The World is at War, again

By Simon Lowe

The World is at War, again. New technology has been abandoned, a period of Great Regression is under way.

In suburbia, low level Agent Assassins Maria and Marco Fandanelli are given a surprise promotion as "Things Aren't Going Too Well With The War". Leaving their son Peter behind, they set sail on the luxury c

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elsewhen Press
• Release date: Apr 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781911409939

Simon Lowe

Simon Lowe is the non-nom de plume of the author Simon Lowe. From humble beginnings inside a Melton Mowbray pork pie, Simon spent a summer building insulation for the millennium dome (nobody ever complained about being cold, did they?) before working the daytime shift as a flair cocktail waiter in a bar next to Leicester train station, impressing commuters with his juggling skills before pouring their coffee and thanking them for their patience. He would eventually find his feet in the big smoke as a bookseller. For ten years, he passed sharpies to famous authors with an envious, often murderous smile. He later went on to take charge of a primary school library, issuing fines to four year olds with indiscriminate glee. Fearing burn out, from the heady world of books, he chose to settle down in Hertford of all places.As it stands, Simon has one partner, one son and one cat. Alongside writing fiction, he is a stay at home dad with ambitious plans to leave the house one day.His short stories have popped up in journals and magazines on three continents including Visible Ink, Storgy, Firewords, AMP, Chaleur magazine, Ponder Review, Adelaide Literary journal, The Write launch, and elsewhere. He has also written about books for the Guardian newspaper.The World is at War, Again is both a novel and a rumination on how very bad and very good the world would be without technology.

Book preview

Chewti’s cousin, Nadia, takes her by the hand and they skip to the gravestones. She is 9 years old. It is a family christening. They are dressed in white. They are dressed in frills.

You’re hurting my arm, says Chewti.

Come on, hurry, says Nadia.

Where are we going?

I want you to see.

Nadia is all smiles. She stands, in front of a gravestone, knitting and unfurling her fingers. She dances on tiptoes, bursting with terrible, terrible glee.

Who is Gerald Mathieu?

He’s dead now.

Obviously.

…

I don’t understand.

Gerald was an enemy of the Unified Nations. A very dangerous man. I put powder in his drink. Mother let me. He went to the bathroom and I did it. I was under the table, it was easy.

You killed Gerald Mathieu?

Of course.

Why?

I just told you, he was dangerous.

How do you know?

Mother was on a mission, she let me help.

Aunty Iva? What kind of mission?

Nadia jigs between headstones, straddling, picking moss and loose concrete, giggling, pulling her pigtails.

Hasn’t Aunty Yolana told you about us? says Nadia.

Told me what?

We’re spies.

Who is?

The Misorovs. Our family. All of us. It’s in our blood. Mother’s been training me. I’ve successfully completed five people now. She says I’m progressing nicely. You’ll be a spy too, one day. An assassin like the rest of us.

Chewti is crying. She rubs hot tears, reddening her face. Nadia skips to Chewti’s side and picks a flower from Gerald Mathieu’s grave.

What are you doing? says Chewti. Sniffles and snot.

I always take a souvenir, says Nadia and puts the flower in her hair.

Nadia runs back to the church. It sounds to Chewti like she is singing.

Chapter one:

THE FANDANELLIS

Mid-morning in the heart of the Unified Nations’ chalky suburbia. Peter Fandanelli sits cross-legged on his bedroom floor, a blue recommissioned cordless on his lap. He is thinking about Elise Hodgson and how best to break her heart. Two weeks into their relationship, all that un-lived potential… yet he has no choice but to call it off. It will be a shock. Finding the words is difficult. Words are the problem here. Just days together, they are Doomed. The new Romeo and Juliet! Newer and better. Out damned spot, he wants to yell down the line, Get Out, Damn Spot! Such is the tragic nature of it all. Such is the unexpected truth.

•

Maria Fandanelli waits for her husband, Marco Fandanelli, in the kitchen, downstairs. She hasn’t seen Marco since he dropped a bowl at breakfast and failed to clear it up properly. She has wiped the carpet; it is fine now. She wants to explain to Marco how she has wiped the carpet and it is fine now. Despite the World being at War, these things matter. At least, they matter more than they used to. The Fandanellis are set. Their well-maintained dormer bungalow, positioned on the arc of the Crescent, is clean and aired, packed and ready for a new family to move in. Staring at her reflection in the patio doors, Maria sits and waits.

•

Three days ago, as Peter was pacing the thin slice of carpet between his bed and wardrobe, thinking of ways to impress Elise Hodgson, he heard loud shouting coming from the bottom of the stairs, directed his way. It was Marco and Maria requesting a Special Dinner. Usually, Special Dinners are only requested when there is a family announcement to be made. There is no skirting a Special Dinner, attendance is compulsory and you have to be vocal and involved; you can’t, for example, nod your head and think about Elise Hodgson the whole time. You will be caught out. It’s how Maria and Marco like to communicate and they take it seriously. So instead of the usual dispersements, Maria, Marco and Peter sat together at the foldout table to eat boil-in-the-bag fish and savoury rice. A Special Dinner. Maria and Marco were hesitant and nervous; poking rice, turning fish with their forks to glance new angles of grey white flesh. To begin with, Peter thought he knew why. Some of his friends’ parents had separated or divorced and from what he understood, they hadn’t argued half as much as Maria and Marco prior to the break up. Peter was convinced it was an inevitability. He sensed time had almost run out. But, he was wrong, this wasn’t the reason for the Special Dinner. As Maria and Marco explained.

Things aren’t going too well with the War. Volunteers are being asked to contribute more of their time to the War effort. As committed members of the Volunteer War Over Seas Aid Squad we have chosen to join a special emergency scheme that will provide aid over seas for the duration of the War. It goes without saying, you will not be able to join us Peter, it is far too dangerous. Likewise, you can’t stay at home by yourself, the house is being sold to finance our volunteering costs. Instead, the Co-Op government, recognising the important work of the VWOSAS, has kindly offered to enrol you in a country boarding school, free of charge. We have, of course, accepted their kind offer on your behalf. Panbury Hall is going to provide you with an excellent opportunity for success; much more so than the concrete school you currently attend. You have every right to be grateful. As much as anything, it’s going to make for a nice change! We are sorry for the short notice. Three days isn’t a long time for all the packing and goodbyes, but we’re sure you’ll make the most if it.

•

A crumpled note, thrown with an impressively loose arm by Elise, during Home Affairs class. Her number written in thick, black ink. Peter dials. It’s only the second time he’s phoned Elise. Hopefully, this time, she’ll be in.

Yes, hello

Hi Mrs Hodgson, it’s Peter, is Elise there?

Who is this?

Peter, Peter Fandanelli.

Who?

Erm, Peter? I’m a friend of Elise’s, she may have mentioned me, we’re kind of…

ELISE! she shouts.

Alex?

No Elise, hi, it’s Peter.

Oh, hey Pete, sorry I thought… never mind, how’s things?

Yeah, good, well actually, I’ve got some bad news…

Wait! Pete, before you say anything I’ve got a confession to make and I want you to be the first to know before anyone else. Wait! Ronson hasn’t told you already has he?

Told me what?

OK, so I’ve kind of started seeing this other guy? His name is Alex, he’s a senior at St Mark’s and Oh my goodness, Pete, he’s amazing, I think you’d really like him.

Really? St Mark’s?

Oh Yeah, no doubt, he’s so positive and just kind of, well yeah positive. Not that you’re not positive too Pete, you are, when you’re not being funny and down and everything, but in these sad times Pete, I need uplifting! It’s like Alex says, cynicism brings you no friends, I mean you should hear him Pete, he thinks the world will heal itself because the War is just cuts and scratches and the bombs are like grazes on the earth’s skin and the earth will grow back stronger skin and, well I can’t remember exactly what he said but it was so positive Pete, and he wants to be an actor…

Sounds great Elise, really positive, so I should go, see you around maybe.

Are you kidding? I’ll be sure to keep my eye out for you Pete, I knew you’d understand.

Yep, OK, bye then.

The blue cordless drops on the bed. Peter fills with relief. Elise is going to be alright, he doesn’t need to worry about her anymore. She’ll be OK. He pulls down a large cotton sports bag from the top of his wardrobe and starts to pack.

•

Maria is still in the kitchen, waiting. She has a glow of excitement inside her, something warm and smooth. Her time has come. The Crescent is less than real, shifting backwards like a memory. Not felt, only known. The new couple will arrive; fresh-faced and enthused, like Maria and Marco had been so many years ago. Neighbours, captured on the lawn, waving, smiling, the ‘meet and greet’, the lending of children, drinks and nibbles, soft, suburban sunsets. The new couple, all set for the comings and goings; the lies and mistrust; the waving; the smiling. And the new couple. This family-to-be. Will they have to wait long? Will their time come sooner or later? Maria hopes sooner. Until then, she hopes they cope better than her and Marco. She hopes their stay is a short one because the first thing she will do on leaving, is forget.

•

Marco Fandanelli, precariously balanced on an upturned tin bucket, wades through a mesh of cables, disentangling as much of the knotted wire as he can. It’s a final measure. A last resort, with little hope for success. The generator isn’t working. Already, he can imagine Maria’s reaction when she discovers they haven’t been able to sign off domestic duties and receive a mission update. It’s a reaction that makes him want to stay in the shed as long as possible. He snaps green enamel headphones over his ears, flicks a switch with a fatalist’s optimism. Just as before. A warm buzz followed by a cackle of static before the defeat of silence; nothingness, deadness down the line. Marco concedes; that is most certainly that. The Great Regression strikes again. When Read House placed Marco and Maria in their unsuspecting suburban dormer, their enviable slice of the Crescent, the garden shed, they were told, would act as a DCC – their Domestic Control Centre. A shipment of comms and gadgetry was sent over in bedding plants and bags of compost, two days after the move. Bygone transmitters, decommissioned polygraphs, faulty radiation detectors, a lexicon of defunct, hopelessly retrospective spy junk. The only valuable and working piece of equipment was the generator. Until this morning, it had been most reliable. They used it to communicate with Read House across a fixed wireless signal. This was how they received mission updates and confirmed completions. Maintaining domestic cover is all-important, operating out of a home Domestic Control Centre means fewer trips to Read House, less suspicion. But when they need it most, the generator has let them down. Their last day in the Crescent and the DCC is non-operational. They are without an update, unable to sign off duties. It’s too late to do anything about it. It is time to go.

•

The Great Regression caused Read House to reintroduce long forgotten methods and technology. For agents like Marco and Maria, highly skilled in the mechanics of new technology, expert handlers of Dramtech’s gizmos and gadgetry, it came as something of a shock. They have been unexpectedly jettisoned to the past, a reinvented past, a new take on what had gone before. A world of plugs, sockets and wires; paper, folders and files, hand held devices, letters, batteries, carbon copies and signatures. Public transport, post offices, noise! Face-to-face meetings, in-person conversations, back again. Remember what it was like? When the Safe and Sound Bill passed and the subsequent annihilation of new technology was evoked, Read House demanded agents return to the old espionage ways. Not that many were old enough to remember. For a time, soon after the Bill was passed, there were cartoon banners hanging from stone pillars throughout Read House, reminders of the need for vigilance. Agents in trench coats, using classic Dramtech goodies: cellular implants, stamp screens, laser wristwatches, sonar earbuds, gleefully ignoring the ban. Captions shouting above their heads.

Thanks, you just gave the game away

and

Whose side are you on exactly?

and

Mine’s a pint!

Digital information, our entire lives, in clouds and galaxies, all those trap doors and wormholes. Dramtech gave the Unified Nations everything but it wasn’t safe. It was too risky, the Co-Op Government decided, especially with the War and everything. What’s ours stays ours. Out with the new, in with the old. Time to go backwards, for all our sakes.

•

Marco ties wire over his elbow and thumb, creates a mesh, a hollow nest of cable, and puts it tidily on top of the generator. He breathes in the stale, woody smells: smoked cigars and oily tools. It may have lacked in attributes as a DCC, but as a shed, it’s provided a welcome hideaway for Marco and his thoughts. A warm, airless refuge. He finds comfort in the fly-splattered windows that don’t open, ease in the struggle to bolt its warped, misshapen door.

Marco rips film from a camera, a ribbon of secrets, amongst bundles of notes and files, mission details, operatives, passwords, acrostics and code. The tin bucket he has been sitting on, filled with hard evidence. He lights a match. Bureaucracy and espionage, things always get burnt in the end. He notices a coded betting slip, crumpled below molten manilla, confirmation of his AA status. He remembers walking into the bookmakers, celebrating in front of screens of disenfranchised men. Horses slowed, hot gusts of air from tired, flared nostrils. Finally, after years of training, he’d done it. He was officially an Agent Assassin for the Co-Op Government. The highest rank of government spy. A grimy piece of yellow paper with odds of 6/1 told him so.

Marco and Maria achieved AA status within days of each other. It was never a certainty that either of them were going to make it. Gaining AA status was a triumph. They are AAs with dual existence, commonly known as ‘part timers’. The second string. Agents who live an ordinary domestic life and carry out missions. The dream of any part timer is to be made permanent. To be called in for continuous action. It’s rare but with Things Not Going Too Well with the War, part timers are beginning to get their hopes up. Unusually, for a part timer, Marco enjoys the domestic life. The same cannot be said for Maria. She is desperate to wriggle out and leave the Crescent. Marco likes its pace and pettiness. Being made a permanent AA is no longer his dream.

Chequered ash dances above the glow of the bucket before settling; grey flecks of history, expunged, flaked into dust. There is nothing left, time to go. Marco leaves the key in the padlock, ready for the new family. Perhaps they will have better luck fixing the generator. He walks along paving stones, a curved pathway of newly hosed granite, damp and sweet smelling, like chocolate. He sees Maria through the patio doors, waiting for him.

•

Maria swooshes the patio door open and Marco swooshes it shut.

I cleared up your bowl, says Maria.

What bowl? says Marco.

The cereal bowl you dropped, the floor was wet.

Sorry, I didn’t realise.

I don’t know how you drop a cereal bowl on the floor and not realise?

I don’t know either.

Well, I had to clear it up for you.

Thanks.

Before Marco and Maria moved in to the Crescent, Read House fitters planted soundproofing micro-strips inside the kitchen walls. With low strength resistors, the strips provide enough muffling to allow Maria and Marco to discuss Read House business without fear of being overheard by Peter.

You’ve been gone a long time, says Maria. Did you have problems getting through?

I couldn’t get the generator to work, says Marco.

Maria picks up a cloth; she can see crumbs.

I tried everything, continues Marco, lifting his arms in innocence. It’s broken, there’s nothing more I can do.

Maria wipes controlled circles, uses her hand to catch the crumbs.

What about that course you attended in advanced electronics? says Maria. You were away for nearly two weeks. I was here changing nappies and mopping up sick, remember? Surely they taught you something useful.

I was gone for three days Maria, it was a Dramtech thing, nanotechnology, virtual circuitry; pre-regression, we don’t use any of that stuff any more.

Maria lobs the cloth into the sink.

What about our update?

I don’t know, says Marco, shrugging, we’ll just have to go to the docks as instructed and take it from there. Maybe our contact will be waiting to update us in person.

And if not?

Let’s just get there and see.

This is your fault.

Thanks.

Our first mission as permanent AAs and we miss our update. And we haven’t signed off domestic duties either?

Obviously not.

This is your fault, Marco.

Yes, so you said, already.

•

A cotton sports bag, bulging in strange angles, sits by Peter’s door like a sleeping dog. Peter takes a final look at the plain, whitewashed walls of his bedroom. A bedroom he never quite made his own. A failure of personality. It was lacking a sense of habitation; it felt like either somebody was always just about to move in or had recently moved out. Unlike most teenagers, his room smells of fresh paint and clean linen, always. There are no cleverly splayed books and magazines, torn posters or stained gig tickets tacked to the wall, no cigarillo packets and obscene polaroids. He didn’t remove his lampshade, or strew clothing; he didn’t have mugs of forgotten tea, a top layer of thick green skin like a witch’s crème brulee, dotted about. Peter was missing all this. The only objects on display were his oriental wooden trinkets. Model statuettes, gifts from Marco and Maria, brought on their trips abroad to far flung places volunteering with the VWOSAS. There are so many of them, they manage to fill half the cotton sports bag. He doesn’t like them, especially. He is embarrassed by them. They are foreign and strange, from places he’s never heard of and will never visit. They remind him of all the times he’s been left behind. A braver soul would leave them under the bed, pretending they were in the bag, ready to come with him. As it happens, Peter spends time carefully wrapping each one in tissue paper.

•

Five days ago, the Fandanelli doorbell rang. Maria answered. A man with a long coat and glasses stood, holding a clipboard. Maria smiled. The man apologised for disturbing her busy morning, said he was conducting a short community survey. If it wasn’t too much bother, did she have time to answer a few questions. For sixteen years Maria had been waiting to hear these words; for sixteen years they had been rolling around in her mind.

A short community survey. She had the man repeat it, just to be sure. A short community survey. It was true, he was saying the words of her dreams. A short community survey was Maria and Marco’s trigger code. They were being called into continuous action, promoted to permanent AA status. To confirm, she told the man, sorry no, we have an aggressive dog, he doesn’t take well to strangers. The man said he would leave the survey with her and come back tomorrow at the same time to collect it, if that suited. Oh yes, said Maria, it did indeed. He thanked her and walked away. Their confirmation and acceptance received and understood. As of that moment Maria and Marco were no longer part timers; they were permanent AAs. At long last, their time had come. Maria cut the lining of the clipboard. She was glad she had answered the door, not Marco. He probably wouldn’t even remember their trigger code. He would have blithely told the man ‘sorry, not today thank you’ and shut the door. Although, this was probably unfair. Inside the lining was a square of folded white graph paper.

Lucien Docks – Pier 8 – 12 light – countdown in 5

Initial instructions for their first mission as permanent AAs. Maria felt giddy. Sixteen years is a long time to wait.

•

The Fandanellis’ family saloon crunches slowly out the gravel driveway. A small pebble bounces up and hits Peter’s passenger window. He thinks someone is tapping on the glass, asking for his attention. There is no one. Faint hope, playing tricks. They are away.

So where is Panbury Hall again? says Peter.

Oh you’ll like it, says Maria, it’s in the countryside, plenty of trees, very green.

Peter stares at houses sliding backwards and receding lamp posts and wonders when he might have expressed a liking for trees and greenery.

That’s good then, says Peter.

It really is a great opportunity for you, says Maria, turning and smiling.

There is a difference, a pleased buoyancy to everything Maria says today. Peter wasn’t expecting her to enjoy his abandonment so much.

I know it’s hard, says Marco, but the VWOSAS need our help, it’s a desperate situation out there Pete.

I don’t even know where ‘out there’ is, what do you do? Is it handing out bread or something? says Peter.

It’s a bit more involved than that, says Maria. It’s not like feeding the ducks.

Marco pulls over, parking in a layby. Too little has been said. Maria’s new found levity isn’t helping.

Listen Pete, we’re sorry. Truly we are, I know it’s rough on you but it has to be done. It’s hard to explain.

The War needs to be won, says Maria, unbuckling her seatbelt to face Peter. "Future generations, your generation depend on it. Do you understand what we’re saying?"

Not really, says Peter.

Marco indicates, waits for a small girl on a bicycle to cross the road before turning. He would like to carry on, drive past Panbury without stopping, weave the coastal roads for a while, find a cheap B&B, hunker down for the night. Forget about Read House, missions, updates, being permanent AAs. He wants to go AWOL. At least until the morning. Spend one more night in the normal world. Not the real world. The calm world. The world where people smile and talk without knowing they are smiling and talking. Inane and pleasant. The world of the Crescent. But it’s too late now. Far Too Late Now.

•

At the side of a narrow, vaguely trodden track, poking behind thick shrubbery, is a sign for Panbury Hall. Marco stops the family saloon and reverses on to a grassy ridge by the side of the road. The wild hedgerows and prickly overgrowth obscure a view of Panbury Hall itself. There is a path, a thin rivulet of dried mud leading up the bank of a hill. Peter winds down his window. He can hear long grass blowing and trees chirruping.

Well, here we are, says Maria abuzz with excitement.

Are we? says Peter. Where’s Panbury Hall?

I’ll get your bag, says Marco stepping out of the car, opening Peter’s door on his way to the boot.