The flat’s back door was open in an attempt to let in some cooler air. The summer was damn hot, and dry. Here in Islington the breeze coursed along the streets like gusts of desert air.
“Poooeee,” Steve said, holding his nose as he munched down more toast. I had to admit, the smell that drifted in wasn’t good.
Olivia crumpled her face up in real dismay. “That’s horrid, mum. What is it?”
“Someone hasn’t tied up their bin bags properly.” The pile in the corner of De Beauvoir Square was getting ridiculously big. As more bags were flung on top, so the ones at the bottom split open. The SkyNews and News24 programs always showed them with comparison footage of the ’79 Winter of Discontent.
“When are they going to clear it?” Steve asked.
“Once a fortnight.” Though I’d heard on the quiet that nearly 10 percent of the army had already deserted, and that was before they had to provide civic utility assistance squads along with fire service cover, prison guard duties, engineering support to power stations, and invading Iraq. We’d be lucky if the pile was cleared every month. I’d seen a rat the size of a cat run across the square the other day. I always thought rodents that big were just urban legend.
“Why can’t they take rubbish away like they used to?” Olivia asked.
“Not enough people to do that anymore, darling.”
“There’s hundreds of people standing round the streets all day. It’s scary sometimes. I don’t like the park anymore.”
She was right in a way. It wasn’t the lack of people, of course, it was money, and the frightening way the pound was collapsing. What would happen when the true tax revenue figures came in was anyone’s guess. Officially, tax received by the Treasury had only fallen by 10 percent since that little shit Murray opened his racist, fascist, arseholing wormhole. Nobody believed that. But naturally, the first thing the Treasury reduced was local government grants, with Brown standing up in Westminster and telling the councils to cut back on wastage. What a pitiful joke. Central Government has been saying that for the last fifty years at least – because it’s never their fault.
As a way to finally get the UK to sign on for the Euro, it couldn’t be beaten. We desperately needed a currency that wasn’t so susceptible to our traitors. Except that suddenly, France and Germany were blocking us from joining. The two biggest offenders when it came to breaking the budgetary stability arrangement. Bastards.
For once Colin actually turned up on time. He did his silly little ring tune on the front door, and both kids shot off from the table screeching hellos. Did they do that when I turned up to his place to collect them? I doubted it.
He came into the kitchen wearing a smart new sweatshirt and clean jeans; his curly brown hair neatly trimmed. I hated that old nontruism, that men just get more handsome as they get older. But they did seem to preserve themselves well after thirty. Colin hadn’t put on a pound since he had started jogging and visiting the gym on a regular basis again. I supposed that bloody twelve-year-old he was shacked up with didn’t appreciate a sagging beer gut. Damn: why did I always sound like a stereotype bitch?
He’d scooped Olivia up under one arm and was swinging her around. “Hiya,” he called out to me. “Seen my daughter anywhere?”
She was shrieking: “Daddy, Daddy!” as she was twirled about.
“Don’t do that. She’s just eaten.”
“Okey dokey,” he dropped her to the floor and collected a happy kiss from her.
“Come on then,” he clapped his hands, hustling them along. “Get ready. I’m leaving in five . . . four . . . three . . .”
They both ran downstairs to collect their bags.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Never better.” I gave the kitchen table and its mess a weary look – beyond it, the work surfaces were covered in junk and the sink was a cliché of unwashed pans. “How about you, still servicing the rich?”
His expression hardened, that way it always did when he had to speak slowly and carefully to explain the bleeding obvious to me. “I have to work at the BUPA hospital now. It’s the only way I can earn enough money after your lawyer took me to the cleaners in that sexist divorce court of yours.”
I almost opened my jaw in surprise – I was the one that always made the needling comments. He was Mr. Reasonable through everything. “Oh fine, sure,” I said. “I thought it would be my fault.”
He gave one of those smug little victory smiles that used to annoy the hell out of me.
“What time do you want them back tomorrow?” he asked.
“Um, in the afternoon. Before six?”
“Okey dokey. No problem.”
“Thanks. Are you taking them anywhere special?”
“I thought Pirates of the Caribbean, tonight. The reviews have all been great.”
“As long as you don’t take them for burgers.”
He rolled his eyes.
I glanced out through the window, seeing his new BMW 4x4 parked on the pavement outside. The stupid thing was the size of the tanks the army rolled into Basra with. There wasn’t anyone sitting in it. “Is she coming with you today?”
“Who’s that, then?”
“Zoe.”
“Ah, you remembered her name.”
“I think I read it on her school report.”
“As a matter of fact, yes, she is coming with us. She took the day off to help out. The kids do like her, you know. And if you ever find yourself someone, I won’t mind them going out with him.”
Oh well done, Colin, another point scored off your shrew of an ex, especially with that emphasis on ‘ever.’ Aren’t you the clever one.
The kids charged back into the kitchen, hauling their overnight bags along the floor. “Ready!”
“Have a lovely time,” I said, ever gracious.
Colin’s smile faltered. He hesitated, then leant forward and kissed me on the cheek. Nothing special, not a peace offering, just some platonic gesture I didn’t understand. “See you,” he said.
I was too surprised to answer. Then the door slammed shut. The kids were gone. The flat was silent.
I had fifteen minutes to make the bus. I was going on a protest for the first time in years. Making my voice heard, and my feelings known. Doing exactly what Colin despised and ridiculed. God, it felt wonderful.
33. There will be no prisons. Convicted criminals will spend their sentence in isolated penal colonies, working for the public good.
34. New Suffolk will use the Imperial system of measurement for length, weight, and volume. Use of the metric system is a criminal offense.
35. Police are required to uphold the law and apprehend criminals. Police will not waste all their time persecuting motorists.
36. Citizens are not entitled to unlimited legal funding. Citizens facing prosecution can only have their defense fees paid for by public funding three times during their lifetime. They may select which cases.
37. The intake of alcohol, nicotine, and other mild narcotics is permitted. Citizens found endangering others when intoxicated, e.g., driving under the influence, will face a minimum sentence of four years in a penal colony.
38. New Suffolk laws will not be structured to support or encourage any type of compensation culture.
39. Any lawyer who has brought three failed cases of litigation judged to be frivolous is automatically sentenced to a minimum five years in a penal colony.
COLIN
The finance agency’s solicitor was waiting on the doorstep, talking to Zoe, when I drove up in front of the house.
“Who’s that?” Steve asked as I started to maneuver the BMW up the gravel, backing it up to the horsebox.
“Bloke from the bank,” I told him. “Got a few papers to sort out.” At least the agency didn’t stick a For Sale sign up outside the house. That tended to earn you a brick – or worse – through the window these days.
Zoe smiled and waved as I stopped just short of the horsebox. “Wait in here,” I told the kids. I
didn’t want them to see the empty house. Last night we’d used sleeping bags. Zipped together. Very romantic.
The solicitor shook my hand and produced a file of documents for me to sign. He glanced at the kids, who were pressed up against the BMW’s window, but didn’t comment. I guess he’d seen it many times before.
Zoe opened the garage door, and picked up the first of the boxes stacked on the concrete floor. She carried it over to the rear of the BMW, and put it in the boot.
The solicitor wanted five signatures from me, and that was it – the house belonged to the agency. A four-bedroom house with garage and a decent-sized garden in Enfield along with all the contents, sold for £320,000. Maybe two thirds of what I could have got last year. But that gave me enough to pay off the mortgage, and leave me with £30,000 in equity, which the agency had advanced me. That’s what they specialized in, one of many such businesses to spring up since January. A Franco-Dutch company that sold a little bit of England to people who weren’t going to be accepted on the other side of the wormhole.
I’d bought the BMW on finance from the garage. My pension portfolio had been sold to another specialist agency based in Luxembourg – God bless our EU partners – giving me £11,000. That just left the credit cards. I’d applied for another two; more than that and the monitor programs would spot the new loan pattern. But they’d given me an extra £15,000 to spend over the last month.
It had all gone into a community partnership I signed up for at www.newsuffolklife.co.uk. Most of the stuff was being shipped out in a convoy, with all the personal items we’d need crammed into the horsebox. The Web site recommended using them; they could take a lot more weight than a caravan.
The solicitor shook my hand and said: “Good luck.” I handed him the keys, and that was it.
Zoe had jammed the last box in the back of the BMW. There were just four suitcases left. I picked up two of them. She was giving the house a forlorn look.
“We’re doing the right thing,” I told her.
“I know.” She produced a brave smile. “I just didn’t expect it to be like this. Murray surprised all of us, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. You know I grew up with a whole bunch of sci-fi shows and films; it’s amazing how their vocabulary and images integrated with modern culture. They all had bloody great ships flying through space; captains sitting in their command chair and making life-and-death decisions, shooting lasers and missiles at bugeyed monsters. Everybody knew that was how it would happen for real. Then Murray found a way to open his wormhole, and the bastard won’t tell anyone how he does it. Not that I blame him. He’s quite right, we’d only misuse the technology. We always do. It’s just that . . . this isn’t the noble crossing of the void I expected. It feels almost like a betrayal of my beliefs.”
Zoe looked embarrassed. She was nothing like Jannette made out: some piece of underage nurse totty I pulled because she was blinded by the title of Dr. in front of my name; all big boobs, long legs, and no brain. In fact, she was training to be a midwife, which required just as much dedication and intelligence as was needed to become a doctor. And she was small, the top of her head only coming up to my chin. I was bloody lucky she even looked at a life-wreckage like me. The fact that she would take me on with a couple of kids in tow made her extraordinary.
“I meant the way this finally split the country,” she said quietly. “Everyone always talked about the North-South divide, and the class war, and the distance between rich and poor. But it was just ideology, politicians lobbing spinning sound bites at each other. Murray went and made it physical.”
I put my arms round her. “He gave us the chance politicians always promise and never provide. God, can you believe I actually voted for Blair. Twice!”
She grinned evilly. “Wish you’d voted Tory?”
“Stop putting words in my mouth.” I gave her a quick kiss; then we shoved the suitcases in on top of the boxes.
Steve and Olivia looked unusually solemn when we got into the 4x4. Zoe gave them a welcoming smile. “Hi, guys.”
“Where are we going, daddy?” Olivia asked.
“I’m going to take you to see something. Something I hope you’ll like.”
“What?”
“Can’t explain. You have to see it.”
“What’s in the horsebox?” Steve asked. “You don’t like horses.”
“Tent,” I said. “Big tent, actually. Food. Solar panels. Four brand-new laptops, one with a widescreen display and multiregion software.”
“Cool! Can I use it?”
“Maybe.”
“What else?” Olivia asked, excited.
“Some toys. Lots of new clothes. Books.”
“What’s it all for?” Steve asked.
“You’ll see.” I put my hand on the ignition key, and gave Zoe an apprehensive glance. This was such a huge step to be taking, and there didn’t seem to be any defining moment, just a long sequence of covert events that had deftly led to this point in time. I didn’t feel any guilt about bringing the kids with us; in fact I’d have been remiss as a father if I hadn’t included them; there was never going to be an opportunity like this again. I wasn’t stupid and naïve enough to believe New Suffolk was going to be paradise, but it had the potential to be something better than what we had in this world. We were never going to evolve or progress here, not with so much history and inertia shackling us to the past.
As for Jannette . . . well, as far as I was concerned she hadn’t been a mother to the kids for years.
“Let’s go,” Zoe said. “We chose a long time ago.”
I turned the ignition and pulled out of the drive, the overloaded horsebox rattling along behind.
“What’s that ring?” Steve asked suddenly, sharp and observant.
“This?” Zoe held her finger up.
“It’s an engagement ring!” Olivia squeaked. “Are you getting married?”
“Yes,” I said. It was the first thing we wanted to do on the other side.
“Does mum know?” Steve asked.
“No.”
62. In order to prevent the mistakes of the old country being repeated on New Suffolk, no organized religions will be permitted. All citizens must acknowledge that the universe is a natural phenomenon.
63. In order to prevent the mistakes of the old country being repeated on New Suffolk, members of extremist political parties and undesirable organizations are banned from passing through the wormhole, as well as criminals and others I deem injurious to the public good.
Examples of prohibited groups and professions include (but are not limited to) the following:
a. Labor Party.
b. Conservative Party.
c. Liberal Democrat Party.
d. Communist Party.
e. National Front.
f. Socialist Alliance.
g. Tabloid journalists.
h. European Union bureaucrats.
i. Trade union officials.
j. Traffic wardens.
JANNETTE
Abbey was waiting for me at Liverpool Street station. It was a miracle I ever found her. The concourse was overrun by backpackers. There didn’t appear to be one of them over twenty-five, or maybe that’s just the way it is when you’re looking at young people from the wrong side of thirty-five. And I certainly hadn’t seen that much denim in one place since I went to the Reading Festival in the late eighties. Their backpacks were huge. I didn’t even know they manufactured them that size.
I gawped in astonishment as the youngsters jostled around me. Nearly all of them were couples. And everybody had a Union Jack patch sewn on their clothes or backpack. I don’t think one in ten was speaking English, and they certainly weren’t all white.
Abbey yelled, and walked toward me, pushing her way aggressively forward. She wasn’t a small woman; her progress was causing quite a disturbance amid the smiley happy people. Her expression was locked into contempt as they flashed hurt looks her way. It softened when she hugged me. “Hi comrade
darling, our train’s on platform three.”
I followed meekly behind as she ploughed onward. The badges on her ancient jacket were clinking away, one for every cause she’d ever supported or march she’d been on. The rusty Pearly Queen of the protest nation.
Half the station seemed to want to get on our train. Abbey forced her way into a carriage, queuing being a bourgeois concept to her. We found a couple of empty seats with reserved tickets, which she threw on the floor.
“I don’t know where this lot all think they’re going,” she announced in a too-loud voice as we settled in. “Murray doesn’t approve of poor foreign trash. There’s no way he’s going to let Europe’s potheads live in stoner bliss under an alien sun. They’ll get bounced right off his hole for middle-class worms.”
“His restrictions are self-perpetuating,” I said. “He doesn’t actually have lists of all the people he doesn’t like. And even if he did there’s no way of checking everyone who goes through. It’s pure psychology. Tell Thatcher’s Children that no big bad pinkos will be allowed, and they’ll flock there in their hundreds. While the rest of us see who is actually going and we steer the hell clear. Who wants to live in their world?”
“Ha! I bet the security services sold him our names.”
You couldn’t argue with Abbey when she was in this mood, which admittedly was most of the time.
She pulled a large hip flask out of her jacket and took a slug. “Want some?”
I looked at the battered old flask, ready to refuse. Then I remembered I didn’t have the kids tonight. I wasn’t stupid enough to take a slug as big as Abbey’s. Thankfully. “Jesus, what the hell is that?”
“Proper Russian vodka, comrade,” she smiled, and took another. “Nathan went through to join Murray last week,” she said sourly.
“Nathan? Your brother Nathan?”
“Only by DNA, and I’m not even certain of that after this. Little prick. Mary and the kids went with him.”
“Why?”
“Why do any of them go? War in Iraq, crap public transport, psycho Bush threatening North Korea, the congestion charge, council tax. The real world, in other words, that’s what he’s running away from. He thinks he’s going to be living in some kind of tropical tax haven with fairies doing all the hard work, the dumb shit.”
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