The 2084 Precept

by Anthony D. Thompson

  But they didn't have to look for long. In they came, barking as if they'd been born and raised in the kennels, deep barks, squeaky barks, happy barks and one notably depressed bark, the latter coming from—take a prize—Delsey. Now a minute can be a long time when you've got something like that going on. I recalled my utter disbelief the first time, with the waiter and the girl on the street. These happenings were as impossible as some of the things you see hypnotists doing on stage, making members of the audience jump around by persuading them they are standing on hot coals, or making them take their clothes off, or whatever else hypnotists are supposedly capable of.

  But the demonstration of such powers of hypnosis requires, as far as I am aware, the physical presence of the hypnotist. And there are no hypnotists, as far as I am aware, who can affect a significant number of people simultaneously. And this is what made Jeremy different. And if my neurons had spent many days wrestling with themselves and looking for plausible explanations, Piccadilly on Sunday had convinced them to give up the struggle. They had had no other choice. Jeremy, quite simply, was unique. Also not right in the head of course, but that is not the point.

  Yes, a minute of barking is a long time even if it is dogs you are listening to. But if it's human beings you are listening to, it has the feeling of eternity because it also makes you feel strangely ashamed to know that you personally are also a member of this species. I don’t know why. Psychological.

  The government people couldn't believe their eyes or their ears, and who could blame them? And when it finally stopped, the police officials looked confused. They were wondering why they were standing around when everyone else was seated, and they quickly took their places at the table again.

  I would guess that people are vaguely aware of what they have been induced into doing on these occasions, but they are not quite sure about it because their neurons, after undoubtedly performing a rapid and intense analytical exercise, are unable to come up with the goods.

  But if the barking law enforcers were confused, severe consternation was the initial reaction in the ranks of the spectators. The spectators had had no choice but to believe what their eyes and ears had just seen and heard. On top of that, they knew that I had had no knowledge of their request beforehand. I, or a contact, could cause things to happen.

  But you could see their initial reaction of amazed astonishment wearing off almost immediately. The sly workings of their pea-sized brains took over as they began to imagine in which ways this new technology might be used, if only they could lay their hands on the metaphorical reins of the metaphorical horse.

  And so they started pressuring me. They wanted to meet with this person calling himself an alien—meet with him of his own free will of course, they said. They realized that any other way might merely cause him not to 'perform' or—and this they didn't say but you could see them thinking it—might even cause him to retaliate by using his amazing powers on them, perish the very thought.

  I can conceive of three possibilities, I told them. You have either forgotten the conditions for this meeting, or else you are wanting to void them or—worse still—you were not even informed of the conditions. Whichever it is, it doesn't matter because I am now leaving. The prime minister will have missed out on the most important piece of information he has ever received, or could ever possibly have received. Nice to have met you all, thank you for your time, and have a good day. And I stood up to leave.

  This had the required effect. If, they said, I could arrange for an extraordinarily major event to occur, a momentous one—that word again—within the next two or three days and let them know in advance what it was and when and where it would occur, this would greatly enhance their chances of being able to convince the prime minister to agree to a meeting with Mr. Parker. The prime minister, by the way, could possibly have some thirty minutes available next week on the Wednesday afternoon.

  No problem, I told them, I would contact Mr.Delsey tomorrow morning with the necessary information. Many thanks for your coming, several of them said, and I left them to what would no doubt be a huge discussion of all of the possible explanations for what they had just experienced. Except that there was only one possible explanation available and, let us be honest, it was not an easy one for neurons of any type, size or denomination to be able to grasp.

  Delsey caught up with me before I made it outside and asked if I would be staying in London over the next few days. I told him no. I had a private life and I would be back in Germany for the weekend and perhaps longer. No point in my trying to hide it, they would know anyway; electronic communication, electronic tracking, hiya there George Orwell. I told him that I would be contactable at all times and could fly back without notice if necessary—up until the point that Jeremy Parker and the prime minister were in direct contact. After that, I would no longer be involved and would consider myself free of any obligation to be in contact with him or to allow my private activities to be the subject of further scrutiny by him or his colleagues. Of course, you can always arrest me, I told him, but he didn't find that amusing. He wasn't worried in any case, I could tell that, he knew they could locate me whenever they needed to. Well…maybe he was right and maybe he wasn't.

  The rain had stopped and so I left the building and walked along into Whitehall, down past Downing Street on the other side, turned right and on into St.James's Park and up towards Piccadilly and back to my hotel.

  I didn't do much else today. I had a light meal in the hotel, revueltos à la basquaise, they'd certainly scrambled the languages here but it was a dish I had long since taken a liking to on my trips to Bilbao. It was always a choice for me if I felt like something light and healthy. I washed it down with a half-bottle of red, a good one, a Château Hautes Combes 2005, actually a very ordinary Bordeaux from a very ordinary year, it couldn't have cost them much. But then taste has never been directly connected to what something costs.

  I went outside for the day's last cigarette, yes, must be. Back in my room, I called Jeremy on his mobile and recounted the afternoon's proceedings. He was pleasant enough but his tone sounded non-committal, perhaps he'd had a hard day at the office and we were, after all, only ants and wasps. Fantasy ants and fantasy wasps of course, inhabiting his fantasy universe. He promised to think of something worthwhile for the ministers and their cohorts and would let me know tomorrow morning. I typed and printed the United Fasteners invoice for the past few weeks: €25,200, not to be sniffed at.

  And off I wandered to the land of Nod. The word Nod, in case you are interested, derives from the Hebrew verb 'to wander'. It is the land referred to in Genesis to which God sent the crop-farmer Cain after he (Cain, that is) had murdered his younger brother, Abel. Both were the sons of Adam and Eve and as a result, Cain retains the distinction not only of being the first human being to be born, but also of being the first one to commit murder—by murdering the second human being to be born—which also made him the first to have committed fratricide. Although not the last of course. And this tale—merely as a matter of interest—is also identical to the one recounted in the Islamic Koran. Interesting.

  Nod is also the name of a small village in the U.K. near Holme-on-Spalding-Moor in East Yorkshire. Actually, the word village is an exaggeration when referring to one or two ramshackle buildings, but it is the version of Nod I prefer to picture when going there.

  DAY 22

  I woke up late. A window check showed me patches of blue sky today along with a bunch of fast-moving white clouds, so still windy out there. But the clouds were not rainy ones and the days when I know I am going to catch some regular glimpses of that broiling ball of gas up there always enhance my mood, as they naturally do for most of us. Except, needless to say, for the Delseys of the world.

  I had breakfast at the hotel, a leisurely one with the poached eggs. I then took a walk, returned to the hotel and collected the invoice and the gifts for Roger and Geoff, and strolled over to Shepherd's Market. There I picked up a gift for Susi and so
me really good flowers, and headed with my packages into South Audley Street. Up to the third floor and there she was, Susanne Brown, looking as swish as usual and smiling a smile as crooked as ever.

  "Hello, Peter," she said, "out enjoying the sun today?"

  "The sun is great," I said, looking straight at her, "but not as great as some of the things you get to see indoors."

  "Ah, well that is nice to hear. Very nice to hear." Could it be there was a slight blush appearing there? Surely not, a woman of the world like this one. But both her eyes and her smile were as inviting as last time. Perhaps she was just a little embarrassed about showing some interest, who knows?

  "Some flowers for Susanne," I said, "and a small gift as well for having had to put up with your company's weird visitor over the past few months."

  And yes, she was definitely blushing now. "Oh Peter, you really are a very nice and thoughtful man. This really isn't at all necessary you know, but thank you, thank you very much, it is extremely kind of you." And she opened the package and it was her perfume, the one I had noticed her using a couple of months ago. By chance, that had been, but it's always good to store these nuggets of information away in your neuron filing cabinet. You never know if the day will come when they can give you that definitive edge in the sexual safari stakes.

  Not that I intended doing anything about it. The attraction here was purely visual, sexually visual if you insist. Time, as it is wont to do, would clarify the rest of it, starting with when my neurons decided to ban Céline to the archives and add Susi to the group of blinking red lights.

  "I am so terribly pleased," she said, as I headed off in the direction of Roger's office, "that you will be continuing to work with us." Ah hah, so she knew about that. So much the better. And she really did sound genuinely pleased about it. Good news.

  Roger came out from behind his desk to greet me. Man, the way the poor bugger walks certainly portends an early exit, I would put a bet on it, he is an autopsy on the hoof. He picked up the phone and asked Geoff to come along, and then I gave them their presents, each one a small engraved plaque on a wooden surround, intended for the desktop. Roger's said: If you come in here with a problem, and don't suggest a solution, you are part of the problem. And Geoff's addressed one of the world's most frequently heard statements: You are 99% sure, are you? Right…so you don't know.

  The gifts went down well and so did the invoice when I handed it over; they had been expecting a larger amount. But never overdo it is my motto, the psychological gains are worth a fortune over the long-term. I told them that I would be back in a month's time, probably for several days. Great, they said, it's a flexible arrangement from now on. But a very fine arrangement, I thought to myself, I will be getting a lot of credit as Clark's reported profits go up and up and up. And I will be earning money for doing next to nothing.

  I humbly accepted praise for the idea of the employee wage deal and everything else, we said our goodbyes, and I headed out into the reception area. Susi was still at her desk. She was an attractive woman, I said to myself again, no two ways about it. Let me cement the potential blinking red light status a little further. "Do you know what, Susanne?" I said, looking deep into those big, bright eyes, "I am also very pleased that I shall be continuing to work with you." And yes, she blushed again, and she gave me another crooked ambiguous smile and it nearly killed me. But it didn't.

  The sun was shining, the clouds were scudding and, as P.G. Wodehouse might have put it, the bees were no doubt buzzing, although that would be over in the parks rather than here in South Audley Street.

  Jeremy's phone rang.

  He told me that a largish asteroid would be crashing into Jupiter on Monday. He gave me the time and he gave me the coordinates. Those present at the last meeting should inform the prime minister, who would no doubt have the U.K. and possibly the U.S. scientific community informed, although they would be unable to assist by confirming or denying the event. He also asked me to kindly let him know as soon as the Wednesday meeting was confirmed. And he wished me a pleasant weekend. A non-committal mood again today, it seemed.

  I called Delsey and repeated the information. He said he would call me back as soon as he had an answer on the Wednesday meeting.

  I wandered around a few streets, I bought a birthday card for Monika and I bought an IHT for myself. I read it while having a sandwich at one of those small Italian cafés. There were 34 car-bomb deaths yesterday, 112 other combat deaths, the stock markets had gone down again, lucky me, and the long drawn-out Euro crisis was continuing along its inevitable path to doom—a situation which had not of course (as I keep repeating, but these repetitions are delectable and comfortable to my neurons) been created by any of the birdbrains in any of their ministries, and which, consequently and naturally, had nothing to do with them at all.

  I walked back through Berkeley Square to the hotel. Little Miss Ugly was at the desk. She had a nice name: Geneviève Lane. I noticed it for the first time from the nametag pinned to her chest. Breast, I should say, a more sensual word and also a more accurate one. Nice breasts she had, as I mentioned before, and ready-made for nestling on in times of trouble and strife. These were the kind of breasts which help to heal the soul of the emotionally wounded, no doubt about it. Emotionally wounded men at least, I don't think that breasts arouse women, non-lesbian women anyway. And as for the lesbians, let them enjoy it also, it doesn't bother anybody. And as for the aberrations, the militant females, the ones who are in fact non-female females if they did but know it, I recommend a visit to a restaurant called simply La Vie, which is just off Knightsbridge and whose owner is a cynic, just like me. His menu frequently contains comments such as 'In the interests of equality, we are serving chest of chicken tonight'.

  All of which, I admit, is neither here nor there. Good evening, Miss Lane, I said, knowing full well that my use of her name would have an effect on her, and indeed it did. It was as if I had plied her with an array of selected aphrodisiacs, she was metaphorically stripping her clothes off, I do not exaggerate. Which made for a pleasant discourse with a strong erotic undercurrent, while I explained that I was going to have a snooze and that I would then be leaving. I would pay for tonight of course, but would prefer to settle the bill now. Perhaps next time, Miss Lane, I thought to myself, you can apply your breasts to the furtherance of the O'Donoghue healing process.

  I fell asleep straight away and Morpheus provided me with a dream about breasts. Nice firm, round breasts, the ones which last for decades, as opposed to the ones like poor Miss Lane's, which were also nice but which would not last for decades. Poor girl, hers were a fast depreciating asset, to use a balance sheet term, and in the not too distant future you would not be thinking of them as breasts anymore, your neurons would be classifying them under the category of udders. Or dugs. I know, it's brutal, it's sad. But that's life, it's the way things are. I hope that Geneviève uses her assets well (or, more appropriately, allows them to be well used) during the short time allotted to them, and that she eventually marries a man whose libido is destined to be equally short-lived.

  I hold the view, right or wrong, that I have no reason to apologize for acknowledging nature's idiosyncracies for what they are. So I won't.

  I didn't wake up until 11 p.m. No matter, there were ferries to France throughout the night.

  DAY 23

  I trundled down to Dover at the mandatory U.K. speed of a diseased tortoise, and bought a ticket for the next available ship, which was a Sea France one (MyFerryLink, ghastly name). It was 4 a.m. by the time we docked in Calais, which of course was 5 a.m. continental time. Or Central European Time; whatever, it excludes the Brits. And it also excludes the Northern Irish come to that, excluded as they are in their turn, from being Brits.

  But European the Brits indeed are, albeit unbeknown to most of the products of their modern schooling system. Their country's name derives from the description 'Big Brittany', a term used by the Romans in order to distinguish it from the region
of 'Small Brittany' in north-western France. And the name England of course derives from the term Englaland, named after the Angles, one of the German tribes which settled there during the 5th and 6th centuries. And so this Italian, French and German salad, liberally sprinkled with Scandinavian pepper and other dressings, is what the Brits are. Although not, of course, what they have become.

  I made it home to Okriftel in the original land of the Angles in bright sunshine at around 10 o'clock. I stopped off at the petrol station to buy a newspaper and Mr. Brown's chocolate. From there I walked down to the local travel agency. Renate was there. Renate Mayer, the owner. She can't have been more than forty but nature had dealt her a bad hand and she had clearly decided to cultivate the bad hand further by tending to her lack of sex-appeal with the solemnity of a deranged gardener watering his weeds. And her personality corresponded fully to the abode in which it was located. I usually hold people who have made their own way in life in high regard, and Frau Mayer was certainly a self-made woman. And precisely that was in fact her problem. She worshipped her creator. And it showed. Our relationship, therefore, was of necessity one of the Frau Mayer and the Herr O'Donoghue kind.

  All of that being as it may, I utilized her services because she was extremely efficient. She could deal with the most complicated itineraries in a matter of minutes. She loved nature—in spite of what it had done to her—and would locate the most amazing hotels in magnificent surroundings in the French Alps or the Swiss Alps or Madeira or wherever else I wanted to go with a girlfriend who liked hiking (as well as the rest).