Fanatics: Zero Tolerance

by Ferguson, David J.

  Agent Grey’s nod was not so sullen this time.

  “Well, then, what are you waiting for? Get out there and do your job!”

  *****

  The “radical development” soon found its way into the public domain in a series of carefully orchestrated information leaks, and was soon reverently referred to by many people as “The Proof”, or (by those of a more pedantic disposition) as “The Evidence”. It was a philosophical insight rumoured to originate with none other than Lewis McDonald, and caused a buzz that helped distract attention away from the introduction of what might have been a disastrously unpopular civil order measure.

  Del Shannon (whose TV show was up and running again following an amazingly short period off the air) had guests on his show ready to discuss every contentious aspect of both these things. Certain observers were naively baffled at how low-key the coverage was for the latter. Someone like Lemuel Page would have been just the man to raise this soft-pedaled issue’s profile, but alas! - he was no longer able to make television appearances except in archive footage, and he would have been more interested in challenging the so-called “proof” anyway. The CD Party had a lot to say about the matter, but there was such open antagonism towards them that Del Shannon would have faced widespread censure for bringing them onto his show; their only platform was now a website read by no-one but those who wanted to find material to criticise and ridicule.

  Del’s backroom people found a sociologist, a philosopher, and a human rights activist, none of whom the wider public had ever heard of.

  “It’s a clear infringement of civil liberties,” insisted Hume, the human rights activist.

  “It seems a very small thing after all we’ve been through,” said Del.

  “It’s absolutely the right thing to do,” said Sorcha, the sociologist. “For the sake of our lives - for the security of the wider community - if this is what it takes to achieve that, then we’ll all, I’m sure, make that small sacrifice. I mean, the terrorist problem has gone on too long in Ulster. As far back as the ‘98 referendum - in fact, since long before that, ordinary decent people in the Province have made their wishes known time after time about violence that arises from political and religious fanaticism. They don’t want to know. None of us want to know. This time it has cost far too much. We almost lost McDonald -”

  “But it’s only a matter of time,” said Hume, “before the draconian measures being piloted in Ulster are applied to all of us, not only in Britain, but in the rest of the European Community too. Terrorism and religious intolerance are problems for all of us -”

  “Hopefully not for very much longer,” chipped in Del, but Hume swept on before the subject could be changed yet again:

  “- after all, everyone has been affected by the war, and the involvement of the Islamic nations is certainly something which has implications for all of us -”

  “Alleged involvement,” said Phil, the philosopher. “We have to be careful; we don’t know for certain if they were responsible for any of the bombs that fell on Europe, and they were on the receiving end too, of course.”

  “It’ll be interesting to see how the Islamic peoples react to The Proof, Phil -” said Del, but Hume was determined to finish saying his piece.

  “Whatever. The point is, we have to get past this switch-off reaction we have every time someone mentions Northern Ireland. What’s going on there concerns all of us. Today it’s ID cards for them; tomorrow it’ll be everyone else, too. And there’s the potential for even more worrying developments - following the catastrophe we’ve just been through, financial institutions all around the world are a hairsbreadth away from collapse, some very big names in insurance are set to go under, there’s a black market that’s already begun to burgeon alarmingly because so many ordinary radiation-free consumer items are very difficult to obtain...”

  “I don’t agree with your economic analysis,” said Sorcha, shaking her head.

  “We believe,” said Hume as if the sociologist had not spoken, “the Government is considering the option of keeping a lid on all of this by doing away with cash altogether and making the ID card a bank card as well.”

  “That’s nonsense,” said Sorcha. “It wouldn’t be practical. Such cards can be quite easily duplicated with the right technology.”

  “There are ways around that,” said Hume, with a desperate, almost embarrassing sense of earnestness. “Obviously I can’t go into detail on the air, but I assure you it’s true.”

  “Hmm,” said Del Shannon in the pause that followed, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Well,” he added grimly. Then he brightened up suddenly. “Well, there are subjects that we can discuss, and of course The Proof is one of them - Phil, McDonald has done well here, hasn’t he?”

  “Absolutely. We really have to hand it to McDonald, don’t we? When you consider that the solution is so simple, so obvious, you wonder why so many people down through the centuries have had difficulties with this whole thing -”

  “Not an issue anymore, thank -” began Sorcha, then corrected herself: “I was going to say ‘thank God,’ but we can all see clearly now that there’s no point in that!” The audience chuckled appreciatively. “I know we’re still left with a loophole, in that it’s impossible to prove a universal negative statement such as ‘there is no God,’ but -”

  Phil chipped in. “It’s true that there is theoretically still room for argument, but it really is a very, very small loophole. It would be nitpicking to insist that The Proof could be refuted, and I frankly don’t think that anyone other than cranks are going to make the effort. The argument is wrapped up, certainly as far as I’m concerned.”

  “So,” said Del, turning back to Sorcha, “what on Earth is religion, then? Is it some kind of mental aberration - a disease, perhaps - or is it just a harmless eccentricity?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have called it harmless,” she said quickly, “not when we have the lessons of history to consider - the lesson of the war we’ve just been through, the lesson of Ulster, right here on our own doorstep - no, too many people have died in so-called ‘holy’ wars, there’s been so much bitterness and division. It really is long past time we grew up and consigned all religion to the dustbin of history…”

  ...and so it went on.

  After the show, Del Shannon had a very nice meal with a certain attractive young sociologist, Phil the philosopher received word of a quite unexpected promotion over the head of a colleague with more seniority, and Hume the human rights activist had a short and unpleasant meeting with some dark-suited Secret Service types.

  *****

  Speaking of short unpleasant meetings:

  Gerry Marshall sat up sharply in bed, groping for his bedside lamp. “Who is it?” he started to shout, but collapsed back onto his pillow as something hard cracked against the front of his head.

  “Don’t make any noise,” a woman’s voice said.

  Gerry thought he recognised the voice, but the fogginess of sleep just disturbed, overlaid by a crackling haze of pain, made clear thought nearly impossible.

  After a moment or two more, the sparks in his vision began to die away. “What’s going on?” he said in a more careful, gentle tone. “Who is that?” No-one answered. “Listen,” said Gerry, “I’m feeling pretty rough. I’m really not in the mood for practical jokes.”

  The woman stepped forward and sat on the edge of the bed. She was briefly silhouetted against the thin curtains drawn across the window, and Gerry became even more convinced that he knew her. She pressed something hard and cold against his cheek: a silencer fitted to the business end of a gun. “This is not a practical joke. I’m not the joking kind. Get dressed. The three of us are going for a little drive.”

  As Gerry got up, he squinted into the dimness at the end of his bed, and noticed for the first time there was someone else there.

  “Hurry up,” said the woman.

  “Alright, alright,” he said. “What’s the rush?” He looked at the luminous dial on h
is alarm clock. “It’s hours before wake-up time. Haven’t we got all night?”

  “We have,” said the woman. “You haven’t.”

  Something finally clicked. “Joanne?” said Gerry. “Joanne, is that you?”

  She said nothing.

  “Look, what is this about? This is a joke, isn’t it? Joanne, speak to me, will you?”

  There was another silence; then the other person spoke. “Do as she says. Get dressed.”

  Gerry struggled into his clothes. “Don’t you have anything at all to say to me, Joanne?”

  She seemed to think about it. “Goodbye,” she said finally.

  “ ‘Goodbye’?” he said. “That’s it?” he was a whisker away from exploding angrily, but she raised the gun again, and his voice fell. “I thought you said you weren’t the joking kind, Joanne. But then, it wasn’t very funny, was it?”

  “Shut up,” she said, but her tone was a little different this time; he could tell he was getting to her. She’d always had a volatile temper, as he recalled; perhaps he could use it to his advantage. (He had no idea how, of course, but in the Gospel According To Hollywood, the accepted wisdom was to get them off their guard, and then you could make your move... whatever that might be.)

  “You always were a bit slow on the uptake where jokes were concerned, eh, Joanne? Shall I tell you something? I used to wonder how someone as thick as you got to university. We all used to laugh at you, you know that? We used to call you ‘the dumb brunette’. I would tell them all, ‘Well, her head might not be much use for anything, but the rest of her -’ ”

  “Shut up,” growled Joanne, raising the gun again.

  “Remember your training, Agent,” said the man at the foot of the bed.

  “Training!” said Gerry. “What did they teach you? Don’t get involved in the situation? There’s no point talking to a dead body? Well, Agent Joanne, I’m not dead just yet -”

  Joanne pulled the trigger; there was a sound not unlike that of a cane whipping through the air. Gerry spasmed and fell, his elbow crashing through the glass front of a little cabinet standing in front of the opposite wall.

  The man in the shadows frowned at her.

  “Sorry,” she said, her voice a model of professional indifference.

  *****

  www.christiandemocrats.org/idcard (excerpt)

  All of this may seem like hysterical nonsense to the ordinary man in the street, but it mustn’t be dismissed. The point is not whether a tattooed barcode actually is the fabled “mark of the beast”, but that ordinary people in Ulster and elsewhere, perfectly ordinary people just like you and I, really believe that it could be. They are voters too, and they have the same rights as every other citizen; the possibility that a draconian measure like this could be implemented over their heads, and in the face of their sincerely held religious beliefs, is deeply worrying, and entirely justifies the stand that we have taken against McDonald and his sycophants. His propaganda machine may paint him as infallible, but he is far from it, as this latest policy illustrates.

  (By the way, can you imagine what that great champion of truth, Lemuel Page, would have said about McDonald trying to step into the Pope’s shoes?)

  Of course, we in the Christian Democrat Party needed no extra proof of his ineptitude; his approach has been undemocratic from the start. And let us not forget that the volatile situation out of which the war erupted was produced by policies he was promoting at the Versailles summit, even though he was absent from the scene at the critical moment.

  If someone produced proof that he was the Antichrist after all, no-one in Ulster would be very surprised. It would be all the more reason to (as the Good Book says) “obey God rather than men”. Only a man like Lewis McDonald could have been responsible for the latest outrage against democracy, the plausible wickedness of his “Covenant of Responsibility”. Don’t believe those who say “it’s only a proposal, it’s a long way from becoming law” - the truth is, it’s only a matter of time before we are all deprived of a basic democratic right: the right to freedom of religion. Make no mistake - signing up to this will be selling your country down the river, and your own soul to the Devil.

  It is clear that the cult of McDonald cannot be allowed to roll forward unchallenged. We cannot sit back and do nothing while our civil liberties are obliterated from the statute books one by one. The Christian Democrat Party is determined to spearhead stiff opposition to this evil tendency. Stand up for your rights! Join us in the war against tyranny!

  www.belfastmirror.co.uk/editorial

  It was only a matter of time before the CD Party launched into a tirade in which they blamed everyone for the war but themselves; they can no more resist this tendency in themselves than a cat can resist attacking a ball of wool rolling past. No-one will listen to them now, of course, except Lemmings, and they don’t count because (let’s call a spade a spade) the CDs are the Lemmings’ political wing.

  But while we are right to discount their maniacal ravings (as every sane person should,) we must not ignore them. Even now, crippled electorally, the Lemming Party - sorry, the CDs - can do great damage at this, our most vulnerable moment. All of their pious rubbish about “obeying God rather than men” stirs up the wrong kind of passions in the hearts of those who would rather act than think; they are encouraged to adopt attitudes of mistrust and rebelliousness at the very moment that we need the opposite from them, and the ground is laid for treacherous acts of civil disobedience which the Lemmings will (naturally) disavow if they are excessive, and excuse if they possibly can.

  Of course, politicians have always been quite ready to quote from the Bible when it suited them, and the CD leader, Sam Christie, is no different (though more fool him if he continues to do it now that we have McDonald’s Proof). So we must stop our ears against all of the Lemming arguments and hold on at all costs to the lesson that this war (and Lewis McDonald) has taught us.

  When you get one, keep your Citizen’s Card next to your heart. Even better, learn the proposed “Covenant of Responsibility” off by heart. Have it tattooed on your forehead or hand if it will help you never to forget. There will be no shame in this; why should there be? If the Lemmings are not embarrassed - indeed, if they are oblivious to the absurdity of being identified with creatures famous for rushing headlong to their own destruction, why should we be ashamed of embracing survival and good sense?

  www.stiritupblogger.com/tattoo

  …actually, the ID swipecard/bankcard doesn’t go far enough. It’s just too easy to fake. The kind of technology that conmen use could churn fakes out by the cartload. We need to think outside the box here and consider something radical, something that might require a significant cultural shift.

  Here’s my idea: tattoos.

  Now, I know what you’re going to say. Without being sexist about it – realistically, women, and especially fashionistas, aren’t going to be thrilled by the notion of a big ugly barcode tat somewhere conspicuous. But it doesn’t have to be either big or unattractive; a QR code only needs to be about ten or fifteen mil across, and you could make it the centerpiece of something artistic. Imagine a discreet little design, low on your forearm so all you have to do is pull your sleeve up a little bit to let the scanner “see” it… Actually, though, I can see some people might wish to turn it into an artistic statement, you know, a way of really putting it out there that they’re good citizens, committed to the Covenant and proud of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if it became de rigeur in some parts of society to have it somewhere really obvious, like on your cheek or forehead. Conmen would be grinding their teeth in frustration - even the best plastic surgeons can’t tamper with a tattoo without leaving signs; and what do plastic surgeons know about machine code anyway?

  Of course there are issues. What happens if the tat gets scarred in an attack or you lost your arm in a factory machine, or some such? Well, maybe that’s a good reason to get the tat on your face. If you lose your head in an accident, you’ll be beyond worryi
ng about how you’re going to access your bank account…

  *****

  Customer quotas apply here, said a sign in nearly every shop window. Ellen walked the length of Portstewart Promenade once more, trying to screw up the resolution she needed to go in to one of them. There were soldiers or Police or (worst of all) civil defence volunteers by every checkout, and long queues. The authorities were hyper about hoarding; it was almost as bad as looting, since there was no telling when stocks of all kinds of goods might be replenished. Ellen had a lot to buy, though, and thought she should chance her arm; they might let her away with buying a little too much just this once, and surely the worst that could happen was that they would insist she returned her surplus to the shelves again. At any rate, she would feel very silly returning with nothing. She had to go through with it.

  She stopped outside the supermarket opposite the bandstand, and checked the contents of her purse one last time. She had a shopping list, a bundle of good old fashioned banknotes, some loose change, and an ID card her boyfriend had manufactured on his computer which purported to be a “temporary replacement”, just in case.

  She went in and picked up a basket. It was the last one, and she was almost beaten to it by someone who shoved in behind her and all but dived for it. Her competitor swore and elbowed her way past. Ellen glared at the woman’s retreating back, marvelling at the readiness of people nowadays to treat everyone else as if they were an inconvenient circumstance instead of a person.

  Ellen stepped forward into the first aisle, being jostled every so often by people scrambling for the stuff on offer. She looked at her fellow shoppers, amazed; it was like the run up to Christmas in a big department store. A few moments ago she’d been worried about getting into trouble over trying to buy too much; now it looked like she might leave the shop with nothing if she wasn’t quick enough.