Lingua Franca

by William Thacker

  Has anyone got a toothbrush?

  It’s hard to know what to focus on. My mind elects to focus on whichever words appear first.

  How do we put the heating on?

  It’s a working office, but everyone seems to have gone for lunch, forever. It’s a creaking old pub with a hard stone floor. There’s a green recycling box with lots of empty beer bottles. The dining area has wooden slab benches and a row of computers. On the table are notepads, calculators and cardboard boxes containing #ZipIt T-shirts, each with a finger pressed against a pair of lips. The bar is unattended and all the stools are tucked in. I could pull myself a pint, but there would probably be consequences. In my red robe, I almost feel like a responsible adult. I enter the back room and at the other end of the long table is Kendal. I’m smiling inside, even if I don’t want to show it. I want to hold Kendal, and walk together in the cold. I want to sit by the water’s edge and pretend the Devonshire Dock Hall is the Ponte Vecchio. I want to book our flights to Costa Rica and get Ptolemy a pet passport. All of this seems possible. Kendal’s typing while looking at her computer screen; she doesn’t look up. She presses another few keys then hits what I imagine to be the ‘enter’ key. Now she’s looking at me. She gestures for where she wants me to sit. Behind Kendal is a projector screen with a black background and white text.

  Good evening, Miles. Please take a seat.

  I sit and look at my wife, who maintains a professional, workaday face. I’m the one millionth person she’s seen today, and I’m no more special than the last. In front of me there’s a computer monitor with the cursor flashing at the start of an unwritten sentence. I’ve got a wireless keyboard and a lamp in case I need to see what I’m typing. Kendal has a clicker; when she presses it, the projector turns to another slide. It displays a Ministry of Silence logo accompanied by blue swirls. It says the company is headquartered at the Abbey Tavern, Barrow-in-Furness.

  The Ministry of Silence was founded with the objective of restoring traditional place names to branded settlements throughout the United Kingdom.

  The next slide is a Soviet-style painting of a woman calling aloud. The text appears from her mouth.

  The Ministry endorses the concept of silent living, whereby spoken language is rejected in favour of non-verbal communication and British Sign Language.

  She presses the clicker and the next slide comes up. The picture is a map of the British Isles with various red dots.

  Already, the Ministry has created volunteer centres across eight UK settlements. Local activists have established Quiet Zones across public spaces, offering a place of thought, respite and an unequivocal rejection of the commercialisation of language.

  She flicks to a slide that displays the 1970s red-brick hospital I’ve just escaped from.

  Our Wordsworth Institute, formerly Furness Hospital, is a rehabilitation centre in Barrow-in-Furness. The Institute promotes a silent culture among its patients, who become silent ambassadors in their community.

  Next we see the ZipIt logo, the shushing lips and the red background colour.

  Our #ZipIt campaign has achieved a significant digital penetration across multiple channels.

  The next slide features a mass of people in different work attire: nurses, firefighters and men in cotton shirts. They’re all looking at the camera, holding signs that read Quiet please. Kendal flicks to what I expect is the final slide: a contract, which requires my digital signature.

  The Ministry of Silence is pleased to confirm that your rehabilitation programme is complete. Please be advised that we require your written consent before you’re officially discharged.

  She flicks between more slides, showing me the terms and conditions. There are lots of conditions. I nod my head and it feels like this is all I’m capable of doing. My neck is a loose spring. I can only nod. She starts typing; she’s going off-piste.

  Come on, Miles. It’s time to go home.

  She smiles as she types.

  You can redeem yourself, Miles. You can become Miles the Great, not Miles the Terrible. Miles Platting, language killer, Miles Platting, language… saviour.

  She looks at me like it’s my turn. I look at the computer monitor. I feel like I’m sitting in front of a steering wheel and I’ve forgotten how to drive. What must I look like? I must look lost. I start to type, making a couple of mistakes along the way, which means I press the backspace. I eventually manage to compose a few words:

  What’s with all the robes?

  It’s a good question, judging by the speed at which she types. I deserve an instant reply. She presses the enter key and sits back in her chair.

  I just wanted to fuck with you.

  She’s smiling now. For the first time, she looks like Kendal, my mad Kendal, the one I love. She might be silent but I can see what she’s saying. I want to go home. I don’t want to sit in a pub in Barrow-in-Furness in my red robe. I want to see Ptolemy, my fortress in the former Milton Keynes, and whatever remains of Lingua Franca. I want to do what Kendal says. I want to exchange the habits of a lifetime for something more tangible: love.

  I look for a pen, then realise a pen isn’t what I’m looking for. I look for the cursor, then move my mouse so I can aim for the dotted line. I click, then find the cursor exactly where I wanted. Then I press each letter at a time.

  MILES

  What is Miles? Where did my name come from? I never asked my mother where it came from, and what it even means.

  PLATTING

  And what is Miles Platting? It sounds like plotting, or something to do with hairstyling: to plait. I’ve never really given it any thought. It has a history, my name, and I probably ought to know. I press the enter key and I look up in the hope I’ve done a good thing. I want a gold star. Kendal closes the laptop lid. She’s done. She’s finished her PowerPoint routine and now it’s time to relax. She rises from her seat and stretches her arms. I make an expressive gesture with my hands, like I’m saying what now?

  We walk into the dining area and she holds my hand. From the window we can see the moonlight and some of the ruins. We can see the train line where the freights pass. We can have our own lock-in. We can drink the wine and whiskey and go for a candlelit walk. We can speak our own language. We have what we need, and we need nothing else. She walks behind the bar without asking me to follow. I wonder what’s coming next. It could be anything. I’m intent on smiling – over-smiling – so that she knows I’m happy with everything. She kneels beside the fridge and then stands, holding two wine glasses with a bottle under her arm: a bottle of Bordeaux. She opens it, then pours a small drop. Her expression says do you want to try it, sir? I wave a hand like I’m saying no, it’s fine. She nods, as if to say very well, sir. She pours the rest. She fills two glasses and we stand together and clink. Here’s to life, to Miles and Kendal. We can speak our own language, and we need nothing else.

  19. DAWN

  A special announcement from the Lingua Franca team

  Dear Sir/Madam,

  We’re excited to tell you about a new special offer that won’t cost you a penny. Lingua Franca is partnering with the Ministry of Silence to restore traditional place names to communities across the United Kingdom. For no cost at all, we will partner with your town to dismantle all branded signage and reinstate a traditional name of your choice.

  How does it work?

  The Ministry of Silence has created a community trust fund backed by crowdfunding and private equity investment which will enable Lingua Franca to buy-out the contracts for each of its 69 sponsored settlements in the UK. Our long- term vision is to restore every branded town and city in the country to its rightful name. We hope that you will join us in this endeavour.

  Find out more

  Click here to unsubscribe

  Gravesend is interested. Peterborough has woken from its sleep. Grimsby wants to know what Cleethorpes thinks about it. Dorking is coming round. And Yeovil too. Liverpool knew the whole thing was stupid all along.

  We s
tand around in a circle without saying anything, like something from a Buddhist retreat. The subject is Croydon. On the whiteboard, Head of Brand writes a list of everything Croydon’s ever been called. Croeas… Deanas… Croindone… Crogdene… Croydon… Carphone Warehouse. It’s more than likely that Croydon will insist upon Croydon, but they’re free to consider the ancient alternatives, the Roman, Brythonic, Middle English or Old Norse. They might be feeling Pictish. Localisation writes on her Etch A Sketch, then raises it aloft.

  Croydon’s better than Crogdene.

  Croydon it is.

  It must be the seventh expression session that Nigel’s missed. The Ministry have advised us that his rehabilitation is incomplete. Every time he gets better, he allows his anger to overcome him. He shouts about terms and conditions, and how everything’s a disgrace. Then he goes back to the start. He’s not very good at the wire buzzer game. He doesn’t understand the process. The rest of us understood what was required. That’s how we got through the storm, and the silent rehabilitation.

  Luton’s better than Loitone. And definitely better than Lucozade.

  In time, the perception of Lingua Franca will be different. Lingua Franca, specialists in silence. No headsets, no telephones. Every item of business conducted in British Sign Language and the written word. Thought leaders. Standard bearers. We could tell you about our behavioural framework with our bare hands.

  They all type at once, and we keep them sane by letting them listen to classical music – nothing with lyrics, unless it’s Ronan Keating’s ‘You Say It Best When You Say Nothing At All’: our joke song. Eden was polite enough to categorise his leads into ‘hot’ and ‘cold’. Basingstoke is hot. Plymouth is cold. Wycombe is a ‘messer’. We’ve contacted the hot leads to announce that we won’t be selling naming rights anymore. We’re Lingua Franca, language restorationists. Look on our works, ye Mighty, and rejoice.

  The English language belongs to all of us. It is the property of the heart.

  Darren’s a good writer. A better writer than he ever was a talker. He likes to write down his thoughts and stick them on the wall.

  Though we speak in different accents, and differ in our diction, all of us are fluent in the language of silence.

  Darren leans onto the whiteboard, the column marked Eden. He writes some Roman numerals in permanent ink. Number eleven, Eden’s last sales figure. It’ll stay there for as long as we’re here.

  If Nigel ever comes back, I’ll be ready with the graphs. Our key performance indicators have been met, Nigel. We have a mass-market audience. Our social channels get something like two hundred thousand subscribers. We run successful campaigns with names like Hush. A generation of young people read our newsletter, organise vigils, raise funds, spread the word (in silence) and dance in silent discos. Affinity is up. Advocacy is up. Online sentiment is positive. In Barrow-in-Furness there are hundreds of volunteers working on the ground. In Milton Keynes there are #ZipIt logos hanging from the lamp posts all the way up Midsummer Boulevard, like something from a police state where the population worship a pair of lips. We’re doing great, Nigel. Just relax.

  Ptolemy and I have a new housemate called Kendal. It feels like a different house. We took down the iron bars and the CCTV. The metal spikes are stubborn, but we’ve found a spike specialist. The gravel’s gone; we’ve laid grass and planted some daffodils in the front. The anti-climb paint is chipping away. We use the panic room for storage. We’ve unplugged the burglar alarm so Ptolemy can explore at night without fear of tripping the lasers. I let Kendal manage the bookshelves. She wants to read everything ever written. She likes to pin poems on the wall, so I can read e.e. cummings while washing my face. We’ve both become better at drawing. Yesterday I found a note on the pillow which said I love you. The love was a red crayon heart. We write about everything. We write about our day, and what we’re eating for dinner. We write about how we’re feeling, what’s making us sad and what we love about one another. We write about hospitals, primary schools and ‘Outstanding’ Ofsted reports. We write about our baby, and toys, and how Ptolemy will cope. All we need is a name.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A big thank you to Ben Casey and The Chase agency for the beautiful cover art.

  Thank you to Lauren Parsons, the Legend Press team and James Wills at Watson Little.

  Mad props to Mark Gill and Baldwin Li for their omniscient divinity.

  To the First Lady Sarah Jack. And Tariq Desai of no fixed address.

  To the Thacker-Leicester dynasty, Chairman Meow, and my Iceman incarcerated.

  To the 8.04 from Kentish Town to Bromley South.

  And last but not least, to the people of Birdseye.

  We hope you enjoyed Lingua Franca, the second novel from author and screenwriter William Thacker.

  This novel follows William’s debut, Charm Offensive. When retired politician Joe Street is named in a tabloid media slur, he carries out a last-ditch attempt to resurrect his marriage and undo the damage from the lie. With a cheap PR consultant in tow, Joe is reintroduced to a world of empty sound bites and media appearances – a world he would rather forget…

  ‘I’m always a sucker for redemption stories but this one is really highly entertaining, life-affirming and – yes – charming. On this evidence, William Thacker is a name you will hear a lot more often.’

  Matt Haig

  ‘A strange book, but its strangeness is what keeps you turning the pages.’

  Jennifer Johnston

  Here’s a sample of Charm Offensive:

  One

  You can say what you like about him, but you’d probably do the same. In his defence, he has never tried to be a saint. He is aware, painfully so, that he has no explanation.

  Around town, his name has become a byword for how to kill a career. Don’t do a Joe. It’s why he lives in a smaller house now, with white-painted roughcast walls and a mattress on the lawn.

  At the door, Muriel slides the chain free.

  He has hung about her, successfully, for longer than predicted. He has remained an occupant of the house, still married, despite everything.

  He allows his voice to be heard.

  ‘They’re satisfied.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’

  Just by stepping into the house, you can tell that something has been lost. It feels like the morning after a burglary, like someone has come inside and wrecked everything.

  He will clean the mess he is responsible for. He should reposition the cushions. But when it comes to the broken glass – that’s Muriel. The dent on the door is Muriel. The mattress on the lawn is Muriel.

  She is keeping her distance, in her white nylon dressing gown and white slippers. On most days, a black camera is wrung around her neck. Today there is nothing.

  She is resting her elbows on the kitchen counter, staring from the window. Her collarbone is pronounced. It’s a bony smile across her chest.

  ‘I haven’t done any work,’ she says.

  ‘I was going to ask.’

  ‘No you weren’t.’

  Then she motions for him to turn around. She says that his shirt is inside out.

  There is a question that he can’t put into words. He could try.

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  She turns from the window and says, ‘Why don’t you have a bath?’

  If it wasn’t for him, she might not sigh so often. She might still look young. Her hair might be long and dark, not short and grey. She might be more prolific in her work, more confident, more sociable. He has made her old.

  *

  Muriel is sitting in bed with the duvet pulled around her shoulders. She must have spent most of the day like this. It’s hard to imagine that she’s done anything else.

  The curtains are closed.

  She has avoided the en-suite bathroom, where the hanging wire, chemicals, photographs and light sensitive materials are kept.

  ‘I should probably go.’
>
  ‘Alright.’

  In his imagination, it was going to be a front door goodbye. It was going to conjure some emotion. It’s not happening like he thought it would.

  ‘I’m going away for a bit.’

  ‘Am I supposed to say something?’

  ‘No.’

  She won’t follow him. For now at least, she won’t be moving.

  It’s true that some of her anger is justified. After all, what started all this trouble? It was the finer things, the finer women. But on this occasion, she’s wrong to assume the worst.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘I know it’s hard to believe me. I haven’t always been… faithful.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘But this is different.’

  In the absence of something more to say, there is silence. It’s impossible to live in a silent house. Instinct says it must be a bad idea.

  *

  In their neighbourhood there is little of interest. It takes five minutes on foot before you reach the roundabout and its patch of grass. Best of all is the iron bridge, which no-one likes to walk across. You have to tread carefully to avoid the broken glass. And the dog shit.

  The pub has broken windows.

  What can you say about the beach? Unlike most beaches, no-one is having a good time. The most you can say is that the view is something to admire. No-one can take away the hills in the distance.

  It’s possible to make out Barry, leaning on the sea wall. The car will be parked in front of the souvenir shops. Barry is pointing at his wrist, doing his best to hurry the whole thing along. Just relax, Barry.

  There is an old pier, which is beginning to look fragile. There are tables at the pavilion, some seagulls, and a meanlooking flag hanging from a kiosk. On the deck is a black chalkboard, and the words are beginning to fade.

  Tonight: a conversation with Joe Street, former Member of Parliament.

  You would think someone might have erased it. It would be easy to change the sign, but no-one will make the effort.