Chapter 4
Holmes is out in the courtyard of the prison. They’ve been summoned here for no clear reason. He’s in the state of constant vigilance which is now so familiar to him: it brought him out of the inertia, which he welcomed, but now he finds it so difficult, and so tiring. He appreciates the original inertia more than ever, in fact he craves it. He knows it will never be possible to truly relax, so it is the most satisfactory plane he can find himself in. They’re lined up in single file, proceeding towards a desk in the middle of the courtyard. There are three guards lined up in front of it. The one on the left, who Holmes now knows well, is filling in details on a form. The other two were there when he had to clean the blood: the one in the middle is handing out some kind of card, and the other is keeping watch. Everytime he glances at them, he can see the pool of blood, clearly as daylight. It has no mercy: it is everywhere. He’s haunted by their voices, which has kept him awake until finally, from exhaustion, he collapses onto the foreboding residence that he takes for the night. He believes that they’re watching him, waiting for him to make mistakes, which they will gain satisfaction from. All they want is for him to suffer, so they can thrive.
As he gets closer, he considers escape, but he has considered that many times before. It seems so pointless even trying, and he’s becoming convinced that if they comply with them, regrettable though that may be, it will save them from something worse. Over at the desk, he notices the card being fixed to that of the prisoners. it is obviously some means of identification: nothing to worry about too much. He sighs with relief.
‘Holmes, Simon. You are number 2000-243. Allow us to place this sign of identification.’
The card is attached to his clothes before he can examine it.
‘You must wear this card at all times.’
‘Ok.’
Shall I ask them?
‘What happens if I don’t?’ He wonders out loud.
‘We don’t know. And don’t answer back. Go to your cell.’
The two guards get up and accompany him across the grass, recently mown: the brief opening of paradise in an otherwise desolate situation. He is constantly staring into the future, his only friend in this place, his only hope.
When they are into the cell, the door is shut behind him and locked.
‘Enjoying yourself here?’ the first guard asks.
Before Holmes has time to answer, he receives a kick somewhere between the stomach and the ribs. Gravity pulls him to the ground, but he keeps up.
‘It’s ok. We’ll look after you.’
The guard kicks at Holmes again, but he manages to cover. Some pain is received on the forearm.
‘What is your problem? Can’t take a beating?’ He leans closer to Holmes. ‘That’s what you’re made for, you useless, pathetic, little piece of shit.’ The spit travels onto Holmes’ forehead and the guard exclaims his words with venom. His hand travels towards the back of Holmes’ neck, but it is gently pushed away.
‘Why the fuck are you resisting? You can’t do that: you’re not good enough.’
He has to keep on telling himself not to believe the guards’ words, to keep on going. It is his only hope.
Suddenly, he’s stunned by a force directed at his back. The pain shoots through it like a tidal wave. He falls on the floor with a thud. He feels a stomp, once again on his back. Tears start to form in his eyes as he’s overwhelmed by something, something that he doesn’t care to think about now, but it has gripped him like a vice. He knows that there’s no turning back from it now. He needs to stop this, somehow. He just doesn’t know how. And that’s a serious problem because right now, right at this very moment, he knows that he could be maimed if this continues.
‘No more!’ he shouts. He doesn’t like having to do this, but it seems like the best choice in the circumstances.
The guards step away.
‘There. It does have some effect on him after all. So much for the tough guy.’ He spits: the projectile hits Holmes somewhere between the chin and the lips. ‘Ok. We take your point. But we can’t let you get away with it just like that. If we don’t stomp you, you’re going have to do what we tell you. Do you agree?’
Holmes cannot resist grimacing as he utters the words: ‘I agree.’
‘Good. And, in that case, you can make yourself useful. I think I forgot to wipe properly when I went. Do you mind finishing off the job?’
You bastards.
Faced with the alternative of serious harm, Holmes utters some words which are not his: ‘Of course not.’
The guard mimes with his tongue: Holmes realises what he’s getting at. He unzips his trousers: they fall to the floor. The guard deliberately sticks his posterior out as if Holmes cannot guess what he’s referring to. He leans forward to it. Diligently, he moves his tongue in the same way that he was taught to use to clean the blood, and everything else it has had to touch since. The taste and texture is indescribable. However, that is nothing compared to the pollution overtaking his heart and soul: nothing seems the same any more. He’s startled by a flash of light.
‘That’ll give you something to remember.’
He’s so shocked, he nearly passes out, but he wills himself to stay awake. If he doesn’t finish the job, he doesn’t know what will happen, but he doesn’t want to find out. He cannot believe that they would actually photograph this: it seems that they know no boundaries, that they will do anything to punish him and his allies, to keep them down.
‘Don’t you tell anyone about this, or someone else’ll be cleaning your blood.’ The guard straightens up. ‘Shit, I need a slash. I guess there’s a place I can go here.’
Holmes is so used to this now that he immediately removes his clothes, so that they don’t get wet. The urine runs down his face, to his mouth, his neck, right down to the floor. He closes his eyes tightly, and pretends that he’s not here. If he shuts out the sight, he won’t have to see it in his mind’s eye, again and again.
‘You can clean that up as well.’
The other one speaks: ‘If I shit on him, will anyone find out?’
‘Bit risky. Maybe leave that one out.’
‘I guess this’ll be alright.’ Holmes feels something familiar pressed against his mouth. The sensation of gas follows, and something he does not want to remember infiltrates his senses. He feels nauseated, but that is nothing compared to how appalled he is that this is happening.
‘Maybe you could shit in his mouth?’
‘No, I’m not sure. We don’t want the fucker dying. We need to cover ourselves.’
‘Just no more beatings.’
‘We’ve made sure of that.’
They don’t even bathe him anymore. No-one ever finds out. He wonders who else this is happening to, and whether there are even any laws to protect them anymore. When the door slams shut, he opens his eyes. He knows that they will be back to check that he has cleaned the floor. He sets himself to work. It doesn’t upset him as much as it did at first: it is just a routine now, another thing that has to be endured. When he has finished, he rests on the edge of the bed. He knows that it will be soon be time for his injections, so there is no point in doing anything; not there is anything to do here anyway, but they are not here for long. Soon enough, the others are here. The guard who was on the left of the table, and the one and only doctor. The guard laughs in a hostile manner when he sees that Holmes is not wearing anything. Holmes puts his head in his hands: he just wants to get this over with. Antagonistic laughter becomes apparent.
‘Oh my word. I think he’s actually been bathing in piss!’
‘What’s been happening?’ There is concern in the doctor’s voice.
‘Oh, oh nothing. Some of them are a bit nutty, that’s all. Environment, you know. Anyway, you’re here to give an injection, not to ask questions. So get on with it.’
Holmes still refuses to look up. He doesn’t want to be reminded of anything: just to let this happen. He feels a sharp sensation in his right arm for two seconds or so. Emptiness and silence takes its hold for around ten seconds, then he hears footsteps growing quieter and quieter. Finally, the sound of the door creaking, and closing. Further footsteps which eventually fade away to nothing. He straightens up, looking into the wall, seeing a dark, massive abyss. He concentrates his eyesight deep into it as possible, hoping to find something. A warm, floaty sensation overtakes his nerves and senses. He doesn’t care where he is anymore, because he knows that where he is is fabulous. Golden honey adorns his skin; everything that he has experienced makes suddenly perfect sense to him as it is all for a higher purpose; nothing that has happened here is any big deal: it was all just for a joke, because they’re his friends after all. Everyone’s his friend. Straight ahead of him is a tunnel to the edge of the world: he knows he can’t go through but he can experience the journey vicariously from where he is. One day he will go through this tunnel, and whatever happens between now and then does not matter. Nothing matters, because everything will be alright.
*
Across the whole country, book retailers are closing as the industry moves into the public sector. The new national book distribution network is split into four regions: North, South, West and East. The number of books being published is cutting back and several are being rendered out of print. However, the bookshop in Maple Road, Sidborough is keeping quiet. Steve Johnson, the manager, has changed the layout of the building to resemble a cafe, and is telling his customers to avoid letting the general public know, as private bookshops are being destroyed. He also knows that he will be in trouble for selling rare books: this label applies to any book which has been purchased from a private retailer. A black market has been created for the sale of these types of books. There is also a private news network which is operating from the other side of the town: he goes there every week to find out what is going on. A perturbing event has happened recently: a raid of a bookshop in central London, which ended with the four staff, who were there at the time, being beaten so badly that they all died from their injuries before medical treatment could save them. It seems to be a set of mobs who are doing this but it is uncertain exactly what is motivating them. The rest managed to escape via an emergency fire exit and found that every shelf was bare.
‘What do they do with the books?’ he asks, incredulously.
‘That is uncertain. I recommend that you find someone to keep watch in case you’re raided. It will be interesting to find out what they actually do with them.’
‘What about the store itself?’
‘No-one dares to return there. Do you realise what could happen if they find us? And yet, the police do nothing. There doesn’t even seem to be a legal system anymore.’
‘I don’t know... I don’t know if I can go through with this anymore. I wonder whether to join one of the mobs, just to spy. I can let you know when I’m not there. How does that sound?’
‘I’m not certain of that. You’ll have to find out.’
‘In that case, I will.’
*
As Tim Anderson makes his way to another meeting of the Centre Party in Clapham, he realises that he is growing bored. He is now Defence Minister for the relatively new organisation, which came about when a group of restless people in Gloucester decided that the Liberal Democrats, the closest to a centre-wing party in Britain, were not satisfying their aims. However, he has decided that they do not have what it takes to fight back against the New Way. At the meeting, he politely offers his resignation.
The day after this, he regrets it. Although what was said at the meetings was of little interest to him, they did offer some insight into the events happening in politics in general: the important thing. He ponders whether to form a private army to deal with the mobs, which he suspects to be controlled by the New Way. However, with no definite evidence that this is the case, there is currently no justification for the use of force. He could join the New Way to investigate, but deems it unlikely that Evans will have him back. He is aware of a private news network, but he thinks it unlikely they will manage to prove who is behind the mobs. However, there is one last cause that is currently feasible.
*
In the same day, an entire group of electronic retailers, including Currys, Richer Sounds and Bang & Olufsen, is given an ultimatum: they can accept a takeover by the state or cease trading within a year. A few bravely decide to resist: the next day, it is announced in The Chronicle, which has now been taken over by the New Way, that these particular businesses are the enemy. In the next week, staff at stores up and down the country, make their way to work in the morning only to find that windows have been smashed and their former workplace is completely empty. Everyone wonders why no-one is doing anything about the increasing crime and violence, unaware that it is not being regarded as crime and violence at all. With the alternative of rapidly losing custom, each of the companies who resisted now decides to accept the takeover.
*
In all of the 35 years of his life, Steve Johnson could never have envisaged himself doing this: and now he is. The MP, unknown to him, is on the ground, receiving kicks and blows to every part of his body. He had the misfortune to be separated from the fleeing Centre Party, who have been targeted in a planned attack.
‘You going to join in or what?’ someone asks. Steve has never met him before but clearly he belongs to the mob.
‘Uh.... maybe we should just go after them.’ He is reluctant to let on about his unwillingness to engage in physical violence.
‘Well, I think it’s a bit late now, mate. Maybe we should just give this fucker the punishment he needs.’
‘No. Leave him alone: he’s had enough.’
‘Well, if you’re not going to, I’m giving him a kicking. So there.’
He cannot bear to look at the scene unravelling before his eyes. He is not spared the sounds: the pathetic wails of surrender that emanate from the man who lies beneath them, the thuds over his being, destroying him. And, at this very moment, a force known to him begins to rise from his adrenal glands. It is this combined with the idea in his conscious mind that creates the unbearable tension; all this happened just because he was on the wrong side. He hadn’t done anything to them, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time: this shatters his perception of the way the world is; he wonders if justice exists in actuality anymore; and he realises, with humility, that this could happen to anyone, at any time.
‘Oi, Steve! Why are you hanging around?’
‘Are you...’
‘Look, it’s as simple as this.’ He finds himself being pulled along by his arm, which is then manipulated to produce a punch which lands right onto....
Steve closes his eyes. He has never seen anything like it. He hopes that it can be erased from his memory.
‘His heart’s not beating anymore. Shall we give him a bit more?’
‘Nah, I’m bored. Let’s go.’
They begin to depart, a few pausing to admire the work of destruction that they have done, before following suit.
*
A search round Anderson’s home town reveals more disillusionment with the current government than he imagined. But there is a greater grievance still: interactions are simply not the same any more. Apparently, someone was turned away from a shop just for buying the wrong newspaper. It has since been found that this shop now sells only The Chronicle. People have become boastful and arrogant: one resident explains that everyone has to do this just to fit in. Sports clubs, art galleries and community centres have shut to make way for big houses. No-one risks going to the wrong part of town for fear of crime and ostracism from their neighbours. Anderson is surprised at this as it has always been a relatively safe area. In his much-loved local, the Red Lion, he finds out from a former police officer that the amount of violence is being vastly exaggerated, to help discourage people from going there. It turns out he was sacked from the police when he refused to take part in the destruction of a local bookshop. Several followed suit: that’s why they have the mobs now. Anderson has the opportunity to inform his new acquaintance of his latest plan:
‘Would you like to join a new police force?’
‘I’d like to go back in but while.... hang on, a new one?’
‘I want to set up a private police force to take on the...’ He looks round.
‘It’s ok. You can say anything here: we’re all pissed off with this system.’
‘To take on the mobs. And that’s just to start with. There’s a lot more to be done than that.’
The stranger’s eyes light up. ‘That’d just be amazing. But what are the hours? I need to fit it round my other job, just for the moment.’
‘We’ll have to decide that later, I’m afraid. For now, we recruit. You can help me do this.’
‘Well, sure, there’s a lot of people who I expect would be interested. The issue is that those who have left the police have other jobs now.’
‘Well, see what they think. I should be in the area for a while. Perhaps we can meet up next Friday to discuss it?’
‘Not a problem. Remember, here you can say anything.’
They agree to meet in the early evening of the following Friday.
*
As Johnson smashes the windows of a local store, he realises that he is so used to this he has forgotten what it’s like. It’s not that he enjoys it, it’s more that he simply doesn’t care: this is just what they do. They have rapidly attacked several businesses in the town, and he is beginning to wonder why. They have also spied on meetings of Labour, the Centre Party, the Liberal Democrats, and the Conservatives. A few of the meetings were forced to end when the mob was found outside. Minority parties have been left alone. But isn’t there another major political party in Britain?
‘Why don’t we spy on the New Way?’ wonders Johnson aloud.
‘Well, we can’t. They’re in government.’ Replies Dave. Johnson has now found out the stranger’s name.’
‘But what’s the difference?’
‘Uh.... well.’ Dave whispers to himself. ‘Well, it’s too much trouble.’
‘Well, yes, perhaps.’ He takes a brick and throws it through another window. The mundane scene of shattering glass takes place before him. A panicking clerk suddenly collapses to the ground. Johnson is perplexed, but he knows he can’t watch. He has to keep on with the mission. As he turns to the door, he notices people going in. The manager seems to have appeared. Almost immediately, Johnson sees him grimacing in pain as his arm is twisted behind his back. Suddenly, he reels back, clutching his jaw. At this moment something that Johnson has not felt for some time returns.
‘Come on, Steve. Let’s finish them off.’
The anger builds up slowly but surely. Johnson has to make a decision before it can overwhelm him.
‘There’s no point. There’s just no point in this.’
‘Yes, there is. They’re the enemy: they deserve it. You never join in this, do you?’ He takes a brief look to what’s happening but stops for a moment, looking back. ‘You know what? I don’t think that your heart’s in this.’
‘No. You’re right.’
He starts gesticulating wildly. ‘Well, why don’t you do us all a favour and fuck off! You’re no friend. Go and join them.’ He jeers.
He can hear cheers from nearby, followed by a chant: ‘Go on, get into them!’
Johnson freezes: he simply doesn’t know what to do. Dave is already in there now, booting one of the clerks in the anus before grabbing a bottle from the shelf and throwing it. He knows he just can’t join this, because at the very least, there is no reason to. His conscience starts telling him something. Careful to avoid the gathering crowd, he makes his way down the street.
*
The meeting between Tim Anderson and his new acquaintance, who he now knows as Pete, reveals the possibility of 50 candidates for the new police force. Anderson knows that he will need to start recruiting, but is not fazed by this. The only question is will there be any motivation with the lack of crime? He will need to let people know of the real scourge, but it is such an irrelevance in this area he doesn’t expect that anyone will really be affected by it. He is already making other plans when he waves goodbye to Pete and exits the cosy tavern.
As he turns the corner of the street, he can barely recognise the ruins that he is now navigating his way through. He checks that nothing is happening. Once he has established this, a closer examination of the wreckage tells him all he needs to know.
*
With no-one suspecting that a political party may have been behind the fire at the House of Commons, parliament takes place as usual in the House of Lords. Indeed, there have been promises by the New Way government to rebuild the House of Commons, and an explanation that it was a group of angry revolutionaries who could be compared to Guy Fawkes. Unbeknown to them, a meeting is taking place in the remaining chamber over the weekend.
The leader of Labour makes his announcement: ‘I apologise for the fact that you have had to give up your weekend but we all know the reason why we are here. It has become apparent that our meetings have been infiltrated and we would like to know if anyone else has had the same problem.’
‘This has also happened to us.’ Replies the leader of the Centre Party. ‘We are in touch with a private news network, who have let us know that this is happening to all major political parties, except the New Way. There have even been physical attacks taking place. It is being presumed that, with the New Way’s installation in government, it is too risky to attack them at this stage.’
‘We can concur that this has taken place.’ Agrees the leader of the Conservatives.
The leader of the Liberal Democrats speaks: ‘We have certain evidence that spies have encroached upon our meetings, and we have had to terminate some of them.’
The Labour leader takes his turn: ‘We would like to make a proposal for an alliance with the three other major political parties. This will involve sharing news of what is happening and taken action against those who are involved in this.’
Each leader votes in favour of the new alliance, which will now take place from the following week.