The Obscurati Chronicles- Chapter 8

 

This is Chapter 8 of The Obscurati Chronicles, a novel I am currently serializing. See here for Chapter 7: https://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2023/03/the-obscurati-chronicles-chapter-7.html.

Wilfred Ursall was dreaming. The dream was similar to previous ones, a continuation of them. It was emotionally intense, powerful and highly lucid; as recurrences progressed more details had emerged. It began with Will walking across a plain of cracked, parched soil. The air was freezing cold, but it was also stale and arid. He was wearing only light outdoor clothing and so was shivering; his teeth chattered and his hands became numb. His mouth was caked from microscopic fines, wafted by the lightest of breezes into the air from the desiccated ground. He looked up into the sky; but there was no sky, just a ceiling of smog. It was grey and brown, mottled with cancerous streaks of black, from horizon to horizon. The lifeless sun clawed helplessly through the fume to emerge as a hazy splat of red; heatless and choked, as if drained by the effort it took to rise in the sky. Its height indicated that it was around midday, but the light was as dim as dusk.
    Will looked at his surroundings. He was in a smooth shallow valley with a river at the bottom. The edges of the valley were lined by a pair of stone walls with buildings behind them. He was about fifty yards or so from the river and so walked closer to take a look. There was a dozen yards of cracked semi-solidified mud bordering the river, indicating that it was a tidal river, or a river that has just receded from a flood. The soil which displaced with the ease of sand under his shoes gave way to the mud. The mud was thin, pure and clean; there were no pieces wood, waterweed, insects or anything else mixed in with it. The water itself was black and looked viscous, more like oil than water. It gave off a foul stench, like sewage or chemicals, and it looked as lifeless as the sky. The river was only about twenty feet across. He turned away from the river and looked at the walls bordering the valley. They were a dozen or more feet high and looked like they were made of stone. They ran parallel to each other and at one point a few hundred yards along they both jutted out into two broken stumps of masonry directly opposite each other, as if they were the remains of a bridge that once crossed the river. There were tall buildings behind the walls that looked strangely familiar to Will despite the unearthly setting. He walked up the slope of the valley to get a closer look. There were no breaks in the wall, but at odd intervals there were flights of stone steps leading up to the top of it; Will approached one of them. For some reason the steps didn't quite reach the ground and ended about five feet above it. Will had to clamber up onto the bottom step before walking up the rest of them normally. When he reached the top he had a far better view of his surroundings. He stood still and looked around himself and recognized where he was. His heart was thumping and his blood ran far colder than it would have from just the low air temperature. He was standing on the Embankment of the River Thames in central London; everything was so familiar, yet so horribly different. The river he'd seen was the Thames itself, shrunk to a mere trickle, a fraction of the size of its former flow. The walls bordering the valley had been the walls which lined both sides of the river as it passed through the metropolis. Around him were the enormous buildings that made up the vista of Westminster, but they were all derelict. Ahead of him were the Houses of Parliament with Big Ben towering over them, but the stone facade was crumbling and ruinous; the clock faces were gone leaving gaping black holes. The statue of Boudicca had been knocked off its pedestal and lay shattered on the ground. The stumps he'd seen were the remains of Westminster Bridge...

Will opened his eyes feeling completely awake. He lay alone in his bed at home, sunlight streaming in through the open window. Cool morning air filled the bedroom. Lareen was not there and Will could hear Annabelle chuckling and splashing in the bathroom as her mother bathed her. She must have been careful not to wake him as she got up. He walked over to the window, looked out at the garden and took a deep breath. The sun was shining and birds twittered. Even right now, just after seven-thirty, it was getting warm. Reality couldn't be more different from his dream. He frowned as he recalled it. This was the fourth or fifth time he had had a dream like that. What did it mean? Where did it come from? The crisp morning air put the dream out of his mind as he walked to Radlett station and caught the train into London. I wonder what my codename is. Will mused to himself. All spies have a codename, usually something completely random, "Agent COWSLIP" for example. However this was never revealed to the agent himself. He passed the time on the journey by trying to guess his own, hoping it was something complimentary. He caught the Tube to Edgware Road and walked to the embassy in Portsea Place. He went straight to morning meets and then to his office where Nora had a pot of tea ready for him. She had already opened most of his post, being instructed to do so for all correspondence with a Lancine government frank; however she always left anything unmarked alone. She put the intact envelopes in Will's inbox. There was one in handwriting that looked vaguely familiar although not recognizable. It had a Lancine stamp and postmark, but its envelope was clearly bought privately.

    Will opened it and read. The sender's address and handwriting immediately identified them as his paternal grandmother. Will frowned in curiosity; he was not very close to his grandmother and they hardly ever exchanged correspondence. He began reading: Dear Wilfred, I know you and I don't often communicate, but I badly need to speak to you, speak about a matter of enormous urgency relating to your brother. He has become very closely associated with Cassius Dewlove. I thought it was just a working relationship, but it's got far worse than that. He needs our help; he needs YOUR help! Please contact me as soon as possible. Lots of love. Grandma.
    Will sighed and folded the letter. "What do you want me to do about it, Grandma?" he muttered to himself. He pulled out a piece of loose-leaf and began writing a reply.

He left Lancombe Pond station and walked through the City. He had agreed to meet with his grandmother at her house and felt some trepidation. He had not seen Loyl Ursall since the New Year and even then he had hardly spoken to her. It wasn't that he disliked his grandmother; he didn't. It was just that they lacked the bond that she and Robin shared. He headed for her house in Yewfield. He hadn't been there since he was a small child, but remembered where it was; it hadn't changed much. She greeted him with forced affection and made him tea. "Wilfred." she implored him. "Can you help, please? Can you talk to him, make him see sense?"

    "I'll try." he replied after a pause.
    She frowned. "You sound unsure."
    "Grandma... it's just... I know how terrible Cassius is. However, I cannot force Robin to do anything. If anybody could do something then maybe it would be father." He stopped. He had to be very careful what he said from here. "Grandma, I can't untangle the knot tied many years ago by father and mother. They lowered the drawbridge and rolled out the red carpet for Cassius when Robin and I were mere children, a man who openly abused Robin in front of us all. Robin is totally alienated from father as a result. If father would apologize, make restitution, show Robin a methodology that would prevent such a betrayal from ever happening again; that would be far more influential on my brother than anything I could say... Deep down, Robin really wants his father back."
    Loyl sighed. "Then could you speak to your father about that?"
    He nodded.
    She sighed. "Thank you, Wilfred."
    Francis Ursall was delighted to see his elder son and greeted him warmly. He insisted on opening a bottle of Scotch, a habit they had got into since Will had used the method to extract information from him a few months ago. They had a cheery conversation; however, his manner changed when Will raised his grandmother's concerns. Francis frowned. "Why do you say that, Wilfred?"
    "Robin needs our help. He's getting too close to Cassius. Their friendship isn't... natural."
    "In what way?"
    "He hardly ever leaves Cassius' side. He hardly makes a single move without Cassius' approval..."
    "Well isn't that to be expected?" snapped Francis. "Robin works for Cassius. He has been given a precious opportunity by Cassius in a very senior position at Dewlove Associates."
    "But Cassius is only his boss. I don't spend every waking moment with Netts, do I? Sharing meals, staying over..."
    "Robin is not you!" Francis looked away and pretended to rearrange the bottles on the dresser, signalling that he was uncomfortable with the subject.
    Will paused. "It's not healthy behaviour for anybody."
    "Cassius is not anybody."
    "I meant for Robin."
    Francis sighed. "Wilfred, I am one hundred percent sure that everything with Robin and Cassius is fine."
    Will groaned. "You always say that about everything! Could you please just drop the mindless optimism and listen to me?"
    Francis turned back round. "If this was anybody other than Cass, you wouldn't care! You just don't like Cass, don't you?"
    "Why should I? Why do you like him so much?"
    "Because Cass has been the closest and most supportive friend this family has ever had!"
    Will chuckled scornfully. "And how often has he visited you since mother kicked the bucket?" The words were out of his mouth before he realized what a mistake it was to utter them. He winced.
    Will's father took a step back and gasped. His cheeks reddened and his eyes bulged. "Do not refer to your mother's death like that!"
    Will pondered for a moment whether to back down and apologize or double down; after all it was too late. "Why not, father? That is the exact terminology she used when she talked about your mother's impending death, and she didn't wait till she was dead before doing so!" This was true. Maartje Ursall's hostility for her mother-in-law was a palpable force, almost a solid object. When in her presence Maartje was tight-lipped and stern faced, but when alone with the rest of the family she was very vocal and unabashed about her antipathy. For example, one day after a visit to her house, Francis had expressed on the drive home how much he admired his mother's new dining table. His wife responded grimly "I'm having that when Loyl kicks the bucket." Nobody in the car answered her. Francis showed no discomfort with what Maartje had just said concerning his mother; nor did he at any other time, and she made many similar comments. It became a bit of a maxim of hers. A hundred statements of intention for her began or ended with "...When Loyl kicks the bucket..." She seemed to believe that Loyl's very existence was somehow standing between her and some kind of future utopia. Will was momentarily glad for Maartje's sake that the afterlife didn't exist. It would torment his mother's soul for eternity that her hated mother-in-law had outlived her.
    "You ask too much, Wilfred." said Francis. "You cannot expect your mother to live her life according to average standards. She suff..."
    "'She suffered so much everyday'!" interrupted Will rolling his eyes. "I know, father! We all know! Why..." He stopped. What was the point of repeating a debate with his father that he had had before. He was tired of wining debates with his father and his father just carrying on oblivious. Robin gave up. It was obvious Francis was not going to help him. He felt a wave of sadness as he looked at his father talking to him. Increasingly as time passed, when in the company of his father, he felt a disturbing sense of non-presence. It was as if his father's mind was really some kind of phonograph that just repeated phrases mindlessly. Francis Ursall's eyes looked increasingly blank; not dead and necrotic like Cassius Dewlove's, but functional and flat with no depth behind them, like a cinema picture. Will realized this was not because Francis had changed; he had not developed senility or schizophrenia. It was Will who had changed. He used not to notice this sad absence of personality, but now he did.
    Will decided to cut out the middle man and speak to his brother face-to-face. He knew from their brief conversation at their father's Barony ceremony eighteen months earlier that this wouldn't be easy. He had hardly seen Robin since then. He called Dewlove Associates as soon as he arrived in London and was told that Robin was still in the United States. He was due to return home early the following month. Later in the day he was walking home from Radlett station when he saw a signal, a sandwich wrapper tied in a knot and shoved between the upright struts of a bus stop shelter; not something anybody not in the know would ever notice. Will checked it everyday until it became as much a part of his daily routine as shaving. His rendezvous changed every few months and currently it was a bench in Regents Park. As always, he went there the following day at six PM. It was a fine summer afternoon so Will decided to walk from the Lancine embassy. The rendezvous was in the Inner Circle where dozens of benches stood in file along the pathways. His instructions were to place a blue handkerchief in his top left pocket and choose a bench as close as possible to ornamental gardens at the north arc of the Circle. Obviously he had to make sure he was alone on the bench. The park was busy at that time of year and in that weather, and many people walked to and fro past him. Will watched them carefully. He knew that eventually Hargreaves would walk up and sit beside him. They would converse in a low voice, sometimes changing the subject to something irrelevant if a passer-by came close enough to eavesdrop; only this time it was not Hargreaves. Will couldn't suppress a start of curiosity and alarm as a stranger came and sat beside him, a thin young man about his own age with deep-set eyes and thick black hair. "Comrade Ursall." he began.
    Will didn't reply, wondering if this was a trap. Was this a British agent come to try and expose him?
    The stranger smiled, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Well done, comrade; you are well trained. Fear not. Hargreaves is... unavailable today, so I have come in his place." The man had a different accent, German or Austrian.
    "Who are you?" stammered Will.
    "My name is... Otto."
    Will grimaced thinly, partly from relief and partly from amusement. He knew this was not the man's real name.
    What followed was the kind of conversation Will had never imagined he would have with a controller. Otto spoke for a long time about personal and irrelevant matters. "My cousin runs the Odeon cinema chain; did you know that?... I live in the new flats in Lawn Road? Have you seen them? No? It's a very avant-garde building in Hampstead; groundbreaking new architect..."
    Will wondered if Otto was psychologically analyzing him.
    Eventually Otto got to the point. "Comrade, we are interested in the experience you had in that Berkshire village. We'd like you to find out more."
    Will chuckled. "You mean the rubber doll?"
    Otto paused. "Yes please."
    "Seriously?"
    Otto raised his eyebrows. "Just some loose ends we'd like to tie up."
    "What do you mean?" At once he realized he shouldn't have asked. Agents are not meant to know everything that goes on in the organization they work for.
    "Comrade..." began Otto with a frown.
    "I know! I know! You can't tell me. Apologies, Comrade Otto."
    Otto waved his hand genially to dismiss the matter. "Ask around, find the right people. Catch them when they are vulnerable; like you did with your father."
    Will nodded. The meeting ended after that and he went home. He wondered on the journey what on earth that strange conversation was about. He once more pondered the possibility that this was some kind of test. It struck him like a lightning bolt of fear while he was on the train to Radlett; they may suspect he that had been "turned". He bit his nails as that train of thought continued. It all fitted into place. He'd even heard discussions about this at the spy school, although it was not a part of the formal curriculum. Something he had said or done had alerted his controllers and they now were afraid he was secretly working for British intelligence. There were numerous methods of exposing double agents and one of those was to use other agents to plant coded or fake material for him to assimilate and see if he took the bait. Another was to check the quality of the genuine information he was providing against independent sources. One clue an agent might have that he was being scrutinized in this way was that the nature of his handlers' requests suddenly changed. He may be given crazy sounding instructions that appeared to serve no purpose. What could a double agent expect if he were unmasked? Bolshevik counterespionage was notoriously merciless to traitors. They would probably kill him. Will sat back in his seat and breathed deeply, regaining control of his nerves. He reminded himself that he was not a double agent. He was a loyal servant of the Soviet Union, dedicated to the cause of spreading socialism across the world. The best thing he could do was simply cooperate with whatever trial his overlords had decided to inflict upon him until he had proved himself innocent. By the time the train had pulled into Radlett station his panic was over. He merely felt a frustration that during this investigation he would be taken away from his main task, being a real spy. He hoped this wouldn't take too long; and he also wondered what it was about him that had rung alarm bells in Moscow. Before he tucked his newspaper away in his briefcase he happened to glance at a Signum ad: Look to the east, but not too far east. Signum. WYAGIGA.

Will sighed as he saw his father's writing on the envelope. He opened it. Dear Wilfred. Could you please respond as soon as possible? Mabel and I are very worried. We both found your behaviour last week upsetting and baffling. Mabel felt very intimidated by you. You perhaps don't realize why you said what you did... Francis Ursall waffled on for a few more sentences. The previous week Wilfred had walked out of Mabel's house in West Bridgford after an explosive argument. Francis had invited his son to join him for dinner with Mabel. It had started pleasantly enough. They made casual conversation with each other and two of Mabel's sisters who had also turned up, but it didn't take long for tensions to rise. Francis spotted it long before anybody else did. He had a hair trigger warning sense of anything that might rock the boat, throw normality off its groove and generate "hassle". He stiffened up and started interjecting obtrusively into people's conversations. He regularly did this, appointing himself an informal chairman or moderator in any social situation. If the smooth train of interaction even threatened to drift off the tracks into uncomfortable subjects he would blurt out "Let's not talk about that now please!" raising his hands sideways in his typical pacifying gesture. Francis was a man addicted to the status quo. Within it he found comfort and stability. Maintaining it was his only goal. He prioritized it even above the life and safety of himself and his family. Will recalled the incident at his grandparents' home with the faulty boiler. If somebody in a social situation handed Francis a bottle labelled "poison" he would drink it eagerly just to prove that "everything is a hundred percent fine!" Will also realized soon after meeting Mabel that his father had not done what Will had predicted. Will had assumed Francis would find some unspoken liberation with his wife's death, but he had just gone out and searched for another woman as domineering and controlling as Maartje Ursall. Although the nature of Mabel and Francis' relationship was uncertain to all but themselves, they acted like a romantic couple. Maybe it was another part of the psychopathology epidemic within the bourgeoisie, but Will realized that the promise of being bossed around by a woman was the very thing that attracted Francis to Mabel. It was a huge turn-on.

    The problems began when Mabel started talking enthusiastically about a book she had recently read, Pan-Europa by the Austrian aristocrat Richard von Coudenhove-Kalergi. "I've got the first English translation." she bubbled. "It's amazing! It proposes that Europe should no longer consist of separate countries, warring and competing. Instead we should become a political federation, like the United States."
    "How likely is that to happen?" asked her older sister.
    "It will take a few decades, Marge; but one day it will happen. It will probably be called the 'European Union'. Imagine how powerful and prosperous such an empire would be."
    If Will had been in a position to speak sincerely he could have said a lot about the benefits of such integration for the purposes of the socialist revolution, but he knew he had to play the part of the little Englander. "I think that sounds awful, Mabel." he put in. "It will probably turn into some kind of dictatorship, offering no freedom of choice to its citizens and will put their culture at risk. If there were ever a referendum allowing us the choice to remain within or leave such a regime I would vote leave."
    Mabel turned to Will with a savage scowl. She bared her teeth and her close-set eyes gleamed so much with irritation that they seemed to turn into a single beam, a lighthouse of primitive rage. "What would you know!?... You've never run a business, Wilfred!"
    "So what would you say to somebody who had run a business and agreed with me?"
    "I doubt if that would happen." Mabel replied.
    "Well then you have an unfalsifiable hypothesis, which is a fallacy. All I have to do is produce one person on my side who is qualified to comment, according to your standards, and you are proved wrong. You also made an ad hominem attack which is another fallacy..."
    Mabel interrupted with a screeching proclamation. "Anybody who would vote to leave the European Union is stupid!"
    Francis Ursall did not even pause for a second before interjecting: "Let's talk about the play we went to see on Saturday..."
    As his father droned on, Will was burning inside. The sheer arrogance and injustice of Mabel's attitude cut him like a blade. She had said absolutely nothing to refute Will's points at all. She had begun by discrediting him personally and then called him stupid; and what was worse was that she seemed unaware or uncaring about her own dishonesty. Will stood up. "Right... erm... I shall wish you all a pleasant day and be off."
    "What?" breathed his father with a look of terrified dread. "You're leaving?"
    "Yes, I'm going to spend the rest of the day with people who don't insult me. Goodbye." He walked towards the door without looking back. Nobody said a word and he did not see Mabel's expression. Predictably his father chased after him. "Wilfred! Wilfred! Please come back!"
    "Why, father?" Wilfred shrugged on his coat.
    "Mabel was just being forthright."
    "Forthright?... No, she was being downright rude and you sat there like a bloody sheep, as usual, and said nothing to support me."
    "Please, Wilfred! Don't leave! Come back!"
    Will looked into his father's eyes and saw genuine terror. Francis had literally fallen off a social cliff. He sighed. "Father, I'll stay on one condition; you stand up to Mabel. You defend me! We go in there together, right now, and you tell her in front of me and everybody else that she was out of order with what she said to me."
    The look in Francis' eyes at that moment filled Will with a mixture of incredible contempt and pity. "Wilfred..." he whimpered. "I can't!"
    "Then I'm going." Will replied quietly and walked through the door.
    "Christ!" hissed Francis and he collapsed to his knees, burying his knuckles into his eye sockets.
    Before he boarded the train home he stopped at the station post office and penned a letter to Mabel. He was so filled with energetic fury that he felt he could do nothing more until he had finished writing. Dear Mabel. Obviously we disagree on the whole European integration issue... He then explained his feelings at her reaction to his dissent. He scribbled on. Regarding your general conduct towards me, it goes beyond just debating one issue. Nobody is a rubber ball that you can just toss against a brick wall again and again in the reassurance that it will not break; although some members of my family pretend that I am just such. Maybe this has led you into the delusion that I am. This may explain your disgraceful behaviour towards Robin at Christmas... This referred to the moment when Will first began to have serious concerns regarding Mabel. Like many families, the Ursalls had a tradition that they all got together on Christmas Day for a celebration and the renewing or reinforcing of their relationships. This usually took place in the Ursall house in East Mansfield, and Will and his family attended as usual. The atmosphere was tense from the offset. Loyl did not turn up; in fact she had avoided all family gatherings for the last two years. Nobody seemed to mind and Francis in particular was forcibly nonchalant about the absence of his mother. Her replacement, if you could call him that, was Cassius Dewlove. He accompanied Robin unannounced. Nobody objected, especially once he started skilfully waving his charm around like he always did. Francis was overjoyed to see Cassius, as he always was. He trotted around him all through the pre-dinner drinks like a besotted dog. After the turkey and plum pudding they retired to the lounge where the next part of the Ursall Christmas tradition took place, the passing around of gifts. Over the course of the festive season a pile of presents grew up under the Christmas tree, all wrapped neatly in coloured paper and labelled with the recipient's and donor's names; glowing with enjoyment potential. Then Francis sat in a corner and handed them out one at a time. He kept a large rubbish sack beside him to collect the waste paper so that it wouldn't be scattered on the floor, possibly being mixed up with the actual gifts. It was a precious annual half-hour period where everybody smiled and nobody frowned. Francis pulled an oblong parcel wrapped in red crepe paper. He looked at the label. "From Robin to Mabel." He passed it over to his friend.
    Mabel opened it. It was a book. "What's this?... Stories from the Stars- an Anthology."
    "It's a series of tales about adventures in space." explained Robin.
    Mabel flicked through it for a few seconds. Then she scowled with affront. "Oh, no thank you!" She tossed it onto the coffee table. Nobody flinched. Francis remained smiling; it was as if nothing happened. Robin also showed no offence; he and Dewlove swapped glances, giving each other half smiles.
    Will remained outwardly composed, but inside he was infuriated and horrified. He kept his emotions in check with great difficulty. Lareen was the only one who spotted his inner pain and put her hand over his. After the relatives and close friends had started to disperse to their homes or hotels, Will got the chance to speak to his father alone. Francis was slightly drunk and had stepped out into the back garden for a breath of fresh air and a cigar. Will followed him and unloaded. His father retorted "Wilfred, why is this a problem? Mabel was just being forthright. She didn't want the present and said so."
    "No, she tossed it onto the table as if it were a tray of shit! She did it in a very insulting manner and she did it in front of everybody in the family! How dare she!?... HOW DARE SHE!?"
    Francis blushed. "Don't swear in this house please, Wilfred!"
    "Since when has it been acceptable to behave like that? We both know that if Robin or I had done that to her you would have been mortified! The Christmas party is supposed to be a happy time of family intimacy and Mabel has violated that! And your only response is to try and normalize it!"
    His father hissed through his teeth. "I think you need to show a little bit more tolerance, Wilfred. You may not be aware, but Mabel's husband used to mistreat her badly and..."
    Wilfred groaned. "And don't tell me! She had a bad upbringing too!"
    "Life with other people is not all sweetness and sunshine, you know, Wilfred. And you are the only one complaining here. Robin didn't seem to mind at all, did he?"
    "That's because he's been brainwashed by Dewlove!" shouted Will.
    "Do not accuse Cassius like that!..."
    He had left after that, strutting away and seething in frustration. That had been over six months ago. The quarrel in West Bridgford was last week. He read the letter again and then folded it back into his envelope. He went to his study and began to attempt a reply. ...Father, why will you not simply admit that this family keeps two sets of books? Robin and I are the silent generation; we are not permitted to speak. I never heard you tell mother when she fell out with Briggs "Briggs found your behaviour upsetting and baffling. He feels very intimidated by you." No! It's only bad when Robin and I do it! We are always the bad guys in every situation like this. With mother or the Dutch family their upset was always endorsed and taken seriously; it used to be the central issue of the entire family until it was resolved. You have never explained to us why this double standard exists, never!... Will put his own letter in an envelope and opened his desk drawer to find a stamp. As he posted the letter he felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief. The previous six days had been very unpleasant. Being apart from Francis, incommunicado, had been mental torture. He hadn't expected that. The reason was obvious, but it still surprised him. Will still cared very much for his father; but his feelings were different from what they used to be. He felt almost protective towards Francis, as if it were now his job to take care of him.
    Will was very relieved to receive another letter from his father two days later that was reconciliatory in tone. Francis made it clear that he wanted badly to maintain his relationship with his son aside from "your break with Mabel". Will wondered what he meant until he looked at a second letter in the same post from Mabel. Its tone was very different: Wilfred, I will no longer be visiting your home or your family home in East Mansfield whenever you or your family are present. You are not welcome in my home... She went on expressing her affront and indignation for a few more sentences. She even accused him of threatening her, which he had not done. Will shrugged as he read, but was surprised. He knew Mabel would be unhappy with his walkout the previous week, but he had not expected the ferocity of her reaction. She also showed a complete lack of introspection. It did not occur to her to question her own role in this conflict. All she understood was that Will had been hostile to her, she was on the side of the good and he was on the side of the bad. It was a dismayingly simplistic and egotistical way to interpret the incident. She was about forty-five years old, like Francis, but her letter reminded him of a scorned teenage girl. Will felt a huge amount of relief. He had reconnected with his father and had not backed down to Mabel. He was determined not to apologize to her. He knew he had done nothing to feel ashamed of and now that he had released the anger he had been bottling up for half a year, a surge of liberation flowed though him. He patted Annabelle on the head and smiled to himself. He looked down at her as she ate her breakfast rusks and then over to his wife. He was free and empowered.

In September 1923 Will was recalled to Lancombe Pond for a week, for a training session and appraisal. One day, while he had an afternoon off, he decided spontaneously to pay a visit to his grandmother. This was not something he ever planned or contemplated before. The reason why, he surmised, was that his partisan position on the family political landscape had shifted since his clash with Mabel. He was now more on Loyl's side than he had been previously. This same process had also brought him closer to Robin. The two brothers had even met once during the last two months and had exchanged letters. After some contemplation he decided not to do what his grandmother had asked. He had already questioned Robin about his friendship with Cassius Dewlove and it had been a waste of effort. The only hope for his brother, as it was for the entire bourgeoisie suffering from their self-generated debauchery, was the revolution. Only socialism could save him now. He entered Loyl Ursall's street and approached her front door. He rapped the door knocker and waited. There was a long silence and then he heard somebody moving around inside. He expected the door to open, but it didn't. This was strange. His grandmother's home was small; it shouldn't take long for her to get to the door. He frowned and knocked again. After another few seconds he called out. "Grandma?... Grandma, are you there?"

    The latch clicked and the door opened slightly. Loyl's face peeped through. "Wilfred... What do you want?" She was almost whispering.
    He had never heard her speak like that. "Er... I was just passing and wondered if you were in?... To be honest, I sometimes feel you're the only real contact I have with this family."
    She paused and then opened the door with a sigh. "I'm sorry, Wilfred, I'm about to go out... But do come in."
    Will entered the property and saw two large leather suitcases placed on the floor of the lounge. Loyl was dressed for travel, with thick stockings under her knee-length woollen skirt and a cardigan. A coat was draped over one of the suitcases. "Are you going out for a long time?"
    "I'm... er... going for a little holiday in Skegness; just a few days." She avoided his gaze.
    Will noticed an oblong mark on the far wall showing where a picture frame had once hung. He recalled that it was a photograph of her parents, his great-grandparents, Jesse and Freda Jerkson. She treasured it enormously. He pointed at it. "Grandma... are you taking that with you on holiday?"
    She looked at the wall and blushed. "Erm... no, Wilfred. The frame cracked so I've taken it to Cartwright's to get it fixed." There was a long silence. "Wilfred, could you excuse me. I have to go in a minute and need to get ready."
    "Of course. Goodbye, Grandma. Have a good trip."
    "Goodbye Wilfred. Thank you." She slammed the door urgently behind him as he left. As he walked away down the road in Yewfield he saw a tall white-haired man approaching on the opposite pavement. This street did not have a high volume of traffic because it was a cul-de-sac in a residential area. Nobody entered it except for the purposes of access. The man was walking quickly and with a focused gaze. He appeared not to notice Will. He was carrying a large suitcase and wore a rucksack as if heading off on holiday. Will stopped as he realized the man looked familiar. He crouched behind a parked car to watch the man covertly. Robin used to have a friend who looked very like the man walking up the street, although Will could not remember his name. He was a Dutchman who worked at the hospital in Nottingham and he had been at his mother's funeral in 1919. The man stopped at Loyl's house and knocked on the door. Will gasped as the door opened and the man entered immediately, as if his grandmother knew him and had been expecting him. He heard the click as the door shut. Will turned and kept walking. He shrugged; her life was her own business. However, he vacillated between amusement and shock at the thought that his seventy-three year old grandmother might be about to indulge in a dirty weekend. He giggled to himself.

Will left his home at 7.45 AM and walked to Radlett station. He stood on the packed commuter train all the way to Kings Cross and then stopped at a cafe on Tottenham Court Road for a cup of tea. Before he stood up to pay and leave he placed two teaspoons in the used cup. He didn't know who was watching him, but he knew somebody was. The signal worked every time and sure enough at 3.15 PM Hargreaves showed up at the rendezvous, ten minutes after Will; at the moment it was in a garden square in Pentonville. It was a warm October afternoon and dry leaves rustled like shingle in the light breeze. "I managed to get it out of Eveslowe last night." began Will as soon as his controller had sat on the bench. "He was pretty squiffed at the In and Out. He says it's all true, but they're not from Mars."

    "Where are they from?"
    "Nobody knows, or at least Eveslowe doesn't." The whole process had taken about a month. Hargreaves gave him additional coaching to select the perfect target. Somebody quite old and senior with military connections, a few personal secrets and as many vices as possible. Col. David Eveslowe had recently retired from the War Ministry and regularly indulged in more than his fair share of brandy and cigars. He had spent twenty years in India before the War and had commanded the 8th Pathan Rangers in Rawalpindi. Will's social influence made it easy for him to be signed in at the Naval and Military Club, the "In and Out", an exclusive urban retreat in St James' Square. Its members included such luminaries as the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Kent. He spotted Eveslowe at the bar and asked him for a light, making the excuse that he had lost his matches. The Colonel responded in a very friendly manner. He was a cheery and genial gentleman with a sloping back and wide girth. He had a huge moustache, wrinkled throat and Sandhurst accent to match; a portrait of a typical British imperialist. He was wearing his well laundered dining jacket, although it showed the wear and tear of hard socializing. A Persian rug of medal ribbons adorned his breast. Within an hour of their conversation Will was fairly convinced the old man was a homosexual; another important qualification for the list. Will told Hargreaves there was no way he'd be able to seduce Eveslowe, and the handler laughed and reassured him that would not be necessary. Instead all he had to do was be friendly and happy to listen for a long time to the old army officer's tipsy ramblings. Within a few days they were de facto friends and Will dropped in to see him after that about three times a week. They told each other all kinds of stories about each other over drinks and dinner. The Colonel was clearly enjoying the attention this handsome young man was giving him and was eager to maintain it. After about three weeks Will spotted an article in The Times while he was reading it on one of the leather settees; it was about a new observatory being constructed in Yorkshire. This was his opportunity. "Dave, old boy." he said. "Take a look." He handed his contact the paper.
    "Ah!" Eveslowe puffed on a Havana as he read. "Outer space eh! The endless enduring mystery of it. Stars and planets. What a fascinating fancy, Wilfred, my boy."
    "It's a pity we don't have a telescope here, Dave."
    "Perhaps we should get one installed in the garden. I'll suggest it to Patel... How many stars can we actually see in the middle of the Smoke anyway? Let's go and have a look." He clambered shakily to his feet. It was now 9 PM and he had polished off half a bottle of Remy Martin. He and Will walked out into the empty courtyard. He looked up. "Bah! Too much streetlight and smog."
    "What a pity." sighed Will in the same tone. "I love the sight of a clear night's sky, cloudless and pure."
    "I know, Wilfred, I know. In India there was no shortage of such spectacles." He became wistful. "I wish you could see it, Wilfred. Night patrol in the Northwest Frontier, up in the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa mountains at the dead of night. No sound except our feet trudging through the ankle-deep snow, a million stars in the cloudless sky, the thinnest of crescent moons, clear as a sickle."
    Now was the moment for his next move. "You should be a poet!... I say, Dave... Do you suppose there's anybody out there, looking back at us?"
    He laughed. "Oh certainly, old boy!"
    "Certainly? You have no doubt?"
    Eveslowe looked at him in a fatherly way without desire. "None whatsoever, dear boy. You see... No, no, no; I really can't tell you."
    Will put on his best frown of curiosity. "What do you mean, Dave?"
    He hissed through his teeth in an intoxicated expression of awkwardness. "We have proof, Wilfred."
    "Does this have anything to do with what's going on at Peasemore?"
    The old man gasped and took a step back. His face flushed as if Will had struck him. "Wilfred... where did you hear about that?"
    He shrugged modestly. "Word gets around."
    Hargreaves watched a starling pecking the path near his feet. "And did he tell you more?"
    "Yes." Will related some more details for a few minutes.
    The controller suddenly stood up. "Let's take a walk, Comrade Ursall."
    "What?" Will stood up beside him. This had never happened before. Contact with his controllers had always been stationary and in a public yet secluded place. In fact at the spy school he'd been warned about movement, that it could look suspicious in the wrong circumstances. "Comrade Hargreaves. I think we're supposed to remain seated during our conversations..."
    "This is an unusual occasion, Comrade Ursall." Hargreaves lifted his right arm in which he carried a copy of The Times. It was draped over his wrist and was arranged in such a way that only Will could see the pistol clasped in his hand.
    "No!" yelled Will and jerked back.
    "Keep your voice down and stand still!" commanded Hargreaves in a voice only slightly raised. "Now, walk towards the St John Street gate very slowly. I'll be just a few feet behind you. Do not run or make any sudden moves; alright, Comrade?"
    Will nodded. He was panting hard and his legs felt weak, but he did what his controller said. A car, a non-descript Morris, was waiting by the gate with two men in the front seats. Its rain cover was up. "Get in." said Hargreaves. The agent and controller sat beside each other in the back seat. Will was about to look at the two other occupants when a hood was roughly tugged over his head totally obscuring his vision. His heavy breathing became more laboured through its textile. "Calm down, Comrade Ursall. You are in no danger."
    "Having a gun pointed at me is not exactly safe!" protested Will.
    "Sorry about that, comrade; it was necessary." The car drove for about half an hour although, of course, Will could not be completely sure of the time. At one point Will heard the ambient sounds that leaked in change in a way that gave him the impression they were crossing one of the bridges over the river. He hoped they were heading for the Soviet embassy in Kensington, in which case this would be a happier situation. On the other hand this action against him by his handlers could be something less official and therefore probably more violent. This was exactly what Will had feared. They had tested him and he'd failed. The worst part was that he knew he was innocent. Could he persuade them? He was afraid they would torture him, in which case he knew that he would eventually say anything they wanted him to. Or maybe they had already made up their minds, in which case...
    "Alright, we're there." said a new voice from the front seat. The car turned a few times and then stopped. "Let me guide you, comrade." said Hargreaves. Will got out of the car with the blindfold still over his head and walked with Hargreaves holding his arm. "There are four steps up here... That's it." A few yards further the handler ordered him to sit.
   Hargreaves pulled off the hood and all Will's senses were assailed at once. He was sitting at a small wooden table in an office of some kind. There was a cardboard calendar on the wall, a filing cabinet and a pair of desks facing each other. The wall was painted dark brown and the windows looked out onto a street with a red brick wall opposite, although Will couldn't make out many of the details until his eyes had adjusted to the glare. Sitting around the table scrutinizing him were Hargreaves, Otto and a third man whom Will had never before seen. Hargreaves had laid the pistol on the table, but his hand rested on it; a silent warning to Will not to try and flee. Despite the nature of his presence there, the men were all smiling. "Would anybody like some vodka?" asked the stranger. He had a Russian accent and a big bald military look to him.
    "Four glasses please, Yuri." replied Otto. After the drinks were all poured he raised his. "Vashe zdorov'ye."
    "An kkomyt." Will replied and took a sip. He felt calmer now and slightly rebellious. He had learned enough at spy school to realize now that these men would not do him any grievous bodily harm, at least not at this meeting. A round of vodka meant a little chat, not a beating or shooting. They wanted information from him and were hoping to make him feel relaxed and uninhibited.
    "So... er... Comrade Ursall." began Hargreaves. "I must apologize for the rather brusque form of this invitation, but we need to speak to you urgently. Could you please tell these comrades exactly what Col. Eveslowe told you last night?" He produced a notebook and pencil from his pocket.
    Will took another sip. The vodka was quite high quality, Will thought; way better than the paint stripper dished out to the Red Army. "He told me that the Peasemore laboratory is being run by a contractor, Nash and Wallace."
    "We know all that already." interrupted Hargreaves.
    "I'm answering your question." responded Will in a cold voice. The vodka had already given him some confidence. "As I was saying, N and W are the owners and operators of the lab in Peasemore. It was established by the War Ministry after the invasion of Lancombe Pond and the retrieval of artefacts from..." His speech ground to a halt.
    "Go on." said Otto.
    "Artefacts from an extraterrestrial civilization."
    His three captors exchanged expressionless looks.
    "This confirms the information gained from Francis Ursall, my father; the information I have already given you which you did not believe." He paused to glare at them. "A... spacecraft crashed in Lancombe Pond in 1918. Eveslowe heard about it in a meeting at the War Ministry a couple of years ago. Nobody knows where it's from. The same goes for the biological entity also discovered at the crash site. What Eveslowe then told me was that this was only one of several similar incidents that have taken place over the last several dozen years in the UK. He also knows of one abroad, in the United States."
    "What did he say?" asked Otto urgently.
    "That there was a crash in 1897 at a place called Aurora. He thinks it's in Texas. In this case the craft was captured and is in a vault at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington DC to this day. The dead pilot was buried in the local cemetery."
    The men sat back. "What!?" exclaimed Hargreaves. "The cemetery in Texas?"
    "That's what he said. The villagers gave the creature a funeral. It's there right now."
    "Did Col. Eveslowe tell you where he heard this information?"
    "From a friend of his who was the US Army attaché during the War."
    Hargreaves was scribbling in his notebook. "What other incidents does he know about?"
    "He appears to have less information about the others. He knows of them primarily through rumours circulating in the Ministry. He mentioned that one happened in Ireland around the turn of the century. He doesn't know many details, except it sounds similar to the one in the Pond."
    The men made a silent confab again. Otto cleared his throat. "Tell me, why have we not heard about all this in the newspapers?"
    Will shrugged. "You'll have to address that question to a newspaper editor, Mr Otto." There was a long pause. The bald man called "Yuri" had not spoken since he'd served the drinks. He stared hard at Will. Will broke the silence: "Comrades, my wife will be wondering where I am by now. We are due at a bridge circle by six o'clock."
    "We won't detain you any longer than necessary." smiled Hargreaves. "We just ask you for your understanding... You see, what you have been telling us cannot be true, yet we have not detected any disinformation attempts independently of your contribution. We can think of no theoretical purpose for such a thing. So, obviously we are going to feel suspicious of you."
    "I can't comment on what makes you feel suspicious, Comrade Hargreaves. You alone are qualified thereof. I have done my job. I have delivered to you the intelligence I have discovered. I don't know whether or not this intelligence is true or false, only that it exists. I am not lying to you, I swear."
    They all looked at him darkly.
    "Do you really think I am making all this up? Why would I do that?"
    "A different loyalty?" answered Otto with a half smile.
    Will felt a chill. Those words were a stock phrase in the intelligence community for being a double agent. "Comrades... I am not a traitor!" They continued to sit and stare. "I fought in the civil war!" He started speaking in Russian. "I left Oxford for that! I gave everything and risked everything for the revolution!"
    After another long pause Otto said: "Alright, Comrade Ursall. We have no further questions at this point."
    Will was blindfolded again and led back to the car. This time the drive was much shorter. They took off the hood and let him out of the car on an industrial road with warehouses on either side. When he saw the railway station in front of him Will realized he was in Stratford, which meant the safe house he was frogmarched to must be somewhere in the borough or not far beyond. He caught the train home.

The doorbell rang the following Saturday morning just after 9 AM. Will was still in his dressing gown with a slice of toast in his hand as he walked up to the door. Through the frosted glass of the door window he recognized a police uniform. He froze; not in fear, he knew Lareen and Annabelle were safe because they were in the kitchen a dozen feet from him. Had somebody he knew been involved in an accident? What if...? He almost yelped aloud. Was it something to do with his abduction a few days ago? He continued forward and opened the door. A single officer stood in front of him in a black tunic and custodian helmet. "Good morning, sir. Sorry to bother you. PC Blaine, Herts constabulary. We've been asked by the Lancombe Pond force to help investigate a missing person."

    "Who?"
    The man looked at a notebook. "A Mrs Loyl Ursall. Do you know her, sir?"
    "Yes of course. She's my grandmother?... You'd better come in."
    "Thank you, sir." The policeman took off his helmet as he entered the vestibule of the house. "Mrs Ursall was reported missing two weeks ago by some friends after she had failed to attend a Spiritualist meeting several times in a row. Inquiries at her home indicated that she had been absent for several weeks before that."
    Will told the officer about his recent visit to his grandmother's house.
    The policeman scrawled in his notebook with a short and solid graphite pencil. "I see, so she had packed her bags."
    "She told me she was going to Skegness for a few days... Come to think of it, she was acting strangely."
    "And this gentleman you saw her with; do you know anything about him?"
    "No, except he worked at the main hospital in Nottingham and that my brother was very close to him. You'd be better off talking to him."
    "Oh, we will, sir." replied the man. "Does the name 'Dirk Walsander' mean anything to you?"
    "No, except it sounds Dutch. That might have been his name, if I recall."
    "We believe that is the name of the man who went too see your granny, sir."
    "So, presumably if he and my grandmother went on holiday together you'll find them together now."
    "A very long holiday though, isn't it, sir?"
    Will nodded.
    "It may interest you to know that we have it on good authority that Mrs Ursall and Mr Walsander were seen boarding a train together in London for Harwich."
    "Well... they may have been going there to catch the ferry. My family have done that many times because of our Dutch relations. My mother was..."
    "They were indeed, sir. In fact we had a call from the British embassy in the Netherlands confirming that both of them passed through customs at the Hook of Holland on September the 20th... Do you know of any reason why your grandmother might abscond abroad with a strange man without telling her family?"
    Will shook his head.
    "Very well, sir. You've been very helpful. Thank you and have a nice day."
    After the policeman had left Will called Francis Ursall. "Father, grandma has disappeared!"
    "Has she?... Oh."
    "What!? Is that all you can say?"
    "Well, what else am I meant to say, Wilfred? You know your grandmother does what she likes when she likes. She will come home when she feels like it. We can talk about it then... At least while she's away she won't be meddling with your brother's head for a while."
    "Well, could you please just be cooperative with the 'DF when they come to question you?"
    "Of course I will, Wilfred; but I am a busy man..."
    Will put down the receiver with a snort of derision. Lareen came up to him with an open copy of yesterday's Evening Standard in her hand. "Will, I couldn't help overhearing. Did you say your grandma's friend is called Dirk Walsander?"
    "Apparently." He shrugged.
    "Look at this." She handed him the paper and pointed to an article. Will read it: News update from the Binnenhof. There is a new representative in the Second Chamber of State in the Netherlands following the recent by-election. The 19th district is now managed by a newcomer, Mr Dirk Walsander of The Hague. Mr Walsander has an unusual background for a politician. He has lived in Britain for a number of years. Previously employed as a hospital porter in Nottingham with no formal qualifications. The hospital was not available for comment. His New Freedom Party was only founded three years ago by Frans van Timzen. Mr Walsander was elected leader only two weeks previously. This barely complies with normal practice yet the Dutch constitution... "Goodness me!"
    "Maybe it's not him. Is his name common in Holland?"
    "Fairly, but look: 'employed as a hospital porter in Nottingham'. That narrows it down quite a bit."
    "And so that's where we'll find your grandma, I suppose."
    "Well, I hope so."

See here for Chapter 9: (coming soon).

Kingdom of the Wicked by Helen Dale

 

The purpose of Ben's Bookcase is not literary criticism, but the technical aspects of my own literature and sometimes how it relates to others like it. I criticize books on the other HPANWO blogs. Therefore I'm not reviewing Kingdom of the Wicked (Book One- Rules) by Helen Dale as such; it's more an analysis of its setting, which is similar to my own. I first came across the author on Podcast of the Lotus Eaters, a video channel I watch. She is a co-host on some of the shows along with Carl Benjamin, "Sargon of Akkad", see: https://lotuseaters.com. She is Australian, but lives in London and I suspect that the reason for her emigration was a slightly milder version of Max Igan's political exile. A few years ago she wrote a historical novel set in Ukraine during World War II that had a very "revisionist" theme. This led to a storm of controversy. She published under a nom-de-plume, but was doxed. Kingdom of the Wicked is an alternative history, hence my interest. It tells the story of Jesus Christ, but in a strange parallel universe in which the industrial revolution occurred about two thousand years before it did in our own world. There is an author's note at the end which explains everything and is actually worth reading before starting the narrative. It also has a glossary of terms and language translations. There is a distinct turning point between the real world and hers, a pivotal happening. In Roswell Rising it is, of course, the decision not to publish the cover story for the Roswell Incident on the 9th of July 1947; in Helen's story it is the fate of Archimedes of Syracuse. In the real world, Archimedes was killed in 212 BC during an attempt to capture him while the Romans attacked Syracuse. It is possible the Roman Republic were afraid of the famous wartime applications of his inventions and wanted to pick his brains in a similar way to Project Paperclip in more recent years. However when a soldier tried to arrest him, Archimedes was studying at his desk and supposedly replied: "I'm busy working! Go away!" The solider then stabbed him with a sword and killed him. What if Archimedes had lived?... Then the Romans would have learned so much from him. It's not often appreciated that all the technology necessary to start the industrial revolution had already been invented by the late first millennium BC, mostly from the Greeks in the Mediterranean region. In fact a very old book about Archimedes' influence has recently emerged, see: https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x7zrjn4. Why then did we have to wait two thousand years for industry to break out in England? The answer is partly the availability of knowledge, but also it was economic. Slavery made the cost of labour so low that it was not worth anybody's while to advance technology. It was only when it was abolished (by white men believe it or not!) that the steam engine, coal burning and farming machinery suddenly made sense. (The plummeting cost of labour is why slavery is now being reintroduced, see: https://hpanwo-voice.blogspot.com/2013/09/tory-boy-wants-more-slaves.html.)
 
This is why in Helen Dale's setting, by the time Jesus comes along the Roman Empire has reached a level of technology equivalent to the 21st century West. There are railways, computers and cars. The author has skilfully combined that element with other cultural and religious traditions that are very different to the real modern world. The absence of Christianity and other modern philosophies has made their world culturally alien to our own and would be, despite the advanced technology, far more familiar to a person from the real historical period. For example, family and gender roles are essential and are sharply defined. Maternity hospitals are women's places and military bases are men's places. There is no feminism or "simping". The Romans eat dinner lying on couches, which of course they did in real history. In fact one of the non-Roman characters remarks on how it gives him indigestion and wonders about why they do it. The Romans and the other nationalities have their own attitudes to love and sex, which is the same as in the real world and was very different to modernity. There is also a divergence in the law and trial procedure, which is, as you know, an important element of the Gospels. Helen was trained as a solicitor and so inserts a lot of legal details into her story. I feel very annoyed when I read a historical story in which the characters are essentially modern people transplanted into the past, meaning they have modern attitudes and speak in a modern way. In the Roswell trilogy, I modelled the dialogue of the Quilley family on contemporary films of the era. As readers will know, they sometimes use politically incorrect language and have opinions about racial and sexual issues that would get them dragged out of a modern university by security guards. Helen has done the same with her story. You might think books like Helen's, and indeed my own, are just thought experiments, but the latest cosmology accepts the possibility that parallel universes actually exist, see: https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x7zopda. Also, the change from one outcome to another could have an incredibly small and apparently insignificant cause. In Helen's universe the turning point was whether an aging genius lived or died when he did. In mine it is the publication of a single news article. I haven't decided yet what the turning point will be in The Obscurati Chronicles serial. No matter now trivial the event, it can lead to very different futures and these futures diverge as time progresses. I think it would be nice to live in the Roswell universe, to see the world eighty years after Disclosure. Imagine what Helen's universe would look like twenty centuries after the high-tech Holy Land. Kingdom on the Wicked is published in two volumes by Ligature First, see: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36333061-kingdom-of-the-wicked-book-one.

Last Copy of RRis First Edition

 

I have come across a book I had no idea I still owned, a copy of the first edition of Roswell Rising- a Novel of Disclosure. You can see it is visibly thinner, 294 pages as opposed to the current 382. This is because the font size is just 8.6; I enlarged it in the second edition to 9.1. You'll see the first edition is only £9 as opposed to the current £10. I also made a few changes to the content; added and altered a few sentences and corrected a few typos. The second edition is the one currently on sale, although I changed the cover and added some end matter twice; when I published Revealed and Redeemed to promote the sequel and then the trilogy, see: https://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2019/01/rising-and-revealed-new-covers.html. It made me feel strange to find this first edition copy. I didn't know I had any left and this is probably the last one. What shall I do with it? I'm tempted to sell it; if I do it will be for a suitable price, seeing as it's a collector's item. I might just keep it as a souvenir of the best writing project of my life so far.
See here for more information: https://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2016/08/roswell-rising-is-here.html.
And: http://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2017/10/roswell-revealed-is-here.html.
And: http://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2018/12/roswell-redeemed-is-here.html. 

Everything for Everyone- PIW in Fiction Update

 

See here for essential background: https://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2023/12/piw-in-fiction.html.
Radical literature is not united behind China Miéville it seems. In recent years there is something of a fictional movement of utopian futuristic stories that quite openly speculate about what a post-capitalist world might be like. A good example is a book I've just read, Everything for Everyone- An Oral History of the New York Commune, 2052 to 2072 by M.E. O'Brien and Eman Abdelhadi. This might confuse you because the dates in the title are decades in the future; and the publication date for the book is August 2022, which makes more sense. In fact this is a novel which doubles up as a pseudo-historical textbook. It consists of a set of very vivid and believable dialogues with leaders of a predicted socialist revolution that takes place after an economic collapse and Third World War. Some of them were creators of the New York commune, a parallel government similar to the Paris Commune of 1871 or the Soviet network set up in Russia by the Bolsheviks. The latter eventually grew in power by attrition to the point where it overwhelmed the existing government. This fictional future revolution follows a similar path except it is far more successful. Instead of stopping at the borders of one nation, it spreads all over the world to the point where the only counter-revolution left is in Australia, the land of "real blokes"... where else? Some of the elements of this imaginary society are very woke and don't bear thinking about in my view; transgender children, brain implants and designer drugs. There are also a lot of anti-white and anti-Christian sentiments in the narrative. Despite this, the parallels that I describe in the background article to the very different Conspiraspherical equivalent remain. Some of the interviews are with people who spend their whole lives on party cruises around the Indian Ocean; others write memoirs about a war in Israel, some of the more mature ones are trying to heal environmental damage caused by the ancien regime. One of the best segments is the testimony of somebody trying to restore the salt marshes in the east coast of the former USA. This is vaguely reminiscent of the "League of the World Earth Healing Organization" in my Roswell trilogy. This book is actually part of a tradition that is older than you might think; it can be traced back to William Morris' News from Nowhere in the 1890's, see: https://hpanwo-voice.blogspot.com/2017/03/news-from-nowhere-by-william-morris.html. It is praised by some established mainstream sci-fi authors like Kim Stanley Robinson of whom I am a big fan, despite not sharing his leftist politics. Another contemporary author who seems to fit into this institution is Cory Doctorow; and it is to him I will be turning next in my research. Source: https://craphound.com. What an amusing name for a website!

Roswell Trilogy Sales Problems

 

The illustration above is a page where you can buy my book in Trinidad and Tobago. The price is 221 of whatever currency those sun-kissed beach-and-palms Caribbean islands use; is that cheap or expensive? They've got the author's name wrong; I am not
"Ben Emlyn-Jonesannette Lemaire". Somehow they've managed to create a portmanteau of my name and my cover illustrator Annette Lemaire. This means searching under that term will not lead you to any of my other pages on the site. Source: https://trinidad.desertcart.com/products/64772019-roswell-rising-a-novel-of-disclosure. All three titles in the Roswell trilogy should be available all over the world. In most countries there is a local print-on-demand supplier, circumventing the need for imports, meaning the books should not be much more than the recommended retail price of £10. Unfortunately they very often are. Prices on Amazon vary almost minute by minute, but most of the time when I look on the UK site they are £12 to £14, well over the RRP. As it happens right now Redeemed is dead on a tenner; and ironically, you can get to it by clicking on the Rising selection list. I have reported this fault to Amazon. I have since been contacted by two separate individuals in the space of a week saying that my books are very hard to get hold of in Australia. One showed me a screenshot pricing them at 38 to 45 Australian dollars, that's around £20 to £25. This must mean that the domestic POD supplier must be down. I had some problems with Australia a few years ago in which one of my titles was taken off the market until I had adjusted the RRP; which I did and the book was subsequently put on sale again. I have checked with the printers and the book is listed as currently available worldwide. Unfortunately as publisher I cannot decide what price a retailer chooses; so unless there is a distinct and manifest problem with the supply outfit I cannot solve it, and there doesn't seem to be one right now. However I will continue to investigate. In the meantime here are some links to all three titles on the best value platforms I could find, see: https://www.ebay.co.uk/itm/295127978254 and: https://www.whiterainbookhouse.com/products/roswell-revealed-ben-emlyn-jones-9780954222956 and: https://scifier.com/roswell-revealed-a-world-after-disclosure-ben-emlyn-jones-9780954222956/. Also, if you like, just email me at bennyjay74@gmx.co.uk and, if you're okay to pay postage and packing, I will send you signed copies of the books personally.

PIW in Fiction

 

While researching my Apocalypse Soon talk, see: https://hpanwo-tv.blogspot.com/2020/08/apocalypse-soon.html, I came across one China Miéville, an author of science fiction and fantasy novels, many with an apocalyptic theme. By apocalyptic I mean the correct sense not the popular one. An apocalypse is not necessarily a time of destruction at the end of the world, but also a moment of revelation, exposure and unveiling, after which the world will be forever transformed, possibly for the better. Miéville's apocalyptic ideas are entwined with his political opinions; he is a Marxist. As you know, I couldn't be more opposed to him politically, but I still find him a fascinating individual; I've read four of his books. In a 2016 live lecture somebody in the audience asked him: "This is a question that occurred to me. You were reflecting on the complexities and difficulties of constructing an impossible world in such a way that the reader can accept the social logic and go with the flow and enjoy it. So this has a political kicker to it; is it feasible to envision a socialist world in that kind of way? There are some classic socialist utopias and some very unconvincing ones; some very naff ones, but is it possible to do that in a way that is not just plausible, like propaganda, but complex, enjoyable and challenging in all the ways that you and we want your fiction to be. Have you ever thought of doing that; and if not, why not?" China summarizes the question for whoever didn't hear the audience member and then responds thus: "To do the depiction of socialism essentially, to do the depiction of a post-capitalist world? Okay, well my go-to answer here is no. I don't think it is. And not only is that radically different for me from saying that it's impossible that it could be created, it is constitutive of believing that it could be created. I am not a person of faith, but I don't take it as a criticism to say at all, I take it as diagnostic to say, because I am a socialist. I am someone committed to a post-capitalist social world and my relationship to socialism is, and this is by no means unique to me, is eschatological, it is part of that kind of millenarian tradition. This is a connection which has been made many many times, but I take it very seriously, very constitutively seriously. It's not just a question of saying one wants a better world, one wants the Big Rock Candy Mountain, although I do not in any sense denigrate the desire for the Big Rock Candy Mountain. (Audience laughs.) I'm quite serious. I think those kinds of dream utopias are quite important, in many cases because of their absurdity; but in this particular question, and this goes back to totality for me, and this is where there is an absolutely rational kernel to the connection between the sort of chiliastic (Christian end times) tradition and the Marxist tradition. It is that if you take seriously social totality, one of those components, along with Mickey Mouse and the exchange rates, is the human mind. That doesn't mean that we are robots programmed by an oppressive totality; but it does mean we are absolutely conditioned by that totality and that we can't think outside it, which for me is one of the reasons that politics often, and I don't mean this in a sectarian fashion, a certain type of anarchist politics, a certain type of ultra-left politics, a certain type of hippie politics, which is predicated on prefiguration is a category era for me. And it is both to honour the totality of capitalism and to take seriously the radicalism of the potential of an alternative, to say that we can't think beyond it. It is in the process of changing it that one might change oneself and start to become someone capable of thinking beyond this shit; and so for that reason no. I think any depiction of a post-capitalist totality will always banalize, domesticate, fail, be unrealistic, be trite or be dull, because it can only ever be a pre-emptively hobbled dream predicated on the now, on what Trotsky calls the social lie; and in a 'post-lie' world we won't be these people so we will be dreaming different dreams and dreaming them in a different way. So it is precisely about the importance of getting there that is why, and people often refer to Marx' reference about not writing the recipe books for the cooks of the future, which this is why he (Karl Marx) refused to describe socialism. It's a little bagatelle, it's a little bon mot, but I think there's a very important truth to it. And that is why, and I won't go into the specifics because it would comprise spoilers, but you have basically just got at the key point, the nexus, of Iron Council (one of China's novels); so no, I think this is undepictable and unthinkable." (The "Big Rock Candy Mountain" is a reference to George Orwell's Animal Farm. It is the name of the animal afterlife preached by Moses the raven and it summarizes Orwell's very MBA-ish attitude to the church.) Source: https://youtu.be/HBf28LBGsso?si=0IyNnMNukwkq7IkA&t=2775.
 
This got me thinking, because I have the same fascination with comparative eschatology as China Miéville does. How would we writers of fiction, who are also conspiracy theorists, depict the post-Illuminati world? Or can we? Readers of my Roswell trilogy will know that I end Roswell Redeemed, the concluding book, with a final chapter that is a bit of a postscript, set two years after the previous one. Following the death of one of the main characters, the others travel to Roswell to explore some of their family's history. It is a short, relaxed and atmospheric passage which provides a summary of the story's themes, but also a hint that the future might not be a utopia; although I maintain a tone of optimism and hope. The final line of dialogue is: "So that's it. One story ends and another begins." I was breaking the fourth wall there a bit and addressing the reader directly, something I only ever did at that point. Also I was implying the same thing China was saying, although I had not seen his video when I wrote the end of Redeemed. Excuse the spoilers, but by the end of the story the real UFO Disclosure has finally happened and the influence of the Illuminati has been permanently eradicated from the earth. That is when this "new story" begins, the one after the Roswell trilogy which I have never written and probably never will. Rising, Revealed and Redeemed are all about "getting there"; they describe three imaginary yet feasible and predictable stages in that long process, but what is there? Will it simply descend into another New World Order because of the inevitable problems of "just human nature, mate!" Will we suffer from the "boredom of paradise", the theory that in a perfect world there would be no problems at all and therefore no challenges, no stimulus, nothing to strive for and no adversity to overcome? For most people, especially men, those things are essential no matter how negative they are as a current experience. They give our life texture and colour. However, do we know for sure that those things would be absent in a post-Illuminati world? The PIW will probably have many surprises for us. Even now I can predict humans will still get into conflict; it is not just in our biological nature, it is one of the fundamental dialectics of the universe. We will still have love-rivalries and family feuds, for examples. There will still be natural disasters like earthquakes and hurricanes. We may face the threat of hostile extraterrestrial civilizations... real ones this time! Despite this, I predict that we may end up fighting manufactured miniature wars. These would be completely limited to the participants and would essentially be nothing more than very violent sports, but they would happen and there would be real death and injury involved; gladiatorial combat on a much larger scale. And that connection reminds us, many historical cultures have done just this. I address this set of concepts in a scene earlier in the novel when the Quilleys travel to a party to celebrate the 1970 New Year. Clane gets into an argument with his daughter Siobhan on this issue:
"Aren't great days great?" said Clane cheerily as he tucked into his Irish stew.
    "Are they that great?" Gina responded with semi-mock-dubiousness.
    "Yes!" he answered playfully and gave a litany of all the reasons to be optimistic. "The economy is booming! We haven't had a stock market crash for four years. The wars around the world are calming down; even England is stabilizing."
    "What about those outside Disclosure nations?" asked Siobhan.
    Clane waved his hands dismissively. "Oh, they'll see the light eventually. They'll probably reform into social democracies in a few years. They'll know it makes sense. I really think the decade to come will be far better than the decade we're leaving."
    "I hope so." said another passenger, a man they had been talking to during the journey from New York.
    "I know so! This could even be the start of the post-Disclosure equilibrium."
    "What's that?" asked Brendan.
    "Something I read yesterday in The Washington Post by John Fields; you know, the guy who presents History Today. He put out this dynamite piece called '23 Years' because it's the twenty-third year since Disclosure. He said that basically all the problems caused by the Disclosure revolution have now been addressed and fixed, and as a result we can now reap the benefits of Disclosure itself without having the burden of its drawbacks... He quotes me five times in it." Clane winked arrogantly. "We have the new tech well on the way to full development and integration. We're delving further and further down into the Illuminati files every day and we'll probably be at the bottom within twelve years or so. There are already development proposals for this 'post-new tech' you might have heard about."
    "I've heard the phrase." said Siobhan.
    He lowered his voice. "Well I can't say too much now, but this promises to be incredible even by the standards of what we've seen so far. It's largely to do with the medical field."
    "I'll pass judgement when I've seen it, dad." said Siobhan with a half-smile.
    "The point of all this is that we might be emerging out of the transitional period between the pre and post-Disclosure worlds. Fields quotes Winston Churchill's phrase 'the end of the beginning'; the beginning being that of the pre-post-Disclosure equilibrium."
    "Pre-post-Disclosure equilibrium." Brendan repeated to feel what the words were like on his tongue.
    "Brendan, you know about the three forms of equilibrium, don't you?"
    "Of course, dad. It's basic stuff, Newton's second law. I am going for my high school diploma in physics and chemistry remember?"
    "I know, son." He bowed his head apologetically. "Perhaps you could explain."
    Brendan smiled at him warmly. "There are three states of equilibrium best illustrated by imagining a ball rolling along a surface. Unstable equilibrium is a state in which the ball is perched on the point of a cone or dome, or a similar structure. It is only in equilibrium because it is perfectly balanced; the forces are equal on both halves and it is touching the surface on its exact centre of gravity; but the tiniest nudge either way and the equilibrium is destroyed and the ball falls off. Neutral equilibrium is a ball lying on a flat surface. It stays still until it is pushed and when it is pushed it moves, but then it simply slows down and stops due to the resistance of friction. It then returns to equilibrium in a different part of the surface. Stable equilibrium is a state like a ball lying at the bottom of a bowl with steep sides. You can push it and it moves, but then it returns to its original point of equilibrium."
    Clane took over. "And John Fields has turned this into a metaphor for politics. He claims we are now in a stable equilibrium. Every force that pushes us out of it does nothing to change the long-term state; we just return to equilibrium like the ball in the bowl. Up till now society has been a combination of neutral and unstable equilibriums, but now, for the first time ever we have stable equilibrium. Instability is the cause of all civilization's problems, with the exception of natural disasters like earthquakes and hurricanes. Instability is generated by scarcity, therefore in a world of universal abundance there can be no scarcity, and therefore no instability; equilibrium! This can only spread over the entire world and once it's done, it will last forever."
    Siobhan frowned. "Wait a minute, dad. Are you talking about... utopia?" Her mouth twisted.
    Clane blushed and hesitated. "Is it such a dirty word?"
    "It's a word that has spawned quests that ended in extraordinary evils. There have been people through all of history who have believed that they have the key to create heaven on earth because of some religious belief or some revelatory political philosophy. What has always resulted is more like hell. What makes you any different?"
    "Because this time what we're doing is based on science, not politics."
    "Does that make you somehow immune?"
    Clane paused. He looked uncomfortable. "Siobhan... I would never be part of anything that would result in hell on earth. I just want to see a better world than the one we've had all our life and I'm happy that we seem to be heading towards one which is better. Is that so bad? Are you saying I should try to resist that?"
    Siobhan didn't answer. She looked awkward now, as if she regretted what she'd just said. Everybody else around the table was subdued by the tension between father and daughter. "No, dad... It's just that it may turn out not to be as simple as you think. You haven't mentioned one fundamental difference between the world before and after Disclosure."
    "What's that?"
    "It's not just us now. Up till now we've only ever seen the world as a planet with humans on it, an oasis of life in an infinite cosmic desert. Now we know we are just one little unit of a universe teaming with life. We can't make assumptions about the future of human civilization without taking into consideration that reality. That's what mainstream politics is still failing to get to grips with."
    "That's because the aliens generally ignore us. They fly down here now and again, occasionally they crash their craft, but really they act like we're not here. Why shouldn't we return the favour?"
    "They do not though, dad."
    He chuckled. "Oh, you mean the abductions."
    "Yes. Why, do you think they're funny?"
    "No, it's just..."
    "Do you believe they're real?"
    "Of course. We have lots of DOD formerly classified documentation about it."
    "And you'll be hearing a lot more about it very soon." Siobhan's book was due to be launched the following month. A number of governments around the world had published several reports and set up official inquiries into the abduction phenomenon. "You can't call this ignoring, dad... You used to be the kind of person who would understand that. I think maybe you've been working in Washington for too long."
Source: http://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2018/12/roswell-redeemed-is-here.html.
I wonder if it's worth having these discussions at this juncture in history. Some authors have attempted it, like William Morris; see the background links below. He combats the critics of his vision through the structure of the story; but how much of a futile exercise would that be for us? The PIW for us may be as difficult to comprehend as flight is to a battery hen or running through a field under a blue sky is to a man chained to the bottom of a muddy pond. China Miéville may well be right, even though I don't share his own vision for the world's destiny. We cannot truly comprehend the PIW because we live under the jackboot of the Loomies who have so warped and shackled our minds and cultures that they have forced any alternative into the realms beyond our comprehension. Those of us who think we have seen though their machinations have not shaken off their blinkers, we are merely aware that we are wearing their blinkers. We really are venturing into new territory in a way no other people have for millennia. What has happened in the last decade alone has been so unpredictable, and I certainly failed to predict it; therefore maybe we should face the 2020's and beyond with totally open minds and humility, expecting the unexpected. We should just follow the path and do our best to do what is right at each stage on the journey. Leave the journey's end where it is for now.
See here for background: https://hpanwo-voice.blogspot.com/2023/09/j-posadas-at-ccs.html.
And: https://hpanwo-voice.blogspot.com/2017/03/news-from-nowhere-by-william-morris.html.