Mourning Morning

By Scott Andrews

What if time was broken? Would life continue as normal? Or would everything just stop?

For Norman Coleslaw, a young trainee journalist, a regular bicycle ride propels him into a week like nobody has ever experienced before. A week free from reality, and the constraints of time.

Norman’s search for truth leads him into the path of great danger, and eventually places him nipple-to-face with the most dangerous man Miranisha has ever known, General Alain de Wilderspin.

Mourning Morning, the second novel from Scott Andrews, takes you on a riotous romp through the kind of absurd landscape which can only occur in a post-modern dictatorship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Andrews
• Release date: Aug 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463382233

Scott Andrews

Scott Andrews has written two novels, a number of short stories, an absurd number of songs, one screenplay and a few articles. He is a member of the international Spandau Synthpop sensation, Yu.

Book preview

Mourning Morning

Scott Andrews

Copyright © 2010 Scott Andrews

The author or authors assert their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author or authors of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Firstly, I would like to thank Poul and Natalia, for a number of conversations which helped to shape this book, and for the gift of a character essential in shaping the essence of this story. I would like to thank Kate for her eyes and Thomas for his mind. I would like to thank Kuba and Samantha for their artistic assistance. And most of all I would like to thank the most patient human being on earth, my dear wife, M.

Also by Scott Andrews

Existence Is Futile

For Uncle V, for proving that reality only binds those that do not create it

The following work of fiction is 100% real

Mourning Morning

Life is merely a collection of moments which are nailed to a timeline called your existence. What happened before your existence and what happened after your existence are of no importance to you whatsoever. There are key moments, moments in which the vast majority of people can share. Worldwide moments. Nationwide moments. Their zeitgeist can be remarkable. They can sweep you away with all the force and brutality of a tidal wave. They can change you. They can kill you.

I write this now, some forty-eight years since the event. I write by candlelight. I write for myself. I write these words which in the past could have been the signature on my death warrant. I write them, knowing I could never ever speak them.

I am a hero. Yet I never completed a heroic deed. I have a medal. Yet I was never in the military. I have a colossal house. Yet I have never earned a great deal of money. My house is made of stone. It is the most brilliant white. It glows in the moonlight. I have an extremely large garden stretching many miles. My house has many rooms, some I have never been in. From my balcony you can see the lights of the capital city, glorious Glorious. I wish I was joking. When the General came to power he decided Smithtown was not an inspiring name for a capital city. So our capital became Glorious. It looks alright from my house in the hills. But for sure not glorious. Perhaps ‘Quite Okay’ would have been a better name for it. Or ‘Doesn’t Look Bad in the Right Light’. When the sun rises the sky turns a violent blue and the sparrow hawks rise from the mango groves at the edge of the city creating a fearsome cacophony which works as my and probably the Gods’ alarm clock.

A number of people work in my house. I do not know who pays them. I do not know where they come from. I do not know why I need them. But here they stay and stay they must. In fact it is strange how stay is the easiest command to teach both a dog and a nation.

Again I digress; these are the visual workings of an old man’s brain. I have lived seventy years now. I have seen a lot. I have learnt very little. But most importantly I can say that I was there. I lived through the greatest time in the history of my country, Miranisha. I can still taste the freedom, although the flavour has dulled somewhat over the years. It’s heartbreaking to think that I shall never taste it again. I shall have to wait until I die.

Miranisha is a small often forgotten country in Central Africa, with a population of only 1.4 million. Here in Africa there are cities bigger than the whole of our country. Our glorious capital Glorious is inhabited by 211,000 of our country’s population. We were victims of history. Isn’t it curious how when one country sends its soldiers into another we refer to it as an invasion, yet when those soldiers happen to be Britons it becomes known as a colonisation? After the Brits had finished plundering our resources, which in all honesty wasn’t all that much, they packed their bags and left us to our own devices. Twenty-seven years of civil war left my country with the world’s first military democracy. The regime was so unique that the rest of the world cut all ties with us.

The man who rose to the top of the pack was none other than the most esteemed General Alain de Wilderspin. He was a diminutive man on all accounts, standing only five feet and one inch who desperately tried to make up for his lack of height in his political machinations. After witnessing the downfall of General Amin in Uganda, he was more than nervous about the term military dictatorship. As a consequence, he invented a new system which he later named ‘military democracy’. It was a system of governance which restricted non-members of the military from voting. As he was the imperial leader of the military in Miranisha, he gave the orders. As a result, we had a democracy where the military could vote for anyone as long as they followed orders which were to vote for de Wilderspin. At least it enabled the General to distance himself from the ugly associations people had with dictatorships. The General had other more pressing concerns including the possibility that the military may one day try to overthrow him. In an attempt to avoid that he passed a law decreeing that only he could stand for election. The new law meant that in our free democracy the military could vote for anyone, which could only be de Wilderspin, as long as they followed orders, which were to vote for him. Our esteemed General’s crowning achievement was when he was advised to be more proactive in demonstrating our free military democracy. Once in the run-up to an election he decided it would be a good idea to appear on TV in an electoral debate. Unfortunately since no opposition was allowed in our country, he debated with himself live on national television. It is not hard to guess who won the debate.

General de Wilderspin was also a deeply religious man. He was religious to such an extent that he created his own Church, known as the Gods’ Church. In all honesty, it was a slightly better innovation than the choice of the name Glorious for the capital city. The General saw himself as a contemporary Henry VIII and introduced a law which granted the President of Miranisha the right to marry any woman he wanted, even if she was already married. The next of our esteemed General’s achievements was his rewriting of the Bible. The Gospel of de Wilderspin was a collection of biblical thoughts; most of them were corrected versions of well-known parables. For instance, Joseph and his Technicolor Dreamcoat: the General’s version became a story of a homosexual being stoned to death. After all, who else dresses in such bright colours? The Good Samaritan became a metaphor for Miranisha. It tells the story of a man who was beaten and robbed by the British despite the fact his pockets were empty; the description of the Samaritan is remarkably similar to that of the General’s. The Prodigal Son is actually quoted in the Miranishian law, which legalised prostitution. The most striking adaptation in the Gospel of de Wilderspin is the ‘pluracy revelation’, which is when an angel appeared before de Wilderspin and informed him that he must trust and love all Gods equally as you never know where you may end up after death. In effect it means that Miranisha is one of the only polytheistic states in the world. The bad news is that we have to learn upwards of 6,372 prayers at school. The good news is that we have 111 Saints days every year.

Forty-eight years ago I was just starting out as a journalist in the glorious city of Glorious. I worked for the anti-Government paper called The Opposition. Although we weren’t by formal decree allowed to publish anything which opposed our esteemed General, we were pushed to publish articles which criticised our opposing paper called The Truth. We were formally encouraged to write anything as long as it wasn’t critical of or didn’t conflict with official Government policy.

My story began with a phone call. Being the on-duty trainee journalist I was called to go to the President’s Palace to attend a press conference. The reason I was sent was due to the fact that it was Sunday evening. At the weekend the staff working at our newspaper consisted of the trainees, the cat and a cleaner called Pete. I felt like a child on Christmas morning. At the time I wasn’t being paid much so I left in a hurry to take my bicycle. I was so excited I didn’t even wait for the lift. I ran down the eighteen flights of stairs, almost ran through the glass revolving doors and out onto Mayallenemiesofthegeneraldietragically Street, which was at that time filled with a number of offices including the headquarters of the anti-Government TV station Anti. Also the few remaining embassies left in Glorious were situated there, and a few expensive-looking hotels. As I rode down the sweeping hills that entered the Haven district, I noticed an absence of vehicles. I could feel in my loins that something was amiss. I nearly crashed into the back of a Glorious taxi. After the British army left, the General purged negative stereotyping and among other things banned black taxis. Strangely he ordered them all to be painted white. After gratefully receiving the universal sign of excellent driving from the taxi driver, I rested my feet and glided down the hill which swept beside the Gods’ park where the Gods’ Cathedral is in the city of Glorious. The Cathedral towered above the trees in the park and was a menace to the senses. Made entirely from white marble, on sunny days it created a blinding light in the centre of the park. Deep down everyone knew the light was responsible for most of the accidents on the hill, imaginatively known as ‘the hill’.

At the bottom of the hill I turned on to De Wilderspin Avenue and soon the road widened into a dual carriageway and I started to pass the oldest buildings in Glorious. The National Opera House, the National Art Museum and the National History Museum all look remarkably similar. Tall, angular white buildings set behind stone staircases. They never quite blended in with their surroundings. I have always suspected that they carry some kind of impossible invisible grandeur which only educated ones can detect. I remember going to the National History Museum with my Grandfather when I was very young. I asked him why it takes such a big building to hold so few exhibits. He said it was a requirement of the laws of grandeur and that most visitors to a country do not often go inside such museums; instead, they prefer to look from the outside and admire the buildings. From the outside, a museum must be huge, it must be magnificent and it must tower over everything nearby. From the outside, our museums demonstrate what a great nation we are. From the inside, they demonstrate what a young nation we are.

As I peddled the last one hundred yards towards the entrance of the President’s Palace, I saw a crowd of people which appeared to grow in number every time I blinked. There were maybe two hundred people, doing something which vaguely resembled loitering. Some were laying candles, and some placed flowers in front of the President’s Palace. A priest with a purple sash across his chest caught my attention. I got off my bike and tried to manoeuvre through the crowd.

Oh it’s such a shame, what a terrible shame it is. When I looked around there was a diminutive old lady, stick in hand with a stricken look on her face.

What’s a shame? I asked, with my journalistic instinct going into overdrive. She clawed at a loose strand of thick grey hair which hung across her forehead. What’s a shame?

You can’t understand can you? How could anyone understand? Why? Why? Lords Why? She grabbed my arm and looked to the heavens. If she was alone I would have thought that she was simply rather simple. I was confused by the old woman’s babbling so I decided to speak with the priest. Unattaching her wasn’t as easy as it sounded. I ended up dragging her, along with my bike and my backpack, through the crowd in the direction of the priest. He had his eyes closed, his hands joined in prayer and his lips were moving mutely.

Father? I asked softly. A moment passed like a centipede with its legs in plaster casts. I studied his face. He had an unnaturally wide nose, especially at the bridge. A thin moustache seemed to be resting above his thick rounded lips.

Yes, son, replied the priest. I hadn’t even noticed that he had opened his eyes.

What’s going on here? I asked. He scratched his chin and sighed. It was the kind of sigh you imagine a cow making the moment the starting pistol is fired at the Annual Cow Tipping World Championships.

It’s terrible, really, really terrible. But we must trust in the Gods. The priest raised his hands to the heavens. I noticed then that he had a Bible in his hands and sweat stains under his armpits. I was quite sure I hadn’t noticed either before.

What exactly happened? Why are all these people here? Has something happened to the General? At that question the priest closed his eyes and sucked air through the small hole between his front teeth. For a fleeting moment all the other people in the throng dissolved like mist. I could feel how fast my heart was beating. My palms were damp. The whistling sound seemed to last forever.

You want to know what happened? The Gods told me that they needed me here. That their people are in pain. They told me to come here and pray with them. To help them through this terrible time. It was my turn to sigh as I picked up my bike, span on my heels and marched towards the palace entrance.

Was it really possible that none of these people actually knew why they were there? Was it possible that something had happened to our esteemed General? Was it possible that I was really going to enter the President’s Palace? I was a whirlpool of emotions. Some kind of sixth sense was warning me that something earth-shattering was happening and it was determining my emotions. I realise now that in the entire journey I never once looked up to marvel at the unique beauty of the President’s Palace.

Unique beauty is often unique because only one person in one hundred can see it. The palace stands on five storeys surrounded by black wrought iron gates and assorted acacia trees. From outside the gates it looks like a Mediterranean hotel, all white with large square windows and impressive double doors made from carved mahogany. One thing I have never understood about our glorious palace is why someone built a roundabout directly in front of it. Upon the roundabout stood a palm tree, naked and vulnerable, and quite probably confused by its own existence. In front of the palace stood a flag pole bearing the green, purple and orange of Miranisha. The flag stood at half-mast, which more than confirmed my suspicion that something untoward had happened. Could it be the General? Could the one who was chosen to look over us and protect us have died? I tried to assess the mood of the soldiers at the gate. However all I could detect was a hint of rum and a waft of BO.

I had never been to the President’s Palace before. I had such dreams about how it looked. And now I know that it was nothing like my dreams. The soldiers were cordial enough and walked me through into something which looked like a holding room; barely space enough for the twelve of us representing all forms of the media. As we waited, I tried not to be in awe of the moment. I looked at my feet. Under my shoes was the kind of vinyl wood floor commonly found in high school gyms. I looked up and stretched my neck. The ceilings were so far away that it seemed unfathomable that someone had to change the light bulbs. It disturbed me that the light fittings in the waiting room were quite normal but in the public halls great chandeliers hung in the centre of each room. It created the illusion that we were being hidden in a closet alone, out of sight and out of mind. The walls of our little room were covered in embroidered red silk; it looked as if someone had chosen to carpet the walls. I shifted awkwardly on the uncomfortable plastic chair and glanced around the room. I wasn’t so much sizing up the opposition as trying to work out if I was the most inexperienced in the room. I didn’t recognise anyone apart from a woman from the Government TV station TVM. Maria something or other. She was dressed head to toe in a vibrant vampish red. I wondered if it wasn’t an attempt at camouflage.

I was woken from my daze by the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor at a hurried pace. I imagined that they were grandly diplomatic footsteps. They certainly sounded that way. The door was flung open so hard it struck the wall and then I first set eyes on the man I came to know as ‘The Whirlwind’.

William Williamson the Third was the General’s Press Secretary. Everywhere Williamson went, he went at the speed of a gazelle. On this occasion he was flanked by two ambitious-looking young followers. A non-descript man by all accounts, probably most recognisable by his silver-framed horn-rimmed spectacles and his spectacularly ineffective comb-over. Some rumour-mongers believed he was the real power behind the General. However, in many parts of Miranisha people believed that the General was a witch doctor, in many others an angel. Miranisha as a nation was profoundly fond of gossip. On a day-to-day basis, it was remarkably frustrating. The only positive to derive from this national obsession is that we have a remarkable history of folk legends going back hundreds of years. Unfortunately the vast majority of these stories are complete and utter nonsense.

Ladies and Gentlemen, good to see you. Let’s dispense with the formalities these occasions demand and get straight down to business. I was struck by just how small Williamson’s eyes were. It didn’t help that he sporadically squinted them even smaller giving the impression of a rather contented cat. I felt an envelope drop onto my lap. I looked up and noticed that the assistant wolves were moving between us journalists handing them out. Here are the articles you will be writing about the meeting which will start shortly. As usual, when the General enters the room, stand up until he gives other commands. After all, we all remember what happened to Gary, don’t we?

Wait a minute, I thought. The articles you will be writing about the meeting. No one had warned me about this. There I was thinking that I was going to be writing an article about the General when the stories were already written.

Then you will ask when the funeral will be, said Williamson, snapping me out of my momentary trance. I tried to hide the fact that I had no idea what he was talking about by grinning and nodding. You have no idea what I am talking about, do you? I smiled and nodded some more. Williamson removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped a fresh sheen of sweat from his forehead. He folded it roughly and tried to stuff it back into his pocket. A second attempt, then a third. Abruptly he threw the handkerchief to the ground. One of his wolves scrambled to pick it up before seeing the look on Williamson’s bald, sweating, infuriated face. Right, let’s break this down so even the stupidest of you people can understand where I am coming from. The General enters. You stand up. He says sit. You sit. He speaks. You listen. When he finishes the floor will be opened to questions, where Maria will ask him about how the General is personally coping with the tragic news and you young man will ask him when the funeral will be. Then the session will be closed. You will all stand up. He will leave. And then you lot will go back to the rocks you crawled out from under. Clear? He spoke so fast his cheeks looked a blur. Before I had a chance to study him closer he span on his heels and left.

I want to press the pause button on our story at this point. I had studied for four years to become a journalist. I always knew that censorship existed. At university we learnt about some acceptable and unacceptable phrases. For example, if our national football team played a game with Zanzibar and Zanzibar won by three goals to zero it was unacceptable to say that we had lost. We had to say that Miranisha finished a brave or valiant second. I know it’s contrary to logic that in a two-horse race nobody loses but apparently this kind of craziness is all the rage in western schools. What no one told me and what I certainly never expected was that someone would be writing our articles for us, and I for one felt that it was something definitely worth mentioning.

We filed out of the room in a single line and down a long narrow hall with paintings of our esteemed General in a wide variety of poses. The hall appeared to have no windows, causing the chandeliers to draw grotesque silhouettes on the squeaky vinyl floor. We turned into a large conference room. I could see that the camera crews had already set their equipment up. At the head of the room was a raised stage with a lectern and microphone. Then thirty plastic chairs in rows of six. Orange. For some reason. One long wall was almost entirely covered by curtains, creating a menacing ambience. I sat down somewhere in the middle of the room and realised that my palms were sweating. I was about to see the General in person: before he was only a figment of my textbooks, a picture in the paper, a monument in the Gods’ park, on the main square. Actually every single monument in Glorious was of him. Each showing his heroic and godlike achievements in this and his earlier lives.

All of a sudden I was on my feet, along with everyone else in the room. There he was. He was surprisingly small. Really rather petite. He had a fat round baby face with deep-set marble-shaped eyes. His chubby pudgy cheeks made you want to pinch them; they were capable of turning anyone into an elderly aunt. He walked immaculately. The combination of the uniform with the sense of purpose in which he moved reminded me of a show pony. Under one arm he carried a short black baton which amplified the stumpiness of his fat fingers. In reality he looked like an obese eleven-year-old boy whose features had aged. The monuments didn’t do justice to his looks. In my head I knew that this was not an overweight eleven-year-old child but the most powerful, dangerous man my country had ever known.

The most esteemed General Alain de Wilderspin removed his hat and placed it on the lectern. The jingle jangle of the medals on his chest startled everyone. His hair was either thinning or it was just shy. The General took a deep breath.

"I have called you