by Adam Watts
From the look of it, the whole village is here; sat on the floor, cross-legged like kids in a school assembly, all facing front. They don’t turn around, presumably on account of the four men with guns standing watch over them.
‘What the fuck are you doing back?’ Stan says.
‘And there was me thinking you might have missed your dear old uncle,’ he says with a dour grin.
‘Yeah… fat fucking chance of that. Thought you’d gone to the mountains to find yourself a nice little cave, maybe slowly lose the rest of your mind before doing us a favour and dying of some agonising disease.’
Uncle Lawrence laughs heartily, but not because he means it. I look around for Eve, but I don’t see her. The place is so dingy. Just a bunch of candles dotted about. She could still be here, obscured by flickering shadow.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, my boy, but my mind is far from lost and my flesh is still very much attached to my bones. Now, I’m sure you’ll understand that these good people have been waiting ever so patiently for you to arrive, so now that you’ve finally graced us with your presence… perhaps I might be permitted to make clear my reasons for gathering you all here.’
Uncle Lawrence stares at us, allowing us a moment’s interruption, but a man flanked by four armed guards can usually be assured of everyone’s attention when it’s requested. Plus, I doubt there’s a person in this room who’s not curious about his return and why it necessitates his own militia.
He eases himself back into his chair, crosses one leg over the other and clasps his hands over his knee, as if he’s some kindly grandparent preparing to delight a room full of smiling children with some enchanting caper. But Jackanory this is not.
‘Most of you will recall that I decided to leave the village some time ago, and most of you will also remember that prior to my departure I had possession of some radio equipment with which I had hoped to make contact with communities beyond our perimeter. Perhaps what you won’t be aware of, however, is that after months of radio silence, something came through. I left the village in the hope of establishing meaningful contact with another group such as ourselves. But I found much more than that. I found our salvation. So… I return with good news.’
Whenever somebody claims to bring good news or glad tidings or all-you-can-eat salvation to your doorstep, it screams only one thing: giant men in the sky. I was always thankful that the village managed to eschew its only religious fundamentalist fairly soon after the fences went up. In his absence, God became little more than a quiet murmur in our community. A note of comfort for some, maybe; but a complete irrelevance to most. Lawrence never struck me as the zealous sort, but I guess a lot can happen in a year, especially if you’re living out in the wild.
Lawrence allows a few moments for people to murmur and shift on their numb backsides, then continues with his rapturous proclamation. ‘I’m aware it doesn’t look good, what with me turning up out of the blue and herding you all in here at gunpoint, but to employ a well-worn phrase; we are here to liberate, not conquer. How you’ve been living; your make-do-and-mend attitude… your allotments and water-butts and good old-fashioned community gumption. It’s very noble, and maybe you’ve all swallowed the dream and assumed it can go on forever, and maybe somebody is drawing up plans to build a windmill to safeguard your future… but I’m telling you… this way of life is not sustainable. It just isn’t. It’s served you well as a temporary fix until business as usual is resumed. But I’m also here to tell you that normal business will not be resumed. Normal business is dead. Gone. Buried. And good riddance too. Because, what if I told you that things can be better than ever? What if I told you that I’ve experienced it first-hand, and what if I offered everyone in this hall the opportunity to experience it too?’
Somebody stands up. I’ve seen him about but I have no idea who he is. Maybe Matt… or Mark... ‘But what if we’re happy here?’ he says. ‘You can’t march us out of our homes at gunpoint.’
‘Firstly, Max… sit down,’ says Lawrence shaking his head. ‘Secondly, it’s incredibly rude to interrupt. I assure you there’ll be a brief window to air your… inevitable objections once I’ve finished speaking, so until then, kindly shush.’
Max does as he’s told, but manages to fold his arms in a feeble show of defiance.
Satisfied that the floor is his once more, Lawrence continues. ‘The place I speak of is New Paradise. That’s what it’s called: New Paradise!’ He sweeps a hand through the air, like he’s taking us all to Vegas. ‘We have electricity, we have hot running water, we have health care, schools, parks. We even have our own brewery; best beer you’ve ever tasted. But better than all that, it’s a hundred percent secure. No-one worries about what might come creeping out of the woods in the night, or what will happen if the crops fail or if the stash of medicine you have back here runs dry. Everyone in New Paradise is happy, because they have what they need to live a good life… without fear. And everything’s put to the vote. Everybody has a say. It’s an untainted democracy.’
‘So says the man with the guns,’ somebody (probably Max) says to a room full of fearful murmurs.
‘The guns are just to maintain your attention. To steer you through the fear. A firm hand, if you will.’
‘Sounds to me like the fucking PCP all over again,’ Stan says. ‘Seem to remember you having some fairly choice words about that lot.’
‘Callum, my poor ignorant nephew… we all aware of your ludicrous ideas and conspiracies, but please don’t imply that I was party to them. New Paradise is not the PCP… but it certainly owes a great debt to their founding principles. The simple idea that the voice of the people is always heard. In New Paradise, we have what we have because the system works. That system might not suit everyone’s ideology, but…’ He allows himself to tail off, no doubt feeling that his point’s been made.
‘The PCP destroyed this country,’ Stan says, not noticing how the men with guns twitch at their weapons when he speaks.
‘Britain needed to be destroyed. If Britain was as great as the flag-wavers would’ve had us believe, then what happened would never have happened. There was a sickness lying across this country, and in some places that sickness persists. You people sit idly by, hiding behind your fences, hoping it won’t come for you. But it will. One day, when you’re napping.’ Uncle Lawrence stands, places his hands into his pockets. ‘Hundreds of years ago leeches were used to draw bad blood from the sick… cure their ills. It sounds arcane and gruesome to our modern sanitized minds… we’d rather entrust our well-being to a pill with an unpronounceable name and an indecipherable list of chemical ingredients. But still… the use of leeches carries some medical merit despite our collective distaste. Some of you here may not like the practices that the PCP employed, you may feel that they are the ones who led us down this dark path. You may even think, like Callum here, that the country getting hooked on MIDS was to blame for what happened. But the fact remains, it exposed the festering sore that hobbled our country for so long. MIDS made it abundantly clear that some people were beyond saving. They were a poison that needed to be drawn from the very veins of our society. MIDS did that. It drew a line between men and monsters.’
‘Always with the leeches!’ Stan yells. ‘Tell you what, Lawrence, why don’t you just get some leeches and fuck off back to paradise.’
Two of the guards raise their guns, sending hysterical shrieks across the hall. Some of the people cower and grab for one another, others skitter towards the edges of the room.
‘Lower your weapons, gentlemen. My nephew has yet to learn any manners.’ The guns come down and once calm has been restored, Uncle Lawrence continues. ‘I can’t help but wonder what a few doses of MIDS would unearth in you, my dear Callum. Although if you’re anything like your Dad…’
I put an arm across Stan to stop him making a run on the stage. He pushes against it, but he’s not stupid enough to lunge at a man flanked by armed goons, not even to defend his Dad’s honour.
The room is still largely silent, but something is simmering in the minds of these people. Uncle Lawrence talks of change, and change of any sort has always been regarded with a degree of fear in this village. But change at the behest of a loaded gun, doubly so.
He continues over the growing rumbles of dissent. He never did mind talking over people. ‘Just as the country as a whole was purged – and to its own benefit – so too must this village face the cleansing fires. For too long you have been complacent. It’s time to uncouple yourselves from this village and its withering teat, open your eyes to the sun and fight for something worth having. And believe me, you will have to fight. I really can’t stress that point enough.’
As Lawrence surveys the room, grinning like a lame gameshow host, the initial grumbles in the room shift towards a simmering panic. People turn to one another, exchanging expressions of dread and hopelessness. A woman somewhere near the front begins to sob.
‘There’s no use in crying, my dear. Tears will do you no good, just ask my nephew and his little sidekick. They know what’s coming; they’ve faced it and survived. Strength, and grit. Determination and cunning. These are the qualities you’ll need. Your enemy is swift and merciless. Callum… Preston… would you kindly tell these good people exactly what it is they’ll be coming up against?’
A few people turn their heads towards us.
‘Shove it up your mum-hole, Lawrence. You’ve got a mouth… you tell ‘em yourself.’
‘I see the battle hasn’t blunted your wit, Callum. Very well… since time is ebbing away, I shall make this as brief as I can.’ Lawrence sits back and adopts the contrived countenance of a career politician. ‘You may all consider yourselves fortunate to have avoided the plague of violence that swept this country two years ago, and you may have managed to convince yourselves that the madness was all but over; society would rebuild itself into something comfortable and familiar and you’d all eventually reap the benefits. You may consider yourselves fortunate… but you’ve been living in ignorance… blinkered by your privileged position, blind to the looming menace. You think you’re untouchable, but complacency has made perfect victims of you all.’
Max stands up, points a quivering finger at Lawrence. ‘Everyone here has lost people they love to the violence. Everybody! We do consider ourselves fortunate, because we built something decent here. It’s not good fortune, it’s hard work and solidarity that’s kept us safe.’
‘Your words are almost charming,’ Lawrence says. ‘Typical Little-Englander attitude, believing that your ongoing safety is entirely your own achievement and not the result of dumb luck. Do you really think the army put those fences up because this village is special? No matter really… because as of tonight, this special little village that’s kept you all safe and stupefied is a sanctuary no more. There are three truckloads of hungry dead-eyed crazies waiting patiently around the corner for their evening meal. I give the word… the doors open… and then the fun begins.’
The room bursts into a maelstrom of screaming, crying and shouting, everyone hollering, clutching one another, wondering how they can possibly escape, wondering why death should be ferried to their doorstep. Lawrence revels in the reaction; Commander-in-Chief of his own apocalypse.
‘This is our fault, Pres…’ Stan says in my ear. ‘They fucking used us…’
‘No... you heard him, if they’re being brought in by trucks, there’s no way they could’ve tracked us through the forest.’
‘The sick fucker’s bussing ‘em in… it’s like Butlins for zombies…’
‘Stan. Can you see E –’
BLAM!
The bullet fires through the ceiling, cutting silence through the chaos. Uncle Lawrence sits with his chin in his hand, looking so very tired of the hysteria before him. He watches nonetheless, picks his moment to call out over the panic.
‘Scream all you like, my little villagers. Panic! For the love of God, panic if you must; but not before you’ve opened your little ear-holes and listened. What I’m about to tell you is crucial, and it could make the difference between you being torn asunder by our hungry little friends out there or taking up your well-deserved place in New Paradise.’ A restless quiet settles across the room. Lawrence is on his feet now, wide-eyed, prowling, his calm tone a point of stark contrast. ‘The best advice I can offer is to treat this like game, that’s all… just a game… win or lose. So… what do all games have? That’s right… rules! A game’s not a game without rules and the rules to our game are very simple indeed. In approximately two minutes every last one of you will be ejected from this hall. As I’ve stated, three truckloads of our hungriest, grabbiest, most pissed-off crazies will be set loose in the streets of your village. I’m sure you can all imagine what that will entail. All I want you to do is get out there, fight the good fight and bring the heads of your enemies back to the hall. The price of admission into New Paradise is one severed head per person before the break of dawn. Those found hiding will be shot. You fight… you win. You hide… you will be dealt with.’
Three heavy blows land on the door. Nobody dares turn around.
Lawrence settles once again in his chair. ‘And that knock tells me our dinner guests have arrived. So… now you can feel free to panic.’
But they don’t. They don’t panic at all. They do something worse; they dither. Some of them start to stand but get caught in mid-crouch, glancing this way and that like rabbits caught in the vegetable patch. They squint at one another, shrugging, wringing their hands, pacing and dancing from foot to foot, chewing at their lips and scratching at their heads. I know how they feel. When you’ve been isolated from the violence for so long it starts to feel unreal, like it might never have happened. From outside we hear the growl of heavy vehicles and the hiss of the airbrakes as they pull to a halt. Whether we choose to believe it or not, this is real. It’s happening.
‘Better get a move on. Weapons, vantage points, tactics… you know the drill.’ Lawrence takes an apple from his pocket and sinks his teeth into it with a crisp pop that echoes across the hall.
Somebody near the front stands and faces the crowd. Frida. My heart pitches, I grasp Stan’s shoulder both to steady myself and to keep him from rushing forward and getting himself shot.
‘You don’t have to be afraid of these people,’ Frida says, her voice calm and assured, same as it ever was. ‘They’re just people like the rest of us; scared and unsure of what the world is coming to. So they walk around with guns and pretend they know better. But you don’t have to do as they say. Not if we stand together. I, for one, am not setting foot outside this hall. I am staying put.’ Satisfied to have brought a modicum of calm to proceedings, she turns her attention to Lawrence. ‘Thank you kindly for the concern you’ve shown by offering us your interpretation of salvation. But I am happy here, and I wish to remain. However, if anyone else feels there’s something to gain from fighting it out and that there’s something good waiting for them in this New Paradise, then they’re free to
choose their own path. But I’ve made my choice and I’m staying right here in this hall, and once you’ve taken yourselves and your trucks far away from my sight, I will stay in this village until I see fit to leave. Do you understand me, Lawrence?’
Lawrence takes another loud bite of his apple and speaks as he chews. ‘I understand you perfectly, Frida. But I feel that you’ve misunderstood me. You see, there is no option to stay here. Just so we’re crystal clear on the matter… this village and everything in it is now the property of New Paradise, and that includes the people. So fight… prove yourself worthy… or be shot at dawn. There’s your choice.’
‘I will not fight,’ Frida says. ‘I refuse to dance at the say-so of a madman.’
‘I think you forget who has the guns, Earth-Mother. Bullets care little for big talk.’
‘Then you’ll have to shoot me.’
Lawrence smiles, finishes his apple and places the core at his feet. ‘That’s very noble. A martyr’s death. A bullet in your head means one less to put in the head of another.’
‘The Lawrence I know wouldn’t put a bullet in anyone’s head, for any cause. You and I may have had our differences, but you’re no executioner.’
‘That’s true. That is very true. And you’re right, I’m not going to shoot anyone in the head and nor is anyone else. But you cannot stay in this hall, Frida. There are no free passes.’
Lawrence raises a hand.
BLAM!
Frida screams, falls to the floor clutching her leg. She screams like I’ve never heard anyone scream. Like an animal. The crowd scuttles away leaving her to writhe on the floor, clutching at the hole in her leg as she tries to stem the bleeding. Stan rushes forward but stops as the gun that shot Frida is trained on him.
‘Put her outside,’ says Lawrence to his guard, standing and taking his gun, keeping it trained on Stan.
The guard pulls Frida up, but she can’t walk and keeps collapsing to the floor.
‘If she can’t walk, drag her out,’ Lawrence says. His face is altered, almost beyond recognition. So cold and hard. The congenial smile, that way with words, all gone.