Chrysalis a novel, p.5
Chrysalis: A novel, page 5
It was onwards and upwards from there. With the financial situation improving due to a new trade deal with the EU, Peter implemented a raft of environmental policies and invested heavily in green industries, creating jobs to remedy unemployment and also appealing to younger people who tend to care more about the environment and, somewhat crucially, tend not to vote for MPs who wear a blue rosette. That’s his long-term plan to make Britain successful again and to keep his party in power.
“Thanks Neil,” Ginley appreciated Neil’s warm words. “It looks like it has done the trick and has nullified Gauci’s attempts to suggest that his recent blunder is the onset of any spectacular fall from grace.”
“Indeed. It’s quite hard to make a smudge without any real dirt.”
“I agree, Neil. She needs to become more astute when picking her battles. Anyway, that gushing puff piece is already yesterday’s news. I need to decide what stories we’re running with today. My inbox is bursting at the seams as usual and I can’t read everything, but there are two main things jumping out at me; one that I know a little about and one about which I know diddly squat. We’ll start with that one. Who is Tanya Alora? Tell me she’s not woke.”
“She’s from that generation so she probably is I’m afraid. She’s a popstar. You know the song ‘Groovy Love’? It’s everywhere at the moment.”
Ginley looks at Neil vacantly. It appears that yet more popular culture has passed him by.
“Well, she’s about to make her debut on the political pages I suspect. She’s been caught buying blood from a dealer. I suspect she’ll be condemned at PMQ’s today by both Lightfoot and the leader of the opposition.”
“Hmm. Yes, the government have been very vocal in urging people not to buy blood from dealers. She is stupid though. This doesn’t leave this office, but I have old money sitting in accounts that I’m not prepared to just have sitting around until the Pound is reinstated. I have bought backstreet blood in order to get Globins, but you can get intermediaries to go and get it on your behalf and they take a small cut. The rich and the famous are all at it. What on earth would possess her to risk being seen?”
“You…” Neil hesitates, perhaps shocked by Ginley’s admission. He chooses not to mention it though. “You’re right. It’s just mindless.”
“They say all publicity is good publicity, but I think this just might be an exception to that rule.”
“She’s been removed from Spotify, so it’s not just her publicity; her bank balance is suffering too.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“It would be like the radio not playing your songs anymore.”
“Ah, okay I understand. Well, the question is should Tanya Alora be number one? Or should she be news item number two, less important than how the dealers are being… erm… controlled? Is that the right word?”
“I think that might be the right word, yes. This again has stemmed from the Alora story. She’s trying her hand at don’t defend, deflect. She claims the dealer she bought the blood from had a… wait until I get this correct.” Neil scrolls on his phone. “She said the dealer momentarily turned his back on her to fetch a bag of blood and she saw a dark oval-shaped metallic object, with little ridges on it, sticking out from the back of his head. It was very obvious as some of his hair was missing, like it been shaved for an operation.
“She is a popstar. Exactly how many recreational substances was she on during this interview?”
“The thing is, Ginley. This account correlates with several others who have been willing to talk about their experience of buying from blood-dealers. There have been undercover reporters who have seen what’s being called ‘the implant’ for the time being, or bandaging around the area where it ought to be.”
“And what makes people think that the dealers are being somehow controlled by these… implants? I mean, I see, through Vic’s children mainly, what technology can do nowadays, but this seems a bit pie in the sky to me.”
“There hasn’t been a single statement from any of the dealers. No amount of money offered by any undercover reporter has been accepted in exchange for information. They’re scared of something and they won’t say what. Surely there’s a link?”
“Supposing everything you say about the–” he struggles, as if it’s a word he’s never heard before, “–implant is true, Neil. I’m just glad I’m approaching my twilight years now. This world is getting more and more messed up with every coming day. Masks becoming more common even though the pandemics are over as big girl’s blouses don’t want to pass on the common cold, people who eat meat becoming a minority and now the robots are taking over. Thank God my stop’s coming up soon. I want to get off.”
Ginley laughs, but there’s a serious element to the point he’s making.
“I mean, you’re obviously a bit of an old fuddy-duddy when it comes to technology and not knowing who Tanya Alora is, but I agree with you here. The idea of the implant is terrifying. Someone ought to hit the brakes.”
“Something must be done,” they both shout out in unison. The standard tabloid refrain when there’s a societal change that they disapprove of.
“Okay,” Ginley declares having stopped the hilarity, moving the objects on his desk around as if he were arranging his thoughts. “Let’s assume the implant does actually do what it says on the tin. The problem for me isn’t what it can do in the wrong hands. I don’t care a jot what happens to the people willing to become dealers in the first place. It’s what it can do if it’s in the ‘right’ hands, in the hands of governments that I’m worried about. Our free will is being increasingly eroded; vaccine passports, driverless cars, a list of words we cannot say, most of the country being essentially forced into giving blood. If getting this implant were to become state-sanctioned, we’re fucking done for, existentially.”
Ginley has a lightbulb moment.
“In fact, I know we’re digressing a little, but this is exactly the tone we need to take in any article on this. Do a page on whatever she’s called, but the main story is going to be about the implant. Headline: Dealer implants threat to us all. Get people terrified about this. Whip them up into a frenzy. Get them so perturbed that politicians will have to come out and declare their opposition to any technology like this ever being used by the state. This is a far bigger threat to our existence than climate change. Rich people will be fine with that. We’ll take the higher terrain and watch the plebs fight over the lilos, but nobody survives the technological onslaught coming our way if this implant starts to permeate into modern society.”
“You want me to get onto that, boss?”
“Yes please. I have to prepare to take on Gauci tonight on a panel show?”
“I’m sure you’ll run rings around her.”
“Oh, I don’t mean I need any help with my arguments, it’s more my appearance I’m worried about. It’s a televised debate.”
“Interesting. A rare foray into the world of TV for you, Ginley.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, best of luck. I’ll get onto this scaremongering piece.”
“Cheers Neil. Good man.”
8
The hum of clippers and the clack of scissors reverberate through the barber shop. Frank is already being seen to, his three at the back and sides, and a tidy-up on top, well underway. Sean is at the counter signing his life away. Being forced to sign a waiver that explains that you may die from getting a haircut is always off-putting, but then again it’s possible to just leave the house and die bizarrely from a freak gust of wind blowing some arbitrary object against your temple. You just can’t sue Mother Nature. That’s where waivers come in.
Sean waits, drumming his fingers against the counter whilst the barber enters his details onto the computer. As he looks outside to do a little people watching, he grins, taking in the irony of the red and white pole adorning the shop front. The universal symbol of the barber shop represents a blood-stained towel, harking back to the days when they not only offered haircuts and beard trims, but also primitive forms of medical procedures.
They used to remove teeth and perform amputations, as well as practising bloodletting, a procedure thought to date back as far as the Ancient Egyptians. It basically involved nicking a vein or artery and letting out vast quantities of blood. They thought this would cure people from various ailments including plagues. If only that would work for Hemo, which Sean had caught during the latest pandemic.
Strictly called Gomti Viral Haemorrhagic Fever, Gomti being the river in India where it is thought to have originated, it became popularised as Hemo in the United States who drop the ‘A’ from the British spelling of haemorrhage. It was similar to Covid-19 in that it was an airborne virus, but rather than causing respiratory problems, Hemo adversely affected the blood.
A haircut comes with associated risks for Sean. Sean’s blood deteriorates in quality over time. Even though he fully recovered from Hemo, annual blood transfusions are required in order for him to be able to live without impediment. It causes an extreme form of haemophilia which is why the barber will have to be extra-vigilant with the scissors, but nonetheless indemnified if he isn’t. Sean could potentially bleed out in a matter of minutes from even the smallest of cuts as Hemo affects your blood’s ability to clot.
With the I’s dotted and the T’s crossed, Sean makes his way to the small black curved seat perched on a tall chrome pole. He nestles his buttocks into the seat and gets a fright as he is suddenly lowered by the barber pressing on the foot pedal.
“I’m nearly done, Sean,” Frank boasts. “I think I’ll just get you in the pub at this rate.”
“Yeah, you don’t need to sign your life away ‘cause you never had Hemo you lucky bastard.”
“We all have our crosses to bear, Sean.”
“You don’t have many at the moment. DomiTech’s coming up trumps for you.”
“Has the price rose again?” Frank asks as the barber tuts. “Sorry,” he says to the man cutting his hair. “I’ll keep still.”
“Yeah the markets declared this afternoon; share price is up another 0.7%”
“Christ almighty. I told you, didn’t I? I just had a feeling about this one.”
“I think you should sell.”
“No. Keep going. Trust me.”
“You still can’t tell me anything about them, Frank. Yet you seem utterly convinced that they’re the next fucking Vala Corp. You must know something.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“How is it you know about them?”
“Just through a mate of a mate.”
“Well what’s his name? I’ll look him up, see what field he’s in. It might give me a step for a hint. I’m getting nervous about the money from the fund being used. If it’s driverless cars or hydrogen fuel they’re involved in then I’m inclined to keep it there, but if it’s some passing craze, like an app that’s going to get a lot of engagement for a month or so until the next craze comes along then I want to pull out, pronto.”
“I promise I don’t know anything. I would tell you if I did. I heard about it down at the pub with a few blokes who go to the West Ham games. I don’t know any of them well enough to know what they’re into. We’ve got QPR at home on Saturday though. If I see them in the pub afterwards, I’ll try and find out some more for you.”
“I’ll phone you on Sunday. If you don’t have anything about NomiTech at all by then, I’m pulling both my money, and my investors’ money, out of there. You can keep yours in as long as you like.”
“Cheers, Sean. You should have a bit more faith, though.”
Sean laughs. “Faith is the reason why the bookies still know you by name, Frank, and I’m a reasonably successful fund manager.”
Frank’s head jerks as he grunts at Sean’s sneering comment. The barber shakes his head and sighs.
“Just when you mentioned The Hammers there,” Sean adds. “Something came into my head. Who was your mate that came to one match? I think it was against Everton. A weird guy. Bright as a button though. Worked in coding or something like that.”
“Oh, Derrick?”
“Yeah, that was him.”
“Good guy, and as you say, he’s clever. Too clever to make a good football fan. He sees everything logically. No bias. Told me once I couldn’t, in good faith, celebrate a goal that should have been off-side, because I scream blue murder about it when other teams get them against us,” Frank laughs.
“Even only having met him once that sounds exactly like something he’d say. The prick probably invented VAR.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“What is he doing now anyway?”
“Fucked if I know, mate. It’s all over my head. I just know he quit from the company he was at and works for himself now. Still doing some programming shit. He puts in even more hours than you do. I don’t think he sleeps.”
“Gotta put in the hard yards if you want to make real money.”
“Or lump your life savings on NomiTech.”
“Trust me, Frank. Sell, sooner rather than later.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Frank says dismissively. “You coming to the pub after this?”
“I’ll come yeah. Just for one. Sara’s on the telly at seven. I want to catch that. See her demolish Ginley Scrote with any luck.”
“Why don’t you get it on catch-up or something?”
“Nah, I’d better watch this and give her a call after it.”
“Uft, look at you all smitten with your famous girlfriend.”
“It’s still early days, mate, but it’s going well, I think. It’s not very often I can find someone who’ll put up the amount of time I spend working. She probably works as much as that Derrick bloke.”
“Fucking hell. Good job you don’t last long,” Frank jibes. “You’ll only be getting five minutes with her if she’s working to his schedule.
“Fuck off, Frank,” Sean retorts.
“Right, I better stop chatting now Sean, before this fella loses the rag and I lose an ear,” Frank chuckles.
“Here in the studio to discuss tonight’s top stories are two, I guess you could say, rival journalists. To the left of me is the political editor of the Custodian, Sara Gauci, and on my right is the political editor of the Daily Express, Ginley Sprott.”
Sean, having survived his haircut and Frank’s banter, sits glued to the TV in his living room, waiting for the camera to switch from the anchor so that he can see Sara. The camera pans out and he catches a glimpse of her; long brown hair plunging down perfectly straight, before curling in right at the tips, like a coconut shell enclosing the mouth-watering olive fleshy centre that is her beautiful face. Deep-set, almond-shaped, dark brown eyes somehow illuminated like beacons in fog.
She looks understated yet gorgeous in a black blouse with an oversized flowery collar. Her long legs the only skin on show, emanating from under her short black shirt. She has enough TV sense to keep her legs crossed one over the other. He doesn’t pay much attention to Ginley other than note he’s situated at the opposite end of the studio. The anchor acting as a barrier separating them, a fulcrum balancing their opposing opinions.
He can’t help but wonder if they choose the seating arrangement based on what way they lean politically. He also finds it interesting how different Ginley looks in a TV studio. His pompous arrogance seems to be in abeyance and Sean can sense his discomfort through the screen.
Sara casts Ginley a wry smile as they are labelled ‘rivals.’ Ginley, whilst having a good ten years or so on her in terms of journalistic experience, is actually the more nervous of the two as he doesn’t do television very often. Sean’s intuition in regard to that was correct.
In fact, this is Ginley’s first time in the actual studio as he made the leap from only being on the page during the Covid-19 pandemic and made the odd sporadic appearance on Zoom from his apartment. He keeps his hands below the table he is sitting behind as his fingers nervously fiddle with each other.
In contrast, Sara is the embodiment of composure and is looking forward to a verbal scrap with Ginley after taking a good few scalps in the form of politicians recently. The Tories are on the verge of not even speaking to her after she tied the housing secretary, Dawn Werther, and the business secretary, Maurice Coles, in knots recently. The little-known MP for Thirsk and Malton, Deborah Sibley, also ended up deleting her Twitter account such was the embarrassment she suffered at the hands of a relentless Sara. She rebuffed all of her flimsy arguments and posted screenshots of her own historical contradictory tweets back at her. It’s not just Ginley who can play dirty on social media. If she can handle all those senior politicians, as well as the lowly Deborah Sibley, she’s convinced she can handle Ginley who isn’t exactly renowned for handling scrutiny all that admirably.
“Ginley, Sara, we’re so glad to have you in the studio with us today,” the presenter announces. Sara smiles at the right time, completely aware of when the camera is on her. Ginley looks lost. He’s a little confused as he’s sitting on the left of Angie, the presenter, but she said right. He works out that it was for the viewers at home’s benefit and that Angie was just reading from the autocue as she’d probably get confused by pointing left and saying right too if it weren’t for that prompt.
He goes from being lost to then looking like a kid in a sweet shop, engrossed in all the crew running around, transfixed by all moving parts that make televised news look like it’s just a presenter in a small room on their own. Sara replies to Angie attesting that she’s pleased to be here. She waits for the cue that the camera is solely on Angie again before trying to catch Ginley’s attention and bring him back into the room.
