Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 8

'The Cull' by Arun D Ellis is 'FREE' for Kindle & PC download from Amazon until Sunday 3rd March 2019 - book 5 in the Corpalism series

Prologue


For Sir Digby Chalfont, a connoisseur, of all the women in the group, one stood out. She was tall, with impeccably cut, gleaming bronze hair.

He noted the Givenchy Pandora box bag slung over the shoulder of her black crepe trouser suit, a Tyrwhitt, if he was not mistaken, and the raspberry shirt that softened the aquiline face was certainly an Emilio Pucci. He imagined a crop twitching against her Eleonaro black riding boots; the thought causing him to smile as he homed in. He had no idea of her standing in the group, although the clothes gave a hint to her status. He cared little; she was the most attractive person in the room and he intended to make himself known to her; his newly acquired knighthood must be good for something.

The faint silk scent of the window drapes was now combined with the perfume of luxurious colognes. The Chairman, a portly man with a well-used face, experienced the effect without enjoyment; well used to the smell of money. Taking advantage of his central seat on the small platform he surveyed the room. He was impressed all over again at the power of the Committee; to be able to summon two hundred people from the international political, military, industrial and social elites at such short notice and achieve their attendance was no mean feat.

Clusters of men, mostly white and middle-aged, their dark, sombre suits offset by a few in full dress uniform, a scattering of crisp white djellabas and several in multi-coloured dashikis. He noted the women; not enough to tip the balance.

All were veterans of this type of gathering, some chatting easily to each other, most keeping their own counsel. At the Chairman's nod, the man who'd been awaiting the signal detached himself from the group and walked to the podium; tall, slim, dark hair at the distinguished stage.

Kurt Silverman, Head of the Institute of Research. He cut an athletic figure; he looked good and he knew it. He also knew that he was amongst those for whom personal appearance mattered less than power and holdings; in that respect he was not their equal, he was there to serve them.

The view offered to him from the uplifted podium was of rows of seats, each one occupied by a glossy A4 booklet he'd prepared and placed there earlier. Gradually, as if in response to an unspoken suggestion, members of the group began to move to these seats.

After a short time the Chairman rose to his feet, his dark grey Kiton suit struggling valiantly to contain and command his ample body.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome," he said, his voice carrying without effort to the back of the room. Given the ratio of male to female and, more pertinently, the balance of power he might have been forgiven for saying, 'welcome gentlemen'. Having caught the eagle eye of the auburn-haired woman in black, seated next to Sir Digby, such a lapse had been rendered impossible. He waved his hand towards the podium, introduced Kurt in a few crisp words and resumed his seat.

Kurt spoke, his voice betraying a slight nervousness; this was an august company and he would have been a fool not to have regard for their power, "Thank you for inviting me here to deliver, for your consideration, the proposed solution to the most pressing issue of our times; 'Peak Oil'."

He paused, making deliberate eye contact with the front row, then continued, "As you know, in the 70s it was estimated we would reach Peak Oil somewhere around 2015, after which the rate of production was expected to enter terminal decline, giving us a global fuel crisis somewhere about 2075."

He clicked a hand held device and the screen behind him came to life, showing a map of the location of the last known oil reserves, "However, increased warfare, rises in manufacturing and rampant population growth has meant a massively increased demand. We passed Peak Oil in 2005. As a result, we will reach the projected fuel crisis much sooner than expected."

He clicked again and the screenshot changed, "Of course, we took steps over the last few decades to try and contain the situation. Thanks to the work of the Neo Liberals in the eighties and nineties we were able to offset the increasing costs of oil production by shifting costs of manufacturing to the more cost effective labour force of the third world."

Kurt indicated with a smile the six-strong delegation from China, all male, in identical Prince of Wales check suits and to his eye, with identical faces. He gestured to the smaller group from India, two serious-looking men and one elderly, petite, sari-clad woman.

"You may recall it was estimated that we'd need a further three decades before the third world would be strong enough to take over the consumption of the West."

He paused before delivering the punch line, "I'm happy to say our recent studies have revealed that the new consumers are there in abundance as we speak, and more than able to take up the slack."

A few heads looked up at this revelation, most didn't react at all. Kurt had no time to wonder if they'd already had this information, he had to move on to the crux of the matter.

"This being the case not only have we no further need of the northern hemisphere labour market, we now have no interest in their continued ability to buy our products. In short we have no further need to sustain this part of the population."

Kurt was moving with poise now, as another chart appeared on the screen showing world population levels, "You will be aware of various natural phenomena supporting our aims of constraining population growth; the greatest of which are Aids and famine. The policy of appearing to work towards their eradication whilst achieving very little seems to be working. That takes care of Africa. Helpfully, Eastern and Southern European countries are being depopulated via sustained civil war and ethnic cleansing."

He paused, then, "Rapid economic cleansing is also underway; highly desirable areas of France and Spain are being de-populated and in the UK, London is being cleared to make way for settlement by the very wealthy, with the rest of the South-East to follow."

He couldn't prevent the smug grin that crossed his face; he'd recently snapped up some exquisite properties just outside Primrose Hill, so felt he had to follow up with, "Of course, you will get first pick of these prime slices of real estate as they become available. In fact, I believe you can book your plots now, is that right, Mr. Chairman?"

The Chairman rose awkwardly, caught out by the change of subject, but the words flowed with practiced ease, "Superior Homes has created an exclusive brochure, copies of which will be available in the foyer as you leave conference. You'll find outline plans for a deluxe chateau in an average lot size of 3,000 hectares in the new territories. "

An electric buzz swept the room.

Kurt judged the time was right for the big announcement, "However, attritional reduction of population in these areas is not enough for our needs. We must contain America, the biggest oil consumer on the planet."

Kurt looked round the room, then invested his voice with strength, "We now need to move into the last phase of our plan, which we are calling 'Operation Downsize'. I'd like to introduce General Nathan Goldhirsch of the US Army who will explain it to you."

The US contingent stirred in their seats and a tall man in full dress uniform rose to his feet and headed towards the platform. "That's US Marine Corps, Kurt," he said, smiling. There was a smattering of laughter, quickly suppressed.

"Okay," said the General, his frown bringing them back to complete order, "let's get down to business. We need to reduce the US of A population by at least 25% and we can't pussy-foot around. Economic destabilisation brings its own problems and we have one helluva civilian army out there, all armed. If they get a sniff of what's going on all hell will break loose. So, we gotta do it quickly." He turned to the screen and pointed at the image that appeared, "This here is La Palma, one of the Canary Islands."

A hush settled on the room, this was where it started to get serious.

The screen changed. "And this is the Cumbre Vieja volcano, it is extremely volatile." The screen changed again, "This is the western face of the volcano, which is gradually collapsing. One day, in the natural course of things this side will fall into the sea creating a mega tsunami which will sweep across the Atlantic, ravage the Bahamas and reach the Eastern seaboard in a matter of hours."

He allowed the magnitude of the pronouncement a few moments to settle then delivered the coup de grace, "Well, we don't have time to wait for the natural course of things, ladies and gentlemen, so we intend to blow the whole damn thing sky high. And we're doing it soon."

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun



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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.



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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'From Democracy to Dictatorship' & 'Aftermath' by Arun D Ellis are 'FREE' for Kindle & PC download from Amazon until Sunday 18th February 2019 - books 2 & 3 in the Corpalism series

'From Democracy to Dictatorship'

The Independents -The Debt Makers

“Hello, my name is Sandeep Rajan and I’m standing as independent candidate for London Borough of Ealing and like my esteemed colleagues, I have no party affiliation. Whilst I thank Chris for diplomatically introducing me as an entrepreneur, which I am, yet I prefer to stand before you in unvarnished truth: I’m an ex-trader who made and lost a lot of money in this broken system of ours and that makes me a bit of an expert in how it all works and what we actually did with all the money.”

He stood quietly, waiting politely to give the floor time to exercise their democratic right to boo him off the stage. Instead the audience greeted his words with complete silence; he decided to take this as permission to continue.

“I’m only going to speak to you briefly but I’m going to discuss ‘austerity’, why we have austerity and what they want from us.”

Silence; broken by the odd cough.

“As we all know the banks lost a lot of money back in 2008. We know this because they told us; we had the threat of a financial Armageddon. But was it the truth? What really happened with the banking crisis? What really happened to all of that money and whose was it in the first place?”

A few people leaned forward, more alert, interested.

“Well the banks definitely lost a lot of money, and that’s for sure. But what they didn’t tell you is that they lost all of the money, everything, all of it,” he used quiet emphasis, no shouting and that somehow made it all the more believable. “And by that I don’t just mean what they had in their vaults” he shook his head slightly; “I mean all of the imaginary money as well.”

He left that with them for a few moments, glanced over at Colin, received a nod of affirmation then continued, “I have assumed you know how the banking system works, although a lot of people don’t. So, if you will forgive me, I will go through the process for you.”

He walked away from the rostrum, towards the front of the stage, the better to engage; a slim figure, immaculate in a bespoke city suit, an impossibly white shirt and expensive shoes. He hadn’t thought it tactful to dress down, clearly.

“A lot of people don’t realize how much of a confidence trick the whole process is; most people think that money comes from the government, and that Parliament dictates the amount of money that the Bank of England distributes. However, that is not the case, the banks do that.”

He waited for a response but there wasn’t much forthcoming.

“When someone puts their money in a bank, say £100 for simplicity sake… the bank can lend 90% of that money to someone and keep 10% in their vaults. In other words, the bank can lend £90 to someone who spends it and the £90.00 they spend ends up being deposited in another bank. That bank can then lend 90% of that £90 to someone else; or £81, as long as it keeps 10%, in this case, £9, in its vaults. The £81 is spent and ends up in another bank and this bank can lend 90% of that or £72.90 to another person and so it goes on. So what have we got? Add it up…we’ve lent out £90 + £81 + £72.90. So in total we’ve lent out £243.90 in three transactions when there was only ever £100 in the first place. And this practice goes on and on with ever larger sums of money. They even have a name for it; it’s called Fractional Reserve Banking.”

There was some shuffling in the audience and some noises indicating increased interest and, Sandeep hoped, a slight lessening of hostility. “And that’s only the tip of it,” he said, excitement in his voice, “because what do you think they issue money against in the first place?”

He scanned the crowd, “Did someone say gold? No, no, we’re no longer on the gold standard; we’re not on any standard. They just issue money, and that’s it.”

He drank some water from a bottle he’d brought with him. “Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that you want a loan. You phone up the bank and say ‘Hi, I want to borrow £10,000’”. There was a stifled titter from the crowd and Sandeep smiled, “Well, how does it go after that? If your credit rating is good they will lend it to you, if your credit rating is not, then they will not. That is all there is to it. They don’t go to their vault and see how much is in there….They don’t get a warning come up on their screens saying ‘not enough money left’…They just give it to you and add your debt to their figures, it’s as simple as that.”

He paused, comfortable and relaxed, sipped more water, “so the question now is, if the banks don’t really have the money in their vaults and they just make up the money they lend to you… who are the banks? …Surely, you might say, it must be the government…it must be regulated in some way. They can’t just lend money they don’t have, surely? ...But they can and they do. The banks are owned and run by private investors. The private investors are making up the amount of money that they want to lend out and for this service they are charging you interest.”

There was a stunned silence; in part because a lot of the audience hadn’t ever thought about the concept before and in part because now they were being forced to do so and weren’t sure what to make of it.
Sandeep gave them time, then judging them ready, continued, “Let me put it another way …you go into a shop and you buy a chair, and what have you got? Simple…You’ve got a chair, it’s solid, 3 dimensional, and you can sit on it, it’s real… but if you phone a bank for a loan they type a few things into a computer and you have a loan. You have no real money, you understand, you have pretend money that you can spend on their say so.”

He paused to look around the hall, no doubt, they were all listening now “They pass the numbers across to your bank account and when you spend it the numbers go to another bank. There’s no requirement to dig hard cash out of a vault; they transfer the numbers across on the PC. It’s a numbers game and they have us all trapped in it. Our wages are paid directly into the banks. Who amongst you can remember when that was not the case? Or has older relatives who tell you about those days when paper money appeared in a little brown envelope in your hand each Friday? The good old days when you could choose to put your cash in a box under the bed or into a building society? It is now a job requirement that you have a bank account; you have no choice. You are encouraged to pay by direct debits, incentivised so to do, the transfer is made invisibly from your bank to another bank, you don’t see any cash, so where is the money? Where is the real money?”

Sandeep stared around the hall, “Think about it, they’ve lent you something that doesn’t exist. It isn’t theirs, they haven’t taken any hard earned cash out of their pockets, it’s not real, it’s just made up money, but they’re going to charge you interest on this. They’re going to charge you interest on money that doesn’t exist, that they never had, that isn’t theirs and isn’t real. But they are going to charge you real interest on it; they are going to take money by direct debit directly from your bank. And make no mistake – this is real money which you have earned by your labour, and the banks are going to deduct this from your wages to cover interest on money that never existed.”

Sandeep watched whilst the audience digested his words, then launched again, “We accept this craziness because we think we get something out of the deal; a new car, the latest TV or a new kitchen. What we ignore is that we are being robbed by the banks. The only real money in this whole process is your money, you pay back real money on the loan and you pay back real money on the interest. They have lost nothing during the period of the loan. So, to recap, what they lent you did not exist so the lack of it for the period costs them nothing, the interest they charge is pure profit on a loan of nothing. It’s a cheap confidence trick.”

He paused briefly, “Well when deregulation started to come in the high street banks merged with the investment banks they started gambling with people’s savings, then we had the subprime loans - all of which combined to lead to the ultimate crash, now what was the crash? I mean what happened and what did it actually mean?”

He seemed to actually expect answers from the floor but it appeared no-one was willing to betray ignorance, so he was forced to continue, “Not to put too fine a point on it, the banks lost all of the money, not just the real money in their vaults but all of the made up money as well. They lost everything; which is why people started talking about a financial Armageddon. But was it really that bad? This is the big question because it’s why we have austerity today and why if they get their way, we will have austerity for decades to come.”

Sandeep paused again to let his words sink in, “I can see a question in your eyes…” some in the audience turned to look at their neighbours, “You’re asking, if the banks created all the money from nothing in the first place why, when they’ve lost everything, don’t they just go and create more?”

He lifted his hands and his shoulders went up, “The answer is simple; the banks never created any real money in the first place, they simply created the impression of money. Now people have lost faith and want their real money back from the banks that haven’t got it to give them.”

He drank more water from his bottle, “So now the banks have creditors on their backs; they have debts they cannot honour and if they were an ordinary company they would have gone bankrupt. They would’ve crashed without a government bailout and by government you need to read taxpayer… you and me. So if we had let the banks fail? What then? Well, you and I, the small investor would have lost our savings and that’s bad. We would have lost a few thousand, but would still have our homes and our jobs.”

Sandeep looked around the hall, “And the pension schemes, they would have lost a fortune as investments turned bad and share prices crashed. But that is an even spread, bad news for some, but not disastrous.”

There was movement in the hall, as they wondered where he was going with this.

“Then there’s the super rich investor, the millionaire, the billionaire; the wealthy 1%. Where do you suppose their money actually is? It’s invested by the financial services, by the banks and that is the reason the banks weren’t allowed to fail.”

He left a moment for his audience to absorb his point, “The banks were bailed out using PAYE tax payers money only because the wealthy 1% were about to lose everything; this greedy 1% of individuals would have lost all of their millions, all of their billions, their many homes, their jets, their yachts and their livelihoods. They would have been rendered poor. That is why the governments bailed out the banks, not to save us but to protect the investments of the rich, of the wealthy, of the 1%.”

Finally, applause from the hall.

“The wheels have come off the wagon but they will not admit that this is due to their profligacy and bad management. They are using our money to prop up these institutions to protect the super-rich, so that the rich 1% can keep their investments and keep cashing in their interest payments, and keep hold of their valueless shares until the market recovers, so they can keep their many houses and yachts and jets and fleets of cars.”

More applause and a few cheers, some people were standing to clap.

“That is why we really have austerity; we have austerity so that you and I can give more of our hard-earned money to the government so that it can continue to bail out the rich. That is the reason you are being taxed so heavily, that is the reason they are privatising the NHS, the reason they have raised VAT, the reason they are cutting public services, and that is the reason they are reducing funding to councils who in turn are reducing community services.”

He walked to the edge of the stage, clearly emotional for the first time.

“ Make no mistake about it…they are robbing the poor to pay the rich; robbing the 99% to prop up the 1%.... and it is not fair, it is not just and ….it is not democratic.”

The hall erupted.




'Aftermath'

Extract below

The David Pullman Show

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right,” said David knowingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sanctioned?” said David, “by whom?”

“By the Government.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you do drink then?” said David.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t agree, David.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Divide and rule, David,” said Delores.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.” said David.

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

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

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

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

“Attack from whom, David?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Legalise drugs.”

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

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

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

There were several angry murmurs from the audience.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers and have a nice weekend

Arun






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'Uprising' by Arun D Ellis is 'FREE' for Kindle & PC download from Amazon until Monday 11th February 2019 - book 1 in the Corpalism series

Suddenly

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

John F. Kennedy


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

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

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

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

“No,” said Peter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?” Silence. “Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.” The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them. “You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

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

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

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

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

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:20 if you can get away with it.”

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

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

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

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

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

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.” Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan. “I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

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

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

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

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

≈ ≈

He slumped into his settee and started flicking channels, more for something to do than actually find something to watch, he would probably channel hop for a good couple of hours. It was ironic that under other circumstances he’d have been glad of the time to run through his patterns; it would have surprised Peter Illyffe and his work colleagues to know that as a Tae Kwon Do 4th Dan he trained regularly.

However, abruptly out of work and awaiting re-location to God knows where he didn’t really feel like committing time to any particular activity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“But you can’t do that!”

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

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

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

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

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

“What!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun





More books in the 'Corpalism' series














Compendium editions

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

Suddenly

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

John F. Kennedy


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

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

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

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

“No,” said Peter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?” Silence. “Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.” The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them. “You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

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

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

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

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

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:20 if you can get away with it.”

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

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

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

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

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

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.” Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan. “I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

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

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

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

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

≈ ≈

He slumped into his settee and started flicking channels, more for something to do than actually find something to watch, he would probably channel hop for a good couple of hours. It was ironic that under other circumstances he’d have been glad of the time to run through his patterns; it would have surprised Peter Illyffe and his work colleagues to know that as a Tae Kwon Do 4th Dan he trained regularly.

However, abruptly out of work and awaiting re-location to God knows where he didn’t really feel like committing time to any particular activity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“But you can’t do that!”

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

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

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

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

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

“What!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun





More books in the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendium editions

Helter Skelter by Arun D Ellis - book 7 in the Corpalism series

The Handling

Gareth scanned the room, eyes settling on a dark-haired young man sitting on a stool at the bar. He'd put on a bit of weight since last he'd seen him, broadened across his shoulders but, no doubt about it, it was Louis. Gareth took a deep breath, lowered his shoulders and relaxed his face into amiability, effortlessly becoming younger, less than he was.

"Hey you, long time, no see," he said, smiling and lowering himself onto the adjacent stool.

Louis glanced up, a frown creasing his forehead. He wanted no company. His face cleared when he recognised the man, "Dave," he said, "hey, good to see you."

"Mutual, I'm sure," smiled Gareth, surprised to find he meant it, "it's been a while."

"So, where've you been?" Louis' mood, always mercurial, had changed completely.

"You know I'm not supposed to tell you that," said Gareth, finger to his nose.

"Of course," said Louis, disappointed.

"Iraq." This was said with a conspiratorial wink.

"I thought we were out of there."

"ISIS."

"Wow," said Louis, admiration widening his eyes, "pretty scary."

"They're just men like the rest of us."

"Yeah, of course," said Louis, "but I meant all the beheadings and stuff."

"Fear tactics, in a stand up fight they're just men."

"Yeah, yeah," said Louis, unable to let it go, "but if they catch you?"

"No-one would let themselves be taken alive, not now anyway."

"Right," said Louis, with a nod, "are we winning?"

"It'll never end. Too many sides, no clear objectives and too much money to be made." Louis' face was a question mark, causing Gareth to add, without thinking, "It's all about profit and the oil at the end of the day."

Louis tried to look like he knew what Dave was talking about and failed miserably.

"How've you been anyway, Louis?" asked Gareth, getting off dangerous ground quickly.

Louis sighed and sipped his pint, "Not good, my great grandfather died recently."

"Sorry to hear that," said Gareth, again a genuine sentiment, "pint of Fosters, please mate," he said, addressing the hovering barman, "what about you?" to Louis.

"No, thanks, I'm good," said Louis, covering the top of his glass, "I've gotta get home."

"Oh, come on, you're not going to make me drink alone, after all I don't get back much."

"No, sorry Dave," said Louis, "really can't stay long."

"Okay, no worries."

They sat and sipped their pints.

"Listen," said Louis, "I haven't told anyone this, no-one knows, only family, but my Gampy, he was a fucking Nazi."

Gareth tried to look suitably shocked and thought he pulled it off.

"Yeah, fucking SS," hissed Louis, too loudly, "death's head and all that."

It was clear that Louis had been at the bar for a while.

Gareth went for a neutral response, testing the water, "Compared to some of the things we've done in the name of democracy, I guess the Nazis were small fry."

"What?" said Louis. This was unexpected, support from an outsider, someone like Dave who knew things. This might be worth hearing.

"Some of the things we've done," said Gareth, leaning in, lowering his voice, "you wouldn't believe. I've seen grown men crack under the strain and I'm not talking no powder puffs."

Louis was hooked; excitement in his eyes.

"Real fucking hard bastards, Louis. If there's a hell, that's where I'm headed."

"No shit," said Louis, finishing his pint. He made no move to leave.

"You sure you won't have another one?" asked Gareth.

Louis pretended to think for a second, then, "Okay, but just a quick one."

∞

Louis fiddled with the key to his flat, by now seriously incapacitated, his voice thick, "You sure you won't come in?"

Gareth wanted him safely inside the flat, then he was off to write his report and get the Colonel off his back. "No, I'm good, kid," he said, "I've got to go, people to see, you know."

Louis nodded slowly, eyes owlish, "Okay, I'll see you again though, eh? And thanks for the....stuff," he said, patting his pocket.

"Oh, no worries, make sure you use them judiciously." He saw the blank look, "carefully," he amended.

∞

As he walked away Gareth texted the Colonel promising a report on his desk in the morning.

His instructions had been 'to employ all means necessary to get the subject to a place where he would happily act as a weapon' and 'to raise the Jewish question and the war'. He'd been supplied with a reading list and, there was no other way, he would have to work through it if he was to get Louis to the place the Colonel had described. He had no material of his own so the only option was back at the office, in the archives.

∞

He swiped his pass and walked in through the doors.

"Can I help you?" The question came from a bespectacled, wizened man, wrapped in a cardigan that had seen better days. He always pretended not to know any of the agents.

No point in arguing the toss, Gareth said, "I'm looking for anything you have on the build up to the Second World War."

"Downstairs, at the back," said the man, turning away, job done.

Five minutes later Gareth found himself down the darkest end of the filing system. He flicked the light switch and after a stuttering few moments, a couple of 40 watt bulbs flickered into life. To no noticeable effect. He switched on the torch on his phone.

Two hours and dozens of box files later he had several small folders laid out on the table. He'd ticked off most of what had been on the prescribed reading list and added a few more for luck.

The first folder, marked Lt Col T E Lawrence, he'd selected out of idle curiosity. He flicked through birth, early service records, time in Arabia fighting the Turks, his friendship with Moseley, the planned meeting with Hitler; that had been of particular interest. Why would a British war hero want to meet Hitler?

His interest was piqued when he read Lawrence had died in an accident on his motorbike; swerving to avoid two boys on bicycles on a road he knew well.

The subsequent rumours of a black car and MI5 murder squad, possibly acting on Churchill's orders intrigued him further as did the later suicide of one of the witnesses, a Private Catchpole.

He shrugged, he had work to do; reaffirming that plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose was not part of his brief, he knew nothing ever changed.

He opened the folder marked 'The Protocols of the Elders of Zion' circa 1905, Russian origin, author unknown, suspected to be a fake, designed to smear the Zionist community. There was a section on the many pogroms in the 'Pale' which he knew to be modern day Lithuania, Belarus, Poland, Moldova, Latvia, Ukraine and parts of Eastern Russia.

These took place in 1905, subsequent to Russia's defeat by Japan in the same year, although pogroms were a fairly regular occurrence in Russia at that time.

He flicked forwards through the folder, there were more details on the Jewish hierarchy, a section on Theodor Herzl and the founding of the Zionist Organisation by the Zionist Congress; the primary function of which was 'to gather funds from Jews around the world with the practical intention of influencing political, economic and cultural leaders to support the creation of a Jewish homeland'. He found this very interesting; apparently Herzl had initially been offered Uganda by the British Government as a possible home for the Jews but he had rejected it.

He opened a box file about WWI. He was instantly intrigued.

It stated in simple terms that the causes of WWI were diverse; French desire for revenge for the defeat of 1870 and the subsequent loss of Alsace-Lorraine; Serbian desire to assimilate all the Serbian peoples in the Austro-Hungarian Empire; Austro-Hungarian naivety and military weakness; Russian expansionist aims in the Balkans; German belligerence; a weakening British economy when measured against a growing German economy and, finally, a weak willed Liberal cabinet in Downing Street intimidated by Churchill 'in all his war paint'.

Gareth made a disgusted noise in his throat; Churchill was a favourite of his and it annoyed him when people took cheap shots at the dead. He sucked his teeth, conceding the point that Churchill was alive when this particular report had been written.

It struck him that all of these things taken singularly would've been enough to have caused a political and military crisis, let alone aggregated. However the report categorically stated that all European leaders had resolved many similar conflicts in the past without major cataclysm. It further stated that all parties were acutely aware of the disastrous consequences for them all should any disagreement be allowed to escalate to an all out shooting affair; in essence it had always been in their own best interests not to go to war.

He read on; 'but there is a now a new power on the world stage, as yet underestimated by the leaders of nations. This power exists outside of the normal boundaries that separates nations and keeps them divided. This new power crosses all borders yet works only for the one objective, the creation of a new Zionist state. For the Jews to gain a homeland anywhere in the world the existing population or power that controls the desired territory must either be bought or crushed. It is the belief of this agent, on evidence of supporting documents herein enclosed that certain Zionist leaders in the media, economic community and political spheres incorporated in the whole sphere of the European theatre have conspired to exacerbate relations between the powers with the objective intention of weakening them and ultimately bringing about the collapse of the Ottoman Empire in the region of Palestine. The Balfour declaration is the fruit of this ambition.'

He lifted out the rest of the files in the box, looking for the supporting documents, but found nothing.
He frowned and tossed the folder aside. He then fumbled through the other folders spread out on the table and settled on the one marked 'Magda and Haim'.

He opened it and was surprised to see a wedding photograph of Joseph and Magda Goebbels pinned to the left hand side of the top page. He peered at it, and recognised Hitler in the background. Pinned to the top right was a yellowing photograph of a young man in round spectacles, someone he didn't recognise. He unpinned it from the page; the name pencilled on the back was Haim Arlosoroff. He was interested to read that Magda's mother had been married twice, the second time to a Jewish businessman named Richard Friedlander. Magda had taken his name, and aged 17, become friends with a Jewish refugee by the name of Lisa Arlosoroff, sister of Haim, the young man in the photograph.

Gareth sat upright, this was interesting.

Apparently Magda had an affair with Arlosoroff, she knew he was an ardent Zionist and attended meetings with him. He went to Palestine, they lost touch, he met someone else. She married the industrialist Gunther Quandt. There was a footnote: Magda's son by this marriage went on to become one of the richest men in Germany after the war; family owned Daimler-Benz and BMW. Gareth checked the wedding photo, there was a young boy with them, presumably he was the boy in question.
Gareth shook his head and puffed out in disbelief.
He read on: Magda had an affaire with the nephew of the US President Herbert Hoover, divorced Quandt and married Goebbels.

"Bloody hell, she gets around," he spoke aloud into the room.

He sipped his tea; apparently Arlosoroff was the leader of the Labour Zionists and believed that Jewish settlement in Palestine could be achieved peacefully with the co-operation of the indigenous Arabs and with the support of the British. Here he fell into conflict with the new group called the Revisionists lead by one Vladimir Jabotinsky. The Revisionists believed even more forcefully that if the Jews were to get a homeland then they would have to take it by force and they did not believe in any form of conciliation with the Arab community. There was a further note to read Appendix iii 'The Iron Wall'.

He rubbed his eyes and breathed in deeply before continuing to read.

Apparently the Zionists no longer trusted the British who they believed had reneged on the spirit of the 'Balfour Declaration'. In 1933 Arlosoroff went to Germany. Through his connections there, possibly helped with an introduction by Magda, he managed to achieve the Ha'avara program whereby German Jews could transfer some of their wealth to Palestine, via the circuitous route of purchasing German agricultural equipment, thereby facilitating Jewish immigration and settlement into Palestine.
He was interested to read that Arlosoroff was subsequently murdered, possibly because of his beliefs; the three suspects were known Revisionists believed to be acting on the orders of Jabotinsky.

Gareth discounted the alternative, that the Nazis were involved. It didn't seem likely that having just agreed a process of ridding themselves profitably of their Jewish population they would kill the author of the plan.

He reattached the photograph before closing the file.

He ferreted amongst the other folders he'd pulled out; interested by one marked 'Churchill conflict of interest' and in brackets below [family's Jewish financial backers]. He rubbed his ear, he felt this would irritate him even though he'd read somewhere about the support that Churchill received from the Jewish community in the so called wilderness years.

He read on, he wasn't prepared for what he found. Randolph Churchill had been bailed out by
Rothschild for years so the family owed a debt of honour in that direction. Apparently Winston Churchill had been an alcoholic, a gambler and had been personally bailed out by Bernard Baruch and Sir Henry Straksoh, see footnote; Strakosh had been the main source of info re German re-armament for Churchill's campaign in Parliament.

He read on, there were unsubstantiated accusations of Churchill's homosexuality. Jesus, if any of this was ever publicly known, that would make him highly susceptible to blackmail. It can't be true. How did he ever attain such high office?

A little voice in his head answered the unspoken question: if he was owned by the wealthy then that might explain a thing or two, like why he pressed for war in the first place and why he kept on fighting after Dunkirk, why he squandered Britain's wealth and sacrificed the Empire for the sake of Zion.

He cast a cursory glance at two other folders he'd taken out.

The first covered the bombing of the King David hotel, 22nd July '46, organised by Menachem Begin, leader of the Zionist group Irgun, latterly Prime Minister of Israel, in which there had been 91 deaths; 28 of them British. The second covered the attack by the Israeli air force on the USS Liberty, 8th June '67; 34 Americans had been killed and 171 injured.

He tossed these back into the box as irrelevant to his current agenda and he had more than enough for his immediate needs.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Rob





More books in the 'Corpalism' series








Compendium editions

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

Pigs



The police car pulled up outside the Seascape B&B.

The two men inside the car had worked as a team for a fair while, were of an age, both with young children.

Despite the similarities, they were as different as chalk and cheese. For one thing, Ken Jackson's marriage was more stable not least because he resisted the urge to mess around with the women PCs, something Tony Williams seemed unable, or unwilling, to do.

"You gonna do the talking?" asked Ken of Tony, the driver.

Tony sat back, affecting surprise, "Come off it, Ken, why me?"

"How can I put this? Oh yeah, 'cause I did the last one, Tony, that's why."

Tony frowned, creating lines on his perfectly sculpted 'cheeky chappy' face where none should be, "I don't remember that."

"Yeah you do," said Ken, this was an established rigmarole, "it's your turn, fucker."

Tony sighed, unclipped his seat belt and they exited the car together, "Well, I'm just saying, if it gets tricky you'd better back me up."

"It won't get tricky," said Ken.

"You know what I mean," said Tony, "you know I don't like this part of the job."

"No one does, but we've all got to take our turn."

Tony sighed again as he opened the small iron gate and they made their way to the front door.

He tried one last time, "What say I do the next one?"

"No," said Ken, knocking on the door, "you're doing this one."

"I'll do the next two?"

The door opened.

Ken had barely a moment to register a short round woman, tired looking, mid to late 30s possibly, faded hair, before a low to the ground, extremely pugnacious, dog of indiscriminate breeding dashed out, and commenced barking wildly up at them.

"Caesar!" shouted woman, flapping her hands in a shoo gesture, "In, go on, in."

The dog ignored her commands and continued to bark, all four paws coming off the ground on each bark and all the while suspiciously eying up the intruders.

"IN!" This last instruction was a lung busting shout and was accompanied with more shooing. Finally the woman chased the dog into a room on the right of the hallway and shut the door.

"Miss Simpson?"

Without waiting for a response, Tony continued, "May we come in?"

"Why? What's happened? Is it Kerry?"

"Er, no," said Ken.

No Kerry had been mentioned as far as he was aware, he edged past her into the front room expecting she would follow and when she did as he'd hoped he indicated the settee. "But I think you should sit down."

He'd estimated her weight at 13 to15 stone and there was no way he wanted to be lifting her up from the floor if she collapsed on them; it had happened before and he'd nearly put his back out that time.

She sat, hands trembling in her lap. She was responding to their grim faces, Ken knew, this was what usually happened. He waited for Tony to take up the story, no way was he doing this one.

"Tell me what's happened...."

Tony did his best to look miserable, it was a trick he'd tried before, in similar circumstances and it seemed to work.

"Well, what is it? Why are you here?"

Tony coughed and looked towards Ken, subtly guiding her attention away from him. Ken winced slightly, 'Well played you bastard,' he thought.

"Well?" pressed the woman, now looking straight at Ken.

He dipped his head a little, "I'm very sorry, but we have some very bad news about your parents."

"Mum and Dad? What do you mean? Are they alright?" She half-rose from the chair then sank back at the expression on his face.

"Is there anyone who could come over and sit with you?" Ken was not just playing for time, he genuinely thought she should have someone with her.

She shook her head, muttering something about Kerry being only a phone call away.

Ken threw a dark look at Tony and then took the bull by the horns, "I'm sorry to have to tell you that your parents are dead. It appears they took their own lives."

She stared at him for a second, eyes widening as the words sank in, then she groaned, "Oh my god."

"I'm very sorry," said Ken. He indicated with his head for Tony to get in the kitchen, a cup of tea would surely help the situation.

"How? When? Are you sure?"

"I'm afraid so," said Tony. He was always quite happy to take part after the initial words had been spoken, liked to use his easy charm to get them past the worst.

A tall, slim, young woman entered the room.

Both men blinked. Is this Kerry? Why hadn't Miss Simpson mentioned her as being in the building?

Whoever she was, Tony straightened; this one was worthy of his charm offensive.

The new entrant addressed the tearful, shuddering wobble of a woman on the settee with an air of authority, "Is everything alright, Stacey?"

Ken frowned; he wasn't sure about Stacey being the name in front of the Miss Simpson he'd been given, but couldn't recall anything else to put in its place.

"It's my mum and dad," wailed Stacey, her voice thick with tears, "they said" she pointed accusingly at Ken and Tony, "they said they're...they're dead."

"I'm so sorry, Miss Simpson," said Ken to Stacey, "it would appear that they managed to get hold of some tablets before they were taken to prison."

"Prison?" Stacey was horrified on top of her obvious grief, "What are you talking about?"

Ken gave Tony a look; surely the woman had been expecting prison? They were bound to be found guilty and refusing a room to a 'Mr & Mr' was a cast iron, guaranteed, done and dusted custodial sentence in today's world, albeit the length of the sentence had been a bit steep.

"I'm Miss Simpson," said the new arrival, "what's this all about?"

"Oh, thank the lord," said Stacey, her tears drying in an instant, "it's a mistake. You're not talking about my parents at all."

Ken's mouth fell open, they had royally cocked up. He turned to face the woman he now knew to be Miss Simpson, the woman to whom they should have brought the tragic news.

She had made the connections and had paled visibly.

"Miss Simpson, I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, however...."

"Oh my god, Rosemary" Stacey leapt up and put her arms out to her employer's daughter, for that was the relationship. The double shock appeared to affect her badly and she continued in broken voice, "I can't breathe, I can't breathe."

"What happened to my parents?" demanded Rosemary.

Stacey fell to the floor, gasping for air and pulling at her throat.

Rosemary appeared sublimely unaware, asking again in an icy tone, "What about my parents?"

Tony looked at Stacey, rolling around on the floor, gasping for breath, her tongue hanging out and her face going a beautiful shade of crimson.

He looked at Rosemary, clearly getting angrier by the second.

He looked at Ken, clearly floundering, no help there.

He looked back at Stacey and did the first thing that came into his head; he grabbed the vase of flowers off the coffee table and tossed them, and the liquid therein contained, into Stacey's face.

It had the desired effect for she instantly stopped dying on them.

Ken stared at him, open mouthed. Rosemary, eyes now wide, teeth bared in a feral snarl, lunged at him, grabbing the lapels of his jacket.

"WHAT HAPPENED TO MY MUM AND DAD?"

Ken gulped. Rosemary released him and turned on Tony, screaming into his face, "WHAT HAPPENED TO MY MUM AND DAD?"

Tony reacted in an instant, reflexes honed by hours of self-imposed training, "TASER! TASER! TASER!" Rosemary shot backwards across the hallway, knocking open the door to the room opposite. Caesar, no longer confined, bounded out of the room, threw himself on his now shuddering, prostrate mistress, then turned to face Tony, baring his teeth and letting out a low mean growl before charging.

"SHIT!" yelled Tony. He pressed the switch on the Taser but he'd used all the battery up in the one assault on Rosemary. He climbed onto the coffee table.

"You fucking bastards!" shrieked Stacey, launching herself at Ken's throat.

He fell backwards, Stacey on top of him. She had him in an iron grip with hands made strong through hours of manual labour. He struggled to escape her grasp, to wriggle free from beneath her. He was aware his tongue was swelling and protruding from his mouth as she squeezed ever tighter.

Caesar, now in a state of hysterical confusion and unable to get near Tony, turned, barked, charged and sank his teeth into Stacey's upended bottom. Her eyes bulged, she screamed and released her grip on Ken's throat, standing up shakily and staggering towards the kitchen, Caesar dangling from one of her ample cheeks.

"Quick," yelled Tony, stepping off the coffee table and giving Ken a hand up, "let's get the fuck out of here."

They sprinted down the short path, hurdled the gate and flung themselves into the car. Tony locked the doors and revved madly, careening down the road like the devil was in pursuit. In the rear view mirror he could see Caesar giving chase, barking insanely, spittle flying from his jaws as he went.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

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

Preface



The man poured tea into a translucent porcelain cup then, after flexing long, elegant fingers, he caressed the keyboard and opened the file entitled 'New World Order/Final [1]Yishuv', sub heading 'Significant threat to British autonomy'.

He had discovered the file on first taking up his post; he'd been adding to it since taking office. He hoped he was doing justice to the earlier work by his predecessor; a man of dogged purpose and relentless patriotism.

He looked at the now familiar graphs charting the rising global debt which would ultimately culminate in global financial collapse. This collapse, he knew, would be followed by a financial lifeboat, courtesy of the IMF, in the form of a new global currency issued by the World Bank, controlled behind the scenes by the elite banking families, primarily the Rothschilds, in the interests of Israel.

From this point onwards, Israel would control the global banks, the markets and the world.

He leaned back and thought about the growth of Israeli influence and power in the west from the country's inception to the present time.

He considered the careful placement of individuals as CEOs in banks, and as leading politicians, others achieving positions of seniority in the judiciary, the skilful use of powerful lobby groups across Europe and America, control of the Council on Foreign Relations (CFR).

He marvelled at the deft way they had achieved control of the media, and the take-over of Hollywood, and the master stroke, duel citizenship of Israel and the US, along with Zionist control of the Federal Reserve.

He clicked on a link; 'A Strategy for Israel in the 1980s'; published by the 'World Zionist Organization', author Oded Yinon, objective: to divide up the Arab countries Iraq, Syria, Libya and Iran into smaller and, by definition, weaker territories.

He sniffed his derision; clearly Israel could not have expected to achieve this on her own, with insufficient military hardware and personnel, besides which, under normal circumstances, the superpowers would have stepped in to prevent it.

He clicked another link; 'A clean break. A new strategy for securing the realm'; a document calling for the cessation of peace talks with Yasser Arafat, the launching of attacks on occupied territories in Palestine and the overthrow of Saddam Hussein.

He noted the authors: Richard Perle, Douglas Feith and David Wurmser, all with dual Israeli American citizenship. He noted further that the document had been written in 1996, at the time when they held high office in Benjamin Netanyahu's Likud government. He found it interesting that they all later held office in the Bush administration, post 9/11.

He nodded as he read; appreciating the step by step approach to the destabilisation of the Middle East. The challenge for the Zionists would be to make these objectives become American objectives as well.

He scrolled through, found a new heading: 'Project for the New American Century': a think tank created circa 1997 dissolved 2006. Founders: William Kristol and Robert Kagan, both holders of dual American/Israeli citizenship. Key signatories: Jeb Bush, Dick Cheney, Donald Kagan, Paul Wolfowitz, Donald Rumsfeld, Dan Quayle, Elliott Abrams.

The project described the US as 'the World's pre-eminent power', and stated that the US needed to 'shape a new century favourable to American principles and interests,' with increased military spending, ensuring US 'political and economic freedom abroad,' and that the US should 'challenge regimes hostile to our interests and values.'

He checked the Foreign Policy Initiative, clearly designed to control the Democrats in the same fashion as the previous think tank controlled the Republicans. This too was founded by William Kristol and Robert Kagan, but the described objectives had now changed; 'address the rising challenges facing the US such as a resurgent Russia and China and rogue states that sponsored terrorism and pursued weapons of mass destruction.'

He found it interesting that the plan had survived being temporarily blown off course when Donald Trump had shocked the world and won the presidency.

Whilst none of the documents referred to the world's dwindling oil stocks or to OPEC directly he read between the lines; without the power to control the price of oil or its production America would become insignificant on the world stage. Russia, on the other hand, with her abundant stocks would be preeminent.

He sipped more tea, it helped him to think.

Whilst he could not stop the projected global collapse or the Israeli land grab, yet he was determined to secure Britain's place in the world.

He was Sir Phillip Blackmore, supreme Head of British Intelligence and, as such, in a position of some authority. He was also a knight of the realm; surely that had to count for something.

As he saw it, in the same way that Britain had been manipulated into giving the Zionists the Balfour Declaration, America was being manipulated into destroying the stability of the Middle East.

The resultant vacuum and the distraction of America's renewed confrontation with Russia and China, thanks to the Foreign Policy Initiative, would allow Israel to expand her influence and power from the Mediterranean and a line drawn from the Euphrates to the Nile incorporating Eastern Iraq, Eastern Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Sinai, Western Egypt and Northern Saudi Arabia.

He couldn't help but admire the long-term thinking; Dick Cheney, Paul Wolfowitz, Donald Rumsfeld had all come to high office in the Bush administration.

To his mind, they ran it, backed by the likes of Perle, Feith and Wurmser. Jeb Bush, signatory to the 'New American Century' had stolen the 2000 election for his brother GW and without a Bush in the Oval Office there could've been no intervention in the Middle East.

9/11 had been the new Pearl Harbour, Osama Bin Laden the CIA operative, a Lee Harvey Oswald-like patsy. Blackmore recalled his shock at the willingness of so many people to believe the events of 9/11.

To his mind, and that of any rational person, he reasoned, the idea that a steel skyscraper could be toppled by a passenger jet was preposterous. Trying the same con twice and topping it off by bringing down a 3rd building, claiming it to be the result of vibrations and office fires was laughable. When the mythical passenger plane crashed into the Pentagon, the most heavily protected building in the world, he gave up on the credulity of the masses.

He turned to his paper notes and the conclusion he had written:

Israel : a young and energetic country with a widespread, influential and deeply embedded propaganda network, supporting a forceful and uncompromising global purpose based on a deeply held belief in her own supremacy.

As such her ambitions cannot be contained.

It behoves me, on behalf of my country to ensure that the men with power in that network are either controlled by or, failing that, become in some way deeply beholden to Britain.



He sat quietly for a few moments, committing his notes to memory. He re-read the final paragraph, intoned the last sentence out loud. Then he put the sheets neatly together and fed them into the shredder.





Descent 1

Hitler has only got one ball...

He was an attractive young man; his mother told him, often. He was a serious person; Jenna, his girlfriend, said that a lot, somewhat accusingly. He was extremely clever; this from his tutor, somewhat despairingly when his work didn't match up.

Whilst he agreed he was good-looking, (tall, brown-haired like his father with his mother's steel blue eyes) and conceded he was serious, (dour) enjoyed being called clever, (to the point of scholarly, albeit lazy) he wished he could be more easy-going (as opposed to intense, bordering on obsessive).

Good-looking, too serious, too clever, lazy. What did any of that matter now?

He stared at his laptop, his mind in turmoil. How could he work? He leant forward and rested his head in his hands, moaning softly into his palms.

He stood up and started to pace, suddenly aware of the confines of the bedsit of which he had been hitherto so proud. The front door opened straight on to a large living room/kitchen; high-windows, ceiling rose and coving. There was one large bedroom with an en-suite toilet and wash basin. The bath was a shared facility down the corridor. Gampy had found it for him, paid the key money and he had loved the place from the first moment he set foot in it but now, like everything else linked to his Gampy, it disgusted him.

He kicked out at the remains of last night's pizza. Then he slumped onto the sofa and stared at the wall for several minutes.

His phone rang; the jaunty tone an insult to his mood. He picked it up, stared at the screen; his mother, just what he needed. He tossed the phone onto the sofa. It rang again. He put it on silent but in the end he succumbed.

There was silence for several seconds before she spoke, "Louis, are you ok?"

He snorted, "Fucking great, what do you think?" He knew it wasn't her fault; she was only the messenger.

"I'm here, if you need to talk about it...."

"Oh? Talk about what, exactly?"

His voice broke and his thoughts scattered. His sweet-natured, great granddad, Gampy Jaggs ...a cold-eyed killer? He felt sick, all those years at Gampy's knee, enjoying an affinity across the ages that he'd not felt with his grandparents, not felt even with his own father, destroyed. This new knowledge put him at variance with the rest of the civilised world, with Jenna, his class mates at Uni, with Dean, both friend and class mate. He groaned aloud, how the hell was he going to approach his thesis from an unbiased viewpoint? Louis Walker, great grandson of the infamous SS Oberleutnant Friedrich Jaeger of the SS Das Reich, offers you his unbiased, scholarly thoughts on: The Causes of the Great War'.

"Louis, talking sometimes helps..."

"What's to say? Oh Louis, your great granddad was a Nazi? And everyone knew except you?"

"We waited until you were older, Louis. Until we thought you could handle it...."

Her voice died away, no further comment required about the proven fragility of his coping mechanisms, the shared knowledge of his vulnerability; the strange voices he'd heard as a child, the worrying behaviour, the deep depression that had culminated in a race to the hospital after what his parents preferred to call an accidental overdose, and what Louis knew had been anything but.

Louis broke the silence, "Where shall I start with the handling? He shot Russian peasants. Let me think, oh yeah, I'm OK with that. He was a mass murderer. Yeah, that's cool. Is that what you want? What else? Oh, Auschwitz...yeah, I'm down with that. See Mum? I'm handling it."

"Louis, don't do this to yourself," her voice was a soft plea.

"You did it to me, all of you... why didn't you tell me before?" He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist around the phone. This ruined everything.

She paused, "You knew he was German, that he was a soldier in the war. As for the rest, it's a matter of public record, Louis, if you'd have looked it up..."

"So it's my fault now, is it? I didn't look it up? I believed in him?" His voice was rising now, "I knew he was a soldier yes, but not SS, I mean, fucking SS."

She heard the panic in his tone, tried to dampen it, "Louis, they weren't all like that....."

"Like what exactly? Raving loony fanatics, hell bent on conquering the world, not to mention murdering every single Jew that ever lived."

"I can't talk to you when you're being...."

"Oh well done," he snapped, "you called me, remember?"

"You flew out of the house in such a state, I was worried you might..." She paused, started again, "I thought we could talk about it, sensibly."

"Talk about what? What can we possibly talk about? You're a Nazi and I'm not."

"Now you're being ridiculous, Louis. I'm not a Nazi, I'm not even full German. I'm as English as you are."

"Great, thanks, Mum, that means a lot."

"Louis, you should try to understand what it was like back then."

"Oh, yeah, understand why Gampy was a heartless killer? Yeah, Mum, I'll get to work on that right away."

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

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

King of the Road



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

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

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

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

"What? Who?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Razza turned to stare at him. Style icon?

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

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

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

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

Gilbert's heart nearly stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



The 2,000 Martyrs



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

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

Helpline

Dom was older than most of his colleagues; telephone 'helpline' was a young man's game, but at 45 he was glad of the employment. He had bills, responsibility, he was a 'stayer' and had seen, with some envy, many of his younger colleagues leave on a whim. One young man had gone in the company of the police, arrested for using the information obtained from customers wanting to use their card abroad to undertake burglaries of their conveniently empty homes. Dom had liked Russ and had been sorry to see him go.

He switched his phone to receive and began his day, "Hello Mrs Dingle, you're speaking to Dom, I see you wish to transfer some money from your savings account."

"Oh yes love," said the woman, an old lady's voice to match the D.O.B on the screen in front of him, "Can you tell me what I've got in there first?"

"Certainly, Mrs. Dingle," said Dom, dying a little inside, "er, you've got £1.18." He wondered briefly how she'd managed to evade capture and incarceration in the fallout from the OAPs' attack on Parliament. He decided it wasn't his business.

"Oh dear, not much is it," she said, clearly embarrassed, "still, it's more than I've got in my current account, can you transfer it for me, please?"

"Certainly, Mrs. Dingle," said Dom, trying not to sound too hearty, "there you go, all done, is there anything else I can help you with today?"

"No, that's all dear, you've been very helpful."

"You have a nice day now, Mrs. Dingle."

Dom wanted to rip off his head-phones and scream, do something, anything to get the old lady's predicament out of his head but he had another call and his response times were monitored. To make matters worse his next call had an indicator code number 1; high priority, meaning the caller had been pushed to the top of the queue because they were a big investor. He couldn't afford a momentary lapse on this one. He swallowed hard and got to it.

"Hello, Mr Howard, how may I help you?"

"You charged me for going over my overdraft." A voice used to commanding attention.

"Okay Mr Howard," said Dom, un-gritting his teeth with difficulty, "let me take a look at that for you."

"I don't want you to take a look at it, I want you to refund me. Furthermore, I demand compensation for the time I have wasted on this call."

"Okay," said Dom, speaking slowly, "well first of all, Mr Howard, we need to go through security...."

"No, we bloody well don't, you just need to sort this out for me, now."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. Before I can access the account I need to ask some security questions." Dom was annoyed to discover that he was almost afraid, he could feel a complaint coming on no matter what he did.

"That's absurd. Why do you need to do that?"

"I do appreciate how you feel but without it I can't get into your account, Mr Howard."

"Bloody stupid, if you ask me, this will cost you more, believe me."

"Of course, Mr Howard," said Dom, finger twitching over the release button, if only he could.

Twenty-five seconds later, having passed smoothly through the security questions Dom was looking at Mr Howard's statement. He had to admit to being awed by the amount in the current balance and that was with all the outgoings on the account over recent days.

His heart sank when he saw the point at which the account had gone into overdraft and calculated the gap between that and the account returning to black.

"Well? I haven't got all day you know."

"Okay Mr Howard," said Dom, waiting for the outburst to come, "it looks like you went over your overdraft for twenty days...."

"And your point is? That's what an overdraft is for, surely?"

"Well, there is usually a charge of....."

"I don't care about what there usually is, do you have any idea how much money I have with your bank?"

"Well not exactly Mr Howard," said Dom, scanning the savings accounts and arriving at an estimated 600k, "but I'm sure....."

"Refund me now and compensate me for this call or I'm moving everything to another bank."

'Yeah, sure you are,' thought Dom, 'with all the accompanying inconvenience, well let's just play with you for a bit shall we?'

He clicked on the memos, "Bear with me, I just need to check back through the notes on your account, Mr Howard."

"All you need to do is refund me. NOW! And if you can't make that decision then I suggest you get someone on the phone who can."

"I am able to authorise all that, Mr Howard... provided we haven't refunded you anything in the past."

"Well, I can tell you the answer to that, you haven't refunded me, so get on with it."

To Dom's deep joy the memos clearly stated that the man had been refunded and compensated on several previous occasions. He tried to keep his pleasure out of his voice, "I'm going to have to pop you on hold, Mr Howard."

"Why? How long for?"

"I just need to refer this to my manager," said Dom.

"Bloody hurry up, you moron," a snarl of displeasure.

Dom popped him on hold, sipped his coffee, flicked through a few articles on RT and then wandered over to his manager.

"Got a high investor demanding charges back and compensation," he murmured, hoping to catch his manager with his balls strapped on. He added quickly, anticipating the inevitable question, "He's been refunded several times in the past 12 months."

"How high an investor?"

Dom's spirits sank, "600k."

"Do it, raise it as a complaint as well and make sure he's properly compensated. How long's he been on the phone?"

"About 5 minutes."

"Give him 20 quid for the cost of the call and 75 quid for the distress and inconvenience."

Dom knew it was pointless but said it just the same, "He's not been inconvenienced, and the call couldn't have cost more than...."

"High investor, Dom, just keep him happy."

"Sure thing," said Dom, bitterly, "keep the rich happy and screw the poor."

"Oi, what have I told you about that, just watch your attitude on the floor, Dom, I mean it."

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Ariun