Commissars were the political cadres of the Party led by Edward and ensured that everyone remained loyal to the 100 points. They were fanatics who relished the opportunity to punish enemies of the state and competition to join was fierce. They rode the finest horses, had the best weapons, and only a commissar could learn and teach martial arts. Some even said they were experts in mathematics, the language of the Universe and God. The previous Archbishop, involved in a most unfortunate horse and cart accident, had petitioned for the reintroduction of maths in schools but the STP were opposed to such dangerous arts for common citizens.
‘Are your parents prepared for their well-deserved rest in the sun?’ Nabulus asked.
‘Mum’s a little nervous but Dad can’t wait.’
‘Then let’s hope all goes according plan.’
‘Bastian,’ said May from down the corridor, ‘they’re ready for you.’
‘I have to go,’ said Bastian to Nabulus, noticing the file marked Nora tucked under his arm.
‘I could trade you some ivory for that lion head,’ said Nabulus. ‘I’ve got more tusks than I know what to do with.’
But Bastian wasn’t tempted, the head made a nice conversation piece.
* * *
‘The man about to speak is an old pupil of ours, so please put your hands together and give him a loud welcome,’ said May, standing in front of her class.
There was ripple of gentle applause before Bastian lowered his hand towards the floor to shut them up. May went to sit at the back of the classroom.
‘When I was a pupil here, I was often told that actions speak louder than words. So, let me begin with this.’
He held the lion’s head aloft for all to see. The wildlife teacher walking down the corridor looked through the glass pane in the door and whistled her appreciation.
‘Any questions?’ asked Bastian, leaning against the desk.
‘How’d you kill it?’ asked the girl seated on the front row in her patched-up giraffe skin jeans.
‘With a gun,’ replied Bastian.
‘Were you scared?’ asked a boy.
‘Only of losing my points.’
The hour flew by with Bastian’s visit one of the more successful arranged by May, before the pupils trundled off to their first exercise class of the day. Study began at 3 p.m. and finished at ten that night.
Upon consultation with the children, the STP had devised a new school timetable. The hormone melanin made it nigh impossible for children to study in the mornings, never mind get out of bed. Their concentration was far superior and more sustainable in the afternoons and evenings. But should they become seriously unwell, there were no available treatments with the Party unwilling to fund generations of the genetically ill. The nation had paid a heavy price for interfering with God’s will and at their trials the doctors of old had confessed to lining their tailored pockets with gold.
Parents were allowed three children maximum with a three year gap between each. If the first child became unwell during the hiatus, no more were allowed. Parents that went above their limit lost all children to the STP orphanages and were sent to separate villages never to meet again. Couples uncovered as cousins met the same fate even if their offspring were healthy.
And no one seemed to mind because what really bothered people was not how much or how little they got but someone getting more than them and more than their fair share, which is why the STP and the 100 points had swept into power all those years ago. And no fairer system had ever been designed by man.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bastian was burning the midnight sunflower oil in the jungle and Joshua was right, there was an unofficial gap in the wire fence on the slope next to the Party’s poppy field, growing the best opium in the village and containing between 8 and 14% morphine by dry weight.
He heard footsteps, snuffed out the wick, and stood between the palm trees to hide from any drug stealing trespassers. The guy approaching with a rifle in one hand and a lantern in the other, looked around before stepping amongst the leafy magic carpet decorated with purple and crimson flowers. He wore a monkey mask of chimp hide, and with the end of a small blade made small incisions along the round green pods that grew three feet from the ground. White latex exuded from the wounds below a golden crown of spindles.
‘Police,’ shouted Bastian. ‘Don’t move.’
But far from staying put or running away, the thief was running towards him with the weapon held tight and the lantern on the ground for when he returned. A bullet whizzed by his arm tearing the sleeve on his shirt, and the rifle had a fixed bayonet. He kicked Bastian’s hand knocking his revolver into the bush.
Bastian slipped to the floor and grabbed a large branch to strike the arm holding the bayonet aimed at his midriff. Then with all his might, he swung low with the staff and swept the assailant off his feet.
They scrambled upright and jousted either side of a palm tree before Bastian jabbed the thief hard under the ribs. The assailant fell to the ground winded and Bastian went for the kill without any thought but for his own survival.
‘I’m sorry,’ screamed the man, throwing his rifle into the bushes. An animal yelped before scuttling off.
The thick branch had stopped an inch above his right eye and the thief removed his mask.
‘Holroyd?’ gasped Bastian.
‘Please, let me explain.’
They used the lanterns to recover their weapons and with his hand on the revolver and the rifle slung across his back, Bastian escorted Holroyd along the track.
‘One last request?’ asked Holroyd, stopping to rub his foot.
He had a slight limp from a childhood accident which on most occasions he managed to disguise and of which there was no mention in his personnel file kept in London.
‘Go on.’
‘The view from my hideaway. It will blow your mind.’
‘My mind’s fine.’
‘It’s my drugs den and observatory, I love stargazing
