Fourth Room: New Reform Quartet, #4

She perused the headlines - even the English newspapers were running the same story:

Horror in the Highlands.

Eight mutilated bodies found. She smiled at the wild speculations of Satanic rituals, or a serial killer on the loose. At least something is going to plan - thank God for professionals.

1.LITTLE MISS PERFECT

Millicent Coxon was the star pupil of the Knightward Academy. She wanted to make her parents proud, and she had already succeeded. They had struggled to do everything for her. It wasn’t easy, they were relatively poor, although they would never admit that. They would happily indulge their daughter in stories of real poverty in their upbringings, but they had strived to buy their council home – a home they could pass onto her.

They had even put up with each other’s erratic behaviour and stayed together for her.

He once had an affair with a close friend of the family while she drank herself into the arms of strangers to fight passionate fire with fire.

Millicent had heard the gossip, but this was mild chit-chat compared to the horrors that some her friend’s families were going through. Most of Millie’s friends had divorced parents, scattered tribes of half-brothers or stepsisters, racial mashups of all kinds, stories of sex abuse, criminals and assorted other scandals - and they had survived – sort of – as she would have done. But survival wasn’t enough for their Millie. She was a high achiever – gifted – therefore, even their reconciliation had to be a success, they learned to love one and other again – for her.

Knightward Academy’s Under 16 Netball team had made headline news in the Knightward Gazette. They had made the national finals, defeating some of the elite private schools along the way and the Poster Girl was Millicent Coxon. With her raven black hair, dark blue eyes, perfect teeth and a body that befitted the star Wing Attack playmaker - she adorned the front pages regularly.

She was fifteen, and all she had to do be a success was to win the National Netball Final and obtain her predicted thirteen straight-A Stars. She had a love of languages and dreamed of being an interpreter at something grand, like the United Nations. She was the unchallenged Prefect, which irritated her because she always thought this was a misspelling.

The final was in just over a month’s time. Success had played her a bad hand, as it was right in the middle of her final exams in early May.

She did the obligatory Netball practices after school but then stayed behind for another hour and a half to perfect her technique. She persuaded the other team members to join her. She was the captain, their captain, they wanted to be with her. She never sought the limelight, she preferred to remain in the background, but she had an air of greatness around her – even the coach would succumb to her wishes. Millie knew best. She drilled the team to expect to receive the ball even if she wasn’t looking at them, and she perfected the art of using her eyes to fool an opponent as she whipped the ball with pace and precision to a teammate. The girl’s circled her as she practised and practised. Next, she would shift her bodyweight to send them the wrong way. By the time she was finished with them, they were a highly trained unit, on permanent high alert to receive the ball.

At the end of the session, it had become a tradition to group hug around her – she never suggested this – as she gave her speech about being a team. ‘No petty squabbles, no, I’m not passing to her. Let our opponents do that, I’m always watching for their weaknesses, and we will exploit them. We will win.’ And then the traditional cries of ‘Yes!’ Followed by hugs and High Fives and they would leave her.

The other girls had perks from being on the team with the Great Millie. They got the attention of the best boys. The best boys wanted to be with Millie, and some of them had made it close to her. Millie had tried them out but always ruling out doing anything like that until she was sixteen – the other girls weren’t quite the stickler for details that she was – but the boys still reported back that she was indeed an excellent kisser and could snog to perfection. Millie practised her snogging on her pillow at home. The trouble for Millie was that they were ordinary boys, they smelt like hormones and sweaty feet, and they would probably under-achieve in life, and they might drag her down with her. Sure, she got excited with a new suitor expressing his desire for her, and she hoped they might be the one, but she quickly tired of them and the spending of her precious time on trying to manage them.

After Netball Practice, and the extra practice session, Millie would go home to eat, chat with her parents for thirty minutes, to be the perfect daughter, and encourage the sacred belief that they were right to stay together – for her. Then it would be revision for her thirteen A Stars, and now the exam times were approaching, this meant most nights until the early hours.

And that’s when Millicent Coxon found her first Crisis Point - one that would make or break her.

2.FAILING FAST

Millie didn’t even want to try to get out of bed. Her mother begged to get up, have some breakfast and go to school, but Millicent could scarcely utter a few words to her. She couldn’t be bothered to be angry with her mother and tell her to, go away and leave me alone.

Millie didn’t go to school on the beautiful April Monday morning, where you could smell the salt in the air as it blew in from the North Sea. She didn’t get out of bed all day.

Tuesday was the same. When her mother told her that she had made her an emergency appointment with Doctor Steadman - it barely registered with Millie. She didn’t exactly refuse to shower and get dressed – that would require too much get up and go – rather she passively let her Mother dress her. She didn’t have the energy to feel guilty for her Father taking a day off work and losing a day’s pay, and they arrived at the Surgery as a family unit.

Round and round her brain, the same refrain was playing, I’m a fraud. I’m not special. I just work harder than everyone else, and if I stop working, I’m nothing. I’m nothing.

DOCTOR STEADMAN FOLLOWED the local news intently and was an active and much-loved member of the Knightward community. He could have had more lucrative positions elsewhere in the country, but his aged parents needed him, and this area had below the poverty line issues, and he felt valued here.

He was surprised to see the local celebrity Millicent Coxon come in for an emergency appointment. He tried to speak to her alone, at first, he had seen more than his fair share of abuse cases. It was when he began to explore the territory gently, that truth – and loyalty to her family made her explain that it wasn’t that.

Dr Steadman said, ‘Then what is it? What do you think is wrong?’

‘I’m a fraud. I’m not special. I just work harder than everyone else, and if I stop working, I’m nothing. I’m nothing.’

He tried different questioning techniques but couldn’t get much more out of her.

‘Would you mind if I invite your parents to join us now?’

‘No.’

As they were approaching Dr Steadman’s office Mr Coxon said to his wife, ‘I hope she’s not pregnant.’

She said, ‘It had crossed my mind. That would be a disaster for her. She has so much on right now.’

‘I hope the doctor doesn’t start talking about, y’know, women’s problems, I don’t know who’d be more embarrassed, Millie or me.’

Mrs Coxon shook her head and sighed, ‘Grow up. If it is, then at least it could be treated and then she can get back to normal.’

Dr Steadman opened the door, ‘Please, take a seat.’

Mrs Coxon asked, ‘Thank you, doctor. Do you know what’s wrong with Millie? She’s never been like this before.’

‘Yes. I believe I do. And that is why I’m glad you are both here as I’m going to need your help. Millie is going to need you, but you may not like what I have to say.’

Mr Coxon said, ‘We only want what’s best for Millie.’

‘I know.’

Mrs Coxon fidgeted, she was worried and wanted to know right now what they were dealing with. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘Exhaustion.’

‘Can’t you give her something – a pick me up.’

‘It’s not about what I can give her. It’s about what you can give her.’

‘But anti-depressants are safe nowadays - aren’t they?’

‘I can’t treat exhaustion with anti-depressants.’

Mr Coxon put his arm around his wife and said, ‘Then what does she need, doctor?’

‘Complete rest. I’m signing her off school for a month.’

‘But doctor! She’s got the National Netball Final, and all her exams are coming up!’

‘Calm down, Mr Coxon - please.’

Mrs Coxon burst into tears while Millie sat listlessly.

Dr Steadman let Mrs Coxon cry, although he was aware that other patients were waiting to see him. ‘Exhaustion means, a state of extreme physical or mental tiredness, both of these terms are what Millie is suffering with. She would not have the energy for netball. If you watch over her and give her a chance to rest completely, then maybe she might recover in time to sit some of her exams.’

Mr Coxon said, ‘If she doesn’t revise then her grades will suffer?’

‘Probably. Yes.’

Dr Steadman watched Mr and Mrs Coxon look at each other and then at Millie who still seemed entirely disinterested in the conversation about her.

He said, ‘If Millie carried on at this pace, then she would have crashed at some point. In time, it may be a good thing that it is now, with her GCSEs and not later, say at University. If she gets plenty of rest, she will still get good grades with all the work she has put in so far. Certainly, good enough for College and then from there, the sky is the limit for her. Her body has spoken, and it is saying that she has pushed herself too far, and she needs our help.’

Mrs Coxon said, ‘We understand.’

She looked across at her husband who smiled grimly, ‘Thank you, doctor.’

3.RECOVERY

Knightward Academy lost the National Netball finals 52 – 39 to the Marthemstow School for Young Ladies.

To compound the disappointment, Millie received three A-stars (French, Spanish and German), two As and eight Bs in her GCSEs. Now that she had recovered from her illness, she knew she had been found out, exposed as the fraud she knew she was. Her parents told her they were proud of her, and she believed that they wanted to be. Millie never forgave her parents for their weakness. They should have made her a winner, they let her fail.

On one of her regular visits to Knightward to keep tabs on Jack Gardner and his young family, Wendy Albrighton became aware of the Millicent Coxon story through the local press. The timing was perfect, as Martin Whitehead had asked her to keep an eye out for new talent for another organisation he was connected with. He specified high intellect and a work ethic, and from an unknown background, which meant a family without connections to the London establishment.

Millie was young - and fit the required profile perfectly. She liked the fact that Millie had been broken. Failure at this impressionable age would galvanise her young charge.

Wendy offered her the package of tuition fees paid - and a lucrative job offer on the satisfactory conclusion of her degree course. She promised her the chance to travel the world and shape it into something stronger and more ordered.

She learnt from bitter experience. She worked as hard as ever for her A-Levels and then onto a First-Class Honours Degree in Politics and International Studies at Cambridge. She had extra-curricular studies in Russian and Italian. She took up Yoga to level 3 to prevent any possible Crisis Points, and she figured that concentrated relaxation could prevent exhaustion. She hadn’t the time to rest the slow way.

Millie moved up the H. Offer ladder quickly, and her salary jumped in tens of thousands at a time.

She felt compelled to complete her life with a proper long-lasting relationship, she perfected all the techniques required she had studied in the glossy magazines, but Millie soon grew bored with the partners she acquired and then discarded. They used up her energy and valuable time.

After long hours at work, she applied herself to her language skills, which she picked up readily, she would claim that she had a musical ear that made it easier to assimilate. Her party piece was a tirade of swear words in the languages she acquired.

She grew ever more sophisticated and beautiful in a striking manner. She soon left the days of Knightward behind her, and she all but forgot about her parents, as she mixed with some of the most influential people on the planet, and her salary then began to move upwards in increments of a hundred thousand pounds at a time.

She still believed she would be uncovered as not worthy of her clientele and she always worried about Knightward dragging her back to where she belonged. The place of her failure, the place where she was unmasked and the team, where she let everybody down.

She still grimaced when she remembered how she had killed the hopes and dreams of her beloved team.

4.BOB HAS HAD ENOUGH

Bob sunk his whiskey and threw the glass into the fireplace so forcefully, that it shattered into a shower of sparks and shards. ‘I never wanted to be the fucking Prime Minister. I’m surrounded by fucking supercilious arseholes morning, noon and fucking night. I swear, if I had a fucking red button, I would blow the whole fucking world to kingdom come. And don’t give me the reasons, not to fucking do it because seriously, that would only want to make me want to do it even more.’

Millicent stared at him.

‘I fucking hope the Russians, the Chinese, any fucker – I hope they do something provocative, so I can fucking blow them to smithereens. Dare me, go on, double dare me – see if I wouldn’t.’

She managed her husband, that was her job, ‘But Bob, you have everything you could ever wish for. If you wanted anything else, you could have it – I’ll get it for you.’

‘I don’t want this fucking job anymore. Let some other fucker have it.’

‘I can’t do that. Head Office needs you in position – that’s the deal.’

‘So, we can make more money – how much do they fucking want! We’ve got more money than I can spend in a lifetime – How much is it now? Have you counted it?’

Millicent tried to soften the mood with an attempt at humour, ‘Not recently.’

‘What’s the ballpark figure?’

‘About two billion – minimum.’

Bob sulked, ‘Then why can’t we walk away.’

‘You are too important, silly. We need to bring in the next raft of freedoms. The Top Table is banking on them.’

‘I couldn’t give a fuck about the Top fucking Table. I don’t want to play God over some country I don’t give the first fuck about. I want out...I want out!’

Bob’s face contorted from trying to control both the tears and the rage. He turned away from Millicent, but she went over and hugged him awkwardly. ‘What can I do for you? Tell me.’

‘I already did tell you. I want out.’

‘They won’t let that happen. It’s my job to make sure it doesn’t.’

‘I know you are spying on me. I know my every move; my every word is being monitored.’

‘That’s true. There’s too much at stake to let you throw it away on a childish whim.’

‘Fucking childish?’

‘I think so. I think you are behaving like a spoilt brat. You are not thinking about your partners – you are not taking my wishes into consideration.’

‘Our partners, right – fucking ex-dictators, gangsters and fucking city financiers and as for that fucking psychopathic freak, the Red Wife...’

‘Her name is Valda - and I like her.’ Millicent looked straight into Bob’s eyes, ‘I’ve worked hard for this. I’m not going to let your weakness stop me from achieving my goal.’

Millicent watched him as he sulked for a few minutes. She said nothing. She let the oppressive silence work.

Eventually, Bob said, ‘I still don’t want to do this anymore.’

Millicent said, ‘Give me something practical to do, to make it more bearable for you.’

‘I don’t want to do any of the work of a Prime Minister...no PMQs, no interviews, nothing.’

‘You are good at this – your supporters love you. They think your cool when you get excited, and you do your finger-popping jazz thing, it’s like your trademark. Why do you want to lose that adoration from our New Reform base?’

Bob didn’t want to admit that he despised the low life, that they didn’t share his artistic sensibilities, in his eyes. ‘Because I am utterly bored – I feel trapped.’

Millicent thought for a while, ‘We can probably do something – not everything – but we could substantially reduce your role, as long as you remain the figurehead.’

Bob didn’t answer – but neither did he argue. Millicent took this as a tacit agreement.

5.EMAIL

Bob scanned through his hundreds of emails – he barely took any notice of the subject headings, never mind actually opening them up to view the contents. It was protocol and probably a legal requirement that he should be sent these Government, Inter-Departmental communiques, but this wasn’t how Bob envisioned his life.

His fingers brushed the matted surface of his custom-built top-of-the-range laptop. Naturally, being the Prime Minister, he had to have enhanced security but also, it had to have substantial storage capabilities for ministerial and security information that was deemed too sensitive to be automatically stored to the cloud. When the storage warnings flashed up, Millicent, personally, sifted through the files and made the decisions on what should remain and what should go. They had connections through H. Offer to the de facto King and Queen of Silicon Valley, and anything to do with H. Offer was duly stored with them.

Bob looked at the gallery of previous Prime Ministers and wondered if this was what they intended the special relationship to look like. He had never been particularly enthusiastic about serving the people, or New Reform. He had needed some cash, Head Office made him a promise, and they were true to their word. But somehow, he felt as if he had given them his freedom. He felt shanghaied.

He opened a few of his most recent files and found some amusement when skim reading the dirty secrets and corrupt financial transactions that were held on every New Reform, and for that matter, every New Hope MP (although these were rarer but useful nonetheless), but that titivation soon subsided in Bob’s timeline of glacial tedium. He even toyed with the idea of ordering a copy of his own file to see what the People’s Intelligence Agency had on him, but then it seemed too much like hard work.

He knew that the more significant threat to him came from Head Office, he knew how they worked. The MPs were given inside information to make financial killings. Head Office monitored all financial transactions – it was all in this laptop and provided they toed the line; they would continue to grow richer. If, for some bizarre reason, they decided to become an issue for the H.O. Forum then this would be the evidence used to nullify the threat in a civilised way. The uncivilised method, should it be needed was to let the mythical, to the miscreants - or the all too real business partners to Bob and Millicent - Red Wife department to deal with the problem creatively and permanently.

Beyond the titbits of gossip, all that filled up Bob’s emails were government actions and proposals that to him, were as dull as council minutes, except with bigger numbers. Some of his emails he either knew or had been informed were controversial. Others were Millicent’s topics that their considerable fortunes were linked to: Mandatory Health Monitoring Devices for All Workers, De-Layering of Management Structures in the NHS, The Privacy and Freedom Bill - these were the ones that at least captured his attention for more than ten seconds each. He grouped up his emails, twenty-five at a time, (In the early days of his Prime Ministership he had more enthusiasm and grouped them up in tens) and forwarded them onto Millicent to deal with. In due course he would endorse them all – it was quicker that way.

It was then that he came across an email from a long-dormant account.

He tried to figure out why his name was on the distribution list. The Online Death Cult – The ODC had stopped operations after the Pauli Gardner debacle. He used to be copied in on the Martyrs offshoot, the kids who queued up to die. They used this because of the state-of-the-art encryption that only Denise Stahmer’s money could buy. He remembered how impressed GCHQ was when they recovered her equipment from her home - after her mother’s death in that Buckinghamshire mansion. They adopted it – brought its creators in-house, so to speak. The relics of the ODC, therefore, still had the means to reach Bob, Lord Repton, the Artistic Director of the Online Death Cult.

He knew Millicent would have deleted it. She would have been suspicious of phishing. Had she missed it? Had she deleted items like this before? Bob looked at the Subject Heading: Our New and Hopeful Group – The Arts Collective.

He smiled at the thought that art had been forged out of the wreckage of the ODC. He wondered why he, Lord Repton, Leader of the New Reform Party, The Prime Minister would receive this email.

He had already spent far longer considering this - than all of the potential parliamentary bills on his list combined.

He thought it through, I wasn’t seen by many. Denise and Brandon are both dead. Alan is safely holed away in Brazil. Surely, they would have seen my documentary on the TV.

He lay back in his leather chair and rested his chin in his cupped hands. He wanted to open the email. He thought, If I open it – don’t click on any links. Check the distribution list. Do I know the one who sent it? Is there anything else I should consider? Is there a threat? He continued to deliberate. Deep down, he knew that he would open it, it was irresistible. It was like a delicious dare. I could infect the most important computer in the land if I get this wrong – how exciting!’

He examined it again. It wasn’t addressed to him, personally, the opening line stated simply:

Dear all.

He noticed that it had come through as part of his combined accounts, an email account that hadn’t been used in years. A relic from a distant age, an age when he was free. I wonder if that is why it was overlooked?

Being merely a Lord back then, gave him privileges and connections. Being a minor aristocrat gave him relative anonymity, even those only a dozen away from the throne are unknown to the public unless they broadcast the fact.

Like a gambler at a fruit machine with a forefinger above the button flashing double or nothing he hesitated but savoured the adrenaline rush of the risk. He opened it and closed his eyes instinctively as if the email could explode in his face – he felt alive at his act of rebellion and recklessness.

He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and he hoped that it wouldn’t disappoint him now.

Dear all.

We are the Arts Collective. Formed from the ashes of the ODC. We travel the land picking up artists, writers, poets and painters.

We want you. We love you. Come, join us and live a life of love and inspiration.

You were the Martyrs who would die for a cause. Come and join us and truly live for art.

We are travelling the Nadie Trail to go and see the Golden Twins. We are going to be inspired by the Divine.

Next stop is Arlington. Follow our progress on the link.

You are ALL welcome.

Terrapin and Paintbrush.