Chapter 1
*
The beginning of the end
As the plane hit the tarmac a sense of overwhelming relief introduced itself to George’s central nervous system and dispersed through his tense muscles. The longed-for sense of security was welcomed as an antidote to the pressing urgency monopolizing his emotions. With a deep sigh, he let go of the endless tyrannical scenarios that the nervous play out in their minds when at an altitude of seventeen-thousand feet. As the sweat in his hands began to dissipate and the red flush over his skin began to fade, a gentle squeeze on the knee from his girlfriend Marianne suggested he get up. The blocked-out sounds of his surroundings slowly transitioned from a soft, foreign buzz to the regular chitter-chatter of impatient passengers standing in the aisle. George could never understand why people were always itching to get off planes. Did they too share his fear of flying? Were these the same people lining up early at the gates?
“Shall we go, Rain Man?” teased Marianne, as George snapped out of a concentrated yet absent trance publicized by his deep gaze into the chair in front. The Xanax must still be in effect, thought George with a mixture of excitement and concern. Guided by the familiar hand of his partner, the couple descended from the plane towards the inviting safety of the tarmac. They were quickly confronted by a chilling breeze that sent an electric shiver up Marianne’s spine. Perhaps she’d acclimatized to the radiant Barcelona warmth, where the two now called home.
“Little cold for April, isn’t it?”
“Did you pack a scarf?” enquired George, who was still warm from his frantically high blood pressure.
“I couldn’t find one that looked nice.”
A familiar grin sprung upon both their faces and George put his radiant arm around her as they crossed the tarmac.
George smoked a calming cigarette, justifying the self-destructive carcinogen as a necessary palliative to the left-over nervousness the Xanax had failed to dispel. Marianne, who greatly disliked smoking, stared at George just long enough for him to understand her unsubtle disapproval.
“It’s only one a day, hun.”
Marianne ignored the comment in an effort to make him feel guilty, an act out of selfless concern rather than immaturity, like the love-fuelled hissy fits of a small boy towards his smoking parent. The Uber was here.
“How was your flight?”
“It was fine, I was asleep for most of it. It’s only a short journey from Spain,” George lied in perfect French, and Marianne smiled at the ridiculousness of the comment.
“Here for business or on holiday?”
“We’re here to visit my auntie. I’m originally from here but moved to Spain a few years ago. I haven’t seen her in too long, so we figured it’d be nice to come for the weekend. Hopefully now she’ll stop bugging me to meet my girlfriend.”
“Very good! How old is she if you don’t mind me asking?”
“75.”
“Risky! You better not kiss her when you see her, France has declared a maximum of five people in the same household at a time. That’s three less than a week ago! You know, they’re saying it’s a lot worse than they make it out to be on the news. Apparently, it feels like breathing in glass.”
“Who’s they?” asked Marianne, amused with the driver’s confident diagnosis. The driver chuckled as the car merged onto the Périphérique. The rest of the trip consisted of corny but pleasant small talk revolved around touristic viewpoints and the driver’s rewarding career as an Uber employee.
As the car came to a smooth and effortless halt, George repressed the urge to express his distaste for electric cars. The almost entirely automated vehicle gave him the creeps, but nowadays voicing such a remark could land you a hundred euro fine for hate speech, not to mention the points. George couldn’t afford to lose any more points on the Social Credit System as his taxes had already spiked 0.5% due to his illegal curse during take-off.
“Have a nice night. Enjoy the city of love.”
George didn’t respond to what he deemed a reactive rather than genuine pleasantry, but nevertheless gave a half-hearted smile as he departed the Thompson vehicle.
“Georges! It’s been so long, give your auntie a kiss. This must be Marianne, isn’t she beautiful! You didn’t tell me how pretty she was!”
George tried to execute the difficult task of introducing Marianne to Martine whilst embracing her —a feat that proved too difficult to pull off with any audible clarity.
George realized the Uber had left without anyone noticing, reinforcing his concern for society’s rapidly increasing dependence on technology. He didn’t trust the speed at which computerization was evolving. He missed the predictable and secure mechanics of older, less capable vehicles. Best keep such dangerous thoughts to himself.
Upon entry to the flat they were welcomed in from the charming but frosty Parisian street by Martine’s cat, Boule De Noel. Marianne scooped the cuddly kitten into her arms and began making soft, high-pitched noises to vocalise her amusement, like a broody woman coming across a baby in the street. George’s allergy meant he offered no false affection to the white-spotted feline and instead he continued to his room with their bags. He felt his tense muscles unwind as the familiarity of his old room washed over him. Where the cigarette had failed, the feeling of security gradually relaxed the lingering hysteria from the flight. Now he felt safer, less exposed. But he was still aware of the black dog roaming in the shadows of his mind, waiting to be beckoned.
The women conversed in broken French and English, with laughs and giggles replacing linguistic deficiency, which worked surprisingly well. Pleased at how quickly the two had become friends, George joined them. He found Marianne wearing a unique felt hat with its apex bent over.
“Martine gave it to me, isn’t it lovely?”
“Strange looking beret,” George quipped.
“It’s not a beret! Anyway, I think it suits her,” rebutted Martine as the two sat affably next to each other, already three quarters of the way through an affordable Côte du Rhône. Martine loved to give presents; it was in her nature. Every birthday she would spoil George, and was known in the neighbourhood for generous qualities. George sat down and the three enjoyed a pleasurable night of eating cheese, drinking wine and playing countless games of Rummy.
The next morning, George and Marianne were woken by a shrieking ring. Despite irrational, half-lucid assumptions that the source was the sound of an incoming air strike, the subsequent sound of Martine’s bedroom door opening and closing indicated it was merely the doorbell. George made a mental note to forcibly suggest to Martine to change the frightening ring that had sent him cowering under the sheets. He half-heartedly tried to coax his body into returning to its cosy state of sleep, where he had been blissfully oblivious to his mildly uncomfortable hangover. He begrudgingly abandoned his efforts after five fruitless minutes and clambered out of bed.
“George, this is Monsieur Dolus. He’s been helping me with jobs around the house since René passed away. He’s really been a lifesaver. He redid the bathroom for a fraction of what all the other local carpenters quoted, and said he’ll fix the sink for a hot meal!”
“That’s great, thanks for helping her out,” murmured George, offering a shy, flaccid handshake and avoiding eye contact with the tall man. George rarely had the confidence to make extended eye contact with people he didn’t know very well. He usually found it intimidating or uncomfortable. The pain from Mr. Dolus’ firm handshake lingered in his fragile, journalist fingers as he resumed his morning pilgrimage to the coffee machine —a routine considered imperative in a sheltered society.
George and Martine sat down and sipped the coffee, which was still too hot to truthfully enjoy, and discussed what had been happening in George’s life over the past few years. George had always wondered why he never put a tad of cold water in his morning coffee to cool it down, perhaps it was an ego thing. Whatever the answer, he was too scared of feeling emasculated by the exposing act of weakness, but he was still not quite brave enough to endure the heat of the hot liquid against his sensitive tongue before blowing on it for several minutes. This resulted in a few cowardly sips on the edge of the mug, yielding a pitiful amount of coffee, followed by large gulps to ingest the rest before it became cold.
They discussed George’s career as a journalist in Spain. Martine had always encouraged her nephew to pursue his passion of writing.
“It’s fine, it’s easy really. I get assigned a topic or a current trend, they provide me with their take on it, and all I have to do is piece together five hundred words. Plus, the editor chops and changes everything around to make sure the piece conveys a politically correct message, which makes my life a lot easier.”
“Are you still writing novels?”
“No, I haven’t had time.”
“You know, you should start writing again. Proper writing I mean. Your ideas. I read somewhere recently that artists conquer neurosis by expressing their subconscious thoughts by exorcising their inner demons through creative expression. Bottling up all those thoughts isn’t good for the mind, Georges.”
Martine turned on the television to suggest he consider the statement a little longer before automatically responding in affirmation. The news reporter’s voice echoed around the room.
“Leaked videos of Chinese statesmen gunning down civilians in the street, believed to be infected with the novel coronavirus, have flooded Twitter this morning as growing accusations of human rights abuse rise to an unprecedented high. The videos have not yet been verified and the State Council denies any truth behind the graphic and confronting clips. Zhe Ling, a pioneer in leukaemia research, has been declared missing by his family for several weeks. Anonymous reports state Ling was accused of treason after attempting to publish an online article describing events that transpired within the state’s health department. The article is said to have sparked a student protest against the National People’s Congress’ handling of the coronavirus pandemic. The article has been censored by state media and its accusations cannot be verified. The Chinese government is denying any such negligence, labelling Ling a fascist madman who was most likely suffering from some sort of paranoid schizophrenia, and likely to have taken his own life.
“Polls reflect a sharp decrease in casualties and new cases for the eastern state, to the extent of which Chinese media sources are discussing the possibility of reopening certain industries and lifting social distancing bans in many of their densely populated cities. However, global scepticism is growing following a report on the disappearance of twenty million Chinese mobile numbers. The President of the United States has declared the recent conduct of the State as rogue and in breach of international law, reinforcing that America would do whatever necessary to uphold international peace.”
“Good as new!” Mr. Dolus interrupted as he entered the room, paying little attention to the broadcast.
“So how long will you be in Paris for, George?” he enquired.
Martine turned off the television and looked at Mr. Dolus with grateful admiration, anticipating every word.
Dolus was a tall, skinny man who spoke smoothly, but looked rough around the edges. His prickly face suggested he hadn’t shaved in several days and the scent of his cheap cologne failed to mask an underlying tone of body odour. His sleeves were rolled up enough to reveal faded tattoos on skin that had clearly not adhered to a white-collar 9 to 5. George interpreted these traits as signs of a humble man, who’d likely lived a financially difficult life as a handyman. Perhaps he hadn’t made the smart choices of his more successful tradesmen counterparts, who were quoting higher prices. Perhaps he had a crippling gambling addiction, or even a hidden drug habit.
“Only for the weekend unfortunately,” George uttered, as Martine sacrificed her spot on the couch and went to fetch breakfast.
“It’s a shame you’ve come during the lockdown, would’ve been romantic for you and your girlfriend to have a little promenade along la Sienne —it’s most charming during the springtime.”
“Maybe next time. Thanks for helping Martine, it’s assuring to know she has someone she can trust. I sometimes worry about her, all alone in this place.”
Martine re-entered the room, bearing croissants and freshly ‘made’ coffee. Meanwhile, the faint sound of modest singing from the bathroom suggested Marianne had finally risen. George waited eagerly for her to finish in the shower, as his third cup had reinforced the fact that coffee was, indeed, a laxative. The bathroom door opened, and Marianne emerged from a cloud of steam with one towel wrapped around her divine body, tucked into her busty bosom, and another concealing her luscious, natural blonde hair. Her beauty briefly distracted George from needing to use the bathroom, but once Marianne entered the bedroom, and was no longer in sight for adoration, he excused himself. When George went to wash his hands, two abnormalities caught his attention: the skirting was completely uneven, and the tap was leaking —strange defects for a recently renovated bathroom.
The next morning George was once again robbed of his nine hours of sleep, this time by his girlfriend.
“George, I think you need to see this.”
George could tell by the tone in her voice that whatever she was about to show him could be ruled out as being a silly meme, so he repressed his complaints of it being too early. Marianne pressed play on a video on her phone. The President of the United States, with his Secretary of State beside him, began delivering a speech.
“Today marks an important milestone in the future of the free world. Unbeknown to some, the common freedoms enjoyed by Americans and our allies, which are often taken for granted, are completely absent in some less fortunate nations. It has been our duty as developed states to utilize our collective efforts to aid such countries in closing the gap between first and third world societies. We strive to facilitate peace through such institutions as the WHO and the IMF. Our combined efforts have successfully saved countless lives in impoverished countries, eradicating disease, hunger and unemployment. Americans have been the forerunners in implementing democracy into authoritarian, corrupt, or insecure political systems throughout the world. In times of crisis, America has come to the aid of those in need, dedicating whatever resources and labour required to help those less fortunate.
“However, in the midst of the current global health crisis, as a united group of nations, we are faced with an even more pressing and hostile threat than hunger and disease. The undiscriminating and unmerciful wrath of the current coronavirus, has acted as a litmus test to reveal the true colors of not only individuals, but also of governments. When faced with a catastrophe, heroes are formed. It has never been more applicable, that hard times make strong men and women. The amazing resilience and self-sacrifice exercised by healthcare workers throughout America, Europe and Australia, is a truly honourable reflection of the Western ethics and political philosophy we base our lives upon. It is in such times that governments owe the most to their people: our undivided dedication to ensuring their well-being.
“That is why, when a totalitarian government acts with hostility against the people of their own state, it is the unconditional duty of the United Allied Nations to gage our obligation to intervene. We widely define peace as freedom from disturbance and oppression. The Chinese National People’s Congress and the Central Military Commission, including the People’s Armed Police, have violated their responsibility to abide by and fulfill the requirements outlined in the UN’s Universal Declaration of Human Rights. They have failed to keep the peace.
“Last night, Professor Jean Claude Blanc confirmed that the current coronavirus strain was indeed intentionally constructed by man. Blanc, one of the world’s leading scientists in leukaemia research, claimed the virus was the failed prototype of a new cancer treatment. Blanc has put to rest any possibility of the extraordinarily large single strands of RNA genomes to have been formed via mutation or from the transference from an infected animal. The medical catastrophe was never made public, on a national or international level. Chinese state censorship ensured the destruction of any incriminating documents and evidence. Blanc, along with other Chinese whistle-blowers now receiving asylum in the US, revealed the catastrophic accident of the coronavirus escaping the Wuhan laboratory through negligence, and subsequently becoming responsible for an estimated 25 million deaths in China alone. Ladies and gentlemen, we have been lied to. A cover up of this proportion is an unacceptable atrocity, that has negated the legitimacy of the NPC and its fraudulent state-run media that has lied to and controlled its citizens since 1949.”
Marianne found George’s hand under the sheets and they locked fingers. The President continued.
“Regrettably, this scandalous cover up is not the only or even the main area of concern. Several viral videos have surfaced online in recent weeks, which we had all hoped were faked. Unfortunately, CIA analysts have verified their legitimacy. Following the first wave of street side executions and apartment door welding videos, the Whitehouse engaged a covert taskforce to infiltrate Beijing intelligence systems. What we found is the reason for this speech today and for the subsequent necessary actions to follow. Fifteen marines, fluent in Southwestern Mandarin, were sent into Wuhan disguised as PAP officers to feed intel on their operations back to the CIA. Within two days, three Marines were instructed to execute the residents of a densely populated commission flat, housing approximately eighty families labelled as infected. The soldiers quickly learnt that the nature of their assigned massacre was a common, daily task for the death squads of the PAP. Luckily, with the help of American resources and military prowess, we were able to safely extract the inhabitants without compromising the mission.
“We have reason to believe that the People’s Republic of China should not only be classified as a rogue state evidenced by the heinous, state-sponsored violence within its own borders, but that the greatest treachery is still yet to come. Our team of analysts have uncovered an impending international, cyberterrorism attack. Since its conception, the CIA has spread a stern warning to member nations of the UN regarding the state-run telecommunications company Huazex. The US banned the company’s products within our borders, an exercise also thankfully implemented by our loyal and long-standing military and economic allies, Australia. The CIA outlined the dangers associated with welcoming the company into international markets and in turn allowing the accumulation of mass personal data by the state. We have reason to believe that the Chinese Military of State Security, now considered by the United States as a terrorist organization, is planning an attack to take control of power grids and transport systems within key allied nations, in a manoeuvre to instil on the world what we are labelling as a ‘New Eastern World Order’.
“Allied nations, for the first time since the rise of the Third Reich, we are faced with the threat of World War. Hence, the United States has taken matters into its own hands via a range of pre-emptive measures. This morning strategic strikes were launched via the East China Sea, with the aid of the South Korean and Australian Navy. French and British troops have been deployed to help occupy the Red State with the common goals of implementing western democracy and to put an end to the communist wrath of the NPC. The soft rise of China is no more. Ladies and gentlemen, a government’s first duty is to protect their people, not to violently oppress them. We will surpass this obstacle if we remain unified and focused. For the time being, you must undertake the difficult task of going about your daily lives as normally as possible. We must not forget the importance of maintaining the freedom, economy and liberation that we have attained as a modern world from capitalism. Always remember that freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction. We did not pass it to our children in the bloodstream. It must be fought for, protected and handed on for them to do the same.”
A speechless George refused to turn to make eye contact with Marianne, as if even this small act would confirm the reality of what they’d just witnessed. A terrifying sense of instinctual alertness overcame George. The sensation was only antagonized by the introduction of discourse.
“We should wake up Martine.”
“Do you realize what this means? Fucking hell, pre-emptive, can you belie-” George froze. Just when the nightmare couldn’t get any worse, a daunting realization sprawled throughout his body, similar to the sensation he’d experienced during abnormal turbulence. George’s phone immediately lit up with a message which hedidn’t have to read to comprehend its significance. George was down to his last two credits following his breach on the airplane. The hate speech that he’d just committed was enough to bring him into negative, classifying him as a criminal. George’s points were set to go up again the following day, but his mind was not quick enough to censor his words before they’d left his mouth. He’d never gone into negative points before, but knew a few people who had. They’d explained the sentencing to be determined by an automated, online judiciary system. The system assesses the breaches of behaviour and adjudicates accordingly. For nonviolent crimes, it was common to be served with community service that was in line with state goals and projects. For example, rather than keeping offenders in confinement at a cost without return, the state would utilize them as labourers on major infrastructure projects. The process not only saved the state in labour costs, but provided an avenue of reintegration into society for offenders through the instruction of a new trade.
George’s bodily status was now nothing short of a state of panic and the only rational action he could bring himself to do was to try and remember where he’d put his bottle of Xanax. Marianne, aware of George’s panic attack, was trying to reassuringly calm him down. She knew that the situation would transpire to a much grimmer reality if she also revealed her undeniable state of anxiety. Marianne’s comforting attempts were interpreted by George’s ears as mere background murmurs, his brain focusing his undivided but compromised attention on locating his remedy. Panic increased with every uneasy millisecond that passed. The world began to close around him and the outskirts of his peripherals began to darken —a sensation that simulated being buried alive. He tried to scream for help but his vocal cords failed him, like in a common nightmare. He felt his heart racing uncontrollably and his breath starting to fall short. Got it. George lunged for the bottle, his vision almost entirely closed over with plaguing darkness, and popped two pills. There was no time to fetch water, so he used the little saliva in his mouth to unpleasantly send them on an unnatural path down his tightened throat. George finally directed his attention to Marianne and grabbed her tightly. Words were not an option for George at this time and also unneeded to express his all too frequent, haunting terror of the mind. His stalwart girlfriend succeeded in passing on her comforting sense of stability and fortitude. As always, she had remained the brave one in the situation.
Chapter 2
*
Fight
The looming threat of war wasn’t enough to suppress George’s habitual desire for his morning coffee. He found Martine already awake and sitting attentively watching the news. The subject being reported was made obvious by the frightened expression on her face. George sat next to her and began to sip his boiling hot coffee.
“How’d you sleep?”
George had always admired Martine’s positiveness, although the audacity of such a question, considering the circumstances, was enough to baffle him. He considered ignoring it and anxiously diverting the conversation towards the elephant in the room, but he changed his mind. Perhaps the Benzodiazepine had begun to take effect.
“Good thanks. Here, you want a croissant?”
The two sat for fifteen minutes nibbling on pastries and making occasional small talk, unrelated to the horrors that were being portrayed on the television in front of them. All of a sudden, time seemed to feel more precious to George, a man who had never truly been able to live in the moment. He actually noticed the taste of the instant coffee he was drinking, rather than his addict brain merely releasing endorphins as it identified the stimulant entering his system. Surprisingly, he noticed that he actually quite liked the taste. George had always shunned instant coffee as a gross last resort. He didn’t consider himself to be one of those hipster coffee snobs he loved to detest, but he avoided stooping to Nescafé’s mediocre blends.
Whilst it felt like an eternity that Marianne had been in the shower, George began to appreciate the undiscriminating nature of time, and how sobering the realization was. He reflected in frustration on the endless times in his life that he’d wasted or taken for granted. The simple pleasures, such as those enjoyed sharing breakfast with his auntie. This newfound perspective had only come with the impending removal of George’s rights and freedoms. It was as if his freedom of opportunity was only appreciated once it was taken away. The same was applicable for his appreciation of time. Would he still be reliant on the handouts of his girlfriend’s father if he valued time the same way he did now? Would he have continued to snooze through four daily alarms if he’d realized a world war was on the close horizon. It may have been all too little, too late. Despite the meaningful significance of the existential realization, the thoughts brought on nervousness, rather than inspiration. He’d already surpassed the designated line for criminal punishment, and the unread message on his smartphone was a haunting reality he couldn’t hide from for much longer.
Marianne emerged from the bedroom immaculately dressed in true Parisian style, despite there being no possibility of leaving the flat. George found the irony amusing, which was in turn increased by the stark contrast in his chosen outfit — a plain T-shirt and unfashionable jocks. Marianne never wore makeup and in George’s eyes clearly shouldn’t, as it would only take away from her beauty. ‘You wouldn’t repaint the Mona Lisa,’ he’d tell her.
Suddenly the television aberrantly switched to a live stream picturing the President of the Republic.
“At 5.45 this morning, the United States, with the aid and approval of the United Allied Nations, launched the first nuclear strike since Hiroshima and Nagasaki, on the Chinese military base of Djibouti. The pre-emptive attack was executed to eliminate the proximate threat of Chinese strikes on Europe. The strategically located base on the eastern coast of Africa meant Western European borders were in range of the state’s active P-12 ballistic missiles. Strikes were also executed on the city of Wuhan, following the refusal to surrender to negotiation by the NPC. The strikes were given the green light following an emergency UN Security Council meeting late last night, where China refused to cooperate with requests made by the permanent member nations of the council. Russian representatives came to the defence of the eastern state, criticizing the West’s so-called capitalism-fuelled accusations. The United States, France and Britain have decided to withdraw all troops and bring an end to all military occupation throughout the Middle East in an effort to concentrate the entirety of our united military force against our new common enemy—”
“You left this in the room”, Marianne handed George his phone accompanied by a concerned look, suggesting he read that dreaded message. The device scanned his face as he picked it up and brought him to an automated message.
George Tierra (Social sec. N62347859233K), you are hereby notified that due to the following breaches of acceptable citizen conduct, you are required to report within the next 24 hours to the closest government office to undertake your required duties. Noted breaches:
The International Social Judiciary System of the Allied Nations has sentenced you to a total of 2 years of national service. The French government has allocated your services to: Military - Infantry. Your designated squadron is FR8992N. You will be dispatched to undertake operations in the Northern China region. As specific details are classified, you are to report to your superiors located at: Place de la Republique, Paris, France.
IMPORTANT*: If you do not report to your closest military office within 24 hours of receiving this message, you will be classified as a deserter and a warrant will be released for your immediate arrest. Such an offense is considered treason and in times of war warrants capital punishment. The democratic passing of Article 1: The introduction of the Western Social Credit System (WSCS), outlines that military endeavors may be included in national and community service projects in extreme cases of threat to national security. The article was voted in and passed by the European Union of Martial Law Regulations on the 23rd of November, 2018. You are hereby bound by this law.
*Click here to order a Thompson automated ride direct to: Place de la Republique, Paris, France.
George closed the message, as well as his eyes, and counted to three as he slowed his breathing, a technique his therapist had taught him to try to calm his anxiety. The technique consisted of concentrating on counting to three whilst slowly breathing in, holding the breath for three seconds and then breathing out whilst counting to three. The underlying theory is that fear and anxiety has been phylogenetically passed from our hunter-gatherer ancestors, made manifest by accelerated breathing. The instinct is thought to have boosted survival mode and increased the likelihood of escape from life or death situations. Manipulating this to reverse the fight or flight effect, never really helped George to relax. Even strong anti-anxiety medication was inconsistent in its efficacy. Unsurprisingly, the breathing technique was abandoned within phase one of the first three seconds and his focus raced back to the situation before him. He fought with himself over whether to share the news with his companions and decided it would be too dark a burden to hide. George passed the Thompson device to his girlfriend and auntie. He then sat waiting for them to finish reading the message, observing the mixed bag of different facial expressions both women failed to hide.
As images of a distant mushroom cloud and SU-27 fighter jets bearing red stars on their wings were playing out on the muted TV, Martine couldn’t stop several tears from streaming out of her eyes. Marianne was also crying and squeezing George at a strength that surpassed that of hugs given for joy. Whilst the three embraced and grieved in each other’s arms, they were careful not to question the message or voice anything that could be interpreted as treacherous or revolutionary. Despite the temperature of George’s coffee finally having descended to a consumable level, he decided his brain required no further stimulation and he pushed the mug slightly further into the centre of the coffee table: the universal symbol that you are done. George relaxed his muscles that were heavy from the Xanax and sank into the comforting embrace of the couch. He began the intimidating task of deciding what to do.
George had always thought of the military as an honourable service. Like most men, George’s father was his role model, and he had served in the French army. However, he only served compulsory national service and was never deployed. He wasn’t a pacifist, but neither was he a particularly militaristic man. George’s father, like George, was patriotic but not overly nationalistic. He believed in the pride one should take in serving for their country and the preservation of culture, although he believed a country’s prosperity should be achieved via peaceful means. The concept of dying for one’s country was a phenomenon George often thought about, and a definite attraction to the concept was there. However, with deeper meditation George considered whether the attraction truly revolved around sacrificing one’s life in the name of the specific militaristic goals set out by the respective army one serves under, or rather to have the satisfaction of finding a greater purpose than one’s self. A good reason to live, let alone die for, was a rarity amongst his peers, and putting on a uniform and brandishing a gun seemed like a simple and uncomplicated way of answering that question. George considered the ambiguity of the war at hand and the absence of a convincing illustration of the motivating factors. He had always respected the gravity of taking someone’s life, even in the name of war. George had constructed hypothetical situations in which he believed he’d be prepared to do such a thing: protecting his family, self-defense and defending his home or country from invasion. He now realized that the latter was easier said than done, when actually faced with dispatchment.
Finally, he turned his focus to politics. George was disgusted by the nature in which a change in regional or federal government always resulted in the cancellation of major state projects, and the default of public-private contracts. For example, long term infrastructure plans, which when cancelled had resulted in billions of taxpayers’ earnings being paid out, with nothing to show for it. Or promises to improve health and education systems proving to be nothing more than empty lies in a fraudulent campaign. George always struggled to comprehend how traditional left vs right political systems, with polar opposite ambitions, continued to systematically defile the integrity of such industries as infrastructure and healthcare. The fact that the state’s ambitions and direction was at risk of being U-turned down a drastically different route at each and every election was a philosophy that George had previously implemented when regarding the military. Was it not concerning for soldiers, who are conditioned into giving their lives for their country, to know that their orders of direction could be nullified, and even criticized, following a transition of ruling politicians? Was it not hard to condition soldiers on a basis of morals and ambitions that would potentially be replaced every four years? This made George aware of the true misgiving that lay beneath all others: did he actually trust the current government?
George, as educated as a layman could be on the matter, understood that nuclear warfare meant almost certain destruction for all parties involved, assuming China was not to fly the white flag following this morning’s strikes. The tally of internationally harboured nuclear warheads had surpassed 13,000 —90 percent of which were held by the United States and Russia. This figure led George to question: what impact would an infantryman’s sacrifice have in the face of an irrational, drone-operated nuclear war? This was not the same war fought by the brave men in Normandy. This was a battle to be dictated by the splitting of the atom and the manipulation of robotic arsenals. George knew he had to make the decision to fight, and likely die, for a cause he knew nothing about— for a government he knew even less about, or to flee and be charged as a deserter.
The first words to come from Marianne’s mouth were a relief to George’s damaged ego.
“You can’t go,” she whispered, placing her hand over the continuously listening device on the table.
“Don’t do this to me, don’t do this to Martine and your family back home. It’s a pointless cause directed by the ambitions of those furthest away from the frontline. Don’t think that doing this will protect me. I’ll help you George. We can work it out.”
Martine nodded in approval to Marianne’s heartfelt request. George suddenly had the instinctual urge to pick up his phone and drop it into the large mug of undrinkable coffee on the table. To his surprise, the wish won over his censorship of reasoning, and was fulfilled. George felt a mix of adrenaline and liberation as he watched the smartphone spark and destruct in the murky liquid, which had now served a new, useful purpose. The adrenaline was fought with fear, and wary that the location services could still be active on the device, George picked up the phone, opened the door to the garden and launched it as far as he possibly could. He watched it plummet into a neighbouring garden barely fifteen meters away— an act to protect the anonymity of his collaborating aunty, but the unimpressive capacity of George’s arm revealed much deeper, latent motivations. With the expulsion of the technological device came a sentiment of rebellious liberation. Despite the known consequences for the treacherous act, an embraced sense of relief was undeniable. It was in that moment that the fatal doorbell rang and this time signified much more than an unpleasant robber of sleep. A pause between the three lasted several nervous seconds before Martine made a move.
“Let me get it.”
George was frozen on the couch. Marianne immediately put her arm out to block the elderly woman and instead took the daunting duty upon herself.
“Mr. Dolus, you gave us a fright. Come in.”
Mr. Dolus sat down and, to the discontent of George and Marianne, Martine unloaded a detailed description of the events that had just transpired, including George’s pending duties.
“Wow man, vive la France I say, do you know where you’re being dispatched to?”
Silence.
“You’re not thinking of deserting?!” protested Dolus, taken by surprise. His condescending tone clearly suggested his regard for George as a coward for not serving France.
Still silence.
“Well, if that really is what you decide, then I might be able to help you. For a small amount of coin of course. I have a farmhouse near the coast of Normandy. I’m exempt from quarantine restrictions in order to look after my livestock. I can smuggle you there where I can introduce you to an old friend who can take you across the Channel. Maybe you could avoid persecution over there. Lay low, blend in, start a new life. Risky though. You get caught, it’s on you. I’ve had enough run-ins with the law in my time. I don’t think this old man could handle another stint in the big house!”
Martine smiled, but not without a trace of concern, not wanting the man to feel his humour wasn’t appreciated. Martine was the type of person that felt the need to please everyone, regardless of the circumstances. Mr. Dolus wrote a phone number onto a napkin and gave George an assertive nod. George looked at the man blankly and still muted, taking in the surreal scenes and even weirder proposition.
“Anyway, where’s this leak.”
Martine and Mr. Dolus left the room.
For the next twelve hours, the thousands of scenarios George had played out in his head had had no significant help in clarifying his decision. In fact, his overthinking had led himself to become exponentially more confused. Nevertheless, the three sat and ate together, respecting the traditional: entrée, main, cheese, and dessert, in that holy order. A theme of silence was prolonged from the dinner table to the kitchen as the three washed and dried the dishes —an act that no longer felt like a chore but an appreciated chance to spend valuable time together. Finally, when they’d finished drying the last dish and it was time for bed, George caught the upset eyes of Marianne who was trying her best to hold back tears. George gave her a fake smile and a comforting embrace, before excusing himself to the bathroom. He didn’t want his upset girlfriend to see him like this, not when she was in pain. He sat down on the toilet, which he had no intention of using, and put his head in his hands. His equilibrium began to carousel and nausea began to take over. Millions of anxious thoughts plagued his torturous mind and tears of self-pity began to stream down his profusely sweating face. His vision once again began to shut out the surrounding light, like a nightmarish curtain blocking the receptors in his optic nerve. The nausea gave the toilet beneath him a new purpose. George sat frightened on the bathroom floor and prayed for one of the pills he’d just popped to take effect. But rather than wait any longer in his pathetic sprawl, he opened the door and went straight into Martine’s office, where she kept her old landline telephone. George pulled the napkin out from his pocket and dialled the number.
Chapter 3
*
Flight
“Meet me out the back of Martine’s flat in exactly one hour. Muster up as much cash as you can, they’ll freeze your accounts tomorrow morning. Bring nothing else, there won’t be room.”
The line ended before George could ask questions. He re-entered the kitchen, this time less confused but no less scared, and informed the two women of the arranged escape plan. As Mr. Dolus had requested, he asked Martine if she had any cash in the house and she happily handed over every last euro she had.
George decided to spend five minutes of the remaining sixty enjoying what could be his last warm shower. After what felt like thirty seconds, a knock on the door signalled that the five minutes were up. Time was like sand sifting through George’s grasping fingers. He was a frightened man trying to slow it down and hold onto it but failing in his efforts, each grain of sand falling equally rapidly, awakening in him the sobering realization of the irreversible nature of the clock.
The couple put on their warmest and most inconspicuous clothes; a task that proved difficult for Marianne whose wardrobe consisted of modest but stylish garments. Finally, George hugged his auntie goodbye, waved her good luck and they made their way to the car park, packing nothing but George’s prescribed pills secured safely within his breast pocket.
Two hazy flashes scurried from the thick mist and the two hastily approached the old van. George caught Dolus’s thin face, half-concealed by a worker’s cap, in the driver’s mirror. The two briefly locked eyes and he heard a subtle click as the boot door unlocked. Eager to get off the street, they got in the back of the rusty Peugeot and found the cleanest available bit of floor where they sat huddled in silence. George pulled the door shut behind them, enclosing the couple into terrifying darkness. The sound of the engine starting was a relief similar to a child afraid of the dark finding the light switch after a frantic search, with each moment spent scrabbling for it being taken over by the fear of the unknown.
The van slowly started moving. The journey to Normandy was two hundred kilometres and should take around two and a half hours, on a good day. However, as neither George nor Marianne had packed their phones, they had no way of accurately measuring time. It could have been fifteen minutes or one hour in the sombre, windowless boot. The transition from repeated stopping and starting, to cruising at a faster, more consistent speed, indicated they’d successfully escaped Paris’s intricate maze of one-way streets and had made it onto the highway.
George thought of what he’d do if they were stopped by the police. What could he do? It was only a couple of hours before a warrant would be out for his arrest, along with Marianne and Mr. Dolus as accessories to treason. George had gained a respectful admiration for Mr. Dolus’s bravery. He was a man who seemed valiantly unphased by the threat of danger; a trait that George envied. The fact that he was willing to risk it all for only a small sum of money proved that he had deeper, perhaps more selfless, motivations.
As Marianne drifted in and out of consciousness, the smooth road and total darkness began to decompress the muscles in her neck and shoulders. She finally fell asleep resting against George’s chest. Her vulnerable head became dead weight, exhibiting her trust for the man it rested on. George used his uncompromised arm to pull an old blanket over the two, conscious not to wake her, and shut his eyes. His hand was wrapped around the woman he loved. He’d never even had to ask if she wanted to come; her loyalty was evident in her body language. The subtle movements, the proximate distances in which they stood together, or their hands and feet that always rested close to each other, like biological magnets. He’d never been truly in love, until he’d met her.
In and out of the brink of sleep, George was half-dreaming, half-hallucinating, that he was walking down a long flight of stairs into a dark, unfamiliar abyss. Everything was black, other than what appeared to be the bright shine of a spotlight, unveiling a portion of manifest stairs that laid before him. The stairs were floating in darkness, with only several steps visible and anything further concealed by the unknown. With each apprehensive step, a haunting sense of approaching danger poisoned the air. The darkness began to infiltrate the little visibility present in a familiar enclosing, tunnelling fashion. The stairs became distorted in size, the gaps between each one morphing into unfathomable distances. Suddenly, to George’s horror, the next step in the staircase disappeared from underneath him and, with a painfully loud mechanical shriek, an overwhelming sense of falling clutched George’s terrified mind and snapped him into a more convincing nightmare. The mechanical screech hadn’t dissipated with the manifestation of the staircase, and had actually amplified with his unpleasant reintroduction to reality. As George prayed for the van doors not to open, they did exactly that. The sensation of falling re-entered George’s body; this time accompanied by a kick of adrenaline, as he braced himself for what lay on the other side.
“Hungry? I thought we’d grab a bite to eat. I’m famished.”
Furious yet relieved, George shook his head in disbelief and the nonchalant Mr. Dolus left the boot doors casually ajar as he migrated towards the golden arches to get a burger. Beyond the globally recognised neon sign of accessible and effortless, self-loathing, Americanized, propaganda, was a temporary highway sign flashing bold orange letters.
“HARBOURING DESERTERS IS AGAINST THE LAW. CASH REWARD FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO AN ARREST. DIAL 131 666.”
George shut the door and exchanged positions with Marianne’s arm, his head now seeking refuge in the warmth asylum between the top of her breast and shoulder. The two lay in silence for a few seconds, but the silence was soon broken as they couldn’t help chuckling at the situation. After the hungry chauffeur had received his order, the van started rolling again and fifteen minutes into the journey the hatch that separated the driver from the back, opened.
“Nugget?”
The couple couldn’t control letting out another burst of laughter, and politely refused Dolus’s ridiculous offering.
“We’re here,” said Dolus unnecessarily, as the van doors opened to reveal radiant, rolling hills and an ancient, vernacular farmhouse. A few cows roamed the fields and resided among long, unkempt weeds and dandelions. The wild flowers sparkled naturally in the rays of the recently risen sun. The house looked abandoned and the foundations clearly unsound. However, it possessed a tranquil and modest charm, with overgrown vines that had invaded the patchy slate roof. It was clear that the windowsills were once cottage red, but the paint had long ago faded. The walls were made from a variety of exposed stones and makeshift pebbly mortar.
The driveway ran long and windy between the uncombed fields, leaving a private buffer between the residence and the road. They followed Mr. Dolus’s lead and entered through the squeaky front door, to find the farmhouse clearly hadn’t been lived in for a number of years. Weeds emerged from cracks in the broken floorboards and sunshine from outside crept through defects in the walls, creating bright rays of light that exposed the rampant dust floating in the air.
“Right, make your way up there and wait with the rest of them. Let me know if you’d like tea or something. My pal should get here in two hours or so, then you set sail.”
He pointed his sharp and filthy finger out the window to a small, patchy jetty that was harbouring a decrepit old boat. His finger was hovering confrontationally at Marianne’s eye level and with regrettable, closer inspection, she noticed his cracked, yellow nails were homing a disgusting stash of brown goo.
“There are others? I thought we were alone?”
“There were a few lads from around these parts, who found themselves stuck in the same sticky situation as yourself. They’re friends of friends, so I offered this place as refuge from the police whilst they sorted out their affairs. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of room on the boat for everyone, I’ve even got some scotch whisky I’ll leave with you for the voyage.”
The thought of others being privy to their situation was risky and unwanted, but what could they do? They had no choice. They carefully ascended the rickety staircase and opened a door that revealed a group of twelve men and women, cramped into the farmhouse attic. The alarmed crowd froze their movements and conversations, directing their collective attention to the newcomers. Once their non-governmental mediocracy was established, the scenes of quiet, but busy, interaction resumed. The couple hesitantly entered the room and sat down in the small space available.
Two gentlemen were disputing over the distribution of tea and biscuits, one repeatedly labelling the other a crafty swindler. As there were less biscuits than people, the two took it upon themselves to impose their respective system of distribution. One argued those who’d chopped firewood the previous night deserved a healthier portion of biscuit, whilst the other bludgers should go hungry. His passionate opponent contended against such madness, outlining that the so-called bludgers had actually undertaken more mindless and unappealing jobs than chopping wood, such as cleaning the dirty floor and keeping watch out the window. He argued that everyone should receive an equal, smaller portion of biscuit.
“How long have you been here?” George asked an elderly couple sitting next to them.
“Three days it’s been. My husband was conscripted. He’s so old though, we knew it would have killed him. Both his parents were Chinese and emigrated to France when he was young. He couldn’t bring himself to die fighting against his fatherland in the name of a cause he knew nothing about. Mr. Dolus was kind enough to take us in. He said we’re going to England.”
The room was full of tense deserters, anxiously waiting in anticipation to be dealt their uncertain fate. People’s eyes fluctuated towards movements outside or cracks in the shifting floorboards. Conversations weren’t paid their desired attention, as everyone’s attention was really focused on quickly evaluating the sources of background noises. People’s eyes seemed to be opened a little wider than normal, and one nervous man’s forehead appeared wet from perspiration —damp puddles of sweat around his armpits exposed his frightened state.
Perhaps it was just George’s paranoia, but he got the impression people were whispering secretly under their breath to each other about him and Marianne. The awful feeling that everyone was watching him, analysing his every move, scrutinizing every aspect of his facial expression, and how he changed it, started to infect George’s mind. His saliva began to dissolve, leaving his mouth dry. He didn’t know what to do with his uncomfortable tongue and took compromising, big, futile gulps in an effort to inconspicuously relubricate his mouth. He felt everyone staring at the awkward position of his hands, which he didn’t know where to put or how to position. He didn’t know where to look, it would be too dangerous and revealing to look anyone in the eye, but it was also risky to look down at the ground. Doing that would lead to him not noticing anyone approaching. The temperature of his hands began to rise as blood started to pump with greater urgency. He physically felt the condemning stares from the vultures in the room, judging and laughing at his blushing skin. He managed to get his wet hand to Marianne’s and held it tightly, sacrificially redirecting his focus towards the floor in front of him, hoping none of their evil plots would manifest into violent fruition.
Suddenly a hand signal from the watchman by the window put a collective silence to the room. A face gaunt with fear foretold the impending danger of whatever he’d seen approaching. Everyone crowded towards the window, fighting eagerly for a view. To the crowd’s horror, a fleet of three black cars were speeding down the windy driveway, rapidly approaching the safehouse.
A terrible realization occurred in George’s mind: Mr. Dolus had sold them out. An eruption of panic overtook the room, a sentiment challenged by the crowd conscious not to alert Mr. Dolus. After all, he might be armed. However, it wasn’t long before the panicked whispers soon turned to panicked voices and the voices became increasingly violent and out of control. Suddenly a heavy looking man, of intimidating stature, stood up and screamed at the top of his lungs.
“DOLUS!”
He burst through the door in search of the double-crossing bastard. But almost simultaneously, as the man opened the door, there was a loud bang and an explosion of blood from the back of the man’s head. The man’s lifeless corpse tipped backwards and then plummeted towards the floor, revealing Mr. Dolus in the doorway,still holding the smoking Beretta level with the previous position of the victim’s head. To George’s surprise, there were no visible signs of hysteria in Dolus’ face, rather, he seemed calm and focused. Dolus began scanning the room for any additional martyrs, his pistol’s aim mirroring the movements of his eyes. George cautiously edged his way between Marianne and the line of fire, not as a prerequisite in a plan to boldly overthrow the man, but in an instinctual move to protect his partner. The room once again fell silent, interrupted only by the sound of blood still spitting from the punctured skull on the ground. A pool of blood began to manifest into the personal space of those nearby who were too frightened to get out of its path. George tried to predict how much time remained before the three vehicles would park, and their passengers would arrive at the front door. Surely anytime now. Surprisingly, as he looked into Mr. Dolus’s murderous eyes, his fear of them arriving began to transition, as he considered them as perhaps the lesser of the two evils.
“You really thought I’d help you treacherous cowards? You all sicken me. Any other volunteers want to meet their ends like old mate over there, then go ahead. You’re worth the same dead or alive.”
George noticed one of the men, who’d formerly been arguing for fair biscuit distribution, was focusing attentively on Dolus, who would briefly break his gaze to subtly check out the window for the proximity of the police. He did this every few seconds, and on the third time the focused man exploited the split moment of vulnerability. He grabbed the pistol bearing hand, raising it with force towards the ceiling. The gun let off an echoing bang, as if to initiate a track and field event and made a hole through the attic roof causing dust and debris to fly everywhere. With the other hand the man struck Dolus with a perfect right hook, tagging him directly on its designated target; the man’s exposed, boney jaw. The blow rocked a stunned Mr. Dolus, wobbling his legs from beneath him —an invitation for the rest of the surrounding men to showcase their own boxing skills upon the murderous snitch. The remaining men and women began to urgently spill out the door, pushing and pulling each other selfishly as they skipped and fell down the stairs. As George and Marianne were in the furthest corner from the door, they chose to wait for a safer time to exit. All of a sudden, the dizzying crack and snap of a resonating machine gun shook the room and lasted several long seconds, followed by a stint of motionless silence. The terrified remaining four people in the room shared eye contact in an appeal for direction.
Finally, the other man who’d been involved in the biscuit dispute, pointed towards a window that looked out into the back of the property. They left the limp, beaten carcass of Mr. Dolus and stealthily approached the window, conscious not to give away their position to the army downstairs. Hesitation on whether or not to jump was overcome when they all heard the sound of soldiers climbing up the proximate staircase. One of the men led the endeavour by making an ambitious leap of faith, landing in an awkward roll on the pebbles below. George helped Marianne down the ledge and was the last to leave the room, offering nothing for the guards to find but the bodies of the murdered and the murderer. George apprehensively edged out of the window, praying he wouldn’t freeze from vertigo and his crippling fear of heights. He climbed down onto the ledge and went against every instinct in his body to eventually let go. He landed unnaturally on the rocky road beneath him and made a loud compromising noise in doing so. Adrenaline was now pumping through his veins and he entered a state of mind driven purely by instinct. He noticed the men from the attic hadn’t wasted any time and had made a run for the jetty. Without looking back, George grabbed Marianne’s arm and began to scurry towards their only remaining option for mutual salvation. With each stride George feared a marksman was scoping the back of their heads and would gun them down with the effortless contraction of a trigger-bearing finger. To his relief, no one had been shot by the time they reached the rickety jetty and without succumbing to the curiosity of what laid behind them, they darted across the patchy landing, conscious not to fall through the many potholes from missing or rotted timber.
Finally, the couple leaped onto the old tug boat, where one man was starting the engine and the other unfixing the ropes. To the surprise of all four passengers, a dodgy roar sounded and thick black smoke dispersed as the engine successfully started. The sound of the struggling engine deepened as the propeller submerged into the choppy shores of the English Channel, and they embarked away from their narrowly avoided demise behind them. As the view of France diminished into a distant silhouette, it may as well have resembled the hellish cliffs of Acheron. Bloody deceit was in the air, but had failed to triumph over the survivalistic scramble of those onboard. The boat drifted further into the unknown, but further also from the dangers in the farmhouse. George wondered whether their escape was purely thanks to luck, or whether somewhere deep inside, a primal instinct had played a part in their survival.