The Plot – Chapter 11
A Man of Principle
‘Mornin’, Ray. Here bright and early.’
‘Mornin’, Stu. Work to be done, mate.’
‘Get you a coffee?’
‘Just had one, thanks.’
‘Please yourself. I’ll push off, then?’
‘No worries. See ya.’
It was always a satisfying point in his day, easing his uniformed bottom into the black vinyl swivel chair before the bank of monitors. It was a feeling of taking up his rightful seat. He felt in control.
He could bring down retribution upon those who deserved it. The self-decribed Yummy Mummies, for example, who wouldn’t give a man like him a second look; women for whom shoplifting an expensive blouse was such a buzz, oh such a laugh! Then the arrest, the tears.
His biggest trophy to date had been that Maureen Whatsherface, the Liberal councillor.
He was a sniper in the service of righteousness, whose weapon was an array of CCTV cameras.
Not that he was vindictive, mind. He could turn a blind eye where appropriate. That old girl yesterday, for instance, pocketing a packet of digestives as she put her basket of cat food through the self-checkout.
As long as he was judicious, didn’t get careless.
Not all of it was about the shoplifters, either. He was privy to shoppers’ unguarded moments, the little dramas and comedies of daily life.
It was a good feeling, knowing things that others didn’t.
Finding the Sovereign Citizens network, attending the talks, doing the background reading had opened his eyes. His mentality had been transformed from that of a victim, a loser to one of, well – a sovereign. Almost overnight he’d become the person of substance that, deep down, he’d always known he was.
While ordinary people bumbled through their oblivious lives, taking it all at face value, he was in the know. Oh yes. The secret power structures of the Deep State, the ways in which it kept tabs on its ‘citizens’ – more akin to slaves, in fact. The fact that the law of the land was a sham contract which a person in full possession of the facts had no need to accept.
All these things were known to Ray of the Hughes, free man on the land1.
Like most wise men, he’d struggled in his time with the stupidity of the masses. He’d been mocked in his youth, rejected by a violent, alcoholic father, stifled by a doting mother, bullied at school for his weight and his retiring nature.
Now he was a leader in the fight against Tyranny. A holder of Secrets. He was aware of the great power and responsibility of his position – and knew he was equal to the task.
It was hardly surprising, then, that he was far ahead of everyone in the present case.
He knew that the man who had died last night at the Plot was none other than the CEO of ConStruct Corp, that self-important, strutting little man, now struck down for his insolence.
It was same man who’d referred to him at the sit-in as ‘that mouthy, fat wanker in the camo gear.’ The man who’d reneged on his promise of land where the common people of Corymbia could feed themselves by the toil of their hands and the sweat of their brow. The man who’d been plotting some further treachery, no doubt, trespassing in the dark of night.
This would be public knowledge soon enough, of course.
What no person alive would know, except for Ray and the individual concerned: the vehicle of justice had not been a random falling branch, oh no. It had been a muscular man with a pickaxe handle.
The infrared trailcam footage showed him clearly. He’d waited patiently in the shadow of Ray’s sunflowers for a good half hour. Then he set off towards the Big Tree, just minutes before it all kicked off, with Patel and Russo running around like headless chooks, then the sirens and the lights, the ambos and the coppers.
The question now, was what to do with this knowledge.
If he went to the police, everyone would know the truth of it. He would no longer be special. He’d have given away his advantage. There could be awkward questions about the trailcams, too. His other surveillance measures might come to light.
He was a man of principle; but such a man considered all the options thoroughly, then, in the fullness of time, took decisive action.
‘Still,’ said Uschi, ‘looking on the bright side …’
The children were safely a-bed. Five-year-old Mia had been read to from the Adventures of Wilhelmina the Wombat and Matteo, at the venerable age of seven, had announced that he was a Big Boy now and would read to himself, in exchange for an extra half hour before lights out. The kid was destined for a stellar legal career, his parents agreed.
It was Snuggle Time for Grown-ups, but the shocking events of the previous night at the Plot, as featured briefly on the evening news, were intruding.
‘There’s no bright side,’ Leah objected. ‘A man has died in a terrible accident. A husband, a father, a son has died.’
‘Ach was, Schatzi,’ said Uschi, gesticulating widely with her glass of Merlot, ‘There are worse things in life.’
‘Than your loved one being crushed to death by a tree branch? Name one.’
‘It’s all a matter of perspective,’ explained Uschi. ‘From the perspective of the community garden, this is a positive development.’
‘I can’t see that.’
‘Because you don’t want to, Schnucki. Not yet. But you’ll come round.’
‘How can you be so callous?’
‘It’s not as if you liked him. He was a “horrid little man”, you said.’
‘I did not. I’ve never used the word “horrid” in my life. I said he was a “little shit”.’
‘Well, then.’
‘And all I really meant was that he was awkward to deal with, not that he was a terrible human being who deserved to die.’
‘Who deserves to die? Everyone and no-one, I think. Death is part of life. The final part. Anyway, you said that he was the driving force behind the development. That it seemed to be a passion project for him.’
‘That was my impression, yes.’
‘So now there’s no reason for it to go ahead. Now that he’s out of the picture, so to speak. Erledigt.’
‘I don’t think it’s that simple. I mean, the poor man actually died at the Plot.’
‘So?’ Uschi fell silent for a moment, then looked up with a gleam in her eye. ‘Maybe the committee should rename it the “Dmitry Kapanadze” Memorial Garden. That way, the company can’t demolish it without erasing the memory of their beloved leader.’
There were times when Leah found her wife’s pragmatism disconcerting.
Next week in The Plot:
Chapter 12: tbc
To be confirmed.
Disclaimer: The people, organisations and events described in this story are entirely the product of the author’s imagination; they bear no intentional resemblance to real-life people, organisations and events. Some locations are based on real places, however the City of Corymbia and its localities are inventions of the author.
Sovereign Citizens are a diverse bunch with many fascinating and idiosyncratic beliefs. The key belief is that they are separate or ‘sovereign’ from the country they reside in and immune from its taxes and laws. Giving their name in an unusual form can be an attempt to dissociate their flesh-and-blood selves from their legal person.
You remain the best writer of fiction I met on Medium, Steve.