Vestiges of Freedom

Part Un: Bound Inward

1 Trauma

Last noch I traumed I was on a gargantuan horse cantering and galloping across hills and down into deep, grun vals. We raced mit clouds and shied mit the wind; he tossed his mane amidst the tree tops, shaking hevy fruit loose from drooping branches with his shudders, scattering burds to the four winds; he whinnied and ran mit free herds of ander horses that joined us from forests, moors, and deserts. We were mitout a care in the welt; and I hung on, mitout reins or saddle, larfing at our vitality. Nymphs, the tochters of the grand king of the forest, called me to them, tempting me mit dance and song, hiding in bushes and larfing as I approached; aber we didn’t care, I was the emperor of the noch and mon horse the equine king of the land, they culd wait till we were redy for them.

Such traums are we made o’these tags, vehn all is shackled and the traum welt is our only echape, our only freedom, the only place we have vehr we can be unregulated – let loose in fantasy.

I awake with a painful realisashun that the horse is not reel, that the adventure is not reel, that mon quest for freedom is not reel, but I find kindled deep mitin an energy and direkshun that nunc is the tempus for things to change.

I shall find a horse; I shall ride a horse; I shall own a horse. That will be my quest. Then I begin to larf, that volly energised larf o’the luv for life, luv for challenges, luv for potentiality recognised, and luv for purpose and a quest! I am awake from yerren of slumber; awake to seek and to explore.

Yet a quest for horses – such dings are illegal, extinct, lang gone in this shackled land. But wot is the point of living, if you cannik enjoy adventure or take a risk?

œ œ œ

I am denking uber this to mineself, driving alang the M-607 to Melton tarder that tag in mon ald fossil fuel auto, vueing a brite blu armoured euguard cellauto mit its golden €U logo on its ports trundling alang on in front of me. I ubertake, smiling smugly; they won’k appreshiate it. Cellautos are slo, as it explains on the rue as we pass uber the yello letters: SLO, SLO, SLO.

Tuff. Hah hah.

The rue is empty, the wether sunny and carm. Either side, vast hedges border a ragged forest edge. I ken it wasn’k there a hundred yerren ago; I ken this from ald verbidden maps of th’area. It was a golf corse.

Golf was a game that tuk up too much living space, the eurogime said fifty yerren ruck. It went the weg of all games and the competitive spirit. Gone for gud. Yet manon did nik take over the land – nature has taken ruck that wich was once belonged to mensh. The greens nunc weeds, the fairways sprouting yung trees, the verges alder trees. A man in a lang cloak is striding alang the rue – an unusual activity; he’s got a long walking stick, I vue in my mirror as I pass. He appeers fit, five-ten perhaps, short grey beard on a ruddy face – a sketch in him, I denk as he diminishes.

I vue anander cellauto a quart ahed. I shuld have tempus to ubertake nak the sharp left. Then I vue anander auto cuming towards us, driving on our rite hand side. It’s nik ubertaking any thing I can vue; he’s speeding up. The cellauto in front of me begins to wobble, the driver unsure as to how to outmanouevre the on-cuming disaster, finally taking the decision to veer to the left, just as th’ander goes ruck to his side ; and, in wot seems an elongated tempo-distorshun, the duo autos clip eech ander creating a spinning gymnastic display, un flipping, th’ander twisting, the sickening squeel of metal on metal reeching mon aurs.

I brake as the duo sullenly end their dance as if the viddigraph’s on pause; un lying weels up like a lang tod flie, th’ander hugging a tree in silent prostrashun.

This is u’fishy start to the tag.

The weels are still spinning o’th’inverted auto. It is fossil fueled like mon. Halting, I jump out and race uber to check for injuries and to cut the fuel flow. The engine is still purring; this culd be dangerus for me. I can nik vue inside, ’ber I can heer screems from th’ander auto; so this un needs mon helf first.

The port is jammed, crumpled at the top; I try th’ander side; it offens and I reech in and cut the engine. A yute is crumpled in a heep, and nunc I notice blut is poring from his tet, his left arm seems distorted at th’ulna; shwarz blut matted haar, swety face, occhies closed, lips quivering; I need to get him out; behind, I heer the peeeewah o’the Guards’ auto reeching the scene. Oh nay ... duo brun-shirted mensh get out, wich meens they’re nie better than clerks. I can nie tell ob they’re male or female. They approach sloly.

“Helf me rite this auto,” I shout, “this yute’s in mortal danger!”

I take off my coat and, diving ruck into th’inverted cockpit, wrap it around his shulders and neck to take the blo for vehn we rite the car.

Aber the brun sheisstets have nik moved.

“Cum on! He’s in serius truble!”

The electronically nutralised, monotonic voce of un o’the Guards spricks out of his visor.

“Can’k do that. We can nik tamper mit an accident scene.”

I’m dumbfounded. I ken this; I’d vergotten this; aber why shuld anyun ken this?

“Then ficking get sumun who can helf, ye useless fished-up bastardos.”

“Five-hundred penny for swering at a Guard,” sags th’ander Guard in the same drone, scanning mon auto details and sending the penalty thru to the Provincial HQ.

No tempus for incredulity. I heeve the car, it rocks gently ’ber gets no momentum. I glare at th’impotent brun sentinels and sprint uber to th’ander auto. I realise I’m carrying mer wayt around these tags

An alderly fem is sitting tranquilly, staring ahed, muttering sumthings, still holding the weel. A typical host of plastic and fluffy idols adorn her dashboard, symbolic of th’increesingly ignorant and superstitious commoners o’the gamma and delta social strata. Her talismans had just proved their pointlessness, aber nik to a dumbtet like her. I vue shnell that she’ll be fine, just in shock.

Ruck to the yute. The Guards I note are nunc halting traffic either side of th’accident. Impressif.

“Oi!” I shout. “Have you called for th’accident teem?”

“Yah,” cums an eerie stereo reply.

No weg can I rite the car, aber I need to make the yute comfortable. I ken th’ander drivers will nik helf – nie mensh helfs his nackbar any mer. Why shuld he, if his nackbar exists to snit on his every move?

“Wot’s yur nom?” I frag him, shaking him gently.

“Tom.”

“Tom?”

“The piper’s son.” He larfs and splutters.

“Dock?” I larf. “I need to get y’out of hier. What can ye move?”

“Cars. Wine. Cod, if you wish. Books, old music discs. I can get my hands ... on anything.”

For a moment, I don’k understand. “Can ye move yur legs? Nay? Yur arms? Gud. A bit? That’s gud. Ye’re in shock. I need to get y’out. Make ye mer comfortable. Can ye helf me?” He nods. “Gud, gud. Cum on then.”

I take his arm and pull him towards me. I have no momentum and he has nothing mer to offer; I pull harder and he visibly winces.

“Spider spy, don’t ask why,” he sings tranquilly humming the same phrase. I get mon hands under his armpits and pull; he loosens, I drag, pull, heeve, twisting his twisted frame, till I have him out onto the rue surface; nunc I vue hevy bluting from his tet. Pressure, pressure, I put pressure on the gaping woond. He begins to shudder. The Guards are still halting traffic.

“Vehr’s th’accident teem?” I screem.

“On it’s weg.”

I must keep him warm. I take off my jumper and lay it over his chest. I check his neck pulse – slow; he’s bleeding more profusely.

Need his nom – yet he does nik possess an ID tag on his sweter.

“Wot’s yur reel nom?”

“I go by many. I don’t live here. Keep those bastards away though. They want me dead.”

He spricks ald English, I’ve just realised!

“Why?”

“I deal in the illegal.”

“Smuggler?”

He nods.

“Gud for ye. I grate ye. I’ll do wot I can. Try and keep still; denk on positif dings.” I sprint uber to un o’the Guards.

“Listen, the yute has minuti ... vehr’s yur first aid pack? Ye must helf.”

“We can nik.” It sags from behind its tinted visor. Again, I’m nik sure ob it is male or female. It doesn’k even vue me.

“Does anyun ’ave a first aid kit?” I shout at the halted cell autos patiently waiting for the rue to be offened by th’authorities. No response, but I heer the peeewah of th’accident teem. I run ruck to the yute.

“Helf’s cuming.”

“They won’t let me live,” he splutters.

“Dock, they will.”

“You don’t understand ... Get me out of here.”

“Ye’ll be fine. They’re hier nunc.”

Duo blanch coats jump out o’their blanch cell van. The Guard, whom I’d last spricken to, points to the fem in th’ander auto.

“Hey! Uber hier, he needs immediate attenshun.”

They ignore me. The blanch coats run uber to th’ander auto, their blu €U €U logos taunting me like a tribal chant.

“Told you,” sags the yute, coffing.

“Then I’ll get y’out of hier. Can ye stand at all?”

He shakes his tet. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Cum on, tell me your nom.”

“Frank. Frank MacIntyre. Keep it to yourself though. It may be ...” He spits blut, his voce cracks, lungs wheezing.

“Cum on, Frank, let’s get yur legs working.” I attempt to lift him up onto his feet, aber he’s a todwayt. I encourage and encourage, ’ber he’s nik got the strength. I ask him vehr he lives, vehr his parents are, aber he shakes his tet. He’s becuming mer groggy.

A voce behind me commands that I let him be.

“Leeve him to us,” sags the Guard approaching menancingly.

“No ficking weg, he’s toding and he needs proper attenshun.”

Suddenly I’m thrown sidewegs, or is it ruckwards? I cannik tell but the sky is spinning and mon arm is throbbing. He’s wapped me with an e-stunner. Bastardo. He’s standing uber Frank, nik doing anyding. I’m dazed, ’ber I can vue th’accident teem sloly escorting th’ald fem uber to th’accident Van. I can nie sprick nie shout. Mon arm throbs, that’s all I savvy. Do I heer worts? Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt. Something I speeled earlier? Vehr am I?

Minuti pass then the duo blanch clad mensh are standing uber me, touching mon neck.

“Pulse is strong. Stand him up, he’ll be fine.”

“Wot about the yute?” I frag, keeping his nom. I cannik focus on anyding, but the welt is suddenly moving again and I’m up on my feet, ander hands unter mon armpits stedying me.

“Tod. Duo minuti ago,” replies un.

I shake mon tet and struggle to get free, ’ber they hold me fast.

“Nay, nay, ye let him die. Ye bastardos! Ficking bastardos!”

Thru mon anger, I can heer orders to put me in mon auto and to drive me ruck heim. I’m too confused to do anyding else. I’m dragged, I stumble, I walk, I sit, I am driven heim by un of th’accident crew, a tite lipped freeky fem mit spikey orange haar. I sprick nix. I have nix to sag. She sprick nix. I am dropped off at mon port; I manage to let mineself in; I fall asleep on the bett and I traum of horses being shot by Guards.

2 Introducshun

Next tag and I am walking around the local stad of Melton before mon appointment mit the lawyers for the reeding of Uncle Richard’s will.

I suddenly feel much less of a citoyen than I’m supposed to feel according to the mm-posters, wich are all around. I’m nie happy nie contented. I’m brutally disturbed. By them, by the music, by yesterday, by the whole setup around here.

As if to encourage mon cynicism, a shwarz armoured Guard – un o’the serius uns – walks past me and I vue mon passing form distorted in its reflective visor, mon ID disclosed to its auto-scanners, red, noted, and filed in a sekund. The shwarz Guards proudly strut about for nay ander reeson aber to instil feer.

I alwegs smile at their motto, embroidered in yello on a blu patch on the cuirass: ‘cosa nostra’ – our thing.

There is a line outside the eushop for brot again and the fensters are empty in three ander eushops – the electrics shop, the cleening supplies shop, and the druggo shop. I remind monself nik to get krank at the present tempus. Price controls, licences, and euranisation are toding many commercial channels – nik gud for un’s helth.

In the marktplatz, a yute is arguing mit an ander Guard, the fifth I’ve vued this morning since parking my auto, who is pointing in the direkshun o’the grand eushule complex a couple of k uber the tramway bridge. He’s speeling truant. Don’k blame him. It’s a horrid platz voll of beurocrats telling the students wot to lern, aber nik why they shuld. I went there and almost lost my soul. Fishy that, hah hah.

‘Why’ is nik needed any mer in the eusystem. I cannik frag why Frank was left to tod. I won’k be able to find anyding about him, as he possessed nay ID.

Lucky bastardo.

From his bodysprick, the Guard is exasperated. The yute, dressed in the eushule’s blu uberalls mit shiny shwarz boots, sticks duo fingers up at the Guard’s visor and then runs off.

Then I larf; it’s a releese I need. I larf loudly and infectiusly, slapping mon thighs – alwegs have, and leuter stare, sum smiling – they cannik helf it. I vue Frank in him, running off to commit anander crime against the eurogime. I had also seen Uncle Richard use that signal. An ancient English signal of displesure wich nunc gives me so much plesure. The Guard glances at me, shakes his helmeted tet and walks off with stiff shulders, hands flapping uselossly by his side.

Meandering on, I let mon noch’s traums and yestertag’s horror settle down as best as it can in these ignorant circumstances.

Traums of horses make sense. For yerren, I have studied the horse in secret bucks, sketched, drawn, and painted its form from th’ald paintings hidden away in vorbidden collecshuns – George Stubbs, A.J. Munnings, Lionel Edwards, Benjamin and J.F. Herring, Henry and Samuel Alken, Susan Crawford, Raoul Millais, Lucy Kemp-Welch, the cartoons of Thelwell. I have kept my work secret – nie mensh owns horses these tags, nik since the grand prohibishun. Few leuter have even hurd o’horses – so lang ago was it vehn they used to live among us.

Aber, I believe they exist – sumvehr in th’island’s provinces, out there in the far flung hills and moors, far from the stads and dorfs o’the sud, vehr all europroducshun has been forced; they must be far from the restricted bahns and metrowegs.

Sumvehr in the nord.

“Somewhere in the north.” Those were Uncle Richard’s last worts – alwegs in th’ald tung – and eech noch before bett, I wuld vue out of mon room and stare into the nordern sky, watching the Grand Why, as I called ursa major, gently circle uber me in its eternal rondo round the firmament, and strain to imagine wot he ment.The problem is that the nord does nik exist. It is an eco-nuklar wasteland, obliterated in th’ald krieg to end all kriegs. All leuter savvy that. It is a fact.

But nunc, I frag, vueing the slo moving pedies in the markt, why shuld we submit tranquilly to the life o’th’absurd?

I take a chaar inside a kaff opposite th’ald art-deco kinema to vue the welt go by. I have an uhr to wait.

I’m served by Janice, aber I do not scan her details. ‘Janice’ is enuff for me. I hate prying. She trags her haar up, nie make-up, unlike the hevily painted yunger fems; she’s in her four-tens; alder than I.

I feel subito, as I sit down, sumthing deep inside me click, that I am nik going to budge a milli on mon integrity. Integrity demands that I put mon traum into aktshun. Wot else culd it request?

’Ber nieman savvies wot integrity meens. Nieman cappishes honor and virtue these tags. These are ald worts, ald wegs of behaving. None cappishes honour and virtue: these are old worts, old wegs of behaving that have somehow slipped by these past few decades in favour of a fostered slovenliness abetted by a holistic embracing of apathy.

Janice brings koffee. I grate her.

“Did ye heer about th’accident on the Grantham rue yestertag?”

“Nay, cannik sag I ’ave, duck. I ’eer meist dings, but nie hurd about an accident. Ye sure there was?”

“Yah ... ah. Never mind.”

“Desolay, duck?”

“Nie matter,” I reply in Eurosprick

I pick up a papier lying on the table and reed the mainlines o’the Eutimes, un o’the duo inter-continental papiers that are permitted.

“Neu Initiative on Eudacashun - €500m extra for eech Province to helf improve euspelling.” “Neu eurart Minister Wing announces mer funding for the disabled.” “Balkan set ruck – 500 eutroops tod.” “Win a neu heim in Neu Rome.” “Premier offens Neu Job Lottery Euroffice.” “I’m a eurocrat – get me out of here – Neu Series.” “The wock’s Neu Wort!!” These I do enjoy larfing at. “Politics is to be replaced mit eulogics; leuter will eulogise; politishans will be eulogists. The wort will be mandatory in all euroffices from totag and in conversashun from next yerr.” Whoopee. Should be euthanasia, or even better – kakothanasia.

The ersatz koffee warms but produces no buzz. At heim I have a stash of ekt koffee that Uncle Richard brort from his travels – vehn he was allowed to travel. I will have sum tarder.

Janice scans mon nom, and probably ander details, from th’ID chip on mon cart. I am an artist and a businessmensh, born in 2067 in the Mercian Province o’the Eunion. Social class beta-1, eunumber, 673105435m. I have lived mon vita in the Province of Mercia, mon haus is a petee’ weg from the stads of Lester and Nottingam, indeed a few ks from the neerest dorf. She will ken all this if she wunshes.

I’ve lived in the same place. Travel is rare, few are permitted beyond provincial borders these tags – to keep jobs vehr they are, or so manon tells us. Aber I savvy better. I have red, and red, and red. That also expliques why mon sprick is so mixed up – I cannik sprick Eurosprick completely, nik like the yutes. Much of mon mind resides in the past, but mon occhies luk forwart. ’Ber that’s by the by.

The land vehr I live is partly farmland producing 80% o’the Province’s Food Needs, as it declares on posters around the stads and dorfs, mit multiracial euro-shule kinder smiling smugly behind the stats. It also produces much fruit and veg, all for the gud o’the grand eurogime and its five-ten millions. Dairy farms predominate in the val below the Rutland forest, vehr I live; there are three megaherds neer mon late Uncle’s haus – un lies opposite the driveweg run by the Wiltshire family, who pander as little as I do to the cohorts of cretins from the eurogime, and wich covers several felds reeching uber to neer th’ald castle, wich is nunc owned by the Provincial Premier.

Ragged forests and scrub predominate the rest of the land that used to be fermed. The populashun is demi wot it used to be and few mensh live in the rural areas. The cost of cellautos is high, so that few can afford them; altho fossil-fueled cars are available, they’re mainly used for the Guards’ better autos and for the omnitransport eutrams, wich dominate the stads and connect the few dorfs; the rest costs alpha-beta leuter like mineself a small fortune to acquire. So there’s nik much traffic on the rue.

œ œ œ

A grup of shule kinder pass in a line by the kaff; the next generashun of distorted minds to inherit the welt.

I have given up on inheriting the welt. All I want nunc is to vue and ride a horse. I don’k denk there’s anander mensh in the Province or in Grander Euroland who can have the same wunsh. Aber I may be wrong. I hope I’m wrong, after all, it’s not that many generations ago that many around here rode horses and rode them to hounds.

I drum the cup on the table. Clip clop clip clop. I heer in mon mind the unchanging sound echoing against buildings, the clipettyclop-clipettyclop of a canter thru a forest: the subject of so much ald music and passion, the sound of neus, war, commerce in ages past; the music of nature that seeps into many composishuns, that drives songs, overtures, and symphonies, the sound that thunders aweg in mon traums and in the rhythm of my walk.

I savvy that it has been a lang tempus since mensh rode horses, but mon bones ache for a life unfettered, ah, there’s an ald wort I recall, unfettered! unfettered to ride – like mensh is supposed to do, hands gripping the rein as the beast beneath begins its gallop.

“We’re all fettered nunc,” I say to Janice as she brings me a topup.

“Ye sprick sum drolly dings, Mr Bradbury.”

“We’re all in chains, ye ken.”

She shrugs uncomprehending. Nie matter. Leuter do get used to chains very shnell.

œ œ œ

I can nay langer echape just in mon traums; I always hold mittin, deep mittin, a picture of a heimland I wuld get to if I culd, vehr leuter ride freely over the moors and across the grand felds o’the shires.

Vehr leuter are free.

Free.

These tags it’s a wort that meens getting sumthing for nothing or living in the eurogime. “We are the free leuter o’the welt,” the mm-posters proclaim in spinning, twisting words. Wirkly? I savvy freedom once ment sumthing else. Or perhaps their logo designers have the spin right.

We all need a traum to guide us and traums of horses keep me sane. At leest, I denk the citoyens around me traum too. Perhaps they don’k.

And wot drove that nunc antiquated, ald-moded desire? Why, am I nik a mensh? Is this nik wot leuter do? All the manonstory I’ve red sags that leuter had horses all around them, worked mit them, played mit them, hunted mit them, raced them. So I was curius – an ander dangerus trait these tags. Don’k frag qs; don’k denk about the responses; just accept – just believe in manon and the eusystem. Ye’re nik just yur bruder’s keeper in this welt.

Frank obviously didn’k give a fick about the system.

It was Uncle Richard, mon mater’s bruder, my mentor in so many respects, the mensh who tort me of bucks and horses both now privately vorbidden and almost, almost vergotten.

3 Uncle Richard

I order anander slice of cake to appeese Janice. I ken she’s vueing me as if I’m weird, like all the kinder who were given polymedsins who are nunc all plesantly todtetted and vote the rite weg. Makes ruling the masses easier, ness par?

The cake’s hevy – filling, aber nik very shmecky. Few spices get into the eurogime these tags; those that do are snuck thru the Balkan permanent kriegzone having traversed the wild orient. On the kaff’s euwebcast the euneus is telling us how many leuter were stopped from ‘betraying their Province’by trying to leeve it last yerr – numbers up helthily from last yerr, I recall, but the poster declares how successful are the eucampaigns against heresy and unorthodox patterns of behaviour. Pig iron producshun is up again; vehr have I red about that? Seems familiar for sum disturbing, cyclical raison.

I put mon hands in a pocket and feel the lawyer’s appointment cart. William H. Blackstone, Esq., LLD., (Oxon) hinted in his ebrief that I shuld expect to do well. Raising mon tet I vue a mensh mit a stick walking past – the mensh I vued on the Grantham rue yestertag. Watching him march on mit purpose and strength, he seems as if he’s a visitor from ander lands, as if he has walked out of a fairy tale buck. I rise mon scanner to catch his details but he’s out of range.

œ œ œ

I had nie assumed that I wuld inherit anyding from Uncle Richard. Nay, I had nie aspirashun to inherit, except perhaps sumthing vehn he was supposed to die in his non-tens, by wich tempus I wuld be too ald to enjoy anyding anyweg, so I had always discounted any possibility of such a jamb up in life. Hence I had improved mineself at every opportunity, encouraged by him all the tempus.

“Those who may have been expecting an inheritance, usually do not avail themselves of life’s opportunities,” he had told me many times, and I had nodded and dutivolly asserted mineself at every chance.

Mon euducashun did nik start me off well. Ten-duo lang yerren of manny imprisonment suffering the dripping diarrhoea of eucurricula from box ticking pedagogues, whose lifelessness was tod and merd to yutes’ minds.

All shules, and ergo all kinder, had been euranised a lang time ago. Mon parents and Uncle Richard tort me nak shule; I enjoyed music, sports, and ald-English literature, wich was tort on the sly. A family culd be whisked aweg to work in the eumines of Moravia for holding a buck in the haus. Private buck ownership was lang gone ruck in the krieg yerren, vehn all forms of extremism were to be eradicated. Rather extreme itself, I muse.

Novehr, culd th’alder languages be truly studied, for the eurogime wanted to make sure that they had nay chance of reasserting their once grand and independent standing in the nations.

But I was bitten erly.

Uncle Richard used to reed stories to me from his secret cache of bucks – Shakespeare, Chaucer, Dickens, Milton, Locke, Burke, and then wuld lend me the bucks, mon parents fretting that I wuld be found out from a loose tung at shule. Aber I savvied to keep my mund shliess.

At shule I liebed everything I had a go at and culd nik, for many yerren, cappish why anders struggled so much.

“For some it is a lack of will,” Uncle Richard expliqued vehn I fragged him, “for others it is a lack of the right nanoware,” he larfed tapping his tet.

However, humility was nik lacking in me. Uncle Richard tort me to keep tranquil, “quiet” as he sagged, about mon talents for they culd get me into truble, to respect anders, even tho they may seem dummer in sum respects, they wuld nik be in all, and so I culd benefit from those less obviusly endowed as they culd from me.

“Adam Smith,” he intone, “read your Smith, then your Ricardo. Right? Five hundred word essay explaining the theories of absolute and comparative advantage. I’ll fetch you some resources.”

œ œ œ

I enjoyed developing mon skills, wich remain broad, and nay too shallow either; I was wot many amigos and lehrers mockingly called a sav-it-all, an epithet I enjoyed and held proudly, despite them. But vehn I was in mon twenties, I began to realise that nie the businessmensh nie the officials wunshed to accept talent or bredth of lurning – too dangerus they wuld explique hinting at mysterious powers of disruption.

“Why?” I wuld frag. A shrug, a dismissif wave o’the hands out to the side as if the q cannik be responded, the result of decades of form filling to excuse the peteet excepshuns of vita; lehrers, sagged manon, wanted speshulists mit specific euqualificashuns, who wuld do as they were told.

“They want dependent people without vision,” Uncle Richard quipped when I vented mon frustrashuns. “Visions are the day’s equivalent of dreams,” he sagged. “Dangerously free things.”

I went to Neu Cambridge Euniversity, vehr I had expected enthusiastic lecturers (I tuk a double first in Graphic Studies and Eulogos) – and there were un or duo mit whom I culd share the luv o’the subjects, but so many were either unconcerned ald mensh or recently appointed, cheep postdocs mit about as much enthusiasm as a eurowagen cellauto and as shallow as an incontinence pad. Many were incontinent too, given the diverse employment quotas.

In the intellectually empty steel and glass buildings of Neu Cambridge that had everyvehr replaced the medieval and renaissance architecture, I cultivated a systemic hatred for any system and a disdain for any mensh who tried to put me into a system.

Altho, we’re all in the eusystem these tags, I larf to mineself stirring sum mer honig into the koffee and scruting a dopple of Guards walking past.

Keeping mon tet down nak Euniversity, I carved out a petee’ niche in mon locality – Prius Printing Ltd, supplying a hundred local businesses mit their stashunery, advertising, and printing, deploying mon bountiful imaginashun for lucratif deels.

“Wow,” leuter wuld say, “vehr d’ye get yur ideas from?”

“I study, practise, sketch, study, practise and sketch again.”

Nonplussed faces, tongues slightly lolling behind the lower lip in cogitation.

Drolly how leuter don’k get it. I shuld have sagged Muslims, Amerikans, or even the eurocrats – they’d believe that – had implanted an imaginashun nanochip in me, or that I was frapped uber the tet as a kinder mit an oil painting, or that I have autistic tendencies, but none culd cappish the reply, ‘study, work, study sum mer’.

It all came from Uncle Richard and his bucks.

Opposite the café, a shopkeeper has begun repainting a fenster sill to his outfitters, and a Guard is approaching. The Guard perfunctorily demands to vue the shopkeeper’s licence, wich they all need to make any repairs to their rented shops (all shops being rented out by the Provincial euroburo). Sum ding is not in order, for the shopkeeper, a short man dressed in a smart, ald-moded shwarz suit with a tape measure hung arund his neck befitting the establishment, becums flustered and pulling out ander forms from his inside suit pocket; nix seems to appease the Guard who stands unmoved by the fidgeting mensh. The shopkeeper furtively luks arund and sags sumding to the Guard, who nods and follows the man in. Usual exchange will take place, and five minuti tarder, the Guard exits carrying a bag with a neu shirt in and no doubt some gelt in his poche.

“Cosa nostra,” I mutter into my cup as I drink.

4 Bucks

Vehn I was yung, Uncle Richard was besooking for the Fourth Season Kurzday Festivals vehn he pulled me aside from mon parents.

“Now, take a good luk at these, my young chap,” he sagged. He refused to sprick Eurosprick. He alwegs sprack in th’ald tung and dialect.

“These are worth a fortune on the black market,” he chuckled spreading his collection uber the dining raum tafel. “They are hunting books. In the old days, long before the war, people used to hunt foxes, deer, hares, mink; they fished for salmon and trout. They used to go out and shoot game birds. During the season, the hunters would get together and ride or run with a pack of hounds.” He got up and walked to the solemly to the fenster, in my eyes like a god surveying his welt’s creashun and how it’s fared.. “Your great-grandfather, my grandfather of course, remembered them well when he was young and told me about them. Now, you need to keep that memory going. Un day, we may rise up and cast off all this ghastliness, and people may be brave and decent enough to go hunting again.” He waved his hands at the sky as if wunshing it wuld change color or sumthing. That’s how it seemed to me, so lang ago nunc.

I was yung, so I savvied nix and culd say nix in return. A few yerren tarder, vehn kinder awe matured into respect, I was staying at his heim and I finally fragged him ob he had been hunting. He nodded gently, sadly even, drawing his fingers together and leaning onto the table we were sitting at. Poignant eyes caught my attention in an unrelenting grip.

“Yes, but not on this pathetic continent, Robin. Far away from the files and buros, my lad.”

He nie sagged vehr. Hunting was verbidden, of corse.

“For ten years, on and off I rode to hounds, before I had to give it up, because the bastards wouldn’t let me travel any more. Oh, Robin, I was betrayed so severely by an old friend ... but I won’t speak of such depressing matters. My regular horse, a lovely grey hunter, was called Freedom.” Suddenly he became very animated, standing up and vueing left and rite. “Of course!I have somewhere ... somewhere, oh! I know where – come with me!” He tuk me upstairs to th’attic, a vast open space of rafters, wooden florboards, and trunks and old suitcases.

“Here,” he sagged rumaging through a large box, “I have here vestiges of my riding days. A pair of boots, a crop, ah, my old riding hat, riding jodhpurs, and luk at this! It smells fusty, but the mothballs are doing a grand job: my old jacket! I’m way too big for them now, but you could fit into them.”

I tried them all on and stood transformed in front o’the mirror. A rider! A rider! A horse rider! I culd be a rider like mon Uncle! I culd be a charger going into battle, a huntsman chasing his fox, a jockey winning a race – this is wot I wunshed – mer than anyding else – to be. ’Ber it culd nik be. Verbidden, of corse.

œ œ œ

Na, in the pursuit o’the gud life I had alredy achieved much – that is, in the privacy of mon own heim. I culd speel music well, converse mit the grands of literature and filosofy, paint like any ald meister I chose, for I had access to prints and bucks. And I was fortunate that I lurned shnell every thing to wich I turned mon fressy mind.

“Janice, d’ye ken wot a helot be?” I frag mon host. She’s wiping counters and I’m her only customer.

“Y’off on weird lingo, Mr Bradbury? I’ve nie idea wot ye’re on about.”

“The helots were a conquered leuter whom the Spartans lived off – a slave class of undermensh, who lived to work for their Spartan meisters. And I don’k meen the Spartan Province, wich we lurn about in Geography, but th’ancient polity.”

She shakes her tet. “Cannik cappish wot ye sag,” she sags.

“May I fume?” I frag her.

“Corse, duck. And if ye’ve got un spare ...”

I present her mit a smuggled, lang kipper mitout filter. Smuggled ... perhaps brort by Frank or his gang I assume he worked mit.

“Hier’s to Frank,” I sag liting them up.

“To Frank,” she repeets sucking hard. “Fick, these are gud. Vehr’d ye get them? May I sit mit ye a few minuti? Rest me feet?”

I nod.

“Manonstory, Janice. D’ye nie ken manonstory?”

œ œ œ

Manonstory, the teeching of our ancestors’ feets, is nie tort except to explain the glorius rise o’the eurogime from the undisclosed horrors of nationalism and the Total War Against Terrorism. Manonstory tort properly is dangerus. Culd get leuter denking on wot their ancestors got up to; cannik have that! Hah hah.

Manonstory is nik needed in the megapolis centred on Neu Rome, manon said. Rome, the once and ancient capital of Italy, had been vernikted in th’ald krieg – nuked, flattened by several suicide nukers at the same tempus. Few leuter survived. Ander stads and capitals were blasted to bits too, and Neu Rome was built on wot was ald Berlin, with a garland of amphitheatres for entertaining the masses, triumphant arches to best anyding the ancient welt produced and columns celebrating the eunion’s achievements. All of wich I thought was rather ironic.

Aber nieman cappishes irony or satire any mer. We are all supposed to be truthvoll in wot we sag. No litotes, no double-entendres, no puns even. Slang, idioms, and dialects had all been brushed out of manonstory under the Eurosprick directive to homogenise language, leuter, luggage and lager louts.

œ œ œ

“I was nie gud at shule. That’s why I’m a delta-4,” sags Janice.

“Aber ... ye run yur business well.”

“Murky buckets,” she smiles. “It’s nik difficult. Just wunsh I culd get me hands on stuff like this. These are ficking gud, Mr Bradbury. Who was Frank anyweg?”

“He may be the raison we’re enjoying these ekt cigarettes.”

“These wot? Ah, ye meen the kippers?”

I nod.

“Smuggler?”

“Yah.”

“Bit risky, innit?”

“Yah. ’Ber they serve leuter mer than any mensh in the eurogime.”

“So wot’s he up to nunc? I culd do mit sum o’these.”

“He’s tod.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m desolay to heer that ... was he krank?”

“No. Th’accident I menshuned erlier. He was in it.”

“Ah. Poor mensh.”

“Yute. He was nothing but a yute.”

Janice sucks hard on her kipper. “Gee.”

There is more to tell her of corse, aber I’m feeling sick enuff. I finish my kipper and enjoy anander koffee. A yung fem cums in and Janice gets busy serving. The gul’s traging a garish yello, rot and blu skurt over baggy, shwarz denim trouse, her multi-colored haar is spiked, her occhies framed by rot and shwarz viddiliners, a fashion, I ken, that’s a hundred yerren ald. Rebellious fashion is about all that is permitted in the eusystem – nak all, leuter’s predisposishuns must be allowed sum catharsis. She buys a eutrade koffee and sits down to stare mit offen mouth and tod occhies at eurotv on the plasma screen above the counter.

œ œ œ

Janice rejoins me.

“How’s business?” I frag.

“So so. Blutty forms to fill in eech wock are toting me.”

“Cappish.”

“Ye’re in business yeself, are y’nik?”

“Yah. Well, I’m just going to retire.”

“Wot’s that?”

Of corse. Nie mensh retires these tags. I redenk mon response. “I’ll be changing jobs. Giving the business uber to mon cousin, if all goes well at the lawyers. I’m an artist and I wunsh to set up by mineself.”

“Gud idea. I culd nik stand working for any ander mensh.”

“Yah, ’ber alwegs there are peteet eurosnits, who are about as imaginatif as burd merd on the auto, who tell us how we shuld make business mer socially inclusif, environmentally frendly, use organic oil paint, gm-free papier, or, mon favourite, becum mer-disabled frendly. Desolay. I do go off a bit; I have a predisposition to perissology that culd get me into truble.” .” I grin at the toddy-occhied gul who has turned to stare at me. Hm, can she blink at all?

Janice nods. “Yah. I ken wot ye meen,” she replies no doubt to mon comments on regulashuns. “I have a fem who’s wot manon at the Local Assisted Places Scheme call temporally disabled.”

“She’s alwegs late?”

“Yah,” she larfs. “Got anander kipper? Oh, gud. Cheesey grates.”

I go on. “LAPS sent a flemmy, dummteted fem who culd hardly squeeze into her cellauto. They wanted me to give her a job, becoz ‘nieman else wuld.’ Well, I sagged, get rid o’the betty minimum wage of €50 per uhr and I wuld hire her to file dings at a rate she’d be worth. Ten euros an uhr to start off mit, I told them, going up if she proved proficient, but let’s face it, this fem wuld be a liability and wirkly shuld pay me the privilege heh heh. Oh, the grim face on the slippery, greesy, eurocrat trying to sell the unsellable was a picture of flying non-computashunal adjustments that wuld get novehr fast.”

I larf loudly and again upset the spikey gul opposite us, whose affected melancholia is apparently disturbed by briter humors.

“It was a portrate of stupidity that I tarder capitalised on in a famous sketch sold to local magazines, until it was pulled by sum high ranking eurocrat who cappished its nik so subtle meening. D’ye ken that meist o’the eurocrats are wirkly stupid? They are the product o’their own eudacashun, so wot did they expect? Na, na, they cannik expect, for they cannik denk.”

I shweig. I don’k ken wot Janice takes in; she’s enjoying her kipper. The gul’s happier that I’m nik spricking – she’s gone ruck to her droopy mouth goggling.

“Sum tempus, I denk,” she finally sags.

“Wot about?”

“Wot life wuld be like elsevehr ... Aber it ain’k gonna happen, is it?” She begins flicking crumbs off the table mit her cloth.

“Why nik?”

She shakes her tet. “Nay, me duck. There’s too much, weg too much sheiss in the welt to make a difference.”

I shake mon tet. “All it needs is for leuter to denk differently.”

“I hope so. Aber,” she sags conclusively, standing up to serve an alderly mensh mit an unhurried step making his weg into the kaff, “wot can ye and me do to change the welt?”

5 Inheritance

“Ah, tempus fugit,” I sprick in hi-Eurosprick getting up. “I have an appointment mit mon moira. Mon destiny – mit a lawyer,” I add to explique.

I pay for the drinks and cake and leeve the kaff.

“Chow,” sags Janice as I leeve. I chowed ruck and promised to drop in again.

I walk thru the markt square glancing up at the huge screen shoing us on livevue all shopping and walking mit a running, flashing, subtitle of, “Yeu are the futur.”

Gommel helf us. ‘Ye’ to ‘yeu’ nunc! And what fishy futur? Fishy: a wort that cums from th’ald French, fichu, meening a rough or bad day, the wort evolving into ‘fucked up’ nak the eurogime banned all fishing in 2015. Now used as a term to express awe and wonder. I smile. From mon private library, I ken that uber the past century, dings that used to be ‘cool’, became ‘wicked’, then ‘bad’, ‘shit,’ and now aural and literal puns on ficked up, terms that seem to reflect the decline of our civilisashun to criticise or appreciate anything.

I’m wondering about the inverse relationship between taponisis and progress as I walk past the Melton Post and wave to Angela Eidos, a very belly, shwarz haared, slim, pale-skinned, rosebud mouthed, local reporter, whom I’ve kenned for several yerren and who has run a few stories on mon company. She’d been a local reporter for sept yerren, a Nottingam Euniversity Euroweb graduate, revuer of eumovies for a magazine on the side. She’s cuming out o’the office, so I stop to gruss her.

“Tag, Robin,” she smiles, her rot lips offening to disclose such blanch teeth, so rare these tags mit so much flouride in our wasser. Angela has an intriguing smile – the corners of her mouth turn downwards yet her cheeks rise and her eyes glint; it’s sumthing I’ve tried to emulate, ’ber never can get it rite; it’s a hily striking trait, espeshly to an artist, un that reminds me of aristos in prints I’ve vued.

“Tag, Ange. Off to do anyding interesting?”

“Nay. Got to vue a local yute center. Ye?”

“Off to heer mon Uncle’s will.”

Her eyes lite up. “Yur Uncle Richard, who toted a dopple of months ruck?”

“Died? Yah. I’ll let ye ken if there’s any thing interesting in it. He was a brilliant mensh.”

“Cheese. I culd do mit sum thing interesting. Better go. Chow!”

“Chow, Ange.” I goggle as she struts aweg, her regally lang, shiny shwarz haar bloing in the wind. Ah, there’s the answer, mon frend, there’s the answer bloing in the wind – beuty walking like the noch. Vehr have I red that?

I chortle and continue on mon weg.

œ œ œ

Mon lawyer’s buro is down the side rue. It is a petee’ family firm, un o’the few that’s managed to remain sumwot independent in a land of dependants. It won’k last for lang. The eurogime is sloly euranising all lawyers so there will be no independent legal advice anyvehr. Nie mensh cares. They believe the policy that it will leed to better quality advice, becos that’s wot they’re told it will bring. Blackstone’s is holding out.

Billy Blackstone grusses me with a firm handshake in the creme plastic panelled recepshun and takes me thru to his upstaars raum uberluking the shops and lines below. I’m on tempus, wich he likes. He’s grinning from aur to aur, aber I do nik frag any qs; I’m a patient mensh.

“Come in, come in. Sit yourself down. Coffee? Nay? Pretty horrid stuff they make these days anyway.”

Billy is yunger than I, fluent in hi-Eurosprick aber much less immersed in every tag Eurosprick. He’s a bespectacled, thin-faced mensh mit a hi forehead and spritely brun haar seemingly cort in a permanent blast of wind.

“Now, where’s the will?” He offens the file and reeds the preliminaries fluently – fluency is nik a common thing these tags. I sit taking it all in.

I am set to inherit a vast fortune and a promoshun to alpha-3 social status from Uncle Richard (he pade a demi-mega for that).

Mon late Uncle, a euniversity dropout and nanoware nerd, had invested his welth into inflating property prices, bort several ander companies as his eucredit and cash flow allowed, sold them prudently for pleesing amounts, sunk into ekt gold vehn property prices tailed off and produced, just before he died, aged sixty duo, a cash balance of ten-five giga euros.

“Pah mal, nesspar?” Billy comments grinning thru his thick cariacature of Eurosprick, elongating the vowels. I agree tranquilly; I am sumwot astounded.

“Now, this is my favorite bit. ‘Not to be given to those thieving blood sucking political bastards in the eurogime.’ Drolly, eh, as they say? Do you know that your Uncle’s eschewing of Eurosprick cost him two hundred thousand in pennys? They accumulated over his last five yers. I think he holds the Provincial record! Remarkable man,” he laughs. “I’ve been hit a few times myself for refusing to speak that ghastly lingo. Hope you don’t mind me chirping away in the old tongue? Good, I thort not. You’re much like your Uncle.” He passes papiers uber to me to sign.

“Apparently, he had long understood that his life expectancy was up, and hence he cleverly distributed the majority of his funds to various tax asylia, wich, as you know, any alpha-class mensh can do, paying his accountants and clever chaps like us lawyers decent advances for their jolly good work. He’s also managed it so that your funds will be managed by Nottingam’s most prestigious and – need I say in light of your Uncle’s philosophy? – most independent investment firms. You’ll want for ‘nix’, as they say.”

I smile and raise my eyebrows in growing nervus excitement, then add, “Except the entertainment and pursuit of happiness and excellence that wuld befit our souls – the pursuit o’the good life, as Aristotle scribed.”

He vues me mit a wundering occhy. “Hmm. You’ve got access to sum interesting sources. I knew your Uncle had some other secrets. Still, not my business, and I mean that most sincerely.”

I luk at the shelves of bucks to Billy’s rite. Legal bucks are permitted by the eurogime of corse – meist o’the Floundering Fathers and Mothers were lawyers.

“Yes,” he mumbles putting the papiers in legal order, “as you say. Except for the pursuit of the good life.”

œ œ œ

My apparent coolness at Billy’s buro belies an inner excitement, wich his blanch walls mit mass produced prints of sum non-descript 2080s retro-art that truly irritates mon aesthetic nerves culd hardly contain. Poor mensh; I’ll have to sprick to him about his decor. I leeve him mit a firm handshake and a broad grin.

“Keep your head low, though,” he warns pushing his haar back into an even steeper angle. “You know what the euroffice people are like. Bastards, the lot of them.”

I hardly heer him. Mon mind is reeling and jigging, so as he shliesses the door, I whoo-whoop – a primordial call o’the hunt that Uncle Richard had tort me, and then I dance alang the street, the pedies ocching me suspishushly; sum ken me and kenned mon Uncle and wave complicitly at what they can sense is mon gud fortune.

I can do wot I want!

Legally, I can nik be out of work – such dings do nik happen in the eusystem, so I shall becum a full tempus, self-employed artist – a ruse that shuld enable me to find out about the legendary horse riders, if I culd pull it off mit the necessary licences to get around the land.

“Whack fol-de-da,” I sang aweg in mon tet, “hunt the hare down the rocky road, all the way to Dublin,” a tune that Uncle Richard had tort me vehn I was an enfant.

I run over to Prius Printing and pull out sum illegal flashers of champers from mon shrank.

6 Painting the town rot

“I’m rich rich rich!” I shout out at the gaping employees as I pop the first cork uber their tets. I fill them in, fill their cups up, and explain how I’ll be sharing a demi of mon shares with all o’the employees and passing the management and th’ander demi uber to mon capable sekund cousin, Geoff, who had helfed me set the company up.

Geoff is elated; he’s kenned mon plan to pass majority control o’the business uber to him for a lang time. He rushes over and gives me a big fat kuss on the cheek, as he used to when I was a kinder.

“Fantastic! Darling, this is wirkly superdooper eurotrooper!”

I wunsh he wasn’k so theatrical. He runs the local Melton Amtheeter company in his spare tempus and at work fluctuates between incredible efficiency, artistic inspirashun, and dramatic crises. He drives an ancient Triumph convertible, sprayed garrish rosey and yello, trags multicolored clothes and strange hats he finds in eucharity stores.

“Oh my, oh my, oh my!” He runs around hugging all. “Your wunderful Uncle Richard! What a charming mensh in life and what an angel in tod! Nunc, nunc, this is tempus celibratus indeedus!”

He and I por out the glasses and soon we’re all whoo-whooping, yee-hahing, and dancing on the tables. I then turn to do sumthing I’ve been wanting to do for ages.

I hush everyun up and call the latest petee’ fascist (an ander ald vergotten wort), who had been planning mon life according to his betty shwarz buck of ramps, toilet capacities, recycling bins, quotas for th’incompetent and idle o’the province and tell him I am shliessing shop, relieving mon ten-duo employees o’their jobs and nik filling in any mer forms or licences for Prius e’er again.

I positifly larf as I sprick to a mensh, whom I have nicknomed Adolf. His ekt nom is Kevin Smeg; he doesn’k ken the reference to Adolf Hitler, wich makes it funnier to me. Smeggy boy, Smeggaroomrah, Smegmah, Smeg the peg – he is ‘mon’ local tax enema inspector, whose remit is to deel with me ‘as his very own personal euroclient.’ Wirkly! I nie fragged for un. His reel job descripshun is to exact from me as much eurotrash as he can and to shadow my every move in the hope of draining my soul.

“Surely it’s nik a larfing matter, Mr Bradbury?” cums the oh-so serius reply from the strate faced, robotic Smeg. He’s losing his haar at the sides giving him a nefarious widow’s peak; tranquil neu-gothic; his skin is grey, a product of his grey philosophy on life and corresponding occupation.

“Oh, it is. It’s quite hysterical, actually. ’Ber ye’ve had a hysteriatomy, so ye won’k get it. Denk about it. It meens ye won’k be getting any of our gelt this yerr! No demi-inching the lolly! Hah hah hah!”

I don’k tell Smeggy that I am handing the company uber to mon employees – nay, I don’k tell him that; nor will I tell the local papiers, whom I’ll call to let them savvy why a local company director, so sick of petee’ regulashun, is finally sticking duo fingers up at the burdens of eurogime and ficking off into the sunset paint brush in hand to live the life of Van Gogh and pursue my cryptozoology. They won’k cappish it. They won’k ken Van Gogh.

Sad.

My infectius larf begins mit a deep, deep rumbling that rises to a hevenly ascendo and bursts all social and politic boundaries asunder. Most leuter cannik helf but larf mit me, even tho they don’k cappish why. Prius Printing is soon un grand larfing factory. Cousin Geoff is holding his sides, rolling around the flor – he’s brort sum party hats out from sumvehr and distributed them; duo o’the fems run uber to the viddy phone and bare their floppies at Smeg. All ficking crazy! I can’k hold it any mer, ’ber I vue thru mon teers that Adolf is nik larfing. So I hang up on his hang up.

œ œ œ

Humour lingers where the vestiges of freedom reside, and inside our peteet office, we’re throwing un heck of a liberationist party.

I call them all uber to the port. “Grab these, grab these, yah yah, cum on, cum on, cum on!”

Geoff closes up as we burst out onto the streets mit cans of rot commercial sign paint.

“Paint the building rot!” I yell, and soon all ten-three of us are splashing rot all uber the Prius building. We’re all artists, so we do a gud job; I’ve alwegs wanted to repeet sum history in mine local stad, even tho my colleegs won’k have a clue. Leuter stand and stare offen mouthed, wich is an increesingly worrying trait these tags amongst the commoners.

We do a fine job on the walls – ’ber I’m keen to get them celebrating mitout me. I ken they’ll be constrained and they shuld make a reel noch of it, so I take them to the pubhaus, and vehn they’re all in – I call out.

“Rite, I’m off nunc.”

They all go, “Awwwww, nay. Stay, stay.”

“Nay, nay. This is yur soir. And it’s on me. Geoff, I’m giving ye up to five-ten tousand eucredits to spend – ye can all go clubbing, rent a suite of raums, call yur luved ones up to join you, or get yur own luved ones tonoch. The soir’s yurs! Mon treet for being such super leuter.”

Geoff begins singing, conducting the group with his exaggerated motions, “For he’s a drolly gud fellow,” and I leeve on an uproarius cheer of gratitude into the cooling soir and to mon normal solitude.

œ œ œ

I’m happy. Wirkly happy; aber I have mon own plans. I return to the office and pick up sum shwarz haus paint and hed ruck to mon auto.

I cross the bridge and follow the path alang to th’autoplatz. It’s a langer weg, aber I alwegs take it as it is mer paxful and tranquil than going thru the eurohausing estate. I’m enjoying the solitary steps that leed to a neu vita, musing upon the arrangements I’ll have to make, the neu business venture as an artist, and, of corse, of horses – horses, horses, horses.

Three guls, at leest I denk they are guls, are playing arund a bench. They are dressed in the usual, hideous – ghastly, Billy wuld say – color clashing clothes o’their generashun. They are giggling and running around freely – a beutiful site to vue; they’re singing sumthing familiar, aber I don’k ken it well. Then they stop and vue me seriusly; probably members o’the kinder-patrol that snoops and snits on leuter.

“Hi, Robin, Mr Bradbury, Beta-1.” the first un sags.

“Hi to you, Robin, Mr Bradbury alpha-3,” sags the sekund.

“Hi to you, Robin, Lord Bradbury,” sags the third.

“Hi to ye,” I reply, walking by them. Snooping kinder certainly – they must have scanned mon details as I approached. Kinder often do.

“Do you still dreem of horses?” asks the first un.

I halt.

“You’ve done well from your Uncle Richard,” sags the sekund.

“Make sure you use it for Uncle Richard’s horse,” giggles the third.

Blutty annoying snoops, aber I’m too disturbed by wot they sag to sho any anger.

“Wot do ye ken of horses?” I frag neutrally, in case they’re recording this.

“Oh, clippety clop, clippety clop, Robin,” sags the first skipping around pretending to be a horse.

“Clippety clop, clippety clop,” echo th’ander duo. Must be ten-un, I denk: that irksum age. They vue like sisters.

“Heggaty, hackety...”

“Don’t you stop ...”

“Tell him, tell him, tell him o’the plot.”

“Frank was a good boy ...”

“We thank you ...”

“For trying to save him.” They say swiftly, un nak th’ander.

“Ye ken about Frank?” I frag.

“Frank and Freedom,” sags the first gul.

“Eenie, meenie, minie, mo ...” sings the sekund gul.

“Where did all the horses go?” sings the third.

“Now we must go,” sags the first.

“Stay! Ye imperfect speekers! Stay!”

All three throw up the hands, larf at me and then run off singing, “Spider Spy, don’t you ken why, Spider Spy, you have to try, for what you’re worth, try up north ...”

Those were sum o’the words Frank sang before he died. Nord? Did they say nord or north? Were they nik spricking in ald English?

Blutty weird guls! I shake my tet to rid it o’their nonsense and return to mon auto, mon excitement nie langer tainted by the guls.

œ œ œ

Driving heim a dem’uhr tarder, I paint the duo-dozen security and speed kameras on the main bahn, then, turning th’auto around – mon trusty, small aber sharp, century ald grun MG – just before Waltham, I zip ruck at non-ten-five kph just for the hell of it.

Hah hah hah, nunc I’m larfing again!

But this isn’k enuff, so I call Angela Eidos, the local reporter fem I bumped into erlier, frag her to meet me at the Windmill in Rotmile at non-ten-hundred to give her mer details of a grand story, bring a handpad, viddigraph, etc.. Then I call the volly bucked pubhaus, tell them bollocks, get me a tafel regardless for all repasts and drinks were on me tonoch; I whizz uber to mon neu heim, wich I’d been caretaking, to bask in the hot flow o’the douch, singing La Donne È Mobile at the top of mon voce, an ander tune that Uncle Richard had tort me; put on casuals, shoot uber to the pubhaus to meet th’intensely attractif pale-skinned, ebony haared Angela Eidos. Three-ten-un yerren alt, resident of Bottsford, works for the Melton Post, my autoscanner reeds, but I ken all that alredy.

There she is in th’autopark traging a short shwarz coat, her yello ID tag glistening in the neon lite, lang shwarz trouse and a striped satin hemt blu and blanch. I brandish a victorius smile and give her a surprise hug in celebrashun o’the bella vita, and order a flasher of champagne as we enter,

“Nay, the best champagne, George, I savvy ye’ve got sum – duo-tousand euros? Benny benny bon bon! That’s mer like it. Fick the bill, mon treet, offen a dopple of bottles yerself for staff and gasts for nak-uhrs.”

I propose to un o’the sober bar staff for duo-hundred euros to arrange driving me ruck heim at the end o’the soir. Ange and I sit down and throughout the meal, I have a rip roaring tempus savvying that mon local community, leuter whom I ken, is enjoying free nosh on me that noch. I watch families and dopples wend their weg to pay like fattened geese waddling ruck to their hutches and be tranquilly told that their repasts had been pade for – anonymously, as I had fragged, luk plesantly befuddled and then wander so lite and blessed ruck to their petee’ vitas mit bemused smiles.

Finally, I giggle and leen uber to tell Ange; her face, nunc blooming mit a multitude of rots and her vert occhies grand and larfing at the private bacchanal, falls into an astonishment that reminds me of a lapin cort in the hauplites; I reech uber and shake her ruck to her situashun. Nay, I don’k want that in the papiers, just want to share mon secret mit her. I wuld have plenty mer, shuld she keep her wort.

I’ve got gud connecshuns in th’alpha and beta social strata and Ange savvies that and their worth. I gave her sum merd on a local eurorep a few yerren ruck who had been hinter a massif recycling campaign and all its neu-gaia idolatry, but who also happened to be a major recipient of greesy ruckhanders from the recycling box company, whose boss happened to menshun it to un of mon wiser employees in bett.

Ange nodded. Secret. “Of corse,” she replies, “dock, benny benny. Blutty generous, Robin, I can’k believe it.”

“And nunc, becoz of Uncle Richard’s legacy, I’m thoroughly independent – obnoxiusly so to sum, nay doubt; aber that was their petee’ mentality, and let them all leck their arshes in hell for their sins. Nik that there are sins any more, Ange – just infringements. Aber they’re wirkly the same, I cappish,” spilling some champers out of its flute as I wave my argument over the world.

I’m off. I can feel the booze dance Beaufort seven in my veins. I have to be careful. Eech yerr in the Province, we fill in our Honest Citoyen o’the Yerr Forms mit a hundred tick boxes or so, wich helf the euroffice uncover eurocrime and ensure it gets the taxes it seeks from us willing helots. Helots – wasn’k I denking o’them earlier?

“Nie wunder nie mensh wuld helf Frank,” I sag. I hardly ken I’ve spoken the worts. The thort was there but I can heer wot I’ve just thort and Ange is luking up inquisitively, those journalistic antennae alwegs twitching.

“Desolay?”

“Yah, me too. Oh, did the Post get th’accident yestertag – the un on the Grantham Rue, the E-607?”

“Wot accident?”

“Ye didn’k?” I sit ruck, flustered. Did nie mensh ken about it? Or had she been told to shweig – keep tranquil. “Jeezers ripes,” I swer in lo-Eurosprick. “Wot does the papier report on? Sum shule’s latest drive to teech kinder to walk in unison or wipe their derryairs?”

“Wot d’ye ken of it?” she frags, her occhies professionally focusing.

“I was there. Helfed a yute, or tried to. He died. Accident teem wuldn’k do a ficking thing.”

“Who was he?”

“A yute. That’s all.” I’ll keep his nom.

“He didn’k have a nom?”

“Nay,” I respond honestly, “nay ID cart.”

“How did it happen?”

I describe the scene, ’ber I get upset. “I tried to helf the yute. The bastardos refused to helf him.”

“Maybe he was a gypsy or sumthing. How was he dressed, wot color was his haar? Were there any individuating details?”

“Maybe, aber wirkly, I was rushing ruck and forth and trying to get the ficking Guards to helf. Na, let’s sprick of better dings.”

We eet and drink on, getting voller and voller, aber we return to liter matters.

“So ye’ll be working for yurself?”

“Yah. I’m denking of going ruck to portrates and caricatures, painting customers in heroic scenes, like a eurocrat in front of an open port, hah hah, hey, I like that un, I must paint it!” I begin larfing, rediscovering the wunderful bass tones I had lost just the tag before, and I let them roll around the raum and bounce off the walls, teers streeming down mon cheeks. Ange larfs too, as do the bar staff. Then we begin a round of telling jokes and soon the whole pub is thrown between creeping intensities and ensuing climatic hilarity. Impressions and mutual comprehension before the punchline draw us all into a familiar solidarity of larfter and life – beatific indeed.

œ œ œ

Towards midnite, I call uber our driver, bartender Greg, his grun ID indicating social stratum delta-3, aged ten-octo, recent graduate of Melton grand shule, resident of Bottsford, to escort us heim. He’s a fit yute, runs a lot, like a lot of leuter these tags, running, running aweg from the eurogime, but wirkly nie getting anyvehr.

Ange and I squish into the ruck of mon MG like a dopple of giggling teens, Greg arranging his own pick up from the sober waitress, and off we go.

“Step on it!” I sag, as we frap the nunc shwarzout condishuns for the local revenue collectors.

“Nay, ye don’k have to sorg about the kameras, they’re defunct … fickt … don’k ye savvy ‘defunct’? Hah hah, I’ve, uh, kaputted them.”

Ange checks the first un we speed past at six-ten in a four-ten, and then larfing uproariusly, places her slender fingers on mon thigh and allows mon arm around her shulders. Shiessing past the next at oct-ten, the yute is wirkly enjoying himself, whoo-hooing alang mit us, feeling the ekt macht of a fossil fuel engine pump the power, and we demand veeter veeter veeter, till we frap the dunkel cuntry rue that leeds to Uncle Richard’s heim – nay, mon neu heim – tucked aweg in the val beyond the village of Stormby-on-the-Hill, hidden in its own petee’ dell, surrounded by three coverts and hock hedges – “Never get them cut, you understand?” Uncle Richard sagged. “It pisses off the local euroffice, Residential Garten Planning Department. They have to send out forms and leaflets. Keeps the bastards busy,” I heer him larfing.

Uncle Richard’s haus is mer-peteet than manon’d expect. Amassing gelt did nik equate to amassing much property or lucratif politikal deels for him. I was familiar mit the flat faced symmetric Georgian ten-duo bett haus, having spent molto tempo there vehnever he was in the Province. The haus, as he nomed it, altho anders called it a mansion, sat alone in the middle of novehr between the dorfs of Eaton and Branston in the hills sud o’the Beevor Vale; three k from any nackbars. Pah mal, I used to denk, eech tempus I besooked him.

“Ye may,” I call out uber the pumping chants o’the local eu-pop stashun, “do a handbrake turn on the drive – it’s mon drive, plenty of raum, and I wuld like that. Ange, liebling, wuld ye mind partaking in a nochkap?” I frag thru mon drunken exuberance mit a confidence that I wuld nie have had before.

Nad-at-all, replies she.

“Barman Greg, for anander duo-hundred go ruck and bring Ange’s cellauto uber.” And to Ange, “Will ye be staying?” I frag her mit serius intent trying hard to focus on her very liebly face mit its quaint downturning lip corners that appeal so grandly.

“Yah,” she whispers in mon aur, her warm breth sending a quiver down to mon toes and springing my underexploited peckerama into life.

“Oh, benny benny benny,” I add casting more larfter out like gelt into the fountain of plesure, “for I have a jacuzzi to speel in!” I larf mer maniacally at mon growing confidence. Jacuzzis were antique bads, very sort nak on the shwarzmarkt, but whose parts, like all these tags, are difficult to get a hold of. Uncle Richard had, fortunately, stockpiled on his travels.

We spin and spin again, dust flying, gravel spewing, and Ange and barman Greg larfing too, till lites from his pick-up illuminate our dusty spinning and he halts. I give him his duo-hundred and tell him to zip ruck mit his mate for Ange’s auto for anander hundred, and I escort Ange therein.

Too silent tho, a lang tod heim mitout company, and nay female, bar his sister, for eukens how many yerren had stepped into Uncle Richard’s heim. Nunc, strate to the kuchen and to the Bung and Olafsen omni-control and disc 4 booms out around the ten-duo betraums, six badraums, octo recepshun raums, kuchen, grand hall, and study; a ficking grand place wirkly, given it’ll be just me on mon own.

“Fick the decibel laws!” I call out, and thus we dance to the ‘big band’ classics of yestercentury, music nik completely verbidden, as the leuter need sum releese, or so the grand and gud leeders of our land so believe; we jive and groove as leuter used to say, till the port bells clang dindang dindang, and we take possession of Ange’s keys. Then ruck to the drinks cabinet.

Funnily enuff, I’ve nie done this type of thing before – always studius, diligent, polite and gentlemanly or herrenlike as manon say these tags – beyond reproach, shy mit the fems, monogamous in the three lang term relashunships I had had – ficking nochmare they turned out to be. I was todboring at pubhauses and nochclubs, wich I lurned to avoid like euroffices, and hier am I swinging the slim Ms Angela around on her heels, pulling her close sniffing in her perfumes, turning her deftly aweg again. I had five yerren of ballraum dancing and had won a dopple of awards at the Cambridge Euniversity Tradishunal Dancing Society for mon tango and foxtrot, and she is becuming putty in mon hands, flowing and dipping and sliding and gliding to mon rhythms, guiding her every move. Anander drink? Sure, sags she and gets the bubbly, ’ber she wants to try out the jacuzzi.

“It’s a rare thing in this economically depraved tempus, culd do mit a bad nak all that exershun,” she mutters.

So upstaars we go, past the several photos of Uncle Richard shaking hands with the hi-n-mitey o’the eurogime including the Grand President himself and leuter I ken nik, passing the political secshun and trotting up the orange plush pile and the mid 21^st Century art Uncle Richard had collected – a stuffed shrunken kuh, a collage of eu-licences in the shape of a haar dryer, splashes of oil on canvas spheres and cuboids. Nik wirkly mon style, but Uncle Richard sagged that it always got a reaktshun from un’s gasts and that was worth putting up mit disembodied, disproporshunate, disconcerting fractured entities. I think that they reminded him o’the state that our land had got into, for he had a secret stash of beutiful prints and original artwork from the prior centuries – artwork that I pored uber as a yute and copied from to lurn mon skills.

Ange stops to larf at sum o’the leuter in the photos. “Ah, yur Uncle was as handsum as ye,” she sags. “Met her – really bendywendy politishun.” She points at anander, “He’s tod – tod last wock, ye ken? Nay. Nunc he’s a reel perv,” she stabs at a photo, “keep yur kinder aweg from him!” she larfs. “We’ll get him soon, hah hah.” From her larf it sounds as if ‘they’ will, whoever they are.

She doesn’k even notice the disjointed artwork, giggling as she is, neu flasher of bubbly and duo glasses in her hand, strate to the spacius badraum like a hund on scent that I had red of in Uncle Richard’s ald bucks, playing mit the varius lites, me flicking the omni-control to repeet CD5 and Handel’s Wasser Music suite.

“Pathetically appropriate or shuld I say bathetically appropriate, hee hee hah hah,” I begin larfing again, turning on taps and poring in a flasher of soapbubbles, gushing champers into dancing hands holding glasses, putting them down on the side o’the tub, instinctifly casting off shuen, socks, and shurt and then surprise beyond all grand expectashuns – ’ber wot have I been expecting? nix but the flow of vie from sekund to sekund, the moments of life we can only possess – to vue Angela doing the same, relieving her bra, oh wunders and joy to vue her free pinky petee’ senoritateetas on smooth alabaster brusties displayed before me and capturing all of mon attenshun, as she executes the swiftest undress ever beheld an artist and sploshes into the bad: mon professional occhies alive to gaze at her nunc glistening ruck and wetted shwarz haar falling alang the spine in a shapely V – a portrate in that most surely! But mon cazzo hardens unashamedly and struggles for its own freeheit, so trouse are subito discarded, and I’m led me into the wasser as before an ald priest leeding a baptismal congregashun into blasfemy and hedonism.

She shifts uber and makes raum for me, our jambs entwining awkwardly but silkily glissandily smoothily in the fricshunless medium o’the flasher of soapbubbles till we find raum, glasses shared out and klinging for ritual’s sake, swigging and swigging, a reeching forwart and a lingering kuss, me mischievously turning the jets up and causing mer uproar and larfter, hah hah hah, clouds of bubbles flying into th’air, wasser onto the flor, her senos bobbing on the miniature tsunamis we create, mon hand seeks to speel mit a senoritateety, finds a willing body, a langer lingering kuss and a hand reeching unter the surface to grab mon cazzotet, wich periodically pops up like a periscope to check its target and moral stance.

Oh too much! I arise on mon nees wasser cascading down onto Ange’s gently sinking form and parting the bubbles to reveel her floating papillas, submerged stomak and apparently recently waxed diminutif bushy chatty triangle given its sharply contrived edges, thighs sloly parting and then more surely to find neu feet footings; and glorifying in the unfolding scene, I lower mineself down, wasser falling off mon body in glorius renaissance, bubbles rumbling from underneeth her nu form, mon hands gripping the tub’s sides, to impose mon mensh-hood on her gently swaying and inviting form, mon mouth seeking hers for a tung tying tango. Mmmm. I want to larf, aber this is so seriusly plesant, it’s beyond larfter, its meta-larfter.

7 Traums

I awake late and lie silently while Angela still sleeps. She embodies the first celebrashun of mon neu life; last noch was the realisashun of a lang held fantasy – it is a gud start to the neu dawn. If I can do this, then I can find horses, surely.

Aber, I do nik love her – wot is love these tags, vehn families chop and change with legal kinder exchange? A fleeting infatuation, physical consummation, kinder production; is that love? Love has no place in this welt. Love comes mit freedom and we’re nik free. Aber, I am rich!

Ange awakens and frags me tranquilly ob this was just a plesantly brief encounter.

I find mineself agreeing. Nie done that before! Usually, I wuld have pleeded, oh nay nay, I’m nik like that, I’m a decent portmat, how about dinner again tonoch, I’ll prostrate mineself for ye? And that’s wot had got me into so much femsheiss in the past. She turns onto her ruck and stretches; she seems relieved or perhaps expected such an antwort, her downturned lips difficult to reed.

I get up and bring her brekfast and jump ruck into bett. I tell her that I had been having sum thorts about enjoying a wirkly grand adventure nunc I was financially independent and basically rolling in eurotrash.

“I want to explore the vast range of nature that is out there and paint it.”

“Ye meen fick a lot of guls?” frags she, sitting up and pulling her nees up to her brusts.

I blush and reply, “Nay, I want to travel ... get around the cuntry ... and, don’k larf ... find horses and ride them,” I add shnell.

She checks mon face and vues if I’m joking. Then she larfs so laut and freely that she almost falls out o’the bett. “Horses don’k exist! They’re for kinderstories, like Papa Nick stories for Kurzday. Robin ye’re drolly!”

Then she frags a peteet more unsurely, “Vehr have ye hurd of such dings anyweg?”

“Mon Uncle. He’d seen them. He rode them.”

“Nay!”

“I’ll prove it.” I get up and run to mon shrank, ‘wardrobe’ in ald-English wich alwegs made me larf about how drobes culd war.

I bring out an ald-buck mit pictures, un that Uncle Richard had given me. She props herself up against the pillars, her mouth dropping at the vue of an ekt buck.

“Hier, touch it.”

“It’s belly, very belly,” she whispers, stroking the cover and tentatifly offening it. Again she’d be a poilly portrate at that moment – the nu fem in bett, dark haar dripping over th’illicit buck, eyes intense: so intellectually erotic.

“Nunc, this is art work like nie mensh have vued for a century or mer,” I explique. “Cappish yetz? Horses, hounds, riding over fields,” I added in ald-English, like Uncle Richard wuld have done, “jumping over hedges, falling ... living life to its utmost. Don’t you just want to have a go?”

“These dings do nik exist any mer,” she sags tranquilly vueing the pictures. “Nay ... I nie savvied such dings ... nay ... It seems ... so dangerus. Maybe that’s why they banned it. Ye culd brek an arm or yur neck.”

“Exactly,” I sag triumphantly. “That’s the point. Gefarlik, dangerus, thanotic ... sexy too. Anyweg, krieg in the Balkans is dangerus, aber manon keep fiteing, don’k they?

She nods. “’Ber danger is nik sexy. It’s fritening. That’s why it’s dangerus and verbidden.”

“Na, na, it’s exciting! Vue! They say in the bucks how thrilling it was, how ... how ... luk, ‘The Thrill o’the Chase’! Doesn’k it sound ... tempting? Oh, I cappish nik. Just how wundervoll it all seems.”

“Ye’re mad,” she finally sags. “Anyweg, even if horses exist sumvehr, manon won’k let ye get neer them. To many controls, you savvy that.”

“I savvy ... ’ber dings are possible. I have the gelt,” I smile broadly as if cracking offen the welt’s possibilities.

“Gelt don’k meen anyding, cappish?” she replies, her occhies nietheless remaining fixed on th’ald pictures. “Will ye still live hier?”

“Yah. I have a lot to do mit the haus and much to keep mon occhies on.”

“And fick a lot of fems?” she repeets larfing, sumwot distantly, turning pages.

“Maybe un or duo,” I reply, and grabbing her senos, I drop mon tet down to suck her cool-air hardened senoritateetas, con lingua glissandy, and enjoy a fourth round, un all: score draw as they sag in euroball.

8 Kinder

Wot am I? I catch mineself in the lang mirror on the landing, the lite from above casting nefarios deep shadows in mine orbs that sit above the enlightened nose, ’ber the mouth cort in a tite embrace of jaw on jaw. Who am I? The sum of all my parts and mer? Or less? I haven’k pade attention to my face for a while; I seem older, creases more evident, occhies more distant – yet removed from wot? I hate doing this aber I focus mine professional artist’s gaze upon the face in the mirror and follow the familiar lines whose paths have gradually altered uber the yerren. I shift under the lite to produce less maniacal and then more monstrous faces, aber I’m reluctant to vue into mine occhies. Still, the duty has to be done. There. Umber, flecked mit ochre, gold and russet; O, shwarz pupils waxing then waning as I move in and out of stronger beems of lite, do you wirkly belong to me? Are those walls I vue, palisades erected against fully realising how untethered I feel most of the tempus, unsure if my traums will be plucked from mine breast and dashed against the rocks by an envios Scylla, or are they temporary barriers defending monself from mine own conscience? Nah, vehr are the lines drawn between the duo? I blink and all musings end.

That apraymidday, I’m walking thru the stad center nak picking up sum art supplies. Mon car is parked in th’autopark duo k from the center. I savvy autos used to be able to park neerer, but that wuld have given leuter too much freedom. They’ve been abolished to the outskirts. Can’k have leuter having dings eesy. Nik vehn we’re all supposed to live in the grand stads and use the clunking tramwegs that alwegs brek down. Eesier to control us, vehn we’re all on top of un anander, I savvy that, ’ber do these leuter walking around me? Do they think that in their rush to ban ban ban everything that they didn’k cappish that they’d abolish their own culture, their own language and their own identity?

I cross th’ald bruck, wich would have once had horses crossing it, and the busweg to th’autopark. A yute is sitting on a bench vueing the ducks on the river. I souven him – he gave the duo fingered salute to the Guard. I’m curius. I have no license (that is, a rosey ID card) to sprick to yung leuter under ten-six, ’ber I’ll take a chance he’s alder.

I sit next to him and sag nix. He vues down to scrute his auto-scanner as all the yutes do, reeding my nom, address, company details, date of burt, and if he wants, tax details, employstory, references, informashun on my personal beurocrat, my shulestory, DNA profile, blut type, criminal record (nik that I have un), shule grades, eutrophies for mon art, entries in papiers and neuscasts, even relashunships I’ve had and places I’ve besooked. He apparently only checks mon nom. He spricks primo. Sullenly, suspishushly.

“Ye’re nik allowed to sit there.”

“Why nik?”

“Verbidden, innik?”

“So call a Guard.”

He doesn’k.

“Ye’re nik in shule?”

“Call a Guard,” he replies.

I larf a deep larf that causes him to chortle alang. “Shule’s sheiss, isn’k it?” I frag.

“Yah.” Todpan as if he didn’k care either weg.

“Fancy a kipper?”

He turns and vues me. I turn and grin.

“Sure.”

“At leest these won’k fick yur brain like shule.”

He nods and accepts the kipper. We sit fuming in silence, the smoke dissipating on the gentle wind.

“Don’k ye sorg about being cort?” I ask, demi weg thru my kipper.

“Nie mensh notices.”

“Drolly that, isn’k it? Supposed to be no truancy these tags.”

“Wot’s that?”

“Wot ye’re up to. Leeving shule mitout permission.”

“Fick permission.” He spits on the ground.

“I agree.”

“Wot?” I can sense his tet turn to me slitely. Curius. Gud.

“Why shuld we need permission to do anyding? Ye cappish, once we’re adults, I meen? I’m playing truant too, ye savvy. I’m supposed to be working for the leuter of our beluved province. Why? Why can’k I work for monself? We’re all treeted like kinder. Cappish?”

“Cappish,” he sags sloly. “So why shuld I bother mit anyding?”

“Denking of giving it all up and jumping in?” I nodded to the river.

“Wot else is there to do? Go from un shule system to anander? Wot’s the ficking point?”

“Ye have u’life. It’s yurs.”

“So I denked. ’Ber ye’re telling me, wot I savvy anyweg, that I leeve this shule and enter anander grander ficking shule. I hate life.”

“I doubt it. It’s difficult to hate life. Ye hate wot anders are trying to make yur life.”

He shweigs and then nods. “It’s so ... fishy.” He vues me out o’the corner of his occhy and takes a lang puff of his kipper.

“Gud pun. Ye’re brite. Wot’s yur nom?”

I feel him stare at me. “Don’k y’ken?” He refers to my auto-scanner.

“I prefer to frag. More polite. Allows for ... privacy.”

He is silent for a while, denking on wot I’d sagged.

“Nick.”

“Not, eh?” I larf at th’irony. I feel a quizzical glance. “‘Not’ in ald English is ‘nik’ in Eurosprick.”

“D’ye ken ald English?”

“A little bit,” I reply.

“Me too. I ken, “‘What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty!’”

“Shakespeare, eh? ‘In form and movement, how express and admirable; in action how like an angel, in apprehension, how like a god, the paragon of animals, the beauty of the world. Yet to me what is this quintessence of dust?’”

“‘No, man delights not me.’”

I larf. “Nor me. Tho I must admit, woman rather delites me.” We both larf. Larfing is gud, tho it sends aweg the ducks.

“Sambish,” he chuckles shaking his tet.

I don’k ken that un. “Do ye have any bucks?” I frag.

He vues around. Nie mensh is neer.

“Un or duo. Family, ye ken. Nie mensh else kens.”

“Cappish. I have ... a few. I’d like ye to vue them un tag.”

He reacts mit suspishun. “Why? How can you trust me? If ye’d checked my details ye’d vue that I’m dangerus. I’m on the critical list at shule and therefore for mon life. Manon predicts I’m going to be a killer or a kinderficker, sumding disgusting according to their statistical prognosis. Why trust me?”

It is a gud question. “Statistics sag nix about the individual. Anyweg, I’m extending mine trust because there are so few of us who dare to question the eusystem,” I reply, emphatically, in ald English. “We need to trust each other.”

He nods. Wot else culd he reply?

“Ye’ll becum wot ye want to becum,” I add with convikshun. “Wot do ye want to do?”

“Nie ficking idea,” he shrugs.

“Wuld ye like a job?” I ask. If he’s uber ten-six, then I culd employ him.

“Don’k have much else to luk forwart too. Why nik?”

“Why, Nick, indeed? Ye’re uber ten-six?”

He britens up. “Yah ... wot kind of work?”

“Gartening. I have a grand garten. I have sum machinery that still works. It’ll be healthier than shule, don’k ye denk?”

“Ye’ve got machinery? Sounds gud. Maybe then.”

“And if ye work well, I’ll introduce ye to sum ander bucks.”

“I’d like that,” he sags tranquilly.

“Why did ye stick duo fingers up at the Guard?”

“He’s my dad.”

“Ah.” I chuckle. “But vehr did ye lurn the duo finger sign?”

“Granddad. He was a veteran o’th’ald Krieg.”

“Hmm. Well, I must be going before I get pennied for spricking mit a yute. Ye have mon details. Cum besook, if ye want the work.”

He nods but mitout commitment; my standing up seems to have diminished the enthusiasm I vued. He’ll need tempus to consider vehr his ambitions lie. Shules kill ambishun by their systematic removal o’the ego. Nay ego, nay ambishun, and nay ambishun, nay questioning, nay fragging wot’s it all about.

I stand and bid the yute farewell, an ald wort, but he nods, still staring at the ducks who’ve nunc returned to graze.

9 Grand Euroday

Next tag. Whoopee ... The stad’s packed and I’ve had to walk three k from th’outer reechers of th’autopark to get to the center. Tousands have been told to turn out, or lose their dole or face pennys I presume, to welcum the Provincial Premier, who’s going on walkabout nak a rallying speech in the euroball stadium off the Dalby Rue. Nay idea wot’s he’ll be rallying us for – mer controls usually.

The €U logo, yello on blu, is everyvehr – duo metre lang flags are draped from the ald three storey shops, every lamp post is decked mit blu ribbons – rejoice! the Messiah is to walk amongst us. On an ass I hope. Ushers – na, brun shurted sheisstets like th’uns that wuld nik save Frank, are bossing leuter about, pushing them behind barriers like the cattle are prodded and pushed at the markt.

As a neuly appointed alpha-class citoyen, I’ve been invited to share a closer vue, even to shake the Princep’s hand. Why, oh, why wuld I want to do that? Aber, I denk, I can profit from this by taking the opportunity to observe sum of life’s other lesser beings may offer much in the way of character studies for my portrates and cartoons. The princox himself is going to be talking to a grup of us alpha-class mensh in the Premier’s Arms, a pubhaus off the marktplatz.

The disturbance to the usually tranquil stad is extraordinary. Guards are all uber the place. Brun uniformed ones mingle together in peteet cohorts, redy to snit on mensh they take a disliking to, the shwarz armoured Guards strut around as if they owned the place. ’Ber of corse they do: they have the guns and their motto, ‘cosa nostra’. We are mitout arms and thus mitout ‘cosa nostra’.

Varius guilds and associashuns are out in force shoing their solidarity mit the eurogime (well, they owe their monopolies to it!) and to cheer on our beluved Premier as he is driven to the stadium. Drummers drum martial rhythms and the brass bands pick up the euranthem, and all sing joyfully to the glory o’the eurogime. It is an excellent tune. I ken it’s Beethoven, but few anders do. The lyrics have been distorted a bit, aber nik too much. It’s just that the politics have been distorted beyond recognishun since Beethoven penned his Ninth Symphony.

As I walk along to the alpha gate, I vue a few gud characters amongst the indifferent crowd standing behind the barriers at the entrance and make mental notes of proporshuns and distinguishing feetures. A lank faced fermer mit his flat cap, tanned and wethered skin, arms folded in general suspishun of anyding human, is chewing sumding and wunshing he was in a feld. An oval faced fem mit a grand derryair leens against a rail and points at varius dings to her skinny, crop-haared frend, larfing at sumding or ander. She’s in her three-tens; I vue four kinder clinging onto the barrier next to her, their faces screwed against the sunlite. I burn the image of their faces onto my mind – I culd produce a useful cartoon of them tarder.

Then I vue a kinder in a weelchaar being pushed by a eucarer in front o’the barrier. His legs are twisted, his frame thin and week; his occhies dance behind thick glasses. Mon hert goes out to him. Wot a life. Aber then, I denk that we’re all like him these tags – twisted mentally by the shule system we lurn in, the eusystem we work in. His handicap is visible and obvius and pathetic; but ours is hidden, secretive, and tragic. And manon likes to keep it that weg. If we culd vue into eech ander’s minds, wot wuld we vue? Mental walls and moats, twisting fires of feers, worries and anxieties, pits of ignorance, wepons redy for thortless reaktshuns, wings for mental flite, shields for defence against improbable and misunderstood forces, slogans and laws. Nay, nay. Nay wunder superstishun is gaining an upper hand in leuter’s minds.

I take anander vue o’the commoners gathering. I don’k denk they have such a powerful array of wepons as I once thort they had. They are all mentally disarmed and dependent on the eusystem like the kinder is on the fem pushing him; nay wonder they applauded ID tags and regulashuns from nappies to coffins.

Then the Premier arrives to a fanfare and an explosion of fuegoworks from the park. His auto’s sleek – a blu fossil-fuel driven engine under a long bonnet; he gets out and the crowd – or at leest his minions – cheer loudly and proclaim lang life to him. He’s a tall, blond haared mensh in his late four-tens, slim, wiry even; his occhies run uber the crowd and he smiles broadly as he walks uber to groos the kinder in the chaar, shake his hand, get his viddy taken, then move on to greet ander fawnish volk in the crowd.

He’s the neu Premier; been in the job less than a yerr. We supposedly voted for him, but the system’s so complex, none of us are sure whom we voted for. The policies never change anyweg. Three candidates stood and what stood between them was nothing but their physical characteristics. Voting is obligatory, aber I drew a cartoon on mon ballot papier, wich urned me a €50k penny. Nothing’s secret.

Fellow alpha class mensh are ushered into the stadium by denklos yung fems mit blu swetshurts and €U logos to our seats quite close to the podium. I recognise a few Prius clients and nod, shake hands briefly mit a dopple of acquaintances, note the curious gazes from several members of this elite who scrute the neu kid on the block down their noses or uber their glasses. I smile cordially, un nie kens vehr the next commishun will cum from.

The sports platz is used for the yerrly Inter-Provincial tournaments and was even chosen as a qualifying athletics stadium for the Eugames in 2070. This apraymidday, the Premier and the rest of us are subject to the local shules’ concept of a dance sho, with hundreds of petee’ kinder waving their arms and stomping their legs in unison for a demuhr, enuff to bring tears to my occhies and a promise to be nice to Mr Smeg, well almeist.

The preliminary annoyances uber, the Premier takes the podium to give his lecture, wich I’m sure will be the usual glossy balls of nonsense and nix. He begins with the eunion prayer.

“Almitey [A1] eunion, unto whom all harts be offen, all desires kenned, and from whom nay secrets are hid; cleanse the thorts of our harts by the inspirashun of thy unifying spirit, that we may perfectly love and obey thee, and worthily uphold and expand thy purpose, amen.”

“Amen,” bleet the crowd.

Then he commences his speech. I’m fast fading into sleepiness, and I can envisage klarly mine bett at heim. Aber a change of tone wakes me up; the gracious insincereties have ended, and he’s outlining sum major proposals that I’m nik sure many leuter will catch his implicit drift. Superficially, he’s babbling on about eunion unity (‘eunity’ imposed on the grand screen above him), aber, I denk he’s also testing reactions to sumthing stronger.

“We have had pax for four-ten-four yerren, and the threts of invasion from the sud and eest have been contained by our glorius eurotroops; the equality of the Provinces is improved by the strength of the centre and the centre receives its strength from the Provinces – the eunion is nix mitout its powerful, maktig limbs, and it is nix mitout a intelligent tet, to guide and to direct it; in recent yerren, the limbs have grown stronger – danks to yur production and abilities, and nunc the tet shall grow mer intelligent; we in the eulogistics of the eunion are ensuring that the tet will be mer unified than ever, will supply the Provinces with its unified and unidirectional intelligence to ensure a better vita for all.”

I note that his aides and pade plants in the audience – there are alwegs three-ten to five-ten of those – clap wildly and cheer, and vehn the noise dwindles, he returns to mer local matters concerning the eurogimes gifts to the province, ’ber sumthing in wot he sagged jolts mine logical training. I have a strange feeling that he’s telling us sumding, preparing us for a development in the eunion. I scrute the ander leuter sitting near me, I don’k ken any of the nearest; they’re all sitting like tod goldfish, still, wide-occhied as if tuned into eutv – same leery expression. Ah, I spot Billy Blackstone a few seets aweg, aber he’s asleep. Near the podium, I vue Angela Eidos taking notes sitting next to, oh, how awful for her, Smeggy.

The speech wraps up with statistics on how gud we’ve all been, and how how gud our beloved eurocrats have been in larceny and fraud, how many mer trains are nik running on tempus, how many mer shule kinder scored under 10% in their annual exams, how much mer sheiss was recycled thru our county halls, how much mer gelt was wasted on asinine projects, how much mer was spent on employing incompetent staff, how many mer eurotroopers were killed in border kriegs ... or is this mine mind heering this? Images above the Premier sho waving adults, smiling kinder, huge farms with tousands of cattle, pigs, and chickens working for our ungrateful, selfish stomaks. Then the anthem again, and, I don’k believe this, aber all the leuter are standing up and waving the betty peteet euflags that had been placed on our seats; I’d thrown mine down onto the ground and I am nik going to pick it up. I sit while all around me display their allegiance to a mensh they culd hardly sag they voted for. Nunc, they’re all singing,

“Freunde, schoener Goetterfunken, Leuter aus dem Eunion, Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische dein Heiligtum. Deine Zauber binden wieder, Was die Mode streng geteilt; Alle Menschen werden Brueder, Wo dein sanfter Fluegel weilt.”

Mispronounced and hardly understanding of the ald German, I’m sure. Grate Gommel, it’s all cuming to an end and we can get a demi soon.

The grup I’m mit is ushered uber to the pubhaus vehr food has been laid out for us. We are told by a slick shwarz haared fem of masculine proporshuns and c-thru skin that the Premier will cum to sprick to us in about a demuhr, so we may enjoy the food set out for us on the tables and free drinks from the bar.

“It’s all on us,” she sags, grinning as if offering the gods’ goods to the meek.

“Nay, it’s on us,” I reply flatly.

She vues me uncomprehending, smiles awkwardly, scans mine details no doubt, and then marches ruck outside to the cheering, euflag waving crowds.

Billy Blackstone vues me, waves, and comes uber.

“Good Lord, Robin. Never expected to see you in such a place like this. Two glasses of wine, please.”

“Desolay, sir, Eurosprick only in ’ier,” sags a spotty, flat tetted yute behind the bar. He has sticky out aurs below a crop of red haar, a wide foretet and thin, wide mouth, giving him th’appearance of a toad, or a toad stool.

“Cognoscetis quis sum?” Billy replies shnell in hi-euro-sprick sharly ocching the yute, who takes a step ruck and lowers his occhies to his scanner to revue the details.

“Desolay,” he mutters, still vueing down, and pors duo glasses of vino.

“So, what brings you here, dear chap?”

“I had an invitashun.”

“So-called, eh?”

“Wot’s this Premier wirkly like, Billy? Ye must have met with him before.”

He takes a sip and we find a table. “No idea. These buggers are all the same, aren’t they? Hold office for two years and then another takes over. Unaccountable spendthrifts with smiling faces. I despise the lot of them.”

“Yur industry’s in danger tho, isn’k it?”

“Robin, everybody’s industry has been in mortal danger for a couple of centuries. What’s new there? So manon’ll euranise, as they put it so descriptively, all the lawyers. Wasn’t it Shakespeare who penned the words, ‘Kill all the lawyers?’ What else are they doing to us? I’ll quit, of course.”

“Then wot’ll ye do?”

He pauses for a few seconds. I wunder ob he’s going to tell me or not of the obvius plan that lurks in his denking. “Hmm. ‘Fears and scruples shake us. In the great hand of God I stand, and thence against the undivulged pretence I fight of treasonous malice.’”

“‘And so do I,’” I reply.

“You know Macbeth?” He vues me mit a concentrashun that is rare – beutifully intense, and, like the sun, hard to behold.

“Of corse. Uncle Richard red it to me vehn I was twelve or so. We used to act out varius scenes.”

He nods, takes a few sandwiches off the tray and, munching away on a chickmayo, adds. “I don’t care what I do. Can’t do nothing, can I? ... Maybe’ll I wash dishes. I’m not going to give my mind to anything useful for this sodding regime.”

I sense that he’s lying or at leest covering sumthing up.

“Ah, luk, here’s our latest fuehrer,” he spits, sum of his sandwich popping out wich he subito wipes aweg.

The Premier walks in mit a host of aides, whose scanners are nie doubt running uber every mensh present.

“Gud apraymidday, everybody. Grate ye all for turning out to vue me. Life’s shnell become very rushed, since I was elected Premier. Aber, I can tell ye all, that I will do mon best to serve th’interests of this Province and the eusystem.” Clapping. Mainly from his aides I note.

“We have a plan to extend the Nottingam tramway system to Melton ...” He pauses and his aides dutivolly clap loudly. “And to finish the branch line to Luffboro. We have put aside three giga euro credits for the local shules, and I have personally offered extra funds to Melton’s grand shule.” Hurrahs from his aides and enthusiastic clapping from the grand chef of the local shule.

“Wot will be the effect on our incomes?” I frag out loud.

He halts, his next wort cort in his mouth, and scrutes me mit a q’ing occhy. I sense a dozen faces running uber their scanners that are pointed at me.

“Yur incomes?” he frags, quite unsure as how to proceed. A stupid glaze cums uber his occhies. He doesn’k ken at all wot I’ve fragged; the thort that leuter may have incomes independent of the eusector is unfathomable to his mind it appeers

“Yah. The eubanks are creating credit and prices are shooting up. We all ken that.” I feel leuter around the raum nod. “If ye’re creating more credit, that meens ye’re taxing from us the amount that the the shules are nunc allowed to purchase.” I sense a drop in intelligence in the raum, except for Billy, who pats me on the ruck, smiles broadly and sits ruck to enjoy the sho liting up a kipper as he does.

A dopple of aides are hurriedly whizzing through their epads for informashun to give him. Unhurriedly, I continue.

“Creating credit is a tax, sir. Becos o’the laws, we’re obliged to accept the neu credits. So as the shules purchase services and products, they gain in resources. Aber, the neu credit pushes prices up and those who do not sell to the shules are worse off, as their incomes have stayed the same, while general prices rise. So, again, I frag, wot will be the effect on our incomes?”

“Vehr do ye get such informashun from Mr Bradbury?” he frags, still rooted to the spot, a mensh intellectually disarmed by a sudden unexpected turn of questioning. He’s very insubstantial, I note, chortling away in the ruck of my mind.

“I denk a lot. It’s simple logic.” It’s a partial lie. The logic is simple, aber I wuld nik have lurned it if I didn’k have access to bucks.

His aides nunc whisper sumding in his aur. “Th’inflashun we’re all suffering ... is from ... the prolonged krieg we’re having to fite in the ... in the where? ... ah, yah, in the Balkans. War alwegs pushes prices up, I’m afraid. Once the krieg is uber, prices will stabilise.” A sense of relief dawns upon the raum, aber I’m nik satisfied.

“Nay, sir. The krieg may push up prices as capital is nikted and mensh are killed resources becum relatively scarcer, aber nik to the extent that the eubanks are creating credit. Inflashun of five-ten percent per annum is nik krieg related.”

“Well, well. That’s a very good opinion, and I shall certainly vue into it.”

“It’s nik an opinion, sir,” I add, unwilling to let him off the hook.

“Well, maybe ye can sprick to un o’mon aides nakwards? I have a busy skedule and must be leeving soon.” He smiles graciusly, a perfectly insincere smile of sumun wunshing to disappeer.

I nod, granting him permission to be let off.

“Well done, Robin. Never knew you had the balls to do that. Gosh, I am impressed. Here, let’s have another drink, before I get back to the office.”

I accept and we stay for a long while, chatting about mon Uncle. Billy kenned him through his work and it was plesant to be able to sprick about him rather than just imagine him to mine self. Nay aides remain behind to cum and discuss economics. I didn’k expect them to, aber I’m sure petee’ ripples of concern must be washing against the eusystem’s shore of discontentment files on recalcitrants and heretics.

“What do you know of up north, Robin?” he frags when the pubhaus has emptied and we duo remain conversing in the fumey atmosphere the kippers have left.

I lean forwart. “Uncle Richard mentioned it nunc and again. Why ... wot d’ye ken?”

“Is your scanner off? Course, sorry, just need to check these things. I’ve heard that the north is not the absolute wasteland it’s made out to be. They even say there are horses and deer living up there, past the Forest.”

“So, I’ve hurd ... I’m planning on going up there soon, nunc I’ve the gelt and can relax a bit. Whom have you hurd this from?”

“Various clients over the years. I’ve just put the fragments together. But then, yesterday, I had ... well, I’m not supposed to mention what clients we have, but three young girls visited. It was a weird meeting. They said they were orphans and had a legal entitlement to some land wich, when we luked on the map, was north of what was once the Vale of York – far into the Wasteland. You know where I mean? Good. I thought they were out to make a fool of me, so I began to get cross, but they said things that later ... made me think.”

“So you kicked them out?” I frag sloly, a cold shiver running down mon spine.

“Well, no, not really. They left o’their own accord, but insisted that I had a luk at their land.”

“Will you?”

“I think I may just do that. This bloody euranisation is nigh upon us, and I am seriously thinking of getting away for a bit. Another drink?”

“No, gratis; I shuld be getting ruck soon. I’m moving my stuff into Uncle Richard’s ...”

“Ah, of course.”

“I savvy: why don’k you check mit Angela Eidos about the guls? She has access to channels we don’k. I denk I saw them too, the tag I met you for the reading o’the will. I denked they were gypsy kinder or sumthing.”

“That would fit. They were a bit strange. I’ll give Ange a call tonight. Well, Robin, here’s to the new future. As they now say in Blighty, cheese!” He shoots back his drink, stands up, shakes my hand, and leaves.

I wonder if the guls are still around. If they have land in the nord, then they may able to direct me.

It’s a thought, I think in old English.

10 Gelt and Smeg

Five days tarder I am cleening mon auto in the drive at Uncle Richard’s and preparing mentally to put into practice that wich had been amassing in mon mind for yerren.

For years, I have been forging a life very much like Uncle Richard’s. I have enjoyed his books in my ald haus, noches solo con fuego and vino, or of speeling the grand piano in the music room to mineself, challenging mineself to increasingly intricate pieces with no aurs to offer approbation or criticism, the day time hours passed in painting portrates or wockend flurries of creativity for the business – a neu logo perceived in the mind and committed to paper in the early hours of a Saturday noch. Noch was once night. Night, originally niht, a soft sound drawn from the Germanic tongue that now competes for ascendancy in the lingua euro with the vestiges of the ald tongues. Latin is for courtly hi-Eurosprick and for the political – or nunc eulogical – class, whose words are supposed to bring pax and harmony to the welt but who bring tax and baloney.

I seek to be my own self, but my desire to ride a horse like my Uncle burns burns burns like an ald kuhboy song I’ve hurd; nunc, Billy’s desire for an expedition up nord has inflamed the fuego. In Uncle Richard’s attic, I have pulled out his riding equipment, sketched it, cleaned and polished the leathers, laundered the clothing, tried them on. I need to lose a few hundred grams about the waist! I have also found varius pieces of camping equipment, including a compass and lots of ald maps of th’ald Kingdom. Such is the theory, I chortle, as I walk uber to mon antique auto to speed off out of mon castle and into a welt in wich nothing is permitted unless it was written in the grand eudirectory of permissible dings to do, sprick, and denk. Ye can ride a hore but nik a horse, I quip. Nice revenues from the former.

Theories take on interesting proporshuns in the mind. They can belittle or begrand concepts – they can becum highly distorted and disconnected to the reel welt. My theory that horses live in the nord, based on a dying man’s worts, culd of corse be based on a flimsy speculashun that wuld amount to nix. There is nix in the nord. Billy’s weird clients may have been kinder just joking around. Maybe Uncle Richard meant the Trondheim or the Lapland Provinces. Nord of Mercia is nix – we all cappish that; we are all tort it in the eushules. But then they nie tort about anyding that had happened before the Grand Krieg, vehn so much was lost, and upon wich so much devestashun the vast europax was built. I savvy most of that is shiess. So maybe ander dings are also sheiss.

I put aweg the polishes into the large dopple garage and lock the haus, spring into th’auto and set off for stad. I’m also sorging about mon intenshun to draw €1 mega pro annum from mon capital; this will attract particularly refined attenshun from the euro-tax inspectors, sumthing I was keen on moral, conscientiusly objecting, un culd almost say religius – if that were nik verbidden as well – grounds, to avoid. So I’m nik surprised to vue Adolfy Smeggyboy cuming down mon neu drive in his official blu eurowagen cellauto mit yello roof.

I halt demi-weg up the drive, get out of mon auto, fold mon arms, leen ruck on the auto, and wait.

I’m a polite mensh. To a point.

“Ah, Mr Bradbury. I was hoping to catch ye in. We need to discuss yur tax, nunc that ye have inherited yur Uncle’s gelt.”

I crack mon neck. Uncle Richard had tort me a basic political axiom: tax is theft – nay ander weg about it. “So we’re all entitled to avoid and evade it as best as we can. It is a categorical imperative,” he larfed then told me to luk up ‘categorical imperative’, Immanuel Kant, and to write a short essay on what Kant’s imperative obliges.

“Yah, of corse, Smeggy. I’ll be evading as much tax as I can. Does that suit ye?”

Smeggy rottens. He purses his lips, takes a deep breth, holds it for a moment, and then replies.

“Mr Bradbury. Tax evasion is illegal, cappish?”

“Illegal maybe, immoral never,” I reply in th’ald tung.

He has his recorder on I note from the rot lite on his scanner. Sumun’s enjoying this conversashun, aber I don’k care. “Yur opinions on this matter are irrelevant, Mr Bradbury.”

“Yah, mon opinions are irrelevant, Smegga. But moral truths are nik irrelevant. If only,” I make a pleeding gesture to draw him into the neet welt of paxful consistencies, “ye denked a bit about it. The only difference between a thief and a tax collector is the size and nature o’the punishment incurred if I refuse to hand uber mon money. A single man steeling mon belongings, we call a thief. Several men breking into mon heim or into mon bank account, we call a gang. Tousands o’them we call a state. Millions o’them and we call it the eurogime.”

“There are no moral truths, Mr Bradbury, except wot the eurogime democratically decides upon.”

“There is no democracy in the eurogime, unless ye meen that there are so many civil serpents that their opinions form the demos – the majority, Smeggy. But even if the entire Province decided to rob mon haus and distribute its contents and gelt to their beluved kinder or noble causes, that wuld not alter the fact that the gelt was taken from me by force.”

He shweigs, denking on sumthing.

“And th’initiashun of force, Smegareeta, can nie be justified.”

“Ye’re a strange mensh. Eukens, I wunsh ye weren’k mon client.”

“I’m nik yur client, Smeggy. I’m yur victim. Nunc, I have dings to do.”

He retreets to his official purpose. “I need to make an appointment mit ye to discuss your contribushuns.”

“Smeggy. They’re nik contribushuns. Venis et apprehendis,” I add in hi-sprick.

“I can’k leeve until ye give me an appointment.”

I vue he’s rite. He’ll annoy me all tag till he gets un.

“Sunday morning, o-five-hundred uhrs. Okay?”

“That’s ...”

“It sags in yur pamplets that ye have to be flexible in setting appointments mit clients.” I smile graciusly.

He swers inwardly.

“Rite, I’m off. See you Sunday, nice and erly, chow.”

He shakes his tet aber goes ruck to his auto. I get in and wait from him to leeve first. He’s the last kind of person I’d want hanging around mon neu heim.

I’ve probably caused a lot of truble for mineself; manon’ll get me ruck. Mon opinions – nay, mon very being is nik well liked at the drab, ten storey Eurevenue Orifice that oppresses the Melton landscape. Why do they call it ‘Revenue’, as if it’ll cum ruck again?

I have employed an excellent accountant to helf Prius reduce its tax burden to the peteetest amount. I pay Michael a gud amount to do this, as I prefer the spondus going into his coffers rather than on the local neugothic drongoes and neu-age eurowasters vued sprawling around at snails pace in the municipal buros, or the pet projects of politishuns who like their photos taken standing next to sum pathetic windpowered tram or organic building they’ve sunk anders’ gelt into.

Thieves. Brigands!

Ah ald worts, ald worts. I must use mer o’them; they have a belly ring about them.

I reach the top o’the drive; Smeggo has turned rite, so I’ll go left. Three yerren ago, I led a petee’ contingent of bosey ald mensh, fuming mit ekt cigarettes just to confuse the enemy’s mind, into the Eurevenue Orifice’s Kurz Day Party. Such like do nik deserve to enjoy wot the reelly alder leuter kenned as Christmas on their funds, I told them, and they volly agreed: war veterans from the ’45-’60 war and hard toiling citoyens they were, taxed in yute to fite for euro expansionist kriegs, taxed as workers, nunc taxed as ald mensh. Mit inflashun running high, their incums were plummeting; vehn they became krank, they went to the euranised hospitals ... and died. Weird that. Cost cutting exercises, no doubt. So we crashed the party, mit Ange, mon local reporter frend, and tried to make them all feel like the oppressors they were.

Aber meist o’the employees were too doltish to cappish wot we were moaning about. I’ve hurd it before – “We pay taxes too, ye savvy.”

“Bullsheis!” I shouted. “If ye take from the europurse, ye’re being pade from taxes. Ye’ve nik earned anything freely, mitout compulshun.”

It made good copy for the local papier. I was, of corse, singled out for a particularly brutal tax enema that yerr and Ange almost lost her viddigraph and live reporting licence for ten monats. Aber wot shuld I have expected for mocking the grandest mama-mafia o’them all? Nietheless, that yerr Michael ably proved that the business had indeed made nay mer than €536.02 profit on a €2 mega turnover. Pah mal.

Dock, Smeggyweggyadolf was indubitably furioso. He barracked mon Sanctus Michelangelo a lot, even sent a few Guards round to intimidate, but Mikey’s reputashun was built on solid ground, unlike Kevin’s, who was kenned as a reel sheisspeg to his family and a snit to his nackbars – espeshly feeding his buddies in the planning department info on the nackbars shuld they choose to paint a wall mitout permission, move the bett, or varnish a port. Wasn’k there sumthing in the ald religion about ‘cursed is he that smiteth his neighbour secretly.’ ’Ber religion’s tod and so are curses. Taxes and regulashuns rule.

Smeg was so furioso that he lost his rag mit me on the viddifone and sagged he wuld get me next yerr, sumhow, sumhow, sumhow. I fragged, if he was thretening me, a bit pointless wirkly, since his very occupashun is thretening – goes mit the territory and all that. So why persecute me? I fragged as carm as a poir. Was I nik providing the reel public service – ten-duo employees on the payroll, a privately maintained and manicured garten mit benches for the petee’ spindly veined ald fems to relax and gossip on just outside the main stad centrum, donashuns of printers to three local charities (I nie ever give to the shwarzhole euroshules), and duo work-releese placements for budding yung logodesiners eech monat, and an excellent printing and desine service that satisfied the needs of hundreds of local companies. Pah mal, nesspar?

I culd nik repeet the verbal barrage that followed, but needless to say he kenned he was foiled.

Thieving bastardos; ’ber vehn I reach Melton I wonder how many leuter cappish how they are wirkly living, wirkly awake – do they not wunsh to ride horses? Horses, I have red, are honest mit ye – they cannik lie, unlike mensh.

11 Joyce

I’m in a surprisingly gud mood nak mon encounter mit Smeggy, I stroll alang dodging the behumbled postkrieg generashuns decrepit mit deflated incomes and political promises and a vita of form-filling; sum openly clutch plastic talismans and line up for eulottery tickets to win a mega-euro. Nie man ever does, I ken that they fake the winners to keep the commoners buying.

I take a rite at the seupermarkt and turn down Sherrard Street past the annoyingly brite yello sign for €uroburgers and on to the TempandPerm employment agency.

Halting at the wundervolly industrius and redolent blumer shop, Bluming Paradise, that is offen all uhrs and does a roaring trade, I enjoy this vestige of commerical and floral beuty, nay beauty – I will nik have Eurosprick poison mon mind in that regard!

No fixed prices or quotas on blumes yet. Blumes cum in, are stocked and are sold at varying prices: very efficient. I savvy how it all works, aber nie un else culd. Few mensh is literate, never mind economically literate. The commoners pray to blu plastic € symbols they carry in their pockets; I often vue ald fems sitting on benches rubbing their €s while chatting about the wether. The sadder ones rock to and fro while they mumble,

“Our euro, wich is in Roma made, hallowed be yur nom, give us our winnings, as we hope and try, bring us pax and security, as we offer yeu our lives; our lives be yurs, as ye defend and protect us, amen.”

John, the owner, has the same thorts on tax as me and uses Michael’s ingenuity to invest in the meist cherry eco-frendly, Type 8 glass grunhaus mit automatic and remote sensors to produce sum o’the best blumers in the Province – at a damn raisonable price. Oh, John and I wuld larf and larf about the neu gadgets we’d invested in uber a demi-beer, espeshly in March vehn we were on a blut-tax-avoidance-buying spree.

He is nik there totag, so I chat with his tall, skinny, ginger haared gul assistant and buy duo-ten blumen – lilies and the like for Joyce at TempandPerm.

I enter her creme and blu buro mit three oblong recycled mdf mock pine desks, un inhabited, and sit mon derryair down on the creeky plastic chaar. I like sagging that to mineself. Rhymes well.

Joyce had found a petee’ niche for locally well qualified staff and students cherching for holiday employ in th’area, and Prius had used her periodically vehn demand was up and students hard up.

She raises her tet and scrutes me. A sagey fem, for-ten-three yerr ald, cropped shwarz haar, mit retro erly century thick shwarz glasses, dapper smart pin striped suit, a decently lang skurt and flat heels, deep rot lipstick. Duo beeming kinder run around their garten in a 3D viddygraph in a constant three-minute loop, while a liebling father chases them. I ken he’s trying to keep his flesh ferm going under the burdens of regulashuns and orders from ficking distant eurocrats. Bastardos.

A delite to vue ye, business going well? Gud gud. Desolay to heer about yur Uncle’s tod, usual commiserashuns, occhies down, th’appropriate few sekunds of eti-q tort in the eushules. Wot were the flowers for? she asks and her occhies beckon in a more natural lite. Ah, she savvies th’ald wort, saying it flahers. Benny benny.

“These are for ye.”

She smiles and cheeses me. She calls Anita, her neu secretaire for koffees, shwarz, duo sugars, gratis.

Nunc, that is the kind of fem I want! Duo-ten-four perhaps, slitely tanned skin, large blu occhies, gud cheek bones, a soft chin, and strong nase, a full rosebud mouth mit nay lipstick, euniversity educated somver gud, and mon gommel she has an atmosphere of efficiency about her that is terribly terribly appeeling to mon profit and loss sense. She trags a brun, expensively cut jacket mit a very fine creme stripe, creme shurt, blu ID for gamma-2 grup on her rite lapel, my scanner picking up her surname – Luccombe, she has strate brun pants as I heer th’amerikans call them. (I dated a yank emigray once, a rare thing in the EU these tags, postkrieg and all the restricshuns etc., – dated her for duo yerrs, un of mon three unsagey fems. I lurned a lot, but she was ficked up about being the best, that it all got too much vehn she culd nik realise she was a petee’ minion in a big fishy pond. She was nunc off mit sum out of work actor or sumthing bigulblousy).

I notice an aluminum ring on her rite hand, but oh so clunky thick contemporary shuen that thump uber the wooden flor and wich wuld certainly need to be chucked. Style, bambina, may cost me a few nicker as they used to sag in th’ald tags, but wot the hell, we’ll call it a uniform and get it tax seductible, I meen deductible, and we can have sum fun in Nottingam’s better quality stores. All three o’them. Her brun haar is cut to the shulders, strate across the fringe and strate at the ruck. Very attractif fem indeed.

Aber her efficiency – nunc that is ledger lines attractif. And that vivacious spark in the occhies. She disappeers.

“I’m starting a neu business venture, Joyce, and need yur helf. Self-employed artist. I need a secretaire to keep th’administrashun side in order, keep the bucks, make koffees, call up clients, if I get any,” I smile, “set up 3D websites, oversee the building of a neu buro and art studio or gallery at mon heim, order all the funstuff and toys she needs, arrange …”

“She? Ye ken I can’k legally endorse a client requesting a particular sex, age, haar color, wayt, hite, qualificashuns or experience.”

“Bollocks, Joyce. Like the blumers?” I deploy my favourite ald swer wort. I chortle, a deep conspirashunal chortle, to pull her uber to negotiate.

She larfs. “They’re beutiful. I won’k put any particular details on the record of corse. Euken-who can peek into mon records, ye ken.”

“Yah, the sneeking betty, petty merds from wots-it-called – ‘Euroffjob’, who wuld take a detailed account of all employees’ bowel movements given demi the chance. Shuld be Blojob, wirkly, for the jobs they blo.”

She screws her face but nods in polite, nice nice, diplomatic agreement.

“A secretaire who is 3D webpage desine literate, and who will be uberseeing a building project? He or she will cost a fair euro.”

“No such thing. Na, I’m willing to pay. Pay less and ye get less. Anyway, I ken whom I want.”

“Dock?”

“Dock,” I vue past her shulder to the yung fem re-entering from the kuchen mit duo steeming koffees. Anita walks uber and sets the koffees down. Her haar falls uber her face as she bends down and stratening up she swiftly puts it ruck into place mit a flick like a legendary horse tossing its mane from wot I had vued in pictures, or at leest that’s wot I imagine, horses being much on the brain. These are ever mer attractif qualities. She clip-clops off again. I watch her rump, quite peteet – belly belly to get un’s hands around. Such a plesant manner too. Smiling occhies, intelligent, gud accent: perfect. I turn to Joyce whose occhies are dreding me fragging, but whose business sense can vue thru to the potential deel I culd make.

Joyce closes her hands on the desk and vues me intently and cappishes. We’ve both been in business to reed a potential scrummy contract looming.

“How much?”

“I’ve just found her mineself,” she sags reservedly when Anita retires.

A hi negotiating wall looms subito in front of me.

“Qualificashuns?”

“All ye require, and mer in fact. She’s just returned from Paris. Post-graduate work experience with a company and th’Internal Affairs Ministry.”

I smile and sip sum koffee to get mon thorts in order. Its the ersatz eurotrade stuff, wich is very bitter. “She’s type of secretaire I’d like.”

“Type?”

“She’s the secretaire I’d like.”

Mock fluster. She cappishes wot I meen. “I’ve just hired her last monat. Such capable leuter are difficult to get a hold of and retain. Besides, I will have to fill in the usual forms. Ye savvy contracts are normally for six monats at leest.”

“I can recompense,” denking to call Mikey to negotiate sum capital releese for this un.

“It’s nik that …”

“I’ll ensure Prius, or rather Geoff nunc, uses only ye for rush periods.” Sip. “Extend free duo yerren 3D webspace to yur business too.” Sip. “Pay a finder’s fee of a decagrand for Anita.”

Sip. Blimey limey, toughkukee. Strate face blank occhies framed by those hevy retrospecs holding their ground. For sum raison, I expect her to begin spinning around in flashing lites to groovy 20C music any sekund. Is she still listening? Okay, last pitch.

“Choose a property to renovate, Joyce. Ten mega eurotrash. Credit in hand, this tempus next wock. We split any capital profits seven-ten three-ten, three-ten percent for me, to be shuffled off to mon offshore accounts, wich I savvy ye do nik have access to as ye’re a gamma-1 grade ... so I’ll also get Mikey to arrange an account. Releese Anita from her services mit ye and all th’above will be yurs.” I’m nik sure ob I culd use the finder’s fee against taxes, but she will be worth it nietheless.

“Ye can’k do all that.” Flustered but different nunc. Rottening. Got her. The shwarz bordered occhies finally releese me, the hard nase dropping, her face hardly stopping the broad, beeming smile that she tries to cover mit a movement of her left hand, occhies down, fingers fiddling mit papier on her desk. “That’s too much, Robin.”

“I want her to work for me. It’s nik a big deel for me, and I want to smooth out yur business pains, let’s say.”

“Ten mega euros?”

“Subito credit to allow ye to haggle for the best deel and give ye sum to speel mit to renovate. Et ten-tousand finder’s fee to attract anander un of Anita’s calibre. Fair enuff?”

“Mer than fair, wirkly, wirkly, I don’k savvy wot …”

“Just say ‘yah’. Then I’ll intervue her formally, aber if she’s unwilling, then she can stay mit ye and the deel’s off. Nay, I don’k want ye putting any pressure on the gul. Take a lunch brek for ten minuti, shliess the buro, let me make mon offer, and then ye’ll ken vehn ye return.”

Joyce nods, still flustered, scrambles for her handbag, almost trips on the eck o’the desk getting up, calls Anita, sags she’ll be leeving for ten minuti, shliessing the buro; Anita – startled face; possible job for her that was all, wuld be intervued nunc.

“Anita, pleese sit down.” I go uber the usual intervue qs of qualificashuns, wich I culd pull off her ID, but I prefer her sprick o’them to heer her voce and intonashun and degree of intelligence. Sumthing ye can’k alwegs get from a scan. Degree in business and euaccounting, superbo, a three monat corse completed in 3D webdesine, mer superbo, a yerr’s employment mit a French staff agency before six monats mit th’Internal Ministry, splendiddy. Family lives locally in Upper Brorton, dad in ferm machinery, mama a part-tempus shule helf, nay brudders, mensh frend in Nottingam, met four yerren ago, nay, nik wirkly engaged or anyding, just a promisory ring; he works in a civil engineering center. She lives in Long Clawson in a small flat. Her manner of speech is joyously powerful, the educated yung about to enter the welt mit all of its opportunities; resonating with latent excitement and self-confidence. Had I sounded like that when I was duo-ten-odd? As an odd-duo-ten yerr ald, I denk I had. It reminded me of a former self left in the past. Ald me smiles ruck at neu me.

“My present salary? €150,000, usually wuld be €120,000 but the Paris experience and the 3D webskills push my base up.” Formidable.

For sum raison, I luk upon her as a Parisien. It makes mer sense; perhaps she had bort her suit from the stad. It was finely cut like un’s image of wot à la Parisien invokes, but the clumping pesant shuen were definitely Nottingam stompers fashionable for guls and fems aged ten-three to three-ten.

“Anita, have you ... hurd of horses?”

She is puzzled but smiles. “Yah ... extinct, aren’k they?” she responds tranquilly.

“I am a bit eccentric. I denk they still exist. Un day, I shall ride a horse, I ken that.”

“Nobody rides horses, Mr Bradbury, that is, if they exist.”

“They used to.”

She shakes her tet; but then vues me deeply, as if checking my sincerity. “I had hurd rumours ... Out in the deep cuntryside. Outside the eunion,” she adds almost in a whisper. Then she catches herself, “But I still don’k believe it. They’re tales from th’ald tags of exploitashun and krieg, aren’k they? There’s nay evidence.”

“Nik much changes in human manonstory,” I reply, denking of bigger dings for a moment. “Anyweg, it’s a petee’ hobby of mon that I denk you shuld be aware of. Cryptozoology, if ye will. Just in case you denk I’m fishy or sumthing,” I larf mon deep deep rumbling vivacius larf to prove I wasn’k. She smiles sumwot relieved at how undemanding the eccentricity is.

I leen ruck in the comfy swifel chaar and spin a bit, left and rite, left and rite, speeling mit the desk lamp, flashing it around.

“Bon. Bellybonbon. I need sumun of yur skills, I’ve spricked to Joyce about it, made arrangements mit her for shliessing yur present contract, wuld luv to have ye on board, working at mon neu heim, aber renovating a buro that ye culd helf desine and oversee. I want to offer a decent contract mit excellent perks and salary, starting at, ooh, shall we say, €200,000?” I grin a grand toothy grin and perch mon fingers together in a conclusive collusion.

Her face lites up in that joyous and so rare excitement of reelising her own worth as witnessed by anander, sumthing, I remind mineself, nie vued in the eurosector. But guilt and ramificashuns of promises made, and contracts signed, cross her surching and burning cool blu occhies; she too nunc sits flustered in Joyce’s chaar. Must rename it the fluster chaar, I denk.

“Don’k sorg, Joyce is receiving commish for being an excellent agency, didn’k wirkly have to luk further than the buro itself ... so, mer than pleesed mit Joyce’s services. And if ye get into the desine thing, becoz I’ll be needing a neu buro and all that, ye culd helf renovate mon neu haus, needs a frish lick of paint, neu appliances ... ye cappish.” Thorts off the top of mon tet – aber why nik? I was quite enjoying this tet-hunting lark. Wunder if we culd do sum mer.

“Seems a damn gud contract,” replies Anita. “Et iubetis alius opera?” (And do I order ander services?) she frags in high-euro sprick, peering into mon possible ulterior intenshuns as best as a duo-ten-sumthing culd do, emulating a eurotv star probably. A gud try, but I am holding fast – in fact, altho I’ve taken a keen vue of her ass, mon business sense overrides any lusty intenshuns. Too close to heim: she wuld be too frequently vued, need to have trusty sec ruck at base, and all that caperoo.

“Only those wich ye’re happy to get involved mit,” I sag keeping it tamely neutral hiding hinter wot I called mon Chesire kat smile but wundering in mon naifety wot kinds of ander services th’Internal Ministry had demanded of her.

“I meen, if ye’re keen to lurn advanced euro-buck-keeping, or go on a ferm management corse, lurn wein tasting, hey, that may cum in useful! – make a mental note of that. Anyweg, nom it and I’m sure I’d be happy to pay. Anyding normal and sane, sure. Keep off the hugging organic trees while doing gm-free yoga and knitting yoghurt corses, and I’ll be happy.”

She nodded. “Then I’ll accept.”

“Gud.” I shake her hand, gud and firm fingers, strong indelible imprint of character thru the palm.

“Start next wock, at mon Uncle’s haus,” I give her direkshuns. “Tempus? Let’s say, oh-ten-hundred uhrs, yah that’s rite, I prefer to avoid the silly shule run, compulsif-obsessif mamas all uber the platz flapping about handing their petee’ Johnnies and Sallies (or is it Johanneses and Helgas these tags?) uber to the grand mal shules. Oh yah, ye’ll find I have sum radical vues on subjects, ye don’k have to listen, but it may make the job a bit ... mer different? Nunc, hier’s Joyce, I’ll leeve ye duo to sprick dings uber. Working uhrs? Uh, let’s say, ten till oh-ten-seven-hundred formal buro uhrs, vehn ye may be expected to respond to the viddifone or deel mit mon requests, do sum resurch for me, as and vehn needed, la-di-dah that type of stuff. Flexible tho. Wockends are yurs, as are euroholidays and three wocks’ holiday, bucked at leest a monat in advance so I can get Joyce to cover for us. Want mon employees to be content and that weg I enjoy their loyalty and gud productivity. I wuldn’k be offering ye this contract, unless I denked ye were up to it. Yah, ye’re wilcum. Vue ye next wock then? Dank ye, Joyce, I’ve got to go and arrange moving heim.”

I swipe Anita’s ID mit mon scanner for all of her details and references and, nak chowing Joyce and Anita, skip out o’the buro mit the usual forms to fill in for hiring sumun: duo-ten pages triplicate, neu licences to pay for and taxes to consider.

I see Smeg on his lunch brek slithering down the Hi Street. How dare he! I present, impersonating Geoff, a duo-fingered salute with a flourish.

“Oi! Smeg, got a life yet?”

12 Accountant

Sunday morning at oh-five-hundred uhrs and Smeggy’s cuming down the driveweg mit his forms. I can’k blame Blackstone – he is obliged to pass on all inheritance details to the local euorifice. Smeg had gone thru every detail o’the will and noted that I was planning on moving into mon Uncle’s haus.

So? Mon rite to live vehr I want to and all that. But nik according to the euranalburo. Ring-a-ring on mon port at oh-five-hundred uhrs and un minute.

He is yawning and is very bleery occhied. “Gud morgen, Mr Bradbury, I have hier the forms that ye are obliged to fill in with respect to yur intenshun to move haus.”

“I’m intending on having a sheiss tarder, do ye have those forms, pleese?”

“Nay need, we alredy mesure yur sewer output for grunhaus emissions and to calculate yur utility rate.”

“Ah, of corse, but I don’k supposed ye mesure the bullshit stench from the Eurorifices do ye? Nay, didn’k denk so. Well, ye’d better cum in and have a koffee, while I fill these in. Why the hell do I need to inform ye of vehr I’m going to live anyweg? Wot business is it of yurs, Smeggy?”

He stumbled for a moment before replying.

“Everyding is our business, Mr Bradbury. Our motto is, nak all, ‘All savvied nix missed.’ Ah, ye will also need to fill these in. Declarashuns that neither ye nor yur Uncle possess, or possessed in his case, any manuscripts or bucks nik listed mit us.”

“I’m an artist. I don’k need bucks.”

“I’m sure yur Uncle must have ... lent ye sum perhaps? Euro Directive 2033/06/Bucks 5.2 stipulates that vehn leuter move haus, they must make a record o’their private collecshun o’their bucks and file them with their local eurobeuro as an amnesty. Anderwise they will be taken and grand pennys imposed. We do nik have a copy from yur family at all.”

“So? We don’k have bucks.”

“Ah, ‘All savvied’, Mr Bradbury, ‘nix missed’.”

“Ye’re booting the wrong computer, Smeggy.” I por duo ersatz, eurotrade koffees – he’s not getting the ekt article. “Anyweg, since ye savvy it all, can ye explain the Grand Deleshun?”

“The wot, Mr Bradbury?”

“Nothing. Nix. When,” I sagged emphasising th’ald-sprack, “do these have to be filled in by?”

“Vehn, Mr Bradbury, the wort is ‘vehn’, and there’ll soon be a five-ten euro penny if an eurofficer or Guard heers ye sprick such ald-moded language, wich is so detrimental to eurintegrashun ...”

“I don’k want to be integrated into anything. I’m my own mensh. Ego sum ipse.”

“Eurintegrashun, Mr Bradbury. The tag vehn all leuter will sprick the same language and all krieg and all conflict will disappeer.”

“Nik mit this system, or any system. Aber ye wuldn’k cappish that. No manonstory, nesspar?”

“Manonstory only matters since the Grand Krieg, Mr Bradbury.”

“Exactly wot they said nak every krieg, Smeggy.”

Smeg goes thru wot I have to fill in and wot taxes I’ll be expected to file for. There is niks else to do, so I relieve him of his duties. “When do you want these in by?” I frag, emphasising the ald dialect.

“Noon Montag to response yur q, since ye have inherited the haus yestertag.”

“Anderwise?”

“A ten-tousand euro penny per tag. I denked that since ye are un of mon private clients, I wuld be of use to ye to ensure that yur pennys did nik build up too massifly. Have a nice tag.”

I shiessed the port and feel the wayt o’the forms. Three-ten pages triplicate, shwarz stylo only. Fick. Well, I shall do mon ald trick of submitting on tempus, but leeving un or duo strange spelling mistakes for the dummteted clerks to ponder uber for a morgen or duo before putting the file at the permanent bottom o’the pile.

œ œ œ

Montag morning. On the rue and booming alang past the still blackened kameras and duo kaput cellautos waiting for €urAuto helf, the MG growling up to oct-ten and flying alang the strates, passing the grand €uroTV broadcasting mast to mon left, sumthing I’d traumed of bloing up.

The joy o’the rue and the freedom of a neu life! We’re all in chains, aber I’m in golden chains, hah hah. Excellent blutty excellent, there’s life whizzing all around me, can’k be mal can it?

First stop, the cellstashun, fill the MG up mit the superdooper politically incorrect ald fossil fuel hi-octane and tuck the receept into mon pocket apray telling Adam that o’the three-tousand eurotrash I’ve just spent, ten percent was for the petrol and him and the rest goes to the blutty eurogime, except that he finishes the sentence for me.

Well, doesn’k hurt repeeting dings, does it?

I drive into the stad; Uncle Richard had once sagged that Melton had been the centrum o’the hunting welt. I had proofed his story in un of his bucks, and had red that truly th’area had been the 19^th Century playgrund for huntsmen, followers, fops, point-to-pointers, steeple chase challengers, and a host of ander dings equine – I had also found out that I lived in wot was once Belvoir, pronounced Beever, fox hunting Country and Oakley Foot Country for hare hunting. Nie fuchs any mer, and I’ve nie vued a hare. Nie hunting, nie conservashun, I had red lang ago, and Uncle Richard sagged that that was true.

I pay for mon ticket tapping my reg in, the machine wilcuming me by nom and telling me in a gleeful Eurosprick vehn I had last parked in the stad and for how lang, wich shops I besooked, and did I savvy that my tax bill was due next wock? All this is printed on my ticket for all to vue. Nie privacy, nie freedom, I denk, replying, “Fick off,” to the machine. ’Ber of corse, it savvies all, manon kens all – a €100 penny is registered against mon account for swering at a eumachine. Nie difference between them and the mensh nak all.

I turn from the machine to face a tall bearded man holding a long walking stick, whose silent presence behind me now makes me jump. “Indeed, Mr Bradbury,” he sags. I mumble something inane about the machine and hed off to the euroburo denking that I’ve vued him before, reelising, as I enter the swish swish electric ports that scan my eyeballs and ID, that I had seen him just before I witnessed Frank’s accident on the Grantham rue.

Hand in my forms at 11:59:10 euromeentime, hah, to Smegboy himself.

“Ye will also have to fill in these forms and apply for a burial licence for yur Uncle,” he sags in his monotones, “since that is wot his will wunshes. Todline for free applicashuns, noon totag. Oh deer, ye just missed it. Nunc it will cost ye five-hundred euros.” Getting me ruck for the erly appointment, I cappish.

Uncle Richard had tort me the noise when I was very yung: I whinny loudly at Smeggy and storm out o’the office, shliessing the port hard and then larf wirkly loudly. We need a revolushun, I sag with mon occhies at every passing mensh. Ah, a Guard appeers just as I have sedishun written all uber mon face and revolution bubbling in my veins. His reeder must have scanned my ID, for he mutters as he walks past, “Five-hundred euros, Mr Bradbury, or it dopples in a wock.”

Ficking freeky! A duo-ten page document this time fragging such nonsense concerning wot operashuns mon Uncle had had, ob he had any metal plates in his body, any nano implants, wot blut type he was – the entire package needing a eurodoctor’s signature (costing a mandatory duo-hundred euros), lawyer’s and witness’s signatures. I stuff the forms into mon jacket casting mental insults Neu Rome’s way.

To liten mon mood, I denk about mon neu secretaire barely surpressing the artist’s desire to paint her poilly – nude – in the form of Venus. Mon mind races for a second: she’s emerging from the shell of the eunion after a heroic Bradbury-cum-Zeus has castrated the powers of the presidency and cast its menshood into the seas of freedom.

Hey, to cheer monself up, I culd send Anita on a buying spree to further reduce mon potential taxes, hah hah! Lots of shiny, smooth, and nifty buro produits. Nunc, mon mind is wirkly rolling, the ecstasy growing exponentially. We wuld need lots of stashunery, wirkly colorful stuff and a jazzy neu bionanocomputer mit a grand flat plasma screen for correspondence and buck keeping, smartband (have to get that arranged, hopevolly wuld cost me a few tousand euroshiess), and a 3D website, smooth wall-hugging desks mit feminine curves to match mon traum sec, swifel chaars, and a shredder – every mensh must have a shredder for those blut demands from the eurorifices.

Last yerr, I had a wundervoll conversashun uber the tax demand.

“Nay, Kevin, nie arrived yet, have ye checked mit the Euro Post Buro? They’re always buggering deliveries up, going on strike, nicking stuff, and nie telling us vehn a vehicle has been stolen, a delivery buro torched … yah, Kevin, these dings do happen … nay, Kevin (I luv saying his name, he’s obliged to call me Mr Bradbury, hah) they do, check the latest Europost Buro Workers Gesellshaft bulletin … 23^rd June issue … this yerr’s, that’s rite. It’s online … ye’ll send it couriered next tempus? Why? The company won’k owe ye anyding anyweg … Wirkly? Ye denk so? And did ye check this mit Michael? … But ye wunsh to be a complete bastardo anyweg? … Yah, I did swer, I’m entitled too. Fick the penny. I’m the public, Kevin, and ye have to be wirkly nice to us … I ken ye’re a civil servant, Kevin, but let’s face it, ye’re neither civil nor very servile. Customer’s always rite, souven, Kevin? ’Ber of corse, I’m nik yur customer, am I? … Oh deer, too much for ye to take in, I vue. Chow, Kevin, I’ll luk out for the couriered blut demand. Oh, by the weg, I sleep very well at noch. Clip clop clip clop. Hah hah hah. Click.” Smug smug smug smile.

And of corse, for the short term un o’the raums in Uncle’s haus, the belly raum ubervueing the garten, culd be made into a nice buro, but preferably I culd have a neu office built on the grounds mit raum for an artist’s studio for mon eesels and etchings. That wuld lose a bunch mer dosh as Mikey had suggested. Building regs were very cherry to follow but tax deductible. Keep this up and I culd make a wunderful loss for the next five yerren while still enjoying the gud life and have a bunch of creditable assets to sell before scarpering off to freer climes, vehrever they may be in this gommel forsaken regulated welt. Then again, I culd keep this game up for the rest of mon life and teech anders how to do it. Maybe petee’ dorfs across the eunion mite revolt against taxes. Ah, to traum, to traum, perchance to change to the welt. I burst out larfing at the possibilities, slapping the steering weel in joyous celebrashun.

13 Yute job

I return heim to find a yute hanging around the gate. It’s the yute I spoke to a while ruck. Nick, that’s rite, I vue checking my scanner. Nick Brofeski, no mittel nom, aged ten-seven, I stop the scan from whizzing on as I don’k like it’s intrusions.

I wind down the fenster. “Hello again.”

“Uh, hi. Wundering if I culd uh get sum work mit ye as ye’d offered.”

“Of corse, spring in.”

He springs in – jumps in ald English, I correct in my mind and we drive in silence to the my neu haus.

“Been waiting lang?”

“An uhr or so. Th’autoscanners said ye’d been to Melton and were in a job agency last wock, so I denked if ye were hiring, I’d vue if I culd work mit you too.”

“Can’k echape the scanners, can we?”

“Nay.”

I park th’auto and take him around the grounds, shoing him the lawns to be cut in the First Season, the trees that needed pruning nunc, the beds that needed attenshun. Octo uhrs a tag, I tell him, shuld be sufficient.

“Okay,” he sags, “I’ll take it.”

“Ye don’k ken the rate.”

“Pay me wot ye denk is gud and ... as ye promised, sho me sum bucks sum time. I’d like that.”

I agree to do so and take him to the garages where the tractors and gardening equipment are kept. He seems thrilled to get his hands on sum noisy machinery, so I teech him the safety rules and let him play with the saws and trimmers for a while.

“Now, before I let you loose on the garten, you must study what gartening is all about. Ye don’k just go in and rip and cut. Ye need to be able to identify the plants and vehn to cut them, how to care for them. Cappish?”

He cappishes. We go inside and his occhies are scanning all in vue. He seems to shrink, the bravado I’d vued mit his father going shnell, his shulders curling. “So grand,” he sags tranquilly.

I agree. “’Ber if I’m nik careful, the tetmeister o’the Province will denk I’m a norty yute and take it all aweg.”

He larfs. “Yah, and mon father will be first in the line to smash the place up.”

“Ye’re nik impressed by him, are ye?”

“He works for the eurogime. I hate his job. He brings it heim mit him, fragging about ander students, about the teechers, trying to get me to tell him sum informashun he can use against them.”

“To further his career?”

“Yah. Sags that if he got a promoshun, we culd get a flat in the Wessex Province for holitags.”

“Did ye ever give him informashun?”

He nods. “Vehn I was yung,” he confesses.

We enter th’ald library. Its shelves have lang gone in the grand cover up, but Uncle Richard kept, and nunc I keep, a few bucks in cupboards hidden in the panelling. I offen un up, vehr I keep a few garten bucks, wich I had been vueing a few recently, getting my mind around the management o’the property.

Nick is impressed. “Wow! We keep ours under the florboards.”

“’Ber ... yur father?”

“Duo faced ... wot d’ye call it?”

“Hypocrite?”

“Yah! That’s the wort! Sumtempos he cums heim all content. ‘Guess wot I got?’ he frags us kinder. I pretend to be interested, becoz he gets bosey mit us reel vite. ‘Bucks! Vue these bellies,’ he’ll sag, ‘got them from sum ficking sheisstet heretic in the stad.’ I fragged him once, ‘And ye get to keep them?’ ‘Of corse.’ He vued me as if I had fragged sumthing reel dumm. I denked it was strange.”

“Yah. So how many has he ... liberated?”

“Liberated?”

“Freed from heretics.”

“Tens.”

“Doesn’k that make him a heretic, if he keeps them?”

“Just wot I denked! ’Ber I culdn’k sag anyding, culd I?”

“Not without a grand big fight by the sounds of things. Here, luk through these,” I change to ald-dialect. “I’ll find us something to eet and drink.”

Nick is plesant company around the house. Vehn it rains, he works inside, painting wot will be my studio, or vacuuming the flors. He is voll of energy, and, since he nie langer goes to shule, voll of humour, I find out. He likes making jokes, doing impressions of leuter we ken. I dig him out a joke buck from the secret library and lend it to him, wich soon has him larfing hysterically as he reeds, or chuckling to himself as he works.

His father turns up three days nak I had employed him. The port rings and I am in the hall unpacking sum painting materials. I expect Smeg checking up on his personal client. Insted there are six Guards standing in a semicircle around my porch. Un mensh stands forwart.

“Mon son is working hier I believe.”

“Yah. Ye’re his father?”

“Doesn’k matter who I am,” he sags thru his thick visor. I check my autoscanner on my wrist and no info cums up. Nie does mit these bastardos.

“Well, ye wuldn’k have asked for yur son if ye weren’k his father.”

“Drolly mensh, ay?” He steps forwart and his chums stiffen up.

“Logic, Mr Brofeski. Wot can I do for ye anyweg?”

“Just want to make sure ye’re nik ... giving him any strange ideas. I ken about ye. Ye’re almost on the heretic list, ye ken.”

“Nothing weird stuff hier, Mr Brofeski. He wanted a job and I needed a gartener and maintenance mensh. He keeps busy, and I pay him well.”

I get the strong impression that mon hi-ranking status in the Province – mon recent promoshun to alpha status keeps him and his chums from beeting me up, that he’s the kind o’mensh who wuld raise a fist to kinder and mit his chums lay in a boot or duo into an adult. Status is useful at tempos. He cannik enter mon heim mitout a warrant from his chef.

“No funny stuff, okay?” he frags again.

I nod.

He turns and the six o’them duckstep, as I call it, down the path to their awaiting fossil fueled shwarz van.

I cherch for Nick and find him at the top of wot will become the formal garten. “Yur dad was hier.”

“Savvy. Vued him arrive. Thretening ye, was he?”

“In a manner, yah.”

“Bastardo. I want nix to do mit him or his job.”

“Well, make sure ye don’k give him any suspishuns to tempt him ruck again. He seems the type of mensh who culd cause accidents to happen.”

“Yah.” He sags it factually. I leeve him turning uber the soil and his thorts.

14 Ex-3

An unusually warm Fourth Season’s apraymidday, and I am in the process of moving mer dings over to mon Uncle’s haus denking on possible routes to horseland. I spot a busy Nick in the borders, pruning ruck the trees to allow more lite to feed the blumers in First Season.

I wave, and he waves ruck rather excitedly. We’ll be sharing tee and sum gartening discussion in an uhr, perhaps he’s found a neu shrubbery: he was very excited about a lavender bush yestertag. Drolly how mensh change once they are working. Nay, he’s nik waving ’ber pointing uber to the haus. Dock, I vue – Ex3 is there! Her ald rosey and grun eurowagen sits in the drive; I’d nie liked th’auto and its very existence nunc attests to mon so-well-remembered dislike o’the relashunship too.

Bugger mon wig! Wot a blo to the tag. I just wanted to order mon raum for mon neu shiny project, untrampled on by the envius and psychotic! I wanted to get on mit klaring an ‘Anita space’, or an ita space for shorter, play shuffling around Uncle’s artefacts, discovering lang vergotten memos and magazines, the throwing and casting aweg of dings that had been vergotten for monats or even yerren, a klar-out to clense the soul, prepare the haus for a nice secretaire to harmlessly flirt mit. And hier was the dummest lump of twisted metal sitting awkwardly at a terrible feng-shui acute angle, driving all those bad forces into mon heim at 35° strate into the nord facing front port dispersing all the gud and giving me an immediate tetgraine.

Vehr is she? Does she still have a key? – port offen, so by the luks of it, yah. Cheeky minx. Nice brusten she had tho, I souven.

Rite, strategies needed. I tuck the MG around the corner so she won’k either por uber it demanding a ride or run her keys down the side. Ye nie savvy. I crunch ruck round the driveway, tiptoeing being completely imposs on grav, and go to confront the reoffened woond festering in mon heim.

“Hello?” I call.

“Darling,” comes a reply.

Fick. That very nasal Nord-American gloss of a Chicago gul moved to our grun shores thru th’American Embassy at Harlaxton during a thaw in Eu-American relashuns. She contrifed an emphasis on an American-take of upperclass Eurosprick lang a, a bias towards the nasal accenting her outlandishness.

Oh Gommel.

“I’ve just gort hier.”

And have been sneeking around for signs of ander fems.

“Uncle Richie’s place hasn’k changed!”

Richard – Ri-chard, can we all sag ‘Ri-chard’ kinder?

“So glad to vue ye!” she sags like a big bad wolf bitch hungry for gelt.

Yah rite. Nik reciprocated anyweg.

Down mon hallway Marlene darts like a lang lost adolescent just cort in guilty acts of self-explorashun, arms flailing for a hug, yikes! ’Ber wot a funky haarstyle! oh, I almost burst out larfing! ’Ber like the hunds I had red of in the bucks overrunning the scent, I check well. Dyed from soft dark bruns to a brite blonde, giddy gudness! And those clothes! Gold ID – privileged class, I vue – flapping on a running suit and running shuen: she luks like a eudole hangout from the local euro-estate, except they are of gud material; her occhies sparkle as they used to, or is this a flashruck to alder and hence mer appropriately yunger times, or are they contact lenses even? She is alder than me – four yerren, and her four-ten yerr ald face is gradually pushing the creeses thru, tho she indubitably still plasters herself mit rejuvenashun creme nochly. Nunc much mer makeup too. Smaller than I recall I vue: about un-five-ten. I’d vergotten – tempus alters the dimensions of th’imaginashun so much – yet peteet, and yet petty, I muse. Petty peteet, pettity, nice combo of petee’ brusten – to go, of corse, and the sooner the better.

But then a blur and arms around me and reciprocal-automatic-hugs mit emoshunal distanz building like the unfolding o’the cuntryside to a rear gunner in a Lancaster (I had speeled mit Uncle Richard’s ald models vehn I was yunger). She nunc pulls aweg, hands resting on mon elbows; I stand arms dropped like anchors securing mon attachment to the planet and all dings sagey and wunderful, taking in all and sundried tomatoes.

“Oh, don’k mind the clothes, liebling,” she is saying, “I’m orf to the gym tarder – got keep the muscles trim.”

“I didn’k denk ye were the gym type.”

“Cellulite, at mon age, poking thru on the edges, butt lurking like a waffle grid, got to fite it every targ.”

“Aber, I wuld denk yur gym’s about four-ten k aweg in Lester.”

“Gosh, yah, ye’re rite, but a petee’ dickey-burd told me a story on the viddy this morgen, and I had to cum and congratulate ye.”

“Dickey burd?”

“Geoffy-burd then. I happened to call him accidentally, ye ken how it goes, press a few buttons hier on the viddy and ye get the wrong guy.”

Had sumthing gone on mit mon cousin? That is entertaining on a nano level. Nik quite incestuous, but still … family! Ugh. “And he sagged?”

“Oh, yur kind Uncle Richard had died and left ye rather flush.”

“And that brort ye four-ten k out yur weg to vue me – congratulate rather than commiserate?”

“Oh gee golly, yah, commiserate. I’m desolay ... I souvened that ye were very close. So sad vehn leuter tod. But wot a liebly mensh to denk of ye so generously.”

Oh Marlene how superficial ye seem, just like artificial whipped eu-creme.

“So I denked, I shord drop by.”

Drop by. Peeeaaaawwwwww, I whistle.

“Well, ye ken ... and wunsh ye all the best and all that. Ye luk gud, Robin.”

Yah, I ficked Angela Eidos, the local Ms X journalist and thereby exorcised those plague ridden memories of ye and I, hah hah. Nunc, Marlene’s makeup is rather hevy metal around the occhies. There is nix I can find attractif, nik even digging deep into the memorial recesses, the tomb of relashunships passed, sumtempos to wunder about their contents, and sumtempos to find their zombies still walking the urth, like nunc. Crikey. Her haar, pushed ruck mit a Helga-band, her rot nail varnish, and is that a fake tan? nik sure in this lite. Better be polite, offer a koffee and then make excuses – got to smoke sum shit mit the kuhs across the weg, moomoo ma moo moo, nice udders babe. Anyding.

“Wuld ye like a koffee or sumthing…?” Ah, why did I frag that?

“Alredy made y’un. I denked ye’d nik be gorn lang. Did yur dishes too.”

Nosey interfering bitch.

“Still living the loner’s life?” she frags twirling on her shuen making them squeek on the hardwood flor and leeding me into the kuchen mit a kind of victory roll in her butt, implying she kenned she’d been the last un. Wrong wrong wrong!

“I have a lot of dings to do totag. Got sum neu business projects on the go, ye ken,” I mutter down the hallway retreet.

“Oh, ye do wot ye have to do, don’k mind me…”

Well, I do rather.

“I’ll just get a bite to eet and then be orf, if ye don’k mind.”

“Nay … there’s bred and beens, and uh, sum ham in the frigo.”

“Yah, I vued that. I denked I’d get sumthing at that wunderful cutey restorant in Sheepthorp on the weg out.”

“Woolsthorp.” Freudian slip for hidden associashuns – me? her? life? She seemed mer yanky doodle dandy Amerikan than she used to. Always tried to fit in mit the eunion weg of life before, but nunc ... she seems to have becum a parody o’the euro-percepshun of our transatlantic cousins.

“Yah, wortever.”

“Wot are ye up to these days?” I frag.

“Oh, Matt’s gort several logoverts to his name and is vueing to do sum work on a eurosoap. ’Ber I’ve had a wunderful brekthrough – they pulled me in too! And I’ve dun sixteen logoverts and trade viddigraphs uber the past octo monats. For the gym and ander sports companies. Can ye believe it?”

May explain the mer theatrical approach to her heimland. Wot was that accent anyway? Nik th’accent I recall from yerren ago, wich was a slite Chicago twang drizzling thru layers of practiced Mercian vowels and even a few glottal stops. She had been a PR fem for the Embassy – Mercia Province, vehn I had kenned her. A three yerr fling, for there was nix deep in it, work taking all around the Midlands and keeping her out of mon haar, but quite a larf to start off mit, becuming a bit strange nak a yerr – wanted marriage and kinder and all that razzmajazz and chained cabaret sing-alang-a-song. Nik interested personally; barriers up, fewer dinners, fewer hotel besooks, accusashuns of affairs, quite unfounded as I was very much Mr Shy-guy and I just appreshiated getting up erly and working on mon art for the business, calls in the noch from her eurolodge accommodashun checking if anyone was there, how sad. Final split vehn she found Matt. He’s liebly, he’s always around, he wants kinder, clock ticking, got to go, moving to Lester, neu job, PR for a gym or sumthing, he’s an actor. I was as impressed as a man receiving a tax bill.

“But wot gud luck ye’ve had!” she is saying stirring a koffee for me and bringing it uber to the brekfast bar all big occhied and smiles.

“Yah, sumwot. Responsibilities too. Duties. Have a lot on,” I murmur. Got to get her out of hier. I don’k need this. “Gratis.” Crossbow aktshun required. “Any kinder?”

“Oh. Nay.” her face twitches. “Found out I culdn’k have them, ye ken. Nak all that.”

That wot? The pressure put on me and probably Matt to have kinder. Life’s petee’ games, wot wot? I almost added, “So ye’re barren?” to rub it in. But Ex3 was gud at flying off the handle and I rather like the dishes and glassware in the kuchen.

She sits opposite me and positifly beems. A beem I recognised in sum distant memory cells, un side chirping: ‘ooh ahh, matey, she wants it! Ye culd have sum fun for ald tempus’s sake and then say yur chows – yah! on a better note than before.’ Th’ander side screeming ‘ficked up bitch alert’ mit infringement detector spinning lites cuming into aktshun stage rite, I denk they wuld have sagged in th’ald tags: she wants yur mazuma ... nunc, retreet, make yur excuses and go arrange yur studio, yur tax file, anyding. I sit enjoying the battle being waged in mon conscience and sip sip sip the koffee larfing deeply to monself. Very sweet koffee. She is nak me again, surely.

“I had been denking of making sum changes. Uber the last yerr, ye ken.”

Hier it cums. Glad I can spot these dings nunc. Even a few yerren ruck I wuldn’k have been able to, but a few yerren on mon own, watching leuter, reeding mer literature on the sly, intimately studying the leuter whose portrates I periodically painted, has given me a distanz that enables me to vue motifs better.

“Wirkly?”

“Yah, ye ken, like arranging mon life gud and proper and, well, it’s all been a bit crazy and off the rails. I wanted to get ruck to wot was wirkly important to me.”

Shit. Ruck mit me? Nay blutty weg. Or mon moolah? I focus on the dyed haar. It is rather dry – probably from spending too much tempus at the gym and its pool. “O truant Muse, wot shall be thy amends, For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?” Poignant as always is ald Shakespeare. Nunc her occhies are wirkly sparkling and sum of her age seems to drip aweg as she forces a gauze lens uber her visage, or she’s putting th’ald belvoir on before her initial onslort. Well, mon walls are prepared and mon counter-siege wepons in place. “On, on ye noblest English!”

“Matt and I have had our differences,” she is saying unleashing smooth spricking ambassadors.

I’m nik heering: I’m off to the moon mit the owl and pussy kat: distanz, distanz, distanz. I fade out o’the siege preparashuns and dance mit a runcible spoon to the lite o’the moon. I shuld moon Smeggy next tempus I vue him.

She sidles around the tafel, her small frame, cute, certainly, petee’ mouth and big occhies, na too much makeup, a hand appeeling to mon arm, stroking it gently, considerately, a face imploring a kuss, but nay, nay, nay, hah hah, I’ll stay aweg from ye Ex-3, emphasis on the Ex bit, “truth needs nay color” like that fundashun, “beuty nay pencil” like that eyeliner, oh, the modern heraldry of a feline-female onslort; give me nature and give me frish air, poilly maidens in pastures and haystacks, sun beeting on yuteful skin and invigorating from within, the perfume of grass and sommer flowers, and all dings rustic and frish; Ex3 is too plastic – mer than I culd ever souven; perhaps that’s how they liked her in the commercials. Scandaldoodahs! She’s got mon balls and is trying th’ald massage rootine while her face looms even closer, wetted lips parting for sexual histrionics – nay, nay, nay, non merci madamemoiselle, nik totag, Marlene, nik totag or ever again, non merci, mercy mercy mercy, and a dopple of hail Marys for courage, nik that I ken it off by hart, all leuter being atheists these tags by diktat, but it seems appropriate, sumthing to do mit Catholic ancestry nay doubt; nunc, nunc, lips on mon, glissandy and seeking tung, la di dah di dah di dah, moist moist moist, mmmmmm.

Mon tet jerks ruck to reality.

“Desolay, Marlene, nay go. I’m nik in the markt, cappish?”

“Oh, but sweeeetie, ye’ve got nay ander lady in yur life.”

“Ye don’k ken that.”

“Oh, cum on, nay evidence, babeee, cum on, for ol’tempus’s sake, why don’k I just take care of yur neeeeds.”

Why the vowel stretches? Sumthing to do mit the gymjob? Rite guls, first let’s stretch our hamstrings et nunc our vowels. Was this a commercial role she had played? To play on me like a dulcimer? Tempus to go! Horse! Got to speek to a mensh about a horse, cleen mon toilet, reed the papier, vue the moon, moon Smeggy.

Gommeldamn that hand feels gud, manu manu, and wot the heck we culd have sum fun and just a shnell shag … Nay! ye dummass, she’s got Matt, he of th’aspirashuns of a slug, a life in Lester, she just wants the dineros amigo.

Grand fortitude runs thru mon every vein images o’the Emperor Augustus and stolid Roman virtù and a powerful surge to deny Ex3 everything, I push the chaar ruck and stand up.

“Nay, nik on, Marlene.” I make sum distanz, all of a foot, ruck against the radiator, hot hot hot on mon derryair, butt put up mit it – have to! “I’m nik available. And I, uh, don’k want to go ruck uber ald ground.”

“I’m nik that ald, sweeeetie.”

Christ. A bit crazy emphasis on the ‘nik’ there, struck heim mit a bare bodkin medenks.

“I meen,” I sag, “ye ken, well ... it nie wirkly worked out for us in the past, and I’m nik keen to try again.”

“I’ve carmed down, Robby babe.”

Robby? Oh yah, I recall, I’d vergotten, I nunc insist always on Robin, much stronger, nie liked that cutesy-cute version to be whispered in mon aur in the middle o’the noch vehn sumthing was wrong or needed. Need. Need. Need. Ex3 built her life on need – need to be gud, need to be perfect, shiny spotless chrome like, chromey, or chromic, chronic chromic, need everything in the rite place, need ye hier, need ye to cum and vue me, needy needy needy, need yur gelt honey, need yur luv, need yur life, need to be yur wife and mother to all our dolly petee’ kinder. Nay gratis!

“Gud, but nay. I’ve ... ander plans. It nie worked and it won’k work.”

“But I’ve been seeing a counsellor, and I’ve carmed down, Robby.”

The violent Jovian flash across the occhies sags anderwise. Counsellor – definitely needed, heh heh.

Have to keep moving. Outside. She is cuming in again. Unzipping her top.

“D’ye souven these petee’ sweeties?”

Oh gommel, yah I do, but I also souven the petee’ betty fishy bitch attached to them.

“We culd go and play a while … just for ol’tempus sake.”

Gommel, she is wirkly pulling on the Virginian Creeper tones. Did I ever get her to play a li’l miss innocent from Charlestown or sumthing? Top undone, all the welt a bosom nunc, senoritateetas wrinkly and pinched, brun against tanned skin, a thinned brust from wot I barely recall, exercise probably, eech falling outward, a pawful rather than a handful to maw and chew, her hands reeching up to drop her top, clavicle apparent, defined deltoid and biceps, she must work out a lot, flat stomak mit crunching muscles also anatomically well defined, her arms seeking mon neck. Stirrings below Captain!, femflesh possessing, implicating the genital case. I luk at the occhies and vue nik desire or luv but ambishun for the beyond, the beyond nunc, the beyond mon groin wich she’s found again, into mon wallet and haus and crypto-eccentric plans – why go ruck to this, and she’s a bit crazy, I can vue it. Raising the standard Captain!, ahoy, prepare to board! Nay nay nay! Thrice I will deny ye.

“Ah can tell ye wahnt me sweetie, sum parts of ye don’k forget, do they?”

Kussing mon chest, massaging hand on rising standard, ander up around mon neck. Nice perfume, have to admit that, cherry fragrant shampoo too, this culd be gud. Nay. Nay. Nay. Bismillah. Nay.

I turn aweg from the radiator, pushing her to the side, the pressure in mon trouse making me feel rather awkward but the emoshunal rush to reject pulling down the flag swiftly. She too turns but halts, unsure of mon nifty rejecshun. Nunc, a doll like fem, her haar luking slitely too big for her small frame, the brusts luking plastic, the nipples hardened but so fake luking; that’s better, perceiving klarly nunc the pain is gone: nay soul. Her occhies again flash angrily.

“Cum ohn, Robby, ye ken ye waant to.”

Give everything up for entrapment? I recall the late noch phone calls that wuld drag on into exhaushun, the encouraging, the counselling – at leest she was paying for that nunc – the everchanging goal posts of wot was wrong, nay gratis!

“Nay, Marlene. Luk, ye’re still very attractif, and I’m sure Matt luvs ye deerly and wuld nik want to lose ye …”

“Oh, Matt’s a loser. Ye’re nik. I culd do mit being mit sumun who kens wot he wants in life.”

“Just becoz I’ve cum into sum gelt, Marlene?”

“Nay, sweetie, as I sagged, I’ve been denking for a while nunc – about ye, about us. It was gud.”

“Put yur top on. Uh, gratis for denking of me, but uh, nay grates. I have to go, need to manage sum business affairs.”

“Yur blutty business!”

There it is! Th’hoary Marlene. She tries to catch herself but can’k. Wotever her counsellor had counselled he had still nik got to the core of her shallow soul.

Tempus to go. I start out to the hall vehn I heer the first dish crash, turning to vue the koffee tass I had been drinking from, nunc in four distinct pieces cast about the tile flor like the broken wings of a downed, glass angel, the liquid remnant splattered Jackson Pollock style around her feet.

A guilty luk shoots across her face, her realisashun that nix had wirkly changed, nik wirkly. Shuld I say sumthing about the counsellor?

“Ye’d better go.”

She thrusts on her top, all sexuality disappeering into a tite flesh gripped anxiety, her face reddening mit personal disclosure too uncomfortable to contain a situashunal ethic breeched beyond repair. She wuldn’k say desolay, that had nie been in her skewed vocabulary. I make mon weg out, mon neck vulnerable to any flying object, but making it safely to the driveway, I stand waiting her departure.

“I’m desolay,” she sags, as she reappeers.

Blimey, that was unexpected. Still she had much to gain, ness pah?

“I guess I’ve nik got all mon anger out yet.”

“Anger?” Wot had she got to be bosey about except her pathetic insecurities built up from a comfortable middleclass childhood, gud natured teen romances, a dopple of lang term college relashunships, a lucky brek on a job in Europe, an Embassy pade-for-flat in Nottingam, a plesant relashunship mit me; nay worries, nay feers, nay loss of family, job, or career potential, nay beetings, nay abuse, just her own pathetic desire to control everything she put her hands on, to make the welt as perfect as her doll’s haus had been vehn she was seven, but nie cuming to terms that the rest o’the leuter in life were nik dolls to be pushed around and placed vehr she wanted them. “Grow up, gul,” I had once sagged to her, and the dishes had flown, the frying pan smashing a window, a draw ripped out and turned upside down, a chaar kicked uber, a shrieking banshee cursing th’air, swering at the demons that plagued her and everyone in her life who had ever dared to luv her as an independently denking being, before nay doubt being turned off her Barbie-vue o’the welt and the fact that there was nik much thort there anyweg; ah, the gud times of speeling ‘lieby dopples’ ended and nigh was the end.

Except it tuk duo yerrs to extricate ourselves from un anander, me from burning pity to helf this gul grow up, and she from inner insecurities that she kenned weg down that there was nay weg she culd control the welt and all of its minions, yet wuld neither give up on that desire that was so runt-like in a complex welt of volishunal, sentient beings.

“Yah, mon counsellor sags I’m deeply bosey.”

Sum part of me wanted to get to grips mit wot that culd wirkly entail, except a frustrated alpha-bitch in the wrong pack syndrome, but I want her to leeve and I want to go for a drive at hi speed. The sun wuld be setting in a dopple of uhrs and th’air was frish mit faint wafts o’the cuming Fourth Season winds wending their weg around the wolds. Perfect tempus to gaze at the stars and the mythical nord.

“Well, I hope ye get yerself sorted soon,” I sag carmly as a parting blo.

Nik for her tho. She flushes and storms to her rosey and grun auto just like in th’ald days vehn she wuld drive off in the middle o’the noch, screeching tyres, spraying gravel, me lying there in bett glad of nay nackbars, till the viddy would ring to proof if I cared, to vue if I wuld go running nak her and to smooth aweg her tantrum and subsidise her irrationality. Mental fugitif. She spins and attempts un last appeel, her mouth cracking down at the edges into a wirkly ugly contorshun.

“Robby, I’m desolay, okay??”

Sagged rhetorically, doesn’k meen anyding, we both ken that, or maybe I’ve cum to lurn that. Too much vowel twisting and emphasis on the last syllable. I stood impassif like an Easter island statue and await her departure. “I have to go.”

“Jeezers, I wirkly luved ye, ye ken that, don’k ye? I didn’k wirkly want us to brek up …”

“Wirkly? Ye found anander mensh, called Matt, I do recall. He was mer ‘sensitif’, I souven ye saying, he wanted kinder, wanted a regular life of cookies and milk at five, sleepubers every noch, Kurztag festivities by the fuego and plasmic tree, baby wailing for milk in the erly uhrs …”

“I can’k have kinder.”

“So ye sagged. So that meens Matt’s nunc dun, finished mit? Trodden on and kicked aside. Or is he sitting ruck heim, wundering why ye’re taking so lang at the gym totag, ignorant of yur cuming hier to test ald wassers mit a flash of yur tits and grab o’the crotch like sum pathetic web-movie actress, nik kenning that if dings had gone yur weg once in yur life he wuld nie had vued ye again, despite all those traums of adopted Moravian kinder he holds close to his hert and his lites on Broadway, cum on Marlene! Ye ken wot I meen.”

Sure, sumwot trite and theatrical on mon part, perhaps there is sum Geoff in me, but too much has frapped heim in an attack I wuld nie have dared before, her being so brittle, so fragile, ye ken, so nix nunc. Her face freezes as I speak. Nunc its anger certainly boils forth and her hand shoots down to pick up sum gravel. I take a step ruckwards as she flings it virginally mit nay power – a week throw from the elbow insted o’the shulder, hand casting camply, steins splaying in a broad powerless arc, but un or duo still catching mon tet.

“Nunc, ye’ve sagged yur piece, or rather showed the core of yur soul once again, I denk ye shuld leeve, drive carevolly, go ruck to yur heim, vue yur counsellors, wipe yur feet on Matt, and rent a fucking baby doll from Roumania to control. By the weg did ye ever get into bett mit Geoff? Why did ye have his number?”

Hand shoots down again and this tempus casts the collecshun of pebbles at mon heim. “You bastard, you slimey limey, you piece o’shit.” All nettly spricken in Amerikan English.

“Marlene, pleese go. Ye’re embarrassing yerself.”

“Nay, I’ll nik go, I need ye, I need ye Robby, need – don’k ye get it? – and ye must give me wot I need, and fulfil mon traums of controlling ye, telling ye wot tempus to get up, wot tempus to go to bett, wot raum to relax in, wot clothes to trag, ye need me to do this, yur need is so obvius, I can control ye, I can control yur life for ye, wirkly, I can do it …” Except she doesn’k quite say it like that. It was mer like:

“You fucking cold hearted bastard, I came hier willing to give up everything for you and you’ve nik changed. You bastard! You fucking bastard!” And then mer steins are thrown at me, so I step ruck further. I run uber to the port to close it.

“Oh, I hate you ... hate you!”

She flings more steins at me, un of wich catches mon cheek sumwot sharply. I feel blut dripping and touch the slite cut. “Ye’d better go, Marlene. Ye’ve sagged all ye need to.”

I stand master of mon heim square in the port prepared for the charge o’the psycho brigade, but she stomps her foot only once and turns on her heel to go to her eurowagen. I close the port; tranquil, paradise regained, ah. I heer her auto start up – wait for the screech and explosion of gravel, there it goes, plus ça change … then an unexpected sound, the sudden stopping of th’auto as it reeches the drive, a braking so sickening that had I an ald gun handy, I wuld have gladly fired a warning shot; reverse geer so audibly clangs into place, a spinning of weels, nay! I need a bazooka! Audible momentum ruck towards the haus, nay, nay, nay!

I offen the port and vue her rosey cellauto disappeering to the side and crunch – oh! sickening crunch of metal-on-metal once again, crumpling and folding, oh! so sickening sound o’the fem scorned finding un’s cheeky MG bort in the nakmath of her vacashun, then forwart geer, a screeming face out o’the driver side window, a “fuck you” flipper finger and off she speeds, uncontrolled dust following the demented harpy.

I run to mon MG. Dent, bonnet rippled up slitely, bumper hanging off, wing crumpled. Fick. Then I smile. I’ll do this on her eusurance. It being the principle o’the thing, of corse.

Nick appeers tranquilly from around a corner; he’s nik sure wot to sag.

I smile trying to crack th’anger and frustrashun freezing mon face.

“Didn’k pull her, eh?” he frags nonchalantly.

I larf. It’s a gud releese. “Alang tempus ago, much to mon shame.”

15 Legends

To get Marlene the evil traum out of mon system I denk I shuld begin mon enquiries about a horse. Aber I’ll have to use the company’s ald, fossil-fueled, white van. I get Nick to get it out o’the garage while I find an ald route map, and I leeve him surveying the damage to mon auto mit mouth offen and instrucshuns to call the garage.

A call from Geoff on the vidisplay so I have to pull uber on the E-614. “Yah yah, check mon files under Page and Morris and ye’ll find the desines. Hey, Geoff, I’ve just enjoyed a visit from Marlene. Did ye and her ...”

His face contorts into that ‘wot-did-ye-expect-vehn-ye-duo-broke-up-mien’ that I just shake mon tet. “Nie mind,” I sag and click off.

I drive stedily nordward, nord of Menshfeld and past Workshop. The numbers of cellautos and trucks dwindle considerably. Few live up this area, a land within fifty k o’the grand Wasteland to the nord. I take a rite on an eesterly strass off the main nord-sud bahn on the E-631 to Bilby.

The rue is very bumpy, warranting few if any repairs from Neu Rome alang this nordernly stretch. The Forest looms to the left of me, a vast bank of grunery on the horizon wich marks the provincial boundary and the end o’the eunion; planted, so I had hurd, in the yers nak the krieg mit allegro growing firs to provide a decorative boundary to the horrible Wasteland beyond. Should be called allegrowing firs, heh heh.

My destinashun is an ald livery yard I had hurd about from Alice, un of our ex-employees who had worked well mit us till she got herself a menshfrend, whose ambishuns for her were allegedly mer heimly. She had moved to the craft center to be neerer her mensh. I pull uber and give her a call on the viddifone.

“Alice! Robin hier. Groossees! I’m, uh, in th’area, mind if I cum by and chat? I’m, uh, doing sum resurch for a neu logo.”

“Sure, sure, cum besook. It’d be nice to vue ye.”

The center is a dopple of k nord of Bilby, just off the main rue and is advertised on billboards alang the rue as a craft village attracting a few tousand besookors a wock in the Second Season – all ‘olde worlde’, mit nieman savvying wot was ‘olde worlde’ about it. For every duo billboards for the center, there are duo warning of hi pollshun levels from the Wasteland: traces of radiashun and eco-terrorism dominating according to the info.

Following Alice’s comment that the place was an ald livery yard, I did sum resurch. I came across it in a few of Uncle Richard’s bucks on horse racing and hunting. Mer than a century ago, it had provided sum o’the best hunting and racing horses in the land; its reputashun had ridden hi, well in the late 20^th Century. It had produced a National Winner in 1966, a Derby winner in 1972 and a Cheltenham Gold Cup runner-up in 1983, much gelt being won on the betting. But the glories ended with the EU/2015 edict on horse ownership and racing, a decade nak mandatory passports had put control o’the horse markt into national and then eunion hands. All it tuk was a Commissioner of the Horse to hate horses. By 2040, Uncle Richard sagged, the sport and the chase had been all but burned out of every nanodrive in the land. Only memories remained and they only last three generashuns.

“Who now recalls the Two World Wars? The holocaust I explained to you? Stalin? Hitler? The Khmer Rouge? Al-Qaeda? Minsovic? Santos? Nay, all gone like the history of Napoleon, Ghengis Khan, and Caesar. Just long forgotten dust. And that’s why we’re doomed to repeet our mistakes, Robin. That’s why we’re on the edge of a new dark ages.”

I pull off the main rue and bump alang a winding rue following hand-painted signs on wooden boards to the center wich sits nestled in a low boundary of leylandi trees. Parking next to a muddy grun cellauto, I get out and sniff th’air. Feels cool and frish, despite offical reports o’the carcinogenic pollutants sumtempos drifting off the Wasteland. For a moment, I feel English, but it was a fleeting moment, and un that I culd barely analyse. I wunder if it had sumthing to do with the presence of a deep dark grun forest nunc a few ks to the nord.

Alice, stocky, lang curly brun haar, traging a hevy jacket, jeens and lether boots, is shliessing the kitsh-shop up for the soir. I wave madly in mon sumwot goofy manner – nie been able to manage a frendly wave – must work on that. I seem to flap madly as if I were dowsing a fuego. She returns the wave, a nice short wave – to the point, minimalist, not baroque. Inwardly nodding at her grander expertise in matters wavy, I wander over to meet her.

I luk around for clues on its ald business. The duo-ten or so portways facing inwards onto the cobbled yard, a tall stein archweg leeding to the felds. A miscellany of speciality shops are dotted around the yard wich I imagine to be voll of bad art and trinketty kitsh, sum sold locally produced mittel, krafts, landshaft paintings by elderly volk.

Alice is talking to a small gul and her mother and explaining about their purchase – an ald teddybar by the luks of it. The gul’s face is a picture of pure innocent delite, a liebly offen-ended offenness to the welt’s facts and apparent mysteries – ye culd tell her anyding and she wuld believe ye. That’s why the state tuk uber the shules. I wuld luv to paint her, I denk, but these tags the licence to draw yung kinder is ganz cherry and requires several monats of eudacashun and psychological assessment. So, few leuter paint kinder, or do as I have done and paint them on the sly for a high price. Despite all the licences and restrictions on kinder-interaction, kinder are still regularly kidnapped in the sommer monats. Nie from artists.

She must be around six; she beems from aur to aur and shakes her tet in glee, holding her silky rot bag mit colorful ribbons, while I wait for Alice’s attenshun. Parent and kind eventually move out of aur shot.

“Robin, so glad to vue a frendly face. Had a ficking fishy day and culd do mit a gud chat to klar mon tet a bit. It’s been pettygelt all tag.”

“Cappish.”

It begins to rain. Drip drip at first but gets hevier. I helf her get her stuff into the store and shliess shop, wich has a few shelves of pray-idols.

“Creepy stuff,” she sags noticing me vue them.

“Yah. Many leuter buy that sheiss?”

“Mer than ye’d wunsh for.”

“Sad. Anander symptom of our civilisashun’s fall. Is there somver we can sprick, dry, and mitout the kameras?” I frag nodding to a securikamera. Nie kenning vehr it fed thru to.

“Yah. I vergiss about them. Ficking everyvehr. Sure, sure, we can go to my raum.”

Her curly haar has flattened in the rain and sticks to her face; her cheeks are rot and cold from the wind, wich is getting up; she seems tired, her eyes dull and puffy. I have drawn Alice often in the past, using her face for a local company logo – frigos, I think it was; of course, it still has its wundervoll structure, the broad foretet and tod strate nose, the wide cheek bones and strong jaw, a sumwot handsum rather than refined beuty to her. Nunc she seems drained, creeses on her face mer evident than they need to be for sumun her age of three-ten-un.

We walk in silence around the ruck o’the buildings to anander row of renovated ald stables by the luks o’them. From wot I ken from th’ald bucks, I culd vue vehr the horses had been kept. I imagine the whinnying of horses, the clipclopping uber the cobbles, the building tension before an important race, the smells that I have nie kenned, the noises, conversashuns, the joys and frustrashuns, nervous horses, accidents, triumphs. All banished.

Silence is very unusual for Alice, who seems sumwot sullen, but wot the heck she probably needs sum tranquil space to carm down from the ficking fishy day she hinted at. I shweig.

“Fancy a tee?” she frags mer cheervolly as we reech her brun port. Sure. Alice’s heim is klein, mer klein than her ald place, aber it is hers. The port offens into a petee’ raum mit a wardrobe, a shlafcouch, a kuchen unit mit a worksurface voll of tins, a kettle, koffee, tee and sugar containers. A blanch frigo hums on the flor. Thru anander port, I can vue a separate toilet and shower raum.

“Gemoot,” I sag remarking on its comfy feeling. “A decent setup.”

“Gratis,” she replies trocking her haar on a towel.

I close the port hinter us. She flicks the kettle on and throws a dopple of eurotrade tee bags into a dopple of cups.

Nix mer forthcuming. I vue her move about and begin to relax.

“Wot’s wrong?”

“All.”

“That doesn’k meen anyding. Wot’s the sumthing that wirkly ficked ye off?”

“Gary.”

“Ah. Guard and general bonhomme?”

“Ye ken he’s in the Bavarian Province?”

“Yah ...”

“He’s found a ficking Helga he wants to marry.”

“Ah.”

Nik much mer culd be sagged for a few moments. Alice pulls out a pack of kippers from her shrank.

“Gratis.”

Sumtempos a kipper feels wirkly gud and totag, nak Marlene, it feels stupendusly gud. We shweig. She lites up and passes me her liter. Puff puff puff, mmm, the nico buzzes the lungs sumwot sharp.

I glance at Alice. A pale hand, lang fingers (so gud at drawing!) up to mouth, down again, puff puff, her ruck rigid mit anger. Anander glance. Her haar is still dripping from the rain; she has on a hard mien at the moment; her usually relaxed, caring features, and soft smiles, nunc hidden hinter a barricade of frustrashuns and disappointments.

She finishes her kipper and gets out anander. I puff intermittently on the un I have.

“I hurd this morgen. Sent me a ficking prerecked vidimage, can ye believe it? Shmuck. Culdn’k even do it face to face. Bastardo ritardo. I savvied sumthing was up last wock. He sounded cagey ... ye cappish? Evasivo, and that, ‘oh, I’ve got to go shnell, urgento,’ that ‘I’m shliessing the port on ye liebling’, voce. Hurd it before. Men. Ficking bastardos. All o’them. Present company excepted. Ye’re nett. Aber why’re they so ficking predictable? Denked I had sumthing mit him.” She puff puffs.

I make suitable noises. Culdn’k agree mer wirkly.

“Gary was ...” have to be careful hier, “… a Guard. Bit of a wayward eye, nik much o’the luker, bravado beyond his meens. Hope Helga the Horrid dumps him ald German style, ye ken, in the Rhine or sumthing.”

Bit of a smile from Alice.

“Savvied ye’d cappish, Robin. Jemmy’s aweg. Penelope’s aweg. Culdn’k wirkly talk to Deb about it – she’s too yung and nik menshwise, if ye cappish. Then the shop. Had psycho Anne from the euroburo this morgen mit all her fobias proofing mon bucks.”

“All in order?”

“Dock. Keeps me busy most nochs tho. Taxes and licences and retail exams cuming up again next June.”

“Ye’ll get there. Ye’re gud, ye ken that. A gud desiner vehn ye worked at Prius. Maybe ye shuld pense on that again.”

“Cheese grates. Yah, I will.” At last, the tite jaw loosens up a bit. We return to the general thesis of Gary’s title to chef bastardo and major-general sheisstet o’the yerr. I don’k tell her about mon fortune, aber I have to ask her about horses. The opportunity arises vehn she lites up anander kipper and offens a peteet fenster to change the air.

“Alice, wot do ye savvy about this building? Wot it once was and all that?”

“Ye meen a ferm?”

“Before the ferm.”

“A livery. Stables.”

“I denked as much. I souvened ye menshuned it once. I want to savvy mer about the stables. Wot do ye savvy?”

“Nik much.”

“Ye ken my latest traum? I want to ride a horse.”

She larfs out loud, but with a tinge of dissimulashun. “Nieman rides horses.”

“They used to.”

“Stories, fairy tales. We have leuter frag about horses every nunc and again. Kinder espeshly. Don’k ken vehr they heer about horses. They ... they are just stories, Robin.”

“I don’k denk so. Don’k give me the tourist sheiss.”

“Uh-huh. I meen, have ye ever even vued a horse in yur life? Big ficking dings.”

“Lots in pictures. Don’k frag from vehr.” Then I catch wot she had just sagged. “Ye’ve seen un, haven’k ye? A horse.” I stare at her and don’k let her occhies go.

“Drink?” she sags suddenly and a petee’ conspirashunally vueing me out of the eck of her occhies.

I nod and she opens up the shrankport again and pulls out a grand klar glass flasher of golden liquid.

“Ekt Scotch?! Magnifico! Vehr did ye get that? I haven’k shmecked un o’these since I was a nipper.”

“Dings can be got if ye savvy who to frag.”

“Ask whom tho? I ken nieman whom culd get me this stuff.”

“Sure ye do. Ye’re a business mensh.”

“Well, yetz I’m an artist.”

“Ye’re a business mensh, Robin, nay matter wot ye turn yur tet to.”

She pors a dopple of glasses. “Vehn ye have the meens, then ye can get anyding subito, as they sag. The Guards are useful. They travel mer. Trade mit the gypsies and ander travellers. Here, ye can have a flasher – for being a good boss, let’s say.”

“I’m honoured!” I hold the bottle and study its label – twelve yerr old scotch, bottled in 2008. “Phew! This I shall keep for a wirkly special occasion. How many Guards patrol the area?”

“Round here? Maybe a hundred. Gary said there was a tousand in total across the Forest. Keeping an eye on loitering leuter, he used to quip.”

“That all? Tell me about the horse ye saw.”

“Drink up. Bah gum, that’s sheiss heiss!”

She shweigs for a moment staring at the wall above mon tet. “Okay ... They sumtempos cum to the edge o’the Forest.”

“Wirkly?” I almost fall o’the seet. “Vehr? The Forest that’s neer hier?”

“Yah, neer hier.”

“Ye must sho me vehr!”

“I cannik ... The kameras, ye cappish. They’re ... all uber the place. Guards too.”

“How did you get to vue un?”

“Ye get neer the forest if ye’re, you savvy, getting romantish or sumthing, and the Guards leeve you in pax.”

“Gud o’them.”

“Greese their parms. Un noch, Gary and I were ... reposing ... and we hurd a crunching of twigs and hevy shuen on the ground. He had a torch. He denked it was un of his frends in the Guards. Aber there he was – a belly animal mit the sussest face you’ve ever vued, peeking thru the branches. He stayed for a while ...”

“Did you touch him?”

“Dock! We were reelly tranquil, but we got close and stroked his neck and his mane. Ye savvy, they have a wundervoll smell. A suss smell, of grass and blumen, the sun, and rain too.”

“I savvied it! I savvied it! So close to heim as well! This is fantastic ... but vehr do they all live? In the forest?”

“Nik sure. An ald frend of Gary’s, who was a Guard on the Danube border, kenned a mensh, who kenned a mensh, if ye ken wot I meen, who sagged that the Forest around the Eunion is nik very deep and is very patchy. Nik as much as manon tell us. He denked it was about thirty k deep.”

“And then the Wasteland?”

“Yah.”

“So they must live within that band, on its edges, or in klarings. Forest horses! They must have adapted ...” Mon mind is running with possibilities from wot I savvied of horses from th’ald bucks: they weren’k reelly forest dwelling creatures, ’ber maybe there were hills and vals where the Forest did nik creep and there they may forage and run wild. So exciting!

“It’s possible. Mer scotch?” She pors. “Secrets, Robin. The mer I heer, the mer I believe that there are many dings that just can’k be rite about ... I cannik tell ye. Wirkly I cannik. Sumthings are just nik ...”

“Nik wot?”

“Rite. Nik rite in the welt.”

I nodded. “Ye can sag that again,” I point to our ID carts. “Na, I savvy ye may be denking of a change, am I rite?”

“Sumthing’s got to change, hasn’k it? Fancy anander fume?” Her hand shakes as she offers me the liteer. A teer begins in un eye followed by a shnell sniff.

“Hier, ye sit down,” I sag, playing the host in her raum.

Outside, we can heer it has begun to rain. Thru the slitely cracked window, the wind and wasser thrash against the yard’s surface, wind whipping around the edges, hevy drops drumming on the stabling roof, geists of horses past. Alice flicks on th’ald heeter to take th’impending chill from the raum. Then she is all of a gush, teers streeming down her hidden face, shulders convulsing.

I take the whiskies uber to the couch vehr she sits, she is distrort, dishevelled, nervously teerful.

“I need to get him out mon system. I savvy kippers and drink aren’k going to do it, but gratis.” She casts me a shnell luk, grun occhies awash mit wasser. She takes the proffered amber fuego – we shoot our drinks ruck: quite bitter wirkly, nik the rite tempus o’the tag to be doing whisky but the wafty fuego warming th’inside and every vein, stirring the four humours –hee-hee, ho-ho, hah-hah, and heh-heh. I sit next to her and stare at the kuchen units, supressing a smile from my peteet joke, sketching out the still life o’the kettle, cups, flashers, and containers in mon mind while she sloly relaxes. A portrate of her from this angle wuld be poignant – the rejected fem, heim alone, the bitterness of an apparently serene face reflected in the sliced lemon on the kitchen counter, a sharp knife lying on the flor to tease the vuer’s mind.

“I’m handing mon notice in to Penny,” she finally spricks.

“Are ye sure?”

“I’ve been denking about it all monat.”

“I denked it was mer than …”

“Yah. Hadn’k vued him much anyway for a few monats. Always off on so-called officer’s trips. Didn’k wirkly trust the bastardo. Too much gelt and status and nik enuff staying power.”

“But wot about ye?”

“I’ve been luking at a job in Menshfeld.”

“Desines?”

She smiles. “Possibly.”

She luks out o’the fenster with a sad luk and then turns to glance at me.

“Why do ye wunsh to ride? Wirkly? So many leuter ken nix of it. We are mandated to sag nix of wot we vue in or around the forest. Nie mensh wuld believe us anyweg.”

“I’ve had a burning desire to lurn to ride for yerren. I denk it stems from a kindhood traum I had once, and wich I still traum of nunc and again. Anyway, I’ve denked it uber for a lang tempus nunc, et nunc have I the meens to do sumthing about it. Been holed up for too lang as a single mensh, moping around mon haus, following too much of a rootine.” Don’k savvy why I sagged that.

“Cherching for a wife?”

I larf. “Nay, nay. Had three lang relashunships, all ficked wirkly. Ex 3, whom I menshuned fruher, came uber totag and she wrecked mon antique auto and sped off.”

“Can’k imagine ye’d have that effect on all fems. Did ye miss out on yur yute?”

Referring to mon auto? Saggy fem. “Culd say that,” I respond. “Brite, nerdish, threw energy into diverse talents and hobbies. Only fems I’ve kenned were clingy psychos wirkly. Well, maybe Ex3 colors mon judgement there.”

“Wrecker of MGs. I’d be furius. I liked yur auto. I wundered why ye came in the company cellvan.”

“Needs a lot of repairing.”

“Desolay to heer that. Ye ken, nik all fems are like that.”

“Maybe. And maybe nik all men are like Gary.”

She nods. “Yah, ye’re rite.”

“Listen, I have an idea. Why don’k ye and I go to vehr you saw the horse? Take me there – I’ll ... I’ll recompense you. Employ yur services, if ye like ...”

“It’s raining.”

“So? If there are horses out there, they’d be in the rain, wuldn’k they?”

“Yah. But they mite nik cum. And we have to be careful.”

“I’ll give you ten tousend to take me. It’d helf ye get set up in yur neu place.”

“I wasn’k denking o’the gelt, Robin ... there are Guards too.”

“Well, take me down the lieber’s lane, or vehrever you and Gary were. Then let me wander off. I’ll explore. I need to do this. Like ye need to get a neu job. I’ll be careful!”

She takes a deep breth, holds it, and then releeses it. “Okay. ’Ber we must be very careful. The Guards patrol regularly.”

“Nie problems. Cum on!” I jump up and we hurriedly leave th’apartment and get into my van.

16 Forest

Alice and I drive out of Bilby past dilapidated hauses, whose occupants vue out to check the sound of an ekt-fossil-fueled van trundling past, and onto a track that Alice sags tets nor’ward and hence to the sud o’the Forest.

“Nunc, turn left hier,” she points to an opening between the high hedges and I swing the car onto a gritty track.

“Liebers’ lane, as ye called it,” she adds. “It goes on for a few k, stopping short, about a k or so before the Forest. The fields there are boggy this time of yerr. We’ll have to walk to the Forest; don’k want th’ald van to get stuck in the muck.”

“Fine by me,” I sag concentrating on negotiating the car around wasser filled holes.

We cross a small bridge uber wot Alice tells me was a canal and park at the end o’the track. The land around is flat and dark. Boggy luking, as she had sagged. Ahed of us, the grand Forest stands, a band of dark grun finalising the euroborder from the Wastelands to the nord. A Wasteland that has horses ... and ander animals we ken nie mer.

A grumbling noise to our rite disturbs our momentary reverie.

“Sheiss!” Alice suddenly whispers sharply. “Ficking Guard’s cuming. I kenned it! Kuss me! Shnell shnell!” I vue an armed, dark grun jacketed mensh driving alang on a cellquad bike, labouriusly bouncing over ruts and teting our weg.

I leen over and provide the requested mouth to mouth ... a very plesant experience that we prolong a sekund or duo nak the expected nock nock. This is like the plot in un o’the weeker novels I’d red in Uncle Richard’s diverse collecshun – the law enforcement agent just has to turn up, doesn’k he? Enjoying th’ironies and unwilling to leeve the kuss con lingua, I pull aweg and turn around to offen the window for the muddied uniformed mensh staring mer at mon van than the passionate embrace in front of his occhies.

He points his scanner at my badge and checks the details. “Bradbury, Robin. Okay. Melton district. Presently moving haus. Becuming self-employed, eh? All rite for sum. Why are ye this far nord in the province?”

“Wot does it luk like I’m doing?” I frag, politely, nik sarcastically, larfing to bring him into mon situashun. It is a delicate situashun nik to be too imbalanced with the kind of tirade I enjoy giving Kevin.

“Ah, of corse. Sags hier, ye were a director of Prius Printing. Any ander raison for being up hier?” Still the suspishush eye scanning the van.

I denk I ort to bring him into my conspiracy, so I leen out the window and whisper, “Luk, this is an old employee of mon, you can check her ID too, it’ll be on her employment record. We’ve ... uh ... been having an affair for a while, and we’ve nik seen eech ander for a dopple of monats ... cappish? Ye ken how it is.” I slip him a ten-tousend note to assist his denking alang these lines.

“Cappish,” he smiles. “Just if ye need to, ye ken ... uh, go for a walk or anyding, don’k go too far into the Forest. The Fence is on, and then nak that it’s radiashun. I have to tell ye these dings, ye savvy, just in case leuter get curius about the dangerus Wasteland. Sum do. And they don’k cum ruck.”

“No sorgs, officer. Nik reelly interested in much else at the moment.”

The officer grates me for the tip and goes on his plesant way. If I am reeding the situashun rite, and it is so difficult since all the neus channels are eurolicensed, most eu-employees wuld be quite amenable to the greesing o’the palm as Uncle Richard had said. Mit so many on the public payroll, corrupshun woud be increesing as their reel wages sink with the diminishing private sector’s ability to support them. And on such a lonely stretch, a nice crisp note culd go a lang lang way. It was the first tempus I’d used my funds to make mon life eesier in that manner.

I turn to Alice while we wait for the biker to disappeer.

“Dank ye,” she sags before I have a chance to say anything. “I think that kuss klared a few dings in my mind.”

“Glad to oblige,” I larf. “Nunc, shall we explore?” We get out throwing on the duo water-proof jackets Alice had chucked into the car and gingerly cross the muddy field, the rain dripping off our hoods and our feet slipping in thick mud.

“It culd have been anyvehr hier,” she sags vueing up and down the Forest edge. “It’s difficult to tell wirkly. It all seems the same nunc.”

“Well, let’s go in a bit, vue if there are any prints or anything.”

She becums nervous. “We culd just ask that Guard,” she sags skeptically.

“He’d be programmed nik to sag anyding, you ken that. And I’m nik too keen on splashing too much gelt around. Cappish?”

“Cappish. Let’s try uber there.”

We brek thru sum undergrowth to enter a vast canopy that holds off most o’the rain. It is cooler than any petee’ copse that I’d played in as a child, the smell so distinctly evocative of those tags of running wild around Uncle Richard’s property and exploring rabbit holes and the thick undergrowth so naturally conducive of kinders’ den making.

The ground is soft underfoot, boggy in sum places, dry in others; we move allegro, partly from feer of being spotted by another patrolling officer, partly from a sudden urge to ken. I begin jogging, Alice keeps pace, then I begin to run, run, run, and I let out a whoop of joy, “Yoweeeeeeeee!”

“Robin! Tranquil! Ye’ll attract attenshun! Ye nie savvy if there are ander guards around!” Her face is horror stricken, ’ber she can nik stop herself from larfing at mon kinderness.

“It’s soooo goooood out hier!” I laugh spinning where I stand, my arms flying around me, my face taking in the rain drops and the matted canopy of autumnally denuded branches. “For the first time ... I feel free!” At wich point I begin dancing, whooping again with joy; I pull Alice uber to me and dance a jig with her, tum-tee tumteeing the notes, skipping ruck and forth thru the neighbouring trees. “Whack-fol-de-dah!”

“I shuld cum hier mer often,” she sags when I stop prancing.

“It’s liebly, isn’k it? But nik the way to attract horses, if any are around,” I smile. “Cum on, let’s go further in.”

“But we may cum across the Fence.”

“I’m curius about that. The guard said it may be on. Fine. But then, you are sure you had contact with a creature that does nik exist this side o’the border? So that meens the fence must have gaps, or is in such a state of general disrepair, like much of our infrastructure, that horses can wander over.”

“Nik denked of that.”

“I studied logic.”

“Wot’s that?”

“The study o’the structure and principles of arguments.”

“Wot use is that?”

“Oh, my female deer, so much use! We shuldn’k live without it! Folk may call it common sense, but common sense often doesn’k get dings rite.”

She luks at me with big childish occhies.

“Never mind, we shuld press on,” I sag, and we once again we rush thru the woods, at a quick walking pace this tempus, following klarings and natural paths scanning the ground for any signs of big hoofed animals. Now and again we catch site of a petee’ track but no hooves.

“There it is,” Alice sags suddenly.

I luk up to see through the trees a dull shimmering net cast broadly across our view. Four-ten metres or so ahed. We approach in silence, cautiously, expecting any minute a shot or a siren to rent th’air with alarm. Strangely, as I get closer, I feel – literally feel – Eurosprick words fall away in my mind and the old language wich I’d been immersed in from a young age rise to ascendancy. Is it because I am physically approaching the Border – the beyond of wich counted for nothing from its description as the Wasteland?

There in front of me – the world’s end, its clarification or annihilation.

I ken there are other continents and peoples, we all ken that, but to the north we are all taught that there was nothing nak the war. Nothing survived or stood. It would be a Wasteland for a thousand years manon – they – said; and it was accepted as gospel. Just like the eusystem was good for us all and the Gospels were banned.

A metre from the fence we both stop. Alice is visibly worried.

“I keep expecting Guards to halt us,” she whispers.

“It seems tranquil.”

“Too tranquil.”

“No, the burds are cheeping, the rain is pattering. I wonder if it’s on ...”

“Don’k touch it! It’ll kill you!” she interjects before I culd reach forward. “And I’m nik keen on dragging yur body back to the car.”

“Mm. Good point. Well, let’s walk along it a bit and see what we find. Left or rite?”

“Rite. The Guards’ stashun is to the left. Sumvehr.”

We make our way through bracken, stumbling over roots and fallen branches, the late Third Season smells edifying. Nak a while, I see that we are making a circular diversion away from the Fence around a particularly thick vast array of brambles and bushes, when sumthing occurs to me.

“Of course! We’re luking in the wrong place. Luk, if we keep following th’areas o’the fence where we can access it easily, we’ll not find it broken at all, for nothing will have damaged it. We need to get in there,” I point to the thick bushes, “where roots and whatever else may have pushed the fence up or pulled it away from its poles.”

“But ye can’k get in there.”

“I bet we can.”

I had been luking intensely at every bit of forest at the Fence’s edge and I’d noted how dings grew close to the Fence but rarely rite next to it, as if the Fence were rooted in sumthing below the earth – concrete perhaps. But, if I was rite, sum branches may have become dislodged or have distorted the netting over the years, enough to crawl through. I explain this to Alice while we jog around the bushes.

“Okay, aber a horse culdn’k get thru.”

“Maybe not here, I agree. But elsewhere ... Very possible.”

“But don’k ye denk manon’d repair it?”

“Not the way dings are going ... Too many other expenses and distractions. Kriegs, border disputes. My Uncle also told me of riots breaking out around the eunion wich are never reported. Mite give the rest of us ideas.”

“I hope ye’re rite.”

I am not sure what she refers to. We find the edge and sure enough the roots of the nearest bushes and trees grow up from about a metre away from the Fence permitting a small tunnel for a person to crawl through.

“Cuming?”

“I’ll, uh, keep an eye out,” she sags luking reluctant to get down into the wet passage.

I drop down eagerly imagining I am a hound on a scent and I scurry along on all fours, twigs and thorns catching my jacket, but I push on.

“I’m rite! I’m fucking rite!” I call out. I have discovered a metre wide hole in the Fence, pushed out by a powerful tree limb whose origins I cannot discern from my position. I hear a scurrying behind me and Alice’s now inquisitive face peers through the bracken.

“Fick! Ye’re rite, duck,” is all she can say.

For a second or duo we squat motionless yet fraught with a pulsating excitement of touching the forbidden – the land beyond the Fence rite in front of us. Then I dive through the hole, straight through, rolling out on the other side and then turn back to smile at Alice.

“I’m through! It’s easy!”

“Perhaps it’s too dangerus ... maybe a Guard ...”

“Fuck the Guards. Come through, come through, it’s beutiful this side. Th’air’s fresher!”

Tentatively she steps through, pushing the top of the wire away with her hand and then standing up on my side.

“Hey, luk what you just did! You just touched the Fence, and it wasn’t on.”

She luks horrified for a second and then stands agape surveying the network of lines stretching either side of us.

“I don’k believe it. Why?”

“Too much effort, perhaps. Costs too much? Shorted somewhere? Perhaps not many people come to try it out any more. They probably did in the past and maybe some got killed and ... Or maybe it’s only on in sections. Several possibilities. Never mind, never mind, we’re on the other side! I wonder how far this Forest really extends?” I peer into the dense green umbrage ahead of us, or is the umbrage behind us? I wonder.

We stroll around for a few minutes luking at and touching the foreign trees – free trees, with free roots, and free leaves and fruit, I say to her.

“Come on, let’s explore.” I’m off before she has chance to disagree and I hear her behind me.

“Robin! Wait up.”

We walk in single file following the easier tracks in the Forest. I don’t wish to get too far from the Fence that we lose our way, espeshly if this Forest is three-ten k deep and a hundred wide. Three-ten thousand square ks to get lost in!

I halt and Alice pulls up beside me.

“It’s getting late. It’ll be dark soon. We shuld be getting ruck.” She is genuinely nervous, almost shaking with fear.

“You’re right. But now I know something that I didn’t before. And we’ve left the eunion. A very lovely feeling indeed!”

The forest is dense in all directions. I stand savouring its smells and colors, the movement of branches on the wind above our heads. I start to turn ruck but then see something in the corner of my eye; perhaps I’m mistaken, but it doesn’t luk right. I check again, scanning the view.

“Wot is it?”

“I thought I saw something.”

“Sumthing moving? Sumbody? A Guard? We’ll be in serius truble ...”

“Shh! Just wait a sekund. There, through there. Something in a tree. It doesn’t appear ... like it belongs.”

“Let’s go,” she urges.

“Nay. I need to check this out. Come on.” I encourage her on by default, marching in the direction of the object that I can now see dangling from a tree. It’s big, and in the greying light very hard to discern.

Till I get closer.

I slow.

My heartbeat slows to a pounding rhythm, my neck shivvers, I hold my breathing. Nay, no this can’t be.

Alice is right behind me but not luking ahead; she comes to my side and takes my arm.

“Don’t luk.” But of course she does.

She screams. I thrust my hand over her mouth to stop her. Who knows who’s around? Her eyes are fixed on the hanged man, whose own orbs have been picked out by birds, his hair and skin on his skull ripped, his cheeks rent open to show boney elements of the skull, his clothes are in tatters.

I feel her relax enough to take away my hand.

“Oh, Gommel,” she says, holding her own hands to her mouth, her eyes fixed on the drained corpse.

“Don’t luk,” I say uselessly, while I take everything in. A rush of fearful images and questions overwhelm and disorient, but I keep a focus to control the flow to think about it tarder.

“Who did this?” she asks.

“Guards ... perhaps. Perhaps he’s a criminal ... been hanged out here insted of in the jails as they normally do.”

“Maybe other leuter live hier and he was trespassing and ... was cort. Robin, we must leeve. I don’k like this at all. Let’s go.”

She tugs on my arm and I can patently see the sense in what she is saying; I’m feeling more than vulnerable myself, yet I’m reluctant to turn my back on the body. It possesses a strange familiarity that draws me closer. Alice tugs harder.

“Nay, cum ruck, cum ruck,” she pleeds in a sharp whisper.

“Stay here,” I say peeling her tight fingers from my arm. I’m released. I step closer to the body; five metres, four, three, two. I stop. All the time, I am searching the form, scrutinising every tatter, stain, and peel for clues; a stench hits my nose and I gag, but then I spy what I must have been luking for – the ID tag. It’s still on him, clinging on to a torn lapel. I luk around and see two long sticks and pick them up. I hear Alice ask what I think I’m doing; I ignore her and getting close to the man’s feet, reach up with the sticks and grasping the tag pull hard. The ID falls; I drop the sticks and bend down to pick it up, immediately retreating in case the body decides to fall on me. Not a good image. I edge my way back to Alice before I luk.

“Sheiss! No no no no.” My legs buckle and I stumble slightly.

She stands frozen next to me; I can feel her eyes imploring.

“I knew him, Alice. He was a lawyer in Melton ... he wanted to get out o’the business ... the system was taking away his independence. Making him one o’them. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!”

I’m angry, confused, afraid; a violent surge races through my arms and I spin from Alice and grab a long thick branch and thrash a tree with it – bam! bam! bam! bam! bam! bam! bam! It finally breaks and I fall down on my knees and I howl at the Forest. Her arms are around me; I tense, I don’t want them there; I know I’m not going to hurt her, but the rage still bubbles and it doesn’t want to be caged.

“Shush, shush,” she is saying in my ear – soft, dulcet fem tones that disarm my hatred and fear, “shush, ye told me to remain tranquil, remember? We don’k want to bring any mensh this weg. Cum, cum, let’s go ruck. There’s nothing ye can do.”

I nod, a controlled nod upon deep and a heavily breathing chest, as I put away my angry sword, laying the remaining handle of the branch on the ground, I get up and am led by her, whispering, “We brought nothing into this world, Billy, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. Forgive us our trespasses ... deliver us from evil,” words I had heard my Uncle speak, all jumbled up now in my untutored mind. Billy needs an absolution of sorts – desperately. But I cannot give it; I feel abandoned by all that I know and have learned, I am nothing and he is nothing, my anger nothing, his death nothing: it is the past and the past is now nothing.

We are still facing Billy’s swinging form, and we must be both thinking the same thing, for we edge sloly ruckwards till we’re a good two-ten metres away; then we turn and silently and hurriedly make our way back to the hole in the Fence all the while thinking someone may jump out and snatch us up for another hanging; we find it and rush through it into safety.

Alice turns to me as I get through and I hug her hard sinking my face into her hair.

“We must get aweg from hier,” she says and I agree. The light is fading fast and while being on our side of the fence gives us some relief, we move swiftly with fear, stumbling and crashing through the darkening forest in the direction of the auto.

We are only two felds to the east where we emerge. We still do not sprick; then we hear the chugging of un cellquad bike. Instinctively, Alice grabs my hand and we walk, like lovers do, swinging our arms gently in the soft rain as he approaches, trying to lighten our faces and release the tension flowing across our chests and shoulders.

Fortunately, it is the same mensh. He vues our mud strewn trouse and jackets, laughs for us, wishes us a gud soir, gives a plesant wave and chugs aweg alang his path.

“Probably the only interesting thing he ever sees around hier,” I comment opening the car port for Alice.

I get in and turn the engine on. Suddenly she breaks down, heaving from the chest. “Oh my Gommel, oh my Gommel,” she repeats and I lean over and hold her this time; she sinks her head into my shoulder and sobs for ten minutes before she sits back up.

“I’ll nie go ruck in there,” she says calmly. “Gommel kens wot kind of mensh do that.”

While I had been holding her, my mind bubbled with possibilities – not just of the grisly scene of Billy’s end, but of how the Fence may be in tatters in varius places, that there may be horses living in the Forest, or living along the Wasteland’s edges – the Forest and beyond may be somwhat more environmentally friendly than manon lets on, and how it may be possible to get there.

“I denk Billy’s body’s there to warn us to stay out, Alice. Wich means there may be sumthing valuable in there.”

She shakes her tet. “Then there’d be bodies all uber the place. Where in hell’s nom wuld they get them from?”

A worrying thought. “I may have an idea,” I mutter thinking of Frank.

“He may have taken his own life, Robin.”

“True. Possible.” I’m not convinced though. I feel sumthing sharp in my trouser pocket. I pull out Billy’s ID tag – I’d no idea that I’d put it in. His crumpled photo presents a twisted smile.

“Hey, scan this tag, see what it says.”

She switches her scanner on, points it at the cart and presses the reed button.

“Billy Blackstone. Deceesed. Cell auto accident on the Grantham Rue, 23-09-04. Cremated at Melton Euhospital 02-10-04. But that was a dopple of wocks ruck,” she luks at me confused. “He didn’k commit suicide then. He culdn’k have.”

I read her display.

“I was at that accident. It wasn’t Billy who died in it, but a young man called Frank. I’ve seen Billy since then – he read my Uncle’s will to me, we had drinks last wock with the Premier. Surprising, isn’t it, what manon’ll try to do.”

“’Ber they can’k fake manonstory ...”

“Manonstory’s been faked since the system was created, Alice. We live in one big lie.”

“’Ber a mensh’s tod. Nay, nie mensh can fake that.”

“I wouldn’t put anything past them.” I shook my head. Poor Billy.

Vestiges

Operimus te salutamus

EUROSPRICK VERSION

William Venator

PREFACE

Part Un: Bound Inward

1 Trauma

2 Introducshun

3 Uncle Richard

4 Bucks

5 Inheritance

6 Painting the town rot

7 Traums

8 Kinder

9 Grand Euroday

10 Gelt and Smeg

11 Joyce

12 Accountant

13 Yute job

14 Ex-3

15 Legends

16 Forest