Serendipity Foundation_292

by The Serendipity Foundation (retail) (epub)

After arguments about its location, time and furniture (would the table be round or rectangular?), they got on to the menu. It proved impossible to find a dish or beverage they could agree on. The village packed their bags.

  ‘Do you like peanuts?’ the elder asked as a last resort.

  Of course they did. They were so small and social. It was the first thing they had agreed on in years. It would be a dinner of nuts.

  They arrived and greeted each other frostily, sat down in silence and obliviously munched on the salted peanuts. They soon became thirsty. After finishing the bowl they became positively parched. But they had not agreed on a beverage. Panic ensued as their tongues withered in their mouths. What were they to do?

  Ted came up with the idea of water. Tom found no fault. So they drank some together. The relief was tangible, and in the following moments before they put their guards back up, they admitted they had been diagnosed with liver trouble and were off lager and ale. As their bodies rehydrated, they basked in the unique sensation of problem solving.

  They soon felt hungry, and the nuts were finished. Ted remembered he had white bread in the car. Tom remembered he had strawberry jam in his. They agreed to put the two together and see what would happen. Strawberry jam on white toast happened. They were shocked by the complementary nature of the flavours. They soon discovered that neither liked coffee and only drank it to look cosmopolitan.

  Strange habits emerged: when one spoke, the other listened. They sometimes took turns. Tom confessed to encroaching on one side of the Polo-mint-shaped land belt, and Ted encroaching on the other. The villagers unpacked their bags.

  And it all started with a peanut.

  By Sunday, over 30 million extra letters had been sent since Wednesday.

  Pragmatism with a Heart of Gold

  Monday, June 29th

  Lucy was sitting at her dining table staring at the post that had just arrived. In her hands was an envelope, her address handwritten in lush black ink. She was surprised to receive such a letter as she had lived her life without feeling overtly wronged by anyone; she was owed no obvious apology.

  Dear Miss Smalling,

  I am very sorry for my belated response. I have been unseasonably busy, and although I have often thought about your request, I never got round to putting it to paper. When we met, you asked me if I could send you what I would demand if I were the kidnappers. So . . .

  ‘It’s not the sexiest fucker, is it?’ said Jordie after Miller read out Lucy’s text, detailing the Prime Minister’s demand. ‘My ransom took people through the full emotional kama sutra, whereas this is a dose of dry missionary with your haggard partner.’

  The expressions of the others seconded the sentiment if not the image.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Miller, ‘this isn’t really a ransom, it’s more like a . . .’

  ‘Policy,’ said Richard. ‘And it’s not like a policy. It is a policy.’ The others looked at him to elaborate. ‘Look, as CEO I used to pay a lot of people for information, especially on government energy policy. A few months ago an aide at Number 10 said the PM had been pushing for a pilot like this for a while. I guess none of the Cabinet got behind it.’

  ‘Maybe we should release it as part of the Foundation’s manifesto,’ said Miller.

  Jordie laughed. ‘Why not? Let’s form a party. We’ll make pledges detailing how we’re going to ransom people over the next five years.’

  Everyone except Liam laughed along.

  ‘Are we actually planning to do something with this power?’ said Liam. The others stared at him, confused by his pro-active tone. ‘How many of us believe climate change exists?’ They all nodded. ‘And who here had given up on stopping it?’ The nodding continued.

  ‘So . . . ?’ said Liam in an annoyed voice. ‘Are we going to pass up an opportunity to actually do something just because it’s not sexy enough for Jordie?’

  ‘How much?’ said Miller.

  ‘50 grand,’ said Lucy.

  Miller called Lucy to explain the week’s plan, and in return found out that Lucy had just received a sizeable offer to pose in a men’s magazine.

  ‘I personally think it would aid our release. Rarely do you get such an opportunity to combine grief and soft porn so tastefully.’

  ‘I’m pleased my A-list boyfriend is so protective.’

  ‘You can be the Daisy to my Gatsby.’

  There was silence on Lucy’s end as she struggled with Miller’s analogy. ‘I kind of hope you’ve never read that book.’

  ‘Ends badly, does it? So . . . sure you’re OK with it? The PM will know you’re in on it.’

  Lucy took a moment to imply she was thinking, but had in reality made her decision long ago. ‘Why not? I don’t think he’ll advertise the fact he sent a request to kidnappers through the girlfriend of a hostage.’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘We release the statement on Wednesday morning. If you have second thoughts, let me know.’

  Dear Britain,

  The word community comes from the Latin ‘cum’ meaning together, and ‘munos’ meaning gift: together in gift. The best gift you can give your fellow man is a solution.

  Michael’s hands trembled as he read the page. He closed his eyes and went back over his meeting with Lucy Smalling. Stories once more were to blame: her literary analogies had disarmed him. He thought she was a fellow traveller, yet she was just another with vested interests. But why else would he have sent her the ransom unless he had some closeted hope of it being used?

  For the next month we call upon the town of Royal Tunbridge Wells to provide such a gift that will inspire a nation.

  He had chosen Tunbridge Wells – a wealthy spa town in Kent – as he loathed its MP, George Shadwell, who also happened to be a leading climate change sceptic. But he felt bad. It was viewed as a bastion of conservative ‘Middle England’: the stereotype of a place partial to a gripe and grumble, and, as such, an easy target.

  To guarantee the safety of the three hostages, Tunbridge Wells must design, finance and implement an energy plan to become 100 per cent renewable. The first two stages must be completed in four weeks, with a clear timeline and safeguards for completion.

  Our gift to you is a gift you will give the nation, which will be a gift to the world.

  The Foundation

  Michael ignored the list of missed calls, and turned his phone to silent as he curled into a protective ball.

  ‘Of course we won’t stand for it. There has to be a point where we draw a line and say we don’t negotiate with terrorists,’ came Shadwell’s voice as he walked from house to car past the TV cameras. His tone made a global terrorist threat sound parochial, as if he had been asked to ban fruitcake from the fête. His tweed jacket seemed an attempt to incite the wrath of his critics further. Michael was struck by how unfeas-ibly square his head looked. He was in his mid-fifties, had tumbleweed eyebrows and cheek pigments that had jammed on light pink.

  The idea of Shadwell, all bluster and self-righteousness, railing against the world, originally made Michael smile. However, the demand could only be met with his support, and Michael doubted Shadwell had the makings of a hero. Maybe it was best that Shadwell and Tunbridge Wells refused, ending events before they became even more dangerous for him.

  Rawlins prided himself as a man with a nose for fishy things. He was not a climate sceptic per se, but had a healthy respect for those who demanded irrefutable proof. Hints of renewable energy were scattered around the kidnapping landscape and he felt that he was the only one willing to join the dots together.

  He wrote on a pad the cast of the farce. The conspiracy undressed itself in front of his eyes.

  For two days Michael failed to comment on the demand. This void was quickly filled. The pros and antis traded increasingly hysterical arguments. The world’s press des­cended to observe the harsh realities of suburban terrorism, as once peaceful communities became splintered over parking spaces. Camps to house the busloads of incoming
activists were relocated by residents determined to protect the pristine town parks.

  Shadwell rallied to protect Tunbridge’s and, as he saw it, England’s way of life. ‘The terrorists don’t like our freedom,’ he said, to the bemusement of activists who had been angrily kicked off the grass. The oil lobby decided Shadwell was doing a better job than they ever could and put their PR teams behind him.

  Michael himself felt under siege. Energy lobbyists lurked everywhere: Michael drily asked security to do a sweep of his sock drawer. His office fielded call after call from people unused to losing, powerful figures who could see how a successful pilot in Tunbridge could change the game: you don’t understand the consequences; Ted Monroe called asking him to think about national security.

  If industry was anxious, Michael was more so. He had lost his nerve, growing paranoid that his every move was being watched. When Charlie had commented how uncannily similar the demand was to his own ignored policy, he suspected Charlie had an inkling, but now was no time for confessions. Charlie was loyal, but he couldn’t risk being the champion. Someone else would have to rein in the chaos.

  ‘I’m here to tell them,’ came Shadwell’s voice from the TV, ‘that we’re not dependent on you. This country will wean itself off your demands. The price you’re asking us to pay is too high.’

  For a moment, Michael was uncertain if Shadwell was talking about the terrorists or the oil industry. And with the momentary confusion came an idea.

  Rawlins marched down the corridor, a sense of purpose rising with each footstep. He nodded to the suited man, who adjusted his earpiece as he opened the door. The room was windowless and lit by a phosphorescent light.

  ‘What . . . what is this place?’ said the young man, sitting at the small table in the middle of the room.

  Rawlins looked at his notes as he took the seat opposite. ‘I’m sorry about the ambience. It was the only available room. So, tell me more about your dealings with Mr Pounder.’

  Si looked like a man who felt that whatever answer he gave would be the wrong one.

  ‘He . . . he came to me. It was arranged through a friend of his I’d dealt with before.’

  ‘And what did he say he wanted to get out of your meeting?’ Rawlins struggled to hide from his voice the sinister destin­ation he hoped the answers would lead to.

  ‘I think . . . yeah . . . he said he wanted to get into Time, that he wanted a stage again. Like he loved the power and wanted to get it back.’

  Rawlins nodded and smiled in an attempt to put Si at ease. ‘Yes. Yes. How interesting. And can you tell me why he decided on a solar energy project in Cairo?’

  ‘Er . . .’ Si looked at the ceiling to buy some time as he chose his words carefully: he didn’t want to incriminate himself in an investigation with such sinister lighting. ‘I believe he said something along the lines of screwing over the oil industry as much as possible.’

  ‘So to get this straight, Richard Pounder went to Cairo to deliver a project that would screw over the oil industry and give him publicity and power.’

  Rawlins stared intensely at Si, who slowly nodded his head.

  ‘Don’t think you can just waltz in here and dictate to us,’ said Shadwell after Michael and Charlie had taken seats in a conference room in Tunbridge Wells Council Office. ‘My people won’t be ordered about by London.’ It all came out a little William Wallace: Michael hid his smile at the thought of this being the opportunity Tunbridge Wells had always craved for secession.

  ‘George,’ said Michael, ‘I have nothing to sell, and your electorate aren’t consumers, but citizens.’ Shadwell continued to stride nervously in front of the long elliptical table. Three local councillors took seats in the bright third-floor room, but looked overwhelmed at sharing the room with the Prime Minister. Silent secessionists.

  ‘Then why are you here?’ said Shadwell.

  ‘Apparently I’m the leader of the country.’ He said it more with resignation than irony. ‘Look, I’m sorry you and your town have been picked on. I am. But here we are. So why don’t we try to make the best of it.’

  Shadwell stopped pacing and stared at Michael. ‘The best of it?’ he said, exasperated. ‘I don’t think you’ve understood our position. We refuse to be blackmailed!’

  ‘Of course. Of course,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘You know, I had the same predicament not that long ago. I hated it. But then I thought, do I really want to be responsible for the death of innocent people simply because of a principle?’ Michael locked Shadwell’s gaze. ‘Do you want to be responsible for killing three people?’

  Shadwell looked at Michael. ‘I won’t be. The kidnappers will. I’m not doing the killing. I’m sticking to a principle on behalf of my constituents.’

  Michael smiled. ‘Well . . . I mean . . . you could be held personally responsible.’

  Shadwell pulled out a seat opposite Michael and leaned forward. ‘Don’t threaten me.’

  ‘I would do no such thing. All I would say is that your principle is your own, and a large number of your constituents won’t feel the same way. If the hostages do get killed they won’t think twice about blaming it all on you. It’s the unfortunate plight of the politician.’

  Shadwell eyed him up.

  ‘So do you want to be a murderer, or a hero?’ said Michael.

  Shadwell mumbled a response, embarrassed at the choice offered.

  ‘Of course, you’re a man of principle. So we have to find a way of you becoming a hero while maintaining them.’

  ‘I . . . I’m not sure I understand, Prime Minister.’

  Michael stood up and found a marker pen. ‘I’m saying maybe we should be blackmailed in the name of something more inclusive.’

  Shadwell stared back at him, speechless.

  ‘The trick with leading is you have to tell stories everyone can see themselves in.’ Michael scrubbed the whiteboard at the front of the conference room clean of acronyms and numbers, and wrote the words exposition, rising action, climax, resolution along the top of the board. ‘At the moment you won’t take up the challenge because you disagree with climate change?’ He looked back at Shadwell, who nodded slowly. ‘So maybe we can find a way to fulfil the demand without talking about it.’ He turned back to his writing on the board.

  Underneath ‘exposition’ he wrote: terrorists demand town radically changes; under ‘rising action’ he wrote: population rise up against demand and idea of change; he left the space under ‘climax’ blank; under the final column ‘resolution’ he wrote: town becomes most progressive in world, cheap reliable energy, secures national energy independence, helps end majority of global war.

  ‘You against the ending?’ Michael said as he turned around to Shadwell, who pursed his lips. ‘So . . .’ Michael said, looking at the board. ‘Looks like we need a climax that will get us to our resolution. Any ideas?’ He looked at Shadwell and the councillors, who stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘How about this?’ said Michael, who wrote under ‘resolution’: local councillors and MP save the day by telling a different story, and then in big letters with a circle around it, he wrote the word heroes.

  They walked out of the council building together and were greeted by the hordes of national and international media who were gathered outside. They stopped at the top of the four steps. Shadwell stepped forward to the microphone.

  ‘Last year thousands of elderly froze to death, not because of climate change, but because they couldn’t afford heating. The prices are hiked by cartels, oligopolies and despots in countries ruled by chaos and uncertainty. How have we let our civilisation become dependent on something we have no control of? Why do we remain addicted to something so finite and short-term?

  ‘So today I told the Prime Minister that I want my country’s independence back. I believe that if we are able to secure cheap, safe, reliable, infinite energy, it is our duty to do so. And while we might feel picked on, we must try to see it as an opportunity to lead the world. It could ha
ve been anywhere, but it has to start somewhere.’

  ‘We’re living in a basement while Britain is jacking off to these guys. Where’s the justice in that?’ said Jordie.

  ‘You’ve blackmailed a country for two months, you’re sipping fresh mango juice and eating chicken shashlik. Anne Frank you are not,’ said Richard.

  ‘All I’m saying is we’re not going to be down here for ever. Maybe Lucy should enquire about vacant ministerial posts or give details for our Swiss bank accounts. We could get our own show, say a hostage sitcom. But we can’t pretend this is a viable retirement option.’

  The population of Tunbridge Wells took their time adjusting to their MP’s new role as visionary. Secession had been swapped for partnership – right-wing hardliners one day, icons for global progress the next. Now they were overrun by renewable energy companies fighting for a place in the greatest shop window on the planet.

  ‘John,’ said Rawlins as he looked up from his notes. ‘I can call you John, right?’

  Fairweather nodded. Interrogation rooms are no place for bow ties.

  ‘Please. Excuse our surroundings. There was a mix-up with our room booking.’ Rawlins rested his hands on the table to symbolise honesty. ‘I just have a few questions. You can leave whenever you want.’

  Fairweather nodded gravely.

  ‘So I’m just wondering where all the funding for the pro-jects Mr Carey and Mr Macpherson were working on came from?’

  ‘You know the trip to Cairo was paid for by Pounder,’ said Fairweather, who continued to eye the room with suspicion.

  Rawlins attempted a smile. ‘Of course. But I heard it was part of some wider funding.’

  Fairweather looked at Rawlins, unsure what he was getting at. ‘We’ve been working with a rich Norwegian foundation called Nynorsk Solar. They took a liking to Miller and Jor-die’s work. They have a vision of being the world leaders in local renewable energy grids.’

  ‘And if these projects in Cairo and India went well it could involve some big contracts for you?’