Serendipity Foundation_292
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There were a few nervous looks.
‘Until then,’ Aiya put in to refocus minds, ‘Miller and I build the website. Mum, you’ve got the board game, and you three experiment with the colouring and cornflour.’
The following email was sent to the head offices of two businesses, as well as the national press on Wednesday morning.
Dearest Companies,
We realise that people will frame our relationship as one in which we came after you. And we came after you because you were bad.
So from the outset let us be clear: we are approaching you because you have been let down by the public. Because of their apathy, your unethical actions were inevitable.
We are aware that your shareholders block attempts to inject morality into your business practices as it reduces profits, so we have come to offer our assistance. Simply fulfil the demands detailed below. You have until Monday to meet the demands, and if you do not, unsavoury action will be taken.
Kind regards,
The Serendipity Foundation
Demands
• The Fullbean Coffee Company must stop its attempts to block the trademarking of indigenous coffee beans by the Eritrean government.
• The Happy Burger Company must register itself and all subsidiaries connected to its UK operation as UK based, placing it under the remit of UK tax law.
The afternoon papers ran with the demand on the front page, and the analysis continued on TV and online. The large plasma screens at London stations beamed the news to commuters. The population seemed largely satisfied that big business was next in line. But in his office, Michael was less content.
‘I mean, it just doesn’t make sense.’
‘Why?’ said Charlie. ‘They’ve challenged government and the press; this seems a natural next step.’
‘But why two companies? They’re hardly unique in their disregard for the common good.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Maybe the kidnappers have specific grievances about them.’
‘Well, Fullbean Coffee does consistently over-roast its beans to leave a bitter residue on the palate. I don’t know,’ he said more seriously, ‘their last two ransoms were . . . cleverer. There was a complexity to them that hinted at a greater purpose. This one . . . it’s just a little basic, a little uninspiring.’
Charlie let out a little laugh. ‘It’s as if your favourite band just released a disappointing album.’
Michael gave a forced smile.
‘Michael, this shows they’re running out of ideas. We can soon focus on governing a country with a little bit of public approval for a change.’
Michael failed to notice Charlie’s silver lining. ‘It’s just . . .’ Michael started before falling back into silence. Charlie urged him to continue. ‘It’s just a bit of a wasted opportunity.’
‘In what way?’
‘I think my ransom is better.’
The two companies initially held their silence. They each felt a sense of injustice at having been singled out for actions they had simply copied from their competitors. It was the closest they had come to self-righteousness in years.
With less than three working days until the deadline, they had little opportunity to address the demands. It was as if the kidnappers hoped they would fail to respond positively. The CEOs knew their boards would not consider bowing to such ultimatums. All the operations being questioned had been deemed legal by highly paid law firms.
Polls indicated the public largely supported the demands, highlighting the belief that corporate law and regulation failed to ensure moral behaviour; however, many civic organisations were angry at the blame for unethical business practices being laid on the public. There was a feeling that the ransomers, who had so far appeared to be on the side of the citizen, had slightly betrayed them.
On Friday the companies prepared statements detailing the legality of their current operations, the impossible time restrictions placed on them for implementation, and an analysis of how such demands threatened the principles of the free market and, therefore, the cornerstone of civilisation. Vague invitations were made to the kidnappers for dialogue, but this was phrased as if speaking for the government rather than their own organisations.
Private capital did not negotiate with terrorists.
‘Where did you learn to do all this?’ asked Miller.
Aiya shrugged. ‘I started using computers from the age of four.’
‘Where? At school?’
‘Kind of.’
‘I didn’t realise that schools out here were progressive enough to teach girls how to build a website.’
She smiled as she typed. ‘Nor are they progressive enough to teach you how to hide four foreign men in your basement.’
Miller smiled back. ‘You and your mum never seem to talk too much about your past.’
‘Mum especially.’ Aiya giggled and broke from typing. ‘Mum saw that everyone was talking over each other, so decided to focus upon listening for a while.’ Aiya turned back to the computer screen; Miller withdrew his follow-up questions.
It was Friday lunchtime. The website was to go live the following evening. The design was sparse. At the top right-hand corner stood the Foundation’s logo as dictated by Jalila: a simple black outline of the thermometer-looking shape from the lobby wall. Wrapped around the bottom of the logo was their newly agreed motto: ‘Unreasonably demand the reasonable’. Jordie tested the page; it appeared idiot-proof.
Cabin fever had set in. They had become sensitive to the enforced intimacy with each other’s bodies. With phase two due to start on Monday, they decided they needed a break. Three weeks of facial hair growth provided a natural disguise, and it was agreed that with a combination of the sunglasses, white robes and turbans that Jalila had purchased, their identities would be safe so long as the females led. No one was looking for them in a museum.
On Saturday afternoon they granted themselves day release. They left in two threes: Aiya accompanied Jordie and Miller, while Jalila entertained Richard and Liam. They left separately and flagged taxis on the main street; Jalila handed the address to the driver. Security barely noted their existence as they entered the Egyptian Museum.
They inspected sarcophagi and golden masks. They read stories about Hapi, the god of the annual flooding of the Nile that kept Egypt alive; of Isis, the goddess of magic and motherhood; of Ra the god of the sun. On the one hand these gods were there to console and give meaning in a world of death and hopelessness. On the other, they were there to legitimise demands placed on populations. They were not the source of good deeds, but the excuse for doing them.
The Foundation had also become more powerful in the imagination than as flesh and bones. They had become myths, modern excuses for good deeds, contemporary gods in Arab disguise, with tired legs and a lust for ice cream.
On Monday, the rumours of non-compliance were confirmed. The country braced itself for the news that would spell the end of an enjoyable journey.
Michael found it impossible to focus. He stared unseeing at his computer screen, waiting for the drumming of feet racing towards his door. At 12.15pm the sound of Charlie’s purposeful size nines came down the corridor and into his office. Michael stared at him urgently.
‘And?’
‘The demands they made last week seem to have been an entrée. Here is the main course.’ Charlie handed Michael a sheet of A4 paper, which Michael snatched eagerly.
Dear All,
Our last demand was unreasonable and unimaginative. It was the type of demand you would expect from a common kidnapper.
Our key piece of advice to anybody placing a demand is this: you’ve got to hold the right people to ransom. Don’t ask for change from people who do not have the power to change it. You, the people, are the ones with the power, whether or not you choose to acknowledge it.
But getting a country to boycott a company is complicated. How can you guarantee your neighbour will likewise go without a juicy burger?
We have a solut
ion to your coordination problem. Anyone who consumes a product of Happy Burger or Fullbean Coffee will be held directly responsible for the deaths of the hostages. The last thing the hostages will see is the enlarged face of the person responsible for their deaths.
How do we get your pictures? We get them from you. At www.serendipityfoundation.org there are links to every outlet of the two companies involved. You, the public, will dissuade others from supporting these outlets by taking pictures of anyone who enters them. The website offers clear steps on how to upload these photos successfully.
This will last for as long as it takes the two companies involved to implement the demands previously detailed. All members of staff in these outlets are advised to wear uniforms and name badges at all times. The demand will commence at 9.00 tomorrow morning.
Regards,
The Serendipity Foundation
It was four in the afternoon and Michael was in a COBRA meeting. The Minister for Business had recently spoken to the two CEOs: their resolve remained unshakeable.
‘They reiterated that consumer choice is the bedrock of our democracy, and that they’ve a moral duty to stand firm against undemocratic demands.’
‘Of paying tax and letting the poor make a living wage: the first steps on the road to tyranny,’ said Michael.
‘We have four options,’ said Rawlins, moving the conversation on. ‘We either force the outlets or website to close, encouraging people to carry on as normal, or we enforce a picket line outside. Either way we need to mobilise every last law enforcement officer as it could turn ugly.’
‘And if you were to focus the mind just a little more, which option would you take?’ said Michael.
‘Prime Minister, my job is national security—’
‘Don’t we bloody know it?’
Rawlins collected himself and continued. ‘And as a man who cares only about safety, I recommend we shut down the website and encourage people to continue as normal. If it ends in four deaths, then we’ll put on a charming service at St Paul’s, but we’re talking about flashpoints potentially arising all over the country. More than four people could die through the ensuing chaos.’
‘Or maybe people will just grab a coffee somewhere else,’ said Michael with annoyance.
‘Prime Minister,’ said Cowling, ‘this could spiral dangerously out of control. We should encourage business as usual.’
There were nods around the room.
Michael shook his head. ‘Really? So long as enough people are responsible for murder, that’s OK, is it? Listen to me very carefully: under no circumstances does anyone make a statement. Mobilise law enforcement all you want, but they’re not to be deployed anywhere. No websites will be shut down. Someone has asked the public to rise to a challenge, and we’ll bloody well give them the opportunity to mess it up by themselves.’
Tuesday, June 2nd
If you found yourself outside the Fullbean Coffee outlet in Trafalgar Square at 8.45 you might have believed you were on the front line of an attack on the economic system. Protesters rolled police tape across the entrance, declaring it a crime scene. Activists held placards. Human shields braced themselves for clashes with callous caffeine addicts. Camera phones scoured the audience for suspects.
Nine o’clock arrived. There was electricity in the air: nerves and fear, fun and excitement. For some it was hard to link the event to a genuine threat: it was a curiosity, rather than a violent challenge. Yet the barricades at Trafalgar Square held firm.
Similar scenes took place in front of Happy Burger and Fullbean Coffee chains across Britain. Campaign groups had mobilised all available members to man camera phones. Local newspapers and everyday witnesses discouraged those who contemplated entering. At ten, there had been no reported incidents of murderous consumption.
No one knew exactly when the spell was broken. Many would-be protesters were at work: there were not enough bodies to man all the outlets, and the first to fall were in suburban areas where attention was least focused. Some rumoured that right-wing groups entered the Fullbean Coffee store in Aberdeen with the intention of drinking lattes. Others said the demand was broken by an old woman in Armagh whose TV had broken and was unaware of the demand. Some blamed it on a government conspiracy, some on the intrinsic evil hidden inside every one of us. It did not seem to matter; there was no shock it had happened.
Social media went into morbid hyper-drive. It seemed as if the whole country was waiting for news. Would all four hostages be killed? Would the execution be live?
Charlie entered Michael’s office to find him sitting on the floor leaning against his desk. He threw a tennis ball against the wall in a way reminiscent of Steve McQueen, as if planning his own Great Escape. The TV showed images of the public slowly returning to the stigmatised businesses. They weaved through dejected protesters slumped on pavements. Michael could not decide if this was a symbol of good versus evil or idealism versus realism.
Michael had sat in the COBRA meeting room as events unfolded. His advisers and ministers pleaded with him to block the website and avoid potentially violent recriminations. He agreed, embarrassed by his original faith in the public.
‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ said Jordie.
Richard smiled as he stood over the Twister board. ‘Jordie’s T-shirt’s bigger than the mat.’
This was Liam’s idea of hell. Miller fancied his chances.
Aiya clapped as she took her position next to the spinner. ‘Good luck, gentlemen.’
The first instructions were announced to each of the four players. Left foot red. Right foot green. Left foot blue. Left hand red.
The 20-dot mat lay on the floor in the middle of the room. Miller was the only one crouched on the floor, mat-to-hand.
Left hand red. Right hand yellow. Right hand yellow. Right foot blue.
‘Get your arse out of my face,’ said Richard to Jordie, whose main chance of victory was in taking up most of the mat rather than his yogic prowess. He had now spread himself across the mat’s width, facing downwards, the cruelties of gravity on full display.
Aiya and Jalila stood to the side, grinning.
Liam went out first. An uncommitted lunge to right foot green failed to arch over Jordie’s hide. Richard soon followed him: the approach to left hand red required a tunnelling under Jordie’s stomach. A faint touch of elbow on belly disturbed the balance, and Aiya spotted the faint grounding of Pounder posterior.
‘Left hand red!’ said Aiya with glee. Jordie reached over Miller’s head for a corner position. Miller failed to duck away, and found his head trapped under Jordie’s shoulder and breast. Miller’s move to right foot green saw his downfall under the human wall. Jordie collapsed victoriously on top of Miller shouting, ‘You shall not pass! You shall not pass!’
Aiya’s uncontrollable laughter reminded them of quite how young she was. Then, as soon as she recovered: ‘Jordie! You win! You get to choose. Who are we killing?’
Charlie burst in to Michael’s office. ‘A video’s been released.’ He turned on the TV. A grainy image showed the four hostages sitting on short wooden stools. Their heads down, the large shadows around their eyes ran into three-week-old beards. They wore dirty oversized shirts and jeans, with tears around the knees and collars. They held takeaway coffee cups. The black canvas background aided the impression of dark, violent austerity. The time – 16.23 – showed in the bottom right-hand corner.
A figure dressed in black approached Liam Powell, who was sitting furthest to the right. The figure pointed a gun at him, and ordered him to stand before pushing him off screen to the right. The image cut out. Five seconds later the same scene appeared with Liam Powell absent. The clock read 16.33. The camera zoomed in on Liam’s empty stool, where a takeaway coffee cup stood alone, Liam’s name written in black pen at its base. The cup was overflowing, crimson drops running down its side. The image panned out to show Miller Carey, next on the right, a coffee cup in his right hand, his face covered by his lef
t hand. In the cup stood a small olive branch.
Wednesday, June 3rd
The image of the overflowing coffee cup burned itself on to the conscience of millions. It spoke not just of the terror of its filling, but of how simple its avoidance had been in the first place. It overflowed with guilt, with repentance. It haunted the minutes before sleep: the brutal substitution of warm liquids. Of course, it crossed people’s minds: where’s the body? But it seemed too callous to air doubts and once more deny responsibility. Analysts agreed that the liquid in the cup had the consistency of blood.
Wednesday morning’s live pictures beamed in to the Cairo head office. Police tape once more covered outlet entrances, but this time a collection of flowers interspersed with pictures of Liam were placed directly in front of the doors. Memorials were harder to breach than entrances. Those who had protested for four lives on Tuesday returned to protest for three. The symbolic olive branch: the peace offering, spoke of a second chance to save the remaining hostages. Some took up the symbolic challenge: potted olive trees blocked the entrance to some outlets.
The live stream cut to a Happy Burger in central Birmingham. The video camera pointed through the outside window. Three young men had forced their way through the protest outside and perused the meal deals.
Jordie patted Miller on the knee. ‘I’m sorry, mon protégé. This looks like it’s done for you as well.’
The others smiled coldly.
The three men approached the till. The staff looked on anxiously as the cashier became embroiled in an argument with the customers. Fingers were pointed. The staff moved forward away from the fryers and grills. They huddled in a semicircle behind the cashier. Then, in a later immortalised image, the fourteen staff took off their aprons, caps and name badges, threw them at the customers, and walked out of the door. The three men inside turned around as a sea of flashes relayed their identity against the backdrop of an abandoned restaurant.
The early afternoon saw news spread of countless copycat walkouts. Calls for high-level talks were made. The personal implications for quitting meant many workers stayed inside and hoped to remain idle, praying they would not be put in a position to choose.