It is deplorable that they should think themselves free to consign workers of the west to destitution whilst enslaving the workers of the 3rd world. It is unacceptable that they seek to return us to the same conditions as existed in the Middle Ages, a time when the rich elite was served by destitute serfs. They must think we don’t have a thought in our heads.” There was a rapturous round of applause. Colin grinned and added, “They must think we’re STUPID!”
The applause continued, accompanied now by excitable foot stamping.
“They clearly believe that the years of watching junk TV, of listening to their constant lies about the economy, about economics, the GDP, the unions, the balance of payments, the national debt, the so called ‘scrounging poor’, the so called ‘benefit cheats’, the communists, the NHS, the welfare state, state run education, Muslims, world terrorism, our lack of productivity and competitiveness, has shrivelled our brains and blinded us to the real truth, the reality behind all this.” He paused, took a breath then thundered out, “We, the masses, are being sold out by rich greedy psychopaths.”
More clapping from the floor.
“There is a precedent for all this but they hope we’re too stupid to see it, that we have no knowledge of history, that we’re so wrapped up in ‘reality’ TV that we miss what is happening, miss the correlation with the past.”
He poured some water from the jug on the table before him, allowing a few moments for his words to sink in, “The Roman Empire which for centuries was the dominant power, had legions that controlled vast territories of the known world, and then we’re told, all of a sudden, Rome collapses.”
He paused, then raised his voice slightly, “I say to you, Rome didn’t collapse, Rome did not fall – the wealthy and powerful families of Rome took advantage of prevailing winds and reorganised.”
He glanced out across the hall, checking the attention of the audience, “They recognised that maintaining legions to hold territories was costly, and they had a new weapon in their arsenal - religion. Caesar became the Pope, the leading families entered religion, the Roman Empire transitioned into the Roman Catholic Church collecting more revenues than a thousand legions could gather. That’s what happened to the Roman Empire, that’s what happened to Rome.”
He banged the table abruptly, startling a few people in the front rows, “But what happened to the ordinary people of Rome, to the plebeians, the out of work soldiers? They were reduced to penury as the Rome they knew disappeared from the map. As they starved, these legions that had made Rome great, the wealthy Romans, the patricians, the upper classes became richer than ever and the Pope found he was able to control the whole world with a few monks and threats of excommunication, of burning in hell for all eternity.”
He paused and took a quick sip of water, he knew that making the link was vital and these concepts were new to most of his audience.
“And that is what is happening to us…though it’s not belief in God that’s the new export, the new method of raising gold for the new aristocracy, the new export is a new religion altogether, and is called ‘consumerism’ or the ‘market’. The rich have exported our jobs to the 3rd world where wages are minimal, where land costs are minimal, where there are autocratic leaders and armies willing to crush the workers who ask for more, where there are billions of potential economic slaves to serve them and gain them even greater wealth.”
Someone in the crowd called out ‘Apple’ and a couple of others picked it up.
He nodded, “A good example, thank you” he said quietly, then raising his voice continued, “There’re one million people employed in sweat shop factories in China producing Apple products…think about it, one million jobs that could’ve been situated in the West but for the fact of having to pay minimum wage and provide decent working conditions.”
He stopped and stared out at the crowded hall, his eyes burning, “Wealth, that’s what this is all about, it’s what it’s always been about, the creation of wealth for the very few, for the greedy psychopaths who want to own everything and drive the masses into the gutters so that they can lord it over them; in order to feel rich they have to have the poor.”
Colin studied his audience, “So what of the British worker? What of the US worker? What is intended for us? In the recent past we had service industry jobs, easily accessed credit and the creation of massive debt, all this was done to ensure a smooth transition from production and purchase from the West to the East. It was no accident; it’s part of a plan and exactly what they intended and so far they have been successful. They have managed to transfer most of production from the West to the East and during that time the Western worker had artificial service industry jobs to ensure that there was still a market for products being made in the East. However, we have reached an end of the first phase - the credit bubble in the West has burst, the western worker is no longer able to provide the buying power required to maintain supply and demand so the wealthy few and their economic and political servants are looking to provide easier credit to the worker in the East, where there is a potential new market for debt.”
He waited a moment, and then continued, “… I’ll say that again because it is an important concept… not a new market for products but a new market for DEBT… where there are billions of potential buyers all wanting to borrow from the western elite, ready and willing to pay interest to the western elite. They are doing today what the wealthy Roman families did to Rome all those centuries ago; they are abandoning the nation state and taking all of the money with them. They will oversee the breakup of the UK into small and dysfunctional territories unable to work in unison for the benefit of all. It is the same old story of divide and rule but we will not tolerate it!”
The hall erupted as the delegates all stood and cheered. “WE WILL NOT TOLERATE IT! We will change things, we have changed things already; never before has over 600 independent candidates applied to stand for Parliament, never before have the people stood as one and threatened to wrench control from the economic and political elites. This is OUR time and we’ll wrest power from their grasp and do it by peaceful democratic means.”
The noise was deafening and Colin waved them to stop, “But we do have some very big problems. We’re here, our supporters are here and our followers are here but as a movement we still only number in the tens of thousands and there’s a reason for that. Where is the media? Where are the reporters? Where is Sky news? Where are the BBC and ITV? Where are the red tops and the broadsheets? They’re not here and there’s a reason for that, they’re all owned by the rich elite and it’s not in their interests for us to be successful. They will impose the same suffocating news blackout they’ve used with the Occupy movement, and try and prevent us from reaching a mass audience, obstructing us in our attempts to spread the word, restricting our access to massed support and so thwarting us in our aims to gain power.”
He paused, “But we do have some friends, Russia Today [RT] is here, Al Jazeera is here so we will have an internet presence and those who follow these things will know what’s happening. We just have to encourage them all to tell someone, use Twitter and Facebook to spread the word and we must get out on the streets NOW to get our message across to the ordinary voter, to help them understand that as independents we can form a viable government and that we can solve this nation’s issues.”
His voice throbbed into the room “DO NOT UNDER ESTIMATE the size of the problem facing us. It would be easy to think that we will sweep all before us because we have right on our side but we are up against the evil of our times; Goebbels called it propaganda, they call it spin, it doesn’t matter what name it comes under it’s the same thing. They will attack us on all fronts; besmirch our names, belittle our efforts, deny our credibility, assail our good character, criticise our aims, pick holes in our structure.”
More cheers and applause; a few cries of ‘shame on them’. He acknowledged it all with a smile.
“They will say that we are a party the same as any other but we are not. We are as we must remain, INDEPENDENT of any lobby group, of any financial backing and of any political affiliation. We seek to govern by concord, to make constructive policy, to implement cohesive policy when in power, to lead this nation into a fairer and better world where all can benefit. We are independent of the powerful rich elites who will never be able to blackmail us or bind us with gifts. We are not a party with a programme designed to benefit one social group. We have one purpose, and one purpose only and that is to do what is right.”
Cheers met his words, and there was a palpable feeling of excitement emanating from the floor.
He got his notes together, notes he’d not needed to refer to throughout his speech, “A note of caution” his voice dropped slightly, “although we are here and here is a great place to be, although we’re making progress, and we think and feel we’re unstoppable, we have not yet achieved our aims. We have not yet forced these rogues from office, we have not driven these thieves from their dens of vice, we have not crushed the beast that lusts after power and wealth, and we have not won yet.”
He moved to the front of the stage, “To finish, I would like to read you something that Oliver Cromwell said when he instituted the dissolution of the Long Parliament (1653).”
He pulled out a sheet of paper from his notes and held it high, brandishing it for a moment, then began to read, the Old English sounding strange on his tongue, “It is high time for me to put an end to your sitting in this place, which you have dishonoured by your contempt of all virtue, and defiled by your practice of every vice; ye are a factious crew, and enemies to all good government; ye are a pack of mercenary wretches, and would like Esau sell your country for a mess of pottage, and like Judas betray your God for a few pieces of money.”
He took a breath, and then continued, “Is there a single virtue now remaining amongst you? Is there one vice you do not possess? Ye have no more religion than my horse; gold is your God; which of you have not barter'd your conscience for bribes? Is there a man amongst you that has the least care for the good of the Commonwealth?”
The audience was entranced, hanging on his every word, “Ye sordid prostitutes have you not defil'd this sacred place, and turn'd the Lord's temple into a den of thieves, by your immoral principles and wicked practices? Ye are grown intolerably odious to the whole nation; you were deputed here by the people to get grievances redress'd, are yourselves gone! So! Take away that shining bauble there, and lock up the doors.”
He waited a second, and then said, “In the name of God, go!”
The audience was on its feet now, some had moved into the aisles and were moving forward to the front, the better to acclaim their messiah.
“As Cromwell did then, so we must do now to the villains in our Parliament and in order to win we must pound the streets, speak in open forums, in markets, in town centres, in village halls, we must knock on doors and let people know that we exist and persuade them that we are a viable option worthy of their vote. But know also, there will be one hell of a machine waging war on us in the coming year, a machine of immeasurable wealth and influence and power and privilege and prejudice aiming all of its guns ON US. And we must WIN, we must win because if we fail then this country is lost and the world will sink into years of dictatorship, a thousand-year Reich. It won’t be the German Nazis ruling it; it will be the Anglo Saxon Nazis ruling it here and in America.”
Colin stepped back and raised his hands. Instantly everyone in the auditorium stood and cheered and clapped and chanted his name. He turned without another word and made his way to his seat, passing the meeting organiser who approached the rostrum to introduce the next speaker, Catherine Jenkins.
Cheers for reading
Hope you have a nice week
Arun
Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE
P.A.C.T
The group round the pool looked like nothing more than elderly, retired British ex-pats.
They were obviously not new to the Spanish sun, most sheltering from it rather than offering themselves up like raw sacrifice, skin coloured varying shades of leathery brown rather than the touristy salmon-red.
As well as this relaxed attitude, the group had three other things in common; they were all late of Eden Hall Village, a privately funded retirement home where the well-heeled elderly lived out their days; they were all part of a vigilante group known as Pensioners Against Corruption and Tyranny; and they were all fugitives, on the run from their recent, murderous and very successful attack on the Houses of Parliament.
One of the women, with no nonsense short cut silver-hair and demurely clad in a navy-spotted shirtwaister, was sitting under a parasol and reading a book.
She was ex-MI6, had introduced the group to her ex-boss and from there the revolutionary plot had taken shape. It was she who had stage-managed their precipitous flight from the UK when it looked like prison was their more likely fate.
Nearby, two old men were seated at a table, desultorily playing chess, one with a knotted handkerchief on his head. These were the principals of the plot, one the instigator, the other the adherent who would follow his friend to the ends of the earth, if needs be.
Childhood friends, both ex-army, billeted together and best men at each other's weddings and latterly, next door neighbours in the Village.
A third man watched the game, another ex-soldier, three long-ago tours of Northern Ireland under his belt, badly wanting to play but not allowed to disrupt the unequal contest.
Another woman, semi-recumbent on a recliner, blue permed hair, resplendent in a bright red sundress, was indulging her favourite pastime; stoking her vast bulk with ice-cream, whilst flicking through a magazine. This languor was deceptive; in the recent attack she had displayed a surprising level of enthusiasm with a machine gun.
Within touching distance of her recliner were an equally elderly couple on sun-loungers, who were simply enjoying the late afternoon sun. Both semi-pacifists, their role in the attack had been to 'tar and feather' any hapless politician who stumbled into them in their haste to escape the carnage being wrought by the pair's more blood-thirsty comrades.
In the pool two more women were floating on air beds whilst a man was doing some slow but fairly accomplished lengths, navigating carefully round them. All three had been actively engaged in the attack.
"Whose move is it, Alb?" said one of the players, resting his hands on his ample belly.
"Yours," said the other, shaking his head, the knotted handerkerchief shifting slightly askew.
One day Gerry would get the hang of the game and give him a run for his money. In truth, given he'd picked up no tips from the hundreds of games they'd played over the years, Alb knew this was a forlorn hope.
"Mmm, can you do my back, Ken?" said the woman on the sun-lounger, wiggling her toes.
Ken struggled up from his lounger, unlocking arthritic knees, lotion in knobbly hand. The twinkle in his eye as he contemplated the thought of stroking Val's flesh was the youngest thing about him.
Alb growled under his breath, he'd always had a proprietary interest in Val, a throwback to the days when he had a sex drive. He said forcefully, "We can't just lay about here forever, you know, we have a country to fight for."
Val flicked him a sideways glance, "I don't see why not, Alb, we've done our bit."
That this 'bit' was a euphemism for a multi-pronged attack on the State Opening of Parliament, using a lethal combination of model spitfires as bombers and assault weapons in the hands of her fellows which had resulted in the deaths of scores of MPs, the destruction of large parts of the Palace of Westminster and the disappearance of Prince Charles was something she and Ken preferred to gloss over.
"I agree," said Ken, possessively patting Val's leg.
"It's not a question of just doing your bit," snarled Alb, "the war hasn't been won."
Val was furious, "What war? It's in your head."
Ken's hopes rose, this was quite vitriolic, even for Val and she'd directed it at Alb. Things were looking up.
"We tried, Alb, what did we achieve?" she continued, her voice querulous, "We lost so many friends and look at us, hiding out in Spain. What did we achieve?"
"We have to go back and continue the fight," Alb reiterated stubbornly.
The reader looked up from her book, "Only if we can get in without detection, Alb."
"Come off it, Mags," said Gerry, suddenly making his move, taking what he thought was advantage of Alb's apparent mistake with the black knight. "They'll have stopped rounding up people by now."
The watcher, Lenny Freeman, shook his head and Gerry glared at him. No point in him trying to help; Alb beat him every time no matter what he did, like now when he'd let him be White.
Mags responded tartly, "If they've stopped it'll be because they got them all."
The woman in the red sundress abandoned her ice-cream for the moment it took to ask the question that was always on her mind, "D'you think they got Esmé?"
This was in reference to Esmé Fotheringey; ex Greenham Common activist, left behind in the rubble of Westminster in their headlong rush to evade capture.
Mags replied before Alb could say anything, "Esmé, yes, her and Vera both, and Nobby and Dave and all the rest of them. If not dead they'll be incarcerated, god alone knows where."
Val flicked away Ken's ministrations, rolled over and sat up, "And the minute we turn up at passport control they'll arrest us as well."
"I told you all from the start, I'm not staying here," said Alb. Chess game forgotten he was on the case; wanting to get back to England and continue the fight.
Gerry looked pained, hating to go against his old friend, "They've got a point you know, Alb. There's no way we'll get back into the country. Lenny, you tell him."
"Even if we managed to get clear of the airport," said Lenny, "we'd be pulled up the minute we stepped into the street. We're in the age group; we'd stand out like sore thumbs."
The man in the pool swam over to the steps and carefully climbed out then, grabbing a robe from where he'd flung it earlier, he walked slowly over to the group, less limber now he was on dry ground. Nonetheless, one of the women on the air beds watched his progress with warm admiration.
"It's no good, Alb," said Val, "You know as well as I do, we gave it our best shot and it didn't work."
"What d'you think, Pete?" Gerry addressed the man in the robe, "You left friends behind..."
Pete shrugged, pushing aside thoughts of Sticky Bennett and Ron Holehouse, and the rest of Wilf's crew and their crazy Viagra night before the Big Show. Bill was dead, he'd died in front of them but at least he'd died for something.
He looked over at the pool, said, "Fiona and I like it here," and was rewarded with one of her secret smiles.
Alb's face was turning an unhealthy puce that owed nothing to the Spanish sun, "For all we know the country is in uproar, it's not every day Parliament gets blown to pieces."
Lenny shook his head, "They'd put a blanket over TV coverage, have answers for everything. The younger generation are brainwashed and don't care what happens to their country."
"That's right," Dora added, "consumerism is all they know."
"Well, I'm going back," stated Alb, standing up abruptly, dislodging the chess pieces, pulling the handkerchief off his head and tossing it on the floor, "even if they kill me."
Ken hid a smile. The idea brought him some comfort; Alb was standing in the way of him and Val tying the knot. God knows he'd asked her often enough in the months after their arrival. They weren't getting any younger either, he thought savagely.
Two men strolled over towards the group, coming from the hotel, each carrying a tray.
They made an incongruous pair; one white, medium height, middle-aged, nondescript. The other tall, elegant, much younger, Arabic looking. Despite their obvious differences, they looked comfortable together; chatting amicably as they walked.
Fiona nudged her floating companion awake then paddled to the side of the pool and Pete helped her climb out, wrapping her immediately in a towelling robe, protecting her modesty. She looked up at him, doe-eyed.
The other woman was left to struggle alone; trying to climb out whilst retaining a modicum of dignity.
Dora watched her efforts with spiteful glee; Cynthia Carlyle was her friend but they were chalk and cheese; Little and Large, as Gerry called them privately, and Dora was envious of her friend's ability to retain control of her weight as she aged.
Mags stood up as the two men reached the tables.
It never ceased to amaze her that Malik, a murderous Islamic mercenary for much of his adult life, though lately, for her sake, saviour of them all, had taken such a liking to the eccentric Norman Balderstone, aka the Preacher.
Alb sank down on his haunches, with much muttering. He retrieved the knotted handkerchief from the ground, remaining in the position for a few moments while he gathered himself.
He had been forced to leave his medication behind, so precipitous was their flight from the UK; pills he had been on for years, many taken to counter-act the side-effects of another. For the most part he didn't miss them, but the pain-killers he could do with sometimes.
He used the chair to pull himself up, finally re-placing the handkerchief carefully, to shade his head.
"We didn't know what to get," said Norman, the Preacher, "so we got some of everything. None of them a patch on your Angel Cake, Mags."
Mags twinkled warmly at this reference to the first time they'd met and the refreshments she had served.
Val sniffed audibly.
Too hot to argue, Mags changed the subject, "Alb wants to go back home, what do you think, Malik?"
Malik sipped his coffee, "Why not?"
"See," said Alb, nodding at the young Arab, "he gets it."
"An old man needs to go home to die."
"Steady on, Malik," said Gerry, the strong words denying his 84 plus years.
"You need to prepare," the young man continued smoothly, "it is certain, they will find you."
"Even here?" asked Ken, a nervous tremor in his voice.
Malik observed him with quiet dislike; of all the people he had brought to this place, this man, Ken Grewcock, he despised. "What makes you think you are safer here than elsewhere?"
"It's Spain," said Val, with a girlish giggle, "I've always liked Spain."
"What has that to do with anything?" said Malik, coldly, adding her name, Valerie Compton, wearer of too much make-up and too little clothing, to his list of the undeserving.
Mags intervened before it got nasty, "Wherever we hide they will find us, so we need to move about. We all knew that from the start. Malik has done well to let us stay here for as long as we have."
"If you go back you will stand out, they'll be on the lookout for elderly people." Norman spoke with gentle kindness; this group did not see themselves as elderly with all the negative connotations that entailed.
"We can blend," said Gerry, "we could go back looking super-rich, that worked before."
The others all pondered the prospect as they looked at each other. Gerry jutted out his chin and nodded his contentment, hands resting on his stomach.
Helpline
Dom was older than most of his colleagues; telephone 'helpline' was a young man's game, but at 45 he was glad of the employment. He had bills, responsibility, he was a 'stayer' and had seen, with some envy, many of his younger colleagues leave on a whim. One young man had gone in the company of the police, arrested for using the information obtained from customers wanting to use their card abroad to undertake burglaries of their conveniently empty homes. Dom had liked Russ and had been sorry to see him go.
He switched his phone to receive and began his day, "Hello Mrs Dingle, you're speaking to Dom, I see you wish to transfer some money from your savings account."
"Oh yes love," said the woman, an old lady's voice to match the D.O.B on the screen in front of him, "Can you tell me what I've got in there first?"
"Certainly, Mrs. Dingle," said Dom, dying a little inside, "er, you've got £1.18." He wondered briefly how she'd managed to evade capture and incarceration in the fallout from the OAPs' attack on Parliament. He decided it wasn't his business.
"Oh dear, not much is it," she said, clearly embarrassed, "still, it's more than I've got in my current account, can you transfer it for me, please?"
"Certainly, Mrs. Dingle," said Dom, trying not to sound too hearty, "there you go, all done, is there anything else I can help you with today?"
"No, that's all dear, you've been very helpful."
"You have a nice day now, Mrs. Dingle."
Dom wanted to rip off his head-phones and scream, do something, anything to get the old lady's predicament out of his head but he had another call and his response times were monitored. To make matters worse his next call had an indicator code number 1; high priority, meaning the caller had been pushed to the top of the queue because they were a big investor. He couldn't afford a momentary lapse on this one. He swallowed hard and got to it.
"Hello, Mr Howard, how may I help you?"
"You charged me for going over my overdraft." A voice used to commanding attention.
"Okay Mr Howard," said Dom, un-gritting his teeth with difficulty, "let me take a look at that for you."
"I don't want you to take a look at it, I want you to refund me. Furthermore, I demand compensation for the time I have wasted on this call."
"Okay," said Dom, speaking slowly, "well first of all, Mr Howard, we need to go through security...."
"No, we bloody well don't, you just need to sort this out for me, now."
"I'm afraid I can't do that. Before I can access the account I need to ask some security questions." Dom was annoyed to discover that he was almost afraid, he could feel a complaint coming on no matter what he did.
"That's absurd. Why do you need to do that?"
"I do appreciate how you feel but without it I can't get into your account, Mr Howard."
"Bloody stupid, if you ask me, this will cost you more, believe me."
"Of course, Mr Howard," said Dom, finger twitching over the release button, if only he could.
Twenty-five seconds later, having passed smoothly through the security questions Dom was looking at Mr Howard's statement. He had to admit to being awed by the amount in the current balance and that was with all the outgoings on the account over recent days.
His heart sank when he saw the point at which the account had gone into overdraft and calculated the gap between that and the account returning to black.
"Well? I haven't got all day you know."
"Okay Mr Howard," said Dom, waiting for the outburst to come, "it looks like you went over your overdraft for twenty days...."
"And your point is? That's what an overdraft is for, surely?"
"Well, there is usually a charge of....."
"I don't care about what there usually is, do you have any idea how much money I have with your bank?"
"Well not exactly Mr Howard," said Dom, scanning the savings accounts and arriving at an estimated 600k, "but I'm sure....."
"Refund me now and compensate me for this call or I'm moving everything to another bank."
'Yeah, sure you are,' thought Dom, 'with all the accompanying inconvenience, well let's just play with you for a bit shall we?'
He clicked on the memos, "Bear with me, I just need to check back through the notes on your account, Mr Howard."
"All you need to do is refund me. NOW! And if you can't make that decision then I suggest you get someone on the phone who can."
"I am able to authorise all that, Mr Howard... provided we haven't refunded you anything in the past."
"Well, I can tell you the answer to that, you haven't refunded me, so get on with it."
To Dom's deep joy the memos clearly stated that the man had been refunded and compensated on several previous occasions. He tried to keep his pleasure out of his voice, "I'm going to have to pop you on hold, Mr Howard."
"Why? How long for?"
"I just need to refer this to my manager," said Dom.
"Bloody hurry up, you moron," a snarl of displeasure.
Dom popped him on hold, sipped his coffee, flicked through a few articles on RT and then wandered over to his manager.
"Got a high investor demanding charges back and compensation," he murmured, hoping to catch his manager with his balls strapped on. He added quickly, anticipating the inevitable question, "He's been refunded several times in the past 12 months."
"How high an investor?"
Dom's spirits sank, "600k."
"Do it, raise it as a complaint as well and make sure he's properly compensated. How long's he been on the phone?"
"About 5 minutes."
"Give him 20 quid for the cost of the call and 75 quid for the distress and inconvenience."
Dom knew it was pointless but said it just the same, "He's not been inconvenienced, and the call couldn't have cost more than...."
"High investor, Dom, just keep him happy."
"Sure thing," said Dom, bitterly, "keep the rich happy and screw the poor."
"Oi, what have I told you about that, just watch your attitude on the floor, Dom, I mean it."
The Messenger
"Andy," said the PM, stepping forward, both hands outstretched. He grasped the one hand being offered with both of his own, and directed the man to his seat.
"Mark, good of you to see me at such short notice." Urbane, suave, some might say oily, the man oozed self-confidence and charm.
Both knew that in truth the PM had no choice in the matter. Although Andy Blaise was an ex-PM he had gained world status and power since losing office and had an automatic in with groups Mark Cholmondeley could only dream of joining.
"Always willing to see you, Andy, you know that," said the PM, maintaining the charade.
The PM's secretary knocked and entered carrying a tray.
"Tea?" said the PM.
"Oh yes, of course."
"Biscuit?"
"No thanks," said Andy, patting his stomach, "strict orders from the wife, you know."
The PM seated himself opposite and asked the obvious question, "What can I do for you?"
"The committee has approached me."
"The committee?" Mark said this whilst biting into a custard cream.
"Yes, Mark, the Committee." He emphasised the 'THE' whilst staring hard at the PM. The word 'Committee' suddenly assumed a capital letter.
Cholmondeley froze for a brief second. He hoped his lapse would not be noted but Blaise's smug expression told him otherwise.
"And what...what did they want?"
"Firstly, I was to assure you that they didn't blame you for the La Palma debâcle."
Cholmondeley resisted the temptation to swallow his biscuit, conscious it might appear like a gulp of fear.
Blaise continued, "In fact, I was to assure you that they feel President Stone's administration should bear sole responsibility."
He sipped his tea, creating a pause during which the PM's throat seized up. "However they did want me to emphasise that they would take a closer hand in all future ops."
Cholmondeley sat back, swallowed hard and almost choked. "What does that mean?"
"I have no idea." Andy's smile didn't reach his eyes, nor did it warm his next words, "You'll understand that I didn't care to ask."
"Of course, of course, sensible option."
The two men sat in silence for a few moments, both contemplating the wisdom of questioning the Committee.
The PM broke first, saying, "Did they say anything else?"
"Nothing on those lines. But they did mention that the planned financial crisis should come sometime this year."
Cholmondeley leant forwards, "What else did they say? What's our role in this?"
"Just to overspend I think," said Andy, completely at ease, "like everyone else, as soon as the first bond markets and currencies collapse then things will start to happen."
"But what do we do?" pressed Cholmondeley, "Do they have instructions for us?"
Andy frowned. He'd expected a measure of calm; this sounded quite strained. He said coldly, "Just maintain control until they send in the white knights."
"But surely we need more information? And who are the white knights?"
"Mark," said Andy, "firstly, this is just you and me, it goes no further than us and secondly, rescue will come from the IMF, backed by the World Bank."
Cholmondeley stared.
Normally he would've liked being the only one in the know, but this was too big for him, he had no idea how he was expected to react, "But what about...."
Andy leaned forwards, "Mark, it was decided that you need to know. However it is imperative you tell no-one. You may not make contingencies, that is essential. The Committee is adamant that this must appear to be a natural collapse. As such Government reactions must appear natural."
"Is there to be a trigger? An obvious event?"
"Not that I'm aware of," said Andy, "just the markets."
"But... shouldn't I know more?"
Andy frowned then said, in a voice designed to deter further questions, "It has been contracted out."
"Who could do this? Who is big enough to bring down the global economy?"
Andy stared. Does this man never stop?
He ignored the question, saying, "Are we clear on this, Mark? I must be sure you fully understand. You need to remember that not everyone is as committed to the concept of a One World Currency and Government as we are."
"Yes, "said Cholmondeley, "yes of course, the Nationalists."
Hope you have a nice week
Cheers
Arun
16 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis
The next meeting was being held at Donald’s. Terry had wanted to be there early but Donald had said he’d need time to prepare the rest of the committee. Reluctantly Terry’d agreed to arrive a little after the meeting started, about 8:15. The group was in place, desultory conversations underway before the meeting proper was called to order. Tom had arrived promptly, happy to have the meeting away from his home, and now stood in conversation with Jimmy who’d been filling the rest of them in on his brief spell in incarceration, some nonsense about birds falling and the Bible. Donald was still working out how to broach the subject of Terry when the doorbell rang, causing immediate consternation and a couple of those present got up to leave.“It’s alright,” said Donald, “that’ll be Terry.”
“How’s that alright?” asked Tom.
“We’ve vetted him,” said Donald.
“Without the committee?” questioned Eric.
Sandra and Terry entered the room. Donald got up and whispered something in Sandra’s ear; she nodded and took Terry through to the kitchen.
“Yes, Eric” said Donald, “there were exceptional circumstances.”
“There must’ve been,” said Tom.
“Like what?” demanded Dave, a short man, pugnacious and handy-looking.
“Dad has it sorted,” said Don, stepping in to cover his father, “we’ll explain when Terry comes in.”
“I’m not sure I want to do this,” said Tom.
“I don’t see why we need anybody else,” said Eric, remaining seated but perched on the edge of the chair, a long-legged creature preparing for flight, “I mean, there are a lot of us already and the risks of discovery are only growing.”
“Come on Eric, Terry can help us,” said Don, now firmly convinced, he was displaying all the vigour in Terry’s defence of an ex-smoker denouncing the evil weed.
“He can fight,” said Jimmy, “I vouch for that and that comes in useful when you’re out there.”
“Maybe,” said Eric, “but what does that have to do with us? Why does he have to see us?”
“Because we’re all in this together,” said Donald, “besides I’m hoping he can teach us all to fight a bit.”
“What the hell for?” demanded Tom, “I’m not fighting anyone.”
“And what if we’re discovered ever? What do you think they’re going to do with us? Pat us on the head? Tell us we’ve been naughty?” Donald was almost biblical in his sudden fury. “You know what happened to Mike …they’re either going to murder us in our homes or in their cells or they’re going to throw us in prison, you know what kind of people exist in prison?”
“Nobody said any of this before,” said Tom, “I’ve never wanted any trouble, you know that, Donald.”
“D’you want to run the daily risk of being beaten to death? Of being murdered in your cell for the want of being able to handle yourself? Do you want to be gang raped in the showers?”
“No but,” struggled Tom.
“Oh, come on, Tom,” said Dave, “we’ve always known there’s risks to all this, that’s why you were so keen to get out the door just now.”
“But I don’t think we should antagonize them.”
“Look,” said Donald, striving for calm, “it’s a fact, we’re all breaking their laws by doing what we’re doing, we’re breaking them right now by have this meeting. If they ever catch onto us or decide to stamp down on the sink then we’ll have no choice but to try and defend ourselves.”
“Yer, right on,” said Jimmy.
“You know what I think,” Tom was insistent, “I think if they come we could always just comply, let them do what they want and then maybe they’ll let us go.”
“Why?” murmured Eric, still teetering on the edge of his seat, “why would they let anyone go?”
“It makes sense,” said Tom, “they can’t lock everyone up and they certainly can’t kill everyone.”
“Can’t they?” questioned Donald, “it’s been done before, we all know that.”
“It wasn’t like that,” said Tom.
“Wasn’t it?” demanded Dave, pushing close to Tom “what planet have you been living on? Don’t tell me you’ve managed to put all that stuff out of your mind? Hidden it away somewhere?”
“No of course not,” said Tom, “but that was so long ago now, they’d never do it again, besides there was always the element of doubt.”
“Doubt?” snapped Don, “What the fuck do you mean doubt?”
“Well I didn’t mean anything by it,” said Tom defensively, “just that the government always said that they were terrorists and revolutionaries…”
“Oh, so you believed they were all enemies of the state, did you Tom?” demanded Dave, “since when? As I remember it, you were there with the rest of us on the picket lines demanding fair rights and decent incomes for all.”
“I know,” said Tom, “Look, stop … you’re getting me all mixed up.”
“Are you sure it isn’t you we should be worried about?” asked Dave, “I mean you’re the weak link here.”
“That’s enough, Dave,” said Donald. “Leave him alone.” Dave looked like he had more to say but shrugged instead and sat down. “Come on Tom, sit down and we can explain.” Tom fidgeted from foot to foot and then returned to his seat. “Alright, all of you listen … Terry was sent here on penal, for various reasons he got behind with his loans and rent and as we all know they don’t like it when you can’t pay.”
“So what you sayin’ now, he’s a debtor?” asked Eric, he rose up from his perch and looked towards the door, “’cause we all know, if they’ve got something on you like that, they use it.”
“Yeah,” said Lawrence, speaking for the first time, “he could be a plant or a snitch.”
“We‘re aware of the possibility,” said Don, “but Dad has thought this one through.”
“Oh?” questioned Eric; “Donald has done all of this, has he?”
“Come off it Eric,” said Dave “Donald’s got us where we are today.”
Eric breathed deeply, “Well go on, you might as well finish, we’re here, he’s here, let’s just hope he didn’t bring the police with him.”
“Do you think he could’ve done that?” asked Tom.
“No, you idiot,” said Dave, “he’s messing with you.”
“Are you Eric?” asked Tom, “Are you …”
“Well, Donald? Am I?” said Eric.
“Look I’ll level with you,” said Donald, “it’ll probably get out anyway … these things always do.”
“What will?” asked Lawrence.
“Terry used to work for Relocations.”
The room fell silent as they considered the implications.
“And we’re sat here, having this discussion?” asked Eric eventually.
“We should be in there,” Dave pointed to the kitchen, “beating the crap out of that bastard.”
“By all means be my guest,” offered Jimmy, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“He’s one of them, Donald,” pressed Eric, “he’s the enemy.”
“We should just leave now,” said Tom.
“No, he’s not,” said Donald forcefully, “he’s just like us.”
“How can he be?” demanded Dave, “he worked in Relocations, he could still work for them.”
“If he does then he must be some kinda masochist,” said Jimmy, “’cause they really beat the crap out of him, I’m not kidding.”
“Well, if they could do that then what use is he to us, I mean if he’s not that good a fighter he can’t….” began Lawrence.
“Oh, he can fight alright,” said Jimmy, “Don’t misunderstand, they had him trapped in a cell and they swamped him, not much anyone could do.”
“Okay,” said Lawrence, “but Donald, really? Relocations? And you think we can trust him?”
“Yes I do,” said Donald “and I think you should all talk with him, hear what he has to say, how he says it. Then I think you’ll understand my confidence in him.”
There was a moment of silence whilst each man thought a bit and scanned the reactions of his colleagues.
“Well, okay,” said Eric finally, “we’re here and so…well, I guess we should hear him out.”
“Okay then, I agree,” Dave nodded, illustrating the point, “you’ve never lead us wrong before Donald, so yeah, let’s have him in here.”
“I still don’t know,” said Tom.
“Well, if Don and Jimmy both go for it,” said Lawrence “I guess it might be okay.”
“We’re already in,” said Don, speaking for Jimmy who nodded vigorously.
“Tom?” asked Donald, “you know we need your ‘yes’ vote.”
“Oh, come on, for Christ sake,” said Dave, “strap on a pair won’t you.”
“Don’t you…” snapped Tom, pointing his finger at Dave, “you’re always riding me; I just don’t like the sound of it, that’s all. He’s already admitted to working for them in Relocations… I mean, Relocations,” his voice rose on the word, “so he must be one of them.”
“Look,” said Donald, “all I’m asking is that you listen to the boy and give him a chance.”
Tom looked down and clenched his trembling hands, “I don’t like it, Donald,” he said, “I really don’t.” He looked round for support and finding none, nodded once.
Consensus achieved, Donald quickly left the room and came back in with his daughter and Terry; hand in hand. Releasing Sandra gently Terry took up position into the middle of the room, casually maintaining a visual all round. He appeared relaxed and only mildly interested; a condition only Jimmy knew not to trust.
“Okay,” said Donald, “if you have anything you want to ask Terry, now’s the time.”
“Are you a spy for Relocations?” asked Dave, his head pushed forward, a belligerent terrier.
“Dad!” said Sandra.
“Oh come on, Dave,” said Eric, “that’s not how you do it.”
“Yeah, that’s right Dave,” said Tom, “you ask him.”
“Guys,” said Donald, “let’s just keep it civil shall we, okay.”
“It’s okay, Donald,” said Terry, “I was expecting this, look for what it’s worth I was never one of them and I was never a part of the system.”
“But you worked for them in Relocations,” said Eric, putting the same question but more gently.
“Yeah,” said Terry, “but remember, I was born into that stuff, I didn’t know the ins and outs of it all. It was just what was expected of me.”
“And that makes it alright does it?” asked Dave, “The fact that you didn’t know you were a Nazi bastard.”
“Dad,” said Sandra.
“Come on guys,” said Donald.
“And what do they expect of you now?” asked Lawrence.
“I think they expect me to rot,” answered Terry, “and to work for nothing until the day I die.”
“But you could understand us not trusting you,” said Lawrence, “I mean you were one of them.”
“As far as I knew, as far as any of us knew we were the good guys, it was the people we were relocating who were the villains, the thieves, the slobs, the benefit cheats, the lazy lay-a-bouts, the rebels, the revolutionaries, the trouble makers.”
“Okay,” said Don, “we get the picture.” He was affronted; Terry was not making defending him an easy task.
“Yeah, well,” said Terry, “it was all we knew, so it was only natural that we did everything that was expected of us. I mean my ex-colleagues are still in there doing it and they won’t know what’s wrong with that. As far as they’re concerned they are on the side of right.”
“But that doesn’t justify it,” said Dave, “it doesn’t justify anything.”
“I’m not saying it does,” said Terry.
“And it doesn’t excuse you,” added Eric.
“And I’m not looking for that either, I know now that what I did was wrong, that I was sending people to a ghetto. Not to put too fine a point on it - I know we were servants of a corrupt system, one designed to control and manipulate people. But that’s my burden and I expect to carry it.” He was doing his pompous bit but they didn’t seem to notice.
“Yeah,” said Tom, “but how do we know you aren’t still working for them?”
“Let me see…” Terry leaned his head to one side, pretending to consider the question. “I’ve lost my job, my home, I’m stuffed financially, I live in virtual squalor, I clean some of the most disgusting toilets you’ve ever seen, I’ve been abducted, beaten, starved, interrogated and generally fucked over, so exactly what kind of job description covers that?”
“It would fit comfortably with a plant,” said Eric.
Terry looked at him, “What can I say, if that’s what you think then I don’t know how to convince you otherwise.”
“I didn’t say it’s what I think,” said Eric, “I just said it’s what you’d expect of a plant.”
“Look,” said Donald, “let’s get this into perspective; we’re not a big crime syndicate or a major terrorist cell, we just smuggle stuff into the sink to help make people’s lives a bit better. They wouldn’t have to do these things to a plant, not for us, we’re low level on their books. They’d just have to have someone snooping around, someone who was inconspicuous and just fitted in, that doesn’t exactly cover Terry, does it?
“You’ve got a point,” said Dave, “he has stuck out a bit. And to be fair if they’re going to go to such lengths for a bit of smuggling, what would they have to do for real terrorists?”
“Probably beat them to death,” said Don smirking.
“And then piss on them,” added Jimmy.
“And burn the ashes.”
“Where’d the ashes come into it? And anyway, you can’t burn ashes, Don” said Eric.
“I know that, don’t I, it was just something to say.”
Donald lay back in his chair, listening to them bicker, ‘Sorted’.
“Alright, Donald,” said Eric, “I’m in.”
“Me too,” said Dave and Lawrence at the same time.
“Tom?” asked Donald.
Tom grimaced a bit, rubbed his hands then said, “I guess so, if everyone else thinks it’s ok, Donald, then I’m in too.”
“Good,” said Donald, “then let’s talk about the 23rd.”
Cheers for reading
Arun
More books in the 'Corpalism' series
Compendium editions
December 23, 2018
Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE
The HandlingGareth scanned the room, eyes settling on a dark-haired young man sitting on a stool at the bar. He'd put on a bit of weight since last he'd seen him, broadened across his shoulders but, no doubt about it, it was Louis. Gareth took a deep breath, lowered his shoulders and relaxed his face into amiability, effortlessly becoming younger, less than he was.
"Hey you, long time, no see," he said, smiling and lowering himself onto the adjacent stool.
Louis glanced up, a frown creasing his forehead. He wanted no company. His face cleared when he recognised the man, "Dave," he said, "hey, good to see you."
"Mutual, I'm sure," smiled Gareth, surprised to find he meant it, "it's been a while."
"So, where've you been?" Louis' mood, always mercurial, had changed completely.
"You know I'm not supposed to tell you that," said Gareth, finger to his nose.
"Of course," said Louis, disappointed.
"Iraq." This was said with a conspiratorial wink.
"I thought we were out of there."
"ISIS."
"Wow," said Louis, admiration widening his eyes, "pretty scary."
"They're just men like the rest of us."
"Yeah, of course," said Louis, "but I meant all the beheadings and stuff."
"Fear tactics, in a stand up fight they're just men."
"Yeah, yeah," said Louis, unable to let it go, "but if they catch you?"
"No-one would let themselves be taken alive, not now anyway."
"Right," said Louis, with a nod, "are we winning?"
"It'll never end. Too many sides, no clear objectives and too much money to be made." Louis' face was a question mark, causing Gareth to add, without thinking, "It's all about profit and the oil at the end of the day."
Louis tried to look like he knew what Dave was talking about and failed miserably.
"How've you been anyway, Louis?" asked Gareth, getting off dangerous ground quickly.
Louis sighed and sipped his pint, "Not good, my great grandfather died recently."
"Sorry to hear that," said Gareth, again a genuine sentiment, "pint of Fosters, please mate," he said, addressing the hovering barman, "what about you?" to Louis.
"No, thanks, I'm good," said Louis, covering the top of his glass, "I've gotta get home."
"Oh, come on, you're not going to make me drink alone, after all I don't get back much."
"No, sorry Dave," said Louis, "really can't stay long."
"Okay, no worries."
They sat and sipped their pints.
"Listen," said Louis, "I haven't told anyone this, no-one knows, only family, but my Gampy, he was a fucking Nazi."
Gareth tried to look suitably shocked and thought he pulled it off.
"Yeah, fucking SS," hissed Louis, too loudly, "death's head and all that."
It was clear that Louis had been at the bar for a while.
Gareth went for a neutral response, testing the water, "Compared to some of the things we've done in the name of democracy, I guess the Nazis were small fry."
"What?" said Louis. This was unexpected, support from an outsider, someone like Dave who knew things. This might be worth hearing.
"Some of the things we've done," said Gareth, leaning in, lowering his voice, "you wouldn't believe. I've seen grown men crack under the strain and I'm not talking no powder puffs."
Louis was hooked; excitement in his eyes.
"Real fucking hard bastards, Louis. If there's a hell, that's where I'm headed."
"No shit," said Louis, finishing his pint. He made no move to leave.
"You sure you won't have another one?" asked Gareth.
Louis pretended to think for a second, then, "Okay, but just a quick one."
∞
Louis fiddled with the key to his flat, by now seriously incapacitated, his voice thick, "You sure you won't come in?"
Gareth wanted him safely inside the flat, then he was off to write his report and get the Colonel off his back. "No, I'm good, kid," he said, "I've got to go, people to see, you know."
Louis nodded slowly, eyes owlish, "Okay, I'll see you again though, eh? And thanks for the....stuff," he said, patting his pocket.
"Oh, no worries, make sure you use them judiciously." He saw the blank look, "carefully," he amended.
∞
As he walked away Gareth texted the Colonel promising a report on his desk in the morning.
His instructions had been 'to employ all means necessary to get the subject to a place where he would happily act as a weapon' and 'to raise the Jewish question and the war'. He'd been supplied with a reading list and, there was no other way, he would have to work through it if he was to get Louis to the place the Colonel had described. He had no material of his own so the only option was back at the office, in the archives.
∞
He swiped his pass and walked in through the doors.
"Can I help you?" The question came from a bespectacled, wizened man, wrapped in a cardigan that had seen better days. He always pretended not to know any of the agents.
No point in arguing the toss, Gareth said, "I'm looking for anything you have on the build up to the Second World War."
"Downstairs, at the back," said the man, turning away, job done.
Five minutes later Gareth found himself down the darkest end of the filing system. He flicked the light switch and after a stuttering few moments, a couple of 40 watt bulbs flickered into life. To no noticeable effect. He switched on the torch on his phone.
Two hours and dozens of box files later he had several small folders laid out on the table. He'd ticked off most of what had been on the prescribed reading list and added a few more for luck.
The first folder, marked Lt Col T E Lawrence, he'd selected out of idle curiosity. He flicked through birth, early service records, time in Arabia fighting the Turks, his friendship with Moseley, the planned meeting with Hitler; that had been of particular interest. Why would a British war hero want to meet Hitler?
His interest was piqued when he read Lawrence had died in an accident on his motorbike; swerving to avoid two boys on bicycles on a road he knew well.
The subsequent rumours of a black car and MI5 murder squad, possibly acting on Churchill's orders intrigued him further as did the later suicide of one of the witnesses, a Private Catchpole.
He shrugged, he had work to do; reaffirming that plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose was not part of his brief, he knew nothing ever changed.
He opened the folder marked 'The Protocols of the Elders of Zion' circa 1905, Russian origin, author unknown, suspected to be a fake, designed to smear the Zionist community. There was a section on the many pogroms in the 'Pale' which he knew to be modern day Lithuania, Belarus, Poland, Moldova, Latvia, Ukraine and parts of Eastern Russia.
These took place in 1905, subsequent to Russia's defeat by Japan in the same year, although pogroms were a fairly regular occurrence in Russia at that time.
He flicked forwards through the folder, there were more details on the Jewish hierarchy, a section on Theodor Herzl and the founding of the Zionist Organisation by the Zionist Congress; the primary function of which was 'to gather funds from Jews around the world with the practical intention of influencing political, economic and cultural leaders to support the creation of a Jewish homeland'. He found this very interesting; apparently Herzl had initially been offered Uganda by the British Government as a possible home for the Jews but he had rejected it.
He opened a box file about WWI. He was instantly intrigued.
It stated in simple terms that the causes of WWI were diverse; French desire for revenge for the defeat of 1870 and the subsequent loss of Alsace-Lorraine; Serbian desire to assimilate all the Serbian peoples in the Austro-Hungarian Empire; Austro-Hungarian naivety and military weakness; Russian expansionist aims in the Balkans; German belligerence; a weakening British economy when measured against a growing German economy and, finally, a weak willed Liberal cabinet in Downing Street intimidated by Churchill 'in all his war paint'.
Gareth made a disgusted noise in his throat; Churchill was a favourite of his and it annoyed him when people took cheap shots at the dead. He sucked his teeth, conceding the point that Churchill was alive when this particular report had been written.
It struck him that all of these things taken singularly would've been enough to have caused a political and military crisis, let alone aggregated. However the report categorically stated that all European leaders had resolved many similar conflicts in the past without major cataclysm. It further stated that all parties were acutely aware of the disastrous consequences for them all should any disagreement be allowed to escalate to an all out shooting affair; in essence it had always been in their own best interests not to go to war.
He read on; 'but there is a now a new power on the world stage, as yet underestimated by the leaders of nations. This power exists outside of the normal boundaries that separates nations and keeps them divided. This new power crosses all borders yet works only for the one objective, the creation of a new Zionist state. For the Jews to gain a homeland anywhere in the world the existing population or power that controls the desired territory must either be bought or crushed. It is the belief of this agent, on evidence of supporting documents herein enclosed that certain Zionist leaders in the media, economic community and political spheres incorporated in the whole sphere of the European theatre have conspired to exacerbate relations between the powers with the objective intention of weakening them and ultimately bringing about the collapse of the Ottoman Empire in the region of Palestine. The Balfour declaration is the fruit of this ambition.'
He lifted out the rest of the files in the box, looking for the supporting documents, but found nothing.
He frowned and tossed the folder aside. He then fumbled through the other folders spread out on the table and settled on the one marked 'Magda and Haim'.
He opened it and was surprised to see a wedding photograph of Joseph and Magda Goebbels pinned to the left hand side of the top page. He peered at it, and recognised Hitler in the background. Pinned to the top right was a yellowing photograph of a young man in round spectacles, someone he didn't recognise. He unpinned it from the page; the name pencilled on the back was Haim Arlosoroff. He was interested to read that Magda's mother had been married twice, the second time to a Jewish businessman named Richard Friedlander. Magda had taken his name, and aged 17, become friends with a Jewish refugee by the name of Lisa Arlosoroff, sister of Haim, the young man in the photograph.
Gareth sat upright, this was interesting.
Apparently Magda had an affair with Arlosoroff, she knew he was an ardent Zionist and attended meetings with him. He went to Palestine, they lost touch, he met someone else. She married the industrialist Gunther Quandt. There was a footnote: Magda's son by this marriage went on to become one of the richest men in Germany after the war; family owned Daimler-Benz and BMW. Gareth checked the wedding photo, there was a young boy with them, presumably he was the boy in question.
Gareth shook his head and puffed out in disbelief.
He read on: Magda had an affaire with the nephew of the US President Herbert Hoover, divorced Quandt and married Goebbels.
"Bloody hell, she gets around," he spoke aloud into the room.
He sipped his tea; apparently Arlosoroff was the leader of the Labour Zionists and believed that Jewish settlement in Palestine could be achieved peacefully with the co-operation of the indigenous Arabs and with the support of the British. Here he fell into conflict with the new group called the Revisionists lead by one Vladimir Jabotinsky. The Revisionists believed even more forcefully that if the Jews were to get a homeland then they would have to take it by force and they did not believe in any form of conciliation with the Arab community. There was a further note to read Appendix iii 'The Iron Wall'.
He rubbed his eyes and breathed in deeply before continuing to read.
Apparently the Zionists no longer trusted the British who they believed had reneged on the spirit of the 'Balfour Declaration'. In 1933 Arlosoroff went to Germany. Through his connections there, possibly helped with an introduction by Magda, he managed to achieve the Ha'avara program whereby German Jews could transfer some of their wealth to Palestine, via the circuitous route of purchasing German agricultural equipment, thereby facilitating Jewish immigration and settlement into Palestine.
He was interested to read that Arlosoroff was subsequently murdered, possibly because of his beliefs; the three suspects were known Revisionists believed to be acting on the orders of Jabotinsky.
Gareth discounted the alternative, that the Nazis were involved. It didn't seem likely that having just agreed a process of ridding themselves profitably of their Jewish population they would kill the author of the plan.
He reattached the photograph before closing the file.
He ferreted amongst the other folders he'd pulled out; interested by one marked 'Churchill conflict of interest' and in brackets below [family's Jewish financial backers]. He rubbed his ear, he felt this would irritate him even though he'd read somewhere about the support that Churchill received from the Jewish community in the so called wilderness years.
He read on, he wasn't prepared for what he found. Randolph Churchill had been bailed out by
Rothschild for years so the family owed a debt of honour in that direction. Apparently Winston Churchill had been an alcoholic, a gambler and had been personally bailed out by Bernard Baruch and Sir Henry Straksoh, see footnote; Strakosh had been the main source of info re German re-armament for Churchill's campaign in Parliament.
He read on, there were unsubstantiated accusations of Churchill's homosexuality. Jesus, if any of this was ever publicly known, that would make him highly susceptible to blackmail. It can't be true. How did he ever attain such high office?
A little voice in his head answered the unspoken question: if he was owned by the wealthy then that might explain a thing or two, like why he pressed for war in the first place and why he kept on fighting after Dunkirk, why he squandered Britain's wealth and sacrificed the Empire for the sake of Zion.
He cast a cursory glance at two other folders he'd taken out.
The first covered the bombing of the King David hotel, 22nd July '46, organised by Menachem Begin, leader of the Zionist group Irgun, latterly Prime Minister of Israel, in which there had been 91 deaths; 28 of them British. The second covered the attack by the Israeli air force on the USS Liberty, 8th June '67; 34 Americans had been killed and 171 injured.
He tossed these back into the box as irrelevant to his current agenda and he had more than enough for his immediate needs.
Hope you have a nice week
Cheers
Rob
