Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 23

If you're going to read one book over Christmas - make it 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series by Arun D Ellis

Suddenly

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

John F. Kennedy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

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

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

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

“No,” said Peter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

“You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

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

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

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

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

∞

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It means that until you have repaid the £30,000 you owe your creditors 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, but not the detail nor had he anticipated the speed and in any case, it didn’t mean he had to like it.

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

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

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

“What!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

∞

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not any more it’s not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I manage.”

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

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

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

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

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun







More books in the 'Corpalism' series

















Compendium editions

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.”

≈ ≈

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

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

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

“We know how to deal with argumentative fuck wits like you,” hissed the second guard, illustrating the point by driving the butt of his pump shotgun into Terry’s thigh. “Not another word ‘til we reach [2]Middlesbrough.”

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

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

≈ ≈

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

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

“No.”

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

“Police hospitality,” replied Terry.

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

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

“But you said….”

“Never mind,” replied Terry.

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

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

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

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

“You fell?”

“I fell.”

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

“Well, it’s what I’m saying now.”

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

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

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

“No, I didn’t.”

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

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

“Where did you fall?”

“In the shower.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

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

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

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

“Yes,” said Terry.

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

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

“And 25 years social labour.”

“What!”

“25 years social labour,” repeated Debby.

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

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

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

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

“But how do I live?” asked Terry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Interest?” he squeaked.

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

Terry sneered and made a mock laugh.

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Jones.”

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

“Mr. Jones.”

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

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

“Poor employee!” shouted Terry.

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

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

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

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

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

“I worked hard,” snapped Terry.

“Of course you did,” said Debby, “but hey, you were sacked for tardiness, funny that.” Terry gritted his teeth, he couldn’t afford to lose it with her completely “Your employer was good enough to give you the opportunity to prove your worth to society; employed you, paid you, got you on the property ladder and this is how you repay them.”

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

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

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

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

“What more could I want?” He smirked at her.

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

Terry pulled a fake grin.

≈ ≈

Waiting at the bus stop outside the Relocations office; nothing if not convenient, he had time to reflect on this next stage of his life. He had few regrets; his old apartment had been nothing to write home about; the most exciting thing about it was the space it had afforded for him to train. Space well worth the distance from the office, as he’d thought at the time. Now standing here waiting for the bus that would take him to the sink estate he’d always dreaded, maybe distance should have won over space? Perhaps he could have put off this day?

The bus took him through two checkpoints and he watched carefully the verification process that allowed the transport to continue. His forearm chip could apparently be read at some distance, not requiring a scanner scrolled over it; he’d not been aware of that since previously his use of it had been to achieve access to buildings and to purchases. The process had a fairly foolproof look about it and the thought depressed him.

Deposited at the corner of Cameron St, again nothing if not convenient, he walked the length of it to get to number 300. He crossed a few side streets en route, Thatcher Close, Clegg Alley, MacMillan Mount and felt the desolation seep into him. The buildings he passed were ‘past their best’, that was the euphemistic phrase that fit most aptly. He’d relocated hundreds of people to streets just like these and was embarrassed to see, if not exactly hovels, homes that were definitely ‘past their best’. The apartment building he’d been in had been palatial in comparison.

He stared up at number 300. Now, this was squalid and no mistake; whether because he was due to go inside, to live there or whether it was a fact, but forget ‘past its best’ this one was squalid.

The square of grass that fronted the building was overgrown and littered with various objects; several tires reared up in a pile in the middle, a rusting supermarket trolley lay nearby on its side tangled with weeds, an old toilet posed near the front door of the building with a rather pathetic bush poking above the rim, a rusting metal bedhead leaned against the wall, partly covering several piles of bricks, rocks and stones. ‘Lovely,’ thought Terry, ‘just bloody perfect.’

“What you doin’ mister?” asked a kid on a bike.

Terry had been aware that the small crowd who’d been hovering near the bus stop had chosen to follow him to his destination. He’d also been aware that the crowd had grown en route, and was now quite large and noisy. He chose to ignore the spokesperson and picked his way up the path.

He entered the building, previously a single house, now re-structured into flats with a tiny entrance hall and doors off. Just outside the door to Flat 2, his home-to-be for the next 25 years, was a pile of beer cans and pizza boxes, he kicked them aside as he put his key in the lock. He opened the door and stomped up the uncarpeted stairs. He didn’t linger at the top but walked straight through to the living room.

The carpet was bright pink; faded in parts, thin and wrinkled and the wallpaper was a lurid green. There was a chair, faded blue, the arms worn and stained, the cushion torn and the headrest filthy with years of accumulated grease. He gave a thought to the previous occupant – how long had he or she lasted? The TV sat directly on the floor and looked to be more or less the promised 12”, at least that’s what he figured, whatever it was small.

He crossed the room to the kitchen area, checked the cupboards; all dirty. He found one plate, one bowl and one cup, one knife, one fork, one dessert spoon and one teaspoon – was someone trying to make a point? The sink was stained and slimy to touch, the cold tap dripped sullenly, there was plumbing for a washing machine but no washing machine, damp flourished all along the wall and the window (view over to rendered wall of adjacent building) was cracked.

He checked the bedroom; bed with a dirty duvet, torn pillow and, thankfully given the state of the duvet, no sheet. In the corner of the room was the promised double wardrobe; albeit with only one door. The carpet was the same as in the front room but the walls were painted yellow, Terry dipped his head and rubbed his brow. He was too disheartened to even look in the ‘think yourself lucky to have one’ bathroom.

He plugged the TV in and slumped into the sole chair. He pressed the on button on the hand control but nothing happened, he tried again, nothing. He removed the back, no batteries ‘Great.’



Welcome to ‘Boro



As with a game of patience your life is predetermined,

The only variable is in how you play the game.

Author



He was woken by a loud banging. At first he didn’t know where he was or where the noise was coming from, then he saw the wallpaper and remembered with a depressed sigh. The banging continued. He staggered up from the chair into the hallway, stumbled down the stairs and opened the door to the unwelcome sight of a red-faced teenager in track suit bottom and a sleeveless grey hooded garment. “What you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse?” Terry frowned, still a bit bleary from his doze, making out the intent if not the meaning of the words. “I said what the fuck you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse!” screamed the angry youth, his face barely six inches from Terry’s.

Terry was now very quickly awake; he slipped his right leg back, raised his heel slightly and turned his right shoulder away from the threat, but kept his expression benign, his posture relaxed and his hands low.

“I said! What the fuckin’ ‘ell’re you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse?”

Terry didn’t answer; just stared into the angry eyes.

If the lout hadn’t been so annoyed then Terry’s stance, relaxed and loose limbed, in the face of such aggression might have sent a warning. To be fair he couldn’t be expected to know that at six years old Terry, then slightly built and shy, had been introduced to Tae Kwon Do by his adoptive parents and unexpectedly thrived, gaining a black belt 4 years later. He’d gone further; by age 12 he was a 2nd Dan, at 15 a 3rd and by the time he was 20 he was a 4th Dan. He’d found his niche, and whilst gaining notoriety in TKD he’d also trained in Shotokan Karate, and mastered the art of Wing Chun, Jujitsu, Judo and Jeet Kune Do. For good measure he was also a fair boxer, an enthusiastic wrestler and an excellent shot but, all things considered, using that skill here could be considered extreme; besides a gun hadn’t been on the list of necessities that had been provided to him.

“Are you fuckin’ deaf?”

“Are you from ‘round here?” asked Terry, politely.

“What?”

“That’s not a Yorkshire accent, is it?” asked Terry.

“Jest shut the fuck up, I’ll do the fuckin’ talkin’,” he added as he jabbed a finger at Terry’s chest.

The thrusting finger never reached its intended target. Terry reached up, grabbed it with his left hand, imprisoning the wrist with his right, and snapped the finger back so that it rested on the top of the captive hand. In one fluid movement he brought his right leg up, knee to chest, then snapped his leg straight out, driving the ball of his foot into the young man’s solar plexus, this thrust sending him flying backwards virtually all the way the end of the garden.

It was only then that Terry became aware of the watching crowd.

“Fuuuuck!” said a voice in the general commotion that followed, “did you see that?”

Terry strolled down the path and grabbed the now squealing youth and threw him backwards into the road.

“You’re gonna get it now Mister,” said one of the kids.

“Really,” answered Terry, “I don’t think he’s in any fit state, do you?”

“Not from him,” said the kid, “from his brothers.”

“Yeah the O’Connells,” said a girl on Terry’s left.

“Fuckin’ hardest bastards you’ll ever meet,” shouted someone.

“Really?” questioned Terry, “and where can I find these hard nuts?”

“They’ll find you” the girl yelled, pointing at a bike squealing up the road in the direction of her pointing finger.

“Thatcher Close!” shouted another girl, excitement in her eyes.

“Follow us,” shouted the kids as they raced off on their BMXs.

Terry strolled after them followed by a small crowd. They hadn’t travelled far when the kids came racing back on their bikes, “They’re comin’!” they shouted more or less in unison, “the O’Connells are comin’.”

They were coming indeed, marching down the centre of the road towards him.

Four in all, five if you counted the one Terry had just seen off, which Terry didn’t. Mostly sporting variations of the ubiquitous track suit bottom and assorted shapeless upper garments, the biggest one wore jeans instead of trackies, a coating of grease disguising the original colour and his arms were dark with tattoos. Prison tats, Terry would put money on it.

“Is this ‘im, Sean?” yelled the leading O’Connell, this one fully encased in a tracksuit, arms and all.

Terry walked into the middle of the road and waited, there was no traffic so he felt safe enough. He stepped slightly forward with his left leg, raised his heels and spread his balance evenly between both feet. He rotated his shoulders a couple of times and raised his open hands to his chest. The one he’d already tangled with dropped off to the left, hanging back while his brothers spread out across the road; effectively closing off escape should Terry have been contemplating this action, which he wasn’t but they weren’t to know that.

“Yeah, Jimmy, that’s ’im.”

“I’m ‘im, Jimmy,” yelled Terry, grinning ear from ear.

“You watch your mouth,” yelled the O’Connell on Terry’s far left.

Terry stared at Jimmy, fixing him as the leader; “is it one at a time or do you need to hold hands?”

“Don’t you fuckin’ worry ‘bout it, shit head,” yelled Jimmy, “it’ll only take one O’Connell to put you down.” That the direct contradiction to this statement was standing over to his side looking sheepish wasn’t about to deter him from making this rash boast. Terry smiled. He could have beaten them all together, at a push; easier to take them one at a time. “Take him out, Dale”.

Dale, the mouthy one on Terry’s far left moved forwards and pulled a short iron bar from behind his back. Terry nodded. Dale was now at a significant disadvantage; his whole attack would be based round swinging the bar whereas Terry had the freedom to strike with any part of his body, from any angle.

Dale went to raise his right arm so he could swing the iron bar but stopped short, seemingly recognising that doing this would expose him to an attack to his midriff or maybe lower, if Terry fought dirty. He stepped back slightly and pulled his right arm across his body so he could swing backhand. Terry adapted; stepped to his left and, crossing his feet, slipped round to Dale’s right. Dale tried to turn and swung his arm but Terry blocked, striking Dale’s elbow as his arm came round, at the same time he kicked him in the back of his right knee, sending him to the ground. He punched him in the temple and Dale’s world went black.

Terry stepped back and grinning beckoned the O’Connell on his far right forwards.

Jimmy waved him back, “No, not you, Brendan…Paddy,” he instructed.

Terry turned to face the jeans wearing brother, made swarthy with tattoos, a bigger, heavier version of the now unconscious Dale. Terry raised his open hands to guard his face, crouching slightly to protect his lower ribs with his elbows. Paddy pulled out the motor bike chain he wore for a belt and started to swing it round, above his head. Terry grinned, same mistake as his brother.

The chain came swinging towards Terry’s head and Terry slid backwards out of range. Paddy pulled back and swung the chain again. His recovery was slow and awkward but Terry wanted to check it again; he allowed Paddy to close in once more. Paddy swung the chain at Terry’s head a third time, angrily huffing as Terry ducked easily away. This time Paddy’s recovery was so ponderous that Terry allowed him to close again and when Paddy pulled the chain back above his head Terry followed in and placed a left jab clean on Paddy’s nose. The speedy follow up - a right hook to the body - sent Paddy straight to the ground; the floating rib, it’ll do that to you. Terry stepped back and raising his eyebrows at Jimmy, said, “So who’s next, Jim?” The O’Connell on Terry’s right started to move forward, “Leave it, Brendan” instructed Jimmy, “this one’s mine.”

Jimmy took off his track suit top revealing a well defined muscular torso; a slighter build so possibly more flexible than his lumbering brothers. He cracked his knuckles and, clenching his fists, took up a good boxing stance. Terry nodded, he recognised the mistakes Jimmy had just made and could predict the ones he would make next. Clenching his fists had tightened Jimmy’s shoulders and reduced the speed of any technique he would deliver and if Jimmy’s fighting knowledge had led him to clench his fists then Terry was confident his movement would not be speedy.

Terry allowed Jimmy to close in. Jimmy threw out a left jab as Terry slipped back, tapping it down with his lead open hand. Nothing annoyed opponents like having a punch swatted away with an open hand. Predictably, Jimmy threw another left, fierce and angry and then threw a right but Terry ducked his way out of both techniques. Terry bounced round behind Jimmy knowing as he did so that the fourth O’Connell would try to take him from behind; he did. Terry threw out a reverse side kick into this new assailant’s floating rib; job done.

Jimmy tried to take advantage of this distraction but Terry had already danced out of range. Jimmy closed again and threw more jabs and rights but each time Terry, a broad grin across his face, blocked or ducked or danced out of range. Jimmy got more and more annoyed. Terry offered his chin. Taking the bait, Jimmy swung a right but Terry wasn’t there anymore. “Come on, Jimmy,” he goaded, “surely you’re faster than that.”

Jimmy went to throw a left jab, pulled it and tried a quick kick but it was weak; uncontrolled and directionless. Terry shook his head and waited until Jimmy’s foot landed, leaving him off balance with his legs too stretched. Terry then bounced in, planted a left on Jimmy’s nose, a right on his left cheek, another left into his left side floating rib followed by a right upper cut onto his chin.

Jimmy collapsed onto his knees, swaying, dazed and bloodied. Terry bounced out and then swung a right legged turning kick at Jimmy’s temple stopping his foot millimetres from contact. He pulled his leg back and placing it behind him looked over to the one called Sean who waved his hands and shaking his head, backed off.

Terry returned to his flat followed by a large crowd of adulating fans.

≈ ≈

He was awoken by a loud banging. Surely not the brothers back for more; he rubbed his head and leaned forwards in the arm chair, all the while the banging continued. He splashed his face awake, yelling “All right! All right!” then jogged lightly down the stairs, and prepared to do battle, he flung back the door, “What do you want?”

“Hey Mister.” said the kid on the bike, “will you teach us how to fight?”

“Will you reach us how to fight like that?” this from his companion, standing just behind.

Terry frowned “Go away, an’ leave me alone.”

“Go on Mister.” shouted someone from the crowd gathered at the end of his path.

“Shove off, all of you!” shouted Terry slamming the door.

As Terry climbed the stairs the letterbox opened, “Go on Mister.”

≈ ≈

Terry left his house and went to the corner shop followed by a gang of about 20 youths.

“Go on Mister, teach us how to fight.”

“Yeah go on Mister.”

Terry ignored them, he was tired of shouting. They’d been on his case for the best part of 3 days now and he was well past bored.

“Please Mister.”

“Show us how to do that Kung Foooo stuff.”

“Go on Mister.”

Terry went into the shop and bought two cans of lager. When he came out the group was still there. They followed him home.

“Why not, Mister?”

“We’re good students.”

“We won’t give you any trouble.”

Terry shut the door, climbed the stairs and fell into his arm chair. The banging started again,

≈ ≈

He woke up, his head shaking backwards and forwards, “What the…?” he mouthed, getting to his feet, his living room was full, “How did you lot get in?”

“Door was open.”

“Come on Mister, teach us how to fight.”

“No it wasn’t.” How the hell do you remonstrate sensibly with a roomful of kids? It was beyond his scope of reference.

“It was.”

“Oh come on mister.”

“Get out,” yelled Terry. “Fuckin’ out... Now!”

≈ ≈

Terry pulled the duvet but it refused to move. He tugged harder but it still wouldn’t budge. He opened his eyes, the room was full of kids, and three of them sat on his bed, “Shit!”

“Come on Mister.”

He pulled the pillow over his head, “Sod off.”

≈ ≈

Terry walked to the local shop, followed by his usual entourage. He bought his usual supplies and a new lock, putting paid to the last of the money Debbie had handed him along with his bus fare. Irritation at this additional expense added unusual flavour to his accustomed response to their persistent demands. They drifted away, this time not following him all the way home.

“What we gonna do, man?” one of the youths said.

“Dunno… ‘e’s just not goin’ for it, is ‘e.”

“I’ve got an idea,” this from one of the smaller of the group “Sandra.”

“What? My Sandra?” One of the older boys spoke, pushing through to the front.

“Yeah, Darren, your Sandra.”

“She won’t do it.”

“Yeah she will.”

“No she won’t, she’s my sister, I should know.”

“You’re right, she won’t do it if you ask her, but she’ll do it for money.”

“No, she won’t.”

“Of course she will, everyone’s got their price.”

“Yeah, come on, Darren, you can at least try!”

“Alright!” said Darren, “but I’m tellin’ ya, she ain’t gonna do it.”

Darren was wrong and right; wrong in that she did agree to do it and right in that it wasn’t for money. Sandra had heard about Terry’s exploits and seen him from a distance and she liked what she’d heard and seen. Besides, anyone who could sort out Jimmy O’Connell can’t be all bad.

≈ ≈

There was a knock at Terry’s door, not like the recent banging, this time it was short and somehow polite. He got up from the kitchen table, still chewing his breakfast, ran lightly down the stairs and opened the door, not sure what to expect. Sandra smiled; petite, blonde, brown-eyed and altogether unexpected. He nearly choked on his toast.

“Hello,” said Sandra, calmly aware of the effect she was having. Terry mumbled something, hid his toast behind his back and sort of shuffled.

“I’m Sandra Coogan,” she said, “I live round the corner. I thought I’d stop by and welcome you to the neighbourhood.”

“Sandra,” repeated Terry, “sorry, yes, hello, Sandra. I’m… erm…Terry.”

“Hello Terry.”

“Er…would you like to come in??”

≈ ≈

Darren leaned back on his bike, “told you she’d do it.”

“Shut it Darren.”

“You so did not, Darren.”



Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun






More books in the 'Corpalism' series

















Compendium editions

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

Extract below

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

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

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

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

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

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

∞

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

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

“No.”

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

“Police hospitality,” replied Terry.

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

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

“But you said….”

“Never mind,” replied Terry.

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

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

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

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

“You fell?”

“I fell.”

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

“Well, it’s what I’m saying now.”

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

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

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

“No, I didn’t.”

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

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

“Where did you fall?”

“In the shower.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

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

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

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

“Yes,” said Terry.

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

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

“And 25 years social labour.”

“What!”

“25 years social labour,” repeated Debby.

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

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

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

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

“But how do I live?” asked Terry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Interest?” he squeaked.

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

Terry sneered and made a mock laugh.

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Jones.”

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

“Mr. Jones.”

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

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

“Poor employee!” shouted Terry.

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

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

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

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

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

“I worked hard,” snapped Terry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What more could I want?” He smirked at her.

Debby pulled a fake grin.

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

Terry pulled a fake grin.

∞

Waiting at the bus stop outside the Relocations office; nothing if not convenient, he had time to reflect on this next stage of his life. He had a few regrets; his old apartment had been nothing to write home about; the most exciting thing about it was the space it had afforded for him to train. Space well worth the distance from the office, as he’d thought at the time. Now standing here waiting for the bus that would take him to the sink estate he’d always dreaded, maybe distance should have won over space? Perhaps he could have put off this day?

The bus took him through two checkpoints and he watched carefully the verification process that allowed the transport to continue. His forearm chip could apparently be read at some distance, not requiring a scanner scrolled over it; he’d not been aware of that since previously his use of it had been to achieve access to buildings and to purchases. The process had a fairly foolproof look about it and the thought depressed him.

Deposited at the corner of Cameron St, again nothing if not convenient, he walked the length of it to get to number 300. He crossed a few side streets en route, Thatcher Close, Clegg Alley, MacMillan Mount and felt the desolation seep into him.

The buildings he passed were ‘past their best’, that was the euphemistic phrase that fit most aptly. He’d relocated hundreds of people to streets just like these and was embarrassed to see, if not exactly hovels, homes that were definitely ‘past their best’. The apartment building he’d been in had been palatial in comparison.

He stared up at number 300. Now, this was squalid and no mistake; whether it was because he was due to go inside, was expected to live there or whether it was a fact, but forget ‘past its best’, this one was squalid.

The square of grass that fronted the building was overgrown and littered with various objects; several tires reared up in a pile in the middle, a rusting supermarket trolley lay nearby on its side tangled with weeds, an old toilet posed near the front door of the building with a rather pathetic bush poking above the rim, a rusting metal bedhead leaned against the wall, partly covering several piles of bricks, rocks and stones. ‘Lovely,’ thought Terry, ‘just bloody perfect.’

“What you doin’ mister?” asked a kid on a bike.

Terry had been aware that the small crowd who’d been hovering near the bus stop had chosen to follow him to his destination. He’d also been aware that the small crowd had grown en route, and was now quite large and quite noisy. He chose to ignore the spokesperson and picked his way up the path.

He entered the building, previously a single house, now re-structured into flats with a tiny entrance hall and doors off. Just outside the door to Flat 2, his home-to-be for the next 25 years, was a pile of beer cans and pizza boxes, he kicked them away as he put his key in the lock. He unlocked the door and stomped up the uncarpeted wooden stairs. He didn’t linger at the top but walked straight through to the living room.

The carpet was bright pink; faded in parts, thin and wrinkled and the wallpaper was a lurid green. There was a chair, faded blue, the arms worn and stained, the cushion torn and the headrest filthy with years of accumulated grease. He gave a thought to the previous occupant – how long had he or she lasted? The TV sat directly on the floor and looked to be more or less the promised 12”, at least that’s what he figured, whatever it was small.

He crossed the room to the kitchen area, checked the cupboards; all dirty. He found one plate, one bowl and one cup, one knife, one fork, one dessert spoon and one teaspoon – was someone trying to make a point? The sink was stained and slimy to touch, the cold tap dripped sullenly, there was plumbing for a washing machine but no washing machine, damp flourished all along the wall and the window (view over to rendered wall of adjacent building) was cracked.

He checked the bedroom; bed with a dirty duvet, torn pillow and, thankfully given the state of the duvet, no sheet. In the corner of the room was the promised double wardrobe; albeit with only one door. The carpet was the same as in the front room but the walls were painted yellow, Terry dipped his head and rubbed his brow. He was too disheartened to even look in the ‘think yourself lucky to have one’ bathroom.

He plugged the TV in and slumped into the sole chair. He pressed the on button on the hand control but nothing happened, he tried again, nothing. He removed the back, no batteries ‘Great.’

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun







More books in the 'Corpalism' series

















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Power Grab by Arun D Ellis - book 8 in the Corpalism series

Talk of the Gods


Isaac Goldstein never tired of the view.

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

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

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

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

"And the markets?"

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

"Hedges?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tried again, "Yeah, I get that, and yeah, we've got a structure for collapse in place, all we need to do is start dumping stocks."

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

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

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

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

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun






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Extract from the book 'Helter Skelter' by Arun D Ellis

Descent 7

Louis sipped his tea and continued to channel hop. He allowed himself a moment to reflect on the old man's passing, aware that had the revelations of the past few weeks not been made then he would have been in full mourning. However, the knowledge had been given to him and couldn't be taken back; that it had been done on his great-grandfather's instructions and apparently in the belief that he would understand was just an added irritation. He didn't understand, he was angry and confused and ashamed.

He rubbed his head in frustration, he was descended from Nazis and he couldn't get rid of the notion that evil had come down through the family line to lodge in him.

Admittedly apart from a bit of shoplifting (and who didn't do that) and a drug dabble (ditto) and ok, he'd tried to kill himself but the family thought it had been a mistake so that didn't count, and anyway it was all years ago, so apart from all that, he'd done nothing to concern his family or friends, especially Jenna.

He shivered; they did not know him as he knew himself; he knew what he was capable of and where his darkest thoughts could go.

His phone buzzed, a text from Jenna.

He allowed himself a few moments to contemplate taking comfort with her. He could see her face, both troubled and caring, warm eyes, soft lips and for a moment he wavered. He wanted to be with her but the last time they'd met up he could talk of nothing but his mixed up feelings.

She'd not been as supportive as he'd hoped when he'd explained his need to search out evidence of the Holocaust his great-grandfather had challenged him to find. Nor did she appreciate his need to find similar evidence to refute all the old man's ramblings about pre and post-war conspiracies to stifle the 'social revolution'.

On the other hand, she'd supported his original plan to burn the folder and put the whole thing out of his head; that he hadn't done either of those things was a source of conflict between them that he couldn't handle right now and had no intention of revisiting anytime soon.

He ignored the text, sipped his tea and changed channel yet again.

The post clattering through the letter box broke through the immobility that had seized him. He snatched at the cardboard, ripping it open to reveal the book he'd ordered. He stared at it; to his mind, one of the most dangerous books ever written, one that professed to explain Hitler and the Nazis; clearly revisionist. He felt odd just holding it; somehow defiled. He was convinced he had been put on some surveillance list the minute he looked it up on line.

He sighed and sat back to read.

He hoped the book would be bunkum; easily dismissed to the file marked 'revisionist nonsense' that he was trying to compile. He had worked out a methodology to make his task easier; read until an outrageous claim was made and then check the claim either on line or on his bookshelves. He had been convinced he would find evidence to debunk the assertions but thus far he had only found evidence in support.

This book proved to be more of the same and three hours later he was still reading; finally he yawned and let the book slide from his lap, he wanted to read more but he was dog tired.

He pinched his cheeks, got up and splashed his face with water from the sink, did a few half-hearted stretches and resumed the task, deciding on an internet search to find an interview with the author, discussing his book. Ten minutes later he started to search elsewhere, the book might well have been intensively researched but the author was sending him to sleep.

He found several other revisionist videos and watched them over and over. Something in them, the very concept of what they preached left him feeling uncomfortable after every viewing.

He stood up and stretched, grabbed his coat and went for a walk.

He returned with a food stock that should hold him in good stead for the next few days while he continued his research. He made short work of a Belgian bun and a can of coke, then slumped down in front of his computer, flicking through until he found a traditional video on the causes of the war.
He watched with quiet satisfaction as frenzied, hysterical Germans, dragooned into lines along the roadside, saluted the megalomaniac dictator. The video had a backdrop of satanic music and the commentary was one he could relate to; Hitler deceiving the masses with tricks like 'Strength through joy' where he bought their loyalty with cheap rate holidays and cruises. It rattled through the same old stuff about how he reduced mass unemployment by building roads, once again buying the loyalty of the masses.

Louis found himself relaxing; his long-held beliefs re-energised as he watched. This fitted what he knew from extensive reading, that Hitler was a control freak, a pervert whose love life was a farce, a man who was obsessed with his mother and couldn't form proper relationships, who as a young man formed an obsession with a young girl, was virtually a stalker, hanging out on street corners with Kubizek, the homosexual. Who later in life totally controlled his niece Gellie until she committed suicide to escape him, then he latched onto Eva Braun. He was a controller of people, a master manipulator and this video proved it. Louis hadn't been aware of how much this revisionist junk had been bothering him.

Louis sighed, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

One hour later he woke with a start, a question thumping in his brain. His sleep hadn't been restful.
He had a test he wanted to conduct and he set to it at once. He watched five minutes of the traditional video he'd fallen asleep in front of, then he watched similar scenes on a revisionist video.

Finally, he turned the sound down and watched them again; without volume they were identical.
Both videos showed thousands of happy Germans all frantic to shake Hitler's hand and they weren't brown shirted party members, these were all ordinary Germans; old men and women, working-age adults, young women and young children.

He rested his fingertips on his forehead, his thoughts racing; stripped of the music or talk overs there was nothing to influence his interpretations. He was left to make his own conclusions of what he was seeing on the screen.

'If they loved him this much then maybe there was something in what he said, in what he and the Nazis offered the ordinary German people.'

He let his thoughts go where they would, conjuring a revolutionary system that encouraged people to work together and for the nation...and supposing it worked, got the German people back into employment when every other western economy remained on its knees, no work, soup kitchens and the like.....

He burst out, his voice loud in the quiet flat, "I need to listen to original broadcasts, hear it for myself. Fuck it, why didn't I learn German?"

He grabbed his cup, rinsed it out in the sink, switched on the kettle, threw a tea bag in the cup. 'So where do the Jews come in?'

The kettle boiled.

Louis poured the steaming water into his cup, his brain still racing, 'surely not? Churchill didn't pursue the war just because the National Socialist philosophy was taking hold? That would be insane, waging a war over conflicting political philosophical outlooks?'

Cheers

Arun






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The book 'Helter Skelter' by Arun D Ellis

Descent 11


"Okay Adolf, you canny old bastard."

Louis was at his book shelves, rummaging. He had taken to referring to Hitler by his Christian name ever since his dream, feeling as if he'd been given permission. He was also speaking out loud, something he had been doing more and more, "Let's just check out your racial theories, shall we? I know just the place to start, Jesse Owens. Let's see, you wouldn't shake the black man's hand, or so legend has it..."

He stopped abruptly, scowling, then his glance fell to the piles of books on the floor, seeing them as if for the first time. He knelt down and continued rummaging, "now... 1936 Olympics, got to be here somewhere."

He sat back, dispirited.

He did have rather a lot of books; some he'd accumulated over several years, a few had come in courtesy of Dave, still more had been coming in the door fast and furiously over recent weeks. He had not disposed of the packaging that the new ones had come in and this added to the general disorder. "I'll have to alpha sort this lot one day, but not now..."

He reached for his phone and speed dialled Jenna.

"Hi babe," he spoke over her excited cries, "have you seen my Nazi Olympics book?"

"What?" Her voice was instantly frosty.

"My Nazi Olympics book." Her icy tone had not registered.

"I heard you, Louis but seriously, that's the first thing you say to me?"

"What's wrong?" He leaned over to dig about in one of his stacks, "Who's upset you?"

"Louis, we haven't seen each other for a week, doesn't that mean anything to you?"

He stood up, she had his attention, "Sorry Jenna, I've just been so busy studying."

"Rubbish Louis, you're still researching your great-grandfather's folder."

'Oops,' thought Louis, 'busted.'

"Louis?"

"Yeah," said Louis, not realising he had been expected to say more.

"LOUIS!"

"Sorry, I know it's been ages," he spoke hastily, fearing a visit, "but I've been studying babe, honest. I changed my thesis, combined the two...look, I'll try and get to see you tonight...."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself, not for my sake," said Jenna, trap laid. She waited for the protestations, the promise to turn up come hell or high water.

Louis was about to do exactly that but he spotted the book he had been seeking, 'YES!'

"Well?" pressed Jenna.

"Cheers babe," said Louis, a smile on his face, as he hung up.

He grabbed the book and stumbled over to his desk, searching the index for Jesse Owens, found the bit he wanted page 227 item 17 and read through the paragraph, 'Owens was the recipient of more adulation than any other athlete had received from the German crowds.' And what's this? Jesse Owens claimed that 'When I passed the Chancellor he arose, waved his hand at me, and I waved back at him. I think the writers showed bad taste in criticizing the man of the hour in Germany'.

"No, fuck!" wailed Louis, "FUCK!"

His head drooped, he waited a few seconds then turned the page, it went on, 'Hitler had congratulated several German and Finnish winners on the first day but as the day ended he left early and didn't shake the hands of the American high jumpers, two of whom were black.' "Hmm, now I have you Adolf, you lying bastard, that's more like the racist we know." He read on, 'Count Baillet-Latour, president of the International Olympic Committee, sent a message to Hitler that he was only a guest of honour and should either congratulate all of the winners or none, so Hitler chose none. So it is unclear whether he would've shaken Jesse Owens' hand or not.'

Louis dropped the book, "You're a right dodgy bastard Adolf, kept everything under a shroud of mystery. Would you or wouldn't you have shaken Jesse Owens' hand? Damn you."

He got up and paced, telling the room, "And, as if that wasn't enough, Owens returned to segregation and poverty in the US, forced to earn a living racing horses." He sighed heavily, said, "A country where they were still lynching blacks not to mention keeping the Indians on reservations. Fuck, this is so messed up."

His phone buzzed, he checked, it was Jenna. He ignored it, he had bigger fish to fry. 

∞

Louis tossed and turned unable to sleep. Hitler was trampling through his thoughts; so many questions and no way of gaining any answers.

He kicked off the duvet and rolled out of bed. No point trying to sleep; he might as well get back to his research. He reached for his jacket and pulled out a small packet of pills. This time he had insisted on paying Dave. He popped one into his mouth and dry swallowed.

He waited until the immediate and familiar buzzing had quietened down, waited for the surge of creative energy, the second stage of the process that came when the chemicals fully hit his bloodstream.
He'd noticed a slight lag in the timing of the surge, a longer period of the angry buzzing, and was wondering if he'd got a bad batch. It was more likely that he was growing impatient.

While he waited he stared at the ceiling, his thoughts wandering back to a time in his early teens, when he had struggled with the meaning of life. The circularity of these thoughts had thrown him into mental turmoil. He had little recollection of that time in his life but for the residual feeling of frantic panic.
The chaos he was feeling now was reminiscent of the confusion he had experienced in those dark days.

He had been told by his mother that he had sat staring at the walls for weeks on end, so desperate had he been to resolve the issue of where life had come from and how it had evolved. He knew he had been 'referred' for treatment with a Dr Stephanovich and with that recollection came the memory of his 'therapeutic friend' the one that Dr Stephanovich had conjured for him to help break the cycle, the friend that was meant to bring him back from the depths of his mind.

Louis shuddered at the memory; it had worked but there had been consequences.

Where Dr Stephanovich had created a pleasant cuddly Koala Bear figure and called it Milo Louis' mind had turned it into a ghoulish zombie-like creature that wanted to kill his parents. It had taken a suicide attempt to bring him out of that and he certainly had no desire to return.

He stared at the wall and tried to conjure Hitler's image. Nothing. He tried again, nothing.

He flopped down and swiped his tablet into life and started interrogating the internet for more revisionist videos. On the wall of his living room he now had three pictures of Hitler in various poses.
That was another reason he didn't want anyone round his flat; he'd have a hard job explaining them away. He'd spent so much time studying them and
Hitler that he now more or less knew every expression that the man had, or at least every televised version.

"This is insane," moaned Louis, as he finished another video showing how the holocaust could not have happened, "how could this be?"

"You just have to look, Louis," said Gampy Jaggs.

Louis woke with a start, although he couldn't be certain he'd been asleep. The video was still showing the credits but he was sure he'd heard Gampy's voice.

It was all getting too much for him; he was researched out, he knew everything there was to know about the revisionist claims, he knew all the revisionists' names, all their theories. He knew all the counteracting arguments.

His mind was awash with numbers and stats and Zyklon B and camp names and Poland and who declared war on who and when and what this leader and that leader meant by this or that but it was all a jumbled mess and none of it seemed to help him to a satisfactory conclusion.

He got his coat and walked out of the flat; fresh air would clear his mind.

He stopped, he was in the middle of the cereal aisle in a supermarket. He frowned, he had no memory of going in the shop, of the roads leading to it.

"Psst!"

He looked around, the aisle was empty but people were walking past at the bottom. He looked over to the nearest shelf, there was a picture of Hitler on a cornflakes box. He squinted, got up very close. 'Really? Hitler? On a box of cornflakes?'

"Cakes," said the face on the box. It sounded like a demand.

Louis slapped his cheeks, hard. Christ, he was hallucinating.

"Cakes," the demand came again.

"What are you doing here? How did you get here? Just go, before people see you," said Louis, waving him away, "are you even here? Am I here? Is this another dream?"

Just then two small children ran past, their mum close behind. She tossed some cereal boxes in her trolley, smiled at Louis and marched on.

Louis swallowed, looked back at the cornflakes box, no Hitler, he gulped, wiped his sweaty brow and made his way to the cake aisle.

He woke to find he was back in his flat. Or perhaps he had never left? He was holding a book, no longer reading the words, they were a blur.

It struck him that no matter what he read or where he looked he couldn't actually find any factual evidence that the holocaust as described ever happened. Of course, there were plenty of pictures of Jews with their suitcases, having their names written down at desks, getting onto over-crowded freight trains. There were pictures of gaunt people in rags, starving and probably dying of typhus which, although horrible in itself, was not proof of gas chambers.

"Fucking hell Gampy! Why couldn't you have been normal? Why did you have to saddle me with this?"

His voice sounded odd to his own ears, as if he was in a large, empty space.

"I need you to understand Louis," said Gampy.

"Yeah of course," said Louis, without thinking.

"It did not happen and I want you to be the one to tell the world."

Louis went over it again in his mind, desperately trying to be fair.

There was plenty of witness testimony and hearsay but never of the gas chambers only of the treatment that individual Jews had received from their prison guards. Whenever it came to the gas chambers themselves the so called witnesses always said something along the lines of "And of course they were sent to the gas chambers," and then, when pressed on the details, they said, "Well I never actually saw them go in myself but we never saw them again and the flames were always burning at the top of the crematoria." If he did find a witness testimony it was so outrageous that it would surely have been inadmissible in any court of law.

"No-one will listen," said Louis, still conversing happily with his dead Gampy, "All the revisionists are ruined; if they're not in prison for denying the holocaust then their careers are well and truly fucked."

"But I need you to be brave, Louis, like we were."

"You hid it from me, and from the world, you weren't brave," snapped Louis.

He waited several minutes, then, "Gampy?"
Silence.

"Gampy?"

Cheers


Arun

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Chapter 24 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

24

Old soldiers never die;
they just fade away.
Douglas MacArthur

They were sat around one of the tables in the communal dining area; several cups of coffee later their heart rates were up.

"Okay, leave this to me," said Wilf.

Watching him fish a dog-eared scrap of paper out of his trouser pocket and stand abruptly to go over to the public phone in the corner caused the rates to accelerate to dangerously high levels. Johnno in particular was finding it hard to breathe.

Wilf looked down at the paper each time he stabbed out a number; the movement was slow but held a level of aggression that added to the tension of the moment. He allowed the phone to ring three times before he hung up. He waited 2 minutes, checking his watch to ensure the timing then repeated the process, checking the number again against the paper in his hand. This time he waited 3 minutes before re-dialling, foot twitching. He looked over at the watching group as he listened to the ringing, his breathing heavy. A gruff voice answered, one he recognized instantly, shouting "Who the fuck is this? Stop ringing my phone, you bastard!" before hanging up.

Wilf was taken aback; then he remembered the others were watching, had probably heard the shouting if not the words, and nodded to indicate this was what he’d expected, "It's been some time," he said to them, by way of explanation. He phoned again.

"Who the fuck is this?" said the voice in his ear.

"It's Wilf," he said gruffly, cupping his hand round the mouthpiece and turning away from the watching group.

"Wilf who?"

He paused, then, "It's Dog," he muttered.

"Did you say dog?"

"Yeah, it's me, Dog." Louder now, exasperated.

"Dog?" mouthed Bill. Johnno and Pete shrugged and Ron pulled a comical face.

"Are you pullin' my chain, mate?"

"Fuckin' 'ell Butcher," snapped Wilf, "it's me-e-e, Dog."

There was a brief silence on the end of the phone, then, "Oh fuck, not 'Mad Dog Murchison'?"

"Yeah," said Wilf, looking relieved, the others had begun to look a little concerned but Wilf felt his credibility was back.

"Fuckin' 'ell Dog…fort you was dead! How you keepin', mate?"

"I'm good Butch, but listen up, I need a meet."

"A meet?"

"Yeah, you know."

"What?" The tone was puzzled, no longer angry.

"I need a meet," said Wilf, "I need some stuff."

The others looked at each other, definitely uncharted waters for them. Wilf was struggling between the need to get through to his long time friend and comrade and maintain his cool in front of his worried and open-mouthed audience.

"What the fuck are you talkin' about, Dog? What kit?"

"Come on Butcher, stuff," said Wilf. He was starting to wish he was somewhere else; that he’d thought to make this call in private.

"What stuff?"

Wilf banged his head against the wall, "Butcher, hells bells, listen to me. Can we meet?"

"Not going well, is it," whispered Ron to Johnno, they all shook their heads.

"What d’you mean, meet?" said Butcher, "Where the fuck are you, anyway?"

"Best you don’t know," said Wilf, "but can we meet at the 'D & D'?"

"The what?" Butcher was shouting now.

"The fuckin' 'D & D'," yelled Wilf.

There was another silence, then, "Are you serious?"

"At last," said Wilf, blowing out a quick breath, turning to grin at the others.

"The 'D & D'," said Butch, "You mean like 'the old days'?"

"Hole in one," said Wilf, "Tomorrow."

Pete waved frantically at Wilf who turned his back on him.

"You want to meet at the 'D & D' tomorrow?"
Butcher was speaking slowly, but at least he was getting it.

Pete struggled out of his chair, moved across the floor towards Wilf, trying to hurry, but he’d been sitting too long and it was more of a hobble. He reached his side and tugged his sleeve.

"Like in the old days?" Butch was using a sing-song style which was starting to irritate Wilf and Pete pulling at his sleeve wasn’t helping. He gave Pete a 'fuck off' look and Pete mouthed the
words ‘pension day’. Wilf closed his eyes and put his palm to his forehead, "Shit." The others all nodded. "Wait a minute," said Wilf, into the mouthpiece, "tomorrow's no good, I need to pick up my pension tomorrow, make it Thursday."

"Who the fuck is this?"

"What?"

"Who is this?" repeated Butch, "Is this you Denny? Is this another of your fuckin' wind ups mate?"

"It's Dog, it's 'Mad Dog'." Wilf had forgotten to turn away from the group as he spoke and Johnno mouthed the words 'Mad Dog' to the others and their eyes visibly widened. Wilf heard Butch calling out to someone else in the room with him, "You're not gonna believe this I've got bloody Denny on the phone here, he's trying to wind me up, making out he's one of the guys from the old days," he laughed, "That fuckin' Denny."

"No," yelled Wilf, "Butch, it's me, 'Mad dog'."

"Yeah okay Dog," said Butch, "what you want then?
How about some assault rifles or some M16s or AK47s?" he snickered, "or maybe a couple of glocks?"

"Fuckin' 'ell Butch," said Wilf, "Not on an open phone...they'll pick that up."

"Come on, Denny, stop pissing about," said Butch.

"Fuck," hissed Wilf, banging his head on the wall.

"What's wrong?" asked Bill, rising from the table.

"Nothing," snapped Wilf shoving his palm in Bill’s direction, "nothing. Butch, it's me, 'Mad Dog', from the old days."

"Yeah, right on," laughed Butch, "you can't carry this on, Den mate, you're blown."

"Butch," said Wilf, desperation in every fibre, "I didn't want to have to mention this but, Congo, 5 Commando, '64, you an' me, 3 weeks stuck in the bush surrounded by those bloody Simbas an' nothing to eat or drink ....'cept that bastard Richards."

There was silence on the other end, the guys round the table strained their ears to hear more.

"Mad Dog?" the voice was now a hushed reverent whisper.

"Yes." Finally, respect.

"It's really you?"

"Thursday," said Wilf, "down the D & D. Usual time."

"Usual time," said Butch, "wait a minute, Dog mate, are you serious? You seriously after stuff?"

"Yes."

"But....but.... I'm bloody retired, you prick."

"So?"

"So? Whaddya mean ‘so’?" said Butch, "I'm eighty fuckin' four, an' you must be the same, what the fuck you on about? What do you need stuff for?"

"Got a mission," said Wilf, "can't talk now, the busies might be listening in, talk on Thursday, down the 'D...."

"Are you fuckin' senile or something? You got a job on, an' the busies might be listening… what the fuck you talkin' about, the bloody busies aren't going to be listening to me, are they? I can barely cross the room without needin' a bloody piss, what the fuck you talkin' about?"

"Thursday," said Wilf before hanging up.

"Well?" said the others in unison.

"It's on," said Wilf.

Cheers for reading

Arun







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Chapter 23 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

23

This multicultural approach, saying that we simply live side by side and live happily with each other has failed. Utterly failed.
Angela Merkel

The Preacher had been sitting in the centre of the stage, eyes closed whilst the theatre had slowly filled. He had yet to move from that position; the audience was getting a little restless. Just as Barry was considering an unprecedented appearance on stage to nudge his man into action, the Preacher sighed, got to his feet and began, "Today I speak on a thorny subject, one that most of you will take issue with, not because you disagree but because you think you should." He walked slowly along the front of the stage, "We are continuously being bombarded by politicians, by the media and by the church with the notion that we live in a multicultural society."

He stopped and looked out at his audience, realising with a start of surprise that some in the front rows were familiar to him, he shrugged the thought away as distracting and continued, "We are told that the 21st century is dominated by the global economy and so multiculturalism is the future, but when I look back in history and search for successful examples of multiculturalism, I find none. What I find are civil wars such as took place in Nigeria in the late 60s; result: starvation and dislocation and its bedfellow, rampant criminality. When I look in today’s world for successful examples of multi-culturalism, I find none.
I find intolerance and indifference, racism and hatred, callous rape and vicious murder and the underlying villain of the piece, abject poverty."

He took a breath, then "How does this affect us in the UK? We are told that this is Britain, we will not succumb to the weaknesses of the human condition; we won't go that way. That somehow as a race we are so advanced we can flourish in a social structure that no other society in history has ever survived."
He allowed them to digest his words for a few moments then, "What are the drivers of that complacency? Arrogance? Blatant stupidity? Criminal greed?"

He moved to the centre of the stage, "Look at the Balkans - racial hatred, look at Africa - tribal hatred, look at America - racial and cultural hatred. To say nothing of what happens when you toss religion into the mix." He paused, "If we look back into our own history we see that the country was divided up into kingdoms of different ethnicity, Vikings, Saxons, Danes, Picts and Celts and the land was constantly torn asunder by wars." He paused, "It was only when the Saxons emerged triumphant that we began to form a kingdom."

"What about William the Conqueror?" shouted a man from the front row.

"Of course," the Preacher flashed a rare smile, "We can't forget the Normans and their place in all this," He moved back to the front of the stage. "Consider...it was only when we had one culture, one religion, one language, one centre of political leadership that we finally became a strong and homogeneous peoples with but one aim, to be British."

There were several murmurings of disapproval but he ignored them, "But now we have a multicultural society and we are told it is good to have diversity.
But I ask you, do we also not have an increase in opportunist crime? A divided language? Increased threats from home grown terrorists? A crumbling education system? Decline of our faith?"

He placed his hands together and breathed deeply, "I'd like to relate a personal experience of mine, from the work place, when many years ago I worked on a particular team. We worked under extreme conditions and brought in most of the money. We had a culture, a work ethic, an unwritten rule that everyone would stay until the last item was processed. We all pulled together to achieve the common objective so naturally we thought we were the best." He sighed, "In order to cut costs the management decided to run the section close to the bone, even though there was serious risk of loss. Not unexpectedly, we made an expensive error. In response they restructured the department, brought in new people from other teams."

He moved back to his chair and took a quick sip of water, "These new staff members came from teams where they had a more singular culture, where each person would get a bundle of folders and work through until the end of the day and then go home, no matter what. That was their work ethic," he returned to the front of the hall, "and the thing is, our unwritten rule was exactly that. It wasn't enforceable, it was just our culture, so when we got near the end of a time critical task all the new people went home and the only ones who remained to complete the tasks were those who had been on the original section. Although we were the 'indigenous' people we were unable to influence the new people
into adopting our culture, our philosophy."

He waited for what he was saying to sink in, "Instead, the new people, arriving in such numbers, were able to impose their culture on the team. That was the end of our team culture, our team ethic." He started to move around the stage a bit quicker now, talking excitedly, "Now if that can happen in business just think what effect it can have on a society. We wouldn't know how deep that corrosion had gone until there was a crisis."

He was getting into it now, "Today!" he shouted, "we live in a time of supposed economic wealth, Britain still has an NHS, still has a state paid education system, still has a strong welfare system although all of the above have actually been crippled at their foundations by a lack of government funding, crippled to the extent that some time in the near future they will collapse."

He dashed to the side of the stage and dragged on a large globe, "Here is the industrial west," he was pointing to Europe, "and here is the impoverished third world," he added, "only it is no longer the case.
The rich and the corporations have been allowed to invest heavily in the third world."

He tossed the globe aside, "This means that now, in the west, we are a service based economy and the third world has a manufacturing based economy. But it matters not to the rich. They get their divs from their investments in the new economic powerhouses south of the Equator."

He raised his hands skywards, "But it affects us, it will affect you and your children and your grandchildren because a service based economy cannot support the state or social programmes such as the NHS, education or welfare and the prime examples of that can be seen in history. The west was wealthy because it had a manufacturing base and the third world was poor because it was service based. Now that's all been flipped on its head. That's where the rich investors, where the Corporate Directors are driving the future."

He paused, then continued, "So what does that mean? And what's it to do with multiculturalism? Simple, our society is now rotten underneath and it is waiting for an event to implode it. That event will be unparalleled poverty. Once economies in the west collapse, which they will because there are now too many of us, once our social structures crumble beyond repair we will turn on our neighbours, we will allow our resentments and hatreds to rise to the surface, we will take to the streets and, as has happened in all other countries in such times, we will fall upon outsiders to our society."

He moved to the edge of the stage, "When once you decried the BNP or the EDL, saw UKIP as espousing old fashioned beliefs, yet soon they will appear as your only hope, just as all radical nationalistic groups have appeared to desperate peoples in the past. It's no good deluding ourselves into believing that somehow we are going to be better than those people. People are people and we all react the same, whether we like it or not. Thus when our economy finally collapses and we become a poor nation we will look around for those to blame or for those we can expel and it will lead to our own holocaust, that is where multiculturalism always leads", he dropped his voice to a near whisper, "and only fools delude themselves otherwise."
 
Cheers

Arun








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Chapter 22 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

22

The great secret that all old people share is that you really haven't changed in 70 or 80 years. Your body changes, but you don't change at all.
Doris Lessing

"It's been a long time, Margo," said Mackie, leaning back and appraising her under bushy eyebrows.

They were ensconced in a booth at the back of the pub, in a semi lit corner, affording a modicum of privacy. Both had contrived to sit with their backs to the wall, whilst still managing to maintain a professional distance from one another. Mags had forgotten quite how much space Mackie occupied, not as bulky as he was once yet he was still an imposing figure. She was glad she'd taken the trouble and dressed for the assignation, pulling out all the stops in her favourite royal blue shirtwaister that made the best of what nature had given her and what superb foundation under-garments helped her maintain.

Mags ducked her head in acknowledgment, strangely affected by the use of her proper name; she’d dropped Margo fifteen years ago, when she'd moved into Eden Hall, along with her previous persona, "Twenty five years and 3 months, give or take a few days."

"You’ve been counting," he said, with a familiar raise of the eyebrows, a tease.

"Not at all,” she replied pertly, “I checked before I came out."

He allowed the lie to stand, "Do you miss it?"

"Always."

"Moi aussi," he said after a brief pause.

She ignored the French, he did that to disconcert people, “Do you keep in touch with the others?"

"All dead." His response was succinct. She was surprised, they were all similarly aged so she had expected a few others to be still clinging to life. "Strains of the job," he murmured, seeing she wanted more, the lie slipping easily off his tongue, “weigh more heavily on some than others."

"I see," she said, a little concerned that maybe all their deaths hadn't been of quite natural causes, "nothing untoward in their departing, I hope."

He lifted his brows again, and tilted his head on one side, waiting until she broke her gaze, then, "And how are things with you?"

"Fine, I’m fine, and how about you, Mackie and erm... Rose?"

"You know perfectly well her name was Ruth," said Mackie.

"Ruth, that's it," said Mags, "how is she?"

"No idea," said Mackie, "left me years ago, took the children and emigrated; Australia, married a sheep farmer from what I could gather."

"Really?" said Mags, "A sheep farmer. Do they have sheep farmers down there still?"

"Apparemment," he replied, subject closed. "Did you want a sandwich or something?"

"Actually, if you don’t mind, they do a lovely Ploughman's here," said Mags.

"Ploughman's it is then," said Mackie strolling off to the bar, then the toilet.

Whilst he was gone Mags made a quick search of his coat, finding nothing.

Mackie returned with more drinks, "The food will be along shortly." He glanced at his coat. "Did you find anything of any use?"

She sipped her drink, "No, but then you knew I wouldn't."

"So now, tell me Margo, what is it that you've dragged me all the way down here for?"

"I think I'm going to need your help."

"In what regard?"

"Well, I have some friends down here, where I live...."

"The 'Eden Hall Retirement Village'," said Mackie, emphasising the village part of the title.

"Yes," answered Mags, not bothering to ask how he knew, "I've grown rather fond of them...."

"D'entre eux?” His face was a study in nonchalance, “Or of someone in particular?"

"Of them," she said firmly. Mackie was a dear old friend, once somewhat more than that, but she would never trust him with details of a personal nature, you just never knew how things would be interpreted or which side of the fence he actually sat on.

Mackie nodded and sipped his drink, the food arrived and they waited whilst the waitress sorted the table out to accommodate the over-large plates.

"Anyway," said Mags, idly watching the retreating back and wondering at the skill and indefatigable nature required to be on your feet all day and keep smiling, "as I say, I've become quite attached to my friends," she bit off a piece of cheese, chewed slowly, "the thing is, they've become a little, how can I say this, disillusioned, with the state of the country at the minute."

"I think everyone is a little disillusioned," said Mackie, wincing as the acidity of the onion found his ulcer, “but to be honest Margo, I don't really see that's a reason to....."

"Of course not," said Mags, interrupting him, "you don't think I've brought you out of hiding and all the way down here just because a few old folk have become disillusioned, do you?"

He waited in silence, the expression one of controlled patience.

"That's the cause of the problem," said Mags, "but it's not the reason I need your help."

There was a silence whilst she worked on a way to phrase it.

"Well, there's just no other way to say this, basically, they've decided that the state has failed them and they have to go to war to clean up the streets."
Mackie stared at her; she was pleased to have been able to surprise him. "To drive the foreigners out, they intend to go to war."

Mackie shook his head, then tried to hide his smirk behind a slice of French bread but it wasn't possible.
He started to laugh.

"Mackie," said Mags, "I'm serious."

"Of course you are,” he managed, still laughing.

"This is not funny, Mackie." Mags assumed her school mistress face.

"They intend to go to war," said Mackie, struggling to swallow his laughter, "your old codger friends intend to go to war."

"Yes," said Mags, evenly.

"With whom exactly do they intend to go to war?" asked Mackie.

"Well, that's just it," said Mags, "they intend to attack the Muslim community."

Mackie was dabbing the tears from his eyes with a handkerchief, "How?" he asked, "A bunch of old men?"

"They were all in the military," stated Mags, keeping quiet on the subject of the women for now, "well, most of them, and they all have some form of expertise."

"Expertise?" He’d stopped laughing now, "Most of them are older than me, for Christ’s sake. How can they expect to do anything?"

"They've had military training," said Mags. She'd noticed he seemed to have quite a bit of background information and wondered for how long he had been keeping tabs on her.

"But that was years ago, Margo," said Mackie, "how can they possibly hope to get in and out of any target area at their age?"

Mags bit a piece of cucumber, "Think about it, Mackie, after all you were meant to be the brains of the outfit."

"Look Margo, we go back a long way, you and me, and in some ways, I owe you, I don't deny that... but this doesn't concern me, it barely concerns you, if you're honest."

She held her nerve, waited him out, eyes on his, putting everything she had into the look. He fidgeted and she knew she had him; it would still take time but he was hooked, he just didn't know it yet.

"Besides which," he continued, "I have absolutely no idea how they intend to get close enough to their targets and then get out again...." he paused, frowned, "unless... they don't intend to get out again."

"Mackie," said Mags, patting her mouth with her napkin, "they're old, as you said, we're old, and the rest of our lot are already dead. We're dying just sitting here; in fact one of us might drop dead whilst we're sitting here."

Mackie cast a quick glance down at his drink. She could see his mind working, sifting through the possibilities.

"Don't be melodramatic," said Mags, "no-one's poisoned your drink.” She smiled then, a ghost of the old Margo lighting her face, “Although it’s good to know you still think me capable.”

He moved his hand across the table, covering hers for a moment and looked into her eyes, searching for motive and understanding.

“Mackie, trust me, it’s as simple as it sounds. They're old and they’re angry and they’re ex-soldiers. They’re sick of watching Muslims blowing themselves up in civilian areas and well, what’s good for the goose...."

"They're going to blow themselves up in a Muslim community?"

"No, not that, but they do intend to go on the rampage to drive the foreigners out. Enough to make a political statement and one of the statements is that they're not too old to do something about this mess."

"I see."

"Good," said Mags, relaxing, "so you'll help me."

"Help you dissuade them, you mean?"

"No," said Mags, disappointment etching new lines, "of course not, what makes you think that? I just said I need your help."

"What help?" he sat back from her, crossing one leg over the other, forcing her to lean towards him to keep the conversation going.

"We both know that the country's in a mess."

"Everyone knows that, Margo."

"Yes, but we know why," said Mags, "at least you do. I only have a rough idea, but you were at the top so you know the bigger picture."

"Margo." He was shaking his head, looked ready to up and leave.

"Come on, Mackie, admit it, they've got a point and they have the right to fight back."

"Are you crazy?” his voice was a hiss of irritation. “Fight back? Against whom?"

"Now you’re getting to it."

"Look Mags," he stopped, took a breath, then continued, "there is no-one to fight back against. It's just something that is happening and it can't be stopped. Call it what you will, social evolution, progress, it cannot be stopped."

"Can't it?" said Mags, not in the least convinced, "Are you really saying it is natural social evolution that has brought us to this point."

"Yes." He was getting drawn in despite himself; he’d always enjoyed sparring with her and age hadn’t softened her mettle.

"I don't think so and I know you know so,"

"What on earth does that mean, Margo?" said Mackie.

"Look Mackie, I'm not stupid, I know that we little soldiers just go around doing as we're bid, that we live in a lower physical world to the powers that be, the ones who control everything...."

"Oh don't give me that," said Mackie, "please, don't go all Illuminati on me."

"It's not the Illuminati is it, or the Masons, I mean you can call them whatever, it's always just a trick anyway, to give them a name I mean, we both know that there are those who hold all the power, those who control everything, those who rule the planet and then there's the rest of us, the ones who do as we were meant to do."

"Margo," said Mackie, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "I think you've been reading too many of the wrong books."

"No need for books, Mackie. You don’t think I didn't know what was going on all those years? That the things we were doing were designed to have the outcomes that emerged."

Mackie sipped his drink, his eyes watchful under beetling brows, "This is not a good idea, Margo."

"Oh, look Mackie, I told you, I like my friends, if this is going to result in a negative outcome for me, well I'm old and yes I've had a good life...”

"This is crazy, Margo," said Mackie, "can you hear yourself?"

“I can understand if you're still in the game, or that somehow you feel conscience bound to defend them or perhaps you're really one of them, what do I know?...”

“Get a grip of yourself, Margo, you’re rambling and it’s past being entertaining.”

She had tears in her eyes now, “All I want from you is that you help me guide my friends onto the right targets, so we don't punish the wrong people."

"But we're old Margo, we're old and past it."

"But that doesn't mean we don't care, does it? It doesn't mean we don't still love England, does it?"

"England?" He was grinning now, she’d reached him somehow.

"Oh, I’m sorry, of course, you're Scottish… well, that’s another thing, breaking up Britain, that's part of their plan too, isn't it, to weaken us, make it so that the British race is no longer a challenge, but a challenge to who?"

"To whom," he said, under his breath, "look Margo, you have to know what you're asking. You’ll be killed …all of you...they'll..."

"I thought I made it clear, dear Mackie, we're old and we're ready to die, so what difference does it make?"

"Put like that, none I guess, but you've got to understand, things aren't as simple as they were in our day."

"I gather that," she'd softened her tone, the gentleness adding to the intimacy, "but I also know we fought for a cause, we did what we did for
Britain and the Empire, but what are they fighting for now? What's the game now, Mack?"

"I need to think for a bit," said Mackie.

"No, that's the last thing you need to do."

Mackie raised his eyebrows, head tilted back, eyes taking on an amused glint. For a second she saw the man he used to be in that gesture, the man she had once loved and who had once loved her.

"If you think, you'll find reasons not to help, you'll find some form of justification in their actions, you'll avoid your true emotions, your true feelings."

"Oh no, not feelings, Margo," sighed Mackie.

"Why do you think any of us got in the game in the first place? Do you think it was the life? Do you think we yearned for the cloak and dagger world? No, we did it for our love of our country, for the love of our nation, out of loyalty, out of national pride....."

"And that's how they used you Margo," said Mackie, "and the others, because you allowed your emotions to rule your minds. If you'd thought about what was going on for just one minute then you'd have seen where it was all leading."

"Well, we didn't, did we," said Mags, "and you’re to blame for that, aren't you, you and people like you who sold us the lie that everything we did was for country when in reality we were no longer playing a national game but were serving the new global aristocracy in their clamour for more and more wealth and power."

"I see you've had time to think things through a little," said Mackie.

"What's the benefit of hindsight if you can't do something with it?"

"Maybe I don't want to change things," said Mackie, "maybe I like the way things are turning out."

"If I believed that to be true I wouldn't have reached out to you," said Mags, "I know you were as idealistic as the rest of us when you started out, I was there remember, besides, I think I got to know you quite well."

He raised his glass, "Here's to that," he smiled.

"I need you to help me explain to my friends what's really going on, who the enemy really is." said Mags.

"And you think they'll believe me," said Mackie.

"We'll they're more likely to believe you than me," said Mags.

"Oh, like that is it?" said Mackie.

"I've been lying low these past years," said Mags, "as far as they're concerned all I do is volunteer, do good works and make Angel cake."

"Angel cake? What the hell is Angel cake?"

Mags ignored the question, "I need you to explain the global nature of our problem and we need a strategy that might have a chance of winning."

"Then you're mad," said Mackie, "for one thing most people can't begin to understand let alone believe the size of the conspiracy and as for a strategy that can defeat them, well, it's impossible."

"Why?"

"Because they'll just adapt it to take advantage of whatever else happens, don't you get it Margo, you can't stop them, you only slow them down or deflect them a bit but you can never stop them achieving their goal."

"I disagree," said Mags, "and the Mackie I knew would never accept defeat before he'd even played a stroke."

"For one thing this isn't cricket and for another, what on earth makes you think I agree with you? I could still be with them, I could be sitting on a nice big fat cheque for all you know."

"You could," said Mags, "but then I still remember what you said to me when I first joined."

"Really?"

"You said to me, 'If we don't, who will?'"

"Great," said Mackie, "not exactly original, or overly powerful."

"No, but at the time it was, at the time when we were facing nuclear threat from the communists or backdoor betrayal by our so called allies, it was powerful then, to me."

He sipped his drink, "So is this what this is? A question of 'if we don't who will?'" He knocked back the rest, "You know, Margo," he said, his mind made up, "I'm pleased we had this chat."

Mags bit into her tomato.

"Very pleased," said Mackie, "I miss the game but it would be fun to see someone upset their plans, even if only for a short time, yes, that would be fun."

"So you'll help me?"

"I'll be in touch," said Mackie, "but don't expect too much."

Cheers

Arun







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Chapter 21 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

21

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.
Margaret Mead

He ran towards Captain Younghusband, holding his rifle aloft and shouting vigorously, but the movement only served to exacerbate his need to pee, "Where are the latrines?"

"Come on, men!" yelled Younghusband, waving his sword, "We can still fight our way out of this. Maintain tight formation and let's make a move to the ridge."

"Over there, Alb," said a soldier, looking remarkably like Gerry, "but the bloody Zulus are everywhere, hold onto it, man."

"I can't," answered Alb, "I really have to go."

"Come on men!" Younghusband urged them on up the slope; tightly packed, bayonets out and holding the black swarm at bay.

Slowly the small red pocket of troops made its way across the Isandhlwana slopes, passing mutilated bodies of their fallen comrades; all around them buzzed Zulus. Alb found himself in the centre of the formation, with the walking wounded. "I really need to go," he muttered to a man with a savage wound in his chest.

He stopped at a huge rock that had appeared in front of him, and clambered on to it. Off to the right he saw a small cluster of men, "Lt. Pope!" he shouted, "Lt. Pope, are the latrines over there?" but no-one answered.

"Get down from there!" yelled Younghusband, "Stop messing around, if you need to piss then piss where you stand."

Suddenly the whole battle stopped and everyone stared menacingly at Alb, "Ugh, But I really do need to go," moaned Alb to thirty thousand heads, all shaking in disapproval.

"What do we do, Albert?" asked Younghusband.

"I don't know," said Alb, "if only I could find somewhere to pee then I could think straight."

"Go where you are and that's an order!" yelled Younghusband, "ready men, CHARGE!"

Alb struggled to free himself from wet and cold entanglements, realising with a sense of miserable humiliation that he'd wet the bed.

∞

"Thing is," said Pete, taking the opportunity of a lull in the game's flow to air his irritation, "I heard that one in four kids are born to foreigners, now that really annoys me."

They'd got together over a game of bridge - Bill and Pete partnering up against Ron and Johnno, with Wilf interrupting and generally being a nuisance. Unusual for Bill and Ron to be at the same table but thus far it was working quite well.

"Good point," mused Johnno, "although of course, in the old days we had big families. My mum was one of seven and her mum was one of thirteen, would you believe. But nowadays we just have the 2 .6 we're supposed to have whereas....”

“…the Catholics and Muslims have loads," Pete finished his sentence for him.

"Not all Catholics are foreigners," said Bill, stiffly, eying Pete sternly over his cards, "I'm a Catholic."

"I mean East European Catholics," said Johnno, "you know, Poles and Irish and that."

"The Irish aren't East European," said Bill, scathingly.

"Might as well be," said Wilf, "they hate this country."

"Yeah, the enemy within, waiting over the border," said Ron, never one to pass up the opportunity to annoy Bill.

"There's nothing wrong with Catholics," said Bill, rising to the bait, "my family has always served this country well."

"That's as maybe," said Pete, "but you can't deny that Catholics have always wanted to take over, the Gunpowder Plot and all that. Somewhere there's always a Catholic plotting."

"Apparently Mohammed has replaced Jack as the most popular English name," said Wilf inconsequentially.

"I think Alb's right," said Johnno, laying a card, "our parents and grandparents defended this country against foreign invasion but somehow we've let the politicians mess things up."

"I agree," said Bill, "and dare I say it, Enoch Powell seems to have got it right."

"Exactly," said Johnno, "he might’ve been a bit ahead on the timing but in the long run …."

"Did he put timing on it?" asked Wilf, shuffling round the table looking at all their cards.

Pete frowned, “He said there’d be rivers of blood, didn’t he?"

"For which they called him a racist," said Johnno.

"I think he said other stuff," offered Ron, "like black faces and stuff."

"So?" said Bill, "he was still right, wasn't he? We've had the recent riots that started over some black kid.
And we had the rioting back in the 80's, you know Toxteth and that... what about when they hacked that copper up?"

"Yep," said Pete, "bloody savages, would never have happened if they hadn't been let in here in the first place." His voice had risen and the hand holding his cards was shaking. The next stage would be acute breathlessness if he didn't calm down and they were all aware of it.

"See your point, Pete, but don't let it get to you...” Johnno was the only one allowed to allude to Pete's affliction, suffering as he did from a long established 'dicky' heart.

“We started it off letting Sikhs get away without wearing helmets ‘cause of their turbans,” said Ron, idly fiddling with his cards.

"Now we have to pander to their every whim,”
Pete’s breathing was growing ragged, but he had a point to make, “Like, what can we call them these days? Are they black or are they coloured?"

"Well, if they weren't here, it wouldn't be an issue, would it?" said Bill.

"Exactly," said Johnno, "so Enoch was right after all."

"Course he was," said Wilf, stoutly, "I've seen ‘em in action, don't forget, in the Congo."

Johnno continued, his own temper rising, “And then there's the Muslims - if they're not blowing us up, then they're despoiling white girls - once they get to doing their Sharia law thing god alone knows where we'll be."

"But what can we do about it?" Pete’s voice had lost the vigour that outrage had bestowed, "I mean, look at us, I can barely breathe, and Bill...there's your gout and your piles," he took a quick breath whilst Bill looked to the ceiling, "Johnno's got his heart and....."

“Exactly," said Ron, cutting him off before he could enlighten the others as to his own ailments, "so what does Alb think we're going to do? We're hardly in any fit condition, any of us, are we?"

"Yeah," agreed Johnno, "anyone of us could drop dead at any time."

They paused and checked each other out, to see if they could identify which of them was most likely to drop dead in the next few minutes.

"But that's the whole point," said Bill, stiffening his spine and ignoring the pain in his foot, "it won't matter if we're killed 'cause we're all pretty close to our maker as it is."

"That bit makes sense," said Pete, "but I can barely walk across the room without needing to sit down."

"If we could come up with an idea that didn't require anything too physically demanding then maybe we could do something." Bill’s voice was wistful; his eyes had taken on a far-away glaze.

They sat in silence for a few contemplative moments, thinking of better days.

Wilf made a throat clearing noise and muttered, "Jonesey was a sniper with the Paras, and
I'm not a bad shot."

Ron looked up from his cards, "Eh? What’s that?"

"We'd just need to set up a hide somewhere and we could pick 'em off all day."

"Pick who off?" Ron’s tone was shrill and argumentative, “an’ what’s a hide, when it’s at home?”

Bill had caught on, "If you were in the back of a van or something, then we could move you around, you wouldn't get caught and we could increase the number of targets."

"Sounds good to me," said Wilf, his glance at Bill showed new respect.

"Sorry, have I missed something?" Ron looked quickly round the room; they still had it to themselves. "I know Alb's been on about us killing people but I thought it was just talk..."

"You think we could do something then?" Pete said, hope rising.

"Hey, sorry to be a party pooper an' all that but where’d we get a van let alone a bloody rifle?"

“Getting a gun is easy,” Wilf brushed Ron's objections aside, “It's getting away with killing people that’s the hard bit."

Ron fell silent, looking from face to face, weighing what he thought he knew about them with the strangers who now sat in front of him.

Wilf had been damaged by his Congo experience so he wasn’t surprised by his comments. He knew Johnno had reactionary ideas but not like this. He'd never liked Bill but liked him even less now that his expression had hardened. Pete had always seemed a bit bland but it seemed now that it might have been simply self-preservation around his breathing problems.

"We could get them from an arms dealer," Wilf said calmly into the silence.

They lifted their heads from quasi contemplation of their cards to stare at him, Ron’s voice rose, "An arms dealer? And I suppose you’re going to tell us you know an arms dealer?"

"Let's just say I know people, from the old days,”
Wilf’s face had assumed a stony look, his blue eyes now unnervingly cold. "Won't be cheap though, kit like the stuff we need always comes with a high price tag."

"Well, we’ve got money," said Bill, a wry smile on his face, "That's about all we've got left, isn't it."

"I was going to leave mine for the kids," said Ron, his voice bitter.

"Are they the same kids who let you move in here instead of offering you a room with them?" asked Wilf.

"I didn't want to move in with them," he lied, "I like my freedom."

"The kids don't need our money," said Johnno, placidly, "besides there won't be much left by the time we die, will there? What with the price of this place."

"I could put some feelers out," Wilf seemed keen, his mind already on the task.

"Shouldn't we check with Alb and Gerry first?" asked Ron, stalling.

"Why?" asked Wilf, "they might have brought it up but that doesn't necessarily mean they're in charge, they've not got my military background."

"Infantry, both of them," said Bill, conscious of his own, hitherto unspoken, field promotion.

Pete and Johnno lifted their shoulders, neither of them willing to get into an argument with Wilf.

"Let me find some prices first, and then we'll take it back to the group. They’ll soon see who’s really in charge."

"I'm not sure we need to worry about that," said Johnno, when push came to shove they’d both known Alb and Gerry for years, and Alb had always been the leader.

"Rubbish," said Wilf, deliberately misunderstanding his meaning, "you'll get people wandering off doing their own thing, it'll be bedlam."

"Like us you mean," blurted Ron.

"Not at all," said Wilf, "'cause clearly we know what we're doing."

Cheers

Arun






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