Christian Yorke

What follows is the first part of a thought provoking short story. We live in a crazy world, manipulated by self serving politics and mass media aimed at people with a fifteen second attention span. Think about how quickly we fall for the latest fad, or accept the latest regime based on minimal, or carefully selected, evidence. Summery Judgement looks into the near future where the evolution of current thinking has had an unexpected impact on our lifestyles and morality.

Sunshine soothed the city and I almost smiled as I gazed through my office window to the river beyond. A broad avenue, bordered by attractive plane trees, was quietly baking several stories below. Although until recently this grand thoroughfare had teemed purposefully, now it was deserted except for the occasional clatter of hooves.

Even though it was Sunday, and even though my children were not yet old enough to understand, I was now a little less at odds with the stricter energy rationing that had forced my working practices to change. I had explained this in detail to my dear wife on many occasions, but she found adapting to the currently fashionable political ideas almost impossible. Naturally, I did not enjoy having to work seven days each week to accommodate the latest rules. However, I knew that in time some new entity would rise to prominence and declare those rules as false; the only true source of concern, therefore, was how long that wait would be and whether, when change inevitably arrived, the new rules would be even harsher. In the meantime, on a practical level, my problem was that, perhaps more than most, an architect needs light. By this I mean a steady clear illumination such as on a day like today, rather than the unreliable flicker of a candle. Like many I had experimented in the early days, hoping to preserve my old routines and work outside the hours of daylight; but even a room filled with candles had proven to be unsuitable for my professional requirements. In fact, notwithstanding the growing body of expert opinion to the contrary, a flame’s constant motion always left me feeling nauseous and ill-tempered.

As I took a moment to reflect on the fact that my boys now stayed in bed, rather than wave me off with a kiss each morning, I was distracted by the sound of a car. I immediately hopped from my seat, throwing open the great sash window for a better view. After a minute or two I spotted it. A black car, carrying only the driver, was crawling along the smooth tarmac. Its pace was so slow that I had time to make a fresh glass of water to sip and by the time I returned to the window the car was virtually beneath me; so close in fact that I could almost make out the driver’s moustache.

I glanced away from the car only because I heard some shouting. On the pavement below, a male and female seemed to be wrestling each other. The man was dressed in the undyed fabrics that were now the standard attire of people of modest status. From  my vantage point the female appeared to be much younger, at least judging by her infantile physique. She referred to herself as Nancy and was making her point most forcefully, bringing herself close to tears. Some coins flew from the man’s hand and Nancy (who he now addressed in crude animalistic terms) fell to her knees to collect them as though claiming a debt. Once free of her grip the man almost collapsed in a heap and staggered in a circle kicking his feet and waving his fists and shouting in a foreign language that might have been German. Perhaps embarrassed by the fuss, and having scooped up all the cash, Nancy clambered to her feet. As she tried to deposit the money into her very tight trousers the man rushed at her. Displaying good reflexes Nancy neatly side stepped her attacker and, as he staggered past, she shoved him in the back thereby hurling him across the road.

I leant out of the window as far as I dared but the point of impact was hidden by the branches of a tree. Nancy’s screams and the yelping brakes left me fearing the worst and instinct took hold of me. I buttoned my shirt and ran from my office in such a hurry that I forgot to lock it. By the time I arrived on the pavement both man and car lay motionless in the road. A crowd had already gathered. At its centre Nancy appeared distraught, pushing the people away and hissing for all she was worth.

“She’s in shock! Look how she fights us. Come now dear, let us comfort you,” said a tall gentlemen who seemed to be the leader. He tried again to put his arms round Nancy, but she misinterpreted this kindness and clawed at this face.

“Have you sent the boy?” shouted someone from the road. “We need to get the police here now, I don’t know how long I can restrain him!”

I skirted the crowd and ran into the road to help the injured man. In front of me was the driver with his head forced against the bonnet of his car and his arm pulled high up his back by a man called Simon. Some feet away from the car the injured man lay in a pile of bones and rags. He was clearly still breathing, but the crowd had chosen not to touch him, presumably for fear of worsening the damage.

Simon’s grip must have been strong because the driver began crying. “I couldn’t avoid him, he came from nowhere! I wasn’t going fast, he came from nowhere!”

“Not going fast! It was like you had murder on your mind,” shrieked a new voice as Simon again called for the boy to bring the police. “I saw the whole thing and as the Lord is my witness you sir were going well over twenty.”

The crowd roared with horror.

“For the love of God what were you thinking!”

“Over twenty!”

“Murderer!”

Just as I was about to make myself heard over the din Nancy made a run for it.

“Grab her, she’s grief stricken. For her own sake, she needs help, the poor woman. The police will comfort her, give her a hot meal,” declared the tall gentleman.

Three obliging men gave chase and soon returned with Nancy who was now red faced and crying uncontrollably. They left her in the care of a burly woman called Bessie who tried hard to quieten her. In the meantime the three men stood guard in case Nancy tried to flee again.

After almost an hour the crowd, which was now over forty strong (as word had got out), grew impatient. The rowdy debate as to how the driver should be punished became louder and some fists flew amongst those on the fringes. Although, surprisingly, they had the strongest and most extreme opinions about the driver’s fate, they were also complaining bitterly that they were denied a better position from which to observe, or influence, the developments. In the circumstances I doubt that I was the only one to feel relieved when, at long last, there was a shout from one of the lookouts followed by a great cheer as two policemen cantered down the broad roadway.

“The boy got through, the boy did it!” they all sang and clapped. Simon was so relieved that he loosened his grip allowing the driver to stand upright and rub the swelling around his left eye.

The tall gentleman strode into the road and flagged the policemen down. The oldest officer, who held the rank of sergeant, reigned in his panting mare and jumped off.

“Officer, there he is, by the car. My friend has detained him pending your arrival.”

“What is all this?” asked the sergeant, pushing people off him because he needed room to pull on his high visibility jacket. “What’s occurring?”

“That man has driven his mechanical transportation at such a speed as to make it nothing short of a weapon. No less dangerous sir than the bullets in your rifle or the knife in your sheath.”

“He was doing more that twenty, we witnessed it, we saw it first hand!”

“More that twenty?” queried the officer, now struck by the gravity of the crime. He signalled to his colleague, who dismounted his horse and (after successfully donning his high visibility jacket) ran towards the driver brandishing his cuffs.

At this moment I fought through the throng so that I was close enough to make myself heard. “Sergeant, I must speak with you. My name is Mr Verity and I work in that office,” I began, pointing to my window that was still open. “I saw the entire incident. I can tell you this much, that car was going no more than ten. At the most! That woman,” I said, now pointing at the wretch in Bessie’s loving arms, “pushed the victim into the road. The driver had no chance.”

“A victim you say? What is all this?” asked the sergeant who was being overpowered by the weight of people closing in to listen.

“There sir,” I shouted, forcing myself through with an enormous shove, using my shoulder and arms to clear a path.

“Ah, I see…has someone called for an ambulance?” asked the sergeant, wiping his sweaty brow with his silk riding glove.”

“We sent the boy for the ambulance as soon as he found you. I hear they are on their way.”

“They’re held up in the city centre,” called one of the lookouts, “by the buses. Apparently the buses have all stopped and nothing can get through.”

“So be it,” said the sergeant as we both bent down to inspect the victim.

The sergeant and I immediately recoiled in unison at the powerful scent of alcohol seeping from the injured man who, by this time, had started making a terrible moaning sound.

“What is all this?” asked the tall gentleman peevishly. “The driver’s over there. Come sir, let’s bring this to an end. And please make sure you tend to the victim’s daughter, she’s in a terrible condition being comforted by Bessie.”

“But she threw him into the road, I saw it,” said I, fighting off the arms that gripped and tugged.

“Liar! He’s a liar!” boomed the crowd. “Why does he accuse a poor girl, she can’t be much more than fifteen, look at how she grieves…”

I was taken aback by the stern look that the sergeant gave me, as though I was trampling on the feelings of a child. Without another word he stormed towards the driver and waved his colleague aside with a look of menace, and full authority to severely punish the driver on the spot.