The cafe with five faces, p.35
The Café with Five Faces, page 35
“And then look at some of the twits who support him,” Mike resumed. “Jacob Rees-Mogg tried to turn England’s cricket World Cup win into evidence of how little we need Europe. It was ridiculous at any level, but even more so when it was pointed out to him that the English captain is Irish, four other players were born outside the UK and two are the grandchildren of immigrants!” Sardonic laughter, bordering on pity for the afflicted, rang around the room.
“Well, for me, the best thing you can say about Rees-Mogg is that he is the perfect fit for the dumbest, most unlikeable prat in a PG Wodehouse novel,” declared James. “I love reading Jeeves and Wooster but would hate to meet some of the idiots who frequent the Drones. And Rees-Mogg would be so at home there.”
“I reckon he stays up into the wee small hours writing fairy tales for children called ‘Project Fear’,” added Mike, to gales of genuine laughter. “Well, his ideas are so divorced from reality, they could easily be considered fairy tales, perhaps with a dark adult theme!”
More drinks were ordered as more thoughts were gathered by the local intelligentsia.
“I was watching an episode of Morse the other night,” said Mike, in what appeared to be a drastic and dramatic shift in focus. Briefly, as it turned out. “There was something said by Freddie Jones, latterly of Emmerdale and sadly recently deceased, which really struck a chord with me. It was about not staying quiet when it comes to witnessing people trying to cheat your country and about it being made to feel like an honour to gaze upon false dreams. Fake news apparently only truly disappoints when it is found out. And that’s why we have to be sure the lies of Johnson, the Trump, Bannon, Farridge, Rees-Mogg and their ilk are found out and exposed, before it’s too late.”
Wise nodding around the bar made me somehow think of those dogs with funny faces which, back in the day, people used to place on the parcel shelves of their cars.
“Here’s a couple of big questions.” Mike raised his pitch, as James and John readied themselves as though it was the tie-breaker in a pub quiz. “Would Theresa May actually have been a decent prime minister had she not been damned by Brexit? And will she really campaign for Brexit come the second referendum?”
“Question 1, we’ll never know,” replied James.
“And as for question 2,” said John, “I genuinely doubt it; I think she’s too intelligent!”
And you wonder why I think of escaping to the sanity of Lebanon.
This is the only time in four or five visits to the summit I’ve managed to see a good sunset from Table Mountain (this one was at the end of 2001). Accompanied by a good South African white wine, of which there are many, there really is little to beat it. It’s a shame the weather obliges less frequently than one might like.
2019: 56: Budapest: 2020
Jimez was later than expected and Jen was already swirling her Chemex with a degree of impatience when he arrived and, without a word, opened his Tesco Bag for Life, took out a few crumpled sheets of A4 and deposited them on the marble-topped table. He sat in the Biedermeier opposite Jen, as would a man on trial facing his judge and jury, and watched with some trepidation as Jen gingerly picked up the handwritten, slightly grease-stained pages, while I edged closer to look over her shoulder with no pretence of secrecy. Was this actually product of the artistic variety?
Jen smoothed out the first title-free page and we began to read…
****
-1-
Anna’s drawn features betrayed the length of her working day. She adjusted her attire in front of the mirror in the hallway and made sure her smile was in place before entering a room on the left of the short, nicely carpeted corridor. The door opened soundlessly, allowing her to hear the slow, slightly strained breathing of the occupant within. That indicated some progress, she thought, as she moved over to the bed. It seemed a shame to disturb such relatively peaceful slumber, but it was, regrettably, a necessity.
“Here we go, Mrs Carter,” she said in a quiet, cheerful voice, hoping not to startle the dozing eighty-something, who was comfortably propped up on three pillows, although sleep had made her lilt a little to her right. The old lady stirred slowly, as Anna patiently wiped away the dribble from the right side of her chin.
“Time for your medicine,” continued Anna, kindly, sorting out an array of tablets on the bedside table. Her patient groaned audibly, clearly weary of the endless supply of medication, despite the obvious need for it. “Just the four tonight. Let me get you some water.” She took a glass over to the wash basin, rinsed it out and half-filled it with tap water. “Did your daughter visit you today?” It was a rhetorical question, because Anna had seen her and spoken to her, but she needed to keep the conversation going. Mrs Carter didn’t say anything in response, but a smile played around her lips before disappearing behind the cup of tablets and the glass of water.
It took around two minutes for the four tablets to be swallowed; it clearly wasn’t a painless task, but one which had to be done. “That’s it, well done.” Anna smiled, taking the receptacles away before rearranging the bedding and removing a pillow. “Comfortable?” There seemed to be some kind of silent affirmation. “See you tomorrow, then. Good night.”
Leaving a night-light on in the corner of the room, Anna turned off the main light and silently pulled the door closed.
-2-
It was a short walk to the home she shared with two other girls, and a little further to her immediate destination, the third-floor flat where her boyfriend, Dave, a freelance writer, lived. These days, freelance writing was not a profitable occupation, as censorship laws had made freedom of expression considerably more difficult than in the not-too-distant past. Anna was quite happy to support Dave when she could and regularly went the extra distance, taking an assortment of ingredients so they could cook dinner together. They were not especially ambitious in the kitchen, but between them, they could produce a more than half-decent pasta with a home-made sauce.
On this particular evening, Dave was feeling more down than usual, his financial situation having given rise to recurrent and quite unpredictable mood swings. Anna, despite her job, or maybe because of it, seemed to have patience in abundance, even in the later hours of the day after frequently working a twelve-hour shift. As a result, the shared culinary experience didn’t materialise on this occasion and Anna despatched Dave to the television long before the meal was ready. Her boyfriend’s lack of appetite meant there were leftovers for the following day’s lunch, small compensation though that may have been.
Starting to feel drowsy, Anna gave Dave a quick hug and a gentle kiss on the lips before making her way home. The road used to be well-lit, but forced economies now meant only one streetlamp in three was working at any one time. Taking care to step around the piles of rubbish bags which obstructed the pavement at regular intervals, she wasted as little time as possible reaching her front door and the warm bed which awaited her.
****
“Not a lot happening, is there?” commented Jen.
“There’s a little bit of suspense building up,” I offered in defence of Jimez.
“Oh wait, there’s more,” said Jen, uncrumpling another sheet of paper.
****
-3-
As was usually the case in Anna’s life, the following day followed its regular pattern. She often worked a six-day week, largely governed by similar routines, and no one could ever accuse her of not being a model and valuable employee and citizen. Her day ended in the same way as the previous one, by wishing Mrs Carter a good night, again receiving no audible response, but with eyes expressing silent gratitude for her efforts.
Closing the patient’s door and moving out of earshot, Anna took her mobile phone from her back pocket, switched it on and pressed the icon to call Dave. While it was clear Dave was pleased to hear from her, his tone betrayed the same hopelessness as it had the evening before.
“Do you want me to come around?” Anna asked, not wholly sure what reply she wanted to hear. She always looked forward to seeing her partner, but on this specific occasion, she was especially tired. Dave, however, didn’t pick this up in her voice and immediately accepted the offer.
Little had changed on the short journey. The streetlamps were still only partially functioning and the rubbish hadn’t been collected. Anna let out a small scream as a startled rat, hastening from a ripped black bag to the nearest grid, crossed her path. All then seemed calm.
There was little doubt that Anna was more good-looking than many girls and even less questionable that she was a harder and more conscientious worker than most people, but her blood, as seen spattered across a detritus-strewn pavement, was the same deep red colour as everyone else’s.
****
“Blimey!”
It was hardly the most eloquent of reactions, but I knew what Jen meant. I think I had envisaged something like this coming, but the sudden, stark nature of it took me quite by surprise.
“Where’s the next chapter?” asked Jen, so absorbed by the storyline and genuinely curious to know what happened subsequently, she hadn’t even asked for a slice of cake. And no greater compliment than that could have been paid. “Ah, here it is.” Given Jimez’s infamous inability to write more than one chapter, however short, the presence of a fourth was mildly astounding but also welcome.
****
-4-
Dave was sitting in his usual armchair, deep in shock, with a remote corner of his mind wondering if he was partially responsible. A cup of tea appeared at his side and he accepted it without word or gesture, mindlessly taking a sip and then recoiling as it burned the roof of his mouth.
“Sorry, I should’ve warned you,” said the kindly female police officer. “It’s hot.” She had arrived around ten minutes earlier, sitting a bemused and panic-stricken Dave in his chair before importing the news of the attack on Anna.
“Was anything taken?” he asked, still searching for a rationale.
“No, not that we can see,” replied the officer. “Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt her?”
“Of course not! She’s one of the loveliest people you could ever hope to meet.”
The policewoman paused, as if unsure whether or not to deliver the next part of her news. She decided to proceed. “There was a message, written in red marker pen, on her handbag,” she continued tentatively.
“A message? What message?”
“It said, ‘Go home.’” Dave slowly realised what this meant. By way of confirmation, the officer added, “There have been a few attacks recently, all against local women of Eastern European origin, and as we know Anna originally came from Poland, we are assuming there is a link.”
“But she’s been here for five years, speaks almost perfect English and is fully integrated,” protested Dave. “What’s the point?”
“We think it’s related to an organisation which, we believe, goes under the name of the British Alt-Right Super Elite; in other words, the attack was a race-hate crime. Do you have any idea why she should have been specifically targeted?”
“None at all,” replied Dave, still in a state of shock. “Just for not being British?” He thought for a moment. “Oh, she wrote a letter to that pompous fool, Jacob Reem-Smog recently, pleading her case to stay in England. She may have put a comma in the wrong place. And her use of apostrophes is generally abysmal.” It’s surprising how distress can sometimes produce a black sense of humour.
The officer nodded with a degree of understanding and sympathy. “She can count herself lucky on one level, anyway. Better to be beaten senseless with a baseball bat than shot, and with American gun laws now becoming applicable in the UK, things could have been a lot worse.”
“This is the sort of story which would make the front pages of The Guardian, if Puppet Scarecrow allowed it to be printed.”
“Maybe one day, freedom of the press will return,” replied the officer, nervously looking around in case the walls did indeed have spying ears.
“One can but hope,” sighed Dave, raising a pair of crossed fingers. “I’ve written two pro-European books over the last two years – The Café with Five Faces – I don’t know if you’ve heard of them?” He paused, more in hope than expectation. “No, I thought not. It was almost amusing at first, in a sad sort of way, when The Scarecrow and Puppet Scarecrow ordered all copies to be burned and had their operatives scouring bookshops for it, until someone grew sufficient cojones to tell them it was only published electronically.”
****
“Oi, are you now writing about me?” I protested, interrupting the flow of reading. “What do you mean, my books get banned?”
“It gets worse…” said Jen, reading ahead a little.
****
“So, then I got arrested for being an extreme liberal, a description which seems to contain a severe contradiction of terminology.”
The policewoman felt the need to change the subject, as though the continuation of the current one might have been considered subversive. “It’s really hot in here – do you need the window opening?”
“It makes no difference. Ever since The Scarecrow decreed so and Ambassador Farage delivered the ‘facts’, more like ‘fake news’, obviously, all his minions have denied climate change exists and have reversed all previous measures to counter it, so now it’s just too hot everywhere, indoors and out.” Dave coughed at some length, causing the officer to look at him in some concern. “How can you say climate change doesn’t exist? The evidence is everywhere, and some of the blame can be apportioned to just one person.” Dave was clearly intent on voicing his opinions, however controversial, while the representative of the authorities was wondering how to put a stop to it. “Remember when The Scarecrow decided it was a good idea to nuke hurricanes to prevent them landing in the US and then pervert the wind into carrying all the radioactive after effects across the pond into Europe? I think he was hoping to hit France, but the whole continent seems to be suffering.” He spluttered into silence, while the officer breathed a sigh of relief and made another cup of tea.
-5-
It was an hour later and the officer still stood over Dave as she would a suspect rather than a close friend of the victim. Three empty cups stood on the table as testament to her kindness. Her mobile suddenly vibrated into life, sounding unusually like an old-fashioned telephone, and she answered it after one ring. The call lasted around ninety seconds and was very one-sided, but Dave surmised it was from the hospital.
“How is she? When can I go and see her?”
There was some hesitancy in the response. “The doctors say she should be fine, but, well, they’re very short of some of the medicines they need. You know, they have to be imported from America these days, not Europe, and they’re four times the price, especially with the parity between the pound and the dollar, so stocks have to be kept low. They should have them in a week. Or so.”
Dave did not find this information of much comfort. “Will she be OK till then?”
The officer looked helpless and avoided a direct answer. “You can go and see her tomorrow. She’s in Ward 101.”
“That’s a rather sinister number.”
“It’s the ward designated for non-British-borns, established under Home Office Edict number 453.”
“Number 453?” Dave’s question, with him being something of a known rebel, was not delivered in tones of surprise. “Priti Vacant’s been busy, hasn’t she?”
The officer diplomatically ignored both interrogatives. “The Scarecrow is pushing for number 481 at the moment, by which non-whites will have to be tagged and suspicious non-whites put under a 10pm curfew, as they already are in America.”
There was a pause. “How have we come to this so quickly?” asked Dave in despair. “It’s only five years since we lived in a liberal democracy.” He knew the officer wouldn’t respond to questions of politics, so decided to ask something of a more factual, numerical nature. “Why are there so few police looking into the attack on Anna?”
“So many have been commandeered into the army by Reem-Smog to control the pro-European rebels, although I don’t why because they aren’t the ones causing the problems. All the violence is from the alt-right groups. We were only anticipating that if they lost, but they’ve taken victory as a free rein to terrorise the non-believers and non-British-borns.”
“Someone should have told that Reem-Smog twat that when he was writing his Project Fear trilogy of fairy tales, it wasn’t his bounden duty to bring them all to fruition.” Dave realised he may have overstepped the mark again and reverted to his previous line of questioning. “I presume some of the police are looking for ‘The Disappeared’?”
“Not exactly. Under Puppet Scarecrow and Cum Dommings, people who dare stand up to them aren’t allowed, so ‘The Disappeared’ aren’t intended to reappear. There could be a second level of offence soon, though, when corporal punishment is reintroduced. There may be fewer disappearances then.” Dave had trouble believing the sense of hope with which this final sentence was delivered. “Look, we really shouldn’t be talking about such things.”
“Why, what might happen? Walls don’t really have ears, you know. We can still talk freely in private. What’s anyone going to do about it?”
There was a knock at the door.
****
Jen looked for more and, realising that was it, looked at me. We both looked at Jimez.
“Well?” asked the author nervously.
“I think you’ve tried to cram too much into too little space,” I opined. “All of that in just five short chapters – the shocks need to be spread out more so the suspense and the feeling of horror build. The last two chapters or so need to be more subtle as well. But, it’s powerful, I’ll give you that, and by your standards, it’s bloody good.”
