As regular readers have known, around two years ago I got into producing e-books. Not only did I self-publish the novels I had been writing over the past thirty years but I also made use of blog postings to create essay collections on alternate history. These latter were very popular, especially those concerning the Second World War. However, as time passed they began to be criticised, as is typical for many e-books, on the basis of minute points and people simply disagreeing with the content or the style and labelling it with a one-star review. The worst being a review that complained that a 1940s pastiche novel was a 1940s pastiche novel and as the review said 'no-one wants that', so the critic felt it was down to him to remove it from circulation. A one-star review means the book is no longer picked up by search engines and basically sales cease. I have kept the book on sale for want of knowing what else to do with it.
Self-published e-books have brought other trends beyond the absolute power of a single reviewer to destroy a book. One that is discussed in 'The Guardian' newspaper last weekend by Philip Hensher: http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/nov/01/philip-hensher-why-short-is-sweet as if it had suddenly just appeared, is that such an approach allows the publication and sale of short stories in a way that has probably not been feasible for a century, maybe even longer. I think Hensher would be pushed to sell a short story at £2.29 on Amazon as he suggests, but maybe someone like Zadie Smith who he focuses on, has sufficient standing to achieve that price.
Hensher seems to be oblivious to the fact that this trend has been going on for five years or so. I guess he still reads books he buys in WH Smiths rather than traipsing through the online Kindle listings on Amazon on a Friday afternoon or clicking through from a blog to an author's stories sold on Smashwords. Certainly he should have been aware of 'Shetl Days' by Harry Turtledove, an established if no literary author, published only online as a short e-book for 99p back in April 2011. Hensher is write to praise the ability to produce and get out to the public books of very varied lengths. Ironically, or perhaps logically, on Amazon the best-selling genre of short-story seem to be 4,000-word erotic e-books; I guess because people are not looking for much character or plot development in such stories!
This year with my books being torn apart for representing Finland in the 1940s in a way which people disapproved of, apparently using too many online as opposed to paper sources and having 'too much history' in my alternate history e-books, I took many of them down. They were not making any money and it was soul-destroying just to be sitting there being slagged off in a whole host of ways. These days, one minor typographical error is enough to have the entire book condemned as useless. I guess that is a characteristic of our indignant societies; people are angry that their authors can actually be human and cannot afford to employ editors, even though most publishing houses do not bother with them these days anyway. Conversely, people I meet want to see my books, but if they even read them, they never bother to include a review, leading me to think I indeed must be so bad and they are simply too embarrassed to say.
Some constructive criticism is what all authors need, such as suggestions on style or level of detail. In this world it is all or nothing, either the reviewer condemns your work as needing to be removed for causing offence due to minor errors or the person is too embarrassed to say anything about what they did not like in the book. The former simply want you gone out of the way of the 'proper' authors they admire so much more. The latter, well, I do not know what they want, perhaps simply proof that when you say you are an author you actually are, maybe they hope to catch you out in confessing you are lying and the evidence simply ruins that game so they have nothing else to say.
Anyway, you get the picture. However, these set-backs have not doused the ideas that I have bubbling away in my head. Sometimes I have to simply write a story to get it out of my head otherwise it bubbles around in there getting in the way of other thoughts and indeed preventing me from sleeping. One reason why the 10th-12th of the Braucher stories were written so fast was that they had been planned some years before but never written and reflecting on them kept me awake, I simply had to get them out and finished to get enough sleep and maintain my health. This brings me to 'Against the Devil's Men' which is an e-book just under 9,000 words in length that I started writing on the evening of Saturday, 2nd November 2013, as a result of the weather meaning the wireless reception where I am staying was too poor to allow me to continue my game of 'Rome II Total War'. I wrote the remaining 7,300 words of the book throughout 3rd November. I edited it after work on 4th November, having created most of the front cover and the synopsis over my lunch break. I put it up for sale that evening and by the morning of 4th November, had sold one copy.
Of course, the ideas had been around for a long time. The book is set in western Normandy in 1272 in an alternate world in which rather than retreating from Europe in the 1240s the Mongols have remained to continue their conquests and destruction. The ideas go back to me reading 'The Devil's Horsemen' by James Chambers (1979) in 2007, playing 'Medieval II Total War' and subsequently producing a chapter on this blog and then in my e-book of alternate histories of the Middle Ages 'On Other Fields' (2012). The story is told from the perspective of a cardinal charged with inspecting the frontline in the bocage country of Normandy. I worry that it is too dense because the cardinal engages in religious thoughts and controversies. I was also conscious of avoiding anachronisms, so he refers to the Mongols as 'Tartars' a mix up with the Tatars another steppe people; for centuries 'Mongol' meant a group of nomads rather than their ethnicity. In addition, being seen as coming from the Devil, this was a reference to Tartarus, a hellish region of the underworld in Ancient Greek mythology. He also refers to the Folban, the German term at the time for the people we now call the Cumans, another nomadic steppe tribe but one which fled in front of the Mongols and converted to Christianity in the 1220s.
My short stories have never sold as well as my longer books. However, I have enjoyed being able to produce and sell a book within three days. In the 1930s books on political events were often overtaken by a change in the global situation before they had been published. In these days not only can you blog about such events but you can get a book out while events are still running; indeed with an e-book you can update as they change. Perhaps Philip Hensher should catch up with the rest of the world and reflect on that new slant on writing and publishing.
P.P. 01/01/2016
I realised that I should have updated this posting in June 2014. That month I stopped selling 'Against the Devil's Men' in large part because it was criticised as juvenile for taking the French rather than the Mongol perspective on the Mongol invasion of Europe. Given how inhumane and brutal the Mongol invaders were to Christians and Muslims alike, destroying many aspects of civilisation where they attacked and killing people in particularly cruel ways, I would be very worried if I could write from the Mongol perspective on these things. I did include the story in 'Déviation: What If? Stories of the French' (2014) where it seems to have attracted less attention.
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Tuesday, 5 November 2013
Monday, 14 May 2012
Moon-Water Lily-Heron - Short Story
Going on sick leave and then losing my job has meant me leaving London and returning to southern England and once again beginning the path to the reposessesion of my house, the third time since 2009. As always everyone seems convinced something will turn up. I guess this is what helped the British survive the Second World War. Britons are particularly good at expecting things to improve for people other than themselves. Anyway, that is an issue for other postings. Leaving London meant leaving the great little writers' group I had joined. This is the last of the activities that I was set. I really wished I had found the group when I first moved to London rather than just three months before I left. Certainly if I ever work again, I will seek out a group in whichever town I move to.
For this activity, we all had to draw three cards from a pack. They were not playing cards, but instead had a series of images of objects, buildings and animals. I am not certain but they may have been meant to be used as some form of modern day tarot card. The group organiser had bought them simply as something artistic. From the three cards we drew we had to write a short story. The title shows the ones that I drew: a full Moon but tinted red the shade I had seen it a few weeks earlier, a single water-lily in bloom and a heron roosting.
For this activity, we all had to draw three cards from a pack. They were not playing cards, but instead had a series of images of objects, buildings and animals. I am not certain but they may have been meant to be used as some form of modern day tarot card. The group organiser had bought them simply as something artistic. From the three cards we drew we had to write a short story. The title shows the ones that I drew: a full Moon but tinted red the shade I had seen it a few weeks earlier, a single water-lily in bloom and a heron roosting.
Moon-Water Lily-Heron
The full Moon was a blood-red shade giving the garden an unearthly pallor. The air was warm and heavily scented by the blossoms on the pond, mimicking in form if not shade the sky’s features above. Perhaps this was a night for meetings. This place was vacant of the sounds of humanity and for the moment spared the more wild calls. A person could pad along the grass-covered paths and come down to the water; another could approach and converge there. Their way would be lit, not as vividly as in daylight, but enough; the vital features exposed.
I sat watching: my time for meeting for converging passed for this year. My focus was immediate: it was for prey. The breeze came again and for some, its impact on the water might have been a misleading sign. Yet, I, a consummate hunter would not be distracted. Then it came: the ripple that signalled what I needed; an insect’s life ended; its corpse subsumed within the one I would eat in turn.
My motion was instinctive: the flap, glide and dive. I penetrated the yielding water and my jaws closed, entrapping the orange and white form: cold and wet and fresh and sustaining. In gulps I had it within; all its flesh and skin, bones, eyes, fins; its thoughts, its knowledge, its last meal and meals before, all consumed by myself. I left the water, my disruption inappropriate for this place, at this time.
I steadily settled, my heart pace slowed, my plumage came to rest. Below, the water similarly stilled and once again I and the blood-shade Moon had our perfect replicas on display.
Saturday, 7 April 2012
Chucking-Out Time - Short Story
There is a lag between me writing stuff for the writers' group and it appearing here, so there will be a break for a while covering the period I have been away over Easter. This story came from a task we were set to 'show rather than tell'. We were given three sentences to convert into a more showing format and then encouraged to develop one of them into something longer. This story was stimulated by the sentence: 'Claire walked in the door, still feeling angry with John'. How it develops was stimulated by incidents occurring in the library where the group meets as every week at closing time there is a scene between the librarians and security guards and a man who tries to inhabit the library.
Chucking-Out Time
Claire thrust the door open, sending it crashing against the hinges before it swung back and closed.
“Bastard!” She spat back at John who stood the other side of the glass.
John’s eyes remained as if seeking to scorch the glass; Claire shuddered as she turned away still sensing their weight. She tried to busy herself with tidying the leaflets on the front desk but soon was looking back out to the dark street.
Claire marched away from the reception area up to the mezzanine. It was tidy with no books or magazines out of place but she stomped around straightening items with no need of straightening. She went to the bank of switches and with her fingers spread across them all, she clicked them off, then back on and off once more with a force which turned the flesh of her fingers pale.
Below, the eyes, the body shape, the pale-lit coat remained, made more spectral by the glass between. Claire almost ran back to the glass and bringing her palm up underarm as if to slap on the pane. She held it back at the last; her arm muscles straining at the sudden halt to the motion.
Pedantically now Claire went into the disabled toilet and pulled out one sheet, two, three and returned to the glass, wiping away her spittle as if it was a true health hazard; putting her hand between her line of sight and John’s static gaze. She rubbed as if to erase him.
“Ready to go?” Narinder asked.
“Sure.” Claire responded, but forcing the words out. “I’ll come out the back way tonight.” She added.
“Suit yourself.”
Claire snapped a look back at the glass and sneered and then turned to walk to the other exit.
Monday, 22 June 2009
Twenty Twenty-Nine: Speculative Short Story
This story details what I could envisage the UK being like in twenty years' time if the BNP continues to build on its recent European election success and becomes the dominant political party in the UK. I have based the society of Britain in 2029 on the BNP's stated policy objectives and, also, from my experience in the Anti-Apartheid Movement, of what apartheid South Africa was like, especially in terms of the racial categorisation of people. The advent of DNA analysis makes that easier than the physical categorisation the South African regime used, but of course no system is infallible.
The assumption is that growing in success and with many people leaving UK for life abroad, ultimately the BNP is sufficiently strong to defend democracy, perhaps in response to a manufactured terrorist crisis and then the UK becomes a one-party state with candidates selected from a list. This is similar to many authoritarian regimes and naturally owes a lot of the Nazi regime. I think that it is useful to think through the implications of parties' policies and see where, if unchecked, they could lead this country in the next few decades.
Victoria Day was the Canadian replacement for Empire Day. These were on 24th May, Queen Victoria's birthday. In the UK, Empire Day was officially celebrated 1916-58 when it became British Commonwealth Day; in 1966 it became just Commowealth Day and moved to 10th June, Queen Elizabeth II's birthday. In 1977 it was moved to the second Monday in March and is now mainly observed simply through a radio message from the Queen. Given the BNP's obssession with supposedly glorious elements of Britain's past, I envisage they would revive such anachronisms; others are mentioned in the story.
Twenty Twenty-Nine
Despite the heat of the mid-May evening, Alfred Napier closed the window. The sound of the brass band rehearsing in the park ahead of the Victoria Day celebrations had been nagging him for the past couple of hours. Of course, as a councillor he once would have expected to have air conditioning in his office. Yet, like a lot of things in Britain today, the New Great Britain as the government vigorously branded it, his air conditioning no longer worked. With the country having been expelled from the European Union three years before and the borders to Britain tighter than the Iron Curtain had been in Alfred’s youth, there was a labour shortage. People preferred to get jobs working in the new Ministry of Information or as Special Constables, basically thugs with a warrant to boss people around, than to train for a skilled job like air conditioning repair. Part of the problem was the fad in architecture of the past five years. All government bodies had been moved out of modern buildings into anything Victorian that could be found; alternatively, buildings constructed along those lines, which meant huge lobbies that were difficult to heat and poky offices that were either too cold or as now, too hot.
There was a knock at the door and Alfred stepped away from the window, realising he had let his mind wander. He knew it was displacement activity. His wife, Mary, had had an appointment at the hospital this afternoon to see about treatment for their son, Harold’s glue ear. Alfred knew that it was a straight forward procedure, but the National Health Service had lost so many doctors in the sweep of 2026 that waiting lists now stretched for years, even for the family of a man as comparatively privileged as Alfred. He wondered if he should lay out more bribes to see if he could get Harold moved further up the list. With the debts that the doctors who had been rushed through medical school in the past decade in an attempt to fill the shortfall, incurred, they were more than willing to take payments. Of course, everyone knew this and Alfred recognised that he was in competition with people much richer than himself. He wondered if his predecessor in this role had adopted the right method. Richard Waugh had been unashamed when speaking with fellow councillors about how he used blackmail and simple rumour-mongering to exert pressure on those he wanted something from. Many men would do Waugh a favour rather than have a visit from the Borders Agency following an allegation that they did not have four generations of indigenous blood or that their daughter had been consorting with a mestee or even a quadroon.
“Come.” Alfred called and went and sat down in his seat.
It was Harley, Alfred’s tea boy; though ‘boy’ was more a technical term these days than designation of age; Harley was only three years Alfred’s junior. Alfred knew that Harley had been born Henry, but had been compelled to change his name back in 2024 to something that was seen as being more suited to a man whose father had been born on St. Lucia. Alfred had changed his name too when it became apparent that, despite the history of English Anthonys, it was being perceived too much as belonging to the ‘Mediterranean’ category, especially when shortened to Tony. Mary always said he would have been unlikely to have got on the Party list for the council selection, if he had kept his old name. Back in the early 2020s people had begun to get so jumpy about that kind of thing.
It was that purging of anything felt not to be sufficiently ‘indigenous’ that had started the EU towards expelling Britain. Of course, the National Party had been keen to leave the organisation right from the start; that had been the key thing that had attracted Alfred to them in the first place. However, previously their economists had shown how damaging it would be to suddenly been shut out from Britain’s prime market. The Commonwealth had its own trading partners and anyway, once the expulsions of ‘non-indigenous’ people back to many of these countries began, they had little interest in trading with Britain even with continued reference to the shared heritage.
“Are you staying late this evening, sir?” Harley said with his eyes dipped.
Alfred felt like shouting ‘look at me’, but knew that that would cause more trouble than the moment’s irritation he was facing. The mixed race people left in Britain had to face enough, Alfred felt, without this palaver of pretending as if they were slaves from a cotton plantation. Alfred dreaded the day when one of the more robust members of the council insisted that he be called ‘massa’.
“Yes, Harley, I want to finish this report. The committee meeting’s at eight tomorrow, isn’t it?”
“Erm, yes, erm, sir.”
Harley replied hesitantly and Alfred realised that that was because he was aware that he should display no knowledge of the affairs of the council. Alfred knew, however, that Harley had a degree in economics from back in the 2000s when mixed race people were still allowed to go to university, and in fact, when half of 18-year olds were expected to attend rather than now when it was something just for the rich and those of leading National Party members. Harley was never going to be able to do much more than make the tea. Once his grandparents died, Alfred was sure, Harley would flee across the Channel and be Henry once more. With the influx of skilled and educated mixed race people from Britain over the past decade, the economy of France; those of Spain, Belgium and the Netherlands too, were thriving.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
Alfred hesitated. “Erm, yes, bring me one; make yourself one. Is Matilda still out there?”
Harley shook his head. “No, she went at … she went.” He cut his sentence short and Alfred realised he was reluctant to give away that Matilda had slunk off early again as he knew the trouble she could cause him if she found out.
“Okay.”
Matilda. Alfred laughed at the name. Almost all women born in the past twenty years were named after queens. The number of Victorias and Elizabeths was ridiculous. For a while Matilda had been argued over. The connection between that queen and France had counted against her, but ultimately, Alfred imagined, she had been accepted simply to increase the range of names female babies could be given, just a little. Matilda’s father was the city head of the National Party and so she was simply given a job, despite the fact that she had few skills and, having being spoilt for all her life, almost seemed to expect Alfred to do her bidding rather than the reverse. Alfred had to admit that her father, Edward Dickens, at least seemed to feel that his daughter should get out of the house and do ‘something’, unlike the bulk of the princesses of Party bosses who simply idled their time and their fathers’ money away. However, it meant that Alfred was saddled with an assistant who was useless and spent most of her time chatting with friends via the computer, when the power supply was on, or slipping off for various beauty treatments.
Of course, Alfred knew that there were many women who would do the job better, but these days after they passed their mid-twenties, companies were reluctant to employ women. The government’s emphasis on women being at home producing babies, or, if infertile, adopting a child from a single mother meant that any working women older were looked at with suspicion. Mary had been an IT consultant in her younger years but stood no chance of working in that field now. The best she could have hoped for was secretarial or care worker jobs and then there were hundreds of younger women filling those each day while they sought a husband. Heaven help them, though, if they got pregnant out of wedlock. These days abstinence was the only permitted form of contraception and unmarried mothers automatically lost their child at birth before serving three years imprisonment. The government felt the loss of morals had been partly what had previously weakened Britain and, so, for the past decade had felt compelled to legislate on these too.
Alfred gazed at his computer screen but he was utterly bored of this report. These days reports were demanded with such tight deadlines it was always difficult to meet them. This was the so-called ‘national’ style of running business. It was felt that catching staff out with sudden demands kept them dynamic and always ‘ready for action’ as the phrase went. However, Alfred was now not so sure. It seemed to just leave him feeling edgy and he knew that he did not produce the kind of analysis that was really needed. This report was on the challenges of attracting sufficient primary school teachers to the city. It had been a grave problem for over ten years. No-one wanted to come and work in a city when so many tiny village schools had appeared across the country. Teachers liked the small class sizes and the fact that in those places there was less direct monitoring by the Ministry of Education about what they taught day-to-day and whether the content was sufficiently patriotic. The strict limits on what books could be used in schools and the tight budgets local authorities worked under, made it difficult to run a school successfully to start with. In addition, Alfred imagined that the contemporary emphasis on rote learning, especially of dates and famous names, could not be that interesting to teach. Accessing forbidden websites, even inadvertently, might end a teacher’s career and so they kept to just the official government ones when seeking teaching resources.
Matilda had recited the names of the monarchs when she had been interviewed for the post of personal assistant as if it equipped her for any job. Of course, with the criteria that Alfred had to work with, in part, it did. That knowledge of British history and a clean nationality certificate, let alone a father in the Party, rather any ability to do the work, had been more than sufficient for her to get the place.
The computer warbled and brought Alfred back from his pondering. He clicked on the icon and brought his wife’s face on to the screen. He could see she was back home. Partly he hoped that meant the visit to the hospital had been a success, but his wife’s face seemed to tell a different story.
“My love. How’s Harold? Did you get to see Dr. Allison?”
Mary melted into tears and Alfred wished he could be there to hold her. He imagined that Allison had gone to deal with the child of a Party leader or someone who offered him more money or a parent who had simply threatened the doctor to get his attention.
“They refused us. They said Harold’s not indigenous. They took a swab from me too. They said we can’t go to that hospital. Apparently we can’t use a national one any more; we have to use community facilities from now on.”
Alfred’s head reeled. ‘Community’ was a euphemism for second class. The hospitals that the ‘non-indigenous’ were sent to, generally underfunded and filthy.
“That’s not right, we’ve got our nationality certificates. There must be some mistake. They must have mixed you up with someone else. Look, calm down, I’ll phone the hospital direct and get them to sort this out. We’ll have it sorted. Okay? It’s going to be alright. I’ll be home soon. Give Harold a treat, keep him happy. I know he feels uncomfortable, but it’ll soon be sorted.”
“Yes, okay.” Mary looked a little more cheerful. “Hurry home, Tony, erm, Alf. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Alfred said, a little self-conscious that someone might overhear that he had had a personal call here at work. He guessed that the connection was tapped anyway, though where the funds to employ people to listen to every mundane conversation came from, he had no idea. Alfred would have been happier if his elder sons, William and George, had been at home, but term at their army academy did not end for another seven weeks. Alfred wished that he could just shove this report aside and go home to his wife. Not for the first time was he tempted to get Harley in to write something for him, but knew that would risk both their jobs and, if it came to light, would render the report meaningless: no-one in government was permitted to accept anything written by a mulatto.
Alfred heard footsteps outside the door but could tell from their weight and number that this was not Harley returning. There was a terse knock on the door, but the two men did not wait for a response before entering. Alfred guessed that only his position had warranted the knock; these men were more used to opening doors with their feet. He did not need to take in the details of the uniforms to know that they were from the Borders Agency. Of course that body’s role encompassed everything pertaining to racial legislation in Britain these days and these two particularly looked like men who were more used to chasing down quadroons trying to pass as white than checking passports. They were both over six feet tall, with shaven heads and large moustaches that, despite apparently being drawn from Victorian styles of the British Army, always made Alfred think of fat Germans running a beer hall.
“Mr. Napier?”
From the man’s pronunciation that he was one of those who had come to Britain from the southern USA once the implementation of the National Party’s agenda had got underway. In terms of ability and even numbers, they had done nothing to replace those people expelled from the country. Many had had their expectations dashed. In contrast to what they had expected, that they would be stringing up blacks from lamp-posts as their grandfathers had done, they had ended up hassling those who had a few genes that no longer fitted with the government’s demands. Much of their day was spent excluding such people from certain buses, parks, beaches, schools, hospitals and jobs, reserved for the ‘indigenous people’.
“Yes, I’m Councillor Napier.” Alfred felt he had to pull rank to show this pair he was better than them.
The two men took chairs unprompted. The other man had a leather case from which he pulled documentation. He spread it out across the table.
“This,” the second man spoke with a strong West Midlands accent, “is the report of your son’s latest DNA check.”
“And you are?”
Alfred’s question seemed to surprise the men. There was a quick glance between them and Alfred was pleased that he had drawn them up short.
“I am Sergeant Hopkins,” the American said, “and this is Corporal Neal, we are from the Borders Agency, Councillor.”
“Thank you.”
Alfred felt he had won a little victory. He wanted these men to be uncertain as to the extent to which their careers were in jeopardy if they mistreated him. He might not be all-powerful in this city, but he was not without influence. Major Kendal of the Borders Agency had dined at his house.
“Can I offer you some tea?”
“No thank you.” Hopkins replied and Alfred noted there was no ‘sir’.
It seemed apparent now that the mix-up at the hospital had had wider repercussions. This could be tiresome to resolve.
“Basically your son’s DNA check shows some non-indigenous characteristics that were followed up on.” Hopkins had taken over the narration.
“Are you sure there has been no mix-up? A mistake at the hospital.”
“Mr. Napier, they only call us in when they’re certain.”
Alfred realised that these men would go nowhere near the biological analysis, they just did the enforcement.
“This has been followed up on and it revealed something from your wife’s record. Did you ever meet her grandmother?”
“Once, she was at our wedding. She does not live around here.”
“No, she lives in France, doesn’t she?” Neal snapped as if that was a crime in itself.
Alfred felt guilty for an instant. He had asked Mary to pressure her parents to remain in Britain and they worried that it might come at the time when Alfred was being considered for the Party list, but until now, fortunately, it had not.
“Did you know that Mrs. Gould was half-Burmese?” Hopkins asked.
“Joyce?”
“Must have come here as a baby, say, in 1948, when the floodgates opened. You know, when we lost India, a lot of them came over here.”
Joyce Gould certainly had long straight hair, but she had freckled in the sunshine as Mary and her mother, Helen, did. Then Alfred found himself wondering a little at Hopkins’s claim to ‘we’ losing India.
“No, I didn’t know that.” He responded calmly.
“And the grandfather, Gould, he wasn’t born Gould, but Gold, you know, a Jewish name. Probably forced their way in here in the 1930s.” Neal said almost with an enthusiasm.
“There are people, not Jewish, called Gold.”
“Not in this country.” Neal sneered.
“Well, why was none of this detected? Mary and I have had our checks. You are saying that my wife has sixteenth Burmese and possibly an eighth Jewish blood, though probably none, so why is it only now that you know?”
Hopkins hesitated and Alfred was pleased that he had got him back on the defensive.
“The history of this country has been plagued by so many tides of different races sweeping into it; miscegenation, bastards, all that kind of thing makes it tough.” Hopkins drawled, what, to Alfred, sounded like a speech repeated by this man’s boss. “There are sometimes backlogs in processing the results and, you know, we are reaching new levels of sophistication in how we detect cross-breeds. Great Britain leads the world in this type of DNA analysis. It costs billions, sorry, milliards of pounds in research to get it right.” Hopkins said proudly.
“Yes, yes, I know that. Many milliards.” Alfred said, now with irritation as he knew how much his city could benefit from even one of those many billions.
Alfred allowed himself to laugh a little to see that even a Borders Agency man could slip up and forget the directions on the use of ‘proper’ English. He knew how challenging these changes were. Coming from the construction industry, Alfred remembered how he had had to adjust from millimetres to inches and the re-adoption of shillings and pennies alongside pounds had taken him months to master.
“You have been shown the evidence.” Hopkins seemed to be getting back to his script.
“So what happens now?” Alfred was a little uncertain. He remained convinced that this was a mistake, but pondered if a bribe was in order. He wondered how much cash he had in his drawer.
“Your wife has already been re-categorised. She has been given octoroon status, but she may be reduced to quadroon if we do find her grandfather had Jewish blood.”
For an instant Alfred envisaged one of Hopkins’s ancestors being as comfortable as him, with these terms like octoroon that the National Party had imported from the Americas of the past. They had come in when talking about ‘one-eighth non-indigenous persons’ had proven to be so cumbersome.
“So, the community hospital for her?”
“Yes, Mr. Napier and for your sons. Being mestees, William and George will be expelled from their academy this evening. You might like to make arrangements to collect them. They can join the waiting list for a community school in this city.” Hopkins outlined.
“Of course, your wife won’t be permitted to live in Wollaton district and will have to move closer to the city centre. I have no doubt your office has a list of the districts that the kind of people like Mary and her sons are permitted to live in.”
For a moment Alfred was going to protest or argue he would have to move with his wife and children, but realised that someone deemed to be ‘indigenous’ would not be allowed to live in districts allocated to octoroons. Even if he tried to live there he would be chased out, he was sure.
“This,” Hopkins said, lifting up a folded form, “is your application for divorce. It will be processed immediately and you will not be liable for charges of miscegenation, though obviously they will be held on record in case you happen to make a ‘mistake’ like this again.”
Alfred felt stunned. It seemed incredible that his marriage of over twenty years was being dissolved by documents being delivered by these two bully-boys.
“This is your resignation from the council.” Hopkins turned a printed letter towards Alfred. “In your case, we have included the phrase ‘to spend more time on my business interests’ as ‘spending more time with my family’ is inappropriate as you do not have one.”
Alfred’s head spiralled through all the options. He wondered whether he could bribe these men to lose all this stuff. Could he try to challenge this in the People’s Court? It seemed futile: he knew that even men simply suspected of miscegenation received rough treatment, let alone someone like himself who had lived with an octoroon woman for twenty years and fathered three children by her. Perhaps a prison sentence for that would be what he needed, to get him away from all that was happening. Realistically, though he knew he would still have to live the rest of his life and his options would be wider if he still had his business. Now his plans began developing. He knew people, he could start getting funds out of the country, say to France, and in a couple of years he would be able to fetch Mary and the boys and they could flee abroad. Better than that, if he invested in property in Spain he could channel funds there, yes that was what he would do, run down his business and build a new life there. Of course, Mary would have to tolerate months in the ghettos of the city centre, but she was strong, he knew.
“Your Party card.” Hopkins asked.
Alfred reached into his jacket and pulled out the worn leather wallet that had held his membership of the National Party. Of course, without it he would never have been able to work in any public sector job, let alone hold office even at local level. His membership dated back over a decade and he wondered whether, if he had been in the Party from when its rise had started, or had been more visible in its activities in the years since he had joined, he would have somehow have found a way now to stop what was happening. He guessed not.
“Well, that will be all gentlemen.” Alfred said as he briskly signed the various forms and shoved them back across the desk. He took the DNA record and dropped it into the bin for shredding that sat by his desk.
Neal took the documents and Alfred’s membership card and thrust them all into his leather case as if they were unimportant.. The councillor stood and began ushering them to the door. He was concerned that they would escort him from the building, but realised that they had no powers to arrest him unless they pressed the miscegenation charges and it seemed they would not. They would inform the town hall security staff, but Alfred guessed he had some minutes before they would arrive to eject him.
The two Borders Agency men were through the door now. Alfred was eager to return to his computer and wreak as much damage as he could before he went. Let the council disentangle the schools and hospital policies once he had done that.
“Sorry to rush you two, but I need to get down to working on my business interests as soon as possible.”
With that Alfred closed and locked the heavy door.
The assumption is that growing in success and with many people leaving UK for life abroad, ultimately the BNP is sufficiently strong to defend democracy, perhaps in response to a manufactured terrorist crisis and then the UK becomes a one-party state with candidates selected from a list. This is similar to many authoritarian regimes and naturally owes a lot of the Nazi regime. I think that it is useful to think through the implications of parties' policies and see where, if unchecked, they could lead this country in the next few decades.
Victoria Day was the Canadian replacement for Empire Day. These were on 24th May, Queen Victoria's birthday. In the UK, Empire Day was officially celebrated 1916-58 when it became British Commonwealth Day; in 1966 it became just Commowealth Day and moved to 10th June, Queen Elizabeth II's birthday. In 1977 it was moved to the second Monday in March and is now mainly observed simply through a radio message from the Queen. Given the BNP's obssession with supposedly glorious elements of Britain's past, I envisage they would revive such anachronisms; others are mentioned in the story.
Twenty Twenty-Nine
Despite the heat of the mid-May evening, Alfred Napier closed the window. The sound of the brass band rehearsing in the park ahead of the Victoria Day celebrations had been nagging him for the past couple of hours. Of course, as a councillor he once would have expected to have air conditioning in his office. Yet, like a lot of things in Britain today, the New Great Britain as the government vigorously branded it, his air conditioning no longer worked. With the country having been expelled from the European Union three years before and the borders to Britain tighter than the Iron Curtain had been in Alfred’s youth, there was a labour shortage. People preferred to get jobs working in the new Ministry of Information or as Special Constables, basically thugs with a warrant to boss people around, than to train for a skilled job like air conditioning repair. Part of the problem was the fad in architecture of the past five years. All government bodies had been moved out of modern buildings into anything Victorian that could be found; alternatively, buildings constructed along those lines, which meant huge lobbies that were difficult to heat and poky offices that were either too cold or as now, too hot.
There was a knock at the door and Alfred stepped away from the window, realising he had let his mind wander. He knew it was displacement activity. His wife, Mary, had had an appointment at the hospital this afternoon to see about treatment for their son, Harold’s glue ear. Alfred knew that it was a straight forward procedure, but the National Health Service had lost so many doctors in the sweep of 2026 that waiting lists now stretched for years, even for the family of a man as comparatively privileged as Alfred. He wondered if he should lay out more bribes to see if he could get Harold moved further up the list. With the debts that the doctors who had been rushed through medical school in the past decade in an attempt to fill the shortfall, incurred, they were more than willing to take payments. Of course, everyone knew this and Alfred recognised that he was in competition with people much richer than himself. He wondered if his predecessor in this role had adopted the right method. Richard Waugh had been unashamed when speaking with fellow councillors about how he used blackmail and simple rumour-mongering to exert pressure on those he wanted something from. Many men would do Waugh a favour rather than have a visit from the Borders Agency following an allegation that they did not have four generations of indigenous blood or that their daughter had been consorting with a mestee or even a quadroon.
“Come.” Alfred called and went and sat down in his seat.
It was Harley, Alfred’s tea boy; though ‘boy’ was more a technical term these days than designation of age; Harley was only three years Alfred’s junior. Alfred knew that Harley had been born Henry, but had been compelled to change his name back in 2024 to something that was seen as being more suited to a man whose father had been born on St. Lucia. Alfred had changed his name too when it became apparent that, despite the history of English Anthonys, it was being perceived too much as belonging to the ‘Mediterranean’ category, especially when shortened to Tony. Mary always said he would have been unlikely to have got on the Party list for the council selection, if he had kept his old name. Back in the early 2020s people had begun to get so jumpy about that kind of thing.
It was that purging of anything felt not to be sufficiently ‘indigenous’ that had started the EU towards expelling Britain. Of course, the National Party had been keen to leave the organisation right from the start; that had been the key thing that had attracted Alfred to them in the first place. However, previously their economists had shown how damaging it would be to suddenly been shut out from Britain’s prime market. The Commonwealth had its own trading partners and anyway, once the expulsions of ‘non-indigenous’ people back to many of these countries began, they had little interest in trading with Britain even with continued reference to the shared heritage.
“Are you staying late this evening, sir?” Harley said with his eyes dipped.
Alfred felt like shouting ‘look at me’, but knew that that would cause more trouble than the moment’s irritation he was facing. The mixed race people left in Britain had to face enough, Alfred felt, without this palaver of pretending as if they were slaves from a cotton plantation. Alfred dreaded the day when one of the more robust members of the council insisted that he be called ‘massa’.
“Yes, Harley, I want to finish this report. The committee meeting’s at eight tomorrow, isn’t it?”
“Erm, yes, erm, sir.”
Harley replied hesitantly and Alfred realised that that was because he was aware that he should display no knowledge of the affairs of the council. Alfred knew, however, that Harley had a degree in economics from back in the 2000s when mixed race people were still allowed to go to university, and in fact, when half of 18-year olds were expected to attend rather than now when it was something just for the rich and those of leading National Party members. Harley was never going to be able to do much more than make the tea. Once his grandparents died, Alfred was sure, Harley would flee across the Channel and be Henry once more. With the influx of skilled and educated mixed race people from Britain over the past decade, the economy of France; those of Spain, Belgium and the Netherlands too, were thriving.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
Alfred hesitated. “Erm, yes, bring me one; make yourself one. Is Matilda still out there?”
Harley shook his head. “No, she went at … she went.” He cut his sentence short and Alfred realised he was reluctant to give away that Matilda had slunk off early again as he knew the trouble she could cause him if she found out.
“Okay.”
Matilda. Alfred laughed at the name. Almost all women born in the past twenty years were named after queens. The number of Victorias and Elizabeths was ridiculous. For a while Matilda had been argued over. The connection between that queen and France had counted against her, but ultimately, Alfred imagined, she had been accepted simply to increase the range of names female babies could be given, just a little. Matilda’s father was the city head of the National Party and so she was simply given a job, despite the fact that she had few skills and, having being spoilt for all her life, almost seemed to expect Alfred to do her bidding rather than the reverse. Alfred had to admit that her father, Edward Dickens, at least seemed to feel that his daughter should get out of the house and do ‘something’, unlike the bulk of the princesses of Party bosses who simply idled their time and their fathers’ money away. However, it meant that Alfred was saddled with an assistant who was useless and spent most of her time chatting with friends via the computer, when the power supply was on, or slipping off for various beauty treatments.
Of course, Alfred knew that there were many women who would do the job better, but these days after they passed their mid-twenties, companies were reluctant to employ women. The government’s emphasis on women being at home producing babies, or, if infertile, adopting a child from a single mother meant that any working women older were looked at with suspicion. Mary had been an IT consultant in her younger years but stood no chance of working in that field now. The best she could have hoped for was secretarial or care worker jobs and then there were hundreds of younger women filling those each day while they sought a husband. Heaven help them, though, if they got pregnant out of wedlock. These days abstinence was the only permitted form of contraception and unmarried mothers automatically lost their child at birth before serving three years imprisonment. The government felt the loss of morals had been partly what had previously weakened Britain and, so, for the past decade had felt compelled to legislate on these too.
Alfred gazed at his computer screen but he was utterly bored of this report. These days reports were demanded with such tight deadlines it was always difficult to meet them. This was the so-called ‘national’ style of running business. It was felt that catching staff out with sudden demands kept them dynamic and always ‘ready for action’ as the phrase went. However, Alfred was now not so sure. It seemed to just leave him feeling edgy and he knew that he did not produce the kind of analysis that was really needed. This report was on the challenges of attracting sufficient primary school teachers to the city. It had been a grave problem for over ten years. No-one wanted to come and work in a city when so many tiny village schools had appeared across the country. Teachers liked the small class sizes and the fact that in those places there was less direct monitoring by the Ministry of Education about what they taught day-to-day and whether the content was sufficiently patriotic. The strict limits on what books could be used in schools and the tight budgets local authorities worked under, made it difficult to run a school successfully to start with. In addition, Alfred imagined that the contemporary emphasis on rote learning, especially of dates and famous names, could not be that interesting to teach. Accessing forbidden websites, even inadvertently, might end a teacher’s career and so they kept to just the official government ones when seeking teaching resources.
Matilda had recited the names of the monarchs when she had been interviewed for the post of personal assistant as if it equipped her for any job. Of course, with the criteria that Alfred had to work with, in part, it did. That knowledge of British history and a clean nationality certificate, let alone a father in the Party, rather any ability to do the work, had been more than sufficient for her to get the place.
The computer warbled and brought Alfred back from his pondering. He clicked on the icon and brought his wife’s face on to the screen. He could see she was back home. Partly he hoped that meant the visit to the hospital had been a success, but his wife’s face seemed to tell a different story.
“My love. How’s Harold? Did you get to see Dr. Allison?”
Mary melted into tears and Alfred wished he could be there to hold her. He imagined that Allison had gone to deal with the child of a Party leader or someone who offered him more money or a parent who had simply threatened the doctor to get his attention.
“They refused us. They said Harold’s not indigenous. They took a swab from me too. They said we can’t go to that hospital. Apparently we can’t use a national one any more; we have to use community facilities from now on.”
Alfred’s head reeled. ‘Community’ was a euphemism for second class. The hospitals that the ‘non-indigenous’ were sent to, generally underfunded and filthy.
“That’s not right, we’ve got our nationality certificates. There must be some mistake. They must have mixed you up with someone else. Look, calm down, I’ll phone the hospital direct and get them to sort this out. We’ll have it sorted. Okay? It’s going to be alright. I’ll be home soon. Give Harold a treat, keep him happy. I know he feels uncomfortable, but it’ll soon be sorted.”
“Yes, okay.” Mary looked a little more cheerful. “Hurry home, Tony, erm, Alf. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Alfred said, a little self-conscious that someone might overhear that he had had a personal call here at work. He guessed that the connection was tapped anyway, though where the funds to employ people to listen to every mundane conversation came from, he had no idea. Alfred would have been happier if his elder sons, William and George, had been at home, but term at their army academy did not end for another seven weeks. Alfred wished that he could just shove this report aside and go home to his wife. Not for the first time was he tempted to get Harley in to write something for him, but knew that would risk both their jobs and, if it came to light, would render the report meaningless: no-one in government was permitted to accept anything written by a mulatto.
Alfred heard footsteps outside the door but could tell from their weight and number that this was not Harley returning. There was a terse knock on the door, but the two men did not wait for a response before entering. Alfred guessed that only his position had warranted the knock; these men were more used to opening doors with their feet. He did not need to take in the details of the uniforms to know that they were from the Borders Agency. Of course that body’s role encompassed everything pertaining to racial legislation in Britain these days and these two particularly looked like men who were more used to chasing down quadroons trying to pass as white than checking passports. They were both over six feet tall, with shaven heads and large moustaches that, despite apparently being drawn from Victorian styles of the British Army, always made Alfred think of fat Germans running a beer hall.
“Mr. Napier?”
From the man’s pronunciation that he was one of those who had come to Britain from the southern USA once the implementation of the National Party’s agenda had got underway. In terms of ability and even numbers, they had done nothing to replace those people expelled from the country. Many had had their expectations dashed. In contrast to what they had expected, that they would be stringing up blacks from lamp-posts as their grandfathers had done, they had ended up hassling those who had a few genes that no longer fitted with the government’s demands. Much of their day was spent excluding such people from certain buses, parks, beaches, schools, hospitals and jobs, reserved for the ‘indigenous people’.
“Yes, I’m Councillor Napier.” Alfred felt he had to pull rank to show this pair he was better than them.
The two men took chairs unprompted. The other man had a leather case from which he pulled documentation. He spread it out across the table.
“This,” the second man spoke with a strong West Midlands accent, “is the report of your son’s latest DNA check.”
“And you are?”
Alfred’s question seemed to surprise the men. There was a quick glance between them and Alfred was pleased that he had drawn them up short.
“I am Sergeant Hopkins,” the American said, “and this is Corporal Neal, we are from the Borders Agency, Councillor.”
“Thank you.”
Alfred felt he had won a little victory. He wanted these men to be uncertain as to the extent to which their careers were in jeopardy if they mistreated him. He might not be all-powerful in this city, but he was not without influence. Major Kendal of the Borders Agency had dined at his house.
“Can I offer you some tea?”
“No thank you.” Hopkins replied and Alfred noted there was no ‘sir’.
It seemed apparent now that the mix-up at the hospital had had wider repercussions. This could be tiresome to resolve.
“Basically your son’s DNA check shows some non-indigenous characteristics that were followed up on.” Hopkins had taken over the narration.
“Are you sure there has been no mix-up? A mistake at the hospital.”
“Mr. Napier, they only call us in when they’re certain.”
Alfred realised that these men would go nowhere near the biological analysis, they just did the enforcement.
“This has been followed up on and it revealed something from your wife’s record. Did you ever meet her grandmother?”
“Once, she was at our wedding. She does not live around here.”
“No, she lives in France, doesn’t she?” Neal snapped as if that was a crime in itself.
Alfred felt guilty for an instant. He had asked Mary to pressure her parents to remain in Britain and they worried that it might come at the time when Alfred was being considered for the Party list, but until now, fortunately, it had not.
“Did you know that Mrs. Gould was half-Burmese?” Hopkins asked.
“Joyce?”
“Must have come here as a baby, say, in 1948, when the floodgates opened. You know, when we lost India, a lot of them came over here.”
Joyce Gould certainly had long straight hair, but she had freckled in the sunshine as Mary and her mother, Helen, did. Then Alfred found himself wondering a little at Hopkins’s claim to ‘we’ losing India.
“No, I didn’t know that.” He responded calmly.
“And the grandfather, Gould, he wasn’t born Gould, but Gold, you know, a Jewish name. Probably forced their way in here in the 1930s.” Neal said almost with an enthusiasm.
“There are people, not Jewish, called Gold.”
“Not in this country.” Neal sneered.
“Well, why was none of this detected? Mary and I have had our checks. You are saying that my wife has sixteenth Burmese and possibly an eighth Jewish blood, though probably none, so why is it only now that you know?”
Hopkins hesitated and Alfred was pleased that he had got him back on the defensive.
“The history of this country has been plagued by so many tides of different races sweeping into it; miscegenation, bastards, all that kind of thing makes it tough.” Hopkins drawled, what, to Alfred, sounded like a speech repeated by this man’s boss. “There are sometimes backlogs in processing the results and, you know, we are reaching new levels of sophistication in how we detect cross-breeds. Great Britain leads the world in this type of DNA analysis. It costs billions, sorry, milliards of pounds in research to get it right.” Hopkins said proudly.
“Yes, yes, I know that. Many milliards.” Alfred said, now with irritation as he knew how much his city could benefit from even one of those many billions.
Alfred allowed himself to laugh a little to see that even a Borders Agency man could slip up and forget the directions on the use of ‘proper’ English. He knew how challenging these changes were. Coming from the construction industry, Alfred remembered how he had had to adjust from millimetres to inches and the re-adoption of shillings and pennies alongside pounds had taken him months to master.
“You have been shown the evidence.” Hopkins seemed to be getting back to his script.
“So what happens now?” Alfred was a little uncertain. He remained convinced that this was a mistake, but pondered if a bribe was in order. He wondered how much cash he had in his drawer.
“Your wife has already been re-categorised. She has been given octoroon status, but she may be reduced to quadroon if we do find her grandfather had Jewish blood.”
For an instant Alfred envisaged one of Hopkins’s ancestors being as comfortable as him, with these terms like octoroon that the National Party had imported from the Americas of the past. They had come in when talking about ‘one-eighth non-indigenous persons’ had proven to be so cumbersome.
“So, the community hospital for her?”
“Yes, Mr. Napier and for your sons. Being mestees, William and George will be expelled from their academy this evening. You might like to make arrangements to collect them. They can join the waiting list for a community school in this city.” Hopkins outlined.
“Of course, your wife won’t be permitted to live in Wollaton district and will have to move closer to the city centre. I have no doubt your office has a list of the districts that the kind of people like Mary and her sons are permitted to live in.”
For a moment Alfred was going to protest or argue he would have to move with his wife and children, but realised that someone deemed to be ‘indigenous’ would not be allowed to live in districts allocated to octoroons. Even if he tried to live there he would be chased out, he was sure.
“This,” Hopkins said, lifting up a folded form, “is your application for divorce. It will be processed immediately and you will not be liable for charges of miscegenation, though obviously they will be held on record in case you happen to make a ‘mistake’ like this again.”
Alfred felt stunned. It seemed incredible that his marriage of over twenty years was being dissolved by documents being delivered by these two bully-boys.
“This is your resignation from the council.” Hopkins turned a printed letter towards Alfred. “In your case, we have included the phrase ‘to spend more time on my business interests’ as ‘spending more time with my family’ is inappropriate as you do not have one.”
Alfred’s head spiralled through all the options. He wondered whether he could bribe these men to lose all this stuff. Could he try to challenge this in the People’s Court? It seemed futile: he knew that even men simply suspected of miscegenation received rough treatment, let alone someone like himself who had lived with an octoroon woman for twenty years and fathered three children by her. Perhaps a prison sentence for that would be what he needed, to get him away from all that was happening. Realistically, though he knew he would still have to live the rest of his life and his options would be wider if he still had his business. Now his plans began developing. He knew people, he could start getting funds out of the country, say to France, and in a couple of years he would be able to fetch Mary and the boys and they could flee abroad. Better than that, if he invested in property in Spain he could channel funds there, yes that was what he would do, run down his business and build a new life there. Of course, Mary would have to tolerate months in the ghettos of the city centre, but she was strong, he knew.
“Your Party card.” Hopkins asked.
Alfred reached into his jacket and pulled out the worn leather wallet that had held his membership of the National Party. Of course, without it he would never have been able to work in any public sector job, let alone hold office even at local level. His membership dated back over a decade and he wondered whether, if he had been in the Party from when its rise had started, or had been more visible in its activities in the years since he had joined, he would have somehow have found a way now to stop what was happening. He guessed not.
“Well, that will be all gentlemen.” Alfred said as he briskly signed the various forms and shoved them back across the desk. He took the DNA record and dropped it into the bin for shredding that sat by his desk.
Neal took the documents and Alfred’s membership card and thrust them all into his leather case as if they were unimportant.. The councillor stood and began ushering them to the door. He was concerned that they would escort him from the building, but realised that they had no powers to arrest him unless they pressed the miscegenation charges and it seemed they would not. They would inform the town hall security staff, but Alfred guessed he had some minutes before they would arrive to eject him.
The two Borders Agency men were through the door now. Alfred was eager to return to his computer and wreak as much damage as he could before he went. Let the council disentangle the schools and hospital policies once he had done that.
“Sorry to rush you two, but I need to get down to working on my business interests as soon as possible.”
With that Alfred closed and locked the heavy door.
Friday, 1 May 2009
Technido - Early Short Story
This story produced in the early Summer of 1987 when I was in my third year of studying 'A' Levels (I had failed in 1986) is another dystopia. This one sees a Thatcherite future but with Britain heavily influenced or possibly bought out, by Japanese culture. Nissan had opened a large car manufacturing plant in Sunderland in 1986. A 'daimyo' was a provincial ruler in medieval and early modern Japan; 1902 was the year the Anglo-Japanese alliance was signed (in our world the group is known as the 1922 Committee); the suffix '-do' in Japanese means 'they way of' as in Aikido or Judo; ironically in the 1990s Channel 4 actually began to show sumo wrestling bouts. Sushi was a rarity in the UK at the time, but has become far more common in British towns in the past 22 years, though as yet has not replaced fried fish and chips as a Friday evening treat.
Reigate is a town in Surrey currently about 30Km from central London, so suggesting the city has expanded greatly. In the original version of the story, it was Dover, which is on the Kent coast, 135Km from London and I had seen an advertisement about the importance of the green belts around London, showing a picture of a sign with 'London borough of Dover' on it saying something like this 'do you want this to become real?'. I included a Tanzanian company because of the lyric from 'Radio Africa' (1985) by Latin Quarter which goes 'Tanzania should be stepping up a gear/ Instead they've got to put on the brake'. The Co-Prosperity Sphere is what Japan called its empire in the 1930s-40s. In the 1980s people were increasingly retiring early though of course that trend has now reversed.
The story again reflects on the enduring perception of so many people living in my area in the 1980s that the 4 million unemployed were without work simply because they were lazy whereas in fact it affected lots of hard working people often on an arbitrary basis. When the story was written only 6% of British 18-year olds went to university compared to 42% now, so for a young person to have a degree was very rare.
Technido
"I'm home." a man walked into the hall of his house.
There were a few murmurings, then a boy came down the stairs.
"Hello Dad. Guess what."
"What?" his father replied in the usual routine.
"John's Dad's been elected Daimyo, for this area."
"Well, good for him, at least we'll get decent services round here now." he paused, then continued, "Where's your brother? Stuck in front of the telly again, as usual."
Father and son went into the living room, where a youth stared at the television.
"Not sumo on again." the father picked up the remote control and flicked to another channel.
"... today Graham Southburn, the MP for the London borough of Reigate, committed ritual suicide over allegations of corruption and immoral behaviour in his constituency. The leader of the backbench 1902 committee said that he saw his death as regretful but necessary ..."
"Go to the Job Centre?" the father inquired.
"Yes." the youth replied.
"Anything?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Why do you think?" his elder son retorted, "You either have to be unskilled, or have a degree."
"You had a job. You should have gone to some good British firm, like Nissan or Sony; not that Tanzanian multi-national."
"... now financial news. The British yen today gained five points against the Rupee, but fell to 1.42 against the Peso ..."
They sat in silence as the television continued.
The mother shouted from upstairs. "David can you go and get the sashimi, there's a 10 Yen note on the kitchen table."
"Why do we always have raw fish and seaweed on a Friday." The younger boy complained as he got up.
"It's good for you, not like the high fat stuff my family used to eat; it's cheap and traditional. Now get off down the shop before it gets busy." his father replied.
The elder son gazed blankly.
"Look, there are jobs about, we're in the South East where unemployment's low, just 31%. Anyway the situation's picking up, now we've fully joined the Co-Prosperity Sphere."
"It's alright for you, you're 45; only 5 years to retirement."
"You're just lazy, all your generation are. You won't work, sit around all day draining the country's resources." his father was becoming increasingly angry.
The young man bolted out of the room.
His mother entered with a letter. "What's the matter with him?" she asked.
"Usual problem." her husband answered.
"This came for you, from work."
"Why didn't they give it to me today? Must be official." the father opened the envelope and read the typed letter.
"Dear Mr. Grey, we hereby officially announce that due to falling orders we have been forced to make you redundant. In line with the current government guidelines we are unable to offer you any redundancy payments of any kind."
Mr. Grey read no further. The letter fell to the floor.
Reigate is a town in Surrey currently about 30Km from central London, so suggesting the city has expanded greatly. In the original version of the story, it was Dover, which is on the Kent coast, 135Km from London and I had seen an advertisement about the importance of the green belts around London, showing a picture of a sign with 'London borough of Dover' on it saying something like this 'do you want this to become real?'. I included a Tanzanian company because of the lyric from 'Radio Africa' (1985) by Latin Quarter which goes 'Tanzania should be stepping up a gear/ Instead they've got to put on the brake'. The Co-Prosperity Sphere is what Japan called its empire in the 1930s-40s. In the 1980s people were increasingly retiring early though of course that trend has now reversed.
The story again reflects on the enduring perception of so many people living in my area in the 1980s that the 4 million unemployed were without work simply because they were lazy whereas in fact it affected lots of hard working people often on an arbitrary basis. When the story was written only 6% of British 18-year olds went to university compared to 42% now, so for a young person to have a degree was very rare.
Technido
"I'm home." a man walked into the hall of his house.
There were a few murmurings, then a boy came down the stairs.
"Hello Dad. Guess what."
"What?" his father replied in the usual routine.
"John's Dad's been elected Daimyo, for this area."
"Well, good for him, at least we'll get decent services round here now." he paused, then continued, "Where's your brother? Stuck in front of the telly again, as usual."
Father and son went into the living room, where a youth stared at the television.
"Not sumo on again." the father picked up the remote control and flicked to another channel.
"... today Graham Southburn, the MP for the London borough of Reigate, committed ritual suicide over allegations of corruption and immoral behaviour in his constituency. The leader of the backbench 1902 committee said that he saw his death as regretful but necessary ..."
"Go to the Job Centre?" the father inquired.
"Yes." the youth replied.
"Anything?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Why do you think?" his elder son retorted, "You either have to be unskilled, or have a degree."
"You had a job. You should have gone to some good British firm, like Nissan or Sony; not that Tanzanian multi-national."
"... now financial news. The British yen today gained five points against the Rupee, but fell to 1.42 against the Peso ..."
They sat in silence as the television continued.
The mother shouted from upstairs. "David can you go and get the sashimi, there's a 10 Yen note on the kitchen table."
"Why do we always have raw fish and seaweed on a Friday." The younger boy complained as he got up.
"It's good for you, not like the high fat stuff my family used to eat; it's cheap and traditional. Now get off down the shop before it gets busy." his father replied.
The elder son gazed blankly.
"Look, there are jobs about, we're in the South East where unemployment's low, just 31%. Anyway the situation's picking up, now we've fully joined the Co-Prosperity Sphere."
"It's alright for you, you're 45; only 5 years to retirement."
"You're just lazy, all your generation are. You won't work, sit around all day draining the country's resources." his father was becoming increasingly angry.
The young man bolted out of the room.
His mother entered with a letter. "What's the matter with him?" she asked.
"Usual problem." her husband answered.
"This came for you, from work."
"Why didn't they give it to me today? Must be official." the father opened the envelope and read the typed letter.
"Dear Mr. Grey, we hereby officially announce that due to falling orders we have been forced to make you redundant. In line with the current government guidelines we are unable to offer you any redundancy payments of any kind."
Mr. Grey read no further. The letter fell to the floor.
The Reception - Early Short Story
This was written around the same time as 'Red Guard' and was my attempt at satire about Eighties behaviour and attitudes which seemed so frivolous and consumerist and simply somewhat silly especially when affected by the upper middle class people that were so common in my neighbourhood. There is reference to the cost of property in London and the development of the Docklands area of East London; Canvey Island is renowned for its chemical plants. Mezzogiorno is the term for the southern part of Italy which in the 1980s was very poor, suffering soil erosion and was where a lot of EU money was disappearing trying to bring economic development. The Lira was the pre-Euro currency of Italy renowned for very high denominations of its prices. When Italy joined the Euro there was 1,937 Lira to the Euro; in the 1980s £1 was worth about 2,500 Lira. Nagy is a Hungarian rather than a Czech name. When this story was written though Communism was crumbling in Eastern Europe, the Berlin Wall still stood and Eastern Europeans coming to Britain and opening restaurants was still a thing of the future. I assume the jubilee referred to would have been Queen Elizabeth II's silver jubilee of 1977.
The Reception
The small crowd began to filter into the entrance area, which lay in front of the main hall. An immaculately dressed man read the invitations presented by each of the guests. The bride and groom stood greeting the guests, he in a spotless suit; she in a rather shabby pair of blue designer overalls.
"The Conte and Contessa del Mezzogiorno" the usher bellowed.
"My mother," the groom cursed, reflecting on the woman he had not seen for a decade, since she had gone to marry some Italian noble.
The bride smiled inanely and shook hands with some of the dress designers who were admiring the delicate rips and tears of her outfit.
"Ah, my darling," the Contessa said in a high fluting way, far removed from her old drab voice, she had had all those years back. "Could I have a word with you?" the mother requested.
"Right, you'd better come through here." The groom spoke casually, trying to hide his despair and annoyance of his mother's cold, impersonal attitude to him.
The Contessa smiled a brief sickly smile to the preoccupied bride and commanded forcefully in Italian to her own husband. She swung round theatrically and followed her son into a small room off to the left.
"A very nice do. Expensive?" the Contessa questioned as she looked around the room at all the wedding presents displayed there.
The groom closed the door behind him. "I believe so. There's the church, her father insisted, religious you know." the groom spoke slowly and calmly trying to suppress his anger on this supposedly most happy of days. "Also the cars, the cake ..."
"Six foot five when I last saw it." his mother commented.
"... and of course her mother had to have the Kensington and District Anarchist Brass Disensemble; they don't come cheap." he said stoically.
"Well, I've come to you and your delightful bride for some money." she said shamelessly as she reclined on a sofa. "The old mansion is on the slide. You know the problems when half the grounds get eroded away each year. This year one of the sheds disappeared over night. The police said someone had taken it ..."
"Come on, how much?" the groom asked bitterly.
The only money he had seen from her was a postal order which came tewice per year in an envelope with an Italian post-mark.
"Well you know you've always been interested in preserving historic sites; we need 20,000,000." she curiously picked up an olive de-stoner.
"20,000,000!" the groom coughed.
"Lira, of course." she laughed falsely, as she placed her glass delicately on one of the marble plant stands.
"Thomas Nagy, entrepreneur." the announcement echoed in through the entrance.
The Contessa burst back into Italian, cursing.
"That must be Dad." the groom hurried off, shutting the door behind him.
His wife was still there shaking hands like some factory robot. Chaotic sounds came from the main hall as the musicians started up.
"There you are, my son." A man stepped forward, dressed in a razor-sharp suit, his entourage of similarly dressed, tight-lipped men and a woman concealed behind them, followed. "A quick word is in order, I think. Somewhere we can talk?"
The groom led his father through into the side room, the contessa, fortunately out of sight.
"Everything alright? Got a good house?" the father asked as he admired the pile of fondue sets.
"Yes, you know how sturdy corrugated iron is and the asbestos keeps the heat in. Nice area too, Canvey Island, she won't live anywhere else ..." the groom burbled, enthusiastically.
"Good, good." the entrepreneur interrupted. "I've got a little business proposition all clean and legal." He fiddled with a group of brass frog book-ends.
"What's this for? Laundering money?"
"Sanitization of assets. It's a new area for me - cable television, high quality health and beauty programmes. I wondered if you'd like to invest 10,000 notes."
"Mmm, just one thing, why did you call yourself Nagy?" the groom thought back over his estranged father's eccentricities.
"You need to be ethnic in this game and it goes with the chain of Czech restaurants." his father confided.
"Mr Russell Uppe, photographer." the introduction was bellowed out.
"That lazy lout, keep him away from me" the entrepreneur fumed.
"My brother, stay here." the groom ordered as he rushed back to the entrance way.
"Hey, my man!" the photographer exclaimed as he shook hands with such a complex series of movements that he nearly broke the groom's fingers.
"Can I have a word?" the groom asked.
"Sure." the photographer span on his heel and blew a kiss to his female companion.
The two brothers walked into the side room, the groom shut the door behind them.
"You want money? You want me to splash with the cash and flow with the dough?"
"Yes, that's it. Your studios are doing well, the design company and the fast food chain as well, I hear."
Suddenly shouts came from behind the low sofa. The Contessa and entrepreneur stood up, at blows with each other.
"You walked out on me." the entrepreneur shouted.
"You were the first one through the door, I seem to remember" the Contessa countered.
"It was the Jubilee, you had to watch all that royalty."
The Contessa produced a small ivory-handled pistol, the entrepreneur went for his sawn-off shotgun, the photographer revealed his designer automatic. Bullets ricocheted off a set of copper saucepans, decanters shattered and smoke filled the room. The entrepreneur's mob burst in sending the groom sprawling into a pile of pink towels. Windows shattered and the fire exit burst open. The smoke cleared to reveal the damage, but none of the groom's family. Relieved, he returned to the entrance way, where the two young women stood gossiping, used to this sort of thing. The Count pushed by and ran into the side room armed with a vicious dagger, and disappeared. The groom hurried to calm his guests whose shrill screams sounded alarming.
The Reception
The small crowd began to filter into the entrance area, which lay in front of the main hall. An immaculately dressed man read the invitations presented by each of the guests. The bride and groom stood greeting the guests, he in a spotless suit; she in a rather shabby pair of blue designer overalls.
"The Conte and Contessa del Mezzogiorno" the usher bellowed.
"My mother," the groom cursed, reflecting on the woman he had not seen for a decade, since she had gone to marry some Italian noble.
The bride smiled inanely and shook hands with some of the dress designers who were admiring the delicate rips and tears of her outfit.
"Ah, my darling," the Contessa said in a high fluting way, far removed from her old drab voice, she had had all those years back. "Could I have a word with you?" the mother requested.
"Right, you'd better come through here." The groom spoke casually, trying to hide his despair and annoyance of his mother's cold, impersonal attitude to him.
The Contessa smiled a brief sickly smile to the preoccupied bride and commanded forcefully in Italian to her own husband. She swung round theatrically and followed her son into a small room off to the left.
"A very nice do. Expensive?" the Contessa questioned as she looked around the room at all the wedding presents displayed there.
The groom closed the door behind him. "I believe so. There's the church, her father insisted, religious you know." the groom spoke slowly and calmly trying to suppress his anger on this supposedly most happy of days. "Also the cars, the cake ..."
"Six foot five when I last saw it." his mother commented.
"... and of course her mother had to have the Kensington and District Anarchist Brass Disensemble; they don't come cheap." he said stoically.
"Well, I've come to you and your delightful bride for some money." she said shamelessly as she reclined on a sofa. "The old mansion is on the slide. You know the problems when half the grounds get eroded away each year. This year one of the sheds disappeared over night. The police said someone had taken it ..."
"Come on, how much?" the groom asked bitterly.
The only money he had seen from her was a postal order which came tewice per year in an envelope with an Italian post-mark.
"Well you know you've always been interested in preserving historic sites; we need 20,000,000." she curiously picked up an olive de-stoner.
"20,000,000!" the groom coughed.
"Lira, of course." she laughed falsely, as she placed her glass delicately on one of the marble plant stands.
"Thomas Nagy, entrepreneur." the announcement echoed in through the entrance.
The Contessa burst back into Italian, cursing.
"That must be Dad." the groom hurried off, shutting the door behind him.
His wife was still there shaking hands like some factory robot. Chaotic sounds came from the main hall as the musicians started up.
"There you are, my son." A man stepped forward, dressed in a razor-sharp suit, his entourage of similarly dressed, tight-lipped men and a woman concealed behind them, followed. "A quick word is in order, I think. Somewhere we can talk?"
The groom led his father through into the side room, the contessa, fortunately out of sight.
"Everything alright? Got a good house?" the father asked as he admired the pile of fondue sets.
"Yes, you know how sturdy corrugated iron is and the asbestos keeps the heat in. Nice area too, Canvey Island, she won't live anywhere else ..." the groom burbled, enthusiastically.
"Good, good." the entrepreneur interrupted. "I've got a little business proposition all clean and legal." He fiddled with a group of brass frog book-ends.
"What's this for? Laundering money?"
"Sanitization of assets. It's a new area for me - cable television, high quality health and beauty programmes. I wondered if you'd like to invest 10,000 notes."
"Mmm, just one thing, why did you call yourself Nagy?" the groom thought back over his estranged father's eccentricities.
"You need to be ethnic in this game and it goes with the chain of Czech restaurants." his father confided.
"Mr Russell Uppe, photographer." the introduction was bellowed out.
"That lazy lout, keep him away from me" the entrepreneur fumed.
"My brother, stay here." the groom ordered as he rushed back to the entrance way.
"Hey, my man!" the photographer exclaimed as he shook hands with such a complex series of movements that he nearly broke the groom's fingers.
"Can I have a word?" the groom asked.
"Sure." the photographer span on his heel and blew a kiss to his female companion.
The two brothers walked into the side room, the groom shut the door behind them.
"You want money? You want me to splash with the cash and flow with the dough?"
"Yes, that's it. Your studios are doing well, the design company and the fast food chain as well, I hear."
Suddenly shouts came from behind the low sofa. The Contessa and entrepreneur stood up, at blows with each other.
"You walked out on me." the entrepreneur shouted.
"You were the first one through the door, I seem to remember" the Contessa countered.
"It was the Jubilee, you had to watch all that royalty."
The Contessa produced a small ivory-handled pistol, the entrepreneur went for his sawn-off shotgun, the photographer revealed his designer automatic. Bullets ricocheted off a set of copper saucepans, decanters shattered and smoke filled the room. The entrepreneur's mob burst in sending the groom sprawling into a pile of pink towels. Windows shattered and the fire exit burst open. The smoke cleared to reveal the damage, but none of the groom's family. Relieved, he returned to the entrance way, where the two young women stood gossiping, used to this sort of thing. The Count pushed by and ran into the side room armed with a vicious dagger, and disappeared. The groom hurried to calm his guests whose shrill screams sounded alarming.
Red Guard - Early Short Story
This story was written in the Spring of 1987 and was based on a real incident. I grew up in a town from which a lot of people commuted to work by train. In those days it was still a nationalised service called British Rail. On one occasion a train stopped a short distance outside Waterloo station for so long that the passengers got out and walked the short distance to the platforms. This was possible in those days because the carriage doors were manually operated by passengers rather than being electric like today. However, it was very hazardous as unique among the railway regions of Britain the South-East (including London) had the 'third rail' approach which meant in contrast to elsewhere in the country power to the trains came not from overhead cables but from a rail which was laid within the other two normal rails. This meant it was easy if crossing a track to step on the rail and electrocute yourself in a way you could not have done elsewhere and the railway staff cut the power to the track. This story was really looking at how many right-wing people in the Home Counties were hostile to anything they saw as 'direct action' when it was carried out by workers or students, but were more than happy to engage in it if it allowed them to get what they personally wanted. I was also influenced by the middle class volunteers who came forward in the 1926 General Strike to drive trains and lorries in an effort to break the strike.
The title is a play on a train's guard, the red light of the railway signals and the Red Guards of Communist China notorious for their direct action. Ironically in the mid-1990s I remember witnessing people waiting at Tower Hill underground station anticipating a supposed 'people's train' that was to come as part of a protest about privatisation of that network, though it never arrived. 'Power to the People!' was what the revolutionary 'Wolfie' Smith (played by Robert Lindsay) would shout at the start of an episode of the comedy series 'Citizen Smith' (1977-80) and in one series he was drowned out by the sound of train passing under the bridge he was on. Looking at it now, it can be seen as a metaphor for the rise of a Fascist state, though despite the references to the skinheads (the way supporters of the Fascist party of the time, the National Front used to shave their heads) and the saying about Mussolini that he 'made the trains run on time' but I do not think this was intended when I wrote it. Notice yet more ellipses!
Red Guard
"... we apologise for the delay of this train and for any inconvenience it has cause passengers." The dull, dreary voice boomed out over the station.
The train drew to a halt at the damp platform. There was a variety of travellers along its length, some pacing and stamping, other concealed byhind the thickening condensation on the waiting room windows. With a sigh of relief and desperation, the passengers moved forward to the stationary train.
The lights clicked off and bubbles of conversation broke out along the platform as heads turned and looked along to the front of the train. The driver stepped out and shut the door behind him. He shuffled down the platform. The man nearest hurried in front of him, blocking his path.
"Excuse me." he said in his sickening excecutive's voice.
"Why, what have you done?" the driver asked, brightening his day with sarcasm.
"We're relying on this train, all of us, to get us to town."
Already the others were moving, homing in around the driver. The guard joined him.
"Sorry mate, it's not our job, we stop here." the guard replied.
The man pushed forward. Beyond the two men he turned back. "Get on; a few of you help me with this ting." he commanded.
He clambered into the cab followed by a few others. The lights were switched on and he turned to the controls.
"Stop! Get out." the guard shouted as he jumped in, backed up by the driver.
The man span from the controls and rammed his umbrella under the guard's chin, pinning him against the wall. A youth grabbed the driver and pushed him to the floor. The leader tied the guard's hand with his belt and pushed a handkerchief into his mouth. The two bound and gagged, the leader turned back to the controls. He grasped the speed lever and the train eased out of the station. Soon they were rushing along the track.
"Power to the people!" echoed out of the public address system.
The leader turned to the small group behind him standing over the two railmen.
"Shut him up someone. I'll have no commie idiots on my train. Get someone to announce the stations."
"Right." answered a small, sly-looking man. He went out into the corridor and took two skinheads standing there with him.
The leader smiled. He thought it was not far now, one stop, they they would be there. Order would have prevailed over the lazy British workforce. He slowed the train as they approached the station. A crowd of chilly travellers climbed on. Suddenly a rail official appeared at the side door.
"Get out! You're breaking the law." the official bellowed through the side window.
The leader rushed to the door to hold it shut.
"Throw them out." the leader nodded to the two railmen.
Two youths and a young woman pulled the two to their feet struggling and trying to break free. The leader rapidly jerked the door open and his colleagues bundled the two onto the platform. The young woman slammed the door shut; the train was already moving away.
"Look, you can't do this. Driving a late train is one thing, manhandling staff is another." the other woman in the cab protested.
"We've got to get to work. All the people on this train depend on us. If you don't like it, get off now!" The leader pointed out of the window to the track.
"Look, you fool, red light!"
"Get out, we've got to get through before they cut the power."
The woman rushed back down the corridor. Ahead a horn blared as a train accelerated to shift faster onto another track. The route was clear; the station in sight.
"The train will terminate at this station," came over the speakers.
The leader slammed on the brakes and the train jerked suddenly. The train decelerated to a slow crawl, as it came under the cover. The leader stopped the engine, far down the platform.
"That's it." the leader said calmly.
He and the others scrabbled rapidly back down the corridor to the carriages. The mass of passengers stepped off, slightly annoyed at the vicious braking, but pleased to have arrived. The leader left the train and disappeared into the crowd.
"... we apologise for the early arrival of this train, it is due to circumstances beyond our control."
The title is a play on a train's guard, the red light of the railway signals and the Red Guards of Communist China notorious for their direct action. Ironically in the mid-1990s I remember witnessing people waiting at Tower Hill underground station anticipating a supposed 'people's train' that was to come as part of a protest about privatisation of that network, though it never arrived. 'Power to the People!' was what the revolutionary 'Wolfie' Smith (played by Robert Lindsay) would shout at the start of an episode of the comedy series 'Citizen Smith' (1977-80) and in one series he was drowned out by the sound of train passing under the bridge he was on. Looking at it now, it can be seen as a metaphor for the rise of a Fascist state, though despite the references to the skinheads (the way supporters of the Fascist party of the time, the National Front used to shave their heads) and the saying about Mussolini that he 'made the trains run on time' but I do not think this was intended when I wrote it. Notice yet more ellipses!
Red Guard
"... we apologise for the delay of this train and for any inconvenience it has cause passengers." The dull, dreary voice boomed out over the station.
The train drew to a halt at the damp platform. There was a variety of travellers along its length, some pacing and stamping, other concealed byhind the thickening condensation on the waiting room windows. With a sigh of relief and desperation, the passengers moved forward to the stationary train.
The lights clicked off and bubbles of conversation broke out along the platform as heads turned and looked along to the front of the train. The driver stepped out and shut the door behind him. He shuffled down the platform. The man nearest hurried in front of him, blocking his path.
"Excuse me." he said in his sickening excecutive's voice.
"Why, what have you done?" the driver asked, brightening his day with sarcasm.
"We're relying on this train, all of us, to get us to town."
Already the others were moving, homing in around the driver. The guard joined him.
"Sorry mate, it's not our job, we stop here." the guard replied.
The man pushed forward. Beyond the two men he turned back. "Get on; a few of you help me with this ting." he commanded.
He clambered into the cab followed by a few others. The lights were switched on and he turned to the controls.
"Stop! Get out." the guard shouted as he jumped in, backed up by the driver.
The man span from the controls and rammed his umbrella under the guard's chin, pinning him against the wall. A youth grabbed the driver and pushed him to the floor. The leader tied the guard's hand with his belt and pushed a handkerchief into his mouth. The two bound and gagged, the leader turned back to the controls. He grasped the speed lever and the train eased out of the station. Soon they were rushing along the track.
"Power to the people!" echoed out of the public address system.
The leader turned to the small group behind him standing over the two railmen.
"Shut him up someone. I'll have no commie idiots on my train. Get someone to announce the stations."
"Right." answered a small, sly-looking man. He went out into the corridor and took two skinheads standing there with him.
The leader smiled. He thought it was not far now, one stop, they they would be there. Order would have prevailed over the lazy British workforce. He slowed the train as they approached the station. A crowd of chilly travellers climbed on. Suddenly a rail official appeared at the side door.
"Get out! You're breaking the law." the official bellowed through the side window.
The leader rushed to the door to hold it shut.
"Throw them out." the leader nodded to the two railmen.
Two youths and a young woman pulled the two to their feet struggling and trying to break free. The leader rapidly jerked the door open and his colleagues bundled the two onto the platform. The young woman slammed the door shut; the train was already moving away.
"Look, you can't do this. Driving a late train is one thing, manhandling staff is another." the other woman in the cab protested.
"We've got to get to work. All the people on this train depend on us. If you don't like it, get off now!" The leader pointed out of the window to the track.
"Look, you fool, red light!"
"Get out, we've got to get through before they cut the power."
The woman rushed back down the corridor. Ahead a horn blared as a train accelerated to shift faster onto another track. The route was clear; the station in sight.
"The train will terminate at this station," came over the speakers.
The leader slammed on the brakes and the train jerked suddenly. The train decelerated to a slow crawl, as it came under the cover. The leader stopped the engine, far down the platform.
"That's it." the leader said calmly.
He and the others scrabbled rapidly back down the corridor to the carriages. The mass of passengers stepped off, slightly annoyed at the vicious braking, but pleased to have arrived. The leader left the train and disappeared into the crowd.
"... we apologise for the early arrival of this train, it is due to circumstances beyond our control."
Vermin Enlightenment - Early Short Story
This story was produced at the same tume as 'Eden Central' and is a return to the near-future dystopias which filled most of my stories. This one was particularly a complaint at the New Right attitude that only the lazy were unemployed, at the partial privatisation of the National Health Service and the increasingly feeling that you could not longer get on in life unless you attended a fee-paying school. As with many of my stories it thus extrapolated trends of the time. I think it was also inspired by me doing holiday work in food warehouses, especially as a cleaner inside a frozen food one where temperatures were kept at -24°C. I constantly had to dodge into the shelving to avoid the 10m high 'turrets' and the smaller but faster forklift-up trucks as they passed.
Vermin Enlightenment
A figure dropped over the fence into the compound. Though it was a warm Spring night, the figure was clad in heavy padded clothing and its head was swathed in scarfs. It ran around the edge of the compound, close to the fence, skirting the full beam of the lights. Approaching a side door, the figure produced a small saw and cut the padlock, before opening the door and entering the chill interior.
Andrew looked around, carefully. He looked up at the shelves stretching to the ceiling, filled with boxes containing a wide range of foods available to those left in employment. The Rulers decreed no money to those who had no job, to encourage enterprise and self-help, to get those louts out of their beds "... and into their graves" his father had always added. Andrew's eyes watered in the cold air and his breath frosted the scarf covering his mouth.
Around the hall, Andrew could hear the movement of the machines tending the warehouse, in an automatic process which ran constantly without human hand or mind. He leapt back onto an empty shelf as one giant red lifter rolled up the aisle. He waited there until it has passed, then crept cautiously back into the open. Andrew broke into a run, he was searching for the poultry, hoping for chicken. It would be a treat, to have real meat as no-one in his family had tasted it for years. He had been told he would find the chickens at the far end. Reaching this area, he looked across the various boxes, reading the labels slowly.
Andrew, like most, whose parents could not afford school fees, was only semi-literate. Reading was a matter of what you picked up from the newspapers and advertisements. Andrew was unsure of what he was looking for. His father had been a near expert, but he had died a week before, at home, attended by his family. His father, of course, could never had afforded the health insurance payments.
Ahead Andrew spotted a pile of discarded foodstuffs, even the machines were not perfect. He rushed forward, noticing packs of meat strewn on the top near the wall. As he moved towards the pile, rapidly, Andrew felt a burst of pain to his ankle as the trap snapped shut. He could not move, the snare was cemented to the hard floor. Andrew struggled, shouting in vain in the inhuman, freezing environment.
A large automatic forklift appeared, but mercifully the figure had lost consciousness, from the pain, as the computer recorded:
Vermin Enlightenment
A figure dropped over the fence into the compound. Though it was a warm Spring night, the figure was clad in heavy padded clothing and its head was swathed in scarfs. It ran around the edge of the compound, close to the fence, skirting the full beam of the lights. Approaching a side door, the figure produced a small saw and cut the padlock, before opening the door and entering the chill interior.
Andrew looked around, carefully. He looked up at the shelves stretching to the ceiling, filled with boxes containing a wide range of foods available to those left in employment. The Rulers decreed no money to those who had no job, to encourage enterprise and self-help, to get those louts out of their beds "... and into their graves" his father had always added. Andrew's eyes watered in the cold air and his breath frosted the scarf covering his mouth.
Around the hall, Andrew could hear the movement of the machines tending the warehouse, in an automatic process which ran constantly without human hand or mind. He leapt back onto an empty shelf as one giant red lifter rolled up the aisle. He waited there until it has passed, then crept cautiously back into the open. Andrew broke into a run, he was searching for the poultry, hoping for chicken. It would be a treat, to have real meat as no-one in his family had tasted it for years. He had been told he would find the chickens at the far end. Reaching this area, he looked across the various boxes, reading the labels slowly.
Andrew, like most, whose parents could not afford school fees, was only semi-literate. Reading was a matter of what you picked up from the newspapers and advertisements. Andrew was unsure of what he was looking for. His father had been a near expert, but he had died a week before, at home, attended by his family. His father, of course, could never had afforded the health insurance payments.
Ahead Andrew spotted a pile of discarded foodstuffs, even the machines were not perfect. He rushed forward, noticing packs of meat strewn on the top near the wall. As he moved towards the pile, rapidly, Andrew felt a burst of pain to his ankle as the trap snapped shut. He could not move, the snare was cemented to the hard floor. Andrew struggled, shouting in vain in the inhuman, freezing environment.
A large automatic forklift appeared, but mercifully the figure had lost consciousness, from the pain, as the computer recorded:
"00.35-removal of vermin."
Eden Central - Early Short Story
I was glad that I was able to find this short story which comes from January 1987. It was my attempt at some satire, to ramp up the wry element of my writing while reducing the bleak perspectives a little. Consequently we have a post-apocalyptic setting with humour. It takes off lager advertisements of the time and the influence of Australian culture through 'Neighbours' being shown on British television. At that time I never would have envisaged that in the following decade Boddingtons would have an advert showing a woman smearing foam from the head of a glass of beer on her face. To some degree it shows I had been influenced by reading J.G. Ballard's very difficult to penetrate novel, 'The Unlimited Dream Company' (1979) which envisaged Shepperton in Surrey, UK, suddenly being transformed into a tropical setting. There also seemed to be loads of science fiction stories around in which the final two characters end up being revealed as the Adam and Eve of a new world. I was very into puns at the time too, and filled this story with them. I can only do humour in small doses and to the right audience, and this was one of such flash of humour.
Eden Central
The man wandered along the centre of the road, the pavements around him sanitized of human life. He could not remember. His mind was full of images, out of focus and poorly exposed.
"They've done it! They've actually done it. How could they?" the young man thought, but uncertain on what had happened.
As he moved on, the buildings thinned out into the garden suburbs. Suddenly, he heard a noise, to his left. A door banged and a young woman tripped out, dazed and shocked like himself.
"A fellow ... a fellow ..." she stuttered amazed, "... a fellow humus bean?"
"I don't think that's quite right. I work for the post office."
"Oh, a felon tumour bee then?" she corrected herself.
"Maybe."
They paused.
"Well, they've done it, haven't they?" The young man had broken his silence.
"Yes, they certainly have. Really ruined it this time."
The man walked precariously forward and leant, tired, against his companion.
"I expect there's others like us though - survivors. We must all work together to rebuild our civilization."
"This time we'll get it right ... the new parrot's dice." the woman added.
"Yes, the second garden of eaten."
Elated by their optimism, the pair walked on, down to the coast. They stared out across the azure sea, touched with wisps of foam. The two shuffled through the sand. The young man stooped down and picked up a half-buried can. He pulled back the ring and directed the white foamy spray up his sweaty armpits.
"I don't think you use it for that." The woman took the can and poured some of the clear golden liquid into her hand and smeared it over her face and arms.
"Useless!" she cursed and tossed the can into the sea.
Both stopped and stared at the clear water.
"What's your name then?" the woman asked.
The young man stared blankly, trying to remember life before this great disaster.
"No, I can't remember mine either." the woman replied.
Both stared out to sea, contemplating as the warm water lapped around their ankles.
"I know," said the young man, "I'll call you Bruce and you can call me Sheila."
The couple smiled at each other and walked off into the sunset.
"I remember now," Sheila exclaimed as the lager dripped from his shirt, "you're supposed to drink it."
The End?
Eden Central
The man wandered along the centre of the road, the pavements around him sanitized of human life. He could not remember. His mind was full of images, out of focus and poorly exposed.
"They've done it! They've actually done it. How could they?" the young man thought, but uncertain on what had happened.
As he moved on, the buildings thinned out into the garden suburbs. Suddenly, he heard a noise, to his left. A door banged and a young woman tripped out, dazed and shocked like himself.
"A fellow ... a fellow ..." she stuttered amazed, "... a fellow humus bean?"
"I don't think that's quite right. I work for the post office."
"Oh, a felon tumour bee then?" she corrected herself.
"Maybe."
They paused.
"Well, they've done it, haven't they?" The young man had broken his silence.
"Yes, they certainly have. Really ruined it this time."
The man walked precariously forward and leant, tired, against his companion.
"I expect there's others like us though - survivors. We must all work together to rebuild our civilization."
"This time we'll get it right ... the new parrot's dice." the woman added.
"Yes, the second garden of eaten."
Elated by their optimism, the pair walked on, down to the coast. They stared out across the azure sea, touched with wisps of foam. The two shuffled through the sand. The young man stooped down and picked up a half-buried can. He pulled back the ring and directed the white foamy spray up his sweaty armpits.
"I don't think you use it for that." The woman took the can and poured some of the clear golden liquid into her hand and smeared it over her face and arms.
"Useless!" she cursed and tossed the can into the sea.
Both stopped and stared at the clear water.
"What's your name then?" the woman asked.
The young man stared blankly, trying to remember life before this great disaster.
"No, I can't remember mine either." the woman replied.
Both stared out to sea, contemplating as the warm water lapped around their ankles.
"I know," said the young man, "I'll call you Bruce and you can call me Sheila."
The couple smiled at each other and walked off into the sunset.
"I remember now," Sheila exclaimed as the lager dripped from his shirt, "you're supposed to drink it."
The End?
Joint - Early Short Story
This story, written in October 1986 was the one that got me most into trouble. At the time I was increasingly irritated by the rise of vegetarians and their attempts to stop people eating meat. Being only 19 and having had no contact with drugs (it seems weird these days when even primary school children seem knowledgeable about them) the only reference I knew was to 'Sunday joint' as in a 'joint of meat'. Possibly this title was suggested to me by a friend or just another student and seemed to be nice and snappy. Of course once I was being interviewed for university which I tried in 1986, lecturers assumed that I was not protesting about the spread of vegetarianism but that I supported the legalisation of drugs. I soon learnt not to refer to this story.
I strongly oppose the legalisation of narcotics; I am glad cannabis has gone back to being a Class B drug because I think too many people escape with drugged driving in the UK. I am still opposed to attempts to reduce our consumption of meat though fortunately the ardent nature of vegetarians seems less intrusive than it did back in the mid-1980s. Anyway, this is another type of dystopia again with a militarised police force in the UK. Some of my predictions have come true, as we do now have a BBC3 though it is not on in the mornings and not with advertising as shown here; 'Breakfast Time' has been a long-running BBC1 programme. Eight days detention without charge seemed shocking in 1986 but these days would seem very brief. There is a joke in that the 'Daily Mail' is a very right-wing British newspaper, but in this story, I have assumed that things have moved so far right that only Fascist newspapers ('The Struggle' was inspired by the title of Hitler's book, 'Mein Kampf' - 'My Struggle') would be acceptable.
Joint
"Today in Manchester, Riot Police were forced to break up a march by the extremist group, the Omnivore Action Front. This afternoon police chiefs invited the President to seek a ban on this organisation which they call 'unlawful' and 'barbaric'. This march is the latest in a series of such actions by the O.A.F. throughout the North this month. Only two weeks ago, 56 members were arrested in Leeds and held for eight days under the Prevention of Riots Act, before being released without charges." The newsreader paused before turning to his colleague.
"Opposition MP's today called for tougher fines for the possession of meat. The Shadow Home Secretary said that customs officials needed greater finance and more staff to stop the flood of meat products, especially from New Zealand and Argentina."
"After the break we'll have a special report on an undercover raid by police on black market meat pushers."
"Just heard the news. There's been more arrests." The woman watching turned to see a young man enter.
"I know. John and Dave got pulled in last week under the Herbivore Act or something like that. Done for possessing illegal foodstuffs and conspiring to sell meat."
"When do they come to court?"
"Friday I think. The lawyer says they'll probably get five years for possession, maybe a suspended sentence for the conspiracy. That's if they're lucky, but the public are pressing for tougher sentences. In 'The Mail' they said some are getting fifteen for selling. Didn't you see it?"
"No, I never read that paper. It's too left-wing. I prefer 'The Struggle', more my line, much more popular."
"Anyway, I stashed the stuff in the freezer. There's a couple of chops, cost me £25, ten sausages at another £43, and whole chicken, which set me back £70."
"A chicken! I haven't had one of those for months."
"I had to go right over to Sheffield for it. Cost me £49 in petrol alone."
"Well sit down now, you've missed most of the news; some report on the Meat Squad."
"... That report on the difficulties of the police Meat Squad was made by Michael Roberts. Now some business news. The Wool Marketing Board today went into liquidation. It says that the overheads in keeping all its sheep alive were too high for the business to be profitable. This follows a follow pattern to the collapse of the leather industry two years ago following the passing of the Slaughter Act, banning the killing of farm animals for non-food as well as food use."
"That's the news for tonight on BBC3, our next news broadcast is at 6.45 tomorrow on 'Breakfast Time', goodnight."
Suddenly there was a crash on the door, then more thumping.
"Open up or we'll break the door down!" a voice boomed.
"Quick, it's the police! Burn the stuff! Hide the rest!" the young man shouted hurriedly.
There was a crack of axes against the door, then the sound of pistol fire. The lock was shot free and three policemet in blue bulletproof suits burst in.
"Freeze! You're under arrest."
The others drew their pistols and laid their shields aside.
"Round the back!" their leader ordered.
The young man heard pounding feet go round the small semi-detached. "I'll come quietly." he said.
"In here, sir," the officer called out as he aimed his gun at the young man's chest, "I've got the creature."
"Good man! Here's Fuller with the woman." replied his superior.
"I caught her burning the stuff, but there's enough for evidence." Fuller explained.
"Thought you could flout the law?" the inspector sneered, "Well I arrest you under section 2 of the Herbivore Act. Take them away!"
The raiding party left, dragging the struggling couple with them. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air as the remains were gathered in plastic bags for evidence.
"Soya-steaks are always in season. Grill 'em, fry 'em, even make a barbecue. They're so cheap now at only £3 for half a kilo." the television continued.
I strongly oppose the legalisation of narcotics; I am glad cannabis has gone back to being a Class B drug because I think too many people escape with drugged driving in the UK. I am still opposed to attempts to reduce our consumption of meat though fortunately the ardent nature of vegetarians seems less intrusive than it did back in the mid-1980s. Anyway, this is another type of dystopia again with a militarised police force in the UK. Some of my predictions have come true, as we do now have a BBC3 though it is not on in the mornings and not with advertising as shown here; 'Breakfast Time' has been a long-running BBC1 programme. Eight days detention without charge seemed shocking in 1986 but these days would seem very brief. There is a joke in that the 'Daily Mail' is a very right-wing British newspaper, but in this story, I have assumed that things have moved so far right that only Fascist newspapers ('The Struggle' was inspired by the title of Hitler's book, 'Mein Kampf' - 'My Struggle') would be acceptable.
Joint
"Today in Manchester, Riot Police were forced to break up a march by the extremist group, the Omnivore Action Front. This afternoon police chiefs invited the President to seek a ban on this organisation which they call 'unlawful' and 'barbaric'. This march is the latest in a series of such actions by the O.A.F. throughout the North this month. Only two weeks ago, 56 members were arrested in Leeds and held for eight days under the Prevention of Riots Act, before being released without charges." The newsreader paused before turning to his colleague.
"Opposition MP's today called for tougher fines for the possession of meat. The Shadow Home Secretary said that customs officials needed greater finance and more staff to stop the flood of meat products, especially from New Zealand and Argentina."
"After the break we'll have a special report on an undercover raid by police on black market meat pushers."
"Just heard the news. There's been more arrests." The woman watching turned to see a young man enter.
"I know. John and Dave got pulled in last week under the Herbivore Act or something like that. Done for possessing illegal foodstuffs and conspiring to sell meat."
"When do they come to court?"
"Friday I think. The lawyer says they'll probably get five years for possession, maybe a suspended sentence for the conspiracy. That's if they're lucky, but the public are pressing for tougher sentences. In 'The Mail' they said some are getting fifteen for selling. Didn't you see it?"
"No, I never read that paper. It's too left-wing. I prefer 'The Struggle', more my line, much more popular."
"Anyway, I stashed the stuff in the freezer. There's a couple of chops, cost me £25, ten sausages at another £43, and whole chicken, which set me back £70."
"A chicken! I haven't had one of those for months."
"I had to go right over to Sheffield for it. Cost me £49 in petrol alone."
"Well sit down now, you've missed most of the news; some report on the Meat Squad."
"... That report on the difficulties of the police Meat Squad was made by Michael Roberts. Now some business news. The Wool Marketing Board today went into liquidation. It says that the overheads in keeping all its sheep alive were too high for the business to be profitable. This follows a follow pattern to the collapse of the leather industry two years ago following the passing of the Slaughter Act, banning the killing of farm animals for non-food as well as food use."
"That's the news for tonight on BBC3, our next news broadcast is at 6.45 tomorrow on 'Breakfast Time', goodnight."
Suddenly there was a crash on the door, then more thumping.
"Open up or we'll break the door down!" a voice boomed.
"Quick, it's the police! Burn the stuff! Hide the rest!" the young man shouted hurriedly.
There was a crack of axes against the door, then the sound of pistol fire. The lock was shot free and three policemet in blue bulletproof suits burst in.
"Freeze! You're under arrest."
The others drew their pistols and laid their shields aside.
"Round the back!" their leader ordered.
The young man heard pounding feet go round the small semi-detached. "I'll come quietly." he said.
"In here, sir," the officer called out as he aimed his gun at the young man's chest, "I've got the creature."
"Good man! Here's Fuller with the woman." replied his superior.
"I caught her burning the stuff, but there's enough for evidence." Fuller explained.
"Thought you could flout the law?" the inspector sneered, "Well I arrest you under section 2 of the Herbivore Act. Take them away!"
The raiding party left, dragging the struggling couple with them. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air as the remains were gathered in plastic bags for evidence.
"Soya-steaks are always in season. Grill 'em, fry 'em, even make a barbecue. They're so cheap now at only £3 for half a kilo." the television continued.
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