Hope

by Terry Tyler

  Now he sits outside the off-grid community known as Lake Lodge, owned by one Cherry Taylor, commonly known as 'Jaffa'.

  Cherry Taylor, queen of J'accuse: the home of whiners, moaners and 'justice' seekers everywhere. This information came through just half an hour before Ferris reached his destination, a beautiful piece of dovetailing indeed. Surely this means fate must be on his side?

  Unable to ascertain the location of J'accuse, Ferris's team had tracked down one Lucinda Green, the founder of the site in its original, less well-guarded incarnation; how lucky that she was involved in an extra-marital affair with the headmistress of a prestigious private school, who―as an added bonus―happened to have a rather nasty weekend cocaine habit.

  Lucinda Green gave up her old friend's name in minutes.

  Cherry Taylor.

  The upper middle class hippie who believes her money and former standing in the media will permit her to hide troublemakers.

  Not today, Ms Taylor.

  As DCI Rodney Ferris gets out of the car and gazes up at Ms Taylor's ancestral home, a sense of frustration overwhelms him. More than frustration. Anger at the unfairness. How come an anarchic liberal gets to live in a palace like this, whilst he, a lifelong stickler for law and order who respects everything for which the establishment stands, has only just paid off the mortgage on his three-bed semi?

  "Fuck me, it's a bit Pearl Harbour up here, isn't it?"

  Beside him, DI Judy Marsden rubs her gloved hands together and blows into them. Ferris glances at her, his irritation intensifying; that she has worn a fashionable leather coat and high-heeled boots on this case, rather than attire suited to both weather and terrain, makes him doubt, for a moment, the wisdom of bringing her along. That and her language. However, she was suggested to him because of her proven prowess in engaging with young females such as Kendall Clarke, friend of the bothersome Lita Stone.

  "Yes, well, don't just stand there, press the intercom."

  The speaker crackles into life on the third attempt.

  "Hi, this is Will. Can you state your name and business, please?"

  Ferris likes this bit. Never tires of it. "This is DCI Rodney Ferris from the Metropolitan Police, accompanied by DI Judy Marsden and DI Robert Lloyd. I have a warrant for the arrest of Miss Lita Stone, known to reside on these premises, and for a Mr Andrew Reynolds, also believed to be here. Please open up immediately, and alert Ms Cherry Taylor, to whom I wish to speak."

  He decides not to mention the vehicle filled with armed officers who travelled up behind him; they wait in the shadows to storm forth. Totally over the top, of course, but Caleb Bettencourt insisted on it.

  Jaffa watches from the attic window. She has scarcely slept since Lita's departure, taking short naps during the day, as she guessed that whoever came would arrive during the hours of darkness, though she wasn't sure if she expected police, or a band of anonymous black-suited thugs.

  She doesn't blame Lucinda; she assured her friend of this when Lucinda used a friend's phone to warn her.

  She turns to Dennis.

  "We're safe? It's all gone?"

  He nods. "It is as if J'accuse never existed, give or take the copies of the interviews now in the hands of The Speaker and Vent."

  Jaffa smiles. "Best we go and say hello, then." She looks out, once more, and whistles. "This looks serious."

  Dennis joins her at the window as the grounds flood with light from the torches of Ferris's army, ten or twelve armed officers streaming through the gate. She opens the windows to let in the freezing January air; as the bangs on the cabin doors ring out loudly in the dark, silent morning, an uncharacteristic pang of fear pierces her heart.

  She ignores it.

  "Sod this. I'm not having it."

  She helter-skelters down the stairs, hurtling down the long hall to the entrance, with Dennis following. Flinging open the door, she sees DCI Rodney Ferris walking towards her.

  Before he can open his mouth to introduce himself, she shines her torch in his face.

  "What the hell is going on here? I am Cherry Taylor, the owner and manager of this community, and there is nothing illegal taking place on my property."

  Ferris puts his hand up to shield his eyes. "My name is DCI Rodney Ferris and I have a warrant for the arrest of Miss Lita Stone and Mr Andrew Reynolds, both of whom have committed offences likely to incite domestic unrest, as per Section 3B of the Public Disorder Act of 2026. I have a search warrant for both your house and its grounds―"

  Jaffa steps forward to look him in the eye, so close that he takes a step back.

  "In that case I suppose I will have to let you in, but I'm warning you now: if damage occurs to any part of my home, or if any member of my community feels intimidated by your thugs, I shall be making a full complaint."

  She and Dennis do not exchange a glance as the men turn the room upside down.

  "So what are these computers used for?" asks the bullish-looking fellow who introduced himself as DI Robert Lloyd.

  Jaffa shrugs. "Nothing, at the moment. We use my laptop and tablet downstairs to access the internet when we need it. These are just here for future projects; several members of my community want to start work on novels. There's nothing on them now, though. You can take away the hard drives, if you like."

  "Bag them up," Lloyd instructs his men. Watching them obey his command, Jaffa experiences a moment of gut-dissolving panic, not unlike in her journalistic heyday when, high in the sky en route to New York, she would convince herself that she'd left her iron plugged in, or her back door unlocked. Dennis's eyes reassure her; he knows his stuff. If Dennis says it's all gone, it's all gone.

  She watches DI Lloyd gaze around at the bare walls, his frustration mounting as his men examine computers and find nothing. A whoop of triumph echoes around the room as one of them happens upon a file called 'The Usual Suspects', which is revealed to be nothing but photographs of Jaffa's old friends, at various barbecues and dinner parties.

  "I'll need to take your own laptop, and tablet, and any phones."

  "I doubt I can refuse, but I'll require a receipt and the assurance that I'll get them all back as soon as possible. I need them for the administration of Lake Lodge. If you must read my personal emails I don't suppose I can stop you, but you'll probably be bored stiff."

  Ferris appears, hands on the door frame, his presence filling the doorway. "What about J'accuse?"

  Cherry frowns. "Sorry?"

  "J'accuse. The website that hosted Lita Stone and Andy Reynolds' revelations. Come on, Cherry, we know your part in it."

  She affects an air of slightly amused bewilderment. "I was involved a long time ago, when my friend Lucinda Green started it up, but I've had nothing to do with it for a long time."

  Ferris moves into the room, making his way over to the window and staring out. "Where's Lita Stone now? She lives here, doesn't she? Her and Brody Carroll?"

  "Oh yes. Haven't seen them for a few days, though; perhaps they went off to make these revelations of which you speak?" Ferris's face is a picture; it makes her want to laugh. "People do leave here now and again, you know, to see families and friends. As long as they arrange cover for any work shifts, and let me know approximately when they'll be back, their lives are theirs to do with as they wish."

  Ferris turns back to face her. "So when did Stone and Carroll say they'd return? And where have they gone?"

  "Ooh, down south, I think. Somewhere in London, or Surrey; I can't say for sure. As to when they were supposed to be back, I think they said yesterday." She glances at Dennis. "Is that right, Dennis?"

  "Reckon so, yes. Or the day before. Or tomorrow."

  Jaffa beams at the DCI. "The difficulty is, neither of them use mobile phones, so we can't get in touch. I'm so sorry we can't be more helpful, Mr Ferris." She touches the arm of his black cashmere coat; he stares down at her hand on his sleeve as though he is not quite sure what it is.

  "It’s DCI Ferris, madam."

  "We can get
her to give you a call as soon as she comes back," offers Dennis.

  Ferris steps back, out of reach of Jaffa's hand. "Come on, there must be someone here who knows where she is. Kendall Clarke?"

  "I wouldn't know, but I'd ask you to treat her gently; the poor girl's had a lot to deal with lately." She shrugs. "I'm sorry, but I don't see how we can be of further assistance."

  "Who the hell doesn't have a phone, in this day and age?"

  "Lita and Brody. Not as far as I know, anyway."

  "What about Andy Reynolds?"

  "Who? Oh, he's the other chap you mentioned, isn't he? I've never met him; I'm sorry, Mr Ferris, but you're going to have to continue your search elsewhere."

  Ferris's exasperation fills the room. He turns, without speaking, and storms out, yelling at DI Lloyd to take his team throughout the house and turn every room upside down, search every cabin until Lita Stone is found.

  Jaffa follows him. "Mr Ferris."

  He turns, red in the face. "Yes?"

  Her smile has disappeared. "Just so you remember: if any of my or my friends' property is damaged, or if any of them feel unnecessarily intimidated by your officers, I will be submitting a full complaint, which I will pursue. As long as you understand that, please feel free to continue with your investigation."

  "I can't tell you what I don't know."

  DI Judy Marsden is trying hard to keep her voice sympathetic, to remain calm. Is Kendall Clarke really this stupid, or is she playing dumb?

  "But you're very close, aren't you? You share this―" she looks around at the small, rather untidy cabin"―this chalet with her. I can't believe she wouldn't have told you where she was going." She tries the friendly approach again. "Come on, Kendall. The sooner we find her, the easier it'll be. You'll be doing her a favour. We'll give her a chance to say her piece, air her grievances. Put things right, you know?"

  "That's nice. I hope you find her, in that case. But I don't know where she is."

  "She's your best friend, Kendall. You've lived with her for some years now, haven't you?" She tries her friendly grin once more. "BFFs? Thick and thin?"

  "We're not fifteen. And Lita's, like, private. She keeps herself to herself, you know?"

  "But you must be missing her. She's gone off with her boyfriend and left you here to fend for yourself; Melanie, at Hope 37, told me she thought of you as her little sister. I would have thought you'd feel a bit abandoned, yeah? I know I would."

  "No. Like I said, we're not fifteen."

  Marsden's smile stiffens. "Do you mind if I look at her bedroom?"

  "Can I say yes?"

  "I'm afraid you can't forbid me, but we like to ask permission before we barge in."

  Kendall opens her eyes wide. "You best get on with it, then."

  The search proves fruitless; Marsden uncovers nothing but old clothes, toiletries and a few personal items: books, jewellery. Not so much as a hint about the current location of Lita Stone.

  The friendly approach hasn't worked. Time for Plan B.

  "You know," she says, walking back into the tiny living room, "that if I uncover any evidence that leads me to believe you're concealing information, you can be charged with obstructing the course of justice?"

  "Course I do, I've watched enough cop shows. But I've told you―she left a few days ago and I don't know where she's gone. If I don't know, I can't tell you, can I?"

  Jaffa and Dennis watch them drive away.

  "They'll be back," she says, "and I imagine they'll have already set up some form of surveillance. We'll need to keep an eye on Morgan; I wouldn't put it past him, if he thinks there might be some financial incentive."

  "But he doesn't know anything."

  "He knows they got into a car with me, at six in the morning, a few days ago. On the other hand, it's his word against both of ours. Keep him tracked at all times, though, won't you?" She links her arm through Dennis's, and surveys the mess left in the overturned kitchen. "Meanwhile, isn't it wonderful to know that they haven't turned up a bloody thing?"

  Two days later

  On The Speaker:

  '...calls have been made for an independent enquiry to be launched into the management of Hope Villages. Prime Minister Guy Morrissey assures the public that such an enquiry will be carried out as a matter of priority. In the meantime, charities for the homeless are issuing warnings: if you're living in or about to be moved into a Hope Village, insist on seeing an independent GP before accepting prescribed medication. Meanwhile, Doctor Jakub Kacszynski, the GP named in the recent revelations made by whistleblower Lita Stone, has been removed from his position at Hope Village 37, pending investigation.'

  On Town Crier:

  'Whether or not the claims made by Lita Stone and Andy Reynolds carry weight, our sources confirm that Hope Village residents all over the country are refusing medication provided by on-site doctors'.

  "I bet Kacszynski's being kept safe somewhere," Brody says. "They're doing whatever's necessary to appease the public outcry, that's all."

  We're sitting at the kitchen table in our little cottage. I lean back, twiddling with the handle of my coffee cup. "So it was all for nothing, then."

  "Of course it wasn't. Big changes don't happen overnight. What you've done is opened people's eyes."

  I'm just about to ask him if Jaffa knows when we might be able to go home, but I stop myself. This is my home, now. I have to get used to it.

  "The message is out, anyway," he continues. "If you go into a Hope Village, don't drink the Kool-Aid."

  But what about Nick? No one will have to answer for him. Or Kendall's baby.

  I remember what Brody said: we can't go up against a giant like Nutricorp and win, but we can speak out for those who can't.

  It doesn't seem like enough.

  41

  Brand #MoMo

  One week later

  "A decision has been made, my dear. Your time approaches."

  Mona Morrissey nestles into the cushions on the soft leather of the couch in Caleb Bettencourt's private suite, on the top floor of the London Nutricorp HQ. Happiness floods through her; to see her father looking at her with such warmth, albeit via VisChat, is a rare pleasure indeed.

  His very presence makes her lips turn up in the coy, girlish fashion Paul Bettencourt hates, and she checks herself.

  "Thank you. When will Guy be told?"

  "Soon. The public is still pro-Morrissey, though the Group knows this is mostly down to you. My analysts tell me that this Lita Stone business has left your popularity unscathed, whereas Guy's is on shaky ground. There will be a vote of no confidence in Guy next month, after which we will back Jeremiah Kingsley's bid for leadership; he's the right man for this interim period, to ensure that the party remains in power for the next five years. You will be invited to join his Cabinet as Home Secretary after the election next May. Don't worry, it's all taken care of." He honours her with a smile that could almost be described as fatherly. "After that, we simply wait, and see how his term unfolds. I may have only fifteen or twenty more years on this earth, and I plan to spend eight of them safe in the knowledge that my daughter is PM of the UK. I am assured that this is the Group's desired outcome; it could come about earlier than we think, should Kingsley make the odd misstep."

  "Thank you."

  The words don't convey her joy, but she knows better than to display emotion. Self-control is all; Paul taught her that, from an early age.

  "You will need to push Freya Wilson into the spotlight, when the time comes," he continues. "She's the future of the party."

  Caleb leans forward, into his uncle's eye view. "What about Operation Galton?"

  His uncle dismisses the question with a wave of his hand. "For every person who has taken Stone's claims seriously, there will be two who haven't heard them, three who have but aren't interested, and four who dismiss them as an insane rant. It'll die down. A token selection of town councils have been instructed to build blocks of sleeping pods and shower units for the hom
eless; these will be made much of in the press, and it'll keep the banner wavers happy." He refills the crystal glass on his desk, and gives a little chuckle that reminds Mona of those brief, infrequent moments in her childhood when they shared a game, a joke. "What we need," he says, "is a nice royal wedding to give the great unwashed something else to chatter about."

  "I'm sure it can be arranged!" puts in Caleb.

  Mona asks, "What will happen to Guy?"

  "He'll be awarded a prestigious position in a charitable organisation―something female- or child-orientated, which will, of course, enhance your own popularity."

  "I still want to find Stone," says Caleb.

  "We will. Information can be acquired, or she may give herself up without knowing; homesickness can override sense, at times. The fall-out from her little temper tantrum has proved more widespread than anticipated, but we're going ahead with Phase III, though it will be delayed for a year or so, until the furore about Phase II dies down. Our objective is still on course."

  "And Phase IV?" asks Caleb.

  "Phase IV will be more gradual, as industry requirements for the next few decades are assessed; at the moment it's impossible to estimate how large a workforce will be needed in, say, thirty years from now, but initial steps will begin in 2038. Quietly ticking away during your first term in office, my dear."

  Caleb raises his glass to the screen; Mona does the same, and clinks it against that of her cousin.

  "Because in Mona Morrisey's UK," she says, softly, "there will be no room for passengers."

  Three thousand, four hundred miles away, Paul Bettencourt raises his glass to his daughter and nephew.

  "Amen to that."

  He gives her that smile again, and all is well with her world.