47 Random

Fragments of
Unauthorised Hope and Despair

Paul Cudenec
 winteroak.org.uk

Copyright © 2023 Paul Cudenec. The

author formally retains copyright over
this work but permits non-commercial
reproduction or distribution
 “Somehow you will fail. Something
will defeat you. Life will defeat you.”

Winston Smith to his torturers in George

Orwell’s ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’.
 2023 PREFACE

An England of curfews, timed travel restrictions,

limits on the number of people that can gather
for a party in a private home...

All of that must have seemed utterly absurd 17

years ago, which is maybe why I was unable to
find anyone willing to turn this work into a book.

In those pre-Winter Oak days, the only option

was to post it on the website of a rabble-rousing
local newsletter, where it remained until the site
disappeared.

Today, re-reading 47 Random Fragments of

Unauthorised Hope and Despair, the aspects that
seem most unreal to me are those which at the
time reflected my real life.

I hear the distant voice of a previous me, who

was a married man, living in Sussex, England,
and working as a professional journalist.

On the other hand, the nightmare future I

described is uncannily familiar, as the Covid
softening-up turns into a full-spectrum 2020s
techno-totalitarian coup, in which we are to be

i
herded into smart prisons under the false flag of
fighting climate change.

Random Fragments was no prophecy, of course.

Many of the details have not come true:
“universal compulsory dream-monitoring” still
does not seem to be a thing, for instance...

More generally, I envisaged the post-9/11

“terrorism” bugbear still being the system’s fear-
weapon of choice, rather than viruses or the
weather.

Rather than predicting anything, I was merely

extending into a fictional future a process that I
had watched unfolding over the years and which
the likes of Aldous Huxley and George Orwell
had already identified many decades previously.

This future is described by means of "fragments"

written in different styles and from different
imagined perspectives.

While most take the vantage point of those

subjected, and standing up, to the tyrannical
system, others are presented in the words of the
oppressors, occasionally with dark irony.

Several showcase the insidious role of journalists

in normalising this corporate-totalitarian

ii
dystopia and in discrediting dissidents.

Fragment 40, for instance, consists mainly of an

imagined sneering description of pro-freedom
protesters by the kind of smart-alec pseudo-leftie
sell-out hack often to be found writing for the
likes of The Guardian and Time Out.

A great sense of sadness imbues the book, a

sadness that is also a kind of suffocation, a
feeling that the walls are slowly but surely
closing in on human freedom, with most people
seemingly unaware of what is happening.

This is most plainly expressed in Fragment 11,

when a man has to carefully disable a sensor in
his own (smart-style) home in order to break "the
laws on window-opening" and taste the fresh air
he is being denied by his artificially-controlled
environment.

"He couldn’t breathe", I wrote, and the meaning

was broad.

If that piece belongs to those which provide the

despair in the title, there is also plenty of fuel for
hope.

This is mainly presented in the form of ordinary

people’s courage in refusing to obey the system’s

iii
diktats, in testing the actual limits of its
apparent total control by just saying ‘no’.

There is Jack, who defies an authoritarian

satnav to spend a glorious moment in the
forbidden countryside; Katrina, who dares to
deny the official historical ‘truth’ that people
have always been microchipped; Jon, a
newspaper editor who risks his career by
changing two weasel words in a Central
Information press release; Oliver, who unplugs
his VR pod to remember the stars.

But the hope also takes the form of a faith in the

power of collective memory, the knowledge that
propaganda and censorship will never destroy
truth in the human heart.

I felt that I was living in a time of blindness and

ignorance in which the best I could do was to try
to pass the baton, as it were, onto future
generations, to help keep the spark of freedom
alight, even if it was not about to roar into flame.

This is symbolized in the final fragment when a

fearful and law-abiding citizen, burning
unauthorised literature he has found in his attic,
accidently lets a small piece of scorched paper,
bearing the remains of the word “liberty”, fly
away on the breeze.

iv
It lands in a nearby garden where a little girl
picks up it and puts it carefully away in a special
wooden box in case it “might somehow prove
useful one far-off future day”.

Has that day now come?

Paul Cudenec, Occitanie, March 2023

v
 1

A long, long, time ago children’s laughter filled

the morning air.

They babbled, they shrieked, they sang, they

skipped, they ran.

The joyful hubbub echoed all around the houses

and the old people in their kitchens smiled to
themselves as they heard it.

Then a bell rang. Once. Twice. Thrice.

The children stopped still in their tracks. Their

games and their shared worlds of magic
evaporated into nothing.

Young faces turned down to the shadows that

had swallowed their smiles. Silence engulfed
them all.

One boy sat huddled in the corner of the yard,

gazing defiantly away through the fence towards
the Downs beyond.

But even he knew, deep inside, that his refusal

could change nothing.

Playtime was over.

1
 2

A 42 year old man has been found guilty of

stealing fruit.

Kevin Tyler from Bognor Regis was observed, by

satellite, taking and consuming blackberries
from the roadside near Arundel, West Sussex,
magistrates at Chichester were told.

Tyler was fined £500, ordered to pay £50

compensation to hedgerow owners Globartis plc
and banned from entering within five metres of
any blackberry plant between the months of July
and September for the next six years.

2
 3

The system didn’t like it when Jack turned off

the motorway at an exit signposted “Lancing”.

“Navigational error, navigational error!” it

whined in its irritatingly inhuman take on an
already irritating female American voice.
“Departure from recommended route! Departure
from recommended route! Your estimated time of
arrival is now delayed by two minutes. Take
second exit on roundabout 40 metres ahead to
regain recommended itinerary.”

Jack took the third exit and it gave him the same
shit all over again, except now he was at least 30
minutes late.

If only he could turn the fucking thing off. Or

even down. But there was no way – not in a
company car, at least.

Jack wasn’t worried about the time this

afternoon. He didn’t have to be in Southampton
for the sales conference until four. The system
didn’t know that, of course, which is why it was
panicking.

Now he was off the main road, he could slow

down a bit and take in the beauty of the Sussex
summer.

3
Clouds billowed peacefully in the mesmerising
blue sky. Fields were emerging between the
housing estates as he drew away from the
motorway and onto the Downs. There were even
clusters of trees that were on their way to
looking like small woods.

There was a sharp right curve ahead of him now

and he braked on the approach. As he did so, he
noticed that while the road veered round at this
point, there was still in fact a way straight ahead
– a small shaded lane, whose surface was dark
and dusty-looking, as if it had been undisturbed
for many years. And it looked very inviting.

Jack glanced up at the System Display, but there

was nothing shown on its map except the big
bend in the road.

Oh what the fuck, he thought, then he braked

and bumped off onto the little lane, all ruts of
dried mud and chalky rocks.

Seconds later, the system caught up with him.

“Illegal manoeuvre! You have completed an
illegal manoeuvre! Please return to the
recognised highway. You have completed an
illegal manoevre.”

Jack tried to ignore its nagging and concentrated

on negotiating a fallen branch lying across the
lane. It started up again, clearly irked that he
had driven it beyond the edge of its known
universe. “I repeat, you have committed an

4
illegal manoeuvre. Your manoeuvre is illegal,
repeat illegal. Return to the recognised highway
at once!”.

Jack sighed and stopped the car. He opened the

door, leant out and picked up the first large stone
he saw. Then he smashed it into the speaker
time and time again until he was sure it would
say no more. He drove on. The lane was climbing
now. Up into the Downs. Up into the real world
that had been hidden from him by the system.
He wound down the windows and let the smell of
thyme and the summer songs of the birds flow
around him.

Soon the trees thinned out and the road surface

became drier and whiter. And soon it was not
enough for Jack to be seeing and breathing and
hearing the Downs. He had to touch them. He
stopped his car and as he walked away from it he
did not look back, for he knew it did not belong
there.

He walked up the lane, he climbed over a gate

with a notice warning that access was totally
prohibited, staggered into the centre of the
grassy field and turned for the first time. He
could see the woods below him, the houses he
had passed, the shimmering trail of the
motorway and, beyond it the coastal urban strip
and then the sea.

He fell back onto the sweet, soft grass, gazed up

into the azure with his hand shading his eyes
from the sun and waited for the whine of sirens

5
or the rumble of the helicopter that they would
be sending out to drag him away.

6
 4

Alison got the phone call the night before Jamie’s

birthday.

“Good evening, is that Mrs Godwin?” enquired a

female voice.

Alison confirmed that this was so.

“Hello Mrs Godwin, I’m calling from Sunshine

Insurance in connection with your Household
and Family ‘Sit Back and Relax’ Economy Cover
Package...”

“Yes...?”

“It’s come to our attention, Mrs Godwin, that

earlier today you purchased 20 balloons, two
packs of goody bags and a large number of
assorted confectionery items... is that correct,
Mrs Godwin?”

“Well, yes, it is, but how...?”

“It’s standard industry tie-in procedure, Mrs

Godwin, and basically I’m just making a courtesy
call to make sure you’re not planning on staging
any kind of party or other celebration to mark
what is, I believe, your second oldest child’s sixth

7
birthday tomorrow – is that correct Mrs
Godwin?”

“Well...” Alison spluttered, quite disorientated.

“Well, yes, it’s Jamie’s birthday but we’re not
doing anything unusual or dangerous – just a
few of his little friends round and...”

“You are aware, Mrs Godwin, that under the

terms of your package you are not insured
against liability for accident or injury occurring
to visitors to your home numbering more than six
on any one occasion and, furthermore, that under
the new Criminal Liability Act it is in fact an
offence to stage any such event without having
previously secured appropriate insurance cover?”

“Ummm, no. I wasn’t. I heard about something

like that, now you mention it, but I never
imagined...”

“You would, of course, be liable for prosecution if

you went ahead with an unauthorised
celebration, Mrs Godwin, and we are obliged
under the Act to notify the police of your intent
to commit an offence, but I can offer you the
opportunity to extend your package here and
now so that you are covered for Jamie’s birthday
tomorrow, Mrs Godwin.”

“I, err, well, how much is that, then?”

“We’d be looking, Mrs Godwin, at providing full

liability cover, as required by law, for up to 20

8
guests, plus administration charges and a legal
assistance element – that’s this phone call, Mrs
Godwin – so the total would be an excess of
£1,630 per annum plus a one-off payment of
£199. You’ll find, Mrs Godwin, that this is a very
competitive rate.

“You are, of course, completely free to acquire

insurance elsewhere, but I would point out that
at this late stage you may have difficulty in
arranging this in time and, moreover, we would,
without any evidence of insurance, be obliged to
proceed with our report to the authorities.”

Alison said nothing for a moment. She closed her

eyes and breathed in deeply before speaking.

“Thank you very much, I quite understand the

situation now. I’m afraid we are not in a
financial situation where we can pay for the
cover you are so kindly offering and...”

“We can arrange very reasonable credit terms,

Mrs Godwin.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you can, but I’m afraid we

won’t be extending the cover. We’ll have to cancel
the party.”

“And yes,” she said, interrupting the woman as

she began to speak again, “I do realise you will
have to report me to the police and our domestic
camera output will probably receive a personal
24-hour frame-by-frame scrutiny from the

9
president himself just in case I’m lying to you.
Thank you so much for your help. Goodnight!”

“Bollocks!” said Tony, when she explained it all

to him. “They’re having you on. Nobody’s going to
check up on us for having a kids’ party. They’re
not going to look at our cameras, not for that. I
say carry on. What are they going to do? Fuck
all!”

But Alison wasn’t sure. How could you tell?

10
 5

The sky was entirely blue, with not even a hint of

cloud.

It was hot, too. He took off his leather jacket, but

after a few more seconds still felt stupidly
overdressed.

The warm weather had come fast.

Ten days ago he had been sheltering from frozen

northern winds.

And now this.

The change had taken nature by surprise.

Nothing up here in the woods was growing yet.

The trees were all bare. No, in fact it was even

stranger than that, he realised. One in twenty
was still draped in the brittle dead remnants of
last year’s foliage.

This could almost be autumn.

Or, he mused to himself as his boots kicked up

dust where for months there had been cloying
mud, this could be summer.

11
But a summer where nothing grew, where the
sun reigned in the midday sky, the temperature
soared and nature simply failed to respond,
declined to grow green and lush and ripe.

The last summer.

12
 6

Troublemakers could soon become a thing of the

past, say scientists.

They are reporting they have now isolated the

genes that make some people unruly and anti-
social. The team at Cambridge University has
worked for five years analysing the DNA of
criminals arrested for offences such as
subversion, civil incitement and democratic
denial.

If the government gives its approval, the

knowledge could soon be used for pre-natal
genetic healing of all authorised offspring,
potentially eradicating 90 percent of threats to
stability, security and economic growth by the
start of the next century.

13
 7

Geoff! You all right, mate?

Yeah? Listen, I’ve got to... You’re not going to

believe this, I tell you mate.

Have you got a minute? Yeah? Look, sit down

here, you’ll like this I swear.

Ummm.... I should say before I start that this is

a bit... Well, it’s between you and me, put it this
way.

No, no, mate. Nothing like that. No, Christ. You

know me. You’re all right there.

I just don’t want certain types of people to...

Yeah, exactly.

We’re all right here, aren’t we?

Gotta be, yeah.

Most of them are now, yeah. Bound to be, I

suppose.

Anyway, this has just blown my mind, mate, I

tell you.

14
I... Well,...

What happens is this.

I’m working a drone on the old Shoreham site –

you know the one. We must have started that
when you were still down there.

Yeah, that’s it.

Well, it’s just a totally normal day of sifting,

right?

We’re raking through the corner of this yard,

right, doing particles, solids, air takes and all
that. And it’s all totally fucking toxic. I mean,
you know that, Geoff. The stuff that’s gone on
down there. They wouldn’t even send the robots
in for years.

And it’s been like that the whole time I’ve been
working on it. 80 percent to 90 percent the whole
time. On everything.

I mean, I don’t know why they’re even bothering

with the report. The whole place is just totally...

Yeah, exactly.

Well, I’m just drifting the drone around a bit

when I come across this lump of rock, right up in
the corner, and I decide to shift it out of the way.

15
Don’t ask me why. I could’ve left it, no problem,
but I just fancied it, right? You’ve got to do
something a bit different or you just fall asleep,
right?

So I get the thick arm and roll the rock out of the
way.

Takes a few goes, you know, quite a big lump –

20 or 25 cem – and then I zoom in on what’s
behind it. And this is the bit you won’t believe,
mate.

What do you reckon I see there?

Yeah, the corner. All right, mate. No. Yeah. Very

good.

No, I’ll tell you, Geoff. There is only a fucking

plant growing out of the ground!

Yeah!

Yeah! It’s all green and sticking up right and

everything. One hundred percent alive.

Yeah, I know. I couldn’t, either. Still can’t, to be

honest.

But I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

What?

16
Oh sure, yeah, but that’s as good as. I mean, you
wouldn’t catch me going anywhere near the
sodding place in real life.

I mean, you’d just be fucking dead. Anything

would be. Even bloody bacteria have a tough
time of it down there, know what I mean?

What?

No, they haven’t. Well, I haven’t told them, have

I?

No way, mate. Sod the analysis. They’d have it

out of the ground before you could blink. No way.
Listen, Geoff. Do us a favour. Don’t say anything
about this, will you mate? I shouldn’t have told
you really. I know it’s not fair on you, but I just
had to...

It’s hard to explain, but it sort of seems

important to me. More important than any of the
other stuff that happens.

That great fucking poisonous death-hole and this

tiny little green thing hidden away in the corner
– it’s like a sort of...

Yeah, exactly.

17
 8

Oliver was twisting and turning in the tunnels,

peppering the enemy with bullets as his fuel
reserves sank and the probability ratio of
encountering the final Riddle of Life set by the
Ancient Kings dropped under 1:5 for the first
time.

When a missile crept in from the side, he could

detect the movement out of the very corner of his
eye.

When his scooter took damage from a direct hit,

he could smell the burning.

When he collided with a rock face he could feel

the jarring pain shoot through his whole body.

This wasn’t just playing, he thought to himself.

This was fucking living.

No sooner had this statement taken shape in his

brain than everything stopped. Everything. Total
darkness. Silence. No physical sensation. Except,
wait a second, a faint tingling in his left leg
where he may well have connected himself too
tightly.

He felt for the door catch, released it and pushed

upwards with both arms.

18
To start with, it seemed to make no difference at
all.

But then he found it was not quite pitch black

any more and faint shapes and outlines mapped
out the room and the VR pod into which he was
still very much plugged.

After he’d extricated himself, he tried the light

switches, but nothing happened.

The power had clearly gone.

He moved cautiously towards the window and

lifted the corner of the blind.

Dark out there, too. No street lights. No glow

from any of the other houses.

Oliver had heard about this happening

elsewhere. They said it was terrorists.

At this thought, his blood suddenly ran cold.

Terrorists? Here? They could be in his street!

He couldn’t stop himself dashing out into the hall

to make sure the front door was locked properly.
When he pulled on the door, it came open.

His mouth dropped with surprise. It was well

past curfew. It must have been the loss of
electricity, knocking out the timer or the locking
mechanism.

19
He leant forward gingerly and peered outside
into the darkness, not daring to step too close to
the threshold in case it was interpreted as an
attempt to leave the premises.

To his astonishment, he could see somebody out

there. Two people in fact. No, three. At least.

They didn’t seem to be terrorists, either, as he

could now see more figures wandering out of
their homes from both sides of the street to join
them in the middle. Some were leaning back,
looking up, pointing. What was up there? What
was happening?

He was filled with the desire to go and find out,

but was chained back by the knowledge that
they’d all be caught infra-red-handed flouting the
curfew.

More people! Dozens! Didn’t they care about the

cam...

Oliver suddenly grabbed his boots from beside

the door, shoved them on without bothering to tie
the laces, pulled his jacket from the banister at
the foot of the stairs and pushed the front door
wide open.

He took a deep long draught of the cold clean air

and stepped out onto the pavement.

There was a power cut! The cameras wouldn’t be

working!

20
That’s why there were so many people outside, so
many that even he could find the courage to
break the law, just this once.

As he wandered into the road, he had the idea

that it would be good to go and make contact
with some of these neighbours of his that he’d
hardly ever seen before, let alone spoken to.

But that notion went right out of his head as

soon as he looked up to the sky.

It was not that he was exactly surprised to see

the stars there – he’d made out one or two
through the usual orange murk in the past.

But what he hadn’t reckoned with was to be

suddenly face to face with the universe, to be
toppling on the brink of a billion-mile well of
infinity into which, it seemed as he involuntarily
staggered backwards, he was in danger of
plummeting and spinning and sinking and
soaring for eternity.

The shock was that it was so real. It had always

been there, behind the lights and the fug.

This was the real view from his personal window

onto the galaxies amongst which they lived, a
window through which he was now looking for
the first time in his life.

He looked up at the stars until his neck hurt and

then he looked again and some more besides,

21
trying to swallow and digest every last second of
this encounter with truth.

And it seemed he had barely started to wonder at

it all when, at a stroke, it was gone.

The darkness was illuminated, the black sky

turned to an orange-grey mess behind the
streetlights and there was nothing to look at
anymore.

Simultaneously, he heard the insanely busy

whirring of the cameras, as they kicked back in
and rotated and zoomed all around him,
anxiously trying to lock in on all those who were
violating the curfew. Oliver, like his neighbours
around him, scampered quickly back indoors.

Everything was bright again in his home and the

VR pod flashed a fully functional welcome across
the room.

But it looked too much like a coffin and he

unplugged it.

Oliver also switched off all the lights in the

house.

And then he lay on the floor, eyes shut, trying to

return to the place he had just been.

22
 9

Sophie kept walking down the street and tried to

think of something else.

She tried to make music play in her head – the

kind they played on the radio in the middle of the
night when she couldn’t sleep, not so much
because Alf wasn’t there as because she knew
she would never find out for sure if he would ever
again fill up the vast empty coldness of their bed
with the warm bulk of his presence.

They were all around her, but she tried not to

look at them and she tried not to look as if she
was trying not to look at them.

She knew she was trying too hard to look as if

she didn’t have to try at all, to look as if she was
completely at ease in a street filled with anti-
terror police and armoured cars and detector
drones. She had no idea why they were all here,
suddenly down her road.

Nobody ever knew why they turned up. It could

be an exercise. It could be a false alarm. They
might have even found some terrorists, in which
case there would no doubt be something on the
TV, not that she hardly looked at it or even
stayed in the living room during compulsory
view-time.

23
The sun reflected off their helmets, their visors,
their machinery and seemed to send piercing
rays of pain directly into her head. It had been
building up all day, despite the medication, and
this was pushing it up to a new level.

Not long now, just ignore them. Think about

eating dinner. Think about having a bath. Relax.

There was someone in front of her on the

pavement. A cop with a sub-machine gun. Head
lowered, she manoeuvred to pass him as quickly
as possible and stepped off the kerb to make the
small necessary diversion.

“Off the street!” bellowed a voice through a

megaphone behind her, just feet away judging
from the shrieking knife-edge volume that
slashed at her headache.

It was at this point, she knew full well, that she

lost it.

The pretence could not be maintained and when

she lifted her face it must have most plainly
betrayed the terrible anger she had been battling
so hard to conceal.

It could have been the standard facial recognition

software. It could have been the new brainwave
monitoring crime prevention stuff that people
had been talking about.

24
Or maybe it was just the look in her eyes as
witnessed by a dozen or more police.

In any case, it was enough to have her arrested

and detained indefinitely for the public’s safety
in a custodial productivity camp.

She was held, in fact, only a few hundred yards

from her husband Alf – although neither of them
were ever aware of this amusing coincidence.

25
 10

He sat and watched the screen. Watched but did

not truly see, for he was waiting.

He was waiting for them to show themselves

again, like they had so long ago.

He was enduring an eternity of jabbering

emptiness, suffocating in a relentless tide of
trivia, but he knew it would be worth it in the
end.

He used to enjoy this stuff, somehow, but not any

more.

Not since they’d flickered onto his screen and

into his consciousness during the World Cup
semi-final against the USA.

The image of their words was still seared into his

visual memory, in the original giant yellow
lettering.

"BELIEVE NOTHING!"" they’d told him,

"QUESTION EVERYTHING!" and then, finally:
"OBEY NOBODY!"

Then they’d crackled and gone. Everything

carried on as before. Nobody had ever mentioned

26
the words. Perhaps they were only meant for
him.

He had to wait for them. He had to wait for them

to come back and tell him what to do now.

27
 11

He knew he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep.

He knew he had to do it again, despite the risk.

Otherwise he’d go mad.

He carefully manoeuvred his way out of the bed

so as not to disturb Helen.

Then he crept as silently as his creaking old

limbs would take him, out onto the landing and
round to what they both still referred to as
Robbie’s room.

His stuff was long gone now, after all those self-
deceiving years of pretending to believe that
“missing in action” didn’t really mean “blown
into tiny pieces of mincemeat” and that one day
he might triumphantly disembark off the slow
boat from China and reclaim his territory and
belongings.

Only one reminder of his existence remained in

the room, a faded and curled poster of that
Molena chap, the footballer Robbie had liked so
much when he was little.

Molena himself had signed the poster at some

charity appearance – but the pen Robbie had
passed him hadn’t worked properly and the

28
autograph was an inkless impression that Robbie
alone had seemed able to identify and appreciate
for many years afterwards – right up, in fact, to
the day that...

The thought was banished before it overwhelmed

him and he focused harder on what he was doing,
which was lifting the corner of the Molena poster
and removing a small lump of adhesive putty
that held it on the wall.

He rolled it between his fingers as he moved over

to the window.

This was the difficult part. You had to place the

putty over the sensor at the same time as you
opened the window.

Otherwise it’d all go off and before you knew it

the house would be surrounded.

As he began to open the window, his fingers

slipped and for a moment it seemed he would
drop the putty completely. But he recovered, held
the window in a safe position and completed the
operation successfully.

The moment the window was ajar, a flood of

sweet fresh air filled his nose and mouth and
spread deliciously through every vein in his body.

He took an even deeper breath, still standing by

the window. And another.

29
It was hard to argue against the laws on window-
opening. There obviously was a huge security
risk attached, with the cost to the community of
any resulting call-out.

And, as they said, with today’s controlled

domestic environment, there should be no need
for open windows.

Plus, of course, it did adversely affect the

operation and efficiency of the air conditioning,
wasting his money and public resources, as well
as contributing to environmental degradation.

But still...

He stood with his eyes shut, bathing in the

concentrated freshness flowing straight into his
face from the night outside, straight off the hills,
just a dozen miles from the sea.

In a minute he’d go back to bed, leaving the

window partly open behind him. By the time he
reached his bedroom, the airflow would have got
there too and he would be soothed and rippled
into the floating sleep he so craved.

In the morning he would simply slip round here

again, while Helen was in the bathroom, and seal
it all up, as he had already done a dozen times
before.

30
He turned to go and there was Helen in the
doorway, eyebrows distorted into a frown of
comic-book proportions.

“What are you doing?” she half-mouthed, half-

whispered with such ferocity that it was clear
she would have loved to have screamed the
words at him at the top of her voice, were it not
for the microphones and the inevitability of
setting off the very alarm she wished to avoid.

He shrugged. She could see full well what he was

doing.

She stepped closer and pointed furiously,

indicating without ambiguity that she expected
him to seal up the window he’d only just opened.

What could he do? There was no way round this.

Helen would sooner report him to the authorities
than risk finding herself associated with
unauthorised activity.

He closed the window and, clasping the little soft

ball of putty secretively in his hand, followed
Helen back to the bedroom and between the
sheets.

She turned her back to him in her fury and he

had no idea if she was sleeping or not.

He certainly wasn’t.

31
The fresh air was soon exhaled from his lungs
and that unbearable feeling returned.

Thoughts crept into his head that he could no

longer banish.

Images of Robbie as a young lad, calling out for

him, arms outstretched, but slipping ever further
out of reach into a black void.

Muttering voices, electric pangs of never-buried

guilt, heavy traumas of despair and futility piled
up on top of him as he lay there, suffocated and
humiliated him.

He squeezed harder on the putty.

He couldn’t breathe.

32
 12

It was freezing cold as well as pouring with rain.

There was no way I could go ahead with my
usual walk around the town.

And yet, what else was there? I was hardly going

to hang around at the work centre, enduring 45
minutes of stagnating, airless, neon-illuminated
nothingness, punctuated only by the inane
babble of my fellow associates and inevitably cut
short by an urgent inquiry from managerial level
well before the conclusion of my allotted rest-
time.

I stepped back, without thinking, under the

frontage of some office or other and set off the
sensors, which informed me I was trespassing on
private property and if I did not vacate the area
within 30 seconds I would liable to prosecution
under the blah blah blah Act.

Pulling my very non-waterproof jacket closer

around my neck to shut out the streams of water
trying to sneak under my shirt, I knew it was
going to have to be the Sunshine Centre.

Even as I entered the mall, and my chip beeped

contact with the doorway monitor, I wanted to
get out. The soothing, semi-audible background
music, the hint of artificial coffee aroma and
toxic plastic flavouring, the dead air-conditioned

33
atmosphere that was perfect for the brain-dead
conditioned consumers who breathed it in – all of
this was poison to me.

I walked into a newsagent’s and confectionery

chain just inside the entrance. I knew exactly
what I had to do and bought one packet of gum,
guaranteed 100 percent taste-free.

Then I headed for the very furthest end, to a

rather obscured door tucked away beyond the
lingerie and v-sex boutique.

The staircase still smelled new, even though the

centre was a few years old now. Everybody used
the lifts and escalators.

I went up two flights, almost to the top level,

which was quieter than the others because not
all the units were let.

I stepped onto the last landing before the top and

sat down.

This was perfect. It was dry here; clean, quiet

and at last I could do what I had been aching to
do – nothing.

I would say I was thinking, but even that

wouldn’t have been true. It was not as conscious
or structured as that, nor as fanciful or
entertaining as day-dreaming.

34
There I sat in my nothingness-bliss, tucked up in
the corner of the stairwell for a length of time
that was as invaluable as it was inevitably short.

The two security guards burst in through the

door at the top level, which took me by surprise. I
had expected to hear them coming up the steps
from the bottom. They must have used the lift or
the escalator, like everyone else.

Needless to say, they wanted to know what I was

doing in the Sunshine Centre and, needless to
say, my packet of gum did not entirely mollify
them.

Too small a spend and too long ago, they told me

after checking my chip.

I had no reason to still be on the premises. What

was I doing hiding in here?

I told them I wasn’t hiding, but resting. I said I’d

had trouble breathing because I had come all the
way up the stairs.

They looked at each other from under their

helmets and I knew what they were thinking.
But I’m not like everyone else.

“And which unit in particular were you heading

for, Sir?” asked one of them with a delighted air
of supreme cunning.

35
I told him it was the first one out of the door –
that was why I’d come up this way – save some
time – couldn’t remember its name.

I got away with it. They didn’t do an on-the-spot

conviction. But they took me up, in person, to the
first shop at the top of the stairs, which turned
out to be one of those uncategorisable abomina-
tions that sells nauseating novelties, fluffy
polyester bunnies, baubles and distractions of a
kind to prove for once and for all the obscene
vapidity of our contemporary non-culture.

“Now if you’d care to make your purchase, Sir...”

advised the same supremely scheming custodian
and I scanned the price labels until I found the
lowest, then grabbed whatever it was – some
kind of jaunty plastic notice – paid and was on
my way out of the Sunshine Centre with full
security escort.

It was only when I was back outside in the rain

that I pulled my purchase out of its bag and
glanced at it, as a prelude to disposing of it in the
nearest recycling bin.

“Tomorrow,” read the tweely decorated sign, “is

the first day of the rest of your life.”

A total cliché, of course, but for some reason it

seemed to speak to me personally.

I wonder what they made of it at the work centre

when I never came back from lunch.

36
 13

He’d had it before, of course. That feeling that

everything he did was an evasion, a replacement
for real life – whatever that might be.

This time it was much stronger, though. Buying

a record, watching a film, eagerly logging onto a
site to find some morsel of football gossip – day-
to-day stuff but suddenly so pointless, a wheel of
repetition without purpose, insight or fulfillment.

This feeling was always accompanied by a wave

of depression and in the past he must have
assumed a certain cause and effect. He was at a
low ebb and just had to bear with it, stay afloat,
until the darkness lifted and he could see clearly
and contentedly again.

This time was different. This time the

disappearance was less a brightening than a
fading.

With horrible clarity he realised that the

evaluation of his life as superficial and empty
was not an aberration brought about by some
minor kind of temporary mental illness, but a
fleeting vision of the truth, normally quickly
obscured by the distractions of routine and
mundanity.

37
This time, however, he had not been fooled, had
not pulled the wool over his own eyes to protect
his sanity.

The depression was replaced by bewilderment.

What now?

38
 14

Knowing where your kids are and what they’re

doing has long been a fact of life, thanks to
modern tracking technology.

But making sure they are precisely where you

want them to be and behaving in the way you
require is not always so straight-forward.

Now, however, a new device could at last bring

mums and dads the security of complete control,
even when they’re not physically at the scene.

The break-through has come about as a useful

spin-off from efforts to control violent psycho-
paths and murderers held in Britain’s 200 penal
hospitals.

With staff shortages always a problem, a way

was needed of controlling prisoners’ movements
and conduct, without resorting to punishment-
level therapies.

Scientists came up with an ingenious modifica-

tion to the common or garden personal chip, in
which as well as reading and imparting
information, it can also administer low-level
pain.

39
Although the electric pulse, transmitted by
microwave, is not strong enough to cause any
proven lasting damage, it is sufficient to act as a
powerful deterrent to any undesirable action.

Explained Jessica Smith of the National Child

Welfare Association: “What this means in real
terms is that if a parent sends a message to a
child, ordering them to move in a westerly
direction, for instance, and the child refuses to
comply, or delays its compliance, it will be
possible to enforce an immediate response by the
administration of a shock.

“In other words, the child will have a gentle but

sharp reminder of what it should be doing. By
repeating the electrical admonition whenever a
child moves in the incorrect direction, or fails to
move at all, it is possible to effectively ‘steer’ a
child in whatever direction required and at
whatever speed desired.

“Their progress can, of course, be monitored in

the usual way via the split-screen TV function,”
she added.

As well as advancing the cause of child safety,

there are obvious implications for the stability
and sustainability of society as a whole and
government advisers are predicting that demand
will be such that the chip modification will
eventually be rolled out to the adult population,
with special police teams recruited to operate the
system and ensure a safer future for us all.

40
 15

Jake hated walking home through the town

centre.

He’d spent a blissful first three days at the new

school using the route he’d worked out in the
summer – sharp left out of the main gate,
through to the back of the estate and then along
the side of the railway as far as the flyover,
where he’d pick up the authorised travel plan.

But they’d found out and there’d been big

trouble.

He’d been called in at school and his mum had

received a rather fierce letter from the police,
stating that she’d broken the law by letting him
walk that way.

Jake had tried to get her off the hook. He’d told
the headmaster that she had in fact instructed
him to follow the directions they’d been sent by
the education company and it was purely his own
initiative to deviate from that.

Then it had turned out she’d written to them

before the term started, telling them how the
town centre made him ill and asking if he could
have a different plan agreed.

41
They’d said no, it was against regulations and
not permitted by their insurance policies.

They’d obviously decided to keep a special eye on

him as a result of this exchange. That’s why
they’d spotted him and that’s why they didn’t
believe his account of his mum’s innocence.

So it had to be the town centre – or mum went to

jail – and for the last four weeks, Jake had been
refining his method of passing through it as
speedily as possible.

First trick was to take it nice and gently in the

approach. No need to rush yet. It was important
to conserve his energy for the big sprint ahead.

He was currently coming to the end of this run-

in. Up ahead was the gaudy archway, bedecked
with plastic foliage and madly blinking
‘emeralds’ that marked the beginning of the
Green Zone.

Jake’s timing was the same each afternoon. He

waited until he caught the remotest whiff of the
Green Zone aroma, took a large gulp of
reasonably fresh air and rushed under the
gateway and on up the street.

All the shops here were supposed to be on a

Green theme in some convoluted way that
invariably had more to do with the window
display than the products on offer.

42
A green hillside in the sunshine was the state of
your mind after you bought your medication
here. Lush mountain forests plunging into a
spectacular ravine were where you might just
end up if you booked your holiday there.

Giant images of the glorious unspoilt outdoors

adorned every store from discount VR to chip
enhancement, from Bio Regulators to garden
furniture.

Jake managed to hold his breath right as far as

the corner by the burger bar.

He was cutting across here into the Red Zone,

which began on his left.

This was a kind of no-man’s land and if he stood

on this spot he only got low dosage of the two
zones’ aromas.

On the other side of the street, however, you

were assaulted by a potent blend of both of them
at full strength.

It was something to with where the ducts came

out of the pavements.

The one time he’d made the mistake of passing

through that point, he’d felt twice as sick as
usual and his eyes had swelled up instantly to
the painful point where he could barely see a
thing.

43
It had brought back traumatic memories of the
first time it had happened, when his mum had
been dragging him around the shops looking for
Democracy Day presents.

After pausing to take a few breaths – not too

deep, though – Jake was off again, rucksack
bouncing on his back and long blond hair
flopping rhythmically with his stride.

He didn’t need to look at the Red Zone shops to

know what they were. Volcanic shoe shops.
Sunset-tinged fashion lines. Giant succulent
tomatoes and red peppers towered over the thin
grey slices of tired pizza they were pretending to
represent.

Jake’s eyes were itching. He knew if he stopped

to look at them in the glass of a shop window –
not that there was any chance of him doing that!
– he would see they were fitting in nicely with
the zonal colour-coding.

He was also being sucked down into that strange

unfocused state of mind that the aromas seemed
to create.

He often wondered if it had affected the grown-

up shoppers the same way, as they all seemed to
amble so slowly, to drift so passively and
uncritically in and out of every invitation to
indulge in yet another credit deduction.

44
Jake had to concentrate. He had to steer his path
just right now, to prevent the cameras spotting
anything unusual.

He allowed himself to slide gradually over to the

other side of the pedestrianised road, deftly
dodging the occasional bag-laden consumer as he
did so.

That way it would look accidental, casual. That

way they wouldn’t see that he was heading
across just so he could go in...

– here.

Jake realised he actually enjoyed this part of

what was an otherwise tiring routine, as he
pushed open the unmarked door and slipped
inside into the dark.

It almost made up for the nausea and the

expanding, scorching tissue around his eyes.

This really was the short cut to beat all short

cuts.

The town centre proprietors didn’t want you to

pass too quickly through what was, in reality, a
fairly small area, so they’d made the streets twist
and turn in a charmingly old-fashioned manner.

If he’d carried straight on he’d have had to pass

through the edge of the Blue Zone before coming

45
back round into the Yellow Zone and then out
towards his home.

This trick, though, took you straight under the

shops and out into the Yellow Zone on the other
side. And the cameras wouldn’t spot it, unless
they were extraordinarily attentive.

He’d never have discovered the possibility

himself, of course, if it hadn’t been for the
occasion on which he’d seen the man in the
fluorescent jacket going in one door and then,
after Jake had sprinted all the way round the
block, emerging slowly out of the other in front of
him.

Jake went carefully down the steps, his vision

impaired by the sudden darkness as well as the
swelling. He could already see the right-angled
slits of daylight chinking through the door at the
far end – it was only a short dive through this
parallel universe of gloom and throbbing unseen
machinery.

A slamming noise behind him and, as he turned

in alarm, another ahead of him and a flash of
white light on the periphery of his vision.

At the same time the mechanical thudding

became a hammering and a smashing inside his
skull and he span on his heels in complete
confusion.

46
On his left he found something new – a yawning
door to a blue-glowing room from which the
industrial noise levels were pounding.

He realised in a second what had happened. A

vicious draught had raced through the building,
slamming the two outer doors and prodding open
this inner one, whose existence he had not
previously registered. Jake leant partly through
the door and peered inside.

It was full of ducts, huge drums and a multitude

of tubes and taps. Giant fans screeched behind
iron meshes, while cylinders thrust and heaved
all around.

Added to the usual effects of the aromas, the

noise was loud and alien enough to confound
Jake’s senses still further and he wandered into
the heart of the oil-stinking monster, even at the
same time as he wanted, more than anything, to
escape this cacophony.

So when there appeared before him a large red

handle bearing the sign ‘Emergency Stop’, he did
not hesitate before pulling it firmly down.

The result was instant and dramatic. The clash

of metal ended forthwith and the whirring of
wheels slurred down the octaves to a halt.

As the fans gave up their work, the oily smell

was overwhelmed by the familiar street aromas,

47
more concentrated than ever now and all merged
together.

Pine, paprika, blueberry, primrose – conflicting

fake flavours were forced into one revolting
ersatz concoction, one nightmarish chemical
cocktail in which any individually identifiable
pseudo-scents were buried by an overriding
sensation of poisonous artifice.

Jake gagged and fled. He fled in the knowledge

that he had discovered the place where they
pumped the scents around the town.

And he’d switched it off.

When he burst out of the door into the Yellow

Zone and headed across the street, he could
already tell the difference.

By the end of the road, he was confident enough

to stop running and take a gulp of air.

There were still traces of the lemony, floral

atmosphere that normally stifled this street, but
they were bearable and beginning to fade to
nothing next to new smells emerging from under
the ground.

These were the real smells they didn’t want you

to notice – the antiquated and failing sewage
system that the drains contractor had again left
off the capital budget, the hidden piles of rotting
rubbish that hadn’t been collected in months by

48
the refuse firm – a general stink of filth and
neglect and decay.

Jake took a long deep breath.

His eyes felt a lot better now and his head was
beginning to clear.

49
 16

Mike from head office was on the line. He said he

needed a meeting. Sales figures were bad. Very
bad. Less than ten percent up on this time last
year.

“I can do Thursday or Friday,” he told her.

“Which suits you best?”

“Well,” she replied. “We’re doing the launch on

Thursday – you know, for the new range – and
I’ve got this Friday off, so...”

Mike wasn’t happy. He said they couldn’t delay

the launch – the timing was national – so it
would have to be Friday.

“But I’ve got the day off, Mike. I booked it a

month ago.”

He said he was sorry but it was an emergency

and she’d have to cancel.

She paused. Somehow she had always known a

moment like this was going to come along.

It was probably inevitable, sooner or later.

But she had never been quite sure how she

would actually react.

50
The papers on the counter fluttered. A breeze
came through the permanently open doors.

“Sorry Mike,” she insisted. “It’s my day off.”

51
 17

There was no doubt about it, thought Dr Phelps,

as he surveyed the faces of the shoppers and
workers through the two-way mirror that formed
one whole wall of his city office.

There was no doubt about it – these people

genuinely looked happy.

And, he reflected, leaning back in his black

swivel chair and absent-mindedly flicking
through the CCTV channels, that was in no
small way down to him.

Instant diagnosis, that was the solution. Nip a

problem in the bud before it even had a chance to
exist. He had found the camera mounted on the
outside of his office wall.

With a bit of remote control tilt and zoom, it gave

him almost exactly the same view as his real one
through the coated glass.

This was his favourite game.

Although his contribution to society was really

the medical extension to the standard anti-
terrorist facial recognition system – the software
that could identify a problem through the
national camera grid – Phelps was secretly

52
prouder of his own personal ability to identify
facial warning signs. After all, the computer’s
knowledge was only a rationalised version of his
own unerring instinct.

He put his feet up on his desk, revelling in his

own invisibility to the passing crowds, and
started to play.

That one was fine, and her, and the whole lot of
them, laughing and giggling over their shopping.
And here, amongst all the smiling, was a stern
face, furrowed and focused as he weaved his way
past the dawdlers.

Fine, thought Phelps. Nothing wrong with that.

Motivated, busy, absorbed in his work. The
smiles would come later, when he was relaxing in
front of the TV, satisfied at another day well
spent earning credit and career kudos.

That face was one of the basic positive models

he’d programmed in. No need even to check the
monitor to see if the system concurred. He knew
that it had to.

More bland smiles and obvious contentment.

He moved his legs off the desk and sighed.

He felt deflated. This was no fun after all, no

matter how satisfying it might be to contemplate
the result of his genius.

53
He wanted a bit of a challenge, somebody to test
his wits a little so he could demonstrate to
himself yet again how astute he remained, in
spite of his advancing years.

Aha – that could be one there!

The woman was walking fairly slowly towards

him, weighed down with bags of shopping –
electrical goods and children’s clothing by the
look of it.

And she was smiling, of course.

But, Phelps noted to himself, not quite in the

right way.

It wasn’t the obviously fake rictus of a smile that

she was wearing and it wasn’t a telltale sadness
of the eyes that gave her away.

In fact, to anyone but the most professional of

experts (he ran a hand through his neat grey
hair at the thought), she looked genuinely,
undeniably cheerful.

And yet...

Phelps sprang out of his seat and rushed to the

far end of his mirror-window, waiting for her to
draw alongside.

54
And as she did so, he accompanied her step by
step, face pressed against the glass, scrutinising
her every blink and reflex.

She was walking very close to his wall, just

inches away, and unbeknown to her she was
virtually cheek by jowl with the scientist, as he
scuttled along beside her.

Finally, he turned away.

“Yes, she’s one!” he declared out loud.

He stepped briskly back to his desk and, without

taking a seat, clicked to the “view analysis”
function on his computer.

Sure enough, there she was.

In a sea of faces now coloured green, she was

bright red and flashing.

As she was now out of easy observation from his

window, Phelps watched her progress via the
cameras. Shouldn’t be long now.

Yep, there they were. The van had pulled up, the
security hood was on and she was whisked off out
of sight, bags of shopping and all.

The first time Phelps had seen this, it had

worried him a little.

55
But then he had rationalised that no matter how
frightening the moment of rescue, the long-term
benefits were undeniable.

The medication would make this woman’s life a

pleasure again and ensure that the next time she
passed down this street it would be with the
same, genuine, smile as these other citizens.

Phelps never ceased to be amazed at the

astonishing success of his scheme.

The unhappiness reduction rate had outstripped

his wildest hopes and represented an extraordi-
nary victory, proportional to the numbers of
people actually medicated.

It had perplexed him initially that the

mathematics did not work, that his system had
achieved something that was physically
impossible.

However, he soon realised he had forgotten to

take on board the knock-on effect. A happy
mother meant happy children. A happy boss
produced happy workers.

He had initiated an unprecedented, unstoppable

chain reaction of contagious well-being. Not a
bad achievement for one person, he told himself.
Not bad at all.

And then he poured himself a very large vodka to

head off that nagging bloody suspicion that the

56
only thing his system had really achieved was to
train millions of miserable people to perfect the
subtle art of pretending to look happy.

57
 18

An illegal music performer from Worthing was

last week jailed for two months.

Frederick Salt, aged 47, of Broadwater Road, was

caught committing the crime on August 12, the
town’s court heard.

Prosecutor Jenny Player presented CCTV footage

showing Salt walking through the town centre at
about 3pm.

She added: “You will hear that he is emitting a

musical performance which, I submit, is clearly
identifiable as the popular recording ‘Love Daze’,
property of the Klang Corporation of New
China.”

Judge Somerset dismissed Salt’s defence that he

was “humming” because he was in a good mood.

He told him: “You must be aware that

performances of copyrighted material, even on an
impromptu basis, constitute a serious criminal
offence that we have a duty to punish with due
severity.

“Although you claim the act involved no material

gain to yourself, which is irrelevant under law in
any case, you have lost sight of the considerable

58
cost to others of your irresponsible actions, not
least the admirable Klang Corporation, and the
distress that may have been caused to members
of the public by your blatant act of theft.”

Salt was ordered to pay £350,000 copyright

compensation to Klang.

59
 19

Merv and Ed had both come as those balloon-

headed characters from the nu-pod adverts.

Faith was a grotesque terrorist-whore, inspired

by that hideous kids’ TV series whose name
eluded him, and Belinda was straight out of the
last century of the old era.

Daniel was dressed as a woman. Again.

“Aw, come on Petey!” he called over as Peter (got

that Daniel? Peter!) tried to slip past the 7.25
crowd to his corner of the work centre.

“How could you forget? You must have got my

reminder at home last night – everyone else did.”

“I didn’t forget,” said Peter, more to himself than

anything. “I just decided not to.”

They tried to make him pay anyway, but he

wasn’t having it. Fee to wear fancy dress. Forfeit
if you don’t.

“That’s not exactly voluntary,” he told them.

“You’re not having any of my credit. Sorry. I need
it for myself.”

60
Faith just couldn’t believe him, she really
couldn’t.

Didn’t he care about Democracy? Didn’t he want

those poor Papuans to have all the same rights
and comforts as he did?

He told her that as far as he was concerned, it

was none of his business.

“I wish you’d wake up one day and find yourself

living in that horrid jungle,” she told him.

“Then you’d think yourself lucky to have a job to

go to at all, without complaining about what
you’re wearing at the time.

“You’re just so unbelievably selfish.”

He had more of the same from Dennis when the

manager made his usual 10 o’clock tour of the
floor. He even had to go back to his office with
him.

“For God’s sake, Pete,” said Dennis, all earnest

and concerned in his adult-sized nappy.

“You’re the only one in the building who’s not

joining in.”

Peter (got that Dennis? Peter!) shrugged. “It

doesn’t worry me,” he said.

61
Dennis pursed his lips, turned away for a second
and when he span back had switched from
anxiety to anger.

“It may not worry you, Pete,” he said, “but it

certainly does worry me.

“Morale, Pete. that’s what it’s all about. Today is

a morale-boosting day. We all do something
worthwhile together. We all let our hair down a
little bit – as long as the work still gets done,
obviously. And we feel good about it, Pete.

“You decide not to join in. Fine. It’s your choice.

We can’t make you. But what kind of message
does that send out, Pete? What kind of message
does that send out to your colleagues, to the
junior staff, to the whole work centre?

“What does that do for morale, Pete? Eh?”

Peter smiled faintly in such a way as to make it

plain he wasn’t going to be drawn into an
argument. “OK, I’ve said enough,” said Dennis,
waving him away.

But he clearly hadn’t.

“The trouble with you, Pete,” he said as Peter

was about to open the door and leave, “is that
you have a closed mind.

“A day like this should be fun, Pete, something to

enjoy, to make the most of.

62
“But you just can’t see it, can you Pete?

“You come in here dressed the same way as every

other day of the year, dull and plain and
anonymous while everyone around you has made
the effort to stand out a bit.

“The trouble with you Pete,” concluded Dennis,

“is that you’re scared to be different.”

63
 20

Near the back of the bus [ketlo] sat a pale and

balding man [febid] with a screwed up frowny
look out at the dusktime streams of traffic and
rain [moza].

This was Simon. Hello, Simon. Didka.

Anyone could see that Simon was concentrating

on something. Assuming, that is, that anyone
could see him in the first place and that he didn’t
look so normal that he was transparent, didn’t
come across as so grey [allottik] that he was as
invisible to everyone else on that bus as they
were to him.

It was an unplanned camouflage. His mother had

never told him to proceed into the world as
plainly clothed as a policeman, to comb his hair
like a wet fish [rogor], to neither stride, amble or
shuffle but always to pass through the city
crowds with the airbrushed anonymity of an
actuary [petrikonki], which may have come to
mind because this was once the assumed destiny
of Young Simon, before the Hospital [Orrockeva]
processed him into nothing more than the third-
rate agency print-out monkey [begoblani] that
was Middle Aged Simon, the nobody with no face,
no friends, no family [okbok], no fast forward to
anything that could really merit the grandiose
title of ‘future’.

64
Simon was working on his pronouns all the way
to his stop, the sight of which penetrated his
shield of total absorption to drag him out of his
seat and off the bus.

He had been planning to sort out some verbs, but

quickly realised that the pronouns had to come
first, so he could try out all the new words in
their proper context.

The pronoun question was one corner he’d

decided he couldn’t cut.

The verbs themselves would only have one form,

that much he’d decided.

Past tense would be indicated by a preceding

word which he had not yet designated – though
boma kept filling in the empty space in his mind
and might therefore prove to have some merit.

Still glaring at the effort of it all, frowning down

beyond his feet with x-ray eyes at some
underground cavern of inspiration, Simon
walked up the hill towards his flat, oblivious to
the golden twinkle of the setting sun on the
corrugated blue watery expanse beneath the city
[orticho].

There was a lot of work to be done. He had only

just started. There were so many essential words
that had to be found and filed in his memory.
Thousands.

65
And then there were the relationships between
the words, the structures on which the meaning
would depend.

It wouldn’t ever be a proper language, of course.

But he felt sure he could reach the point where

he could construct whole sentences, using his
own words. He had been tempted once or twice to
jump the gun and invent specific words that he
knew he would like to combine to form a
particular statement.

But that would have been cheating. That would

have jeopardised the whole experiment.

Simon looked up suddenly. His instinct had been

right. There was somebody coming down the hill
on the same side of the road [printig] as him.

He crossed over, even though the outside of the

bend would take him longer, and did not let the
interruption destroy the flow of his thought
[mevemi].

Sometimes you had to block yourself off from

everything else, allow nobody and nothing to
influence your orientation. He’d learned that
much at the Hospital.

Simon knew it’d be a long job. Years probably.

But he was lucky in that his meaningless
employment left him plenty of time and space for
his own schemes.

66
He couldn’t stop himself fantasising about the
day it was finished, when he would take it out for
a trial run.

He’d imagined to start with that he’d be

shouting, screaming, whooping the words in the
street, firing them off, salvo after salvo, into the
faces of the officials and the policemen and the
doctors, who would no longer be able to condemn
him for his words because they would not
understand them – could not ever understand
them.

But then it had dawned on him that shouting

randomly in a public place was itself behaviour
that would be sure to attract their wrathful
censure and the microphones would surely detect
in his tone the seeds of subversion and
maladjustment.

So he’d decided to sing.

Yes, sing.

When the day [achola] came, he would sing out

loud – to a happy and melodious tune – all the
things he was not allowed to say in their
language.

Everything that was stored up inside him,

bursting his head with its cruel games, would
break out in the gloriously beautiful form of a
song [mira] that all could hear but only he would
comprehend.

67
And then, at last, he would find out what it was
that, for all these years, he’d been feeling.

68
 21

The woman just couldn’t stop wailing, screaming,

pleading with us – as if we were suddenly going
to feel sorry for her and stop.

Some of them get like that. They can’t accept

we’ve found them out.

“It was only a bloody book,” she was sobbing. Or

words to that effect.

“It’s only a few little stories! What harm can that

do to anyone, for pity’s sake? I haven’t even read
them! You know that! I didn’t have time! I
haven’t even read them!”

Then she went all still, like she’d had some

moment of great insight.

“Hang on!” she said. “What was it doing in there

anyway? What was the book doing in the library
in the first place if anyone who got it out was
going to be arrested for terrorism?”

Mick and I looked at each other.

We just laughed.

Stupid cow.

69
 22

It was a dead give-away, having the extra VR set

in the bedroom, the his and hers wiring mounted
tastefully over our matching bedside cabinets.

There were plausible excuses, of course, or else

nobody would have ever had the courage to
display it all so blatantly.

Combating insomnia. That could be one of them.

Escape into a world of happy fluffy clouds, serene
pink sunsets and gently lapping waves that are
99 percent guaranteed* (*check the smallprint
for the legal disclaimer) to bring you within
seconds of a blissful and totally natural slumber
(WARNING: NEVER LEAVE DEVICE
CONNECTED TO BODY WHILE ASLEEP OR
UNCONSCIOUS).

Or maybe we could have made out we had

nightmares and needed a little dose of nocturnal
reassurance with the help of oh-so-real
traditional scenes involving the inevitable log
fires, grandfather clocks and loving parents
(NEW! NEW! NEW! INCLUDE MEMBERS OF
YOUR OWN ACTUAL FAMILY – LIVING OR
PASSED AWAY!) – so long, that is, as you’ve
taken the precaution of having them VR-ed
before they depart this world which – I am
delighted to report – is exactly what my own dear
wife contrived to do, with admirable foresight,

70
shortly before the sad conclusion of her old lady’s
prolonged demise. Mumsie will never ever leave
you now, little darling!

There are also the usual games, I suppose, but

who’s going to want to lie in bed zapping and
chasing around when they’ve got the latest Pod
set up in the living room, ready to take the whole
thing into a different dimension?

No, we all know what the Flexi-movement Micro-

mask comfort gear is going to get used for in all
but the most freaky of instances.

I don’t think they saw it at first, the couple thing.

They were spending all that energy on trying to

perfect the tactile side – and not getting it
anywhere near right – when the answer was
right there under their scientific noses.

It wasn’t an answer at all for the lonesome

frustrated singletons out there, but then since
when did they matter, anyway? They would have
to make do with the third-rate tactile simulation.

The big money was with the couples, the

mainstream big-spending consumer elite who
just have to have everything.

And, lo and behold, the product this market

needed turned out to be even easier, and cheaper,
to produce.

71
Somehow, someone discovered that in some
circumstances the brain’s faith in what it’s sent
along the optic nerves is twice as strong as what
it experiences in any other way.

Give a child an apple, but show him a VR pear,

and they’ll swear it feels like a pear, and even
tastes like a pear, just because their gullible
brain tells them that’s what it is.

Likewise, it’s amazing how when you run your

hands over your wife’s body while under the
influence of VR, the contours under your fingers
match exactly with what’s coming up in front of
your eyes. Your brain adjusts the sensory reality
to tie in with the image.

Suddenly, your overweight middle-aged spouse

has the body of a 20 year old seductress nymph
from paradise.

It really works. I can testify to that, Because,

yes, I did have a go on it when we first had it
installed. Well, I paid for it, didn’t I?

And OK, I did like the sound of it to start with

and I did explore the possibilities pretty
enthusiastically for a month or two – maybe
longer, if I’m honest.

Even now I can see the advantages.

72
My wife was hooked on it and, put bluntly, this
meant she required my services in bed pretty
much constantly.

It wasn’t me she was screwing in her head, but

what did that matter to me? The physical
outcome was better than if she had been. I
certainly don’t recall that degree of energy in the
days before her senses and judgement were
distorted by the intervention of technology.

She certainly milked the full potential of the

equipment, experimenting with programmes of
both sexes. Personally I would have thought this
was over-stretching the capacity of the brain to
rely primarily on visual information.

But it seemed to work for her.

I could detect the presence of a female

programme on her module – as confirmed later
in our ritual post-coital ‘confession’ – from the
unlikely areas of my anatomy in which my wife
had been expressing a physical interest.

In fact, I soon realised that the whole thing

worked so well for her that I didn’t need to use it
any more.

I was already getting what I wanted. Her

pleasure was my pleasure.

So I turned it off when she wasn’t looking or just

downloaded blank programmes.

73
I had to keep the gear attached, of course,
otherwise she would have realised and it would
have spoilt it for her.

I also had to invent the female programme I’d

supposedly just been projecting onto her body.

That was the hardest part of all, really,

especially as she would then offer some analysis
of my choice or attempt to initiate some kind of
discussion around it – comparing and contrasting
it with her own virtual indulgence.

On one occasion the name I plucked from the air

happened to be the very same woman she had
herself selected for one of her v-bi episodes.

Although I was rather entertained by the image

this conjured up, it did underline a fundamental
falsity in the whole procedure that was by then
beginning to gnaw at me.

I found my enjoyment steadily diminishing.

Physically, the stimulation was as gratifying as

ever, but emotionally I found myself confronted
with a virtual void.

That was when I first had the idea of sabotaging

the whole thing and, I have to admit, the
delicious temptation did restore my interest in
the bedtime routine for some weeks.

74
Eventually, though, the anticipation was
replaced with impatience and I just had to get on
with it.

The fateful moment followed what, coinciden-

tally, appeared to have been a session of
particular satisfaction for my wife.

I like to think now that I did her a favour,

allowing her to bow out on a high note.

“That Alexander Borovich is rather nice,” she

purred, as she stretched out, free of the wiring.

“Who?” I asked, not because I was interested.

“I downloaded him this afternoon,” she said.

“He’s new up on the site. He was in that film we
saw about the model village, the turnip collector
and the giant slugs, remember?”

“Mmmm...” I said.

“So, who was it for you this time?” she asked.

“Anyone interesting?”

I said nothing.

“Oh it wasn’t one of those composites again, was

it?” she asked. “Thai Whore Bride 8? Blonde
Beast XXX? You men are so bloody unimagina-
tive!”

“No,” I said quietly.

75
“Who then?” she said, leaning over and stroking
my chest. “You can tell me...”

“Someone quite different,” I said. “Who I’ve never

had before.”

“Oh yeah? So what’s her name?”

“I shouldn’t tell you,” I said. “You wouldn’t want

to know.”

I had to make this work.

I had to finish off this sick charade once and for

all.

“Come off it!” she said. “You know I would. It’s all
part of the deal. I might give her a go myself,
some time, if she’s any good! Who was it,
darling?”

“Your mother,” I lied. “Your sick, dying mother.”

That certainly did it.

76
 23

A Shoreham man has been placed in indetermi-

nate detention after being found guilty of a
terrorist offence.

The 46 year old former college lecturer had been

tracked down by police to a remote spot on the
South Downs at 7pm on July 6 this year.

The man, who cannot be identified due to

emergency provisions, was unable to supply proof
of any legitimate purpose for his presence there.

Judge Quentin Masters said the man’s

explanation that he was “going for a walk” was
inadequate in terms of anti-terrorist legislation.

He added: “In these days of unparalleled danger

to public safety and our democratic heritage, it is
incumbent on each and every one of us to ensure
that we have acquired the necessary authorisa-
tion and documentation before embarking upon
any journey beyond the realm of our established
daily activities.

“Not to do so is hugely irresponsible. You have,

through your selfish behaviour, not only wasted
an enormous amount of police and court time,
but also potentially provided a smokescreen for
terrorist attacks on your community – a motive

77
you have failed to prove was not in fact the
primary purpose of your expedition.”

The judge dismissed defence claims that the man

had “suffered enough” through the loss of his job
and the subsequent break-up of his marriage.

The terrorist was ordered to pay £250,430 costs.

78
 24

“I love Robin Hood,” announced the boy when the

father had finished telling him that evening’s
tale from the greenwood. “Don’t you, Daddy?”

The father smiled warily. Even though he always

took his son up into the attic for these story-
telling sessions, to avoid the microphones, he
never felt totally at ease with breaking the law in
this way.

“Yes,” he replied at length.

“Daddy,” said the boy thoughtfully. “If you were

alive in those days of King John and the Sheriff
of Nottingham, would you have went into the
forest and joined the Merry Men and stealed
from the rich and gived to the poor?”

“Oh yes,” said the father, making the effort to be

more enthusiastic. “And you could have come
with me. We’d have both been there, helping
Robin Hood and Little John and all the others.”

“And Mummy?”

“Yes, of course. And Mummy.”

How could he have forgotten Mummy?

79
“Daddy?” began the boy again.

“Mmmmm..?”

“Are there still baddies in the world today?”

“Well, yes, I suppose there are.”

“Daddy?”

“Mm?” He didn’t like the way this was heading.

“Why don’t you and me and Mummy go and live

in the woods like Robin Hood and Little John
and Friar Tuck and Will Scarlett and shoot the
baddies with our bows and arrows and not care
what any of them tries to do to get us back?”

The boy looked at the man, the man looked back

at the boy and both of them knew that when the
answer eventually came it would be far from
satisfactory.

80
 25

Alan was well and truly puzzled. This was the

fourth time he’d tried to mail the report through
to Josh in the projects office and the fourth time
he’d phoned to find that it hadn’t reached its
destination.

He’d left plenty of time, as well, to allow for

screening and so on.

He was convinced it was all something to do with

the header. It was so hard these days to dream
up a title that wasn’t pre-blocked due to previous
use by spammers or v-terrorists.

So he’d changed it. Three times. To no avail.

When the fifth version also failed to get through,

Alan decided enough was enough.

He printed the thing out in full – all 96 pages –

and took it round to Josh in person. When Josh
had made his amendments, he duly filed the
report on the main system.

But he wasn’t prepared to let the matter drop.

Later in the week, when he at last had a
moment, he cornered one of the IT agents in the
Refreshment Centre and asked him what he
made of it all. This was a glitch that should not

81
become a regular occurrence at the department
and that was for sure.

Jared told him it was probably the title that had

blocked it and shook his head in bemused
sympathy as Alan outlined the evasive measures
he had taken.

He wrote down the details and said he’d look into

it for Alan and then was off, with a click of the
chip sensor, as he hurriedly purchased his
refreshment within the allotted time.

A couple of hours later, Alan was surprised to

find Jared standing beside him when he looked
up from his monthly stats.

“Could I have a private word, Alan?” he asked, so

they stepped out into the area beside the fire exit
where, everyone knew, the microphones didn’t
work.

Alan felt rather ashamed to find himself there,

but this seemed to be an emergency of some kind.

“Listen, Alan,” said Jared. “I have to know.

There’s nothing, ummmm, dodgy about this
email is there?” Seeing the look of mortification
that took hold of the other’s face, he tried to
soften the impact a little.

“... I mean, nothing out the ordinary? Nothing

that might attract attention in an, ummmm,
untoward sort of way, even though, of course

82
there wasn’t anything remotely... that goes
without saying...” But it was too late. The
damage had been done.

Alan was straightening his back, puffing himself

up and about to tell Jared how long he’d worked
in the department, how reliable he had been
proved to have been over that period and a few
more things beside.

However, Jared saw it coming and stopped Alan

short with a defensive raising of his hand.

“OK,” he said. “I know. I’ll explain. No worries.”

For a moment, he paused as if he was not going

to carry on after all, but then he did anyway. “It’s
been referred,” he said. “To security. Top level.
No access.”

This just was not possible. Alan wanted to wake

up from the nightmare into which he had
suddenly been immersed.

Jared again interrupted his faltering effort to

speak, telling him he had a contact ‘on the
security side’ and he could find out more if Alan
could swear this would not land them all in a lot
of trouble. Alan was able to give him that
reassurance. As if he would in any way act
beyond the authorisation accredited to him! The
thought was absurd!

83
Less than an hour later, Jared was back at
Alan’s side, with a print-out.

“Here’s your problem,” he said, pointing to a

marked section. Alan scanned it quickly. It was
just his report.

“..studies from the Department of Social

Cohesion have therefore demonstrated
comprehensively the benefits of even relatively
low-level exposure to the toxin and we would
maintain that the path to more emotionally
effective government lies in producing a more
persuasive framework.”

He looked at Jared in confusion. What was the

issue here?

Jared put his finger on the text. “Can’t you see

Alan? Here, look!”

Alan looked again and still couldn’t see it and

only when Jared spelled it out loud and clear did
the words “government lies” stand out from the
text as if they had been illuminated with flashing
pink neon.

Alan felt a wave of relief sweep through him. So

that was all it was.

Of course, the incident would not be without

consequence. The same unfortunate wording,
picked up by the security software, was now also
filed on the main system. Together with his

84
repeated attempts to mail it to Jack, this
amounted to at least six counts of terrorist
communication.

There were bound to be a few interrogation

sessions to deal with, but at least it would give
him a chance to reassess his pain thresholds.

And if his career inevitably suffered as a result it

was a small price to pay for the necessary
vigilance against terrorism in all its incarna-
tions.

It was a case of one man’s inconvenience against

the freedom and security of the entire global
community, reflected Alan. When you thought
about it, he was lucky his stupid error had not
caused a major emergency.

But all had finished well and at the end of the

day you had to laugh!

85
 26

He had planned it all very carefully. He had even

been up here during the day with Mrs Darby’s
dog, that he’d so kindly offered to take for a walk.

The animal was a cover, of course, as in truth

were the sandwiches he’d taken with him and
the need to sit down for such a long break, back
to the fence and one hand busily snipping away
at the wire behind him, while the other
continued to feed his mouth with chunks of
rather stale bread.

So tonight it was so easy, as he found the flap

he’d created and slipped through the outer
perimeter. He knew the cameras up here had
long since packed in – he’d met Phil yesterday for
a coffee just to confirm – and that was the single
fact that made it all so gloriously possible.

The only feasible detection, he reckoned, was by

satellite, so he’d rigged up a sort of cloak of infra-
red invisibility, double-lined with tin foil, to
avoid becoming a blip on the screens of the
control centre.

There was his chip, of course, but up here there

just weren’t enough sensors to make it that
accurate – they would probably not even bother
flagging up the security zone on the system, it
would be so prone to false alarms.

86
So that just left the fences and once he was out of
sight of the road up from town he had plenty of
time to dismantle them and walk through.

It was a blustery night. Not cold, just blowy.

There was the dim glow of the moon behind the
clouds. He felt good as he slipped past the second
and then third barriers.

Now he came across a relic of an earlier age, a

whole row of huge iron noticeboards barring his
way. He flashed his torch onto one of them.

“Don’t do it!” it read. “Someone is thinking about

you!” and below was the fading image of a young
girl, arms held pitifully aloft and a huge tear
welling in one eye.

This must have dated back 40 or 50 years, to

when the suicide rates first started to go through
the roof.

They thought that was the answer. A propa-

ganda initiative against killing yourself. Adverts
on the telly, countless newspaper and magazine
interviews with suicides who’d changed their
mind, relatives of those who hadn’t, professional
psychologists listing ten early warning signs.

At the same time, suicide suddenly became a big

thing in every soap opera plot on the TV and it
even crept into the school syllabus.

87
Every time the message was unambiguous and
firm. Suicide is wrong and harms us all.

He shed some light on another of the signs.

“Did you know,” it asked, “that every suicide

costs the economy an estimated £2 million?
Think life! Think money!”

They’d never really ever admitted that the

campaign had failed. The figures had simply
stopped appearing.

And instead of the special features and talk show

specials, came new laws penalising those deemed
guilty of facilitating or allowing, through
negligence or lack of affirmative action, suicides
to take place.

More cameras went into people’s homes, into

public toilets and changing rooms – the final
surveillance taboos were removed.

And the fences went up around places like this.

He was nearly there.

The wind blew even harder here, salty gusts

knocking him backwards as he moved carefully
on, torch lighting up the ground beneath as the
chalk Downs became cliff edge.

Here it was. Darkness lay a metre ahead.

88
Planting his feet firmly as far forward as he
dared, he stood up straight.

At that moment, the moon burst out from behind

a furiously flying cloud and lit up the churning
sea as it smashed onto the rocky shore far below
him.

White illuminated gulls weaved in the blackness

underneath his feet and the glorious scene blew
pure exhilaration into his veins.

All around him was space, movement and joyous

thundering of air.

And inside him was the glowing certainty of

needing to be alive.

89
 27

She had found a new loophole.

It hadn’t been a problem, to start with.

Whenever she’d needed a break, she would take
a walk around the offices – up to the fourth floor
and back – carrying a stack of print-outs as a
cover. Or linger longer than strictly necessary in
the ladies’.

But then they had brought in the logging system

and automatic dismissal for Dereliction of Desk
Duty, so she’d had to make do with looking out of
the window or doodling discreetly on scraps of
paper while pretending to be talking on the
phone.

The keystroke monitoring had put an end to that

one. If you weren’t busy, you weren’t paid. If you
slipped below a certain keystroke quota you even
ended up owing the company money for the
pleasure of having come in and not worked hard
enough for nine hours.

They’d got her on that one, for a while at least.

But the headaches and the panic attacks had

forced her to look hard for a way around it and
now she’d succeeded.

90
For ten minutes every morning, another five or
ten in the afternoon, she’d sit and type loads of
lovely keystrokes – without thinking about or
even looking at what she was writing.

It was nothing but gobbledegook. But that didn’t

matter. She simply deleted the lot later on.

And in the meantime she had won back a

precious time when her mind could drift, dream
and again become her mind and only hers.

And they couldn’t stop her.

Not yet, anyway.

91
 28

Tough new measures from the government aim

to stamp out the menace of illegal food
production.

The Ministry of Safety announced that a whole

range of potentially harmful substances are to be
banned from shops from May 1.

These include flour, yeast and other elements

used by pirates fabricating unauthorised bakery
products.

Said a ministry spokesman: “These measures are

purely designed to protect the health of the
public.

“We would stress that this will involve no

disruption to those in possession of a Food
Manufacture License (FML) and they will be able
to source the danger-listed products through
approved wholesale outlets.

“However, it is crucial that we tackle the rising

problem of unsupervised, uncertificated food
production, which is often carried out in totally
unsuitable, unhygienic conditions of a domestic
nature.”

92
He said it had been clear that, despite the
introduction of the licenses, large numbers of
offenders had flouted the law and evaded the
£5,000 annual registration fee.

Added the spokesman: “These criminals are not

only putting their own families’ health at risk by
their unregulated cooking activities, but are also
robbing the taxpayer of millions of pounds a
year.

“We are confident that our latest initiative will

go a long way to rectifying this intolerable
situation and reverse the alarming haemorrhag-
ing of consumer spending from the vitally
important food retail sector.”

93
 29

“It’s nothing to get worried about,” said the nurse

to Louisa as they entered the ward.

“It’s all very straightforward and routine, you’ll

see.”

Louisa smiled and tried to project confidence,

despite everything.

“All you’ll be doing, basically, is making sure

they’re more or less OK or, in other words...”

She paused here, leant over to Louisa conspirato-

rially, and whispered in a voice that Louisa
feared the old ladies would be able to hear:
“…checking they’re not dead!”

“And...”, she resumed at full volume, simultane-

ously tugging at crooked bedcovers and nudging
a bedside cabinet to its correct alignment with
her knee, “...and giving them a full-body wash.”

She stopped and stared intently at Louisa.

“They have taught you how to do that, haven’t

they?”

Louisa confirmed that they had.

94
“If,” the nurse continued, standing at the foot of
one of the half dozen beds in the room, all of
which were occupied. “If,” she said, “you do come
across a problem, this is where to go. This little
box here. First you press the red button for help
– that’s before you do anything else at all, have
you got that?”

Louisa nodded.

“And then you can use this to access the patient’s

records, OK? Look, come closer and I’ll show you
properly...”

Louisa saw how the medical history of each

occupant was just a touch away on the display.

She wasn’t entirely sure what use this was to

her. A week’s basic course had not exactly
qualified her to treat anybody for anything at all,
but at least, she supposed, if a crisis did arise it
would provide something to occupy her mind
while assistance was on its way.

In truth, Louisa wasn’t overly worried about the

washing techniques or emergency procedures.
She was pretty sure she could cope with all that
as well as any other 19 year old.

She was much more apprehensive about whether

she would manage to find here what she had set
out to discover, the quest that had compelled her
to take out the £10,000 loan for the course.

95
“Oh,” said the nurse, who had left but had now
popped her head back round the door.

“Before I forget – the Matron doesn’t like us to

get the patients too, you know, excited.”

Louisa glanced around at the bedridden figures,

none of whom seemed to have moved a muscle
since she’d arrived. Over-excitement didn’t seem
much of a risk.

“What I mean,” the nurse went on, “is that you

can talk to them if they wake up, of course, but
don’t encourage them. Don’t let them get carried
away. Just a few polite words and you’re on to
the next one – do you get my drift?”

Louisa nodded in what she hoped was a cheerful

manner, but in truth she felt like crying.

This was just not going to be possible. This was

not going to work out the way she’d always
pictured. She’d wasted all that money, all that
time, all that energy...

She had to stop herself going down this route

before it got the better of her. She made a mental
effort to blank out her doubts and carry on with
the task in hand.

The washing operation turned out to be both

worse and better than she’d imagined – the
positive side being the sense of closeness she
gained to these frail bodies, the vulnerability and

96
humanity that somehow made the rest of the job
bearable.

Throughout, none of the patients spoke a word,

none of them even presented her with the
dilemma of whether or not to risk the wrath of
the Matron by pursuing a conversation.

They reacted so little, offered so little other than

an occasional murmur, that Louisa came to the
conclusion they were all under constant and
heavy medication.

With a quick glance to the doorway, she tested

her hypothesis and tapped at one of the record-
screens at the foot of a bed.

Scrolling past pages of background information,

she came to the relevant section – a whole
catalogue of ‘comfort aids’.

She had not heard of most of these, but one or

two rang a bell, such as Blissax, Notirz and,
particularly, Bellanoxil, the nightmare
suppressant. Her own father had kept a pack of
those at his bedside for years after her mother
had died.

As Louisa started washing the last woman in the

ward, she reflected that her father had never
talked to her about anything that had happened
in the past – presumably to avoid stirring the
same memories that he feared would invade his
sleep.

97
She’d been too young to have talked to her
mother properly and she’d never known any of
her grandparents.

As a result, she had never really had much idea

of what life was like in even the fairly recent
past. During her teen years, she had become
progressively more aware of knowing virtually
nothing about the world she’d been born into –
and more and more obsessed with making
contact with people who could help fill the gaps.

You got a brief outline at school, but it only

really went into much detail about events that
had happened since Year 10 or so – the Great
Exhibition, the rise of the New Knowledge, the
founding of the Modern Code of Ethics.

Before that it was just Year 1 (The Triumph of

Democracy) and Year 3 – the Defeat of Reaction
and the great victory of J19, when the streets
were at last reclaimed from the criminals and
drunks who had held the country to ransom for
too long.

Obviously, there was Ancient History as well –

Julius Caesar, Winston Churchill and so on – but
that was all so remote as to be essentially
meaningless.

Moreover, it was all facts and figures and dates.

Louisa wanted to hear about real life and real

people, it was as simple as that.

98
And this had seemed the right place to look –
until you got inside and found what a sorry state
these women were in.

The nurse returned just as Louisa was tidying up

ready to leave. A coincidence, perhaps?

Louisa looked up and around for the cameras –

they were very well concealed, if there were any.

After the women in the next ward showed no

more signs of communication than those in the
first, Louisa’s hopes were reduced to a bare
minimum.

And then, in the third ward, it finally happened.

A miracle.

“There you are, Zoe!” cried out one of the

apparently sleeping women when Louisa leant
over to attend to her.

“Where have you been? We were worried about

you!”

She was staring at Louisa with sharp, pale blue

eyes.

“I’m not Zoe,” said Louisa quietly.

The old lady seemed to have decided not to

register this. Or else she just hadn’t heard her.

99
“Did you get there?” she carried on. “You didn’t
miss it, did you?”

“Miss what?” asked Louisa. So this was what

they’d meant by ‘dementia’.

“The protest, of course,” said the old lady. “The

carnival, the street party.”

Louisa was trying to take this all calmly.

“When was it?” she asked.

“When? What do you mean? Today, this

afternoon, June the 18th. Two o’clock on
Westminster Bridge, remember? Don’t say you
got the time wrong, Zoe? Weren’t you there? You
didn’t miss it all, did you?”

Louisa was tempted to tell her today was

November the 25th. But she had realised the old
lady was in some other world, some other time.

“I... I think I might have,” she replied instead.

“What was it like?”

“Like? Oh, you wouldn’t believe it Zoe, it was so

brilliant. The best yet – thousands and
thousands of us. We were everywhere! There was
dancing, drumming, fire-eating, music... It was
just....

“And there were these climbers who went right

up Big Ben and unravelled this huge banner over

100
the clock face saying – now what was it exactly?
Time to Stop! That’s it! Time to Stop!

“And they stayed up there until the bells rang

the hour and then they pulled off the banner and
there was another one underneath and do you
know what it said, that one, Zoe?”

Louisa shook her head.

“Free o’clock,” said the old lady, slowly and

deliberately. “Free, with an ‘f’. It was wonderful!
You should have heard the roar of the crowd.
And the police – well, they couldn’t do anything!”

Louisa had been trying to imagine this

outlandish scene and couldn’t help blurting out:
“Didn’t they shoot you?”

“Shoot?” The old lady’s eyes opened as wide as

her mouth and then she let out a shriek of
laughter.

“They can’t shoot us, Zoe! What are you talking

about? They’d never get away with it! Don’t you
see Zoe, we’re winning! We’ve got them on the
run! It’s people power, there’s nothing they can
do. And when we go back tomorrow...”

She reached out and grabbed Louisa’s sleeve

with her bony little fingers.

“...You are coming with us tomorrow, aren’t you

Zoe? You will be there? It could be the day we’ve

101
been waiting for. In fact, I’m sure it’s going to be.
I’ve got a feeling in my bones...”

A look of pure elation had taken over the old

lady’s face and her eyes twinkled with merry
mischief.

There was a hiss behind Louisa and she turned

round to see the nurse standing there, mouthing
that the Matron was coming.

Louisa turned back to the old lady: “I’m sorry,”

she said. “I’ve really got to get on with the...”

But the old lady’s eyes were closed and she was
breathing deeply – fast asleep again in a couple
of seconds.

Louisa heard footsteps approach the door and

then stop for a moment, before moving off again.

She quickly knelt down and checked the display.

Clark, Feronia. Feronia? Strange name! Born
Park Royal, London, Year -16. One or two links
to database files on childhood misdemeanor –
skip those...

Fearing she would be interrupted again at any

second, Louisa went straight to what she was
looking for.

There it was. First admitted to Community Care

in Year 3. Self-inflicted injuries to head,
shoulders, arms. Bullet wound to left leg, origin

102
unascertainable. Mental confusion. 19/06/03.
June the 19th. “Tomorrow...” whispered Louisa
to herself. She couldn’t wait.

However, the next day she found her routine

began quite differently. On arrival she was sent
straight down to the laundry to help with sorting
and folding and then to the kitchens to clear up
after the breakfast shift.

As the day wore on, she grew increasingly

anxious that she would not be sent back to the
wards.

Louisa hadn’t been able to sleep at all overnight.

The sudden enormity of what had happened had
set up such a swam of activity in her mind that
she found herself unable to cope with it in any
other way than allowing it to buzz and crawl all
over her.

The snapshot of the forbidden past that Feronia

had handed her was not of a kind she had been
consciously looking for.

A titbit or two about everyday life, a recollection

of some strange TV programme or brief summary
of the major changes in fashion over the last 50
years – that would have been more than enough
to make Louisa’s efforts feel worthwhile.

What Feronia had delivered was intense and

unnerving.

103
In effect, Feronia was speaking to her direct from
the past. This was no jaded old party-piece
recollection dusted off once more and brought out
to entertain the youth of today, but an original,
immediate memory, suspended for decades and
released, as if new, by some convulsion of a
wrongly wired brain.

It was all so intoxicatingly real.

It no longer mattered to Louisa whether any of

the other patients were likely to wake up and
pass the time of day with her.

Her broad curiosity had been narrowed and

focused to an extreme intensity on one subject
matter only – Feronia Clark and what had
happened to her on June 19 Year 3, the J19 day
of victory which all the history books had told her
about.

The ten minutes of her lunch break seemed to

drag on forever as she waited to be assigned her
afternoon duties.

The good news was that she was being sent to

the same wards again and the disappointing
detail was that they were to be dealt with in the
same order – more waiting lay ahead before she
would find out.

When, at last, she had worked her way through

the beds and reached Feronia’s ward, Louisa
couldn’t stop glancing over at her as she

104
progressed round the room, hoping she would
wake from her mysterious slumber and speak to
her.

She was tempted to take a short cut by changing

the order in which she tended to the women, but
decided this would not be right.

If she woke her too early, she might spoil things

– interrupt the course of June 19, Year 3, as it
played out in Feronia’s twilight dreams.

Louisa was trembling by the time she arrived at

Feronia’s bed and reached out to touch her in the
same way as she had the day before.

And, to her rapture, she elicited exactly the same

response.

“There you are, Zoe!” said Feronia.

Louisa smiled back, with no thought of

contradicting her this time.

“Hello Feronia,” she said.

“Where have you been?” asked Feronia. “We were

worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” said Louisa. “But what about you?

How did it all go?”

“Did you get there?” asked Feronia. “You didn’t

miss it, did you?”

105
“Yes, I missed it again, I’m afraid,” said Louisa.
“What happened today?”

“The protest, of course. The carnival, the street

party.”

Louisa frowned slightly.

“But how did it turn out? What happened today,

Feronia?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe it Zoe, it was so

brilliant. The best yet – thousands and
thousands of us. We were everywhere! There was
dancing, drumming, fire-eating, music... it was
just....

“And there were these climbers who went right

up Big Ben and unravelled this huge banner over
the clock face saying – now what was it exactly?”

“Time to stop,” said Louisa.

“Yes, that’s it! Time to Stop!” said the old lady,

then peered right into Louisa’s eyes and looked
as if she could really see her for the first time.

“So you were there, Zoe! You must have been

there!”

“When was this protest, Feronia?” asked Louisa,

quietly but firmly, trying not to display any
emotion.

106
“What day?”

“What do you mean? Today! This afternoon! June

the 18th!”

There was a loud cough behind Louisa’s head

and she span round to find the Matron standing
sternly in the doorway.

“A word in my office, please” she said brusquely.

“Follow me!”

“I’ll just...” began Louisa, turning back towards

Feronia, but the Matron snapped “Now!” at the
same moment that Louisa saw the old lady had
fallen back into her slumber.

She stole another look back at her as she left the

ward, but there was nothing in Feronia’s face to
suggest she had ever been conscious.

In the office the Matron told her she had been

monitored disturbing a patient not once, but
twice, in just two days and had also abused the
privacy policy by accessing patients’ records in a
non-emergency situation.

Her services were no longer required and she

would be escorted from the premises forthwith.

As the Matron handed her over to the security

team, she asked Louisa in a manner that was
supposed to sound off-hand: “What was the
patient talking to you about, anyway?”

107
“Oh,” said Louisa. “I don’t really know to be
honest. Some old waffle, you know what they’re
like.”

Then she added as an afterthought: “It didn’t

mean anything to me.”

And when she’d passed the security checkpoints

and exited through the gate in the ten-metre
compound fencing, she was still smiling to
herself in the knowledge that it had.

108
 30

Food poisoning is now thought to have been

behind a shocking epidemic of mental illness
among young people in the Birmingham area last
month.

Hundreds of demented adolescents defied school

laws, broke afternoon curfews and mutilated
their new school uniforms sponsored by the
school’s corporate partners, uniGlobe plc. Police
are investigating links with terrorism.

SHOULD WE BE RUNNING THIS? HOLD FOR

CHECKS WITH MINISTRY. DO NOT USE
WITHOUT MY EXPRESS PERMISSION. DH

EIGHT MONTHS OUT OF DATE? SHALL WE

SPIKE?? G

109
 31

The TV authority people knocked on the door last

night.

I should have seen it coming – the detector van

had been touring our estate all week.

I told them I’d disconnected the whole thing a

year ago.

There was no point in lying.

They fined me, charged me double for the

reconnection and put me under direct monitoring
to make sure I keep up my information quota in
future.

110
 32

She had seen the old man in the cafe before, but
had never spoken to him.

Nobody ever did. He seemed to pretty much keep

to himself.

So the fellow looked up with some surprise when

she addressed him.

“Sorry? I didn’t... Were you talking to me?”

“Bloody terrorists, I said.”

She gestured outside to the confusion of flashing

blue lights, scientists in decontam suits and anti-
terror police, fully geared up for a Class A alert.

“Hmmmm...” said the old man with a thin smile

and looked back down at his newspaper.

This was actually quite encouraging. Usually

people had a word or two of their own to add, a
punishment they’d personally relish seeing
meted out to the ubiquitous scum who caused
them so much inconvenience.

She tried again: “Roads are all closed,” she said.

111
“Traffic’s backed up for miles. Buses aren’t
running. Trains are all cancelled. Nobody can get
anywhere.”

“Oh dear,” said the old man, mildly.

She turned round very obviously to face outside

and watch the flurry and bustle of security
activity.

Then she swivelled back, leaned conspiratorially

over the table and whispered, fairly loudly:
“You’d have thought with all that lot on the job
they’d have caught them by now, wouldn’t you?”

The old chap’s mouth fell open with surprise and

he couldn’t stop himself glancing round the cafe
to see if anyone was listening.

They didn’t seem to be and the music was quite

loud, but he was probably also worried about
microphones. She thought she ought to put him
at ease on that score.

“Don’t worry about the mics,” she said. “The ones

up this end are knackered. I know the manager.
She told me.”

She smiled at him. “That’s why I come in here,”

she added. “Bit of privacy. Bit of a chat, off the
record. Maybe buy a few grammes.”

The old man looked decidedly uncomfortable.

112
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not really trouble.”

He shook his head, dismissing any suggestion

that he had thought she was.

“And I’m not trying to pull you, honest!” she

added.

He smiled and almost chuckled.

“I’m certainly happy to take your word on that,”

he said.

He would be lucky to attract any attention from

a woman his own age, let alone one 40 years
younger, like her, with the best blonde hair
money could buy and a brazen allure that more
than made up for any lack of natural inner
beauty.

The old man put down his newspaper and drew

his chair closer to the table.

It had worked.

“What’s going on out there, anyway?” he asked

her.

She shrugged.

“Dunno. They never say, do they? They all turn

up, say there’s a Class A or whatever, fuck
everything up, storm in and out of people’s
houses, then before you know it they’ve all

113
buggered off again and that’s the last you hear of
it.

“This is the third one I’ve seen since Christmas.

One time they took some geezers off with hoods
over their heads – said on the news they’d
‘cracked a major cell’ or something. But then we
had the Victoria palaver last week, so you have
to wonder if they got the right people after all,
don’t you?”

The old man looked around the cafe again,

though a little less anxiously than before.

“My dear,” he said. “You really should be a little

more careful about what you say. It doesn’t do to
criticise them out loud, microphones or no
microphones. You’ll land yourself in big trouble
and neither of us would want that, would we?”

This was so touching, she thought. He really

likes me.

She decided it was safe to move the whole thing

on a bit.

“I don’t say it all out loud,” she said.

“There’s some things I keep to myself. I wouldn’t

tell anyone in here. Or anywhere else. I’m not
that stupid.”

114
“Good,” said the old man. And then, after a
pause, added: “That’s something it’s very
important to learn as you go through life.”

She felt that special shiver run down her back.

Her instinct had been right, she was sure now.
He was definitely someone worth speaking to.
Someone on that particular wavelength.

“Listen,” she said, leaning ever closer and

lowering her voice to a barely audible level.

“I’m going to be very careful how I say this and

I’m not going to take it any further, but have you
ever, in your wildest and most insane moments,
ever pondered over the immense stupidity and
criminality of those misguided and dangerous
individuals who, I have heard, actually have the
effrontery to claim that there aren’t really any
terrorists at all and that those who do commit
atrocities are in fact fully in the pay of the
government and its various agencies?”

He smiled, amused no doubt by the cunningly

convoluted nature of her question.

“Yes,” he said gently. “I have often pondered over

that.”

That was it! She had him! She made the signal
and the snatch squads burst in simultaneously
from the front and back of the cafe.

They had it all on audio, visual, the lot.

115
Full admission of terrorist sympathies, plus
furthering the cause of terrorism by communicat-
ing those sympathies to a third party, namely
herself.

Lock him up and throw away the key!

She caught a glimpse of the old man’s weak,

frightened, confused little terrorist face just
before they put the security hood over his head
and for that moment she knew more than ever
that she could never get enough of this job.

116
 33

Crows called a timeless shiver into the misty

silence.

Grey puddles, bare winter clearing with ancient

roadway silted with mud.

The beauty of monochrome crafted with subtle

shades of lushest brown and blackest green.

Calm. Peace. A moment to live in.

Until the Transglobal Supajet from New Beijing

murdered the morning with its decibel-deafening
descent into Brighton International.

Another door to the sacred is slammed shut in

our face.

117
 34

The woman behind him was getting restless. But

he couldn’t worry about that. The timing had to
be precise if he was going to pull this off.

He pressed another couple of buttons in the

wrong order to buy an extra few seconds.

The woman was shuffling around.

But he had to keep dithering here, keep looking

stupid and acting inept until...

That was it! He could hear the metallic screech of

brakes as the train pulled into the platform
above. Suddenly he was a ticket-purchase wizard
and he quickly punched in his destination,
reason for travelling (football match), the game
he was attending and his club membership code.

A second later he was all chipped up and he leapt

towards the steps, flew up them two at a time
and flung himself through the nearest open door.

As it turned out, he even had 15 seconds to spare

before the doors shut and the train pulled out.
He leaned back in his seat and allowed a look of
exhilaration to take over his face.

118
It didn’t matter if people noticed. As far as they
were concerned, he was just happy to have
caught his train.

They weren’t to know that he’d caught a train

that it had been officially impossible to catch,
that the system had written off as inevitably
missed by anyone keying in their details at the
ticket machine after it had pulled in at Platform
2.

As far as the system was concerned, he was still

waiting there for the next train, in an hour’s
time. As far as the system was concerned that
would give him just enough time to get up to
London and across to the stadium before kick-off.

But as far he was concerned he had a whole

unaccounted-for hour waiting for him at the end
of his journey.

An hour in which to wander without purpose,

steering clear of the obvious chip checkpoints of
course. An hour in which to walk, to listen, to
see.

A rare hour of unauthorised freedom.

119
 35

“Thank you so much for coming in to see me, Mrs

Willoughby,” said the headmaster, smiling an
almost over-polite smile.

“No problem,” said Katrina. “I mean, I got the

impression from your email that it was fairly
urgent so I thought I’d better cancel everything
and get down here as fast as I could. She is all
right, isn’t she?”

“Oh yes, of course, Sonia’s fine, absolutely fine

and I do apologise, Mrs Willoughby, if I gave you
the impression there was any physical problem
confronting us this afternoon. Far from it, ha, ha,
ha...”

Mr Crowther laughed an almost over-jolly laugh.

“... in fact, I believe at the moment her whole

class are having a fine old time, getting stuck in
down at the WOSU....”

He stopped himself and smiled indulgently at

Katrina.

“...that’s the Workplace Simulation Unit, Mrs

Willoughby.”

120
“Yes, I know, thank you,” said Katrina somewhat
sharply. “We had one when I was at school.”

“Did you really?” asked the headmaster with

slightly more surprise in his tone than strictly
necessary.

“Well, I must say Mrs Willoughby, you certainly

don’t look... that is to say...”

He had been left floundering by his moment of

confusion and opted to start again.

“Yes, I think you certainly should look at what

we’re doing down there now, Mrs Willoughby.
The range of work experiences we can lay on for
them is truly astonishing – everything from sales
profiling to hygiene management, from data
correction to ethical conformity enforcement. You
name it, the kids have had a go at it, ha ha ha...”

Seeing that Katrina was no longer even

pretending to smile at his joviality, the head
moved on quickly.

“And so, Mrs Willoughby, although the matter

before us today involves no physical danger to
your daughter and perhaps does not therefore
merit the description of ‘urgent’ which led you to
respond with such admirable speed to my, errr,
invitation, it does, however, involve an issue of
great importance to you and your child and of
great concern, I am afraid to say, to her teachers,
to myself and, indeed, to our educational

121
providers, who have already necessarily become
involved in this rather upsetting incident...”

“Wha-...?” began Katrina, but the headmaster

held up a hand to silence her, while passing a
print-out across his desk.

“It’s easier if I show you this straight away, Mrs

Willoughby. Or, rather, show it to you again. You
recall this piece of work, I assume?”

Katrina scoured the text.

“Well...” she ventured.

“You see, Mrs Willoughby,” said the headmaster,

“you did append your electronic signature to the
document to certify that you had witnessed the
completion of the homework task and therefore
we are legally entitled to assume you have read
it.”

His smile was almost too false to qualify as a

smile at all.

Katrina took the sheet and started to read it.

It was some kind of account of life in a primitive

village.

She remembered Sonia talking about having to

write something, but she hadn’t asked her for
any help and she had never actually read her
daughter’s finished work before signing it away.

122
“Life was hard for peepel in those Olden Days,”
said the sheet. “Everyday they were maid to dig
up all the feelds and they didnt have Tellyvissun
to enjoy and all they cood wach was the Hard
Mud and those ants that 8 there dinner.”

Katrina stopped there. “Well,” she told the

headmaster. “I can see that Sonia’s spelling is
perhaps not what it should be for her age, but...”

He was shaking his head.

“No, no, no,” he said. “No, Mrs Willoughby...”

He sighed and twisted the paper round to face

him, located the section he had in mind and
turned it again to face the parent.

“Here,” he said, his finger still glued to the spot.

“Read this, please, Mrs Willoughby.”

Katrina read out loud: “The Olden Peepel didnt

have any Carrs or Musick or Pods or Chips or
Freesors or...”

“Stop!” said the headmaster. “There, you see!”

Katrina looked at him with an expression so

blank that his face began to boil pink with
frustration. Then he remembered where he was
and treated Katrina to one of his obsequious
laughs – though it seemed to be intended more
for his own benefit than hers.

123
“Mrs Willoughby, I am sure you will in fact have
noticed that your daughter described a period of
time in which she claimed that members of the
public had, and I quote, ‘no chips’.”

Katrina frowned slightly. She wasn’t quite sure

where this was all going but definitely didn’t like
it. “I don’t see...” she began, but was interrupted
by the headmaster who, to do him justice, had in
fact drawn a breath to speak before she had
started to say anything.

“And, as you will be aware, Mrs Willoughby, it is

a firm part of educational law that children
should not be exposed to any material that casts
doubt on the acceptability, permanence or
universality of chipping, or that promotes
negative and anti-social mythologies of periods of
time when chipping was not an unchallenged and
appreciated element of the civilized social order.

“For a student to actually regurgitate such

material in her own work does, of course Mrs
Willoughby, represent a still more serious step
into illegality and one which can, under no
circumstances, be allowed to pass without a
serious examination of the possible causes and
potential consequences of the infringement.”

“But,” said Katrina, grasping for the right words.

“But that’s just ridiculous.”

124
She sat staring at the headmaster in a state of
shocked disbelief, unable for the moment to
expand on her objection.

The headmaster, for his part, felt no need to add

to his statement and sat, arms folded, with the
self-satisfied air of somebody who knows he is
indisputably in the right. The slightest raising of
his left eyebrow acted as an invitation to Katrina
to continue.

“I mean,” said Katrina. “I know we’ve all got a

duty to prevent terrorist attitudes and all that,
but I hardly think Sonia falls under that sort of
heading.

“Firstly,” she continued, lifting one finger as an

illustration. “Firstly, she’s only eight years old.

“Secondly, she didn’t say there was anything

wrong with having a chip. As a matter of fact, it
sounded to me like she felt sorry for them for not
having a chip, in the same way as she wouldn’t
want to be without a television or a pod – or any
of the other stuff she mentioned...”

“Mrs Willoughby...”

“No,” said Katrina and before she could be too

taken aback by her own firmness, added: “No, I
haven’t finished yet, I’m afraid. I do also have to
say that, at the end of the day, she was right,
wasn’t she?”

125
“Errrr... ha!” spluttered the headmaster. “This of
course revolves around the crucial issue of
whether the idea of being ‘right’, as you put it, is
devoid of all moral or ethical considerations and
in this...”

“No,” said Katrina. This was becoming a habit.

“What I mean is that she was right to say that in

the days before people even had cars or freezers,
they certainly weren’t fitted with chips, were
they?”

The headmaster had assumed a strained, rather

contorted, expression.

“Mrs Willoughby, while I would not be minded in

this instance to risk offence by stating you were
incorrect per se, you must appreciate that as a
servant of the educational authorities, it is my
duty to uphold the judgements and...”

Katrina laughed.

“I don’t believe this,” she said. “You can’t say it,

can you? You know full well that I’m right, that
Sonia was right, but you don’t dare admit it.

“You’ve got your rules and your instructions and

you’ve got to stick exactly with what they say,
even when it means pretending to believe an
absurd version of history that you and I both
know for a fact is nothing but a lie, no matter
how good the intentions behind it.

126
“Mr Crowther,” she added, rising from her chair.

“You really should be ashamed of yourself.”

And, with that, she marched towards the door.

The headmaster stood up as if to follow her.

“Mrs Willoughby,” he said. “Wait a minute, I beg

you. There are forms to fill in. Regulations. This
all has to be sorted out properly, Mrs Wil-
loughby.”

But Katrina didn’t even turn around, just walked

right out of his office, shutting the door behind
her. The headmaster sprang out from behind his
desk, ran over to the door, pulled it open again
and saw the back of her head heading down the
corridor.

“This isn’t just going to go away, Mrs Wil-

loughby! This will all be going on your daughter’s
record, you know! And yours too! There will be
repercussions, Mrs Willoughby, serious
repercussions!” he shouted after her, with a tone
of unassailable authority that was almost a little
too convincing.

127
 36

His father had shaken hands with him on his

way off to work in the morning.

Unprecedented.

“Good luck, Michael!” he’d said, with a man-to-

man clasp.

His voice had been serious, formal, but the look

in his eyes was one of great anticipation.

His mother was the same and had been so for the
last couple of days.

She was as excited as a child in the run-up to

Christmas. She probably hadn’t even slept last
night, judging from the unearthly hour that
Michael had been woken by the water running
through the pipes behind his headboard.

He’d heard her on the phone yesterday, when she

thought he was up in the top room.

She had somehow managed to be babbling and

whispering simultaneously – it was something
about reservations and special occasions.

And she’d been sorting through her posh stuff in

the wardrobe, he’d noted.

128
She could hardly wait for him to finish his
breakfast coffee.

“Well?” she said at last, unable to keep quiet any

longer.

“Are you going to see if they’re up there now.

They said nine o’clock and it’s ten past already.”

Michael tried to smile, but it didn’t come out

right and his mother noticed.

She put her hand on his shoulder.

“There’s nothing to worry about, Mikey. You’ll be

OK. I know you will. Everyone gets nervous
about this sort of thing, but...”

He shook his head and stood up.

“It’s not that,” he said, although he knew she

wouldn’t believe him.

“I’ll do it now,” he added and headed up to his

bedroom study.

As he poked around in his drawer for the print-

out with the access code, he found his latest
junior credit statement. It was pretty healthy,
with all the birthday and holiday money he
hadn’t spent – not because he was saving it for
anything, but because he hadn’t got anything he
particularly wanted to buy. Or the time to think

129
about buying it – up until the exams had finished
three weeks ago, anyway.

His credit would probably be even higher by this

time tomorrow. That’s how his father had
rewarded him last time.

And before he knew it, he’d be on the adult

system, receiving monthly top-ups from whatever
corporation he signed up with to take him
through university.

The brochures were all in a pile, in the corner of

his room, underneath a selection of discarded t-
shirts.

The glossy worlds of banking, policing, investing,

auditing, taxing and controlling were all waiting
for him with open arms, offering anything from
20 to 30 year tie-ins (with the obligation purely
on his side of the deal, of course!).

He was spoilt for choice, yet left feeling he had

none at all.

Once online, he got caught up in the football

results on his home page. Even the ones he didn’t
care about seemed to exercise a peculiar
fascination.

After a few minutes, he became aware of a

creaking on the landing.

“Mum?” he called.

130
“Yes, dear,” she replied, all wide-eyed in his
doorway.

“I haven’t done it yet,” he said. “Could you shut

the door?”

She murmured something about checking the

washing and backed out.

Michael sighed, made the necessary key strokes,

entered his access code and found his exam
results.

He’d got them all, Straight AA**s. All seven of

them.

He had been through this moment – or rather

this possible moment – so many times before in
his mind that it was almost like stepping into a
well-rehearsed routine.

He picked up his junior credit card and a few

other bits of plastic, grabbed a handful of clothes
from his chest of drawers and stuffed them into
his school bag.

Picking it up, he realised it was a bit heavy and

found the side pocket still full of revision notes
and exam timetables.

He quickly pulled them out and deposited them

in his wastepaper basket.

131
Then he had second thoughts, took them out
again, ripped them in half and returned them to
the bin.

“Mikey?” came his mother’s voice, still lingering

outside on the landing.

He switched off the computer and, bag in hand,

strode over to the door and opened it.

“Well?” said his mother a little nervously. “How

did you do?”

Michael looked her straight in the eye.

“Ungraded,” he said. “Every single one. I failed

the lot.”

He looked away to avoid seeing the expression

that was about to take over her face and walked
past her, down the stairs.

“But... I don’t... There must have been a mistake!

Mikey! Mr Prentice said... Your father...
Michael?”

“I’m going out,” said Michael as he left the house

for the last time.

“Bye mum.”

132
 37

Jon sat staring at those two words, fingers posed

over the keyboard. Did he dare do it or not?

The story was of the usual kind. It had one of the

reporters’ names on it, but had clearly been
downloaded direct from Central Information.

This one was about Rights of Way. They’d all

been temporarily closed for years under
emergency legislation.

But now the government had decided to

completely do away with the concept, erase the
term from the law books.

And the thinking behind this?

“Any notion of unauthorised access to private

property is clearly in conflict with the age-old
traditional rights of property owners and also
incompatible with the overriding contemporary
need to protect innocent men, women and
children from the threat of terrorist activity,”
pointed out the Minister.

That was what the story said. Those were the

two words he couldn’t take his eyes off. “Pointed
out”.

133
Total acceptance of the official line. Implicit
endorsement by the paper of everything that the
minister had said.

Jon wanted to change it. He was the editor, after

all. There was nothing written down anywhere to
say you had to use Central Information copy
verbatim.

It was just that everybody did.

It was easier that way.

Jon had been in the business for 25 years and

had never been in any trouble.

For the first decade or so, he’d been consciously

keeping his head down, paranoid that the
company would find out about that incident at
university which had led to his parents being
visited by the anti-terror police. None of it was
supposed to be on the record, in theory – his
father had seen to that.

But you never knew and from time to time Jon

still expected the whole issue to be suddenly
shoved back in his face, nearly 30 years on, as
Exhibit A in the case for his prosecution.

After the first decade of caution, Jon’s good

journalistic behaviour had been of the
unthinking kind. He had been too busy bringing
up his family, climbing crucial rungs on the

134
ladder of self-promotion, to be bothered by pangs
of either conscience or guilt.

Now, though, he knew he was too old to go any

higher in the publishing corporation.

His children no longer wanted his time when he

made it available to them and, sadly, neither did
his wife.

For the first time in many years, he had found

himself thinking about the stories he was
publishing.

“Pointed out”. That was such an insult, such an

assumption on behalf of Central Information.

He couldn’t let it go, could he? But what would

happen if he changed it? Would he go the way of
Tony Singh at the Herald who, according to
rumour, had started receiving readers’ letters
containing pro-terrorist terminology.

Not only had he failed to pass on the evidence to

the authorities – an offence in itself, of course –
but he had even started publishing them.

Started, because a few hours after the first one

had appeared in the paper he had ‘resigned’ and
never been heard of since.

Jon would have liked to have seen the letter

involved, but it had disappeared from the Herald

135
site by the time news of the controversy reached
him.

This wasn’t anything like Tony’s crime, but all

the same...

Jon pictured his pleasant and hard-earned home,

his family, their annual fortnight in Provence,
the admiring look on the faces of all the people to
whom he was introduced as The Editor of The
North Sussex Free Press...

“Free Press!” Jon laughed at himself, replaced

“pointed out” with “claimed”, uploaded the story
and leant back in his executive chair waiting for
the whole world to come tumbling down around
him.

136
 38

When the train had pulled away and left Richard

alone on the deserted platform, he stood still for
a full five minutes listening to the birdsong and
savouring the sweet taste of woods and fields.

He was determined to make the most of every

moment of his trip.

It had taken a hell of a lot of preparation, after

all.

It wasn’t as if you could simply wake up one

morning and decide to head off into the
countryside for the day just on a whim.

In fact, even with advance planning, most city-

dwellers like him would never get permission to
come here alone – a tour party was the most they
could hope for.

But then not everyone had an old mate in the

Ministry of Nature who could plausibly get you
on the books as a consultant surveyor and then
get you all chipped up and authorised for a whole
day’s unaccountable wandering in the forest.

“Thanks, Mark,” whispered Richard to himself as

he stepped off the concrete of this tiny railway

137
halt and onto the soil that was to be his
companion for a day.

He glanced at his map and confirmed to himself

where he was going, where he’d pictured himself
going so many times over the last few weeks.

East, across the forest and away from the

railway and the road.

East, up into the hills where hardly anyone lived

anymore, where the polluted plastic world he
knew crumbled away and something real and old
still lived and breathed as it had for a billion
years.

In the hours that followed, as Richard plunged

further and further into the woodlands where
even the paths were not made by man, he had
the impression that he was alive for the very first
time.

Rustling at his feet, scrabbling in the trees, the

sight of a panicked deer bounding away from him
across a clearing – this was the oxygen he had
craved.

The intoxication grew as he at least reached the

hills that had guided his progress on the horizon
all day and vast vistas opened up beneath him,
while the air seemed still fresher and more
nourishing to the soul.

138
As he sat on the trunk of a fallen tree high up on
a wooded ridge and surveyed the land, he felt
that the pleasure with which he had been
imbued had also reached a peak.

Finally, he had the impression that he had

slipped free from whatever it was that had held
his heart captive for so long.

Then he noticed it, snagged up on the very top

branch of the very tallest tree in sight. A plastic
bag.

Now he understood that he would never escape.

139
 39

A revolutionary new type of window is to be

tested at a school in Steyning, West Sussex.

While allowing normal visibility when required,

the special glass can be “switched off” in an
instant by a remote control held by the teacher.

Explained headteacher Joy Hall: “The idea is to

combat that age-old problem of kids staring out
of the window instead of focusing on their
monitors.

“If a teacher notices certain pupils are not

concentrating on the task in hand, or if the
system reports an unauthorised drop in
keystroke rates, the windows can be switched to
opaque mode, thus removing a common source of
distraction.

“We are hoping the trial period will result in a

considerable rise in productivity.”

140
 40

“Heaps of stinking corpses, grey hungry faces

torn apart by fear, an air ripped by the constant
screams of tortured children, gang-raped women
and mutilated men.

That’s what I expected to find when I travelled

down to remotest Sussex to visit one of this
country’s 20 major Detention Centres.

Looking back, I guess that is also what I wanted

to find.

Sounds pretty sick, but that’s what spending a

day in the company of Britain’s self-styled “civil
liberties” campaigners can do for you.

Don’t get me wrong – you don’t get to be the star

reporter [this is presumably intended as humour
– ed] for a left-leaning radical chic kinda mag
like this without caring deeply – too deeply, on
occasions – about other people’s rights and
freedoms.

But is it just me or do those special individuals

who devote their lives to expressing their views
on the matter somehow always manage to ruin it
for everyone?

141
Overegging the pudding, would be one way of
putting it.

Crying wolf once too often, would be another.

But enough of my complex liberal psyche.

Let me just tell you what Kate thought about the

Detention Centre when I spoke to her after the
spectacularly pointless “Free the Future!”
festival in Hackney in May.

Pointless because the aim of this much-heralded

anarcho-extravangaza was ostensibly to ‘raise
awareness’ of the issues surrounding Detention
Centres and other government anti-terrorist
initiatives among the general public in London
and beyond.

But, so far as I could tell, there was not a single

individual present – and that includes the
various B-list rock celebrities, the vegan caterers,
the multitude of spaced-out vaguely supportive
hangers-on probably attracted to the event by
the word “Free” and without the attention span
(“concentration is such a, like, fascist-patriarchal
concept you know, man!”) to reach the word
“the”, let alone work out that “Future” was an
abstract concept and not something they were
going to be given in a plastic bag at the end and
be able to flog off down the car boot sale...

Where was I? Oh yes, none of those present,

including your sell-out corporate media

142
representative here, left the event any more
aware of the issue than when they arrived at it.

Either you were very aware indeed of all the

conspiracies the government is involved in – and
very aware also of your personal duty to tell
every other person you meet all about them, in as
much detail and at as great a length as you can
manage – or you were less aware to a degree that
was not going to be altered in one way or another
by all the ear-bashing, poster-displaying and
leaflet-thrusting that you encountered at this
fun, fun festival.

Personally speaking, the only thing I became

aware of was the fact that I will never willingly
attend a happening of this kind again, no matter
how much I may feel I sympathise with the
organisers’ concerns – or some of them, at least.

I certainly hope I don’t bump into Kate again in a

hurry. She won’t be pleased with this article. In
fact, she’ll probably put it down as some sinister
intelligence service psy-ops propaganda
operation to discredit The Resistance and further
the Exploitation visited upon the People by The
System.

She’s that kind of person, is Kate. The kind that

talks in words starting with capital letters.

Our Detention Centres are, in her words, “an

Abomination, an intolerable Throwback to the
darkest days of Nazism or Stalinism”.

143
According to Kate, it’s all about “Power running
out of Control” and “a Brutal System Crushing
Human Flesh Underfoot in its Quest for Profit
and Growth”.

Funny that, I told her, maybe I’m completely on

the wrong track here, but I thought the anti-
terrorist laws were something to do with, you
know, stopping terrorism.

Kate snorted and if her snort could have begun

with a capital ‘S’, it would have.

“What terrorists?” she asked.

It was frankly difficult to know where to start.

With the ones who killed 2,400 with poison gas
on the tube five years ago, perhaps? Or the ones
who blew 300 holidaymakers to hell just off the
runway at Gatwick some 18 months back?

Kate was not comfortable with my response –

though with the slightest talent for advance
planning (“another bloody Industrial-Patriarchal
Concept”) she would surely have seen it coming.

After a little bit of gentle journalistic prodding,

she ventured the opinion, if you can dignify it as
such, that the terrorists in question may well
have been working for the British government.

Hmmm... I said. I don’t want to be rude, but I

think that I may have detected a slight flaw in
your analysis.

144
Why exactly would our government want to blow
up thousands of its own citizens and carry out
attacks that are estimated to have cost our
economy in the region of £60 billion?

“To justify all the repression, of course!” said

Kate with the air of a nursery school teacher
trying to explain to a particularly unintelligent
three-year-old why the square block should be
inserted into the box via the square hole.

“OK Kate,” I say, and take out my handkerchief

to wipe the sweat from my furrowed liberal brow.

“So you are saying that the government hired a

bunch of terrorists to launch a hugely expensive
series of attacks on this country and its people,
just to give it the excuse to build a hugely
expensive network of detention centres in which
to imprison these same terrorists?

“Kate,” I ask her when she’d finished babbling

about “Human Rights”, “Criminalising Dissent”
and “Real Democracy” (as opposed to the False
Democracy of voting for governments which
promise to protect your family from being
murdered by terrorists), “Kate, do you think that
if the general public had real ‘awareness’ of the,
ummm, unconventional views you and your
colleagues hold, they would be happy to see you
camped out here for the weekend on public land
with your wind-powered direct action video
screenings and organic creches? Do you think, if
they were aware of what you just told me, that
they would trust you to tell them the difference

145
between what is right and wrong, moral and
immoral, about law enforcement and public
security in Britain today?”

“FUCK OFF!” says Kate, most definitely using

capital letters throughout.

Despite my disappointing encounter with the

self-appointed prophets of totalitarian doom in
Hackney, I decided to pursue the investigation of
the Detention Centres issue as demanded by my
soft liberal conscience.

After all, as any student of logic could tell you

(and I fancy that Kate was never enrolled on that
particular course), just because you don’t care
much for the opposition, that doesn’t mean the
thing they’re opposing is necessarily worthy of
your approval.

The thought of human beings – men, women and

children – caged up and tormented in giant
prison camps in the countryside was not
something I was finding it easy to reconcile with
my trust in Britain’s attachment to justice and
civilisation.

The only way to resolve this was to see for

myself.

This was easier said than done, of course, and

many a reporter attempting to gain access to the
centres has been sent packing with a flea in the
ear and a warning that they were lucky it was

146
not a bullet, such are the sensitivities of the
security sector in this time of unprecedented
terrorist threat (sorry Kate, I know that’s a
terribly Politically Incorrect thing to say).

Luckily, though, I was able to pull a few strings

with a trusty contact at the Home Office and,
following a rather in-depth personal vetting
procedure (which obviously failed to unearth my
prominent role in the Basingstoke Sixth Form
College Anti-Capitalist Society), I found myself
on the way to Titnore Detention Centre near
Worthing in West Sussex.

Built in just six months at the start of last year,

the centre cost just over £6 million to put
together and can hold 1,500 suspects.

As our military vehicle swung off the M27 and

approached the outer perimeter checkpoint, I
braced myself for the worst.

Was I going to be able to cope, emotionally, with

the trauma of witnessing at close hand the most
inhuman of all human predicaments? Would I be
able to meet any of the prisoners in the eye and
ever sleep again? Would the horrors ahead
destroy forever my faith in my own country and
its institutions?

The photos smuggled out of various centres that

had been featured prominently in Capital Kate’s
Festival of Fear were still imprinted on the
retina of my mind’s eye.

147
As we waited in what was clearly some kind of
civilian staff recreation area for access to the
Horror of all Horrors, I found myself, for all my
usual hard-boiled cynicism, filled with a rather
unpleasant sensation that I guess must have
been trepidation.

So it was an anti-climax of the first order to find

that we were, in fact, already in the Detention
Centre itself!

A small crowd of spectators was gathered around

a table tennis table as two healthy-looking young
men pinged and ponged with alarming ferocity.

An ad-hoc game of football was going on behind

the nearest building – though sports fans will be
disappointed to learn I failed to make a note of
the score.

Elsewhere, people of all ages, races and sizes

were sitting or standing or leaning in the
sunshine, chatting, resting or just being.

Obviously, I smelled a rat. That’s what I’m

trained to do, after all.

“I wonder,” I asked cautiously of Captain X, my

tour guide for the day. “Would it be possible for
me to have a word with one or two of these
people?”

I was mentally prepared to memorise the exact

phrasing of the reply he was about to deliver –

148
the reply that would suggest that speaking to
anyone would not be entirely appropriate, or
which would, more subtly, steer me towards the
specific two or three so-called detainees that the
government wanted me to meet, rather than
random unreliables from the crowd.

I’ve read “They Must Think We’re Fucking

Stupid!” as well. I’m aware of how these things
work. But that reply never came.

Instead I got an “Of course, be my guest. They’re

not all native English speakers, but even those
that couldn’t get by when they arrived are pretty
much au fait by now.”

I was so taken aback by this opportunity that I

virtually leapt upon the first person that came to
hand, before the Captain came to his senses and
changed his mind.

She certainly was an English speaker. She even

came from my old home town – Basingstoke. I
think her mum may have sold me Danish
pastries from the shop down the road from where
I was supposed to be having my piano lessons.

“So why are you here?” was the first to-the-point

question I asked Trish, after a couple of minutes
of Basingstoke chat.

She got a bit embarrassed about this. Told me

she’d been campaigning against voting – arguing
that the whole electoral system was somehow a

149
fraud designed to hoodwink people, rather than
represent their views.

“People did mention to us that it was probably

illegal now, under the new Democracy Laws, but
we just didn’t take any notice. We thought we
could just carry on like we always had. We didn’t
realise how much everything had been changed
by all this terrorism.”

When I asked Trish whether the Detention

Centres were really as bad as Hitler’s concentra-
tion camps or Stalin’s gulags, I have to report
that she laughed and asked who had said they
were.

I told her about Kate and her festival and Trish

just shrugged.

“I can understand why they’d think that,” she

admitted. “I mean, I would have probably been
doing something similar myself, not so long ago.
And there are certainly issues around us being in
here in the first place...”

I nod in sympathy and suggest it’s all a matter of

finding the correct balance, in a civilised country,
between individual liberties and collective well-
being.

“Exactly,” says Trish. “And although we might

disagree with the powers-that-be over where
exactly to draw the line, we can grasp the

150
thinking behind it. As for the conditions here,
well...”

She simply looked around her, implicitly inviting

me to do the same. No further comment was
necessary. “But don’t you get bored?” I ask.

As if on cue, a siren sounds and everybody starts

to shift themselves.

“What, in ten minutes?” smiles Trish and starts

to move towards the nearest block of buildings,
obviously keen to return to her work.

I walk with her, so as to prolong our conversation

for another few seconds.

“I know this sounds stupid,” she adds, “and I

know a lot of the people who were my friends out
there will hate me for saying this, but I really
feel I’m doing something useful in here. I really
am contributing something tangible to the world
in a way that I honestly never felt I was before.”

As she disappeared, with a cheery wave, into the

production block with the last of her colleagues, I
was left in the deserted exercise area reflecting
that this was one aspect of the scheme most
cruelly twisted by the poisonous propaganda
pumped out by the likes of Kate and the other
wide-eyed gangsters whose real aims seem less
to “free” the future than spoil it for all of us.

151
While they may try to frighten us with images of
poor souls locked away for no good reason, to no
good effect, the opposite is in fact the case.

Security issues aside, the great thing about our

Detention Centres is that people aren’t wasting
their time there.

They are putting in a full working week – more,

in fact, as the average travel-to-work time is
deducted from the calculation of their hours – to
bolster the British economy.

It would clearly be outrageous to allow criminals

to grow rich during their period of detention, so
the cost to the employer of their ‘wages’ amounts
to little more than a contribution towards
keeping them alive and in a fit enough state to
turn up for their shifts.

And this attractive proposition has already

reaped its rewards by persuading important
corporations like Globartis plc, x-3 and Lam to
return to these shores a decade after they were
driven away by the red-tape and unrealistic
demands of a traditionally inflexible British
workforce.

When I mentioned this promising development to

an old leftie friend of mine, he was distinctly
unimpressed.

“Slave labour,” was the phrase that kept

cropping up, as he rapidly worked his way

152
through a £35 bottle of Claret at our local
brasserie.

Look, I told him. If those computer components

weren’t being assembled at the Detention
Centre, would they simply not be assembled at
all?

No, he conceded. They would still be assembled

somewhere.

And was it not likely – indeed inevitable – that

they would instead be assembled by 13 year old
girls in Thailand, Indonesia or China?

He nodded.

And so, I asked, where did that leave his

bleeding heart ethical objection to “slave labour”?
Would he rather the victims of such exploitation
were innocent children from the Far East or
suspected terrorists from our own land?

If the answer was the former, I suggested, he

was a racist and I would find it very difficult to
believe that he, of all people, deserved that label.
My friend could provide no reply with the
coherence to merit it being recorded on these
pages.

I should add that my absolute certainty on this

point should not give the impression that my
view of the Detention Centres lacks complexity.

153
For instance, after my brief conversation with
Trish, I did wander further into the centre,
unescorted, and discovered areas in a state of
filth that surely should not be tolerated in a
civilised society.

And there is, I feel, a strong argument that the

concept of “indefinite” detention should be
softened, with an allowance for genuine changes
of heart and acceptance of democratic norms –
except, of course in those cases where actual acts
of violence or damage have been carried out.

Reform is, and always will be, a necessary and

positive process with which to silence the critics,
reassure the majority and, indeed, improve the
efficiency of any system of organising human
activity – for no such structure can ever be
perfect outside of the text book.

As far as the overall rights and wrongs of the

Detention Centre method itself is concerned, I
would like to think that if any journalist was to
cast the spotlight on them and expose them to
the most fundamental of moral reassessments,
then that journalist would be me.

Sometimes, I must confess, I do still harbour

doubts and wonder if that is exactly what I
should be doing.

But then I mentally compare the number of

smiling faces I saw at the Titnore Detention
Centre with the number I saw at Kate’s “Wreck

154
the Future!” bonanza in Hackney, and I know
that my judgement is sound.”

Miller glowed as he put down the plastic folder

that had protected the magazine pages for so
many years.

As time went by, he had realised that this had

probably been the most significant of all his
many journalistic interventions.

Everyone had been happy with it.

He himself had been highly satisfied with the

way he had married polemic intent with raw
material that was drawn from real-life reportage
– well, partly anyway, but the fact that nobody
could tell which bits he had made up was further
evidence of his achievement.

The editor had been pleased, too. It was quite a

coup – Inside a Detention Centre.

And, most importantly, Granville had been

pleased. Miller had come up with just what he
wanted, at the time he most needed it.

These things never appear to have much of an

immediate effect. No real critic of the detention
centres had been swayed by his carefully
composed piece. That would never have been a
realistic ambition, anyway.

155
And most of the general public never read the
article, never saw the magazine.

Maybe even the target audience – the opinion-

forming, liberal-leaning professionals who
thought it their duty to care about such things –
were not completely convinced by Miller’s
account and many may well have come away
with a few question marks in their heads over
where exactly he was coming from.

But there was nothing conclusive enough to put

them off completely. The article had proved
sufficiently plausible to sow the seeds of doubt,
blur the edges, transform the dangerous unease
that had been growing with regard to the
detention centres into something more like a
controversy, in which the point of contention was
whether there was anything wrong with this
unprecedented project at all.

It had been with some satisfaction that Miller

had seen the essentials of his article gain a life of
their own, reappearing in print, on the internet
and even in overheard conversations.

Some of this must also have been down to

Granville. He was always very firm on the
necessity of following through a campaign in a
thorough and merciless fashion, and Miller
suspected there were a lot more of Granville’s
specials at large in the media world than he had
been led to believe.

156
Be that as it may, it had been Miller’s original
article, his own skill and subtlety, that had
allowed a crucial weakness to open up in the
opposition ranks.

Once the detention centres were accepted as part

of life – albeit a “controversial” one – there was
nothing to stop the next phase of consolidation
from going ahead.

Miller gazed out over the city from his balcony,

lost in the heady intrigues of half a century ago.
It was there, in the past, that his spirit had been
residing for some decades now.

That was when he had been someone, that was

when he was doing something. Now he was just a
tired old man, sitting back and enjoying the not
inconsiderable fruits of his labour.

A surveillance drone emerged out of the blue

smog and hovered close to a window in the block
over the street.

A column of anti-terror police was also making

its way in this direction, he noticed, and he
leaned forward in anticipation of some
excitement.

But it was a coincidence. They were going

somewhere else. And the drone soon gave up and
flew away into the haze.

157
Miller sighed. That was the trouble these days.
The war had been won long ago and well-
established security was simply not as thrilling.

He’d often been tempted to come back from

retirement and try his hand again for one last
time, just for nostalgia’s sake.

But who would know him now? Granville was

long gone, of course. And even his successor, the
young chap with the Italian-sounding name he
could never remember – had apparently retired.

The only contact Miller now had with the

department was automatic – the credits that had
been dropping reassuringly into his bank account
every month for the last god-knows-how-many
years.

In any case, he mused, what exactly could he

contribute to a society in which terrorism and
subversion had, frankly, been defeated.

There was no need now to combat the distortions

and incitements of those old-style shit-stirrers
and rabble-rousers.

There was no need now for his finely honed

ability to undermine the efforts of malcontents
and misfits because, thanks partly to him, they
simply didn’t exist.

Which in a way, Miller thought, was a bit of a...

158
And, before the word could fully form itself in his
mind, he grabbed a Blissax from the small table
at his side, downed it with a gulp of water and
turned his full attention to the e-crossword.

159
 41

All day long I’d been hearing other people’s

conversations. There were the other guys in the
kitchens, the customers out front, the radio in
the taxi back into town.

Now, as I walked the last bit home along the

seafront, the missing link that would save me a
small fortune in accumulated long-way-round
fares, there was nothing.

I could hear the waves crashing onto the shingle

on my left. I could hear the sound of a motorbike
up on the main road, somewhere, but there were
no voices and no words to entertain me.

A big empty space had opened up in my head,

ready for my innermost thoughts to rush into.

Fortunately, I had my phone on me and I rang

Richie to see what he’d made of Thursday night’s
Celebrity Witch Hunt.

160
 42

It hadn’t been possible to slip them in straight

away.

People were milling around too much. Somebody

might even have spoken to him.

As a result, he’d had to listen to the tour guide’s

expert explanations for the duration of the first
room.

This one was purchased in such a such a year,

that one had cost so much to acquire.

This artist had been made a Baron of Democracy,

that one was planning a major work to mark the
President’s 60th birthday.

It was while the woman was explaining that one

painting of horizontal turquoise lines repre-
sented the desire of human society for stability
and security that he managed to push first one,
and then the other, of his earplugs into position.

He’d drifted to the back. The group were all

facing forward. The guide had turned to point to
some salient feature or other with her extending
cane.

161
He could still hear that she was talking. But he
couldn’t tell at all what she was saying and that
was all that mattered.

As the party shuffled into the second chamber,

he broke away again – though not far enough
away to draw attention – and took in the
paintings around him.

Now it was like it should have been. Now it was

like when he was a boy and you could walk
around the gallery by yourself without a guide –
before the threat of terrorism had led to the
updated security measures.

There were no more names, methods, reputa-

tions, commissions – only explosions of beauty
and pain, shimmering seas of memory, moons of
longing, creeping dark fogs of despair illumi-
nated by tiny flickers of human hope.

Now, with the earplugs in place, he could hear

what the paintings were saying to him.

162
 43

The Minister for Security yesterday made an

unprecedented public apology over the
authorities’ failure to identify a dead body
recovered a month ago.

Roger Loughton said it was clearly unacceptable

in this day and age for no identity to have been
established, but insisted that lessons had now
been learnt.

The body of the man, thought to have been in his

90s, was found in shrubbery outside the Ministry
of Security itself on October 15.

The corpse was completely naked and appeared

never to have been chipped.

DNA, fingerprint, facial matching and other

techniques could not establish any ID and even
the latest environmental tracking analysis failed
to shed any light on the man’s background, save
that he is believed to have been a long-term
resident of London.

Said Mr Loughton: “I know that the public have

been shocked to learn that a completely
unchipped, unverified individual such as this
could have been lurking in their midst, especially
here in the capital.

163
“However, I do believe this is a one-off case,
regrettable though it is.

“With the range of technology now at society’s

disposal – ranging from pre-natal chipping to
satellite sweeping and covert verification drones
– it would be virtually impossible for anyone to
repeat the criminal act committed by this
irresponsible relic of our more dangerous past.

“With the discovery of this body, I truly believe

we have seen the demise of this country’s very
last unauthorised person.”

164
 44

Not so long ago, I developed a neat little trick to

pull myself out of the spiritual voids that would
sometimes suck me in for no particular reason
and in which my everyday life seemed
unbearably restricted and shallow.

Imagine, I would tell my despairing self, that you

were incarcerated in some jail cell. What would
you miss? What would you yearn for? What
would you dream of doing on the first days of
your eventual joyful release?

The answer was obvious. I would wish for

everything that now seemed so plainly worthless
– a coffee in the town centre, a walk to the pub,
an evening at home with my partner and
children.

The depression was proved absurd and invited to

shrivel and self-destruct under the harsh light of
reason.

But later still, this self-healing device itself

became the object of my deepest suspicion.

What sort of life was this that could only appear

truly attractive by comparison to the most
dreadful of imagined predicaments?

165
Was this the full extent of the freedom which I
had always cherished as my birthright – the
freedom to not be in prison?

166
 45

Early signs of disease could be detected while

you sleep, thanks to the latest exciting invention.

Scientists at the Globartis Centre for Progress in

Cambridge have been working on correlations
between dream patterns and health problems.

With new-generation cerebro-technology now

able to record the audio-visual electric brain
images that play in our heads while we slumber,
a whole new field of analysis has opened up.

Monitoring of volunteers over a period of five

years has enabled them to trace back tell-tale
dream warnings of illnesses to a period before
any symptoms, let alone a medical diagnosis, was
in evidence.

Explained Dr Walter Mueller of the GCP: “In one

instance, a subject developed a kidney complaint
during the period of observation.

“By referring back to our data on his subcon-

scious history, we noted an abnormally high
proportion of dreaming related to mountains and
other high places, such as towers.

“We then picked out other volunteers with

similar dream patterns and conducted rigorous

167
tests to identify any existent or latent kidney
problems.

“We were frankly amazed by the extent of the

correlation and encouraged by our findings to
identify and analyse other patterns.

“We are now fairly certain, for example, of a link

between dreams invoking childhood memories
and the onset of heart disease and there is every
reason to believe that the danger of stomach
cancer could be highlighted by a propensity to
have dreams concerning aviation and cloud
formations.

“We have no idea why these links should be there

– as scientists we can merely note and exploit
their occurence.”

Dr Mueller said the dream patterns would

undoubtedly also prove useful in identifying
otherwise undetectable mental problems, such as
a potential for anti-social or terrorist behaviour.

But this breakthrough was dependent, he

stressed, on government and public support for
his team’s history-making efforts.

He said: “The problem we have at present is that

our volunteers only represent a narrow segment
of the community.

168
“Financial incentives for wider participation
would be one way forward that we would ask the
government to consider.

“Ultimately, though, I think we are going to have

to look at universal, compulsory dream
monitoring with permanent connections to a
central analytical database capable of issuing
early warning messages to the relevant
authorities in healthcare, social services or law
enforcement.”

169
 46

The man in the army uniform had been talking

for some time now, but she could not have told
you what he had said.

It was clearly important stuff, to judge from his

intense expression and unblinking gaze.

Occasionally the camera moved in closer still on

his authoritative stare for emphasis, or the
picture changed suddenly to show maimed
children, devastated cities, piles of corpses
behind barbed wire fences.

Stray words drifted from the TV into her head.

“Terror” – inevitably and repeatedly. “Peace.”
“Security.” “Prosperity.” “Democracy.”

She wasn’t interested. She was tired. She wasn’t

listening. She had tried switching channels but
there was no escape. He was on everywhere.

This was Democracy Day.

Eventually it dawned on her that the man was

different. He had been replaced. She wondered
how long ago this had happened, as she had not
been aware of any change-over.

170
The new man was dressed in a pin-striped suit
and had a softer expression on his face.

From time to time he even attempted a smile,

albeit a painfully false one.

But the longer she watched him, the more she

saw similarities with the military man. His eyes
remained so cold and hard whatever impression
the adjoining facial muscles were trying to
convey.

The footage, too, was similar. Similar, but not

identical. The same crying mothers and bombed
buildings, but also now some cheerful soldiers,
hand-shaking dignitaries, children recovering in
hospital and a small dust-covered dog, gently
cradled in the arms of a large, visored,
paramilitary anti-terror police officer.

And the same words kept trickling out onto the

grimy threadbare carpet in front of her.
Prosperity. Peace. Terror. Peace. Terror.

Soon it was time for her to vote and she

instinctively reached for the remote control, her
fingers poised over the buttons.

When the 30 seconds had passed, however, she

found she had not pressed anything.

A female voice cut in: “Hurry up there! We know

it’s hard to make up your mind between two such
outstanding candidates, but we really must ask

171
you to indicate your selection now. You have only
ten seconds remaining.”

She still made no move. Not a tremor of a finger,

nor a flicker of a reaction.

The time must have passed. A piece of text

appeared on the screen in red lettering, which
was read out by the same female voice, but in a
more formal manner.

“We would remind you that it is your legal duty

as a citizen to vote and it is an offence to fail to
transmit your selection. Please register your
choice immediately to avoid arrest and
prosecution.” Still she did nothing.

Shortly a new voice spoke – that of a male – and

the screen filled with tightly packed official-
looking wording, which she could not make out.

“This is the Police,” said the voice. “You have

committed an offence under Section 3a,
paragraph 14 of the Democracy Act of Year 21.
To plead guilty and receive an automatic fine of
£10,000, enter the code 984 on your handset and
proceed to register your vote. Failure to accept
responsibility and exercise your rights will lead
to the loss of those rights under the revised
Terrorism Act of Year 36. Units of the anti-terror
force will be dispatched to your home forthwith
to secure your arrest and indefinite detention.
You have been warned!”

172
For a second there was the slightest of
movements in her right hand, as if she was about
to key some buttons.

But then she suddenly lifted her fingers right

away and then placed the remote control firmly
on the floor, safely out of easy reach.

She folded her arms and waited.

After five minutes, the male voice returned, but

only to repeat the previous warning.

The same thing occurred again and again at

regular intervals.

And she, along with at least ten million others,

waited to see what would happen next.

173
 47

He still felt physically sick, even as he lugged the

very last of the cardboard boxes out into the
garden.

He started to dust himself down, but a quick

glance showed him this would be a futile gesture
– years’ worth of accumulated filth from his loft
had been very effectively transferred from the
poisonous pile to his own clothing.

He should have changed into something that

didn’t matter, he realised, noting with dismay
the grey grime that now seemed ingrained in his
rather expensive yellow sweater.

But there was no time for all that while these

things were still intact and in his possession.

If only he had reported them, handed them in,

during the Amnesty.

Everyone was supposed to have gone through

their entire possessions, their whole home from
the back of the sofa to the garden shed. And the
loft. Especially the loft.

He remembered the news reports of relieved-

looking families filing into police stations with
piles of illegal books, discs, magazines and

174
photographs that they had been able to unload
without fear of prosecution.

He had meant to do that himself, have a good

thorough search. He’d meant to err on the safe
side by handing in everything that could be
considered subversive or criminal, even if it
didn’t seem to meet the police criteria.

After all, he didn’t read anyway – didn’t have the

time or energy with his job. And he risked losing
that very job if there was ever a hint that he
owned material that encouraged terrorism.

The trouble was that he hadn’t ever got as far as

the loft. There was nothing there, he had told
himself, grabbing the opportunity to save himself
a job. Just a pile of old blankets and those
bizarre lampshades the old lady had left up there
when he’d bought the house.

Who’d have thought? She seemed so innocent. It

must have been her. She said she’d lived there
for 50 years and judging by the dates on these...

His foot prodded with disdain at the pile of

disintegrating cardboard boxes.

These...

He couldn’t bear to think about it any more and

busied himself in sorting out the fire.

175
Having cleared a patch of ground close to the
back wall, he moved one box into place and
pulled it even further to pieces, spreading the
contents around so they would all catch the
flames.

On reflection, he pulled a dozen magazines and

pamphlets completely out of the way. It wouldn’t
do to burn too much at one time. People might
notice. It might get out of hand.

And so, armed with a rake from his shed, he

stood over the boxes while they and their
contents burned.

He carefully prodded, coaxed and turned each

item to ensure it was fully destroyed, reduced to
a pile of unrecognisable ashes.

As he did this, separating pages deep within the

fire with the rake to ensure they were
obliterated, he was exposed, very briefly, to the
contents of these sinister relics.

Banner headlines containing words that made

him shudder, photographs of huge gatherings of
criminal gangs, holding aloft profane banners
and foul-mouthed signs, more pictures showing
these people actually defying and denying
democracy by blocking roadways, polluting civic
spaces with their ugly presence, daring to appear
aggrieved or surprised by the fact that the police
had clearly had to use force to stop their anti-

176
social and dangerous activity and restore peace
and order.

Thank God those days were over, he said to

himself, as unauthorised complainants, illegal
obstructionists, economic saboteurs, wreckers,
Luddites, extremists, nutcases, freaks and yobs
were all obliterated for ever by his cleansing
flames, along with the poisonous terrorist words
they had left behind and which had been
festering for so long in his own home – in fact, he
realised with a nauseous lurch, just a few feet
over his head while he slept at night.

He was carefully sifting and prodding and

coaxing the last of the four boxes in the flames
when he heard his phone ring inside the house.

Automatically, he turned and took a step

towards the back door.

At the very moment that he realised it would not

be a good idea to leave the fire unattended, at the
very moment he was spinning on his heels to
turn back and resume his watchman’s role, at
that very moment a great gust of wind came out
of nowhere on this still, grey day.

And, when he turned, he saw the flames leap up,

he saw ashes scatter and he saw half a dozen
scraps of paper leaping into the air.

He flailed with the rake, reached out with his

free hand, used both feet to hold back stray

177
fragments. He did well. There was no disorder.
The situation was not out of control.

But no matter how high he stretched or jumped,

no matter how much he muttered and cursed,
there was nothing he could do to bring back one
elusive slip of charred paper that hovered and
dipped tantalisingly over his back wall, before
rising yet higher and floating off towards the
railway line and the housing estate beyond.

He stood back in a cold sweat.

There was no question of going after it.

Trespassing on the railway was a serious offence.
Besides, pursuing the escaped shred of paper
would only draw the attention of the authorities.
He’d be there for all to see on CCTV. They’d want
to know why he’d flouted the Amnesty. Why he’d
taken the law into his own hands and burnt
them himself.

There was, of course, the horrible possibility that

someone had seen his fire, would find the
scorched remnant and would put two and two
together. That was a possibility he would have to
live with, through the sleepless night he knew
lay ahead, but there was simply nothing he could
now do that would not make things even worse.

He focused again on the rest of the documents.

He could at least finish them off properly.

178
The small girl was playing with the snails in her
garden when the shred of paper came fluttering
down from the sky.

She carefully placed her two beshelled

companions on the grass, off the path, before
skipping over to have a look.

She picked it up and read out loud the one word

that stood out from the burnt margins.

“Iberty”, she said.

“Iberty”,

“Iberty, gibberty, bibberty, fibberty.”

She loosened her grip and let it fall to the floor.

“Nibberty,” she added and for a moment thought

she was going to grind the paper into the mud
with the sole of her sandal, twisting it down and
round until it fell apart and was absorbed into
the earth.

But then, as a refreshing breeze blew her hair,

she had a better idea.

She picked it up again and scampered indoors,

where she placed it carefully in the delicate
wooden box her grandmother had given her just
before she died, and in which the girl intended to
keep only those things which she felt were

179
particularly precious and might somehow prove
useful one far-off future day.

180
181
 Also by Paul Cudenec

NON-FICTION

The Anarchist Revelation (2013)

Antibodies, Anarchangels and Other Essays
(2013)
The Stifled Soul of Humankind (2014)
Forms of Freedom (2015)
Nature, Essence and Anarchy (2016)
The Green One (2017)
Fascism Rebranded: Exposing the Great Reset (e-
book only, 2021)
The Withway (2022)
The Great Racket (e-book only, 2023)

FICTION

The Fakir of Florence: A Novel in Three Layers

(2016)
No Such Place as Asha: An Extremist Novel
(2019)
Enemies of the Modern World: A Triptych of
Novellas (2021)

All these titles are available to download for free

via www.winteroak.org.uk. Contact us at
winteroak@greenmail.net and follow
@winteroakpress on Twitter.

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