Experiment With Destiny

by Carr, Stephen

  Experiment With Destiny

  Part I

  Published by Blue Rider Arts © 2014

  Cover art adapted from ‘Jon Dowey: Self Portrait in Gethsemane’ Oil on Canvas (1984)

  Foreword (A Retrospective)

  I HAVE wanted to be a writer ever since reading JRR Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings as a boy and being held spellbound as Frodo encounters the Black Rider on the road at the start of his journey and, later, as they escape the clutches of the Ring Wraiths by crossing the Brandywine River on the Bucklebury Ferry. From that moment on I knew I wanted to master and wield the compelling descriptive powers of the written word, use them to weave fantastic worlds and ensnare the imaginations of readers…as no cinematography ever can.

  I have always been an avid reader, thanks to the encouragement of my parents, captivated by the magic of Maurice Sendak’s Where The Wild Things Are, and Dr Seuss’s fantastical worlds and characters, making my way along the well-trodden literary paths of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five and Tolkien’s The Hobbit before my prepubescent awakening in the opening chapters of The Fellowship of the Ring. After my conversion on the road to Rivendell, my early attempts to conjure up literary worlds of my own were, as you might imagine, childish derivatives of either Tolkien or George Lucas (Star Wars and television sci-fi classics such as Dr Who were by then my staple viewing diet).

  As the 1970s drew to a close and my interests were becoming increasingly more political and sociological – my reading horizons broadened by the likes of George Orwell, Aldous Huxley and JG Ballard – I began to explore less fantastical and futuristic worlds and themes within my own writing and developed a taste for the dystopian ‘alternative realities’ that might, with twists of fate and history, be just beyond our peripheral vision.

  Just days before Christmas 1980, for family reasons utterly beyond my control, I arrived back in Wales after spending most of my formative years in the Outback of Australia. It was my first British winter since my parents emigrated ‘Down Under’ in the late 1960s, and Wales was also gripped in a ‘winter of discontent’ with rising unemployment and social unrest. All around me I could see and feel the unacceptably high cost of Thatcherism yet – despite the brutal impacts of monetarism – the Lady wasn’t for turning. My passion for politics – first ignited when the Queen’s Governor General, Sir John Kerr, sacked Australian Labor Prime Minister Gough Whitlam in 1975 – was well and truly ablaze by the early 1980s. My education disrupted and my hopes of employment nil, angry and directionless, I dropped out and opted for the ‘New Age Hippy’ lifestyle of Quixotic tilting at authoritarian windmills, rather than constructively fighting the system…either from within or without.

  The works of Orwell, Huxley and Ballard were now, in Thatcher’s divided Britain, more alive and relevant to me than when I first read them in Australia, and I began to add new literary fuel to my reactionary counter-culture fire – Anthony Burgess, Michael Moorcock, John Fowles, Hunter S. Thompson and, now my all-time favourite, Philip K. Dick.

  If The Lord of the Rings was my inspiration to take up writing, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was my clarion call to journalism. I began to take the first tentative steps toward a career in newspapers, in the mistaken belief that the pen was mightier than the sword (I later realised that the people with the swords tend to own those with the pens!). My creative writing, after several years of stuttering between styles and genres, also started to take shape.

  It was around this time that I set aside whatever more traditional ‘sci fi’ project I was working on and began writing Picnic on a Frozen River as a short story entry to submit to the Ian St James Awards which, unlike other short story competitions, boasted a generous 15,000-word limit as well as equally generous cash and publication prizes. The setting – British Eurostate, in the early years of the 21st Century – was inspired by the endless debates during the years of build-up to the 1992 Maastricht Treaty about whether or not the UK should stay within Europe as the other member states moved from the ‘Common Market’ to the European Union and, critically, toward monetary union. Also hotly debated at the time – just as today – were the impacts of global warming and the question of our unsustainable modern lifestyles creating irreparable climate change.

  I am not, and have never been, a ‘Eurosceptic’, but at the time I started writing Picnic on a Frozen River I was deeply concerned about the long-term sociological damage being caused by Thatcherism and her ‘let the market dictate’ approach to capitalism. The rich were indeed getting richer and the poor, much poorer. I could also see the relentless march of Americanised globalism and consumerism in an Orwellian atmosphere of Cold War ‘double-speak’ that tried to persuade the unwitting masses the only alternative was Soviet world domination and bleak uniform poverty. Like many, I was horrified by the unchecked dominance of global super-brands and their incursion into even the most remote and far flung corners (and cultures) of the world, closely followed (or pre-empted) by the imposition of pro-American governments, democratic or otherwise.

  Those opposed to Maastricht, and I did not necessarily count myself among them, predicted a ‘United States of Europe’ run by faceless Brussels bureaucrats who would be unable to harness the economic critical mass of the Old World conglomerate because of centralist red tape and, without the sanctity of sterling and sovereignty of self-determination, we would all allegedly sink like cumbersome stones into a sea of European bankruptcy. There was also speculation that the cashless society was rapidly approaching, and global banks would soon be managing all transactions – however small – electronically…in cyberspace (as coined by another literary hero of mine, William Gibson).

  And so my British Eurostate was born – a bleak dystopian globalist world run by distant and anonymous Eurocrats where run-away technology could only be afforded by the privileged few; where your electronic identity was your passport to survival and where the economic underclass who could not afford such an identity (echoes of the ‘Poll Tax’) disappeared, disenfranchised and destitute, into the derelict industrial and retail wastelands – abandoned to the unforgiving elements of the meteorological struggle between global warming and the onset of another ice age.

  Picnic on a Frozen River began as a parody of some of the conceptual performance art lauded at the time – the idea that technique and craft were somehow superfluous and that ‘concept’ was all that mattered…a case of substance over style, if you will. During a discussion with a close friend and fellow artist, Zino Pece, I suggested that I could adopt a ‘conceptual’ approach to writing and create a plot, characters and situation based on the flimsiest of ‘concepts’, inviting readers to ‘read in’ their own fanciful interpretations of what the author was trying to say. We were both fans of the German avant-garde rock group, Faust, and we chose the title of a song from Faust IV because of its stark, simple visual appeal – Picnic on a Frozen River.

  The challenge was that I write a story to encapsulate the concept of a ‘picnic on a frozen river’ with sufficient ambiguity to leave the reader in conjecture about the message(s) I was trying to convey…a bit like John Fowles’ The Magus. At the same time, Zino would paint a ‘picnic on a frozen river’ with his favoured approach (he was, at the time, a fan of the abstract expressionists). I decided that my short story should incorporate a very literal ‘picnic on a frozen river’, almost as a red herring to disguise the more hidden layers of conceptualisation, and so the plot challenge was created…a basic classroom composition exercise to end up at the point of someone having a picnic on a frozen river. Drawing from childhood inspiration – this time television’s Catweazle rather Tolkien – I wanted the central character, Marcus, to feel completely out of place and time, much as I did in Thatcher’s Br
itain. Like Catweazle, Marcus wanted to ‘fly through time’ to a better and more civilized age in which he could feel at home.

  And so Picnic on a Frozen River was born…the first of my numerous attempts to satisfy my inner craving – forged a decade earlier and a hemisphere away – to become a writer in the footsteps of Tolkien. While it undoubtedly owed much to my many literary and artistic heroes, as does everything I have written since, it was the first work to elevate above mimicry and stand on its own two feet as something that deserved to be read, and published. I had finally found my voice as an author. At 12,900 or so words, it was well within the requirements for the Ian St James Awards and duly submitted.

  Imagine my anticipation when the response came! The judges’ comments read: “An original and passionately told tale. Very strong ending. The author possesses an impressive imagination and the ability to identify with another world and the people in it. An excellently crafted story. Passed to second stage.” And then the conclusion: “Didn’t quite make it to the finals”. I was both dismayed and yet encouraged. I don’t recall if Zino ever finished his ‘Picnic’ painting.

  As with so many of these things, they seem to take on a life of their own and I began to dream up new characters and stories to inter-weave with Marcus’s tragic tale and breathe the depth and complexity I wanted to create in my writing, with the unforgiving context of British Eurostate providing the ideal dystopian canvas. Having started with a Faust song title, I decided to stick to the formula and so followed: On The Way to Abamae; The Sad Skinhead; I’ve Got My Car And My TV; Jennifer, Your Red Hair’s Burning; Eat your Fruit But Don’t Take Roots; and It’s A Rainy Day, Sunshine Baby. I freely admit that – unlike Picnic – these later works were more a case of choosing the song title to fit the story. I wanted to add layer upon layer of inter-connectivity and inter-dependence – one of the themes I have continued to explore in subsequent writing. As the stories developed, I realised that a common thread was emerging. Each of the characters, however different, were trapped in a world they did not fully comprehend or feel they belonged to…and each was trying to change, or experiment, with their destiny. I couldn’t find a Faust title to fit the overall tome, so Hawkwind’s Experiment With Destiny did the trick. (I enjoyed the irony that so many of Hawkwind’s song titles were drawn from sci-fi novels I’d read in my formative years.)

  I did not set out to create a trilogy, but as I began the final instalment of my first full-length novel I quickly realised that the much more involved and autobiographical nature of Susan’s tale – It’s a Rainy Day, Sunshine Baby – would unbalance the rhythm and flow of the other six components. Instead, I decided to use the 7th section within Experiment With Destiny more as an epilogue to create a ‘taster’ complete with a clear link to the original catalyst (Picnic on a Frozen River) and a way-marker for what was to come within Susan’s own self-contained novel (Autumn in Fabis).

  As the 1980s ended and the 1990s began, with Thatcherism showing no sign of abating despite the Lady herself’s ruthless and unceremonious exit at the hands of her own people, my fledgling career as a journalist helped to hone my writing skills and sharpen my political, sociological and cultural awareness. Like so many writers, I found my calling and ambition frustrated by rejection after rejection from publishers and agents alike…but also like so many, I persisted and completed Autumn in Fabis while sifting through the numerous rejection letters for Experiment With Destiny that dropped through the letter-box. With Autumn finally complete, and suffering a similar fate to Experiment, I began writing Giggy Smile (another Faust song!) purely because, having created monstrous Ivan in The Sad Skinhead I found I could not let him lie. I wanted to explore the themes of: ‘are monsters born or created’; and ‘can they be redeemed?’. It seemed only natural, following the pattern of the earlier instalments, to return to the inter-connectivity and inter-dependence…so we see the bleed-through of Eat Your Fruit, But Don’t Take Roots into the final book.

  About a third of the way into writing Giggy Smile I was given some advice by a leading literary agent who suggested that, although the Experiment With Destiny trilogy was indeed publishable, I needed to find a ‘break-through’ plot as a debut author and Experiment was not it. At the time of writing, Giggy Smile remains unfinished. In the years since I have spent searching for that elusive ‘break-through’ plot – Zeros & Ones, Next Big Thing, Lifeform and Mrs Windsor’s Island all coming close…but, as they say, no cigar. Now my hope rests with Satellites, the latest step on my own epic journey that began when I first read the opening chapters of The Lord of the Rings. The advent of e-publishing and the success of Kindle now means I can self-publish, albeit in a much more modest fashion than I’d once envisaged, and so my most recently completed work – Mrs Windsor’s Island – was ironically first to ‘reach the market’.

  Yet, where Mrs Windsor’s Island is an unashamed attempt to create something more conventional and commercial (that elusive ‘break-through’ novel) while remaining true to my beliefs and values, Experiment With Destiny is still much more in tune with my real voice as a writer. After nearly 30 years of gathering dust on the attic shelf, and without feeling the need for an extensive re-write to bring it ‘up-to-date’ – the only significant change I’ve made is changing ‘credits’ for Euros as these are now the proper title for the single currency – here is my first completed novel…warts, naivety and all.

  Tolkien inspired me to use words as magical spells to conjure new imagined worlds of depth and complexity that could transport the reader to fantastic places that seemed every bit as real as our present reality…and Dick inspired me to bend and shape those alternate realities to question the human condition and challenge our preconceptions about what is real, and what should be…

  The world may have changed beyond recognition since Thatcher’s Britain in the 1980s – the inspiration for 21st Century British Eurostate – but the dystopian alternate reality remains just a monstrous breath away.

  As one of my favourite bands – Jesus Jones – sang: “Do you feel real? And if so, I’d like to know how does it feel?”

  Stephen J. Carr (October 2012)

  “Lives of brave men all remind us

  We may make our lives sublime

  So departing, leave behind us

  Footprints in the sands of time.”

  Dave Brock

  Part 1

  Picnic on a Frozen River

  I

  THE wind howled and rocked the old bus as it crawled through the Saturday morning traffic. It had begun to rain and the cold, grey drops trickled down the window through which Marcus Smith searched his bleak and lonely world. Marcus hoped for light, for life, even colour. But he could see none as he surveyed the dull November day. With a sigh he returned to his thoughts.

  It was never his pleasure to venture into the city and, when he did, those infrequent but unavoidable affairs were hurried and hassled. Today was different. Today he had chosen this journey. There was no necessity. Unlike before, he would take his time, for today was a very special day. There was almost a smile on his face as he reached into his coat pocket to find, nestled deep, his battered and worn folding wallet. Carefully Marcus prized it open for the third time since leaving his treasures and bedsit home at dawn. He thumbed through a modest selection of cash and identity cards until he found the neatly folded newspaper cutting. Numb with cold, his fingers pulled it free and opened it before his greedy eyes.

  It was from the South Wales Echo, dated October 12, and beneath a bold single column three-deck headline – ‘Builders unearth treasure’ – it read: ‘Contractors working on the New Cathays housing scheme in Cardiff have unearthed a time capsule dating back to the early 1900s. Demolition workers recovered the sealed capsule from a hidden basement of the former Students’ Union bar shortly before it was demolished to make way for the foundations for one of three new high-rise blocks. Speaking at a press conference last night, Gareth Williams, spokesman for City Developments, said the time
capsule has now been handed to the Metropolitan Area Archaeology Trust in Cardiff Bay for examination. “I am unable to confirm what was found inside the capsule, a large wooden crate sealed in tar, but the long derelict Union Bar was in use by university students around the time this was deposited. I am told that, whatever it contains, it will have some cultural significance but is of no greater importance and should not delay work on the housing scheme.’ The article went on to quote a professor involved with MAAT who suggested the time capsule might have been the handiwork of students and of no historical significance, adding experts might pass it on to the National Museum after a thorough examination.

  Marcus Smith gently folded the cutting and tucked it back into his wallet. The bus stopped and its door wheezed open, letting in the bitter November air. An elderly woman hobbled down the centre aisle toward the exit. He watched as she grappled with the rail and painfully fought her way down the steps to the pavement. Moments later she was gone, a victim to the wintry elements as the old bus hissed, jolted and rumbled on. Huddled at the back, above the warmth of the engine, Marcus pressed his face against the window and dreamed of the promise his day held, a day longed and yearned for since his copy of the Echo a week later revealed the exact nature of that wonderful discovery.

  The bus halted a second, third and fourth time. His excitement grew. Finally it pulled alongside the shelter opposite the imposing exterior of the National Museum. Its domed roof and towering colonnade seemed to press against the dreary rain-sodden skies as if putting up some form of hardy resistance. Marcus stood and made his way forward to the exit. It was hardly warm on the bus but the cruel winter wind shocked him as he stepped into the now driving rain.

  Soon he was alone in the shelter as the bus pushed on to some unremarkable destination elsewhere in the city. Marcus checked his watch. It was five minutes before 10 and the museum was not yet open. He decided to wait in the shelter, afforded some refuge from the weather by the graffiti ridden plastic canopy, rather than risk the museum entrance. He checked his dismal environment through 360 degrees. Concrete, steel, glass and brick surrounded him, a vast array of impersonal monuments designed and constructed to stand tall and glorious, paying homage to human enterprise. Most had fallen into neglect and disrepair, patched together and barely habitable by the droves of white-collar workers who accepted their daily routine of misery without so much as a whimper. There was no grass. Bare muddied strips of land marked the ‘natural’ division between concrete and tarmac. The eternal winter – dubbed the ‘second ice age’ by the press – had taken its toll on what remained of the landscape. Even the street, dirty and foul, was potholed and swimming with the stale tears of heaven. There was little call for restoration of the roads. Private cars were banned and had been since the Third Gulf War. What fuel remained for government, essential and public transport was running close to empty and the voices of decision travelled high above the grime on the gleamingly unaffordable Community Monorail Shuttles. Across this and every city, the CMS pylons craned above the gloomy dereliction to support the most expensive transport system invented in the history of man. Marcus gazed up through the rain, denied the right to solidify to ice by its man-made chemical content, and traced the silvery sleekness of CMS-Cardiff’s network against the dismal grey. Yes, he thought, we are indeed a kingdom of moles.