by Trevor Veale
It was held in the auditorium of a cinema in North City, and was Thomas Lesot’s first address to the party. The party leader, Martin Bribe, Lesot’s Deputy Archbishop, was unable to address the meeting as he was at an ecumenical conference in Stockholm.
Thomas Lesot was a plump, balding man who wore wire-rimmed glassed. Shy and retiring, his secret drinking had driven him deeper into his own world. Going out in public was not something he enjoyed. He couldn’t stand the noise, the rudeness, the coarse language people used. Everywhere he went he observed atrocious manners and vulgar stupidity. Even before he began drinking, he had lived in a cloistered environment where everyone kept feelings safely under lock and key. The only place in Melloria where he felt decency still existed was the royal court at Calliper palace. Now that the People’s Party had slammed shut the door to that arcadia, he had thrown his weight behind the only organized resistance to the hateful new regime and had accepted the deputy leadership of the Church Party.
He reminded himself of this commitment as he stepped up onto the stage and prepared to approach the speaker’s microphone. His detestation of public speaking meant his nerves were on edge, and he had liberally fortified himself with brandy earlier in the day. A cheerful canoness was already on the podium, announcing in a bouncy voice that after the archbishop’s address the lights would be dimmed and a film shown on the role of the church in Mellorian family life.
The canoness wound up her address by telling the audience that it was a great honor to have a deputy leader who was not only the spiritual head of Melloria but a man dedicated to defending traditional family values against the rampant materialism of the present regime.
Archbishop Lesot smiled weakly when called upon and stumbled to the microphone. In his nervousness he spoke so closely into the mike that his voice ricocheted around the hall. “My brethren!” he shouted, “This is indeed a joyous occasion that brings us here tonight. No less than the birth of a new political party, the Mellorian People’s Christian Democratic Party – which is such a mouthful that most people call us the Church Party!”
This brought chuckles from the audience, and he took heart. “It’s an honor for me to address you all,” he went on, “since we are all striving to protect the same eternal principles: piety, sobriety and loyalty.” Here he stopped, expecting an appreciative murmur from the audience. They remained silent, however, most of them unmoved or unimpressed by his slogan. He continued, feeling slightly irritated. “I have only a few more things to say and then we can have the film,” he said. This time there were murmurs of approval and the archbishop suddenly started to feel real annoyance. If all they wanted was a few pious platitudes and a bland propaganda film, then he would jolly well use this opportunity to get a personal and painful humiliating experience off his chest.
He began again, his voice slowly rising in pitch and intensity. “I’m going to tell you very briefly something our country’s self-appointed leader, Mr Paul Slamil, the boss of the Mellorian People’s Revolutionary Party, said to me on the day he and his gang of strongarm men came to arrest Her Majesty Queen Letitia and Their Royal Highnesses Prince Catheter and Prince Anton, and drag them away to join His Majesty King Godfrey in their present shameful confinement in an unknown place.”
He stopped once more for emphasis, and the angry muttering from all parts of the hall told him he’d vindicated himself.
“Mr Slamil said to me,” he said, in a quavering tone filled with suppressed rage, “that there was a new religion in town, namely reason, and so all our prayers are now redundant. Well, I’ve got news for Mr Slamil. We are Christians and our prayers will never be redundant!”
Loud applause broke from the auditorium and voice rose in agreement. Fully emboldened, the archbishop pounded his fist on the podium, as if he were slamming it against Paul Slamil’s head and then, recovering some of his composure, concluded in a whining snarl: “And foremost in our prayers will be the safe return to their palace of our beloved Royal Family. God save the king!”
He tottered away from the podium and in the sudden absolute silence, the stunned audience watched him grope his way to his seat. Then cheers erupted, and the hubbub from the auditorium rose to a pitch that made Arabella’s eardrums ache. Sitting at the back of the auditorium, she felt moved and strangely aroused and a tingle flashed down her spine. People could be heard warmly commending the speech and those sitting near the archbishop were on their feet, shaking his hand.
Arabella stood up to leave the hall. The curtains masking the cinema screen were now being rolled back, and choral music blared. The screen lit up and white letters wobbled over a shot of a large family enjoying a cookout in a field intercut with a church interior where a vested priest led a procession of worshippers up the aisle.
Arabella stumbled outside the building and rubbed her eyes in the streetlight’s glare. She hailed a cab and sat in the rear, feeling that Lesot’s speech showed how committed he was to helping the escape plan. She was now confident that he would be willing to pass on the necessary message. Her next move was to secure an audience with the archbishop, and she mentally listed the people she knew who could pull some helpful strings.
That night, a few hours after his tumultuous speech. Archbishop Lesot suffered his first heart attack.
Chapter 37
Sharon’s Weakness
Walking back from the busstop after her first day at the new job, Sharon ruefully reflected on the way things had gone. Things had gone quite a long way with Stella, until her friend Mickey suddenly showed up, with her fat ass and her tattooed arms, and kicked her out of bed. Then there was nothing for it but to dress, give in her notice and leave before the earsplitting row between Stella and Mickey really got out of hand. Numbers, Stella had said, it was all about numbers. Well, she had a new number in her life – it was back to square one. She wondered if Simpkins knew any other Party high-ups who were looking for a daily help. She felt angry – she still had Craig and her dad to look after, and now she had to find herself another job as well.
As she walked, she became aware that someone was following her. It wasn’t Stella, she was sure of that – she’d have her hands full coping with Mickey! She thought about the people who might be watching her. It could be a secret service agent tailing her because of who her employer was – her ex-employer now. All the government ministers had knives in each other’s backs or so it seemed. Thank God she was nearly home.
Arriving at the house, she let herself in through the back door and was surprised to find Craig sitting in front of the TV screen with his game console in one hand and a half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich in the other.
“What are you doing here?” she said. “I thought you were going round your friend’s house.”
“We had a bust up.” He said laconically. You’re not the only one, Sharon thought. She thought about going to the drinks cabinet and pouring herself a brandy, then decided to wait until Craig had gone to bed. She knew her dad was already asleep.
“Well, don’t stay up too late,” she warned. “You got school tomorrow.”
“No, I don’t,” he said, his tone surly and his mouth full. “I been expelled. They said they warned you I had ADD, but you didn’t do nothing about it!”
Oh God, Sharon thought. Now I’ll have to find him a home tutor. She packed Craig off to bed and picked up the TV remote. Surfing the channels, she hit on a news program and was surprised to see pictures of King Godfrey, taken before the revolution. She had wondered about him ever since her last meeting with Simpkins, but hadn’t expected to see him on TV. She turned up the volume and heard Princess Dawna say some flattering things about her father-in-law. Then the program cut to a discussion in another language, and she realized with a groan that she was watching a Bulimian channel.
“Damn government, never gives us any decent news,” she grumbled to herself. “We never know what’s going on half the time.”
She heard a knock at the front door and when she went it was Simpkins, l
ooking decidedly better than the last time she’d seen him.
“Well, what do you want?” she said, not letting him in.
“That’s a nice way to treat your old boyfriend, my girl,” he said. “How d’your new job go then?”
“I was fired,” she said, starting to feel shamefaced.
“Fired? What for?” She couldn’t tell him the truth - apart from anything else he might find her little romance with Stella a turn-on and that would be embarrassing.
“I just didn’t get on with Mickey,” she said. Simpkins gave one of his dirty cackles.
“What, did she come on to you?” I knew it would come to this, she thought, he’s obsessed with sex. She noticed he had a package in his hand.
“No, she didn’t as a matter of fact. We just didn’t get along. That’s all. And now I’m looking for a new job.”
“Well, ain’t you the lucky girl then!” he said. “Not only is the Deputy Party Leader himself looking for a maid of all works – you’ll have to work late, mind, there’s always parties at Joe’s house – but I got something nice for you here.”
He showed her the package, gift wrapped. I wonder what it is this time, she thought sourly. Lacy underwear, perfume or that long-awaited Rolex?
“Aren’t you gonna let me in then?” It was that wheedling tone again.
“I followed you all the way from the busstop. I really wanna see you again.”
She ran agitated fingers through her hair. He was just going to be more trouble, she was sure of that… she didn’t want to lure him in…yet she really needed that job he was talking about.
She stepped aside, and he walked into the living room.
Chapter 38
Arabella Gets Her Scoop
On September the First Arabella Scott-Natterson attended a pre-election campaign bash thrown by Joe Steel at his penthouse suite. With their campaign about to start, many in the People’s Party were feeling buoyant and optimistic. Steel wanted to celebrate their expected victory with a lavish fare of caviar and champagne, served by staff from the pool of service workers the Party used for its bacchanals. He chose to do so on a night when Paul Slamil was out of the country, on a state visit to Cuba. Steel’s celebration would be the glittering highlight of the revolution, with himself as the guest of honor.
His penthouse was located on the top floor of Victor Jarra Mansion and dominated the summit of a hill overlooking Melloria City, with the classiest view in Melloria. When night fell the country’s only four-lane highway turned into a glistening grid of fluid light. Red and silver ribbons, gleaming like fireflies, swam in a black sea speckled with the lights of Melloria City.
Steel looked down from his roof garden early on the evening of the party, thinking what a spinetingling view it was, especially after a joint of Saint. He had hired designers to lay out the roof as a formal Chinese garden with a gazebo, a fish pond and a little curved bridge. He greatly admired the Chinese communist system, particularly the power and influence of the People’s Liberation Army, and his roof garden reflected his admiration. He sauntered back to the penthouse, stopping to gaze from the little bridge into the dark shiny water, where carp flashed and broke the surface with a slap, before sliding beneath it again.
Inside his elegant home, with Bang and Olufson sound systems in every room and a den where guests sat on chrome stools and ordered drinks from a brushed aluminum bar, more guests were arriving. Steel met some of them in the hall, smiled and vaguely pointed them in the direction of the living room. Among the crowd, Arabella drifted into a large room where a DJ had set up a phalanx of thundering speakers to drown the scattered conversations with drum ‘n’ bass, and Arabella was met with frowns or goofy smiles whenever she greeted someone.
The room was already filled with people and Arabella headed for a space near the wall-sized windows. Ahead of her she saw a maid with her back turned, passing among the guests and making sure their glasses were brimming with champagne. A pair of loudly-debating hearties blocked her path.
An owlish scholar in brown slacks and a corduroy jacket sparred with a chubby People’s Party hack in faded denims and yellow boots. The party hack sounded aggressive and the scholarly type smug, and they were disparaging each other’s viewpoint.
“It’s all very well soaking the rich and the not-so-rich,” the scholar said, “but when the middle-classes are slacking off, using their wiles to make money off the books and skipping off to Bulimia, where taxes are lower, you’re in deep trouble.”
“Arseholes!” the party clone snarled, his speech getting slurred. “Anybody who’s earning good money when half the people are starving should pay their taxes – tax cuts would only make things worse!”
“”Worse?” the scholar scoffed. He’d been slurping champagne while the other talked. “We’re worse off than Cuba or North Korea. At least the Cubans have ex-pat dollars, and the North Koreans have… South Korea!”
“You’re talking bollocks,” the hack replied, after draining a tall glass dry. “When our policies have had a chance to work we’ll have a first-class health service, an education system second to none – “
The scholar cut in “ – with peeling walls and a shortage of beds in your hospitals and overcrowded classrooms in your schools!”
“Listen, you pillock,” the clone sneered, snatching another glass of champagne from the maid, “this government – the first people’s government in our country’s history – is committed to healing the sick, sheltering the old and feeding the poor – and if we have to tax the well-off to do so, that’s all right by me!” He finished off his glass.
The scholar grabbed a glass from the maid and finished it off with a few quick gulps.
“Let’s see, healing the sick – how are you going to afford the latest medical technology when all your high earners have gone abroad?”
The hack’s voice was getting thicker and his language coarser. “All right, you fucking smartarse, tell me this: there’s a hundred thousand homeless people living in the streets. How’s the fucking private sector ever gonna help them?”
“By employing them, if the government will just give business a break from high taxes and red tape.”
“Waging war on poverty doesn’t come cheap – and businesses have the money to pay for it.”
“If you’re waging war on poverty, you need to make peace with wealth.”
“Listen – when it comes to creating jobs we’ve done more than the monarchy ever did.”
“You’ve taken money from the high-earners and used it to create a vast bureaucracy. Jobs, yes. Wealth creation, I don’t think so!”
“What do you want us to do then? Lower taxes so the bleeding wealthy will work more and make more money, I suppose!”
“Well, if you did lower taxes, you’d get more from the wealth-creators in the long run,” the scholar said. “At least they wouldn’t be pouring their talents into under-the-counter work or leaving the country!”
“Nobody’s leaving the country, mate,” the clone growled. “With truckloads of border guards, electrified fences and a system that takes forever to get a fucking exit visa? I don’t think so!”
The clone chortled, and the scholar gave him a disapproving look.
“And how much is all this vigilance and bureaucratic obstructiveness costing the country?” the scholar said.
“It’s money well spent.”
“If I thought all the money you’re spending on bureaucracy would create better public services, I’d support you to the hilt, but – ”
“But! There’s always a fucking but with you bastards! I only wish you’d get off your fucking butts and help us build a better world!”
“Cut taxes and we will.”
“Get stuffed! There’s plenty of money sloshing around.”
“Really?” The scholar pointed to the maid in her shiny black dress. “I wonder how much Sharon over there is making? And she’s employed!”
“You’re talking through your backside!” the clone sa
id. “New businesses are starting up every day.”
“Businesses? Those are street peddlers and they’re barely making a living – and none of them pay taxes.”
“You go to give ‘em time to grow – ”
“– and most of them claim welfare on the side. I bet Sharon is claiming benefits to support herself and her family.”
“So what? At least she isn’t starving.”
“She isn’t generating wealth, either. Children, maybe…”
“You’re just a cynical turd. You ought to go and live in the States.”
“I will – as soon as I can get an exit visa.”
“Ha, ha! Fat chance!” the clone said. “Hell’s gonna freeze over first. Unless of course you want to give me something to swing it for you!”
Arabella was staring at the maid, whom one of the debaters had called Sharon. Could this woman be the one she’d been looking for? If so, it was strange and fateful to be standing so close to her.
“Uh-hum!” Arabella said. “Excuse me…”
Sharon hefted her tray of drinks among the guests. She turned to Arabella, frowning. “Yes?”
“Sharon – a woman called Sharon phoned me at the Bugle. I’m Arabella Scott-Natterson and I write a column called – ”
“Oh my God! It’s you – I used to read your stuff every day!”
She almost dropped her tray. Arabella extended a hand to steady it, and the two women laughed. Then Arabella beckoned her over to a quiet part of the room.
“I’m flattered you read my stuff, Sharon, but what I really want is to know more about your story.”
Sharon gave her a sharp look. “You’ll have to pay me then. I don’t earn a lot doing this, you know.”