Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 22

Corpalism - by Arun D Ellis - a compendium edition incorporating 'Uprising', 'From Democracy to Dictatorship' & 'Aftermath' - books 1, 2 & 3 in the 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?’

≈ ≈

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

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 - are 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 Sgt. “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 that 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!” he snapped, “they’ve taken everything, 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?”

“Well 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.”

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun






More books in the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendium editions

Chapter 30 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

30

Those who make peaceful revolution impossible
will make violent revolution inevitable.
John F. Kennedy

The communal lounge was silent; the first row had shrunk back, uncertainty etched on their faces. Ron, for one, was wishing he was anywhere else and was looking round frantically for an escape route. He caught Wilf’s eye, saw the withering contempt, and he shrivelled into his seat. In return for a promise to cooperate, Mackie had settled Bob more comfortably, one wrist tied to the chair, allowing him freedom to express himself and relief to anguished shoulders. It had done nothing for his overall mood however.

"You’ll get nothing from me,” Bob protested, “I wouldn't help these old fools if it was the last thing I could do on this earth."

“Where’s the harm?” said Mackie, “What can these old fools, as you call them, possibly do?”

“Less of the old,” said Fiona, sharply, with a toss of her head. The words sounded loud in the room.

“And less of the fools,” added Dora, emboldened by Fiona, but not sufficiently to say it in much more than a whisper.

“Come on, Bob,” said Mackie, “I could tell them but I thought it would be better coming from the horse’s mouth, so as to speak, more believable. I want to discourage them from making a mistake.”

“We aren’t making any mistakes,” said Wilf, up till then content to listen, but now irritated by the whole tone, “and we don’t need your help.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Pete, wanting to show Fiona he too was brave enough to speak, although if she’d seen how his knees were shaking she would have been less impressed.

“I’d like to hear what Bob has to say,” said Mags, which was true, there were certain gaps in her knowledge that she hoped to fill tonight.

There was an uneasy silence, then Alb added his support, “I would as well, we’re here, what can it hurt?”

Mackie poured another Scotch and placed it on the table in front of Bob. He grabbed the glass and downed it in one, “Another.”

“Say 'please',” Fiona had spoken before she knew the word was out of her mouth.

Bob flicked her a nasty look and waited as Mackie refilled his glass, he took a sip this time and placed it on the table.

"I want to go to the toilet," Mort announced. Nobby stood up and moved swiftly to his side, knowing there was often a short window of opportunity between word and deed.

Mags moved closer to Mackie and whispered in his ear, those nearest could make out the words ‘comfort break'.

His eyebrows met in a huge frown and he looked as if he was about to argue then he relented. In actual fact he’d been needing relief for the past hour but had been fighting it. At her words the need rose again and he gruffly agreed that people leave in pairs as long as he was among the first.

He handed the policing of Bob over to Alb and walked swiftly through the chairs, heading for the visitor's toilets he'd noted on the way in, following in Mort and Nobby's wake. Wilf got up and followed him; that created a mass exodus.

It was a good half an hour before the room had re-settled. Bob had helped himself to a few more whiskies in that time and was looking considerably more relaxed.

Mackie noted the mood change and pressed the advantage, “Come on Bob,” then, with a nod to Alb, “as he said, what can it hurt?”

Bob stared at him, the whiskey had done nothing to alleviate his cold dislike of the man interrogating him. Then he looked out at his audience, a rag tag group of complacent, comfortable old folk whose little world he could rock if he wanted to. He sighed deeply; he'd been blown. If Mackie knew he’d been putting out feelers then his own people would know. There'd be a hit on him, sooner rather than later. He dropped his head onto his chest. The silence stretched. Everyone in the room was waiting on his decision; truth be told, he was enjoying the feeling.

Val could wait no longer, “What’s it going to be then, Bob?” She was a bit shocked by her own temerity; she’d addressed the prisoner directly. She hoped it had not gone unnoticed by Alb.

Bob lifted his head and sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised, “Well sister – it’s right what Mackie says; I’m as good as dead. So I have nothing to lose. Hell it might even be fun. I’m kinda proud of my work and I never get any recognition for it.” Mackie grinned, sensing capitulation, then Bob added, “But I wish I could be around when they work out it was you.”

Unperturbed Mackie retorted, “I’ll take my chances, Bob, just tell these old folks what’s really going on in the world. I can guarantee they’ll be impressed with what you have to say.”

“Untie me?” said Bob, pulling at the one wrist still attached to the chair, with little real hope of success in the appeal.

Mackie shook his head, “Start with Wilson,” he ordered.

“Woodrow Wilson?” said Jonesey.

“Harold Wilson, I’ll bet” said Sticky.

“The very same,” said Mackie.

“Bloody commie,” hissed Bill.

Bob grinned from ear to ear, “I love it when a plan comes together.”

“Wilson was never a commie,” said Mackie.

“See,” said Ron, losing his fear in the need to have a dig at Bill.

“I knew he wasn’t as well,” said Dora.

“I did that,” said Bob, losing the details of an entire team working with him, to take the kudos all to himself, “planted everything, did everything to discredit him, ruin the man.”

“But why?” demanded Dora.

“It was either that or kill him,” said Bob. He was clearly enjoying himself now, the pain he’d been experiencing with his arms tied behind his back fading to a minor discomfort. The freedom to wave one arm about was intoxicating.

“Kill him?” gasped Dora, clutching Esmé’s arm in her distress.

“You can’t meddle in our internal politics,” said Sticky, “besides, we were allies.”

Bob laughed, “Jeez, you Brits really bought that crap?” He laughed again and Mags decided that she disliked him intensely; she found herself accepting happily Mackie’s stated intent to do away with him at the end of the session.

“There’s no need to scoff, young man,” Cynthia’s dislike seemed a match for Mags’, “we are a friendly people and trusting with it.”

Bob ignored her, directing his scorn back at Sticky. “Listen bud, we've been here running the show for your people for decades. Hell we've eliminated every leftie trouble maker that's popped up and you've all been none the wiser.”

“What’re you talking about,” demanded Gerry, "Who have you eliminated? And how?"

"Hah," said Bob, getting into his stride, "The ‘who’ isn't hard to work out or the ‘how’ for that matter. Heck, don't you guys find it odd that some really influential people keep dying? Jeez?"

"Like whom?" nothing but chapter and verse would satisfy Esmé.

"Doesn't matter who," said Bob, thinking ‘whom?’ "but come on, I mean, do you really believe that so many key people on the left can die of heart attacks, strokes or best yet, hypothermia?"

"What about Lady Di?" asked Esmé, fidgeting in her seat.

“Look, just take it from me, ok, we were never your allies,” he was getting frustrated; the inability to respond to the urge to throw both his hands in the air was causing him some irritation, “Christ, don’t you people know anything?”

They all stared at him. Apart for Mackie and Mags, it was clear none of them had a clue what he was talking about.

“Listen,” said Bob, recognizing belatedly that he would have to start with the basics, “the greatest threat to American world domination has always been Britain.”

“Britain a threat? What about the Russians?” demanded Gerry, a deep frown creasing his forehead. He threw a quick glance at Alb, comforted to see his own disbelief mirrored there.

“The Russians were never really a problem,” said Bob.

“But their nuclear arsenal?” pressed Nobby. The more Bob said the more tensed up Nobby became. There was no doubt he was feeling an affinity with the prisoner, the shared American blood was causing conflict within him.

“Yeah, some arsenal,” Bob scoffed, “besides they were never going to fire them. If they did we’d let fly ourselves.”

“MAD,” said Ron.

“Yes it most certainly is,” said Dora, her head going up and down with the words.

“He means Mutually Assured Destruction,” said Alb, his voice muted, uncharacteristically out of his depth.

“Actually,” said Mackie, “none of this is relevant, Bob's just playing you.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Nobby.

“He’s talking nations,” said Mackie, “it’s not about nations, although they are used to achieve the ultimate goals. I think we should start further back, say with May ’54.”

The only thing ‘54 signified to the old soldiers in the room was the end of the Korean War, but that was March not May so it was left to Val to ask, “May ’54? What happened in May ‘54?”

“The birth of the New World Order,” said Mackie nonchalantly.

“The new world what?” said Mort. He’d dozed despite all his efforts to stay awake, and struggling up out of his seat, he tried to get a grip on what was happening.

“Don’t worry,” Lenny shushed him gently, patting him till he sank back down and relaxed.

“The New World Order,” said Bob, “Hah! Funny.”

“Not actually that funny,” said Mackie.

“Why’re you so high and mighty?” demanded Bob, “you’re as dirty as me.” Mackie raised an eyebrow and took another sip of his Scotch. “Ah,” Bob said, seeing an opportunity to sow unrest, “didn’t tell you all his little secrets, did he, Margo.”

“Don't be so familiar,” said Mags, “you don’t know me.”

"Ah but I do," said Bob, with an unpleasant leer, "not quite in the biblical sense, but almost.”

Gerry struggled to his feet, but relented when Alb pulled at his arm, with a hissed, “leave it, not the place or time.”

"What does that mean?" demanded Mags, surging out of her seat, a blush spreading upwards from her ample bosom.

“Bob - continue with the story, but from ’54,” murmured Mackie, obviously uncomfortable.

"I want to know what he means." She was indignant, oblivious of anything but the two men in front of her.

Val nudged Vera, her face alight with interest at the potential for a salacious exposé.

"The winter of '77," said Bob, clearly enjoying himself, "Palm Springs. It was real nice of you guys to play away in my back yard."

"Mackie? Did you know about this?" Mags was smouldering, Gerry had never seen her look so attractive.

"Bob did bring it to my attention one time when he wanted a favour.” He moved to stand between her and the grinning Bob, “I'm sorry, Margo, I didn’t think he’d mention it."

"You sure had a nice body in those days, Margo,” Bob’s grin had reached face stretching proportions. Gerry made to rise again but Alb had him tethered.

She wanted to slap the smirk off his face but instead she retorted, "I'll have you know, I still have, thank you." Then she flushed bright red and sat down.

“’54 please Bob," said Mackie.

“’54? You were there, you could tell them about that.”

“I know,” said Mackie, “but I was just a foot soldier, you were further up the food chain.”

“And what if I don’t feel like it?”

“Just tell them,” said Mackie. He moved to where his coat was folded over the back of a chair, and proceeded to remove a small cloth roll up bag from the pocket.

“What’s that?” asked Fiona, her voice shrill with concern.

“Persuasion,” said Gerry, his voice grim, still restrained by Alb, his eyes betraying his wish to be the one dispensing it.

Mackie took another sip of his Scotch.

“You’re not going to torture him, are you?” Fiona was horrified.

Cynthia gasped and prodded Wilf who was sat alongside her, his eyes alive with anticipation, “Do something,” she hissed.

“Yeah, do something, you useless fuckers,” Bob was too anxious to be subtle, “He’s gonna torture me, and you gotta stop him.”

“Let him play it out,” whispered Sticky in Tom’s ear, “he’ll break quick enough, he’s a desk jockey, never been in the field.” Tom was shaking his head, no words available to him.

The room felt silent, hushed, as they all watched with an awful sense of inevitability. Not one of them was strong enough to intervene alone and for some reason none of them felt enough for Bob to rally together. Cynthia and Esmé were huddled closely together, aghast.

Mackie untied a small knot and unrolled the cloth bag revealing the small wooden handles of several unidentifiable tools. He was whistling under his breath, a tune no-one recognized.

Bob cried out, directing his gaze at Fiona, half out of her chair with worry, “Don’t let him torture me, you desiccated crone.”

She sank back into her chair and dusted off her hands, leaving him to his fate.

“From ’54 Bob,” said Mackie, selecting a small but seriously sharp instrument from the array before him.

Bob weighed up his options, they weren’t great and he knew it; for one thing this roomful of old biddies was not going to intervene on his behalf. If he held out Mackie would torture him and he’d talk. Then Mackie would kill him. If he told all he knew without being forced into it, Mackie would kill him. Whichever way you cut it he was going to die, it was just a question of how painful his last few hours on earth would be. His shoulders slumped with the whistle of air he let loose.

“I knew you’d see it my way,” said Mackie, putting the instrument back with its companions, still within easy reach, “right, now…from ‘54” 

Cheers for reading

Arun








More in the 'Corpalism' series















Compendium editions

Chapter 29 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

29

Greed, selfishness, no care for the weaker.
Sharp elbows and sharp knees, this was the way forward.
People saw the price of everything and the value of nothing.
Glenda Jackson on Margaret Thatcher's England.


The Preacher stared out into the packed auditorium. He didn't register the numbers or any feeling of success; he just felt the need to speak what was in his heart.

"Today I want to talk about power," he said, "what it is, what it means for you and me and who has it." He started to patrol the front of the stage, "The first thing is to know what power is, how it represents itself in our world," he stopped and looked out, "not so easy in the minefield of our so called modern democracy. We are told that we are free because we have freedom of choice," he raised his shoulders slightly, "but do we and what is freedom of choice? If you really had freedom of choice would you choose to spend the best years of your life trapped behind a desk or in a factory working for pennies whilst the rich sit back and live off your labour? Is that really what you would choose for yourself?"

He returned to his pacing, "The way I define power is by asking myself, am I living the life I want to live? Do I live my life fulfilling my potential for happiness?" He quickened his pace and answered his own question, "I have lived a full life, I have had great wealth and I have had the company of more beautiful women than it is possible to recall."

He knew he would be alienating some of those in his audience, the ones who had newly arrived to witness the phenomenon he was becoming, but he needed to say it all, "I have owned vast properties, yachts, planes, I have snorted with the stars, I have been at the top," he paused and the silence was absolute, "but if you had asked me was I happy I would have said no; despite all the paraphernalia that goes with vast wealth I was not fulfilled. I did all of those things because it was the thing you did to fit in. I did it to show I had succeeded, but all I actually succeeded in doing was driving an unbridgeable chasm between myself and my wife and alienating my children." He was clearly groping for a way to describe the contradiction, "Great wealth allows you to choose how you live; my shame is that I chose to live it in a decadent way."

He fell silent for few moments in grave contemplation of the errors made in his previous life. The strength in numbers of his loyal followers, who understood where he had come from, was sufficient to quell any murmurings from newcomers such that the auditorium fell silent with him. Then he spoke again, gravely, "A great many people do not have the luxury of choice. I want you to guesstimate how many people don't have the ability to choose their own life style, who don't have the gift of self determination. Call out your ideas."

When the last offering had died away the air still resonated with numbers and percentages plucked from their imaginations.

He waited for this to fade before he spoke again. "Those who possess real power number only in the thousands, not even 1%. These people control the two key resources to our lives."

He paused a moment then said, "The first is very real; energy. The people who own and control the natural resources of this planet determine your future; they have the power to create recessions or to feed the world. But I have to ask you a simple question. Given that the energy resources on this planet are here for all of the earth's inhabitants, in that they didn't evolve over millions of years with someone's name on them, they are natural and they are there for you, me and every other person on this planet, why is it that only a few get to live off the wealth generated by the supply of energy?"

He raised his hands questioningly, "How is that?"

"The second is money. As we all know, money was introduced to make complex transactions easier. However, now money exists to make more money and we are all slaves to the process. We are always being told that the economy is struggling or that it is booming or that there isn't enough money in the system or perhaps there's too much money, but what is money? Can I mine for it? Can I grow it? Can I pluck it from the skies? No, money is a fiction, it doesn't exist, it's a magic trick and we've all been taken in by it."

He wandered over to his faithful red box, leaned down and took a sip of water from the bottle concealed behind it, "How is it that a few bankers and investors can create a system whereby we trade a fictional resource, one without substance, one they control the supply of, one they have bribed our leaders into accepting as the only valid tender and one we must use, how is it that we sit here and allow them to tell us it is the only way for the world to continue? Bearing in mind that the minute we accept that lie is the minute we pass total power to the banker."

He stared into the audience, "Do you understand? Money isn't real, they made it up but they tell us that without it we have no place in this world, we are skivers and must be castigated yet money is the invisible chain that binds us to the treadmill that keeps the wealthy in place."

No one answered, but it was clear they were thinking this one through.

"So we have two key components representing true power; energy and money. The people who control these also control your lives." He strolled around the stage, still talking, "I want you to imagine a world where everyone has the energy supplies they need, where people have the food they need, where people have the medical care they need, where children have the education they need, where everyone works for the benefit of everyone else, where money has no place and you will perceive Utopia. Humanity's true dream. This world we inhabit now is a beastly business brought upon us by our own weakness and greed, further manipulated by the unscrupulous greedy psychopaths who want to rule."

He stopped and stared out into the audience, "Jesus drove the merchants out of the temple, showing us the true way. Money and the worship of money is a crime against humanity. It is the basest transgression that drives us to sell our services, our labour, our time, our minds and our bodies."

He paused, "Now comes the difficult part, I am going to offer an alternative view of two highly respected and politically sanctified individuals." He waited for a response, nothing yet, "Milton Friedman and Sir Keith Joseph, the men who proposed and propounded our modern day capitalism. It was they who sold the concept of zero state involvement to our leaders; the corollary of that being the creation of a harsh individualist world where money is master and man its servant. Both are of Jewish ethnicity and it is my contention that if they had lived in Jesus' time he would've driven them out into the street."

He pointed out into the audience, "I draw your attention to the presentation made by Milton Friedman in 1972 in which he defines Jewish influence in the market free for all that is modern neo liberalism and neo capitalism, clearly stating that Jews can only survive and prosper in this environment. It is this exact environment he has worked to introduce to the most powerful of the world economies."

He moved slowly around the stage, "This is contrary to what was hitherto the accepted view. Most countries had a culture of support for their own nationals, a culture of nation and society, these have always been the founding bedrocks of any successful society. Even Israel, because a great many social thinkers and revolutionaries come from the Jewish faith, all seeking and espousing social and economic equality. Friedman criticises Israel because he feels that the state of Israel has abandoned what he terms as the Jewish way, it's also why he condemns all Jews who support communism."

The Preacher paused, "This is to miss the point, Israel is a state under threat of attack and the Jews of Israel have discovered the necessity of fostering the belief in nation, of a society that looks after the weak, in order to strengthen and prolong the existence of the many. This is what nationhood does for people, this is what society does for nations but all of these things were rejected by Friedman and Joseph and ultimately our leaders of the day, Thatcher and Reagan. They adopted Friedman's neo liberal philosophy of free capitalism. A 'may the best, aka greediest, man win', survival of the ablest, a dog-eat-dog free for all, which has lead to the massive gulf that now exists between the obscenely wealthy 1% and the, increasingly impoverished, rest of society. Which has ultimately driven the West into economic ruin."

The hall was silent as those present ruminated on his words. He turned and left the stage. Barry might have called it quitting while he was ahead.
 
Cheers for reading

Arun









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Chapter 28 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

28

The individual is handicapped by coming face to face with a conspiracy so monstrous he cannot believe it exists.
J. Edgar Hoover

Alb and Gerry had worked tirelessly with a bit of help from Tom, Wilf and Harry to bring chairs in from the dining area and these were now interspersed between the recliners and wing chairs in the communal lounge. Gerry had over done it and was suffering quietly in a corner, his face mottled and his breathing erratic. Alb was concerned but was pretending not to notice his friend’s distress; unless he took an obvious ‘turn for the worse’, as always Alb supported his friend's right to suffer stoically.

The room had filled slowly and the residents sat chatting desultorily, waiting for the promised guest to arrive. Alb had been deliberately vague about what they should expect, although he had linked it to the conversations they'd been having.

The door at the back of the lounge opened and Mackie shambled in. He was wearing an unseasonably warm, dark navy coat, the collar of which was up round his ears, almost as a cover for his face. Incongruously a rucksack was slung from one his shoulders. He was pushing another man in front of him, this one hooded and with his arms behind his back. Mags took up the rear, eyes darting from side to side, smiling indiscriminately. Alb got up and moved to meet them, his face an amazed question mark; this had not been part of the plan.

"Who in heaven's name is under that hood?” Cynthia’s voice was rich with outrage.

Mags took the floor, her hands in front of her, imploringly, "Okay everyone, I'd like to introduce you to Mackie, an old friend of mine." There was a hint of panic in her eyes, visible to those at the front. "Mackie has seen service at the very top of the chain and is privy to some very sensitive data. I've invited him here today to help guide our deliberations."

“Cynthia’s right,” said Esmé, her Greenham Common instincts coming to the fore, “who's that other chap and why is he restrained?”

“Who involved Mags at this level?" whispered Val to Vera, "Who said she could go around inviting any old body to our meetings? This is very serious; we're getting involved in some dangerous activity. What if he goes and tells the police, or what if he even works for them as some kind of snitch or something?"

“More to the point, who’s he got under that hood? It’s all so unexpected.”

"I agree," said Doris, "she's always poking her nose in trying to boss everyone around and organise everything."

"What's happening, Gil?" whispered Morty, his eyes wide. Gil shook his head and shrugged, waiting for enlightenment.

"Well, I've heard rumours about Mags," said Lenny, leaning across to Dave who was sitting open-mouthed, "seems back in the day she was a spook."

"And you're telling us this now?" Gray shot back, never quite as relaxed as Gil.

Alb found his voice and gesturing to Mackie, he spoke with more authority than he felt, "Thanks for meeting up everyone," his eyes skittered round the room, taking in the general atmosphere of shock and disbelief, it wasn’t often they had a hooded prisoner in the lounge, after all, "I’ll hand you over to Mackie who can explain everything."

He walked over to sit with Gerry, who was still a quite unhealthy colour but had a sparkle of amusement in his eyes which Alb took as a good sign. Mags felt her legs growing shaky and sat down before they gave away the level of concern she was feeling.

Mackie appeared completely unfazed by the explosion of mutterings that accompanied his entrance. He took the back pack from his shoulder and removed his coat; this action revealed his face. His eyes were twinkling under bushy eyebrows and he gave them an almost merry smile; ever the showman, he was enjoying himself. He dragged a couple of chairs over and guided the hooded man into one, settling him down with a not unfriendly shove. Then he reached into his backpack and produced a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

"If I'd known there was a bottle of old malt going around," Wilf whispered to Dave, whose mouth had dropped open on Mackie's arrival with prisoner in tow and had yet to close, "I'd have brought me own glass." Almost alone in his equanimity Wilf was ready to be entertained.

"Okay," said Mackie, lifting the hood with a theatrical flourish. The man thus revealed was dishevelled, red with anger, his mouth gagged. He looked to be about eighty, give or take a few years. "This is Bob."

There was a confused buzz around the group.

"Bob is an old associate of mine …say hello to Bob, everyone.”

There was a muted response from the room, a few did as they were bid but for the most part there was a recalcitrant silence.

"Bob is going to explain things to you."

Bob shot Mackie a hard stare.

"Don’t be like that, Bob," said Mackie, removing the gag, "what difference does it make to you?"

"What the fuck are you playing at, Mack?" demanded Bob, his voice a growl, and his eyes wild, "You won’t get away with this. This is kidnap, you bastard."

"Sounds like a Yank, to me," said Wilf, loudly.

"Bob, face facts - you're a retired operative; no-one in the CIA cares about you anymore. The minute you didn’t call in they wrote you off. Collateral damage. They won’t look for you." He paused and sloshed a generous measure in one of the glasses, "You’re peripheral to their games now; they just like to keep you in the loop so they can keep tabs on you."

Bob snarled, showing his teeth.

"He’s a bit feral, isn’t he," whispered Vera. Val nodded, eyes stretched wide. Ken clutched her arm, too shocked to speak.

"Don't worry about Bob," said Mackie, "that’s just his show face, you know what Americans are like. He’s a pussy cat really, aren’t you, Bob."

"See, I said he was a Yank," Wilf said, even more loudly.

"You just let me loose and you’ll see how….."

Mackie continued his cool dismissal of Bob's value, "They’ll decide someone dispatched you for something you did somewhere down the line. They'll tidy things up. Close the door behind you so anything you might know won't be of use to anyone." He paused and turned his gaze out towards his audience, a long stare that took in the whole room, then calmly continued, "Although you've been non-essential for such a long time I doubt you know anything of real value. They won’t trouble themselves too much. But then, I'm not telling you anything you don't know."

"What's he talking about, Mags?" whispered Alb.

"And what's all this with Bob?" added a confused Gerry.

"Now then," said Mackie, "When Margo called me up the other day I had no idea what it was all about." He smiled at Mags who was sitting looking up at him, attentively absorbing his every word. "In our line of work, once you've retired it's best to stay retired. Not draw attention to yourself. People still in the business can start to worry what your motivation might be."

"What's he talking about?" whispered Val to Ken, "what line of work?"

“Anyway, we met and she explained your current thinking and I must admit I was surprised." Mags fixed him with a look, daring him to tell them he had laughed, praying he wouldn't be so unkind, he winked at her and topped up his glass, "She persuaded me that it would be useful if I came along and filled you in on a few things."

"I could really do with a drop of that," moaned Wilf.

"You don't want to do this, Mack," hissed Bob.

"I was reluctant, besides which I had no idea how to do what she was asking," said Mackie, "I mean, some things are so far off the chart of daily understanding that you can't tell people about them, especially if they've had no knowledge or no interaction with such events."

Alb was beginning to regret going along with Mags on this; he felt patronised and had clearly lost face with the others. This put him so far beyond the pale he'd probably have to move out.

"Just offer us a fucking drink, will ya, you bastard," hissed Wilf, but under his breath.

"But then I had the idea of bringing Bob along." Mackie was completely at ease, apparently oblivious to the consternation of his audience, "Bob is going to help me explain everything to you, he's pretty much going to make everything clear."

"Explain what things?" asked Val. The words emerged louder than she'd intended. This man was clearly unhinged and he was such a large person as well, she didn't feel safe, not even with Ken sitting almost in her lap.

Mackie made eye contact with her for the first time, noting with wry amusement how she shrank away from his gaze, "The world is seen by the majority in its two dimensional form. The thing to remember is that there are the people," he said indicating the rest of those present in the room, "who are moving around, going about their daily routines, running their lives and theoretically making their own decisions based on the concepts of free will.."

He paused, rather theatrically it seemed to Alb who was still feeling patronised, "....and then there are people like me and Margo, who inhabit a level above and who are privy to certain knowledge that makes it clear that things aren't quite as simple, that there isn't such a thing as free will, that we all do what we've been programmed to do, what we are meant to do."

"Pss, Margo indeed!" Val hissed, instantly extremely irritated. She'd forgotten her fear in her annoyance at Mags being included in this strange man's lecture; one thing for sure, she would be impossible to live with after this.

"You really don't want to do this Mack," Bob was insistent, straining forward trying to rise but his arms being tied behind him affected his balance.

"Oh, but I do, Bob," said Mackie.

"I don't understand," said Gerry, "do what exactly?"

"You're crazy," Bob's voice cracked with fear, "you'll be signing your own death warrant."

"Not a big issue for me, old boy," said Mackie, his eyebrows beetling towards his hairline, "inoperable cancer, I only have a short while left," he smiled down at Mags on hearing her intake of breath, “so when Margo contacted me and asked if I'd help, well, it felt like Karma."

"Hah!" said Esmé, with a triumphant glare at Cynthia. She knew what she and Doris really thought of her, and now here was this educated chap talking about Karma, bold as brass.

"What the fuck's any of that got to do with me?" growled Bob.

"I thought you might want to help me clarify a few things for them."

"And why would I want to do that?"

"Don’t you want some credit for your achievements," said Mackie, "before you die?"

Bob scowled and muttered angrily, "I'm not ready to die."

"I suggest you prepare yourself, because whilst I may only have a few months, that's considerably longer than you have, Bob."

"You bastard!" Bob went back to his struggle with his bonds, frenzied now, wriggling so hard he slipped off the chair and onto the floor, writhing, he kicked his legs out and struck Mags.

"Sweet Jesus," hissed Bill to Johnno, who was clutching his chest in rising panic, "what the hell?"

"Come on, Bob," said Mackie, making no effort to pull Bob to his feet, allowing him his desperate but useless struggle. Mags moved carefully out of his reach. "It was always going to end this way for you. We’d do it, the Russians would do it or your own people would do it. Who knows? You know that as you get nearer to the end of your financial security, the people up there," he pointed to the ceiling, "start to worry what you might try and do for money."

"I'm fine for money," spat Bob, looking up at him, "don't go spinning your bullshit, Mackie."

"Come now, Bob," said Mackie, "we both know that's not true. Word has it you've already tried to contact one or two unsavoury characters. Now, if we know that I'm damned sure your people know a whole lot more."

"You can't do this to me," growled Bob, still struggling with his bonds. He got himself up on one elbow and spat out at those nearest him, "What's the matter with you people? Let me loose. You don't owe him a thing."

"Oh, but I can and I will," said Mackie, relentless now. He leaned over and pulled Bob up by his jacket lapels, then turned him round and propelled him back to the now upright chair, pushing him onto it, none too gently, "the only question is how helpful you're going to be in our current enterprise."

Cheers

Arun







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Chapter 27 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

27

Efforts and courage are not enough without purpose and direction
John F Kennedy

Mags stood and watched from the doorway for several minutes, unnoticed by Alb as she had been so often over the years. He was the kind of man, if she'd met him in her younger days, who could have persuaded her away from her devotion to MI6. With a soft snort of self derision she shook herself out of the reverie; like as not he wouldn't have noticed her then either.

"Albie," she said.

Gerry turned at the sound of her voice, "Mags?"

"Could I just have a quick chat with you, both of you?"

"Sure," said Gerry, enthusiastically, pleased to see her as always, "what is it, Mags?"

Alb seemed to be rooted in his chair. She tried again, "If we could just pop to my room, I have some more Angel cake, and we could have a cup of tea as well."

"Absolutely," said Gerry, leaning over and giving Alb a nudge.

Mags lead the way, Gerry following, admiring, as he always did, her no nonsense walk and erect bearing. Alb dragged himself to his feet; he was finding it hard to motivate himself since the meeting in the shed. He'd had high hopes but nothing had come of it; no-one but Gerry really seemed up for it and it wouldn't work with just the two of them.

He was still disconsolate when he walked into Mags' living room and the cheery decor did nothing to dispel his gloom. The cake helped a bit as did the steaming mug of tea, a combination he always found hard to resist.

"What is it, Mags?" asked Gerry.

"There's someone I'd like you to meet." She looked uncomfortable but there was a determined glint in her eye. "He's an old associate," she continued, "more an old friend, really."

Gerry frowned, she'd not mentioned this 'old friend' before, he knew she'd been a JP in the past and must have known people, but he'd thought she was alone in the world, a bit like himself.

"Right," said Alb, lack lustre, "no bother, whenever he's around." He'd not quite forgiven Mags her recent outburst, all that nonsense about Chamberlain, calling him Neville like she knew him, insulting Churchill.

"He's around now, I just need to ask him to pop along."

"What, right now?" Alb was quite put out, tea and cake had been a pretext then, he hated being tricked. He thought about leaving but was too tired and too comfortable to move.

"Yes," said Mags, sending a text, "he'll be along shortly."

"This is all very cloak and dagger," said Gerry, curiosity piqued.

"Clandestine, I call it," muttered Alb, cutting himself another generous slice of cake.

Mags spoke again, "There's something I need to tell you before he arrives." Her voice was unusually strained. She paused then said hurriedly, "He used to work for MI6."

Gerry started in surprise, Alb froze in the act of biting into his cake. "MI6?" said Gerry incredulously.

"MI6?" repeated Alb.

They looked at each other, both knowing what the other was thinking, aware of the risks they had taken speaking of their intention to wage war on Islam and the other foreigners in their midst.

Mags, more than aware of the tensions that accompanied knowledge of her acquaintance with members of MI6, sipped her tea.

"That might not be such a good idea," said Alb, cake and fatigue forgotten, pushing himself out of his chair, all set to leave with alacrity.

"It's too late now, Alb," said Mags, "he's here and he's coming in."

The door opened and a large man shambled in, age indeterminate but certainly not young, all bushy eyebrows and jowls, your favourite uncle, not anyone's idea of MI6. Alb was distinctly unimpressed and completed his exit of the chair to stand pugilistically in the middle of the room.

"Mackie," said Mags, moving to greet him, "these are two of my best friends, Albert Rayner and Gerry Arbuthnot. Albert, Gerry, meet Sir Robert MacDonald. "

"Mackie will do nicely," said the man, his voice a rumble. There was a residual accent in his voice; Alb linked it to the name and placed it as Scottish. "Pleased to meet you," the man continued, proffering his hand to Alb and Gerry in turn, enveloping theirs in his own bear like paw.

"Pleased to meet you," muttered Gerry, as they shook hands. Alb remained silent, jaw gritted.

"Margo has told me all about you and your plans to get back at the enemy within," said Mackie.

Gerry flicked a look at Mags, stupidly more thrown by 'Margo' and all that this entailed than the fact she'd told this stranger all about their revolutionary intentions. He then looked to Alb for guidance, ready to act now if need be, he'd get Mackie, big bear of a man though he be, but Alb would have to keep Mags quiet and subdued, he couldn't because he was in love with her.

"She has asked if I would offer my assistance in some way."

"Your assistance?" said Alb, still standing, still ready to do battle if needs must.

"Yes," said Mackie, seating himself, "I hear she makes the most wonderful Angel cake." As he spoke he leaned over and cut himself a large slice.

"Why would you help us?" asked Alb, "and how?"

"For one thing I'm going to tell you what's really happening in this country," Mackie's words were slightly muffled by the cake filling his cheeks, "and to the rest of the world."

"What does that mean, exactly?" asked Alb.

"I'm going to tell you who is really behind it all," he glanced up at Mags, "Any chance of tea?"

"Behind it all, behind what?" said Gerry, outraged by his casual familiarity.

"He means that most things happen for a reason," said Mags, stepping in before it got out of hand, "that there's a plan in place. He thinks your actions will either speed the process along or, if you listen to him, you might be able to slow them down."

"Gentlemen," said Mackie, "please take a seat and let me explain." Alb and Gerry hovered in the middle of the room, neither knowing what they should do. "Come," Mackie urged, "take a seat and I'll try to explain, as briefly as I can."

Alb puffed out and then, shrugging, sat down. Gerry did likewise, both of them perched on the edge of their seats, ready to make a nifty getaway.

"I won't give you detail," said Mackie, "that will come later when we present to your colleagues."

"Who said you could present to our colleagues?" questioned Alb. He was damned if he'd be cowed by Sir bloody MacDonald, or whatever his name was.

"They will have to know why we need to attack the people we eventually attack," said Mackie.

"We already know what we're going to do," said Alb, truculently.

"Quite so," said Mackie, eyes twinkling. For a moment Gerry thought he might be suppressing laughter but the moment passed. "But there might need to be modifications and we will need to explain them properly."

"Please, can you just listen," said Mags, "if anyone knows what's going on in the world it's him."

"For you, Mags, if you really want us to," said Gerry, "we'll listen, won't we, Alb."

"What?" Alb was caught in mid-glower, still wondering whether he could take Mackie in a ruck.

Gerry nudged Alb in the ribs and hissed, "Just say you'll listen, play it cool."

"Oh," said Alb, smiling without teeth, "yes, of course, we'll listen, Mags."

Mackie shook his head, "I heard that."

"What?" said Gerry, innocence personified.

"I heard you whisper to him," said Mackie, in irritated disbelief, "you people are so childish. Margo, what have you got me into here?"

"Please Mackie," said Mags, "just give them a chance."

He shook his head, but relented, "Okay, listen up, imagine it's 1066. The Saxons, are ruled by an alien elite, the Normans and William the Conqueror is king. He makes all the laws which are designed to be advantageous to the Normans." He paused while Mags excused herself, going into her kitchenette to make a fresh brew and get some more Angel cake. "Everything is now owned by the rich French and the Saxons are nothing but serfs in their own land."

Alb and Gerry nodded. Alb was hooked, albeit reluctantly, history of England, right up his street.

"OK, bounce on a few hundred years; WWII has just ended, Labour has been elected and Socialism and Communism are on the rise and Fascism is dead."
Alb and Gerry nodded affirmatively.

"Or is it?" asked Mackie.

Alb frowned and Gerry sat upright, "Of course it is," said Alb, darkly, "and Hitler's dead."

"Hitler's dead yes," said Mackie, "but what of fascism?"

"Well, granted there are still pockets of it around," said Gerry, "even today there are a few fascists here and there."

"That's because it was never our intention to defeat fascism," said Mackie, "Hitler and Germany, yes, but fascism, no."

"That's not right," stated Gerry, "we were fighting Fascism and the Nazis, my dad fought in....."

"Forget all that," said Mackie, impatiently, "you just need to think about what fascism offered to those in power."

"It didn't offer anything," said Alb.

"Wrong, it offered them everything," said Mackie. "It offered them a way to get back the power they had lost through the centuries. It showed them how easy it was to control the masses through propaganda. It demonstrated that you can kill millions of people and, as long as you don't lose, get away with it. It showed them how they could become supremely wealthy whilst fooling the masses into thinking they too were better off. It showed them how to reduce the people to a modern serfdom, one managed by their own greed as opposed to restrictive laws. And the invention of the computer chip enabled them to globalise their ambitions."

Mackie had said all of this almost without pausing for breath.

Alb was stunned into a resentful silence. Gerry was clearly mesmerised.

Into the slight lull Mags brought fresh cups of tea and another huge Angel cake.

"Now then," said Mackie, "think again of 1066 and how William ran England, a country he had recently conquered. Now expand that idea to consider that the world is not a series of countries but just one country. The new global aristocracy are the bankers, the corporate executives, the sports personalities, singers, artists and the like. Their ultimate goal it is to reduce the rest of you to debt ridden slaves, thus raising themselves up further, to the level of gods."

Gerry bit into his Angel cake, not tasting it, wide eyed.

"That is why Britain has become a multi-cultural society, that is why America is on the edge of civil war, that is why manufacturing has been sent to the third world, that is why the banks are orchestrating a financial meltdown. The intention is that by the end of it, there will be no strength left anywhere in the world to resist their plans. There will be no one country that has an identity strong enough to allow its people to stand proud and defy them. You are to become the new serfs to the new global aristocracy in what is commonly referred to as the New World Order."

"The new world what?" said Alb, so much for commonly referred to, he'd never heard of it.

"So you see, attacking a few foreigners isn't really going to stop them, is it?" said Mackie.

"It's all very well for you to say," protested Alb, "but what can we do? Who can we attack?"

"Don't listen to him, Alb mate," said Gerry, "he's just trying to put us off."

"No he's not," said Mags, "he's telling you who the real enemy is, the real people we should be attacking."

"So who are they then?" demanded Alb.

Cheers for reading

Arun








More books in the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendium editions

Chapter 26 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

26

This is the culture you're raising your kids in, don't be surprised if it blows up in your face
Marilyn Manson

The Preacher was reminiscing, "When I was young, after school I would play out with my friends. We'd play football, or war. I remember my mother cooking bangers and mash, steak and kidney pie, chops, liver, stew with dumplings, we always had a pudding that involved custard and at weekends we had a roast."

He started to pace, "I remember music from the time, Beatles, Stones, Queen, Led Zep, Lizzy and I remember feeling English. Even though I had a sense of what Britishness is, I still felt English and I had a great pride in my country, in my parents and my grandparents and what they achieved in both world wars. I remember reading about the Empire with even greater pride. When I recall these things I feel a sense of being comforted in a blanket, secure and familiar."

He paused, then continued, "When we are young we are moulded by the world that surrounds us and for me that world is the smell of home cooking, the sound of kids running and laughing through the streets, and I get a great warmth in my heart when I think of it. It is the period that moulded me and involved family, community, socialising with my neighbours, going to the local shop, a relationship with the streets round where I lived. For me it represents England." There were a few nods from the audience, and a few audible sniffles, "I would imagine it was much the same for the Hitler Youth."

Barry felt the atmosphere change in that second.

The Preacher noticed nothing, "They would have been moulded by the events of their youth and would find modern Germany abhorrent. Even if they rejected everything that Hitler and the Nazis stood for they would not be able to shake that sense of home, of comfort when they think of those times or when they smell a familiar smell. That's the way of things," he said, firmly, looking out into his audience, "the undeniable truth, we humans are moulded by events that occur in our youth, by the world that surrounds us."

He placed his hands behind his back and paced, "So what effect did Maggie's world have on the youth of the 90s and what effect is our current world having on today's youth?"

He gave them a moment then continued, "In the 90s it was all about the drive for profit over people, looking after number one, greed. It saw the birth of the new elite; the super model, the celebrity footballer, the consumer culture. It also heralded the collapse of the nuclear family, social integrity, social unity, the church. The collapse of everything that makes us civilised."

He paused, then spoke again, "Which is why young people today are unable to form lasting relationships; because they have been ingrained with the concept of self. Why people today are obsessed with the lottery; their only goal in life is to be mega rich. Why youngsters fill up their bags with cheap products that they know were made in sweat shop conditions; because nothing in their youth taught them respect for others and they have no empathy.
Why, in the midst of a riot, people are less interested in expressing demands for social change than in looting; because their education did not include social awareness but was instead bent on self-aggrandisement. It is why those who are lucky enough to have work look with disdain at the unemployed, the weak, the homeless who beg in the streets; because they were told in their youth to despise those who couldn't help themselves, told that all beggars are frauds who live in big houses or those on benefits are getting a huge whack for free whilst they have to strive. All of which is why society is crumbling."

After a brief pause he continued, "Consider, if this is how the working-age youth view things, what are our young children becoming? What are they being taught in school? Are they allowed to be English in this day and age when everywhere accusations of racism are being flung about and when, if you go by the adverts on TV, you could be forgiven for thinking that white English people are now in the minority. Are they aware of our history and encouraged to understand its context? Are they allowed original thought? Or are they being mass-produced like the Hitler Youth to serve the messages up to their parents about racism, green issues, homophobia and date stamps on food as if it's mandatory, and not up for discussion?"

His pace quickened as he patrolled the stage, "We must ask ourselves, where did this pressure to deconstruct England originate? Where did this desire to destroy English culture come from? Who initiated it and why have successive Governments propounded it?" He raised his hands, "Why are they trying to eliminate the English race? Why are they trying to pretend that the White Anglo Saxon doesn't exist? Why are they hell bent on writing the British Empire out of history? Why are they destroying the bonds that held us together for nearly five hundred years?"

He waited for an answer but there was none forthcoming, although there were plenty of glum faces, "Because the rich no longer need us, they have their new cheap labour force, in the third world. We are excess to requirements."

He grabbed a bottle of water and took a long drink, then continued, "Quick history lesson, we had the Yom Kippur War 1973, the Arabs attacked Israel, six days later it was all over and the Israelis had won.
The west backed Israel and the Eastern block backed the Arabs. In revenge for their defeat OPEC put up the price of oil and created an artificial reduction in supply, a pending reality the experts have termed as Peak Oil. Here in Britain we had the three day week under Heath, power cuts, rising unemployment and a rise in union strikes. This all culminated in the Prime Minister, Jim Callaghan going cap in hand to the IMF."

He glared out at his audience, "Now I ask you, what lessons did the government learn from this experience? They learned that if ever there was another energy crisis our society would be in trouble, we would have strikes, power cuts, riots and a general social leaning towards communism. This would be intolerable to the British Right wing and to the Americans who, believe me, are always meddling in our affairs."

He pointed to various people in the first few rows, "They had to ensure that by the time Peak Oil became a reality we were no longer socially cohesive, that we had lost our collective sense of ourselves. Thus, through the intervening years they have been deconstructing our social unity, they have been denying Britishness to the extent that they are planning the break up of the UK. Eventually we will be nothing more than a few small weak countries stationed off the coast of Europe, meanwhile the rich will still be rich for they will continue to receive their tax free off-shored dividends from the companies they've been setting up in the Third world."

He strode to the front of the stage, "We are weak now because we are divided and have become anti-social; we are willing to buy things from high street shops when we know their supply chain uses child slave labour, we don't care about our neighbour any more, hell, we don't even look after our own parents. We shove them into old people’s homes to be looked after by East Europeans who don't give a rat's arse about them, they might even bear a grudge against them for something that might've happened in WWII, who knows, but the thing is we don't care. We don't care how many old people die in the winter from cold because we resent them their winter fuel allowance, we resent them their pensions, we resent them their homes and their money. We demand that they sell their homes to pay for their care in their dotage yet when it's our parents we kick up a fuss because we might lose our inheritance."

There was a lot of shuffling in the audience, a few people stood as if planning to walk out but they were grumbled at and promptly sat down again.

"The truth is, they have splintered us, they have shattered our society so that they can better control us when prices rise and wages drop, so they can maintain their own station in life whilst we suffer when the world's fuel crisis hits, and it will hit, it's here with us now and they have seen how dangerous it will be for their world, for the world of the rich. The Occupy movement reminded them what cohesion can do, the Independents tried and were squashed before they had a chance. The powers that be fear what the people can do if they gather and move as one and they will not allow this to happen."

"How do you boil a frog?" he demanded, and then answered his own question, "slowly."

Cheers

Arun







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Compendium editions

Chapter 25 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

25

Civilization is a conspiracy. Modern life is the silent compact of comfortable folk to keep up pretences.
John Buchan

They’d taken a taxi into town, not realising the Dog & Duck was only a 10 minute walk away from the Village until they’d passed it. The person most annoyed by this was Wilf; he felt it showed him in bad light that he’d forgotten something so elemental so soon in the campaign. He was hiding his embarrassment behind a mask of ill humour. They were gathered in a loose group round the corner to the pub; standing about disconsolately. At Wilf’s gruff command they looked at each other blankly; nobody moved.

"Fuck sake, Bill, you go," said Wilf.

"Why me?" asked Bill. He’d put on his best suit for the expedition and was reluctant to go into the pub; seedy being his immediate judgment on the place. "Why not send one of them?"

"Because I picked you," said Wilf, not to be gainsaid, "now get to it."

"You can’t boss me around," said Bill, clearly nervous, "Just because you've got some crazy name, I could be tough from the old days as well, you know." They all stared at him; Wilf snorted. "Well I could," Bill drew himself up to his full height, lower back pain be damned, "and in fact, the guys in the darts team called me 'Crazy Bill'."

"No they didn't," said Johnno. He would put money on this being a lie.

"They damn well did," said Bill, "Crazy Bill they called me."

"Why?" demanded Pete.

"What?" Bill looked uncomfortable, not expecting to be pinned to this level of detail.

"Why?" repeated Pete, "Why did they call you Crazy Bill?"

"Was it 'cause you ate someone?" asked Ron.

"Oi," snapped Wilf, "you promised not to mention that again."

Bill was fidgeting uncomfortably.

"Why?" pressed Johnno.

"Okay, okay…well, not everyone can put three Cadbury's crème eggs in their mouths at once, that's all I'm saying."

"Bloody hell's bells, Bill," snapped Wilf, "just get in there and scout the bloody place out. Then nip out here and tell us who’s in there."

Bill frowned, and recognizing that he’d seriously lost face, conceded he had no choice. He pushed out his chest and walked off. As soon as he was out of sight he slowed down and if he could’ve gone somewhere else without having to meet any of them again in his whole life then he would have done. He crossed the road and approached the pub, consumed with deep dread. Wilf had been adamant that his contact would be in the public bar, this was part of the reason Bill had been reluctant to go; he far preferred the saloon atmosphere. He gave the door a hard push. It gave more easily that he expected and he entered with a flurry, almost falling into a bare and squalid looking room.

Behind the bar was a big busted blonde with a heavily wrinkled face, stage make up and a space in her thin mouth where he could imagine a dangling cigarette. He scanned quickly round the room; two suits in the corner drinking fruit juices, and three young girls giggling down the other end of the bar.
He turned and left before the barmaid noticed him.

He approached his friends feeling quite chipper; he’d been on a reconnoitre and he’d come back with Intel.

"Good," said Wilf, on hearing his report, "we're here first. That will give us the upper hand if things get nasty."

"Eh?" Pete’s voice rose, "What does that mean?"

"You can't always tell with these blokes, sometimes they want the trade, sometimes they just want your money.” Wilf looked behind him, squinting, “we need to be careful, so look tough when you walk in, okay."
They stared at him and then at each other. "Show me your mean faces," he ordered.

Bill closed his eyes, how had he got involved in this? Ron had previous close knowledge of Wilf and what he knew did not lead him to think he could avoid complying; he frowned heavily and hunched his shoulders. Johnno followed suit. Pete managed a sneer.

Finally Wilf was satisfied and leading the way, walked across the road with a strut that had faded to a hobble by the time he got half way over.

He struggled the rest of the way, finally leaning up against the door jamb to catch his breath. He waited until the others joined him then pushed the door, almost falling in and Bill cursed himself for failing to give him the heads up.

Wilf recovered quickly, scowling and cracking his fingers, and then he patted his pocket, hoping to create the impression of a concealed gun. He rolled his shoulders then crossed the room to the bar, followed by Pete, swaggering and sneering, doing his Elvis roll. Ron, came up behind, frowning and snarling audibly. Johnno had forgotten what he was supposed to be doing and was walking quite naturally. Bill had adopted a cross between John Wayne and Robert Mitchum; not a good look.

The girls at the end of the bar fell silent, the suits in the booth both stared and the barmaid sprung into life, "What can I get you, darlin'?"

"Whiskey and ice," said Wilf.

"Same,” said Pete, even though he never touched the stuff.

"Beer," said Ron.

"Guinness," said Johnno.

"Orange juice," said Bill. They all stared at him. He looked blankly back. Ron made a face, such that Bill felt like punching him and then he got the picture, "Oh, Scotch." He said it with a swagger, adding, "on the rocks," for good measure.

They took their drinks and seated themselves at the back of the room, "Always keep your backs to wall," said Wilf, "You never know in this game."

In the corner the suits went back to their conversation, the girls went back to their giggling.

"What time will they be here?" asked Bill.

"Soon," stated Wilf, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

"I need to know what time,” this from Pete, getting agitated. “Only I promised Fiona I'd go to shopping with her."

Pete’s voice was quiet but firm, fear of Fiona outweighing fear of Wilf. She'd been furious when they'd waited for over an hour in the ornamental shrubbery for Alb and the others, who failed to turn up. She'd been convinced Alb had agreed to the meeting she'd suggested and it had been very hard to persuade her against seeking him out and to use her exact words,' giving him a piece of my mind'. The shopping trip had been arranged as a bribe almost.

"I said soon," snapped Wilf.

One hour later they were still sat in the same places, with the same drinks in front of them.

"What time did you agree they’d be here?" asked Bill.

"Soon," Wilf’s voice was a low growl. Ron shivered.

"I think it's pretty clear they’re not coming," said Johnno, bravely.

"It's all part of the game," said Wilf, "maybe something spooked them, sent them running, you never know in this business."

"Spooked them?" questioned Bill, "like what?"

"Like the pigs," Wilf spat out the word, "tricky bastards, always snooping around, could've been listening in on our confab."

"Really?" questioned Ron, disbelief in his tone. "How will we know if that’s what happened?"

"If Butch don't turn up then I'd say it's a sure bet that the filth rumbled us, he could be banged up right now for all we know."

Bill flashed a look at Johnno; Wilf was turning into someone else before their eyes. All this talk of guns and pigs and filth was quite out of character. Or at least out of sync with what he’d been presenting to the outside world.

"Cripes," said Pete, reverting to boy's own language.

“You lot sit put, I'll use the pay phone," said Wilf, "try to make contact again, see if I can work out what's going on." With that he slouched off in the direction of the pub pay-phone.

"Do you boys need another drink there, darlin'?" asked the bar maid, hailing Wilf as he passed by, obviously only waiting her opportunity, clearly irritated that they had only bought one drink each.

"Do you mind," snarled Wilf, lurching into the bar as he passed, "this is business."

"Okay deary, keep your wig on."

Wilf fiddled with his hair, and then dropped his hand with an aggrieved "fuck off." He dug out his dog-eared piece of paper and dialled.

"Butch?" said Wilf, responding quickly to the voice the other end, "Why ain't you here?"

"Who is this?"

"Flippin' 'eck Butch, it's me, 'Mad Dog', why ain't you down the 'D & D'?"

"'Cause I ain't a fuckin' prick like you, what the fuck do you think this is, Dog? Eh?"

"Butch," said Wilf desperately, "I need some....."

"Yeah I know, you need some stuff, you need some kit, 'cause you're gonna go play mercenaries in the jungle all over again, you're only eighty fuckin' four aren't ya', so no problems, I can see you now, charging around, 9 lb rifle, 60 lb pack blasting away at the Mau Mau in temperatures of fuck knows what...."

"Butch," snapped Wilf.

"No, you shut it, Wilfred."

"'Mad Dog'," corrected Wilf.

"'Mad Dog'!" yelled Butch, "Fuckin' 'Mad Dog'? Who the fuck you tryin'ta kid? An' stop callin' me Butch, I'm not the Butcher, anymore, am I? So get it fru your fick 'ead, my name is Warren. Warren fuckin' Tucker so fuck off. An' stop bloody phonin' me."
Wilf had the phone clamped to his ear; the slam as Butch hung up echoing down the line. He looked across the pub to his co-conspirators, smiled, then carried on talking into the dead phone.

"Why's he smiling?" asked Pete, "I thought we were meant to be looking mean."

Wilf carried on his imaginary conversation for a good ten minutes before hanging up and returning to the table, "They're not coming."

"Why not?" asked Pete, already unfolding his legs, seized up from sitting so long.

"Busies rumbled us," said Wilf, "We gotta get out of here."

"What? Straight away?" asked Johnno, he usually gave himself time to adjust to movement, and planned excursions and forays with great care.

"Place will be crawling with pigs," said Wilf, "leave your drinks, we gotta make a run for it."

"Running is not an option," said Bill, speaking for all of them.

They exited the pub, using their normal walks now that no-one was there to impress, and made their way to the bus stop. No thought of hiring a taxi now.

"When's the next one due?" asked Pete, mindful of Fiona’s promised shopping trip.

"5 minutes," said Johnno, peering up at the board.

"Is it our bus, though?" asked Ron.

"Don't bloody worry about that," said Wilf, maintaining the pretence, "we’ve gotta make as much distance between ourselves and this place as possible."

The pub door opened and the two suits strode over to their blue car, "You going to call it in Sarge?" asked the shorter of the two.

"Waste of time, I dunno where they get their info these days but this one was bollocks, fuckin' terrorists buying guns, who dreams up this shit? That's what I want to know."
 
Cheers

Arun






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

No 10


Sir Phillip Blackmore was shown into the Cabinet room. The PM, Mark Cholmondeley, already seated, flicked his hand at the chair opposite and watched as Sir Phillip duly took up his station. Cholmondeley owed his position to Blackmore and deeply resented the fact.

"How are things with you and Cynthia?" he probed, aware of Sir Phillip's dislike of intrusion into his personal life. He'd heard rumours of a split and was keen to poke at the wound.

"Cynthia is well, Prime Minister," murmured Sir Phillip, deliberately misinterpreting the question.

"Hmm," said the P.M, "and the children? What are their names again?"

"Damned if I know."

The PM looked down at his notes, hiding a wry smile. "To business then."

"The terror threat is back at AMBER, Prime Minister, no other issues in the offing," said Sir Phillip.

"Hmmm," said the PM, looking up, "I think it much more useful for it to be at RED."

"Of course, and so it will be once we have a new initiative in play. In the meantime, there's still the underlying unrest from the recent riots. They should provide ample opportunities to use certain parts of the Bill."

"We really need something bigger." He sounded petulant; a child demanding more.

"Quite so," said Sir Phillip, "I'll get my team working on something, something that will make it easier to concentrate the majority where we want them."

"Mmm," said the PM, it was clear now that he was enjoying a private joke, "well, actually Blackmore, there is a major event pending. Bigger than even 12/12. It's still at the planning stage as I understand it, but it will enable us to use the bulk of the Act."

Sir Phillip's teeth gritted as he strived to show no reaction; this was news to him, "Prime Minister?"

"As you know I recently attended 'the' meeting," said the PM, struggling to hide his merriment.

Sir Phillip conceded that he did know, still determined to show nothing but polite interest.

"I'm not yet at liberty to tell you what that event will be but, suffice to say, when it does occur we will be more than justified in implementing every aspect of the Enabling Act."

"Is there anything the service should be doing at this time?" asked Sir Phillip, trying to find a way in without betraying an interest.

"Not yet, Blackmore," the response was curt. Cholmondeley was annoyed at the compete lack of curiosity, damn the man for his breeding. "The relevant areas have been notified of their obligations, as soon as I get clearance you will also be notified."

"I see," said Sir Phillip.

"Actually it's mainly a military show, and the bulk of it will be carried out by the cousins."

"Is that wise?" questioned Sir Phillip, shocked out of his studied indifference.

"Oh don't worry," said the PM, airily, score one to him, "shan't affect us directly, not like that anyway but we will benefit from the fallout."





La Palma - Uno



Sir Digby Chalfont took his seat at the centre of the oblong table; opposite him sat Graham Baxter, the deputy chair. They had no need to confer as they waited for the invited delegates to take their designated places; the pre-meet with their superiors had been full and frank and had left neither in any doubt as to the consequences of failure.

"Good morning gentlemen" he said, adding with a wry smile, "and lady."

This last was directed at a tall brunette; mid-thirties, arresting, maroon Armani skirt suit, she'd drawn all eyes as she entered and had held the attention effortlessly until she was seated. No-one would deny she was there on merit but the extra physical component she brought to the occasion was not lost on any of the men in the room. As Sir Digby had discovered at 'the' meeting, she was one of the Sussex Henty's; exceptionally wealthy, scathingly witty and extremely talented. He'd discovered more on the few occasions she'd deigned to entertain him in the weeks that had followed. She accepted Digby's greeting with a slight closing of her eyes; the gesture would have been lost if he hadn't been searching for it amongst the series of nods, grunts and other acknowledgements.

He cleared his throat and his mind, moving brusquely to the point of the meeting, "For those of you with whom I've had only telephone contact, I'm Sir Digby Chalfont and my client is a leading global financial institution." He allowed a small silence then continued, "It might be helpful if we go round the table...if you would please be so kind as to introduce yourselves though I recommend you do not state who you represent. Suffice it to say you were all selected with great care. So, starting with Sir Henry Moore on my left....."

The introductions continued around the table. No-one took notes; it was enough to hear the names and recognise the kinship of wealth and power.

"To begin then," said Digby, "the board of directors met recently and discussed at some length key issues pertaining to the current and pending world economic situation. We are here to discuss the practicalities of implementing the policy that was decided at that meeting."

"That may well be the case, Digby," interrupted one of the delegates, a distinguished looking man, possibly naval background given the beard, a horse-like face attesting to his breeding, "however I don't have a copy of that policy."

"Neither do I," said a bluff-looking man seated opposite him.

Digby pictured the biopics he and Graham had studied before the meeting; first man, Laurence Goodison, ex-navy; second interlocutor Archie Carruthers, eldest son of a very well-heeled Scottish family, old money, important connections galore.

"I have no written copy, either," said Digby, intervening before it turned into a round the table complaint, "although, as you would expect, I was present and I have been fully briefed on the actions we require you to take."

"I have no intention of committing my client to actions pertaining to a policy of which I have had no sight, Chalfont," stated the naval man, brusquely, barely masking his irritation, "nor can you expect me so to do."

In deference to the task Digby betrayed no sign that he had noticed the lack of regard for his recent knighthood; if he could slight him later he would. "And neither should you, Goodison," he murmured, recalling the man's name with an enviable ease, "nor should any of you."

The Deputy Chair was forced to glance down at the biopic in front of him, he didn't have Digby's recall, Laurence Goodison, ACNS (retd). He flicked a quick look round the table; the rest of the delegates seemed happy to let Goodison argue the case for them. Therefore, it followed, once Digby had dealt with him it should all proceed swimmingly.

Digby moved his mouth into a smile, "I can confirm, however, that all of our clients have already signed up to the policy; that is to say, your companies. I have the fully notarised document here for your personal perusal, signed and sealed by your senior executives approving the board's decisions and confirming an intention to stand by all those decisions. Not only that but the document also authorises our actions here today. This will be our mandate."

"Let me see that," demanded Goodison.

"Certainly," said Digby. Slight irritation could be detected in that one word if you knew the man well as did both the Deputy Chair and the tall brunette. The Deputy Chair looked over at her and she allowed herself a small smile before leaning back in her seat. Digby needed no help. "You shall all see it."

As he spoke he passed the sheet to his left, to his friend and colleague, Henry Moore on whose complete support he could count, not least because of certain things he knew about him that were best left to the imagination. "I ask that you confirm the authenticity of the signatures and the company seals, in fact if you wish to contact anyone please feel free so to do for it is no small matter that we are here to resolve. However, I would impress upon you that we must reach our initial conclusions by mid afternoon, at the latest."

Moore gave it a quick glance and passed it on. Each person handled it with varying degrees of interest, bemusement and annoyance depending on their ego, place in their company and level of complicity with the scheme. It finally made its way back to Digby and he slipped it into the document folder on the table in front of him.

"And now," he resumed, their acceptance assumed, "let me outline the background. It will help clarify our predicament and why we have to act now with determination and fortitude."

He took their silence as the final seal on their acquiescence.

"As all of you know when Hubbert first identified Peak Oil..........."

"Yes, yes," said Goodison, "which has been achieved, why the history lesson?"

"If you'll bear with me," said Digby tightly, "you will see."

Silence.

"To continue, it was concluded that world consumption of the oil reserves, based on 1960's usage and projected usage to include global population increase, meant that we would face a world energy crisis by 2075." He paused and looked around the table, "However, for various reasons, these figures have proven to be somewhat adrift from what is our current reality."

"We're using oil faster than predicted," this from Carruthers, languidly, "we know that, what's the problem?"

"I thought we had Venezuela in the bag now that Chavez is out of the way," said a thin man who had kept silent up to this point.

Digby saw his deputy riffling through the seating plan in search of the speaker's name and couldn't hide a smile of triumph as he beat him to the punch, saying smoothly, "Good point, Galbraith", thinking old money, no brains and a gambling habit.

"I thought we were going to fall back on nuclear energy," said another, an older man, tanned from life on his yacht, Malcolm Mickerson if memory served Digby; it usually did.

"Tidal and wind farms, that's the ticket." This from Murchison, an old duffer whose first name Digby had allowed to escape him; he was not long for the world and his place would be taken by his son, Giles who resided quite firmly in Digby's pocket.

"Please," said Digby, raising his hand to the room, "if you'll allow me, I have to say it's not going to be as simple as that."

"Why not?" demanded Carruthers, "surely it's just a matter of switching to a new energy source."

"Allow me to continue," said Digby, just the right side of polite, "and I will enlighten you all with the facts."

They fell silent, hamstrung by the signatures on the paper Digby had handed round.

The woman spoke, coolly and with authority, "Put simply, we have greater demand than accessible supply of a product upon which we all rely."

"Well said, Caroline," Digby acknowledged, as all heads turned towards her.

"And the other forms of energy that have been suggested?"

The Deputy Chair consulted his notes; the voice belonged to Gilbert Murchison, son Giles, Scottish laird, held the rights to a whole series of wind farms as wells as having licences for other green energy forms.

"The obvious ones; tidal, wind, solar, hydro are doing their bit," said Digby, trying not to sound too dismissive, "but they can never hope to meet the energy demands of a growing world population or the growing world economy."

Sir Henry added, as it had been agreed he would, "Without either an increase in production or an increase in prices the profits will dip and our investors....."

"Exactly right," Digby ran with the theme, "our investors will see a decline in their profits and given we are here to ensure permanent growth it is imperative we ensure there is no decline."

"What about nuclear?" asked Mickerson.

"Nuclear isn't so simple; there's been a steady move away from nuclear power in the west, the result of Long Island, Chernobyl and obviously what happened in Fukushima."

"It's surely just a question of finding a new economical energy source," said Goodison.

"I still think we need to plug on with nuclear energy," said Mickerson, "but we just need to ensure we address any contamination issues."

"We could always build them in the deserts," said Galbraith, with that asinine giggle that always made Digby want to punch him.

"Gentlemen, please," said Digby, glancing quickly at Caroline, "We are not here to discuss new options nor to debate the issues. We are here to implement the resolutions of the board." There was a general murmuring of discontent. "But first, refreshments, please Baxter, could you show the waitresses in, thank you."



Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun





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Extract from the books 'From Democracy to Dictatorship' & 'Corpalism'.

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.

Cheers

Arun







More books in the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendium editions

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

Chapter 1

The PM


"They're insane, I tell you," said the PM.

The flight from Rotterdam, two further hours, two whisky sours and a cigar had done nothing for his mood.

"If it wasn't degrading enough, they had the nerve to communicate via bloody TV screens. Couldn't see their faces just crosses, and flowers and other stuff, one of them had bones and a skull, like some bloody pirate."

"Aah, the Skull and Bones," murmured Blackmore, "and was there a rose? If so it was probably depicting Rosicrucianism. These icons are representations of the various societies..."

The PM looked at him: Sir Phillip Blackmore, a baronet, peer of the realm, old money and even older attitudes. Supercilious, aloof and highly intelligent.

"I know all about that, Blackmore, but it was needlessly melodramatic. The whole room was blacked out, like some stupid University initiation thing." He paused then added, the whisky thickening his voice, "You won't believe how they spoke to the President."

"Unfortunately, Prime Minister, blowing the island out of the water was not the agreement and it did not have the desired effect. These people do not forgive and forget."

"What do you know about them, Blackmore?" demanded the PM., "If you've been keeping information from me, so help me...."

Blackmore kept his back to the agitated PM, staring out of the window at the view that sustained him. He was deeply angry, not least at being berated with another man in the room. And Sir Digby Chalfont at that. It was undignified and as such, unforgivable.

Blackmore detested Chalfont, regarded him as a jumped up Johnny, who'd done nothing to deserve the knighthood he had recently acquired.

On top of that, Sir Digby always looked fit and tanned, and irritatingly capable. Blackmore had watched him arrive that morning, wheeling a customised Brompton; one of those ludicrously expensive bikes that fold up for City travel. He'd bent down athletically to pull off his Giro-prolight road shoes and quickly replaced them with navy Church's brogues that had magically appeared from a grey Ortlieb day sack.

When he took off his helmet it was to reveal a full head of dark hair, greying in an interesting way at the temples. He had shrugged out of his white Proviz - Reflect 360 jacket and there he stood, resplendent in a French blue, wool Gieves and Hawke's suit with a stark white, slim-fit Turnbull and Asser shirt, mother of pearl buttons, double cuff complete with navy silk tie. Ready for action and all set to infuriate Blackmore with every word he spoke.

The PM was aware of none of this as he asked acerbically, "So tell me, Blackmore....."

"The New World Order," offered Blackmore, a mere murmur.

"Well, yes, obviously," said the PM testily, "but surely that doesn't allow them to talk like that to the leader of the Western world? What price the rest of us if that's the case?"

"Supreme wealth does appear to enable them to do more or less as they please," said Blackmore, thinking, where have you been you stupid man, but his words were non-judgemental, "I'm rather afraid money is the passport to a better life and the more money you have, the better that life."

Cholmondeley couldn't help the happy thought that even Blackmore's superior breeding would count for little in that august company, then remembered with sour resentment that this breeding was accompanied by hundreds of acres of land in some prime countryside not to mention the Pimlico apartment block, and serious holdings in the Antibes.

He was unable to keep the resentment in check, saying bitterly, "Oh, well, I suppose you'll be alright then."

Blackmore turned to look at the man. He wished once again that he didn't need him, didn't need his easy charm with the public, the fruity voice and elegant frame producing an instant impact, an urbane and charismatic presence that Blackmore lacked.

Women wanted Cholmondeley, most men wanted to be him. Blackmore, not one of those men, was simply saddled with him.

Cholmondeley was whining now, "You weren't there, Blackmore, you didn't hear what Stone said to me."

"Of course, Prime Minister," said Blackmore, tiring of the effort to lift him, "it is undeniable that if these people want you gone then it's just a formality."

There was a small silence, during which time the PM seemed to shrink into himself.

Blackmore clarified, "I meant to say, if that's what they really wanted, then you would be dead already."

"He's right, Prime Minister," said Sir Digby, breaking his self-imposed silence, "you're perfectly safe."

Blackmore's spine stiffened, but his face betrayed nothing of his loathing.

The PM spoke sternly to the younger man, "I hold you responsible, Chalfont. If I go down, I'll take you down with me."

"No need for anyone to go down," said Blackmore, pacifically, "as long as they get what they want."

"Which is what, exactly?" demanded the PM.

"At the moment it appears to be nothing," said Blackmore, "from what you told us, they have their sights set on the US so we can relax for the moment."

"But for how long?" asked Cholmondeley, trying not to whimper but not wholly succeeding, "It's alright for you to say. You're not the one in the firing line."

"He has a point, Sir Phillip," Chalfont said, making an effort at sympathy, and acknowledging his own part in the mismanaged plot. "If they're really after the breakup of the U.S, what does that mean for us? Have they made a deal with the Russians? The Chinese?"

"My god," said the PM, burying his head in his hands, "if they have, we're finished."

Blackmore eased himself into the chair opposite the PM; this was going to be a long conversation and he might as well make himself comfortable.

"We will survive, whatever the circumstances," he said, pushing strength into his voice, needing the PM functioning and resilient. "Even if their plan is the collapse of every major power in the world leaving only wealthy families in place."

He paused, trying for words that would have the ring of truth yet leaving room for hope, "We can work with these families, they will need people like us to help them to retain control. They'll want to run things like the localised regions of monarchs of old."

"You've given this some thought," Cholmondeley said drily, head coming up, surveying Blackmore with grudging respect.

"Who are these families?" asked Chalfont, irritated. He'd not long got his knighthood, dammit, worked bloody hard for it and he wanted to keep it.

The PM was rallying, anger displacing the fear, "Good point, Digby. I'm all for returning wealth and power to the rightful families of the aristocracy, but I'll be damned if I'm going to kowtow to these bastards. A bunch of merchants and bankers for Christ' sake."

"What's your thinking, Blackmore?" asked Chalfont.

Blackmore addressed the PM. "The New World Order is a good thing as far as it goes," he said, his voice a soothing remedy for Cholmondeley's bruised ego, "the question is, how far should it be allowed to go?"

"That's it, Blackmore," said the PM, "we don't want the collapse of the US, we'd be next, mark my words."

"How would they rule?" asked Blackmore, more to himself than to the PM, thinking aloud. Cholmondeley felt almost privileged to witness his mind working. "If they really want the collapse of every major power.... how would they keep things going?"

"With their wealth, I expect," said the PM.

"Can they rule the world without a major power behind them? How can they be certain of maintaining control of those areas?"

"Perhaps they know things won't change," Chalfont tossed in, with a shrug.

"Exactly, Digby," said Blackmore, rounding on him, eyes bright, "and for that to be the case they would have to control all the world's monetary wealth, and all its natural resources and be able to strike anyone, anywhere, with impunity."

"They already own the world's finances," said Chalfont feeling himself to have said something clever.

"And with the collapse of the Middle East they have control of the oil fields," said the PM, not to be outdone.

"So what replaces America's might?" mused Blackmore.

"A new weapon?" offered Cholmondeley, thinking 'I'm the PM I should be running this show', but Blackmore had the better mind; he had no choice.

"Mmm, a new weapon, yes, something the Americans have been working on..."

"But how does that help?" asked Chalfont, "I mean that still leaves them dependent on American muscle which won't exist if America fractures into god knows how many countries...."

"But if one of those countries has a sort of super weapon," mused Blackmore, "then it won't matter..."

"How do we find out?" asked Chalfont.

"I don't think my usual contacts would tell me," said Blackmore, hating to admit it but knowing it to be true, "if this one is to come out, it has to come from the top."

"Stone?"

"Well, you said he wasn't happy having to orchestrate the collapse of the US," said Chalfont.

"Well, yes, but whether that means he'll tell me about their latest secret weapon......"

"You can't speak over the phone, Prime Minister," said Blackmore, "face to face only."

The PM was outraged, "Are our bloody phones encrypted? Are they listening to us now?"

"Who knows what they can do these days," said Blackmore, "they listen, we block, they change tack, we try to block again but who knows if they can hear or could ever hear, all we know is that they're trying to listen in."

"We can't risk it...they'll have to meet," said Chalfont.

"We can't just meet," said the PM, "we need a reason."

Blackmore nodded, "We need an incident."




News


He looked into the camera, dark eyes calm, hair gelled into a black sheen, his manner urbane and assured.

His expensive looking, dark grey suit was moulded to his shoulders, the shirt beneath gleamed white, a match for his perfect teeth, a foil for the olive skin.

In a voice as mellifluous as his manner, he said, "Breaking news from the trial of Simpson v Ballard." He turned his head slightly, expert in his presentation, "This from our outside reporter, Gloria Carnegie who is at the Old Bailey this morning."

The screen filled to show a busy London Street and a wind-blown woman standing on the steps of the ancient building.

She pushed her hair from her face and said, "Indeed, Darbinder, Judge Gideon Price said in his summing up that Mr and Mrs Simpson had shown contemptible prejudice when dealing with Mr and Mr Ballard. He explained that Mr and Mr Ballard had booked a room in the 'Seascape B&B' like any other paying customers and had the right to be treated fairly. Further, that when the Simpsons cancelled their reservation they were breaking a legally binding contract. "

She read from the paper in her hand, "He said that Mr Simpson appeared to be the main culprit, encouraging his wife in her anti 'same-sex marriage' histrionics. The defence claim that homosexuality was against their religious beliefs has been denied as spurious."

She looked up at the camera, saying with grave authority, "It is intended that this case will act as a demonstration to others that this egregious offence will not be tolerated."

She left a slight pause, then came in with the punch line, "Judge Price sentenced Mr Simpson to 10 years and Mrs Simpson to 8 years, to be served in a maximum security prison. Now, back to you, Darbinder, in the studio."



Living it Large


The Mulsanne Speed glided to an effortless halt on the thick gravel.

The investment had been worth the sacrifice and he felt proud to settle her alongside the old money, muddy Land Rovers and the ancient Rolls Silver Cloud. He clocked the orange Ferrari California, incongruously new and bright, with surprise and some envy.

A tall, slim man, late-twenties, over-dressed for the country in his dark navy 3-piece suit. He knew he should have dispensed with the waistcoat, or put the jacket with corduroy trousers. His shoes, Loake brown leather-soled brogues, would have worked either way. However the need to flaunt his money and dress to match the elegance of the Mulsanne had overcome his common sense.

He crunched across the gravel to the pillared entrance, paused to check his watch, ostensibly to note the time but really to make sure the Patek Philippe was still where it should be, and pulled on the bell.

A black-garbed maid with a white frilled cap opened the door immediately as if she'd been waiting behind it to do just that.

A voice boomed out from inside the house, "Come on through, Jim." This was his host, Colonel Sir Maximilian 'call me Max' Ashington Bledley-Smythe, "We're all in here."

Jim preferred James but was not about to remind the Colonel of that fact. For his own part he studiously ignored the affable standing instructions to drop the title. As far as he was concerned, if you had one, military or otherwise, you should be so addressed.

He tweaked his sleeve to ensure the watch could be seen, no point spending £15k on an accessory for it not to be noticed, crossed the entrance hall, ignoring the demoralising impression of a space larger than his entire apartment, and made his way into the drawing room, attracted by the sound of clinking porcelain.

On entering the room, Jacobean, all dark panelling and haughty ancestors looking down their aristocratic noses, he took note of the number of people present in the room, disappointingly less than promised, and quickly calculated the financial worth of the absentees.

His host, a ruddy-faced, thick set man, moved forward and shook his hand. His casual attire, a white and pink cotton check shirt over fawn corduroy trousers, served to make James feel even more over-dressed.

The Colonel then began the introductions, "My wife, Lady Augustine, you've met already."

James nodded to the thin, horsey-faced woman, with unkempt hair, and glanced at the rheumy-eyed dog of indeterminate age and breed at her feet.

He resolved to avoid looking at her again, her faded twin-set and dog-hair embossed tweed skirt screamed old money and rendered him completely gauche.

"And this is my daughter, Wilhelmina."

James was briefly aware of a flash of attraction towards this fresh faced girl, who looked like she'd just dismounted and was ready to go again, then he pulled his attention to the rest of the family as the Colonel continued introductions.



"My parents and cousins, and the others," indicating the 'too numerous to name' assorted family members with an airy wave of his hand, finishing with, "Philly and Co couldn't make it."

Philomena, the Colonel's older sister, headed up a whole other branch of the family, the airily described 'and Co', a host of sundry folk, each of whom carried significant portfolios.

James was more than a little put out; he had spent several weeks working on the entire family's investments.

He had wanted to wrap it all up in one meet. Now he would need to arrange another.

Ashington Bledley-Smythe muttered 'get on with it', and took his seat next to his wife.

James removed several portfolios from his Bottega Veneta briefcase, irritated now by its status symbol newness, and passed them round to what he hoped were the relevant people, struggling to place them all based on the information he'd been given, relying on them to pass them to the right person when he made a mistake.

Thankfully they took it all in good part.

"As you will see," he began, when each person held something on their lap, "there has been substantial growth in the last quarter but from our recent projections this is set to taper off and so a series of adjustments need to be made."

There was a general clearing of throats as family members studied the figures. James knew that this was mostly for show and that their agreement depended on Ashington-Bledley-Smythe; as head of the combined family, once he acquiesced the rest would fall into line.

James spoke as if they all understood what they were looking at, but was careful to explain it at the same time. "You will note a decline in dividend value for all UK companies who have retained factories in mainland Britain. For that reason we have recommended increased investment in the BRIC companies, Brazil, Russia, India and China."

"I say, Jim, are you sure that's the best option?" asked Ashington Bledley-Smythe, "Brazil and India maybe, but bloody hell's bells, surely we don't want to help out the commies?"

James stifled a sigh, "Russian and Chinese markets are good investments. Having said that, most of the companies I've recommended are British and American run."

"Why invest with foreigners at all?" asked Augustine, her voice an irritant to James' ears, high and disdainful, "I think we should focus on our UK investments."

"With respect, Lady Augustine," murmured James, feeling anything but, "British factories simply aren't cost effective anymore."

"They need to pay a decent wage, you mean," said Wilhelmina, with a loud snort, "and provide healthy working conditions."

"Be quiet, Wilhelmina," said her father.

Jim glanced at her, wondering briefly how two such awful people could have produced this gorgeous, strapping girl.

"With all this unrest around, darling," interjected Lady Augustine, addressing her husband, her voice sharp in admonition, "we would do well to take heed of what Wilhelmina's saying. We won't last long if the masses start to look too enviously at what we've got."

A cough and splutter from the large sofa by the fire heralded an interruption from Lord Geoffrey Bledley-Smythe. "Have to take care of the masses, my boy. Give 'em just enough, that's my motto. Always worked for me, what?"

His wife, Lady Lavinia, of the Suffolk Ashington's, nodded energetically, clasping and unclasping her hands in mute support. The rest of the group affected not to have heard his Lordship's interruption.

James looked perplexed. He was trying to help these people, what was the matter with them?

"Let me assure you on that point," he said, "the people working in these factories are perfectly happy to be earning a wage."

"It's alright Jim," said his host, amiably, "the ladies are just blowing off steam, that's all."

"We are not blowing off steam," snapped Wilhelmina, "are we, Mummy?"

Lady Augustine smiled then, acknowledging her husband's look of rebuke, signalled for Wilhelmina to cease.

"Mummy!" Wilhelmina tossed her hair in irritation.

James' mouth went suddenly dry. She was stunning.

"Later dear," said Lady Augustine.

"It looks like you're keeping most of the blue ribbon investments," said Ashington Bledley-Smythe, "but I'm not overly comfortable putting 60% of the portfolio in foreign hands."

"The boys in the backroom have calculated a 20% increase in your returns," said James, confidence re-emerging, "which, if you check out the projections, equals £1.5 billion, approximately."

"20% increase?" questioned Lady Augustine.

She was viewing James with something like respect in her eyes; annoyingly he felt more important as a result.

He spoke again, "Increase, on top of the already projected profits."

"Ooh, super," said Wilhelmina, clasping her hands together, "I can get that flat in Paris now, can't I, Mummy?"

Ashington Bledley-Smythe cut across his wife, "Of course you can, my darling girl," he said beaming at his daughter.

"You spoil her, Smythie," said Lady Augustine, her use of the pet name an indication of her general agreement.

James relaxed; the hard bit was over. But he'd never understand these people.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun



More books in the 'Corpalism' series













Compendium editions