Chapter 2
They are seated around a large, oblong wooden table. Simon Evans begins the process:
‘Today I call a meeting for us to discuss the implementation of a general test in place of the GCSE exam. That decision is made by me. The issue I will discuss is: how will this be done? Mrs. Evans will be taking notes.’
She smiles at him, obediently.
Mr. Stant, the Minister for Justice, is the first person to respond: ‘I have spoken to the police about this matter and they are ok with it. They totally understand that, if they wish to keep their jobs, they must ignore what is happening.’
‘Good good.’ Evans says, smugly.
‘Why are you planning to introduce this test?’
‘That is not for you to ask.’
‘Well, it is. I’m Minister for People, I’ll need to let them know.’
‘Drat.’ Evans mutters to himself. He speaks louder, and directly to Reeves: ‘Well, I’m Prime Minister, which means I’m higher up than you. I decide what the people get to know.’
‘One day I’ll decide.’ Reeves mutters. He has always wanted to oust Evans so that he can be Prime Minister himself: at this very moment, he decides this is now something he has to do. He wonders if he can expose the location of the headquarters, and blame it on him.
‘How will this test work?’ asks Stant.
‘It consists of a set of questions to find out their views. Anyone who doesn’t get enough correct answers will be eliminated from society. I considered arresting them, but that will be too much hassle and, besides, there is not enough space in the prisons. The alternative is a force more powerful even than that of law: social stigma.’
‘Are you sure that’ll work?’
‘Do you want to leave?’
‘No....no.’
‘Right, then. Don’t question my proposal.’
‘I have a proposal myself.’ Reeves pipes up. ‘I want to change our national sports a bit. I’m thinking of introducing a new one: gladiator fighting. Perhaps we could use anyone who doesn’t fulfil the criteria required in the test?’
‘Yes, that will be fine. Reeves, you are Minister for People after all. It is your entitlement as to what you do with them. The only thing is that if you make it too obvious people will get touchy and start a revolt.’
‘Well, if they do that, we can draft them into the contests as well.’
‘Reeves, you’re a star.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Evans.’
‘Oi oi oi. Call me “Sir”.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Fuck off, loser.’ He gives Reeves a ‘V’ sign and blows a raspberry.
Reeves starts to seethe. ‘How can he speak to me like that?’ he mutters.
Mrs. Evans makes a gesture by putting two of her fingers together, while looking at Reeves.
‘Now, where was I? Oh yes. Everyone must agree with the policy to have it passed. That has been sorted out.’ He points to his wife, who ticks a box on her notepad.
‘How can you speak to me like that?’ screams Reeves, now unsure of the real reason for his indignation.
‘Like what?’
‘Telling me to fuck off.’
‘Oh yeah. Well, you asked for it. Now, as I was....’
‘I called you “Sir”!’
‘That’s the idea. I don’t have to show you respect, do I?’
‘I just don’t believe it, I don’t...’
Evans rolls his eyes.
‘You’d better believe it because if you complain about it, you won’t even be a minister any more.’
‘Huh. Now you have to make threats. Going to sack me are you? Is that it? You can’t do that.’
Evans walks over to where Reeves is sitting, puts his arms round his waist, and lifts him out of the chair. Stant and Smith both guffaw. With Reeves in his arms, he makes his way over to the far end of the room, from which the Thames can be seen. He opens the window. The guffawing immediately turns to gasping.
‘No, no!’ he mutters to himself. ‘No. They’ll tell on me.’ Reeves can make out the sound but not the words.
‘Ok.’ He says, louder. ‘I won’t take it that far. I’m sorry.’ He mutters an expletive. Reeves starts to struggle, but Evans restrains him.
‘Oh fuck!’ he mutters ‘Fuck!’
If I throw him into the lift, someone will tell. Someone will have their revenge. And it won’t get him out of the building anyway. The same if I chuck him out of the window on the lower floor. Maybe I could kill the others... the trouble is, I need them.
He puts Reeves back down.
‘Ok, you can stay. But if you challenge me again, that’s final.’
Reeves smiles, gratefully, and makes his way over to his place. Evans takes his place again. Smith and Stant look at each other with disturbed expressions.
‘Right. We’ve solved that issue as well. We’ve done very well today. The very last thing to discuss is elections. I would like to scrap them, but if we do that, then the people will not think that they live in a free society. Any suggestions?’
‘We could get people into the polling booths, then arrest them.’ Says Stant.
‘Yeah, the trouble is that it will be all over the news.’
‘We can set the news.’
‘That’s true. But really, I meant international news.’
‘Drug the reporters.’
‘Excellent! But we also need to prevent the arrested getting away.’
‘Execute them.’
‘Ah, Stant, you’re a marvel!’
Stant opens his mouth, and then decides not to say what he was going to, fearing humiliation. Smith notices this and smirks. ‘Loser.’ She chants, just loud enough for everyone to hear. Evans laughs out loud. Reeves sticks his tongue out at Stant, glad that this time it is not him. Stant is unsure what to do: he now knows that no-one is really on his side, but he wants to stay with the group. He hopes that eventually Evans will depart and he can become Prime Minister. Then, he can have his revenge.
‘Right.’ Says Evans. ‘Meeting over. You can all fuck off now.’ He leans closer to Mrs Evans. ‘Except you. I want to discuss a deal with you.’
*
She found nothing of note in the room, and is now trying to deal with the boredom which is consuming her like a parasite. The familiar sound of the lock lets her know that her parents are back.
‘Well, that was quite an evening!’
‘Anne! Where is she?’
She knows that there will be news, but is not certain whether or not it will be good. The handle of the door to the living room turns clockwise, causing it to open.
Her mother’s voice sings to her: ‘Hiya, pet. We’ve got something to tell you.’
‘Yeeesss?’ She leans back slightly, and rolls her eyes.
‘We’ve found you a new school.’
‘Why can’t I choose my own school?’ she asks, trying not to sound resentful.
‘Well.... we think it’ll be the best place for you. You’ll have to be dedicated: we want nothing less than As.’
‘Alright, alright. I’m sure it’ll be great. What’s happened to the TV?’
‘Oh, that. It’s been like that for a few days. We’ve tried to get in touch with the council, but no-one can explain it. Our old friend Keith up in Shropshire was having the same problem. He said that the other channels work though. Absolutely baffling. Maybe there is a technical fault at the station. Who knows?’
‘Well, I’d like to get this fixed before long.’
‘It’s not up to you, is it? We could do without the TV for a while.’
‘We could do without Channel 2!’ Says Mr. Tyler, jokingly but at the same time indicating his disapproval. Anne smiles at him.
‘It is a bit suspicious though.’ Says Mrs. Tyler.
‘Nowt we can do about it. I’m sure they’ll get it fixed.’
*
The light of the day in the room lets Simon Holmes know of his surroundings. He groans, first of all, but the few seconds after this are followed by a sigh of satisfaction. He’s clearly slept well and has no hangover. He gets himself up, gets some new underwear and socks from the drawer, and changes. He looks at the alarm clock on the bedside table: 10:23. He wonders if the post has arrived? He makes his way downstairs, and walks over to the front door. No sign of the post. He makes his way back, and turns to the left, into the kitchen. He makes himself a cup of tea and get himself corn flakes with sunflower seeds. He thinks about what he’s going to do today: maybe he’ll get a newspaper and head off to a museum. He’s wanted to check out that one in Fort Goldfax for a while: today he will absolve himself of his duties and go for it.
When he’s finished his tea and his breakfast he makes his way out. He’ll hit the shops for that paper first. He walks along Broad Street, where he lives, to the row of shops: a chemist, a barber, an off-licence and a newsagent (the place that he has in mind). The newsagent has a spacious layout with a major stand in the centre of the room and two shelves of magazines to the far left and right. The floor is a dark blue colour, and the ceiling is white. The lights on the ceiling are an oblong shape. The newspapers are located on the stand. Holmes takes a copy of the Sidborough Herald as usual, and considers a national newspaper: normally he would buy this another day but this is election time. It would be worth keeping in touch with what’s happening. Not accustomed to buying the same newspaper, he always makes a choice at the time. Today, he has the choice of The Sun, The Times, The Independent, The English News, The Chronicle and The Messenger. The Messenger is a newspaper that came out around six months ago. He has never tried it before. It clearly has some election coverage so he opts to give it a try.
At the counter, Mr Smith greets him:
‘Good day, my friend.’
‘Hi.’
‘What did you make of the election, then?’
‘I was very surprised. A bit disappointed as well, to be honest.’
‘Ah, why?’
‘I didn’t particularly want the New Way to get in, that’s all. To tell you the truth, I don’t like any of them. How is anyone supposed to trust a politician?’
‘Well, they’re the best deal that Britain can have. They’re going to be doing a lot more for society than any of the other parties. You should appreciate it. Yes, I know what you mean about politicians, but don’t knock their policies until you’re sure.’
He pauses for a moment.
‘Yes, I guess that you’re right. They may not be empty promises. I should be more patient, and I recognise that. I just get fed up sometimes.’
‘Don’t we all? That’ll be £1.60 for the two papers.’
Holmes hands Smith the money, announces his departure, and leaves. He carries on, turning into Maple Road.
‘Scoundrel!’ He looks around, but can’t find the owner of the voice. He tries to ignore it. Just as he is passing the local branch of Dreams, he registers a group at the traffic lights. They seem to be glancing in his direction. He tries not to glare at them, but a few them seem familiar.
‘Dissident!’
‘Take that rag out of your hands!’
It is not clear to him what they are talking about. He walks a little faster than usual, looking around him. Suddenly, he is startled by a shattering sound. He turns around very briefly, just in to see part of the window of the church showering onto the pavement. At once, he realises it is the newspaper they were referring to: he throws it towards the mob, and breaks into a run, not caring where he’s going. He holds onto his pocket, hoping to take his phone out in time, but he can’t concentrate, he knows he’s got to....
‘Holmes!’
‘I knew it was him!’
Oh shit.
He finds himself at the police station, hoping they are not right outside, at the same time not particularly caring: there simply isn’t time for that.
*