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

Extract below

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

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

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

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

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

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

∞

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

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

“No.”

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

“Police hospitality,” replied Terry.

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

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

“But you said….”

“Never mind,” replied Terry.

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

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

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

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

“You fell?”

“I fell.”

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

“Well, it’s what I’m saying now.”

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

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

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

“No, I didn’t.”

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

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

“Where did you fall?”

“In the shower.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

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

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

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

“Yes,” said Terry.

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

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

“And 25 years social labour.”

“What!”

“25 years social labour,” repeated Debby.

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

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

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

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

“But how do I live?” asked Terry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Interest?” he squeaked.

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

Terry sneered and made a mock laugh.

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Jones.”

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

“Mr. Jones.”

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

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

“Poor employee!” shouted Terry.

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

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

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

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

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

“I worked hard,” snapped Terry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Debby pulled a fake grin.

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

Terry pulled a fake grin.

∞

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun







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