Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 13

13 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

The Interrogation
“No! Please! I'll tell you whatever you want to know!" the man yelled.
"Really?" said Vimes.
"What's the orbital velocity of the moon?"
Terry Pratchett, Night Watch

The two brawny coppers dumped Terry in the chair; he took a moment to wonder if there was an endless supply of these beefy physical specimens or whether they were the same two who had been harassing him the whole time. He was still naked and by now extremely cold; shivering so much his teeth were chattering. In front of him was a table and chair to the sides of which stood two more bulky policemen. ‘Ah, there’re more of them’. After a few minutes yet another one entered the room and sat opposite Terry.

“Name?” someone asked. Terry didn’t know who asked or where the voice came from, same as he didn’t really know who hit him seconds after the question was asked.

“Name?” someone repeated the question.

“Fuck you!” shouted Terry, he knew it was stupid but the words were out before he had time to control himself.

“I thought he was ready,” said the seated policeman.
Silence in the room.

“Well, take him back,” said the seated policeman, “Try something else.”

∞

“Right Jimmy,” said the copper, “listen, you listening?”

“Yeah,” answered Jimmy. “I’m listening, but let’s get on with it”

“We’ve loosened him up, just want you to do him over a bit more, but we want him to be able to talk after, understand?”

“Does he need to be able to walk?” asked Jimmy.

“You’re a bit keen, aren’t you… but look, as long as he can still talk, we don’t care.”

“And our deal stands?” asked Jimmy, “I’ll be released afterwards.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said the cop, “we’ll let you go.”

Jimmy was alive with excitement as they bundled him into the small exercise yard and closed the door behind him. Things don’t get any better than this. Moments later Terry was shoved through a door at the other end of the yard. Jimmy’s joy when he saw him, naked, covered in blood from a head wound and strangely bent over, knew no bounds.

“Oh!” he exclaimed bouncing towards him “it must be my birthday. Or p’raps it’s Christmas, is it?”

“Shit,” muttered Terry, seeing immediately that Jimmy was in far better condition than himself whilst at the same moment recognising that away from his brothers he seemed smaller, ordinary. He quickly scanned about him for means of escape. The walls 10 feet high and topped with razor wire and the doors were both solid metal, “Shit,”

“Oh shit, yes my boy,” said Jimmy happily, “we’re going to have so much fun, you and I.”

Terry gritted his teeth, ‘Dig deep,’ he told himself.

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for what you did to us,” crowed Jimmy.

Terry started to circle, keeping his back to the wall.

“Where you going?” asked Jimmy, “please stay, we have so much to go over together,” launching a surprise boot at Terry’s groin. Terry pushed it away with his palm, the movement jarring his shoulder but throwing Jimmy slightly off balance.

‘Okay,’ thought Terry, ‘don’t waste energy, concentrate and time it right.’

Jimmy rushed forward, threw a left and a right and another boot but Terry patted them all away with the palm of his hand, still circling slowly.

“Oh you’re a smart arse, aren’t you;” said Jimmy, “well let’s see what you can do with this?”

He ducked low and launched at Terry’s waist, driving his right shoulder into Terry’s stomach and wrapping his arms around his thighs. The intention was clear; lift him up and throw him on his back but Terry was wise to the move, leant forward over him, wrapped his arms around his waist and flicked his legs backwards. His whole weight was suddenly on Jimmy’s back and Jimmy’s face hit the concrete with Terry crashing down on top of him. Terry quickly extricated himself and moved to the other end of the yard.

“Oh, you are a tricky bastard,” said Jimmy getting to his feet, stumbling a bit, wiping blood from his nose with the back of his hand “but you’re gonna run out of luck soon.”

‘Don’t I know it, and I don’t like being naked,’ thought Terry. In fact he was a mess, hunched over to his right protecting his bruised ribs whilst his left dropped low to guard his groin, ‘I am gonna get so fucked up …’.

Jimmy bounced over, his guard held high. He threw his left foot forward in a low kick, and this time aimed at Terry’s lead shin, his left leg. Terry pulled his leg back but kept it in the air and let Jimmy’s foot land; Jimmy was now over stretched, though only slightly. Terry kicked out with a low turning kick, connecting sharply with the side of Jimmy’s over stretched lead knee. Jimmy grimaced as his knee joint opened and closed, tearing a bit of soft tissue. Terry stepped slightly to his left, rose to his full height, his ribs tearing and popped a left into Jimmy’s right temple. Jimmy’s head began to spin and he was only vaguely aware of the fists now raining down on his face. Terry sprang back into the middle of the yard leaving Jimmy staggering from the force of the attack.

The copper peering through the peep hole into the yard moaned, “Fucking idiot, he’s useless.” The copper then signaled to his two colleagues further down the corridor, “He’s messed it up; it’ll have to be us again.”

Jimmy shook his head, raised his guard and began to advance on Terry, just as the door behind him opened and three coppers dashed into the yard. One of them smacked the back of Jimmy’s head with his night stick and he fell silently to the ground.

Another clubbed Terry who dropped to his knees then rolled into the foetus position; he didn’t shout because he thought help would come, he shouted because it was all he had left.

∞

Two hours later Terry was once again in the chair opposite the three coppers.

“Name?”

“Terry,” he muttered.

“Name?”

“Terry,” he said louder.

“Full name.” instructed someone.

“Terry Jones,” he said.

Someone then hit him on the back of the head, “Full name.”

“Terry Clive Jones,” he said, “but you already know that if you’ve scanned my chip.”

“Of course we do,” said the seated copper, “but we want you to tell us.”

“Why?”

“To show willing,” he said.

“Oh, well that’s okay then. Terry Clive Jones,” he said sarcastically. Someone else hit him on the other side of his head.

“What are you doing here?” asked the seated copper.
Terry shook his head.

Someone hit him again and instructed him to answer the question.

“I don’t understand the question,” he yelled, “I don’t know why I’m here, you arrested me.”

“In Boro,” said the cop behind the desk, “why are you here in Boro?”

“But you already know that,” said Terry.

Someone hit him again.

“Look,” snapped Terry, “I used to work for Relocations and I know that when someone is sent to the sinks their file is forwarded to the nearest station, so you already have my details.”
Someone hit him again.

“You know why I’m here!” he yelled.

He was hit again.

“Leave him,” instructed the seated cop, “yes we know what the paperwork says, but why are you here?”

“Because I got sacked,” snapped Terry.

Someone hit him again and told him to show more respect.

“Because I got sacked,” he murmured, flinching.

“Why are you here?”

“Because I was sacked,” Then he was surrounded and hit several times by several coppers. After a few minutes they backed off, leaving him dazed. Someone threw a bucket of cold water over him, so now he was confused, wet, cold, sore, hurting and seriously fucking annoyed.

“Why are you here?”

“Because I lost my job,” said Terry, “and had debts.”

This was met by silence.

“I lost my job and had too many debts so I’m here to work them off,” said Terry.

“We know this,” said the seated cop, “but why else are you here?”

“No other reason,” beseeched Terry, “I just got sacked, Jesus I don’t believe this, this is the fucking worst year of my life, what the fuck is going on?”

Once again he was surrounded and hit several times before the coppers returned to their stations.

“Okay,” said the seated cop, “if that’s why you’re here, why were you teaching those people martial arts?”

“What?”

“Why were you teaching martial arts!” shouted the copper to Terry’s left.

“I don’t know,” said Terry, “They asked me to.”

“Why were you teaching martial arts?” repeated the seated cop.

“Because they asked me too,” said Terry.

Again he was surrounded and beaten.

“Why were you teaching martial arts?” asked the seated cop.

“Look,” said Terry, his words dripping out with his blood, “I won’t do it again okay. I don’t know what you want me to say. They asked me to so I said yes.”

“Why were you teaching martial arts?”

Terry sighed and dipped his head, drawing back from the expected beating.

“Why were you teaching martial arts?”

“Why not?” asked Terry, “I mean why not? What’s wrong with doing that?”

“It’s forbidden,” said the seated cop, “to train civilians in fighting techniques that they will use to cause a disturbance,”

“Well okay then,” said Terry, “I won’t do it again. Okay?”

“But why were you teaching them?” asked the seated cop.

“I don’t know,” said Terry, “they asked me to, what should I of said? Should I of said no? Is that it? Because if that’s it, I won’t teach them, I won’t teach anyone.”

“Why were you teaching them martial arts?”

“Oh fuck off,” said Terry, and was instantly surrounded.

“That’s enough - take him to his cell,” instructed the seated cop.

∞

Superintendent Travers signed off the paperwork on Terry’s file, “Okay, Duggan, and we’re sure there’s nothing in it, no threat intended or anything?”

“I’m sure sir,” answered Inspector Duggan, “he’s just an idiot, new to the area and didn’t think what he was doing.”

“Okay, but I think it would be wise to keep tabs on this one,” said the Super.

“Agreed sir,” said Duggan, “no point taking chances.”

∞

Half an hour later Terry found himself dumped on the street outside the police station next to the unconscious form of Jimmy O’Connell.

“Well, well, well,” said Terry, prodding Jimmy in the side “look who we have here.”

Cheers for reading

Arun






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12 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

Incarcerated
None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Terry lay shivering on the bunk.

He was still naked. His ribs hurt like hell, his head was sore, though no longer bleeding; he felt sick and dizzy and had the mother of all headaches. To top it off he thought his nose was broken. ‘Would you credit it, over 30 competitions and god knows how many actual fights and I’ve never had my nose broken,’ thought Terry as he tried to sit upright, then he shouted, “Fucking pigs.”

At that moment, whether coincidence or not, though Terry didn’t believe in coincidences, the door of his cell swung open and 2 burly coppers burst in and proceeded to beat on him with rubber hoses. Terry adopted the foetal position, buried his face as much as he could in his arms and held onto the back of his neck. He also screamed a lot, Terry was nothing if not a screamer, and he’d never seen the value in pretending he wasn’t hurt.

After a few minutes of heavy industry they withdrew leaving him covered in fresh blood from his head wound and weal marks “Fucking scum!” he shouted after them; they ignored him, even worse he could hear them laughing and chatting. He pulled the thin and stiffly stained blanket across his body and lay there shivering.

In the next cell, possibly another coincidence, sat Jimmy O’Connell. He was interested in the events occurring in Terry’s cell only to the extent that it meant the coppers would leave him alone for a while. He had already had several beatings and felt in need of rest.

∞

News of the raid spread quickly round the estate, though it was well into the middle of the morning before anybody knew who it was that the police had dragged off and it wasn’t until around lunchtime that Sandra found out from someone at her work, by which time everyone else seemed to know.

She’d rushed home and been forced to wait whilst Don and her dad hurried off to find out what they could, which in the end turned out to be very little; just the sketchy details of the early morning raid. The police weren’t talking and because Terry was new nobody seemed to know any more about him than they did.

“We must be able to do something?” pleaded Sandra.

“Nothing we can do,” said Don, his lips tight.

“Dad?” pressed Sandra.

“Don’s right,” said Donald, “we can’t do anything.”

“Can’t we go down to the station?”

“No!” said Don.

“Don,” the word was an order in itself, “you’re only making things worse, just give us some space will you?”

Don muttered something unintelligible under his breath before leaving the room. “How about making a cuppa?” his father called to his retreating back.

“Dad?” pressed Sandra.

Donald cuddled her for a few minutes before speaking, “look Sand,” he said, “I know Don’s got a big mouth sometimes…” She mumbled something under her breath “I know he can be difficult, but this time I think he’s probably right, we can’t follow this one up.”

“Why not?” demanded Sandra, “why can’t we just go to the police station?”

“Because we don’t know why he’s been arrested, and showing too much interest could have unwelcome consequences for us all.”

“But he hasn’t done anything,” said Sandra.

“Well then, they’ll probably let him go in a day or so.”

“That won’t happen,” said Sandra, “they’ll keep him in there.” Her voice rose to a wail, “they might kill him, people die in police custody…”

“Sand, come on, you know that’s just people they want out of the way.”

“Well, what if they want Terry out of the way?”

“It won’t be like that,” her father protested, realising abruptly that it mattered to him, “they’ve probably pulled him in because he’s new, to scare him, make sure he doesn’t step out of line.”

“But what if that’s not the reason?”

“Come on, maybe someone marked his card for a beating somewhere along the line.” Her face crumpled. “…maybe just rough him up a bit?

“Dad,” she murmured her voice thick with unshed tears.

“I know,” said Donald, tears welled in her eyes and she buried her head in his chest.

“Tea anyone?” said Don, opening the door with his back to the room “I’ve been thinking …if you ask me, the cops have done us a favour there.”

“Oh shut up, you bastard,” screamed Sandra bursting past him and dashing up the stairs.

“What did I say?” asked Don, “what did I do?”

∞

The door of Terry’s cell burst open to reveal two coppers in the doorway holding a fire hose. They turned the water on and he was knocked back to the rear of the cell. “Fucking bastards!” he yelled. They sprayed him for about five minutes and left. Now he was really cold and his blanket was soaking wet.

In the next cell Jimmy O’Connell was laying on his bed, watching through the bars as two starlings and a black bird chased a magpie; they dived this way and that, twisting and turning and it suddenly struck him how complicated were their manoeuvres.
‘Jesus,’ he thought, ‘not only do they have to see all round ‘em but they’re in the air doing it…I’ve never really thought about that…how difficult that must be.’ He stared until they disappeared from view, ‘I can stop and turn or twist, sit, stand and stuff but how do they not fall out of the sky?’

He stood up and peered out, ‘what if they get it wrong…could they fall? I mean do birds get it wrong and fall? Just fall from the sky?’ He spoke aloud now, caught up in his cogitations “I mean I can fall over, that happens, I could trip or something…and cats….what about when cats get it wrong…when they try to jump on a window sill and misjudge it and fall on the floor.”

He felt exhilarated, like he was on the verge of discovering an important new fact. He fell back to silent musing, ‘I wonder if that happens with birds, and if that’s the case, can they recover in time, find the relevant thermal, that’s the word, thermals…yeah, they do fly straight into windows, now that I’ve seen, but falling? Do birds ever get it wrong and just fall from the sky?’

He sat back down on his bed, ‘but it is in the bible….isn’t it? Something about birds falling from the sky? And if it’s in the Bible…’’

“Fuck,” he growled, “this place is doing my head in - I hate being in here.”

“You and me both,” Terry muttered.

Cheers for reading

Arun





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11 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

Able Duck
A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.
Oscar Wilde


“Well?” asked Sandra, “how’d it go?”

He smiled at her, recognising but not quite understanding her anxiety, “it went alright.”

“Is that it? You were in there ages, what did he say?”

“He just asked me about my job and how I got here,” said Terry.

“And did you tell him?” asked Sandra. He nodded, and she went on “And what did he say?”

“Not much really,” said Terry.

“Come on,” said Sandra, “stop messing around, what did he say?”

“Well he didn’t really say much... Come to think of it, I did most of the talking.”

“Well, what did you say then?” asked Sandra.

“I told him about my work in Relocations, what went wrong and how I got dumped here,” said Terry, “that’s it really.”

“And how did he react?” asked Sandra, “What did he say?”

“Not a lot really,” said Terry, “he just listened and, well he just listened and said the occasional thing like, yeah or nodded his head.”

He and Sandra both fell silent; Terry going over in his head what exactly he’d said in the face of what had amounted to a mild interrogation and Sandra reflecting on what it might mean for the future of their relationship.

“Well you know him,” said Terry, breaking what was turning into an uncomfortable silence, “what does it mean?”

She shrugged “Guess he was just checking you out.” Terry nodded, making a face, “Before he introduces you to the group, did he mention when he would do that?”

“He said something about putting me forward and that the group would have to meet me first before they approved me but I don’t really even know if I want to join the group.”

“Oh but you must,” said Sandra. “it’s really important.”

“Why important?”

“Well important to me,” said Sandra.

∞

Donald and Don slipped out the back of Tom Dyer’s house, climbed the wall at the end of the garden, slipped through the allotments, finally coming to rest at the back of the disused railway cutting. They’d been careful not to damage any produce; Tom’d had complaints from his neighbours in the past about people using the allotments as a short cut and complaints had a way of coming to the wrong ears.

“Well?” whispered Don, the need for caution ingrained. “Sandra’s new boyfriend, what do you think?”

“Don’t know, son,” his dad mused, “he’s an odd one, that’s for sure.”

“We shouldn’t have let him in,” said Don.

“Too late for that.”

“I know,” said Don, “but Sandra should know better, she’s compromised the group.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad, son, I’m not sure he’s too bright. And I don’t think he’s pig.”

“How can you be sure?” demanded Don, “I mean he’s just turned up.”

“We all just turn up,” said Donald.

“Yeah,” said Don, “but we usually suss someone out before we invite them to the meetings.”

“Sandra must have thought he was OK.”

“Oh come on Dad,” said Don, “do you really believe that’s the same thing?”

“She obviously likes him,” said Donald, “but I agree we need to be cautious.” He narrowed his eyes in reflection, “I think I’ll stop by his place of work in a day or two.”

“How will you work that?”

“Leave it to me”.

∞

Sgt Dick Carter checked his watch, 03:30 hrs. He was waiting for Team 2 to confirm their position, then when the target was in place he would give the go ahead. Behind him in the back of the 4x4, or to give it its full name, Guardian Armoured, his 3 man team waited. This was always the difficult bit; the adrenalin coursing, nerves stretched…

“Who the fuck just farted? Fuckin’ ‘ell…you’re an animal, Pope.”

“You shouldn’t do that in here.”

“Push him out, Bates, he needs a fuckin’ shit, fuckin’ animal.”

“Shut up back there, Jones” snapped Dick, “keep it down, you’re on duty.”

“Open the hatch,” said Jones.

“Don’t you dare,” hissed Dick, “just fuckin’ live with it and Pope, don’t do it again, d’you hear?”

“Sarge,” said Pope.

“Shit,” said Jones, “I think I’m gonna die.”

“We should dump him off here and make him walk all the way back,” said Bates.

“Yeah,” agreed Jones, “good idea.”

Pope smiled beatifically.

∞

Terry poured a glass of water and went to bed. He was tired and somewhat troubled. He liked Sandra and her dad seemed ok, though her brother was a bit irritating. He wondered about her mum – no-one had mentioned her and he hadn’t liked to ask. None of that mattered too much, he could live with that; it was just Sandra who troubled him. It would make things difficult, but then, if you think about it, when are things ever easy?

∞

“I don’t get why you always do that,” said Jones. Pope ignored him, kissed his crucifix and tucked it inside his tunic.

“Leave it, Jonesey,” said Bates, “it’s his beliefs.”

“I know,” said Jones, “but it really winds me up, none of that shit helps anyone” Pope closed his eyes and started to mumble a prayer. “He’s off again, waste of fuckin’ time talkin to him.”

“Just because you don’t believe,” said Bates, “why give him a hard time?”

“I’m not,” said Jones, “but it’s just stupid to think all that religious stuff will help. It’s like wearing lucky underwear...”

“I always take my lucky hip flask,” said Bates.

“Oh ...Don’t tell me …it stopped a bullet or something.”

“No,” said Bates, lifting the flask to his lips, “but it’s got a nice drop of whiskey in it.”

“Well now, that I can understand,” said Jones, reaching across for a sip, “… makes perfect sense, but kissing a chunk of fuckin’ metal, that’s just stupid.”

“It’s a holy crucifix,” said Pope, “from the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican City itself and it was dipped in holy water before they sold it.”

“What!” exclaimed Jones, “you’re kidding me, dipped in holy water, that’s bollocks.”

“Ignore him,” said Bates, passing his flask to Pope, “you know what he’s like; he’ll be on about this for hours now.”

“I just can’t believe that in the 21st Century people still believe in a fairy tale,” said Jones, “in a book written by a bunch of Jews over 2,000 years ago, my god, they believed that the stars were holes in the sky that god looked down out of..”

“Leave it, Jonesey,” said Bates.

“It’s alright,” said Pope, “he’s a bigot and he’s in the minority.”

“Oh really?” said Jones.

“Really,” said Pope, “millions of people around the world believe in the Catholic Faith and the one true God.”

“Oh, so not evolution, then?”

“Too much is made of that,” said Pope, “in fact the whole argument is flawed.”

“Hey, you lot – break it up” the Sarge’s voice was a hissed shout and he threw a beaker at Jones to amplify the point. “We’ve got a job to do here.”

“Yeah, sorry, Sarge” Jones look abashed for a moment and then whispered “Flawed? How?”

“Oh come on,” said Pope, “think about it - could something as complex as the eye just evolve and evolve to work with the brain, how does that happen?”

“Evolution.”

“And don’t forget the hundreds of different types of eyes out there…how did…” said Pope.

“I think you’ll find that’s natural selection.”

“I listened to you,” Pope’s voice was thick with conviction, “now you give me a chance, right.”

“Yeah, come on, Jonesey,” said Bates, “give him a chance, but keep it down both of you.”

“Or are you worried that I’ll prove God exists?” said Pope.

“Of course not,” said Jones, “go on then, I’m listening.”

“Right,” said Pope, “just think, 200 years ago we didn’t have TV, cars, rockets or any of that”

“This just proves my point – man’s created things as would’ve been a ‘miracle’ in the past.”

“But,” said Pope, “if man can make these things now, can do wonders with genetics and stuff, then what he will be able to do in a 100 years from now?”

“Again, proves my point.”

“But supposing there was already a Supreme Being who could already do all these things and more,” said Pope.

“Oh what?” said Jones, “that’s just a bollocks argument.”

“No, it’s not,” said Pope, “a Supreme Being like God could create the universe, the galaxies and man.”

“That’s just using the advance of man to justify believing in superstitious mumbo jumbo.”

“No it’s not,” said Pope.

“Of course it is, and anyway, what about the Big Bang?”

“Oh,” said Pope, “you people are always on about the ‘Big Bang’, so what came before your big bang? How did this so-called big bang happen?”

“I don’t know, but the Big Bang happened and kicked everything out there and life….”

“Oh yeah,” said Pope, sensing victory “the big bang just happened did it? How? I mean first there was nothing, then there was something and this something caused the big bang from which matter suddenly appeared, how?”

“I don’t know all the technical stuff,” said Jones, “but I do know the universe is hundreds of millions of years old. The church thinks it’s only a few thousand years old.”

“The Bible makes it quite clear when God created the universe,”

“Oh yeah, and where does it say about the dinosaurs? I can’t remember that bit, what page is that on?”

“I’m not sure about the dinosaurs, Jonesey.” this from Bates, a muttered comment.

“The bible doesn’t mention the dinosaurs because they are just an atheist hoax,” Pope drew strength from Bates’ muttered support.

“What?” Jones erupted, ignored the shushing Bates and stuck his face into Pope’s. “Are you kidding me? A hoax? They’ve got skeletons in museums and shit.”

“You lot, shut the fuck up.” the Sarge’s voice acted like cold water on the discussion and they sat for a few moments in subdued silence, glaring at each other.

“Yes but,” ventured Pope, softly, “no-one’s ever seen one”

“What d’you expect? They died out 60 million years ago.” Jones’ comment lost a lot of punch from being uttered in a whisper.

“Oh how convenient,” said Pope. “Someone finds bones of animals that supposedly lived here on earth millions of years ago, just as Darwin starts on about evolution….” Jonesey’s mouth stretched, “an you don’t see a fit up?...the atheists want to destroy religion, the communists want to overthrow the state and the monarchy so they discredit the Bible by finding these bones that ‘prove’ the world is older than the Bible says and that man wasn’t here first…”

“That’s crazy,” said Jones, “the dinosaurs existed, and everyone knows that.”

“I’m not convinced, Jonesey” said Bates, a bit louder this time “I always thought they were a bit odd.”

“What?” demanded Jones, turning to face down this new threat.

“Yeah,” said Bates, “I’m not saying I believe in god or anything just that I can’t see how anything as big as a dinosaur could’ve existed.”

“Why the fuck not?” Betrayal from this quarter had not been expected.

“Well,” began Bates, “I just think they’re too big, they’d’ve been eating all day and all night.” Pope nodded in approval. “And by all accounts they didn’t move all that well, so I just don’t get how they could’ve survived for so long,”

“But they were the most successful creatures ever,” said Jones, “ever!”

“I know what they say on Discovery, but I’m just not convinced.” He was on a roll now, ignoring the reddening of Jones’ face. “I could see a scientific conspiracy to move people away from religious beliefs or maybe even a political or communist effort to discredit religion, you know, there have been bigger conspiracies.”

“You’re taking the piss,” said Jones.

“I’m not saying I’m religious, I just don’t know what to think really.”

Suddenly the com crackled into life, “Tango Two in position, out.”

Sgt Dick Carter grabbed his radio, “Eagle 1, Eagle 1, this is Tango One, out.”

“Tango One, this is Eagle 1, package is ready for collection, out.”

“Tango Two, this is Tango One, GO, GO, GO, out.”

“Let’s do it boys,” snarled Dick, scrambling through the door and hitting the pavement at a run.

∞

The first Terry knew about Able Duck (oddly named or not) was a thunderous crash and a whole lot of voices, all it seemed shouting at once. He found himself at a major disadvantage; naked and in a prone position covered by a duvet which they were using to hold him down, dazed from sleep, shocked by the sudden violence of the attack, stunned by the noise and blinded by his assailants’ torches. Three minutes later he was being bundled out the front door of his flat, still naked, blood streaming from a deep gash in his scalp, two bruised ribs and his left eye swelling shut. With his one good eye he just about made out that his assailants were four heavily armed policemen.

“Move! Move! Move,” shouted Pope, still on a high from the action.

“Okay,” yelled Dick into his radio, “bring her round.” Then, shouting louder than Pope “Get him on the ground and tag his hands,”

Terry tried to struggle free, kicking out at Jones’ stomach as he did so.

“Fucking bastard,” hissed Jones, “Taser him, Bates.”

“Stand back!” instructed Bates, “Taser! Taser! Taser!”
Moments later Terry was writhing on the ground.

“If he tries anything, hit him with it again, Bates.”
Just then the Guardian screeched round the corner and braked just in front of Terry’s head.

“Right,” yelled Dick, “get him inside the cage, let’s go, let’s go.”

It only took a few seconds for them to throw Terry’s still twitching body into the back of the wagon, slam the door shut and climb aboard.

“This is Tango One, Tango One,” said Dick into the com, “target has been acquired. Tango Two stand down.” Dick waited for Tango Two’s response,

“Tango Two, Tango Two, returning to base out,” said Dan.

Cheers for reading

Arun






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Aftermath by Arun D Ellis - book 3 in the Corpalism series

Extract below

The David Pullman Show

“Well, Delores, how are the record sales going?”

“Why do you ask, David?” said Delores sharply, she’d never liked him or his show.

“Oh, come on, Delores, we all know this whole ‘40 days and 40 nights’ thing and all the sudden political comments are just part of some huge publicity machine you’ve got working for you, though for the life of me I’m not sure how they’re meant to help you, I mean denigrating men, the church, talent shows, the markets and…..”

“I merely described how things appear to me.” interrupted Delores,

“Well, that must be a really crazy mixed up mind you’ve got there, Delores,” said David, “drug induced, no doubt.”

“Actually David, that might be slanderous, defamation of character at least,” said Delores, seriously “I’ve never taken drugs, in fact; I don’t even drink or smoke.”

“Right,” said David knowingly.

“I mean it, David,” said Delores, “I don’t do drugs, alcohol or cigarettes.”

“Any reason for that?” asked David, “though I find it strange that you lump those things together...”

“Oh David, don’t be silly, everybody knows that alcohol and cigarettes are just as addictive as drugs.”

“They might be addictive but they’re not illegal substances,” said David,

“Well, perhaps they should be, David, but that said, just because I don’t drink or smoke or do drugs doesn’t mean I’m against any of them.”

“Really,” said David, “not against drugs? Not anti one of the most insidious evils filtering into and destroying society today?”

“I don’t think it’s filtering in,” said Delores, “and seriously, do you?”

“Well, how else does it get to the street?” demanded David.

“It’s sanctioned, of course,” said Delores.

“Sanctioned?” said David, “by whom?”

“By the Government.”

“Er, that’s crazy talk, Delores. Everyone knows that
there’s an ongoing drugs war being waged with huge amounts of money being expended….”

“Don’t be silly, David,” said Delores, “we’re not stupid.”

“Come on, Delores,” said David, “what are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, I’m stating it clearly. If the Government wanted to stamp out drug distribution on our streets then it could be done very easily, they just don’t want to, that’s all.”

“I disagree, Delores. Firstly, I think prohibition proved you can’t stop things getting to the streets and secondly, why on earth would the Government want drugs on our streets bearing in mind the amount of drug related crime that’s engulfing our society today?”

“Now you’re being ridiculous, David,” said Delores.

“What does that mean? Delores, you can’t just make rash and ill thought out statements like that without having some argument to back them up.”

“But I can back them up, David,” said Delores, “but we both know you won’t allow me the time or space to do that.”

“Of course I will,” said David, “if you have a valid argument that is, obviously I won’t just sit here if you put up some of your weird, flakey ideas.”

“Now, see how prejudiced you are, you just described me as weird and flakey.”

“No, I didn’t,” corrected David, “I said your ideas were weird and flakey; probably due to all of those drugs you claim not to have taken.”

“I don’t do mind affecting substances,” said Delores, “including alcohol.”

“You don’t drink,” questioned David, “or you have not drunk alcohol ever?”

“I didn’t say that, naturally I’ve drunk alcohol, I just don’t drink it much nowadays.”

“Much?” pressed David, “much isn’t ‘don’t drink’, Delores, so how much d’you drink?”

“Well, naturally I’ll have a drink at Christmas and parties or social gatherings,”

“So you do drink then?” said David.

“But I’ll usually only have the one,” added Delores.

“Hmmm,” said David leaning back in his chair, “where were we? What was I going to ask
you?”

“Why I, and a great many others I might add, think that the Government sanctions the drug trade,” said Delores smiling equably.

“Oh, that’s right,” said David, “well, please continue.”

“It’s really quite simple, Governments have the power and the resources to stop or crush anything they want, so if they don’t, it generally means they are reaping some form of reward from the process.”

“Come on, Delores, that’s a weak argument, a cheap argument, in fact. ‘They could if they wanted to but because they haven’t succeeded they must want them on the streets’… that’s just crazy thinking.”

“I don’t agree, David.”

“Delores, the Government spends millions on drug enforcement policies and they have committed huge resources to winning this war.”

“Really?” questioned Delores, “because when Governments commit huge resources to winning a war we’re usually talking in the region of billions, not millions and let’s be clear here, we’re talking only a few million.”

“What does that mean, Delores?” demanded David.

“It means if the Government was really committed to a war on drugs then it would spend war sized money but it isn’t. So you have to ask ‘why not’ and I think the answer is fairly obvious, don’t you? Or at least it is to me and a vast number of other people out there, including your audiences, David.”

“Oh yeah, so what is this obvious answer?”

“Divide and rule, David,” said Delores.

“Divide and rule. You’ve been using that phrase a lot in your interviews.” Delores nodded, unperturbed, “but that’s ridiculous, the Government represents the will of the people, is voted for by the people. The people elected this Government, we live in a democracy. So all this clap trap that you’ve been coming out with is mindless rubbish, hippy rubbish” he hissed, “dare I say even ‘junkie’ rubbish?”

“Clearly you may dare, since you just did it. However I feel bound to remind you of the laws on slander or actually, libel since we’re ‘ON AIR’.” She admonished him with an upraised, wagging finger, “and I do have to say, David …just because you’ve had an excitable outburst, it doesn’t make what I’ve been saying any less accurate.”

David turned to his audience and raised his hands in despair. They were strangely quiet and he turned away quickly.

“If you’re willing to listen, David,” said Delores, “I will explain.”

“By all means, Delores,” said David, rubbing his brow.

“Well, I think it has been fairly clear to the powers that be….”

“Powers that be?” questioned David, “Who are we talking about here, Delores?”

“Let her talk,” shouted a male voice in the audience.

“I am letting her talk,” a defensive snap back, “No heckling please, let Delores have her say.”

“I don’t think he was heckling me, David,” said Delores, with a small smile, “so as I was saying, the powers that be identified early in the 20th century that the world was going to change rapidly, and that empires would be no longer required.”

“I thought that people in the dominions of Empire gained their liberty helping to fight the Axis powers,” said David, pompously, “and some of the empires had to be reclaimed with violence.”

“The imperial powers still managed to gain control of the rebellions before they left, leaving compliant governments in place. It’s all very complicated, David, but all we really need to recognise is that the empires existed only to facilitate trade but once trade could be achieved without military protection then the empires were doomed.”

“And this has what to do with the war on drugs exactly?”

“Well, along with the running down of the empires and the growing investments in so called emerging markets, governments in the west had to find ways of splintering the masses… otherwise there would’ve been several revolutions by now.”

David sat back in his chair and threw his hands up, “Oh that’s rubbish; you don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, Delores. I’m sorry, I’m not being cruel but let’s face it you’re just a singer, aren’t you and not a very good one at that.” There were a few loud boos and calls of ‘shame’, David shifted a little in his chair, “I’m sorry,” he said addressing the audience, “but I have to say it how I see it and quite honestly, this is bunkum.”

“David, do you believe that drugs on our streets fracture society?”

“Yes I do,” said David, “obviously I do. I believe I referred to drugs as one of the most insidious evils filtering into and destroying society today.”

“Yes, quite… and do you believe also that it’s method of distribution and attached costs lead to a massive amount of crime on our streets?” pressed Delores.

“Of course.” said David.

“Then bearing in mind the amount of money the Government has at its disposal…”

“The Government has to ration out its money; it can’t just commit vast sums to fighting drug crime no matter how simple it might seem to you, Delores.”

“Yet it spends billions on nuclear weapons we’re never going to fire, and not only that, but we’ll have to spend millions more on disposing of those weapons when they get old…so don’t say the money doesn’t exist, David.”

“So what are you saying?” pressed David, “that we should get rid of our nuclear arsenal and leave the UK open to nuclear attack?”

“Attack from whom, David?”

“Attack from the Russians or Middle Eastern terrorist groups like al-Qaeda.”

Delores laughed, composedly, “You are an idiot, David. Do you know how many missiles we have? Something like 30? I don’t know, exactly but come on; Russia has hundreds and is an absolutely huge country, massive by comparison to the UK. Do you really think that our few missiles are going to give the Russians pause?”

“They’re part of the NATO nuclear deterrent,” said David.

“David, America is the NATO nuclear deterrent and has enough nuclear weapons to destroy the entire world a hundred times over. Believe me, we have nothing to fear from Russia and even if we did our nuclear response is so pathetic it would merely lead to the complete obliteration of us as a nation state whilst causing minimal damage to a very tiny part of Russia.”

“Well, there’s always the terrorist….” began David.

“Ah yes, these elusive terrorists that modern politicians like to dangle before us. OK, for argument’s sake, let’s say a terrorist group did detonate a nuclear bomb in a major city, and let’s be clear here, they would have to walk it into the country because only America and Russia have the ability to strike from a distance, on whom would you launch a defensive strike?”

There was a muttered response from the audience. “Did she say ‘walk it in’?”

David spoke firmly, “Whatever country they came from.”

“Oh I see,” said Delores, nodding “a small group of religious fanatics detonate a nuclear device in a major city and your response would be to ‘nuke’ the country you think these people came from.” She looked at him, shaking her head, playing to the audience, “That makes sense David, go and kill several million innocent civilians, good idea, that’ll sort things out and stop any nuclear proliferation. And it doesn’t work at all against the home-grown terrorist.”

This gained her a smattering of applause and David rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “That’s all very interesting Delores, but I’m aware we’re running out of time, so…what’s this to do with the war on drugs?”

“Well, to be honest,” she murmured, “I think we’re arguing the wrong point but I will answer your question… if the Government committed enough money they would win … but I think there is a more reasonable and cheaper way to go.”

“Oh yes?” asked David, “and what’s that?”

“Legalise drugs.”

“Legalise drugs?” spluttered David, “but just now you were willing to sacrifice our nuclear deterrent to fight the war on drugs.”

“No, that’s not what I said,” corrected Delores, “You were the one who raised the issue of the war on drugs; I merely observed that if the Government was really committed to winning it then it would spend the commensurate amount of money.”

“So now you are pro allowing our kids access to limitless supplies of cannabis and crack cocaine …” said David.

There were several angry murmurs from the audience.

“No, David, that’s not what I’m saying, not at all. Although society’s main problem with drugs is the related crime; not the fact that there are addicts but that these addicts resort to crime to feed their habit. The exorbitant cost of drugs is linked to the scarcity of supply and the criminality that surrounds its production and distribution.”

She leaned forward, still hoping to reach him, “This alternative idea, and it’s not just me saying it, there are other more knowledgeable proponents of this idea, is that if drugs were commercially distributed thorough legalised outlets with fixed pricing and adequate social support structures drugs related crime would go down and quite a few drug addicts might even wean themselves off the product.”

“Drug dens?” said David, “you want drug dens?”

“No,” said Delores, “You’re being dramatic, I just think that it makes more sense to control the flow of drugs, make them cheaper and provide more social supports.”

“Well, we’ll have to leave it there” said David, “we’re out of time. I’d like to thank my studio guest, the always controversial Del… ”

“It’s certainly cheaper and more effective than a weak willed war on drugs,” Delores had the last word.

Hope you have a good weekend

Cheers

Arun

3 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

Two days later Terry was escorted onto a prison bus, destination unknown. Wrists handcuffed in front of him, with his feet chained, he was directed to the back of the bus where he was flanked by two armed guards. “You sit down and you don’t speak,” said one of the guards.

“Why am I chained?” The question popped out by itself; the chains were the ultimate degradation, a foot length of cold steel actually clanking as he shuffled like something off the corniest convict film. “I haven’t done anything, all I did was get sacked.”

“And the P118?” asked the first guard, “and the riot you caused in the station.”

“We know how to deal with argumentative fuck wits like you,” hissed the second guard, illustrating the point by driving the butt of his pump shotgun into Terry’s thigh. “Not another word ‘til we reach Middlesbrough.”

“Shit,” hissed Terry, “not the Boro?” He’d been hoping for one of the ‘just outside London’ sinks like Brum for no good reason other than nearness to home. ‘Boro’ was a world away.

“What did we tell you?” hissed the first guard as he thrust his elbow sharply into Terry’s stomach, effectively silencing him.

∞

“Hello Mr. Jones.” Terry flicked a glance at the young lady opposite, sort of smiled and nodded. He’d been escorted to the local Relocations operations office and been kept waiting for 3 hours before meeting her; his state-allocated counsellor, Debby. “Have you been fighting?”

He stared at her; he’d survived the 8 days incarceration, in what he’d been told was one of Middlesbrough’s roughest prisons, by being funny, something he’d found useful at boarding school until his first black belt rendered such tactics unnecessary. Whilst in the prison he’d kept his martial art skills under wraps; feeling his way, thinking it best to avoid attention. His speed had come in handy, mostly in deflecting blows when a few hard nuts hadn’t appreciated his humour and in generally keeping out of people’s way. Not much use when it came to the screws though; enclosed spaces and mob handed.

“No.”

“Oh, but the cuts and bruises, and your eye?” asked Debby

“Police hospitality,” replied Terry.

“Oh!” she said, “Are you saying the police did this?” She reached for her notepad and began writing.

“No” replied Terry, hastily “No, I’m not.”

“But you said….”

“Never mind,” replied Terry.

“If you have a complaint against…” continued Debby.

“If I have a complaint against anyone, especially the police,” said Terry, “I’m not going to tell you, am I.”

“But you have to,” said Debby, “everything has to be logged so it can be investigated.”

“Well I don’t have a complaint,” said Terry, “I fell.”

“You fell?”

“I fell.”

“But that’s not what you just said,” pressed Debby.

“Well, it’s what I’m saying now.”

“You do know it’s an offence to make a false accusation against the police, don’t you,” pressed Debby.

“I haven’t made an accusation against the police, false or otherwise,” said Terry.

“But you said it was police hospitality thus implying they had beaten you up.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Er…yes you did,” pressed Debby, “I’ve made a quick note of the time on my pad and I can play the conversation back for you if you like.” Terry frowned. “Everything in this meeting is filmed and recorded,” she said, pointing to a small black camera in the corner of the ceiling.

“Great,” moaned Terry, “look I didn’t mean anything ok, the police were fantastic, they made me feel right at home. I fell, that’s all.”

“Where did you fall?”

“In the shower.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Debby stared at Terry for a good 30 seconds before proceeding. “Ok, as you know, you are here in Middlesbrough because your debts exceed the total unemployed indebtedness allowable under section 12a of the employment act, which for your information is….”

“Yes I know,” interrupted Terry, “£25,000, thank you.”

“In which case you’ll know you face criminal proceedings for fiscal incompetence,” continued Debby.

“Yes,” said Terry.

“Which carries a minimum fine of £300,000.” pressed Debby.

“£300,000?” blurted Terry, “no-one told me that! How the fuck’m I meant to get £300,000? On top of what I already owe, how’m I supposed to pay that?”

“And 25 years social labour.”

“What!”

“25 years social labour,” repeated Debby.

“I heard…but 25 yrs and what the fuck’s social labour?”

“Please modulate your language, Mr. Jones. It does not help your cause” she nodded at him, a mild frown furrowing her brow. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Basically we will find you work and all your wages will be paid into Central Services who will refund your debtors.”

“And what do I get?” asked Terry incredulously.

“Nothing until your debts are paid,” said Debby.

“But how do I live?” asked Terry.

“We will put you up in social housing and provide you with the basics, food and heating, social welfare, that sort of thing…for which you will of course be charged.”

“What... and this goes on for...?” he spluttered, unable to finish the sentence.

“For 25 yrs, yes. Galaxy has provided a calculation….”

“But I’ll be nearly 50 when I get shot of it all…that can’t be right...”

“…of your total indebtedness with a projection of your social welfare debts….”

“Oh let me guess,” said Terry, “I mean what with the £170,000 I already owe….”

“I think you’ll find that’s £178,500, not including interest…”

“Interest?” he squeaked.

“…..at 3% above base rate which is currently at 9% so today your interest is 12% but that’s probably going to go up ½% in the coming months as most forecasts reckon the Bank of England will raise base rates in a month or so.” Debby finished in a triumphant burst.

Terry sneered and made a mock laugh.

“This isn’t anything to be taken lightly, Mr. Jones.”

“I know,” said Terry, “I was being facetious.”

“I wouldn’t make a habit of that, not in your position.” Terry sneered again. “As I was saying,” pressed Debby after a brief pause, “you owe £178,500 already, plus the fine of £300,000 plus a projected welfare debt of £130,000 with interest at 12% over 25 years totaling £1,825,500….” Terry leaned back and burst out laughing “Mr. Jones, this is very serious.”

“Oh yes,” said Terry, “it’s very serious, it’s so serious it’s insane.”

“Mr. Jones.”

“You’re trying to sting me for how much? It’s got to be over 2 million pounds, you tell me that’s not insane.”

“Mr. Jones.”

“I mean, I lost my job, I was late a few times and just because some crappy Government organisation reckons I’m low on points I get screwed over by the state for 2 million, well, fuck you.”

“Language, Mr. Jones and actually it is £2,434,000.” said Debby, “My advice to you, Mr. Jones is that you need to accept you brought this on yourself. The bottom line is you have proven yourself to be a poor employee….”

“Poor employee!” shouted Terry.

“Yes Mr. Jones,” said Debby, “a good many people would’ve loved to have had the opportunities you’ve had, it’s no-one’s fault but your own that you squandered them.”

“I was late a few times!” snapped Terry, “How can they do this to me, it’s bloody ridiculous.”

“It is Justice, Mr. Jones,” replied Debby, “the world doesn’t owe you a living. When a company agrees to employ you they place themselves at a disadvantage in that they don’t know what kind of person you are and they have to trust….”

“I’ll have you know I work very hard, I shifted more work than most of my colleagues, I was just late a few times and I didn’t suck up to the management.”

“Of course,” said Debby, “it was the management’s and your work colleagues’ fault, I’ve heard it all before. Isn’t it funny how it’s always someone else’s fault. People like you think that the world owes them a living, you want an easy ride whilst everyone else works hard.”

“I worked hard,” snapped Terry.

“Of course you did,” said Debby, “but hey, you were sacked for tardiness, funny that.”

Terry gritted his teeth, he couldn’t afford to lose it with her completely.

She continued, “Your employer was good enough to give you the opportunity to prove your worth to society; employed you, paid you, got you on the property ladder and this is how you repay them.”

She shuffled her papers and then left the room. After 30 minutes she returned with a cup of coffee; she obviously took her counseling position seriously. Terry smiled nastily, “Back so soon.”

“You are to be housed in a one bedroom flat,” said Debby. “With an open plan kitchen and lounge and very unusually, this flat comes with its own bathroom.”

Terry pulled a face, “I was hoping for a separate dining room and maybe a guest room.”

Debby ignored him, “It’ll be furnished with everything you need.” She answered his unspoken question, “Bed, wardrobe, sofa, 12” TV, kitchen table and chair and basic dinner set.”

“What more could I want?” He smirked at her.
Debby pulled a fake grin.

“This is the address, your front door key, your bus fare and a week’s sub money,” said Debby, standing to leave, “we found a place for you with a local sanitation company, you start next week and the money will be docked from your first week’s wages. Enjoy.”

Terry pulled a fake grin.

Cheers

Arun








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Compendium editions

2 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

Terry slumped into his settee and started flicking channels, more for something to do than actually find something to watch, he would probably channel hop for a good couple of hours.

It was ironic that under other circumstances he’d have been glad of a few spare hours to run through his patterns; it would have surprised Peter Illyffe and his work colleagues to know that as a Tae Kwon Do 4th Dan he trained regularly. However, abruptly out of work and awaiting re-location to God knows where he didn’t really feel like committing time to any particular activity.

The TV went dead at the precise moment the phone rang, “Terence Jones?”

“Terry,” he corrected, “I prefer Terry.”

“Mr. Jones,” said the woman on the other end, “my name is Delia Helm and I’m phoning from Central Services. We note that you were dismissed from Peter Brooke’s redeployment agency today and as a result are due to be relocated…”

“Well yeah,” said Terry, “but that was only about 5 minutes ago and….”

“From our records it was 2 hours and 15 minutes ago,” continued Delia, “and as a result of your dismissal and your financial situation we’re terminating all services with immediate effect.”

“What?” the word came out as a gasp, “All services?? But what does that mean?”

“It means that until you have repaid the £30,000 you owe your creditors you will be unable to take advantage of any services offered within the UK.”

“What?”

“We have deactivated the purchasing power of your chip,” she paused, “and we will take possession of your flat and its contents today.”

“But you can’t do that!”

“Please don’t shout at me, Mr. Jones or I will have to raise a P118 which will be escalated to your local law enforcement officer.”

He fell silent awaiting the next hammer blow; he knew the drill, but not the detail nor had he anticipated the speed and in any case, it didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Your flat and its contents will be auctioned this afternoon and the funds raised will go to settle some of your debts. For your information I can confirm that Galaxy have estimated that we will raise £1,500 on your possessions and £500,000 on the sale of your flat. However, as you are aware we are currently in a recession which means the market value of your flat is around £150,000 less than you originally paid for it…”

“Oh don’t give me that...” snapped Terry.

“As you had a 100% mortgage you will owe your bank the balance of £150,000 which plus the £30,000 sundry debts minus the £1,500 obtained from the sale of your possessions means you will be looking at an overall debt of approximately £178,500.”

“What!”

“As this sum exceeds the total unemployed indebtedness allowable under section 12a of the Employment Act” she continued relentlessly, “which for your information is £25,000, you will face criminal proceedings for fiscal incompetence.”

“You are fucking kidding!” The expletive resonated round the room.

“Mr. Jones, I warned you - I have raised a P118 reporting you to your local enforcement officer. Please do not leave the building.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” yelled Terry, “I’ll leave the bloody building if I want to.”

“Of course you must do as you wish however I should warn you that your details will have been passed to building security. The minute you step outside your flat you will be Tasered.”

“Fuck off!” shouted Terry as he hung up.

He turned and stormed to the door, opened it and stared into the hallway, ‘Tasered? Who’s going to Taser me? I can’t see anyone.’ Then for the first time he noticed a thin strip running the length of the hall on both sides of the corridor. ‘Nah, that’s just electric cable, surely?’

∞

“Right, sit over there and wait for the Duty Sergeant.”

The enforcement officer walked away leaving Terry to his own devices. He sniffed, stuffed his hands in his pockets and strolled over to a long bench positioned along the hallway. He sat and stared at the posters opposite; there was a large one about securing your home, car and general neighbourhood from roaming gangs of thieves and worse. There were a couple offering rewards for stolen items, a few missing persons, some dog-eared wanted posters with photo fit pictures of some seriously scary looking blokes and then a load of what looked like internal memos.

“Jones?” Terry ignored the call: ‘make ‘em work for their money’. It was a pointless gesture; he was the only one in the corridor. “Oi, you - you deaf or just a fucking twat?” Terry sneered, still into making pointless gestures. “Get over here.” Terry unravelled himself from the bench slowly and strolled over to the counter. “Causing an affray,” said the Duty Sergeant, “carries a fine of £1,000 and compulsory 5 day incarceration.”

“I wasn’t causing an affray,” argued Terry, “I was in my own flat.”

“According to our records it’s no longer your flat.”

“It is my flat,” argued Terry. It occurred to him to wonder how he had transitioned so swiftly from an employed, reasonably pliable, rule follower into a belligerent, confrontational person with nothing to lose. Hell, he did have nothing to lose, they’d taken it all.

“Not any more it’s not.”

“But that’s got to be illegal, surely.”

“Nope, looks like you should’ve read the small print on your mortgage.” Terry gritted his teeth and stared at the ceiling. “Also according to the Galaxy’s transcript of your conversation with the young lady from Central Services…...”

“Young lady?” snapped Terry, “She was abusive and rude.”

“I think not, not according to the transcript from Galaxy, which I have here if you’d care to take a look yourself.” Terry sneered. “You were the one being abusive.” Terry said nothing. “I also see that they’ve deactivated your chip.”

“So!” The bravado was patently false but he couldn’t prevent it.

“So how do you intend to pay your fine?”

“How the fuck should I know!” snapped Terry, “They’ve taken everything, they’re a bunch of thieving …”

“Enough of that or I’ll have you banged up for 10 days.”

“Oh for Christ’ sake….” hissed Terry, “what am I supposed to do? It’s not my fucking fault.”

“Oh, and whose fault is it? Mine? Or perhaps it’s the fault of the officer who arrested you? Or perhaps the young lady from Central Services….what was her name?” he murmured, scanning down the sheets in front of him, “Ah yes, Delia, was it her fault?”

“Oh, funny haha!” replied Terry, “How’s anybody meant to get on under these ridiculous rules?”

“Oh? What? You mean paying your bills?”

“I pay my bills” snapped Terry, “but on my salary and with prices being what they are how can anyone stay ahead?”

“I manage.”

“Well bully for you,” replied Terry, “but then I’m not surprised on what you lot make.” Any remnant of goodwill drained from the room like water flushing down a toilet.

“We earn our money dealing with little shits like you.”

“Really,” answered Terry, going for broke, “I thought you earned it by protecting the Aristos.”

“Enough of your fucking lip, you’re getting 10 days, 2 to be served here and 8 to be served wherever they decide to ship you …Which I really hope is going to be shitville.”

Cheers

Arun








more books in the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendium editions

1 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

Prologue

‘Please note, effective immediately: in order to help the nation heal its wounds after the terrible atrocity of 12/12 it has been decided that senior members of the Civil Service will adopt all 200 resultant orphans’.

Mrs. Mayweather sat at her PC and studied this, a recent email from the Home Office. She stretched her neck and rubbed her forehead, as if she didn’t have enough to contend with already. She re-read the communiqué, the directive, because let’s not kid ourselves, that’s what it was.

She looked at the seven files spread out before her; seven files representing seven children. She’d had her quota, she couldn’t argue that; eight of the 200 had been sent to St. David’s but one of them, Toby, had been adopted by his aunt in Australia. She thought quickly, was it worth making more paperwork by saying she only had 7 left? Would it earn her a black mark?

Truth be told, she was sensing an opportunity to find a good home for one of her other children; the chance of a lifetime, to be lifted out of poverty and placed into the upper echelons of society, public school, city job, a home south of the M4 Corridor …who could resist? She made up her mind; the Government had deposited eight children with her, the Government would expect eight children back and by Jove the Government was going to get what it expected. She needed a boy to replace Toby.

She got up from her desk and went across to the filing cabinet; she knew the staff mocked her behind her back but nothing on this earth would get her to go paper-free.

She pulled out two files; Johnson, Alan; 7 years old, resident for the past 4 years. He needed to get out and into a family. The Richardsons had shown interest in him, they were a decent couple and things were proceeding quite nicely. However, there’s plenty a slip ‘twixt cup and lip as her granny used to say, and you can never be sure. However, they would notice if he suddenly disappeared and could potentially make a fuss. Nothing she couldn’t handle though.

The other child, White, Robert; 8 years old, he’d arrived with the others from the 12/12 atrocity, so he had the background. Not strictly speaking an orphan; mother had sustained serious head wounds in the explosion, leaving her in a coma, no father, live-in boyfriend no longer on the scene having left when the extent of her injuries became known. There was a grandmother but she’d been deemed inappropriate, too old, by Social Services. But, no two ways about it, he was not an orphan, in the strictest sense of the word.

‘So…which one will it be?’ she mused, moving the folders around on her desk.
 


Suddenly

A man may die, nations may rise and fall,
but an idea lives on.
John F. Kennedy

Cramming the last piece of toast into his mouth Terry Jones grabbed his jacket and left his apartment for the office.

He’d had the option of a high-rise within walking distance when he was first assigned to Relocations; his reasons for turning it down had seemed sound; cost = astronomical, space = minimal. Now, and not for the first time, he wished he’d taken it. That morning he’d set his alarm earlier than usual in the hopes of beating the rush hour traffic, problem was he never really managed to keep to his schedule (poor time management or lousy schedule?) and he found himself, yet again, bumper to bumper and yet again, late for work.

Brian Olsen made the final adjustments to his tie, jacket and hair before leaving the men’s room and heading to his desk; all the while diligently maintaining an erect 6ft 6in posture, a copy of today’s Times clamped under his right arm, his brief case gripped firmly in his right hand, and as he strode he repeated his mantra over and over in his head ‘today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations, today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations….’

Rain Morgan, stared at the free drinks machine for a few moments before selecting a cappuccino with sugar. Her actual name was Rainbow Sunset, her mother having one her odd moments, but she preferred Rain. She was quickly joined by Debby Jenna and Phillippa Djukovic; just time for a quick debrief of Phillippa’s date with Simon Brookes from Finance.

Peter Illyffe, the divisional manager for Relocations 1, left his office and headed for the usual 8:30 briefing in meeting room 3, aka the cupboard due to its lack of size and windows. His staff fell in behind, a well-rehearsed troupe, that is everyone except Terry Jones who was still driving fruitlessly round and round the car park.

The room filled quickly; those lucky enough to get in the door first grabbed a seat at the table, Peter at their head.

“Morning everyone,” he said, to which there were the usual responses of “morning, morning Peter,” a few nods and coughs and a silky “morning, Boss” from Brian, tall even when sitting down. “No Terry, I see?”

This too was greeted by the usual responses, initial silence, then embarrassed coughs or ums…. followed by a clear and unequivocal “he’s not in yet, Boss” from Brian. Peter made a note in the top corner of his meeting notes, as usual.

“Ok, everyone got a copy of today’s agenda?” general nods everywhere, “good, ok – item one then – the recent merger with Alderson’s. As per our meeting yesterday morning I’ve checked up the line and can confirm that Alderson’s Relocations are being wound down and we will ‘inherit their workload’.”

“Relocations are being relocated.” Phillippa’s quip was not altogether unexpected; there were a few groans.

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

“How big a workload we talking?” asked Rain.

“Approx half again our existing workload,” replied Peter.

“Will we be getting more staff?” Rain again.

“No,” said Peter.

“But how are we meant to cope with that?” asked Debby, saying what the others were thinking.

“By ‘working smarter’,” Brian jumped in, borrowing one of Peter’s ‘phrases of the moment’, “and if some people spent less time at the coffee machine talking then we’d get a lot more done.”

“Who’re you on about?” demanded Debby, realising too late that by asking the question she had singled herself out. Peter made another note at the top of his meeting papers.

“Moving on” said Peter, sounding tired, “there will be a further meeting at 2pm today with the team from Alderson’s so we can ‘manage the handover’ smoothly. Rain and I will attend that. Another quick point, the company will no longer be providing free drinks.”

There was a collective gasp, then “Why’re they changing it?” asked Debby, “I mean we’ve had free coffee for years now.” For some reason her mouth seemed to be working overtime this morning, in the absence of Terry it could be deemed she had assumed his mantle.

“As you all know we’re facing ever ‘stiffer competition’ out there, which is one of the reasons we’ve been merged with Alderson’s. The Efficiency Department has identified that the company could save almost £100,000 a year by moving to a ‘pay for your own’ drinks environment.”

“Can we bring a kettle and make our own drinks?” asked Phillippa.

“No,” replied Peter, “that would mean providing kitchen facilities – an added expense.”

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

“Flasks are OK,” said Peter, flashing him a grateful smile.

“If you can drink anything from a flask,” muttered Rain.

“Everyone, now, come to order, please.” Peter was becoming irritated and the strain of not showing it was telling on his stress levels. At that point Terry opened the door and slipped into the room, “Ah! Mr. Jones, glad you could join us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Terry “couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

“There were loads of spaces when I got here at 8:00,” said Brian.

“I got held up in traffic,” offered Terry, his expression hopeful.

“Then might I suggest you leave earlier,” replied Brian, “we all make the effort to be here on time, it’s only ever you who’s late.”

“Thank you, Brian,” Peter interceded. “OK the final point, we’ve had a report from C.I.T, the Counter Intelligence Team,” he elaborated, staring pointedly at Phillippa over whose head most things of import were known to sail, “that we have a ‘heightened terror threat’ as a result of our merger with Alderson’s.” He waited for the information to sink in then continued by way of explanation, “Apparently we’re now the 3rd largest provider of labour resource in the EU so it makes us an even bigger target.” Phillippa looked on the verge of tears, possibly at being singled out for the stare, the rest were demonstrating variously dismay or affected disinterest but no-one spoke. “So everybody please ‘stay alert, stay vigilant’ and re-watch the compulsory DVD ‘Terror and Counter Terrorism’. Remember, ‘we’re all in this together’ and it’s up to each and every one of us to …‘keep the workplace safe’.”

Terry winced; he was convinced that Peter’s insistence on speaking in inverted commas and quoting the company watchwords at every opportunity had a damaging effect on his psyche.

“Did anyone see the news this morning?” asked Rain, too brightly. “There was an explosion in the town centre.”

“Yeah,” chipped in Debby, “near Macheson’s.”

“They said something about 20 casualties,” Rain added, “it’s awful”.

“Did they say who it was?” asked Terry.

“It’s a bit early for that kind of info,” snapped Brian.

“I dunno,” defended Terry, “they sometimes give a warning.”

“That’s the Red Freedoms,” said Debby, “the Black Hands don’t give a warning.”

“Which could imply the Black Hands,” said Terry, settling in for a natter on the merits and demerits of one terrorist organisation’s way of doing business versus another.

“OK,” interrupted Peter, forestalling further chat, “Any questions?”

“Parking,” said Terry, opportunistic as ever, “when are they doing something about parking?”

“As we said yesterday and the day before and, oh yes, as we’ve been saying every day in all these months since you joined us, they aren’t going to do anything about the parking, thank you, Terry.” Peter stared round the table, lingering on Phillippa, as if daring any more utterances.

“When are they going to fix the tower clock?” she asked, making a sterling effort to fight back tears.

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.”

The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.

“You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

“Traffic is not an excuse, Terry,” said Peter, “you should know to factor that in to your plans. Also, as I recall, Human Resources offered you an apartment close by when you joined us, a much sought after facility that had only come available due to the unfortunate demise of your predecessor.” He fell silent, possibly in recognition of human frailty and the fact that the previous occupant had thrown himself ungratefully off the 7th floor balcony of the much vaunted facility. “You are paid to be here between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00. It’s up to you to get yourself here on time.”

“Yes,” said Terry, for once recognising a time when the less words said might be the better.

“Everyone else manages to be here. I have to come from further away than you so I leave earlier. Brian always gets here at 8:00.”

“I know,” Terry murmured, humbly, while thinking 'yeah but Brian hasn’t got a life…'

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:10 if you can get away with it.”

Again, Brian hasn’t got a life …“I always do my hours…”

“Do you want to see your clocking in sheet?” asked Peter. Terry ducked his head; he knew what it would show. “The thing is Terry, it’s not working out for us; I think we need to move you on.”

Terry grimaced “I’m sorry Peter, I promise I will get here earlier in future.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Terry, Galaxy has already collated your data and raised it with Human Resources. They’ve spotlighted you and put in the transfer request.”

“You mean I’m already on the List?” asked Terry. “That was quick.”

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.”

Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan.

“I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

“I’m afraid I have to escort you off the premises.” Terry nodded. “Straight from this meeting.”

“Right now? Don’t I get to say goodbye to anyone?”

“Afraid not, you will be clocked out …” Peter flicked through his paperwork, “5 minutes from now. Sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Terry, “I know how the system works.”

Cheers

Arun








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Compendium editions

10 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

Sgt Smith spread the map out on the canteen table, encouraging the two men with him to lean in and take a look, “Ok, code name for the mission is Able Duck…”

“What?” this from a florid, heavy set police officer. “Oh well done Lardy, you fucking prat,”

“I kinda like it, Dan,” said Sgt Smith, “and don’t call me that.”

“Yeah well you would,” said Dan, “you don’t have to go out on these missions, do you.”

“I’m not scared, if that’s what you mean,” answered Sgt Smith.

“Able fucking what?” asked the other. “And what bright spark thought that one up?”

“Okay, okay, Dick, not you as well” said Sgt Smith, “it’s too late now ‘cause it’s in the log but next time I’ll get a more macho code name.”

“No, you won’t,” said Dan, “I know you, you’ll give us some gay shit, and so next time you check with us first and we’ll give you the fucking code name.”

“Just give us the mission.” said Dick.

“Okay,” said Sgt Smith, “Dick, you’re gonna be Team 1, code name Tango One….”

“Fuckin’ original,” interrupted Dan, “another one of your ideas, Lardy?”

“Anyway, Dick,” continued Sgt Smith, “your job’s to grab the package. Dan you’re Team 2, code name…”

“Let me guess,” Dan interrupted again, “Tango Two.” Sgt Smith huffed and stared down at the map. “Knew it, Tango fucking Two.”

“Look, it’s in the log now and everyone else has the code words,” said Sgt Smith.

“Marvelous,” said Dick.

“Can we get back to business?” asked Sgt Smith, “I mean it’s why we’re here, right.”

“Just get on with it,” said Dan.

“Team 2, code name,” Sgt Smith paused briefly, “Tango Two…”

“Knew it,” said Dan.

“Tango Two will provide crowd control,” continued Sgt Smith, “which will hopefully be straightforward at that time of night.”

“Idiot,” hissed Dan under his breath.

“You said the target has martial arts skills?” questioned Dick.

“That’s what it looks like on the footage,” said Sgt Smith.

“Okay,” said Dick, “so we, as in Team 1, leave from Stn 114 at 03:15 hrs (i.e. base) and travel 4 miles to the target. Shouldn’t take more’n 15 mins to get there”

“And Team 2 leaves from Stn 159 at 03:30 hrs travelling 2 miles to target,” said Sgt Smith.

“ETA?” Dick was impatient now to be out of the briefing.

“And where’s the target now?” asked Dan.

“ETA is a variable, Dick – you’ll arrive first, as you say 15 mins or so, makes it about 03.30 hrs and Dan will let you know when he’s in position. We don’t want any fast driving; the Guardian’s aren’t built for speed.”

“Why we can’t use one of the ordinary cars I don’t know” muttered Dick, “at least they’re fast”

“They’re too obvious” Sgt Smith said firmly.

“Too obvious? You don’t call a fucking great armour-plated 4 x 4 obvious?”

Smith puffed out his chest, “we’re lucky to have the Guardians at our disposal, we need to make use of them or they’ll be re-deployed”.

“Hey you two, where’s the target now?” Dan shook his head and puffed out his cheeks, “I don’t care what I drive and anyway I’m the one having to go over to Stn 159 to pick the fucking thing up” He threw up a hand to forestall Sgt. Smith’s no doubt lengthy explanation. “It’s ok, I don’t mind…just tell me where the fucking target is?”

“Well that’s a small issue at the minute,” answered Sgt Smith, “target is here” he pointed to a spot on the map, “on MacMillan Mount, as in 3/4 mile from his flat.”

“Where we’re meant to acquire the target,” said Dan.

“Exactly,” answered Sgt Smith, “but we fully expect him to be home at the due time.”

“Why?” asked Dick.

“Because we have no reason to suppose he won’t return home for the night,” said Sgt Smith.

“You mean you’re bloody well hoping he will,” said Dan, “especially as you’ve gone and got everyone all excited and togged up for this caper….”

“Yeah,” said Dick, “he’d better be there Lardy, I hate sitting about for nothing at that time of the morning.”

“Don’t call me that,” said Sgt Smith.

“What about choppers?” asked Dick.

“There’ll be 2 birds in the air,” answered Sgt Smith, “1 techy to monitor the target and 1 ground contact support bus to help if there are any issues.”

“This is only one bloke we’re picking up, isn’t it?”

“Are they authorised to pile in and help, if and when required?” asked Dick.

“Well, kinda,” said Sgt Smith.

“What the fuck does kinda mean?” demanded Dan. “This bloke must be well dodgy if you’ve got all this set up?”

“You know what it means,” snarled Dick, “it means we’ll be stuck with our dicks hanging out in the wind whilst lard-arse here tries to wake his super for clearance to engage any hostile contacts.”

“I don’t like this,” said Dan, “last time we went out on one of these jobbies things turned nasty and I lost 2 guys before clearance to engage was given. The duty was too shit scared to raise his super.”

“Well that won’t happen with me boys,” said Sgt Smith, “you know I’ll be bashing his door down to get clearance.”

“Well I’d rather have it up front,” said Dan.

“I can’t give you that,” grimaced Sgt Smith, “but I won’t let you guys down.”

“No you won’t, Lardy” said Dan, “because if you do we’ll come back here and face fuck you with a regulation issue baton.”

“Don’t call me that” said Sgt Smith, “an’ there’s no need to threaten me, I won’t let you down.”

“Well you’d fucking better not,” stated Dan, “I mean it, Lard…Smithy.”

“I know,” said Sgt Smith, “I won’t.” Dan pointed his finger at Sgt Smith’s face. “I won’t.”

“Okay,” said Dick, “we’d better move our teams up to kick off point.”

Sgt Smith nodded. As they left the room Dick and Dan both pointed at Sgt Smith.

“I won’t,” he said, “I mean it guys.”

“Fuckin’ better not,” said Dick.

Cheers for reading

Arun





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Compendium editions

9 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

The Meeting
Poverty is the parent of revolution and crime.
Aristotle

This week’s meeting was to be held in Tom Dyer’s front room. Terry had been interested to see an almost perfect replica of the debris and rubble that decorated the front of his building piled up outside the Dyer residence. Surprisingly, once inside the front door the impression of decay was replaced with clean functionality. He nodded his approval as he glanced round, following Sandra further down the hall. An aggressive “Who the fuck’s this?” from a dark-haired male about Sandra’s age, stopped him in his tracks. Terry pegged him as the aforementioned Don.

“Don, stop it - he’s my friend,” said Sandra dragging him down the hallway into the kitchen at the same time signaling Terry to stay put.

“Friend?” questioned Don.

“My boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” questioned Don, “how come I’ve never heard of him.”

“You don’t know everything about me,” snapped Sandra.

“Don’t mess around,” hissed Don, “you know how dangerous this is. Who is he and where did he come from?”

“He’s my boyfriend,” repeated Sandra.

“Since when?” asked Don.

“Since Monday,” said Sandra.

“Monday?” questioned Don, “What Monday? Not this Monday?”

“Yes!”

“Are you fucking mad?” demanded Don.

“I know what I’m doing,” snapped Sandra.

“Oh yeah,” said Don, “of course you do.”

“Yes I do,” stated Sandra.

“Yeah,” said Don, “like you always know what you’re doing.”

“What’s going on here?” asked Donald,

“Oh you’ll love this, Dad,” said Don, an abbreviated version of his father and not just in name.

“Sod off,” hissed Sandra.

“Leave her be, Don,” said Donald.

Don made to speak and then held back before moving off.

“Come on, Sand, what’s the problem?”

Sandra screwed up her face and pinching her lips with the tips of her fingers said, “I’ve brought a friend along to the meeting, Dad.”

“So I see,” said Donald, “who is he?”

“He’s my boyfriend,” said Sandra.

“Boyfriend since Monday,” hissed Don rejoining the conversation, “Can you believe that? Can you believe that she would bring a complete stranger here….”

“He’s not a complete stranger,” snapped Sandra.

“Well he is to me,” said Don.

Donald put his arm around his son’s shoulders and pulled him back, “leave it to me, son.”

Don shrugged him away and stormed off.

Donald turned to his daughter, “Since this Monday?” he asked.

Sandra pulled a face, “yes, but he’s OK.”

“Really? And you know this? In 3 days?”

“Yes dad,” stated Sandra.

“How?” asked Donald, “and before you give me a quick answer remember there are lives at stake in this Sand, this is very important.”

“I know Dad,” said Sandra, “but he’s honest and he’s one of us.”

“And I say again, how do you know?”

“Well,” began Sandra, “he’s been sent here on penal because of his debts.”

“Penal? He has debts?”

“He used to work for Relocations….” Her father was about to speak and she jumped in, forestalling his echoed “Relocations?” with “but he’s not one of them.”

“Relocations but he’s not one of them,” repeated her father, visibly shocked.

“No Dad, he’s not. He didn’t fit in at all and he was always worried about his job.”

“I’m sure he was,” the dry tone was lost on her.

“Yes, he was” said Sandra, “and he lost his job, was declared bankrupt and deported here.”

Donald rubbed his brow and thought a bit, “Well you’d best leave this to me,” he said, “I’ll find a way of introducing him to the others, but you must know he’ll have to be tested.”

“I know,” said Sandra.

“And the committee will need to see him.”

“I know,” said Sandra.

“Yes,” said Donald, “but does he?”
Sandra pulled a face, “No.”

“Does he know what will happen if they don’t believe him?” asked Donald.

Sandra squirmed, “No.”

∞

Sgt Smith knocked on the Super’s door. “Enter.”

“Sir,” said Smith, “I’m preparing two snatch teams, I’ve checked the footage sir and this one might be tricky…the target appears to be a martial arts expert or something,”

“Really?”

“Yes sir,” continued Sgt Smith, “he was filmed teaching some kids unarmed combat.”

“Then get him in ASAP,” instructed the Super. “… and Sgt…. make sure this one’s clean; I don’t want another cock up like last time.”

∞

“Terry, this is my dad, Donald,” said Sandra, “and this is my brother, Don.”

“Hi,” said Terry extending his hand to first Donald, then to the hostile, would be terrorist brother, “nice to meet you.”

“Welcome to our little discussion group.” said Donald.

Terry smiled. The atmosphere didn’t feel right. He didn’t know what to say; he didn’t want to be here, but here he was.

“Tell you what, Don,” said Donald, “why don’t you take the meeting tonight and I’ll take Terry through to the kitchen for a chat.”

Sandra made to follow but Donald put out his arm to forestall her, indicating she should join the others in the meeting and gestured Terry in front of him.

“How about a nice cup of tea?” said Donald. “How do you take it?”

“Milk no sugar,” said Terry.

“What’s sugar?” joked Donald.

“Yeah,” said Terry, “I didn’t realise things were so scarce up here.”

“Oh yes,” said Donald, “you’ll notice a lot of changes I’m sure.”

“I don’t think anything can faze me after being told I owe £2mil,” Terry informed him.

“£2 mil?” questioned Donald, “that’s a tidy sum.”

“Yeah, well, ” Terry was blasé in front of the older man, “it’s only money.”

“What happened?” asked Donald.

“Oh,” said Terry, “erm…what has Sandra told you already?”

“Not much,” said Donald, “anyway I like to hear things straight from the horse’s mouth so as to speak.” Terry now looked uncomfortable, taking his time to respond. Donald placed the mugs of tea on the table and settled in, “Well? What happened?”

“Okay, what the hell, I used to work for Relocations.” Donald looked startled. “Didn’t Sandra tell you?”

“Relocations?” said Donald, ignoring Terry’s question.

“Yeah,” said Terry, “and yeah, I did send people to places like Boro.” Donald sipped his tea, his silence urging Terry to say more.

When Donald raised his eyebrow Terry started again, “You go to University, you learn what they want you to learn, you get your qualifications and then you get whatever job they select for you; the job they think matches your skills. They selected Relocations for me.”

“Right,” said Donald, his tone non-committal “and how did you find the work?”

“I can’t lie, I didn’t really think about it, you know? About it being people; they just came up on the screens as case numbers.” Donald raised his eyebrow again. It was always his left eyebrow Terry noted; perhaps he didn’t have the same control over his right, anyway it was unnerving. “Oh, I don’t know, it was detached from real life, not in a surreal sort of way, just in a sort of nothing touches you kinda way.” He took another sip of tea, buying time. “Look, it’s all decided for you after Uni; they find you a job, you go there and you do it. It so happened that the job I got given was to relocate known trouble makers to areas of the country where they can be properly monitored and controlled.”

“So that’s what you think we are? Nice work if you can get it,” the comment was wry, though not ungentle.

“Look I know it’s not great,” said Terry, defensive now.

“Yet you kept on doing it.”

“Of course, I had to. Everyone I knew worked for Peter Brookes, okay not necessarily in Relocations; but it was natural that you kept working. Why would you stop?”

“Well if you thought about what you were doing….”

“Relocating known trouble makers and defaulters,” said Terry, “that’s what we were told; relocating people with a genetic defect to areas of the country where their individual needs could be better supported by the system of social care.”

“A genetic defect?” asked Donald. Terry looked surprised at the interruption. “You said people with a genetic defect; I’m not aware of that bit of research.”

“Oh,” said Terry, “well I don’t, erm… a few years ago, maybe 10 or 20, a biologist or someone, I don’t know the actual details but a scientific body in the US discovered the lazy gene…”

“The lazy gene?” questioned Donald.

“Yeah, well that’s not its real name, it’s probably named after the scientists who discovered it or something, anyway, we called it the lazy gene, and I think everyone calls it the lazy gene.”

“The ‘lazy’ gene,” said Donald, with subtle emphasis on the word ‘lazy’.

“Yeah,” said Terry, “It’s like the religion gene.” Donald cocked his head in a silent question. “You haven’t heard of the religion gene either?”

“No, I’ve been out of touch” said Donald, dryly, “what are these genes?”

“Ah,” said Terry, “well the way it works is erm...you know about chromosomes and stuff right?” He was desperate for an affirmative; usually happy with the topic yet now, faced with the lack of basic knowledge of the older man, he was finding the whole thing quite hard.

“Yes,” short and to the point.

“Good,” said Terry, his relief obvious, “well, as you know, they’re the genes that dictate what colour our eyes will be, height etc, and now scientists have discovered that some of our genes are behavioural genes and they give us certain erm…personality predilections I guess.”

“Personality predilections.”

“Yeah, we’ve all got them but in some people they’re more pronounced than in others, so if someone is very deeply religious that’s because they have a very dominant religion gene and if someone isn’t very religious well then, the opposite is true.”

“And the lazy gene?”

“Same thing,” said Terry, “some people are very industrious and work hard and some people are very lazy, depending on their genes. That’s also why some people are fat”

“Why some people are fat...” faintly spoken this time.

“Yeah,” said Terry, “It’s nature’s way of sorting things.” Donald looked blank and Terry ploughed on bravely into the silence. “Okay, basically science has discovered that natural selection isn’t quite as random as at first imagined. Basically nature somehow determines how many fit erm… creatures, animals and people are required for the stability of the species, it also determines how many sick or weak members of the species are required to feed predators and these individuals have what we call the lazy gene, it just means that they have a less than 50% chance of survival in the natural world.”

Sandra chose that moment to stick her head round the door, Donald made eye contact and shook his head slightly and she retired.

“Anyway,” continued Terry, cheerfully “the upshot is that if nature deems that more fat and lazy creatures are required to enable the predators to get an easy catch then more creatures will be born with the propensity to be fat and lazy, making natural selection not quite such a game of roulette as was first thought.”

“More creatures?”

“Yeah,” said Terry, “I know I started by talking about humans but we’re just animals from the animal kingdom, right?” a thought struck him, “… you don’t do God and all that do you? HA! I mean d’you have a dominant religion gene?” Donald gave a slight shake of his head, and Terry continued, “Well basically natural selection decides how many creatures of what type will be born and by that I mean how many fat, intelligent, lazy, religious etc. you get the picture.”

“Oka-a-y” said Donald, skeptically.

“Well,” said Terry, “obviously we’ve moved away from the jungle and the rules of nature no longer apply to us. So as a society we need to weed out those that nature has already deemed fodder for the predators because, well, technically they are useless.”

“I see,” said Donald, finally understanding the way the Government had been spinning this; this social experiment.

“Do you?” asked Terry. “I’ve explained it then?”

“Yes,” said Donald, “yes; you mean society’s way of conducting its own form of selection.”

“Yes,” said Terry, “Well anyway….erm… how did we get onto this?...Oh yeah, relocating people with known gene defects, well that’s it, either disruptive or lazy people who have a negative influence on efficiency are relocated to parts of the country where they can receive better support for their known condition and where they can’t be disruptive to those in society who are trying to get on. It all makes sense really.”

“Of course,” said Donald, “as long as there is such a thing as a lazy gene.”

“Well there is,” said Terry, “I mean it has been proven, every country recognises it and they all have a Relocations department.”

“They do?” questioned Donald.

“Of course,” said Terry, “I mean I know they do because I’ve liaised with a number of them from the EU and the US so I know it’s a condition recognised across the world.”

They both sipped their tea.

“It’s like with kids,” said Terry, “you can tell what a kid is when they’re really young.”

“You can?” questioned Donald.

“Well, some play soldiers, some like to play fight, some like to read, some…”

“Oh yes,” said Donald, “yes I know what you mean”

“Exactly,” said Terry, “well in Relocations you’re removing those people who are a hindrance to society to a community where they can receive better help and support for their condition.”

“And do you still believe that?”

“Well no,” the admission seemed to cost him “For a start they dumped me here and that can’t be right. An’ all that stuff about help and support, well that’s a bloody lie isn’t it... I mean there are people with the lazy gene yes, but they aren’t being sent somewhere where they can be helped, they’re all being dumped into a place like this.”

“Into a ghetto,”

“Well yes,” said Terry, “I guess, yes a ghetto.”

“Right,” having raised it Donald now seemed keen to move off the topic, “but what I’m curious about Terry is how you ended up here. You clearly understand the system and no doubt did a good job where you worked.”

“HA!” said Terry, “apparently not good enough.”

“Is that because you have a more pronounced lazy gene?”

“Probably,” said Terry, acknowledging the dig with a grin “although, if there’s something I’m keen on then I’ll do it for hours. Say Martial Arts, I could do that all day long.”

“Martial arts?” said Donald, “now that’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“Well, we don’t have much for the kids to do around here,” said Donald, “it would be good for them and good for some of the adults I guess.”

“I’ve already been teaching some of the kids,” said Terry.

Donald nodded, taking in the information and they both sipped their tea; it was cold but neither seemed keen to acknowledge it.

“So, how did you end up here?” asked Donald.

Terry grimaced, “well…I don’t know really. Or...well…maybe...well...I guess I do. It wasn’t the lazy gene, and it wasn’t anything to do with conscience either”
The eyebrow did its work again. “I just hated the job you know? It was bloody boring. Every day the same old thing, the same old process, case number blah blah, open file, I.D. check, input indicator…”

“Input indicator?”

“Yeah,” said Terry, “the case files had already been checked over by the system and depending on what point deductions there were…well a case code and colour was allotted.”

“Sorry….checked over by the system?”

“Yeah the comp,” said Terry. Donald looked puzzled. “The computer, the programme, Signus.”
Donald still looked perplexed “the name of the computer programme,”

“Aah …you’ll have to forgive me… I was never any good with computers and now we don’t have them up here, I’ve been glad to forget whatever it was I didn’t know!!”

“No computers?” questioned Terry.

“No computers, no mobiles, nothing like that in Boro.”

“Why not?” asked Terry.

“Censorship.” His voice was flat. “Computers, the internet, Blackberries and mobile phones being used to communicate on the go … all that went years ago”

“Of course,” said Terry, “easier to control the masses.”

“Anyway, you said you were bored?” Donald again changed the subject.

“Oh,” said Terry, “yeah, well all you’re doing all day is typing in a number and confirming colour level alerts. It was really crap, you know?” Donald nodded. “I guess I just couldn’t maintain the required numbers; we had to shift a certain number of cases every day and I kept falling behind. I was late a few times as well. Anyway, they sacked me, cancelled my funding, disconnected my chip, called in all my loans, sold my flat and possessions, hit me with interest and dumped me here.”

“Right,” said Donald, “and what do you do now?”

“Clear up other people’s shit,” said Terry.

“Oh,” said Donald, “is that um…I don’t know …Samaritans or something?”

“No,” said Terry, “Sorry …I meant to say I work for the Department of Sanitation and they’ve given me some of the most disgusting bogs …that is to say toilets, ever to look after.”

Cheers for reading

Arun




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8 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

The Class

If he can’t REACH YOU he can’t HIT YOU
If he can’t HIT YOU he can’t HURT YOU.
Author

After a brief warm up, consisting of a lot of falling about and general mayhem, Terry led the mixed group of about 30 youngsters to the centre of the small field. The core of the group was the kids who’d tormented him for weeks, but there were some newcomers, including a few girls.

“Ok form a circle round me,” he said to the group, “an’ make sure that there’s at least 2 feet between you.” Terry started pacing as he spoke, “Right! The main point about self defence is precisely that –self defence. What does that mean?” He stopped abruptly and stared round at the group “Anybody?”

“That you can kick the fuck out of people,” said one of the youths.

“Ok, firstly I need to get to know you so when you speak, I need a name,” said Terry, “who are you?”

“Chris.”

“Ok Chris,” said Terry, “that’s not the right answer. Anybody else?”

Silence, coupled with shuffling.

“Chris, come here please and get into your fighting stance.” The boy took an unexpectedly useful position. “Good, now extend your lead. Cool.” said Terry. He glanced round the group, encouraging their attention. “Now, to avoid being hit all I have to do is be an inch away from the end of Chris’ fist. That’s the difference between being hit and not being hit and that’s what self defence is all about, the avoidance of pain.”

There were a few nods and plenty of blank expressions.

“Just remember the simple rule – If he can’t reach you he can’t hit you and guess what? If he can’t hit you he can’t hurt you. Right Chris, go back where you were.”

Terry glanced round, counting swiftly – even numbers, good. “Ok partner up and give yourself a number, number 1 and number 2 say.” He ignored the silly grins appearing, all seriousness when it came to his art. “Ok…. all the 2s step into the circle and face your partner. All the 1s please get into your fighting stance and just push out your lead punch when I say.”

He carried on “No 2s will put your hands behind your backs. When the number 1s push out their punches the number 2s will step backwards. Ok, take your distance.”

Nobody moved.

“Ok,” said Terry, “When I say take your distance that’s your fighting distance, stand close enough so that your lead punch would hit your partner. This is measured by extending your lead arm so that it more or less reaches your opponent’s nose.”

After a few minutes of, shoving, swearing and general skylarking around everyone more or less had their distance.

“Good,” said Terry, “just one more thing to remember, next time do it without behaving like prats or you can find yourselves another trainer. Is that understood?” There were a few murmurs and nods. “Is that understood, people? And make it loud or I’m off right now.”

“Yes!” said a few. Terry turned towards his flat. “Yes,” said the rest.

“Louder!” demanded Terry.

“Yes!”

“Yes sir,” instructed Terry.

“Yes sir!”

“Good. No.1s when I say ‘NOW’ you will slowly extend your lead punch towards your partner’s nose, at the same time No.2s will step backwards out of range, understood?”

Again there were a few murmurs.

“Is that understood?” demanded Terry, “you’ve got to speak up so we all know what’s going on. You made enough noise getting me to do this! Now, is that understood?”

“Yes!” loudly from everyone, with a light smattering of “Yes sir”.

“Anybody NOT understand?” asked Terry. Silence. “Good,” said Terry, “NOW!”

Everyone did as instructed, almost acting as one. “Good,” said Terry, “and that, in principle, is how self defence works. Admittedly it gets more complicated and physically demanding, in that the aggressor will move faster and throw dozens of techniques all intended to injure, maim, cripple or kill you and you will need to move faster using techniques to deflect, block or help you avoid injury but at the end of the day it’s all about one thing…..avoiding pain. Does everybody understand the principle?”

“Yes…sir!”

“Good,” said Terry, “the other thing to remember about martial art is there really is only a limited number of practical techniques you can use; there are only about 5 kicks and 6 or so hand and elbow techniques worth knowing. Probably the same number of throws and holds which begs the question – why is it so hard to become a master?” All the while Terry paced back and forth, he’d lost himself in the vision he was describing “true martial arts has to become your life. It’s 80% physical fitness 10% techniques and when I say fitness I don’t mean being able to run for the bus I mean supreme physical fitness where your body’s rock hard, your techniques fast as the wind, your reflexes so attuned that you move before your attacker has moved. …”

“What’s the other 10%?”

“Who said that?”

“I did,” said a tall lanky blonde girl.

“Name?” demanded Terry.

“Jean.”

“What are you talking about Jean?”

“The other 10%”, said Jean, “what’s that?”

“What?”

“You said martial art was 10% technique and 80%” fitness, so what’s the other 10%?”

“No I didn’t,” said Terry.

“Yes you did,” answered Jean.

“Yes you did,” agreed Darren, with a “You did,” echoing from Chris.

“No he didn’t,” said a short fat kid.

“Name?” demanded Terry.

“John sir,” replied the fat kid.

“At least John was listening; I said 20% techniques and 80% fitness. Now, lesson over,” he snapped, storming off to his flat, “bloody kids.”

∞

In surveillance unit Boro 1, 1196BZ Sgt Smith, massively overweight, known unsurprisingly as Lardy to his colleagues, made himself a weak coffee with three sugars before settling down at his desk.

“PC on,” he said.

“Retinal scan?” The sexy voice got him every time. He’d set his auto vocal to Delores Grey, his favourite singer, recently voted ‘most gorgeous woman on the planet’. The chocolate tones relaxed him like nothing else could, apart from chocolate itself. He rolled his chair sideways and leant forward to stare unblinkingly into the small camera located at the side of his PC, groaning as he did so.

“Welcome Lawrence.”

“Any surveillance issues in sector 113?” asked Smith.

“There were 5 potential current or future disturbance issues today in sector 3.”

“Resolution?” asked Smith.

“2 Pink 113s have been raised and 3 Blue 1 Bzs. Teams have been dispatched.”

“Sector 114?” asked Smith.

“There were no issues for sector….”

“Sector 115?” asked Smith.

“There were no…”

“Sector 116?”

∞

Having Sandra meet him after work had seemed like a good idea when he’d first agreed to it but now he recognised a sense of panic in his need to get her away from the building. His overalls were stowed in his locker and he’d showered (cold but hey) so he was quite presentable but the others would be coming out soon, wondering why he’d been in such a rush.

“Darren enjoyed your lesson yesterday,” said Sandra.

“Cool,” said Terry, who didn’t care what Darren thought or liked. He linked his fingers with hers, the better to dictate the pace.

“He said I should have a go,” said Sandra.

“You should,” enthused Terry, “I’m sure you’d like it.”

Sandra pulled a face, “I don’t know - I’ve never really liked violence.”

“It’s not about violence,” said Terry, “it’s about the avoidance of violence really.”

“Yeah, he said something like that,” said Sandra. “Something about… no pain?”

“Not exactly,” said Terry, “but I’m sure you’d really like the lessons. In fact I know you’d like them.”

Sandra stuck out her bottom lip, “when are you giving your next lesson?”

“Soon as,” offered Terry.

“Tomorrow?” asked Sandra.

“Cool with me.”

They walked on a bit, still hand in hand, he’d quickened his pace and she’d picked up hers to match.

“What made you move to Boro anyway?” asked Sandra.

Terry frowned, moment of truth, oh well, “economic,” he said.

Sandra smiled and waited for more info.

“Well, I’m kinda in penal,” said Terry.

“Penal?”

“It’s not how it sounds,” said Terry, “really. In fact it’s a fit up.” He glanced round as if checking for eavesdroppers but in reality checking neither Thin Mike nor Brian was in sight.

“Fit up?”

“Yeah, I lost my job, well, was forced out of my job and fell into massive debt.” said Terry.

“Bastards,” hissed Sandra, “it’s a conspiracy … to push us all into one place.”

“I know,” said Terry, “I used to work in Relocations….”

“Relocations?” She stopped dead. “Then you’re one of them? One of the scum who’ve been overpopulating this ghetto.” She was suddenly extremely angry.

“Er…erm…” stammered Terry; he’d done it again, walked straight into the wrong side of her.

“You’re one of those whore-son civil servant jobs-worth deportation scumbags who….”

“No, no, no” countered Terry, “it was just a job.”

It might’ve just been a fucking job to you,” she squealed, “but you’re one of those fucks who’ve fucked up all our fucking lives.”

“Er…er...” he was not so much astonished by her swearing, but four in one sentence was a first.

“Well, serves you right,” she shouted, apparently having used up her expletive quota, “you deserve everything that happens to you.” She turned and started to march off at pace. Terry stood dumbfounded for a few moments, talk about changeable, then, pulling himself together, he ran after her.

“Look, Sandra, please,” said Terry, “…give me a chance to explain. It’s not what you think.”

“Oh, isn’t it? Go on then, explain if you can.” His mouth opened but she spoke, “Explain how you could sit there at your desk and send people here.” He tried again, but again she overrode him, “Knowing you were sending them to a ghetto, that you were sending them to live in poverty with no hope of ever leaving this place!”

Terry knew he should speak but all he could come up with was ‘fucking idiot, fucking idiot,’ over and over again. So worried about telling her he’d be broke for the rest of his life he’d forgotten how hated Relocations were; everyone in Relocations knew to keep their job a secret. Everyone knew it was tantamount to social suicide to let it slip, possibly even physical ‘suicide’ depending on the circles you mixed in, of course.

“God-you-rotten- git! I don’t give much for your chances when that gets out.”

“Let me explain,” he pleaded. Sandra stared at him with such dislike he felt a sudden shiver up his spine, ‘shit.’ Sandra crossed her arms, raised her eyebrows and waited. “It wasn’t my fault,”

“Oh!” said Sandra, “and whose fault was it?”

She sounds just like that Debbie woman, then “No!” he burst out, “I’m not blaming anyone; it’s just that that’s where I was sent after University.”

“Oh lucky you,” hissed Sandra, “your parents were rich enough to send you to University.”

Terry pounced, this was his opening, he felt sure she would soften when she knew the truth, “No actually, they were dead.” Sandra frowned. “… killed when I was six, in the 12/12 bombings.”

“12/12,” repeated Sandra.

“Yes,” said Terry, “the fucking Muslims.” He felt OK swearing now; after all she’d thrown four fucks in one sentence at him. “I was still young and because of the high profile nature of the incident I was adopted by a rich family.” The ‘high profile nature of the incident’, what a pompous statement but there, he’d said it now.

“12/12,” repeated Sandra, hung up on the date for some reason.

“There were 200 of us,” said Terry, “kids that is. All orphaned by the same act of terror.” He was waiting for the usual murmurs of commiseration, he was on firmer ground now, and girls especially loved that sort of thing, the orphan, the young Terry, damaged and in need of support.

“You know they didn’t do it, don’t you,” said Sandra.

“What? Who didn’t do what?” Terry was bewildered; he’d never had this reaction before.

“The Muslims, they didn’t do 12/12. I thought everyone knew it was MI5 or MI6,” she continued, nodding at him vigorously to support her point “but it wasn’t the Muslims.”

“Erm,” said Terry, “I’m not really sure that’s right…” Oh fuck, she’s a 12/12 denier.

“Oh,” said Sandra, “of course not. I should’ve known you’d be one of their trained monkeys.”

“I’m not, but I think you’ll find the evidence presented by the Government is very compelling.”

“You think they’d commit a crime like that without having fall guys set up and ready to go?

“Right,” said Terry, “look, I know that a lot of people had this idea….”

“It’s not a bloody idea, it’s the truth, but then there’s a lot of sheep in this country who can’t cope with the idea that the state might be responsible.”

“12/12 was a national disaster. 8,000 people were killed and they were killed by a suicide attack involving members of a home grown terrorist cell, a Muslim terrorist cell….” Terry said firmly.

“Did you learn that in school? You’re so messed up by the system you can’t even imagine anything else.”

They had stopped walking, turning to look straight at each, both making their separate points with gestures and almost comic facial movements.

“Oh come on,” said Terry, “as if our own Government would….”

“What about 9/11? And the follow-on, 7/7 – they’d had practice! And look what Stalin did … what the Nazis did to their own people; what do you think the Germans were saying at the time?”

“What?” Terry’s voice was high with disbelief, “9/11…that was Bin Laden and …..Hitler? …the Nazis? How’s that even relevant?” He was now seriously bemused; he’d pegged her as pretty but lightweight and now, a walking history book or what…

“Oh,” said Sandra, “do you actually know what you’re saying? Bin Laden?” she scoffed, “…and I suppose you believe the whole German nation turned into a bunch of bloodthirsty killers overnight?”

“Well, no, er, yes” said Terry, truth to tell he’d never given it much thought; he blamed his upbringing.

“Of course they didn’t,” Sandra spoke slowly, as if to one of her clients, someone in need of her help, “the Nazis came into office and started to demonize sections of the society. Have you heard of Allport’s Scale? No … I didn’t think so. They created scapegoats to blame for the recession, introduced laws to control and enslave the people.”

“I’m sorry…you’re talking …what …1933?” said Terry, “I’ve lost how this is relevant to now? …and to 12/12?”

“God!” hissed Sandra, “Can’t you see the parallels? Alienating the Muslims started with Blair... then the ConDems came in, started on poor sections of the community like those on benefits making them all seem like scroungers, picking on the travellers.” she paused briefly but it was only to gather breath, “they attacked the public sector, the students and made us all resent each other. And then surprise, surprise we had 12/12 just as the Occupy movement was really taking hold; then they introduced the ‘ Enabling’ Act so they could deal with ‘home-grown terrorism’.”

He was struggling between irritation and attraction, trying to find a balance when she threw him off kilter again. “I’ll tell you what,” she said, abruptly breaking off from her diatribe. “I won’t tell anyone about you working in Relocations before you came here, if you agree to come to a meeting.”

“Meeting?” he narrowed his eyes, Alcoholics Anonymous; perhaps she had a drink problem...

“It’s a group I belong to.” He hesitated, seeming about to cry off, then she delivered the coup de grace, “Or if you like, I’ll just tell everyone what I know about you and Relocations.”

“No, no, no” said Terry, “that’s ok, that’s cool, and I’d love to come to your meeting thing.”

“Tonight,” said Sandra, “8:00 pm. I’ll meet you on the corner of my street, 7:30 sharp.”

“Okay,” agreed Terry.

They walked on in silence for a few minutes.

“How come you know so much stuff?” asked Terry. She offered a dismissive shrug. “Yes you do, you know about the Nazis and that.”

“My Dad’s really into history and my brother’s always on about a freedom movement,”

“Your brother?” asked Terry, quickly considering and then rejecting young Darren as a covert Freedom Fighter “d’you mean the Red Freedoms?”

“Who?”

“The Red Freedoms,” repeated Terry, “they’re terrorists, like the Black Hands.”

“The Black what?”

“The Black Hands,” repeated Terry, “terrorists.”

“No,” said Sandra, “we’re not terrorists. Not that we wouldn’t be, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” agreed a confused Terry.

“But how could we be terrorists?” asked Sandra, “Where’d we get weapons?”

“I thought you weren’t into violence,” countered Terry quickly.

“Not physical stuff, but I’d shoot a rich bastard if I could get hold of one.” Terry nodded in wonderment, like that makes all the difference. “Who’re the Red Hands anyway?”

He laughed, and then got serious quickly, “It’s the Black Hands, and Red Freedoms and they’re terrorists.”

“I know that,” said Sandra.

“I thought you hadn’t heard of them,” said Terry.

“Are you messing with me?” asked Sandra aggressively, “you just told me about them.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” said Terry, she was hard to handle alright.

“Anyway, you sure they exist? After what I just told you d’you still believe there’re terrorists active in the UK?” Terry started to answer, “Sounds like another lie to me, I’ll check with Don.”

“Don?”

“Never mind,” said Sandra, mercurial as ever, “I’m hungry, let’s get a quick something to eat – then I’ll need to get home.”

∞

“Sector 155?” asked Sgt. Smith.

“One issue, code Red 1Bz”

“Sector…” started Smith before pulling himself upright, “repeat sector 155.”

“One issue, code Red 1Bz”

“Resolution.”

“No action taken to date.”

‘Of course not,’ thought Smith, ‘that’s operator only.’ “Pause.” he instructed as he struggled out of his chair. He huffed along the corridor and up two flights of stairs before semi-collapsing outside the super’s office. He waited a few minutes catching his breath before knocking.

“Yes.” Smith entered. “What is it?”

“I have a code Red 1Bz in Sector 155, sir.” said Smith.

The superintendent stopped writing and looked up, “when?”

“Fuck,” hissed Smith under his breath, “sorry sir, didn’t check.”

“Well bloody check!”

“Sir.”

“And when you’ve checked get a snatch squad together,” ordered the super.

“Sir.”

“And then come back here and give me a thorough report.”

“Yes sir.” Smith tumbled out the door, thinking, fucking stairs’ll kill me.

Cheers

Arun





More books in the 'Corpalism' series













Compendium editions