Your ComeUppance

By Edmund Fitzgerald

Welcome to the here and now. Welcome to a world where dodgy officials dip their beaks in the public till, and where greedy bankers continue to profit from the inane investment strategies which have brought the banking system – and society in general – to its knees. Come bear witness to the obscenely remunerated football stars who think they are God´s gift, but act like common louts. Where chavish misogynists ditch their freshly pregnant playthings and move on to debase fresh meat, and where ʽunbangupableʼ career cheats and criminals walk the streets, encouraged by their mind-numbingly successful appeals to the out-of-touch wigs presiding over the European courts.
It seems everybody is at it. And these toe-rags do it for one simple reason: because they can. They´ll keep getting away with their abhorrent behaviour because what they do isn´t always illegal; just obnoxious, loathsome and plain antisocial. For which there exists no effective remedy.
Against a background of economic collapse, high unemployment and gloomy news in general, there are too many of a privileged position who derive their pleasure from urinating over the rest of us while they smirk into their glasses of Dom Perignon. No retribution. No redress. These selfish individuals are the new untouchables.
But enough is enough. When true justice fails the people, the people turn to the new kid on the block: YourComeUppance.com. The new vox populi.
An altruistic white knight, or a darkening nightmare? Whichever it is, you really wouldn't want your name to feature in the YCU Hall of Shame. Because that's a serious life threatening proposition ... as some creatures out there are discovering to their ultimate cost.
Maybe there is justice in this world after all.
Justice – YCU style.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781623099848

Book preview

Your ComeUppance

by Edmund Fitzgerald

ISBN 978 1 62309 984 8

www.edmundfitzgerald.co.uk

www.facebook.com/edmundfitzgerald.author

Welcome to the here and now. Welcome to the land of dodgy officials, greedy bankers, loutish football stars, chavish misogynists and ‘unbangupable’ career cheats.

It seems everybody is at it. And these toe-rags do it for one simple reason: because they can. They’ll keep getting away with their abhorrent behaviour because what they do isn’t always illegal; just obnoxious, loathsome and plain antisocial. For which there exists no effective remedy. No redress. These selfish individuals are the new untouchables.

But enough is enough. When true justice fails the people, the people turn to the new kid on the block: YourComeUppance.com. The new vox populi.

An altruistic white knight, or a darkening nightmare? Whichever it is, you really wouldn’t want your name to feature in the YCU Hall of Shame. Because that’s a serious life threatening proposition … as some creatures out there are discovering to their ultimate cost.

Maybe there is justice in this world after all.

Justice – YCU style.

Dedication

To Jean and Eddie.

For keeping watch on me from above.

God bless.

Copyright © 2012 by Edmund Fitzgerald

All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete the work from your files and purchase your own copy.

Thank you so much for respecting the hard work of this author. It is much appreciated.

This ebook is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

A big thank you to all those who have supported me with kind words of encouragement and the odd beer or three. You know who you are. Thanks for your patience and for not losing the faith. A mention also for BubbleCow for their invaluable contribution to the editing process.

Table of Contents

Your ComeUppance

Prologue

01. One Year Later

YourComeUppance (YCU) Mission Statement

02. Nuts and Bolts

YCU Glossary of Terms

03. Money for Nothing

04. Living the Dream

05. A Slow Start

YCU System Rules – Incubator

06. The Mad Mullah’s Insult

07. The Bank That Likes To Say No!

08. Greasing the Wheels

09. Mind Games

10. The Big Break

11. Shattered Dreams

12. Welcome to the Hall of Shame

13. A Revenge of Sorts

14. StuporStars!

15. The Family Honour

16. The Batman Syndrome

YCU System Rules – Standing Down

17. Apparently Inconsequential

18. One Bird – Two Stones

19. Storm in a Teacup

20. Justice and Fair Play

21. Car Mad

22. Should I Stay or Should I Go?

23. Validation

24. A Question of Priorities

25. A Bad Day at the Bank

26. Pulling the Plug

27. A Bitter Pill to Swallow

28. Blackmail

29. Man on a Mission

30. The Cat’s Away – The Rats Will Play

31. Two Steps Forward

32. Money Speaks Louder Than Words

33. Most Trusted Service Provider

34. One Man’s Meat is Another Man’s Poison

35. Acts of Redemption

36. Clutching at Straws

37. The Age of Irresponsibility

38. Jobsworth

39. The Unexpected Call

40. A Marriage of Convenience

41. Credibility

42. Second Opinion

43. The Reprieve

44. In Splendid Isolation

45. The Final Image

46. Liberation and Release

47. The Silent Man

48. Eighteen Months Later

49. Another Four Years Later

About the Author

The AQALAN Initiative

BubbleCow’s Opinion of The AQALAN Initiative

Prologue – These Miss You Nights

01. October

Prologue

Carver and his cronies are an insult to the flag. A bunch of toss-pots … err … if you’ll pardon the vernacular, sir.

The captain waved his hand dismissively. Apology accepted, Wriggly. And my sentiments exactly.

The rec room of the Royal Centre for Defence Medicine at Birmingham’s Queen Elizabeth Hospital was austere but functional. A coffee dispenser gargled away next to the entrance. A forty inch Sony TV flickered from the opposite corner of the room. The facility’s threadbare furniture and drab, time-marked magnolia walls mattered little to those who had roughed it in the fighting fields of Afghanistan.

This’ll make you think, sir, said Wriggly, dragging his eyes away from the box. I was talking to that Nurse Suzie. She works a fifty hour week for which she gets paid a measly 24 grand a year including overtime. Made me think did that, and I worked out the maths. Do you realise that little ponce Carver – excuse me again, sir – but that little piece of shit takes home in one day what Suzie earns in an entire year? And if that isn’t bad enough, added Wriggly, jabbing his finger on the worn arm of the sofa, the bloke earns enough in one year to pay the annual salaries of every single doctor and nurse in this hospital. Can you believe that, sir? Honestly?

The captain studied the gaunt, thin face of the young man sitting to his right, his plaster encased leg balanced on a wooden stool. Nobody ever said life was fair, he said.

The two men were alone in the TV lounge. The other spectators had variously stumbled or wheeled themselves out of the room in disgust. The 2-0 defeat at the hands of Andorra – a crunch match which might prove decisive to England’s bid to qualify for the finals of the Euro Cup – was more than they could take. Some of those men had quite literally spilled their guts fighting for their country. The lack of commitment from their national football team had been sickening. Insulting, even. Made them wonder whether it was all worth it.

Even Taffy Brydon from the Welsh Guards had to sympathise with his English colleagues. If I were English, God forbid, I’d be properly embarrassed too!

In truth, the result was not entirely unexpected. With only two days to go before the confrontation, centre forward Payne Carver, together with fellow lackeys Frank Beaney and Terry Gibb, had led a team revolt in support of a substantial increase in match bonus fees. Not a win bonus; a match bonus. The recently introduced win fee of fifty grand was simply not enough. The demand for £100,000 per man for a win and £50,000 for a defeat was non-negotiable. In the words of ring-leader Carver, The FA can either accept our proposals or they can go fook themselves and find another squad.

The press, the whole country for that matter, were appalled. Until recently, appearance fees for international matches had been regarded as more of a goodwill gesture than a profit-making wheeze. Traditionally the players would donate such fees to charitable organisations. How attitudes had changed in such a short period of time. The unanimous call for the entire squad to be sacked in favour of keener, more patriotic players was tempered by the necessity to win such a vital game. The best chance, albeit unpalatable, was to accede to the demands of the first choice selection. It was a course the FA reluctantly chose to steer.

To no avail as it transpired.

It was not just the loss of the match, however, which infuriated everyone. It was the lack of grace. The bad blood. Proof positive that the foul-mouthed, loutish behaviour of Britain’s chav sub-class had thrust itself into the limelight of the world footballing arena, dragging with it the reputation of Britain and every right-thinking person associated with it to a new, cringe-worthy low. Included in the list of grievously affronted, in Wriggly’s opinion, were the tens of thousands of soldiers who had ever fought in the employ of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.

It’s a crazy, mixed up world, continued the young private. The staff in this hospital are highly skilled and dedicated to their work. It takes years of learning to save lives and to get people like us back on our feet. And what do Carver and his cronies do? Kick a football and behave like complete tossers. It’s obscene, sir.

It was not the first time that the man known by all as Wriggly had indulged in such a conversation with the captain. The two men had arrived at the hospital within days of each other. Now into their third week of convalescence, they had frequently met in the TV room and exchanged pleasantries and chit-chat. With every discussion the private had become more confident in conversing with the older superior officer, although he was always mindful of the need to respect rank and was careful not to cross the thin line of familiarity. For a moment, as he sat pondering the inequalities of life, he thought he might have overstepped the mark, gone too far. He shuffled uncomfortably in his battered seat.

Sorry, sir. The injustice of it all makes me so angry.

You don’t have to apologise, Wriggly. In fact, I agree with you. Sadly, though, I don’t see things changing much in my lifetime. Perhaps one day society will wake up and smell the coffee. We can only hope that day comes sooner rather than later.

Come the revolution, eh, sir? The private grinned and shook his head.

Indeed, Wriggly. Come the revolution.

When I get out of here, continued Wriggly as he massaged his thigh, I’m going to do something about Carver and his like. Dunno what it’ll be, but I’ll play to my strengths.

Those being?

Much the same as yours actually, sir. Computers and killing the Taliban. Wriggly smiled. Can’t think the latter will come in too handy in Civvy Street, so I guess I’ll be hacking the bastards’ bank accounts and redistributing their ill-gotten millions to charity. Yeah, I could quite fancy myself as a modern day Robin Hood.

Sounds honourable enough to me … and talk of the devil. The captain nodded towards the TV set. Here’s your friend now.

Thank you for joining us, announced the BBC pitch-side commentator as he manoeuvred the chunky, shaven-headed England forward into optimal camera position. I suppose the question on everyone’s lips is why you made England’s task that much more difficult by swearing at the ref and having yourself sent off in the first quarter of play?

Payne Carver glared at the BBC man before shrugging his shoulders and answering in his thick, incongruently high-pitched, trademark, Lancastrian whine. Look, sunshine, I woz brought down in the box and the blind git of a ref didn’t blow. We woz robbed!

But the replay clearly shows Linares never touched you, said the commentator. In fact, you appear to have tripped over your own two feet.

Carver took a sip of water and tossed the plastic bottle to the ground.

Don’t you think you owe the England fans an apology? pressed the BBC man.

Apology?

Carver looked genuinely surprised by the question, but then his usual belligerence quickly kicked in. He studied his inquisitor as though he were a piece of shit acquired on the sole of his new Berluti shoes. Apologise for wha’? Eh? It’s a bloody war out there, and all’s fair in love and war. It’s not just about kickin’ a ball, you know. There’s tactics, see. And one of those tactics is to take every advantage you can in the oppo’s box.

Including falling over?

Yeah! Wha’ever!

But that’s quite an extraordinary admission coming, as it does, from an England player. Surely sportsmanship and integrity must enter into the equation somewhere?

Carver threw his head back and laughed. Give me a break will ya. Everyone’s at it. That’s fookin’ football and if you think …

I’m dreadfully sorry, sir. Wriggly jabbed the mute button, tossed the remote control on the couch and adjusted his leg on the stool. I can’t take any more of that bullshit.

That’s okay. I understand.

No, sir. I’m not sure if you do.

Try me.

Well, sir, it’s what Carver said about football being like war. Wriggly snorted air from his nose. If only the twat knew.

The captain said nothing. Part of his officer training was learning to listen to, and empathise with subordinates.

"There were fifteen of us, sir. Out of Camp Bastion and performing patrol duties in the nearby key location of Lashkar Gar. The Taliban got lucky and somehow managed to section us off from the other units. Things didn’t look too rosy as bullets started flying everywhere. In that moment of confusion we ran for whatever cover we could find. God knows the rag-heads were never renowned for their marksmanship, so it was just rotten luck that one of the bastards found my leg and shattered the knee.

"I was down, and as far as I was concerned, dead meat. I prayed the next bullet would put me out of my misery quickly. Better that than be taken alive by the rag-heads. Next thing I know someone’s got me by the collar and is dragging me along the ground. For one dreadful moment I thought I was in enemy hands. Then I heard the shouts from my colleagues. Come on! Give ‘em cover!

Anyway, I find myself dragged behind a wall, and as I focus on my rescuer I recognise the beaming face of Lieutenant Peter Harper.

Yes. The man’s a legend, nodded the captain. His reputation precedes him.

Wriggly smiled and continued his story.

We were now holed up in a wreck of a building. The pain in my knee was excruciating and I admit I fell into a kind of semi-conscious stupor. I was not fit for purpose, sir. It was not until afterwards, in the field hospital, that I found out that the guys fought for a further forty minutes before air support eventually came to our rescue.

The private wrung his hands and stared down at the well-trodden rug. We lost four men on that day. They say that if it hadn’t been for the cool head and sheer heroism of Lieutenant Peter Harper, it would have been curtains for all fifteen of us. He’s in line for a medal you know, sir. And good luck to him, I say. He thoroughly deserves it.

With tears visibly welling up in his eyes, Wriggly looked up from his hands. Mitch, Yates, Bundie, Worzle. All gone. Fighting for a just cause. Then I hear that … Wriggly pointed at the TV, … that arse-hole comparing a game of football to war. Well, it’s an insult to the memory of my old buddies, sir. A piss-take.

The captain sighed. Tell me something new, Wriggly. I’ve been there myself. Dreadfully sorry, by the way, about your colleagues.

Wriggly sniffed the mucus back up his nose. Thank you, sir. Appreciated. The private sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Someone needs to sort out cretins like Carver. These goons need to be taught a lesson they’ll never forget. He straightened his back. He seemed more composed now and spoke matter of factly. And I’m going to be the man for the job.

So you have said. But do you have a plan?

Wriggly thought before answering. Not sure yet, sir. I´m still working on it. But whatever I come up with will be a darn sight more subtle than hacking into their bloody bank accounts.

01. One Year Later

Barry Bazza Broadhurst refrained from tapping at the keyboard and propelled himself backwards on his wheely chair.

Fucking brilliant! Fuck-ing brill-i-ant!

He sprang to his feet and paced around the room. When he had calmed down from his adrenalin-fuelled euphoria, he picked up his mobile, scrolled down his contact list and flamboyantly prodded at the green dial icon.

You’re a bloody genius, Si! GEE-NII-US! She’s ready to rock! Bazza thumped his fist on the desk before continuing in a more controlled tone. First off, though, I’m going to email you the final protocol gumph. Just a bit of tidying up, really. Nothing crucial has changed. I’ll send the doc after I’ve given it a final once over. If you agree the text I’ll load the stuff to the site. OK with that? Great! Adiós amigo!

Bazza disconnected the call and shoved the mobile in his pocket. Returning to his computer he called up a document headed ‘YourComeUppance – Protocol’. Bazza read through the mission statement; the raison d’être of the whole undertaking. The statement had to be succinct and worded in such a way as to encourage the reader to delve further into the site. He read the document aloud to himself.

YourComeUppance (YCU) Mission Statement

All too often, justice in the UK does not live up to the meaning of the word. Clever ‘no win, no fee’ lawyers, senile judges, dumbed-down jurors, bleeding-heart liberals and the wholly unrepresentative European apparatus have all conspired to grace the criminal and the charlatan with the benefit of doubt whilst hindering the innocent victim with the onerous burden of proof.

Time and time again, the judiciary have passed judgements that are abhorrent to the moral compass of the vast majority of decent, law-abiding British citizens whose aspirations on law and order and standards of social behaviour are not being heeded by a succession of cynical governments increasingly removed from those who voted them in.

YCU intends to restore the voice of reason to the British people. On your behalf, we intend to flush out those who flout the rules of a decent society. This is not just about criminals walking our streets. It is about individuals who perpetrate deeds which are selfish, greedy, arrogant, ignorant, repulsive, obnoxious or plain immoral. YCU intends to make the Government sit up and re-assess what behaviour is and is not acceptable in a modern society. Our society.

Those who want to take their chances to lie and cheat their way through life might not fear the short-arm of the law. It is YCU’s stated objective, however, that they should fear the long-arm of the People.

Welcome to YCU. Welcome to the vox populi. For the first time in a very long time, your vote may truly count for something.

Bazza nodded his head and awarded himself a Fonzie-style, double thumbs-up. He then read on through the rest of the document which included the nuts and bolts of terms, glossaries and definitions. When he had finished, he called up his email account, typed a short message and added the document as an attachment. With one exaggerated thrust of his index finger the mail was instantaneously transmitted 40 miles across the southern home counties and delivered to his colleague’s inbox.

Within moments the reply email popped up on Bazza’s screen.

Hi Baz. Dog’s bollocks. I’ll give you an hour to copy and paste. One eyeball from me and I’ll press the tit for go-live. Rgds. Simon.

An hour later and Bazza’s task was complete. He flicked once more through the web pages making sure the text was positioned just so: the right size, the right weight, the right consistency of presentation. Satisfied, he stretched his arms skyward, slumped back in his chair and waited for the pop-up box to announce the arrival of Simon’s final email.

He didn’t have long to wait. The message was short and to the point.

Done. Enjoy. Rgds.

Bazza refreshed the home page of www.yourcomeuppance.com and he saw that the yellow man-at-work symbol had been replaced by a sleek, high-gloss display. He clapped excitedly and proceeded to navigate to all corners of the site, checking that the presentation was up to his own exacting standards. Happy that everything was just so, he got up from his chair, walked across the room and threw himself on his bed.

Bazza lay there with his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. After five months of hard slog, his moment had arrived. His life was finally going somewhere. His frustrations about the unfairness and injustices of this world could be positively channelled into actually doing something about what he regarded as piss-poor management by egocentric politicians who just didn’t give a toss any more.

If anything, Bazza would label himself a social pragmatist. He believed that well-judged compromise could move mountains, and it was this compromise that allowed him to put his whole being into an admittedly imperfect project. A project which, given a fair wind, might make people sit up and take notice. Might just change a small corner of this crowded planet for the good.

This was an eminently laudable ambition for the 23-year-old son of a newspaper journalist who, since leaving the London South Bank University with a 2:1 in Media and Cultural Studies, had struggled to find a job worthy of his skill set. The seven-month stint serving hamburgers at McDonald’s would have either kicked his arse into gear or plunged him into an even deeper pit of despair. In the end, it did more of the latter than the former. He supposed he must have been bordering on a state of mild depression when a chance meeting on the Internet was to immerse him in a project that he finally felt was worthy of his time and considerable effort.

That fortuitous web encounter led to the first of what was to be many face-to-face meetings in various bars and cafés strung out between Guildford, where Simon rented a small bed-sit, and leafy Beckenham, Kent where Bazza was, out of financial necessity, still ensconced with his parents. Bazza had considered it almost uncanny that he had met up with someone who had the same ideals, morals and pragmatic outlook as himself. Theirs was a confluence of kindred spirits, and the two lads got on like a house on fire.

When Simon, Bazza’s senior by two years, was finally sure he could trust his new-found friend, he opened up on the project he had been working on for the past six months. The more he told Bazza about what YCU entailed, the more the younger man wanted in. The new recruit would bring to the party the much needed strategy, marketing and media skills which had been wasting away at the back of his brain for too long now. He would help Simon get to where he wanted to go. Where they both wanted to go.

Where they both needed to go.

Over the ensuing months, Simon was pleased to observe that the packaging, presentation and organisational nouse of his colleague had pushed the YourComeUppance project – or YCU for short – to greater heights. Simon may have been an ace programmer, but by his own admission his output was not what one could have called ‘user friendly’. Bazza would open up a whole new understanding of what was needed to attract clients to the wide and wonderful world of their newborn. The end result, up and running as of a few minutes ago, was proof positive of a partnership forged by the gods of good fortune.

Bazza turned his head and regarded the PC whirring away on the desk. He smiled once more.

Fucking marvellous! he muttered to himself. Bazza boy, you’ve finally arrived!

02. Nuts and Bolts

Simon trawled through the YCU screens and, not for the first time, considered it a blessing to have met Bazza when he did. His colleague’s talent at defining structure and implementing organisational logic was a quality he admired; an admiration which only grew as he read through something as basic, although vital, as the website’s glossary of terms.

YCU Glossary of Terms

ComeUppance: Just punishment or retribution. One’s just deserts.

Moderator: Person or persons controlling the YCU system having the delegated power to include, exclude or expel Candidates from any stage of the YCU escalation process.

Client: A member of the public who casts his/her vote.

Candidate: Somebody who, by their actions, is deemed suitable to appear on YCU. Must