Try to Run

By Joshua Green

For those classified as morbidly obese, it has always been their body, choice, and life. If others don’t like it, that is their business—except it is their business now. Sadly, times have changed for those who appear unable to care for themselves and deemed to be a drain on the system.

Growing pressure to galvanize the population for the harsh conditions of a new world has led to changes in laws. Those who cannot reduce their bulk to the government-ordained targets are imprisoned in life centers where they must remain until they are deemed healthy again. Naturally this decision prompts outrage and furious debate about freedom and life choices. Feeders, normally labeled as caring enablers, are now classified as abusers and treated as criminals. As the brave stand up to outrageous new laws on behalf of their partners, they must go underground or on the run to evade the law. But will they find a way around all their obstacles?

In this science fiction novel, death and loss surround a changed world as its inhabitants battle a principle worth fighting for amid hunger, illness, guilt, past demons, and a heatwave.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jul 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781728373966

Joshua Green

Joshua Green is a senior national correspondent for Bloomberg Businessweek, focusing on political coverage for the magazine and Bloomberg News. Previously, Green was a senior editor of the Atlantic, a weekly political columnist for the Boston Globe, and an editor at the Washington Monthly. He has also written for the New Yorker, Esquire, Rolling Stone, and other publications. Green regularly appears on MSNBC’s Morning Joe, NBC's Meet the Press, HBO's Real Time with Bill Maher, and PBS’s Washington Week.

Book preview

© 2022 Josh Green. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  07/12/2022

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7397-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7398-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7396-6 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

DEDICATION

Julie … … xxx.

Karl, Becky, Nurse Sarah, Dave and Mike.

Jess Green art design xx

To the big women that I have known. You

make the rockin’ world go round.

MENU

Dedication

Clear!

How Dare They!

The Triple D

Distant Rumblings

Weight Expectations

Sixty Days

Forty-Five Days

Abuser?

Twenty-One Days

Sixteen Days

Fourteen Days

Seven Days

Provisioning

Internment Day

Chubby Chaser

Happy To Be …

Gone

Supporation Anxiety

Pointless Butterballs

Freedom

The Pod

Bogged Down

There She Blows!

Haven

The Full Weight Of It All

Mudfish

‘S A Crowd

Will

Sounding

The Jonah

Cookie Jar

Grilled Shrimp

The Cookie Crumbles

He Ain’t Heavy

Spitting

It Ain’t Pretty

Fumbling

That’s A Wrap

Fat Tuesday

Free Becky

Coming Down Hard

Lucky For You, It’s Me

Gaining

Delivered

Three Years Later

MASS (Movement against the Sizist State): Pressure group created with the purpose of protecting the rights of obese people.

Wah! (pun on the word Fatwah): Terror group. Known to use intimidation and even violence against people deemed an enemy to large people.

Galvanise: Pressure/lobbying group pressing governmental change for a healthier nation in times of change.

HS 2.0 (Homo sapiens mark 2): Terror branch associated with Galvanise. Known to use intimidation and violence against people of size and those supporting the lifestyle.

WoMASS: Woman’s splinter group of MASS. Created by women who were fed up with yet more men controlling the agenda and lives of supersized women. For true empowerment and choice.

The Lean Times: A period of starvation crisis. Two successive years of global crop failures. It took several years to change and re-establish reliable food production.

A-Hab (Automated Habitat Droid): Semi-sentient robot used for all mundane domestic tasks.

Life Centre: A detention centre for enforced dieting and healthier living.

Superlite: A health food company also branching into more areas of the health sector.

Regalia: Ellis family fine foods company.

Chubby Fantastic: Niche titillation films for the discerning consumer.

CLEAR!

Clear!

The medical staff stood back as the paddles shocked the patient’s body.

The staff all held their breath and willed the monitor to show a response.

Still no pulse. Adrenaline mix, quickly!

Oxygen levels are dropping.

There’s too much neck fat. We are going to pre-oxygenate for intubation. Remember: this is a risk. If we are going to intubate her, she will need to be ramped. I need help moving the patient. You four, lift on four. One … two … three … lift.

Four of the medical team braced then strained to raise the patient’s torso so she was half sitting, and then padding was positioned to hold her up. It left them all panting from the effort.

Still can’t find a pulse. Stay with us, Mindy!

The surgeon intubated the patient’s throat and nodded for the nurse to oxygenate.

I can’t find a bloody vein!

Clear!

The team stood back. The monitor showed a limp response.

It’s back but weak. Adrenaline?

Still can’t find a vein!

Mindy! The patient’s eyes were opened and checked for a response. Yes! I’ve got one! Administering adrenaline mix.

The heart responded with a flutter, and the patient bucked. She was vaguely aware of a commotion in the room, and with it, fear surged through her.

That’s it, Mindy! That’s it!

Voices around her sounded urgent. Everything was a blur.

The adrenaline mix and the seriousness of her condition flooded her mind with so many thoughts: the people she loved and might never see again, the opportunities missed, and choices she had made and regretted. Regret loomed over it all. None of what had happened to her was a surprise—it was fate. Fate was like a ship voyaging to its purpose. It was that turn in the tide that brought its harpoon to bear upon her.

It was a turn in the tide that left her floundering, belly-up, and vulnerable.

The door opened, and a head looked in. Erm … She’s not actually called Mindy. The head looked embarrassed.

The patient did not care what they called her; she was lost in contemplation. Her cluttered mind settled at the single point of memory, where it had all started to come apart—the point at which the tide had turned.

HOW DARE THEY!

It was damp. One could breathe the humidity.

Becky had heard Benedict out in the road, screaming for several minutes.

If you dare come near my gate, I will set my dog on you!

She had been almost able to block it out, but he was getting shrill, and that was always harder to ignore. It happened this way from time to time, another one of his foibles that she needed to manage or ignore.

Moisture collected in her hanging valleys, and rivulets ran into the central valley, unencumbered by the smooth landscape allowing lazy, wet trickles to flow into the puddle that had formed in the small of her back. From this puddle, runnels of sweat escaped and oozed into the deeper folds. Where back fat met stomach fat, the body spread out with crevasses at her sides.

Benedict slammed the door and stomped into the house like an angry toddler. He took up his towel, whip-cracked it industriously, lifted a fold of her back fat, and began to swab and caress away the dampness. He worked on her like a craftsman, careful to protect the softer skin on her inner folds, rougher on the tougher hide. He powdered her skin where the prolonged dampness was starting to make her skin sting, and he placed a dry towel at the small of her back.

The heat was becoming harder to bear, and it had doubled Benedict’s daily workload.

He had a prickle of sweat popping out on his brow, but not just from the heat. He muttered through his tight jaw.

How dare they! It was not a question but a statement. How dare they!

She did her best to ignore him and focused on her dessert.

Raspberry sauce was running a slick channel down the smooth glacier of amaretto whip. Becky savoured the coolness and the texture, lying prone against the large cushions as Benedict wiped her.

I like this version better. The raspberry is sharper than it was, but it needed to be. The ice cream melts too quickly. Do you think a harder ice cream would be better than a whip? And maybe toast the almonds.

But she couldn’t distract him.

I should have known … I should have bloody well known the minute that empathy monster simpered ‘Hi-err. Mr. Ellis? Is this 18 Asphodel Meadows?’ His impression of the woman in question dripped with over-sweetened disgust. He ran through his recollection of the conversation aloud, as though Becky was not even in the room. His anger-soused post-mortem incensed him all the more. He stopped swabbing and glared out the window, towel swinging beside him. His eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened.

Without a word, he left the room, dropping the towel and slamming the door after him.

Half of a minute passed in warm peace. She picked up her book, Them Kids Called They. The literary world had slobbered it with mellifluous gush. Misery lit is back. It was probably a sign of the times. There was a hunger for tales of hardship. Even though living conditions had improved, people liked to remind themselves that times could be worse.

Becky settled into the ghoulish escapism of it.

I remember that Da’ used to live in the pub. We would see him Fridays when he came round to beat us, impregnate Ma, an’ take our money.

He’d often beat up Ma and leave, saying, What’s it comin’ to when a man’s being asked to sober up?

Do you even think about what your job amounts to? Benedict’s screaming had started up again, breaking Becky’s concentration. I mean … how can you …? Really! Don’t you even …? A tight pique squeezed in his throat.

Becky sighed and put away the book.

"What in the world is it coming to? I ask you. What in the world is it coming to? You might be working for the government, but this … this? … I mean, really? Is this the best use of my taxes?"

The woman’s shaky reply came as a cautioning that she was filming him from her car. She warned him of the fine that he faced and a further fine for threatening a government worker. She reversed her car a few feet in order to drive around him and then away with some haste.

He stood in the street, shaking and muttering.

Becky’s heart went out to him. This was one of those times that she wished she could go outside and comfort him, to lead him in and sing to him with his head in her lap. It just wasn’t that easy nowadays.

Benedict blinked at his feet, still pinioned to the spot. But slowly, he did as he always did whenever he got himself in this state. He picked up a chewing gum wrapper and then a straw. It was what he needed to do, and it would normally take some time to do it before he was calm enough to return to the house.

The telephone rang its Whole Lotta Rosie ringtone.

That would be Joe.

Joe usually called at the end of the working day on Fridays. It was Benedict’s stipulation that this must be done at this specific time; it had been insisted upon as a sensible measure to maintain a framework for civility because it was at a time when Joe could be relied upon to be sober. Conversations between the brothers always became volatile.

By keeping to the business agenda, unnecessary tensions could be avoided, and any further talk about Dad, David-Geoffrey, or birthdays were added at the any other business end of the call. Benedict had made it clear that if Joe started to throw social hand grenades at this point in the call, the call would be terminated. It was a well-managed plan that kept them focused and stopped them from just insulting and attacking each other.

Hey, Becks. How’s my beautiful Rubenesque work in progress? he crooned in his mild, East Coast Scottish accent.

Titter, titter, she said flatly. You know, I’m going for the burn, as always.

I saw Marion in town. She asked how you been. Says she misses the old days. We talked about the Old Rectory and what a blast we used to have. She asked if you’re coming back up again any time and said she’d love to meet up. I’ll say hi from you, yeah?

There was one of those comfortable pauses that they both understood.

But Joe disliked too much sentimentality. He never used to be that way.

Where’s Vinegar Anus? Come, come, schedules to keep. His tone mocked officiousness.

Becky couldn’t tell Joe that Benedict was collecting litter from the street and had been doing that for the last five minutes, and also that it would be another twenty minutes before he was done. It would be like pouring petrol on Benedict and handing Joe some matches. That was something that had always been going on between them, long before she had ever met them. They fought and bickered from day one. Dad and Lynda (God help her, or God damn her, depending upon how you looked at it) even sent the boys to separate boarding schools to try to quell the animosity between them, but that led to more of the same rivalry and arguments. Joe had gone to school in Musselborough and identified himself as Scottish, and Benedict was schooled in Northumberland, so reactively he became even more proudly English. This had become a common theme for more petty and useless rivalry.

Dad once witheringly described a picnic the family once had at the River Tweed, when the boys had been on their school holidays. Benedict and Joe had been throwing stones from England to Scotland and vice versa.

Benedict rolled a pebble between his thumb and forefinger and tossed it at the English side of the river. It may be small, but this way, I can take possession of Scotland bit by bit.

A heavily laden Lothian Aggregates truck had rumbled over the border, he recalled, with irony. He pointed this out to them at the time, but it was the psychological battle that mattered to them both. It always had been this way, and neither of them truly understood why they continued to aggravate the other; they just felt the need to do it.

Yeah, fill up, Queen Victoria. Joe tossed a dried cow pat at Benedict’s feet. This went on all afternoon. Dad said that he used to take medication for his blood pressure when they came home for the school holidays.

Becky and Dad had learned not to get involved. Lynda, God bless her, never seemed to be too bothered, or so it had seemed. They could both ruin a day with their bickering, and Lynda would smile throughout whilst Dad’s irritation would build. Dad had always assumed that Lynda had an impermeable serenity, which he admired. If only that had been the truth.

Becky trilled in a too-cheerful voice. Oh, Benedict’s not back yet. It’s not like him. I will get him to call you, shall I?

Joe was aware that something was amiss, but because it was Becky, he did not push his suspicion with more probing questions. OK, later then. Then he reconsidered. Actually, whilst it’s you there, why don’t I go through the first part? Because you are quality-control after all.

Becky knew that this would rile Benedict if he thought he was being left out of any decisions, and it would lead to further tensions. This had arisen in the past, and Joe understood that it could be a flashpoint.

I’m not trying to upset the commander. Just tell me what you think, and I can go through it with him later.

Becky was reluctant to get involved even at this level. It annoyed her that this was another issue where she had to tread carefully, and she was embarrassed that even discussing the trial products with her own brother-in-law would inevitably lead to trouble.

Why can people never be easy? In her experience, people had never been easy. She could count on one hand the ones who had been straightforward.

Benedict would be back in the house in the next few minutes. He would sigh deeply and go back to cleaning her with meticulous care. He would do this silently for twenty minutes, and then he would get up and prepare her some deep-fried sandwiches.

That was how it was, and his conversation was gruff and perfunctory for the next hour. It was a regular pattern, and she knew that talk of food or music would loosen him back to a bearable state.

She didn’t mind. Despite his faults, he had a good heart and got easily upset. After all, he did so much for her.

She sang Solid Air. Despite the unseasonal humidity making her breathing difficult and the aching in her back, it sounded cool and fluid, which thawed her husband.

After the hour, she felt able to tell him that Benedict had called, which received a grave nod of recognition but thankfully no visible increase in distress. He needed time to incubate that information, to mentally prepare himself.

He prepared her a carbonara sauce using an alternative cheese and less eggs, mindful of shelf-life and durability. He concentrated on the task with a more level mood.

By the time the dish was ready and delivered to Becky, he then felt ready for the weekly ordeal.

Given Becky’s social isolation, it irked her that Benedict always took himself to another room to do the weekly meeting. She had said that she would have liked to listen and know more about what was planned, and originally she had been involved in the business, but Benedict found the meetings stressful. She noticed that he was breathing in his special way; the rhythm told her that he was focused on his inner sanctum.

There was no friendliness or positivity to be gained from witnessing them discussing business, so he had decided that all things considered, he would rather keep it simple. The ordeal was conducted in private with just the two brothers.

Haaaappy Friday, big brother! Joe beamed through the screen. It was later than planned, so a couple of single malts had already slipped into him by now.

Joe, Benedict flatly replied, not taking what he took to be the bait of provocation.

So, where were you? The tone of his enquiry was teasing.

A government legal, sort of … anyway, never mind.

Oh, Benedict, you haven’t! Joe sounded disappointed.

What? Benedict instantly wished he hadn’t taken the bait.

If you keeping wanking outside the school gate, what do you expect? You’ve got a family to think of. Think of poor Dad’s health.

Joe.

Well, not that he doesn’t deserve it, after having Granny put down. Yes, it was legalised.

Joe. Last warning.

Righto! Business, business. Let’s talk business.

Benedict cleared his throat. All the samples came back intact.

How well a product could travel was criteria number one. In the early days of the business, everyone was so inventive and overexcited that they hadn’t given much thought to the practicalities of packaging and haulage. Living on opposite ends of the country had provided the opportunity to test the haulage stamina of the products.

The béarnaise sauce doesn’t split anymore, but I think we have compromised some flavour for stabiliser.

Couldn’t be helped.

Fair enough. Next … Earl gravy.

The samples were very popular with students, good for toast, sausages, roasts. We are testing a thousand units in Edinburgh and Newcastle. The packaging was popular too, and it defrosts well. The packaging, what is it? Waxed paper, mustard yellow. Ah, yes. It ticks all the boxes and looks classy. We have a winner!

Joe was unusually straightforward in his approach to the task, and this gave Benedict some hope that the meeting would be less fraught than usual.

Splendid … Liquorice-toffee ripple? asked Benedict with more light-hearted enquiry.

Yes … Heavy flavour, but it is ice cream and apt for summer. Yes, we’re going to test that one.

Good. Good. Good. The peanut butter caraway fudge pie?

Hmm …

What?

Again … Heavy and unseasonal. It’s not right for now.

There was a familiar pause in the meeting, suggesting to Joe that Benedict was triggered and was trying hard to muster his patience.

Benedict responded with tight-lipped civility. So who else has tested it?

All four of us. Joe was referring to the full-time, kitchen-laboratory staff.

OK. Is something going on? Last time, the ‘Scotch fryer’ ideas were completely dismissed. What is going on up there? Benedict’s tone had started to change gear.

There’s a bloody heatwave. Don’t get paranoid, Matron …

Heavily controlled nasal breathing told Joe that his delicate, older brother was trying to control his temper—again. Joe rolled his eyes and waited, muting the sound until he saw Benedict start to move his lips.

… Did I say about calling me ‘Matron’ in meetings! Benedict snapped. He was in second gear now.

Joe always and predictably pushed the established boundaries. What did not help was that Benedict was primed for this to happen, so every meeting began with his springs already tightly coiled.

Fine. Noted. Here’s why we—that’s all of us—thought that the Scotch fryer range was not a good idea for now: There’s a heatwave. People do not want to eat a range of high-calorie, battered, deep-fried foods. This was tested and market researched. We have covered this. The idea was a nice one, but it is currently shelved until winter. I know you have … how can I put this? Joe considered a diplomatic way of putting it. An agenda. But let’s be businessminded.

A flock of crows cawed from some disturbance in the trees of Asphodel Meadows.

Benedict drew in a slow breath. And what … in your opinion … is my … agenda? he enquired through clenched teeth.

Joe sighed. Do we really have to discuss this again?

"There is no agenda! Becky and I are of the same mind on this. We value the same things. We live as we see fit, just as you live in the way that you choose to." He made clear his disdain for the way that Joe lived his life.

Everything you have put forward is a heavy, high-calorie item, Benedict. Not everyone is pursuing an ample figure for themselves or their families. I agreed not to make comment on your life choices, so be it. But you seem to be dragging this in to the business. Name one item that you have suggested in the last year that is light or healthy! Joe’s tone of voice was starting to grow shrill. So it led to …

Big hairy titties, announced Benedict.

Agreed.

The call was terminated. That was the safety rule. They could recognise when the conversation was starting to deteriorate. So the agreed phrase suggested a ten minute interlude to depressurise and gather thoughts before the agenda could be resumed. It needs to be mentioned that these rules were not negotiated between the brothers. It had been the old man, who had become an old hand at arbitration and used any means he could to keep the system running.

Benedict clenched and unclenched his hands, diaphragmatically breathing a four-six rhythm, trying to think of bubbles floating in the summer sky.

Joe, who kept a punch bag in his office, beat at it with both fists, fast and vigorously, screaming, I am going to bloody kill him! I am going to bloody kill him! I am going to bloody kill him! I am …! He repeated this for several minutes until he had exhausted himself enough to talk again. Staff were aware of this as a regular pattern to the meetings, and they often lingered outside Joe’s office, trying to stifle their sniggering.

Ten minutes passed. The rules were that once the ten minutes had elapsed, it was the responsibility of the one who called the safety phrase who was responsible for the callback.

Joe.

Benedict.

Agenda?

Agreed.

Joe spoke slowly and flatly. I will agree for the peanut butter caraway fudge pie to be reviewed in the autumn. Do you agree, or do we need the old man’s veto?

No, I agree.

Good. Next: The samples I sent you. Let’s start with the vegan barbeque range. I thought the satay stuffed peppers would appeal.

Yes, not a bad idea. That is, if it passes market research. I mean, vegan—it is a bit niche.

Half of the population of Britain had a vegan diet. Joe chose not to raise this point.

Well, the current research shows it is growing. There are VAT breaks on vegan foods now. It is going to keep on growing, and even the omnivores like to have vegan foods some of the time, so it is breaking out of the niche. The harissa bean kebabs have been popular here, so we want to try it on a wider group. The brothers were easing back in to the agenda. Did the sorbet harden up too much?

No, it travelled well, and the texture was good. Rhubarb was OK. Elderflower was excellent. Definitely go with that one.

Great. Well, that’s that. What a couple of civilised, British gentlemen we are, said Joe, having exorcised himself and feeling a sense of achievement that they had managed a constructive meeting.

Benedict, however, drew a pensive breath from his belly. OK, he began. Any other business?

How is David-Geoffrey? Joe said, referring to his nephew.

Benedict answered with a perfunctory Good.

I mean, tell me what he is up to. What is he doing with himself? ‘Good’ tells me nothing.

So Benedict described a child who spent his time playing computer games and eating snacks, average school grades, and a small group of friends who chatted mostly online. It still told Joe nothing. A description of an identikit child with nothing interesting about him. Joe suspected that there could be more, but Benedict liked to keep him at arm’s length from what he saw as his family. The move to Devon had been the first physical barrier. Joe did not voice this belief or pursue his curiosity further because he had learned to choose his many battles with his brother.

Is Dad OK? Benedict was interested, but also he did not want to talk to Joe about David-Geoffrey any more than necessary.

No, it’s that time again. He has been moping in his study playing that song again. He misses Becky, Benedict. It would help if you came up to see him soon.

Benedict did not like the way this was going. Well, we will have to see about that. Was there anything else?

I guess not, Joe replied with resignation.

OK. Bye.

Bye.

THE TRIPLE D

Becky, Benedict, and David-Geoffrey came routinely to the diner once every week. The family drove to the hilltop restaurant. It was a beautiful location, covered in pine forest with a view of beautiful English countryside rolling away from the higher moorland down to the sea haze. The cars were invariably large, well-built vehicles, and the location was popular.

Any preparation to leave the house with Becky was always a major undertaking. Every trip out required a logistics checklist.

The maintenance bag needed to be checked for a fan, a battery fan, pills, lotions, deep heat, painkillers, towels, talcum powder, and antibacterial wipes. Becky needed manoeuvring to the wet room bench so she could be showered and carefully dried in every crevice. Getting into outside clothes took a lot of shuffling, standing, and sitting again. Then when all that was done, Becky liked to have time to do her make-up and nails.

On arrival, Trevor, the dog, was led to the side entrance where a ‘rover ranger’ took him and handed Benedict a receipt and diner discount ticket. Trevor was always excited to meet the rover rangers because they too were a part of his routine, and Becky had a brief pang of longing to walk through those woods with him. Around the hill from the diner, there was an adventure park with zip wires and ropes. Excited shouting could be faintly heard from that distant place. Thinking about those things never did her any good. Whenever she reminisced about the things she once could do, Benedict reminded her that she was not that kind of woman, and it was best left in the past.

The owners of the restaurant knew their demographic, although a downside to their business meant that hate graffiti needed to be regularly scrubbed off the outer walls.

The diner had a wide foyer for wide customers, and the dining area had been expanded to accommodate not only supersized diners and mobility vehicles but also a moving train of carvery foods, kept under continuous heat lamps. The track was designed to pass through all the tables in the diner so that slow carriages of potatoes, pork, Yorkshire puddings, and stuffing could be leisurely skewered on passing. Benedict, like many others in the diner, knew that the best table was the first table next to the exit of the kitchen tunnel. A tantalising billow of flavours preceded the coming of the food train.

They manoeuvred in to the establishment to be greeted and hailed by many familiar faces. Diners at the Triple D were less like customers and more like a dining club. It was a place where people were familiar and similar to them. Becky never feared judgement or the fascinated looks she received when she went anywhere else in public.

The Fletchers were there again, in the prime spot. That’s two weeks in a row, the fat …! Benedict’s irritation pittered to a mutter, and he offered them a friendly, thin-eyed nod.

Benedict, Becky, and David-Geoffrey squeezed onto a near-enough table and checked the overhead monitors.

Trevor could be seen trotting through the wood on his cable tow. The dogs were all attached to retractable leads towed by a drag lift system as seen in ski resorts. Junior dog rangers were at hand to prevent entanglements and for poo collection. Diners could watch their pooch over four miles of forest walk and feel like they were participating their dog’s joy whilst tucking into a vast hot buffet. Everyone won.

The railway whistle blew on the diner wall. This was mounted next to a framed newspaper article, ‘Riding the Gravy Train’, a piece that extolled the uniqueness of this establishment. The mid-service whistle was a tradition, and many in the diner knew it well. Cutlery and glasses banged on the tables, and cheery sounds hoorayed from ruddy jowls. The Fletcher’s collective bingo wings rippled from their excited clapping. The dessert train was coming, and the Triple-D dessert train was legendary.

A coal truck of profiteroles led the procession; a banoffee croquembouche then passed narrowly under the kitchen tunnel roof. Becky squeezed Benedict’s hand knowing that the dessert was one of his company ideas which had been embraced into the public domain.

The Fletcher ripples smoothed out as they reached forward for the most generously caramelled choux buns.

The sight of the Fletchers feasting on one of his signature inventions was another thrill for Benedict, especially when watching Wendy, Keith Fletcher’s wife. She was vast, and Keith was all too aware of the covert glances that Benedict gave her. The acquaintance between Keith and Benedict was that of men with a shared interest, but the essence of the rivalry between him and Joe was also evident between Benedict and Keith.

Benedict smiled at Wendy, knowing that Keith knew that the dessert was his invention; therefore, he was vicariously feeding Keith’s wife.

He watched Keith whisper affectionately to Wendy and then supplant the choux buns with a passion fruit crème brûlée. He then assumed indifference and avoided eye contact. That was enough for him. He knew. One point to Benedict.

The trucks hushed through the Ellis table. There was no limit to portion size, obviously, and the size of the customers was testament to this. The restaurant was always full, and today was no exception. However, the heat lamps and the unusual weather could not be quelled by the ceiling fans, and the cheek by jowl hubbub emitted a fug of body odour. Benedict bathed in the odour. He liked to clear his sinuses before they went to the restaurant, because the collective musk of so many big women in a confined space made him light-headed.

Becky fanned herself with the drinks menu. It really is hot. You couldn’t ask him to put the fans on a higher speed, could you, Benedict? It’s April, wow! It’s odd. I have never known April to be this hot.

It was the talk of the diner. The unusually hot weather had been building over the past month, and many meteorologists were predicting a prolonged heatwave. To the regulars in the Triple D, it meant that another harvest might fail and a possible return to the Lean Times.

David-Geoffrey filled his plate with stuffing.

Another vaguely familiar family heaved slowly past with a chorus of laboured breath. Becky continued to fan herself. She loved coming to the diner, but that day she was unable get comfortable, and she tried to shift position in her seat.

Fortunately, Benedict always brought the holdall full of towels and creams. More important was Becky’s handheld electric fan. Overheating was passed off as one of those things. Becky’s discomfort with this lifestyle symptom had been developing along with a general tugging discomfort in her frame. There was always part of each day when she found that she could not get comfortable no matter how often she changed position. The unseasonal heatwave in the past month had doubled her discomfort.

A friend on the next table noticed Becky’s discomfort, and they bemoaned this common problem. It was as Benedict said: Normal is to those who find it normal. Here, in this room were so many plus-sized, familiar faces, they all shared an accepted way of life.

She fanned herself, feeling like a plus-sized geisha girl, able to take in the surroundings and the people whom she knew. There were many who had often made suggestive comments. It was sometimes necessary to know that there was a world away from Benedict where others could still admire her.

Benedict had made an excuse to talk to Keith Fletcher again, and she chuckled to herself. He and Keith had a fascinating relationship that neither she nor Wendy could understand. They talked and played golf together. They had been to each other’s houses, but Benedict never had anything good to say about Keith, nor did he recount any anecdote from their time together. What Benedict did like was Wendy. He was so careful to keep his admiration of her a secret, but he could not help glancing in her direction and occasionally would place a hand on her soft arms or shoulder as he talked to her in a way that would seem innocently casual. No wonder, given that Wendy was over six hundred pounds, making Becky feel almost slim by comparison. She had recognised his habit of trying to inhale deeply whenever he was close to Wendy, which she found both perverse and funny.

Wendy smiled at Becky with a knowing chuckle and excused herself from Benedict and Keith’s conversation.

She backed up her mobility scooter and traversed the table to Becky. Hiya, ya skinny bitch, she greeted with a slight chuckle as she approached.

It’s all down to years of denial, love, Becky replied in proud voice.

Do you want to get some air?

It had been a long process of diplomatic discussion and reassurance to get Benedict to see that she needed some female company from time to time. He initially took this as rejection that he was not enough for her, and he doggedly held to that belief. Becky’s repeated reassurance and calm explanation spilled into occasional outbursts of frustration at his prolonged, pouty childishness. Benedict could brood for Britain. His administrations to her needs were carried out in a heavy martyred silence, until she felt guilty enough to relent. She would say that he was all that she needed, and normal service could be resumed. Over time, Benedict had accepted Becky’s request, and it was probably in no small part because of his admiration for Wendy.

Wendy and Becky had first met in the toilet at the Triple D by chance, and they had sparked up one of those spontaneous conversations that pushed social boundaries, given the context of meeting and talking to a stranger.

They had been sat together at the large mirror, reapplying their make-up.

Wendy came out with a random question like, If you had to die eating one food, what would it be?

Who would you eat it off, is the important question, Becky replied, and they had cackled like a couple of witches in a drain.

Outside the diner, both women had rolled around the corner to look at the view. Wendy took a long drag on her vape. She was less carefree than usual and seemed to be contemplating something.

Out with it, Becky urged with a nudge to her flank.

Wendy gave a sardonic smile. Have they been around to you yet?

If you mean the health fascists, yeah, once.

"Once? Well, you are a skinny bitch. They’ve been around a lot. Keith is furious. I’m furious, to tell you the truth.

I had my weigh-in yesterday. Keith was incandescent but curious—you know what he’s like. So because I have topped the six-hundred-pound mark, it automatically puts me into ‘special measures’, so they tell me. I have a social worker now, Wendy said with resigned disbelief. To protect me from myself. She waved an admonishing finger at Becky.

Becky snorted. Does she wait inside your fridge, ready to slap your fat wrist?

Wendy laughed, albeit with bitterness. Well, if that happens, he could make himself useful and make some sandwiches whilst he is in there.

Oh, a man. Becky was curious. Nice looking?

No, not even within the confines of my very limited social network. There is something different about this lot. Wendy shook her head and looked troubled. She seemed to be struggling with the sea change in social services. She could have been paranoid as a result of being socially limited, but on the other hand, worrying changes in how they operated were starting to stack up.

There is something more … pushy about them. Keith is included, but he is often asked to give us privacy. They have given me leaflets on abuse with that caring look in their eyes. They have asked more than once whether I feel pressured or manipulated by my husband. Again the bitter laugh. "Christ, marriage is manipulative. I certainly do my best at it.

They are throwing everything except a sandwich at me. There’s the outreach team, the social worker, and now this life coach has started turning up. Nobody mentioned her, I just can’t remember how many specialists are getting involved. My life is not my own anymore.

Becky felt the urge to try to lighten Wendy’s burden. She was unused to her being so despondent, but she nursed a finicky discomfort within her own ample figure too. There was a change in the air, not unlike the building heat. A weakening compassion in these hard times was filtering into society, and so too was the government’s approach to people like them.

Wendy’s experiences confirmed some uncomfortable facts about the new public health laws. They were not guidelines—they were going to be enforced.

The economy had taken a big hit fifteen years earlier. There had been the usual measures announced to boost industry. Banks were taken into a public/private partnership yet again, and cuts were made to essential services, but five years after the first financial crash came another major crash.

There had been two bad harvests across the globe, on two consecutive years, and this hit all economies around the world.

Synthetic farming and emergency stockpiles of food by many Western governments had prevented starvation. It had been a close-run thing in richer countries. In poorer countries, there had been widespread famines which developed countries were unable to help. The 2.9 Act was passed by parliament. The name 2.9 was intended to stress the urgency of the matter, given that society is only ever three meals from anarchy. It involved the careful management of stocks and food production, and it had been successful—narrowly.

The biggest, annual government budget went to and remained with the Department of Farming and Fisheries. Big grants were awarded for innovation in food production. A return to food rationing had ended only seven years later, because by then farming had adapted to the new world. Many snack foods were purely synthetic; power plants and algae production worked hand in hand to produce organic by-products as well as an energy source, and both could be reliably farmed.

Seaweed farms had become a major industry. It made perfect sense to farm a nutritious product that would neither rot nor dry out before harvest, and it could clean water and provide an ecosystem for other animals.

Insect farms were essential, and popular ready meals were land-prawn