Tag: book1

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“Systems of government,” says BarmyWaffle, “if you can call the Wor Council a government!”

“Officially, ThunderCloud is the leader of the Wor Council,” notes CandiCrush, quickly adding, “though he behaves more like a Roman Emperor who controls everything. The Wor Council simply rubber stamps everything he says.”

BarmyWaffle continues, “they have no police force, no civil defence service, just pirates and militias. It’s as if the Roman Empire evolved clumsily, missed out some of the steps, and promptly transformed into the Italian Mafia.”

“And that’s why we have a Garrison,” says CandiCrush, “self defence! If we weren’t able to defend ourselves they’d take everything we own. Meirionydd has the same problem. They have a border with Worringfolk too. And they have a garrison. In Welsh theirs is called a Byddin. The Manx have a Sidooryn, and the Irish call theirs the Láigen.”

“Surely Worringfolk has a police force,” says KristalClear, “didn’t everything evolve from the England and Wales system before The Decimation?”

“That’s a tough one!” says CandiCrush, “Barmy is older than me, so he might know more, but basically the history is a bit of fact and a bit of guesswork. For hundreds of years we’ve relied on defectors, and prisoners of war, to help us piece together a picture of what’s happening inside Worringfolk.”

Earnestly, BarmyWaffle says, “this is all a generalisation you understand, the communities along the River Mersey had some charming people and some tedious people. The ones who originally came from Mannin and Leinster went back home. The charming ones in the remaining population basically upped sticks and moved out. In all directions. Many of them came north to what is now Wolfland. When the vineyards first started to appear in Meirionydd many people chose to go there. That left an imbalance in Worringfolk, with lots of tedious people remaining.”

“But they still had a police force, and law and order, didn’t they?” asks KristalClear, “and a Garrison or whatever it was called back then?”

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She doesn’t know what to say next. Nor does VickyWarr, she has no appetite either.

As well as the burden of losing her son, VickyWarr now has to contend with consoling her daughter, and coping with no news from her husband. He’s been gone these past 24 hours trying to navigate the murky world of the Worringfolk lowlifes.

Who else can RickyWarr get help from? There is no police force, no civil defence service, just pirates and local mafias. They’re the only people with connections and power.

The only lead that RickyWarr has is LankyLa and can he be trusted? He works with the mob. According to LankyLa, MickeyWarr was press ganged. According to TrickyWarr he might have eloped with Angel. Or could there be another explanation? A dozen other explanations probably!

“Why would Mickey leave home without discussing it in advance?” asks TrickyWarr.

“Mum … why is Worringfolk in such a mess?”

—o—

After TedTalker explains that the thief was a rat, and not an interloper, CandiCrush and BarmyWaffle feel much more at ease. That rules out their worst nightmare.

CandiCrush looks at KristalClear and asks, “pure luck, or intuition?”

“A little bit of both really. I think Tolstoy can claim an ‘assist’ on this one! He was the first one to mention foxes, and he’s the one who cornered the fox. Without that, we’d all still be scratching our heads! When we have a chance, I’ll fill you in on all the details.”

It was another week before they had that chance. Another Wednesday afternoon, at the Innovation lab.

Finally BarmyWaffle and NutJob are able to have a proper meeting. Although the chat is less about innovation and is more about the Garrison, and law and order in general. KristalClear and CandiCrush are delving into the reasons why pirates even exist in the first place.

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before the morning rush. The Warr family is well liked in Wid. They’re proper, hard working people, looking after Farmer Bell’s goats and chickens.

Whereas LankyLa is another small time member of the mob, earning a commission on the money he collects from protection rackets.

“TrickyWarr’s not going to cope well with that news,” adds Mrs Bell, “nor will Angel.”

Angel works at the tavern, which is how they met.

“Angel’s gone too. Nobody knows where she’s gone.”

TrickyWarr is MickeyWarr’s fifteen year old sister. She’s still at school, and is struggling to make sense of life in 2450AD. Particularly, the way that society functions in Worringfolk. Or fails to function! Some of her ancestors moved out when they had the chance. North towards the Lake District, to what is now Wolfland. Or west towards Eryri, in Meirionnydd.

They had heard that Lancaster was a prosperous place with a mix of farming, and industry, and ship building. Some people chose Meirionnydd, because it has plenty of farm work. It’s an agricultural oasis with vineyards, olives, and all manner of produce.

They make good wine in Meirionnydd, and even champagne. And naturally everybody speaks Welsh.

For a Scouser escaping Worringfolk, Wolfland is considered the easier option. That’s if they can find a way out! Whichever way they go, all the other territories have stable governments.

TrickyWarr was supposed to be keeping a secret, but felt that now was the best time to explain. Angel had wanted to elope with MickeyWarr. They weren’t intending to do it just yet. They had wanted to go north and look for work. Apparently!

Sitting at the breakfast table on Monday morning, supposedly getting ready for school, TrickyWarr is visibly restless and merely pushing her food about the plate.

“Mum …”

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TubbyLa is one of many small time crooks who works with the Runcorn Mafia. The RunMaf have an uneasy relationship with the WidMaf, although they share control of the former Queensway Bridge.

After The Decimation the road and rail bridges fell into disrepair, and eventually collapsed into the water. Nothing can get past them on the river, and to start with, nothing could cross over the river either.

It was another 200 years before the bosses of the RunMaf and the WidMaf came to an agreement to establish a new crossing. With no civil engineers, no major projects had ever been undertaken in Worringfolk. So in a truly elementary fashion a system of wooden platforms was designed.

Pathways were built over the top of the derelict road bridge, and the mafias collect tolls from everything that crosses. Pedestrians, livestock, horses, wagons, and stagecoaches.

Until now MickeyWarr had been living in Wid, and had been working as a farmhand.

TubbyLa stares at him.

“You’re a pirate now! You’re on your way to Boot to meet BlackCloud and BlackDog, your new workmates. I’ll slacken one of those leg irons in a minute, so you can walk better, you’ve got 20 kilometres to cover today.”

Stunned, MickeyWarr goes pale and stares towards the ceiling. He’s not focussing on anything in particular. “It can’t be true! I don’t believe this is happening to me!”

He moves his feet a little, the leg irons are true enough!

—o—

“They’ve taken Mickey,” says LankyLa.

“Taken the mickey?”

“No! They’ve taken MickeyWarr, press ganged! We’ll be lucky if we ever see him again.”

On a Monday morning Mrs Bell opens up her farm shop nice and early. Normally, LankyLa and MickeyWarr are among the first customers of the day, picking up bread and eggs

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Chapter 5

Missing

Being stabbed awkwardly in the soft, sensitive part of your lower eyelid, by a jagged shred of dried hay, is not a welcome experience. Especially when you’re asleep!

Forcefully brushing it away from his left eye, with the sort of push normally reserved for a wasp buzzing about his face, MickeyWarr slowly opens his right eye. Half opens it, squinting in the half light of the barn, trying to make out what’s going on.

No wasp!

With his left cheek still firmly on the floor he opens his left eye a little, and tries to focus.

A few broken rays of sunlight have found their way through the gaps in the uneven, dilapidated wooden walls. This hard floor is unmistakeably dry earth, and the inadequate layer of hay was certainly not conducive to a good night’s sleep.

Even with global warming it’s still a typical, chilly Sunday morning in late October, and MickeyWarr is not dressed for rough sleeping! He’s dressed for a Saturday night out at the tavern. A smell of unfamiliar manure hangs in the air. It’s not goat dung. He knows that smell, but this one is heavier, clinging to the lining of his nose and throat, like a drowning man who’s clinging onto a rope and refusing to let go.

Raising the left side of his head off the floor a little, he looks about.

“Angel! Angel, where are you?”

“She’s not ‘ere mate,” says a raspy, gruff voice to his right.

“What?”

“She’s gone, you’ll not be seein’ ‘er again.”

Except for the docks, where the pirates are in control, the local militias run everything in Worringfolk. ThunderCloud won’t have his hands soiled by doing the dirty work, so he leaves it to the pirates in Boot, and to the local mobs inland, to handle all day to day business.

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Faraday told him something quite recently. Something deep and profound. The words of a mature, old man. But right now NutJob can only half remember it. Something about reasoning. He has to respond soon, otherwise he’s going to look like a complete muppet. The cogs are whirring in his brain, as he desperately wants to be the unflappable, ideal raconteur.

Without answering KristalClear’s question directly, he wants to deliver his own version of Faraday’s comment. He tries to create a more measured persona, balancing a mature version of NutJob against a gentile version of Faraday.

Miraculously, his philosophical idea crystalises with a distinct personal touch, informed by, but not repeating Faraday’s words verbatim. His response appears to flow effortlessly.

“Whatever the desires might be, you can persuade somebody to do something only by showing them that it’s in their own best interest.”

Genuinely impressed, KristalClear responds kindly, “you must have done your homework.”

“Homework? What homework?”

She laughs.

They smile at each other.

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“Kind of. You’re right that it’s about reward. The reward for doing it has to be better than the reward for not doing it, otherwise people will simply not do it.”

“OK, so the reward for not watering your horse is no horse?”

“And the reward for looking after somebody,” says KristalClear, “is that somebody will look after you!”

She’s not letting on what she’s really thinking, it’s not just about job prospects. She’s trying to probe NutJob, and work out his value system, his ethos, and his trustworthiness.

Having just learnt something new from him, the Thomas Mann story, she wants to reward him with one of her own deep and thought provoking discussions. And the end game she has in mind is not simply about money management. It’s about persuasion, co-operation and mutualism.

“What do people actually want?” she muses.

Racking his brain for a moment, and trying to come up with a good response, something educational, he says, “MRS GREN?”

KristalClear doesn’t spot the link at first and replies with a simple, “Mrs Gren?”

“You know, movement, respiration, sensation, and all that.”

“Those are attributes! Attributes of life forms. We did that in science years ago. I’m talking about desires not attributes.”

She no doubt said that unintentionally. However it’s alerted NutJob to a different line of thought. Desires! What’s she getting at? He thinks he’d better come up with a really clever response this time. No more text book witticisms!

Buying some time he looks up at the clouds, even if it gains him only a couple of seconds.

“Hmm … desires?”

KristalClear realises that she’s let slip her thoughts, and she hopes that he doesn’t clam up. She definitely doesn’t want him to feel uncomfortable. She honestly wants to understand him a little more deeply.

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privacy. They step outside into the Market Square, each holding a small cupcake in their hand, and they find an empty bench where they can sit together peacefully.

KristalClear’s day is getting better. She’s now in a philosophical mood as she surveys all the businesses and thinks about the employment opportunities surrounding the square.

Looking back towards Chadwicks, then further down Market Street she can just make out the Wolfland Bank sign above the door. That’s where Mr Wood works. In the same area, though beyond the pedestrian zone and out of sight, is The Lancastrian where NutJob works.

“If you didn’t work at The Lancastrian what would you actually choose to do?”

“I’d make aeroplanes,” says NutJob, “if I could!”

“No. Not grand schemes. I mean regular employment. What sort of job would you really like?”

“Dunno really! I wonder why my dad has a job in a bank? Or why yours chose to run a shop?”

“How do you get somebody to do something?” asks KristalClear.

“How do you get anybody to do anything?” replies NutJob.

“It’s the same question really,” says KristalClear, “ how do you get somebody to do something? I’m asking you, because this is the chat that I have with maman from time to time. She’s a teacher at Willowdene Primary.”

“How does she get on with that? Persuading kids?”

“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. That’s her philosophy. But there’s more to it than that. What happens if you never lead a horse to water?”

With no hesitation NutJob says, “you end up with an angry horse!”

“Or it will find some water another way. If it can’t get it here, it’ll go elsewhere, it will run away if necessary, it can’t live without water.”

“So it’s carrot and stick?” asks NutJob, “except the horse is the one with the stick, telling you to stick it when she’s mistreated?”

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as long as he ate them all inside the shop. Nothing was allowed to be taken away.

“How many cakes was he able to eat?” asks NutJob.

“I’m not a boy! I might be able to eat three, perhaps four?”

“Ten? More than ten? The answer doesn’t matter,” says NutJob, “the point is and then what? How rich do you need to be? Once you have enough money, then what? HopAlong has probably done the maths. Does he need to work, does he need any more money?”

“I don’t know,” says KristalClear.

It’s not often that NutJob leads a conversation with KristalClear. She’s incredibly bright and she does well at school, although this time NutJob seems to know something that she doesn’t.

She looks puzzled and thoughtful at the same time.

She looks as if she’s about to speak again, but doesn’t actually know what to say. She’s blinking, her mouth is closed, her cheek muscles seem a little tense as she begins to clench her teeth. And then releases the tension by looking down. NutJob thinks she looks pensive and beautiful at the same time.

She looks up, with a poignant half smile which says something like say something nice to me.

He smiles at her, and with a crisp nod of the head asks, “do you want a cake? Let’s go to Chadwicks! I’ll buy you one … one mind … I can’t afford lots!”

—o—

            At the south east corner of the Market Square, Chadwicks is the last shop which still has a frontage onto the square. It’s a traditional, old fashioned greengrocer and general store, with a tiny tea shop in one corner. It’s not trying to compete with the cafés, and it doesn’t have the same frontage rights, but is does have four tables in one corner. It’s popular with local workers and there’s always somebody sitting in the small confined space.

KristalClear and NutJob would rather have just a little more

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“I have no idea,” says KristalClear, “I’m sixteen. It’s going to be a long time before I have to retire.”

—o—

“How much is enough,” asks NutJob, “and then what?”

“What are you talking about?” asks KristalClear, “you’re the second person today talking to me in riddles.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that! I was talking about HopAlong, about farming, about business. Your dad’s a businessman isn’t he? He runs a shop?”

“Yeah? So?”

“My dad works in a bank. It’s his job to help businesses with loans, and he’s always asking about the end game. He likes to tell me the story of Thomas Mann.”

“What does it mean end game? Who’s Thomas Mann?”

“How will HopAlong know when he has enough money to retire? How will your dad know? My dad goes on about this all the time. The end game. Retirement. I’ve heard this story a dozen times!”

“Mine never talks to me about money, or retirement,” says KristalClear, “he just tells me I always have to put something aside for a rainy day, save something out of my weekly wages!”

NutJob emphasises the question again, “so how much is enough, and then what? It’s a story about greed.”

“I thought we were all just trying to survive,” says KristalClear, “to have enough money to be able to cope, that’s all.”

NutJob tells the story of the ten year old boy in the cake shop. As told by somebody called Thomas Mann from the 1930s.

It’s a story about a grandfather who takes a little boy to a luxury cake shop for a special treat on his tenth birthday. He was told that he can have a small cake or two, but that he must eat the cakes while he’s still inside the café. In fact, he could have more than two. He could have as many cakes as he liked,

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