This is the first chapter of a novel that will be published in serial form in the Daily Sceptic. It’s a dystopian satire about the emergence of a social credit system in the U.K. in the near future.
It was a dark, grizzly morning, the kind they seemed to have so many of these days. The remnants of a dense dawn mist clung to the cool November air.
She trudged out to the shops.
Over the bridge, past the ancient church and its higgledy-piggledy wind-wasted stones. Past the worn medieval terrace, crooked timber beams straining to breaking, bookended on either side by two neat Victorian cottages. Engraved letters could still be seen etched into their stonework: “HOPE”, read the one on the left; “FAITH” on the right. Past the butchers, EST. 1822, once a proud focal point for the village, today a forlorn “For Sale” sign draped over its shuttered doors. Past the obligatory Boots, itself an anachronism from a time before Health Updates and Improvement Implants.
Outside the droll little village library, she paused and cursed. She had only ever been inside once, ages ago, long enough, in fact, that she wasn’t sure of precisely when. Poppy was young enough, she recalls, to still be wearing her orange toddler fairy dress, glimpses of sparkly sequins popping out from behind the bookcases. Whether they’d borrowed any books, or indeed whether they’d returned them, she couldn’t say. But neither that, nor the fact that the library was old and weary and small and slightly grubby diminished the dull ache she felt at not being allowed in.
She walked up to its door again, the cold monochrome letters hanging in the window, “EFFICIENTS WELCOME”, taunting her again.
She waved her biometer (BIM, as it was affectionately known by its many acolytes) in front of the buzzer.
“DECLINED,” bleeped the door sign, its letters resolute, and red.
The librarian inside – grey haired, mid-50s, perfect cliché of how a librarian should be – briefly glanced up. But, almost as immediately she looked down again, keen to avoid the awkwardness of a gaze that lingered too long, and shuffled back into the recesses of the building. Outside, a man and his dog ambled past. Pausing just past the library he turned,
“Excuse me,” he said, turning back to pass Ella still standing in the doorway.
“Are you going in?”
“Erm, no, not today,” Ella mumbled, huddling down into her coat, keen to avoid the ritual embarrassment of further explanation. “You go for it.”
Moving aside the man and his dog sauntered past. Flashing his wrist towards the buzzer the doors opened, and they stepped inside.
The ache intensified.
Ella had planned to visit this little place again, really she had. She and Poppy had often walked past. “We really must check out the library one day,” Ella would say, meaning it. “Yes Mama,” Poppy would reply, dreamily. They’d nod their heads, fully intending to go but on some level known to them both, but never articulated, understanding it was unlikely to happen.
And, sure enough, the vague intention of going to the library at the weekend had, over the months been quietly shunted to the next weekend, and that weekend shunted still further to the weekend after, and the weekend after that, and so on and so forth, until somewhere between art club and rollerblading competitions and Amazon Prime and piano lessons and kids’ parties and working and writing – and then more working when the writing dried up – it had simply never happened.
And now she lived with the reality that their little village boasted one of the last few remaining libraries in the country and yet somehow, in over a decade of living there, she’d managed to take one of her three children there a total of One. Single. Time.
For a couple of minutes she stared, looking blankly into the forbidden inside, the neatly ordered rows of books, the quaint old-fashioned computers, screens blinking absent-mindedly, the scattered toys in the corner clumsily caressed by a thousand toddlers. She reminded herself, for the 197th day in a row, that she hadn’t wanted to go there anyway. Yes, but it would have been nice to have had the choice, the familiar nagging retort.
For good measure, she flashed her BIM at the buzzer one final time.
“DECLINED,” the door entry sign “bleeeeeped” back, its letters no less red, or angry, and their accompanying sound no less definitive than previously. The librarian, sensing the possibility of incoming commotion, scuttled further away.
“The Government’s Efficiency Passport will allow individuals to access an exciting range of new opportunities and will enable us all to reach our full productivity and potential,” the press release announcing Efficiency Passports had said, six months or so back, quoting Mr. Wahazi, the Efficiencies Minister. “We must all work together to reduce the staggering cost to our economy caused each year by preventable inefficiencies and bad lifestyle choices.”
Well. It had been some time since this place had felt like a land of opportunity and potential, that was for sure.
Turning around, she carried on.
The same cold, callous, greyscale sign hung in nearly all the store windows; EFFICIENTS WELCOME, everywhere: outside the second-rate cafe, “LAZE”, once called, now simply ‘LAZ’, the “E” lost from its display eons ago and no one bothering to replace it; in the door of the Chinese takeaway, over-officious at the best of times (two face-masks during Covid, ridiculous even then). Even now, she noticed with alarm, in the dentists – it hadn’t been there last week, had it? – weren’t dentists exempt?
Shivering, she made a note to check later. For the first time she noticed how chilly it was, the point at which autumn becomes winter and the leaves underfoot fade from their crisp carpet of brown and auburn to dreary, rotting grey. Once upon a time she’d looked forward to this time of year but now it felt desolate and bleak.
Old buildings gave way to Lego-box modern houses, the boarded up windows of the old estate agents, the park, its decrepit playground still fenced off; there was no money to be made investing in parks and playgrounds and sports pitches and all the stuff that might actually help keep everyone healthy and happy, was there?
As ever, the bitterest blow came at the deli.
Your narrator appreciates that what follows makes our protagonist awfully middle class and doubtless a parody of herself. Let it just be said that the deli was the single best thing – perhaps the only good thing – about their otherwise forlorn suburban village. It was reassuringly independent from the big chains, and was the only place within easy reach of the house that you could buy food, real food, not the stuff that came pre-manufactured and with all kinds of chemicals added. It sold fresh fruit and vegetables that weren’t suffocated in plastic and whose flavour you could smell, actually smell, the way you used to be able to smell fruit back in the old days, and meat and cheese that wasn’t laced with BOCAL and IDYLL or any other other toxic carcinogens. Best of all, it even sold coffee beans: fragrant, roasted coffee beans whose velvety, nutty aromas were a reason in themselves for getting out of bed each morning and whose soft, chocolate taste made life feel more possible. She grimaced at the memory.
Needless to say it wasn’t the cheapest store in the village, and going there had become something of a naughty secret between her and Libby which involved them sneaking there illicitly on weekends, hiding receipts, or perhaps entire items, and once or twice even a whole shopping bag. They had giggled and laughed and once actually cried at the till with nervous laughter when Ella had picked up a tin of handmade pesto without first looking at the price.
It had been their guilty pleasure.
And now, like everywhere else in the village save Lillicos,
“EFFICIENTS WELCOME”
Hung over the door.
Head down, she walked straight past, knowing that if she stopped she’d cry.
Look out for episode two next week.
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And just to balance the above very good but serious story excerpt, two of my favourite comedies growing up.It’s hard to pick just two actually as I think comedy seemed to be way better in years gone by compared with now. Anymore for anymore?
The always excellent Only Fools And Horses;
https://x.com/HoodedClaw1974/status/1871847252291203258
Who wouldn’t have a soft spot for Bottom as a teenager?
https://x.com/HoodedClaw1974/status/1871843725128970574
This is worth two hours of anybody’s time, IMO. I saw this production: Jeffrey Bernard Is Unwell (1990) | Peter O’Toole, Timothy Ackroyd – Comedy Drama Play
Sounds good – looking forward to episode 2.