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

Suddenly

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

John F. Kennedy


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

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

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

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

“No,” said Peter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know but it was the traffic….”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

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

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

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

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

≈ ≈

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“But you can’t do that!”

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

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

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

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

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

“What!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

≈ ≈

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not any more it’s not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well I manage.”

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

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

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

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

≈ ≈

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

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

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

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

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

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

≈ ≈

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

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

“No.”

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

“Police hospitality,” replied Terry.

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

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

“But you said….”

“Never mind,” replied Terry.

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

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

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

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

“You fell?”

“I fell.”

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

“Well, it’s what I’m saying now.”

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

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

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

“No, I didn’t.”

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

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

“Where did you fall?”

“In the shower.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

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

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

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

“Yes,” said Terry.

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

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

“And 25 years social labour.”

“What!”

“25 years social labour,” repeated Debby.

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

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

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

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

“But how do I live?” asked Terry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Interest?” he squeaked.

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

Terry sneered and made a mock laugh.

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Jones.”

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

“Mr. Jones.”

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

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

“Poor employee!” shouted Terry.

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

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

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

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

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

“I worked hard,” snapped Terry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Terry pulled a fake grin.

≈ ≈

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Welcome to ‘Boro



As with a game of patience your life is predetermined,

The only variable is in how you play the game.

Author



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

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

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

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

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

“Are you fuckin’ deaf?”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, Jimmy, that’s ’im.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

≈ ≈

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

≈ ≈

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

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

“Yeah go on Mister.”

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

“Please Mister.”

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

“Go on Mister.”

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

“Why not, Mister?”

“We’re good students.”

“We won’t give you any trouble.”

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

≈ ≈

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

“Door was open.”

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

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

“It was.”

“Oh come on mister.”

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

≈ ≈

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

“Come on Mister.”

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

≈ ≈

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, Darren, your Sandra.”

“She won’t do it.”

“Yeah she will.”

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

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

“No, she won’t.”

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

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

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

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

≈ ≈

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

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

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

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

“Hello Terry.”

“Er…would you like to come in??”

≈ ≈

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

“Shut it Darren.”

“You so did not, Darren.”



Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun






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