Terror Firma. Matthew Thomas
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.
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,