1

Walter Pingel had spent the last five months as a scrimshanker. According to the Ministry of Public Enlightenment, whose soundbites educated New Britain, this meant he lounged around all day while everyone else toiled. He watched soaps likePatriot Place on stateovision, with his feet up on his sofa. He drank endless cups of tea and cans of cider. Without a job to occupy him, he was always first in the lengthy queue at the State Abundance Store; he snapped up all the sugar and soap.But now, the day of Walters redemption had arrived. After five months of burying himself in bed till noon, of numb afternoonsstaring at hisstateovision screen, of crawling back to bed at dusk, he would rejoin the world of the toilers. He must peep his fingers and toes out from his Hammerama Man and Sickle Boy duvet. He must roll his body from his warm mattress into the chilly grey air of his chilly grey flat. And he must catch a bus to Peoples City Central, remembering first to swap his pyjamas for a shirt, tie and trousers. In a ministry in Peoples Square, he would receive pardon for his former employment with New Britains only experiment in capitalism since the Pickaxe Revolution of 85. He would accept the job the Freedom and Plenty Party had chosen for him.He curled his knees into his chest, pulled his duvet over his face and stared wide-eyed at the black nothing.In the hallway of his flat, his intercom screeched. He tumbled from bed and staggered from his tiny bedroom.Walter, is that you? piped a tinny voice down the crackling intercom receiver.He stifled a sigh and pressed the entry button. Yes, Mum.So long did his mother take to climb the stairs of the flats, he wondered if shed got lost. He waited with his front door ajar and tried not to inhale the concrete dank of the stairwell, nor catch the eyes of his neighbours on their way to mine coal or shuffle papers and drink tea. These were the heroes of New Britain, and he was a pyjama-clad parasite, a scrimshanker.Mrs Pingel emerged in the shadows of the landing, her hair gleaming like a silver helmet. She bumped past himwith her brown paper bag and glowered inthe hallway of his flat. Walter! Why arent you dressed for your interview?Why wasnt he dressed? Because he was an EduAd writer, that was why! He wrote educational adverts for Everyones Electrics. For alarm clocks and stateovisions and New Britain Intranet receivers. He couldnt write propaganda! For the Freedom and Plenty Party! In the Ministry of Public Enlightenment!Youre sweating. Shower, son.Ill shower, Mum.Good boy. And Ill make eggs and soldiers. She waggled her paper bag. Yoooour favourite!Yum, he said.

The shower head dribbled over Walter like an incontinent cat. Afterwards, cold and damp, questionably clean, he made his way to his wardrobe and ruffled through his old work clothes: one yellowed shirt; one whitish shirt with frayed collar; another whitish shirt missing a cuff button Perhaps no one would spot a missing button if he kept his blazer on. Trousers: drooping hems or shiny knees?He traipsed into the kitchen, which occupied the far corner of his living room behind the sofa. Mrs Pingel had switched on the stateovision, the final model from Everyones Electrics before the Freedom and Plenty Party ensured the shop went bust. The screen showed Plywood Studio, home of New Britain News. Evidently no news was occurring in New Britain, for the newsgirl stared silently at the camera, blank-faced but for several layers of cosmetics.Mrs Pingel glanced up from scratching a knifes worth of butter over a half loaf of toast. Walter, your knees! No wonder Everybodys Electricals sacked you.They didnt sack me, they went oh, never mind. He sank onto the stool at the kitchen worktop, while his mother sliced the toast into dainty rectangles.The collapse of Everyones Electrics had provided the entire content ofNew Britain News for two months. EvenPatriot Place hinted at the debacle when Rosa the Factory Girl, tucking Wise Little Vladimir into bed, compared workerstoiling for private industry tocloud puffs in the black sky of capitalist ambition.No puff might claim fluffy innocenceof the skys attempted dominion over the communist soil, Rosa cautioned, even if the sun had temporarily authorised the sky to sprinkle during a drought.Walter caught Rosas gist enough to foresee that he and his former colleagues would be made examples of. The Freedom and Plenty Party denied them new employment, turning them into the rarest and most despised of all New British pariahs: scrimshankers.Mrs Pingel set a boiled egg before him, along with the half loaf. She frowned as he forced down a sandpaper lump of toast. You should have told me sooner about this interview. Id have bought you new trousers.Not from your wages.Her jaw jutted. My wages do me well enough. Just because some paper-shufflers in offices make a few extra pounds drinking tea all day, dont you forget the value of hard graft. She eyed his overflowing kitchen bin. And since a cleaning ladys work is never done, nor a mothers, Ill tidy this place up while youre gone. Ill mend your shirts too. Would you like that, if I mended your shirts?Its all right, Mum, I can Then I shall! Youll need to look smart for your job at the ministry the ministry! From this day on, your mother shall do all your mending. Your washing and ironing too.He squirmed on his stool. Well, I suppose Thanks, Mum The corners of her scarlet lips soared earwards from her jowls. Will I brush your hair now, dear?No! Thanks, Mum.She dropped her butter knife in the sink with a clatter. Your father would have been so proud. His son, working for the government. She held out her hand so he might reverence her wedding band and black diamond engagement ring. He squeezed her fingers, and she squeezed back like the outlawed Mother Mary on anabolic steroids. My Ernest always respected the government, whichever government it was. Dont you forget that. Even when Maggie was closing all the pits, his pit too.Margaret Thatcher, breathed Walter. He might have been whispering Baba Yaga or Blood Countess. Every New Briton, at least those newer than the ones born before the eighties, spent much of their educations learning about Mrs Thatcher, the Granite Devil. From primary school through to his degree in Government Responsibility and Ethical Economics (GREE), Walter learnt everything New Britons were permitted to know about the Pickaxe Revolution of 85,which saw the execution of the entire Tory cabinet.Always do what the Party tells you, and stay out of trouble, said his mother. I dont want to discover on New Britain News youve lost another job.He followed her gaze to the stateovision, that hexahedron of public enlightenment. The reception leapt around like on one of those ancient stateovisions you only ever saw on stateovision, slipping picture and crunching static. The newsgirl seemed to be trying to rise from behind her desk, successful as a helium-filled goldfish in a flushing toilet. Her mouth opened and closed like a goldfishs too, but the sound was too distorted to hear.Obey your bosses, and before you know it youll be getting promotion and a girlfriend, Mrs Pingel was saying, getting married and giving me grand-babies. She filled a glass from the tap as Walter coughed up a bread gobbet. She rubbed his back while he drank. No need for nerves. Just remember, the Party wouldnt waste time interviewing you unless youd already got the job.He stifled a groan; yet if any man could fail to clinch a sure thing, that man was surely him. If all could yet be lost, then all wasnt lost after all.I know whatll cheer you up, his mother said. Lets switch on the DVD player. Never, since he won this sultans jewel at the Everyones Electrics staff xmas raffle, had she missed an opportunity to switch on the DVD player and marvel at its selection of buttons. She kept forgetting no New Briton, let alone Walter, could afford any DVDs. Remember when you used to watch Hammerama Man and Sickle Boy on our old VHS? They gave you courage to face the bullies at school naughty little Arnie Braine, who used to tie your shoelaces together. You dont watch cartoons any more, do you, son?Before he could wilt under her scrutiny, the stateovision gave a mighty crackle.Gracious! she cried.The picture came into focus, shifting to the barbed-wire-encased railings of Peoples Park, Peoples City, within which stood Peoples House. Normally, the people didnt get anywhere near their house or their park. Only the Freedom and Plenty Party and the Friendly Parties could enter this seat of parliamentary power. Today, a troop of muscular young men in dark blue uniforms marched outside the railings, members, Walter supposed, of some edifying overgrown youth group.Either the cameraperson was attempting an arty technique careering towards the marchers or the stateovision was breaking down.The stateovisions breaking down, said Walter.Mrs Pingel tittered. Dont be silly, dear. New British products are built to last.Not Everyones Electrics products, he answered quietly. He knew, by the twitch of her nostrils, she sensed the import of his words. The half loaf sat heavy in his stomach. Throughout his employment with Everyones Electrics, he yearned to confess his terrible knowledge. And now he could. They designed their stuff with built-in obsolescence, like in the bad old days, to make customers buy the latest models.Her lips barely moved: And you wrote adverts for such gadgetry?I had to, didnt I? I was just doing my job.She nodded so hard, a few straggles escaped her silver helmet of lacquered hair. Of course you did! Go on, dear, fetch your blazer or youll be late for your interview.Walter rose and trudged to his bedroom. His confession hadnt brought the balmy breezes and hula music hed anticipated. Why should it? Why should he deserve peace of mind when, after all, hed been the genius behind the most decadent of all Everyones Electrics advertising campaigns?Buy bye: two ironic words blurted out in a moment of despair on receiving a briefing to create, not EduAds detailing bland product specifications, but a series of panting commercials to evoke inferiority and loss in anyone who didnt own the latest time-bomb stateovision. A colleague reported his buy bye sarcasm to his boss, who loved it. Thus, the infamous Buy Bye adverts were born.The boss was in a minority. Thrifty New Britons, even those with enough money stashed under their mattresses for a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Everyones Electrics, couldnt see the point in replacing functioning goods with glossier new ones.Walter shrugged his blazer on and peered at the mirror inside his wardrobe door. Some things, however, really ought to be replaced, such as his worn-out elbow patches. At least they matched his shiny knees. Shame he couldnt exchange the substandard parts of his physical person. He seemed to have aged ten years in the last ten minutes, fallen anaemic and grown a jungle of hair.Why, truly, did the Ministry of Public Enlightenment want to employ him? They couldnt think hed make a good propagandist, not after Buy Bye failed to save Everyones Electrics. Orhad they spied his attempt at atonement in the final poster of the campaign? The C in the curling hair of the mother, who sat watching a fancy new stateovision with her offspring. The delighted O of that offsprings mouth. The father, tossing the previous years model in the bin, his jumper emblazoned with the letter N?Walters reflection grinned back at him, a stranger, a reckless fool. He slammed his wardrobe shut. Why had he taken such a risk? He was no rebel, no Hammerama Man fighting capitalist villains. Surely no one spied the message anyway? His mother never mentioned it, and she scrutinised everything he did.Back in the living room, she was seated on the couch, beaming at the stateovision. The picture was once more in sharp focus. Look, Walter, its that nice young man.A politician he vaguely recognised stood outside Peoples House. Tall and personable, a youthful forty-something, the politician led one of the Friendly Partiesthat formed the opposition-which-was-not-an-opposition. He smiled like a prince with the fraternal touch, ascameras flashed all around him.Have no doubt, he told the assembled journalists in cut-glass tones, we in the Progressive Front revere the chairman. We coexist with his Party in perfect harmony and goodwill. We share his joys and sorrows, his well-being and woes. He broke off, eyes lustrous like Noble Doctor Mao in Patriot Place. He sighed, sweeping a hand through the soft chestnut hair that arced high above his forehead.Mrs Pingel sighed back at him. Hes so urbane.Walter nodded. He joined her on the sofa.She clapped her hands. Urbane Gabriel Tain! Thats what they call him.This surprised Walter. She always made a habit of ignoring politics, declaring that the affairs of state were not the business of little people.She grinned. Isnt he handsome?He was indeed, so far as Walter could tell. Tains strawberries-and-cream complexion glowed with outdoorsy health, yet his suspiciously well-tailored suit suggested equal acquaintance with the corridors of power. His shoes might have come from Italy and his tie from Paris, or places just as forbidden and uncommunistic. Walter hazarded a guess that not even Gabriel Tains vest bore the label Homogenty: the ONLY brand for the New British gent.Tain flicked at a speck of dust on his jacket sleeve, then he caught Walters eye and stared deep into his soul. Surely you dont blame the chairman if, in his infinite care for you, he stretches New British resources to their absolute snapping point?Ive never noticed the sugar queues in the State Abundance Store! Walter lied, though Tain probably couldnt hear him.Oh, I dont mean trivial shortages Tain waggled his manicured fingers dismissively choices between, say, a good soaping or a sweet cup of tea though on a side note, isnt it funny how some people always manage to get their hands on everything?The politicians scrubbed skin and well-nourished build suggested, to Walter, a certain aloofness on his own part from the abiding soap/sugar dilemma. No, Ive heard darker whispers, Tain continued. People fear what will become of them when theyre old and feeble. Our system already struggles with the burden of an ageing population. How will the government pay for you?The chairman will provide, protested Walter.Youre scared, arent you? insisted Tain. You think of those prudent workers before the Pickaxe Revolution who paid into private pensions, a choice denied to you. Sometimes you wish you could take responsibility for yourself, instead of being nannied by the state. You question other things too. In your blackest moments, youve even told yourself our beloved communism stifles vitality.No, we havent! cried Walter and Mrs Pingel. Walter grabbed the stateovision remote and tried to change channel, before remembering there werent any others. Mrs Pingel peered at the window and door.Tain smiled indulgently. Well, the chairman doesnt want you to worry. He wants you to be happy, and hell do whatever it takes to make you so.Walter and Mrs Pingel leapt to their feet and raised their hands in the Red Fist. Long live the chairman!Thats why he and I are meeting this morning: to discuss your fears. And doubtless well be fortifying ourselves with scones and a nice cup of tea, or perhaps not tea but some highly caffeinated coffee. Tain flashed perfect little teeth, but a faint line worried his forehead. The Progressive Front are united with the Freedom and Plenty Party in our determination to avert impending financial catastrophe.Ca tastrophe? Walters throat dried up like the shower head in his bathroom.And now, ladies and gentlemen Tain reeled off enough names to make a phone book dizzy, apologising to any reporters, photographers, film crew or viewers at home he might have missed good day to you, and a brave new day to toilers everywhere.He turned to enter Peoples House, and the youth military types in the dark blue uniforms filed into line behind him.

Walters arm remained frozen in salute as Comrade Georges Perpendicular Bars filled the screen, as they did during programming glitches, closedown or whenever the censors became alarmed. These werent bars at all but a detail from the old Union Flag: the red bit in the very middle. The Freedom and Plenty Party had done away with the Union Flags idolatrous crosses when they did away with Britains constituent countries, creating the purity of the Union Red.A rousing rendition of the national anthem, Thither I Go With My Pickaxe in Hand, started up. It ended on a spectacular clash of cymbals before looping back to the beginning.Walter prised his arm from the air with his free hand.Perhaps my interview will be cancelled if theres important government business. Not that the chairman of New Britain was interviewing him, only the Minister for Public Enlightenment. Only the Minister for Public Enlightenment. He dabbed his damp forehead with his blazer cuff.Mrs Pingels lips tightened in a scarlet slash. Dont even think of contacting the ministry and giving them an excuse not to see you.He tore his eyes from his Everyones Electrics cordless phone, while his mother fetched his degree, along with his letter of recommendation from Everyones Electrics, from the cupboard under the sink. He shuffled to his front door. When he turned to kiss his mother goodbye, queasy as a draft-dodger eyeballing military police through the letterbox, tears replaced her displeasure.If your father could see you now. She straightened his tie, sniffing. He was so humble. Hed never have dreamt his son would rise to dizzy heights.What would he tell me today? What would he say?Keep your nose to the grindstone and your tongue behind your teeth, thats what hed say. And, Hard work never harmed a fly. And hed tell you, Always remember where you came from. Never forget your roots.Ernest Pingels roots were in the ground, though his ashes occupied a gleaming urn on his widows mantlepiece. Walter had been a mere zygote in Mrs Pingels fallopian tube when Ernest got a fatal thump on the head crossing a picket line at the colliery where the Pingels had, since the coal dusty mists of time, made their livings hacking at the bowels of the earth. Ernest scabbed throughout the strike of 84 to 85 and died shortly before the outbreak of the Pickaxe Revolution. As Mrs Pingel put it, he was a martyr for the freedom of the honest man to do an honest days work.She opened the door and gave Walter an affectionate shove. Get going, and make your father proud. And Ill make fried eggs and chips for tea. Yoooour favourite!Yum, said Walter.

2

Cobwebs garlanded the out-of-service sign on the lift doors. Walter made his way down four stairways to the ground floor of the flats. He no longer noticed the mildew and cracks decorating each storey, but the entryways murals always took his breath away and made him feel safe to be New British: Herculean fabricators paused from servicing a naval destroyer to gaze at some invisible horizon; a squadron of MiGs departed over the heads of cheering citizens in Peoples Square; from the hatch of a T-90 tank, a commander chewed a cigar and watched Margaret Thatchers Conservative cabinet explode in sunset hues. Smiling over all of this was the sunlike face of the supreme strategist of everybodys happiness, the chairman.With a quick salute to that fatherly face, Walter ducked into the street. He always fancied that the chairman noted any who failed to perform the Red Fist. Legs a-wobble from his descent, he made his way to the bus shelter that served the inhabitants of his streets identikit flats. He paused to read a slogan someone had scribbled over the poster adorning the side of the shelter. Across the faces of the international Great Leaders of history, who stood shoulder to shoulder with the chairman, the graffiti read: Organisation without government. The author signed off with a doodle of a carbide lamp.Walter wobbled away before any passerby suspected him of the crime. A half hours wobble to Peoples Square might steady his nerves for the interview ordeal to come. Not that anyone would perform a citizens arrest on him anyway, for the streets were deserted. Normally you heard the distant roar of a Lada engine or passed gangs of hardy pensioners smoking and playing outdoor dominoes come rain or shine. Today, nothing. Twenty minutes into his journey, he felt like a space dog going walkies on the moon.His relief, when he finally spotted a throng of citizens through the window of the State Abundance Store, was akin to confirming he hadnt confused Dress Extra Smart for Workplace Inspection Day with the less dapper Smear Your Face in Soot in Solidarity with the Miners Day. The citizens huddled around a stateovision, some pointing at it, others shaking their heads. It must be a deluxe final model expropriated from Everyones Electrics doomed factory.Watch it! A meaty hand thudded into his chest. The owner, into whom hed almost collided, was six-and-a-half feet of muscle in a dark blue uniform.S-sorry! Walter stammered.On yer way, nothin to see, the muscle told him.Walter hurried off towards Peoples Square.Oi, the muscle shouted after him, where you going?Walter froze, then turned around. The muscles uniform breeches, jacket and jackboots was the same as those of the youth military types on New Britain News, the ones who followed Urbane Gabriel Tain into Peoples House. Ive an appointment, he said, but the muscle merely stared. In the Ministry of Public Enlightenment.Wossa watchword?W-w-watchword? repeated Walter.W-w-watchword.Walter stepped back. The muscles jackboots stepped forward. He really was tall, the muscle. He smelt of raw mince. Walter attempted a smile. The muscles lips curled too, away from his canines.N-nice uniform. Walter touched the muscles sleeve in supplication. Nice blue br-br-breeches.The muscle blinked and saluted. Not the Red Fist but a waggly-fingered starburst. Sorry, sir! Just makin sure, sir! Have a nice day, sir!Ah, you too sir. Walter took off. Not daring to look back, he fluttered like a lone pigeon into the heart of Peoples Square.Dull neoclassical ministries squatted around him on every side, forming a grim oasis amid the concrete dunes of Peoples City. Not that Peoples Square didnt contain concrete aplenty, such as the sea of flagstones where guards usually strutted for tourists and dignitaries. In recent years, the Freedom and Plenty Party had forgotten its abhorrence of decadent foreigners and begun luring them into tourist-only hotels rumoured to have every devilish capitalist trapping. Perhaps Gabriel Tain was right and the economy really was in trouble, but Walter didnt doubt the chairman would steer New Britain back on a straight course.No tourists gawped or took pictures today, which struck him as a little odd. No guards paraded either, a lot odd. At least not the usual sort of guards. Walter almost tripped over his own feet when he spotted the blue-uniformed military types perched on the steps of some ministries. Perhaps he should turn back. A Suburb B5 bus, bound for home, was due about now. He pictured his mother, her eyes glittering with teary pride at the prospect of his new job. Theyd glitter with fury if he didnt attend his interview, though probably not as furiously as the ministers.With feet like kayaks navigating ice floes, he followed a mosaic pavement around the square till he reached a building resembling a Gorgons wedding cake: the Ministry of Public Enlightenment MOPE. He couldnt say if it was his own fevered wishful thinking, but as he stared up at MOPEs grey facade a saintly face took shape in the stonework, as if beamed from a projector. Obscure yet unmistakable, like Lenin in a bowl of cornflakes or Marx in grilled cheese, this was a face he knew only from photographs and the ink portrait on his mothers mantlepiece: farseeing eyes, lips faintly upturned, hair black and curling beneath a miners helmet. The face of Ernest Pingel.Go on, do me proud, son, the mouth seemed to say.Ill try, Dad, whispered Walter.Ernest winked, then melted away.Half expecting a pistol to cock against his head, Walter passed between the columns of the ministrys portico. No one attempted to hinder his progress or ask his business. No one was there.No one guarded the reception area either. Should he tap the bell on the desk? Best not make a fuss. He sat on a bench near the bathroom door and strained to pick up signs of life: a running tap, a hand dryer. Nothing. He flicked through a magazine on the coffee table, but the familiar content Remembering the Pickaxe Revolution 30 years on!, Five patriotic mining songs to teach your children! failed to ease his disquiet.He rose and patted one finger on the reception bell, shattering the silence like flatulence at a funeral. Sorry, he told the empty room. He sank onto his bench and tried to look invisible, not that anyone could see him anyway.Which door would the minister arrive through? The one behind the reception desk? The double doors leading, he supposed, to the interior of the ministry?Something slammed against the double doors. A voice behind them roared, You cant do this to me! Dont you know who I am?Walter leapt up. He considered fleeing outside, but the double doors might burst open any second. Guards might roll through, guns blazing, and mow him down. He slipped behind a curtain, stumbling over a potted plant en route, clutching his GREE degree like a shield.The doors squealed open. A thunder of feet. The doors clattered shut.Get your hands off me, the voice yelled again. Im the Minister for Public Enlightenment!Wes doing the enlightenmentin now, chuckled another voice, hideous as a big ugly trolls.Next came a sound akin to a minister being dragged across the floor while shrieking, Ouch, my elbow! Oooh coccyx! The yelps grew more distant and rhythmic, like someone bumping down portico steps.Silence again, broken at length by a new voice: What now?Dunno, said Ugly Troll. We loot the place?Walter shuddered behind the curtain.New Voice sounded uncertain: Wossat part of our orders?The doors screeched again, and a voice reminiscent of Walters college professors, only frostier, said, Indeed it was not. MOPE will be instrumental in the days and months to come. We require it intact.Ugly Troll sounded a bit less scary and a bit more scared: Sorry sir, Mr Saxton sir. Gets confusing, this revolution stuff.Revolution! The yolk-coated soldiers from breakfast made a near-successful charge over Walters tonsils. What did a good communist do during a revolution he wasnt embroiled in, besides shake to the tips of his shoelaces?Coup, dear boy, said the voice named Mr Saxton. And are you aware of the most important thing one can do when caught up in a coup?Bash heads? said New Voice.What he said, agreed Ugly Troll.The correct answer, said Mr Saxton, is Know which side to take.We does, sir, chimed Ugly Troll and New Voice in harmony.I wasnt referring to you, said Mr Saxton.The curtain zipped back. The first thing Walter saw was, he hazarded a guess, Mr Saxton: a man in his thirties or forties or fifties, standing straight-backed by the double doors. Pale of face, fiery of hair, Mr Saxton wore a pewter-grey suit that appeared to be commissioned from the same continental tailor as Gabriel Tains.The second thing he noticed was a pair of men in dark blue uniforms, especially the one holding him by the collar. What you hiding for, eh? You one of em commies? The speaker, Ugly Troll, shook Walters collar, and Walters body shook with it.Were all communists, Walter protested through rattling teeth.Arrivederci! He admits it, declared a fourth voice, and this fourth voice was the third thing Walter noticed. Its owner, all sneer and spectacles, glided through the double doors and sidled up to Mr Saxton.It was the voice of Arnie Braine.

Arnie Braine: Walters former schoolmate, multi-lingual and perpetually bored. Arnie Braine: his fellow GREE student at All Citizens, perpetually troublemaking. And by the worst possible luck, Arnie Braine: his co-worker at Everyones Electrics, who informed on him for his infamous buy bye remark.Or perhaps his worst luck was about to come.So, Peengel, drawled Arnie, who might be New British as rain on Revolution Day but who spoke the Romance languages like a poet, seems its not buy bye for us after all, nor yet bon dieu.Arnie Braine, so suave, so clever, whose self-taught tongues earned him the admiration of all the girls in class, though he recoiled from curricular Chinese and Russian, dismissing them as barbiere.Walter grinned, he didnt know why, and clasped his shield-degree to his chest. Hallo, Arnie!A Pingel, indeed? The flame-haired Mr Saxton scrutinised Walter with the air of a scientist studying a rare bacterium through a microscope. And how, precisely, do a Pingel and a Braine come to be acquainted? His left eyebrow rose in a fiery arch, awaiting a reply. It seemed oblivious to the viscera-melting effect the rest of Mr Saxtons person was having on Walter.We studied together under the commies, said Arnie. Pingel lapped it up. Hes a commie.Were all communists, Walter said again, though he was starting to suspect this might no longer be true.Mr Saxton smiled chillily. On the contrary, Mr Pingel. There are some who hark back to a time before the Freedom and Plenty Party. It was a time of freedom and plenty. A time when big cogs and little cogs worked in harmony, each knowing their places in the machine. And the machine worked especially well for ambitious cogs, like Braine here.Arnies chest puffed up beneath his shirt, a shirt commissioned, if not from the tailor of Gabriel Tain and Mr Saxton, then that tailors most promising apprentice. He wore this silky couture sans tie, top three buttons undone to reveal a follicular flowering that would make an alpaca wink.We had a mantra in those days, continued Mr Saxton. From each according to his proclivity, to each according to his greed. What do you make of that, Mr Pingel?Walter glanced around the room, in case another Pingel might be keener to volunteer an opinion. When none came forward, he squeaked a classroom maxim, R-responsibility is its own reward?Charming! declared Mr Saxton, and Arnie smirked, but consider: why would anyone give his heart and soul to the burden of leadership without generous remuneration? Why would the chairman of New Britain?True, the chairman enjoyed certain luxuries, though Walter was certain no one begrudged him Buckingham Palace. Some might question, very quietly, why his children lived in the other palaces when they contributed even less to the general wellbeing than the exiled thespian prince and skirt-chasing prince subtracted, while doctors and teachers dwelt in crumbling flats.Where is he now, the chairma? Walters voice caught in his throat. He remembered the MOPE minister bumping down the stairs.Mr Saxtons eyes flickered like pale blue flames. His words tripped and tinkled: Oh, hes quite all right. He went into retirement. Sensible fellow.Hes not hurt?Hurt? Mr Saxton tipped back his head and produced musical laughter from the back of his throat. Ugly Troll and New Voice joined in with guffaws. Arnie giggled to rival a pack of cartoon hyenas. After a moments hesitation, Walter ventured a tentative chortle. The instant Mr Saxton spoke again, the cacophony ceased: Nothing untoward could ever happen to our chairman. Why, hes the nearest thing to divinity in a godless world.Magnified by their spectacles, Arnies eyes had the detached curiosity of an untroubled troubled child ducking the head of a smaller child into a toilet bowl, a look Walter remembered only too well. Mr Saxton, didnt they, you know, rough him up a bit?Can coshes prevail against divinity? Our glorious chairman has departed for a better place, delivered from the burdens of state. Isnt that reassuring? Mr Saxton didnt wait for his breezy words to disperse the tangle of clouds swirling around Walters brain. And now we can build a New Britain where aspiring cogs work their way up through the machine, the way things used to be.Whatll we do with the rest of the commies? asked Arnie, watching Walter. la lanterne?Walter quivered. His legs and arms quivered. His feet and fingers quivered. Even his hair. His degree fluttered to the floor.Ugly Troll snatched the paper up, brow puckering as he read. Gov-ment Re-sponsi-billy-tay? Effy-cal Eco-nom-ics? He gave a gusty hoo-hoo of laughter. Sounds stoopid! His eyes protruded with undue wonder as a second piece of paper came unstuck and fluttered to the floor. Walters palm had soaked the Everyones Electrics letter of recommendation to the degree.Elegant as a courtier, Mr Saxton tipped his back to retrieve the letter. He read slowly, though Walter felt sure he wasnt pronouncing the syllables in his mind, nor about to hoo-hoo when finished. Fascinating, said Mr Saxton, to Walters astonishment. So you were the one who dreamt up the Buy Bye campaign, the child pleading, Buy bye, Mummy, dont make me cry. So poignant! Not only that his voice dropped to a caress you must have put the subliminal message in the poster, in the hair and jumper, in the offsprings delighted mouth.Arnie spared Walter the horror of confession or denial. His smart loafers almost gave off sparks as he spun round to face Mr Saxton. Actually, it was I who turned Everyones Electrics vision back to the eighties. I who persuaded them we could bring about a throwaway-culture revolution. Cest moi! Pingel just stuttered out the slogan.Indeed? said Mr Saxton. Sadly you attempted the revolution too soon, Braine, but such emotive appeals to the conscience as Mr Pingels, those really are timeless.Walter had never known Arnie to blush red with anger or embarrassment. He tended, instead, to turn purplish-blue, as though choking on a biggest-in-show grapefruit. He did this now. The slogan didnt work, said Walter. It wasnt very good. Besides, New Britons dont want more things than they already have.Yet I must contradict you. Come. Mr Saxtons hand hovered above Walters shoulder and guided him without touch to the window, where he opened the blinds.Peoples Square, so desolate when Walter arrived, now heaved with smiling citizens and glowering blue-uniformed men, as though a Martian fleet had beamed them all down. They faced a stage that hadnt been there earlier surely Walter would have spotted the sweeping faux-marble steps and the sail-like backdrop of a white flag emblazoned with a black megaphone? Every citizen waved a handkerchief-sized version of this flag, from infants with perfectly coiffed curls to elegantly dressed parents and robust elders.You see, Mr Pingel? If the people were so happy under communism, why are they cheering for the Progressive Front?Walter swallowed. Urbane Gabriel Tains Progressive Front? Where did they get those flags?Ah, Veritas, emblem of the new government of new New Britain. We in the Progressive Front Mr Saxton made a slight bow intend for Veritas, from this day, to replace the Union Red. The liberating megaphone shall persuade the citizens to throw off the last shackles of socialist enslavement. He raised the window, ushering an undulating roar into the ministry. Like a multi-limbed beast, the crowd thrust out every hand that wasnt already waving flags, fingers splayed and waggling. A chorus erupted of Hail, fellow, well met! Hail, fellow, well met!Climbing the steps to the stage, with his easy grace and air of command, was Gabriel Tain. The Progressive Front leader surveyed his audience from the stage, before spreading both arms to quiet the stormy sea. Hail, well met, friends, he greeted the crowd through a black megaphone mounted on a stand. And make no mistake, we are indeed friends. For whatever trivial distinctions separate us, we are in this struggle together. We have vanquished the red foe who tried to cheat us of our slight yet proud disparities, and we are truly united in our tiny disunity, which makes us thoroughly equal.This received a howling cheer, though Walters brain throbbed.Equal, continued Tain, in so far as individuals with differing abilities can be. Let me remind you, friends, of a truth suppressed in New Britain: true equality is a lie! Worse, its a lie that leads to stagnation. For if we are foolish enough to believe we are equal, what remains to strive for? New Britain has ceased to strive!Strive, shouted a dozen voices in the crowd, strive. The chant caught like hair lice, breaking in a mass swoon when Tain declared, Every New Briton is distinct and unique! Yet regardless of ability, your children go to the same school as every other. They have the same life chances. Is this fair? Is it fair that you, their hard-working parents, toil without recognition while your lazy colleagues laugh at you yes, laugh while drinking endless cups of tea, feet up on their desks, never fearing their idleness may catch up with them?Sack them, lisped a toddler near the window.We are not equal, said Tain. Communism has robbed us of the boons inequality brings. For only when citizens strive to catch up with their betters will our country prosper once more.Walter barely heard Mr Saxton close the window. This, surely, was the Great Blasphemy. In his college days, Walter heard rumours of terrible seditions voiced in underground gatherings of dangerous people, and now a man in a smart suit proclaimed these seditions through a megaphone in Peoples Square.Interesting, dont you think, how they offer themselves up for persuasion? said Mr Saxton. Of course, much work remains in convincing the rest of the everymen. Thats where youll come in, Mr Pingel.Walter attempted to blink himself out of this mad dream. Me?Why, yes. It seems you came here today for a job interview. Well, the regime may have changed, but the ministry hasnt, and its shorter staffed than ever.Walter couldnt bring himself to ask what had become of the army of civil servants that must have turned the communist propaganda wheel.As a GREE graduate, you understand the necessity of firm government. And who better to communicate the Progressive Fronts vision of a renewed New Britain than the sagacious Solomon of the Buy Bye campaign? Mr Saxtons eyes flared like blue flames on a gas hob. Mr Pingel, your country needs you.

3

But-but-but stuttered Arnie, a response mirroring the one Walter couldnt quite articulate. He appeared to be regurgitating his biggest-in-show grapefruit.Of course, we already have loyal Party members like Braine here, said Mr Saxton, but now weve discovered Mr Pingel, with his unusual name and unusual abilities, we wouldnt care to let him out of our sights. Ive already judged him to be a man of conscience, a noble plebeian, an earthy son of the soil. He craves to serve his fellow citizens. Hed never abandon them to flounder helplessly.I-I-I floundered Walter helplessly.Aye, he says. So eager! Once again Mr Saxton steered Walter without touching him, not to the window but the reception desk. He slapped the bell. Braine!Arnies skin tone darkened to rival the uniforms of Ugly Troll and New Voice. He dragged his suede-loafered feet to the desk and slid behind it. How may I help you, sir?But Mr Saxton had turned away. His eyes burned into Walters like cornea-dissolving lasers. You do want to serve the people, dont you, Mr Pingel? You do want to serve your country? Youre with the government, not against us? Are you a rebel, Mr Pingel? Can we trust you? Cant we depend on you? Are you loyal, Mr Pingel?The remnants of Walters eyeballs stung and streamed. Yes, sir!Then, welcome aboard. Mr Saxton extended a hand, his long fingers hovering in the air around Walters, trapping them in an inescapable forcefield. Report to the ministry a week from Monday, nine of the clock ante meridiem. We expect punctuality. His fingers reabsorbed the forcefield, and Walters hand dropped. Good day, Mr Pingel. Braine, issue the paperwork.Arnie zipped behind the reception doors while Mr Saxton, whistling something Wagnerian, strode off through the double doors with Walters degree and employers letter. Walter considered hurtling to freedom between Ugly Troll and New Voice, who guarded the exit to the portico. Instead he took up Mr Saxtons tune with the air of an overwrought cicada.Sign demanded Arnie, returning with an accordion of a form. He thrust it into Walters arms and managed a leer, managed rather well. avec blood.If every page required a signature, Walter would be anaemic by the end. The front page alone made his blood turn pink: APPLICATION FOR MEMBERSHIP OF THE PROGRESSIVE FRONT. Arnie waggled a pen at him, one of those see-through acrylic things with glittery hammers and sickles floating inside. Giant unglittery versions of those implements hammered and swooshed in Walters stomach. What would Hammerama Man and Sickle Boy do now? How had they escaped Baron Bourgeois and the Profits of Doom in yesterdays thrilling half-hour cartoon?Its an awfully big form, he said, using the front page to blot a sheen of sweat from his forehead. Can I bring it back later? He scuttled towards the door before Arnie could reply, willing Ugly Troll and New Voice not to seize him.Buy bye! Bonito! Arnie shouted after him. Dont hurry back.Walter had no intention of doing so, if he could help it. He barrelled between New Voice and Ugly Troll, who stepped away from each other like dancers performing the pas de basque. They threw open the doors. Dont hurry back! they chorused.Outside in the portico, he almost collided with a pillar in an attempt to prevent himself from slamming into blue-uniformed men. Batons poised, half a dozen of these uniforms drove back a mob many times their size. Gabriel Tains stylish audience were visible just beyond Peoples Square, marching towards a fleet of buses, but the wannabe portico-invaders were mere garden-variety New Britons in unmistakable state-produced Homogenty and Homogyny clothing, clutching children garbed in Homomini. They shouted things like, Wheres my Jim? He works here, and, Whats happened to Liz/Brenda/Bob? Bobs gone on a little trip with the chairman, was the sort of thing the uniforms shouted back, or, Brenda signed up with the new government. Shell be home in time for tea.Sometimes the uniforms werent quite so helpful. One struck his baton across the shoulder of a weeping old woman, who refused to believe her Vicky had gone to Siberia in the chairmans service. Wanna join yer Vicky? growled the uniform. No? Then shove off, ya dirty commie hag! He brandished his baton as if for another blow, but paused when he caught sight of Walter over his shoulder. Hey! What you sniffing around at?Ah hail, fellow? Walter raised his arm and splayed his fingers. Well met?Whatever. Scram!Walter tried scramming, but too many citizens blocked the portico searching for their Vickys and Jims. He might have resembled an earnest scrammer scramming through quicksand while defending his title of champion gurner in a national gurning competition against everyone present. When finally he made it through the crush of bodies, an unexpected blast of speed caught his heels. He shot into the square like a cork from a bottle, landing in brace position on the flagstones.A groan, his own. A clack of heeled shoes. A cool hand fluttering against his cheek. Ooh, I say, are you alright? a voice enquired, breathy, feminine.He uncurled himself. Nothing broken, I Rose-scented perfume flooded his senses. He gazed into eyes hed have recognised anywhere, blue as the corniest cornflower, wide as the does of antique clich. Her eyes. I dont He accepted Her silky-gloved hand, fearing the tiny thing might disintegrate like fairy-dust in his own clumsy one. His heart pattered tik-a-tee, tik-a-tay. I dont think.Her tinkling laughter always reminded him of wedding bells. Walter Pingel? I dont believe it. Walter Pingel!

His eyes shot to her fingers. Could it be, still no rings pressing through her glove? He attempted to scramble with dignity to his feet, but her rosy grin melted his limbs. Her teeth had the uniform perfection of cultured pearls, yet with all the prestige of their freshwater cousins. Eight years since he saw that grin last, excluding every night in his dreams, between dreams of Hammerama Man and Sickle Boy. But Hammerama Man and Sickle Boy dreams werent the same as Samantha Hopewell dreams, not the same at all.Heat flamed his cheeks. Well, best be going. Oh ! Surprisingly aerodynamic, his half-a-tree application form flew past him. He threw himself after it.A jackboot caught it first. The boots owner, a blue-uniformed type, scooped up the form and shoved it at Walter, with something between a salute and wink for Samantha.Thank you, thanked Samantha, Constable Clive of the Blue Breeches.The jackboot-wearer pinkened, then strutted off with a wiggle.Blue Breeches? repeated Walter.Yes, named after their trousers. Arent their uniforms darling, darling? The BBs are our new police.New police? What happened to the old ones?Samantha shrugged her dainty shoulders. Oh, I expect theyll swear an oath to the Progressive Front, or some such. Walter, sweetness, its so wonderful to see you again. On this of all days! You must tell me everything youve done since we studied we studied Effy-cal Eco-nom-ics and Gov-ment Re-sponsi-billy-tay, he spluttered.Her laughter pealed. Thats right! Come on, lets find a seat. She linked her arm through his, reducing his melted limbs to a puddle.It was so wonderful to see him again. She really said that? He floated by her side around clusters of citizens amassing, from all directions, into Peoples Square. Conversations kissed his ears like snatches of harps and lazy saxophones. Each word was a burst of hallelujah: posh boy Tain our jobs were all fucked now!She perched on a bench, near a huddle of citizens in sooty overalls, and patted the space beside her. Walter dissolved into the wood, gawping reverentially as she whipped a cosmetics mirror from her handbag and fluffed the ends of her chin-length golden bob. She tipped her felt cap at an angle and asked, How do I look? No reply sounded from his lips, though they hung open. Her gaze dropped to his application form. I saw you leaving MOPE. Youre joining the Progressive Front? How marvellous!He stared anew at his form. Was it marvellous? His earlier qualms returned to his stomach with a swoosh and a hammer. Theyve offered me a job.Do tell.I dont exactly know what it is, and I dont exactly know if I should take it.Tish! You must, and if its in MOPE its certain to be very important. She leaned confidentially towards him, and a man from the nearby sooty huddle broke off a Tain-jobs-fucked conversation to stare across. Most likely, the man meant to admire Samantha in her jaunty cap but some grit in his eye misdirected his gaze to Walter. You were always the cleverest boy at college, Samantha continued. Well, the most responsible, at least. That is to say, you turned up for class and old Spencer thought maybe youd do alright. Didnt he?Mr Owen Spencer, Head of Politics at All Citizens College, had indeed expressed the sentiment that Walter might not entirely screw up his life. Mr Spencers faith never ceased to humble and amaze Walter, just as it amazed the rest of the class. Arnie Braine reacted by penning Walter a series of lovelorn letters supposedly in the lecturers hand, but Samantha had been too polite to venture an opinion on Walters abilities, or perhaps her frequent absences meant she never formed one at the time. She suffered from General Unspecified Weakness Disorder, and her all-too-brief epiphanies at All Citizens were like manna to Walter, making the endless social discomfort bearable. Not that he and Samantha had been friends, or even engaged in conversation. Before today.Mr Spencer got me the MOPE interview, he confided to his friend. He had a word in the ministers ear. Of course, it wasnt the new minister I think hes Mr Saxton. It was the old one. Whod gone bump-bump-bump down the stairs.Everythings turned out wonderfully. You wouldnt have wanted to work for the Freedom and Plenty Party, Walter. They made everyone the same. Youll have your chance to shine now. Samantha squeezed his hand, and the oxygen squeezed from his brain. The commies guaranteed everyone a job, and thats why it all went wrong. We didnt have to strive. Things will be different now.The possibility of different was brain-boggling enough, without Walter trying to imagine what different might entail. The sooty-overalled citizens near the bench seemed to think so too, judging by the way they frowned at Samantha. The one whod looked across a moment earlier still bested the others in the staring stakes. This was a short wiry fellow, whose tufty black hair framed a face filled with wrinkles, which in turn were filled with powder resembling coal dust. A huge yellow flower poked from his chest pocket, like something a chimp might wear to a tea party.What job did you do after college? Walter asked Samantha to throw the little chimp-man off the scent, whatever the scent might be.Oh, I didnt bother with that. I met a man, you see. He was so kind, so inspiring. I thought hed marry me, but he never asked. She stared down at her gloved hands.Shame followed Walters instinctive joy that her lover abandoned her. How could he do such a thing? You must have been so lonely all these years, or months, or however long its been.Her tiny smile made his heart lurch. Samantha Hopewell, the girl every boy at All Citizens wanted to romance, the girl every girl wanted to be. A woman so alone. Samantha never spoke of her parents, but everyone knew they were killed after the Pickaxe Revolution, having bet on the wrong horse. The Hopewells tried to flee New Britain, leaving baby Samantha with an aunt. During a police chase in Dover, they plunged their car into the English Channel.How have you managed? Walter asked. I mean, with no one to take care of you?But I have very good friends. Theyre like family to me. Look! Samantha stuck out her chest, and he averted his gaze. Silly! Look.He swallowed hard and glanced down. Less formal than the suits worn by Gabriel Tain and Mr Saxton, Samanthas pale coral skirt-suit was nonetheless chic and very fitted. She pointed at a button badge on her lapel, featuring a black megaphone against a white background.She beamed. Im Senior Troop Sister of the Progressive Front Young Ladies League. The PF is so uplifting. It gives me a purpose, as though I belong there. Ive never truly belonged anywhere else, not really, not among those awful commies who killed my Her lips tightened like a clam shell, only more attractive. After a moment, the corners lifted again in a smile. And now youre joining us. I always knew you were different from the other boys.You did?Of course. She clacked open her handbag and pulled out a leaflet, handing it to him. I have to go, darling, but I do hope well see each other again. At the next Front meeting? Ladies and gentlemen sit in separate rooms, but Im certain well pass each other in the corridor.His voice scratched like rust in his throat as she rose to leave. It squeaked like helium in his ears. Wait!She threw him a smile over her shoulder. Then she glided off into the crowded square. Too soon, her golden hair and little cap bobbed from sight.