Referendum

 

Callum was late. Laura sipped white wine and used the time to check her emails. It was her birthday, but when he was offered tickets to see England play Turkey, she conceded: lunch instead of dinner. She chose Pierre’s because it was very expensive.

            Better that Callum got the football out of his system; he’d mope for days otherwise. She didn’t mind the game itself - it was all the other stuff that came with it. She thought he might change his mind. He had, twice previously - not really having the stomach for it. But when he woke this morning he was still bullish.

            His hypocrisy really got her. She’d told him about her great-grandfather: as a young Chelsea supporter, he’d thrown a beer can at a player and was beaten senseless by the crowd. Got what he deserved, Callum had said, conveniently forgetting the violence that would punctuate tonight’s game - and its affect on Laura.

            She raised her eyes and touched the base of her glass.

            “Another drink?” asked the waiter.

            “Thank you.”

             She keyed TruDem into her palmtop and went to referendums/national. There was a move to abandon free health care, in favour of insurance.  A hospital manager - she was appalled.

            Since the Big Bang and the Great US Experiment, Laura had kept up with the referendums. Last week she’d voted to subsidise childcare. Her friends really didn’t get it: you haven’t got kids. Selfish she thought. Anyway - maybe in a couple of years. The proposal failed.

             Callum didn’t bother much with TruDem. It’ll take over your life if you let it, was his mantra. He voted of course, the tax penalty made sure of that. But he would key in a preset, usually Blair-ism (the first on the list he recognised). It wasn’t the last administration before Direct Democracy – but along with Thatcherism, it was the best remembered.  

            Half one! Where was he? She couldn’t put a third glass on an empty stomach. She was really starting to hate him - then he arrived. Callum exuded confidence at the door. He beamed as he walked over, and Laura’s heart warmed a little.

            “I’m sorry,” he said.

            “It’s alright. I’m a bit pissed though. Do you have to go back?”

            “…’fraid so. Virgin’s gone tits up.”

            “I guess you must then.”

            “Yup. So what’re you having?”

             Laura had set out to punish Callum with the bill, but couldn’t quite see it through. She was having the sea bass at three hundred dollars, but balancing it with a cheap starter: Vichyssoise. Ironically, getting out of the EU had re-kindled an interest in things French.

                        “Lamb, and the Mouton Cadet,” Callum ordered. “And you?” turning to Laura. “House white, was it?”

            “Sancerre,” she corrected. 

            “So - politics. What’s what?” He’d noticed the palm-top.

            “You’re not interested.”

            “I am,” he protested.

            “They’re trying to stop health cover for the un-insured”

            “And?”

            “They’ll win of course. The On-Line-Mail vote will drive it through”

            “Shame.” He meant it, too. Laura had to admit, that despite his job (stripping assets from failing companies) he did maintain some social integrity. That’s why going to the football was so hard for her to take. We didn’t play many top teams, he kept reminding her. It was true, no European or South American country would touch us. It only left Turkey and Chechnya, who were any good.

            Turkey had been refused EU entry for the fourth time, just as we were leaving. Turks, on the whole, although disapproving of England’s half time activities, turned a blind eye. And Chechnya, still dragging itself into the modern world, would do almost anything to please anyone - except Russia.

            Callum’s phone rang half way through the meal.

            “Hi... Yeah…But its Laura’s… Oh.” His voice dropped. “OK. Give me fifteen.”

            “Going back so soon?”

            “I’m sorry - all hell’s broken loose. Listen. Let’s go to the cottage this weekend.”

                        “Bulgaria?” It seemed a reasonable question. They owned over thirty properties abroad. Most were let to locals, but a few were holiday homes.

            “Yeah. Look. I’ve ballsed up your birthday, and this whole football thing… Let’s leave it behind for a couple of days.”

            “OK.” But she was un-enthusiastic. She didn’t want Callum’s company for the whole weekend; she’d been agonising about the whole property thing – and then…                                                                             

                         …there was Hasim.

            Hasim was a nurse, and very attentive - always wanting to share her interests - from Electronic wallpaper to Opera. She loved it when he talked about his family in Turkey; he was always showing her, photos. Laura rarely saw her sister; only five miles down the road. And visiting the parents in Derby seemed like a real trek.

            Laura agreed to go out with Hasim. Just one drink, she’d told him; and herself. They’d go while the match was on. She didn’t let on about her birthday, not wanting to make it too special.

            Callum downed his coffee and paid the bill. Laura walked back to the hospital and caught her friend, Julie, just finishing her shift.

            “Coming for a drink?”

            “Where’s Callum?”

            “Had to go back.”

            “Shit! Ok. Where?”

            “The Gordon Brown?”

            “Sounds good.”

            Politicians, once ranked alongside estate agents for their moral bankruptcy, were now highly revered; their images adorning cafes and bars all over England, or State 51, as we were known.

            “I’m meeting Hasim at six,” Laura said, as they fought their way to the bar.

            “You’re not?” Shocked. “Does Callum know?”

            “Christ no!”

            “And that’s ok?”

            “It’s only a drink.” There was an awkward pause. “I’m not telling Hasim about our Turkish house,” she said, trying to shift the balance of the conversation. Hasim sent money to his parents so they could rent a house. Buying was out of the question: foreigners were snapping them up, and inflating the prices.

             “Why not?” said Julie. “He’s exploiting our labour market.”

            She hated Julie for that. Racist, she thought. But owning the house made it hard to argue back. It may have been Callum’s idea - but at the time - she was up for it. What Laura really wanted to hear, was: Nigel’s a bastard, and that, going for a drink with Hasim would make it right with the Turks. Pa – thetic!

            “You voted?” asked Julie.

            “Medi-cover? Yeah. But it’s bound to go through.”

            “A and E’ll be a bloody nightmare - and who’ll have to turn the freaks away? Us!”

            “Julie!”

            “Well they are freaks.”

            Sometimes Laura seriously doubted their friendship. But after a sticky beginning and another drink, the afternoon was a scream; thanks to Julie, tapping into a rich seam of filthy jokes.

 

At six, Hasim phoned Laura. His brother was ill - he was sorry but he couldn’t make it. Just great, she thought. Happy birthday to me, she sang, sotto voce. She didn’t even know he had a brother in England.

             Julie had already staggered off to get the train, and Laura, with nothing to rush back for, walked home along the canal. Beep! The referendum result arrived on her palmtop: 64 percent in favour. Fuck! Bloody TruDem - what’s the point? It was always the Mail-On-Line brigade that swung it. If it wasn’t for TD and MOL, the bloody football wouldn’t be an issue either, and she and Callum would be fine.

            Furious, she scooped up a dumped coke pod, and drew back her arm… But - unlike Grandad at Chelsea, there was no target. Politicians gone, not even a face on a poster. Yes, there was the Gordon Brown pub and Maggie’s wine bar, but these were symbols of the past. Her frustration was with a computer programme and a generation of invisible voters. She hurled the pod anyway, and it plopped harmlessly into the canal. She almost yearned for the vengeful mob; it had a kind of humanity. Well, at least it had a face.

            It became eerily quiet. The game was about to start and people would be in front of screens. She thought of Callum at the match. She still loved him. Once, with every fibre of her being; she couldn’t say that now. Laura recalled those delirious first months, hardly venturing from the bedroom; working like mad for an apartment in London. And then, Callum’s obsession with real-estate and her changing view of the world, through work and politics. Now, with football and Hasim, her head was really spinning. If only she could punch all that into her palmtop and come up with some pat answers about her life.

            Laura snapped out of it: she was home. Pushing her thumb into the security pad, she fell into the apartment, exhausted and drunk. At the controller she clicked Bath, setting it to deep and hot. Then, turning her phone off and La Traviata on, she slid into the comforting water.   

 

 Callum was home earlier than expected. Laura was dozing in front of the screen.

            “You’re here!” he was surprised. “I tried to ring.”

            “Oh.” She paused. “Did you win?”

            “Yeah, three: one.” But he wasn’t over the moon.

            “Great. So,” her tone becoming grave, “what happened at half time?”

            “You don’t want to know.”

            “Oh, I do.”

            Callum – awkward - answered quietly. “They hung a Paedo’.”

            “He was just a Paedo'?” She was indignant.

            The first legislation passed by TruDem, was the re-introduction of the death penalty.

            “No! No, he killed a kid, apparently.”

            “Apparently! What do you mean?”

            “I didn’t go to the match. I just heard it on the radio.”

            “Why not?” Concerned, now, that she’d stopped him going.

            “I thought I could ignore all that shit, but I couldn’t.” Callum, enticed by the promise and the passion of the game, couldn’t hack the tribal hysteria; the electronic administration exacting the ‘justice’ that would satisfy the crowd’s thirst for blood, and, hunger for retribution.

            “What about your ticket?”

            “Sold it……….to a Turkish guy in the pub.”

            “Bastard!” Shaken - it just slipped out.

            “What?”

            “Not you.” She didn’t explain, and Callum, already bruised, let it go.

             Really, Laura knew that hundreds of young Turks would’ve been after tickets - but it’d sowed a seed. Hasim, mopping his brother’s brow – it sounded a bit lame.

             

Callum sat next to Laura in the glow of the screen. Close, but not touching, they watched in silence: the reconstruction of Parliament, while the TruDem results flicked underneath.

            “I wonder what they’ll use it for,” Callum said eventually. “Heritage centre?”

            Laura shrugged, and leaned gently against him.

            “Don’t know.” Then, facing him. “What about that weekend in Bulgaria?”

 

 

 

 

Toby Peecock                                                                     [word count: 1760]