New Gillion Street Year Two

“The forest was shrinking, but the trees kept voting for the axe, for the axe was clever and convinced the trees that because his handle was made of wood, he was one of them.”

Old Proverb

Two years ago today, my debut speculative fiction novel, New Gillion Street, was published by Fly on the Wall Press. As we watch with horror the madness unfolding in Minnesota right now, my little old book has been on my mind a lot. I wrote the story in 2018 while I lived in Houston, Texas. Much of the inspiration came from watching Trump dismantle democracy in his first term. What we’re seeing now is far, far worse.

Rather than launch into a massive rant, here is the second half of Chapter 9, where Mr Zand, who has recently taken measures to usurp control of New Gillion Street from the Committee, shows his growing power.

9

“Come on, darling,” she called from inside. “The service starts soon.”

I slipped on my shoes, resigned to the fact that they were as polished as they were ever going to be. When I came back into the house, I found my wife in the kitchen, dressed in a long, black loose-fitting dress. She kissed my cheek but remained silent. She’d been oddly reticent since the day before, but I understood why. Things seemed to be changing so fast that I could barely keep up myself.

After Lillian had made Alex promise to look after his sister while we were gone, we left the house. Outside, the Street was filled with our fellow residents making their way towards Number 2. Stationed at either end of the Street stood Mr Takashi and Mr Hooper, their guns held purposefully in their hands. My blood ran cold at the sight of them.

As we walked, we were joined by the Khatris. “Good morning to you both on a very sad day,” Jaya greeted us soberly.

Lillian replied in kind, and we continued with our slow procession up the Street, as other Evens joined us.

The front door to Number 2 had been left open for everyone to enter and the house had been tidied. The garden had been cleared and straightened as well, with chairs arranged as usual for Odds and Evens to sit in two groups. Everyone wore black for the funeral, even Mr Zand, who had attired himself in a copy of his regular blue tweed suit, but in a far darker navy shade. He stood at the front, near the fence, and behind the podium, which had also been brought to the garden.

A plaque had been placed on the boarded-up fence adorned with the names of Mr and Mrs Martins. Most residents were present when we arrived, so we took our places at the back. Mr Hughes and Mr Garcia ominously stood on either side of Mr Zand with weapons in hand. I tried to ignore the queasy sensation in my stomach at the sight of those guns, but failed.

We were the last to arrive and a lugubrious Mr Zand began to address the crowd as soon as we sat down. “My dear friends,” he said, “thank you for all coming to Number 2 on this sad day. As you can see, the day is set to be a beautiful one, and the skies are clear. What fitting weather for such an occasion! We’re gathered here today to say farewell to Mr and Mrs Martins. They have tragically been taken from us, but they will not be forgotten. Nor will we disregard how they were taken from us.”

At those tasteless words, I couldn’t help but shift in my seat.

“He just can’t help himself, can he?” Lillian muttered under her breath, echoing my thoughts.

“But today,” Mr Zand continued, “let us remember our dear, departed friends and rejoice at their memory and bow our heads for a moment’s silence.”

Everyone did so. I inclined my head along with the others, but a strange sensitivity overcame me. My head began to itch, and my cheeks felt warm. I had the most peculiar feeling that I was being watched. Tentative as you like, I raised my head, where I met the stare of Mr Zand. Our gazes locked. We remained eye to eye, but he didn’t move or blink, statuesque. I began to sweat under his scrutiny. Then Mr Zand spoke, snapping me out of my bizarre trance.

“Now, my friends…” he proceeded to blather for a while, vaguely talking about the safety of New Gillion Street.

After he’d finished his pontificating, a few of the friends of the Martins stood and shared some humorous and heartfelt stories about our departed neighbours. The service ended with another brief silence, and then Mr Zand concluded the proceedings.

“If you would make your way towards the Town Hall, some light refreshments have been provided. Again, I thank you all for attending this short service.”

Everyone left through the gate in the fence and made their way towards the Town Hall. We were about to join them when Mr Zand called us over. We came to stand before him, hand in hand. I eyed Mr Garcia and Mr Hughes, who had remained by his side.

“My friends, thank you for giving me this moment to speak to you,” said a grave Mr Zand.

“What is it, Mr Zand?” Lillian snapped, staunchly ignoring the weapons.

“Mrs Smith, there’s no need for such aggression,” he chuckled. “I just wanted to tell you both in person that recent events have vindicated my conviction to put myself forward as the first Mayor in the next Committee Election. I believe I have proved myself, and that right now, I’m needed more than ever.”

“This is not the time, Mr Zand. Surely even you can see that,” retorted Lillian.

As soon as the words left her mouth, Mr Garcia and Mr Hughes took a step forward, causing her to move into my waiting arms, where she trembled in my grasp, clearly as stunned as I was by their display. I pulled her away, but despite my shaking legs, I found enough ire to call over my shoulder.

“Point made, Mr Zand. Point made.”

We hurried through the open gate and straight into the now bustling Town Hall, grabbed handfuls of food and a drink, and then found a quiet corner.

Lillian looked visibly shaken. “I can’t believe what’s just happened,” she whispered. “He’s taking advantage of this situation for his own agenda. That’s as clear as day to me now. He doesn’t give a shit about the Martins. He’s never even mentioned their name before a week ago, and now he’s speaking at their wake.”

I took hold of her arm and shushed her, as her voice had risen towards the end of her rant. “I know, dear. I was there as well. You should’ve seen the look he gave me during the silence, though. It nearly curled my toes. Something’s not right.”

We fell silent as the couple from Number 5 strayed past. When they’d moved on, I continued in a whisper. “Let’s talk about this later. We don’t know who’s with who here anymore.”

Later that evening, after the children were put to bed, we sat in the kitchen, where we were free to discuss the day’s events.

“I can’t believe what’s happening to New Gillion Street, darling,” said Lillian, her exasperation evident. “In the last week, everything has changed. I just don’t know what to think anymore.”

“I know, dear. I know,” I agreed, taking her hand in mine for her comfort as well as my own. “It’s as though everyone has lost their minds. Don’t get me wrong. What happened to the Martins is horrendous, but I can’t shake this feeling that the timing is a bit too convenient.”

I fell silent, letting my words wash over her. It was the first time I’d vocalised my fears. I surveyed her face while she mulled it over.

After a time, she focused on me. “Darling,” she said quietly, her face a mask of gravity. “I’ve wanted to say the exact same thing to you, but honestly, I thought I was going insane. It all doesn’t make any sense. Suddenly, Mr Zand announces he wants the Committee to vote for him to be the first mayor. Then, the Martins disappear. Now, he’s seemingly assumed control of the Street. I feel like a crazy person just saying this out loud.” 

She stopped to catch her breath, as her words had come tumbling out of her mouth. Clearly, the idea had been weighing heavy on her mind, the same as mine, but until Mr Zand’s little show earlier, I’d never really given it serious thought, consigning it to stress.

“The problem is, dear,” I continued where she’d left off,  “We can’t say anything to anyone about it. They’ll all think we’ve gone barmy if we even suggest such a thing.”

“But what else can we do?” She folded her arms in frustration. “The Committee Election is next week, for bloody hell’s sake! To begin with, we’re a household down. We’re sure to lose. Worse, I don’t think we’d win even if things were all square. That man has the whole place under his control right now. Can’t you see it? His thugs made that clear to us earlier on. Don’t think that wasn’t all staged, because it bloody well was!”

I let out a long breath. She was right, of course. She was always right, but it was a shock to see her so rattled. Usually, she was the level-headed one, but ever since everything had begun, she’d been pushed to anxiety by the whole ordeal. Of course, I felt the same way, but I was always that way.

“Mr Zand has been in charge since the Martins went missing,” I pointed out. “Before then, even. He’s been two or three steps ahead of us all from the very start.”

Her forehead knotted. “The real question is why?”

I was surprised that she hadn’t worked that out for herself, so I answered the question for her. “What else do men like Mr Zand want? Power, dear. Power. What else could it be?”

---

My thoughts are with the protesters in the US. But remember this. The same forces that are perpetrating this travesty across the Atlantic are looking to our little island with the same plans in mind. Reform UK remains at the top of the polls, having been there for months. If they win the next election, expect the same authoritarian tactics in the U.K. 

Thanks for reading.

Elliot J Harper

Author of quirky speculative fiction novel, New Gillion Street, published by Fly on the Wall Press, and the independently published weird horror short story collection, The Strange Tales of Gillion.