‘Biscuits,’ said the commissar touching the top of the tin. ‘The beginning of the end of civilisation.’
He stroked his chin and looked long and hard at Bastian, then Jambit who flinched under his gaze.
‘Congratulations,’ he finally said before breaking into a smile. ‘Go into the office and grab a bite to eat, then we’ll have a little talk about the justice system. And don’t worry, I’ll stick to basics.’
The tables were laid out for their triumphant entry. Roasted flamingo with sweet potatoes and fried plantain and zebra curry with rice.
The two female caterers remained seated at the back of the room talking loudly about the beauty of their lives, the prowess of their husbands and successful offspring who’d recently gained a place at the Cleaning University in London. Bastian and Jambit hurriedly finished their meals and declined seconds, but did grab another flagon of cider before they were taken away.
The flagons were ceramic and held two pints. There was a large flange at the neck with a spout. Some had two or three spouts which made sharing a flagon possible; people were wary of catching germs that may cost them points unless their hormones silenced any concerns.
‘Any questions?’ asked the commissar striding into the room.
‘Go on, tell him,’ whispered Jambit in Bastian’s ear.
‘The cooks, Sir, was that by any chance part of the test?’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘It’s just that their conversation appeared rather fake.’
‘Excellent, and indeed it was.’
Fake conversation was generally louder and irrelevant if not irreverent. It attempted to illicit attention or even jealousy and washed away the mortar that held the bricks of society in place. The commissars in particular were forever on the lookout for its adherents. And like swearing, cussing, whistling, humming, and kissing teeth it resulted in the loss of five points from your record. Those whom spat on the streets were deducted ten points and repeat offenders in all categories were sent to the chain-gangs.
‘And what would you have done with them should their tittle-tattle have taken place on your village common?’ asked the commissar.
‘Arrested them, Sir,’ replied Bastian.
‘Good, but I am pleased to announce that your two hostesses were actresses. It appears the police’s gain is the commissar’s loss, Bastian.’
Jambit patted Bastian on the shoulder.
‘And now for a quick talk on our wonderful 100 points.’
He covered the injustices of the rusting generation that sucked up the nation’s housing like vampire bats to rent as nest eggs. And they all laughed at the stories of road and trolley rage. There was a short monologue from the commissar whilst reading his notes on God’s approval of the 100 points, after which they all scanned through their condensed handbooks on offences that lost careless citizens points.
‘And that’s it, men,’ said the commissar, slamming his book shut.
Once upon a time he might have said ‘gentlemen’ but like its female counterpart ‘lady’, it had long been banned. The Party hierarchy had struggled to understand any reason for the terms except to elevate one citizen above another through ill-judged flattery and vanity. It was also believed they undermined the use of man and woman which were meant to be celebrated. As the Archbishop of Canterbury had said when weighing into the argument, ’there was neither a gentleman nor a lady in the Garden of Eden.’
‘If you would present your right arms, it is with great pleasure that I return both of your armbands,’ said the commissar. ‘And Bastian, you have really impressed me.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘How’d you both like to stay a while and watch a new commissar earn his full whites?’
‘We’d love to,’ Bastian replied.
‘Good, then please,’ he opened an old cigar case, ‘take one of my cannabis spliffs made from my best plants.’
At the cliff’s edge facing out to sea stood a tall young man in red shorts and a black cloth blindfold.
‘When I blow the whistle continue walking straight ahead,’ shouted the commissar, ‘until I tell you to stop.’
He pursed his lips and gave the signal. The man confidently strode twenty paces ahead and then, much slower, another five. Eventually each footstep was met with hesitation.
‘Keep going,’ shouted the commissar.
And the new recruit did just that, right over the edge of the cliff. Bastian and Jambit followed the commissar and looked over. The man had been caught in a net ten feet above ground and his grin was as wide as the ocean behind him.
‘Now you only wear white,’ the commissar told him. He turned to Bastian and Jambit. ‘And that, my friends, is what makes a commissar. Good day to you both,’ he said.
Bastian and Jambit never got to know his name, you never did. They caught a cart home and made it back to the village in time for sunset, bruised and exhausted but feeling like supermen.
Chapter Fourteen
The following morning Bastian awoke with a new vigour and jumped out of bed in spite of his aches and pains. He went to his mirror, hung precisely where the light flattered his best side, and began to cut the beard he’d worn for the last two years.
Clumps of hair fell onto the stone tiled floor before he used the steel razorblades he’d stored in an old shoebox under the bed. He had a pair of black shoes for church, his wellington boots for the fields, and one pair of open-toed sandals for the blistering heat. In fact, he had the maximum pairs of footwear allowed. And no matter how worn they first became, you were expected to seek repairs before throwing them away. Which meant a visit to the government cobbler, whom on agreeing your footwear was beyond all repair, would issue you with a voucher for a new pair. If you had the misfortune to require a different pair from those for which you received a voucher, an appointment was needed, which may take all day as your reason was
