Peaceful Quiet Lives

By Simon Dillon

From the author of Children of the Folded Valley...

Two Nations Under God. Can their love survive in either nation?

Life, love, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are a distant dream for Sam and Eve. Their forbidden love falls foul of laws in both nations born from the ashes of the Second American Civil War.

A satire of political and religious fears, Peaceful Quiet Lives is a thought-provoking and powerful dystopian future shock.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Dillon
• Release date: Dec 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005005375

Simon Dillon

I was born the year Steven Spielberg made moviegoers everywhere terrified of sharks. I lived the first twenty or so years of my life in Oxford, and am pleased to have spent so much time in the place where some of my favourite writers wrote their greatest works (including JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, and Philip Pullman). I like to think I can write a diverting tale, and as a result I have penned a few novels and short stories. I currently live in Plymouth in the UK, and am married with two children. I am presently brainwashing them with the same books that I loved growing up.

Book preview

Peaceful Quiet Lives

By Simon Dillon

Copyright 2020 Simon Dillon

Cover Design by Denisa Trenkle

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

Dedication: For the Midwives. You know who you are.

Table of Contents

PART I: The New Puritan American Republic

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

PART II: The Democratically Enlightened American Republic

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Bonus Material

Children of the Folded Valley Chapter 1

PART I:

The New Puritan American Republic

Chapter 1

The morality inspectors are late.

I glance at my watch. 7:37am. They were supposed to be here seven minutes ago. Typically a morality inspection of a premises the size of my apartment takes a good twenty minutes, not allowing for nervous small talk, or, if you know the inspectors well, salacious tales of impounded illegal political materials, banned books, films, drugs, alcohol, pornography, and so forth.

Morality inspectors are usually punctual to a fault, but if they don’t turn up soon, I’ll have to re-book my bi-annual inspection, or I’ll end up missing the train and be late for work.

I peer at the cloudy skies above the city. My apartment lies within a tall grey high-rise building, on the ninth floor, and I have a good view to the south. The streets are already busy, filled with rushing commuters getting on buses, entering metro stations, or driving their vehicles. The crowds are bad enough as it is in the morning, but they’ll be even worse if I end up leaving later due to tardy morality inspectors.

Tardy. That’s a word I never used back in England before the Catastrophe. I’ve picked up many words living the last twenty years in the New Puritan American Republic. Other words I’ve had to stop using. Not unless I want an on-the-spot fine for contravening the Profanity Act.

A knock at the door indicates the morality inspectors have finally arrived. 7:39am. A full nine minutes late. Shaking my head and tutting, I open the door to find Inspector Chuck Willis red faced and quite flustered, alongside two younger men in their early twenties.

‘I’m so sorry Sam,’ Chuck says. ‘I know we’re running late. Contraband incident in the apartment we inspected before yours. Do you still want to do this now? Or do you want to reschedule?’

‘No, best to get it over with,’ I say, indicating for Chuck to come in.

Chuck and the two younger men enter my apartment. They are dressed in the austere manner of all morality inspectors, as though attending a funeral: black trousers, ties, shoes, and jackets, embossed with a lapel depicting a black crucifix on a white background surrounded by the black outline of a five pointed star; the NPAR flag. The only difference is like all government officials, they are required to carry handguns.

‘This is Mr Eric White and Mr James Simpson,’ Chuck says, indicating the younger men. ‘They are in training. I hope you don’t mind?’

I shrug. ‘Be my guest.’

Chuck turns to Mr White. ‘Mr White, will you please read the official notification?’

Mr White nods, looking slightly nervous. He takes a computer device from his pocket and reads from the screen.

‘Mr Samuel Wright. In accordance with New Puritan Party Morality Act, this is your official mandatory bi-annual morality inspection. We will now undertake a non-intrusive search of your residence. Thank you for your co-operation.’

‘Mr White, you could try sounding genuinely thankful for Sam’s co-operation, instead of just sounding bored,’ Chuck says.

‘Yes Mr Willis.’

‘It’s important to maintain a healthy working relationship with our clients.’

‘Yes Mr Willis.’

‘Well, go on then. Don’t just stand there. Inspect the apartment. You too Mr Simpson.’

The two younger men blunder around the kitchen, bathroom, sitting room and bedroom. They open cupboards and drawers, but don’t take anything out. They examine bookshelves, but don’t remove any of the books. They look under the sofa, chairs, bed and in various other places, but they don’t take any items from where they are placed. I feel slightly anxious, but not because I fear they will find contraband. I am worried these trainees will break something.

‘I hope you’re training them well,’ I say to Chuck.

‘Oh, don’t worry. You’ve got a squeaky-clean record, so they’re under instructions to be extra careful.’

‘Do you want a coffee?’

Chuck shakes his head. ‘Already had two this morning.’

‘How are Cheryl and the kids?’

‘Fine.’

‘Most unlike you to be late.’

‘Yeah… The place we were at before this one, we had to call police back-up, because we found a stash of illegal films. Titles from some real Enlightenment Sympathy subversives. People like Stanley Kubrick, Oliver Stone, David Cronenberg… The real nasties. We also found…’ Chuck’s voice drops to a whisper. ‘Nudes.’

I try to sound shocked. ‘Photographs?’

‘No. Reubens paintings. Or copies anyway. Most of the originals were burned years ago. Trust me, that guy will end up doing jail time. He was careless. Thought he could get away with hiding the stuff in plain sight. Just because standard morality inspections don’t tear the place apart like a police search, he figured as long as the contraband was hidden behind other books on a shelf, he could get away with it. But Mr Simpson here caught sight of a DVD spine which turned out to be a Cronenberg film. After that… Well, you know what happens. At that point we’re allowed to call the police and tear the place apart.

‘Some of the contraband contained traces of radiation. Criminals smuggle it across the forbidden zones quite often, despite the dangers. Those areas aren’t watched like the roads, so smugglers think it’s a better route for getting illegal items into the city. But these morons don’t seem to get that forbidden zones are forbidden for a reason. What they often get instead is radiation poisoning, especially if they’re dumb enough to wander into the epicentre where the nukes fell.’

‘I’ve never really been able to understand why people break the law,’ I say, fully aware of how sanctimonious I sound, but knowing Chuck will lap it up.

Chuck peers at the walls of my apartment. ‘You know what Sam, you really shouldn’t be overly cautious about morality inspections. This place is so sparse. It needs a personal touch. A plant perhaps? Or maybe a few paintings on the wall. There’s a lot of art that isn’t banned, you know.’

I laugh. ‘I prefer to keep things simple.’

‘Well, it’s your apartment.’

A few minutes later, Mr Simpson and Mr White return.

‘All clear,’ says Mr White.

‘All clear?’ says Chuck. ‘This isn’t an air raid Mr White. But since we’re all clear, have Sam sign the inspection and give him his receipt.’

‘Right…’ Mr White fumbles with his computer device, and eventually presents me with an electronic pen.

‘Sign anywhere on the screen.’

I exchange an amused glance with Chuck and sign the screen.

‘You’ve been emailed a receipt,’ Mr Simpson says.

‘Oh look, that one talks too.’ Chuck shakes his head. ‘You guys really need to work on your people skills. Don’t treat your clients as potential subversives. The vast majority are law abiding citizens, and aren’t guilty of Enlightenment Sympathy.’

‘Yes sir…’ Mr Simpson and Mr White mutter in unison.

Chuck grins and shakes my hand. ‘I hope we haven’t made you late. See you in six months, Sam.’

After Chuck and his trainees depart, I grab my thick overcoat, scarf, and gloves, leave the bland concrete misery of my apartment building, and hurry along the streets to the metro station. The autumn air - or the fall air, as I can never quite get used to saying - is bitterly cold. The sun occasionally peeks through the clouds, but the brief blasts of warmth are inadequate to combat the frostiness.

Large propaganda billboards loom over me on the sides of grey tower blocks, including one depicting a crowded church interior filled with a congregation of bowed heads. The text PRAYER ASSEMBLY: YOUR MONTHLY PATRIOTIC DUTY is emblazoned across the top of the image, in the usual government approved fonts.

Another billboard features the image of President Grant Harding, and the legend RETURNING TO THE VALUES OF OUR FOUNDING FATHERS. Yet another advertises the New Puritan Party, and simply says JOIN US.

I enter the metro station, buy a ticket, and stand on the platform. I was worried about not getting to work before 9am, but my usual train is delayed. Everything and everyone seem to be running late today.

Some of the crowd tut and shake their heads at the delay. I watch them for a moment, milling around in their drab grey suits and dark full-length dresses, reflecting on how desensitised I’ve become to the absence of colourful or vibrant clothing. The New Puritan party dress code laws are very particular in their prohibitions of flamboyant attire.

Feeling impatient, I glance up at the sky. A curious cloud catches my eye. It resembles one of those emoji faces that used to be popular in text messages about twenty or thirty years ago. The cloud looks like a sad or crying face.

I am oddly captivated by this cloud. I stare at it, and a strange thought enters my mind.

Is God crying?

I scoff at this idiotic notion. Even though I live in one of the most strictly religious nations on the face of the Earth, I don’t believe in God.

Not that I would ever admit as much. Apart from anything else, I had to lie on my refugee application twenty years ago, following the Catastrophe, in order to resettle. My first choice had been the DEAR, or the Democratically Enlightened American Republic, in the east. That liberal utopia sounded like a much more pleasant alternative. But beggars can’t be choosers. The DEAR had already taken in thousands of refugees, and in the end, they closed their borders. The NPAR had been my only alternative.

The train arrives. I glance at my watch again. I should just make it to work before nine.

At work, I sit at my desk watching the two swinging balls at either side of a Newton’s Cradle perpetually smashing into the two at the centre. I become slightly mesmerised, listening to the toc-toc of the steel spheres. Two equal and opposite forces playing off against one another in utter futility, whilst the balls in the middle remain powerless.

Another glance at my watch tells me Doug Hendrick, my boss, is late for our video call. He refused to have this meeting in person and that isn’t a good sign. Perhaps he already knows what I’m going to say. I inwardly curse myself for having foolishly mentioned the matter to other journalists. A few of them have loose tongues, and it wouldn’t surprise me if someone had already spilled the beans to Doug.

I stare through the closed glass doors of my office, out into the open plan area where other Badger News Inc journalists rush around amid their usual busy day. It’s colder than usual. The heaters should have been fixed days ago, and that doesn’t do anything for people’s tempers in the midst of increasingly frosty weather.

My eyes absently wander along the pale blue walls. The place is in the process of being redecorated, and paint fumes assail my nostrils. I take a drink from the water cooler, hoping to wash away the taste of lingering dust. I decide to put on my jacket and tie. Doug prefers his staff to be formally dressed. Perhaps he will take my opinion more seriously if I deliver it smartly attired.

The screen illuminates. Doug Hendrick’s photograph appears; an absurdly forced pose of him in shorts and a fishing jacket next to a river, proudly displaying a freshly caught trout. He flashes the same irritating smile when amused by one of his own jokes, displaying a row of gleaming white teeth. A head of full, shiny hair makes him resemble a televangelist.

I click to answer the call. Doug’s gormless riverside smile is replaced by Doug scowling in his office.

‘I received a copy of your critique Sam. Frankly, I wasn’t happy with the tone.’

‘But what about the substance?’

‘Please don’t interrupt. I understand your intentions, but I think you don’t appreciate the importance of constantly reminding our viewers and readers just how serious the situation is in the DEAR.’

‘Of course I appreciate it. I just think we’re being too condescending.’

‘Too condescending?’

‘Did you read the examples I gave?’

‘Yes, I read your report.’

‘All of it?’

‘Well… I looked at the first page.’

I try not to roll my eyes. Instead, I pick up a printed copy of what I sent Doug, and turn to page three.

‘Page three, paragraph two of this article last week, by Lara Russell: Whether you agree with his policies or not, it is your patriotic duty to join in the Prayer Assembly for President Harding. Your church attendance register will note all absentees, and they will be encouraged to circulate the information. That simply isn’t true. No government body, local or central, puts pressure on churches to circulate information on absenteeism on Prayer Assembly Day. Citizens can refuse to attend any church function. The NPAR guarantees freedom from religion, as well as freedom of religion.’

‘This is how I wanted the story reported,’ Doug says.

I sighed. ‘It’s so crude Doug. It’s transparent propaganda. Like this piece by Wade Johnson on Sexual Deviants in the DEAR, quoted on page four. The Democratic Enlightened American Republic has now reduced the age of sexual consent to twelve, to accommodate paedophilia and make it a legitimate form of sexual expression. Such perversions would make the residents of Sodom and Gomorrah blush. That isn’t true either. Our sources claim there was a debate in the DEAR about lowering the age of consent from fourteen to twelve, but it hasn’t been put into law. Also, the editorialising about Sodom and Gomorrah is embarrassing. Let’s keep that for actual editorials, written by professionals.’

‘People like you?’

‘Well, yes. That’s my job.’

‘Your arrogance really upsets me at times, Sam. Just because you have twenty years’ experience doesn’t mean you know every darned thing.’

Every darned thing.

I wish Doug would swear once. Just once.

‘The point is, we aren’t reporting facts,’ I continue. ‘Lara and Wade need to check their sources.’

‘In essence, what they say is true,’ Doug says. ‘The DEAR is a perverse, profane, and godless nation. If I were God, I would have wiped them out already. No idea what’s taking God so long, quite honestly… But I guess the guy upstairs must have his reasons.’

‘Look, all I’m saying is these pieces lack sophistication. If we want to win people over in the war of hearts and minds, then the tone…’

‘Yes, the tone,’ Doug interrupts. ‘The tone. The tone. That was my big problem with your report. There is no excuse for rudeness.’

‘How was I rude?’

‘Have you any idea how hurtful and offensive this is to the hard-working patriots who write for Badger News Incorporated? Have you any idea how your elite, snobby intellectualism comes across?’

‘Doug, I’ve simply written a report containing quotations from articles, and how I think we should improve our writing overall. I am not personally attacking any of your writers. Why is that hurtful and offensive?’

‘Sam, you need to stop right there, before you say something you regret.’

‘But you asked me to write a report on how we can improve our articles and video reports. I did what you asked.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

I pick up another piece of paper and wave it at the screen. ‘I have your request here, in writing. Do you want me to read it?’

‘I asked you for a report on how to improve. I didn’t ask for criticism on what we are already doing.’

I am rapidly reaching hair-clutching point, but try to hold it together.

‘How on earth do you expect me to report on how to improve without critiquing what we are already doing?’

‘You could simply say we should do more of this or that, without the need for such unpleasantness in the way you write.’

‘Unpleasantness?’

‘Sam, I’m not going to argue with you. Write the report again, and this time take out all the harsh language.’

By now, it’s impossible to keep scathing incredulity from my tone. ‘Harsh language?’

‘Sam, you are teetering on a precipice here. Don’t make me lose my temper.’

‘Doug, I’m just trying to point out…’

‘I know you Brits like your informality, but here in the NPAR, we show respect, darn it. I’d prefer it if you refer to me as Mr Hendrick. Perhaps that will help you moderate this tone of familiarity some.’

‘Mr Hendrick, with all due respect, you asked me to write a report explaining how we can improve. I wrote a report explaining how we can improve.’

Doug begins to raise his voice. ‘How is something as insulting as what you’ve written here going to help anyone?’

‘What example are you referring to?’

‘Page one. Fourth paragraph. With reference to the article by Hermann Schultz defending the law allowing corporal punishment in schools. We shouldn’t give so much of a platform to the hang ‘em and flog ‘em brigade. That’s me you’re talking about Sam. Me. Douglas Hendrick. A man who believes in justice, and a man who believes in Biblical discipline.’

‘There are plenty of dissenting voices amongst our readers,’ I point out. ‘Not everyone shares your opinion, Mr Hendrick.’

‘What is your opinion Sam?’

‘On this issue? That’s hardly relevant. I just think for the sake of balance, we should have someone arguing the opposite point of view.’

‘We could have someone arguing the opposite point of view, but only if we then come back to the correct point of view.’

‘I think Badger, a news website and broadcaster that prides itself of free speech, should actually allow a little, well, free speech. It is in our mission statement, after all. We actively oppose the suppression of free speech so prevalent in the DEAR, and stand as a platform of independent thought.’

Doug nods. ‘All of that may be true, but this company still answers to a Board of Directors and Shareholders. We cannot allow any hint of Enlightenment Sympathy, after what happened previously.’

‘Opposing corporal punishment is not Enlightenment Sympathy,’ I point out. ‘The law clearly allows…’

Doug interrupts. ‘What matters is how the law is interpreted. I know how the Board of Directors and Shareholders want it interpreted, and it is not with your borderline liberal views, Sam. Nonetheless, I still want your thoughts on how we can improve our service, so you will kindly draft a new report, along the lines I originally requested, without the unpleasantness of your first attempt.’

This is typical Doug Hendrick. Narrow, obvious, predictable. How can I make him understand people are much likelier to look at our broadcast if we reflect a variety of views? How can I make him understand the implicit propaganda in what he wishes to portray can only be achieved by perceived impartiality? Doug has never been one for nuance, ambiguity, or subtle, subliminal messaging. He prefers the preachy, sledgehammer approach. Perhaps this is what the Board of Directors want, but I still consider such a technique beneath my talents and dignity.

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘Doug, I’ve already written my report. You need to read it properly. Look at my conclusions and suggestions for how we should write articles in future.’

Doug begins to yell. ‘Are you refusing a direct instruction?’

‘I’m telling you I’ve already done what you asked me to do. I can take another look at it and remove what you considered rudeness, but the essence of what I am recommending will be the same.’

‘I am this close to firing you!’

I roll my eyes.

‘This is no idle threat!’

I sigh. ‘All right Doug. I’ll rewrite the report. Shall we discuss it later?’

‘No. I don’t want to discuss it. I think it’s best if I don’t talk to you for a bit.’

The call ends. I am used to such abrupt and petulant conclusions to conversations when Doug gets annoyed. A small part of me worries he might one day actually carry out his threat to fire me, but I suspect today will not be that day. He will go through the usual stages of annoyance and feeling personally attacked, before eventually suggesting my ideas, and passing them off as his ideas.

I suppose Doug Hendrick isn’t that bad. My former boss, Evan Selwick, may or may not have been guilty of Enlightenment Sympathy, but he was definitely corrupt. He had deliberately falsified advertising revenues, so he could skim off the surface. He probably would have got away with it indefinitely, if he hadn’t been fired for other reasons.

Evan Selwick’s trial is being kept out of the news, doubtless because it’s personally embarrassing to us, and the government want the people to trust their media. For all our supposed principles of objectivity, Badger News Inc is anything but objective. However, I have never been naïve enough to believe in objective journalism. Even in the old world, before the Great Quake that destroyed the West Coast, before the Second American Civil War, before the Catastrophe that ravaged Britain and Europe… Even in those days, I didn’t believe in objective truth. Everyone has their angle, and these days I am paid to take the angle of the NPAR government.

I know how to appear patriotic and sincere, regardless of my personal feelings about the NPAR regime.

The moral implications of my actions are irrelevant.

I don’t care that there are people suffering in this nation.

I don’t care about anything anymore.

A call from Matthew Ingram, our head of finance, interrupts my musings. He needs to discuss something of a private and sensitive nature. I am mildly curious.

Matthew’s office is far neater than anyone else’s, with polished, well-dusted desks and shelves, and files stacked neatly at perfect right angles on the wall behind him. There are no family photographs or other personal touches to give the office character. As I sit on the sterile, magnolia chair before Matthew’s desk, I feel the tension. Matthew’s dark, beady eyes dart left and right from beneath their spectacles, and he keeps glancing over his shoulder, as though he is worried about being overheard. Normally his suits are immaculate, but his tie is slightly askew, and I notice he hasn’t shaved.

‘How are things Matthew?’

‘Oh… Fine, fine…’

Matthew glances around the room a bit more, peering past my head. I turn, half-expecting someone to walk in through the glass door. But there is no-one outside. Puzzled, I turn back to Matthew.

‘Sam, I have a problem,’ Matthew says. ‘Quite a serious problem in fact.’

‘And you’d like my advice?’

Matthew nods. ‘I know I can rely on your discretion. I’ll come right to the point. I think Christy might be embezzling from the company.’

‘Christy Hendrick? As in Doug’s daughter?’

‘I know it sounds preposterous, but… Well, I’ve noticed considerable irregularity in her expenses.’

‘Why don’t you talk to her about it?’

‘I can’t do that. She’s a member of the New Puritan Party.’

‘Well, New Puritans members aren’t above workplace accountability, not to mention the law.’

‘That’s true, but I cannot see any way of bringing the matter up without upsetting Doug. Or the Board for that matter. They are all card-carrying New Puritans.’

‘Do they actually issue cards?’

‘Sam, please be serious.’

‘All right. You have to bring it up and confront the matter. It’s your legal duty. How’s that for serious?’

‘Look Sam, you’ve been here long enough to know how it works with Doug. He might be the Chief Executive Officer, but he’s protective of his daughter to the point of insanity. Remember last year, when I mildly suggested her marketing budget should be cut and redeployed to where it might bring in more revenue?’

‘Oh yes,’ I mutter. ‘He went nuclear. I’ve still not recovered, to be honest. I didn’t ever think I’d need trauma counselling after a management meeting, but in that particular case…’

‘Yes, well never mind that,’ Matthew interrupts. ‘What can I do about these irregularities?’

‘Do you have proof?’

‘More or less. It’s just possible there’s an innocent explanation, but I doubt it.’

‘Well then, why not confront her?’

‘Because if I’m wrong, Doug will have me fired for hurting his feelings. You know what he’s like.’

‘Don’t I just. I’m in the midst of another confrontation with him right now.’

‘What stage are you at?’

‘Oh, still stage one. He threatened to fire me.’

‘Yeah, well if I falsely accuse his daughter, he won’t just threaten to fire me.’

‘Matthew, I really don’t see what choice you have. If she’s committing financial fraud, and we get investigated, Badger will get shut down.’

‘I doubt that. We’re too valuable to the government as a propaganda tool. But the blame would still fall on my shoulders if I was perceived to be looking the other way.’

‘Well, if you don’t confront her, you are looking the other way.’

‘Sam, you don’t understand. This isn’t just my job. It’s my whole life. If I get fired, I’ll be placed on the Enlightenment Sympathy suspicion list.’

‘You’re being paranoid.’

‘Am I? You know what it means if you end up on that list. It ruins all prospects of a job. My family will be shamed. I’ll probably lose my house, and the respect of my wife and children. My friends will want nothing to do with me, and I’ll be shunned wherever I go.’

‘Surely that can’t happen if you simply ask a question?’

‘Sam, you’re just not hearing me. She’s a member of the New Puritans. You know what that means. Absolute Morality. Absolute Purity. If any New Puritan is accused, the proof must be iron-clad. Otherwise, their response will be terrible.’

‘I think you’re overestimating the New Puritans.’

‘I think you’re naïve. They are getting more and more powerful, and their influence is felt in every area of government. The laws are getting stricter. They are tightening the noose. If I accuse Christy, and I’m wrong, I dread to think what will happen. But if she is embezzling, as looks likely, and I ignore it, then I also dread to think what will happen. I have to do something Sam. What can I do?’

I shrug. ‘I’m sorry Matthew. I can’t answer that. You’ll have to make a decision and roll the dice. I’ve got work to do, so if you’ll excuse me…’

I spend the rest of the day editing various articles, rewriting and resubmitting my report to Doug Hendrick, advising other journalists, and tweaking my daily editorial. Today’s article is supposed to be on how film censors need to be accountable, and how their decisions and arguments should be a matter of public record, but my heart isn’t in it. What I am suggesting might be deemed contentious, and I’m careful not to cross into the territory of potential Enlightenment Sympathy. Instead, I insert many sentences praising the hardworking censors, and expound on how difficult and thankless their task can be.

It gets to the point where I don’t believe a word I’m writing. The NPAR Film Censorship Board are currently working their way through thousands of old films, retroactively deciding whether they should be cut or banned outright. Many of the films they have banned are classics. Some of them were my favourites when I was younger.

I hate the Film Censorship Board, but can never say so, as that would unquestionably be considered Enlightenment Sympathy. In the end, my article’s primary argument is that their decisions need to be in the open, so that future filmmakers can learn from the mistakes of their immoral predecessors, and so there is a record of the reasons why such violence, profanity, and depravity should never be seen or heard on our screens ever again.

What I actually want, is to make sure these uptight prudish lunatics have their idiotic decisions on record, so that future historians can take the piss out of them.

There’s another word I wish I could use more in conversation. Piss. It’s on the official New Puritan list of swear words banned under the Profanity Act. Using them results in fines. Repeatedly using them can result in a flogging.

I submit the online editorial then watch the rising hits and likes. It seems my article struck a chord.

Just before the end of my working day, I get another video call from Doug Hendrick. I still don’t see why he won’t just come and see me in my office. Perhaps he knows how much the other journalists dislike him, and doesn’t like running the gauntlet through their midst in order to get to me.

‘Nice editorial today Sam,’ Doug says.

I frown. ‘You liked it?’

‘Well… I’m not sure I agree with it. I think the Film Censorship Board doesn’t need outside scrutiny. They know filth when they see it, so they know what to protect us from. It isn’t that difficult.’

‘So you don’t like it?’

‘No, I like it.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s getting a lot of hits and likes, and from the comments people seem to agree with you and your reasoning.’

This was typical Doug Hendrick. Always looking to fit in with the consensus.

‘Is that what you called me to discuss?’ I ask.

‘In a way, yes,’ said Doug. ‘See… I’ve been thinking. One of the ways we could improve our service to our readers and viewers might be to be appear a bit more, well, impartial. I think it would be a good idea to tone down some of our more preachy articles and videos. I think we could do with being a little less crudely patronising.’

I try not to laugh. Normally it takes Doug a little longer, but in the course of one day, he has gone from outrage to hurt feelings, threats, sulking, and now, finally, passing my idea off as his.

Chapter 2

People say ignorance is bliss, but experience has taught me that apathy, not ignorance, is true bliss. Knowing the truth about the bad things going on around you, and still not giving a damn, might not be an admirable, courageous, or morally upright frame of mind, but it is a blissful one.

I often encounter intense, excitable, zealous people, and find their energy for whatever cause or injustice they rail against, tiresome in the extreme. There are many journalists who think that way, believing in some higher purpose to the reports they write or film. They honestly think their sanctimonious claptrap appeals to the better angels of human nature. I believe the reverse is true. The more I am lectured on how I must think or act a certain way, the more I am inclined to think or act in the exact opposite way.

Occasionally I sit in church, as is advisable on a Sunday morning in the NPAR. I endure condescending, prudish, hypocritical sermons, and always want to do the exact opposite of what is being preached against. I want to be a glutton, or a drunkard, or sexually immoral. I want to risk it all, and just once throw caution to the wind. But there are certain lines in the NPAR that cannot be crossed. So much has changed in the world, and those who seek such forbidden pleasures potentially risk their lives.

On my way home from the office, I pass an elementary school. Coal Ridge Elementary school, to use its full name. The children have long since gone home for the day, but I can see a few teachers in the classrooms. I stare at them, feeling a curious irritation. The education system has entirely done away with teaching children to question orthodoxy or think for themselves. Instead, children are raised on a diet of New Puritan ideology. I find the notion distressing, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Besides, I don’t have children, so tell myself it’s hardly worth worrying about.

I catch sight of a young, beautiful, dark-skinned teacher in a classroom, writing on a blackboard. She has unusually long hair, which flows all the way down to the waist of her long dress (the New Puritan dress code does not permit the display of female legs). This woman will be too young to remember what the world was like before. She has doubtless been brainwashed by purity doctrines. I see the New Puritan logo showing a representation of the Mayflower, the sailing vessel that brought the original Puritans to the New World, pinned to the front of her dress. All teachers are required to be members of the New Puritan Party, and females are made to sign the Absolute Chastity clause as a part of their working contract.

For a few seconds I am mesmerised by this woman. My mind wanders into a scenario where she harbours secret longing for me. I imagine ripping that hateful logo from her dress as I tear her clothes off.

I quickly dismiss these unworthy impulses and look away from her, continuing my walk back to my apartment. Normally I take the metro, but I feel like walking. A good stride is what is required to work off this aggressive lust. I remind myself that although I greatly dislike the NPAR, it is still probably the most free and civilised nation left on the planet, outside of the DEAR. My existence here is comfortable, and likely to remain so as long as I keep my head down and stick to the rules.

After returning to my apartment and eating dinner, I turn on the television in an attempt to distract myself. I watch old episodes of Little House on the Prairie, The Waltons, and Bonanza, but can’t settle. My mind keeps recalling the woman in the school, and the fantasies that flashed through my mind. I see her dark skin, her flowing hair… I imagine what she must look like beneath that full-length dress…I imagine what it would be like to fuck her…

Such feelings of lust are surprisingly strong, and they confuse me. I’ve always been single, married to my work as a journalist both before and after the Catastrophe. Whilst in the UK, I had the odd liaison here and there, but nothing resembling a serious relationship. Work had always been something of a replacement for sex.

Yet since living in the New Puritan American Republic, I’ve felt the need for sex much more. In the UK, there were a plethora of easy sexual opportunities, whether through online pornography, virtual reality pornography, sex robots, legalised prostitutes, or even just hook-ups through apps. Now I live somewhere sex is absolutely outlawed, under severe penalties, outside of marriages endorsed by a board of New Puritan Church elders. Because of this, the sex urge is far greater. I find that masturbation can only relieve so much frustration, and ultimately, I crave sexual companionship. Of course, there are ways to find it here too, but they are illegal and dangerous.

I turn off the television. It’s no good watching programmes that are over a hundred years old when the image of that teacher remains seared in my mind. I decide to delve into my hidden stash of contraband novels by peeling back the carpet in my bedroom, and removing the loose floorboard which conceals them (too well-hidden to be discovered by a standard morality inspection). I rummage through various banned titles including The Catcher in the Rye, 1984, The Handmaid’s Tale, Lolita, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, To Kill a Mockingbird, A Clockwork Orange, Fahrenheit 451…

Eventually I find what I’m looking for: Lucy Worthington’s Viennese Whirlwind. I don’t think it was rated very highly in its time. Doubtless critics would have dismissed it as just another generic holiday romance novel; something to be devoured and dismissed like fast food by fans of the genre. Yet since it came into my possession, I have found it curiously affecting. I have re-read it multiple times, but keep it hidden. Technically it isn’t banned, and I doubt it would be seen as highly subversive, but any work of fiction not given an official approval classification by the New Puritan Morality Board can land you in trouble if it is subsequently considered immoral. That’s why most people destroy any books that haven’t been passed.

I start to read Viennese Whirlwind, and begin to be swept up in the simple romantic narrative. I imagine the woman in the school as the lead character. I imagine her meeting me in Vienna, before the Catastrophe that destroyed it. I imagine taking her on the famous Ferris wheel, where Orson Welles met Joseph Cotton in The Third Man. I imagine taking her to the opera house. I imagine taking in the sights, like the gothic St Stephen’s cathedral. I imagine picnicking with her on the green lawns of the parks, in glorious summer sunshine. I imagine what it would be like to kiss her…

I close the novel, disturbed at how my mind has drifted from lustful fantasies to absurd, impossible romantic dreams. I have no idea who she is. Why does her face linger in my mind? She would have been brought up inside the NPAR, and no doubt the doctrines of the New Puritans would be hard-wired into her every thought. As