John C.P. Warner

‘Sebastian! Good to see you,’ oozed Barry, his accent polished almost to oblivion, ‘pop a little more water on the coals and take a seat. I heard the funniest thing at a bar yesterday evening.’

 

Sebastian Rhys-Galbraith was the humourless product of a loveless marriage and from a long line of men and women with aspirations to aristocracy who had campaigned, through their couplings, to increase wealth, decrease empathy and obliterate the jaw bone. His great-great Grandmother on his father’s side had been a Spanish dominatrix that had plied her trade at a bordello in a young, pre-war New York. She would no doubt have smiled wryly at the sight of her lithe, blonde, polished thirty-something descendant receiving his begged for lashes at the hands of a chain smoking Ukrainian prostitute at a brothel in Acton – not far from where he stayed when attending Parliament as a Member for a South Liverpool constituency – where he maintained a home for strictly practical reasons. He despised Barry as the progeny of immigrants, but enjoyed his unerring natural ability to introduce him to the right sort of people – people who were unequivocally not Barry Kelly.

 

The coals fizzed, steam billowed into the room, hiding Sebastian’s disdainful look. Barry sighed with a dramatised relaxation and continued. ‘Guy I know, local, runs one of the chicken coups English people call so that they can get pissy with someone that has a recognisable accent, says one of his drones called in to take the day off work – you’ll never guess what excuse he used.’

 

‘I’m fairly certain I never will,’ agreed Sebastian.

 

‘Said the fucking world had ended – can you imagine?’

 

‘I’m sure I could, though I’m not sure I’d want to.’

 

# # #

 

‘Anthony, a pleasure as always, how are things in Intelligence?’

 

Anthony Price was an Old-Etonian and Oxford graduate that, in public, went under the pseudonym of Tony Price and who, after a string of catastrophic fuck-ups in three separate cabinet positions had been promoted to a position in the Intelligence Services. The tabloids had had a field day, leading one commentator to tweet merrily: Tony Price and Intelligence – the PM finally finds a way to get them mentioned in the same sentence! He was a gluttonous, greasy, uncharismatic wastrel that had succeeded on social standing alone and had accordingly cultivated an unconvincing cockney accent and delusions of plebity. His father gleefully wished him dead, his wife was plotting with her lover how to make it happen and his cardiovascular system was due, a short-while later, to make a lot of people marginally happier for a small amount of time as it, to all intents and purposes, exploded.

 

‘Less intelligent since I got there, my old mate,’ mockneyed Anthony. ‘How’re fings in Liverpoowell?’ Sebastian grimaced outwardly at the attempted accent and inwardly at the reminder that he had not yet been brought to London, to the seat of power. A short conversation followed wherein the two men rapidly exhausted their limited reserves of small talk. A silence began to stretch interminably.

 

‘An associate of mine told me a peculiar little anecdote yesterday; apparently someone called into an office claiming the world had ended. . .’

 

‘Fuck, not again. . .’ Anthony Price hastily gathered his belongings and hurried from the room muttering epithets that would have made proud any overhearing cockney geezer.

 

# # #

           

‘I’m afraid I have had to gather you all here today under most inopportune circumstances.’ R – in the age-old tradition of the British Secret Services was known only by an initial – cast a withering look toward Anthony Price, she had on an elegant evening gown and had until very recently been enjoying a rather expensive dinner and the numerous drinks that went with such an engagement. Those around her followed suit and under all twelve of these withering glances, from those having practiced such withering to a professional level, Anthony Price visibly withered, attempting to force his bulk into the smallest space that would contain him, he slipped down into the leather recliner he occupied and commenced sweating.

           

‘It seems,’ R continued ‘that we have had a rather large security breach, one that may well jeopardise the future of not only the United Kingdom, but also the rest of the world.’ Another round of stares followed and Anthony Price shrank still further. ‘It would appear that the end of the world has somehow slipped out. We already have,’ she inspected an electronic note-book ‘Sebastian Rhys-Galbraith detained – he has revealed some rather compelling information without the necessity for interrogation and seemed rather relieved to find that we merely wanted the name of his informant. Barry Kelly and,’ another quick glance at the notebook ‘Terrence Symonds were equally helpful; we have a team waiting to collect James Forest in the morning. All things considered, it is going well so far. However, we have to assume that James Forest is part of a terrorist cell and may have communicated his information to other agents. To this end a thorough interrogation will be required, not to mention an overhaul of the protection we afford this particular secret.’

 

# # #

 

The collection of James Forest was swift and decisive. As he was leaving his Dale Street flat to pick up some milk on his fourth stolen day, outside of the Ship and Mitre – not due to open and therefore receive him for almost another hour – an unmarked, black car rolled up alongside him containing two grey-suited men that looked like middling civil servants, which is essentially what they were.

           

‘James Forest?’ asked the passenger – closest to him.

           

‘Umm,’ replied James.

           

‘We’d like you to accompany us,’ stated the passenger.

           

‘Umm,’ replied James.

           

‘Step into the car Mr Forest.’

           

‘Umm,’ replied James, stepping into the opened rear door.

 

# # #

           

‘Mr Forest, it has been brought to our attention that you have been attempting to undermine the governments of the world by releasing a secret which these governments would prefer to remain secret. We intend to find out your sources, also the names of those with whom you have conspired to release this information.’

           

‘Hphmph! Hphmphmph!’ His interrogator, shrouded in shadow, took off the black sack that covered James’ head and removed the gag they had previously placed in his mouth. James squinted into the bright light they had aimed into his eyes. ‘There’s been some kind of mistake! I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

           

‘Mr Forest, do you have any idea what would happen were the information you have come into possession of to be released to the general public? There would be chaos. The world would burn. Is that what your group want Mr Forest?’

           

‘I don’t have a group – I mean, I belong to a pen and paper role-playing society, but I haven’t been for over a year. . .’

           

‘Check out this role-playing society please,’ said the interrogator to the darkness.

           

‘Yes sir,’ replied a voice, like all voices unseen, but also from an unseen source.

           

‘Mr Forest, we are a civilised nation, but civilised nations in extremis must occasionally resort to means they may find, ah, distasteful. Would you like us to resort to these means?’ James’ interrogator asked, his voice seeming to betray a desire to do just this.

           

‘Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about, I promise you,’ stated James.

           

‘Mr Forest, we have been told by our sources, we have heard a telephone recording of your voice releasing the information to a co-worker. The fact that you know this information is indisputable; we now wish to know from where you learned the information and how you intended to disseminate it.’

           

‘I don’t know, I don’t want to be tortured, what do you want know? I’ll tell you anything you want.’

           

‘That’s a good attitude to have Mr Forest, you see – the current situation is preferable for many reasons, not least its profitability and this is how we wish to keep things. Your interference would not be welcome. You see there comes a time when a disease reaches a critical mass, at this point – barring a miracle – the patient becomes terminal, this is where we are now. The human race has spread to all parts of our host and is gradually destroying it. It has passed its pivotal moment and so the world has ended. Do you really want to see the consequences of the release of this information Mr Forest? Tell us for whom you are working.’

           

‘Fuck.’

           

‘Yes Mr Forest?’

 

‘Fuck.’

 

‘Mr Forest?’

 

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Shit. Ow!’ This last was said as the hand of his interrogator slapped firmly across his face, it left a red hand mark and the imprint of a plain white-gold wedding ring. ‘Is that what this is all about?’

 

‘Of course it is Mr Forest – are there other of your clandestine operations which you feel we would be better served investigating?’

 

‘No, none, I was just trying to get a day off work. I didn’t know anything about the end of the world, I mean, I obviously had my suspicions, but I didn’t know anything.’

 

‘You didn’t know anything?’

 

‘I didn’t know anything.’

 

‘Oh.’

 

‘Oh?’

 

‘Oh.’ The room fell quiet, then – from somewhere near – there was a soft double click.

 

‘Hello?’

 

# # #

           

‘He didn’t know anything,’ stated the former interrogator with the plain white-gold wedding ring.

           

‘He didn’t know anything?’ asked R.

           

‘He didn’t know anything.’

           

‘Oh,’ sighed R.

           

‘Oh?’

           

‘This has not gone well. Let him release his story.’

           

‘Release his story?’

           

‘Is there an echo in here?’ asked R.

           

‘I have to point out that you started repeating things Ma’am.’

           

‘I started repeating things?’

           

‘Yes ma’am.’

           

‘Do I need to repeat myself again?’

           

‘Which part ma’am?’

           

‘Let him release his story.’

           

‘Release his story?’

           

‘There you go again. We could do this forever. Yes, let him release his story. Have one of our men contact him to run the story, then have the papers demolish him. Frame it all as one of those odd ball stories. I’m sure they’ll think up some un-humorous headlines to accompany it.’

           

‘Yes ma’am.’

 

# # #

 

I can’t say for sure, but that’s almost certainly what would have happened, at least as far as I imagine for the parts I was not party to, the results of which are – as you will have seen – that Anthony Price is now dead from a massive heart-attack, Sebastian Rhys-Galbraith is now a member of the cabinet, Barry Kelly is now a Member of Parliament for a South Liverpool constituency – in which he keeps a home for purely practical purposes, Terrence Symonds is now a company director and I – well, I am involved in an interview.

 

# # #

           

‘James,’ says one of the women across the desk from me, her voice is resigned, edged with annoyance. ‘We have covered this ground before. Despite your having been a brief cause celebre, we feel you may have had some kind of break-down. Nothing has happened; the world could not have ended. You were therefore, to all intents and purposes, absent without prior consent. This is a disciplinary matter.’

           

I stiffen with a mixture of restraint and wounded nobility. ‘It has not been proven, as I have previously, repeatedly stated, the fact that everything is the same only serves to prove my point.’

           

‘Nevertheless,’ states the other stern woman, sighing ‘we have chosen to treat this as a disciplinary matter and have chosen to place you on a final written warning for your behaviour. You will receive notification of our decision in writing within the week. If you are absent again, you’d better hope the world has ended.’

           

‘But. . .’

           

‘That’s quite enough James,’ states the first woman, flagrantly disregarding the facts. She reaches over, switches off the tape-recorder, bringing the interview to a close.

 

# # #

 

Following the bout of stomach trouble that followed these traumatic events, I was made unemployed. I have since been trying to bring the end of the world to the attention of the general public – you may have seen me with my sandwich board on Church Street, I was quite proud of the slogan ‘The End Is’, I feel it adequately separates me from the mental-cases. Perhaps this little tale may seem a strange way to communicate the information, but you seem like the smart sort and I’m sure you’ll see the validity of my methods. The more things stay the same, the more you should be convinced that the world has ended, of that you should also be convinced. Also, bowel trouble is no laughing matter.