by Tyler, Terry
At around two in the morning we finish the last of the brandy that Brody brought with him, and go to bed; I want to curl into him and unload all my problems. Needless to say I don't, but in the morning, after I've kissed him goodbye, I collapse against the door and burst into noisy sobs.
I struggled through August and can just manage my share of household expenses for September, but this will leave me with precisely seventeen pounds to live on for the rest of the month.
Nick hears the pathetic racket I'm making, and runs out.
"What's up?" He looks wary, in that way that men do when women cry. "He hasn't dumped you, has he? He seemed fine last night―"
"God―that, I could deal with!" I try to stop but I can't; my face just dissolves. Nick puts his arms around me in a slightly holding-off sort of way, and I blurt it all out in grizzly gulps, then extricate myself so as not to make him feel awkward, and assure him that everything will be okay.
"Yeah, but what if it isn't?" He takes my hand and leads me over to the sofa, and I accept the piece of kitchen roll he gives me, to wipe my eyes.
"I'm going to have to look for a job, aren't I?"
Nick slings his arm around me, picks up the remote and flicks the TV screen onto job vacancies in our area. "What were you thinking of?"
I sniff, and wipe my eyes. "Cafés. I haven't got much experience in anything else. Not recent experience, anyway, and that's what it's all about these days, isn't it?"
The only café vacancies are in Nutricorp outlets. Working for Mona Morrissey's father would be akin to selling my soul to the devil.
"I doubt you'd get a job with them anyway," says Nick. "I would imagine your name is blacklisted."
Of course it is.
Nick flicks off the telly. "I can't see my best mate get herself into this sort of state. Or my ditzy other housemate." He sits forward, elbows on knees, looking down at the floor. "Okay. Listen. You two buy the food and bog roll and stuff. I can pay the rent and bills till you're both back on your feet."
"Can you? I mean, can you afford it?"
"Just. For a couple of months. When I said 'till you're back on your feet', you need to make that happen pretty quickly." He gives me a big cuddle. We've never had a touchy-touchy sort of relationship, so I know he understands how down I feel.
"Maybe I can get a call centre job, or cleaning."
"You gotta try."
We sit in silence for a while, and an idea pops into my head.
"That thing―you know, that the meth guy at the shelter told me. About there being no babies born in Hope Villages. I was thinking―maybe I could look into it. See if I can find anything to back it up. If I could get some reliable sources to give me stats, and a couple of human interest PoVs, do you think Global Online might be interested?"
Nick looks at me as though I'm crazy. "You're joking. You can't do anti-government or conspiracy theorism on Global; what do you think the Widow and Naked Truth are for? And I wasn't going to tell you this, but I will, now. As from the beginning of next month, Global will be owned by Nu-Media."
Ah.
I talk to Esme, who's not having that great a time at home with an increasingly demanding Bob. I have no intention of burdening her with my problems, but while I'm telling her a bunch of lies about how great my life is, I start thinking about the emotional side of money problems. Light bulb: ping! An article, which I think will resonate with a lot of people right now, about the shame of being skint. How you don't let your friends know because you don't want them to feel sorry for you, or offer to bail you out. The fear of being beholden to anyone.
If I can get my view count up again, I might improve my search engine status and attract new advertisers.
It's a risky subject, credibility-wise, but I believe I can write it without making it obvious I'm talking from experience.
Its views are a twentieth of the norm, and I get several troll comments. One asks if I want to borrow a tenner, which under other circumstances might have made me laugh.
I sleep badly; I wake up in the middle of dreams about a large house. When I go upstairs, the floors in the rooms at the top of the house are rotten. Downstairs, there are strangers in the living room. I tell them to get out, and they mock me.
15
#FitForLife
#GuyMo is going down a storm at the yearly party conference, or what Nick calls the Nazi Rally. His amendments to the welfare system have had a welcome effect on the economy, he says, particularly the decision that Child Credit will no longer be paid for any children born when a parent is in receipt of benefits.
"Working parents have to make sensible, calculated decisions before they bring a child into the world, based on whether or not their household can withstand the extra expense. Until last year, unemployed parents helping themselves from the kitty provided by hardworking taxpayers had no such worries; another child simply meant more money. I'm proud to have put an end to this free-for-all; with free contraception available to everyone, there is no excuse for unplanned pregnancy."
All over the internet, #NoMoreFreeForAll gets a huge thumbs up from the aforementioned hardworking taxpayers.
Meanwhile, yet more radical plans are afoot.
Unemployed home owners will have their property equity assessed. If the sale of your house will net a specified profit, you will be expected to sell it and live off the proceeds until your capital is down to a measly five grand, before you are eligible to claim benefits.
Unemployed singles living alone must relocate immediately to one-room accommodation, or a hostel; no Rent Allowance will be paid until they do.
This, GuyMo explains, is tough love; if you want to keep your home, you must get off your arse and pay for it.
Of course, he doesn't actually say 'get off your arse'.
"In the past, the unemployed had no impetus to get off the sofa and look for work, or take advantage of free courses in colleges across the country, in order to retrain. Our generous welfare system encouraged them to lounge at home in luxury, dipping a lazy hand into the pot, over and over again, whilst contributing nothing to the country's economy. No more!"
Deafening round of applause.
"The factory worker who lost his job to automation, the shop assistant made redundant due to high street closure, the customer service advisor replaced by an app―these circumstances are but a feature of our ever-changing world, and are not justifiable excuses for sloth. We must become adaptable, flexible. The vast and multi-faceted tech and care work industries are thriving, and retraining is available everywhere. For every genuine WRC claimant, I can show you another who thinks he can play the system, live off the hard work of others and blame everyone but himself for his plight. This ends now. If you want to be a part of Guy Morrissey's UK, in the exciting, vibrant mid-21st Century, you must prove your worth."
For this, he is rewarded with a standing ovation.
Next, the power behind the throne takes the stage―for Mona Morrissey has plenty to say, too.
"Let me reiterate my husband's wise words; this is no longer a time of plenty, with the plump feather duvet of the Welfare State overflowing with funds available to all. The 20th Century is over. We live in a different world now, in which we are responsible for our own health and well-being. You and me. Not the government, not the NHS, not our employers. We must work hard to be inspiring role models for our children. If you are fit for work, you are fit for life―and there is no reason why anyone, anyone at all" ―here she brings her fist down on the lectern―"should believe that they are worthy of paid employment, comfortable housing and the best medical care simply because they exist. The good life is within reach, but no one is going to hand it to you on a plate. Will you join me? If you've lost your mojo, isn't it time to get it back?"
On the vast screen behind her, a super-slim Kylie Jordan flashes up. Her glowing face bears the joyful smile of religious fervour; she stands in a car showroom, dressed in a tiny, tailored pink suit, over which she wears a sash emblazoned with the
name of the company for whom she works. Very clever; both the sash and her pose give the impression of a winner at a beauty pageant.
Do I see the Nutricorp logo on one corner of the sash? Of course I do.
Kylie fades away, and ooh yes, here they are. The Morrissey family. Happy, healthy, not a scrap of spare flesh to be seen, sauntering down a sunny, country road. Guy and Mona wear #FitForWork t-shirts, while Aubrey and Hunter's chests declare them #FitForLife. Nutricorp logos are everywhere.
The cheers are deafening.
Within minutes, social media names her the 'Iron Lady for the Hashtag Generation'.
Their social media teams must have had that one primed and ready to go.
And then, the cherry on the cake. Mona Morrissey announces her candidacy, in the next local election, for the Woodbury North seat in her home county of Surrey.
The applause is twice as ecstatic as that awarded to GuyMo.
Are my eyes deceiving me, or does his smile look just a little forced?
Does he suspect, as the rest of the world must, that his competition will come, one day, not from the other party, but from his wife?
16
The Fear
Usually I'm a fairly positive person, but ... well, sometimes I'm not.
Sometimes I get The Fear.
I should be used to it because I was always alone, but however much I've trained myself not to need anyone, The Fear keeps tapping me on the shoulder, reminding me.
There's just you.
Everyone else has mums and dads and brothers and sisters to rely on and help them because they're bound together by blood, but you don't have that. You're all alone. You're weird.
Those taps have been more frequent since Aduki closed, because I no longer have my daily fix of warm, motherly Esme.
It's not logical, I know. She had no responsibility towards me.
Nor do Nick and Kendall. They could walk out of my life tomorrow and I would have no right to ask them to stay.
In these days of shattered, fragmented families and online friends seeming more real than the flesh and blood, there must be many others like me, who are one faulty internet connection away from being totally alone.
I've worked so hard not to be needy, but I can't do it all the time. Sometimes, like today, I curl up on my bed, wrap my arms around myself and cry, like a kid, because I'm just so damn frightened.
Even though I know I'll be okay, really.
Because I always am.
Which is why I permit this wet dishrag half hour, then give myself a kick up the arse.
Caring about people is scary, though.
Because once you care, you mind if they're not there any more.
17
The Slide
Brody's gone again; he's been sent down near Bristol to oversee community liaison in a huge new Hope, which is taking the overflow from others in the South West, along with 'problem' families and the generally 'socially challenged'. It will house three thousand, and extension plans are already underway for the new influx expected when GuyMo's benefit reshuffle takes effect.
"You can no longer expect to be placed in a Village near where you live," he tells me, the night before he leaves. "Officially, you're allowed to turn down the first offer, but the second is likely to be one of the seriously grim ones in the Manchester/Liverpool areas, or this new Bristol place; turning down a first offer earns you a black mark, but of course you don't know that when you exercise your right to do so."
I relish every moment in our flat. Every time I walk up the stairs to my bedroom, I am thankful for my home.
Summer is long gone and so, it seems, is Lita Stone. My views are no more than for any non-monetised blog, and I've slashed my review fee right down to thirty pounds. I know this makes me look like a loser, but it's better to get three review requests for thirty quid than none for a hundred. I'm still getting the odd taker for the twenty pound ad spaces, but I need to find another way of earning money.
Flower Power has gone, too. Ha! I asked for it in a health food shop the other day, and was told that the line had been discontinued. Not that I can take full credit for this, and neither will it have any discernible effect on the financial state of Nutricorp, but I admit to its failure giving me a modicum of satisfaction.
Kendall is still without any prospect of a job, and has had her Rent Allowance stopped after her mother wrote on her LifeShare page that she'd love to have Kendall back living with her.
The DSC told her, 'You've got a rent-free bed in your own mother's house―we suggest you take it'.
No matter that her mum made this statement in a moment of pissed sentimentality, after a row with Slimy Boyfriend. Brody told me that the DSC employs a vast team of social media trackers to keep an eye on all this stuff.
Kendall doesn't think MoMo is so great now. That's one step up, anyway.
I keep telling myself that our luck has to change, that 'things' don't really come in threes (or nines, in our case), but I'm not convinced. Mostly, I answer myself with, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Talk to me again when something good happens."
On the day that I go to a contract cleaning agency and am told that I've got no chance because I have no experience (because I've never cleaned anything, right?), I am blessed with a tiny ray of sunshine. I'm at the market, buying cheap pulses on a vegan food stall, and I notice that the woman who runs it seems rushed off her feet. We get talking in a five-minute period between customers, and she tells me that her daughter used to help her, but she's gone off to college. She doesn't want to advertise the job because the daughter will be back again at Christmas, and she can't afford to pay the minimum wage.
I say, "If you'll pay me cash in hand, I'm your woman."
We shake hands on it. I have a job, two days a week, for―well, I won't tell you the embarrassingly small hourly rate on which I agreed. But it's money, and I've got bugger all else to do apart from write blog posts that no one wants to read. It's better than having my entire life picked apart by the DSC.
Brody sends me a hard copy article from The Speaker, about an increasing trend for off-grid homesteads started up by people who own their property outright, with land attached, and have opted to share with others to form small, self-sufficient communities. Some have given interviews for this article. Sounds like a wonderful way to live, apart from the lack of internet. I couldn't live my life without it; not only has it provided my income for some years, but my phone is my window onto the world. To be honest, I haven't had an #OfflineDay for months and months. The odd offline hour or so, yes, but a whole day? Too hard, right now.
Many are talking about the article, saying that being an Offliner at all is a privilege of the rich; we normal folk can only get by if we're part of 'the system'.
I put fingers to keys, but can find no new angle. My creativity has disappeared along with my popularity.
Widow Skanky, however, has plenty to say.
'Never mind, children, when you're a grown-up and you can't get a job because there aren't any―apart from wiping the arses of dementia sufferers and sitting in a cubicle pretending you give a flying fuck about some thicko who can't work out how to switch on his router―you can become an Offliner in a super-duper off-the-grid community.
This is how you do it: you and some friends put together all the pennies left over from your generous Work Ready Credit―once you've bought the week's gruel, that is―and buy an old barn in a field. Oh, and you'll need to buy the field, too, so you might need to go without the gruel. Then you all live in the barn together and grow spuds in said field, so you don't die of starvation.
In your spare time you can gather together bits of straw from the floor of your barn, and weave them into baskets to sell at your local market. If you're lucky, you might even make back the cost of the pitch.
Or, you can do it the easy way: get really, really rich first, and invite your buddies to live with you in your palatial, non-mortgaged house. Choose the ones who already have a private income and lots o
f savings, and you can have great fun pretending to be hippies.
Failing that, you can beg the DSC for the money for said gruel, or go catch salmonella in a Hope Village. As MoMo says, it's all about keeping your options open!'
434,766 views. 139,030 likes. 23,456 dislikes.
It's shared by hundreds and read out on various podcasts, followed by more discussion on the identity of the Widow. When we're laughing about it, though, and celebrating my new career as a part-time market stall assistant by drinking cheap red wine (twelve pounds a box from the supermarket, which tells you how bad it is), we are unaware that this is the last post Widow Skanky will write.
Like the autumn leaves on the trees outside, Nick's luck is about to wither and die.
A week later, it's all over.
I see it first, because my body clock wakes me up early. Nick sleeps late because he plays video games into the small hours, and Kendall's a total sloth. My natural waking time, though, is about seven a.m.
The first thing I see when I log on to Twitter is that #WidowSkanky is trending.
I smile, assuming the off-grid homesteads piece is still doing the rounds.
I don't realise, at first, that the hashtag #WeKnowWhoYouAre, also trending, refers to Nick. As always, I scan the news items―political, social and literary orientated―to find out what's been going on in the world while I was asleep.
And there it is, the item entitled We Know Who You Are, on Social Spy.
Even then, I have to read the first sentence twice before it sinks in.
'Widow Skanky, the anti-establishment blogger with a cult following of thousands, has today been revealed as Nick Freer, regular columnist on Global Online.'
Oh. My. God.
My heart pounds.
