Philian Gregory

by Simon J. Stephens

  “And no significant others?”, Hill asked.

  “Not to speak of. I’m no celibate, but I’m also no lover. Too selfish, that’s the bottom line. I’m happy and satisfied with everything I have and I’ve always valued my privacy. Sure, I have to put on a public face for business reasons, but that’s all managed and contained. I hope that explains. And that it’s not an issue?”

  “Not at all.”, Joan Beeston nodded to hand over to Hill.

  “In fact,”, the Club Secretary replied, “it’s very much a positive as far as The Haven is concerned. You see, we like to protect our privacy. And we too, in our own way, have something of what others might call a selfish nature. We prefer to think of it as being a solitary one. Hence our being a haven from the interferences of the outside world.”

  “You see,”, he continued, “The Haven is not your run-of-the-mill gentleman’s club. Yes, it’s exclusive, yes, it’s expensive, and yes, it attracts a clientele of a certain ilk, but that is where the similarity ends. Aside from being gender-inclusive, we believe that our club is the only one in London, possibly in Britain, that is a true union of like-minded individuals. The Athenaeum and the like may accidently draw in a membership of those who share common values, but with us, it is those values that define our membership. Young, old, rich, poor, high and low, it doesn’t matter with us. What matters is your mindset. So, to the crux of our discussions. What exactly is The Haven?”

  Hill finished his own drink and gestured to Fellows to bring another round. When these had been set before them, he continued his narrative.

  “The Haven, in various forms, has been around for several centuries. I tell you that, not for us to discuss the influences and effects it has had on the past, but simply to assure you of our pedigree and our security. What has happened here before is not something we dwell on. What may happen in the future is equally irrelevant. The Haven exists today, for today. That’s as much background as you need to know. We live in this day and, as the good book says, sufficient unto the day etc.”

  He allowed himself a smile as he watched Dexter closely, pausing to taste the gin and tonic that had been perfectly prepared for him.

  “We are all about certain values.”, he continued, “Not wealth or status, nor heritage and pedigree. We have members of the aristocracy on our books and we have manual labourers. So, you see, the reason we are talking to you is not because you’ve passed the test on traditional measures, but because we want to know whether you think like us. We could certainly do with the finance and influence you can bring, especially as we consider a trans-Atlantic growth plan. What we want more than that though, is your thoughts. Are you one of us?”

  “Tell me and I’ll answer.”, Dexter’s reply was cut short.

  “A rhetorical question.”, Hill said, holding his hand up, “But one we need to explore nonetheless. Let me tell you about The Haven. We are a collective of individuals who enjoy the freedom of thought that comes from being separated from the numerous conventions and constraints that exist beyond our doors. Of course, we all exist in the outside world but, to a man, and woman, we consider The Haven to be the place where we can truly be ourselves. It’s the place where I can advocate polygamy, where I can put forward a proposal for reinstating the workhouse to relieve the budgetary burdens of the feckless and unemployed, and where I can, openly and freely, choose to argue for or against euthanasia, slavery, forced sterilisation and ethnic cleansing. I trust that none of this shocks you?”

  Dexter shook his head, but remained silent.

  “Good. Because The Haven is about freedom. It is the one place in the country where you can be totally open and honest and where, within some very loose and necessary limits, you are free to indulge in certain practices that may not be deemed to be too politically correct. We have only one defined and common position. Not only are we free from the shackles of the outside world, we are also free from the constraints of religion. Oh yes, we have our share of priests and rabbis on the books, but they are not the ones you would go for to receive counsel. In short, The Haven is a haven from the falsity of all religions. It is the ultimate sanctuary of secularism. God is dead. Man is supreme and this is all there is. Needless to say, from within the walls of this small club came forth much of the populist thrust that put wind in Darwin’s sails.

  With the belief that this life is simply an accidental fusion of atoms comes a greater duty to truly live it out by destroying all the myriad barriers of false morality and immorality that have so bound us in the past. We do little to act. At the moment. We are not a guerrilla force setting out to undermine the state. We are simply a place where unfettered thoughts can be expressed, developed and discussed. That some of those thoughts filter out into the wider world is inevitable, but ours is an unpalatable mindset to many, even today. Think carefully, does your thinking match ours? And consider too, the question that, if today demands agreed action to destroy a threat to wider humanity, would you join us in delivering that intervention?”

  “Man,”, Dexter shook his head as he replied, “and I thought I was just finding a place of peace and quiet! Let me ask you one question, if I may?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I get the idea of an escape from the outside world and, believe me, there ain’t nobody as frustrated by pseudo-religion as I am, but I need to ask you. If I were to join, do I have to be one of the radical thinkers? I mean, I love the ethos, but I don’t consider myself a great philosopher.”

  “Of course,”, Edward Fellows answered this time, “you are free to enjoy as much or as little as is on offer at The Haven. I’m like you, I’m just a regular Joe who happens to own the largest road haulage company in Europe. I come here for peace and quiet. I contribute in support services and in finance. Easier for me and easier for the others as they don’t get my half-baked wisdom.”

  “And that’s what our freedom is all about.”, Joan Beeston took over, “It’s the freedom to be completely open and to add value as our talents permit. I come here for sex and to talk about sex. Not the sort of sex that some deem natural, but my choice nonetheless. Take God away and anything goes, provided you are in a position to pay your way. Survival of the fittest at its best. Freedom, freedom, freedom.

  “And,”, she added with something of a tempting smile, “pleasure, pleasure, pleasure.”

  “So?”, Hill asked.

  “Works for me.”, Dexter replied after a moment’s reflection, “But the intervention you mention. Is that likely to become more prominent? I’ve got the contacts to help if necessary, but are you telling me that the like-minded members of The Haven are going to act to promote their beliefs?”

  “My dear boy.”, Hill smiled, “I can answer that one very easily and tell you, yes, there will be action. But what you haven’t seemed to grasp is that we are already very active. Accidently, most of the time. More active than anyone would ever know.”

  Dexter sat in silence for the next half-hour as the world he thought he knew began to crumble around him. He’d known this would be a life-changing meeting and one which would demand that he decide where his future lay. They told him things he barely believed, things he wondered at them telling him at all, and things that he simply didn’t want to know. By the time they let him out into the street, his head was reeling and he felt far too weak to carry the information that he now possessed. He could do little else that day but arrange a meeting with Philian Gregory and Nathan Carrington and get progressively more drunk. Sometimes, only drink could help you make sense of a world that proved to be a little different to what you’d previously thought it was.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  To a nation already reeling from the deaths of more citizens in a year than had been lost in the past few decades, the event that became known as Black Saturday came as a shock that threatened the fragile stoicism that had seen it just about coping. Whilst Reforgin had claimed, and continued to claim, multiple live
s as it steadily worked out its accidental carnage, Black Saturday was planned and tightly time-bound. It came from nowhere but quickly smothered the country. And it came from a place in the human heart that few were able to believe existed.

  Earlier that Saturday, Philian Gregory and Nathan Carrington had just completed the task of feeding their struggling laptop with the data that they’d captured and that which had come from Dexter. The photographs that Dexter had also included added to the transfer time but they were loaded nonetheless. Every bit of information was necessary at this stage. The breakthroughs would come from unexpected places. Those photos proved to be an invaluable help in the weeks to come.

  An hour or so prior to that task being completed, Dexter had made contact and the call, though brief, was encouraging.

  “Guys,”, Dexter’s voice seemed strained and weary, “we need to meet. How soon?”

  “London?”, Gregory asked, aware that that would require a certain amount of travelling time.

  “No, doesn’t need to be. Where are you just now?”

  “Pretty much where we started out.”, Carrington replied, holding his hand up to Gregory as they stood before the mobile that was on speakerphone, “You know the area.”

  “Yes.”, Dexter replied, “That works with me. How about Coventry? Monday if possible.”

  “We can do that.”, Carrington had scribbled a message for Gregory that warned him about saying too much over the mobile line, “Much to tell?”

  “I’ll give it all to you when we meet. But yes, something of a breakthrough. I’ve been to the club. I think you’ll want to hear what I found out.”

  “Great, we’ll see you Monday. Find us a location near the station.”

  “Will do.”

  “Before you go.”, Gregory thought of something that needed answering, “You’re talking about Goodwin’s club?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Oh, it may just be a coincidence, but the feed we had from Goodwin’s place went down a week or so back. The cursory enquiries we’ve been able to make indicate that he’s disappeared. You know anything about that?”

  “No,”, Dexter sighed, “but it doesn’t surprise me. Nothing surprises me anymore. Guess you need to be careful with even an expired membership card. Look, I need to go. See you Monday.”

  The call had been terminated and the two friends looked at each other as the screen faded on the phone handset. It made sense to meet face-to-face. You never knew who was listening. And if Dexter had news from the club, that might be the break they needed. Saying little to each other, they’d continued uploading their files.

  The first indication that something big was about to break came just before 7 p.m. on that Saturday evening. Social media alerts began battering multiple subscribers over a number of formats, each missive pointing the user to a webpage that currently sat devoid of any image. The URL was www.saveorsacrifice.com. That was all people knew at first. But gaps in knowledge were soon filled in as every major television channel interrupted its broadcasts at the instruction of the Government. They’d been tipped off an hour earlier and had been split about the right way forward, deciding by one vote only, to follow the instructions they were given. Each news channel introduced the feed in different ways. Few remember those introductory comments though, since the nature of the broadcast made everything that surrounded it instantly forgettable. It was streamed on the web and that web-feed was beamed across the nation to every television and media outlet in the land. It was only a short broadcast, but it did the job. Gregory and Carrington watched it live on the small twelve-volt tv installed on the boat. Dexter, sleeping the sleep of the drunk, missed it all.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen.”, the blank web screen faded away to reveal a grey-bearded, smartly dressed man, sitting in a leather chair. The camera framed him tightly, revealing very little of the room around him.

  “I am terribly sorry to ruin your Saturday evening.”, the man’s voice was soft but clear, “However, it is what it is. My name is George Atkinson. In many ways, that’s an irrelevance as, by the time this broadcast airs, I will be dead. The name that you need to register is one that some of you may be familiar with. It is the group that I represent, Forward Action.”

  He paused to let the audience settle and to take a drink.

  “For quite a while now,”, he continued, “the small, but growing, band of like-minded people that you know as The New Progressives, has tried to influence the direction of this nation from the periphery. Sadly, their progress has been hindered by numerous factors, forcing us in Forward Action into a more radical plan of approach. Hence our name and hence this broadcast.”

  “The New Progressives,”, he held up a flyer that was familiar to many, “can best be described, I feel, as a communion of common sense. Forward Action are a step beyond that thinking. This isn’t the time or place for me to give too many details of our order, but that is a neat summary. We believe in man and man’s power to survive. We believe that social cohesion can only be achieved by everyone contributing positively to the whole. Not radical beliefs in themselves, I know. Where we differ from mainstream thinking is that we believe that the time has now come to stop talking about such ideals and to start making them a reality. Citizenship is a privilege. With that privilege comes a duty and responsibility to pay your way. Common sense, you see? For every individual who takes more than they give, another must give more than they take. And that can’t be right. We do not hold to the maxim that it is better to give than to receive and, we believe, neither do the majority of citizens of our great nation.”

  Pausing again to take another drink, turn the pages he was reading from and give the briefest nod to those who were there but out of sight, he seemed in no hurry to conclude what was his first and final broadcast.

  “And so, to the crux of the matter. The choice that we are asking you to make. It’s a simple choice, we feel, and one that can only have positive consequences. But you will make that final choice. You see, we look at the takers and givers in our society and one group jumps out at us. Those who we keep in prison, convicted of crimes that in themselves have cost others dearly, continue to cost the nation roughly eighty-thousand pounds a year. Yes, you heard right, eighty-thousand pounds a year just to keep a prisoner in prison. Collectively, that’s more than six billion pounds. Mad, isn’t it? How many of you could have a much better life if that money went to you? How does eighty-thousand pounds sit against your own hard-earned salaries? So, our first target will be those prisoners. Not just a handful, but every single one. And not just the prisoners, but the prisons themselves. It’s a broken system full of broken people and we need to start afresh. To do so, we must purge the old. Which is where you come in.”

  The pause this time was for dramatic effect. Atkinson continued to stare at the camera.

  “In every prison in this country, we have placed an inmate who has, in his possession, a highly virulent synthetic virus for which there is no known cure. It is safely but delicately installed in their flesh, so, the first thing to say to any vigilantes in cells out there is that it simply isn’t worth trying to identify that person at this stage. Once released, that virus spreads quickly and fatally to all those nearby. In short, every prison inmate will die. We have given the Government a heads-up on this which means that, as I speak, all UK prisons are currently under lock-down and guards have been withdrawn to a safe area. We certainly do not want there to be any innocent victims. But again, I have to stress that the choice is yours.

  Any attempt to contain this virus and save prisoner’s lives runs the risk that the virus will spread out into the nation and, believe me, it will make the number of dementia deaths we’ve recently witnessed seem like small fry if it does. If, however, the decision is made to allow the virus to do what we feel it has to do and purge us of those who have broken the social contract, it will be rendered harmless by the torching of the buildings in which
it currently resides.”

  “The New Progressives are not an activist group. Forward Action are, but we’re not terrorists or dictators. We believe in the collective voice and that’s why it is you, the general public who will decide how this pans out. Think about it. Is there a single individual out there who is capable of making that decision? Are politicians able to bear the weight? No, it has to be you as a collective whole. A simple choice on a popular vote: attempt to save the prisoners and the prisons, or sacrifice them for the greater good? Your votes will be displayed on the screen that replaces my image. That screen will also tell you how to vote. But please, make sure your voice is heard. You have three hours before the infected inmates release their lethal load. I wish you all the best in making your decision and, some fitting final words. I trust that common-sense will prevail.”

  The major broadcasters cut the feed at that point, having been advised by those who’d seen it earlier that it showed nothing more than Atkinson’s death. The full horror of that ending was available to anyone who was interested, but the impact of the bullet that blew his skull apart was no more interesting than a Hollywood special effect. Besides, people were too busy voting to replay the video.

  Gregory and Carrington brought the website up and watched as the first votes began to be registered. Two plain bars dominated the screen, one labelled ‘Save’, the other ‘Sacrifice’. It was the second one that began to fill.

  “You’re quiet.”, Gregory rarely saw Carrington quite so distracted, “You still have friends inside?”

  “No, it’s not that.”, Carrington shrugged off the comment, “Give me a few minutes. I need to think.”

  Those minutes stretched on. After five of them, Carrington began searching through the masses of data that they had printed out and which was stacked randomly around the boat. After ten of them, he grunted to indicate he’d found what he was looking for. After twenty had elapsed, he dropped a wad of paper loudly on the table in front of Gregory who has spent the whole time watching as the Sacrifice bar raced ahead.