Terror Firma

Kate wasn’t to be disappointed. As the ‘Applause’ lights flashed their strident instruction, Jimmy Maxwell sprung from an alcove and bounded down the audience aisle stairs leaping, slapping hands with the people and whooping with every breath. Britain’s favourite daytime TV celeb might have had the body and face of a middle-aged angel, but put him in front of a tight-lipped guest and he’d rip their tale from them like his career depended on it – which it did. He was undeniably the biggest fish in a small pond, but Maxwell had agents working round the clock to facilitate the move he craved. There was only so far you could take this format in the closeted and provincial TV backwater that was the UK. North America beckoned, like a cut-price whore offering twice as many bangs for the buck. It was rumoured that a major Hollywood producer had flown in today to watch him perform.

Unlike his hair Jimmy Maxwell’s appeal was harder to pin down. His voice retained just enough of a regional accent to smack of the exotic, setting the pulses of the housebound ladies of the Home Counties aflutter with hints of the mysterious hinterlands beyond the Stockbroker Belt. His strange mixture of Cockney-Scouse-Brooklyn was as distinctive as his cantilevered hair and trademark grey suit. Ever since the groundbreaking ‘I Married My Stalker’ episode last season the British public couldn’t get enough of him. Between two fingers he currently held a radio microphone like a magician’s wand.

‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to this our hundredth show, and what a show we have for you today. In a moment we’ll be meeting our first guests, but first a word on our topic today – meaningful relationships within a loving family group and how hard it can be to maintain those traditional values in today’s hectic world.’

Jimmy cast an indulgent glance over his besotted audience, and ran a manicured hand over his spotless silk tie. He was a self-made man, and worshipped his creation.

‘It’s easy for us to judge the lives of others and to form snapshot opinions on their lifestyles, especially if those lifestyles differ from our own. At this point I’d like to ask you all to come to today’s show with an open mind and a forgiving heart, and the awareness that we all follow different lanes down the long and pot-holed motorway of life.’

It was all Kate could do to fight back the waves of nausea that shuddered through her body. These opening speeches reassured the harried station execs that they were paying for a worthwhile piece of informative public service broadcasting, and not half an hour of bandwagon-jumping emotional warfare that dragged the lowest common denominator down to previously unheard of depths. Jimmy’s monologues served as a convenient counter to the show’s myriad critics, but it was hard not to be cynical when you knew what was to come. You almost had to admire the cheek of the man for his ability to blurt them out with a cheddary grin smeared across his tea-stain coloured face. Amidst his adoring audience Jimmy hardly paused for breath.

‘With those thoughts in mind let’s meet our first guest. Come on out, Lucinda!’

The stage was mocked up to give the appearance of a well-to-do family lounge, though no such room Kate was aware of sported six different cameras, enough lighting to beckon down a jumbo jet and a barely restrained audience seated within easy abuse-hurling range. Five chairs formed a stark line across the sumptuous red carpet, chosen that way so as not to show the blood. Behind the carefully polished potted plants a series of painted-on windows looked out over an idyllic view of rolling downland. Onto this surreal tableau bounced the first victim.

Lucinda didn’t look the type to get embroiled in the sort of tale this show thrived on, but then that was always half the appeal. She was a little bunny-rabbit of a girl, one who took the word ‘wholesome’ into entirely new territory – where she rode metaphorical ponies through dewy meadows and won blue ribbons in gymkhanas. Her sweater was as tight as her bottom and as rosy as her smile.

Maxwell barely gave her time to settle in. ‘Welcome, my dear. Why don’t you start by telling us why you’re here today?’

Lucinda was only too eager to oblige. ‘Hi Jimmy. I’m here to tell you about my wonderful family. We’re so close and loving that I just want all the world to share what we’re doing right.’ At that instant two small boxes appeared in the corners of Kate’s monitor. One showed a head and shoulders close-up of a well-dressed middle-aged couple, beaming in a slightly forced manner from ear to ear; the other, a vacantly handsome young man with an unreadable expression splashed across his pallid features.

‘That’s a very worthy sentiment,’ said Jimmy, with the first hint of a smile breaking across his chiselled jaw-line. ‘Let’s just make this clear, you come from a perfectly ordinary, middle-class family from a leafy London suburb. Is that right?’

‘That’s right,’ said Lucy a little self-consciously. ‘Though we do have a second home in the Dordogne – helps Daddy with his wine import business.’

Jimmy’s smile widened. Kate could see he was going to enjoy this more than usual. ‘Why don’t you tell us all about the people who make up this ideal group.’

Lucinda leaned forward in her chair. ‘Well, there’s Mummy and Daddy, or Edward and Virginia as they’re known to their friends. They’re the best parents a girl could wish for. There’ve always been there for me, but have let me know from an early age I’ve the freedom to discover life’s wonders for myself. That freedom ensured I didn’t once go off the rails like some girls did.’

Jimmy’s eyes lit up, his voice chokingly eager. ‘What do you mean by ‘‘going off the rails’’ exactly?’

Lucy dimpled and looked demure. ‘Well, you know, ‘‘boy trouble’’. I knew some girls at finishing-school who got into all sorts of bother. Some of them were even expelled and had to attend the local comprehensive.’

‘Shocking,’ agreed Jimmy. ‘But these days you’re completely sorted out in the ‘‘boy department’’, I understand?’

‘That’s right. I’ve known Toby since we met at Jemima’s, that’s his older sister’s, coming out ball. He’s perfect, we’re getting married next spring.’

Jimmy looked pleased with himself. ‘Well, you know, Lucy, we’ve got a surprise for you today. Toby, your loving fiancé, is actually backstage. Let’s hear it, ladies and gentlemen, for Toby!’

Onto the stage shuffled the sad and stooped figure Kate had seen in the ‘picture in picture’ shot. His eyes were downcast as he mounted the short flight of steps, barely acknowledging his bride-to-be as she made a brave attempt at a one-way hug. Lucy looked genuinely surprised and more than a little bewildered by her boyfriend’s standoffish behaviour.

Jimmy began pacing back and forth amidst the highly expectant congregation. ‘Welcome, Toby, take a seat. Let’s not draw this out any longer than we have to. Why don’t you tell the lovely Lucy why you’re here today.’

Toby’s eyes never left his highly polished shoes as he mumbled, ‘Lucinda, I’ve got something I have to tell you.’

Lucinda looked on with growing incomprehension, as Jimmy pressed for the kill. ‘Why don’t you share it with us, Toby? You’ll feel better once you’ve got it off your chest.’

Toby cast a furtive glance over the audience of strangers that he knew would soon turn against him, then retreated behind his ponderous fringe. ‘This isn’t easy for me to say, but I’ve been having an affair behind your back.’

Even though they had known what was coming, the audience let out a collective gasp which seemed to suck the air out of the room. Kate felt her eardrums bulge outwards as, up on stage, Lucy put her dainty hands to her mouth and turned an ashen shade.

Jimmy wanted more. ‘That’s not all you have to tell Lucinda, is it, Toby? ‘‘Behind her back’’ is a more fitting phrase in this case than in most others. Why don’t you tell us who this liaison has been with?’

Through some strange compulsion not to let his tormentors down, Toby carried on, barely suppressing a self-conscious smile. ‘Sorry, Lucy, but I’ve been sleeping with your mum.’

Another gasp from the audience. Kate could have sworn it was getting harder to breathe. She saw on the monitor beside her that the Director had playfully cut back to a shot of Lucy’s smiling parents, still waiting in the green room, oblivious to events on stage.

That raised another point that had always left her baffled. Why the hell did people agree to come on this sort of show? If you were invited to be a guest of Jimmy Maxwell, along with several members of your immediate family, for no obvious reason, surely even the most inept viewer would realize it was not to be given ‘good news’.

Meanwhile, as usual, events onstage did not leave much time for sober reflection. Jimmy was playing the crowd for all he was worth, and at last count that was quite a bit.

‘Well, I’m sure you can guess who we’ve got back stage, can’t you folks? They haven’t heard what’s happened to this point, but there’s plenty of time to correct that right now. Come on out, Eddy and Ginny!’

Half the audience broke into spontaneous cheers, while the other half set up a chorus of boos which would have made an ugly sister feel at home. To her credit Lucinda wasted no time in getting her retaliation in first.

‘BITCH!’ she screamed, as she threw herself at her bewildered mother.

As the burly security guards peeled her off her reeling parents, Jimmy felt the need to bring them up to speed on recent developments. ‘Welcome, Eddy and Virginia. Toby has just been telling us about your very close and special relationship.’

‘Mummy’ went as white as one of her suspiciously stained bed-sheets. ‘Oh my God!’ she gasped, sinking to her chair.

‘What on earth is all this about?’ demanded ‘Daddy’, as he comforted his wailing daughter.

Jimmy smirked. ‘Seems Toby and Ginny have been indulging in a spot of the old double-divan boogie-woogie. Virginia by name, but not, apparently, by nature.’

The audience loved that, this was even better than Maxwell’s infamous ‘I’m a Fat Transvestite Bisexual Who Sleeps Around’ show. There had been crowds in the Roman Colosseum which had given Christian rookie lion-tamers an easier time. Eddy looked on aghast at his wife. ‘Is this true, Virginia?’

It was all Ginny could do to nod her head. ‘It was him,’ she stammered, pointing a trembling finger in Toby’s direction. ‘He had me under some sort of hypnotic spell. I couldn’t say no to his depraved demands.’

All eyes turned to young Toby. Lucy stared at her former fiancé for a second along with everyone else, then made a heroic effort to break from her minder to tear his throat out. The crowd loved that too. There was a spontaneous standing ovation for the plucky young woman, who all knew had been done a great and terrible wrong.

Jimmy stepped up to the stage, a life-raft of tolerance amidst the ocean of chaos. ‘Now, now. Why don’t we all calm down and talk about this like sensible adults? But first I’d like to welcome a very special mystery guest. None of you knew she was coming tonight, but please put your hands together for Toby’s sister Jemima!’

The make-up and costume departments had obviously gone to town on Jemima. She looked like an extra from a certain sort of continental film that found favour with a late-night audience on Channel 5. As the heavily mascara-ed young woman oozed onto the stage she had ‘femme fatal’ written all over her.

‘Hello, uncle Eddy,’ said Jemima with come to bed eyes, and a let’s stay there smile. ‘Remember me?’

Edward’s brow furrowed. ‘Uh, I don’t see what relevance she has to this discussion.’

‘Oh really,’ sneered Jimmy. ‘I think she might have every relevance. Ever accused any kettles of being overly on the dark side?’

‘Edward! You never did?’ sobbed Virginia, as she cowered under her daughter’s continued stream of abuse.

‘He most certainly did, Virginia,’ said Jemima in the sort of husky baritone which could have melted pack-ice. ‘And may I take this opportunity to compliment you on your choice of husband, or Rock Steady Eddy as I used to call him. No need for Viagra there.’

‘Rock steady Eddy’ sank to the floor with his head in his hands and began to tremble. An over-excited member of the audience let out a half-hearted ‘whoop’, then stopped when they realized no one else was joining in. It was strange how, even in these trans-Atlantic times, some traditional elements did not transfer well across the pond.

Jimmy took the time to seat himself next to Toby’s chair. ‘Well, young man, you and your sister seem to be the catalyst for all this mess. Do you have any sort of excuse to explain your appalling behaviour?’

Toby looked like he was about to burst into tears. ‘I’d just like to say, Jimmy, that I’m the real victim here. If I hadn’t have got involved with that cult none of this would have happened.’

‘Victims, victims everywhere!’ exclaimed Jimmy. ‘Seems that if you’re not a victim these days then there must be something wrong with you. Better make a note, gotta be a show in that. What cult are you talking about, son?’

Toby looked more than a trifle embarrassed. ‘They latched onto me when I was at my lowest ebb. They’re called the Temple of Planet Love. I didn’t even become a full member, just attended one of their missionary sessions. They treated me like I was special … but that was before they started doing things to my mind, giving me strange pills to take. Before they attached me to that living machine.’ Toby rubbed his forehead and looked distraught. ‘I don’t remember much else, but when they turfed me out I was prepared to shag anything that moved, and quite a lot that didn’t.’

‘Thanks very much!’ screamed Virginia, still busily lunging for her husband.

Toby continued. ‘After a while the effects died off. That was when I came to my senses, but it was too late. Jemima wasn’t so lucky, they got to her too. Seems they still have.’

Jimmy looked disgusted. ‘So not only did you debase your own body, but you dragged your poor innocent sister down into the pit of moral despair with you – that’s appalling. I hope you’re ashamed of yourself.’

Over the cheering and applause, Jemima could just be heard to say, ‘Less of the innocent, if you don’t mind. What are you doing after the show, big boy?’

But Jimmy had more important things on his mind. He looked directly into a conveniently placed camera. ‘Interestingly enough, folks, in just a few days time, in a special one-off show, we focus on these goofy oriental nut-cases themselves. If you didn’t already know it, the Temple of Planet Love is the whacky UFO cult that’s been hitting the headlines, as well as the nation’s bed-sheets, of late. If it’s not exactly ‘‘free love’’ they preach then at least they offer very competitive credit terms. Don’t forget to make a date with us, and them, on our Alien Abduction Extravaganza!’

Off in one dark corner Kate looked on, her sense of shame at being involved in this horrific farce mounting by the minute. Whatever else today proved it at least laid to rest that favourite tabloid rumour, that Maxwell’s guests were fakes. Real actors were not this good. This family’s story was so outlandish that it could only be true. But the circus wasn’t over yet. Much to her disgust Kate’s intrepid team of researchers had unearthed one more precious nugget of information – and Jimmy was too much of a pro to let it slip. Jogging down the stage he returned to where Lucinda was pinned to the floor by two burly bouncers.

‘How do you feel right now, Lucy?’ He rammed his mike in her livid face.

‘How do you think I feel, you fucking moron? I’ve just found out my boyfriend’s been banging my mum, and my father’s a pervert doing it to a whore half his age. I’m more than a little PISSED OFF!’

Jimmy was unfazed, he’d heard much worse in his time. ‘Want to tell the world your own sordid secret?’

Lucinda’s eyes held a reckless abandon. ‘Why not. OK, Toby, I want you to know that it’s not only Daddy who’s been seeing your sister. She’s more of a man between the sheets than you ever were, hypnotic mind control or not! If you took Viagra you’d just get taller.’

The audience exploded into a maelstrom of ecstatic delight. Jimmy sensed the time was right to wrap up proceedings.

‘Toby, do you have anything else to say to Lucy and your sister at this stage?’

‘Er, yes I do actually. I’ve always felt I was a lesbian trapped inside a man’s body. Next time you get it together, can I watch?’

This didn’t so much add fuel to the fire as napalm the entire lot. Lucy’s lunge to separate Toby from his testicles was the cue for Virginia to take a swipe at her unforgiven husband, who meanwhile saw his chance to hurl a chair at the sultry Jemima, who had done more than her share to jack-knife the applecart of family peace. The overworked studio hands did their best ‘United Nations Peace-Keepers’ impersonations and, despite the absence of blue berets and kevlar armour, just like their impersonatees abjectly failed to maintain order.

Whatever had become of the famously English stiff upper lip, wondered Kate.

Doggedly the bouncers rushed to separate the warring factions, and the camera cut back to a radiant Jimmy Maxwell, well pleased another segment had concluded so successfully.

‘That’s all we have time for today, folks,’ he beamed as the theme tune started up. ‘But remember, it’s a complex world we inhabit, and things are often not what they first seem. Society would be a better place if we all stopped being so judgmental and were less keen to poke our noses into our neighbour’s affairs – even when they are as juicy as this one! With that thought in mind, I’ll see you all next time for our Flying Saucer Special, where we’ll be elaborating on some of the themes explored today. Don’t miss it for this, or any other world! Take care of yourselves and our sponsors. Goodbye!’

As the titles rolled the camera pulled back to reveal a studio in turmoil. The audience were on their feet, cheering on their selected faction, as each group slugged it out with Security in their desperation to get to grips with each other.

Mercifully off stage, Kate put her head in her hands and, not for the first time, pondered the worth of this career. The conclusions she came to did not make for a happy frame of mind. Fortunately it wasn’t the only option open to her. Steeling herself she reached for her note-pad and began to scribble rapidly – she had an important report to file, but it wasn’t destined to be read by Maxwell.

13. Cabal

Deep Underground Facility, Pine Gap, Australia

Like an arms-dealer’s smile, the conference table was needlessly large and over-polished. To address a member sitting on the far side a delegate would have needed a loudhailer and considerable patience to overcome the pitifully slow speed of sound. So perhaps it was just as well that in front of each exceptionally plush leather bucket-seat, rising up through the reflective mahogany surface, was the sort of computer terminal not seen since the Starship Enterprise had boldly gone on and on.

Stalkish microphones were linked to each device, tand hrough them to a ring of loudspeakers carefully hidden in the darkness beyond the bowl of soft mellow light that spilled from the room’s impressive centrepiece. Above the table hung an ancient sigil of perturbing design. It was a solid marble pyramid, each carved block picked out on its sloping sides. Two thirds of the way to its glistening summit an orb of dewy radiance cast its baleful light upon the room. Few who entered the chamber could look upon it without experiencing the first gropings of the clammy fingers of insanity. Few who got this far had all that far to go.

More conventional note-keeping equipment was readily to hand at each seat. Genetically-engineered notepads and nuclear-powered pens were laid out with pedantic neatness at each place setting. Next to each sat a clear glass of a fizzy black liquid.

There was surprisingly little communication between the participants as they took their places. These men were not the kind prone to idle banter. For some the journey here had been long and hard. For others the journey back would be harder still.

One by one the twelve members of the Inner Circle of the Committee made their reports. It had been a busy six months. One major civil war had been ended and another begun. In both cases their remorseless agenda had been advanced. On four continents six problematic politicians had been eliminated; three by the standard-issue sexual-pantomime media frenzy, two by assassin’s bullet, and one by far more Semtex than was strictly necessary. In central Africa another Armageddon plague had been released, as much to foster a healthy paranoia amidst the Western public as to boost pharmaceutical share prices. The coup in Urgistan was a minor hiccup, but nothing that couldn’t be quickly nullified.

The members of the Inner Circle of the Committee of 300 were a diverse group, a gang of boardroom thugs and back-stairs crypto-Nazis, linked only by their membership of this exclusive club. They were the owners of the dark satanic mills, the project managers of hate, guardians of the Status Quo.1 This was the twitching nervous-system of the Military-Industrial-Entertainment Complex, and it was overdue a major fit. Its members were the powers behind the thrones, and in some cases on them.

National dress was much in evidence around the dim hall – at least the national dress of the capitalist World State. Seven attendees were smartly suited middle-aged men, the sort of captains of industry who commanded very big ships, and in one case several stealth bombers. Two were Japanese, but they represented the only splash of ethnic colour on an otherwise pallid, grey-white face. Amidst them the Vatican’s top dog winced and fidgeted – the shoes of the fisherman were tight these days, and didn’t half pinch his toes.

Next, in more traditional garb, came three wise men from the East – the bubbling, mad, bad and dangerous-to-know Middle East in fact. But they hadn’t brought gold, frankincense, or even a whiff of myrrh in their radar-absorbent executive stealth jets. What they did bring to the table was oil, oil and more oil. Between them they commanded four-fifths of the planet’s petroleum production, and judging by the state of their skin in the humid, tense bunker most of it was seeping through their pores at that very moment. They had good reason to sweat. At MIT there was a cold-fusion lab they very badly wanted shutting down – with terminal force if necessary. Despite their common goals the three were seated equidistantly around the table. More than one world war had kicked off thanks to misunderstandings in gatherings such as this. Past Chairmen had discovered to their cost that it never did to be too careful.

The final member stood out from the rest in more ways than one. She’d held her post for fifteen years, ever since the previous incumbent had regrettably fallen off his yacht. Despite what the press had been told, this had not been down to a slippery deck and one-too-many G&Ts. He had rubbed the wrong people up the wrong way – always a fatal move when those people were sat in this room.

The figurative leader before the reluctant swimmer had doubled as America’s Head of State – not a happy combination as it turned out. A carefully staged break-in and the threat of impeachment later, and he had gone as quietly as his insane tape-recorded ramblings would allow. The Committee had learned an important lesson with him: no more career politicians, their power was illusionary at best and too easily swayed by the pathetic whim of the great unwashed. The real power in the world was gathered here today, like pus in a festering wound. And at its centre sat a malevolent yet inconspicuous foreign body.

OPEC’s leading light was just ending off a rambling rhetorical monologue, on the satanic evils encased in the atom, when the Chairman felt the need to interject. She wasn’t the first of her line to hold this post, for her power was very much a family affair – as was her perfectly formed accent. She spoke the Queen’s English, as well she might.