Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 9

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

Chapter 1

The PM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How do we find out?" asked Chalfont.

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

"Stone?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blackmore nodded, "We need an incident."



News


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Living it Large



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And this is my daughter, Wilhelmina."

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

Thankfully they took it all in good part.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Be quiet, Wilhelmina," said her father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mummy!" Wilhelmina tossed her hair in irritation.

James' mouth went suddenly dry. She was stunning.

"Later dear," said Lady Augustine.

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

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

"20% increase?" questioned Lady Augustine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

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

Introduction

We will know our disinformation program is complete when everything the American people believe is false

William Case, CIA Director 1981


Mark Cholmondeley was seething.

Not an unknown state he had to admit but this time it was with good reason. It was intolerable that the UK Prime Minister could be summoned like a naughty schoolboy to answer to a group of doddering fools, made powerful simply because they'd been born into the world's richest banking families. Knowing that it was to them he owed his continuance in office served to increase his sense of humiliation. The only plus side of what was coming was that he would be sharing the carpeting with the similarly indebted, US president, Orland Stone.

This was why Cholmondeley and Stone were shown to a separate meeting hall at the back of the complex, whilst their peers, like them, delegates to the exclusive Bilderberg meeting, made their way to the main lobby.

To their chagrin they were made to wait on either side of huge double wooden doors for several minutes before finally being invited in.

They rose together and straightened their jackets, "After you, Mark," offered the President with a disarming boyish twinkle. Cholmondeley sighed under his breath, nodded with a tight smile and lead the way into the room.

In what was obviously a calculated plan to increase the sense of impending doom the room was dark; made so deliberately by heavy curtains drawn across the floor-to-ceiling windows, blocking any hint of sunlight and every other wall lamp had been switched off.

There was a log fire burning in the magnificent fire place at the end of the room which, whilst throwing out some light, was also abetting the gothic effect. It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust, then they became aware of two high backed chairs in the middle of the room.

Ahead of them, above the fireplace hung a portrait sized blacked out screen.

"Take a seat, gentlemen," said a cultured voice.

As these words resonated a large letter G set in the middle of a set square and compass appeared on the screen with a flaming numeral 1 burning underneath it. Then six more screens flickered into life, three on each side of the room, all showing different graphics, each with a number underneath.

"Be seated," said the voice again, this time with a little more force to the command.

Stone did as he was bid. Cholmondeley adjusted his suit jacket again and took his seat more slowly, making a play of pulling up his trouser legs to avoid spoiling the creases, damned if he was going to jump.

"What went wrong with La Palma?" demanded the voice behind screen 1.

Whilst a dressing down and interrogation had been expected Cholmondeley had thought they would sit down round a table like gentlemen, not be made to go through this ridiculous farce with faceless TV screens. In his annoyance he left a gap which Stone filled.

"We did our bit, Mr Chairman, we provided the ordnance but the Brits messed up."

Cholmondeley was instantly furious; back-stabbing yank, "We most certainly did not, Stone."

"You drilled too deep," said Stone.

"We drilled to the depth instructed by your experts, so if anybody messed up then it was your people."

"We gave you accurate intel, pal, but you put amateurs on the job and they messed up."

"Mr Chairman," said Cholmondeley, standing up to address screen 1, "my people assure me that we drilled to the exact depth specified...."

"No way," Stone too was standing, a head to head confrontation, all pretence at diplomacy gone, "we gave you accurate figures, you messed up..."

"How can you know that?" demanded Cholmondeley.

"You blew the whole bloody island to smithereens, you idiot," snapped Stone.

The formless voice cut across their altercation, "We lost our trail leading back to Al Qaeda."

Cholmondeley and Stone froze in their adversarial positions, then sank back into their chairs.

The flames flickered on the screen with the number 2 on it, "You blew it, our justification for going into Iran."

The man had pronounced Iran as 'eye-ran'; an American voice with American directness. The skull and crossed bones on the screen made Cholmondeley shiver.

"Well?" This from another screen, one further to the back of the room, showing the number 3.

Cholmondeley was furious at not being able to say what he felt, for not having the courage to walk away from this puerile nonsense with the flames and the numbers and the icons, but then he spoke and there was a tremor in his voice, "It wasn't our mistake."

"It so was," stated Stone, "who did the drilling?"

"This whole operation was a complete fiasco," this came from screen 4 on the left, a thin, reedy voice, but no mistaking the venom, "years of planning...all for nothing."

"Do you people realise how much money has been lost?" demanded screen 5, this one portraying the all-seeing eye of the Illuminati. The bored tones were at odds with the seriousness of the charge.

The voice continued, "Everything was in place; resources, media stories, the vote to the UN for the official invasion of Iran has been prepared, palms had been greased, we were ready for the off and now we have to stand everything down and treat the whole affair like a natural disaster."

Both Cholmondeley and Stone had realised at the same moment that further protest was only delaying the inevitable. They had been brought here to accept blame not extricate themselves from it. Both men appeared to lose physical stature in that abrupt realisation.

"The primaries are approaching, Stone," said the American voice behind screen 2, "any more screw-ups and our support goes elsewhere."

Cholmondeley suppressed a smirk, he at least could not be threatened with democratic removal, not after the destruction of Parliament and the loss of so many MPs. He was necessary. It was his time to shine.

"You may leave, Prime Minister Cholmondeley," said the voice behind screen 1.

Cholmondeley's face betrayed his concern; would something important be agreed behind his back? Then he rose from his seat, looked over to his sometime friend Orland Stone, cleared his throat and left the room, his tread slow and very uncertain.

As soon as the door had closed behind him the screen 2 interlocutor spoke, "Listen up, Stone. In the coming weeks there will be an atrocity against one of the Israeli settlements in the West Bank."

Stone stared at the screen, his mouth suddenly dry.

The voice continued, "Israel will be forced to make a radical decision."

Stone spoke without thinking, "What does that mean?"

"It is not for you to question," the screen 1 voice cut in sharply, "it is for you to listen and to do as we bid."

"I am the President of the United States," said Stone, finding strength from somewhere, "and I will not be spoken to like this."

"My dear Stone, I thought we had made quite clear the tenuous nature of your position," said the thin voice of screen 4, the icon a rose with a cross inside, "perhaps we weren't clear enough."

Stone stared at the screen, impotent fury burning through his veins.

The American voice continued, "Israel will be forced to clear the Palestinians from the West Bank for the sake of security."

"All of them?" asked Stone, aghast, "Surely not, there must be some other way."

"Damn right there's another way, Stone," said the American, impatient with his errant countryman, "but this is the way it's gonna be. The West Bank will become Israeli territory, as will Gaza in due course and the US of A will support Israel in this matter. The only question is whether it's under your leadership or not, remember that."

Stone's head fell; his brief resistance over.

"Now to further business," said the voice behind screen 1, "recent figures indicate that over 75% of Americans are now living below the poverty line."

"I've followed your economic plan to the letter," said Stone, "it's not my fault, the recession has bitten deeper than anyone could've imagined."

"We have examined the details," the cold voice continued, ignoring the interruption, "and most of those living in poverty are in the South; the Hispanic South-West and the Black belt of the South-East."

Stone shrugged; this was not news.

"We intend for the US to break up into four separate countries," said the hitherto silent partner behind screen 6, a thick tone to the voice, a slight hiss to the words. Stone's instinct said South American.

"What?" said Stone, "No, that can't happen, not on my watch. Not today or any day."

"As previously stated, quite succinctly by my esteemed colleague, it will happen, President Stone," said the man behind screen 6, "with or without your help."

Stone had some difficulty understanding quite what had been said, the rich accent distorting some of the words but the key message came over, loud and clear. He asked, knowing he shouldn't, "But why? What will it get you?"

There was silence, then muted murmurings. Stone was beginning to wonder if he should leave, and then screen 1 flickered and the cultured voice broke the stillness, "We have sufficient wealth. Retaining these redundant parts of America will merely serve to drain resources, add to our tax burden."

The American voice broke in, harshly, "Cut 'em loose an' let 'em rot."

"You're talking about the United States of America," said Stone, pulling himself to his feet, "that's the name of the country, the United States."

"Well, son," said the American, his voice dry, "times change."

Stone thought he heard him snicker.

"The relevant parties have been financed and they will begin pressing for independence in the coming months," said screen 1, "your job is to accommodate them, do you understand?"

Stone stared at the screen above the fire.

"I expect an answer, Stone."

"Yes. Yes, I understand."

∞

Cholmondeley was shocked at the sight of the man who came through the doors. He looked diminished. Gone was the boyishly bouncy, all-American kid made good, with his impossibly big, white teeth and equally impossible big hair and bone-crushing hand-shake.

Stone was shaking his head and muttering, "Looks like I'm going down as the President who oversaw the break up of the good old US of A."

"Surely they don't mean....." said Cholmondeley.

"They do mean exactly that," said Stone, "and don't think you guys got away with it either."

"What do you mean? Got away with what?"

"Brexit and that Scottish thing," said Stone, "that's just gonna come back and bite you in the ass."

"Did they mention that?"

"They didn't have to. Where'd' you think the pressure came from in the first place? Where'd'you think these fringe groups get their funding and media support?"

Cholmondeley loosened his collar, "Did they mention anything else about La Palma?"

"Like what?"

"About me?"

Stone sneered, "Not to me but if I were you I'd double my security detail."

"They did say something," pressed Cholmondeley.

"No, they didn't," stated Stone, "they threatened me with the coming elections, but they can't do that to you now. They'll need another stick to beat you with, to keep everyone else in line."

"Surely you don't think they'd...."

"Let's just say, I wouldn't make any long term plans."

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers for reading

Arun

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

7:25 p.m.

“All I’m saying,” said the Pirate, “is that the super heroes stick up for the establishment.”

“They do not,” said Mr. Spock.

“No, hear me out, they all fight to preserve the status quo and thus defend and preserve the rights of the rich.”

“Rubbish,” said Mr. Spock.

“Okay,” said the Pirate, “what about Batman?”

“Well, he’s rich anyway,” said Mr. Spock, “so it’s hardly surprising.”

“All the villains, some of whom have had what can only be described as a raw deal, are victimised by this dude with loadsa cash who has the law in his back pocket and can spend as much as he wants on god knows what kind of weapons.”

“OK, but look at the Penguin and the Joker,” said Mr. Spock, “they were pretty evil dudes, man.”

“Really? I’d like to see how you turned out if your parents dumped you down a sewer just for being deformed and ugly… Batman’s parents loved him but were gunned down, he inherited a fortune and look at what kind of nut job he turned into.”

“Not the same,” said Spock, “Penguin and Joker are insane, they have to be put down or they’ll kill everyone just for laughs.”

“It still doesn’t change my point,” said the Pirate, “all super heroes stick up for the establishment, there’s never one that fights for the rights of the ordinary man.”

“What about the Hulk?” said Mr. Spock, “He’s always attacking the establishment?”

“Yeah, but not with purpose,” said the Pirate, “it’s always random and chaotic.”

“So?” said Mr. Spock, “It still disproves your point.”

“No, because the Hulk isn’t fighting for anyone or any particular cause and he’s portrayed as bad for what he does; the establishment is always portrayed as being on the side of right.”

“Yeah, but you always feel sorry for the Hulk, don’t you,” said Mr. Spock.

“That’s not the same thing, that’s just sympathy for another poor sucker who got screwed by the establishment.”

“Okay, what about Spider Man?” said Mr. Spock, “He fights villains and he protects everyone.”

“Hey, you two,” Charlie Chaplin interrupted the debate with a bang of his glass, “any chance we can talk about something else?”

“But again,” said the Pirate, “Spidey's fighting crime and geezers who are stealing huge amounts of money from the banks or the state. He’s maintaining the status quo.”

“No he’s not,” said Mr. Spock, “he’s always defending the little guy.”

Charlie Chaplin nodded vigorously, and nudged the Lone Ranger to do likewise.

“Only because the little guy gets in the way of the action,” said the Pirate, “the real plot is always about power, wealth and greed and that is way above the average person’s status so it has to be about protecting the rich again, about protecting those with all the wealth against those who are trying to take it.”

“That’s bollocks,” said Mr. Spock, “Okay, what about Superman, he’s always sticking up for the man in the street.”

“Again,” said the Pirate, “that’s only because the little man gets in the way.”

“Rubbish,” said Mr. Spock, “this is all just silly twaddle.”

“No it’s not,” said the Pirate, “and I can prove it.”

“Okay prove it,” said Mr. Spock.

“Yeah, prove it,” mimicked Charlie Chaplin.

“Okay,” said the Pirate, “all of the super heroes, they all have special powers which lift them above all others, am I right?”

“Yeah, that’s right, that being the point of super powers….”

“And enables them to fight crime?”

“Right.”

“Right,” echoed Charlie, now seriously bored.

“But the only crime they fight is against the poor down and outs who are resorting to the only means they have available, namely violent crime, to get ahead in this warped and twisted world. Does Batman ever arrest a banker? Does Superman ever grab hold of a devious politician? Does Spiderman ever…..”

“Oh what?” said Charlie, “Now, that’s just silly…hey, Tranny tell him he's bein’ silly.”

He looked across at the Transvestite who was completely absorbed, trying to win back all the money he’d lost on the fruit machine. “Oh, don’t bother…”

“No, it’s not,” said the Pirate, “everyone knows that the real crime is white collar crime.”

“He’s right, you know” said Hiawatha.

“What?” said Mr. Spock, “I didn’t know you were listening.”

“I wasn’t,” said Hiawatha, “but it’s our round so the Lone Ranger is getting ‘em in.”

“Oh, ok,” said Mr. Spock, “but you’re both wrong.”

“No, we’re not,” said Hiawatha, “it’s all just part of our social conditioning and it starts when we’re young.”

“Here we go,” said Charlie Chaplin, “Karla Marx is off and running.”

“No,” said Hiawatha, “I’m not going to say anything else other than that the whole deal with super heroes, as the Pirate says, is to protect the rich, protect the powerful, maintain the state and to punish the poor villain who is just trying to get ahead.”

“Poor villain who’s just trying to get ahead?” wailed Mr. Spock, “are you completely mad, woman? We’re talking about some real sick fucks here.”

“Actually we’re talking about comic books,” said Hiawatha, “which isn’t quite the same thing…and don’t call me ‘woman’.”

“Huh,” sighed Mr. Spock, “well you’ve ruined that simple pleasure for me, haven’t you.”

“No,” said Hiawatha, “the underlying truth remains that comic book heroes and the spin off films are designed to get us to relate to the rich and to want to fight to maintain the status quo, to fight to keep the rich and the poor in their accustomed place.”

“No!” hissed Charlie, “That’s a big leap!”

“She’s right though,” said the Pirate, “and as I was saying, these super heroes have super powers but do they ever use them to lead the people in a revolutionary war of freedom?”

“A what?” said Mr. Spock.

“A revolutionary war of freedom, he said,” Hiawatha responded crisply, “and I agree. Does Superman fly to Thailand and free the kids slaving in the sweat shops owned by the rich corporations? No, he doesn’t. Does Batman break into prison and free the wrongfully convicted and over sentenced black man whose rights were trampled on when he was incarcerated? No, he doesn’t. Does Spider man break into a house in suburbia and beat up the abusive and violent husband? No, he doesn’t.”

“Do the Fantastic Four ever fly out to third world countries and defend the rights of the poor civilians against greedy American corporations? No, they don’t,” said the Pirate, not to be outdone.

“They’re all just tools used by the state to maintain the status quo,” said Hiawatha.

“But they are entertaining, though,” said Charlie, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“The truth is, we’ve forgotten who the real heroes are,” said Hiawatha, “all we have now are fantasy heroes, rich celebs, movie stars pretending to be heroes, pop stars and sports stars. What happened to real heroes like William Wilberforce or Lord Shaftesbury or Abe Lincoln or Washington or….?”

“Washington was a traitor,” said the Pirate, “and he led the revolution against us.”

“Against the King,” said Hiawatha.

“Oh yeah,” said the Pirate, “That’s okay then.”

“Oh, that’s ok then,” mimicked Charlie Chaplin, making a silly face, quite difficult to spot when dressed as a clown.

“And Oliver Cromwell, and …” said Hiawatha.

“My favourite,” said the Pirate, “Ollie Cromwell, cut off that bastard king’s head.”

“Oh yeah and what about Danton, Robespierre and Napoleon?” said Mr. Spock, “Heroes or villains?”

“Ask the French,” said the Pirate.

“Yeah right,” said Mr. Spock, “you just use the argument you want.”

“Actually I think the French revolution was good for the people,” said Hiawatha, “Okay it got a little out of hand….”

“A little out of hand?” said Mr. Spock, “Napoleon tried to take over the world.”

“Well he wouldn’t’ve done if the monarchies hadn’t tried to crush the revolution and tell me, what was so different between the French revolution and the American Revolution and our own revolution?” demanded Hiawatha.

“Well…” began Mr. Spock.

“Wow, it’s a crush up there,” said the Lone Ranger, returning to the table, drinks in hand, “If any of you lot want crisps say so now before it gets really chocker…”

“Yeah,” said the Pirate, “salt’n’vinegar.”

“Pork scratchins please,” said Mr. Spock.

“Oh yeah, me too,” said the Pirate.

“Make up your bloody mind,” said the Lone Ranger.

“I’ll have salt and vinegar as well,” said Hiawatha.

“As well as who? I’m having pork scratchins.”

“Cheese and Onion,” said Charlie Chaplin.

“What about Tranny?” asked the Lone Ranger.

“He’s in his own world,” said the Pirate, nodding over at the fruit machine, “just get him salt’n’vinegar.”

“He likes plain,” said Hiawatha.

The Lone Ranger gave her a dark look.

“I can’t help it,” she muttered, “I’m just sayin’.”

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers for reading

Arun

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

episode 2

Workmen - Again



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who you callin' a fat git?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then why've you got pink hair?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The banter continued unchecked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun

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

P.A.C.T - two

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who's that with you?"

"No one."

"Is that Val? Val, is that you?" demanded Alb. He couldn't have explained why he felt so territorial about it; he had no claim on Val, it just got his goat to see her wasting herself on slime ball Ken.

Gerry was holding back laughter, his eyes watering with the effort. He couldn't understand Alb's fixation with Val Compton, the Village siren but there was no doubt, fixated he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oooh, she was ‘rubbing it for you’." Gerry was enjoying himself too much to let this one go despite Alb’s obvious distress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s right,” said Gerry, “Enoch had it right, blood on the streets, an’ to my mind, it wasn’t their colour he was talkin’ about, it was their not bein’ British.”

Alb nodded, “An’ what's the bloody Government doin’ about it? Nothing as usual. I really don’t get it, why don’t they just deport all these bloody foreigners and make the streets safer?”

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

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





Superstar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And to me personally, Darren?"

"To the Boss," intoned Mike.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Notwithstanding consequences for Newcastle."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And they'll spring back from this."

"Boss." Yeah right.

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

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

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

"Sure thing, Boss."

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

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

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

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

"Boss?" Mike looked mystified.

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

"Oh, it's good, Boss."

"He'll be alright for tomorrow?"

"Sure thing, Boss."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope you have a good week

Cheers

Arun

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

Something in the Wind

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

Deep inside the theatre the Preacher prepared himself mentally before he strode onto the stage. He stepped onto his gaudily painted box; it was the one he used on London Bridge and it made him feel confident. He stared out at the sparse gathering, 12 in all, ‘not bad, a few more than yesterday.’ He pondered his approach, he never had a planned set, always played it by ear but he needed some inspiration. He looked around and saw a half eaten burger lying nearby and he had it. “GREED!” he yelled surprising himself; he thought he had given up the aggressive approach. A few heads turned. “We constantly gorge ourselves while others starve, while they scrabble around in the dust for a morsel before they begin their futile search for water. Yet we take our good fortune for granted; we are like the sinners of old who have turned their backs on their fellow citizens and soon the world will turn its back on us.”

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

He cast his net wider, “We are so corrupted by self-serving greed that we don’t consider the homeless, the weak, and the ill. We glibly drop our coins in the charity boxes believing that we are cleansed, that we have bought some respite from the final judgment but we don’t see the truth - we are lost in the wilderness of selfishness and we need the desolation of despair to bring us back to the world of humanity.” He pointed to the heavens, “Global warming is just the beginning for it is one of the Horsemen that were promised - Judgment Day is at Hand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked out into the audience, "Don't you understand!" he shouted. Some stopped their conversations and stared at him. He didn't care anymore; at least they might listen for a few seconds. Again he approached the edge of the stage, "Listen to me, please listen and examine your lives, think about what you're doing, how you're spending your time."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nutter," said the boy.

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

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

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

"Commie bastard!" yelled someone.

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

"Commie bastard," repeated the heckler.

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

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

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



The Diary - Final entry



He opened his diary, not so much a diary more a notebook, dog-eared and abused from months of being bent into his pocket, his constant companion for jottings and musings and now this, his end note. He began to write, not his usual scribble but a slow movement across the page, dignified and portentous. ‘I know there will be consequences, not just for me but for my family, who love me. But all other options were closed to me and for me this final act is a culmination of all that has gone before. This record that I leave behind will ensure there is no avenue of retreat’ That bit was important otherwise he might bottle it, ‘I must act and my deed must be so devastating that others can find the strength to shake themselves from their media induced lethargy, so that they may also shake themselves free of this overpowering and suffocating slumber, this all encompassing nightmare. I do this to redeem others.’ He finished with a flourish and tossed the pen down.

He sat in silence for a few moments then he picked up his cup, sipping lukewarm tea with a grimace, reading what he’d written, smiling and nodding. Then once again took up his pen ‘…and so to the deed, its conception, planning and …’ he paused, unable to think of the right word, “enactment?”… No that wasn’t right” he tried the word out loud but it sounded no better, “completion, fulfillment…” he screwed up his face, “Ah! Execution!” he burst out, then he wrote it down, ‘execution.’

The book would be left in the room for the cleaner to find. Hopefully it would be handed in and not just tossed in the rubbish. He considered keeping it on him and handing it in himself after this final act but somehow, leaving it for someone else to find suited his sense of the theatrical.

Have a nice week

Cheers for reading

Arun

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

The meeting organiser approached the rostrum, he paused and waited for the cheering to stop, and then he spoke, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this, the very first meeting of the Independent candidates. It’s wonderful to see so many of you here in one place.”

The applause rose again as he gestured to a slightly built, sandy-haired man standing to the side. “Please give a rousing welcome to the man who started it all, our inspirational mentor and guide… Colin Carpenter.”

The delegates rose as one and cheered and clapped as the man moved confidently to the centre of the stage and took up position behind the rostrum. As he did so a single file of people walked on stage and sat in the row of chairs behind him.

“Thank you, Chris, for that introduction.” Colin said, beaming, the lights glinting off his glasses, “Well, it’s been a long hard struggle but now we’re here, a visible force to be reckoned with, so…”

There were more cheers from the hall. “WELCOME,” he shouted raising both arms, “today is the day we begin to change everything. Today we lay down the marker whereby we reclaim our country, reclaim our world, today is the day we start the new era of real rule of the people, by the people and for the people.”

∞

“Hello, fellow delegates, my name is Stephanie White and I’m standing for Parliament in the London Borough of Wandsworth. At 24 I’m one of the youngest delegates and I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

She smiled at the laughter.

“I’m also one of the least experienced so you’ll be pleased to hear I’m sticking to what I know! I was born and raised in Clapham Junction and where I live now 6 out of 10 young people are unemployed, and 4 out of the 6 are women. I work in a shoe shop and as a single Mum I consider myself extremely fortunate to have a job.”

Steph looked around the hall, “I won’t take up much of your time; I’m just here to highlight the issue of women’s rights.”

The women present cheered and clapped. The men looked immediately beleaguered.

“I know a lot of people think there’s no issue for women and I also know, from personal experience, that not all of these people are men” there was more laughter, this time from the men, “I know a lot of women who would rather not discuss women’s rights, who are quite alright thank you very much so it’s not them I am speaking for here, but for the majority of women who are NOT alright.”

She took a sip of water, her mouth uncomfortably dry, she’d been advised against the coffee earlier and now wished she’d taken the advice. “I know that a lot of people think that things are equal in the work environment but they’re not, because it is a fact that in many instances a woman doing the same job as a man will be paid considerably less even though it’s been illegal since 1970 to treat women less favourably than men in the pay stakes.”

She sipped again, “Women at work have to work harder than a man just to get noticed. A woman has to butch up and out macho the men to get noticed, in essence she will have to become a man. Believe me I know, the shoe business is a cut throat world!” There was a burst of laughter; what she lacked in age, she made up for in cheek.

“Admit it ….we’ve all seen it… women these days, they’ve become men. They out drink men, they out shout men, they out party men, they do all of these things because being a woman is seen as being weak, they have to be tough and macho to be thought of as any good… but why? Why does a woman have to be more like a man to have her opinions, her views, her thoughts valued? What’s the deal here?”

She paused to let the question sink in, and in truth to steady her breathing; the size of this crowd was awesome. Marissa murmured, “Go for it, girl” and Stephanie grinned.

“The answer’s quite simple; women have not been accepted for who they are. They have had to change, to adapt, and to become manlier to compete with men. Is this really a free system where all people are treated as equal and rewarded for their efforts and ideas or is it a system where the biggest, loudest, most hectoring voice is heard and that voice is always the voice of a man or a macho woman? Are we allowing ourselves as women to be denied true equality in our own right as women?”

Her words gained her general nods of approval round the room, even some men, presumably distracted by reminiscences of acquiescent, womanly women, were nodding happily.

“Why can’t we behave like women and have the same chances and rights as men? We form half of the world’s population, do you realize that? We are half of the world’s population and we are treated as second class citizens, we cannot get the proper recognition at work, in the office, in the board room, in the cabinet anywhere.”

She glanced behind her and received a nod from Catherine; they’d talked beforehand and, when she’d finally opened up, Catherine had told her how long it had taken her to get a headship when her university contemporaries (male) had achieved it years earlier.

Marissa had quite readily said much the same thing when quizzed about her accountancy opportunities.

“To be honest, we women are our own worst enemies. When we gain the top spot we don’t offer a hand to another, rival woman – think of the Iron Lady – how many women in her cabinet? Let’s face it, we aren’t united, women don’t fight as one entity. We fight for our own cause, for our own family, our own interests. We’re not trained since babyhood like men to stand together, to fight for our rights as a group, as a marginalised section of society. Well, perhaps we should stop and think for a bit, stop and look at how the men have done it, stop and see what unity can do for us; we should unite as one and say no more of this. We should learn from the Dagenham women that united we are strong[1].”

She took heart from the applause that followed that comment, “But the problem is; there is always the woman willing to sleep her way to the top, to stitch up her competition, stab another woman in the back. This type of woman has no moral compass, no conscious sense of anything other than her own desire to get on."

She waved away the argument she knew would be coming, "Now I know there are similar types in the male world but frankly, that’s not our concern, our concern as women should be how we prepare for the fight, how we prepare for the cause, how we set out our stall and how we go about uniting in the coming struggle. We need to consider how we are treated and how we are looked upon. We should look at the lack of respect, the lack of courtesy, the lack of opportunity, the lack of reward that exists just because of our gender. It has nothing to do with our minds, with our imagination, with our abilities, with our intellectual capacity; it is all just because of our gender. Do you realise there is more concern today about racism than about the sexploitation of women?”

Steph waited for her words to settle with the audience before continuing, “Do you realise that? The media, the internet, twitter, everyone, including women, everyone is more concerned with how black footballers are treated on the pitch than with how all women are treated everywhere. Do you realise this? And do you know why? Because the footballers are men, that’s why. I love football, by the way … I just want to put that on the table, but I won’t take my son to a game because of the foul language and use of the ‘C’ word.”

She shook her head slightly at the gasp that went round the room, “you’re shocked, yet that word is used on the terraces every Saturday all round the country to insult males and as long as you don’t attach ‘black’ to it, you’re fine.”

She stared round the hall, deliberately seeking out the men, fixing them with a look, “How is it you can call a footballer, of any colour, the ‘C’ word, you can call him an ‘effing c***’ if you want to, but you can’t call him anything racial. Do you realise what that means? Do the women here realise what that means? It means that society and the law backs a man’s right to call another man a ‘c***’ and it’s OK, why? Why is it ok to use a slang term for the female sexual organ as a way of insulting a man? A deep insult at that! Anybody? Because in a man’s world women are seen as less than men, because women are seen by everyone, including women, as being less, as having less weighty opinions, less weighty views, women are just seen as fluff whose only purpose is for sex or to sexually gratify men. Other than that women can go to the back of the cave and wait until they are needed again to satisfy man’s sexual urges. Well that’s not the way it should be.”

There was some uncomfortable shuffling of feet and throat clearing, a smattering of clapping.

“I realise I must seem very radical.” Steph dropped her head for a moment and the room went very quiet, she counted five slowly then lifted her head, her eyes blazing, “Well if that’s what I need to be, then radical it is! I mentioned ‘sexploitation’ earlier and I used the term deliberately. One of the things we have to change is women’s role in the entertainments industry. Why is it that it isn’t good enough for a female singer just to be a good singer? Why does she have to be a sex symbol as well? Why isn’t it enough for a woman to have a good voice, to write powerful lyrics, why must she appear semi naked in her videos? Why must a female singer pose semi naked for hundreds of media shots? Why must a female singer sell her soul to the industry to sell her music?"

She stopped speaking abruptly, aware she was being controversial, that such a divisive message wasn’t to be readily accepted by this audience, by any audience.

She’d asked her boyfriend, Donny to come for moral support and knew he would be groaning somewhere.

She took a deep breath, shook her hair off her face and continued, “The implication is that if a woman doesn’t sell her body then her songs won’t sell. Rubbish…Music is an audio entertainment, there are no videos on the radio, there is no video playing when you put the CD in your player. A song is a song, a good song is a good song, regardless of whether or not the female singer is attractive, semi naked or fully-clothed, the whole industry has been abused and women have been abused by it.”

There was more applause now, she’d moved on to a safer subject it seemed, she continued “and it’s totally unacceptable to say that it’s just sex and that in today’s market sex sells, it’s not sex… it’s sexploitation, it’s abuse of women, it’s another example of where a woman’s contribution isn’t valued for what it is, another example of where it isn’t enough to be talented, it isn’t enough for a woman to have a good voice, it isn’t enough for a woman to be creative she has to be manipulated, controlled by men who only want her to be a sexual symbol.”

She paused again, “And then there’s acting, TV and films, why is it that in films and TV programmes today a woman always has to take her clothes off? Why is it that a female star has to be attractive and when she’s no longer considered so her roles start drying up? Why are there so few strong parts for women? Why is it that most women are chosen for their physical appearance rather than their acting ability?”

Someone shouted from the audience, and she rebutted with, “Don’t say Meryl Streep at me – she’s one woman out of hundreds of men, that’s why she wins all the female Oscars” laughter and applause greeted that snappy rejoinder, “Is it the same for men? Of course not, male actors can go on into their 90s but most female actors are finished when the first wrinkles and grey hairs start appearing. Then the movie making industry starts plying the halls for the next young piece of female meat to parade around on our screens, why? Why do we females accept this double standard? Why do we accept the notion that we’re nothing unless we’re young and attractive?”

Steph asked the question well aware that she was very young and attractive herself at this point, “I know that we are our own worst enemies in that it’s women singers and actors who are giving in to these demands, who accept it as part and parcel of the way things are. I realise that we won’t really win this war unless women in the industry unite and are prepared to stick together to stand against the sexploitation. I also understand that most women don’t start to think like that until their looks start to fade; then they’re willing to make a stand.”

She sighed loudly and was rewarded with amused laughter, “you know what I’m going to say before I say it, don’t you… by that time they don’t need you, they aren’t going to listen, they’ve found your replacement …another new young thing and the new sex goddess isn’t in the least bit interested in fighting for women’s rights, not if it will block her route to fame and glory and wealth… but that’s exactly what they must do, that’s exactly where it must start…we must unite; we must recognise we are half the world’s population, half the world’s work force, half of a partnership. We have power, we have influence and we can make things change. We must all stick together and we must demand equality of the mind, equality for who we are and what we are, then and only then will our thoughts matter, will our efforts count, then and only then can we as women be accepted for our minds and our personalities, then and only then can a woman really be equal for until that time occurs women will always be second class citizens who are just used and abused by the system and that will only encourage the average man in the street to see women as less than themselves."

"I’m Stephanie White, thank you for listening.”

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

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

Prologue

The world is governed by very different personages
from what is imagined by those who are not behind the scenes.

Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli (1844)


Of all the women in the group, for Sir Digby Chalfont, a connoisseur, 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 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, others in 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 his 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 their 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 for reading

Arun

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

November 1973


"David, tell me what went wrong."

David Elazar, Chief of General Staff sighed and shook his head.

He faced the speaker, his leader, Golda Meir, the Prime Minister, and raised his hands, a plea for her forgiveness, "It was close this time, for Israel and her people, we came close to total defeat."

"I disagree, David," this said robustly by the man standing by the window, his back to them both. Moshe Dayan, Minister of Defence making a, not unexpected, defence of his own strategy. He continued, his voice raised, "They made gains yes, but they were never going to win, and in that event, we always had the nuclear option."

Elazar shot back quickly, although his voice was still soft, "I don't know how you can say this, how could we use this option? This nuclear? The world would have turned its back on us. I say that without Sharon's victory all would have gone against us."

"Besides which," said Golda Meir, "the world doesn't yet know about our nuclear capacity and it is our policy to ensure that situation remains for as long as possible."

"Exactly," said Elazar.

"We won," said Dayan, his voice heavy with disdain, "because we were always going to win."

"If you had....." began Elazar.

"Gentlemen, please," the woman interjected quietly; out-ranking them both, she had no need to raise her voice, "the war is over."

Both men turned in deference to their Prime Minister as she continued smoothly, "I have been speaking with some of our main political and economic supporters and we are in agreement, the conduct of the war has lessons for the military and those lessons will be learned."

She looked meaningfully at Dayan, then continued with scarcely a pause, "Our concern and the concern of future leaders should revolve around the global impact."

"Israel has reasserted herself," said Dayan, steadfastly ignoring any implied criticism about lessons to be learned, "we are still a powerful, global force."

"I have to agree with Moshe," said Elazar, his voice betraying how unlikely a scenario this was, "although we came close to losing, we are still here and the world has learned to recognise the superiority of our forces, if not our tactics."

Golda Meir persisted, "There is a bigger picture, one that I have been forced to encompass in my thinking. Here in Israel we were not so aware of the effect of the OPEC sanctions, but in the West and in Europe particularly, I am told the impact has been quite devastating."

Both men shook their heads; the impact on the West a small thing compared to the fate of their beloved country. Elazar spoke quietly for both of them, "It is Israel that nearly died."

"Of course that is true, David, however, I am told the consequences for the West were extreme, and therein lies both our weakness and our strength."

Dayan and Elazar looked confused.

This time it was Moshe Dayan who spoke, "We won this war. By the time they try again we will be so powerful that they will be slaughtered in the deserts."

"I am not talking of another war," said the Prime Minister, her voice steady and resolute. "We are weakened by the threat the OPEC countries hold over the West, can you not see that? When OPEC reduced oil production it brought the West to their knees; power cuts, inflation, strikes. A myriad list of reasons why the West will one day turn its back on Israel."

"Then we need to ensure our intelligence is of a high standard," said Dayan, "assassinate any who are planning to attack us or affect oil production."

Golda shook her head. Her smile was tolerant of the fiery man, nonetheless her voice took on a firm, lecturing tone, "Peak Oil is the term given to the efficiency of the world's oil wells, Moshe. When maximum efficiency is reached in every field and world demand exceeds supply then we will be in the situation recently experienced where shortages will begin to influence Western political decisions related to the whole of the Middle East."

"That sounds like a nightmare scenario," said Elazar. "No right-minded leader would risk his premiership for the sake of another country. It's the end of Israel."

"It's not imminent, David. We have decades before that point is reached so we have time to plan."

"What do we do?" demanded Dayan, "We can't put oil where none exists. We can't sit here and wait for that day."

"It is simple, Moshe. Before it becomes an issue we must have destroyed the capability of our enemies to wage war. Furthermore, we must control their oil fields. That way we ensure our allies remain such."

"The world won't allow us to do that," said Elazar.

"No need, David, we will get an in depth report in the coming weeks but the thinking is that we get the Americans and the UN to do it for us."

"How? Why would they do that for us?" asked Elazar.

Golda smiled, "It is feasible if we think along the following lines; America allows its people to hold dual citizenship, yes?"

She waited for their nods of agreement before continuing, "So over the next 20 to 30 years we must ensure that as many Israelis as possible rise to positions of power within the US political and economic establishment. Once we've achieved that we will be able to dictate their foreign policy."

"Impossible," said Dayan.

She ignored his interruption, "We must ensure that there is an Israeli lobby group in every western democracy. We must back all sides in an election, that way whoever wins will be beholden to our supporters."

"Now that is possible," said Elazar, his expression musing.

"Imperative," she said, "if Israel is to survive."

"But even America cannot declare war on the Arab nations, the world wouldn't stand for it," said Dayan, "the Russians would go to war over it."

"All things are possible," she demurred, "as long as we make sure that America is seen as the victim and any response is by way of self defence."

"This cannot be done," said Dayan.

"It can be," said Elazar, "if approached from the right angle."

Golda Meir continued firmly, "We must gain complete control of the media, both Hollywood and their news outlets."

"That way we could pull all the strings from here," said Elazar. He was pacing now, excitement in his voice.

"But how do you make the US appear a victim to the entire world?" asked Dayan, "She is a super power and no-one can possibly hurt her."

"People will believe what we want them to," said the Prime Minister, her voice steely.

Elazar agreed readily, "It's worked in the past. We just need a workable plan, one that is adaptable to any situation."

"And one so unbelievable it will never be questioned," added Golda Meir, "for the bigger the lie...."

"The more they will believe it," said Dayan.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers for reading

Arun

21 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

The Award Ceremony
A man who won't die for something is not fit to live.
Martin Luther King

Clay woke early; he lay still for a few moments and allowed himself the luxury of thinking about Sandra. His thoughts were dark. She’d been a distraction he hadn’t prepared for, a promise of something his life choice didn’t include. He threw aside his bedcovers abruptly, shaking himself out of regret and what might have been into the present and his elected path.

He went into his stretches, enjoying the wake-up call to muscles and brain, then worked through his favourite TKD patterns, and finally executed a simple, fast and fluid routine until he had worked up a light sweat.

He showered long and hard, finishing with the real awakener, the blast of cold water he’d learned to appreciate as a boy. He ate a light breakfast whilst watching key parts of his favourite film, a re-mastered copy of Zulu Dawn .

Finally he put on his dress uniform, taking particular care, and then left for his last journey to Whitehall.

“Ah Clayton,” said Clive Gilbert, assistant to the secretary of Sir Ian Tomlinson, “how’re you, old chap? This is a big day for you, eh?”

Just the person you want to see on your final day on earth; Clay smiled without showing teeth and nodded. He didn’t like Clive, thought him a creep, a chap who’d do anything to get on.

“Listen, I saw Sir Ian earlier,” said Clive.

From this Clay inferred that Clive had been instructed by Sir Ian’s secretary. Clay couldn’t understand why Clive had to be such a pompous arse, nobody expected or believed that Sir Ian would talk to Clive, in fact he probably didn’t even know Clive’s name if he even knew he existed.

“He said that he and Sir Phillip Blackmore had been called away,”

“By Sir Phillip, I think you mean my father,” said Clay tiredly.

“Yes, of course,” said Clive, “Sir Ian and your father have been called away but they will try to make the ceremony.”

“Of course,” said Clay, “matters of state always come first.”

Clay had known his father wouldn’t be there, they had agreed it would be too dangerous and had concocted a fictitious meeting to explain his absence. This meeting would overrun, he would be late leaving and, therefore, late for the ceremony. They had said their goodbyes already.

He made his way to his father’s office and waited until the allotted time for him to leave, then he took the chauffeur driven ride to Buck House. They drove through the iron gates, under the arch and stopped outside the entrance; Clay got out and made his way along the red carpet to the waiting area where he was joined by four burly security guards.

He closed his eyes briefly; preparing mentally for his mission.

He felt a searing pain in his back and fell to the floor.

He tried to get up but his limbs weren’t working, he jerked in spasm, he couldn’t make much out, he just saw feet. As he rolled someone kicked him in the back, then in the stomach. He slowly realised he had been Tasered. He tried to get up and was Tasered again, then someone kicked him in the head and he lost consciousness.



The Spider’s Web

The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men, gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, for promis'd joy!
Robert Burns

Clay sat in the corner of his cell; he was naked, again naked, the wound he’d patched with butterfly plasters had held its own; he had a new cut over his left eye.

He was bruised and bleeding, as well as cold and confused. He kept going over what had happened; going over it again and again. He had been so careful; he had maintained his cover the whole time. He knew Sir Phillip would’ve kept his own counsel. They’d been so careful to keep the details between them; how had they slipped up? What had gone wrong? His mind turned from one thought to another, perhaps they hadn’t slipped up. Perhaps this was something else.

He had to be careful, careful not to say anything. He could be here for any number of reasons, it could be some sort of insane test or some new mission neither of them had anticipated, but then it could just be that he had been careless somehow, somewhere along the way. He would have to wait and see, wait until the real questioning started. Up until now they had just been toying with him, asking the usual, his name, why he was at Buck House, where was his father, nothing to indicate what they were really after.

The door opened and he was beaten again, although not with much vigour and dragged out of the cell. This time it was to a different room, more spacious, cleaner, with a two-way, a desk, and chairs. He was pushed into one of the chairs; hand cuffed again, this time in front of his body rather than behind. ‘Now we get to it’ he thought, stiffening in anticipation.

Seven minutes later, the adrenalin had faded away; he’d been left alone, shivering in the chair. He recognised the time period as one he’d used before; five minutes was not enough to create the right level of anxiety, after seven minutes they were really stretched emotionally. The real cruelty came with the knowledge that in the back of their mind lingered this hope that somehow, and they never explained to themselves how, but somehow you’d forgotten them, they always thought you’d forgotten them, crazy. He shook his head slowly, knowing the psychology behind it didn’t make it easier to deal with and that was a new fact for him to absorb.

The door opened and Rob Spencer walked in. He was one of Clay’s oldest friends and Clay’s heart lifted. Then he crushed the hope; Rob wasn’t here as a friend but as the tough bastard Clay had come to respect when they roomed and later served together, one who enjoyed this part of his work far too much.

“Hello Clayton,”

“What happened to Clay?”

“Ah well,” said Rob, his face made comical with regret, “we have to be professional, don’t we. But don’t think this isn’t going to be a bit difficult for me as well.”

“Really?” asked Clay, “I didn’t think anything could put you off your stride.”

“Oh don’t get me wrong,” said Rob, “I’ll do what I have to do and by the numbers, but I really never expected to see you on the other end of it.”

“Neither did I,” answered Clay, “but here we are.”

“Yes.”

“By the way,” said Clay, “Why are we here? I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but I was sure I was on my way to receive a commendation for the biggest terrorist coup in history.” He smiled easily despite his nakedness; the epitome of cool, “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Ah,” said Rob, “but that’s it, isn’t it, understanding.”

“Bit cryptic, Rob,” said Clay, “look, can I get some clothes; I’m a tad cold here.”

Rob smirked then looked towards the two-way, “Someone get him a blanket; I don’t want to sit looking at his bollocks all day.”

“Cup of coffee and something to eat?”

“Don’t push it,” said Rob. He waited for a bit then addressed the two-way again, “And bring him a cup of coffee.”

“So why are we here?” asked Clay.

Rob raised his eyebrows, his whole face a mocking question mark.

“I mean, I know we’re here to torture me,” said Clay, “that’s fairly obvious, but why?”

“We’ll get to that Clay, my old son,” said Rob, “but first we need to clear up one or two details.”

The blanket and coffee arrived, Rob waited until the officer had left before continuing.

“What exactly was this mission you’ve been on?” asked Rob.

“You know that,” said Clay, “it’s documented, it was an official op and you’ve got the paperwork there in front of you.” He indicated the folder Rob had placed on the desk between them.

“Yes, of course,” said Rob, “locate and infiltrate the Black Hands,” he continued, making a mock-scary face, “thing is Clay, how did you know where to go to find them?”

“I didn’t,” said Clay.

“But you got yourself sent to Boro, which is where they just happened to be.”

“I didn’t ‘get myself sent to Boro’ as you put it, that just happened to be where they put me. Besides, mine wasn’t the only op on the go” he nodded towards the folder again, “it’s there in the record.”

“Oh yes, that’s right,” said Rob, “10 undercovers set in motion to try and flush out the ‘Black Hands’ and it’s all right here….Liverpool, Brum, Boro, Toontown, the Mancs...” He flicked through the paperwork solemnly, “yep, you are right …all the usual suspects, all present and correct.”

Clay sipped his coffee, trying for a convincing level of relaxed, trying to read Rob’s tone and the heavy use of ‘right’ that somehow sounded all wrong.

“So how’d you manage to win their trust?”

‘Shit,’ thought Clay, can’t mention Sandra or they’ll have her too, “I don’t know, just good at what I do, I s’pose”

“Come on, Clay,” said Rob, “you must’ve had something going on; why else would they trust you? Why would they let you into their little inner circle?”

“I guess they found out I could fight,” said Clay.

Rob frowned, “That you could fight?”

“Well it was an accident really,” said Clay, “but I beat up their muscle.”

“You beat up their muscle?” questioned Rob, this was either news to him or he was a better actor than Clay would’ve given him credit for.

“Yeah,” said Clay, “bit of luck really, these boys tried it on and I smacked them, it kind of impressed the leader of the Hands and he invited me in to teach them to fight.”

“So he told you straight off then, er this Donald Coogan chap, he told you straight off that he was the Leader of the Black Hands.”

“No,” said Clay, “no, he just said they’d had issues with the local police and it would be useful if they could handle themselves.”

“Right?” said Rob, “nothing to do with dating this Donald’s daughter then?”

Clay sighed and closed his eyes lightly, “Okay, I was seeing his daughter, but she’s not involved with them.”

“Well, we’ll have to make that decision, won’t we, Clay,” said Rob.

“She’s not,” stressed Clay, “Look Rob, what’s this all about? Why am I here? You clearly have the op details and you obviously know more than you’re letting on. I managed to infiltrate the Hands, and yeah the girl helped, but the important thing is a) she doesn’t know anything about it and b) I caught the leader and his team.”

“Well, that’s the problem, Clay,” said Rob “Did you?”

“What?”

“Did you catch the leader of the Black Hands and his black-hearted men?”

“Where are you going with this, Rob? Are you suggesting I faked it?” he laughed, trying for a light note, “What? I faked the whole deal for promotion and a medal?”

“Stranger things have happened,” answered Rob.

“Ah, come on, Rob,” said Clay, “you know I wouldn’t do that, just check with my father, he was there at the interrogations, he heard the confession, he knows we had the leader of the Hands, just ask him.”

“Well and there’s the rub…I can’t,” said Rob, “You see….” He pulled a picture from the folder, studied it for a bit then slid it across the table to Clay. Clay stared down at the picture of a naked man, clearly dead; the torso completely blackened from bruising, the face battered almost unrecognisable. He noted the small cuts, open wounds, drill holes, burns, and clear indications of broken bones. He stared; imprinting the indignities that had been suffered into his brain.

“We did ask him but he proved … difficult,” said Rob, “and before we’d got any satisfactory answers…” he opened his hands out and semi-shrugged “… his heart gave out.”

Clay continued to stare at the picture, spoke without looking up “You realise I’ll kill you for this” the words quiet and without emotion

“This wasn’t my handy work” said Rob, “I’m surprised at you. I’d never have let him die before I had all the information I wanted, you know that.”

Clay shook his head, “But why?”

“Look Clay,” said Rob, “there really is no point in continuing with this facade, we know everything, we just need you to confess to it, that’s all, now why don’t you save us all some time and let’s face it, the unnecessary aggravation of all that,” he waved his hand towards the picture, “…stuff, unnecessary in your case I’m sure.”

“Ha,” said Clay, “We both know this is going to happen, whatever I say.”

Rob grinned, “Of course it is, can’t be too careful, can we?” Clay finished his coffee. “But look, I want to show you something, make things a little clearer to you maybe.”

He stood up and nodded towards the two-way, pulled over one of the chairs, placing it equidistant between Clay and his own chair then sat back down. They waited a few minutes then the door opened, Clay’s jaw dropped.

“I thought you’d like this,” said Rob.

Donald walked in, moved to the spare chair and sat down. He smiled comfortably, all relaxed and bonhomie.

“Surprised?”

“Let me introduce,” said Rob, “agent 459, or Donald as you knew him ….”

“A sleeper,” said Clay under his breath.

“Yes,” said Rob, “that’s it exactly. He’d been in Boro for 20 years, his job... well you can better describe your job eh, 459.”

Donald grinned, “Of course,” He smiled benignly at Clay, “you know what, I owe you so much Terry, sorry … Clay.”

“You bastard” Clay moved angrily in his chair and Donald leaned away slightly, relaxing again when he noted the hand cuffs.

“I’d been in that god forsaken hole for 20 years, 20 years? Can you imagine that? What a god awful posting, what a shit job, then along you come, and to think I was going to shop you right from the off, I’m so-o-o glad I didn’t, I’m so glad I let Sand persuade me to let you in.”

“Sandra knew?” asked Clay.

“Knew what?” asked 459, “Oh you mean about me, no they don’t know. In fact, and this will really surprise you … I’m not actually their real father.” He laughed at Clay’s expression, “Not the only one who can pretend to be what they’re not, eh!” He paused a moment, his timing was perfect; “I’ll tell you something else since it won’t go out of this room - they’re not even brother and sister. They picked two kids with brown eyes, god knows where they got ‘em from and gave them to me as part of my cover, simple.”

“And Darren, where’d you find him?” Clay had been duped, blinded by lust or love, something he should’ve been immune to, had bought into the family scene; now he was in danger of losing himself in a welter of self loathing.

“Oh, yeah, Darren…” Donald grinned, “well I’m not a monk, am I...his mum died having him, so what could I do?”

“Yeah, what could he do?” echoed Rob, his eyes on Clay.

“Bet you want to know what happened, don’t you,” smirked 459. “Of course you do, well when I got picked up by you lot my handler started a search. And despite me being in that ‘safe’ house as we’d agreed, would you believe it, they found me.”

“Thanks to the wonders of modern science,” said Rob, by way of explanation and keeping the conversation going, “we now know where everyone is in the country, all the time.” He tapped his forearm, locating his chip with the second tap.

“Which was really lucky,” said 459, “because when they came for me I was able to blow your little scheme to pieces.” He glanced down at the photo on the table, “Looks like he got one thing right though - torture and heart attacks, eh?”

Clay sat very still.

“And you got a promotion in the process, didn’t you, Donald” Rob was nodding to Clay, an encouraging nod, a ‘get the point’ nod, Clay, here’s the man who caused the ruin of the grand plan, here’s the cause of your father’s painful death, not me, him.

“Right,” said 459, “and no more Boro.”

“And to think I quite liked you, Donald” Clay spoke, almost absently.

“Nothing pers…”

Clay had begun moving on the word Donald; he was out of his chair and across the table with the palm of his right hand arcing towards Donald’s mouth, striking him just above the top lip and driving the bone back and upwards into Donald’s brain before Donald had finished speaking.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Clay sat back down, his breathing returning to normal as he leaned back, nodding at Rob “Thank you for the opportunity”

“Happy to oblige, Clay old son,” said Rob, nodding, impressed at the speed he remembered from training, still a speed he could only dream of, “just think of it as an early Christmas present.”

Cheers for reading

Arun




More books in the 'Corpalism' series















Compendium editions