Hatred

by M J Dees

  “You think they can’t achieve what they want?”

  “I sympathise with these people’s love of their monarchy,” Jim said. “But they will not dig us out of this mess that they got us into in the first place when they left Europe, and all so they could keep their dirty tax avoidance schemes. GDP down 5%, car production down a third. Aerospace, automotive, chemicals, food and drink and pharmaceutical industries ceased to be competitive, and the Government permitted foreign companies to buy out the ailing companies and most have now moved production elsewhere.”

  “Someone’s been doing some research.”

  “They call themselves patriots, Sam, but they’re not even nationalists.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “John le Carré once said that for nationalism, you need enemies. That’s what Roberts would give them if he could.”

  “You don’t think he’s just a reaction to the tyranny of the cancel culture?”

  “Neither side listens to the other, there’s too much hatred, I think that’s the problem. And since the BBC lost its charter, there’s no impartiality in the media either.”

  “Was there before? Ah, here’s your stop.”

  At the tram stop, Jim said goodbye to Sam Patel, who went on his way. When the tram arrived it was already full but two soldiers helped pull Jim up and he felt like a sardine as the tram rattled away.

  “We are suffering this independence because of our sins,” an old man continued an argument that had begun long before the tram arrived at Jim’s stop. “The country is overpopulated. Someone should arrange a proper scheme of assisted emigration like they had in the 60s. It would do good to get rid of some people.”

  “I love independence,” laughed a boyish man whom Jim noticed was wearing the independence armband. “I am touring the country to see where it is progressing best, and I get a free ride wherever I go. There is always an independence council willing to charge my food app or give me a place to stay.”

  As he alighted from the tram in the centre, Jim noticed they had decorated every building with blue and white flags of Alba with a smattering of union jacks, and there were one or two Edinburgh flags with their three towered castles. Jim had marvelled at the idea that Alba had not even completed its independence from the Union, and Bernican separatists were already suggesting another regional assembly.

  The only flag missing was the European flag. He wondered whether the flags were a sign of joy for independence or for something else. Despite the previous year’s revolution, Spain was still threatening to block a devolved Alba’s entry into the EU.

  He noticed posters pasted on the walls declaring that security forces would use firearms without leniency against anyone disturbing the peace ‘regardless of political persuasion’. Other posters warned the population to use petrol in moderation.

  The square was full of people reading posters and gathered around flip phones. There were groups of people debating, the people in the centre listening, those on the outside craning to listen.

  Jim wondered whether the crowd signalled the imminent arrival of another strike, or worse, a riot. For the moment, the people just seemed excited and amused. It was almost as if they had created a political carnival for their amusement.

  The streets were also full of soldiers, but Jim perceived they were also there for the show rather than an attempt at preserving law and order. No-one asked to see his ID app, and it didn’t look like they wanted to enforce the ban on protests.

  Jim realised there were Europeans in the square that were being treated with respect. The struggle with Europe was over and the Scottish people held no animosity against their people, only against their governments who had thrust their country into such an unreasonable divorce settlement, and their own government that had let it happen.

  Chapter Two - 23 years and 10 months before the collapse

  Jim remembered his to-do list and pulled out his flip. He had promised Annabel he would call Evans to ask whether she could continue her piano studies. Evans was very polite and even promised to cut some red tape.

  Next on his list was a new flat. The cheapest one bed flats were in towards Leith. There were some outside of the fenced off crime pacification zones and the transport to the university was fine. He knew they couldn’t afford more and so far inquiries with estate agents had been fruitless, each recommending another. Any of the flats Jim had liked, they had ‘just’ let to someone else.

  Their furniture had been in storage for four years, but the housing shortage was getting worse since the collapse of the country’s largest house-builders.

  Jim had still not received a reply from the Army regarding his petition for discharge, and he visited the company headquarters site online.

  He scanned his NFC tag in his flip. The screen flickered, and a lieutenant appeared.

  “We will discharge you, Sergeant Smith,” said the lieutenant. “Report to the infirmary for your medical.”

  Jim thanked the lieutenant and clicked the link for the infirmary.

  He waited in an online queue for a while. Jim had heard stories of soldiers faking symptoms, attempting to achieve either leave or a medical discharge, but they did not easily fool the online doctors and just made it take longer for genuine visitors.

  When the site connected Jim, the doctor dealt with him with courtesy and efficiency, and soon Jim was free to click back to the main site to end his business.

  Back in the main site, Jim was told he would receive back pay and four weeks leave prior to the discharge coming into force. They also added more credits to his food ration app and told him his discharge certificate would arrive via his message app.

  Jim felt the experience had gone very well and clicked five stars on the post-service survey. At that moment, although independence made little sense to him, he was pleased that at least the military still seemed to function as it should.

  *

  Dr Green had invited Jim to the faculty meeting at the university, but no-one seemed to be there. They held it in the same auditorium in which Jim had watched lectures years earlier, but most of the lecturers were being shown on big screens as they connected from home.

  As soon as Jim entered, Green beckoned him over, along with Dr Joe Wood and the chubby Dr Turner.

  As the meeting progressed, Jim developed the impression that they had taken all the important decisions already. The full professors guided the discussion and there was no room for dissent or debate. It went on for hours and only drew to a close because of the academics growing hungry.

  The chancellor, Professor Cooper, declared that the discussion had been gratifying and an important point of contact for the university staff at a ‘difficult time’.

  Jim noticed that the chancellor said nothing about the fact that they would pay the staff less than they paid them before independence.

  However, the meeting did not end at that point but disintegrated into a series of questions about who would pay the staff, who would pay the university, and what the policy on student fees would be under this new regime.

  As the arguments continued, Joe Wood pointed out various members of staff to Jim. There was Hill, who hated Green because he had wanted the head of faculty position for himself, and Ward, Morris and King whom Wood introduced once the questions had ceased.

  An old man cornered Jim for a brief chat, and it was only when he limped away that Joe Wood explained he was Baker.

  “The poet?” Jim asked. “I didn’t know I was talking to such an illustrious figure.”

  “He’s old hat,” Wood explained. “Turned to drink, he’s already had a minor stroke.”

  As they left the university, Jim and Joe Wood walked alone.

  “Tell me about yourself,” said Jim, trying to be as friendly as possible. “Are you married?”

  Wood’s face fell, and Jim regretted his question.

  “I was married,” he said, painful emotions resurfacing as he spoke. “They arrested my wife as the ringleader of an ille
gal protest. She committed suicide in prison.”

  “Oh, my God. I’m sorry,” said Jim.

  “That’s okay. It was back in January. I’m afraid I’m not good company at the moment.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s to be expected.”

  “No, it’s not just that. I’m afraid that our future as lecturers at the bottom of the ladder is not rosy, in particular with Green in charge of our department. If I didn’t have any savings, it would worry me.”

  Jim had no savings, and he was worrying. He thought about how prices were rising daily and he felt ill. He visited his good friend, Carter Rodriquez.

  Carter lived in a flat with his girlfriend, Mia, whom Jim struggled to find at first because of the quantity of boxes which seemed to fill every room.

  “I see you are still in the import, export business,” said Jim.

  “Ah, yes,” said Carter with a smile. “But now I’m shifting stuff.”

  “You’ve always had a scheme. Do you remember Kabab?”

  “Ah, yes, the taxi delivered your kebab and took you home.”

  “What happened to that?”

  “The drivers got fed up cleaning up the vomit on the back seat. Do you remember Tu-bar?”

  “Tu-bar? What was that?”

  “A bar on London Underground Trains.”

  “Oh, yeah. What happened to that one?”

  “Transport for London wouldn’t go for it. But I got the Chroaster off the ground.”

  “The Croaster?”

  “It was a toaster that browned the bread in the shape of the face of Christ.”

  “Did you sell many?”

  “Not really, but the import, export thing has been doing well for a while.”

  “This independence hasn’t affected you then?”

  “Not at all. Walker will turn the fortunes of the country around. You’ll see. I know him personally, I know his cabinet personally. They take advice from me, they give me work.”

  Jim was sceptical about Carter’s role in the new government.

  “I’m what you call an active bystander,” Carter continued.

  “Why don’t they give you a lucrative position, some high office?”

  “They’ve offered frequently, but I always refuse.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a smuggler, Jim. I always have been. My hands aren’t clean enough to join the government. Don’t get me wrong, Jim. I’m tempted to play the game.”

  Jim now understood why Carter had refused those posts. It wasn’t that he was too humble; he was too relaxed, disorganised and nice to be a politician. Also, despite his enthusiasm about the cause, he was too sceptical, and preferred to do just the odd job here and there.

  “Your radicalism will always be a game,” said Jim.

  “And you will always be a harmless reactionary. Come with me to the meeting tonight.”

  “Oh God, not another one. Patel dragged me to a pub full of bloodthirsty reactionaries last night.”

  “If you humoured him, then I have a right that you should humour me. It’s a kind of political club for intellectuals called ‘blue matter’, you know it’s like a play on grey matter.”

  “I get it.”

  Jim was astonished, not only by the size of the gathering but at how many of them Carter seemed to know. They took their seats, together with Carter’s girlfriend, Mia, near the front of the room in the expensive-looking hotel.

  On the platform was the poet and novelist, Owen Stewart. He stood to address the audience.

  “Before independence,” he began. “Those who only had their own interests at heart governed us. They took us out of Europe and tied us into this disastrous deal to hide their own offshore tax avoidance. They manipulated us, but it was not only them, also those who control our media. We pride ourselves on our independence, but whose independence was it?”

  Stewart was reading from his papers as if reading an essay aloud.

  “Those of us fortunate to live in comfort,” he continued. “Must prepare to forgo some of our luxuries for the benefit of the whole.”

  Stewart finished, and the debate began.

  “You were the poet laureate for the King and now you are supporting the independence movement that rejects him.”

  “When I was the laureate, I believed in the Union,” Stewart replied. “But this entire business with Europe has changed the country.”

  More questions followed, and the whole debate descended further and further into chaos. An adolescent came to the microphone.

  “The population does not care about being educated,” he began but could not finish because of the shouts of indignation.

  Jim wondered whether the crowd was protesting so much because the adolescent had hit a nerve. People weren’t interested in fact or reason any more, they were only interested in statements which matched their own opinions.

  When they had exhausted requests to speak, the chair brought the meeting to a close, and Jim thought it had all been embarrassing. The speakers had been writers and artists and musicians, all pretending to be politicians.

  “Don’t be too hard on them,” said Carter. “They feel more affinity for the working classes than the middle classes who buy their work. Even if they are not politicians, they have come together to politicise themselves.”

  Jim did not look convinced.

  “Look,” said Carter. “Meet me tomorrow. I’ll show you the real politicians. It’s a meeting of the independents who left the other parties. They’ll change your mind. Walker himself will be there.”

  The next day, Jim and Carter met up again and went to the meeting where, instead of hundreds from the middle classes, there were thousands of working-class people. The crowd was in an agitated mood and, when Jim and Carter arrived at around 7 pm, the venue was full and police had closed the doors.

  Jim was going to take a photo with his flip.

  “What are you doing?” asked Carter. “Do you not know it’s illegal to take photos of the police?”

  “They finally got that one through then.”

  Carter said he knew of a side entrance through the utility rooms.

  Jim marvelled at how Carter convinced the security guard that he was a friend of Walker’s, bearing a personal message. No wonder he was so good at smuggling.

  They emerged right next to the stage and people, eating and drinking, packed the auditorium. It reminded Jim of the last time he visited Oktoberfest.

  The first speaker was a man in his thirties. Carter whispered in Jim’s ear that the man was Walker’s son-in-law.

  “We, the independents,” the man began. “Have come from both the left and the right, united in a common cause because the left and the right have abandoned us. The old parties are no longer fit for purpose. A common purpose unites us: to make our assembly work. We no longer want Westminster to govern us, just as Ulster no longer wants Westminster to govern them. What have they ever done for us?”

  It reminded Jim of the Monty Python sketch: What did the Romans ever do for us?

  “Sanitation?” he whispered in Carter’s ear.

  “They gave us nothing,” the man continued. “The only investment in the north came from Europe, and the gammons made sure they got rid of that. Walker is the sword of independence and not just our Scottish independence. He is our brilliant leader and I will stand by him. The only way to get to Walker is over my dead body.”

  Rapturous applause, which lasted for minutes, greeted his words. However, this adoration of speakers was not universal. The crowd shouted down the next speaker.

  Dr MacDonald followed, in military uniform, and lambasted the Government in Westminster.

  When someone in the crowd tried to heckle Dr MacDonald, questioning his patriotism, he responded with venom.

  “Were you in Afghanistan? Were you in Iraq? Were you in Sudan?” he beat his breast. “This is the uniform of a patriot. I am a patriot.”

  The room was growing louder and hotter, and Jim worried the mood of the crowd mig
ht turn. More than ever when an older delegate spoke and no-one seemed to understand him.

  Then there was a commotion from one side, and word passed quickly that Walker had arrived. The crowd went quiet.

  “Long live our president,” shouted the speaker. It was the only thing he said that Jim understood.

  Walker entered, very close to Jim, a delicate, tiny, frail, stooped little man. A balding head edged with dirty grey hair, a full reddish beard, also turning grey. Tired eyes peered through his glasses. An unremarkable-looking man. When he reached the platform, he had to stop and rest for a while. When he got up and moved to the microphone, he could speak softly because the entire crowd had gone silent, holding its breath.

  “I have just finished work,” he began. “I have heard nothing of the claims of the previous speakers, of any accusations which they might have levelled against me so I shall start by denying everything.”

  The crowd cheered.

  “I’m not afraid of anyone who wants to push me forward,” Walker continued. “I’m the pushiest of all, because I’m a dreamer, I have a vision.”

  The crowd applauded wildly.

  “I am not speaking as a president, I’m speaking as an independent and as a traitor. I’m supposed to ask you to vote independent but I’m not going to. Follow your beliefs and let us unite.”

  More cheers.

  “Just give me a little time. I just want to serve you as president for a few days longer.”

  “A hundred years!” someone shouted from the crowd.

  “I will attempt to comply with your gracious request,” Walker joked.

  The crowd erupted in cheers once more.

  Jim marvelled that this was the man who was in charge of the independence movement. Stewart could have delivered the same speech at the previous day’s meeting to the middle-classes and it wouldn’t have gone down as well.

  After the meeting, Jim said his goodbyes to Carter and got on a tram, where he was drawn into an unwanted conversation with another passenger.