301 Three Zero One

By Eric Jarvis

As the noise dissipated further into the distance, he could still hear his words echoing around the room.
"For those of you that depict me as a tyrant, and some will, I pray that you are wrong. For those of you who will stand by me and support this decision, I pray that we are right. Only time will tell.
But one thing is certain.
This is happening."
And it was.

Amy, one girl alone on a cursed island.
Robert, one man intent on making a difference.
Follow one girl’s journey to discover her place in the world, and one man’s rise to power, whose decisions would ultimately seal her fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9780244369156

Book preview

301 Three Zero One

THREE ZERO ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­ONE

By Eric Jarvis

Copyright © 2018 Eric Jarvis

ISBN: 978-0-244-36915-6

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

Any names or characters that bear resemblance to real life are purely coincidental.

First Printing: 2018

Twitter: @EricJarvis301

one

The room was empty. The cameras had stopped filming. The microphones aimed their foam heads into the now empty, dimmed, space on the dark wooden stage. A faint hum still fed back from the large powerful speakers, as they stood flanking the authoritative podium where he had just been standing. The select few, chosen to witness some of the most important words ever spoken, had all dispersed. As he waited in the centre of the room, he could hear the crowds outside. The chanting, the outrage. The sirens. Today wasn’t one of those ‘where were you when’ moments, it was much more than that. Every newspaper in the world, any conversation in any language tomorrow, would be about that last hour. His speech. His announcement.

As the noise dissipated further into the distance, he could still hear his words echoing around the room,

For those of you that depict me as a tyrant and some will, I pray that you’re wrong. For those of you who will stand by me and support this decision, I pray that we’re all right. Only time will tell.

But one thing is certain. This is happening.

And it was.

two

Educated in state schools and from a working-class background, his parents were good honest people. His mother had been a teacher all her life whilst his father had worked as an accountant. Never short of money but never indulgent, Robert’s parents afforded him a typical childhood that faded into insignificance. He was intelligent enough to get through his exams without applying copious amounts of effort to be labelled a nerd or geek, yet floated under the teacher’s radar to not stand out as popular or talented. Ask any other members of his school year about him and the majority would struggle to remember his last name. Although a select few would remember the nickname Lovejoy, Robert's only moment of true notoriety during secondary school came when, as a confused fourteen-year-old, he took a handful of gel, slicked back his lengthening hair and donned a white polo shirt and leather jacket. The Fonz he was not. Hasten to say, this look lasted all of one day before he returned to his not too neatly ironed uniform and semi brushed hair. Back to floating under the radar, getting his work done without effort and handing in his homework late, just enough times, so not to attract special praise from his teachers.

Robert wasn’t bullied. He got on with teachers and had his own group of friends that failed to fall into any standard category in the school playground. Robert posed no threat to anyone; he was not extraordinary in any way. And that inevitably, became his biggest charm.

Not drawn to the trappings of university life, Robert went straight from college into the working world. After a couple of part-time jobs at local supermarkets, he found his first full-time employment through the civil service. An open recruitment drive requiring no degree or experience for a wage twice the national minimum was an opportunity too good for Robert to turn down. Reading the job description and competency guide with meticulous care, and still not being able to figure out exactly what an Executive Officer does, he duly applied. Robert’s application was successful and he was invited to the selection day at a local hotel. It was the kind of place just expensive enough to deter the seedy one-night liaisons that frequented the nearby seaside B&B industry, but clearly not prestige enough to worry about needing to change its wallpaper and curtains regularly. It seemed the powers that be at the King James Hotel remained confident that woodchip paper and brown fleur-de-lys patterning remained a fashion constant. Ushered into the room by a panel of three, Robert had taken his seat. He had immediately noticed the two bright rectangles standing out in the carpet. The dust that rested thick around the outline suggested that until recently this 'Meeting Room', as the printed piece of paper, sellotaped to the door would suggest, was, in fact a standard twin bedroom. The loud thud against the bathroom door halfway through the interview suggested the beds might be still in close proximity. Not the standard expected from a civil service recruitment scheme but, nevertheless, Robert persevered, passed the English and Math tests and talked his way through the interview with minimal effort.

17th May 2006 was Robert’s first day. Walking through the staff entrance in his shirt and tie, still unsure of what exactly he had applied for and been successfully awarded, Robert confidently shook his manager’s hand. Training was lengthy and exhaustive but it soon became clear that his first role would be challenging. Customer adviser for the unemployment bureau during a recession. Whilst shadowing other members of staff, he had seen the confrontation and frustration boiling over within the department. With staff put under intense pressure to meet targets and process huge amounts of work with shortening timescales, this job was not for the faint-hearted or work shy. It was his first real job and he was keen to impress.

As with his formative school years, the work came easily to him. Soon enough Robert was advising on the front line. Never shy to confront anyone who he thought was non-compliant, yet managing to gain trust and commitment from everyone he spoke with, Robert found he had a natural skill for communicating. His ability to talk with authority, not arrogance, and listen with empathy but not sympathy meant progression was fast. Robert entered a Fast Track scheme designed to headhunt talent already in the department and mould them into managers for the future. Although he had no great desire to climb the corporate ladder, Robert was never one to lack ambition. This scheme was a one-way ticket to a comfortable life, healthy pension, or huge redundancy pay off if times took a turn for the worst. Eighteen-months after his first day, Robert Chelsea successfully passed the Fast Track cabinet assessments and was assigned his first managerial position. 

As the programme intended, within three years Robert was District Manager. Seven years in and Robert had progressed to overseeing over twenty separate centres. Responsibility was never a struggle, however he always felt bound by rules, mission statements, flavour of the month targets from line after line of senior civil servants above him. The one thing that had frustrated him throughout his career so far was the lack of practical input he had in decision-making. Robert was an ideas man. He always had innovative and cost-saving ideas to benefit the business, but all the red tape and bureaucracy stopped anything from being implemented. Although praised for his foresight and creativity, Robert was always left with an underwhelming feeling. For all the pats on the back email replies stating that’s great Rob, I’ll raise it at the next telekit, he felt his ideas were palmed off, finding their way into the ever-expanding vat of missed chances and wasted opportunity that littered governmental departments. This passion to change things for the better, as he saw it, became the driving force behind his ambition. And his experience so far had taught him one thing – the only way to get anything changed was to reach the top. Chief Executive, Secretary of State maybe. As the spring of 2015 came around, Robert had made his intentions clear. As he paid the £150 registration fee, a new UK Political Party was born.

three

Amy woke. Beams of light pierced through the gaps in the newspaper and rags she had used to protect herself from the wind and torrential rain. Normally there would have been time to get back home, but last night the storm came in thick and fast. Floods in the surrounding area had left her trapped on the scavenging hills she frequented so regularly in search of food and anything else that might provide a purpose. For the last seven years, these mountainous piles of discarded rubbish had been her main source for survival. She could still remember her excitement whilst finding a brand new pair of Nike running trainers. Keeping them safely boxed and presenting herself with them months later on her ninth birthday, well, what Amy had decided was her birthday. Never sure of the exact date, vague memories from her infancy of makeshift cakes and ample fuss, the intense heat followed by heavy storms, suggested somewhere around the beginning of the year. Amy had figured 1st January to be as good a date as any, and so it remained, clearly marked on her single tatty calendar, circled in red ink. Finds like these were a distant memory, however, as last night’s pickings had proved. Nevertheless, the almost empty jar of honey and the tin of sweetcorn sat proudly in her rusty brown rucksack amongst the rope, material, and deflated rubber balls she had dragged out with her the day before.

Although she had outgrown her, now tattered, trainers, Amy still treasured them. She longed to wear them again, to feel the innocent pleasure as her callused feet became enveloped in soft, plush fabric. But the risks of wearing footwear two sizes too small had gotten Amy into trouble before. In fact, those ill-fitted shoes had been the catalyst for all the running and hiding she had been forced into this last year. Her short life had been littered with strife and hardship, just finding fresh water had become a task in itself. The clean, processed water, which the small reservoir previously held and piped into the now abandoned flats, had run dry a year ago. Her stockpile of bottled water and out-of-date cans of various fizzy e-numbers were also running out fast and the last thing Amy wanted to resort to was boiling rainwater again. Fires create smoke. Smoke drew attention. And attention was the last thing she needed.

It would usually take Amy a day to walk around the island. The 40-mile stretch of limestone cliffs, deep caves and lagoons harboured enough shelter and food, however, to allow her to take her time and rest for a while. Sometimes for days at a time. The shallow pools were awash with small fish and, when in season, the large coconut crabs would provide a welcome sweet tasting treat. Amy knew it wasn't safe to stay in one place for too long, yet would always eventually return to the same remote cluster of ancient buildings she referred to as home. Not quite in the heart of the central forest land, her Mecca lay to the north east, as far away as possible from the old, desolate, depressing urban habitat. With its cold, thick concrete kerbs and long, uniform, beige housing blocks stretching for what seemed an eternity, the huge man-made settlement was as uninviting as it was lonesome.

It didn't have a name, not that Amy knew of anyway. She just referred to it as The City. Brightly coloured signs littered the streets, pointing the way to the medical centre, the factories, the tower blocks. Yellow for industry, blue for commercial, and green for residential. You could follow the colours as they directed you through the identical streets. Akin to a 90s SimCity game, the neatly designated areas for their different uses lay in square patterns, as if stamped to the landscape with scant disregard towards any ethos for town planning and gentrification. It was lazy and suggested an automated way of life, herding people together towards a desired location. The pavement might as well have been a rolling conveyor. Taking people from their homes, towards the factories and commerce. Down through the neatly ordered amenities. Back up to their front door. Eight hours recommended sleep then up to do it again. The City lacked character. It lacked warmth and identity.

Over the years, Amy had been back and forth here fleetingly, taking what she could and trying to comprehend what this place was like when it was full of life. She would check through the identical high rise flats for a sense of tradition, something she could relate to, something that reminded her of life at home with her father. But sadly, it was never to be found. Each room, though identical in size and design, presented Amy with random furnishings. Different cutlery scattered in drawers, bowls of every material, shape and colour. Various works of art were nailed to the walls, from vibrant coloured paintings with thick visible strokes protruding from the canvas, to four-colour lithograph prints of unrecognisable landmarks. Nothing matched. Nothing related to each other. And nothing related to Amy. She had tried to make sense of it all, she had found piles of newspapers and notepads, scattered in the homes and on the wasteland, but she struggled to comprehend the discourse, the conversation. Only having a basic grasp of language had not helped. She remembered the lessons from her father, learning the alphabet and reading the only real book she ever owned, but some of the symbols that appeared before her now were new and foreign. It seemed her alphabet did not live here, and even when it did, very rarely did the letters arrange themselves into anything recognisable.

She took comfort in the fact she must not have been the only one. The never-ending street signs made more sense to her if that were true. Always showing simple images and colour, never words. It seemed nothing had a universal name there. Instructions, labels, all standard daily items you might expect to find wording on, were void of written directive.

Amy had a good idea what each of the individual pictures meant but had never had the need to understand them, never needed to ask for directions or help a stranger find their way. In fact, for the last six years, she had not been required to speak at all. Not a single word. She would often wonder what her voice really sounded like. Occasionally she would tempt herself into uttering just one word aloud, building it up inside her, looking around just in case anyone was there to hear her. Like a nervous child, waiting to jump off the high-dive board for the first time, having ran tentatively towards the empty space that lay beyond those final centimetres of studded Duraflex aluminium, Amy would always stop just shy of the edge. As if looking down, grabbing the handrail, and taking an enormous breath, she would always fall short. The urge to speak felt like knowing a secret and being desperate to scream it aloud, yet never managing to muster up the strength to get the words past her lungs. The temptation to make that single sound would stir like butterflies in her stomach, instantly turning to an anxious sickness as the thought of breaking her silence somehow made her forget to breathe. Standing there staring into nothingness, mouth open wide as the daylight and subtle sounds of the forest began to fade into the distance, Amy would remember once more to gasp the air in exasperation. Just in time to save herself from unconsciousness.

Amy had never been in The City longer than a day. Just long enough to collect fresh water and scavenge for any rare treats that had not been cleared or destroyed already. She had certainly never seen anything that the multi-coloured signs pointed to alive with activity. The signs, for Amy, only represented which direction to leave. Follow the trail of yellow and it would take her south, through stained iron gates into the industrial suburbs. The large hollow factories with their vast abandoned spaces represented previous investment from huge industry. Past the Coca-Cola plant, take a right at the Heinz compound, then work your way through the vast laboratories and distribution warehouses that bore the Proctor & Gamble logo until you reached the reservoir and treatment plant, just in front of the lethal one-hundred-foot drop down the jagged cliffs. Amy had previously covered every inch of the disused buildings, in search of anything of use, but they had been stripped thoroughly. She would try to avoid these building at all costs. The wide-open floors left her exposed and the haunting amplified echoes that reverberated through the empty space whenever a bird would land on a rusting water pipe high up near the skylight ceilings made her nervous.

Following the green signs would take her east. Once past the initial blocks of housing, the only thing giving any indication of how far in she had progressed were the numbers stencilled on each kerb. Once past block fifteen, it was like looking through a hall of mirrors; standing in the centre of the concrete junction, no matter which way she looked, each direction presented her with an image of rows upon rows of high-rise, beige, plastered buildings. Block 30 was the midway point and housed the tennis courts, park, and activity centre. Amy had found a treasure trove of rubber balls, bats and other such sporting paraphernalia here many years ago, using them to create traps and fishing equipment. She kept them all deflated at home but the black polyester tennis net remained neatly packed away in her rucksack being light and easy to carry. It made the perfect instant hammock if rest was required, raising her off the forest floor, allowing her respite from the creatures that regularly feasted on her bare tanned legs. Continuing for 30 more blocks, Amy would escape the grey maze and reach the entrance to the forest. The large concrete slabs came to a sudden stop in front of the tall grassy pasture. The trees here had been ruthlessly hacked down years ago in preparation for development, however the need for future construction had never surfaced. A plan for The City, it seems, not fully seen through. This flattened land continued for a quarter of a mile before the forest entrance appeared. The densely packed trees created a natural canvas, stretching from the centre of the island all the way to the east. Amy had her favourite spot. Instinctively, she knew how to navigate the forest floor until she reached a vast wall of vines. Just about able to squeeze her way through, she would enter a small, circular, arid patch of land, surrounded by the trees as if nature had created its own amphitheatre. This hiding remained shut off from the rest of the world, enveloped in self-contained darkness. The ground was dry with malnourished soil and the thin layer of rich green moss that grew over it felt like soft velvet against her skin as she lay down. Above her, the foliage was so thick it blocked out almost all the sunlight. The gaps between the mass of leaves, hundreds of feet above, allowed through only the tiniest shards of sun, creating stunning patterns as the breeze rearranged the dancing light. Amy would stare endlessly at these shapes, joining the blinking dots together in her head to create images of animals she had seen pictures of, faces she struggled to remember, and the outlines of places across the island. As she lay there, lost in her own thoughts, the real world would disappear. The silence that filled her head and the darkness above her often made her forget if it were night or day, sunlight or stars she could see. This place offered eternal serenity for her and for this, remained her most treasured point on the island.

Yet, she could never stay there too long and would always return home. For that, she would follow The City's blue markers north, out the concrete blocks towards the perimeter. Once through the wrought iron, crosshatch fences, the route home Amy would regularly take arced over the top of the island. This ran via a thin strip of untouched beaches. Once down the soft gradient slope towards the sand, the protective cliffs grew tall along the rear wall as gentle tides with walls of coral, standing only inches from the water's surface, stretched out as far as she could see. There were no soulless buildings overlooking her, no ancient rustic dwellings lay in the overgrown beach suburbs. The bounty of coconuts that scattered the ground from the well-nourished palm trees bore evidence to suggest this thin stretch of land had been ignored for longer than she had been alive. Even the surveillance here had been non-existent, until six months ago. Amy would take her time to stroll along the hot white sand. The numerous miniature spots of paradise were interspersed with clear lagoons, each as individual and unique as the next but all giving the same feeling of the calmer, safer life she longed for. She would often wander through, daydreaming away, but whenever something snapped her back to reality, she could instantly recognise the rock formations, the curvature of the cliffs above, the colour of the coral growing in the ocean. Amy would know exactly where she was and how far away home was. Amy was so relaxed during this seven-mile jaunt that she had often found herself wishing there was enough coverage, enough material around, to make this place her home. Unfortunately, this place offered no protection from the winds and storms that so regularly hit the island.

Nine beaches later, she would climb the soft slope again and appear at the tip of the forest. Working her way through the seemingly endless symmetrical labyrinth of green and brown, Amy would reach a small bare patch of land that bore two ancient homes. Built way before any of her ancestors arrived, and left undisturbed and isolated by history, the two little concrete stained yellow homes sat side by side amongst thick undergrowth. This had been home for the entirety of Amy's life. The surveillance drones had scanned these buildings before. Though identified, catalogued, mapped and checked numerous times, Amy had never been discovered. The building on the left was empty. A shell that housed no furniture, no decoration, no sign of life. The slightly larger dwelling on the right stood the same. For it was not what lay inside that mattered, it was what lay underneath. Each shell covered a large basement, which Amy's father had discovered and hidden the entrance to. A small amount of DIY had knocked out the adjoining wall and years upon years of layering wet newspaper and scrap to the cold concrete had insulated the rooms to the point where to lay against it felt soft and padded. It was here that Amy spent her childhood, and now teenage years. The large open plan home had more space than she had ever needed. Her steel framed bed sat in one corner, an old mattress on top with blankets varying in colour and size strewed upon it. In the opposite corner stood hoarded items from days, months, and years gone by. Amy knew exactly what she had and where it lived. A row of small bedside cabinets ran down one side of the room containing food, cutlery, plates, scraps of random salvaged material waiting to be stitched together for next season’s autumn/winter collection. The only other items of note that existed in her underground home were two small beanbags. One red, one blue. Placed side by side in the centre of the room, these two worn seats were full of memories for Amy and