In the early evening, a downstairs neighbour knocked at the door of Fathima Ahmed. After five minutes of knocking and calling to no response, she called her husband who forced the door open. The apartment was tidy, but empty. On a small table by the only chair in the room was a message. It simply read: Well Done.
Miller and Jordie
Friday, April 24th
Somewhere in Uttar Pradesh, North India
Miller knocked on the door timidly, until he built up confidence and called Jordie’s name. He heard a body turn in bed, a slight pause, before the words ‘fucking bollocks’ emerged in a pained Glaswegian drawl. An assortment of grunts, moans and expletives followed.
‘You all right?’ said Miller.
Something bumped into the wall. ‘Coffee, a glass of water with sugar and salt, some complex carbohydrate. No ethnic shit.’ The bathroom door slammed shut.
He got the breakfast takeaway and sat in the lobby to hide from the driver and translator who had been waiting outside for over an hour. At 9.27 Jordie’s bulk shuffled from the stairwell door. Jordie’s walk was a waddle: his six foot two frame endured 18 stone of meat hanging on for dear life, and he had developed the art of getting from A to B using diagonal switchbacks, like workmen moving a heavy wardrobe. He wore khaki combat trousers, shirt and sunhat. A faded green sleeveless jacket, armed with a range of secret pockets and zips, broke the beige.
He acknowledged Miller with a nod, as he followed him out the door, liquids and complex carbohydrates in tow. ‘Fucking hell,’ Jordie said as his eyes met sunlight. He cracked open a bottle of pills and shook a few into his hand without looking, chasing them down with Miller’s makeshift rehydration fluids. He threw the bottle of pills at the driver, who fumbled them in his surprise, as Jordie pulled himself up into the front seat.
‘There are poor people to save, gentlemen. Let’s get cracking.’
Miller joined the translator in the back seat. From the safety of the vehicle, Miller viewed the condensed chaos of life on the margins: cycle and motor rickshaws, bikes, cows, dilapidated taxis and modern land cruisers weaved in between vendors and beggars. He eyed it all with suspicion, seeing malevolence not in people, but in the infinite unknowns that made up this environment.
He occasionally caught the eye of the destitute and would quickly return to his phone, calming the anxiety brought on by random intimacies. Alleviating poverty was his destiny in spite of his discomfort at interacting with its sufferers. He cursed his liberal upbringing. His briefcase was filled with questionnaires and surveys that would mediate his relationship with the Indians he had been sent to consult.
Within minutes, Jordie had fully reclined his seat, placed his hat over his face, and started to snore. He was the polar opposite of Miller: he could bathe in extreme poverty and not even acknowledge it.
The drive would take two and a half hours and meander through urban sprawl and bumpy back road. A Norwegian foundation had contracted their think tank to write a study on the potential benefits and obstacles to delivering a solar-based energy system to a village off the main electricity grid. It was the type of project Miller wrote excitedly about from afar.
Miller had recently attempted to add a metrosexual twist to his natural intelligentsia style, but this was undermined by his awkward mannerisms, which proved stubborn to change. Still, your daughter could do worse; she probably already has. Lulled by heat and motion, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He awoke as his head cracked against the window. The vehicle stopped.
‘What the fuck?’ said Jordie. The driver jumped out to look under the car; Srinath, the translator, joined him. Apart from a bicycle slowly coming towards them there was no sign of life. It was 11.30, 43 degrees, and they were late.
Jordie eased himself out, and shuffled forward to afford a view under the car. Miller exited to meet Jordie’s diagnosis.
‘We’re buggered,’ said Jordie as he heaved himself back into the air conditioning.
Miller surveyed his surroundings: the endless baked brown of ploughed fields that stretched to the horizon: overexposed, vast and unforgiving. His insignificance brought on an attack of nausea, and he rejoined Jordie in the vehicle.
‘This is what the third world is about: delays, breakdowns, futility. It’s romantic, no?’ said Jordie, struggling to reach for a water bottle in the footwell. ‘Fuck me, it’s hot,’ he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and looking down his darkening khaki shirt. ‘I think my body’s become allergic to poverty. My nipples are lactating, and no matter what you’ve heard, sweaty nipples undermine authority.’ His wispy smooth grey hair was smeared moistly on to his forehead and nape: the effect was more comical than repulsive.
‘Have we got a number for someone in the village?’ asked Miller.
Jordie shook his head, unconcerned.
‘OK, well, have they rung for help?’ Miller said, pointing towards Srinath.
‘Be my guest,’ Jordie said, elaborately waving Miller outside.
Miller had a quick look at Jordie before he reluctantly opened the door and left their guilty sanctuary.
After 20 minutes, a couple of cyclists stopped by the vehicle. Workers, previously invisible in the fields, soon joined the committee of onlookers. Miller wanted neither to stay outside, nor to complete the image of two white men hiding in the car. He resolved to circumnavigate it slowly. When outside, a group of four young women looked at him, giggling. He had no idea whether out of desire or ridicule.
Jordie opened the window. ‘Relax. They’re looking at me. My body always gets them hot under the saris. Hey!’ he said loudly, pointing to a boy holding a bicycle. He waved a 500-rupee note. ‘Coca-Cola.’ He pronounced each syllable deliberately. The boy looked confused. ‘Money for you, Coca-Cola for me.’ The bill could buy 25 Cokes. The boy took the note. ‘Before I evaporate.’ Jordie wound the window back up.
The driver’s phone rang, and Srinath conveyed the news that help was at least a couple of hours away. They were already two hours late.
Miller anxiously devised contingencies. Rearrangement? Cancellation? Reimbursement? As Jordie said, things went wrong in the field: their clients would understand. He felt tired and dirty, dehydrated and deflated. He got back in the car. The audience remained. Jordie was asleep. He closed his eyes and wished it all away.
Miller awoke to Srinath knocking on the window. In front of them was a land cruiser with tinted windows; behind them was an open-bedded truck filled with goats, accompanied by a fresh brown sludge.
‘Good news,’ said Srinath. ‘The truck is going to the village. We can jump in the back and driver will wait for repair and come pick us up.’
It was two. They could be there in an hour. It was far from perfect, but they had time to do what they needed to, and get back late. However, after his afternoon doze he no longer felt mentally prepared to brave a village consultation.
‘And where’s that one going?’ said Jordie, gesturing to the land cruiser.
Srinath look confused. ‘That one goes back to city.’
Jordie attempted a polite smile. ‘Could you give us a minute please?’
Srinath nodded as Jordie closed the window.
‘You want to rearrange and come back tomorrow?’ said Miller.
They made eye contact through the rear-view mirror. Jordie shook his head. ‘Do you?’
Miller did not. But this opinion seemed irrelevant: people had spent a large amount of money to get him here, and he had got in to the industry, in part, because he believed in selflessly helping others. But Jordie read his silence.
‘Of course you fucking don’t.’
Miller looked nervous. ‘What are you suggesting?’
He saw a hint of uncertainty on Jordie’s face, as if the idea pushed even his flippancy to its boundary.
‘I suggest we go back to the hotel, get a beer and fill in the questionnaires over some nachos.’ The red, moist face appeared serious.
‘Jordie, that’s . . . that
’s . . .’
‘I’m not stopping you. But my head feels like it’s been raped by a horse, the seat contains more of me than I do, and I’m past giving a fuck. Let’s not get too high and mighty about what we were going to do there. They’re the passive Play-Doh we unleash our weary altruism upon. We can do that by the fucking pool.’
Jordie opened the door, and turned his body for dismount.
‘Jordie . . . We’ll never pull it off.’
‘Miller,’ he said, feet dangling out of the car. ‘One poor village is exactly the same as the next. Our clients couldn’t give a toss which one we give them.’
‘But . . .’
‘Miller. If we go there, they’ll start asking for things from us they actually want. And we’re not here to respond to their demands. We have one thing to give them, and our job is to make that exchange seem mutual rather than the ransom it really is. So as you can see, not going has many benefits.’ He heaved himself out of the car, using the door and frame as supports, then headed to the land cruiser.
Miller panicked. The horizon shimmered in the heat. He sensed derision etched on the faces of those crowded around him, and imagined countless similar faces at his destination. His limbs felt weak.
‘Miller?’ Jordie shouted at him, beckoning him towards the land cruiser. ‘There’re two seats.’
A goat shat against its companion in the truck. A drip of sweat ran down Miller’s forehead into his eye. He reached for his briefcase on the back seat.
After showering, Miller arrived poolside; the water was pale green with rotting leaves on its surface: an attraction for the mosquitos that loitered under their rusting paint-chipped table.
‘A beer?’ Jordie asked politely. ‘So look . . . if anyone can fake a fucked-up village perfect for this project, you and I can. We both know there’s no chance of the project being implemented. And, you know . . .’ He paused. ‘I’ll try not to put you in this position again.’
They exchanged a glance, then Miller drew the questionnaires from his briefcase.
Over the next three hours they created their model village: poor, ripe with vulnerabilities, and ready for change. Jordie detailed the icebreaker games they played to put the attendees at ease; Miller held group discussions with women to understand their struggles; Jordie held discussions with the men, somehow managing to release their insecurities; they mapped the village, with children helping to detail where energy was generated and collected; elders contributed their wisdom; questionnaires were answered en masse by enthusiastic beneficiaries. Unfortunately they found out that another NGO had already approached the elders and had started the first steps on a similar project. The report, therefore, was valuable, yet the village unsuitable. Their dedication to doing good in the world would need a new location.
They stared at the pile of questionnaires, drawings and field notes. Jordie dirtied his hands on the floor and made brown stains on the crisp pages. Miller creased and ripped them. Jordie took out the work camera and dipped it in the swimming pool: the pictures of the meeting now sadly erased. They sucked deeply on their beers, in silent complicity: two men whose fates were now bound together.
Richard
Monday, April 27th
London
In Richard’s inbox was an email from Si.
Dear Richard,
Over the weekend a Norwegian foundation approached me who are looking for a partner to implement an urban solar energy project in Cairo. They hoped I might know someone with both knowledge of the industry and commitment (money!). They have a great track record and are considered to be very cool among many opinion formers. It struck me this may be somewhere you might like to dip your toe in the water?
It may seem small beer, but the plan is to pilot a neighbourhood, scale it up to a city and start showing the world it’s a viable alternative.
They are looking for 200K up front for the pilot. You can take it from there.
Let me know what you think.
‘Larry, it’s Richard.’
‘Sorry . . . Richard who?’
‘Larry, it’s me, Richard Pou—’
‘I know, you idiot, I could recognise that narcissistic tone anywhere. So what’s gone wrong?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean the last time you called me you asked if I knew anything about the land rights of native Amazonian tribes.’
‘And you did.’
‘I’m your go-to man for any issue you see as left of centre that has the potential to screw something up for you.’
‘Well relax, I was ringing to tell you that I listened to your haiku analysis of the tetragrrr . . .’
‘Tetragrammaton. And no you didn’t. Nobody rings up a friend to say, “I hated what you sent me.” Even you.’
‘Why do you think I hated it?’
‘Because it’s a haiku analysis of the tetragrammaton. It’s a niche market.’
‘Well . . . So what do you think about solar power?’
Larry laughed. ‘Would you care to be a little more specific? I thought you knew this stuff. That’s why you bought up loads of solar patents.’
‘Yeah, well . . . understanding it was less important than owning it. I’m talking panels on roofs and walls in poor urban neighbourhoods. What do you think?’
‘Your moral compass has lost none of its magnetism. Look, the principle is great, and you’re smart enough to deal with the detail.’
‘So?’
‘Go and be the man you always said you wanted to be.’
Michael
Wednesday, April 29th
London
Michael looked at Luther King on the wall. Would his message have withstood the inquisition of the modern media, or would his dream have turned from slave and slave-owner breaking bread together to that of a lie-in and an evening with a DVD box set?
‘I’m starting to feel a little misunderstood,’ said Michael as Charlie entered.
‘You’re right up there with Genghis Khan and Morrissey,’ replied Charlie.
Michael pulled a face. ‘I get the impression Genghis wasn’t one to get bogged down by due process.’
‘You can question his policy decisions, but man, could that guy implement,’ said Charlie, dumping a pile of paperwork on his desk. ‘Get these signed, and I’ll be back in an hour for Cabinet.’ Charlie shut the door behind him.
Michael had delivered a speech the week before that called on the unions to step back from the brink and engage in meaningful dialogue. He agreed with his critics that he lacked leadership. Words were his weapons: once used against others, now against himself. He thought he’d be able to change things when in power, but once he got there he realised the system was broken. The few had too much power to be convinced to negotiate. The only hope was for a changing of the rules, or a changing of the game. He would happily join the revolution. Abdication sounded enticing. Right now he’d settle for a little time spent on a project that made him optimistic.
Michael glanced at the words scribbled in black marker on his whiteboard: an old technique that had helped him to power, but which he had since lost faith in. He looked at the paperwork on his desk, then back at the whiteboard, before he stood up and locked the door.
Michael had surged through the political ranks with a rare gift for delivering a speech. He didn’t talk about the failures of others, or criticise policies that sought to improve systems that were terminally broken. Instead he invited the listener to imagine what great might look like, occasionally describing the heroic journey to its attainment with reference to the popular stories that had inspired him as he grew up.
In a famous party conference speech, he wowed the audience by using Beauty and the Beast as a parable to describe his strategy against tax evasion. On another occasion, he cited Sinbad as his inspiration in a talk about entrepreneurship. In a darker moment, he talked of Animal Farm as illustrative of the evils of the far right’s anti-immigrant rhetoric.
His words provoked some ridicule, bu
t for many others they proved refreshing. Here was a candidate who avoided empty political grandstanding. He was aware of the disconnect between the reality of people’s struggles and the fairy tales he sometimes used to frame a solution; but nonetheless, his election motto read: ‘Rayburn: Suspend Your Disbelief’.
In the General Election 52 per cent of the voters did.
He refused to hide behind soundbites. Three years on, he had nowhere to hide even if he wanted to. Disbelief was suspended no more.
He circled the floor in front of the whiteboard, black marker in hand. He split the whiteboard into four columns, labelling them Exposition, Rising Action, Climax, Resolution: the four stages of storytelling since time began.
He listed his proposed policy’s antagonists and protagon-ists. He drew arrows for tensions and stand-offs. He entered the minds of lobbyists and nimbys as the story came to a climax, and wondered if his protagonists had the ability to fend them off. The policy revealed itself as a quest. Until now he had misunderstood the central plot, and as he reworked the story’s structure he felt his old excitement return.
He pulled faces to relax his muscles and stood in front of the mirror, ready for rehearsal. He was not as old as he felt: forty-three, six foot, and in good shape. He had a warm face you could put your trust in, although he no longer asked for it.
There was a knock at the door. ‘You ready?’ came Charlie’s voice.
Michael nodded to himself. ‘Yes,’ he said, surprised. ‘Yes I am.’
He stared at the 35 people crammed around the Cabinet Office table. Michael felt sorry that the ornate trappings of state – the chandeliers, velvet curtains and paintings – should have to endure this rabble.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ said Michael. There was a murmured response. ‘I thought we could start on something I’ve been working on. It’s about—’
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