The 2084 Precept

by Anthony David Thompson

  ***

  The dream was sitting at her desk, gamma rays pouring out of her the same as before. I am no longer interested of course, other than for the pleasures of visual inspection, that inoperable male disease. And so I was polite, a small smile instead of a big one and no prolonged gazing into those large and erotic eyes. A treatment to which she probably wasn't accustomed. Perhaps that's why she switched on her own penetrating look, bombarding me with a cloud of lethal electromagnetic rays, pure actinism, asking me how things were and so on as she took me down to the meeting room. Or maybe there had been a split with boyfriend number thirty eight that weekend. Or maybe she had decided that chinos and a sweater made me into a real man, one worth investigating more deeply. Or maybe none of that, maybe she was just having fun, playing her favorite game of destroying the harmonic arrangement of the male hormones.

  She opened the meeting room door.

  "There we are Mr. O'Donoghue," she said, with a smile one would normally associate with a boa constrictor, a nice boa constrictor in this case, and a sexy one, but nevertheless a boa constrictor, one contemplating how best to lovingly crush a newly identified victim.

  "Thank you, Miss…?" I said. Might as well get the name even though I had no intention of adding her to the blinking red light list.

  "Goodall," she replied, "Jane Goodall. Mr. Parker…Mr. O'Donoghue." And with that she did her noiseless disappearance act again.

  Ahah. Now there we have some proof. Which Jeremy put into words for me. "Good day to you, Peter," said Jeremy. "You appear to have attracted the attention of our lovely Miss Goodall. An unusual and rare event, I can assure you."

  "Good day to you Jeremy. Attracted her attention?" I asked.

  "Yes, she never gives her first name to anybody. You are an exalted exception. The ball, as you might say, now appears to be in your court."

  For a guy with a mental health problem, a massive mental health problem in fact, friend Jeremy could sound excessively normal and sane sometimes.

  "Well, Jeremy, you probably did your computer hacking trick again, just to make me feel welcome. But don't worry, I won't be lobbing the ball back. I never mix business with pleasure. One of my rules."

  Jeremy laughed. "No," he said, "And I have my rules as well. No hacking unless it serves a laudable purpose. Let me assure you that Miss Goodall decided all by herself that you should become acquainted with her first name."

  "Well, then I am definitely flattered, but as I said, I shall not be mixing business with pleasure. Although it was definitely a pleasure to receive your two payments, for which thank you very much, Jeremy. And here is the business end of that as requested, the two related invoices."

  I handed him the documents to which he applied his speed-reading technique, about two seconds it took him.

  "These are fine, Peter, thank you very much. And now perhaps, we could start off on the second item of our agenda? Coffee?"

  "No thanks," I said. "I had one just before I came here. But before we start, there is a small matter I would like to ask you about if I may."

  "Certainly," said Jeremy, pouring a coffee for himself, "go ahead."

  "Do you have someone following me?"

  He looked straight at me, clearly puzzled.

  "No. Why?"

  "There is someone following me. Not very professionally either, or I wouldn't have noticed him. I've seen him three times since yesterday. And I'm not sure, but he may have been following me this morning to Slough as well."

  "Hmm…interesting. And you think this has something to do with me?"

  "Yes. It can't be anything else."

  "Alright. Let us do two things. First of all, let's check it out. A good way would be to walk over a long bridge. We have the Thames handy for that. Stop about three quarters of the way over to look at the river. Watch everybody coming from the direction you came from. If anybody is following you, he or she will have to stop and look at the river as well. Nowhere else to go on a bridge. Take good note of anybody doing that and then start to walk back the way you came. Once off the bridge, turn a corner somewhere and wait. See if that person comes along."

  "O.K., total confirmation. And if I am being followed?"

  "Then we will need to talk about it. In the meantime, let me give you this." He fished in a briefcase sitting on the floor next to him and gave me a mobile phone.

  "This," he continued, "is one of a couple of mobiles I adapted in case a need arose for confidential communication regarding non-Obrix matters. It has no number and it won't work if you dial another number on it either. Just press the green button and you will reach me. It will record the fingerprint of whichever finger you elect to use first time around, and it will only function after that if recognizing that print. The phone looks very similar to yours, but it is non-locatable and has automatic encryption just in case. Encryption of a kind unknown on this planet. If you are being followed, you should please use this phone to contact me. So that we can arrange a different meeting place each time and discuss how you are going to get there without being followed."

  "I don't know that I like this Jeremy. My life is great as it is and I don't need it being messed around with. Being followed is not, I repeat not, going to be part of my existence. Nor is it a part of our agreement."

  And as for the mobile phone, I thought, well, it's easy enough to fix the dialing if you know how. It doesn't matter who the carrier is. And some kind of alien encryption? Just another delusion of his in his long, long list of delusions.

  "Well, we have to confirm your suspicions first, Peter. And in any case, and in spite of our revised conditions, you could walk out of our contract at any time, so you don't have a problem as far as I can see. Except, of course, that the €400,000 would walk away in the opposite direction to the one you take, and the €200,000 you already have would need to be returned as well."

  "Yes, Jeremy, well…I’ll have to think about that.”

  Yes, indeed, €600,000 needs thinking about. And no need for me to consider how to retain the €200,000. Not with him being a madman and with those powers of his to boot.

  “In the meantime,” I said, “how about we move on with the day's agenda?"

  "Right,” he said. “'Interaction among Selves'. Just fire away."

  "I don't have much to contribute on this Jeremy, just some facts that I personally happen to be aware of."

  "That's O.K.," he said. "Whatever you have. I will research any gaps."

  I was in a bad mood. I really don't need all of this shit. First of all a lunatic, and now I'm being spied on—probably anyway—for reasons I can't conceive and couldn't care less about in any case. On the other hand, another €400,000 for doing nothing more than attending a few more interviews was not a concept that my neurons were allowing me to junk just yet. So okay, I'll do this meeting, I'll tell him some more about his own planet. I'll give it to him straight.

  "Our main interaction," I began, "by which I mean one that began at the beginning, has continued throughout history and is perpetuated to this day, is…how shall I put it…we kill ourselves."

  “YOU KILL YOURSELVES?”

  “Yes, Jeremy, we kill ourselves. We always have done and we always will.”

  I paused and looked for his reaction to this. There was none. He was obviously battling to grasp the concept, a concept clearly foreign to his culture and to any of the philosophies involved in influencing or guiding it.

  "In other words, we do not just slaughter other species. We slaughter ourselves. We have always done this and we do it in several different ways. Mass slaughter is something we call war, individual slaughter is something we call murder, the slaughter of unborn fetuses is something we call abortion, and when individuals kill themselves we call it suicide."

  "Are you trying to tell me that this is a major activity?" Jeremy asked.

  "It is either a major activity or the major activity, Jeremy, take your pick. Let me give you some statistics. I'll start with the mass killings, for whic
h we use the various terms international war, civil war, genocide, ethnic cleansing, terrorist war, drugs war, gang war and religious war. The first recorded war ever, as far as we can determine, was between Lagas and Umma (the latter, coincidentally, being part of today's Iraq) and it took place in the year 2550 B.C. Since then, there have been about 14,400 more wars resulting in the deaths of 3.5 billion human beings at the hands of other human beings. And of course it's ongoing. These numbers are increasing. A roller-coaster of death if you will. The most murderous war in fact occurred in our very most recent century. World War II we call it. In that war alone 65 million humans were killed."

  Jeremy leaned forward on the table. "Did you say 65 million?" he asked.

  "Yes," I answered. "And this war also enabled us to demonstrate some of our newly acquired skills. Such as how to create and operate death factories. In the death factories, an estimated 7.6 million innocent non-combatants were gassed to death. Except for a few who were murdered in other ways, including brutal mistreatment, forced starvation or simply being shot. Lots of men, lots of women, and lots of children. Mainly those belonging to the Jewish religion but also many, many others, including people of 'inferior race’, gypsies, homosexuals—also those merely suspected of being homosexual—and the physically and mentally handicapped."

  "Most were gassed?"

  "Indeed they were, Jeremy. We have always been interested in gassing other humans to death. During the most recent century, we had massive gas usage in World War I, we had Italy using it to kill Abyssinians (now Ethiopians), the Japanese using it to kill the Chinese, Egypt using it in its war against Yemen, Saddam Hussein's Iraq using it in its war against Iran—and also, just by the way, to kill thousands of civilians in Halabja in 1988—and it is still ongoing. Syria has recently used gas to massacre thousands of its own civilians."

  "But Hitler and his friends were the ones who really liked gas."

  "No, Jeremy, as a matter of fact Hitler did not like gas. He came into contact with gas himself during World War I and that is why he prohibited its use against the enemy. But he was happy for it to be used for killing sub-humans."

  "Sub-humans?"

  "Yes, the millions of innocent non-combatants I have just mentioned. He classified them as sub-humans."

  "I must say that I have never heard of a life-form like that," said Jeremy. "It sounds to me as if some of the content of my thesis could become horrific enough to result in the generation of widespread interest. And in that case I, as the researcher, would be much in demand to elaborate upon it all."

  He wasn't getting emotional about it. He just sat there looking at me with a mournful expression on his face, kind of sorrowful. And as for his destiny as a researcher, well, he was welcome to add that to the list of accessories required for his fantasy world, be my guest.

  "So," he continued, "things have deteriorated all along and, given the events in your most recent century, the deterioration appears to be continuing, in fact accelerating. Is that correct?"

  "Yes," I said, "although not everyone would agree with that. Many people call it an improvement, they say things are improving. We have had people like that all through our history. They are our optimists."

  "Your optimists? Improving?"

  "Yes, I met one of them in a pub in Passau once. He said that the slaughters of the twentieth century were only due to the fact that we had invented better weapons and better methods with which to kill ourselves. He completely rejected my point that we would have done it with bows and arrows if necessary, and that we would have used swords instead of gas in our death factories."

  "And on what basis did he justify his view?"

  "He didn't. These people don't trouble themselves to support their views with facts. They simply ignore the facts. Which, as you already know, doesn't disturb me in the slightest. I just listen to them and continue to observe them from my seat in the theater."

  "Yes, I had registered that."

  "Now, of course," I continued, "now we have bigger and better things. We have made other cutting-edge discoveries. We learned how to split an atom. We then learned how to construct atom bombs and then more advanced thermonuclear weapons. Lots of them."

  "And the purpose or purposes of these weapons, may I ask?"

  "There is only one purpose, Jeremy. It is to be able to slaughter ourselves in even vaster quantities than was ever possible before."

  "And you are saying that that is the only reason you invented them?"

  "Yes."

  "But why would you people want to do that?"

  "A good question, Jeremy, and it has a simple answer. It's just the way we are. It's the way we always were and it's the way we will always be."

  "But doesn't anyone try to do anything about it?"

  "Oh yes—but to little effect. Having deployed a couple of these nuclear weapons in Japan at the end of World War II, we then began to manufacture vast arsenals of the things. This was followed by years and years of arguing—our species argues about everything and never stops—following which there was a decision to destroy some of the bombs. There are now only around 20,000 of these bombs, which means that the capacity for us to eliminate our entire species has been reduced from many times over down to only several times. Not that we couldn't quickly manufacture more if we want to."

  "Pretty asinine, Peter, I must admit. But at least it was a step in the right direction, albeit a small one."

  "Not really, Jeremy. It's not only the major powers which possess nuclear weapons now. Several other countries have been adding themselves to that list: Israel, Pakistan, India, for example. And still more countries are developing even more nuclear bombs: North Korea, Iran and who knows who is next. And many of these bombs are being trundled non-stop around the world's oceans in submarines. And others are being flown around in planes; we have nuclear bombs permanently in the air."

  "Difficult to understand indeed."

  “Indeed is the word, Jeremy. The stupidity, the sheer senseless, asinine lunacy of creating and deploying such weapons exceeds all potential boundaries of rational comprehension. Not even mice could be so unbalanced. Could you imagine mice doing something as congenitally stupid and absurd as inventing mousetraps?”

  “I take your point, Peter. Your species suffers from a serious mental illness. Your stupidity just makes you want to murder each other…among other things.

  "Indeed. And as I pointed out at the beginning, killing is our major activity. Even in the matter of mass slaughter - war - the stupidity of our species is interesting to observe. Would you believe that we are actually interested in how we kill ourselves? Well, Jeremy, we are indeed, we are indeed. There are thousands of examples but I'll mention just a single specimen for your consideration: a relatively recent agreement between over 100 countries stating that cluster bombs should be eliminated. There are, however, two problems with this. First of all, not all of the countries have complied with the agreement. And secondly, certain major powers including the USA, China and Russia—in other words, those whose arsenals of cluster bombs are larger than anyone else's—did not even sign the agreement."

  "Fascinating. Or fascinatingly stupid, I should say."

  "Yes, Jeremy. And then the question arises as to why we don't ban the use of 'normal' bombs, mines, automatic weapons, missiles and all other lethal weapons such as the machete which, by the way, was the weapon of choice for slaughtering hundreds of thousands of human beings in Rwanda. Or chemical weapons such as Agent Orange, used by the British in Malaysia and by the Americans in Vietnam. The birdbrains lied about this by the way—what's new—and they said, flap, flap, that it was a harmless defoliant, not a weapon. But it killed or maimed 400,000 Vietnamese and caused a further 500,000 to be born with horrific birth defects. Not to mention the many victims among those performing the deployment of this so-called 'herbicide'.

  "The question you raise is obviously a valid one, Peter. But I assume the reason for the attempt to eliminate cluster bombs was a well-intenti
oned one, because these particular weapons can kill extremely large numbers of civilians as well as combatants?"

  "Possibly, Jeremy. But they continue to be used. Massively in fact in the current Syria conflict. And in any case, banning anything is a fairly pointless exercise when you continue to have nuclear bombs, wouldn't you agree? And listen to this. A century ago, during World War I, civilian deaths amounted to approximately 5% of total war deaths. Today, civilian deaths amount to close to 75% of the total. Interesting, don't you think?"

  "I suppose one could use the term 'interesting' to describe it. But possibly the higher number of non-combatant deaths is due to the fact that many of your wars nowadays are civil wars, or so I have read. And as regards civil wars, I assume that among the major reasons for these are differences in ideological conviction?"

  "Sometimes. But racial, ethnic and religious animosities are more frequent causes. This has certainly been the case for the twenty civil wars in Africa during the past fifty years. And the strength of the hatred involved in these animosities is unbelievable. I won't even attempt to describe some of the horrendous atrocities perpetrated as a result."

  "Hmm…and so just how many wars are taking place at the moment?"

  "Well…last year there were 30 active wars. That was an improvement over the prior year which had 34 active wars and produced some euphoric scribbling in the tabloid press. We as a species are quite proud of this reduction, even if many of our current wars are major wars, rather than minor ones."

  "Major ones?"

  "Oh yes. We find that our major activity—the hobby of slaughtering each other—is so interesting that, among other things, we categorize our wars. This allows us to study various statistics, a fascinating pursuit, and to separate those dying in 'minor wars' from those dying in 'major' wars. This can of course be confusing, as a major war could have been a minor one last year, or a minor one could become a major one next year. But we employ bureaucrats to ensure that these statistics comply with the regulations."

  "So what is a major war?"

  "The United Nations," I continued, "defines a major war as a conflict inflicting a minimum of 1,000 human battlefield deaths per year, excluding, in other words, civilian deaths. Civilian deaths and non-human deaths are mere collateral damage and would simply distort the statistical measurements, you understand. I mean…you wouldn't want your statistics being messed up with, for example, the 140,000 civilian deaths in Iraq, including the 8,000 last year—or the 80,000 civilian deaths in Syria so far, including the 9,000 dead children but excluding the 4,000 children arrested and tortured in Syrian prisons, but not yet killed (as far as we know). Would you?"

  "If you say so," said Jeremy.

  I went over to the table in the corner and poured myself some coffee. I needed it. These meetings may be an easy way to earn money, but I can't pretend I am enjoying them. Even so, I am playing the game properly. I am treating him as if he were a real alien and I am giving him what few facts I have at my disposal on the subjects he has chosen. For this kind of money, I have no problem in toeing the line. No problem at all.

  "O.K., that's enough on wars," said Jeremy, "let's switch to murders, if we may. These are presumably not very many. I don't see very many humans killing other humans as I walk around London."

  "It depends on what you mean by not very many, Jeremy. United Nations statistics show that there are around 500,000 murders on this planet, give or take a few, each and every year. That is an average of about one murder per minute, near enough. Plus the ones we don't know about of course."

  He looked at me. He was still perfectly calm and collected, but the chapel hat pegs were on show. I suppose that some of these statistics could be a bit mind-boggling if you were hearing them for the first time.

  "You mentioned killing unborn fetuses," he continued, obviously having decided not to pursue the murder per minute subject either. "These are hopefully fewer in number than the murders."

  "Well, I regret that I have to dash your hopes with a sledgehammer, Jeremy. In fact, with a very large and very heavy sledgehammer. There happen to be over 40 million abortions every year on this planet. Using the same calculation as for the murders, that represents an average of over 80 abortions per minute."

  "Per minute? Over 80 abortions per minute?" he repeated.

  "Yes. There's no way around it I'm afraid. Official statistics."

  He definitely looked sad, I think today's information is finally, slowly, starting to overwhelm him a bit. And, come to think of it, it is sad. Not that I personally lose any sleep over it of course. There is really no point. It's the human race, isn't it? It's just the way we are. But it is sad. Sad is the word.

  He thought for a while and decided not to pursue this item either.

  "And the suicides?" he asked. He looked as if he was prepared to believe anything. Billions maybe.

  Ah well, that is not such a bad number," I said. "Only about 1 million per year. Or two per minute, if you like."

  "Two per minute."

  "More or less, yes."

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  "What's wrong? How do you mean, Jeremy?"

  "Well, why would so many human beings want to kill themselves? And every year you said."

  "Ah, a good question, Jeremy. It's mainly because they don't think that this planet is a good place to be. Being controlled and managed as it is by what, for them, is a pretty stupid and horrifying species."

  "But they are members of that species themselves."

  "Ah yes, but they don't want to be. And so they opt out."

  "O.K.," he sighed. He went to fetch himself some more coffee, came back and sat down again at the table.

  "Of course," I said, "there are the suicide bombers as well."

  "Suicide bombers? What do they do?"

  "Well…they kill as many other human beings as they can while killing themselves—usually by blowing themselves up in the middle of a large crowd. And usually for religious reasons. They believe what their religion's human representatives tell them, namely that this is what their god wants them to do, and they believe that they will receive some kind of superb posthumous rewards for doing it."

  "Now why would they believe that?"

  "Because some other human beings have told them to believe it."

  "That is why they believe it? There is no other reason?"

  "That is why. There is no other reason."

  “But…”

  “Religions, Jeremy, with both their promises of huge rewards and their threats of terrible retribution, are used by a minority of humans to influence and coerce other humans. Take Sati for example.”

  “Sati?”

  “Yes, Sati is a tradition of certain Indian religions. Newly widowed women immolate themselves on their dead husbands’ funeral pyres. Irrespective of whether they have children, and even if they are still only teenagers.”

  “Why?”

  “Same reason: because other human beings have told them they should. Sati, in fact, was the name of a Hindu goddess, but as a practice it is alive and well not only in India but in several other religions around the world. Burying these widows alive is also an accepted alternative ritual.”

  “Burying alive? You are using the present tense, Peter?”

  “Indeed I am. But the fact is, in India the practice of Sati has gradually been made illegal. Unfortunately, flap, flap, enforcement of the law remains inconsistent. So there are still such cases today.”

  “Today? You mean now, this year?”

  “Yes, this year. But things are improving. In the old days, hundreds of wives and concubines would be buried alive with their husband’s body, or would immolate themselves on their husband’s funeral pyre, a famous example of which was Raja Suchet Singh’s death in 1844.”

  "Extraordinary. Extraordinary. I think I would like to leave this whole matter of killing if you don't mind," Jeremy said. "In fact, I would like to cut this meeting short. I hope you understand that I have to do a lot of
research on what you have been telling me today; the subject will be such a volatile one that I must ensure there are no exaggerations. Do you think you could merge any other major human interaction items into the subject for our next meeting? Social and Organizational Characteristics?"

  "No problem, Jeremy. As subjects, they more or less overlap anyway."

  "Good. Would you be able to meet again this Friday?"

  "Yes. At what time?"

  "Let's leave that open, Peter. You will be calling me in any case about anyone following you and we can arrange a time and place depending on that." He certainly sounded somewhat disheartened. Dejected. Today's few facts and figures clearly did not depict a particularly benevolent species. He presumably would have preferred a more harmonious bunch of life-forms for his doctorate work.

  "Understood," I said. And the meeting was over. We stood up, shook hands and I headed for the exit at a fair rate of knots.

  Little Miss Goodall was sitting there, typing away and diffusing her erotic aura all over the place without appearing to notice. Well, she wouldn't need to notice, she knows it's there day and night, no matter what she's doing.

  "Thank you, Jane," I said with a smile. See how she reacts to my use of her first name.

  "Oh, Mr. O'Donoghue," she replied with a smile that would incinerate the cockles of your heart, whatever, as I tend to remark, they may be. "That was a relatively short meeting."

  "The name is Peter, Jane. Yes, so I'm off now. Take care, see you next time."

  "Oh…well…hope to see you soon. ´Bye Peter."

  I gave a little wave of the hand and hopped through the door, down the stairway and out onto the street. Lit an overdue cigarette, a great alleviator of neuron stress. Jane must be puzzled. This is a courteous male client. But he is not drooling at the mouth, he is not attempting any useful conversation, he is seemingly unaffected by her charms, to use a polite term for her seductive wares, and probably, therefore, not necessarily interested in said wares. Which, as it so happens, I am not. There should be a message by now from Céline. I'll check when I'm back at the hotel. Even so, it will be interesting to see what Jane gets up to with the courteous Mr. O'Donoghue next time we meet. Peter she calls me now and hopes to see me again soon. Unless, of course, she has started up with boyfriend number thirty nine by then.

  That man was there again. In a doorway. I caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye. Stamped my cigarette out and sauntered off in the direction of Tavistock Street. I knew exactly where to go to check this out, there was no need for a trek over the Thames. The ground floor entrance to the 'En Passant' has a recess for trash bins in the short hallway before you go through the door and up the stairs. I would speed up when turning the corner and get in there before he could see me. He would also turn the corner, see I wasn't there and presumably start checking the entrances on both sides of the street as he walked along. But my entrance would be empty, I would be tucked into the recess and he wouldn't be able to see me. I, on the other hand, would be able to see him as he passed on. Because the recess was on the left as you walk in and I would have come from the right end of the street. So all I had to do was leave a couple of centimeters of vision to observe anyone passing on to the next doorway.

  I didn't look behind me, nor even sideways, just to show him that I had no idea he might be following me. I sauntered around the corner into Tavistock Street. And then I sprinted along to the 'En Passant' and into the recess and waited.

  Not for long. There he was, passing by, nothing in this doorway, and on he continued down the street. I calculated two minutes for him to get to the end. I then calculated another half a minute for him to stand there looking back before deciding that he'd probably lost me, but that it would be worth a cursory check of the next street just in case. And I added another half a minute for that.

  And, exactly three minutes later, I peeked out. There were quite a few people going to wherever they were going, but there was no sign of my sleuth. So I left the doorway, vanished quickly around a couple of corners and kept going until I found an empty cab and directed the driver to my hotel.

  I checked my mailbox as soon as I got to my room. No message. And no calls during the day to my mobile either. This I did not like. But maybe she'd had a difficult time with her fiancé. Maybe I would get a call sometime tonight, maybe she would be on a flight to London tomorrow. I didn't like it, but it wasn't the time to bug her with another email. Which, come to think of it, was the only way I could contact her. How come I hadn't got her phone number or her address even? Shit, I don't even know her surname. My mind must be clogging up, losing its grip at the early age of thirty eight.

  I was tired. I had dinner in the hotel, a Côtes du Rhône with it, an expensive one this time and it was as good as the good cheaper ones, and I finished the IHT and went to bed.

  DAY 13

  I woke up in not such a good mood. Céline had not called or sent me a message last night. If I heard nothing from her during the day, I would have to figure out what kind of a message to send this evening to find out what was going on or what had happened.

  I cheered myself up with my poached eggs, my Chivers and my Lavazza. I went back to my room and called Jeremy on the alien phone, as my neurons had decided to refer to it, punched the green button.

  Abracadabra—a cabbalistic word originating with Moses—the phone worked, no problem. "Good morning, Peter," he said, sounding not quite as depressed as when I had left him yesterday.

  "Morning, Jeremy. Just calling to let you know that I am indeed being followed. I checked it out. It was the same chap. Amateur."

  He thought about that for a moment.

  "Well…let's find out who he is or who they are. And what he or they want. Confront him, ask him."

  Pretty logical. "Will do, Jeremy," I said. "I'm off to Slough again now. I'll give you a call later in the day and let you know what happens. Cheerio."

  "Have a good day, Peter."

  And so it was the M4 again. A warm day, sunny, but I drove as slowly as if it were raining, checked for a blue Nissan. But I didn't see one, and I didn't see any other car that appeared to be following me. I pulled into Clark's and checked the road for a couple of minutes. Just normal traffic, no blue Nissan.

  I smoked a leisurely cigarette and went inside, received a good morning from the guy at the desk. Surprise, surprise. He greets people. And a sunny day without him being off somewhere having a smoke.

  I went along to Ron's office.

  "Good morning, Peter," he chimed. "That set-up reduction initiative of yours is going great guns. We've set up the groups, the guys are really into it, they’re off to a great start. One meeting a week but they're looking at things every day, thinking about them, coming up with all kinds of ideas. And two of the groups have found the reasons for a couple of quality defects as well."

  "I'm pleased to hear it, Ron. Have we got any suppliers coming in today?"

  "Yes. Joe has fixed up one for this morning and one for midday. Four more tomorrow, I think."

  Joe Braithwaite was the purchasing guy and he had one assistant. They reported to Ron, who as far as I could determine devoted perhaps one hour per year to this responsibility of his. Well, as I have already mentioned, that was going to change before the year was out. But first, I would be accumulating some data to be able to prove exactly how badly things had been managed in the past.

  I went along to Joe's office. I liked Joe, I liked his honesty. He always said what he thought, but at the same time I had never heard him say anything really nasty about any other person. I couldn't say the same for myself of course, even if I don't allow my dislikes to escalate into anything worse.

  Joe was an ex-rugby player with the nose and the ears to verify it. He was going bald on top, not a problem for a guy cemented into a marriage with four kids running around all over the place. A happy marriage as I understood it, a rare enough accomplishment given the nature of our species, and particularly these days, given the fact that
most women are no longer financially dependent on their husbands. It cheers you up to come across such relationships from time to time—although they are not for the likes of me of course.

  Hi, Peter," he said. "We could only manage to fix two meetings for today. But we've got four for tomorrow, two in the morning and two in the afternoon. Here are the two summaries for today's visitors. The first meeting starts in half an hour. We've got the big meeting room, drinks and coffee arranged."

  "Great, Joe. I can see you're busy. See you in half an hour, O.K.?"

  I got myself a coffee from the machine and took it outside, lit up another cigarette. Warm and sunny, transforming the Slough industrial estate into just an awful place instead of an appalling one.

  I thought about Céline again. Something had to be wrong. It could be that she has decided she prefers her fiancé after all. Or it could be that she found that poem to be really weird, making me a weird kind of guy to be avoided at all costs. I shouldn't have sent it, bloody stupid come to think of it. I should have cobbled together a couple of romantic lines and complied with the red wine promise that way. Or it could be—heaven (whichever one you prefer) forbid—that she's had an accident or fallen ill. Or it could be that her email isn't working and she doesn't have a mobile phone. But that is ludicrous, it would mean that she doesn't have a home phone either and is allergic to mobile ones. No doubt about it, emotional stress has the ability to reduce one’s neurons to a worthless morass of unusable static.

  I strolled across the parking lot to the exit, checked the road. No blue Nissan.

  I went back inside and into the meeting room. Joe was there arranging drinks for two guys in suits and ties who were both fiddling around with their mobiles as if suffering from some kind of recently evolved electronic disease. Lots of them about these days, you see them everywhere. Take away their mobiles and you would have to construct a few thousand additional clinics specializing in disorders of the central nervous system.

  Joe introduced me to them and I handed each of them a card, took theirs in return. One of them was their sales director, Michael Crawford, one of those guys who have no heads, they are connected to their torsos by necks wider than your average oak tree, makes them look like a single, solid block of flesh. The other guy was a finance manager, David Price, a thin-faced guy with a long beak of a nose, presumably the underdog today. Both smiling and pleasant, however. And so they should be, we are the customer.

  I explained how satisfied we were with our business relationship, how we intended to continue the partnership long-term, blah, blah, blah. I asked them how they found the relationship.

  "Fantastic," said the block of flesh, "excellent." A sales guy, this Michael, what else was he going to say?

  "We need your cooperation," I said. "Times are hard, our profits are gone, we have to achieve savings. The savings we need to achieve on raw materials purchases have been calculated at 10.2%. This is the result of an in-depth analysis and has been mandated by our general manager. This is the task that Joe and I here have been given. That is the situation in a nutshell and we would be grateful if you would provide us with any comments you may have on that please."

  Michael began to waffle about restricted margins, difficult market situations, rising costs, 10% is unfeasible, and all the rest of it. When he finally stopped, I said nothing, I just stared at him. Not nastily, not provocatively…but with that piercing look for which I am renowned, or would be if there were any piercing-look championships. Silence is a powerful weapon, no doubt about it, it embarrasses the other party, it makes them feel nervous, it makes them feel obligated to say something, the void must somehow be filled.

  "I think," said Michael with a sideways glance at his colleague, "that we could possibly go to 5%. A big stretch for us, but I think we would be prepared to make that sacrifice to demonstrate how we have valued your custom over the years and how we continue to value it."

  "Michael, I repeat that we are not threatening to switch some or all of our orders to one of your competitors." Ha, but that is exactly what we are threatening; maybe he suspects that or maybe he doesn't. "I repeat," I continued, "that we are very pleased to have you as our supplier. You provide us with good quality, you meet your delivery deadlines and our relationship is overall a very satisfactory one. We are most definitely not saying give us 10% or we won't order, and I would not want there to be any misunderstanding on that point. Please."

  He and his partner David looked relieved to hear this. They didn't think they were showing it, but their body language, the cursory relaxing of the posture, the slight easing back in the chair, the faint but noticeable slackening of the muscles around the mouth, these all are signs to which I am well attuned. And that of course is my aim, to have them thinking that although we are going through tough times, we are civilized and agreeable people, not given to unpleasant or menacing discussions, compromises are the rule of thumb. We and they are all just a bunch of great fellows, chewing the fat over the table in a courteous and harmonious manner. Yeah, right.

  "Well, Peter, I understand perfectly and I wouldn't have interpreted otherwise. But even so, I think I can still say that we are prepared to cooperate with 5%. Our two companies are, after all, in a form of partnership, and in a partnership there has to be some give and take on both sides. And, in view of your request, I think that this is one of those occasions when we, as your supplier, have to give. As I have said, it won't be easy for us to do, but we would like to show that we are prepared to cooperate."

  "Michael, thank you, I appreciate that. However, this certainly makes things difficult for Joe and myself. As you know, we have invited all of our suppliers to visit us, one on one, and we are expecting to achieve the 10.2% target we've been given by our boss. This applies particularly to our longer term partners. Now…we're a very good customer of yours, as you know, and we always pay. Not only that, but we always pay on time, not something to be taken for granted in these unaccommodating times. In fact, I am sure you would love to have thousands of customers just like ourselves. Your profits would simply pour in—regular orders, no cash flow difficulties, no bad debts and absolutely nothing else to worry about. The problem you are giving us, Michael, is that 5% from you means that Joe and I would have to obtain 15% from someone else with the same transaction volumes. And 15%, as I am sure you agree, would probably be unattainable."

  No way does he want to lose a customer such as Clark's. It wouldn't do him any good back at the ranch. On top of that it wouldn't help him reach his sales target for this year—a major risk to his annual bonus, if he gets one.

  "I understand that," said Michael, nodding his head. Or trying to, his head couldn't move much on that neck of his.

  "We may not be your biggest customer, Michael," I continued, "but, as you know, we are not a small one either and we order faithfully and regularly, year after year, we pay, and I am sure you count us as one of your best customers. And now we are asking you and your company for help."

  I stopped, I looked at him and I let the silence roll again.

  He looked back at me, and then he looked at his colleague and then he said, "This is very difficult for us. I would like to discuss this outside with Dave if you wouldn't mind. Would you kindly excuse us for a moment? We'll be back in five minutes."

  "Absolutely no problem," I said and glanced at Joe, who smiled and said, "no hurry, please take as long as you need."

  They stood up and left and I looked out of the window and saw them appear around the corner of the building. Michael was chattering away on his mobile; David was messing around with his, whisking to the right and whisking to the left as they do.

  I turned to Joe. "Well, Joe, how do you think it's going?"

  "Interesting for me, Peter. Interesting to see how you go about it." He had a crafty smile on his face. "The nebulous understanding that we will continue to buy from them even if they give us nothing, which I don't think they believe but they daren't say so of course, is a good ploy. And the direc
t request for help shows honesty and makes it clear that we are requesting and not demanding. Mentioning the other supplier visits makes them think about how they will compare. And telling them our target is 10% instead of 8% is also a good device."

  "Well, Joe, it's just one way to do it. We all have our own methods and this is not necessarily the best one. You may have a different style which is as good as or better than mine. In any case, depending on the different suppliers' reactions, you sometimes have to change tack in the middle of it all. Press harder or start backpedalling, as the case may be."

  We were pouring ourselves more coffee when Michael and his sidekick came back into the room. They sat down, and put on their thoughtful looks.

  "Joe, Peter, we have decided we can go to 8%. We can't do the 10%, no way. And this arrangement would need to be subject to re-discussion in one year's time. That would be a condition. I hope you understand."

  Re-discuss in a year's time? But of course, old chap. Re-discussing has never hurt anybody, particularly when it’s the only thing you are committing to.

  I put on a serious, worried look. I allowed myself to look fairly troubled. I looked at Joe. He had also adopted a harassed expression. But we'd made our target on this one and it was pretty clear that we weren't going to be able to get a penny more. So we were both happy enough little fellows.

  I let the silence stand for maybe thirty seconds and then I put on my 'courage in the face of adversity' tone.

  "Very well, Michael, David. It seems reasonably clear that we will have to run with that in this case. As I have already said, you continue to be a greatly valued business partner and we intend to continue our commercial relationships as before, no change, no change at all.”

  “Joe and I,” I continued, “would like to thank you both very much for finding the time to visit us today, and for your efforts to assist us. We appreciate it very much. And now, if there are any other matters from your end that you would like to discuss, please fire away."

  There were a couple of other subjects, product details, and Joe dealt with them easily, he has the technical expertise. And then they were gone, we were all still friends. That was an easy one, I thought to myself.