Spaced In

By Cal Danat

The second decade of the millennium is drawing to a close and the century has begun to form its identity. In London, one economist is determined to remove inefficiencies from the system from the top down.The second decade of the millennium is drawing to a close and the century has begun to form its identity. In London, one economist is determined to remove inefficiencies from the system from the top down.
Spaced In follows two protagonists determined to live life correctly, eliminating anyone who gets in their way, and examines what happens when rational behavior reaches a pure equilibrium in a society where all problems are tackled from the outside in and value is subverted by returns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Brick Publishing
• Release date: Oct 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463036846

Cal Danat

Cal Danat is an author of novels and short stories. He writes fiction, not thinly veiled accounts of himself and his social circle.

Book preview

SPACED IN

by Cal Danat

COPYRIGHT 2019 BLACK BRICK PUBLISHING

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Visit www.blackbrickpublishing.com

This e-book is licensed solely for your personal enjoyment. This e-book may not be sold or distributed for profit. Thank you for your consideration.

CHAPTER ONE

And now it’s time for us to hear about the choices we should all be making. The news anchor leaned back in his seat as one camera panned out and another zoomed in on the metallic blue backdrop of Economax Weekly, before slowly retreating to bring the faultless features of its host into focus.

Welcome. It’s time for some reality management. Ben Wheatley slipped into a routine of precision, a perfect delivery of economic advice to his loyal viewers. Each week, he steered the financial lives of people attempting to navigate a lopsided economy. The news anchor remained switched off until he registered those familiar parting words. Don’t forget people… be sure the benefit is greater than the cost of every decision you make, or you don’t want it in your world. Then, he turned to the autocue and read fan mail lauding the life-changing results of following Ben’s recommendations, marvelling at his colleague’s reach before seguing back to the day’s headlines.

Forty-five minutes later in a dark car park, Ben heard the irritatingly friendly tone of the news anchor calling him. Do you want to grab a quick drink before heading home? I can update you on your latest fan mail.

Sorry. Can’t do it… I’ve already drank this month.

Well, the month’s nearly over. One more time isn’t going to kill you. A gormless resonance occupied his expression.

You’re right, but I only drink six times a year. Anything more is detrimental. Ben waited for a sign of acceptance.

I didn’t know that. I assumed after listening to your whiskey investments segment last week, you were somewhat of a connoisseur... regaling our viewers with your tales of drinking in high places, charming the female audience with one of your signature expressions. The news anchor reached to maintain the connection.

Well, I know enough about alcohol to understand it’s not something you should be ingesting on more than a few carefully chosen occasions throughout the year. Ben’s body was turning away slowly.

Oh come on. Having a glass of wine is good for your health according to the experts. Not really. The value is in the grapes, not the wine. To be honest, I probably won’t drink tomorrow. The turnaround is too quick. Technically, it would be a bad decision. Ben eased into a backwards walk.

Alright… maybe some other time. I’ll walk with you to the station if you like. The news anchor closed up to his colleague.

Sorry. I’m also going to have to pass on that. I don’t use trains.

Don’t tell me. They’re bad for your health.

In a manner of speaking.

So how do you get home? The expression of the outmanoeuvred began to settle on the news anchor’s face.

I walk across that park over there. Ben waved his arm towards a dark stretch of greenery. Then, I take a cab to Highgate and walk the rest of the way from there.

Why would you do that?

It’s a zone thing.

***

Where do you want me to stop, boss?

Before the traffic lights, please.

It might be tricky to find a spot this side of the lights, boss. The minicab driver turned to Ben and gave him a knowing look.

I won’t be passing into the next borough, so please stop anywhere before the lights. The driver nodded and exhaled just loud enough to send a message.

Ben cut across the edge of a cemetery and chanced a laneway squeezed between Edwardian structures he knew local wide boys loitered around at that time of night. But the time it knocked off his journey and the memories it triggered outweighed any potential danger.

Within a few minutes, he was walking softly up the stairs of his apartment in the hope it would increase the chances of her not being home. He slid his key into the lock and sniffed as he opened the front door. The pain of communication was on him.

Is that you, darling?

No. It’s the neighbourhood rapist.

Oh Ben, you shouldn’t joke about things like that. You have no idea what it’s like being a woman these days.

Why. Do you think it was easier in the olden days?

Seriously, you’re crazy. Ben’s girlfriend flicked her perfect black shoulder-length hair back.

Everybody’s crazy. You’ve just got to decide which type of crazy you like. Ben turned towards the kitchen.

Oh come here. He froze in the moment, overcome with revulsion, as he saw his girlfriend’s outstretched, expectant arms. He’d been suppressing this reaction for a while, but now its power was dominating him. He logged her attributes one more time: successful consultant, from good stock, perfect weight-to-height ratio, considered beautiful, socially prized. But his mind had already been made up for him: she was a minus. And he’d barely considered future negatives. Are you not going to come here? What she thought of as irresistible subtlety jarred Ben into flight.

I’ve got to go out for a walk.

Are you serious? She shovelled breaths in between clenched teeth.

Yes. I have people to kill.

You psycho. She smiled and shook her body. Oh come on, B. Stay in with me and let’s have a glass of wine and listen to some music. He stopped thinking, his brain lapsing into survival mode. You’re not doing drugs, are you?

You know I don’t put detrimental substances into my system. I’ve got to go.

Pick me up a bottle of wine while you’re out. Merlot.

Outside, the first life Ben encountered was a high-heeled sweatpants-wearing mother wheeling a young baby in a souped-up pram towards the village. The woman grimaced under a surplus of make-up while the baby howled at being transported so late in the day. He watched them from the opposite side of a quiet residential road, wondering whether they were locals, momentarily considering why people were so intent on having children whatever their circumstances. They clearly had a negative expected value in the modern world, especially in view of recent scientific advances. Everybody would be able to replicate themselves from the comfort of a personal computer within a few years, he reminded himself.

Shop music hit his hearing, and Ben began to hum to block it out. He only liked listening to music if he was in the mood and its timing was undeniable. Pressing his earlobes shut, he saw the faux-Elizabethan sign of a ground-floor wine cellar, its rich burgundy shop-front causing him to shudder. He shouldered the door open to avoid its interior catching his processing centre off guard.

Hello, sir. It’s a sharp evening. Ben let his hands drop to his sides as his eyes rested on a middle-aged wine shop manager wearing a tie under a mid-priced v-neck sweater. Sir will be interested in perusing our line of Scotches, I hazard. Ben baulked at the shopkeeper’s preposterous sentence structure and weirdly stuffy accent.

No. I want a Merlot.

Excellent choice, sir. We have quite a few options…

That may as be, interrupted Ben, but I’m just looking for a bottle of plonk to placate a woman for a few hours.

I understand sir, but this is quite a sophisticated market. Allow me to introduce you to our Post-Vintage Late 20th-Century line. It was a golden period for Merlot. The era started with…

Listen, sirrr. I’m just here for a bottle of wine. I don’t want to hear your stories. It was me who was doing you a turn by coming in to your shop. I can just as easily go to the supermarket. You’re all peddling the same overpriced swill anyway.

Well I, I have never heard such blasphemy. I… I think I will have to ask you to take your custom elsewhere.

Ben was already out the door, reminding himself that wine’s mission creep may have secured almost every corner, outside and in, but that you can’t get your self-respect back so easily. He settled for the costliest bottle of Merlot in the only convenience store still open before swinging into what was once the main thoroughfare in the area. It had been a real road of residences... three- and four-storey Victorian and Georgian homes set in sprawling gardens, blending with the natural aesthetic they’d succeeded. Even the brown-bricked four-storey terrace added in the 1920s justified its place. Ben remembered it as it was in his childhood: gaps and service lanes between houses had allowed kids to play in secret. Adults could operate without constrictions, both among neighbours and in their heads. But now, modern mock-Georgian mansions had popped up between the original residences, filling parcels of land auctioned off by absentee owners. His mind drifted to his own apartment, originally built in the 1970s to accommodate locals who wanted modern living in a locale they could relate to. Somehow that had fit... in a marginalised sort of way. But recent profiteering had seen the original draw of the area mercilessly drowned out, filled by a constant stream of sales pitches. And any stray thoughts had been quickly mowed down by the message.

For the first time, Ben felt the transient blame he’d attached to the working class repeal. The road to an end game of eliminating those desperately clinging onto the edges needed a few speed bumps. And the moneyed were the best source to provide them.

***

So, are you getting the elbow?

Don’t know, do I. She’s gone and told everyone, hasn’t she. A childish sense of injustice propped up his expression.

Well, you did say you wanted to ram it up her arse.

Yeah alright, but it wasn’t in the workplace, was it. It should be alright to say what you want in a bar, shouldn’t it.

I agree with you mate, but you know how it is now. He flicked cigarette ash from the lapels of his overalls.

She got real upset, didn’t she. Said she thought I was a nice guy, and I told her to shut the fuck up, didn’t I.

That probably did it for you.

I’m getting the union onto this, aren’t I.

Shh. Here’s George. The two janitors stood up from their perch on a block of crates and nodded to the library worker. Sorry about the bad language, George. We got a bit carried away.

What? I didn’t hear anything. George lifted his eyes to meet theirs before bowing his head and shuffling on past. He slipped between two stacks of books, looking for a spot to rest against. The alphabet seemed to be expanding, the space between letters closing in. Most librarians dreaded this part of the job, but George found solace in spacing out the titles, testing his foresight in the gaps he left for upcoming issues.

Poor fucker. He spends most his life in those book stacks. It’s no wonder he’s such a mess. The loud whisper carried to George, who held his breath. Probably never even spoken to a bird. After a few moments, he emerged and nodded to the janitors. You’re not gonna grass us up for the bad language, are you boss? George continued past them without responding. Jesus, he’s a hopeless pussy, isn’t he.

***

So why did you choose to join up with the AOR Club? You’re not looking for a wife, are you? George contorted the grin he felt forming, straining to ignore the constant burr of emptiness that went with him. I’m only having you on. You’re very welcome here. I don’t suppose you brought any LPs to swap, did you? Well, I expect not; it is your first time after all.

Yeah, I brought a couple. I’ve got a Genesis live album here, and an early Yes album. George reached into a plastic shopping bag and produced his pride and joy.

Oh, they look in good nick. The club treasurer raised her eyebrows and smiled. Her full face was losing the battle. That chap over there in the leather jacket is a Genesis fan. I’m sure he’d be interested in that. George didn’t know if that was his cue to leave. He stayed rooted to his chair. Why don’t you get yourself a drink and I’ll introduce you.

Thanks. He edged towards the bar and ordered a shandy. By the time he’d turned around, the treasurer had been subsumed by a circle of members who seemed to have known each other for years. Drink in hand, he edged towards the gathering. He stood behind the leather jacket for a few moments, thinking a gap might appear, but it was a tight situation. Nobody would create an opening; they didn’t even seem to notice him. George tried to extricate his Genesis album from the plastic bag with one hand but ended up spilling half his drink as he caught the slipping LP between his elbow and ribs. He took the spill on his jeans and retreated to the toilet.

***

Ben found himself scanning the aisles of a local gourmet shop. It was a wrenching experience, but necessary: there was usually a deal on selected produce. The key was to avoid sub-standard loss leaders and two-for-ones that you’d never normally purchase. The value was in the lesser-known names with greater quality than more famous brands. And then there were the outliers: usually random cheeses or preserves.

He was on his second lap, a potential negative, but so long as he located a purchase he was getting the better of by more than twenty-five percent, it would be worth it. The numbers were everything for him. The feel of intuitive comparison was not part of the game. Such abstract negatives were irrelevant until a point was reached where he had to bail. Within the four minutes Ben had allotted to navigate his weekly gourmet showdown, the features of the other customers were beginning to assault his senses, unknowingly inflicting their deluded sense of status on him. Dropping his eyes, he sped to the check-out and put down two litres of Italian rice milk on fifty percent discount. It was the value in the shop, even if onlookers’ dipping eyelids suggested otherwise.

Ben’s next stop was the Elysium, a shopping experience supposedly reminiscent of 1930s Regent’s Street. This was more upper mid-range… not much value on show. There were endless shoppers to negotiate, and they were extracting more from the experience than he was. Getting in and out with minimum energy expended was his goal while they were enveloping themselves in their surroundings. Three- and four-wide they travelled, causing Ben to arc his way through the crowds to find the gaps he needed. There were a few shops in the mall good for an occasional purchase. But he was masterful: where most people dawdled for hours, he took minutes. In a candle shop at his girlfriend’s request, he’d pinpointed the value within seconds. Other customers meandered around the displays, happy to invest chunks of time even when they had no intention of buying anything. To Ben, they seemed hypnotized, equally in thrall to the things they wanted and those they didn’t. Their faces, full of contortions and familiar expressions, seemed wildly empty. They would talk about all the possibilities for a purchase they wouldn’t or couldn’t make, even when a price met with their approval. But he only spoke to himself of prices while factoring in lifestyle value, comparative utility and any other way in which a minor purchase could add value to living.

Ben had one more stop to make at the Elysium: a homeware shop on the upper level that sold throws and pillows he wouldn’t admit he liked to his girlfriend. He stepped onto an escalator with momentum, and as he began to climb, he saw he was being blocked by a spread-eagled man holding both rails. Excuse me. The man’s back didn’t flinch. Ben looked up to see if he was wearing earphones. Excuse me, please. Once again the man didn’t move, the middle of his back reflecting Ben’s eyes back to him. Excuse me, please, repeated Ben voluminously.

I can hear you, but I’m not moving. The man turned to reveal a face of weary disdain.

You’re moving, asserted Ben as he held his elbow up and pushed past.

How dare you touch me, the man barked as he went to pull Ben back by the scruff of his neck. But he was too late. Ben was already a couple of steps ahead of him and the escalator was about to run its course. Your behaviour is unethical. I’ve a good mind to…

Never get in my way again, whispered Ben, or I’ll hunt you down and strangle you in your sleep. Did they teach you that in ethics class?

***

Ten minutes away from the book repository, George struggled with his keys, desperate to enter his council flat before anyone else came out onto the hallway. The sound of a neighbour cut through the air, and he kicked his door to override a catching lock, bolting it behind him. Leaning face first against the inside of the door, he thought of the block in which he lived and its twelve floors of greyness relieved only by an occasional painted front door. Ten one-bedroomed flats on each floor, divided by a central concrete staircase and an elevator that hadn’t worked in years. Inside, he checked his kitchen for food. There were no ready-made meals left from his weekly shop. Carefully, he moved a pot of instant noodles away from his collection of packaged soups to fill a void on one side of a solitary food cupboard above a cracked sideboard. Retrieving a plastic bag from