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“Identity card. Papers.” The police officer peered through dark glasses at James Leonard as he stood sheepishly, fumbling inside his jacket.
“I have them, really I have,” he stammered, disconcerted by the officer’s fixed stare. With relief his hand closed on the plastic folder that held the card that carried his social identity number and photograph. He pulled it out and passed it across.
The officer peered at the card and checked the photograph carefully, holding the card up against James’s face. “Locality permit?”
James found the folded paper that showed he was entitled to be in the area. Again the officer examined it and passed it back. “OK, you haven’t forgotten the curfew have you?”
“No, officer. Thank you officer,” James said gratefully putting the papers back into his jacket. “I’ll be home in good time, don’t worry.”
“Your worry, not mine,” the officer laughed. “And I’d get yourself a sponsor if I were you. We’re keeping a close eye on ‘solitaries’ like you.”
James said, “Yes, of course, thank you,” and scuttled off towards his home, not daring to look behind him at the waiting police car.
He closed the door behind him with relief and sank down on the battered couch that was one of the few pieces of furniture in the grubby, three room, apartment. He looked at his watch. Two minutes to six. There was just enough time. He turned on the video screen in the corner of the room, the one piece of technology there. “Ident Card?” the screen said. He pulled the card from his pocket once more and slipped it into the slot on the front of the video. As he did so, there was the familiar click of the video connecting to his phone line. “Validated” the screen said and faded to show the familiar view of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben just as the giant clock began to strike six.
“This is the six o’clock news from the BBC,” the video screen intoned, “read by Samantha Just.” The scene dissolved again to show the news reader sitting in the studio. James was always careful to catch the news. You never knew, he thought, when some new directive or some new regulation would be introduced. He’d known too many people that had fallen foul of some rule or other and then ended up in one of the camps.
“As part of a series of new measures intended to increase social cohesion, the Government announced today that taxes levied on un-sponsored ident card holders are to increase to 75% from next month.” James felt distraught. As it was, he barely had enough money for food after he’d paid the rent. Loosing another £50 a week would mean he would starve if he couldn’t find a sponsor. “Grants to sponsors will increase at the same time, in order to recognise the important and increasing contribution that sponsors make to the stability of society. The Minister for Home Affairs provided the BBC with this statement…” The stern face of Florence Daniels, Secretary of State, filled the screen. “We are determined to push ahead with the New Order programme. This was what we were elected on and this is what we intend to deliver. It is clear that strong sponsorship results in more stable households. The incidence of curfew offences and other antisocial behaviour from sponsored households is negligible. However, we recognise that it is not always easy to find a sponsor. To address this we will offer sponsorship interviews to all un-sponsored ident card holders as part of ident card holder reviews.” Daniels’ face faded from the screen and the newsreader returned. “A group of seven dissidents was arrested this morning following a raid on unlicensed occupation premises is South London.” The picture cut to a shot of a derelict apartment block. “A government spokeswoman could not comment on whether the arrests were connected with recent speculations concerning plots to abduct government ministers. The government has confirmed that all those arrested were on their dissident watch-list as potential subversives and have been charged with various offences under the prevention of social disruption legislation.”
James Leonard gave a tired shrug. “Social Disruption,” that was what they called anything that didn’t fit in with the New Order agenda. It was almost impossible to do anything now, except to buckle under and accept the system.
It was different for some though. He looked back to the TV screen. “This afternoon, in London’s Park Lane, business leaders gathered for the Entrepreneur of the Year Award.” The screen cut to pictures of a series of business women emerging from limousines outside the Dorchester Hotel and then dissolved into a picture of a smiling blonde woman. “Anne Tennant, ahead of all the other directors of the UK’s major companies has demonstrated the creativity and energy that characterises the new breed of British businesswomen. The New Order Government is pleased to be associated with these awards.”
James let the news run on but he was scarcely watching it. He was thinking about what the new round of sponsorship interviews would mean. They would force him to accept a sponsor or at least they would try to. He valued his independence. He liked living alone. But that wasn't what New Order wanted. Maybe it was just as well. He couldn’t afford to stay here anyway. There was nowhere cheaper to rent in the locality – heaven knew he had tried to find something. And he couldn’t move. He would never get a permit for another locality. He’d watched as one of his friends had filled in a locality change application at the interview centre last week. The interviewer had taken one look at it and then, as the man had left, James had watched it being dropped into a waste bin.
He turned the television off. He had no stomach for yet another evening of Government propaganda.
In Anne Tenant’s suite at the Dorchester, Florence Daniels raised a glass of champagne as a toast to the winner of the Entrepreneur of the Year. “Well, many congratulations!” Daniels said, lounging back on the well padded couch.
Anne Tenant smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “The New Order Government has been a great support.”
“We’re pleased you see it that way. Prosperity of new businesses is very important to the wealth of the country.”
Anne Tenant took her own glass and sipped it. “And that is exactly why I invited you here, Minister,” she said.
“Well, how can I help, your company’s endorsement of our policies has been a great help we should find a way to return the favour.”
“How nice of you to see it that way. Before we discuss business though, I thought of something you might like.” She reached down and rang a small hand bell. Moments later a naked man entered. His muscular body was tanned and oiled; his hair, close cropped to his head and straw blonde.
“My!” said Florence Daniels. “So different from the civil servants they find for me.”
“I thought so,” Anne replied, “but a treat occasionally is something we all deserve.”
“I can resist anything except temptation,” Florence laughed. “That’s why this dress has a few secrets!”
Anne smiled, she knew the problem too. She found it a constant battle to keep slim. It was only now that she looked closely that she realised the Minister’s long evening gown had been cleverly cut to conceal a thickening waist that was held in place by well hidden boning. She flicked her fingers. The naked man fell to his knees beside Florence’s feet and started removing her shoes. Following the instructions he had been given earlier by Anne he set to pleasuring the Minister’s feet. “There,” said Anne, “I think you will find him quite skilled and you’re free to make use of him for the rest of the evening. There were a few things I wanted to discuss though, first; things that you might like to discuss with your cabinet colleagues that might help reinforce the strength of small businesses, like mine.”
“Mmm,” said the Minister, partly distracted by the attentions of the slave at her feet. “Tell me how I can help.”
© Freddie Clegg 2009
All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.
All characters fictitious
E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com
Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/
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