Vanquishing evil

They gathered in a circle, their feet sinking into the muddy ground at the centre of the clearing. Overhead, clouds loomed, as if closing in to hear the passing of the judgement.

“Brethren, it is a dark day,” said Martha. “Once again, the Lord has punished us with this tempest. Do you not see the fruits of your doings? Must we keep suffering for all our sins?”

She glared at the group of wretched individuals who hung their heads as she spoke. “Unclean we are; unclean, pitiful things. You leave me no choice. Offerings must be given, more sacrifices must be made.”

In the centre of the group, Lorna was listening dutifully. But in her chest, a weighty breath bounded about and she could hold it no longer.

“How can we have sinned?” she blurted. “Do we not do everything you ask of us?”

Martha’s arm shot out like an arrow. “How dare you question God’s judgement?”

For a moment, Lorna faltered as all eyes turned on her. But her anguish was unabated. “We have nothing left, can’t you see?” she replied, clutching at her ragged clothing. “Why would a just God want us to live this way, in the dirt?” This last word, she hurled, and it echoed about the clearing like a thunderclap.

Before Martha could respond, another member of the group spoke up. “Yeah, what have we done?” said Victor, from behind curtains of white, matted hair. “Everyday, I work the fields. Anything that’s harvested I share with the villagers. I’ve never taken anything for myself, only given, yet still you say I’ve sinned.”

“Behold these blasphemers,” bellowed Martha, throwing her arms wide. “They choose to go against the one true word. Tell me, brethren; what punishment should befall them before they bring about even greater sufferance?”

But now, a steady murmur was passing amongst the group as others voiced their own grievances. Martha continued to declare and gesticulate, but her commandments were drowned out as collective anger boiled over into hysteria.

With gnashing teeth and wild eyes, the mob advanced on Martha. A hail of hands and feet fell upon her body, muffling her screams. After a minute or two, she no longer resisted the blows and the crowd erupted in jubilation.

Lorna danced among her fellow villagers, as they clasped each other by the shoulders and celebrated their actions. Despite the dark skies, she looked to them, thanking the heavens for an end to their misery.

Once the excitement had died down, the villagers looked again at the ravaged body of their former leader lying on the ground. Lorna stood with them, waiting for some sense of righteousness to emerge, a sign that justice had been served.

“We’ve done it. We’re free!” she cried, grabbing the sleeve of her nearest neighbour. But her words seemed hollow and out of place. A few others echoed her cry, but their elation also fell flat, like a spring fete in a rainstorm.

Lorna let her hand fall by her side as the last whispers of joy left her. Then there was only the sound of the wind and the beating of her heart.

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High net worth

Karl picked up his suit jacket that was folded next to his belongings. It had stood up well considering the circumstances. The same couldn’t be said for his shirt, however, which clung unhealthily to his body, but he had to at least look the part.

He gathered the rest of his things and stepped gingerly over the mass of bodies that were sprawled across the floor of the shopping arcade. Supposedly, there was meant to be some order to this mess, but the wardens had scarcely seemed to bother when they ushered everybody in last night. Between the sleeping bags and scrunched up blankets, white lines still marked out a thoroughfare to the few shops that had held out down here. Now, only the window display of the old magic shop remained, its vintage posters and volumes on card magic, steadily gathering dust.

At the foot of the steps, a group of men were quietly discussing yesterday’s papers. ‘Crisis in the capital’ and ‘state of emergency’ shouted from the front pages. They turned at Karl’s presence.

“Where are you going?” asked one of them, a yuppie type with a week’s worth of stubble. “It’s not time yet.”

“Oh, yes it is” muttered Karl. Judging by old habits, it was exactly the right time.

At street level he was met by a flurry of commuters scuttling by and the hammering of traffic on the Strand. The rush was noticeably less in recent weeks as redundancies continued, but the sight of it still lifted Karl’s spirits. This was where he belonged, fighting the good fight to keep the wheels of the capital turning.

As he stepped forward, the device on his ankle began to vibrate. It was gentler than he had anticipated, but the high-pitched ringing was as startling as when he heard it on some poor sod trying his luck out of hours. ‘Going rogue’ as the papers liked to call it. They never lasted long, of course. He would have to move quickly.

Karl lurched across the road, ignoring a chorus of horns and set off at a pace down Villiers Street. Heads of pedestrians turned as the noise reached their ears and they parted for him as though he were the carrier of some highly contagious disease. One tourist lifted their camera absent-mindedly to their chest and pressed the shutter and Karl resisted the urge to swear at them.

Nevertheless, he didn’t have to fight through the hordes that used to populate this stretch even a month ago. Now, there were comparatively few traipsing in and out of the chain restaurants that still survived, news of London’s epidemic yet to reach their shores.

A crowd of commuters were forming at Embankment station as he approached the bottom of the hill and Karl could see staff speaking into their radios while their eyes followed his trajectory towards the underpass. Then, from the shadows, the Starbucks beamed at him.

He barged through the door to find it half full with suits, a few hammering out some last minute agendas, while others just lounged contentedly. Richard and Ken were sat towards the rear of the café, their greying sideburns at odds with the rest of the well-groomed heads.

The sound of the device cut through the subdued atmosphere like an alarm clock and everyone twisted round in their seats to face him.

“Excuse me!” called the girl from the counter. “You can’t come in here.”

Karl felt the heat of indignation rise in his cheeks. “The hell I can’t!”

As he approached the table, Richard’s face crumpled in fright before a flicker of recognition loosened it.

“Christ! Karl.”

“Hello Richard. Ken. Thought I’d find you chaps in here.”

“What are you doing?” asked Richard.

Karl cleared his throat. “I’ve come to ask for some help. I know things are tough at the moment, but I can’t hack it out here. I want back in.”

Richard shifted in his seat. “Karl, I’m sorry. You know how it is. There are protocols. It’s out of our hands.”

“Come on, Richard. There’s always an opening somewhere, even if its just administration. What do you say? Help out a colleague, a friend?”

There was a commotion outside the cafe. Karl knew his time was nearly up.

“Ken?”

“You know the score, Karl” replied Ken, looking at his hands. “We’re dropping like flies. With your background, I’m sure you’ll find something. I hear Asia is looking promising.”

The door to the bar swung open and two wardens in grey outfits stormed in. They grabbed Karl by the arms and dragged him out of the cafe.

Back on the street, curfew was off and a motley procession was taking place as the homeless were herded down the street to Embankment Gardens. The Guardian had likened it to yard exercise for prisoners and Karl conceded they had a point.

One of the wardens crouched down and pointed a scanner at Karl’s ankle. The ringing stopped. He stood back up and set about tapping away on the screen. “That’s a mark on your record for leaving a sanctuary during curfew. If it happens again, it could land you in front of a judge, understand?”

Karl tilted his face towards the sky. “I can see you’ve got a good background,” continued the warden. “9 years in the financial services. My advice is, keep your head down and keep a clean record. It could work in your favour when it comes to redeployment.”

They ushered him into line and Karl shuffled along until he was inside the park. He found himself a spot on the grass and hung his head between his knees.

“Scandalous, isn’t it.”

Karl looked and saw a woman sitting close by, wrapped in a pale grey trenchcoat. “Savings and investments, 2 years. Ed here,” she nodded to a glum-faced lad next to her, “he’d only been branch manager at Barclays for six months before they let him go. If this government thinks the country can survive on teachers and nurses, they’ve got another thing coming.”

The device glowed timidly from under the hem of his trousers as Karl shored his knees up. 2 weeks until his processing date. Long enough to consider the prospect.