This is the eighth chapter of a novel being published in serial form in the Daily Sceptic. It’s a dystopian satire about the emergence of a social credit system in the UK in the near future. Read the first seven chapters here.
However much one understands that the modus operandi of all authoritarian regimes is to present the individual with a series of ever harsher choices – comply and become complicit, or stand firm and lose ever more consequential things or people – nothing can quite prepare for the moment that reality impacts.
Although one grasps that it is precisely by the slow turning of the screw that such regimes are able to survive and thrive, although on some level one understands that persistent non-compliance will eventually collide with unconscionable consequences, however ample the time to see that moment approaching, and however braced one believes oneself to be, the harsh reality of experiencing it first hand is incomparable to the thought of it.
For Ella and Theo, the moment of impact – or at least, the first moment of impact – came at about quarter to eleven on a Saturday morning.
A gradually more discriminatory environment had been drowned out by the weekly rhythm of work, school, sports practice; work, school, sports practice. Nothing had improved, but nothing had got massively worse, either. They’d become resourceful, and developed a resilience, of sorts. No longer able to access any of the village shops save Lillicos, they’d discovered that Robert the sceptical butcher had a thriving black market trade and Theo and Libby were fast becoming veg patch experts. The village dentist had closed to Non-Efficients, so they brushed their teeth with a renewed, religious fervour. Now acclimatised to the small but ritual humiliation of standing obediently in Lillico’s ‘Non-Efficients’ aisle, they’d avoid peak times, dodge eye contact, keep their heads down. In a way it had brought the two of them closer; they did more together these days — strength in numbers, or at least, that’s what Ella had thought. With a combination of expediency and ingenuity they were learning to get by in a world shrinking in. It wasn’t pleasant, but neither had it yet been awful.
That all changed on the day of Poppy’s County Youth rollerblading competition (sponsored by ‘ZEETA, YOUR CHILDREN ARE OUR FUTURE’, no hint of irony). For Poppy, at least, the competition was a Really Big Deal. The top two teams in each age group would go to the national finals in Sheffield. Poppy and her friend Verity stood a good chance. Poppy had barely talked about anything else for weeks, and had been practising with a devotion bordering on extremism.
By happy – or so it had seemed – coincidence, Theo’s sister Penny and her kids had flown down to visit for the weekend, so Mikey and Gracie, the cousins, would be going along to watch Poppy, too.
The night before they’d taken extra care to read the Competition Rules, scouring anything that might indicate there was an ‘Efficients Only’ requirement. They could see nothing. That made sense, because educational establishments were still exempt from the Efficiency Rules. There had never been any issue at any of the kids’ other sports fixtures plus, “the Therrofordian is a posh private school, right”, Ella had pointed out. “Surely it’ll be fine?”
Theo, making packed lunches for five children, had raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?” he’d said, “she’ll never forgive us if this goes wrong.” A brief debate about whether they should email the competition organisers just to check had ensued, but Ella had felt confident that she knew the rules, and in the end they’d agreed it might be worse to alert anyone even to the possibility of there being an issue. They’d agreed to leave it.
And so, a day that had started full of glorious opportunity and expectation and an almost excruciatingly excited 12 year-old, ended in inconsolable tears. An over-officious security official had asked them to scan their BIMS. Yes, the official understood, there was no formal requirement, but they were operating a strict EFFICIENTS ONLY policy; and yes, that was even though —
“There was nothing in the competition booklet about this” (Theo);
“I’m a lawyer and schools are exempt” (Ella); and
“But our daughter has put a year of practice into this” (Theo); and
“Please let me come in” (Poppy, with tears in her eyes); and
“Please be reasonable, there’s no requirement for children to have BIMS!” (Ella); and
“Please, you can’t not let me in, we’ve been practising for months” (Poppy, now almost unable to breathe); and
“Please let her in, she has to come in or I can’t do the competition either,” (Verity, walking up to the entry tents, distraught on realising the source of the commotion).
And then, once they realised there was not going to be any giving way and the full horror of it began to dawn, some minutes and a degree of escalation later,
“You can’t SERIOUSLY be saying she can’t come in, she’s a child!” (Theo); and
“BUT THIS IS FUCKING OUTRAGEOUS!! THERE IS NO LEGAL REQUIREMENT FOR HER TO HAVE A BIM” (Ella); followed finally by,
“No my wife didn’t mean to swear it’s just that this is extremely, extremely important to our daughter. May I please ask, is there a superior you could check with?”
Ultimately, requirement or not turned out to be irrelevant, as the sanctimonious puffed-up jobsworth official made unwaveringly clear that this was no place either for Non-Efficients or the progeny of Non-Efficients. Cold-hearted and apparently unbothered by the fact she was about to ruin a little girls’ year, she explained that the competition was committed to doing its bit for national efficiency targets. Yes, she knew it wasn’t technically mandatory but rules were rules (even when they were not) and no, there was no one else that they could speak to and yes she was the superior, so she was very sorry but could you please move out of the line now you are holding up others and you know, there’s always next year so it’s not such a big deal now, is it, and anyway what makes you so special that you don’t have a BIM when all the other families do.
An increasingly heated debate (“well that was quite a scene, wasn’t it,” Penny had tutted as they were leaving), had ended with them begging, literally begging for them to let Poppy in, even if they weren’t allowed in, as a crowd of what, 200 impatient other parents and children waited – everyone looking down, swerving eye contact; and Poppy wailing – actually wailing – with the shame and overwhelming injustice of it all.
The atmosphere in the car on the way home had been brutal, Poppy oscillating between stunned silence and inconsolable grief; an hour long journey punctuated only with convulsive sobs of, “But we were going to win!!! We were going to win!!!!!”
Over dinner, anguish had turned to anger –
“Why can’t you just do what they are telling you,” she’d cried, Penny watching on, nodding in agreement, silently. “Everyone else has done it. Why do you have to be different?” Theo had tried to talk it down, “It’s okay kiddo, there’s always next year, there’ll be more competitions, you’ve got time.”
But they all knew it rang hollow.
“It’s the most important thing I do,” she’d whimpered, eyes puffy and cheeks swollen red.
“And it’s ruined. You ruined it!”
That day marked a grim watershed: the point at which the screw tightened far enough to realise the situation was becoming untenable. Later that evening, lying in bed, staring in darkness up at the ceiling, they discussed – for the first time – the possibility of leaving. It was one thing to understand how bad things had become, quite another to face authoritarianism’s savage punishments head-on. Should they stay and fight, but risk sacrificing their children’s freedom, health and happiness in the process, or run – while they could – to a place where this nightmare couldn’t touch them?
Look out for chapter nine next week.
Molly Kingsley is a founder of children’s rights campaign group UsForThem.
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I suppose freedom to practice sports could be encouraged by a totalitarian regime, the Warsaw Pact liked their sports stars. and not shy of cheating with blood doping etc, just think of the movie Rocky Four. At least in the end of that film, to an angry polit bureau, he proclaimed…”I FIGHT FOR ME…FOR ME!!! Drago played by Dolf Lundgren. With many playing sport, and many watching keeps the population entertained, a bit like Strictly come Dancing today!
Bread and circuses except the bread was stale and the circuses, well, a bit crap actually.
That was the question faced by German and Austrian Jews in the 1930s but they were not welcome in many other countries and most stayed, thinking sanity would return.
It didn’t.
You have to stand up to tyranny long before it gets to the point where the only option is to flee. I doubt if the British people have the fortitude to do it any more than German and Austrian Jews did in the 1930s.
And anywhere, where will they flee to? Australia, NZ and Canada were even more tyrannical than the UK, as was most of Europe.
I can’t read this kind of ‘literature’