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.
Showing posts with label dystopia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dystopia. Show all posts
Friday, 1 May 2009
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."
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.
The People's Flag is Deepest Black... - Early Short Story
Reading these short stories from the mid-1980s, it is clear that I enjoyed things set in the near future. Living in that era when the present was bleak the future really looked like it was going to be dystopia. This story written in Spring 1986 was influenced by the number of anarchists I knew in my late teens and how I perceived them as misguided in expecting any change to come after seven years of Thatcherism. They seemed to follow radicalism because it seemed cool and I remember complaining that it was a shame the pop group U2 did not support the IRA as it would make them cooler to follow. This story was also influenced by programmes like 'Noah's Castle' which I have mentioned before which I found both attractive and yet frightening, and certainly all too possible. Looking at it now, I see a connection into my novel, 'The Karskoe Assassin' about a group of terrorists which is manipulated and destroyed by the authorities.
There was also the constant example of Northern Ireland with its incessant violence and bleakness; the burnt out cars and the armoured vehicles were drawn from those television images. Seeing funerals of those killed in mid-March of this year, it seemed in fact despite the peace process quite a great deal has not changed. The title of this story was a distortion of 'The Red Flag' a Socialist anthem which used to be sung at Labour Party conferences and there were complaints from left-wing students at the school that I had abused it. However, I was pleased that I had at least attracted their attention and usually the only one who commented on my 'odd' stories was one of the History teachers. One thing that comes out in this story as with 'Manmade Man?' was how addicted I was to ellipses, presumably because they seemed urgent and trendy. 'MP' in this story refers to Military Police, clearly I had assumed that they would be given jurisdiction over the civilian population in this future. When I had visited the Netherlands in 1985 I had seen Dutch military police being used in Amsterdam on civilian-jurisdiction duties to combat the drugs trade. I remember they drove mud-brown Volkswagen camper vans. The reference to the prime minister I think was inspired by the Brighton bombing of 1984 which I had envisaged a very harsh government response to.
The People's Flag is Deepest Black ...
The armoured car drove slowly past, its headlights cut deeply into the cool darkness.
"... declared. Stay off the streets, looters will be shot. Martial law has been declared. Stay off ..." The address system droned on as the vehicle round the corner into the next street.
"Come on, along here." A figure with its voice muffled by thick scarves scrambled out of an alley, a shorter person followed behind.
Bricks and bottles lay strewn along the road. The pair passed the burnt out remains of a small call, still smouldering. There was the sound of gun fire in the distance, across town and flashes lit up the sky. Suddenly glass shattered and an alarm rang out. There were footsteps, the the rattle of machine gun fire. A man fell to the ground, dead; his flour bags scattered and burst on the tarmac.
The first figure approached a side door, its wood was battered, the small windows by it were boarded over. The figure knocked, then again. There was a pause and the door swung open. The two entered and closed the door; they passed through another then up a narrow staircase. Finally they entered a room, lit by a few candles.
"Who's this?" A fat woman sat at a table with a rifle lying in front of her, "why's he here?" she leant forward to address the taller figure.
"Keith put him onto us, he wants to join," the first unwrapped his scarves, exposing the face of a man in his early twenties, red and sweating from running.
"Look, we've got enough trouble with the MP's on our backs continually. We're moving West, away from the centre of things, hopefully to re-group. This whole thing's been a mess, has been since the Prime Minister was gunned down. It's been a chain of bombs, shootings and riots."
"We realise there's chaos but there's nothing we can do, the overthrow failed and now the Army's in power." a middle-aged man interjected as he appeared from the shadows behind her.
"You're right, the people come first. There's hunger, no services; the junta's crippling the nation, 'till we're squeezed out - ten shot or arrested in a fortnight from this cell alone."
"That's why I brought him. We need as many as possible." the young man broke in.
The plump woman turned to the shorter figure; he removed his face-mask. The woman leant forward.
"Why do you want to join?"
"I want a better Britain, fit for humanity." the youth replied.
"Cut the rubbish. This is no interview. We want dedicated troops, to liberate us from this oppression."
"I'm willing to risk it, for the end of domination."
"Sounds too rehearsed. He's an infiltrator." The middle-aged man concluded.
"Look I'm starving. I've got nothing to lose. I can help." the youth added.
"What can you do? Fire this?" the woman questioned.
"I could practice."
"Practice is not what we've got time for, we're leaving soon."
"I've got nothing with me."
"What you've got is enough. Take this." she handed him an automatic pistol. "Get him a sub-machine gun as well. Use them well."
"Trust me."
"We'll have to. One step out of line and we shoot. the middle-aged man handed him the gun. "We don't stay for injured."
"MP's!" There was a shot from downstairs; another younger woman leapt up from downstairs, with a gun at her waist.
"You idiot!" the leader bellowed, "Through here!" The rest of the group hurried through another door into an adjoining room, then outside onto the roof. The candles blew out in the strong draught. The leader snatched up her rifle. There was a crash and a CS canister burst through the window. The youth ran forward through the smoke, but the woman threw him back; he crumpled against the door.
"They followed you," she spluttered, "you traitor."
The youth turned. There were two thuds as the bullets tore into his back. The body tumbled down the rotten stairs. The leader turned and ran through the door as she heard feet hammer up the stairs.
There was also the constant example of Northern Ireland with its incessant violence and bleakness; the burnt out cars and the armoured vehicles were drawn from those television images. Seeing funerals of those killed in mid-March of this year, it seemed in fact despite the peace process quite a great deal has not changed. The title of this story was a distortion of 'The Red Flag' a Socialist anthem which used to be sung at Labour Party conferences and there were complaints from left-wing students at the school that I had abused it. However, I was pleased that I had at least attracted their attention and usually the only one who commented on my 'odd' stories was one of the History teachers. One thing that comes out in this story as with 'Manmade Man?' was how addicted I was to ellipses, presumably because they seemed urgent and trendy. 'MP' in this story refers to Military Police, clearly I had assumed that they would be given jurisdiction over the civilian population in this future. When I had visited the Netherlands in 1985 I had seen Dutch military police being used in Amsterdam on civilian-jurisdiction duties to combat the drugs trade. I remember they drove mud-brown Volkswagen camper vans. The reference to the prime minister I think was inspired by the Brighton bombing of 1984 which I had envisaged a very harsh government response to.
The People's Flag is Deepest Black ...
The armoured car drove slowly past, its headlights cut deeply into the cool darkness.
"... declared. Stay off the streets, looters will be shot. Martial law has been declared. Stay off ..." The address system droned on as the vehicle round the corner into the next street.
"Come on, along here." A figure with its voice muffled by thick scarves scrambled out of an alley, a shorter person followed behind.
Bricks and bottles lay strewn along the road. The pair passed the burnt out remains of a small call, still smouldering. There was the sound of gun fire in the distance, across town and flashes lit up the sky. Suddenly glass shattered and an alarm rang out. There were footsteps, the the rattle of machine gun fire. A man fell to the ground, dead; his flour bags scattered and burst on the tarmac.
The first figure approached a side door, its wood was battered, the small windows by it were boarded over. The figure knocked, then again. There was a pause and the door swung open. The two entered and closed the door; they passed through another then up a narrow staircase. Finally they entered a room, lit by a few candles.
"Who's this?" A fat woman sat at a table with a rifle lying in front of her, "why's he here?" she leant forward to address the taller figure.
"Keith put him onto us, he wants to join," the first unwrapped his scarves, exposing the face of a man in his early twenties, red and sweating from running.
"Look, we've got enough trouble with the MP's on our backs continually. We're moving West, away from the centre of things, hopefully to re-group. This whole thing's been a mess, has been since the Prime Minister was gunned down. It's been a chain of bombs, shootings and riots."
"We realise there's chaos but there's nothing we can do, the overthrow failed and now the Army's in power." a middle-aged man interjected as he appeared from the shadows behind her.
"You're right, the people come first. There's hunger, no services; the junta's crippling the nation, 'till we're squeezed out - ten shot or arrested in a fortnight from this cell alone."
"That's why I brought him. We need as many as possible." the young man broke in.
The plump woman turned to the shorter figure; he removed his face-mask. The woman leant forward.
"Why do you want to join?"
"I want a better Britain, fit for humanity." the youth replied.
"Cut the rubbish. This is no interview. We want dedicated troops, to liberate us from this oppression."
"I'm willing to risk it, for the end of domination."
"Sounds too rehearsed. He's an infiltrator." The middle-aged man concluded.
"Look I'm starving. I've got nothing to lose. I can help." the youth added.
"What can you do? Fire this?" the woman questioned.
"I could practice."
"Practice is not what we've got time for, we're leaving soon."
"I've got nothing with me."
"What you've got is enough. Take this." she handed him an automatic pistol. "Get him a sub-machine gun as well. Use them well."
"Trust me."
"We'll have to. One step out of line and we shoot. the middle-aged man handed him the gun. "We don't stay for injured."
"MP's!" There was a shot from downstairs; another younger woman leapt up from downstairs, with a gun at her waist.
"You idiot!" the leader bellowed, "Through here!" The rest of the group hurried through another door into an adjoining room, then outside onto the roof. The candles blew out in the strong draught. The leader snatched up her rifle. There was a crash and a CS canister burst through the window. The youth ran forward through the smoke, but the woman threw him back; he crumpled against the door.
"They followed you," she spluttered, "you traitor."
The youth turned. There were two thuds as the bullets tore into his back. The body tumbled down the rotten stairs. The leader turned and ran through the door as she heard feet hammer up the stairs.
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