The closure of some franchises allowed the slowly swelling numbers of protesters to refocus efforts on those that remained open. After five o’clock, thousands of extra bodies arrived on the streets, driven by the reproach of an overflowing coffee cup.
Thursday, June 4th
No news was good news. Michael had sat through a COBRA meeting that was devoid of any intelligence or foresight. Rawlins had pushed Michael to make a statement to the kidnappers, including words such as values, choice and a tip of the hat to our way of life. But Michael shook his head. ‘This is not the government’s challenge: it’s the public’s. It’s their story, and they’re responsible for its ending.’ Ministerial eyes rolled at the word ‘story’.
‘Prime Minister,’ said Rawlins, exasperated. ‘The kidnappers are merely picking on two companies. Their equally conniving competitors are benefiting. This isn’t fighting injustice, nor is it writing a damn story.’
Michael expected no less. ‘It could be any two companies. That’s not the point. This is not an end, but a showcase of a means.’
‘This is appeasement!’ Rawlins said, as he slammed his fist on the table.
The protest gathered force. Tens of thousands of idle students, parents and unemployed took to the streets. They were not all humanists, nor did they all dream of a change in the economic system: some were bored, some thought it would be fun, some followed their friends, some hoped for a riot.
Jobless burger chefs set up temporary barbecues. Newly unemployed baristas brewed coffee on street corners. A Frisbee may have been thrown. Amateur Hacky Sackers may have formed circles.
Everything was controlled until the afternoon. As schools finished for the day, parents brought their children to experience the atmosphere. Outside the Fullbean Coffee in the centre of Bagshot, crowds surged all the way down to the main road. At 15.32 a car hit an eight-year-old girl as she weaved around the crowd on to the road. She was concussed, broke her femur, a collarbone and two ribs.
The companies claimed enough was enough, and that children were almost dying through these reckless demands. The police and local councils started taking a similar view.
‘Michael, we’re under serious pressure to look at our policing directives. We can’t allow large groups to remain on busy streets. You need to make a decision,’ said Cowling. ‘Michael?’
Michael felt Rawlins’s gaze burn into the side of his head. He also felt three years of frustration burn in his veins. He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to separate passion from decision-making.
‘Michael.’ Cowling cut off Rawlins before the situation became irretrievable. ‘What do you want to do?’
Michael returned his gaze to the table, avoiding Rawlins’s glare. ‘Shut them down,’ he said.
‘Shut down the shops or the picket lines?’
‘I mean shut down the roads.’
Friday, June 5th
Commuters woke up to road diversion signs. Policemen directed traffic away from the centre of towns and shopping streets in cities. The temperate reactions of most drivers were said to be a lingering effect of National Benefit of the Doubt Day. But evidence in support of this statement was, at best, circumstantial.
Many were ambivalent to the news. But some entrepreneurs saw opportunities. The first to act were the newly set-up food stalls that placed picnic tables in the middle of the road to tempt their customers with al fresco dining.
By mid-morning, some activists were planning their own stalls and by afternoon had located tables and literature. Pedestrians didn’t know how to react to organisations simply wanting to explain their work without asking for credit card details.
Streets filled during lunchtime, but remained sparsely popu-lated. The odd game of football and cricket inspired light jealousy in the hearts of those caged in offices.
By the afternoon, councils received queries asking whether permits for bouncy castles were needed for these newly pedestrianised areas. The councils had no idea: an absence of bouncy castles from main roads had previously been considered a matter for common sense rather than regulation.
By Friday evening, many towns had declared that there would be fairs in the town centre that weekend.
Financial losses between the two companies had broken the £50 million mark.
Saturday, June 6th
In future years, the day would be known simply as Saturday Sixth. As with all past events that embody an aura of mystique, rumour would replace fact. People struggled to remember their own experiences without flooding their accounts with the experiences of others, to the point that it is now impossible to say exactly what took place where.
What can be confirmed is that on Saturday morning, rather than the streets merely being closed, the streets had been reclaimed.
Trucks and vans all over the country were unloading an assortment of fair rides, five-a-side goals, skate ramps, tables and chairs, stilts, gymnastic equipment, bouncy castles, padded sumo wrestling suits, fancy-dress wardrobes, synthetic cricket wickets, barbecues, ponies and one, singular elephant.
Volunteers of all ages came together to make feasts. Pictures were posted online of ramshackle street bakeries, giant pasties and paellas big enough to swim in. Tables and chairs lined streets and squares, as strangers made introductions to each other as they took their seats.
Accounts told of how, once initial defences had been withdrawn, strangers came to appreciate how they had misjudged their neighbours. There was nothing to fear after all. Amid the laughter came a realisation of how many skills lay between them, and common interests among them. There was mingling.
On social media, trending images saw hooded adolescents giving middle-aged men skate lessons on the ramp.
Games of cricket and football took over the roads.
Videos showed samba drums pulsing through the early evening air, the audience dimly basking in the flames of controlled fire pits and torches juggled by men on stilts.
Details now became hazy at best: estimates varied wildly as to the number of those on the streets. Memories recounted different performers and atmospheres. Some said the streets were jumping till sunrise; others that the parties barely reached midnight, and that was being generous. Everyone experienced a personal variation of the evening.
Most of all, newspapers relayed how, with a glass of wine in hand, strangers talked about their communities, the potential that lay within them, and the dream of what they could achieve. The next morning, few remembered the details of these conversations, but recalled with clarity the feeling of optimism, and the desire to bottle the emotion as a future panacea against the apathy they would inevitably face in the future.
What remained outside the realm of myth was how the companies’ anxious board members flew in on Saturday afternoon in response to a boycott that had transcended a pinch on their shareholders’ dividends.
‘We’re in danger of this undermining the last decade’s branding strategy,’ said the CEO of Happy Burger. ‘The amount of tax we paid last month is now exactly the same amount as we turned over this week, which, in case you missed it, is zilch. A core mission of this company is to turn over more money than we pay in tax.’
These were facts that didn’t need spreadsheets.
On Sunday morning, after total losses in turnover and share value of nearly £100 million, the two companies released statements outlining their compliance with the demands. The public had forced their hands.
Or maybe the public had given the CEOs wiggle room to do what they had always wanted.
Monday, June 8th
Rawlins felt as if he were about to vomit the sickly sweet excess of the weekend over his fellow Monday morning commuters. Their satisfied demeanours shocked him. He liked lunching outside as much as the next man, but doubted it was the panacea against inequality and injustice.
‘Rawlins,’ came a voice as he made his way up Whitehall.
He turned around to see Cowling struggle on her heels to catch up. He stood still and tried to
hide his annoyance at being spotted.
‘Were you out on Saturday?’ said Cowling as she patted down her dyed-brown bob.
Rawlins scowled. ‘I led the foxtrot lessons before telling all the ugly people how beautiful they are.’ He had always struggled with humour. Cowling was the closest he had to a champion in Cabinet, and he regretted his poor diplomacy. His scowl softened. ‘I walked to my village green and saw three boys in hoods getting high and a girl being sick on pants that were closer to her knees than her skirt. Life-affirming stuff.’
‘Hmm. Yes.’ Cowling wished she had never asked. ‘Well, at least that week is over.’ She looked at her watch.
‘Quiet week ahead now that the world is saved,’ he said. Cowling looked at him, confused, before Rawlins continued. ‘I just got an email saying the Taliban have packed it all in to set up an organic farmers’ market.’
Cowling smiled awkwardly.
‘Well, this has been a pleasure, but I’m heading in there,’ Rawlins said, pointing towards the Ministry of Defence, ‘where I’ll be dealing mostly with stopping people blowing us up.’
Cowling smiled. ‘And I’ll be heading down there,’ she said, pointing in the opposite direction towards the Home Office, ‘where I’ll be drafting a press release congratulating the public for making salad.’
The Museum of Regret
Monday, June 8th
Michael and Charlie had spent the last 30 minutes with the speechwriters trying to forge a government position on the weekend’s events.
‘This is a seminal moment. Everyone will remember where they were on Saturday Sixth. It could change everything,’ said Michael.
‘What exactly do you mean by everything?’ said one of the speechwriting team.
‘Bush’s speechwriters understood the concept of “everything” back in 2001. This is a spiritual 9/11,’ said Michael.
‘With respect, Bush was dealing with the greatest act of terror ever committed on American soil, whereas this weekend we witnessed a lot of people baking bread.’
‘Suicide bloomers,’ said Charlie.
‘Nice.’ Michael noted the effort, mulling a few puns of his own.
Michael wasn’t alone in not being able to put his finger on why the weekend had felt so special: the whole had added up to so much more than the sum of its parts. Unlike the previous ransoms, the savouring of Saturday’s climax was a more personal affair.
While the previous week had been a poor one for sales of Happy Burger and Fullbean Coffee, a little known CD, A Haiku Analysis of the Tetragrammaton, climbed the Amazon sales chart steadily to a place in the top 5,000, riding the recent wave of popularity encountered by the diminutive Japanese art form.
Jordie compared the Foundation’s experience of Saturday with the sensation of waking up hung over to see a beautiful stranger putting their clothes back on. ‘You’re feeling chuffed with yourself, but just wish you could remember the fucking details.’
After a surreal weekend, the image of an overflowing coffee cup seemed more bizarre than terrifying. With the redemption of Saturday Sixth easing Wednesday’s guilt, commentators floated the idea that remorse for the death of Liam should be suspended until a body showed up.
‘You’re the second coming of Christ,’ Jordie said to Liam. ‘Dying for the sins of others, controversy over the hows and wheres, similar upbeat personalities. Your resurrection will be epic.’
It seemed that Britain was having a moment of contemplation. Jalila was nervous that a new demand so soon would blow such vulnerability away; but Miller reasoned that a clever demand could capitalise on it, turning it into a force for good that could extend beyond the purchasing of a charity single. They decided to remain open to suggestions as they embarked on the ritualistic pouring of alcohol that fuelled their creativity.
‘Jordie,’ said Aiya, ‘as the third most depressed, you’re up.’
The others smiled as Jordie stood, sarcastically gave a fist pump in celebration, then wobbled and sat back down.
‘So how are you feeling?’
Jordie took a few seconds before laughing at the scene’s ridiculousness.
Aiya continued. ‘Anger? Resignation? Regret?’
Jordie slumped his large frame against the back of the sofa. ‘Talk about a leading fucking question. If you’re wanting me to ball my eyes out, we’re a few units away from that.’
‘At least the tears are waiting to come out in time,’ said Aiya with a smile.
‘Smile all you want. One day you’ll be old enough to have regrets.’
‘So what are yours?’
‘You’re not going to get me that easily,’ Jordie said, taking another swig.
‘You’re a man who faked a poor village instead of visiting it. It strikes me that you may not be the man you hoped to be,’ said Aiya in a serious tone.
‘I beg your fucking pardon. You know nothing about what I’ve had to endure in my life.’
Aiya shrugged. ‘I’m sorry I made you so defensive.’
‘I’m not being fucking defensive. Do you know what it’s like? Spending 15 years in places with no proper friends. Fifteen years of being the fat white bastard? So I got tired of it. So I moved home. You want me to sit here and confide my life’s disappointments? Yeah, I now write papers that will never be read. I do feasibilities on projects that will never be implemented. The same inequalities in the world persist but I now chew the fat with analysts in grey London offices. Slums I helped upgrade have been bulldozed.’ Jordie paused, taking a couple of calming breaths, looking more vulnerable than the others had ever seen him.
‘And it’s all bollocks. I’ve spent the majority of my life helping people in the most tangible way possible. I’ve saved or improved thousands of lives. I’m not going to apologise or feel regret for that.’
Aiya allowed a brief pause. ‘So what do you feel regret for?’
No one broke the silence. Jordie stared at the ceiling as he quickly wiped the inside of his eye.
‘Look at these two,’ he said, gesturing to Liam and Richard. ‘I already know them better than I did my mum and dad, than I know my best friends . . .’ He pursed his lips. ‘And then you realise that for the last few years you’ve gone through a job like mine without the slightest interest of the lives of those you’re changing; poverty’s now an intellectual exercise, people are just part of the puzzle. I stare at suffering and all I’m left with is . . . is . . . indifference. What does that say about me?’
All eyes remained fixed on Jordie.
‘I mean,’ Jordie said, rubbing his eyes, ‘when did I stop caring about the feelings of others?’
The results from an online search of ‘Lucy Smalling’ had changed radically in two weeks. Photos appeared she had previously thought lost. In some ways it was nice to have them found for her. Far from people dissecting her relationship with Miller, magazines analysed her style, applauding her professional chic.
She got recognised in Tesco.
On Tuesday evening, the following statement was released.
Dear Britain,
We would like to think we are all one giant team now. And communication is key to a team becoming great. So we would like to take this opportunity to get to know each other better: how are you all feeling, and where do you think we could improve?
We thought we would start the ball rolling by confiding in you all where we think we could have done better. We found it a useful exercise, and what developed was more a list of our lives’ regrets. We felt some of you may wish to add your own thoughts to the list. We ask you to visit www.museumofregret.org and tell us of your greatest regrets.
Quickly register, and add your confession. Your details will remain private; we have no special offers to push. Entries close at midnight on Saturday.
Yours in service,
The Serendipity Foundation
‘Well, it’s not exactly the Bhutanese Human Index of Happiness, is it?’ said Michael to Charlie. They were drinking tea this week. ‘Instead we’ll
have millions of people detailing to the world exactly where their lives became irretrievably rubbish.’
‘Britain is back: the safest depressed place in the world,’ said Charlie.
‘If we overlook being held accountable for murder for buying an onion ring.’
There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in.’ It was Rawlins, who nodded, and took a seat without invitation. Michael hated seeing army uniforms and medals in his refuge: two visions for ruling a country colliding.
‘How are you, Rawlins? Join in the weekend festivities?’ said Charlie.
Rawlins chose not to acknowledge him and addressed Michael.
‘I came to find out the details of your statement.’
‘My statement?’
‘A British citizen was executed last week and it seems everyone, including the Prime Minister, is choosing to ignore it.’
‘Well . . .’ said Michael, as he shuffled nervously in his seat. ‘We have no proof yet. Intelligence has yet to rule out completely that it could have been a cup of red liquid. No body. No verbal confirmation they killed him.’
‘So ask them to show you the body,’ said Rawlins.
‘What exactly are you hoping to achieve by such a request?’
‘A modicum of control.’ Rawlins’s moustache twitched with frustration. He stared with a military disdain saved for those who are too weak to handle the means that achieve the ends. Michael doubted they shared ends.
‘Fine,’ Rawlins said as he stood. ‘This charade cannot continue.’
Universities held seminars with titles such as ‘Benevolent Terrorism: a new paradigm in democratic rights’. People sent their own demands to the letters pages of newspapers. Academia analysed how the demands could be improved for next time.
Councils received countless enquiries about how individuals could get more involved locally. New associations were registered. NGOs discussed which companies could be targeted next, with online mailing lists collated, shared and expanded. An anonymous plan was posted as to how GoldBlue could be effectively boycotted in response to their continued pollution of the Niger Delta.
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