Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 18

From Democracy to Dictatorship by Arun D Ellis - book 2 in the Corpalism series

The Independents - Economics on a postage stamp

“So please welcome Ben Clarke.”

The young man standing in front of them could have challenged Stephanie White in her claim to be the youngest candidate, unless he was one of those fortunate people who carried age with such carelessness that it refused to show. He was attractive in that way that some young people are; energy and enthusiasm adding to the mix.

“Hello, as introduced I’m Ben and I’m standing for Cobham, in Surrey in the next general election, and before you make the connection, yes I’m a Chelsea fan but that’s not why I picked Cobham. I was born and bred there so have a prior claim.”

A few people in the audience laughed, he also got a few jeers from supporters of other teams.

“I’m often mistaken as being younger than I am, in which case you might be wondering about my credentials – My PhD is in Economics and in the last year I’ve been undertaking a study of energy costs, interest rates, exchange rates, taxes, and employment levels, and how all these things correlate.”

A combined sigh rippled through the room; it had a ‘rather you than me’ constituent to it. Ben grinned, obviously in his element.

“The first thing I want to say is that I concur with the statements made by Colin and Marissa, that our jobs have been exported to the 3rd world where wages are minimal, that the rich have quadrupled their wealth by investing in emerging markets, whilst starving the UK of investment. But I’m not here to repeat what they have so eloquently described…I want to talk to you about the false premise of ‘trickle down’ capitalism, that notion touted about that if the rich get richer, then the rest of us we will also get richer.” He paused and looked around the hall, “It’s such an astounding assertion, you’d think no-one would really have the nerve to say it, you’d think that no-one would be stupid enough to fall for it, that no-one would be naive enough to believe that such a scenario could be true.”

Ben ran his hands along the rostrum and continued, “Now, let’s just consider for a second what they hope to achieve by saying that if the rich get richer, some of that wealth will ‘trickle-down’ to the poorer sections of society... they are hoping that we will sit idly by whilst they take a larger slice of the profits, allowing them to get richer; to take even more of the pie than they’ve been doing thus far.
And we are to do this because, according to them, if they get richer they will use the money to create more opportunities and, therefore, create a bigger economy, which will in turn mean that the rest of us will also get richer.”

He waited for his words to permeate, aware that his ideas took a while to be absorbed. “Let’s think about that for a minute, they are saying let them have more of the money and they will in turn create more profits. Well I have to say there is no evidence that this has ever occurred or could ever occur in fact the only truthful thing about the whole concept is that they are definitely taking more of the profits and leaving less for everyone else.”

He waited a few moments; until his audience became restless, then continued, “If you consider that the world economy is working at its optimum output, that manufacturing is creating as much as it can, that consumers are buying as much as they can, that lenders are lending as much as they can then the economy can only be the size it is. It can only grow with increased demand and productivity which is related to increase in the consumer population which means the market can only grow in proportion to the growth in demand. So if we do what the rich want and allow them to take more of the profits for themselves then it simply reduces the amount of money left for everyone else, this is the reality.”

Ben paused, “but if this is the reality and it is so obvious why then do we allow ourselves to be fooled by the argument? How are we fooled by the argument if it is so obviously flawed? Well, firstly because we trust those telling us. This is significant. Secondly we have the illusion of getting a bigger piece of the pie. How is this so?”

He raised his arms and looked for answers in the crowd, “We appear to be better off because our lifestyles are always being compared to that of our parents or our grandparents; compared to them we are ‘better off’.” He did the ‘inverted commas’ thing with his fingers, “Or are we? What are we judging things against?”

Ben waited for the audience to think for a bit, then answered for them, “We have more ‘things’ than our grandparents had; TVs, washing machines, dish washers, CD players, new kitchens, access to a car, we ‘own’ our homes. If we judge our lifestyles against our parents then yes, again we have more and better ‘things’; Colour TVs, mobile phones, PCs, the Internet, DVD players, all the latest gadgetry; we look at these things and think that we must be better off. Ipso facto; we are ‘better off’ therefore we must be getting a bigger slice of the pie.”

He shook his head, “Not so…what we miss, what we ignore when we come to that conclusion are three things. One: that in our grandparents’ day a lot of those things had not been invented so were not available to buy. Two: in our parents’ time these things were more costly to produce and less affordable whereas today they are mass produced which means they are cheaper to buy. But the third thing we ignore is by far the most critical; spending power and the debt factor and I say we ignore the debt factor at our peril.”

He felt the audience stir; possibly calculating their own level of indebtedness. “Back in the 50s a middle class family could live in a decent sized house, probably rented, possibly council owned, in a well kept street. For some there would be a family car and for most there’d be all the current ‘modcons’ and a seaside holiday. The important thing to note about this is that it would have been achieved on one family income and very little debt, that’s the point, that’s the measure we should use.”

There were a few noises of agreement and a smattering of applause as the audience got the point, “Today it takes two incomes for the average middle class family to achieve what was achieved in the past by one. Even with two incomes most middle class families are struggling with huge mortgages, crippling education debt, child care costs, rising inflation, constant marketing pressures to buy the latest gadget, stress of the long hours spent at work, guilt due to the few hours spent at home. They live with the horror of TV advertising turning their children into junk food addicts, with the flood of internet options isolating their children and the de-socialisation that results … the list of worries goes on and on. But the point is, the average middle class family has less available income today than their parents did.”

Ben took a sip of water from a bottle, “Back in the 50s people had some growth potential in their earning power… if they needed more money the wife, at home with the children, could get a job and bring in extra money. But where’s that growth today? Both partners are already working flat out and they are still struggling with bills, the mortgage, and their mounting debts. There’s no growth potential there. Today we have to work longer hours with less freedom, less upward mobility, less spending power, more debt, more bills and far bigger mortgages.” He pointed out at the audience, “And there is the reality of allowing the rich to take more of the pie than their fair share.”

There was loud applause from the floor.

“Now with regards to this powerfully rich and elite group, exactly what are they doing for their extra money? I mean what can a CEO achieve in a working day that means he or she, and I accept Stephanie’s point that it is usually a ‘he’, is worth several hundred million or even a billion per year? What decisions can they possibly make? What can they do that is worth so much? They can’t bend time so that they work a hundred hours in any given 24 hour period, they can’t make decisions that will suddenly produce millions of pounds and they don’t do any actual work. They make decisions about the long-term strategy based on financial projections provided for them by accountants like Marissa,” he swung round to smile at her, and then swung back, “and on market analysis done by people like me, and the 99% do the work. This is what creates all profits that these companies make, not the actions of the greedy and self opinionated 1%; this tiny minority who have managed to trick everyone into believing that they are somehow superior beings with supreme intellect, with incredibly huge brains.”

He looked around the hall, “It’s all a con and do you know who has helped them run this con? Do you know who has helped make all of this possible? Economists and politicians all of whom have taken the pieces of silver, as Marissa said, to allow the greedy to lie and take more of the pie because in taking their pieces of silver the economists and politicians have themselves gained more of the pie. Make no mistake; the people these greedy rich, economists and politicians have taken their extra pieces from are we, the people; ‘the 99%’.”

He stopped speaking, and looked round the room, taking his time, then he spoke with quiet authority and a hint of threat, “I say to you, it is time to start taking it back.” He turned abruptly and walked back to his seat to a rousing cheer from his audience.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun




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Compendium editions

Daydream Believers - by Arun D Ellis - a compendium edition incorporating 'Insurrection', 'The Cull' & 'Murder, Money & Mayhem' - books 4, 5 & 6 in the series

P.A.C.T - one


Society needs people who take care of the elderly and who know how to be compassionate and honest

Alvin Toffler, The Third Wave


All around him lay his comrades, brave men of the 24th. The crack of rifles mingled with the cries of the wounded. He loaded a cartridge into the breach of his Martini-Henry and levelled the bayonet to meet the oncoming Zulus. He felt the warmth against his face, eyes closed he smelt the dry air, a slight breeze ruffled through his hair as he slowly exhaled. He heard the tune of Hound Dog and Elvis blasting away, then a heavy banging...

"Alb, you alright in there?"

"What the...?" he mumbled, rubbing his forehead, "Bugger."

"Alb?" Gerry sounded concerned; next step would be the warden and the master key.

"Yeah, yeah," he responded, struggling out his chair. His current favourite book, 'The Washing of the Spears ' slid off his lap and onto the floor, "Coming, give us a chance, won't you."

∞

During the years they’d lived in the Eden Hall Retirement Village, as residents died and apartments became vacant, Alb Rayner and Gerry Arbuthnot had contrived re-locations until they now lived next door to one another; best friends as children, best man at each other’s wedding, they’d billeted together in the army and saw no reason why they shouldn’t support each other in their dotage. (Alb’s words)

Now Gerry's hands trembled slightly as he put the two mugs of tea on the low table and slumped gratefully into the armchair. He looked across the room; at the lines of bookshelves that held the non-fiction that had sustained his friend for all the years he'd known him. For once Alb had no book in his hand, although one was lying open nearby, instead his attention was fixed on the TV, a large flat screened, surround-sound, effort bought so recently that the excitement of watching even boring shows on such a large and loud scale had yet to wear off. Alb had justified the purchase with the stridently voiced comment that since 'not a lot else' was going on in his life except counting the days to death and since he'd no-one to leave his money to even when that happened he would spend it while he could.

“You're just in time, some people’s issues programme's about to start," he muttered, remote in hand, "that poncey prick Tommy Boyle.”

“Ah, the lie detector show, that crap, turn it up, will ya.” There was apparently even less going on in Gerry's life.

"Did you see old Pete died?" Alb was a font of local knowledge, mostly from reading the obituaries.

"A real shame, he wasn't that old either," said Gerry, for once he too had heard the gossip.

"76 next birthday," said Alb; to them at 80 and 81 respectively Pete had been a mere stripling. "Not yet 76 and his bloody kids bunged him in a dump like that." He shivered; 'that' had been a state-run nursing home and could've been his fate too if it weren't for his Army pension and some good investments. His greatest terror, something that could wake him at night sweating, was the loss of his freedom and his beloved books.

"You'd have thought they could've looked after him, bloody selfish little shits." Gerry was instantly outraged, like blue touch paper lit on a firecracker, "You remember, when my old mum moved in with me and Gwen after dad died, we knew how to look after our own in those days."

"Yep," said Alb, who'd done the same for his dad, "it wasn't all me, me, me back then, people were a community."

"We looked out for each other," Gerry was warming to the theme; though they'd gone over the ground time and again, "no-one would've put their parents away, even in places like this."

He waved his hand to take in the whole set up; thirty-two separate one bedroom, ground floor apartments, arranged in a figure of eight around two central courtyards. Each had its own kitchen and lounge but there were communal facilities; a kitchenette, a sun room, a casual dining area and a large TV lounge. The Eden Hall Retirement Village was well equipped with all manner of amenities; available to all with the money to pay for it.

They fell silent, both taking a sip of tea and staring at the TV, the music started and they were entranced in an instant, part of the show, ready to be introduced to the mess-ups some people call their lives, ready to be entertained.

The host of the show, Tommy Boyle, tall, debonair and utterly lethal, his frame dominating the scene, turned to the large, amorphous mass on his right, “Felicity, please, tell us why you’re here.”

“Well, Tommy,” Felicity (all 22 stone of her) bounced in the chair, her arms gesticulating this way and that, “I’m pregnant right an’ Randall, my boyfriend won’t believe I ‘aven’t ‘ad sex wiv no-one else, just ‘im.”

"Bugger me, I'd believe her," Gerry was leaning out of his chair, nearly spilling his tea, "I'm surprised she's had sex with anybody, I mean who the hell could fancy that?"

The crux of the story laid bare the audience relaxed, waiting for the maestro to begin his dissection; “So for you, Felicity, it's clear, it's your boyfriend's baby.”

“Yeah,” said Felicity, the coquettish look she produced sat uneasily on her shapeless face.

"Right, let's get him in here," said Tommy. He put out one arm in a welcoming gesture and onto the stage slouched a tall and skinny youth with a spotty complexion. He made a face at the audience, some hissing at him having already made up their minds, and slumped into a chair.

"Okay Randall," started Tommy, "Felicity has told us that she's pregnant and that you don't believe it's yours."

"I know it ain't," spat Randall, adjusting his position, angling his body away from Felicity's.

"Gawd, will you look at that," guffawed Alb.

"What a bloody mess," said Gerry, trying to make up his mind if the youth's hair was wet or simply greasy. "A quick spell in the army wouldn't do him any harm."

"Too bloody right," agreed Alb, "reckon that goes for most of the lay-abouts."

"Yor a liar," barked Felicity, rising monstrously from her chair. The two book-end bouncers waiting in the wings moved closer at a quick signal from Tommy but she subsided into her chair as quickly as she'd risen from it.

The argument raged back and forth on screen, the all too familiar pattern of lies and deceit; baring your lives to the studio audience's ridicule as well as that of the watching millions, all in the name of entertainment.

Gerry sighed heavily; the repetition was depressing, "We got any biscuits?"

"No, you got any in your place?"

"No," said Gerry, "but I bet Ken has."

Ken Grewcock lived in one of the apartments along the way, a mere minute's walk yet neither could summon the energy to move; they continued to stare at the TV.

Tommy was in command again, doing his showman bit, playing to the audience, "Okay, Randall, we get the general idea, you don't trust Felicity." He paused for effect, “So, if you don’t trust her, why is it that you’re still with her?"

Randall fidgeted in his seat and played with his nose, then picked it with his thumb, "'Cause I luv 'er, doan I." The camera homed in on Randall's tears and then cut to Felicity. She put out a chubby arm and looked tenderly at him.

"Well, if you love each other so much, why are we here?" asked Tommy, "Surely you can make it work together, for the sake of the baby."

"It ain't my fuckin' kid," retorted Randall, tears dried.

"What makes you think it isn't?" asked Tommy.

"I just know, ok," sullen now, head on chest, his voice a low mumble.

"It's your baby," Felicity's voice was ragged with tears, "I love you an' I ain't been wiv no-one else, on my muvver's life."

"Well, we can establish the truth of that statement," said Tommy, stretching his hand out for the 'golden envelope of truth' in a theatrical gesture, "Felicity took the lie detector test this morning and we asked her 'have you had sex with anyone else since dating Randall?'"

Both Gerry and Alb had leaned forward, breath bated, in an unconscious mirroring of the studio audience's reaction.

Tommy glanced round at the audience and then looked at Felicity, ".....and she said 'No'."

He paused for effect and the audience, expectant, leant further forwards in their seats, a pin dropping would have caused mayhem, "and the lie detector test said.....she was........LYING."

At that the audience erupted with gasps, groans, laughs and general abuse directed at both individuals on the stage. Gerry added his own tirade to the general cacophony.

"D'you know," Alb's voice sounded strained, "I blame Thatcher, her and her 'no such thing as society'. We used to look after each other, in the old days, but it's different today." Gerry had half an ear on the TV and half on Alb, never a good thing to do as he would keep talking until he got proper acknowledgement of his point. "No-one looks out for anyone anymore, as soon as you're old they bung you somewhere to die, 'cause that's what they want to do... forget us until we die, then they whisk us away and bung us in the ground, just like that."

"Yeah," said Gerry, "know what you mean."

"And everything we were, everything we stood for, our experiences...."

Gerry caught his drift, "Yeah ...it's a real shame, a man like Pete, all his memories and now they're all gone, lost forever."

He was now quite depressed and was about to say more when Alb, in one of his quick mood changes muttered, "Still, no use cryin' over spilt milk," whilst pulling himself up and out of the chair. He fiddled with the remote, turning off the TV, "Come on; let's go see about those biscuits."




What harm can it do?

“I still can’t believe this is happening to me,” she giggled, leaning into him, her head dipped down to reach his.

If she’d had one extra wish it would have been that he was a tiny bit taller but she could work that out, wear lower heels perhaps… She wrinkled her nose; the endless legs that gave her the height were her stand out feature, although surgically enhanced breasts, and white blonde hair helped. That’s what had attracted Anton on the beach – sent by an Italian photographer to find the next top model and he’d picked her. The first question he'd asked was to check she had a current passport; he'd made up his mind about her so quickly. She giggled again; the speed of her new life was exciting, the secrecy made it more so. Anton had arranged everything so fast there’d been no time to show off even to her friends, let alone tell her mother.

“You’d better believe it, ’cause everything you’ve ever wished for is about to come true, baby." He was murmuring into her ear, his hand possessively on her bottom, giving it a little squeeze. "You’ll live in a mansion in Chelsea; have servants and cars, a swimming pool….”

She purred in response, “and holidays in the Bahamas?”

“Wherever, you just name it, princess.”

It was unfortunate there'd been no time for the promised shopping; they’d cut the journey time fine and had had to scramble for the taxi. Luckily, they were travelling light, passing through to boarding with little delay and took their seats, both a little flustered. Alin had been expecting business class but Anton explained a ticketing error, and she’d stifled her disappointment. She snuggled against him, at his suggestion it being her first flight she’d dosed herself with the airsick pills he’d handed her and was already beginning to doze. Anton switched on his iPhone and sent a short text, ‘on time.’ Then he switched it off and settled back into his seat.

Two and a half hours later the plane touched down in Heathrow. Anton and a still dozy Alin made their way through customs to the collection point where a car was waiting as promised. Alin barely noticed the make although she did note that it didn’t seem quite as luxurious as she’d hoped. She had no time to think much about it; Anton had opened the door and urged her in. He put their bags in the boot and slid in next to her, encouraging her to lean on his shoulder and continue her doze.

The car drove a few miles then pulled into a hotel forecourt. Anton extricated himself carefully from Alin’s embrace; not so pretty now, her mouth open in a silent snore, and slid noiselessly out of the car. The driver had already removed his bag from the boot and stood waiting. He passed Anton an envelope, they shook hands then Anton walked away. The driver checked that the child locks were on, shut the rear door, resumed his seat and drove off.

Have a nice week

Cheers

Arun





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Uprising by Arun D Ellis - book 1 in the Corpalism series

“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.”

∞

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 [i]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.

Hope you have a nice day

Cheers

Arun






More books in the 'Corpalism' series















Compendium editions

Daydream Believers - by Arun D Ellis - a compendium edition incorporating 'Insurrection', 'The Cull' & 'Murder, Money & Mayhem' - books 4, 5 & 6 in the series

Superstar


He that is of the opinion money will do everything
may well be suspected of doing everything for money.

Benjamin Franklin


He poured a cup of tea and took it with him into his haven; his games room. Upstairs he could hear Fiona and the girls, 3 year old twins, getting ready for their weekly shopping trip. He never went with them, hated the crush, hated shops, besides he had a big game tomorrow and he needed his rest; it was the crunch end of the season and he was carrying a few niggles that worried the Boss.

He grabbed the hand control to his Bang & Olufsen and Strauss' Blue Danube started up. He relaxed into his chair, scanning the walls, the showcased shirts of his favourite players. He stopped when he reached Pete Bowthorpe's shirt, legendary central defender for his beloved Newcastle United. He couldn't help it, every time he saw that shirt it tore at his soul, every time he heard the Geordie fans it tore at his heart, leaving him breathless. He drifted back to the early days when he actually enjoyed the game, when he played for the team he loved.

Sammy and Charlie ran in, screaming, vying to see who could get to him first and give him the biggest hug. Fiona's two dogs followed at their heels, yapping loudly.

"We're off then, Darren," yelled Fiona from the hall. The dogs flew off towards the sound of her voice, this time the girls were at their heels. "You gonna come and wave us off at least?"

Five minutes later he was back contemplating the shirt, eyes half-closed, hearing the chanting crowds and remembering how it felt as he went to the stands after scoring, re-living the thrill and the love he felt for them and the love they gave him. Feeling the same old pull; always for him it would be the Magpies.

He looked down, one of the dogs was attacking his left ankle, this was the blue bowed one which was meant to be some kind of clue but he never bothered to listen so never knew which was which. He stood up, shook his leg and flicked it off.

He flopped down into his chair and stared up at the Geordie top. Tomorrow he was up against his old club, and it was him everyone would expect to score the winning goal. This time it would be crucial to both clubs, United could win the league yet again and Newcastle would be relegated. Simple as. If he scored the winning goal then he would be the one to send his old club down, a pain he knew he couldn't bear. How could he do that when all his life he had supported the Toon, when he had spent his youth in the stands with his dad and his cousins and then his mates, it was unthinkable that he was the one expected to sink the hopes and dreams of the town he loved.

He drifted back to the United v City game of the '73-'74 season when Denis Law thought he'd scored the goal that relegated United. As it happened United were already relegated but that didn't stop it passing into folk law that it was Law's goal that sank United. Was that his destiny? To be the man who destroyed the dreams of every Geordie? He conjured images of Law trudging from the pitch. 'Thing is it wasn't even as bad for Law 'cause he was a Jock and he only adopted United,' thought Darren, 'this is my club, my home town. Is this where greed and a desire for glory has finally brought me?'

The letterbox clattered and the pink and blue bowed tormentors scurried off, yapping wildly. He rubbed his forehead as their high pitched yelps penetrated deep into his brain. He checked his watch, he was due at the club for physio; the Boss would be there ready to pep him along, big him up and stress the importance of the game. "Bloody Bergson," he moaned, 'it's alright for you, you've pretty much always been United and you'd love to see the Magpies go down. Bastard."

An hour later he was stretched face down on the table whilst Mike, the club physio, rubbed his hamstrings. Mike had tried to start up a conversation but gave up after receiving only grunts in response. Bergson was in the corridor outside, talking to Terry Finch, one of his assistant trainers. He sounded excited, energised and as they broke off Darren closed his eyes. He hadn't realised just how much he didn't want to see his manager, the man who had tempted him away from St. James' with the prospects of glory, medals and, of course, money.

"Darren," said Bergson, bursting into the room, a big man, with a big head and a florid face and a voice he used like a weapon, "how you feeling? How's he looking for tomorrow, Mike?"

"He's good, Boss," said Mike, crouching down and wringing his hands Uriah Heep fashion; he was fearful of Bergson’s temper.

"How's that leg?" Bergson grabbed the limb in question, the one that had scored a total of 260 goals, 89 of them for United; an incredible 36 this season. Darren flinched at the contact. "Listen son, I want you to take it easy today, no training just physio, it's more important to rest than anything else. You get us an early goal tomorrow I'll get you off and shut up shop, no point risking further injury, there's still the final to come and we could end the season with the 'double'."

Darren tried to come up with a suitably positive response, though none was necessary, Bergson had moved on, pushing Mike aside, "Turn over a minute I need to see your face."

Darren rolled over, 'here we go,' he thought, 'the pep talk.'

"Listen, son, this is the very last game of the season, we're in prime position, but Chelsea are only 1 point behind us."

"But we've got better goal difference, Boss," Mike interjected enthusiastically, his head nodding up and down.

"Yeah, yeah," said Bergson, eyeing him coldly, then adding dismissively, "got work to do, Mike?"

"We're gonna win Boss," Mike said, missing the cue in his enthusiasm.

Bergson's look closed the supply of breath to Mike's throat, then thankfully the attention was back on Darren, "If we win...."

"When we win," whispered Mike, superstitiously touching two fingers to his head, his chest then left and right shoulders. He repeated the movement at speed until it became meaningless.

Bergson took a deep calming breath, if Mike wasn't such an accomplished masseuse and so well-loved by the dressing room he'd have him out on his ear faster than... he dipped his head and rubbed his forehead, "If we win," he continued through gritted teeth, "we win the league."

"Yeah!" shouted Mike throwing his fist in the air.

"Mike!" snapped Bergson, "if you don't mind."

"Sorry Boss, just kinda...well you know."

Bergson turned his back on him, focussing the blue eyed laser beam directly into Darren's troubled brown gaze, "Tomorrow's a really big day for this club, you do know that?"

Darren resisted the urge to blink, "Yes Boss."

"We could win the League again, and you know what that means to the club and the fans."

"To the club and the fans," repeated Mike, reverentially.

"And to me personally, Darren?"

"To the Boss," intoned Mike.

"I went out on a limb bringing you to this great club; you know that, don't you Darren?"

"Yes Boss." Although he'd heard it all before and it had lost some value in the repetition, it was still an unarguable fact, Bergson had fought a lot of people to get his transfer past the Board.

"They certainly didn't want to pay the salary, you remember that too, don't you Darren?"

"Yes Boss." Darren kept his face straight, stopped his lip curling in disgust at his own greed. Money, the root of all evil.

"So now's the time to show I was right and what a great investment it was."

"Right Boss," he managed a nod this time.

"So tomorrow I want you to go out there with only one intention, to make us champions again."

There was a small silence while Bergson held Darren's gaze, even Mike was in awe of the moment. There was an elephant in the room and they had been circling it but now it was time to shine the light.

"Notwithstanding consequences for Newcastle."

It was out in the open. NEWCASTLE UNITED. In letters as large as life. Darren thought it must be obvious to anyone with eyes that he was dying inside.

"But you can do it, I know you can." Not obvious to Bergson then.

"Yes Boss, don't worry about me, Boss," said Darren, "I'm United through and through." There, he'd said it, United through and through, the Newcastle bit was in his head only; he'd got away with saying it.

"Good lad," said Bergson, "so remember, a win tomorrow and....."

"We will win, Boss," said Mike keenly.

"That's enough, Mike," said Bergson.

"We will win," muttered Mike, crossing himself again.

Bergson dipped his head, then lifted it in a roar, "A WIN TOMORROW," he paused, offering Mike the bait but he wisely held his tongue, "and we win the league. However, if we draw..."

"We won't draw, Boss," said Mike, "Darren's leg will get us the goal we need."

"MIKE!" Bergson calmed himself, "Mike. Could you get me some water, Mike?"

"Sure thing Boss," Mike dashed from the room.

"I've been a player, Darren, so I know where you're at right now. I know that it's not only your old club but the club you've supported since you were a lad."

"Boss." Least said, soonest mended, Darren remembered from somewhere.

"I know that a win for us sees them relegated and, believe me, I never like to see a club go down, especially a great club like Newcastle, but that's the name of the game, right?"

Darren nodded, "Boss," he said, thinking, 'but you hate Keith.'

Bergson replied as if the words had been spoken, "I know Keith Morgan and I have had our differences," a small word to cover a huge depth of loathing, "but you know I think he's a great guy and I admire him as a manager, right?"

"Right, Boss," said Darren, thinking, 'You hate Keith 'cause he found out you shagged his missus and he took your Maureen in exchange.'

"It's just not been their season, right."

"Right Boss," said Darren, desperate to say out loud, 'Yeah but you didn't help, knifing and niggling at him in the papers.'

"And they'll spring back from this."

"Boss." Yeah right.

"Besides which, you're a United player now."

"United through and through!" Darren was having real problems maintaining this. How Bergson couldn't hear the double meaning was beyond him.

"So, tomorrow I want you to go out there with nothing else on your mind but scoring that winning goal and making us champions again. Then we can move onto the cup final and do the 'Double' for the fans, for United, for Manchester United."

"Sure thing, Boss."

"Remember," said Bergson, his eyes turning icy, "all that really counts is us being champions again. Otherwise Chelsea will get it and that would fuck me right off."

"Me too Boss," said Darren. A measure of sincerity entered his voice, he was no fan of the Blues that's for sure.

"Here's your water, Boss," said Mike returning at the run, slopping liquid in his excitement.

"Cheers Mike," said Bergson putting the plastic cup down without taking a sip and nodding for Mike to follow him into the corridor, "Well?"

"Boss?" Mike looked mystified.

"How is he? How's the leg?"

"Oh, it's good, Boss."

"He'll be alright for tomorrow?"

"Sure thing, Boss."

"What about up here?" said Bergson, tapping a finger on his temple.

"I think he'll be alright Boss," said Mike.

"You're sure?" pressed Bergson, "Terry's not so sure." The assistant trainer wasn't Darren's biggest fan so to a certain extent his comments could be taken with a pinch of salt, but Bergson wanted to be sure.

"Who can tell what a guy's really thinking," said Mike, "but he seems ok to me."

Bergson looked through the glass at the top of the door, Darren had rolled onto his stomach and was resting his head on his arms. "Well, if he doesn't look interested we'll whip him off."

A voice from the top of the corridor hailed them, and Pat Seymour, Club Director, bore down, face wreathed in smiles, "We're all but there, man."

"Aye!" replied Bergson, grimly, "Just the one more hurdle."

"Hurdle? Newcastle? They're shite, they've been shite all season." He included Mike in the breadth of his smile, "We'll tear them apart especially with our Darren, he'll bury them and send the bastards back down where they belong. Serve that bastard Keith right for shacking up with your Maureen."

Bergson raised his finger to his mouth and shook his head. Mike pointed at the door of the physio room. Pat pulled a face and wrapping his arm around Bergson's shoulders, dragged him off to talk more of victory and glory.

Darren closed his eyes, 'What am I doing here?'


episode 2

Workmen - Again



Barry pulled on his fluorescent jacket, stuffed his mobile in the top pocket and his clip board under his arm. Then he took a deep breath and set off towards his road gang; his ex-mate, Andy Blake, now all venom and snide remarks; Denzel Carmichael, a tall, black bloke with attitude; bloody Wayne Webber, sex-obsessed and useless; Gary Caswell, only a youngster but getting to be just as bad as the rest. One absentee, Norman Horton, bright, arsey but marginally more reliable, currently getting their breakfasts. The rest of them taking full advantage of Barry's distraction and idling by the roadside.

"'ere 'e comes, Fat Bastard," muttered Andy, grizzled and rheumy-eyed, well-suited to his Old Boy nickname, hiding the comment behind his hand as he drew in another drag of tobacco laced smoke, "look at 'im, can barely walk, waste of fucking space."

"Nah, nah, Andrew, I thought 'e was your mate, Bazza this, Bazza that, time was you were bum chums," said Denzel, head shaved to cover imminent baldness, polished like a walnut, shining richly in the morning sun.

Andy glared and was forming a retort when Gary spoke up, "Wouldn't get far wiv the nature fing, would 'e, Old Boy?" Called the 'Kid', nothing clever about the nickname; he only looked about 12, his face screwed up as he sought the words that would illuminate what he meant.

"What you sayin'?" said Wayne, aka Mohican, aka Pinky, on account of his hair.

"He means natural selection, Pinky," said Denzel, a hint of irritation in his tone, he being the only 'person of colour' in their ranks.

"Be fair, Baldy," continued Gary, "Lions would take a week to eat all that."

"Feed the whole pack," said Wayne, scratching at the pointed pink thatch on top of his head.

"Pride," corrected Andy, eyes screwed up, cigarette bobbing as he spoke.

"Is he gay, Old Boy?" Gary looked puzzled, an expression his face was well-used to carrying.

"Lions, Kid ...it's a pride, not a pack," said Denzel, stroking his head, amused by his own total lack of mane, "a pride of lions."

"Alright you lot," said Barry, joining up with them after several breath absorbing moments, aware all the time of their scornful scrutiny, knowing the cruel nickname and hearing its echo with every footfall, Fat Bastard, Fat Bastard, seeing it ricochet off the tarmac, "we gotta plug the targets on the left side of the roundabout, so best close down this side. Kid, you set up the cones from ten metres back, block off this left side and we'll filter everyone round to the right."

"Like we couldn't've worked that out for ourselves," muttered Andy, his erstwhile friend, over-looked in the promotion stakes and still bitter, "dunno why we had to wait for you to turn up."

"Because I'm in charge here," Barry said, "and I don't want you lot going off half cocked... Baldy." That was said with a heavy look at Denzel, known as Baldy to his workmates. The others smirked.

"That was a one off," Denzel protested, the main culprit for what would be forever known as 'the disaster at Wickham'. Barry had been late arriving so Denzel had taken responsibility for the set up of the job. Only problem - the map was upside down, so they'd dug the hole in the wrong part of town, in front of Colonel Ashington-Smedley's drive. To make matters worse, the lights got set up with the wrong time delays, consequently drivers were rushing to beat the lights. The end result was Ashington-Smedley's Bentley angled at 45 degrees in a very deep hole. An event Denzel would never be allowed to forget, the more so because he was meant to be one of the 'bright' ones, second only to Norman in the gang's intellectual pecking order.

"Just get on with it," said Barry, "Pinky, you set the lights up. Andy (he resisted the urge to use his ex-friend's nickname) and you, Baldy, you mark out the targets."

"Holes," hissed Andy, "they're holes, not bloody targets, when you gonna drop the military shit you keep tossing out, eh?"

"Yeah, like you could get in the army, Fat Bastard," said Gary, although not loudly.

"Leave it out, you lot," Barry said, he'd heard Gary's mumbled dissent if not the words, "it's how everyone does things these days."

"Yeah," said Wayne, his hand hovering just above the spikes of his Mohican, "Fuckin' ETA this and why the fuck is everything an 'objective'? We just dig holes and fill 'em in again."

"It helps co-ordinate the team effort," said Barry coldly, walking away to join Gary.

"There he goes again, Fat Bastard," moaned Andy, "co-ordinate the team effort, fuckin' 'ell."

"Come on, Old Boy, just dig the bloody targets, won't ya," said Denzel.

"Not you as well, Baldy," Andy was incensed, he had no sense of proportion when it came to Barry in the ganger position, not when they'd worked side by side for years.

"No, OB-wan, I just can't be arsed to argue with the idiot."

"Oi, Baldy, not so much of it, I heard that," Barry shouted.

"You were meant to," said Denzel, "and when you going on that fuckin' diet, you fat git?" The last was a muttered aside but Barry's antenna was finely attuned to insults.

"Who you callin' a fat git?"

"Talking about diet, where the fuck's Bookie wiv my breakfast?" Andy put his hand up against his eyes, scanning the road ahead, looking for the van that would herald Norman's arrival.

Barry caught up with Gary, who was disconsolately dropping cones down, bored with the task but dutifully fulfilling it. Gary spoke without looking up, "Dunno why you mind that if your nickname's Fat Bastard?"

"That's different, Kid, he's being personal," Barry turned and yelled back at the watching group, "that's a disciplinary, that is, Baldy."

"Oh, fuck off," muttered Denzel, then shouted back, "I tell you what, when you have your fuckin' coronary I'm not givin' ya the kiss of life, that's for sure."

The rest of the group fell about laughing at this, "Me neither," said Andy, "Pinky'll have to do it."

Wayne stopped laughing abruptly, "Fuck off, why me?"

"'Cause you're queer, so it won't matter to you," Andy said, as if stating a fact, not tossing insults.

"I'm not fuckin' queer, you knob, just 'cause I got pink hair it don't make me queer."

"Then why've you got pink hair?"

"Because I 'ave. Anyway if you'd known me last month you'd know it was blue then." He was laughing again now, preening his spikes.

"That was when you were a boy," smirked Denzel, nudging Andy in the ribs, "but now you're a girl."

"Fuck off, Baldy," Wayne's mood changed, "that's bullyin' that is, I could 'ave you for that."

"Don't be an arse, Pinky," said Andy, "we're just ribbin' ya."

"Well, I could still 'ave youse two, an' anyway there's nothing wrong with pink, in fact my Mo says it's a sign of my self confidence and masculinity." He was back to preening.

Gary, having finished his cone placing, was walking back to join the group, "Your what?" he called.

Wayne shouted back, wanting him on side, "My feminine side, Gazza."

"What?" guffawed Denzel, "Your what side?"

"We've all got a feminine side, and a masculine side, it's Ying and Yang." Or was it Yin and Yan, he could never remember.

"Bollocks to that, Pinky," said Andy, "I want it understood here and now that I ain't got no feminine side so if any of you faggots try an' stick your tongue down me throat I'll knock your fuckin' block off."

"Hey, you lot, this is getting well out of hand," Barry was approaching fast, breathing hard, almost apoplectic, he'd heard so many breaches of the Equality and Diversity regulations he could hardly note them all, "Andy, you can't say half of what you just said."

The banter continued unchecked.

"I ain't no fuckin' faggot," Wayne was so angry he was spluttering, "I got a girlfriend."

"That's debatable," said Denzel, with another nudge at Andy's ribs, "I've seen 'er an she's pretty fuckin' rough."

"Don't you slag off my Mo." Wayne took up a pugilist stance, the pose contrasting oddly with the pink spikes.

"Ok, Pinky," said Denzel, raising his palms, "take it easy, it's just that she ain't no looker, is she?"

Wayne dropped his hands. He looked round at them, a glint in his eye, "her girlfriend is."

There was a short silence. Gary looked puzzled. Andy's eyebrows had gone skyward, and Denzel shook his head, slightly bemused.

"Whaddya mean, Pinky, her girlfriend is?" asked Gary; the Kid asking the obvious question.

"Mo's Bi, int she," said Wayne, really smug now.

"She goes wiv girls, Pinky?" said Gary, scandalised "An' you let her? I couldn't handle that."

"You're not seeing the whole pictcha, Kid," Wayne demurred silkily, "I gets to join in, doan I."

"You what?" said Denzel, athlete of the group or not, he was between girlfriends and feeling it.

"Come on you lot, get some work done." All this talk of who was and who wasn't getting any was making Barry uncomfortable.

Wayne smiled, a self satisfied smirk, "So, if they want me to have pink 'air for the privilege, it don't bother me none."

Barry lost it, "Fuck off, Pinky, and the rest of you, just fuckin' get on wiv it, all of you, NOW!"


Have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

Wise Eyed Open - by Arun D Ellis - a compendium edition incorporating 'Helter Skelter', 'Power Grab' & 'Rust' - books 7, 8, & 9 in the series

King of the Road


The old man woke to another cold, wet day when he would wish they had ignored Alb's clarion call to 'stand up and fight for what is right'.

He, Dilwyn and Reg could have been enjoying a cosy life back at the retirement home. Instead both Reg and Dilwyn were lost to him, no doubt captive or dead.

He stretched out slowly, one leg at a time, cursing his advanced age, his frailty and the fact that he now lived on the street, unable to claim his army pension for fear of capture.

"Look out, Gilly, 'ere 'e comes," mumbled Razza, his pavement mattress companion, speaking through blackened teeth that were barely visible above a salt and pepper, beer stained beard, "it's 'is majesty."

"What? Who?"

Gilly's ancestry was obvious in those two words. He was trying hard to lose his accent, worried it might betray him but he was too old and simply, being one Gilbert Owen, too Welsh.

"'is majesty," repeated Razza, nodding at a dishevelled and forlorn looking figure with an equally forlorn looking mutt in tow.

As he drew near Gilbert felt an unexpected surge of shocked recognition, and the adrenalin that followed made his heart beat faster. He had to breathe deeply to slow it back down.

Razza struggled to his feet and bowed elaborately to the new arrival who disconsolately waved away the ironic tribute.

"No need for that here, my man, we're informal," said the new arrival. His voice was unusually rich, rather like he had something in his mouth other than his tongue.

Gilbert narrowed his eyes, studying the man in front of him, trying to see beyond the dirty clothes and the unkempt appearance.

"Gilly, meet 'is Majesty," Razza said.

"You may call me Charles," the man said, elongating the 'Char' and arriving at the 'les' quite a time later.

Razza laughed nastily, "Finks 'ees the Prince, see, that's why I calls im 'is majesty, innit."

The man tilted his head and looked down his long nose at the two men, "I am Charles Philip Arthur George Windsor, Prince of Wales, and rightful heir to the throne of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and the Commonwealth realms."

Then he sat down on the wall, first plucking at his trousers in a movement Gilbert recognised as an attempt to avoid spoiling their shape.

"Why ain't you in Buck 'ouse then?" demanded Razza, giving Gilbert a wink. This question had obviously been asked before.

The man sighed, saying, "My home is in Clarence House. Buckingham Palace is the sometime home of my parents, the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh," he was speaking as if to a fool, "why would I be there?"

He fell silent; the last time he'd tried to gain entry to the Palace there'd been a queue of imposters stretching for miles. Short men, tall men, even a couple of black men, all resplendent in fancy dress red jackets and fake medals. He had decided to wait until the furore died down before making another attempt.

"Of course, silly me," Razza said, nudging Gilbert as a fellow conspirator.

The man looked at Razza with disdain, then spoke wearily, "It will all be ironed out, I assure you."

"Course it will, yer 'ighness," said Razza, "an' when it is, you won't forgets your old muckers, will ya?"

"Well......" started the man, "I'm sure Mummy....."

Razza burst out laughing, a loud raucous sound that startled Gilbert as well as the other man.

"I say," said the man, "do you have to be so....?"

"So, what?" demanded Razza, "I ain't int'rested in Mummy. I'm talkin' about you, lendin' an 'and to your ole mate. Consid'rin' all wot I've done for you."

The man furrowed his brow; a battle raged across his face as he tried to find an expression other than casual condescension.

"You ain't forgot all I done for you?" said Razza, leaning in a hostile way towards him.

"Of course not, old chap," said the man, clearly unused to this level of aggression, "I'll remember you, I would have to explain things to Mummy, that's all."

Razza reached into one of the deep pockets of his long winter coat tossed the remains of a KFC chicken wing into the man's lap before plonking himself back down on the mattress.

Gilbert lowered himself down, using the wall as a support and muttering quietly, "Is there any way he could be who he says he is?"

"'e can't be, can 'e," Razza said sniffing, "but if 'e is, then 'e needs to remember it was Razza wot 'elped 'im in 'is hour of need, now that's got to be worf somefink, don't ya fink?"

Gilbert went on the attack, annoyed with himself for the initial stab of recognition that had since faded, "He can't be Prince Charles, look you. Prince Charles is debonair. He's been on the Best Dressed list. He's a style icon."

Razza turned to stare at him. Style icon?

He'd wondered about him from the start, thought him a bit feminine, but then decided he was just one of those dapper old men, bit fussy but nothing more than that. Now he wasn't so sure.

He looked at Gilbert again and dismissed his concerns. The old man was no threat to him. If he tried it on he could flatten him with one blow. Failing that he could dob him in, get him locked up like the rest of the old codgers.

Razza turned to the matter at hand, "Show Gilly 'ere yer clobber," he said, addressing the wannabe prince, "show 'im...under yer coat there."

The man licked his fingers and tossed the remains of the chicken bones to his dog, sighed deeply and opened his dirty overcoat.

Gilbert's heart nearly stopped.

As an ex Welsh infantryman he would recognise a genuine scarlet tunic of the Welsh Guards with its unique five button pattern and the leek collar detail from 200 paces. It was dirty, and obscured by a black substance. Could it be tar? And, lord above, was that a feather? The medals were incredible; surely no one but Prince Charles had so many? He had no words that could cover his shock.

Razza seeing this, nodded excitedly, "See, not so daft, am I? Coverin' me bets is wot I'm abaht doin'."

"Well, I never," sputtered Gilbert, "where did you come by that jacket?"

"My good man, I didn't come by it, as you put it...." The words were a supercilious drawl.

"I told you, Gilly," said Razza earnestly, "'e's the fuckin' Prince of Wales, 'e is. 'E was missin' and I've fahnd 'im."

Gilbert struggled to his feet, indicating to the man to do the same. He wanted to test his known height against that of the newcomer. If he was who he claimed to be Gilbert should reach his chin.

They rose up together. Razza, not understanding, did the same.

The three men stood in a tight circle. Up close the smell of tar was not to be denied.

Gilbert found himself head to chin with the self-proclaimed prince and heir to the throne.

His knees buckled and he sat back down with a bump.

"We should take him to Buckingham Palace," he gasped, too shocked to control his words, "and claim our reward."

Razza blinked. The Prince sat down on the wall, doing the trick with his trousers again.

"What's this, we, Gilly?" snarled Razza, "I'm the one wot's 'elped 'im, I'm the one wot gets the reward."

Gilbert gathered his wits, "Of course you are Razza, look you, I was just talking."

"Well don't," said Razza, only slightly mollified, eyes forming slits of suspicion, "you leave this to me, I got plans I 'ave."

Gilbert raised his hands, but his thoughts were racing. How could this be turned to his advantage? Could he use it to get off the streets? Find Dilwyn and escape the country?



The 2,000 Martyrs

The mosque had been completely restored since the bombing. However, the pain and dishonour of this insult had not dissipated.

According to news reports at the time, 75% of the ground floor, as well as large parts of the first floor and the roof had been destroyed in the blast. Funding for the restoration had come from a variety of unnamed sources; payback on the investments was about to come due.

Arrayed in straight lines, 20 by 100, the men in their black robes stood at attention.

The Imam walked slowly along the front rank and then climbed the 3 steps to the small platform and stood in front of the microphone.

He was older than all of those assembled, venerable and authoritative. He stared out at the men in front of him, capturing the full attention of every one of them, then he raised his hands and spoke, his voice throbbing into the space, a powerful yet melodious sound, "You are the shahid. You are the spirit of all Muslims everywhere. You are the soldiers we will send deep into the lands of the unbelievers."

He paused, the silence a single baited breath, "You are the sacred hand of vengeance."

Insha'allah, Insha'allah came the rumbling response.

He waited for silence then spoke again, "You will be the dagger driving deep into the soul of the west, destroying their culture and destabilising their lives. You will be a constant threat, moving from place to place, evading their police, creating fear in their hearts. Remember your brothers all over the world who depend on your efforts, on your determination and on your success."

He paused, "You will wreak havoc in their cities, in their streets and in their towns. You will defile their women and emasculate their men." He raised both hands to the heavens and put a deeper energy into his voice, "You will strike terror and fear into the infidel! Allahu Akbar."

Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar resonated round the room, rising and falling in waves as row after row confirmed their obedience.

Behind a long curtain at the back of the mosque the man from the Committee sipped his iced tea and smiled.



Talk of the Gods

Isaac Goldstein never tired of the view.

As he was fond of saying to business partners, it meant more to him than his three children, although he would never let his wife know. The children in question were already aware and knew that, whilst they could have anything money could buy, they could not compete with his work, one of the perks of which was an uninterrupted view the New York skyline.

He heard the door swish closed and said, "Latest stats, John?" without turning.

John Cohen, late twenties, ambitious, as yet unmarried. That Isaac suspected him of being homosexual wasn't a huge problem; as long as he didn't make it obvious his sexual proclivities could be ignored. It was his not having a wife on his arm, and children on the way that was career limiting. For some reason John, normally switched on, had yet to get the message and produce someone suitable.

John spoke firmly, happy talking to Isaac's back, having grown used to the older man's obsession with the view. "Global debt is currently running at $81.9 trillion, the bond markets are running at $150 trillion." He cleared his throat, this was serious stuff, "National exposures are irreversible. All Governments are now running a deficit that could become fatal in a big enough crisis and with inflation now at 4.8% and projected to keep rising the bond markets are becoming exposed........"

"And the markets?"

"All stock markets are running higher than they've ever been, confidence is up and everybody is buying."

"Hedges?"

"Bloated, no real stats but estimated to be valued at over $5 trillion, a record high, everyone's reporting record profits. There's more money sloshing around in the system than ever thanks to quantitative easing. As long as the Fed keeps interest rates down the bubble can only keep expanding."

"Latest reports put property prices rising at 15% per month," said Isaac.

Another voice entered the conversation, "Where are we with projections for the ultimate currency collapses?"

Benjamin Bahr, Isaac's sponsor, jowly and irascible, no fan of John's at any time. John was angry that he'd not seen the man in the shadows, nursing the ever present daiquiri.

Bahr spoke again, "We need to know how precarious things are and we need to know in advance. It'll be no good if the markets begin to collapse before we're ready."

John was instantly defensive; he knew his job, knew what he was doing but this man always wanted more.

He kept his voice neutral, "I understand what you're saying, however we're not gonna know exactly what will tip things over, the system is so complex...."

"You said you could predict how and when things would fall over. We have other plans riding on this."

John flicked a glance at Isaac's back. No support from that quarter.

He tried again with Bahr, "Yeah, I get that, and yeah, we've got a structure for collapse in place, all we need to do is start dumping stocks. We have reports to leak, casting doubt over the sustainability of the whole financial sector, we know several companies that are over exposed to debt and we have corresponding stories to release from other sources. Everything is in place and if the Fed starts raising interest rates, which I assume you'll control, it will tip over on its own. But you gotta understand, we've unleashed a myriad of unpredictable scenarios here, some trader somewhere could inadvertently trigger a natural collapse of the markets. It's got to that point where we have little or no control of what's occurring out there...."

Bahr was unimpressed. "What was your plan? How did you intend to collapse the markets in the first place?"

"Japan," said John, with quiet pride, "It's a mess, public sector borrowing's been unsustainable for the past twenty years, she's a bubble that should've burst long ago. Her national debt to GDP is about 270%, we put pressure on her interest rates then her bond markets will haemorrhage, the Nikkei will start to fall. It should turn into a rout pretty quickly. That will begin to apply pressure on China. Once you drag China in, and the US, the UK and Europe, then it should just be falling dominoes. There won't be much left after that."

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Rob



More books in the 'Corpalism' series















Compendium editions

Uprising by Arun D Ellis - book 1 in the Corpalism series

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 was having 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?”

“When are they doing something about parking?” said Terry, opportunistic as ever.

“As we said yesterday and the day before and oh yes as we’ve been saying 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.”

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

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:20 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,” he tried, “I promise I will get here earlier in future.”

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

≈ ≈

He 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 the time 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 or until you have the means of repaying them 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, yeah 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.’ He noticed a thin strip running the length of the hall on both sides of the corridor. ‘Nah, that’s just electric cable, surely?’

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun





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Compendium editions

Chapters 53, 54 & the Epilogue in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

53

To learn who rules over you,
simply find out who you are not allowed to criticise
Voltaire

"Mr. Balderstone," said QC Crapper, "are you anti-Semitic?"

Barry closed his eyes; knowing what would come next.

The Preacher raised his eyebrows, "Of course not, not in the sense you mean, anyway."

"And in what sense would that be?" pressed Crapper.

"I'm assuming from the generalised nature of your question that you're asking am I anti the ethno- religious group known as the Jews?"

"Are you anti-Semitic?" repeated Crapper.

"I am anti all religions," stated the Preacher, "simply because they are dogmatised, manipulative tools of state social control and that includes Christianity, Islam, Buddhism and Judaism. But if you're asking am I anti any group of people who identify themselves as Jewish simply because they exist then I would have to answer, of course not. However, I would qualify that by saying that I oppose the existence of the state of Israel because it is an artificial edifice carved out of Arab lands by our long dead rulers and their Jewish financiers."

"You say this yet you still maintain you are not anti-Semitic?" demanded Crapper.

"Israel as a construct is as artificial as Czechoslovakia was between the wars," stated the Preacher, "and it can only be sustained by continued violence and war."

"Answer the question," demanded Crapper, "are you anti-Semitic?"

"The only reason Israel hasn't been destroyed by the Arab nations is because the Jews now own America and are able to import the best weapons systems from the US....."

"Mr. Balderstone!" snapped Crapper, "Are you anti-Semitic?"

"I've given you my answer," stated the Preacher.

"Answer the question or be held in contempt," ordered the judge.

"Your honour," said the Preacher, "I am not anti anyone simply because of who or what they are but I do reject certain belief systems as false and manipulative and I do not recognise the manufactured state of Israel."

"Are you anti-Semitic?" pressed the judge.

"I do not recognise any religion," stated the Preacher, "and I do not recognise Israel as anything other than an artificial state."

"Record the defendant's answer as yes," instructed the judge, "and strike all that gibberish out of the record."

The Preacher stared at Burke and Dix, still silent, still reading.

"Mr Balderstone," said Crapper, placing his hands on his hips, "Are you a holocaust denier?"

The Preacher frowned but didn't answer.

"Well?" pressed Crapper.

"I'm sorry your honour," said the Preacher, "I can't answer this question."

"You're refusing to answer the question?" demanded Crapper.

"No," said the Preacher, "it's just not possible to answer the question, nobody could answer this question as it's been put."

"Just answer the question, Mr Balderstone, prevaricating will avail you nothing," said the judge.

"Which holocaust?" answered the Preacher, his voice caustic, "The American Indian holocaust? The Armenian holocaust? The Rwandan holocaust?"

"These were genocides," stated Crapper, "my question clearly relates to the horrors that befell the Jews in WWII as you clearly know. M'Lord, can the court assume that the defendant's answer to this question is yes?"

"Mark response as yes," ordered the judge.

"I have never denied that several million Jews were killed by the Germans and the East Europeans during WWII but I do object to the term holocaust as it implies that the Jewish losses are somehow more important than those suffered by any other country such as Russia or......"

"Is that because you are a communist?" demanded Crapper, "Sent here by your Russian masters to destabilise this country, to wreak havoc and to foment revolution?"

"I do not need Russians to inspire me to revolt against the corrupt state that we now live in."

Barry found he was gripping his hands together, his breath was ragged and he badly wanted to leave; to avoid hearing the inevitable.

"Did you encourage the residents of the Eden Hall Retirement Village to arm themselves and launch a murderous attack on Parliament?" demanded Crapper.

"Although I would love to answer in the affirmative," said the Preacher, smiling broadly for the first time in hours, "honesty prevents me from accepting the credit for someone else's genius."

"You condone it?" Crapper's tone was exultant.
Burke rose to his feet then as quickly sat down again.

"I not only condone it, I support it whole heartedly. In fact, I recommend it as a course of action, I demand that others repeat the example and yes, if you want me to, I will take credit for it even if it puts the true instigator's nose out of joint."

"Then you admit you are a communist agitator sent here to destabilise this country and to foment revolution against a true democracy?"

"I was sent by no-one, but I do admit that my aim is revolution against this system and its leaders who are destroying my country and driving my people into the annals of history....."

"Your Honour the defendant is making a speech again."

"Mr Balderstone," said the judge, warningly.

"I am," agreed the Preacher, "I want everyone here to recognise we are in the fight of our lives and if we don't make a stand and resist, if we don't all gather behind the English shield wall...."

"Shield wall?" said Crapper, "This is preposterous clap trap."

The judge bashed his gavel, again and again, trying to drown out the Preacher's words but he pressed on, raising his voice, "...then we will be swept away, we will be nothing but a brief footnote in some future history book."

"Mr Balderstone," shouted the judge; he was banging his gavel now as a matter of course with no apparent expectation of it having any effect.

"We will be as homeless as the Jews once were, as the Roma, the gypsies, the American Indians and the Palestinians are now. Ask yourselves, where are the Spartans? Ask yourselves who are the English? We are being stripped of our national identity! The Scots, the Welsh and the Irish are fighting to preserve their identity but what are we doing? NOTHING!"

"Strike all of that," ordered the judge, "Mr Balderstone, you are now in contempt, do you hear me?"

"Contempt?" the Preacher's tone was thick with derision, "Do you think I recognise your right to prosecute me? You a servant of this evil corrupt state; what right do you claim to condemn me?"

The Judge gestured to the police officers either side of the Preacher, and they moved closer to him. The gallery was on its feet, some were cheering and others foot stamping, Barry was laughing excitedly, caught up in the moment.

"Your Honour," said Crapper, struggling to be heard above the clamour, "he has condemned himself from his own lips."

"I agree," shouted the judge, then he bellowed, "clear the court, clear the court."

"Any right minded Englishman would support the acts of the men and women who rid us of that passel of bloated leaches cluttering the halls of power," the Preacher continued, obviously thoroughly enjoying himself, the consequences were for another time.

The judge pointed at him, "You have wasted enough of the court's time," he said, "the jury will retire to consider their verdict and your recent confession should aid them in their deliberations."

∞

The judge had agreed reluctantly to allow the onlookers back into the court room under strict instructions to watch the unfolding events in silence or he would have them evicted.

Barry found himself seated next to an elderly gentleman; dapper in an extremely expensive dark grey suit, natty moustache and holding an elaborate cane. Although Barry knew no-one who could afford £1500 suits apart from Blackmore, for some reason the man seemed familiar. He shrugged off the feeling of déja vu as the Judge strode in and took his seat on the bench.

"The defendant will rise," said the clerk of the court. The Preacher stood, stared straight ahead, his shoulders back. "Foreman of the jury, have you reached a verdict?"

A short, square jawed man rose up, shuffled papers in his hands and cleared his throat. He didn't look at the Preacher and Barry's heart sank.

"Of the crime of incitement to racial hatred, how do you find the defendant?"

"We find the defendant guilty as charged," said the foreman.

"Of the crime of conspiracy to commit murder, how do you find the defendant?"

"We find the defendant guilty as charged."

"Of the crime of High Treason in the form of disloyalty to the Crown, how do you find the defendant?"

"We find the defendant guilty as charged."

The judge spoke solemnly, "Does the defendant want to make any comment before sentence is passed?"

"Yes," said the Preacher, "I would like to make one final point. When historians and political commentators suggest that western culture is in decline they have either misread the situation or are deliberately deceiving the masses. Western culture which was primarily conservative and had been successful for over a thousand years was destroyed by the great European civil war of the early twentieth century. The social restructuring of our society has since foundered on the rocks of neo-liberalism and its still born child, neo-conservatism. The eventual backlash against neo-liberalism will be based on the principles of social conservatism; that being the only way to restore order and a sense of stability to society."

The judge pursed his lips and said, "I have here a note from the Prime Minister which instructs me to confer the death penalty on a guilty verdict."

Some of those in the courtroom gasped. Barry felt the man sitting next to him stiffen, saw his age-spotted hand tighten round the top of his cane.

The judge looked at the Preacher as he addressed him, "Nicholas Balderstone, you have been tried and found guilty of heinous crimes. Yours was a cynical act of high treason, committed with the sole aim of destroying the fabric and stability of this nation. You are guilty of inciting uprisings against the rule of law, conspiracy to commit multiple murder and spreading doctrine designed to fan the flames of racial hatred. There can be no room for your kind in this land." The judge paused and placed the square of black cloth on his head, speaking solemnly as he did so, "Nicholas Balderstone, you are hereby sentenced to death. You will be taken down from this place and hung by the neck until you are dead."

"I will be pleased to die in the defence of my country," stated the Preacher, "Long live England."

Up in the gallery Barry rested his face in his hands. He cursed quietly to himself, then mind made up, he rose and left.
 
54

A real friend is someone who walks in
when the rest of the world walks out
Walter Winchell

The two policemen escorted the Preacher down to the cells. They were all silent, the Preacher for obvious reasons and the policemen because this was the first time that they had ever taken a man down who had been condemned to death. A police sergeant greeted them and, rattling his keys, made his way along the line of cells. As he shoved his key into the lock of the Preacher's holding cell they heard a commotion behind them. The sergeant signalled one of the guards to take a look and unhurriedly, he wandered off down the corridor. "Bloody reporters, I shouldn't wonder," said the sergeant, in a not unfriendly tone, truth be told he felt a bit sorry for his charge, seemed a nice enough bloke when he got off his soap box, "not often we get a celebrity down here, especially one who's been sentenced to death."

Just then they heard fast moving feet and Barry thundered round the corner.

"Get that man," ordered the sergeant and the other constable stepped forwards but Barry pulled a silenced Glock and aimed it at the constable's head, "Okay, let him go," he ordered.

"Now see here, sir," said the sergeant.

Barry fired a shot just above the sergeant's head, "Let him go," he repeated.

"Alright, sir," said the Sergeant, "but you realise this whole thing is being recorded, don't you."

Barry smiled for the camera and waved the Preacher forwards. The Preacher smiled, "No need, Barry, I'm happy to go with their judgement."

"I'm making my choice, Preacher," snapped Barry, "now get your arse over here before I shoot the nice policemen."

The Preacher thought for a moment, then raised his handcuffed hands for the sergeant to unlock.

A minute later Barry and the Preacher burst through an exit and ran onto the pavement outside just to the left of a crowd of reporters, "Shit!" hissed Barry.

"What now?" asked the Preacher.

"Don't ask me," said Barry, "I'm making this up as we go along."

Just then a chauffeur driven silver Bentley pulled up, the rear door swung open and the old man Barry recognised from the trial signalled them in.

The Preacher threw a questioning glance at Barry. He raised his shoulders.

"Quickly!" hissed the old man, "It's me, Alb, from the Eden Hall Retirement Village, get in, both of you." 



Epilogue


Every new beginning comes from
some other beginning's end.
Seneca

The room was dark; heightening the sense of mystery.

Mags had taken them straight up in the lift having instructed them to not speak to anyone or each other en route. She had arranged the meeting but she'd given them no information as to its reason. They'd learned to follow her lead without argument; she'd sorted everything out for all the remnants of their band, and they owed their continued freedom to her skills and her ability to call in old favours.

She'd taken in her stride Alb turning up with Barry and the Preacher; despatching them with sufficient money to cover their immediate needs and the address of yet another safe house.

Although the disguise had served Alb well in the courtroom, he still felt faintly ridiculous; hair brushed back and gelled, ludicrously expensive suit and stiff, similarly expensive shoes. The moustache suited him; he was keeping that but planned to lose the fancy walking stick she insisted he carry. He tried not to look at Gerry, convinced he would laugh at his friend, equally expensively clad in a navy pinstripe, looking every inch the elderly shareholder of a large corporation, with non-prescription horn-rimmed glasses as a prop instead of the cane. They both carried briefcases; empty except for several newspapers for weight.

"Can I at least get a drink?" Gerry complained, pulling at the collar of his linen shirt.

Mags looked relaxed; the tension she'd been carrying on the circuitous route they had taken to the hotel appeared to have lifted from her shoulders as soon as they'd entered the room.

Alb flopped down onto the winged armchair, regretting the casual move as the trousers bit into his waist and his back seized, saying only, "A drink would be good, Mags."

"He'll be here soon," she said, her eyes alight now with excitement.

"Who? Mackie?" He was the only person, apart from themselves who Alb could think of who would require such secrecy. Obviously they were all 'on the run' or in their case, hiding in plain sight in expensive hotels such as this one.

A shadow flitted across her eyes and he thought he saw tears glistening, "No, not Mackie...a friend," was all she said.

There was a knock at the door and she crossed the room in less strides than Alb would've needed, then put her face close to the door and whispered something. She must have got the reply she wanted because she hastily opened the door and admitted a young asian man in an up-market hoodie. He moved swiftly, with an ease that both Gerry and Alb envied. He placed a rucksack on the coffee table and opened it to show Mags the contents. Thus far he had not troubled to acknowledge either of the two men; his eyes were for Mags alone.

"It's all there, Margo. He wanted you to have it."

His voice was melodious, yet somehow it held a threat, though not, Gerry felt instinctively, for them in that room. "There is a key in the bag; to a safety deposit box. He said you would know where it was?"

Mags appeared to be having difficulty speaking and Gerry moved to her side. She nodded. The man looked closely at her, a question in his eyes.

She spoke through her tears, "I'll be fine, Malikhi, I'm with friends."

He nodded, then looked at Alb and Gerry for the first time; assessing them. Then, apparently satisfied, he nodded again and left the room.

FIN

Cheers for reading - hope you enjoyed it

Arun









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Chapter 52 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

52

All national institutions of churches,
whether Jewish, Christian or Turkish,
appear to me no other than human inventions,
set up to terrify and enslave mankind, and monopolize power and profit
Thomas Paine 1737 - 1809

The day dawned bright; Barry was in position early, this time a few rows back from the front.
Crapper started quickly, taking a new tack, "Mr. Balderstone, please confirm to the court that you have spoken about Islam and Judaism; presenting these in a negative and derogatory light?"

"I have presented all religions in a negative and derogatory light, and will continue to do so. This is the 21st century, believing in supreme beings is as infantile as believing in Father Christmas."

"Please restrict yourself to a simple yes or no, have you spoken out against Islam and Judaism?"

"I have spoken out against all redundant god syndrome belief systems."

"Please answer the question," said Crapper, "with specific regard to Islam and Judaism."

The Preacher looked towards Burke who was diligently reading his notes. Surely, 'asked and answered applied here'? No help was forthcoming from that quarter, so he raised his hands in despair and answered, "No."

"We heard from Mark Nibblett earlier that you openly accuse the Jews of murdering Christ, a well known anti-Semitic strategy. You attack multiculturalism and ethnic minorities and the number of mosques, it's all here, irrefutably, so the answer has to be yes."

"Well yes," said the Preacher, "clearly the Jews did kill Christ and......"

"And in these meetings," said Crapper, relentlessly, "did you not regularly launch a monologue against the economic leaders and financiers of this great nation with the sole intent of causing dissatisfaction and general insurrection aimed primarily at the ethnic minorities in the business world and at our own aristocracy?"

"I said that the rich entrepreneurs and the aristocracy in this country have sold out the masses in return for rich pickings earned through slave labour in the third world....."

"Yes or no please, Mr Balderstone," demanded Crapper.

"And that they have allowed cheap labour in from Eastern Europe with the sole aim of forcing down the price of labour here in the UK, yes I said all that."

"Yes, is all we're looking for here," said the judge irritably. "Strike all the defendant's preceding comments from the record, let it be shown only that he responded in the affirmative."

"Mr. Balderstone," pressed Crapper, "did you not attack the right of ethnic minorities to be in this fair land, and link their being here to some vile plot by our own economic leaders?"

The Preacher glanced again at Burke, then at the junior counsel, Martin Dix, not even a glimmer of interest.

So that was to be the way of it then; if he was to have no defence then he would go on the attack, "Yes. I did and I'd do it again."

Barry closed his eyes.

Crapper raised his hands in victory, "You admit then that you preached racial hatred?"

"Revolution," corrected the Preacher, "I wanted to inspire revolution."

"With the intention of causing physical harm?" pressed Crapper, "Even death?"

"Our society is rotten. We've been corrupted by greed. We buy dirt cheap products knowing that the person who made them lives in economic servitude. All the while the more we buy from China and India the more we drive down our own wages and the less we can afford to live on what we earn. Then the rich can argue that they have to bring in East European workers because lazy Brits won't work for the same money. Well, why should we work for peanuts? Why should our standard of living return to the dark days of the nineteenth century just so the rich can earn more? Why, I ask you why?"

Barry groaned, finding himself in company with a few others in the gallery. Burke's mouth was opening and closing but no sound was emanating. One or two of those in the courtroom nodded in agreement.

Crapper continued, "And on another occasion you were heard to say, and I quote, 'it is our leaders who we must hold responsible and it is our leaders who we must remove forthwith'. Do you deny saying this, Mr Balderstone?"

The Preacher shrugged eloquently, his eyes full of mischief, and Crapper went on, "and on yet another occasion you were heard to extol the achievements of the Nazis."

"I have never extolled the Nazis," stated the Preacher defiantly, no longer amused.

"But here," said Crapper, waving one sheet in the air, "and here," waving another, "and here," yet another, "all of these are direct quotes where you clearly state that it was the Jewish betrayal of Germany in WWI that lead directly to the allied victory."

"Yes, that's true," said the Preacher.

Burke shook his head; how do you defend the undefendable?

"I put it to you that you are fiercely anarchic, a communist who holds anti-Semitic and racist views of the worst kind, wholly unrepentant of the harm and the misery you have caused."

The Preacher was frowning now, wanting to get this across in the right way, "I maintain that Hitler was factually correct when he said that world Jewry betrayed Germany when it threw its weight behind the allied cause in return for the British offer of Palestine. I have never said that I agreed with the way the Nazis treated the Jews in retaliation for that."

"Oh but you have," argued Crapper, almost frothing at the mouth in his outrage, "you are in fact a Holocaust denier, or at the very least, a revisionist."

"Misrepresentation. I believe that millions of Jews were killed by the Germans, however, hundreds of thousands of Jews were killed by the East Europeans. Ethnic cleansing was everywhere in the old Hapsburg Empire during WWII, it's how the countries of Eastern Europe cleared out their minorities; Serbs, Croats, Slavs, Jews, Gypsies, Romanians, you name it, they killed each other."

"Obfuscation, Mr Balderstone. I put it to you, that you condone it, it says so here, here and here." He was waving yet more sheets, his voice was pitched high, his face puce.

Concerned that the QC was in danger of losing his professional distance the Judge cleared his throat warningly.

Barry was sharply reminded of the discussion he'd had with the Preacher and how hard he'd tried to deflect him from this subject matter.

"I condone nothing," stated the Preacher, "but I do predict it is where we are headed if we do not stop the influx of foreigners into this country. I am warning of a train crash that awaits at the end of this multicultural trail our leaders have forced on us. If you knew anything of history you would know that the portrayal of Hitler as a despot who forced his will upon the German people is a deliberate lie. Hitler was elected, Hitler had a mass popular following. The German people weren't bullied into following him, they did so willingly because they felt they had been unfairly treated and were fearful of their future. Well, right now British people are feeling unfairly treated and fearful. Their standard of living is being eroded, their culture and way of life is being destroyed and whether you like it or not the people feel that they have been betrayed."

There was some applause in the courtroom, muted cheers, no-one wanted to be ejected. Barry found himself leaning forward, breath bated. The judge banged his gavel, "Silence in court."

"It is clear from your ranting, Mr Balderstone," said Crapper, "that you not only support the concept of National Socialism but that you blame the Jews for our current economic climate."

"I blame certain Jewish economists and political leaders for our current plight." He was pleased that Crapper had remarked on that; sometimes he forgot what he had talked about and what he had not. "Milton Friedman and Sir Keith Joseph," he added, helpfully.

"Two of the most respected men in the Western world and this known drug addict and frequenter of brothels blames them for our current economic plight," said Crapper, holding his arms out wide, an expression of amazement on his face. There were a few giggles, hastily suppressed. "I'm sure we all appreciate your opinion of two men who worked tirelessly for the economic benefit of all. I'm sure we value your ideas when weighed against those of these distinguished men."

"Just because the system they put in place holds them high," said the Preacher, unfazed, "doesn't mean they did no harm or that the damage they did won't have long-term devastating effects."

"From other comments you have made, I think I understand you to be saying that we will be driven into a state of chaos; inviting another Hitler and another holocaust?" said Crapper.

"I've been warning that the environment that has been created by the policies of our leaders and of the previously specified members of the Jewish intelligentsia is ripe for that outcome, yes."

"Have you been warning us, Mr Balderstone? Or have you been auditioning for the role?"

"I have no interest in politics and I am not a Hitler," said the Preacher, "I am the forewarning and if you choose to ignore me then you will reap the results."

He frowned, then added, "you could see me as John the Baptist, as one who comes before, if that helps?"

"I do not believe you've been warning us; I maintain that you see yourself as this future leader and that you intend to render a holocaust on this country far greater than anything Hitler ever achieved. It's all here, your views, expressed on numerous occasions, clearly you condone everything that Hitler and the Nazis ever did."

"No, but I understand why it happened, and I'm warning you that it will happen again."

"And you condone the Nazis and Hitler," said Crapper, "for clearly you hold similar views." He was insistent on this point, it was an integral part of the prosecution's case. "You would have us believe that multiculturalism doesn't work."

"It doesn't, it leads inevitably to ethnic cleansing. Look at your history books. Unless we examine the events that lead to the ethnic cleansing horrors of WWII we will never learn the lessons. Unfortunately we have been brainwashed into blindly accepting oft repeated wild accusations as incontrovertible facts. To the point where, if you do not condemn the Germans outright, you are accused of being anti-Semitic and a fascist."

"Mr Balderstone," the judge intervened swiftly, "please confine yourself to the matter at hand." He then addressed himself to the jury, "you will ignore the defendant's last remarks as speculation," then finally to the stenographer, "let those comments be stricken from the record."

"We're not allowed to question the accepted version of what happened to the Jews in WWII," argued the Preacher, "and when victims, such as the Palestinians, ask for our support their plight is ignored and the facts carefully hidden from the public. It seems to me that the only minority with any power in the world are the Jews; everyone else can go shove it."

The judge leaned forward, "Mr Balderstone, you will refrain from making anymore controversial statements about ethnic minorities, is that understood?"

The Preacher was silent, observing the judge with an expressionless face, then he spoke quietly, "There are hundreds of books and programmes about the holocaust but few examine the social and cultural unrest that lead up to it, especially when it comes to the German point of view. Everything is always taken from the Jewish viewpoint."

"Yet another example of the malicious ideas this man spouts," said Crapper addressing the jury, "designed to foment racial tensions and unrest amongst the populace."

"I believe we live in a morally corrupt world where we pander to the demands of the powerful and the wealthy whilst ignoring the desperate pleas of the weak and the vulnerable. I believe that the rich elite own the world and are determined to run it like a fiefdom. I believe that the Americans used white phosphorus in Fallujah, that the Israelis use it all the time in Gaza, and I want to understand why, when we condemned Saddam Hussein for gassing the Kurds, the Americans still get to deny the use of Agent Orange in Cambodia."

"Strike all of this out," ordered the judge, "and you will control yourself in my court."

"If it pleases your honour," said Crapper, "the prosecution feels the jury needs to hear these racially motivated tirades from the defendant."

"That may well be the case," said the Judge, "but I'll not have it in my courtroom, is that understood?"

Cheers for reading

Arun









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Chapter 51 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

51

If you don't like what someone has to say,
argue with them.
Noam Chomsky

Barry was courting disaster but he couldn't stay away.

Notwithstanding, he'd secured a good spot in the gallery. He'd convinced himself that, if caught, he could claim to be keeping an eye on the Preacher, having failed to kill him when thus instructed.

He settled down to watch.

He was concerned that he'd heard nothing on the grapevine about the Judge presiding; one Wilderspin Whatmore and was not sure what to make of his serious demeanour.

The charges were read out by the clerk of the court, a tall gaunt man with a fixed expression. As he intoned the list of crimes that one Nicholas Balderstone, aka the Preacher, was accused of there were gasps and a few groans, one of these escaped Barry before he clamped his lips together. Could it be any worse? Incitement to racial hatred; conspiracy to commit murder; and the final, most damning, high treason for the crime of disloyalty to the Crown.

The Preacher stood up to plead 'not guilty' in a firm voice, then sat down at once.

He was flanked in the dock by two huge police constables but seemed unabashed by this. Barry was pleased to note he was in a suit, albeit not a good suit, and that his hair had been trimmed, possibly done it himself with a blunt pair of scissors, but at least he'd been made to make the effort.

To Barry's experienced eye the two members of the Preacher's defence counsel, Burke and Dix, were an unprepossessing pair but perhaps looks would prove deceptive and they would be capable of mustering a good argument nonetheless. Barry glanced over at the prosecuting barrister; QC Crapper. He was a fierce looking man, made fiercer by a perpetual scowl and the grey wig. Now this man Barry had heard of and his reputation outdid even his looks; savagely upright and a man who took no prisoners. All in all, Barry was none too hopeful.

QC Crapper stood up and turned to address the jury, his voice was commanding as he spoke, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," then he went on to explain the process by which he would prove to them that "this man before you", this was said with a sneer and followed by a dismissive wave towards the preacher who smiled amiably, "is guilty of heinous and egregious crimes, the most evil of which is that he did conspire with the residents of the Eden Hall Retirement Village to attack Parliament and to kill over 500 of our most Honourable Members of Parliament," and so on and so on.

Barry was not as impressed by his opening remarks as he had thought he would be and his heart lifted.

"Your honour," said Crapper, moving on swiftly, "I would like to present Crown Exhibit A; transcribed evidence taken from one of the defendant's meetings, an ad hoc affair in a run down theatre. I would also like to submit for evidence a tape of a televised session; Crown Exhibit B."

One of the court assistants held up a few sheets of paper and a box. The judge nodded, accepting them into evidence. The papers were passed to the foreman of the jury and he scanned the first page quickly.

"I intend to show portions of the televised session," said Crapper, "However I could save you the trouble; it preaches vile and inflammatory religious hatred."

"Objection!" shouted the Preacher.

"Please be quiet," snapped the Judge, "your counsel acts for you, it is they who must object if they feel it necessary."

The Preacher looked to his barrister, Alvin Burke, who remained seated and silent. Clearly Burke by name and nature. Questioningly the Preacher raised his palms and his eyebrows.

"If I may continue, your honour," said Crapper, glaring at the Preacher, "these texts indicate a high level of religious hatred, anti faith and anti church protestations; all designed to inflame public opinion and arouse emotions. Added to this, I have witnesses to the vile tirades to which he subjected innocent bystanders, sheltering from the rain. I call Mark Nibblett to the stand."

The court usher brought in a young man; clearly over-awed and nervous, yet pleased to be in the spotlight. Crapper took the young man through how and when he first saw the Preacher and then got to the heart of the matter; what he'd heard the Preacher say about religion. Crapper took to repeating almost everything the young man said, in a loud display of histrionics. The jury appeared transfixed.

Barry almost snorted his disgust; hearsay, ignorant mumblings of an ill-adjusted youth, incapable of understanding the finer messages being offered to him.

The next witness was little better; Monica Adcock, portly, mid-fifties and bitter. She asserted the preacher was a pro-life radical, an anti-abortionist, a misogynist of the worst order, a dyed-in-the -wool communist and an anarchist.

Barry marvelled; she'd got all that from one session with him.

A stream of these people followed; a mixed bag, some of whom Barry thought he recognised but all saying more or less the same thing; communist, radical, anti-faith and more dangerously, anti-Semitic.

Barry was forced to admit that though the testimonies, by themselves, were insubstantial, layer upon layer of them had some power.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," thundered Crapper, "the prosecution has laid before you many witnesses who have attested to the multitude of crimes of this man," again he sketched a dismissive wave at the Preacher, "however, my last witness will attest to the most wicked of all his crimes, that of conspiracy to murder, to cause harm to our beloved Majesty, and that of rank disloyalty to the Crown, High Treason in its most foul form."

There was a stirring in the court at this; Barry was shocked. How could they have a witness to this when it was a complete fabrication?

The Preacher looked up at him, a question in his eyes. Barry lifted his shoulders and shook his head. Burke rustled his papers, looking for the name on the witness list, finding it and, realising he couldn't protest, slumped back in his chair.

Crapper's voice rose theatrically, "I call Mortimer Claypole to the stand."

The doors at the back of the room opened and two court ushers came in, one pushing a wheelchair, the other a wheeled drip-stand. The person in the wheelchair was tiny; husk-like and frail. The Preacher looked seriously disconcerted for the first time.

Barry was appalled; this ancient creature, so obviously sick, should not be put through this farce. Crapper had no such compunction; he had the witness sworn in, still in his wheelchair, and began the questioning immediately.

"Mr Claypole, were you part of the attack on Parliament?"

The old man's face lit up and he nodded vigorously, "I was that," he said, proudly.

There were gasps round the room; what was he thinking? That was a capital offence.

"Do you see anyone in the court here today that you recognise?"

The old man squinted and looked up at the gallery, then a dreamy smile creased his face, "Why there's Albie," he said, with such affection it caused Crapper to stumble his next words.

Then, "Not the gallery, Mr Claypole," he hissed, then said in a low tone, "the dock, remember?"

"Call me Morty," said the old man, "everybody does."

Finally Crapper extracted what he wanted from Morty; yes, the preacher was known to him, such a nice young man, yes, he'd been at the Eden Hall Village, yes, that was where the plot was hatched, yes, he could have been there on numerous occasions, but there was also someone called Bob who died, which was a good thing if a little unexpected and if only Mort could tell the court a story about a Greek then he was sure they would understand everything.

It was at this point that Crapper decided Morty was too ill to continue, the Defence decided not to cross-examine and the witness was excused. As Morty was pushed out of the court he waved cheerily up at the gallery, as if he'd seen a friend.

Crapper attacked the jury with his closing argument and even Barry had to admit he was impressed with the comprehensive attention to detail and the sheer weight of the case he had put together. No doubt about it; Mortimer Claypole had unwittingly put the preacher at the heart of the conspiracy.

They broke for lunch; the Preacher glanced up at the gallery as if seeking out someone. Barry lifted his head in slight acknowledgment and was rewarded with a brief smile.

∞

It was the turn of the defence; unsurprisingly they had only one witness to put forward, the Preacher himself. He climbed into the witness box, swore he would tell the truth and the whole truth and nothing but...and then inexplicably smiled at the jurors.

Defence counsel, Alvin Burke asked the Preacher if he recognised any of the people the prosecution had brought forward to speak against him. The Preacher shook his head; he'd seen so many people and none, was his enigmatic response. Burke essayed another question aimed at the most damning witness of all, one Mortimer Claypole. Had the Preacher ever met this man?

Morty hadn't stood out amongst the audience of seriously old people; truth be told, the preacher's most vivid memory was of the Angel cake. However, the old man had remembered the Greek story and the Preacher felt he owed him the same recognition.

He looked at Burke and nodded, to gasps from the court, then he spoke, his voice strong and unequivocal, "I met him, on one occasion, at the Eden Hall Village Retirement complex."

Burke looked nonplussed; he'd asked the question not knowing the answer, a classic misjudgement on his part but he had hoped the Preacher's innate common sense would cause him to deny the man's veracity, or if not that, then declare him senile as he so obviously was.

"No further questions, M'Lord," Burke said, peering up dispiritedly at the bench.

Crapper leapt up with alacrity to cross examine, "Please identify yourself for the court," he said, his voice a whiplash.

The Preacher paused, this was a crucial moment; if he acknowledged their right to try him as an ordinary person rather than as a missionary then he could be damned without second thought, then he shrugged, they'd damn him anyway so what the heck, "Norman Balderstone."

"Mr. Balderstone, you are not a religious preacher, are you?" said Crapper, "You are, in fact, an alcoholic, drug addict, frequenter of brothels and womaniser, are you not?"

"Guilty as charged, your honour," said the Preacher with a wide, friendly smile.

"Most people still consider such things morally reprehensible," snapped Crapper, "and these predilections are not entirely of the past, are they, Mr. Balderstone?"

"I've slipped off the wagon once or twice, I'm not perfect."

"From your lecturing of others," snarled Crapper, "one could be forgiven for thinking that you believe you are. All these rants against society, against our leaders, against the banks and the minorities? Surely these were intended to convince people that you were some how elevated?"

"No," said the Preacher, sounding tired.

"Yes," snapped Crapper, "I put it to you that you employed manipulative language to win the hearts and minds of the weak, and that you did this in order to feather your nest."

"Objection, prejudicial, argumentative," said Burke, rousing himself from his torpor.

"Sustained," murmured the judge, "Restrict yourself to questions, Crapper, if you please."

"Not for money," stated the Preacher, "I presented people with the truth, as I saw it."

"As you saw it," said Crapper, "A self confessed drug addict and sex fiend."

"My drug issues don't invalidate my views," stated the Preacher. "I am a nationalist, I believe in this country and its people and I have spoken up in defence of my country and my people."

"Mr Balderstone," said Crapper, "We heard testimony from Monica Adcock who was present at one of your gatherings and I have here a transcript in which you openly condemn abortion."

"That's a deliberate misrepresentation; I think it's every woman's right to have an abortion, but having said that, I also think we should consider the rights of the unborn child, the unborn individual. In any event, I do not believe it is a crime to argue against abortion."

"It is if done in such a way as to incite violence of the sort conducted by the Pro-life activists," stated Crapper.

"I have never encouraged violence on the issue," said the Preacher.

"Then how do you explain the violence that followed your presentation on the subject," argued Crapper, waving papers in the air, "I have here the police reports of a disturbance at one of your meetings where you criticised the practise of abortion and where you so roused the emotions of the crowd that several people were assaulted and had to attend hospital for treatment."

"I know nothing about that," said the Preacher.

"There were several arrests as well," stated Crapper, "or were you also unaware of them?"

"I know nothing of any arrests. All that must have happened after I left."

"Ah," said Crapper, "and is it your normal practice to stir up a crowd to fever pitch and then leave them alone to find an emotional or physical outlet for the frustrations you have released?

"Of course not," said the Preacher.

"The evidence is here, thirty arrests, twenty hospitalised; all because of your radical and inflammatory spouting, Mr. Balderstone."

The Preacher stared at Crapper, then said, "It remains my opinion that many abortions these days are undertaken to address the selfish desires of either or both of the two parties able to express an opinion. Who amongst you," he shouted waving into the court, "would refuse the chance of life if asked? Who would say, 'NO! Abort me, I don't want to live'. No-one."

There was a spontaneous outburst of applause from some in the gallery.

The jury moved as one, a disturbance going through them like a wind. There were a few boos from the back of the court.

He continued, "It's freedom of speech; the cornerstone of the British way of life. People choose to listen. I can't be held accountable for how others react. It's their own guilt or regret that drives them."

"Silence in court!" shouted the judge, red-faced, banging his gavel, "Order!"

"As you can see, your honour," said Crapper, silkily, "even here, in a court of law, facing the gravest of charges, he cannot resist the temptation to cause mayhem."

"Mr Balderstone," said the judge, back in control of his blood pressure, "you will confine yourself to brief and non inflammatory answers to the questions put, is that understood? Pray proceed, Crapper."

"Members of the jury," said Crapper, "we have just seen for ourselves how this man, this self-styled preacher, can whip up a storm of emotion with a few well-chosen words." Crapper pointed at the Preacher, waving his arm like a conjuror, as if the words had been wrest from him by Crapper's gift of interrogation, "Witness the use of emotive language; guilt and regret; by such use he passes judgement against abortion; inflaming passions on all sides."

The judge leaned forward and addressed the jury, "You will make note of the defendant's ability to arouse emotions and will refrain from becoming thus aroused. Please be advised, you are here to determine only whether or not he is guilty of the charges laid before you. Is that understood?"

The jury nodded obediently.

Cheers for reading

Arun









More books in the 'Corpalism' series















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Chapters 49 & 50 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

49
"Et tu, Brute?"
Wm Shakespeare: Julius Caesar (III, i, 77)

The Preacher sat and watched, semi-hypnotised, as the news of the attack on Parliament was repeated time and time again. Occasionally he paused and squinted at the TV. Some of the faces seemed familiar; had they been in his audience somewhere? Had he seen them on London Bridge?

The Newsreader spoke again, "Early speculation that this was the work of Middle Eastern terrorists has now been revised in light of recent evidence, and rumours are surfacing of a plot inspired by individuals much closer to home. This has not yet been confirmed by official sources."

The Preacher fetched a biscuit from his tin then sat down again, musing.

"Police are seeking news of these people, asking them to come forward and assist them with their investigations," said the newsreader. Pictures of four octogenarians appeared on the screen.

He was fairly certain now; he recognised at least two of the four. "The Eden Hall Village," he said quietly, "and from there they will find their way to my door."

He sipped his tea and ran over the conversation with Barry again, the one where he'd been encouraged to speak at that retirement home. He smiled ruefully; it had been good Angel cake.


 
50

Martyrdom does not end something, it is only a beginning.
Indira Gandhi


The Preacher sat in his room reading.

Barry burst in the door and grabbed the Preacher’s coat, "Quick," he ordered, "Get this on and get out of here."

"Why?" asked the Preacher, nonchalance personified.

"For Christ' sake..haven't you been watching the news?"

"Of course," said the Preacher.

"Then you know they've linked you to the terrorists," said Barry, "and you've got to get out of here."

"Why?" asked the Preacher.

"Because they're coming for you." Barry hurried to the window, put his back against the wall then lifted the curtain slightly to peer out onto the quiet street.

"Who precisely is coming for me?" asked the Preacher, unmoved by this activity.

"The Police, for sure," said Barry, "and probably MI5 or MI6 or something."

The Preacher nodded, "Sounds likely."

"Then get your bloody coat on and let's get the fuck out of here," snapped Barry.

"But why?" said the Preacher, "I have nothing to hide. They can ask me questions but I have no involvement with those people whatsoever."

"Apart from the fact that you went to their home and spoke to them," said Barry.

"I did indeed," said the Preacher, "but what I remember most is that it was your idea, Barry. So surely the Police and MI6 would be far more interested in talking to you, don't you think?"

"Hey," said Barry, "that was at the request of our sponsors, remember. I had no choice in the matter."

"You always have a choice, Barry, otherwise all that I've been saying has no meaning."

"Right, well I'm exercising that choice right now so hurry up, we're not safe here."

"No, you go, Barry," said the Preacher, "I prefer to take my chances with the law than go on the run, it looks like the act of a guilty man, after all."

"Please," said Barry, "you must leave. They might, I don’t know, but things happen, don't they."

"What sort of things, Barry?" asked the Preacher.

Barry stared at him, "Look, these people don't ask questions and, as far as I can see, they like things tidied up. As in, no loose ends, no court case. Now, do you understand?"

"Completely," said the Preacher. He seemed tired and dispirited; even disappointed. "Just do what they've ordered you to do, Barry, but I would appreciate it if you made it quick."

"Me?" questioned Barry, "No, what? You've got it all wrong."

"I have no idea who you are, and even less idea where you came from but I know you have the right kind of contacts to get a beat up tramp like myself on prime time TV. I also know that it was really important to you that I visit the Eden Hall Retirement Village and address a bunch of old age pensioners."

Barry stared at him, his face pale.

"And wouldn't you know it, they just happened to be the very same pensioners who took it upon themselves to storm Parliament and killed those politicians, which strangely, is more or less what I’ve been saying needed to be done."

He laid his book down and looked Barry in the eyes, "I have to say I was quite taken with their name...what was it? Pensioners Against Corruption and Tyranny, has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Please," said Barry, "just go. Don't make me choose."

The Preacher smiled, "It's alright Barry, death comes to all of us sooner or later, and it's not when, but how we face it that matters most."

Cheers for reading

Arun









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