Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 25

Chapter 10 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

10

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.
Martin Luther King Jr.

He heard the roar of rifle fire on his left and turning slowly, he searched the heaving black mass for the tiny clusters of red coats, men fighting their last ditch struggle for survival. Here and there he spotted desperate men before they were overwhelmed by the black tide.

"Over here, man!" shouted the officer, "be quick about it or you're dead."

He grabbed his rifle and ran over to join what looked like a company of men; he was surprised because it had been years since he'd been able to run anywhere.

"Where's your bloody uniform?" shouted the officer. Alb knew him at once as Captain Younghusband.

Alb looked down at his 'bra and suspenders' apron, his Prince of Wales slacks and comfy slippers, "I...I..." he stammered.

"Grab a rifle and get rid of that....that," started Younghusband, "what is that?"

Alb looked at what he was holding, "It's my DC 48; I was vacuuming."

"Well, get hold of a bloody rifle," snapped Younghusband, "and muck in."

Alb groaned, shaking himself awake. He was slumped in his chair, the Dyson roaring away in his hand.

∞

Mort and Frank had taken up position on one of the benches in the rose garden by the time Nobby and Lenny reached them. Mort had his head back, and was squinting at the sun, a beatific smile on his face.
Frank, one of the tallest inhabitants of the Village, always had a problem with the low benches and had been forced to fold himself stick insect like so that his knees were almost up to his chest. He’d given them a wave of encouragement as they approached.

"We want to talk," said Nobby, a bit breathless from hurrying.

"Who are you?" asked Mort, leaning back further and squinting, the better to see the new arrivals.

Lenny gave him a quick look and turned his attention to Frank, "it's about what Alb and Gerry were on about."

Mort continued to look confused. Nobby inclined his head at him, his face asking a silent question of Frank.

Frank shook his head, "Don’t worry about him; he’s having a senior moment. So, what’re you thinking?"

Nobby was still looking at Mort, not comfortable leaving him out.

"He'll be ok later," said Frank.

"Later's no good," said Lenny, irritated, "we want to talk about it now."

"Well, pull up a pew and we’ll just talk round him; he'll pick it up when he can."

Lenny grabbed hold of one of the other benches, trying unsuccessfully to drag it over. Nobby went over to help and together they half carried, half pushed it a few inches nearer then gave up and sank down gratefully, catching their breath. Frank waited patiently; Mort appeared completely unaware.

"We were just saying,” said Lenny, still puffing, red-faced after the exertion, “maybe Alb and Gerry are right about what this country will be like if someone doesn't do something."

"Is Albie here?" asked Mort.

"What if the Europeans are taking over and we end up speaking German or French?" said Nobby. He’d put his fingers on his wrist, checking his pulse, winded after that unexpected activity, so the question was not put very forcefully.

Mort was shocked out of his vagueness, "I hate the Germans; they killed my mum and sisters."

"That can't happen," Frank’s tone was dismissive, "it won't happen; too big an enterprise."

“What’s all this about the Germans?" snapped Mort, "we won the bloody war, didn’t we?”

"If you'd asked me ten years ago how this country would look today I wouldn't have said multi-cultural.
I’d have said British.” Lenny was surprised at how cross he was becoming.

"English," corrected Nobby.

"And another thing," Lenny continued, working up a lather, pipe forgotten, breakfast a distant memory, "everything on TV is American, their crap food, their bloody sitcoms...."

Frank was quiet, thinking, and then said, "It's changed a lot but it’s all the kids of today know. My grandkids don't know anything about this country or the empire, they just know about what's on TV, in fact I'm pretty sure that they just want to live in America or join the marine corp."

"I like American sitcoms," said Nobby, "and their cop shows." He was immediately on the defensive; his late father being half American.

"Not the point," said Lenny, "this is England, so why aren’t our kids learning about our history, about the things we did, and what our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents did? It's like they want to pretend we're another American state or another piece of Europe."

He fell silent, appalled by the magnitude of what he’d just said. His hand went automatically to his pockets then, pipe in one hand and tobacco in the other, he prepared his smoke.

“You have to ask, where it will all end," said Nobby, chastened. "We'll disappear like the rest of the Empire."

“Is it the end?” Mort asked with bright enthusiasm.
Nobby was in despair. "This chap I know, he's an Aussie...."

"Someone has to be," said Frank, trying to lighten the mood.

Nobby waved his hand, "At least he's not a Bokker... anyway, he says that Australia’s overrun with Asians, soon they'll be in the majority. There’ll be no monarchy, then eh?"

"Bloody hell," said Frank, “is that why they're always going on about being a republic?"

"No, that’s been going on for years, that's all the Irish bastards out there, they're the ones trying to get rid of the Queen," this from Lenny, roused again. He’d served three tours in Northern Ireland and hated the Irish Catholics as much as Mort hated the Germans.

“Anglo Saxons will no longer have a homeland," Nobby went on, "We'll end up like the Jews before they got Israel."

"An’ then there's the Americans," Lenny tossed in.

"What about the Americans?" Nobby was defending again.

"They gave their country away, didn't they," said Lenny, "just think about it, the revolutionaries, what were they called?"

"Patriots," offered Nobby.

"Oh, well, okay," said Lenny, "anyway, when they created the US most of them were British, you know, went over on the Mayflower or some such. But they're not now; it's mostly Germans over there now."

"Eh? How’d you know that?" asked Frank.

"Googled it," said Lenny, a hint of smug in his voice.

"Doodle bug!" said Mort, grabbing hold of Frank’s arm and pulling him, "it was a doodle bug that did for my old mum and sisters."

"Google," Lenny said loudly, passing his smart phone in front of Mort's face, "Google."

"Wow," said Frank, leaning across with his hand out, “do you know how to use it?"

"My son bought it for me," said Lenny, proudly, "I keep in touch with the grandkids, we text..."

"Text?" Frank’s outstretched fingers were twitching.

"Really?" said Nobby, "we could've used one of those in....."

"Never mind that," said Lenny, waving his arms, "look, let me get this up on Google." He fiddled a bit, fiddled some more then said, "Okay, talk amongst yourselves for a bit."

"Let me try," said Nobby reaching out to take it, "I'm really good with this sort of thing,” he added, flexing his hands in anticipation.

"There you go, Americans of British descent, on Wikipedia," said Lenny, he turned it to face them, indicating tiny text and a few photos, "see?"

"See what?" said Nobby peering at the phone, "I can't see anything; the print’s too small."

"I’ll read it to you," said Lenny.

"No, let me read it myself," said Nobby, grabbing the phone.

"Give it back, you don't know how to use it," said Lenny, anxiety levels going through the roof.

"Yes I do," said Nobby staring at the heading, "but it doesn't say anything about the population."

"Scroll down," said Lenny, arms folded, head turned away.

“Scroll on up, scroll on down,” Mort began to sing, discordantly.

"Let me," said Frank taking the phone, "Oh what’s happened? It's changed to something else."

"That's because you touched a link," said Lenny, triumphantly snatching it back, "you have to be careful, need to know what you're doing, here," he showed them the stats he had in mind, "See, US census taken in 2000, Americans of British descent - 36.5 million and Americans of German descent 42.8 million. Point made - if we fought WWII today we’d have no chance of them being on our side."

"That can't be right, surely," said Nobby grabbing the phone, he frowned, seeking but not finding anything to challenge what Lenny had said, "bloody hell, it says here that only 12% of Americans have a British ancestry."

"Exactly," said Lenny, "whereas when they founded America, what was the percentage?"

"I don't know," said Nobby.

"Scroll up, near the top," said Lenny.

"Here give it to me," said Frank, successfully re-capturing the prize, "There, 74% of Americans in 1776 were of British descent."

"So, in the course of two centuries they’ve given their country away to god only knows who. Where does America really stand? And is it the America of the patriots and their original ideals or has it been taken over by the Germans, on the sly?"

"Bloody Germans," snapped Mort, "we should've killed them all."

"They're taking over the whole of Europe," said Frank, "with this economic crisis they're virtually buying up the whole of Southern Europe."

"It's what they always wanted," said Lenny, "They weren't good enough to conquer us by force so they're taking over countries as their economies fail."

"Like with Greece."

"Like with Greece," agreed Lenny, although he didn't actually know what Germany was doing in Greece.

"And with Italy," said Frank.

"And Italy," agreed Lenny and Nobby.

"Bloody Germans," hissed Mort.
 
Cheers

Arun








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Chapter 9 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

9

If we keep treating our most important values
as meaningless relics,
that's exactly what they'll become.
Michael Josephson

Breakfast was the meal of the day from Lenny Freeman’s point of view, always had been, always would be and for that reason it should be eaten in silence.

He sighed deeply, contemplating his plate – eggs, bacon and a piece of fried bread. His wife, god rest her, would have had a fit if she’d been here to see this but that was one of the few last pleasures of his life; that and his pipe. Choosing to sit with three women, as he had done, ensured the silence would be broken but Nobby was there too and the alternatives were one, sitting with Reg, Gray and Gil, closeted together like the 3 Stooges as usual, two, interrupting Fiona and Pete's tête a tête or three, going back to his room. He didn’t fancy that, so Nobby's table it was. He joined them just as Cynthia finished recounting some story about her having had an after supper meeting with Alb, like that was likely, where he'd confided his plan to kill foreigners or some such nonsense.

"Well, I think they've got a point," said Nobby, his mouth full of toast, spraying as he spoke, "there are too many foreigners. It's not the England I fought for any more."

"Personally I can't stand all the foreign accents in the town these days," said Dora, re- settling into her chair heavily. She lifted her cup to her mouth, speaking as she sipped, "but the thing that really gets me is how American everything has become, with all this fast food."

She clattered her cup unsteadily back into the saucer, slopping tea onto the tablecloth as she did so, “do you know, my daughter has never cooked a real meal."

"I know what you mean," said Cynthia, daintily nibbling at her one piece of toast, elbows close in to her sides, little fingers pointing out at right angles to her hands, averting her eyes from the mess Dora was making, "my Jane is just the same, it's all pre-packaged and frozen. I’m ashamed to say, I don't think she could even make a simple stew."

Lenny looked shocked, paused, his fork midway to his open mouth, surely all women cooked?

"And I'll bet they have no idea what goes into that food," added Esmé, darkly.

Nobby tried again, "If Alb's right, what will this country look like in 10 years?" Lenny blinked; that would see out the lot of them, him included. Big Dora would be lucky to make it that far.

"I think Dora’s right," said Cynthia, wiping her clean lips on a linen napkin she'd brought to the table especially for the purpose, "we have more to fear from the Americanisation of this country than anything from Europe, what with burgers and nasty fast food. I saw something the other day that suggests we're the fattest nation in Europe, thanks to American food."

Lenny glanced at Dora’s ample proportions, amazed that she wasn’t offended. He liked a fat woman; in his experience fat women laid out a good feast. He’d married a pipe thin harridan and had regretted it most of his life.

"My sister's grandchildren think McDonalds is like going to a restaurant," said Esmé.

"Well, it calls itself a restaurant, now, doesn't it," said Cynthia, "I took Jane and the little ones to one last month, I paid, as a special treat for them. Of course I didn't have anything, I can't stand MacDonald's myself," Esmé and Dora exchanged a glance, "but on the receipt it called itself a restaurant. Can you believe that?"

Dora and Esmé made suitably shocked noises. Lenny used his fried bread to soak up the rest of the egg, smacking his lips together in complete enjoyment. Now, if only he could light up, his day would be complete.

Nobby was watching Frank and Mort shuffling along the path outside the sun room, "Let's go," he whispered to Lenny, “Leave the ladies to chat.”
Lenny nodded, patting his pockets, feeling for his tobacco, and they stood up and made their escape, unnoticed.

"I believe children should eat proper food, it's important for their bones as they grow, they should get the right amount of vitamins," said Esmé, uncompromising as ever, "My mother always made sure we had good food but I just can't understand why my sister didn't do the same for her family. It's no wonder they can't cook."

"To be fair," said Dora, pausing to adjust the waistband on her skirt, chins quivering, "there were no ready made meals when we were growing up. So the rot started there, with TV dinners. And MacDonald’s adverts always picture happy families eating their food together."

"That's like with the pizza adverts," said Esmé, not to be outdone, "the family having fun around a colourful slice of pizza, when it should show them hovering round a ball of fat and chemicals. It astonishes me, the things these advertising companies are allowed to get away with."

"When I think of all the nutritional things I used to cook," said Cynthia, her mouth prim on the words, "and I did try to pass it on but, I don't know, I was fighting an uphill battle."

"Personally, I don't think Thatcher helped," said Dora, crossing her arms across her bosom, not without difficulty.

"Oh, don't go blaming Maggie," said Cynthia bristling, "she saved this country from ruin."

"I'm talking about school meals," said Dora, "You have to admit they used to be a proper meat and veg with a nice pudding but ..."

"I'm not sure all that can be laid at her door," Cynthia said firmly, trying to close the subject.

"....nowadays the kids just get burgers and chips," Dora finished just as firmly.

"Fries," murmured Esmé. Dora looked confused. "Chips, they call them 'fries' now."

"See, that's just what I mean," said Dora, "Americanisation."

Esmé added, "They're always eating sweets and crisps as well, whereas when we were kids sweets were a luxury."

"I remember cutting a Mars bar into five pieces for my children to share," said Dora, "but now you see kids as young as four with a whole one to themselves. Parents today have no concept of giving their children values, values are so important, they help develop a young mind."

"Now that I agree with," conceded Cynthia, "It was always a real struggle for Jane to get the children to share. Do you know they wouldn't even drink out of the same bottle as each other?"

"It's just greed," said Esmé, having difficulty absorbing the unlikely fact that the fastidious Cynthia approved of bottle sharing, "where does it come from?"

"I told you it was Thatcher," said Dora, "her and her 'no such thing as society'."

"The problems started well before her," said Cynthia, "I think it has a lot to do with swearing."

"You've lost me, swearing?" mumbled Dora, mouth full.

"Yes," said Cynthia, "and abortion, if it wasn't for swearing and abortion then men would treat women better."

Esmé stared, her face falling into rigid frown lines; trying to get a fix on the combination of swearing (which she disapproved of) and abortion (which she had marched on the streets to achieve for women - the right to have control of their own body - whilst personally abhorring the deed) and the potential for the detrimental effect on men's treatment of women.

Cynthia continued, ignoring the perplexed look on Esmé's face, "A gentleman used to stand and offer his seat to a woman in the old days, not any more."

"Now they'll leave a pregnant woman standing in the aisles whilst they sit there, oh it makes my blood boil," said Dora.

"Perhaps that's what Alb and Gerry are talking about," said Cynthia, "how this country has changed, and none of it for the better. We had such good values in the old days."

"We were all the same then," said Dora, "British."
She'd almost said English but had quickly adjusted to accommodate Cynthia. "We had values that we learned from our parents and passed onto our own children, but somewhere those values have gone astray."

"Well that's another thing," said Cynthia, "our mothers were at home with us when we were young; nowadays the women have their careers."

"They have to work, things are so expensive," said Dora.

"In our day we instilled moral principles, passed on family values," mused Cynthia.

"I'm sure all mothers try to do the same, Cynthia." Dora was having none of it.

"Ah but can they? The parents of today spend so much time working and so little time with their own children that it's any wonder they have any communication at all, let alone shared values."

"Oh," said Esmé, "that's really weird, one of those Karma things."

"What is, dear?" said Cynthia, her tone betraying what she thought about Karma.

"Well," said Esmé, “it was in an article my brother read me, a few years ago, about elephants and rhinos."

Dora gave Cynthia a look, they'd long thought Esmé had dabbled with drugs in her youth, all that marching about, Women’s Lib and Greenham Common nonsense, bound to have had an effect.

"Apparently," Esmé continued, too engrossed in the story to bother about their reaction, "they'd culled the adult elephants in some wildlife park in Africa and all the orphaned juvenile male elephants went on a rampage and killed a load of rhinos."

"Oh that's awful, dear," said Dora. Cynthia shuddered.

"Yes, but that's not the point, by killing all the adults they'd created a situation where the juvenile elephants didn't know that killing rhinos wasn't what they did. Then they reintroduced some adult elephants into the park and it all went back to normal."

"Oh, I see what you're saying," said Cynthia, "the breakdown of society has created the violence of our modern world."

"That's it," said Esmé, "Children eat rubbish food because mothers have to work, and because both parents are out at work all day they aren't around to pass on their values to their children."

"...and if they go to a nursery or a child minder then I suppose they pick up things from other children or from the helpers that might conflict with their parents' values," Cynthia was completely absorbed with this as a concept now, “and that would cause problems at home."

"That could be why there are more divorces these days as well," offered Dora, "how are parents meant to cope with the pressures of unruly children, the stresses and strains of their working lives and then pursue their relationships at the end of the day?"

"The fabric of our society has been damaged," Esmé said firmly, "so when foreign cultures come in we have no strong beliefs to fend off further corrosion to the English way of life."

"Don't you mean British?" said Cynthia stiffly.

"I didn't mean anything by it," said Esmé, unapologetic, "I'm just English, that's all."

"It also means that the problems are bigger than poor old Alb and Gerry can grasp," said Dora.

"Not only that," said Cynthia, "their ideas on how to sort it out are a bit wild, to say the least."

"Boys will be boys," said Dora, complacently. Not having heard it firsthand she'd commuted Cynthia’s recounting of dark tales of death into something altogether more acceptable, "they just want to go and punch something, men and their stupid Neanderthal attitudes."

"Well, whatever happens, we'd better make sure we have a say in how things go," said Cynthia, "Alb is far too fierce for my liking and I don't hold with violence."

"What's that you're saying about Alb?” Mags' ears had pricked up as she entered the room and she’d walked straight over to Cynthia and pulled up a chair opposite.

"Oh, Mags ...I was only saying he's fierce."

Mags frowned, "He's done nothing, as yet, and you can't blame a man for talking."

Cynthia retreated from the implacability of her gaze and, with a swift change of subject, brought her up to speed with their discussion about fast foods.

Vera wandered in, a bit worse for wear, never at her best in the morning. "I couldn't sleep a wink last night," she murmured, "Alb's stuff going round and round in my head. What about you lot?"

Cynthia and Dora looked quite put out; Vera Buxton wasn't a breakfast companion they would have chosen. She came from the other part of the complex for one thing, one of Mags' friends but not quite the ticket vis a vis her background.

Esmé gave Mags a quick look but couldn't resist saying, "Apparently he had even more to say after supper, so Cynthia says."

"Yes, we've heard little else," said Mags firmly, drawing a line. The table fell silent.

"Where's Val?" asked Vera, after a while.

"I don't know," said Mags, "I saw her with Ken earlier though. I feel sorry for Albie," she continued, not noticing the knowing looks that passed between
Dora and Cynthia, "Someone should tell him, don't you think, I mean it's only fair."

"I'd leave him to find out himself, Mags," said Vera, "He might blame the messenger and you wouldn't want that."

Cheers

Arun






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Compendium edition

Chapter 8 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

8

Consumerism diverts us from thinking about women's rights, it stops us from thinking about Iraq, it stops us from thinking about what's going on in Africa - it stops us from thinking in general.
Pink

Barry took his seat in the auditorium. He'd taken a few liberties to sell tickets, talked about 'the preacher' as if he was already the cult figure he knew he would become, told them to forget the 10 quid he was asking, soon they'd be paying £100s just to stand at the back. It might not suit Blackmore, but if he could line his pockets a bit while fulfilling the brief, where's the harm?

The Preacher strolled onto the stage, placed his box and wandered over to the edge. He rubbed his hands together, then he was off, "I have tried to explain about the futility of our existence in this insane economic nightmare," he breathed in deeply, then spoke in a rush, "that we live under the heel of a fascist economic elite who live their lives in luxury whilst the masses work to service the fantastically insane concept of profit driven, corporate commercialism."

He paused, they weren't listening. "This nightmare pervades our century like a cancer. A darkness has descended upon the world. It is a darkness driven by the deadly sins which are paraded by our political elites as a virtue," he paused, "all of the sins that were seen as evil by our forebears are now lauded as desirable traits, possessed only by the best amongst us."

He raised both his arms in elaborate enquiry, "How is it that we lie and cheat, grub for black gold in the desert, sanction mass murder, turn a blind eye to the sufferings of others in the world? How has it become inconvenient to spare the time to consider the predicament of others?"

He looked around the hall, making butterfly eye contact with each of them, some of them looked uncomfortable even at so slight a challenge. "And how can we, the British people, be so easily seduced, when we condemned the Germans for the ease with which they accepted Nazi policies?"

There was a collective gasp as they registered the comparison and he rode over it, "Are we not complicit when our bombs fall on the weak and defenceless, when the poor go hungry, when the peasants in the third world are forced to work in sweat shops to provide us with cheap goods? Are we not the same as the Nazis?"

"You might be, I'm not!" shouted someone from the back.

"You think your detached position here in the west frees you from responsibility for what is done in your name," said the Preacher, "but it doesn't. You say it because, even here in the west, the majority of us aren't that well off. You feel able to rationalise the plight of those elsewhere with the argument that they come from a poor country so the wages they earn are worth more to them than we can ever imagine. Well, try harder. Imagine their reality, living off pennies, working in deadly and dangerous conditions, slaving in sexually abusive environments.
That is their reality."

He paused, "But what of us? In these times of austerity we have a hard time of it." He started to pace again.

"Where is our hope?" he cried out.

"Our ancestors had the misguided hope that they
would be saved because of their self-sacrifice. They believed they would be rewarded in the after-life, in the fictional utopia called Heaven. This gave them their strength, saved their souls, helped them through each nightmarish day. But what do we have? Where is our salvation now that we know there is no heaven, that hell is merely having no money to go shopping."

He waited for them to think but he still didn't have them, "We know there is only the here and now, so we might as well grab as much as we can. Everyone else is doing it, so why shouldn't we?"

He moved to his left a little, "The simple truth is, as far wiser people than me have already said, shopping is the new religion, consumerism is the new faith, the shopping mall is the new church. After all, isn't that where we now spend our Sundays, at the mall?"

Barry noted that a few were leaning forwards in their seats, not many but a few.

He paused, "Even those who still make the pretence of going to church, even those who can't quite stop themselves believing in God, even those who cross themselves daily, they all go shopping, they all try to out earn their neighbours, they all crave wealth, even you," he shouted, pointing into the audience, "even those amongst us today who would profess to being religious, even you walk past the beggar in the street, ignore the deprivations that occur in the world."

"We all give to charity," called someone from the back. "Red Nose Day," shouted someone else.

"How much do you give? Do you give everything you have? Do you give a month's salary?" he demanded to general disapproving shakes of the head.

Barry began to be a little concerned, this wasn't going as well as he'd hoped; he'd need to get some proper scripts made up.

"Of course not," stated the Preacher, "and why should you? You worked hard for that money. And that's the point, the life of the starving child in the third world is measured against how much money you will have to go shopping again next weekend.
And because we know that God doesn't exist then we also know that the preaching of Jesus is meaningless, we don't have to abide by what he said, we don't have to worry about going to hell, we don't have to do anything other than throw a few quid in the odd collection box every Red Nose day."

There were general murmurs of dissent and one or two got up to leave.

"And so they run away," shouted the Preacher pointing at two men sidling towards the door, "they have convinced themselves they are right to do so."

The two men froze in mid flight and shuffled back and sat down.

Barry was ecstatic; the Preacher was in control.

Cheers

Arun







More from the 'Corpalism' series














Compendium editions

Chapter 7 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

7

I would die for my country
but I could never let my country die for me
Neil Kinnock

The community room was less full than was usual at that time of the evening and those who had come over appeared to be in no mood to talk. The TV was on and most of them were staring at it, a few, like Ken and Cynthia, were reading in corners. Mags was playing patience. Val had joined Alb and Gerry at one of the tables, congratulating herself for her bravery given the fact that everyone else was giving them a wide berth. She'd got changed after supper into something pink, loose and filmy; to Gerry's untrained eye it looked suspiciously like a negligee.

"We fought across the empire," muttered Alb, his voice thick, "and we all swore an oath to protect this land." He took another swallow from the glass in front of him, a late night toddy to help him sleep.
Val shifted uncomfortably in her seat, then leaned across the table and patted his hand, "I know you care about all this, love, but you frightened them a bit."

As she leaned forward the material rustled, billowing at the neck, offering a slight hint of cleavage. Gerry wasn't complaining; he didn't like Val but there was no denying she was the best looking woman in the place, if you liked the obvious sort, as well as being the youngest. At the sound Ken's head went up from his book; Mags looked over, cards forgotten; Alb, for whom no doubt the rustling was intended, was oblivious.

“But what have they got to lose?" Alb was baffled, "We’re all nearly dead, what’s the problem?”

Gerry nodded, "n’ just 'cause we're old doesn't mean we don't have the right to an opinion."

"Or that we've given up," said Alb, at this moment looking very much like he had done just that.

"I have to ask…” Val’s voice was quiet and she leaned in as she spoke, “is this a racist thing? Because if you've gone all Klu Klux Klan on me, Albie......"

Gerry nearly corrected her – Ku Klux Klan – but thought better of it; at least she was talking to them.

"No, no" said Alb, sighing deeply, "we're not racist; all we're saying is the indigenous population, which is predominately white, has the right to defend its homeland and culture."

"Because a lot of black people were born here, you know," said Val, continuing her theme, "and they're as British as you and me."

Gerry blinked and Alb sighed again. “We’re not saying anything about that, Val.”

"Although, you're right," her voice a whisper, face thoughtful, "There are mosques springing up everywhere, I mean to say, you can go through some places and pass more mosques than churches yet there must be more Christians in this country than Muslims."

Alb leaned back, not sure where this was going.
Gerry’s face was a picture and he seemed about to speak when Val called out to the group round the TV, "Isn’t that right, Sticky? The mosques are everywhere. Sticky? I said..."

At the repeated sound of his name Sticky roused from his TV induced torpor, "Eh? What’s that?" He pushed his glasses back up his nose and looked across at her, “What you saying?”

"The mosques," Val repeated patiently, "when I was doing your feet the other day, you were telling me about all the mosques, in Southampton?"

The image popped into Gerry's head of Val ministering in some way to all the men in the complex, attaching herself to their various appendages and applying her wiles. He couldn't imagine his own parts in her hands but it was beginning to look like he was in the minority.

"Mosques...too right," Sticky responded, interest awakened, "how's that happened, that’s what I want to know? We give 'em their bloody mosques and they repay us by blowing stuff up."

"Because those with power have determined it," said Alb, sensing an opportunity.

"Eh? What’s that mean in English?" Sticky challenged, looking over at Gerry for translation.

"Politicians he means …” Gerry obliged, "an’ it’s about time someone made it clear to them that the White Anglo-Saxon Protestants have had enough."

"I'm Catholic," Cynthia retorted sharply, looking up from her book, her face pinched in disdain. She'd noted Val's inappropriate attire; mutton dressed as lamb, couldn't miss the flouncing that had accompanied her entrance. She'd determined to have nothing to do with that 'crowd' as she thought of Alb et al, and had brought the book in with her as camouflage.

"I am too, Cyn," said Bill reaching across and increasing the volume on the TV, "ignore him."

"I'm lapsed," said Ken. Alb looked at him, thinking 'you would be.'

"No offence meant," said Gerry, hands smoothing the air, "forget the proddy bit."

"The coloured people...sorry, I mean, the black people have been here for decades," said Val, head shaking, "you can't send them home."

"East Europeans are Christians, aren't they?" added Ken, joining them at the table.

"They haven’t been here for decades though, Ken," Val reproved gently.

"Okay, Ken, East Europeans are white and Christians as well," said Alb, "but they're not British."

"You can't send the blacks home," said Harry, still seated in front of the TV, eyes staring, recalling the streets of his youth, "that wouldn't be right."

Gerry rated Harry Porter, he was a decent bloke, ex-infantry, ex-Londoner, a salt-of-the earth type. They could do worse than get him on-side.

"Anyway, they were a part of the Empire and the Commonwealth," offered Mags, her face wreathed in smiles now that it was ok to talk to Alb again.

"I know some very nice East Europeans," said Jonesey, emerging from behind his newspaper, "They help out at the Community Centre. You know 'em, don't you, Harry. Mind you," he added, "they’re not Poles, I think there're too many Poles in the country, that I'd agree with."

"Oh, I know a Polish chap and he's..." started Ken.

"Hold up, Ken," Alb held his temper in check, aware Val was watching him and not wanting to start the whole Ku Klux Klan thing off again, "it's not a question of who knows a Pole or black person or Muslim, I'm sure that individually they’re decent people. The problem is that they've turned up in vast numbers, swamping communities."

"Like the mosques in Southampton," Sticky chimed in.

Alb flashed him a grateful look.

"Okay," said Val, patting her hair busily, "as long as
this isn't some racist thing."

"Anyway," said Cynthia, book abandoned, "who's going to listen to us?"

"Yeah, who cares what a bunch of old fogies think?" Jonesey surged up, the movement denying his age, newspaper sliding down his legs, arriving in a heap at his feet.

"Exactly," said Harry to no-one in particular, "even my grandkids don't listen to me."

"So, what are we going to do about it?" demanded Val.

"We're gonna fight," said Gerry, slapping his hand on the table, forgetting for a moment the arthritis that plagued him. He sat back, gritting his teeth against the pain. Alb passed him his toddy, with a nod of understanding. "We're going to fight," Gerry repeated, more quietly and without the hand gesture.

Alb watched Val, willing her compliance and approval.

"Fight?" she cried, "What do you mean, fight? Have you gone mad?" Clearly, approval was in short supply.

"Mad as hell," said Gerry, eyes crinkling, the toddy warming his throat, pain forgotten, enjoying the effect of his words.

"Are you serious?" said Mags. She'd moved from her table to theirs; the movement signifying potential support.

"Deadly," said Alb.

"What're you talking about?" said Bill, muting the TV, his voice a sneer, cynicism out in force, "What do you mean 'fight'? A pensioners’ protest rally or something?"

"What's the point of that?" demanded
Harry, "Nobody will listen to us, will they?"

"Nobody in their right minds, anyway," Val said rudely.

"Oh, I've had enough of this," said Bill, putting the TV back to full volume.

"Wait a minute," pressed Alb, "just listen for a bit."

Bill turned back, eyebrows raised, one hand steadying himself on the back of the sofa.

"The way Gerry and I figure it, we're at war, but the government isn't fighting like it's a war, they're not fighting the real enemy, they're too busy trying to satisfy all sides to get re-elected."

"We're never going to win," said Gerry, "'cause they're always sucking up to the minority communities."

"So someone else has to take on the fighting," said Alb, "someone has to fight the real war."

"I don't approve of violence," Cynthia chipped in.

"And a lot of us in the Village have seen active service of some sort or another.” Alb raised his hand to forestall Ken’s protestations, “I said 'a lot', not 'all', Ken…."

"So?" said Bill, still in two minds.

"So, the way we see it, we’re more than qualified to do something."

"Do what?" said Bill. He was interested despite his better judgment, his ‘war wound’ was the scar left by a lanced boil and despite a field promotion to captain he had unresolved issues although he’d long since given up hope of ever covering himself in glory. Now maybe Alb and Gerry had an idea that could change that.

"Fight back," said Alb raising his right fist.

"With guns," added Gerry.

Bill sat down abruptly, it was what he'd been pushing for but it was still a shock. Cynthia made a slight sound like someone had sat on her. Val's hand went to her mouth. Ken muttered something unintelligible and walked over to the window. Mags moved closer, her eyes widening as she stared at Alb.

"Alb?" Harry's voice sounded odd, as if it were coming from a long way away.

"We're all trained, Harry, remember," said Alb, "you know, infantry; you, me, Gerry, and Johnno. Jonesey, you were in the Paras; Wilf was a Marine and a mercenary."

"But that was years ago, we were young men then, Alb." Johnno held Alb in deep regard and his voice was gentle despite the rebuff.

“Pete was in the engineers," said Gerry.

"Dave was REME," offered Bill, getting caught up again.

"You're beginning to scare me, Albie," said Val.

"Come on, Val," said Gerry, "think about it, you were in the WAC."

"You're mad, all of you," said Val, "are you really suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"Surely you see it," said Alb, "how this country is being destroyed."

"Yes," agreed Val, "but that's not our business now."

"Why not?" asked Gerry, "Just 'cause we're old doesn't mean we can't resist."

"We're at war," stated Alb, "and if someone doesn't do something we'll lose. The England that we all know, the Britain that we and our friends fought for, and many died for, will be lost forever." He paused, staring at her, "so if that means hurting our enemies...."

"You mean kill," said Val, "don't say 'hurt' when you mean 'kill'."

"If that means killing the enemies of this country..." said Gerry, "Then yes, we intend to kill people."

"But only those who are trying to destroy our country," said Alb, still hoping to persuade her, "we're at war, Val, why can't you see it?"
She stepped back from him, ignoring the plea in his voice, and walked over to join Ken at the window.

Bill stood up, his voice incisive, with an emergent officer-like quality, “Fiona was right - we should meet up again ...those who want to," he paused, casting a meaningful glance across at Val and Ken who were now engaged in frantic whisperings, "and discuss it then.”

 
Cheers for reading

Arun





More books in the 'Corpalism' series















Compendium editions

Chapter 6 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

6

It's not the size of the dog in the fight,
it's the size of the fight in the dog.
Mark Twain

It was early evening, the sun low and reddening in the sky, 'warm enough if you wear a light coat' as Alb had got tired of saying to each resident's complaint about meeting outside. Despite their reservations all those on the list were gathered in the Rose Garden, the centre of what Alb referred to as 'their' courtyard. The close proximity to apartments 1 - 16 gave them ownership in his eyes, by the same token, apartments 17 - 32 could keep the ornamental shrubbery.

Having started with their ex-forces mates Alb and Gerry had widened the list to include those with other skills that might be useful like Esmé Fotheringey, ex-Greenham Common stalwart and ardent revolutionary, and those like Cynthia Carlyle and Dora Ashburton (Little and Large as Gerry thought of them) whose personality meant they could not be excluded. Mags Pickles was on the list, ostensibly for her Angel cake; Gerry wasn't about to admit that he had his eye on her for more than her baking. It had been agreed that it was too late to exclude Ken and in the end it appeared that nearly everyone they knew had a potential use, or was a particular friend or like Val, a prospective paramour.

Thus the group that gathered in the Garden constituted almost the entire complement of the Village with the exception of Doris Miller, too infirm to leave her room, the new lady in no 5, name as yet unknown, and Sir Nathaniel Longbottom, who in the 3 years of his sojourn had retained his right to privacy and thus far had refused to hobnob with hoi polloi (his words).

It was tight, squashed roughly four people to each of the six benches that outlined the central rose bed and that was even with Gerry and Alb standing.
Mags positioned herself near her cake trolley and was perched on the edge of the bench, the better to be up and about when the time came. She'd responded to Alb's request for Angel cake with something approaching joy; he'd noticed her cake if not her, it was a start.

"Cake anyone?" she asked, not about to let her big moment pass, rising up from the bench with difficulty.

"Oh yes please, Mags," said Ken, a diversionary tactic, delaying the inevitable 'call to arms' that Alb was planning. He rose from his seat next to Val and crossed to the cake trolley. "Val?"

Val nodded, any reply she may have been about to make was drowned out by a chorus of, "And me" that rippled round the benches.

Gerry's hand went to his head, he wanted cake and had no wish to detract from Mags' cake-making efforts but, for crying out loud, let's get the meeting started.

"Over here Mags," said Alb, going with the flow, nudging Gerry to relax and do likewise.

"Of course, Alb," said Mags, blushing prettily, pushing everyone else aside and delivering a very large piece of cake to Alb personally.

"Ok ...me too," said Gerry; Mags passed him a thin slither on a less than clean saucer and with barely a second glance.

"Cuppa would be nice." This from Reg Trimble, one of the oldest residents, his voice a whisper, his hand trembling on his plate, invited for reasons of kindness rather than potential usefulness, brought over on the arms of his good friends Gil Owen and Dilwyn Gravenor, aka Gray.

"No," said Gerry, quiet but firm, "Sorry, Reg, no tea. You can have tea when you get inside."

Reg shrank back, using Dora's ample frame and an Arthur Bell standard rose as a shield.

"Alright then," said Alb, striking an incongruous pose, something mid-way between 'attention' and 'at ease', “some of you know why we've called this meeting but some of you might not."

He'd dressed for the occasion; his best worsted trousers nicely pressed, the grey shirt he'd bought for a funeral a few years back and topping it, his Harris tweed jacket.

He felt good as he glanced round at the benches, at the people he and Gerry had known for many years, men such as Ken, Wilf Murchison and John Cavendish, known but not all necessarily trusted, Ken being a particular case in point. He made deliberate eye contact with the ones he'd got to know well during the 10 years he'd been in the Village, confined to barracks as he still thought of it, good mates like Basil 'Sticky' Bennett, Lenny Freeman and Frank Gough.

He made a mental note of their varying expressions.
He was buoyed by the look of interest shown by Gil and Gray; like two peas in a pod, slim and dark and dapper. He'd never had much to do with them, they being residents of the 'other' compound, numbers 19 and 21 if he remembered correctly, moved in at the same time as each other, although he knew little about their backgrounds.

He was surprised by the keen-eyed expectancy of a few, Bill Carpenter looking especially alert and for once with no trace of cynicism in his eyes. Esmé was frowning, her face all concentration and with potential for disapproval writ large across it. She'd swapped her normal combat outfit for a shapeless brown sack-like garment and a green cardigan; he wasn't convinced it was an improvement. He noted anxiety on Reg's face, unsurprised but somehow disappointed by the extent of it, registered Mort's vacancy; Mortimer Claypole, victim to the vague and muddled characterisation of dementia. He was pleased they had all responded to the summons; he had expected a few absentees.

"Well, I'm sure I don't know why we're here, Albert," said Dora, twisting awkwardly to address Reg, "do you know?" He muttered a negative, shrinking back into himself and she turned back, "We don't know, so why don't you tell us?"

Alb smiled tightly, never good with crowds, "Trying to, Dora, trying to..." He looked at Gerry who nodded encouragement, "well, obviously thank you all for coming -I know it's not too comfortable on these benches so I'll be quick about it - to cut a long story short - we're fed up with the way this country is being run."

"Yeah," affirmed Gerry, "we're fed up with lousy politicians ruining everything we fought for."

"And we think something should be done about all the foreigners coming in."

"To stop the 'Invasion via Immigration' as I call it," said Gerry, he'd thought of it that afternoon and
wanted to try it out on an audience.

"That's very good," said Alb patting Gerry on the shoulder, "very catchy."

"It's the damned Labour Party," said Bill to several calls of 'here here'. He looked pleased, nodding his own satisfaction with his comment.

"Bloody Tories," snapped Ron, savagely, to yet more support.

Gerry shook his head; he'd told Alb this would happen, chalk and cheese Ron Holehouse and Bill Carpenter, different ends of the spectrum, with opposite politics and from opposite ends of the country. Thank the Lord they were sitting on different benches or they'd likely come to blows.

"We should give the Liberals another chance," offered Ken, with a sideways look at Val who rewarded his temerity with a small smile.

"Sod off, Ken," this from Ron, trying to rise but wedged in by elbows on either side, "They had their chance - no one's ever goin’ta vote for those bastards again." At times like these his accent became almost incomprehensible and he sounded like he'd just emerged from 't'pit'.

"Language, please Ron - there're ladies present", Gerry reminded him with a nod at Mags.

"Okay, okay," said Alb, his hands in the air, gesturing for calm, "look, as I see it it's not Labour, it's not the Tories and it's not the LibDems, it's all of them, they're all in it together."

"That's right," said Mags.

She was standing, using her cake trolley as a prop, having lost her seat on the bench, the gap closing like a sigh as soon as she'd vacated. It was worth it to be able to move surreptitiously over to Alb and stand staunchly by his side. She too had dressed for the occasion, had eschewed a coat and was buttressed into a royal blue shirtwaister with a white collar; someone had once told her it brought out the colour of her eyes.

Gerry glanced over, frowning. Val got up from her seat next to Ken, and bustled over, sliding between Alb and Mags with an "I agree", statement of support.

"It doesn't matter which party is in power," said Alb, slightly flustered, boxed in, needing to adjust his stance, "they always seem to do the same thing, let more foreigners in."

"To do the workers down, bringing in cheap labour," yelled Ron. For a small man he certainly had a loud voice.

"Hey, come on now, Ron, keep it down," Ken looked round worriedly, "the warden'll be out to see what the commotion's about."

"We pay enough for the privilege, Ken," Cynthia's cutting tone was sufficient to silence any further objections.

"It's the damned Labour Party, soft on immigration, bringing in votes," said Bill. He threw a glance at Ron, his words a gauntlet.

"It's the bloody Tories bringing in cheap labour," said Ron, half-rising to make up for the lowering of his voice, "to drive wages down."

"It doesn't matter what it is," stated Alb, "or who's doing it for whatever reason, the result is the same, too many foreigners corroding the British way of life."

"It's not affecting us up in the highlands," said Tom Rutherford, getting to his feet.

He couldn't abide being confined, and sitting on a bench squashed up even with friends was too much for him to take. "We don't have that many up there."

Alb looked over at him, tall and rangy, his accent still strong after years down south, holding himself erect with a military bearing, a good chess player with a sharp intellect, he could be useful.

"Well, whatever," said Gerry, “we’ve had enough of this multi-cultural rubbish, we're British."

"I'm English," stated Bill, his voice clipped and authoritative.

"English," repeated Sticky and Frank followed by several others.

"I'm not English or British," said Ken. They all stared at him. "I'm Italian by birth."

Val giggled behind her hand, irritating Alb instantly, "Ken? Italian?" he said, thinking, typical two-faced Ken Grewcock, known him for years and this is the first anyone's heard of it.

"Ken's my middle name, my first name's Antonio."
He stroked his hair as he spoke, smoothing the gleaming Brylcreem.

"As in ‘o, o Antonio with his ice cream cart?" This came from Frank with a lascivious snigger.

"My parents went back to Italy so I could be born there."

They stared at him, awaiting further explanation.

He complied, saying importantly, "My mum would only marry my dad if their first born son was born in Italy. Her dad, my Italian granddad wanted me to be a footballer and play for Italy."

"OK, so you were born there," said Alb, "but you grew up here?"

"Oh yes, so in essence I'm truly English but I was...."

"Yeah, yeah," said Alb dismissively, "moving on, any other foreigners?"

There were general shakes of the head, then, "I'm Welsh," said one. Alb noted him; Alfred Jones, known as Jonesey, ex-Para, sniper, good bloke to have beside you in a scrap.

"Me too," said Gil, "and so's Gray."

"Scottish and proud of it." This from Tom Rutherford.

"Right, Tom's a Jock, we got any paddies?" asked Gerry.

“I’m a Scot as well, Gerry,” Cynthia’s voice cut across the general muttering, “and as proud of it as Tom, I may say.”

"Noted,” said Gerry, crisply, Cynthia Carlyle of the caustic comments and tight iron-grey perm not being his favourite person, "no paddies?”

"That's Irish to yous."

Gerry looked over at the speaker, one Robert 'Nobby' Clarke, as English as bangers and mash. "You're not Irish," he said.

"I know," said Nobby, "I was just taking the piss."

“Ladies present,” Gerry murmured. Nobby made a face.

"Be serious!" said Alb, his voice rising in irritation, "We're British, that's the point. It's about being British, our culture, our way of life. It's about them trying to make us believe we're a mixed race of god knows what, when over 95% of us are still White Anglo Saxons.” He was raging now, waving his arms, in serious danger of losing his balance on the uneven paving, “We've been brainwashed into thinking this is a multi-cultural society, when it's still British but they’re working all the time to destroy the British way of life. They've been importing foreigners from all over since the fifties and you've got West Indians here, Pakistanis there, Muslims across the Midlands and now there's East Europeans all over the place. It's an invasion!"

He paused, then added fiercely, "Our grandparents and our parents fought to keep this island safe and the bloody government have just opened the doors and let every bugger in without a by your leave.
Well, we're not going to accept it – not without a fight, by god.”

Alb thought Wilf looked quite excited but apart from him, the rest of them looked blank. There followed quite a bit of shuffling. Alb looked at Gerry and made an eyebrows raised face. Gerry shrugged, glancing at Val who was standing stiffly, seemingly struck dumb.

“Excuse me, Alb – might I say something here?”

All eyes swivelled to Fiona Pilkington, a tiny, small-boned woman whose complexion matched perfectly her stock in trade beige twin-set and pearls. She'd been forgotten by both Alb and Gerry on their first mental trawl of the Village' inhabitants, living as she did in the 'other' complex, and had been invited solely because it had seemed rude to exclude her.

She pulled herself up with the aid of her stick and the arm of the bench. She gained a semi-upright position and addressed them all; her quiet voice gentle in their ears, a balm following Alb’s outraged tones.

“Alb has given us a lot to think about this evening,”
She got a few murmurs of agreement from the stunned group. Gerry saw Pete Curtiss nodding energetically and watched curiously as Fiona bestowed a small smile in his direction. “However, I think we would all benefit from taking a break for supper and re-convening tomorrow, perhaps this time in the ornamental shrubbery, those of us that want to do so, to continue the discussion and see where we might go from here?”

She glanced round but the benches were already emptying, the group dispersing as swiftly as old bones would allow. Fiona nodded at Alb and turned away, quickly followed by Mags trundling the cake trolley in front of her like a makeshift Zimmer frame.
Val waited a few moments, indecision apparent on her face then she too walked away. Alb and Gerry stood alone, wondering where it had all gone wrong. 
Cheers

Arun




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Chapter 5 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

5

By abortion, the mother does not learn to love,
but kills even her own child to solve her problems
Mother Theresa

The Preacher collapsed into a chair in the rundown dressing room, drained and tired; it had been a good session. There was a knock at the door and a man strode in, shaking the rain off his coat and brushing his hair back with his hand. A powerfully-framed man, mid-thirties, the Preacher had noted him in his audience, he’d come early and stayed until the end.
He might even have been before.

“Hi, Barry, Barry Onslow,” he said, sticking his hand out for the Preacher to shake. When no hand materialised he let his own drop, ignoring the slight. “And that was truly amazing.”

The Preacher’s eyes narrowed and he tilted back his head, unused to such praise.

“I mean, you really had them there,” Barry continued, unfazed by the silent scrutiny, “especially with all that ‘live your life’ stuff.”

The Preacher said nothing; he didn't trust many people and this man was too confident and bullish.

“Look," said Barry, unruffled, "those people out there, they’d like to hear more from you.”

“They are always welcome to listen,” said the Preacher, his voice a quiet dismissal. He was still trying to get the measure of this new arrival; irritated that once he would have been able to assess in seconds what now seemed almost impossible, so out of touch was he with the world.

“Well that’s just it, er…I don’t know your name?” said Barry, settling himself into a chair he’d pulled from a stack in the corner. When he received no response he continued smoothly, “Where are they welcome? Here? Do you own this place?”

The Preacher shook his head, “No, I use it when I can get in.” He left a pause, then thinking it would do no harm to unbend a little, volunteered, “At night it’s usually full of the homeless.”

“So where can people hear you? Some of these people are busy, with jobs and families ….”

“Of course,” said the Preacher, “I know how busy they are – that is part of my point, after all.”

Barry recognised the need to proceed slowly, “I’m just saying that not everyone can get here.”

“I also work on London Bridge…..I go to them because I know they can’t come to me.”

“Right,” said Barry, his attempt at patience abandoned at the first hurdle, “Look friend, I get what you’re saying but if you want to get through to as many people as possible, to get your message across, then you need to be more organised, you need to have a proper place to present your views, you need to have regular times, to advertise….”

“No,” said the Preacher, his eyes darkening, “I’ve turned my back on that culture.”

“I get all that,” said Barry, leaning forward in his chair, causing the Preacher to sit back in his, “but what about the people who would join you? What about the people who would also turn their backs on this crazy world of ours if they were just shown the way? If they were just given some help, some hope, guidance even? Surely you want to reach out to them?”

The Preacher shrugged. Barry took it as a sign and arranged a session for that afternoon.

∞

The Preacher scrunched up his eyes and rubbed his face. He was bone-tired. He had nothing inside him, no clue what to talk about, his mind a blank and then it came to him and he said, quite conversationally, "I have always held the firm belief that it is any woman's right to have an abortion if she feels it is the correct thing for her to do. It's her body that will be ruined by the pregnancy and she will be the one left holding the baby if the male runs out on her."

Barry froze; abortion, what next! He started to make swift assessments of the audience then gave up worrying; if it worked, it worked, if it didn't, then he'd lost nothing by it.

The Preacher started to pace slowly, "It is a valid argument; it could also be that the relationship is not one in which she would like to raise a child but that is a different conversation, that of the inherent responsibilities attached to the act of copulation."

The Preacher's glance fell on a woman looking up at him, she was nodding emphatically. He recognised that with his next words he was going to alienate her. "However," he was nodding himself now, "the current pro-abortion argument only takes into consideration the views and feelings of one, possibly two, of the three individuals involved."

He stopped and looked out into his audience, "Please can I have a show of hands, who believes abortion is acceptable?" Several arms went into the air and he did a rough count, "Well I make that roughly two thirds the hall, which must mean that the rest of you don't support it. Now, of those who support the idea of abortion, do you have any views you would be willing to share? Please raise your arms."

"You madam," said the Preacher, pointing to a matronly woman with a bitter expression.

"Why should the woman have to carry and look after a baby on her own? Two people made the mistake, it's a shared responsibility," she said, emphasising her point with a chopping movement of her head.

"Agreed," said the Preacher, "however, that's not relevant to the concept of ending another life that's merely relevant to the female position."

"Are you saying then," said the woman, her tone challenging, "that the woman has no right to choose? It's her body, why should she be the only one to bear the consequences?"

He looked out into the audience, making eye contact with the first few rows, raising his voice to reach those at the back, "This woman's argument is about the selfishness of the male who leaves the pregnant female in the lurch. Followed by the self interest of the female who would sacrifice her own child so that she can continue to live an unencumbered life."

"That's not what she meant," stated another woman, half standing in her agitation.

"Then help me to understand," said the Preacher moving towards her.

"Mistakes happen," said the woman, "why should two people who had a short sexual relationship have to commit to each other forever as punishment for that mistake?"

Several people applauded, others jeered.

"I understand your argument but what has that to do with terminating a life? That's like running your finger down a telephone list and saying whether or not a person should be allowed to live."

"No, it's not," shouted a man, "those people are alive, a foetus is nothing more than gunk."

"It's murder," shouted a woman from the back of the hall, "if you don't want a baby, use a bloody contraceptive." There were cheers from some parts of the hall, a few bursts of laughter. "Abortion isn't contraception, that's all some girls see it as these days."

"You'd have us go back to backstreet abortions with coat hangers," shouted the first woman.

"It's a woman's right to choose what happens to her body," said another, standing up and then sitting down again, point made.

"You are making my point," said the Preacher, "when we discuss abortion we talk only about the rights of the woman who will carry that child."

"What about where the baby threatens the mother's life?" asked a man from the balcony.

"Or rape?" demanded another man, "why should she get saddled with a rapist's child?"

"Again," said the Preacher, "you all make valid points....yet, it's all about the mother, or the partners who don't want a baby, or the family of a rape victim."

He paced back and forth whilst the audience argued amongst themselves, then he spoke again "Of course, where the mother's life is at risk, abortion is the only course of action. And if the rape victim is a child then clearly the experience of birth could be dangerous and mentally disturbing. So in child rape scenarios, abortion is acceptable." He waited whilst the murmurs of assent rippled round the audience, seeing nods of approval. "However I maintain that all other scenarios put the selfish needs of the potential parents above those of a defenceless individual."

"Contraception doesn't always work, mistakes happen...." This came from the matronly woman who had spoken before. His argument clearly wasn't reaching her.

"What about the child's rights?" demanded another woman, leaning over the balcony and shouting down at her.

"Shouldn't have sex if you're not prepared to live with the consequences," stated an elderly man two rows back from the front.

"Fuck you!" shouted the matron, "why should women be denied free sex? Men have always had it easy and women have always been made to feel like sluts if they do the same."

"You're a chauvinist," shouted another woman, "you want to fuck around but marry a virgin."

The Preacher returned to the centre of the stage and watched as the arguments flew around the hall. He waited for things to calm but when they didn't he reached down for the foghorn he had taken to keeping nearby and let rip. Shocked silence.

"I hear all of your arguments," he said, his voice emollient and placatory, "and I understand the points you are making but none of them address the crux of the matter."

He paused, waiting until he had their full attention, "Which is that, except in exceptional circumstances, abortion is the act of ultimate selfishness effected by either an individual or group of individuals who have behaved or are behaving irresponsibly."

The argument in the stands between both camps erupted again. He left the stage.
 
Cheers

Arun








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Compendium edition

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

4

We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be ....we shall never surrender.
Winston Churchill

Alb and Gerry chose to breakfast in the communal room, both wanting the proximity of others although the gruffness of their exchanges hid this well; to the uninitiated it would appear that the last thing either of them required was the company of another living thing.

"Bloody Muslims," muttered Alb, head in his newspaper, "It says here they're pressing to have Sharia law. Foreign laws here, in England? What's that about?"

He sounded grumpy, never at his best at breakfast, not yet having unwound from the night’s tightening that welded his joints together. He'd had his tablets; fifteen in all, some to counter the side effects of another and so on. He was privately convinced that that was where the last vestiges of his sex drive had gone. One day he'd stop the lot and just see what happened.

"The government wouldn't let them introduce that," said Gerry, looking up from the demolition of his second boiled egg.

"Says here that they're thinking of it," said Alb, "and apparently they have it in Canada. There's a piece about these so-called honour killings as well, apparently there's more of it going on all the time.
We've let these bloody people into our country and they go around flouting our laws."

Gerry nodded, happily eating his toast soldiers, aware that his doing anything other than listening would be superfluous to requirements at the moment.

Alb continued, "And there're the Muslims who prey on our young girls, as well. What's that about, why aren't the police dealing with that, eh? I bet they're worried about causing offence."

Gerry nodded vigorously, still waiting for the right moment to speak; he knew from experience it was not yet.

"We're English so this land should have English laws, we can't go around changing our laws just because some idiot let too many bloody foreigners in. And don't even get me started on that mutilation they're doing to young girls right under our noses..."

"Hmmm." Gerry wasn't sure that that was Muslims but the point was valid so he let it pass.

"That's why we fought the bloody krauts in the first place," said Alb, "to defend England so that we could live like Englishmen, with our own laws and own way of life."

He went back behind his newspaper, explosion over. Gerry waited a few moments, munching steadily, then said, ruminatively, “You know, someone should do something, something to make people sit up and take notice.”

“Eh? Like what?” asked Alb, muffled words emerging from behind the newspaper.

"I don't know," said Gerry, "something."

"That's all very good and well," said Alb, "but what?"

"Petition our local MP," offered Gerry.

"Ah, what good would that do?" dismissed Alb, "When did they ever listen to what we want?
It's all about them and their fancy careers."

"True, and whether or not they can claim it on their expenses. Well, what about getting a local protest movement together?"

"Waste of time," Alb snorted, "who'd turn up?"

"We could do a Hitler and form our own party?"

"At our age? Anyway, it's a waste of time," Alb was back into his newspaper, "there's nothing that we can do to save our country. If Churchill were alive today he'd turn in his grave."

"Ha!" said Gerry, "turn in his grave, like it."

"What?" Alb was frowning; he'd already forgotten his exact words.

"If he was alive today he'd turn in his grave," repeated Gerry.

"Oh, you know what I mean, he'd know what to do." Alb was in no mood for jokes.

"Of course he would," said Gerry, "he knew what to do when the Nazis were threatening....we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds...."

"We shall fight in the fields and in the streets...." Alb chimed in.

"We shall fight in the hills," said Gerry, with a wide smile, they'd done this before.

"We shall never surrender," spoken in unison, loud with a deep growl.

They were quiet for a few moments in homage to the Great Man and also to give some of the other occupants of the communal dining area a chance to eat in peace.

Then, "He'd lead a bloody revolution against this lot, that's what he'd do," said Alb, "but there's nothing we can do about it."

Gerry sat upright and lengthened his neck, "Well, there is," he said, his voice mild as befit the fact of other people’s proximity, “we can fight back.”

“We already covered this, Gerry.” Alb was curious as to why his friend was re-working the argument, it was unlike him. He surveyed him, his head bent forward at an odd angle the better to see him over the top of his reading glasses.

“No, I mean as in 'fight' back.”

Ken plonked himself down, jarring the table as he did so then leaning past Gerry and helping himself to toast. Alb surrendered the newspaper to him, folding it in half and half again, like the old days when it was a broadsheet and had proper news in it.

“Like the rioters, you mean?” now a little more interested.

“No, like soldiers.”

“Ah,” said Alb, propping his chin in his hand, “you mean a proper military campaign? Like Churchill would organise if he were alive today.”

Gerry was pleased with Alb's interest, and his idea grew on the strength of it, “We were in the forces, we’re trained, we’ve all seen dead bodies, we’re more than qualified to take these bastards on.”

“Dead bodies? Take who on?” Ken whispered, looking round at the other tables. "Have I missed something important?"

Alb ignored him, playing with the idea. “Mmm, they’re all a bit fitter and younger than us.”

“Yes, but we're trained,” said Gerry, “and we’re not afraid to die, I mean, at our age an’ all.”

"Die? Why would we die?" Ken was aghast, his voice high.

“You’re right, Gerry and when you’re right, you’re right!" Alb nodded, thoughtfully, musing, “We could do it, you know.”

Ken looked from one to the other, his face almost young with wide-eyed astonishment.

"And let's face it the army and police can't go after them, the government won't let them, they're chasing votes and it's not 'PC'," Gerry did the fingers movement as he spoke.

"What?" Alb stared at him

"PC – you know, ‘Politically Correct’."

There was silence for a few moments; Ken appeared to be having difficulty swallowing and his voice was strangulated, "I don't understand, Gerry - go after
who?"

Gerry continued, “We need to get the others together and see what we can come up with. But, there's Pete for starters, he was a sapper."

"An' Wilf," said Alb, naming one of their oldest friends, "he was a marine and did a spell as a mercenary in the Congo, if I recall correctly."

"Pete's not very ...fit, though, is he." Ken inserted a down-to-earth bubble buster into what he rather hoped was a purely fanciful conversation.

"Then there's Jonesey, he's an ex-para."

"And David Hall, he's ex-REME," said Gerry.

"Now Dave, I do know, finds it hard to walk very far." Ken was growing desperate. "And you know I...I didn't serve in any...my feet for one thing..."

"Okay, that's settled, we'll get them all together, later on and sound them out."

"Sound them out for what?" Both Alb and Gerry turned to stare at him as though he'd appeared from nowhere.

"More toast?" asked Gerry, proffering the now empty plate at him.

"Oh, yes," said Ken disappearing with alacrity into the kitchenette.

"What about him?" whispered Alb.

"Don't know, do you think he knows too much
already?"

Alb nodded, "We might have to silence him."

"I can't do it," said Gerry, affronted, "he's my bridge partner, it wouldn't be right."

"Well, I can't do it either," said Alb, "he went out with my sister."

"Not Margie, she'd not..."

"No, Flora."

"Oh, 'cause I liked Margie," said Gerry, ignoring Alb's quick scowl.

They fell silent; Gerry in contemplation of a tall girl with warm brown hair and equally warm brown eyes, married a spiv who left her high and dry. By that time he'd married his Gwennie and that was that. Alb's mind was on the potential disposal of Ken and the wider campaign, running through the inhabitants of the Village, discarding all the women, about whom he knew little, remembering past conversations whereby each man on arrival had paraded his military credentials to demonstrate a prouder time.

"What about Johnno? He's a mate, he'd do him for us."

"No," said Gerry, "heart condition and besides he likes Ken, they play chess together."

"Someone will have to do it if he bails on us."

"Don't worry," said Gerry, "if he bails, we'll find someone."

"If who bails?" Ken asked, approaching soundlessly, plate proffered.

“No-one, Ken,” Gerry spoke fast, grabbing toast off the plate, "and get Mags to bring some of her Angel cake, she makes lovely Angel cake.”

“Right on,” said Alb, a high colour in his cheeks, have to sharpen up, be more alert if this was going to work, walls have ears and all that.

∞

Gerry and Alb passed the afternoon in an agony of impatience; Ken had retired to his room to lie down. Given he'd not long got up Alb took it to mean he was shocked and wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Gerry was all for smothering him if he dozed; he could get another bridge partner if needs must. Alb urged caution; an unexplained death would 'draw the heat' and they needed to keep a 'low profile'. They consoled themselves with making a list of those in the Village who could prove useful, bearing in mind the need to be selective, and firming up their plans for attack. 

Cheers

Arun






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Compendium editions

Chapter 3 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

3


Ken had lived in the same street as Alb and Gerry when they were children, too young to have been in their gang, an acquaintance rather than friend. He now lived in a corner apartment in the same part of the complex, having arrived at the Village, out of the blue, some years after them. Almost all the male residents were ex-army, navy or air force; Ken had no military connection. Alb was certain he had used questionable excuses to avoid playing his part. For this and myriad other reasons, Alb and Gerry held Ken in no particular regard.

"You in there, Ken?" asked Alb, thumping on the door.

"Ken!" added Gerry. "We're after biscuits, you got any?"

Silence. Then they heard movement and muffled voices; a door opened and closed.

"Who's in there with you? Is that Val you've got in there? 'Cause it better bloody not be," Alb was rattling the letterbox, scowling. He considered bending to peer through it but Ken's voice was suddenly close at hand.

"You can't come in here yet; I'm not decent."

"Who's that with you?"

"No one."

"Is that Val? Val, is that you?" demanded Alb.

He couldn't have explained why he felt so territorial about it; he had no claim on Val, it just got his goat to see her wasting herself on slime ball Ken.
Gerry was holding back laughter, his eyes watering with the effort. He couldn't understand Alb's fixation with Val Compton, the Village siren but there was no doubt, fixated he was.

She opened the door, pink-cheeked and flustered, adjusting her skirt, her voice aquiver, "I'd appreciate it if your tone wasn't so insinuating."

"Insinuating?" repeated Alb, "I'm not insinuating, I'm downright bloody accusing."

"Well, you'd better not be." She pushed past him with a toss of her head, a gesture that in her younger days would have resulted in hair rippling attractively but currently only served to slightly disturb a carefully constructed blue rinsed concoction. Age not withstanding she was off down the corridor as fast as Alb had ever seen her walk.

"Where you going?" demanded Alb to her swiftly disappearing back.

"And what were you doing?" asked Gerry with barely suppressed glee.

"Certainly nothing that concerns you, Gerald Arbuthnot,” she threw over her shoulder.

"What were you two up to?" Alb was now addressing Ken, whose head had appeared round the door. He looked flustered, and his hair always heavily 'Brylcreemed', was a bit mussed up.

"Nothing." Ken’s voice was surly, every bit the recalcitrant child.

"Then why won't you let us in?" Alb was desperate to see round the door, identify what it was that Ken was trying to hide, "What's that about you not being decent?"

"Val was just helping me with my back," offered Ken.

"Doin' what with your back?" pressed Alb; they all knew about Ken's slipped disc, ancient history yet he moaned constantly about the discomfort.

"Erm...she...she...she was rubbing it for me."

"Oooh, she was ‘rubbing it for you’."

Gerry was enjoying himself too much to let this one go despite Alb’s obvious distress.

Ken was anxious to placate Alb, not wanting to have him for an enemy, not even at this late stage in their lives, "You remember, she used to be a professional masseuse?"

Alb mulled this over, "Okay," he said, letting it go, "you got any biscuits?"

"Oh yes," said Ken, keen to move on, "Bourbons." He opened the door fully and ushered them in.

The apartments were all organised the same way; no hall, front door opening straight into the living room, with a compact kitchen off. The bedroom with en-suite bathroom was accessed via a short corridor; this also led to the 'outside space' - a small easily maintained courtyard.

"Custard creams?" asked Gerry, adding in a mumble, as he and Alb bundled in, taking the best seats, "bit dark in 'ere, more like a bloody cave…and what’s that smell?"

Ken crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains, hastily snuffing out scented candles before Alb, who'd grabbed the TV remote, turned up the volume, and was busy flicking through the channels, made some caustic comment, ".... uh...would you like a....."

"Cuppa?" Gerry nodded happily, "Yes please."

Alb had found the lie detector show, and settled down in the recliner to watch the next pair of unfortunates. "Bugger, we missed the end of that Felicity and Randall."

"Don't matter," said Gerry, pulling over the velvet
pouffé Ken kept by the side of the TV, “we saw enough to know she was lying." He leaned back, settling his feet up for a long stay.

"True," said Alb, "spotted that a mile off. You just had to look at her to know she was lying."

"That Randall had her bang to rights," Gerry responded, with a deep sigh of contentment.

"Well," said Alb, "I'd definitely know if a woman was lying to me, that's for sure."

"Did you see the news?" asked Ken returning with the biscuits, overhearing the tail end of the conversation and keen to move it on. Gerry grabbed a custard cream, filching a Bourbon as well as the plate moved away. Ken continued despite the lack of interest, "Some of the top families have agreed to adopt the orphans of 12/12."

"What do you mean?" asked Alb, his mouth full, "top families?"

"I saw that," said Gerry, nodding, into outrage mode in an instant, "Adopted by the richest families in the country, hah, they'll live like pigs in muck for the rest of their lives."

Ken nodded, even though having lost his own parents when he was quite young he had some sympathy for their plight. He was disappointed that
Gerry appeared to have forgotten; still Gerry and Alb weren’t the types you argued with; not when they were kids and not now.

"That's not the bloody point," spat Alb, "what are they doing about the terrorists?"

"Well, they're dead," said Ken, amiably.

"I know that," snapped Alb, "destroyed Wembley fucking stadium in the process, the heathen bastards. But, what about the rest of them? All those other ‘home grown terrorists’. It's them that should be in the news, not a bunch of kids."

"What’s up with you, Alb? It wasn't the kids’ fault was it?” Ken had drawn strength from somewhere and continued, “At least they'll get something out of all this."

"And it's better than the orphanages they've been stuck in," Gerry was aware he was arguing both sides to the middle as his mum used to say, but Alb did that to people sometimes.

"Bollocks to that," snapped Alb, "it's the bloody politicians’ fault anyway."

"How d'you figure that?" This from Ken.

Gerry nodded; it was the question he would've asked had he not been munching his third custard cream.

"Because the politicians let them in here in the first place." Alb looked over at Gerry and Ken and saw blank incomprehension. "The bloody foreigners," he continued patiently, speaking now as if to children.

"Ah well, yeah," agreed Gerry, "you're right there, but what can you do."

"They're here now," murmured Ken, pacifically.

"That's not the point," stated Alb, "just 'cause they're here doesn't give them the right to go around blowing things up and killing British people does it."

“Course not," said Gerry and Ken in unison.

"So what are the politicians doin' about it?"

"Well," said Ken, "they're getting the kids adopted...."

"Not the kids," blurted Alb, "what are they doin' about the bloody mess they've created?"

Gerry responded quickly, sensing that Ken was stuck, "They're fighting the terrorists, Al Qaeda and that."

"Not Al Qaeda, what's that to do with home grown terrorists anyway?"

"Well," started Ken, "they were...."

"Shut up, Ken," snapped Alb, "if these foreigners weren't here do you really think 12/12 could've happened?" Ken opened his mouth to comment, but was cut off by Alb’s dismissive, "Don't give me that, just tell me, do you think 12/12 and 7/7 could've happened?"

"Well no," said Gerry, answering for both of them, "As it happens.”

"Exactly," said Alb, "so what are the politicians doing about that then?"

"Well," said Gerry thoughtfully, "I don't know, maybe behind the scenes they're...."

"Behind the scenes? Tosh," Alb’s dander was up now and no mistake thought Ken, reminding himself to stay out of it, "you know as well as I do that behind the scenes they're not doing anything, oh...with the exception of placing these bloody orphans that is, how's that going to help? How's that going to change anything?"

"Well...." started Ken, best intentions forgotten.

"There are millions of these buggers in our country now and they can do whatever they want." Alb's tone brooked no interruption, "They can protest against our troops in the streets, our troops, British troops coming home from fighting a war to protect us from these bloody terrorists…."

“I know,” agreed Gerry, “where’d they get the idea they can do that? And how'd it ever come to pass that they'd murder one of our lads in broad daylight?”

“And who let the bastards in? We fought for this country, in Korea and Aden and the like, who the fuck let them in?”

Ken had sidled out of the room, least said soonest mended, another cuppa that was what was needed.
His back was sore from Val’s ministrations amongst other things best not mentioned and he could do without one of Alb’s tirades

“That’s right,” said Gerry, “Enoch had it right, blood on the streets, an’ to my mind, it wasn’t their colour he was talkin’ about, it was their not bein’ British.”
Alb nodded, “An’ what's the bloody Government doin’ about it? Nothing as usual. I really don’t get it, why don’t they just deport all these bloody foreigners and make the streets safer?”

“We fought for this country,” said Gerry, his eyes taking on a ruminative stare, “an’ we lost mates, an’ that’s what hurts the most, the fact that we gave everything.”

“I know,” said Alb, passion spent, an old man again, reaching for the solace of a Bourbon, “what was it all for if they’re just going to give it all away?”
 
Cheers

Arun



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Chapter 2 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

2


Skies darkened over central London, lightning cracked and thunder roared as the heavens let loose a deluge of biblical scale. Everywhere the citizens of that great metropolis scurried for shelter from the sudden squall; some of them diving into the entrance of an old theatre. Then, as soon as it had started, the rain stopped; to be put down as yet another of the meteorological anomalies brought about by global warming.

Deep inside the theatre the Preacher prepared himself mentally before he strode onto the stage. He stepped onto his gaudily painted box; it was the one he used on London Bridge and it made him feel confident. He stared out at the sparse gathering, 12 in all, ‘not bad, a few more than yesterday.’ He pondered his approach, he never had a planned set, always played it by ear but he needed some inspiration. He looked around and saw a half eaten burger lying nearby and he had it. “GREED!” he yelled surprising himself; he thought he had given up the aggressive approach.

A few heads turned. “We constantly gorge ourselves while others starve, while they scrabble around in the dust for a morsel before they begin their futile search for water. Yet we take our good fortune for granted; we are like the sinners of old who have turned their backs on their fellow citizens and soon the world will turn its back on us.”

Audible groans met his words and some of those who had sought shelter at the theatre entrance scurried away. A few remained; curious maybe or still uncertain of the weather, either way they stayed.

He cast his net wider, “We are so corrupted by self-serving greed that we don’t consider the homeless, the weak, and the ill. We glibly drop our coins in the charity boxes believing that we are cleansed, that we have bought some respite from the final judgment but we don’t see the truth - we are lost in the wilderness of selfishness and we need the desolation of despair to bring us back to the world of
humanity.”

He pointed to the heavens, “Global warming is just the beginning for it is one of the Horsemen that were promised - Judgment Day is at Hand.”

There were more groans and several of his unwilling audience drifted away from the entrance only to be met with another torrent of rain followed by a crush of people trying to get inside.

Heartened, the Preacher leapt off his box, left the stage and dashed up the aisle to the entrance where he tried to coax people further inside. At first, reluctant, they resisted his efforts but with more and more people seeking shelter they found themselves forced in. Finally, accepting the inevitable, they consoled themselves with the promise that they would make a run for it the minute the rain stopped.

He got back on his box, spread his arms and began afresh, this time for-going greed for a new tack, “The four horsemen are here and one of them is the complete collapse of neo-capitalism; the financial system has collapsed, we just haven’t accepted it yet.”

His eyes wide, he scanned the shadows of the room, where his audience, some seated, relaxed in their plan to wait out the rain, appeared to be either deep in conversations of their own or otherwise engaged with their phones. He still didn’t have them. He tried again, “And why is capitalism in its final death throes? Why is the world economy in ruins? Because our foolish leaders have for the past 30 odd years sold the naive theory of perpetual growth, an insane psychopathic theory based on nothing but whimsical day dreaming by so called economic geniuses.” He stepped off his box and moved to the edge of the stage, “These people only understand the simple parameters of numbers and equations and they have built our world on their restricted thinking, on their limited understanding of the world, and of nature and the natural resources that exist on this planet.”

One or two heads turned, interested in his comments on natural resources and the obvious links to global warming. He pressed on, "They see the world as a series of columns on a spreadsheet and they see people as resources put there for them to exploit and we, the people, allow them to behave as if this is acceptable." He paused, raised his hands questioningly as if inviting his audience to consider his words. They continued with their conversations.

The Preacher put his hands to his forehead and tried again, "Don't you see? The world has been here for billions of years, life has been here for billions of years but it is only in the last few decades that people have become slaves to the machine, the ever hungry, grinding machine of supply and demand, of servitude to the quest for more and more money whereas the true meaning of life is just to live your life."

He looked out into the audience, "Don't you understand!" he shouted. Some stopped their conversations and stared at him. He didn't care anymore; at least they might listen for a few seconds.

Again he approached the edge of the stage, "Listen to me, please listen and examine your lives, think about what you're doing, how you're spending your time."

A couple in the front stared at him, they were holding hands, "Listen to me," he said catching their attention, "just for a minute, think, do you believe in god?"

The girl smirked and the boy shook his head, "No thanks, mate, we don't do the god thing."

"Neither do I," said the Preacher excitedly, "there is no god, no heaven and there is no hell."

"Right," said the boy. The girl looked behind her and pulled a face at someone in the next row.

"So tell me," said the Preacher, "if there's no god, no heaven and no hell, why do you spend your life travelling to work in a box, then sitting in a box for 8 hours a day before returning home in a box to sit in another box, watching a box until you end up 6 feet under in a box? For what? For barely enough money for your family, your children's education, your enjoyment?"

The boy grinned, "You gotta work mate, or you can't buy things."

"Nothing wrong with having money to spend," said the girl, snippily, "how else are you going to improve your position in life?"

"Madness!" yelled the Preacher reaching to the heavens, "Do you hear yourself? You were born free; free to wander, free to enjoy each day as your own, free to do with your life as you wished but you have allowed their conditioning to convince you that working in near slave conditions for the super elite is the natural way of things."

"Hang on a minute," said the boy, "I'm not a slave, I've got a good job."

"See," yelled the Preacher, reaching out to the others in the audience, "Social conditioning has blinded him to reality. You have all been groomed by the super-rich elite to do their bidding."

"Wanker!" said the boy, and the girl giggled.

"You have been tricked into thinking that what you do is necessary to make society run, but that isn't true, that isn't right, for societies have existed here on earth for millions of years."

"Let’s get out of here," whispered the girl, "he's annoying me."

"You don't see that the dull and mundane function you perform every day isn't even designed to be of any real use, it's only purpose is to make profit and the question you should be asking is, who benefits from that profit?"

"Leave it out, mate!" shouted someone from the back of the hall.

"Ah!" cried the Preacher, stretching his hand in the direction of the heckler, “Leave it out!” Everyone paused their conversations and looked a little worried as the Preacher ran around the stage repeating, "Leave it out!" at the top of his voice.

"Nutter," said the boy.

"Why do you work?" demanded the Preacher, spinning on the spot, "you work to make rich people richer. Why do they want to be richer? Because they want to live like Kings and Queens."

"To be fair, he's got a point," murmured the boy.

"And whilst they live their lives to the full, enjoying each day and each night to the maximum, living each second of their lives, you exist in stress and misery in your meagre surroundings."

"Commie bastard!" yelled someone.

"I want you to think about this," said the Preacher, "You were born into this world as free individuals yet you will spend your entire lives trapped in debt and economic servitude. Held captive by a system created by the wealthy and designed only for the benefit of the wealthy."

"Commie bastard," repeated the heckler.

"The rich live like gods, they live large on your labour. You will never be free all the while you play their game and work within the system."

"Nutter!" yelled the boy and the girl giggled.

"Am I the nutter?" the Preacher's voice rose, he pointed at the boy who squirmed at the unwanted close attention, "Who is looking the wrong way through the glass, me or you?" With that he spun off his box and disappeared back stage, leaving the theatre strangely silent and empty.

Cheers

Arun




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Compendium editions

Chapter 1 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

1

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

"Alb, you alright in there?"

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

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

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

∞

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, you got any in your place?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arun




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