News of the World

A Story by Tommy Dakar

Published on www.writefromwrong.com

NEWS OF THE WORLD

'But look at these lonely houses............. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser.' Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

It is the seventeenth of November, any year. These crimes against humanity take place in, say, Britain, or any other place on earth of your choice. They are simultaneous and complimentary, and only the dictates of the printed word confer them any logical order.

Let us prise off the roof of number twenty seven Littleton Road. As you can see, the walls in every room have been entirely covered with newspaper from sensationalist tabloids. Above the bed hang photos of breasts, lots of breasts, in full colour. There are serial killers in the bathroom, adulterers in the pantry. Slander fills the living room. TV celebrities and Win a Car competitions vie for space in the stairwell alongside the printed heads of traitors, placed on spikes for the birds to eat.

There are double locks on the doors and bars at the window. It is a safe home.

But that smell.

He has stuffed newspaper in all the cracks, sealed off the windows, placed draught excluders at the doors. But the odours prevail.

It is a scent of spices, flavours unknown to him, both exotic and menacing.

At the dining table, surrounded by three-word headlines, he is once more assaulted by the all pervading stench.

Cardamom? Mace? Funegeek? The dried roots of plants from distant lands, whose strange names are as mysteriously threatening as fakir, or voodoo. Foreign, like languages. As unintelligible as jargon, in-jokes, sniggering.

And as he covers his nose, he desires, in his heart of hearts, that something will happen, no matter how terrible, to make this nauseating aroma go away forever.

Lilly Tomlinson has recently developed an interest in architecture, design and interior decorating, so she turns a critical eye on her new bedsit.

The walls are painted murky green, the furniture is cheap and chipped, the view from the window is of office blocks, motorways and petrol stations. Her suitcase is visible on top of the disjointed wardrobe. There is not a lot she can do.

So she starts with a few posters. These are rising stars. One day perhaps they will achieve universal fame. Then, their exclusivity gone, she will unpin them with a frown.

She pulls out knick knacks from another era " a joss stick holder, a pocket size video game, a pot of hair dye. They no longer represent her, she has moved on.

Lilly lives alone through choice. She has shared in the past, with friends, with strangers, with lovers. But co-habitation means compromise, means having to listen to their point of view, watch their programmes, adapt to their time schedules. She prefers to be in command, for the remote control to be in her hands, to apply her own filters. She needs no-one.

On her squeaky bed she scours her laptop for novelty and inspiration. Not politics, not economics, not international suffering, but a Bright New World, now, as it happens. New releases, the latest fashion, famous divorces - she has to know.

Then move on. Alone. Because true freedom is egocentric.

These are the premises of Doctor Ewan Sutcliffe.

Premise number one: wealth reflects worth.

Premise number two: money attracts money.

There are more. No doubt his wife and two grown up sons could draw up a lengthy list, but these are his favourites.

To back up his statements he has acquired a large reconverted mill in a peaceful village with excellent access to the nearby city. He subscribes to a national newspaper which wholeheartedly agrees with him on almost every economic issue.

Today he is overseeing a group of men who have been hired to repair and paint the fence that surrounds his property. He is telling them that hard work never hurt anyone, and is the road to fortune. One of the workers, a long in the tooth character with a face like damp cardboard, comments that all Empires are built on cheap labour.

Dr. Sutcliffe smiles. Being an educated man he is aware that others flout alternative, even contrary theories. Invariably they are the weak arguments of weak men used to justify their own inadequacies and failures. What is required is evidence. In such cases he spreads his arms and shows them the full extent of his grounds.

Premises and conclusions.

13 Chisholm Way. At first sight it appears there is nobody at home. As from a black hole, no light escapes. But come a little closer, through the French windows and the heavy curtains, past the living room into the kitchen.

There she is, Larisse, preparing supper for her family. Like everything in life, it is a thankless task. She has seen the documentaries and read the reports. Now she has the proof that life is a cross to be borne, she forces herself to follow her own harsh rules. There is an ever growing list of forbidden foodstuffs pinned to the cork notice board alongside pamphlets, circulars and magazine clippings detailing the infinite horrors of the modern world.

Larisse will eat while mothers in poorer countries cook stones to lull their hungry children to sleep. As she watches her husband drink white wine the dry wells of Somalia will torment her. When her teenage children pick at their organic meals and moan about the peas under their mattresses Larisse will fly into a rage.

She has been informed, the knowledge will not go away. She has no right to complain, no right to be happy.

She is a convict of conviction.

On a lighter note there are other news items today. A woman was stabbed to death by her ex husband in what appears to have been a crime of passion. Six people died in a multiple collision in thick fog, and two young boys were burnt to death in a tragic household accident.