Such news quickly reached other villages. The stranger soon became a guru. His reputation spread across the land as the man who took on hopelessness, where others had said it could not be tackled. Followers came to learn his methods and disseminate them elsewhere.
But over time, the villagers tired of the stranger. They started to take his legacy for granted, forgetting how life was before his arrival, and how radical his ideas had been. They began to believe that if the stranger had not arrived, someone else would have inevitably introduced such ideas: such as the mayor and local aristocracy who had grown tired of this stranger hogging all the praise and challenging the status quo. Their jealousies grew, and they sought to undermine the stranger, instigating rumours, embellishing mistakes, seizing on misunderstandings, as hearsays became regarded as facts. All the stranger’s actions became framed within a story of ego and corruption.
The stranger felt this irreversible changing of the tides. Gleeful rumours circulated that he was under investigation. It came as no surprise when the court writ finally arrived, notifying him of the case against him.
‘But what am I accused of?’ asked the stranger at court.
‘Accused?’ said the judge. ‘We have irrefutable proof of your lies. For years you have been treated like a saint for the creation of dreams and their fulfilment. But this is lies. Lies, lies, lies.’ There were gasps from the public gallery. ‘Only 48 per cent of dreams have come true. That is 52 per cent of dreams that remain broken, wretched, haunting their owners, while we hang on your coat tails.’ There were screams of ‘liar’ and ‘fraud’ from the gallery.
The stranger let out a warm laugh. He clapped his hands together, excited that someone had pointed out this fact. ‘Isn’t that amazing? Absolutely amazing.’ The court looked puzzled. ‘How could we have ever imagined this only years ago? 48 per cent of people! 48! Not only having dreams, but having them come true. Isn’t that the best news you’ve ever heard?’
And you know what? The court thought about it, and it probably was.
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, today marks the inaugural National Benefit of the Doubt Day. Its premise is simple. What would happen if we chose to see the best in people and events? What if our natural reaction to an event was to suspend judgement? Today we do not see wicked deeds lurking in grey areas.
National Benefit of the Doubt Day starts at home, with your family, fellow commuters, pedestrians and colleagues. Remember, every day can be National Benefit of the Doubt Day if you choose to make it so.
life is beautiful stood at the top of every paper in the newsstand, adorning the centre of news channels’ scroll bars. The nation rose to find a world that had shifted slightly on its axis. They would quickly learn that the headline was just pretend, but few would forget their initial reaction: the excitement, the consequences.
While the premise was, of course, sentimental and naïve, there appeared a greater courtesy between drivers. Colleagues chanced a smile as they wished one another good morning.
There were no reports of anyone being fired or students expelled. Perhaps some friendships were re-evaluated and relationships saved. It would be foolish to over-claim on the day’s behalf. But you could see its presence in the doorways being opened for strangers. It was the social elephant introducing itself to the room.
The first thing Michael noticed was the sport section. His team had won the night before, and, national incident or not, he was more interested in the manager’s post-match interview. But the bad refereeing decisions were described as ‘understandable considering the atmosphere’. Poor substitutions were today regarded as ‘brave’.
Barrett took the opportunity to make the best paper she could. She got the best journalists writing about what they knew and brought in experts to write editorials. Rather than the ransom being an attack on journalism, the Daily Voice heralded it as its potential saviour. No articles scored below an eight.
Not all journalists enjoyed the day. Some were forced to write rubbish and score it accordingly. One news anchor introduced a segment by saying, ‘This report is unlikely to help you understand the issue in any tangible way.’ But for many it offered a little respite, an outline of where the bar could be redrawn.
Polls suggested an approval rating for National Benefit of the Doubt Day of 66 per cent. 23 per cent decided to reserve immediate judgement.
Mainstreaming
Tuesday, May 26th
Michael was watching daytime television in his office. It was ten thirty. The phrase ‘on the taxpayer’s watch’ gnawed at his conscience, but after the weekend’s productivity he felt en-titled to watch live audience debates populated by people he would never wish to have dinner with.
The debate topic blazoned across the bottom of the screen was ‘Kidnappers: friend or foe?’. The majority were in the friend camp. Michael reminded himself that the majority were not geopolitical strategists. ‘They’re the best thing to happen to this country in years,’ said a middle-aged man with frightening conviction.
The hostages were becoming a sideshow to the main event. Michael found himself transformed: the current crisis was the most productive period he had known in government. He was having fun. Even Greenham had called looking for news and asked if he fancied a beer.
The Foundation sent a message to all the editors of the British media at midnight, which read simply: ‘It’s good news!’ The relief mixed with uncertainty as to what they should do next. Barrett decided upon a paper much like the day before. Other papers followed suit: a headline read: every day is national benefit of the doubt day. Online debates asked what this meant for the industry. Did the population really want to be bombarded with negativity?
‘Unfortunately so,’ said Charlie. ‘People will soon return to finding comfort in the seediness and misfortune of others.’
‘Maybe,’ said Michael. ‘It just seems people are a little more . . . upbeat.’
‘As are you.’
‘As am I. It’s this or looking at banking reform. Now there’s a story that isn’t worth telling. The best I came up with was Hansel and Gretel with our dear Chancellor Verso as the witch.’
‘He loves a gingerbread.’
‘He’d probably have eaten the house before the kids arrived.’
‘At least he’d be too full to eat them.’
‘Eat them? Verso’s more likely to home school them. Hansel and Gretel will return a year later with impeccable Latin.’
Charlie smiled and turned the TV over to another news channel.
‘You know what time it is?’ said Michael. Charlie turned towards him. ‘It’s time to show a little more concerned helplessness.’
That afternoon Lucy received a call from the Prime Minister’s secretary inviting her to Downing Street. Lucy gave short submissive answers. When she agreed to Miller’s proposition she understood its potential gravity, but never believed it would get this far. A couple of press photographers remained loitering outside her door. She now felt dizzy, staring down a precipice that had appeared without warning. She texted Miller. ‘What should I do?’
Miller texted back: ‘He didn’t invite my mum. Stay calm. Will have a chat and get back to you.’
The Foundation had yet to decide how they would use a link to the PM, but Jordie argued, ‘It’s better to wish you hadn’t put your car key into the bowl than to wish you had.’
Lucy responded surprisingly well to the directive of being their car key.
‘Just be yourself. Don’t ask specific questions. Just try to see where he stands.’
Immediately after, she received a second text: ‘And thank you. X ’
There was a sense of purpose in the Cairo head office. The success of the second demand gave them confidence; it looked to the outside world like they had a plan.
‘At this point,’ Aiya said to Liam as they sat on the sofas, ‘I’d like to offer my congratulations. The ransom was a success because of you.’
Liam remained unmoved. He struggled to a
ccept compliments from adolescents, no matter how prodigious. The idea for the demand was not his. The ransom publicly mourned his potential: his was a cautionary tale. He felt confused and defensive, and the others picked up on this fresh melancholy. Jordie stood up from the sofa, waddled three steps towards Liam and offered his hand. Liam stared at it momentarily before shaking it. Jordie nodded sagely and sat back down.
‘So who’s next?’ Aiya said excitedly.
‘The way I see it, it’s a battle of the most miserable,’ said Jordie, ‘and while I’m no Desmond Tutu, I’d say Dicky’s the next most downcast bastard in the room.’
No one objected.
‘Home brew?’ said Aiya to Richard.
*
Lucy passed security into Downing Street on her way to Number 10. She wore a long grey skirt and jacket: she had spent the evening imagining what a grieving girlfriend should wear and settled on her work clothes. She was met at the door by an aide and escorted through the building to the Prime Minister’s office. The aide knocked and opened the door. Michael and Charlie stood up to welcome her.
‘Miss Smalling,’ Michael said. Lucy smiled shyly back. ‘Sorry, would you prefer me to call you Miss Smalling or Lucy?’
‘Lucy’s fine.’
‘Of course. Lucy, can I get you a coffee?’
‘Um, yes . . . thank you.’
Michael nodded at the aide who left.
‘Please, take a seat.’ Michael and Charlie joined her next to three seats that had been arranged by the bookcase. ‘I really wanted to convey my deepest sympathy over what has happened. We’re doing all we can to find out where they are. Our best intelligence is working with our Egyptian counterparts in Cairo. It’s our number one priority to bring them home safely. I can assure you of that.’ It sounded like such a natural reaction he briefly believed it was true.
Lucy felt smothered by the situation and tried to calm her shaking hands. She recognised the characters’ names from 1984 written on the whiteboard. The photos on the wall, Pooh Bear on the bookshelf, the full-length mirror: the office seemed to further the farcical turn her life had taken.
‘Thank you,’ Lucy said. The muscles on her face struggled to coordinate the necessary emotions. ‘So, is there any news?’ At least her fragility and fear were authentic.
‘Let me be honest. We have leads, but are unfortunately waiting for the kidnappers’ next move.’
Lucy nodded, absent-mindedly sucking on her own hair.
‘So . . .’ Michael ventured. ‘I can’t begin to imagine how hard it must be waiting around for news.’
Nor could Lucy. She gave a brave smile, nodded and searched for some words. Under pressure, her remarks had a habit of turning literary.
‘I feel like Penelope waiting for Odysseus to return,’ she said, staring longingly through the window. She closed her eyes as a means of escape. Drawing the parallel between herself and a universal symbol for marital fidelity missed the restrained humility Lucy hoped to parade.
‘Let’s just hope it doesn’t take this Odysseus 20 years to return to Ithaca,’ Michael said with a warm smile. ‘I’m usually the only one who makes literary analogies around here.’
‘Is that one of them?’ Lucy said, gesturing with her head at the whiteboard.
Michael laughed nervously. ‘It’s one of my more recent attempts.’ The board was split into four sections, with a jumble of arrows, names and circles muddling the middle two. In the first column the words ‘Airstrip One, Oceania’, ‘Big Brother’ and ‘Ministry of Energy’ were underlined, and in the final column read: ‘Town runs on 100 per cent renewable energy.’
‘How’d it work?’ asked Lucy with interest.
Michael uncrossed his legs and leaned back in his seat. ‘Not great.’
‘I’m happy my Prime Minister tries to govern with Orwellian analogies.’ They both smiled, the earlier frost now a puddle on the floor.
The aide knocked and entered the office with three cups of coffee. It gave Lucy a few moments to re-enter character.
‘So have you ever had kidnappers make demands like this before?’ she said.
Michael shuffled slightly. ‘No. No, it’s all rather strange. We don’t know exactly what their motives are.’
Lucy’s hands covered her face, as if to hide her stubborn tears. Michael leaned forward, his hand outstretched ready to descend on her shoulder. It quickly drew back as Lucy sat up again.
‘I’m at least consoled that the ransoms have asked for things Miller would support. That maybe there is a happy ending. Is that silly?’
Michael shook his head. ‘No, not at all.’
‘As terrible as it sounds,’ Lucy continued, ‘I can’t help but wonder what the next demand will be. It’s as if so long as the ransoms remain benevolent, their treatment of him will be too.’
Michael felt a growing respect for this young woman: mature, selfless, wise, a listener. ‘I know. These events inspire mixed emotions. I suppose we’ve all wondered what could be asked for next.’ He immediately apologised, aghast at his own insensitivity.
‘It’s OK. Really,’ said Lucy. ‘It’s only natural. I’ve done it also, as a way to distract myself from the other images . . .’ She attempted a sad smile. ‘I’d be interested at some point to hear what you’ve come up with.’
‘Oh,’ said Michael, who was keen to move on and pretend he had never brought it up. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I could do that.’
Lucy gave a reserved smile. ‘I’d like that.’
‘So, Richard. Oil executive. Environmentalist. You must have broken a few demands you’d have made of yourself,’ said Aiya.
Her voice made Richard feel he was playing doctors with his niece. He refilled another home brew.
‘When I was younger, the only thing I demanded of myself was that I’d jump from GoldBlue if it looked like it was going wrong. I didn’t. Fine. But it was never my job to demand things from myself. People had to demand things of me. And by me, I mean the market.’
‘Wasn’t me, guv’nor,’ said Jordie in a terrible cockney accent.
Richard shrugged. ‘If I didn’t maximise profits, I’d have been fired, and someone else would carry on as usual.’
Jordie shook his head. ‘A position worth fighting for has risks attached.’
‘Coming from Mother fucking Teresa. Have you tried changing the system recently? I get all this crap about me being the system. They’re the system. Shareholders make money from people buying their products. People. Not me. I’m the scapegoat for a population with double standards. GoldBlue got crucified after Crest Voyager – but did our profits drop? Did anyone stop buying our petrol? Of course they fucking didn’t. Show companies that profits rely on change, and they will.’
‘So it’s the people’s fault?’ said Jordie.
‘Of course it is. Everywhere there are people who don’t live by their values and blame people like me for their weakness.’
‘But is it a moral choice if you know your own sacrifice won’t affect anything?’ said Miller, who had often thought about becoming a vegetarian. No one had an answer.
‘To summarise, there’re many people who would’ve wanted to screw you over,’ Jordie said to Richard, ‘but they were too uncoordinated to place a demand serious enough to threaten your shareholders.’
‘I could go along with that.’
‘So let’s get them coordinated.’
Over the next hour they made a list of the companies they felt were owed some demands. There were many candidates.
As they began to debate whose list was best, Jalila, who had sat quietly throughout the discussion, raised her head and smiled at the others. They studied her face as she looked at Aiya, fascinated by the minor movements that formed their conversation.
‘Mum thinks the world would be a better place if you were the leaders of it,’ Aiya said. ‘But you’re not. We’re not here to change capitalism; we’re not going to end inequality. We’re here to help people realise that they have the p
ower if they only knew it.’
The men looked deflated.
‘I think, gentlemen,’ said Aiya, ‘a good starting point is to ask if your demand would fit on a banner.’
‘I wasn’t expecting you to give a veiled tribute to the kidnappers in front of a hostage’s girlfriend,’ said Charlie to Michael once Lucy had left.
Michael looked pensive. ‘Indeed, I’m a man full of surprises recently. She didn’t seem too upset by it, though, did she?’
‘I don’t think so. It was nice to see you bond with a fellow literary mind. Anyway, do you want me to brief the press on the meeting?’
Michael was staring at his bookshelf and scanning the titles on the spines.
‘Michael? Did you hear me? What do you want me to do?’
Michael looked towards Charlie. ‘I want you to clear me a couple of hours today so that I can have some thinking time.’
‘For what?’
‘I’m going to sketch out what my demand would look like.’
‘Good news: they have no idea where you are. Bad news: I’m not sure I appeared too concerned about it,’ Lucy texted Miller once she got home.
‘Sounds like we’ve been in a relationship for years,’ replied Miller.
It took time to decide on their targets. GoldBlue was an obvious choice, but the tactics lacked the required visual symbolism. Boycotting online companies would similarly fail. Their targets needed to sell exclusively from physical outlets, and options were fewer than they imagined.
‘So, we’ll send the letters to the companies tomorrow and give them until Monday before phase two kicks in. Agreed?’ said Liam.
‘Are we sure it’s going to get to phase two? What happens if phase one succeeds?’ said Miller. ‘We’ll seem like unimagin-ative bullies.’
‘Trust me,’ said Richard. ‘I was one of them. It’ll definitely get to phase two.’
‘And then what if phase two doesn’t go as we hope?’ said Miller.
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