THE 2084 PRECEPT
Anthony D. Thompson
Copyright © 2014 Anthony D. Thompson
Anthony D. Thompson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. It has been invented by me. Names, characters, places and occurrences are either fictitious or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, business or any other establishments or events, is strictly coincidental.
'Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not quite sure about the former.'
Albert Einstein (1879—1955)
~
'Forgive them, for they know not what they do.'
Jesus Christ (The Christian Bible, Luke 23-34)
For Caroline, with huge amounts of love
CONTENTS
Prologue
Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Day 4
Day 5
Day 6
Day 7
Day 8
Day 9
Day 10
Day 11
Day 12
Day 13
Day 14
Day 15
Day 16
Day 17
Day 18
Day 19
Day 20
Day 21
Day 22
Day 23
Day 24
Day 25
Day 26
Day 27
Day 28
Day 29
Day 30
Day 31
Day 32
Day 33
Day 34
Day 35
Day 36
Day 37
Day 38
Day 39
Day 40
Day 41
Day 42
Day 43
Day 44
Day 45
Day 46
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
The tall, blond man was standing in the middle of the room. He was dressed casually. Sports jacket, chinos and a polo shirt. He was looking out of the window. The trees were leaning in submission to a strong wind and the snow was falling in gusty swirls and had made everything white already.
Nice day, thought the man to himself. But nothing which his overcoat and scarf wouldn't solve, and certainly it was no danger to his relaxed good mood. On the contrary, he liked wind and snow. Always had.
The room could have been a meeting room in a modern budget hotel. Simple furniture, white walls, the décor and the lighting easy on the eye. Looking good and smelling clean.
But the room was not a meeting room in a modern budget hotel. It was a meeting room on a ward in a U.K. low security unit for the mentally ill, a reduced security unit to which the man had eventually been transferred as his apparent return to sanity had become increasingly impossible to ignore.
The door to the room opened and he counted the number of people as they came in. Fourteen. More than usual for a meeting of this nature, as he knew. But then, as he also knew, he was something of a celebrity. His was a rare case and had attracted a lot of attention. He had been the subject of many professional conferences, both internal and external, over a prolonged period of time. Only to be expected of course. Years ago he had been classified as potentially dangerous, both to himself and to others. He had not actually harmed anybody but he nearly had. He had been insane. He had been classified as a DSPD patient—one of those who suffer from dangerous and severe personality disorders of various kinds. In other words, a potentially violent psychopath.
All of this he knew and agreed with. And then a remarkable improvement in his condition and his increasing ability to intelligently discuss and analyze his past and present situations had led to his transfer, thanks also to the modernized principles enshrined in the 1994 Reed Report, from his initial high security environment to a medium security one, and thence to this low security unit.
The man's repeated requests to be released and returned to the community had resulted in a gradual withdrawal of all medication, accompanied by intensified psychological and psychiatric testing programs, and followed by periods of escorted 'leave' outside of the institution. After his transfer to the low security unit, a certain amount of unescorted leave was also added to the program. And eventually a recommendation was presented by the responsible consultant psychiatrist for an absolute discharge, and had been approved by a First Tier Tribunal.
The man had been aware of the applicable procedures and of the fact that neither the Ministry of Justice nor any other jurisdictions were involved, as his detention had not been subject to any restriction orders, criminal or civil. He was consequently not surprised about the discharge being an absolute one. Such discharges were rare for inmates with his given medical history, but they were not unknown. They must have been totally convinced of his return to sanity or, possibly, had considered his detention all those years ago to have been a mistake of some kind, faulty judgment perhaps, or even that his mental illness had, at that time, and for whatever reason, been intentionally faked.
As the others sat down, the man also took a chair out of courtesy, placed his small suitcase beside him on the floor and laid his overcoat and scarf on top of it. He was calm and collected, and he continued to glance out of the window. At the snow, at the wind, at the freedom.
As is usually the case, he had been informed of his release several days ago. This was merely the formal goodbye. They told him again of his aftercare rights under section 117 of the MHA. They informed him that mental health and social care needs would be provided under the CPA umbrella whenever he wished and for as long as he wished. And they hoped that he would be taking advantage of such facilities, in spite of his statement to the contrary.
The man had no friends. A social worker would, for one week, take over control from the Court of Protection of the £50,000 he had inherited when his mother had died two years ago, after which control of the full amount, less accommodation and related costs incurred during that week, would revert solely to him. They confirmed that the taxi had been ordered and would arrive in thirty minutes. They confirmed that it would take him to the hotel he had requested, where adjoining rooms had been booked for himself and a CPN, a community psychiatric nurse who would assist and further evaluate him until a community support worker had helped him obtain permanent accommodation. They reiterated their wish that he maintain regular contact with the aftercare team. And at the same time, they again made it clear to him that, as mandated by the law, he was free from restrictions of any kind. They handed him his private documentation and his copies of the non-confidential medical documentation pertaining to his case history. And they wished him well.
The man had given them his full attention during these proceedings. He had done so out of courtesy and also because he had no reason whatsoever to want to cause them any inconvenience, let alone trouble. These were pleasant people and they were genuine professionals. They had treated him well, and they were proud of their involvement in his progress toward a discharge.
He smiled and looked around the group for the last time. The Consultant Forensic Psychiatrist, who was also the Clinical Director, was there. One of his assistants was there. The unit's general manager was there. A psychologist was there. Two registered nurses were there. A physiotherapist and an occupational therapist were there. The designated CPN, two social-cum-support workers, two health care nurses and a researcher were also there.
He stood up and said thank you. He wished them continued good health and success in both their professional and their private lives. He put on his overcoat and scarf. There was some shaking of hands and then he and his s
uitcase were accompanied out of the room by two male nurses. In addition to low security patients, there was a small medium security section on this site, and they had to pass through two locked doors to exit the ward and enter the main corridor. They then walked about one hundred meters to the next set of locked doors and hurried out into the swirling snow and crossed over an internal road to the reception building. Two electrically operated doors controlled their passage through the airlock area and then, nodding to the area's two gatekeepers, they moved on and out into the institution's open portal.
Into the outside world. The sane outside world. At least, so it is said.
The three persons who would be accompanying him to the hotel arrived and they waited and watched the snow swirling and falling until the taxi appeared. They climbed into the taxi and it drove off into the whiteness, its lazy light-blue exhaust spirals being snatched up by the wind and blown back without delay into their previous state of non-existence.
DAY 1
It was just one of those ordinary days.
A day pushing us closer to the middle of the second decade of the twenty-first century.
Assuming of course that you happen to patronize the Gregorian calendar, a solar calendar introduced in the year 1582 to replace the Julian calendar mandated by Julius Caesar’s minions in the year 46 BC. This reformed calendar changed the length of the year by 0.002%, and retroactively confirmed its starting point as the year of birth of the key deity in one of our religions or, if you prefer, that deity's self-proclaimed representative, but in either case in human form. Universal acceptance of the calendar in the western world took its time, but its adoption by Greece in the year 1923 completed the process.
On the other hand, if you are one of the large number of people who use a Chinese calendar, things become more complicated. The Chinese have many calendars, including lunar ones with 354 days to the year, and they are all pretty complicated, and you could now be in the year 4,711 or in the year 102 or in some other year, depending on which one you use. You also need to do as many Chinese do, and use converter-calendars to check with the Western one in order to know how old you are and so on.
Alternatively, you may be the user of an Arab calendar, of which there are also many. But you would normally be the follower of one of the Islamic ones which tell you that you are in the year 1435 AH (the starting point here being the date of a journey, more or less forced, of that religion's self-proclaimed key prophet from Mecca to Yathrib (or Medina, as the latter is nowadays called).
And of course if you operate on the basis of a Hebrew calendar, whether you are of the Jewish religion or not, the method used to measure your time is a notably singular one. This calendar is what one might describe as a lunisolar one. It gauges time by comingling three unrelated astronomical phenomena: the Earth’s rotation on its own axis, its own revolution around the sun, and the moon’s revolution around the Earth. Those utilizing this calendar are aware of the fact that the resulting inaccuracies require the corrective interpolation of a thirteen-month year from time to time. And you are now in the year 5775 which, as you know, is when both the universe and the human species were created.
Not that it matters in the slightest, does it, what year we humans are in.
* * * * *
And in any case, as I was saying, it was just one of those ordinary days.
You know what I mean, you get up, you shave—if you are a man, that is—you paint yourself with various chemicals and so on if you are a woman, maybe also do a bit of shaving here and there, you go to work, you have coffee breaks, you have lunch, you go home, or maybe you go to a bar or a restaurant or maybe to the movies or, if you are one of those kinds of people, to an art show or a museum, or maybe you just stay at home, maybe you read a book or, if you are one of those kinds of people, you watch T.V. Then you go to bed, and if you are lucky enough to be still at a decent stage of a relationship, maybe you have sex, and if you are really still into it, then maybe even before you go to bed. Or maybe you don't.
And maybe you take a bit of time while all of this is going on to send some daily prayers in a vertically upward direction, or—with bowed head or kneeling or both—vertically downwards, or perhaps in an easterly direction, or, feel free, in whichever direction you prefer. Or maybe you don't. Whatever.
And then you get up the next day and you do those same things all over again, more or less anyway. Life is what we call it. Others of course do different things such as being full-time caretakers of offspring—these caretakers being mainly female, although these days you never know—and this is the driving force in their lives, the main reason for their existence, or so they believe and so I am told and so they say.
Someone once estimated that the average adult in the developed world—ignoring for the moment what we mean by 'developed'—spends at least 15,000 days of his or her life in this way. That is a large whack out of anyone's life, considering that the adult lifespan of an average 'developed' human on this planet is approximately 22,000 days (out of a total span of around 30,000). There are even sociologists who estimate that the average adult spends around 18,000 of his or her days in this way, but I am not going to belabor the point because I have no idea, and, what's more, I don't care. And in any case, we are all unconscious for the equivalent of 10,000 of those 30,000 days. Sleep we call it.
So, there we are, such is life, an existence of limited duration—extremely limited if you ask me—and exorbitantly limited for those who have had bad luck, or for whom bad luck awaits in the future. Time, in fact—if you think about it—is the only thing we really possess. And this, to a large extent, is what we do with it. We don't know why we do it, we just do it, it's the way things are, it's the way it is, there is no point in analyzing the matter.
And as for the meaning of it all, the purpose of it all, what is that supposed to signify? Ha, a laughable question for someone such as myself, who would simply reply that there is no meaning at all and there is no purpose either. But if we wish to be fair, and we do, I fully respect all other opinions including the one that the main reason is to have babies, spend tortuous, messy and stinky years of the limited number available trying to turn them into creatures identical or at least similar to yourself, sometimes failing and finding that you have produced a murderer or a rapist or a child molester or whatever, and more often than not - a statistical fact - at the same time going through hellish relationships, with or without a divorce or other forms of unpleasantness, in order to eventually…well, eventually what?
In order to eventually disappear, hop off, cease existing, expire, kick the bucket, bite the bullet, perish, vanish (I offend no religions here, I refer to vanishing from this planet).
And the foremost objective of all of this, or so I am told, is for the offspring to go off and do exactly the same thing in order also to disappear, cease existing or whatever your preferred expression is. Possibly a more cultivated one; decease perhaps, or pass away or pass on. And this hopping off is a theme all on its own. It can occur in prolonged pain, diabolical suffering, agony, torment and misery or—if you are lucky—it can occur abruptly and usually without prolonged agony as in traffic accidents, heart attacks and terrorist bombs. Or you get murdered. Or—if you really mess things up in the wrong way, at the wrong time and in the wrong place—it could occur in an electric chair. For example.
But according to certain people who claim to be in the know, there is indeed a purpose behind this convoluted and ongoing biological recycling exercise. They do not, however, say what it is—and going to a church is not going to enlighten you either. A church, according to my friend Steve, is merely a place where peculiarly robed persons who have never been to heaven stand up and boast about it to people who will never get there.
But anyway, be all of that as it may, and without fear of repeating myself—joke—it was just one of those ordinary days.
* * * * *
It was about 10 a.m. on a warm spring morning, and it was a Friday, and I was feeling
pretty good, tooling my way across a corner of Green Park en route from my hotel to one of my breakfast haunts. The trees were showing plenty of green already, the birds were singing, the park was humming with people going to wherever people go to, and with a cup of coffee and my newspaper coming up, the world was great and perfectly in order.
As much as it can be, needless to say. Today, among other things, 150,000 human beings are personally involved in one of our planet's compulsory daily occurrences, namely dying.
I went down the pedestrian subway and up again on the other side, and I swung right into Half Moon Street. There are other Half Moon Streets in this country, and for all I know elsewhere as well, but I am referring to the central London one. And if you happen to be a US citizen, no, I do not mean London, Ohio or London, Kentucky, but London, U.K.
I turned out of Half Moon Street and into Curzon Street, strolled along to the café and settled myself down at a small outdoor table.
All tables in England are small. It's annoying.
Perhaps it's because the country is obscenely overpopulated and space is at a premium. As you possibly know, in 2013 England overtook Holland to become Europe's most densely populated nation, with nearly 400 inhabitants per km2. In fact England is now one of the most densely populated countries in the world. A bit different, say, to a country like Namibia, which has a land area over three times that of England’s, but a population density of a mere 2.6 per km2. But of course, 70% of England's population growth in recent years has been due to immigration. Fact. Which reminds me of my friend Steve's thoughts on the matter.
The birdbrains—one of my friend Steve's charming sobriquets for politicians—running the U.K. have an immigration policy which places no restrictions at all and no limits of any kind on the numbers of qualifying migrants they have to accept. The few intelligent politicians (such as Enoch Powell in the middle of the last century) who explained what simple mathematical extrapolation is, and what the results of that would be, were first ignored and then ostracized. Well done guys! Three cheers! Get rid of Enoch. All and any of our critics are racists! Down the hatch chaps, Bangladesh here we come! Carry on, what?!
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