Hope

by Terry Tyler

  42

  The Lita Stone Effect

  Six months later

  On the Roof Charities website:

  What really goes on in Hope Villages? Tucked away behind trees and high fences, the only mention of them in the press until recently was propaganda about their successes. Less positive murmurs could be heard all over the internet, but were dismissed by most as lies and conspiracy theories.

  Then blogger Lita Stone spoke out, and Andy Reynolds named himself as the man who tested vitamin supplements and anti-anxiety medication given to Stone's friend Nick Freer in Hope Village number 37. In these samples, he found substances that cause sterility in men.

  Stone and Reynolds' dramatic revelations mean we are better informed about what can happen once you surrender your liberty to Hope.

  Where does that leave us, six months down the line?

  A government-organised enquiry achieved no more than the closure of five of these establishments. Stone's proof of doctored medication and vitamins was dismissed as fabrication. Her claims that Hope's 'happy families' are nothing more than computer generated images have been met with silence; meanwhile, 'Mandy' and 'Joley's' LifeShare profiles are now private, and do not appear in name searches.

  Short-lived LifeShare group 'Expose the Hope Fakes' was shut down. Before this happened, though, it had a membership of thousands.

  Because the people have listened to Lita Stone. They believe her.

  Our sources within the Hope Village project tell us that men all over the country are refusing to take the medication dished out by Hope's doctors.

  Better still, since Lita Stone spoke out, the Roof Group of Charities is delighted to report a 250% increase in donations. One generous benefactor said, 'If your shelters can prevent the young men of Britain falling victim to some monstrous eugenics programme, this is money well spent.' Thank you, everyone who has donated not only money, but food bank items, blankets, clothes, books, toys―your generosity is making a real, calculable difference. Please keep everything coming!

  The increase in financial donations has enabled us to commence work on brand new shelters in ten towns that were, previously, unable to care for their homeless population. We are convinced that these mark the start of a new era, in which communities will do more to help their most vulnerable.

  We know this is not the solution; what we need is decent social housing and government funded retraining programmes, but in the meantime your kind donations mean that fewer people need see Hope Village as their only option, or fear being picked up by the 'vagrancy police'. Every bed in a shelter means that one more person will be afforded the dignity of making his or her own choices.

  More encouraging still, our Community Liaison teams report a slow but heartening shift in attitude: more families willing to provide support for each other. Many who have spoken to us cite Stone and Reynold's courageous stand as the point when their thinking changed.

  Mr P from Bedford said, "I kicked my son out a year ago after one too many family upsets. Since then, he's been living rough, or sofa surfing. But when I read what happened to Nick Freer, I told him to get himself back home. The past year has taught us both a lot, and we're mending the rift."

  Our government tells us there is no room for passengers in these days of high unemployment, sky-high housing costs and brutal benefit sanctions, but it would seem that there is still a space for compassion within the hearts of the common man, something that no government, no matter how uncaring, can change.

  This is the Lita Stone Effect.

  Thank you, Lita and Andy Reynolds, wherever you are.

  43

  Michelle and Stephen

  We have a good life.

  Brody teaches English as a foreign language at a nearby college. He speaks French like a native, and I am more or less fluent; at the weekend, we still make time for my lessons. Brody makes me sit down for a session after breakfast every Sunday morning, to get it out of the way.

  Five days a week I work in a café, which I enjoy. It gets me out of the house, meeting people, building up my new life. Life is about people. Real live human beings, not online images.

  Some evenings, when the weather is warm, we wander around our small town, stopping off at cafés for a glass of wine or three. We have made friends, and are invited to their houses. At first I found being 'Michelle' difficult; talking about my manufactured background made me feel guilty for lying, but I've got used to it now. At home we are Lita and Brody; once we step out of the door, we are Michelle and Stephen (or Étienne!).

  I've got used to it, but it does mean we can never be truly 'real' with anyone except each other. This will become easier as time goes on.

  We hope it will, anyway.

  We spend quieter evenings cooking and talking over dinner, drinking too much wine―I worry slightly about our alcohol consumption, but Brody says wine doesn't wreck your liver if you drink it in an Imagio-friendly style, at a pine table in your rustic French kitchen. Like how Aduki carrot cake didn't pack pounds around your middle, because you bought it from a health food café.

  Aduki. Seems so long ago.

  On no-booze nights, I read while Brody works on his novel. He says he can't work out if it's a load of tripe or not, and won't let me read it until it's finished.

  I am more open now, he says; more relaxed. He thinks that giving up my social life in favour of the online world was not a great idea for me, as it encouraged me to build my security barrier ever higher. I was keeping myself safe behind that screen. I can see this, now. I still find it hard to tell him how I feel about him, though. It's laying myself open.

  I'm sure many people are scared to love. Can't just be me.

  As for the news, I don't know what's happening, politically, in the UK. I should, and I know I am cowardly for not looking, but―yeah, I'm just not ready, and Dennis warned me to be careful how many UK based sites I look at. But he sent me an encrypted message to look at an article on Roof Charities website, so I went into an internet café and did so. What I read made me cry. After we'd had a laugh about the Lita Stone Effect, of course.

  A little bit of good has triumphed over evil. We didn't take down the government or Nutricorp, but we've opened people's eyes, for sure.

  I had a letter the other day from my friend 'Rob Barker'; he is working with the homeless in Calcutta, and is happy. 'Michelle' sent a postcard to June, to thank her for all her help during her and 'Rick's' stay in Northumberland. I hope she worked out who it was from.

  I wanted to write to Esme, and Nick's mother, but Dennis said it would be extremely unwise.

  A letter from 'Judith' tells me that 'Kerry' is well and enjoying life 'on the farm'.

  Jaffa is my fairy godmother. I can never repay her and Dennis. Brody tells me I should stop feeling guilty when people do good stuff for me, and just accept that they want to.

  Although I go online so rarely, I do have a profile on LifeShare. Dennis advised against it, but 'Rob' told me about a group on there that I might want to look at.

  RIP Nick Freer.

  It helps; in the same way that others keep photos and mementos of their loved ones, looking at the group members' posts soothes the ache of loss, just a little.

  When I insisted on the LifeShare profile, Dennis set it up for me. My profile picture is the back of an anonymous woman's head, in a hat, Photoshopped onto a beach in Australia. The profile is private, its settings as tight as he could make them. I'm called Mandy Blake.

  RIP Nick Freer is active, daily. Members link to his Widow Skanky and Naked Truth diatribes, re-blogged in various places before the sites went down. People talk about him; some knew him, before, and when he was travelling. They post pictures I have never seen before. I love to see them; it makes me feel closer to him.

  Mandy Blake knew him from his travelling days, too.

  The group has thousands of members, all of whom, it seems, believe the truth about Hope Villages, Nutricorp and Nick's murder.

  I'm surprised i
t hasn't disappeared. Or would that look like an admission of guilt?

  Brody is more contented than me, I think. He loves his work, and writing gives him great emotional fulfilment, whether or not it is revealed to be a load of tripe.

  It's possible that he's just a happier person than me, period. More inclined to quit whining and make the best of his lot, for indeed our lot is pretty damn good. We have each other, enough to eat, a moderately safe roof over our heads and our health. Compared with many on this planet, we are in clover.

  I am not unhappy. I wouldn't let myself be; that would be an insult to all those who have helped me, and everyone who is not as lucky as me. All those who still have nowhere to live but Hope Village.

  Sometimes, though, I wake up in the middle of the night to find fear creeping up my spine, a slow menace with icy fingers tapping on my shoulder and whispering in my ear.

  You are not safe.

  Brody sleeps on, but I get up, look out into the silent night, and wonder who that car down the road belongs to. The little black Fiat I've never seen before.

  I log on to LifeShare, and wonder if someone, somewhere, is sitting in a large room filled with monitors, noting down that Mandy Blake has 'liked' another post on RIP Nick Freer.

  Then, the voice says, it's only a matter of time.

  I walk down the road and feel as though I am being followed. I sit with Brody at a pavement table outside our favourite café, and I wonder: who is that guy reading the newspaper? Wasn't he here yesterday? He doesn't seem to know anyone. Is he new in town?

  Brody says I am paranoid, and have to stop worrying.

  Better paranoid than blasé. It stops you being careless.

  We walk down the narrow, peaceful streets of our new home town; Brody chats to me about something amusing one of his students said, and I try to concentrate, because yes, it's funny―but even as I join in his laughter, that shiver runs down my back and I jerk my head round, hoping to catch sight of the shadow that hovers behind me.

  Is it my imagination, or did it just melt into a shop doorway?

  Will Brody sit at home one night, wondering why I have not yet returned from work?

  To anyone else, the dark places are just unlit corners, passages, nooks and crannies. Shine a torch into them, light them up, and there is nothing to be afraid of.

  But I see movement, before the light goes on. Quick, a flash, and it's gone.

  Out of the corner of my eye, it is always there.

  The Fear that has been with me all my life has taken on a darker, deadlier form. Before, I was scared of being alone. Now, I fear that I am not. Worse, that one day I will simply evaporate.

  Pffft, gone.

  It hovers in the shadows, ready to pounce, as soon as I put a foot wrong.

  Should it strike, I would be powerless.

  There would be nothing left of Michelle/Mandy but a few 'likes' on a LifeShare group.

  No family photos on loving mother, brother, aunt and children's mantelpieces. No photos at all, except on Brody and Kendall's phones. No trace of me, because I share a blood connection with no one.

  There would be nothing left but faded memories in the hearts of the few who loved me, and a collection of old blog posts by a whistleblower called Lita Stone.

  Yesterday, though, I received a package, from 'Judith'. A beautiful leather bag; the card said, 'Saw this and thought of you; might be useful for your travels!'

  Brody found them first. Carefully secreted in a false bottom were two New Zealand passports. The pictures taken of us before our makeovers, with new names. Jennifer Masters and Tobias Brady.

  I keep the bag by the door, ready to go at a moment's notice.

  Brody understands. If ever I get that feeling again, like I had when I stood in front of that door marked 'Post-Mortem', we run.

  Meanwhile, I keep looking over my shoulder.

  Just in case.

  Epilogue

  April 2032

  Election day is in two weeks' time; as soon as Kingsley is triumphant, she will receive the call.

  She runs immaculate fingertips down the paper as she reads through the speech. The first one she will give, in her new role as Home Secretary.

  She wrote the summing up herself. Her advisors warn that is it too harsh, but she does not think it is harsh enough.

  'Citizens of the United Kingdom, I give you this advice. Do not bring children into the world that you cannot afford to support. Downsize to a smaller house if you have rooms you do not use. Take responsibility for the health of yourself and your family. Obey the laws of the land. As we move towards the fifth decade of the 21st century, my duty to you, as Home Secretary, is not to make wild promises of an easier life to come, but to prepare you for reality. What will be your contribution to the health of the nation? This is the question you must ask yourself. Accept that the systems put in place by us, your elected government, are the best for the common good. Work with us, not against us, and you will reap the rewards.'

  She closes her eyes, imagining the standing ovation.

  Her laptop is open, showing an email sent to her by Guy, a hundred and thirty miles away in their new weekend home in Burnham Marsh on the North Norfolk coast.

  Guy spends most of his time there, now.

  In the email, that she has read only once, he warns that his successor is not proving popular with the electorate. That polls show a definite swing towards the other side.

  That Jeremiah Kingsley will lose the election.

  But that would be unthinkable. She is to be the most effective UK Home Secretary of all time, paving the way to her place in history, her zenith, as the most powerful person in the country.

  Her father told her so; it is her destiny.

  THE END

  Author's Note

  Thank you for reading my book―if you hadn't read my work before, welcome to my world! If you are a regular reader, you know how much I appreciate your support over the years, as my subject matter changes and evolves.

  Did you enjoy Hope? If so, I'd be so grateful for a few words on Amazon, Goodreads or BookBub. The main advantage of being an independent author is that we can choose what, how and when we write; the downside is that we are responsible for the entire production and promotion of our work, so reviews are hugely important to us, and very much appreciated.

  Stay tuned to read the two bonus stories mentioned in the introduction―Lita's first love, and the early years of Mona Bettencourt.

  If you would like to read more of my work, you can find a full list of titles, with links to Amazon, at the end of this book. All are available free on Kindle Unlimited.

  Thank you so much, once again.

  Terry Tyler

  April 2019

  1

  Lita: First Love

  2013

  This foster family is better than the last and much, much better than the one before. As I'm seventeen next March, it could even be my last. If I don't piss anyone off too much, maybe I'll get to stay here until I go out into the big, wide world.

  I can't wait!

  My own money, my own front door and my own rules―that's my dream. In the meantime, though, I love being down here on the south coast. Mr and Mrs Fullerton are cool, much more easy-going than I'm used to. They tell me to call them Tim and Maggie, which feels a bit weird. I'm used to calling my foster parents Mum and Dad if they're nice, or nothing at all if they're not.

  Tim and Maggie have two super-spoilt daughters, who are complete opposites: Catherine, who's fifteen, is awesome, and assumes everyone in the whole world is as sweet as her and her parents, but Delia (seventeen) is a total bitch. They go to posh schools, Catherine locally, and Delia to a special one for students gifted in dramatic arts, in Winchester, because she wants to be an actor. About bloody right, she's a total drama queen. She reckons she's going to be famous and travel all over the world. I wish she'd hurry up and go.

  Delia's friends from school are down for a fortnight, because she told her parents she
couldn't possibly bear to spend the whole of the summer holidays without seeing them because she'd be, like, so-oo bored, so now there are eight of them camping in the garden. It's actually brilliant, because Tim and Maggie said the condition of them staying was that Catherine and I be included in all their fun stuff.

  We sunbathe, swim, jet ski, and go out on Tim's boat. It's the most amazing summer ever, and I actually feel like I belong in this perfect life the Fullerton family lead. It's a dream! Delia's friends know I'm the foster kid, but mostly they're still friendly.

  Especially Shay. He singled me out straight away.

  He's taking drama, too; he's going to be a mega-famous film star, which he says kind of ironically, like he's taking the mickey out of people who think it will really happen, but I think it will, for him. Maggie says it's not only his looks; he has the 'X-factor', too.

  He always asks me to sit by him when Tim takes us out on the boat, he talks to me a lot, and tells me I look great in my bikini. Maybe I really do; I'm starting to fill out, and for the first time in my life I am pleased that I'm tall and skinny.

  Before Shay, I felt like a daddy longlegs.

  "You're going to be a stunner when you're a bit older," he says. "You're hot now, but in a few years' time―whew! You could be a supermodel!"

  I know he's being OTT 'cause I'm not pretty or confident enough, and I don't have that swagger, but it's nice to hear.

  He likes that I read a lot, and that I'm not obsessed with make-up and clothes like some of the other girls. I have more depth, he says.

  He is blond, tanned and beautiful. I'm madly in love with him.

  I've fancied boys before, but never like this. I think about him every minute of every day. All he has to do is walk into a room and it becomes a magical place, like, the only place I want to be in the whole world.