by Brian Smith
When Sycko had left the temple Jeremiah quickly sneaked out through the back door and drove home unobserved. The night had been long and tiring for Jeremiah and he looked forward to the comforts of his opulent mansion, the large airy rooms, the beautiful decoration, and most of all the huge bed that stood in the middle of what was probably the biggest bedroom in town.
He parked his limousine in the garage and entered the house through a side entrance. He walked through the large hall which was decorated with mahogany wall panels and a plush carpet. He loved walking on, or maybe one should say wading through, the carpet. Then he ascended the teak staircase to the first floor, walked down the corridor and closed the bedroom door behind himself, happy he had made it home at last.
After a quick shower he dropped into his magnificent bed and closed his eyes. He didn’t bother switching on the enormous TV set that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. He didn’t have to, he knew the news already. All there was to do now was to get some rest before the inevitable occurred and the police arrived to investigate. But that was of no importance. Everything was well prepared. He stretched out and enjoyed feeling the silk sheets rub against his skin. He found a comfortable position for his head on the large down-filled pillow and closed his eyes, wondering if Sycko really had gone into any kind of afterlife.
He woke up again around noon feeling refreshed yet also hungry. He rang for breakfast and his butler soon brought a large tray which he placed on a special table that fit onto the bed and allowed Jeremiah to eat in bed. The butler poured some black tea from a silver teapot into the delicate china cup and then withdrew leaving Jeremiah to his toast, soft boiled egg, marmalade and other things that made life pleasant. Jeremiah savoured every sip of tea and every bite he took. Life is beautiful after all, he thought. For afters he enjoyed a fresh grapefruit, its fresh scent providing a fitting end to a scrumptious breakfast.
He looked at the shiny brass clock with a reclining Venus of Milo on top. Nearly one, he thought and reluctantly slid out of bed. He stretched lazily and decided to get dressed reasoning that it would be awkward if the police came and took him in for questioning without allowing him to change first. And so he quickly put on one of his best suits and tried to make himself look as respectable as possible. First impressions do matter, he thought and wondered when the police would come.
Two hours later he couldn’t bear the uncertainty any longer and decided to ring the temple to find out what was going on. No one picked up. Frustrated he got his keys and drove across. When he arrived there was a police cordon around the building and opposite the building a group of angry protesters were hurling abuse towards the temple. He parked his car, put on a suitably horrified expression, donned his top hat, and approached the police.
“Oh, oh,” he moaned lifting his arms up. “What is it? What do I see? What has happened? Tell me, officer, I beseech you!”
The officer on duty viewed the theatrical and, indeed, almost comical figure with an expressionless face that did nothing to betray his own feelings.
“And who are you, sir?” the officer simply asked.
“Who am I? He asks who am I! Why, I am Master Jeremiah, guardian and keeper of the most holy temple of God, and…”
“Please follow me, sir.”
They went to the sergeant on duty who informed Jeremiah that he was wanted at the police station to help in an investigation. Under the eyes of a jeering crowd Jeremiah got into a police car and was driven away.
In the police station he was led to a small room with an open doorway. He sat down with his back to a dirty grey wall, a small barred window on his left and a table in front. A petite woman with dark hair and light brown eyes entered and sat down opposite him.
“I’m Inspector Knoual from the anti terrorism unit. I’m in charge of this investigation.”
“But good heavens, inspector,” Jeremiah exclaimed throwing his arms up in the air, “will someone finally tell me what is going on? What has happened? Has anyone attacked our holy temple? Why won’t…”
“You don’t know what has happened?” she asked interrupting his outbreak of verbal diarrhoea and looking into his eyes.
Jeremiah put his hands in his lap. “Why no, I arrived at our holy temple to find a vile crowd shouting the most horrible things and when I asked one of your men for an explanation I was simply taken here without any word as to what is going on. And now I really must insist to …”
“Do you know one of the members of your temple who goes by the name of Sycko?”
“Yes, certainly I know him, but what…”
“We have reason to believe that he went on a public city bus this morning and detonated an explosive device.”
She pushed pictures of the burning wreckage in front of Jeremiah.
“This morning several dozen people were killed and many more injured when a bomb exploded on board a bus during rush hour. In fact we now know that Sycko was responsible. Is there anything you can tell us?”
“Sycko? But that’s impossible!” Jeremiah exclaimed in feigned outrage. “He wouldn’t harm a fly.”
“I understand that Sycko was together with you last night?”
“Why yes, that’s right. Our congregation was gathered in holy ceremony out in the country where Sycko was initiated into the sacred secrets of the Goddess Diana. It was a rather long and tiring night so when we came back to the temple in the early hours we all dropped straight into bed. That’s why I only got to the temple so late. I was sleeping till noon as were all our brethren, I believe.”
The police spent hours interviewing Jeremiah and the other brethren but as Jeremiah was the only one who knew about Sycko’s real role in the previous night’s ceremony that part of the official investigation soon ran into a dead end. All they had to work on was an online video confession by Sycko. In it he outlined the repression and terror faced by Dryvellers on a daily basis and how his act was no more than self-defence. He also stated that he worked alone and that no one else had any knowledge of his plan. The official conclusion was that Sycko had acted alone and that he was deranged.
The day after the terror attack on the bus interviews with Master Jeremiah, politicians and others were broadcast on national television. A well known presenter moderated the programme.
“…And here in the studio with us I welcome Master Jeremiah of the Dryvellist Temple.”
Jeremiah inclined his head slightly. There was icy silence in front of television screens around the country.
“Now, Master Jeremiah, there’s been quite a lot of controversy about Dryvellism in recent months, the affair with the weeping Diana and financial gains you’re said to have made from public performances, and now this attack. How do you respond to your critics who accuse Dryvellism of wrongdoings?”
“First of all let me tell you that I dare anyone to say that the bombing of the bus had anything to do with Dryvellism.”
“So you’re saying there is no link?”
“Absolutely not. Dryvellism is a religion of peace. Yes, I know that Sycko was a member of our holy temple, but what of it? If a member of your TV station murders someone, does it follow that everyone working at your TV station is a murderer or that your TV station incites its staff to murder? I think we will all agree that such an accusation would be ridiculous, and it is equally ridiculous to accuse a religion dedicated to peace and love of being responsible if one member of our temple commits a crime.”
“I see, so you’re saying that Sycko was motivated by factors unrelated to Dryvellism? But what about the video confession he posted online? It clearly states that he bombed the bus because of what he called ‘hate crimes against Dryvellism’. I mean I’m getting a little confused here…”
“That’s because you didn’t listen to me properly. I said that Dryvellism does not incite anyone to violence, we’re entirely peaceful. The reason Sycko carried out the bombing were repeated hate attacks against our temple, so yes, there was hatred and violence involved, but it was directed against us. Sycko
was a young man with a very poor education, a victim of an uncaring society, a very confused young man who apparently knew no other way to respond to repeated hate attacks against us than to resort to violence himself. ‘Violence begets violence’ is an old saying and it’s still true.”
“So then there is a link between Dryvellism and the bombing?”
“Certainly not. Sycko acted alone. We had no knowledge of what he was planning to do, and indeed, we didn’t even know that the hate crimes against our community had aroused such strong and, I daresay, uncontrollable feelings in him. If I had had any inkling of his true state of mind I would have made it quite clear to him that resorting to violence in such a way is the wrong thing.”
“So are you saying that violence can be acceptable?”
“Well, of course, if someone attacks me I have the right to defend myself. But that doesn’t mean I am violent, does it now?”
“I understand. Now for another take on this I’m told that the president is on the line. Good evening, Mr. President.”
“Good evening.”
“What can you tell us about the horrific bombing of a public bus?”
“This is a terrible thing that has happened and all our hearts and prayers are with the victims and their families. I personally extend my deepest sympathies. Yet at the same time it’s important not to get carried away, not to let knee jerk reactions take over. I can tell you all that Dryvellism is a religion of peace. The actions of a single, deranged individual cannot be used to blacken an entire community who have been part of our country for many years. Dryvellers are a peaceful and productive community, they’re part of us and Dryvellism has provided many valuable social services to thousands of people over the years. So again my plea to everyone, don’t get carried away. I have read The Holy Dryvel myself and I can assure you that there’s nothing to be worried about in it.”
“Mr. President, there have been angry scenes outside the Dryvellist Temple, some of them involving relatives of the victims on the bus. What have you got to say to them?”
“I would tell them to go home. We all know the terrible time relatives of the bereaved are going through and my prayers are with them and their loved ones, but demonstrating outside a religious community or even hurling abuse at them is not acceptable. Religion must be respected and anyone caught inciting against the Dryvellers will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. So once again, I urge everyone outside a Dryvellist Temple to go home and to leave the investigation to authorities.”
“Thank you Mr. President. Well, we all heard what the president had to say. Surely that must fill you with some satisfaction, Master Jeremiah?”
“I’m not sure that satisfaction is the right word, but if authorities finally do decide to prosecute the hate criminals that is something at least, and I might say that is something they should have done a long time ago. Without the constant hatred spewed out against our community a young man like Sycko would never have been driven to such a desperate terrible act.”
“Are you implying that authorities are in part to blame for the bomb attack?”
“Maybe blame is too strong a word, yet we must acknowledge that inaction on part of the authorities, I might even say tacit support for certain individuals and groups who were inciting the public with their vile lies against us contributed to radicalizing an impressionable young man such as Sycko. If we want to avoid future problems it is imperative that we stand together against hatred and Dryvellophobia. Moreover…”
“Thank you, Master Jeremiah, but I’m afraid we’re out of time. Thank you everyone for watching, until the next edition of Newsnight.”
The Freedom Defence League
In the state where court cases
and great injustices abound,
citizens will never become friends.
Plato, Laws
John Drew, founder of the FDL, stood at an imposing six foot five. His broad shoulders and muscular arms combined with blazing blue eyes and coal black hair gave him the appearance of a veritable bulldozer ready to push aside any obstacles in his way. Yet, appearances can be deceiving, and John Drew was a good example of this. He had worked for several years at a kindergarten where he was popular with both children and their parents, and though it did happen on occasion that a child new to his class was frightened all the children quickly discovered that Mr. Drew was a lot of fun. So much fun in fact that he was the most popular teacher at the kindergarten.
John Drew didn’t take any interest in politics and he never bothered to vote. If anyone berated him for not taking part in public life or doing the minimum of a citizen’s duty by going to the polls he would just shrug his shoulders and say with a faint smile “Maybe you’re right, but honestly I can’t see the point. Whoever you vote for they all do pretty much the same anyway. And if you vote for one of the smaller parties your vote is wasted which is probably a good thing as a lot of their ideas are whacky if not outright dangerous. I’d rather think about my life and the people around me and how we can make things nicer for everyone in our own small way than waste time arguing and worrying about public affairs that I can’t change anyway.”
His point about voting struck a cord with many people who talked to him and who respected him for being so polite, helpful and kind, in other words a pukka gentleman.
All that changed the day when a bomb destroyed the lives of scores of innocent people, people like him who only wanted to go about their own lives, and with that gory blast the realisation suddenly hit him that public affairs could devastate his life and that of many other people who had never taken an interest in politics. From that day on he began to read about the Dryvellers and the ways they cheated and lied to people, in fact the more he looked the more damning evidence he found against them with one name standing out in particular – that of Master Jeremiah.
What rankled John Drew and even caused some bitterness was that the Dryvellers always seemed to be able to turn their own crimes into accusations against people criticizing them. It was as though no matter how great the wrong it was the victims of Dryvellism who were seen to be the bad guys. ‘Adding insult to injury’ John Drew thought. But what really enraged him was that authorities went along with this dirty game. They always seemed to defend Dryvellism or at least ignore the wrongdoings of its followers and the leadership.
“Something’s got to be done,” he muttered to himself a good many times until it struck him that it was time he did something.
“What am I sitting around griping about others not doing anything when I could do something myself,” he said one day. “If everyone’s like me, sitting around complaining but not doing anything then no wonder nothing is being done, but that also means there must be a good many folks ready to take action if there was someone to lead the way.”
And that was the moment he decided to step out of the shadows of his happy private life, his blessed obscurity, and to come out in the open to challenge what he saw as a great injustice that was slowly destroying the land he called his own. After giving the matter some careful thought he founded the Freedom Defence League or FDL for short. Within a matter of days he managed to gather a considerable following and he arranged for their first big meeting in the gym of an abandoned school.
He stood on an old wooden crate wearing a navy blue suit and a striped red and blue tie. The multitude of voices fell silent when he lifted his hands to speak. He looked at the people who had come to hear him, there were clerks and some managers in their suits, workers and students, housewives and many other good hardworking folk who were appalled by the things happening in their country and didn’t know where to turn for help.
“My fellow citizens,” John Drew said in his loud and almost stentorian voice. “I don’t want to be standing here any more than I imagine you want to be here. I’m just a normal guy, I’m a kindergarten teacher and I love my job. It’s great teaching kids and helping them. I feel happy to see them develop and get ahead in life, and that’s all I really want for
myself – to have a happy life.”
He paused briefly to a round of applause.
“But now I find myself in a situation where I can’t just lead my life as I would like to. I can’t go to work, go shopping or just go into town for fun without having to worry, to worry about being at the wrong place at the wrong time and getting killed. How can I lead a happy life if I don’t know that tomorrow might be the last day of my life because some lunatic isn’t happy with his life? Or that I go to work one day to find one of the kids I teach has been blown to pieces by a fanatic.”
Loud cheering and shouts of approval interrupted him.
“And what about our government? Our guardians and protectors, the people chosen to govern the country? What have they done? Are they protecting us from this menace? If you have seen anything like that then let me know because all I’ve seen is our politicians making excuses for the terrorists…”
Loud shouts.
“…and telling us that their religion is so peaceful and wonderful. What do they think we are, a bunch of suckers and idiots? Read that terrible book yourselves and you’ll find one of their laws is ‘Maim, torture, kill and slaughter those who deny Dryvellism’ and then listen to our government saying Dryvellism is a religion of peace and that this law is taken ‘out of context’. What context I want to know. The context of blowing up buses?”
More shouting. “The government are liars!”
“And I ask you to think about the other things those oh so peaceful Dryvellers are up to. Do you still remember that sordid business of the Dryvellist Hospital and how they basically murdered people to get at their money? How they deceived and cheated people out of their money with fake miracles? Why, they’ve even resorted to murder to silence their critics. And what do the authorities do? Nothing. All they do is to tell us to be quiet and shut up because Dryvellers are so wonderful and peaceful. What peace is that, I wonder? The peace of a graveyard. With all that peace coming from Dryvellism we’ll all be resting in peace soon! How long will they continue to abuse our patience? Enough is enough!”
Loud shouting erupted. He wiped his brow.
“And then there is this so called ‘Master Jeremiah’ though I almost choke on the word master. Whenever someone talks about the crimes he and his brethren are committing he starts a rant about Dryvellophobia, about hate crime and haters. And what of it? Is it wrong to hate murder and terrorism? Is it wrong to hate fraud, deception and cheating good hardworking folks out of their money? I say it is not. There’s nothing wrong with hating an evil, quite the contrary, it’s the right thing to do.”
He paused again, not feeling used to the exertions of making a public speech.
“So what are we going to do?” someone shouted.
“Right, what are we going to? If we just talk and moan about things in private, nothing’s going to change. If anything, things are going to get worse. So we must take action. The first thing we must do is to hold a protest march. We’ll march through the town and end up in front of government headquarters. When people see us marching they’ll know that they’re not alone. More will join us and we’ll show the government how angry we are with them. The president must be made to understand that Dryvellers are not the only ones who can shout and kick up a stink. We the people have a voice too. We the people have our rights and we want our rights respected and protected. We have the right to live in peace. We have the right to live without fear. And we have the right to expect the government to do its duty and protect us from evil. If they can’t do that then we don’t need them anymore.”
“Yeah!” “That’s right!” “Let’s show them!” were amongst the many shouts echoing through the gym.
After agreeing to a time and meeting place the crowd dispersed. The people, tired from a hard day at work, went to their homes and started making protest banners and placards for the march on the following day.
At the first light of dawn the protesters stirred in their beds and prepared many a hearty breakfast for they had a long day ahead. The sun had scarcely risen above the horizon when a sizable crowd gathered in the city’s central park holding a multitude of placards and banners denouncing Dryvellism and the crimes committed by its followers. When John Drew was satisfied that enough had come he held up his placard which read:
Stop Dryvellism
He then set off at a slow pace towards the exit and towards the main district with several hundred demonstrators following him. As soon as they reached the first streets they started chanting slogans such as ‘We want justice. Stop the terror now!’ and ‘No to bombs and Murder. No to Dryvellism!’
They attracted a lot of attention among the people in the early morning rush hour and as they proceeded through the streets their numbers slowly grew with many others spontaneously joining in. By noon the crowd of a few hundred was already several thousand strong and coverage on radio and TV meant that most people in town were aware of what was going on. By the time they reached the government buildings there were over fifty thousand protesters. Taken by surprise at the unregistered demonstration the police decided to watch and not to intervene as there were too many people involved. They merely walked alongside, regulated traffic and kept a close watch. One police unit in particular was not only watching but also filming the demonstration to gather evidence and identify the ringleaders.
The gates to the government compound remained closed and there was no sign that the president, or anyone else for that matter had taken any notice of the noisy crowd. Feeling frustrated and angry at being ignored John Drew decided to hand the petition they had written to one of the police officers on duty at the gates. The demonstration lingered on for another hour or so but by then it was the late afternoon and after being on their feet for much of the day the protesters decided that rumbling bellies and aching feet meant they should call it a day. By nightfall the city was quiet again but the protest march had thrown not only news reporting in turmoil, it had also caused a serious headache for the powers that be. As for Master Jeremiah, he stayed ensconced in his plush armchair surrounded by the luxuries of his opulent home and watched every news report he could find. A protest march on such a scale directed against both Dryvellism and himself was not something he had expected. And so he sat and watched and worried, trying to think of a way how to turn the situation to his advantage.
He needn’t have bothered.
The protest march had left the president and his cabinet feeling threatened. How far would it go? Would it be a danger to their power? Might lawmakers feel pressured to hold a vote of no confidence? Or could protests even spread to other parts of the country and even turn violent?
After a panicky cabinet meeting that only ended after midnight the decision to crack down was unanimous. The chief of police was consulted who confirmed that the leaders of the demonstration had been identified. The police were then given the go ahead to protect national security. Tactical police units converged on the homes of John Drew and several others in the early hours of the morning. Battering rams smashed open doors and the inhabitants were surprised in their beds where they were handcuffed and dragged out of their homes like dangerous terrorists. They were charged with holding an unauthorized demonstration, incitement and endangering national security.
The news stunned the nation the next morning. Many people strongly sympathized with the protestors and that the government had decided to act so harshly against peaceful demonstrators while leaving, what many considered to be a criminal religious group, unmolested, alienated many citizens.
The state prosecutor urged the court to handle the case quickly and so the accused found themselves in court just a few days after the protest march.
On the day of the trial John Drew was brought into the court room in handcuffs. He was wearing the orange jumpsuit that condemned criminals had to wear in prison and he was flanked by a policeman on either side. Neither the press nor the public were permitted in the secret trial.
“John Drew,” the state prosecutor said.
“You are accused of organizing and holding an unauthorized demonstration, of inciting the public to hatred against a religious group and of endangering national security by publicly calling for the overthrow of the lawful government. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
“Your Honour,” the prosecutor said. “By refusing to admit his guilt the accused has demonstrated a callous disregard for the laws of the land and he has amply proved that he is a continuing danger to society. I urge the maximum sentence.”
The judge looked severely at John Drew. “Has the accused got anything to say in his defence?”
“Your Honour, I did not incite against anyone. I protested against crimes committed by Dryvellers. I have the freedom of speech to do so…”
“Mister Drew,” the judge said slowly. “Incitement is not freedom of speech. It is hate speech. As to crimes committed by Dryvellers I must remind you that crimes are a matter for the courts to decide. Until found guilty they are presumed innocent and any accusations against them are a form of hate speech.”
“Then what is freedom of speech? If I can only say what doesn’t bother anyone and what the government allows me to say I could just as well be in Soviet Russia or Nazi Germany. They had the same kind of freedom of speech.” He glared at the judge angrily.
“I find you in contempt of court, Mr. Drew.” He took a wooden gavel and banged the table thrice. “The accused is found guilty on all three charges and sentenced to seven years in a maximum security prison.”
“But there hasn’t been a trial!” John Drew shouted desperately. “I want a lawyer and I…”
“The court is concluded. You had your say, Mr. Drew and if you say any more you will be held in contempt of court again. I must remind you that it is in the power of this court to extend your sentence should it be deemed necessary.”
He banged the table with the wooden gavel again and everyone rose to their feet. The judge left the court room and the hapless John Drew was escorted out and taken to the maximum security prison that would be his home for the coming seven years. He spent 23 hours a day in a room just long enough for a thin mattress on a concrete bed, with a small basin in one corner and a metal bucket in the other that functioned as a toilet. The bucket was emptied once a day when Prisoner Drew was shackled and taken to a yard for an hour’s walk. He was not allowed to talk to other prisoners during the walk or at any other time. At the end of the walk guards took him back to his cell where he spent the next 23 hours staring at the dirty grey concrete wall, waiting for life to pass him by.