Lingua Franca Read online

  I instruct Darren to meet me in the underground car park. We load the van with stationery, pillows and various bits of equipment that Nigel couldn’t take on the train. Darren neatly packs the medical kit alongside the tins and non-perishables. He closes the van. We walk a couple of hundred yards so I can get cigarettes. I feel very much like a politician on a walkabout with his secret-service guard.

  Someone steps out from a vehicle and aims a camera in my direction. ‘Do you feel bad at all, Miles?’ He circles us, taking pictures. We walk exactly as we are. ‘What does it say about your company that one of your staff decides to kill himself?’

  ‘We’ve got nets.’

  We enter the newsagent. Darren stands in the door and blocks the photographer’s path. ‘It’s a free country,’ the photographer says.

  ‘And what?’ Darren says. ‘And what?’

  I ask for a pack of Marlboro Lights from behind the counter. The shopkeeper looks at the commotion and tries to read my face, as if I’m the decoy. I’m not suggestive of anything. This relaxes the shopkeeper. I take the cigarettes and my change. I tend to smoke when I’m bored and away from home. Darren clears a path so I can exit. He looks at his enemy, who edges backwards, caught between his need to take a picture and his need to survive. There’s another flash, which Darren objects to. They grapple for a moment. Darren grabs the photographer’s collar and lifts him up. For the first time there’s fear in the man’s eyes. Darren carries the man a few steps and deposits him into a metal cylinder bin. Darren gives the bin a little push. He looks at me to see if he’s done a good thing. I nod. We walk back through the security gate, showing our passes to the guard. I thank Darren for his afternoon’s efforts.

  ‘You alright, sir?’ He calls me ‘sir’ when he wants to emphasise his loyalty. ‘He shouldn’t chat such bollocks, should he?’

  ‘No.’

  I put on my seat belt. I get myself comfortable and I tell Darren that we better drive. So we do. We head north, past towns we’ve privatised and those that remain intact. We pass AXA and Red Bull, Deutsche Bank and Liverpool (nothing can be done about Liverpool). The motorways of Britain are basically our canvas. You can turn off the radio or change the TV channel, but you can’t ignore road signs as long as you need to know where you’re going. You need to know that it’s five miles to Talk Talk, and twenty-three to Sunny Delight. There’s a traffic incident just outside Monster. At the Procter & Gamble service station, I feel confident enough to walk to the toilets on my own. If someone were to kill me, you’d have to give them credit. On the road we make good time. By the time we pass Waterstones, we seem to have cleared the worst of the traffic. I close my eyes in the knowledge that Darren will get me to Barrow. I think about Ptolemy and whether Kendal will remember to feed her. I think about Kendal.

  We go forward, our brave battalion, in our Toyota Priuses and first-class trains. We’re Lingua Franca and we’re on our way. They came; they ate quinoa; they conquered. The only thing we fear is not having Wi-Fi.

  *

  I seem to have amassed a great number of treats while I’ve been writing. On my bedside table is a bar of chocolate with a sticker that says Miles. To my left, a mini-fridge has appeared with bottles of ice-cold mineral water. The nurse looks at me, alerted to the fact I’m no longer writing. She quickly gets out a pen.

  You’re doing great!

  She gathers the sheets of paper and puts them in a file. For someone who claims to love my story, she doesn’t seem that interested in reading it.

  I pull myself into a sitting position. ‘Can I go now?’

  She frowns and crosses her arms, an actress doing a bad impression of an angry person.

  ‘Seriously, can I go?’

  She shakes her head like I’ve let down my family, my country, my planet… She snatches the chocolate bar and gives it to another patient. As she exits the room, I think carefully about what I’ve done. The only trouble is that I’m not really sure.

  09. ALL ROADS LEAD TO BIRDSEYE

  Barrow-in-Furness Town Hall has a large clock tower and a gothic sandstone façade. People descend here to celebrate important events, which doesn’t happen as often as it should. The backdrop is lit with the Birdseye logo, next to Barrow’s traditional coat of arms. The text says:

  Introducing Barrow’s new naming rights partner.

  It’s disingenuous, of course, to present the arrangement as a partnership. The idea is that Birdseye will replace Barrow as soon as possible. What’s important is to pretend we’re active participants in the town. We’re indivisible from the gothic stonework and clock tower. We are Barrow. From one town to the next, the essence of what we say doesn’t change very much. We might tailor the emphasis to one thing or another, depending on the delicacy of the moment, but the format remains constant. We’re treated like a rock band by the council; and we’re hated by the public. You can be sure that many in the crowd aren’t thinking about the event itself. The appeal is more the fact it’s a fun day out; people are able to get together, which is better than getting drunk at home. On the side of the stage are trumpeters and drummers from the local army. Their presence is important, as the public don’t like to boo when soldiers are around. If the military endorse what we’re doing – or at least perform their civic duty in having nothing to say about anything – we can’t be defeated. The brand ambassadors – a local athlete and a reformed young offender – are accompanied by officials from the Post Office, whose duty will be to erase the name Barrow-in-Furness from its Postcode Address File. The drummers and trumpeters entertain the crowd with a version of a Cumbrian song which no one seems to know. There are doves waiting to be released. It hasn’t rained yet, somehow. It seems inconceivable that our launch could take place without the rain.

  What happens next is the formal naming ceremony, in which the dignitaries take turns to lose everyone’s attention. The mayor, in his priest-style garb and gold chains, sounds less like a leader and more like a risk analysis consultant. He talks about the opportunities for local businesses arising from new enterprise zones; he says that Barrow folk are enterprising, as if these are the qualities that are preferable to all others. The members of a local business forum – who championed the name change – applaud without interruption. The Lord Lieutenant of Cumbria leans over to write his name on the page. The signing is overseen by an elderly dame from something called the Royal Victorian Order. The mayor declares that all local businesses and public organisations are duty-bound to use the name Birdseye-in-Furness for the town hitherto known as Barrow-in-Furness. Some people applaud and others start to boo. Some proceed to shout in the direction of the stage. A school choir begins to sing in unison, and just like the military song, it has the effect of eliciting silent respect from the crowd. I almost forget my cue until Nigel raises a hand from the corner of the stage.

  The mayor says, ‘It gives me great pleasure to introduce Miles Platting, founder and creative centre of Lingua Franca.’

  I wave to the crowd, focusing on an imaginary space where my family ought to be standing. In these situations, I have to remember that I’m not a child who’s won a prize; I’m an unpopular man whose contribution to humanity has been to diminish its worth. It’s difficult to gauge the nature of the crowd. It’s not exactly a mob. There are too many neutrals for that. But certainly there is a minority who would probably wish death upon me. At the front is a group of middle-aged men, most of whom are determined to keep booing. My instinct is to pretend they don’t understand us. Sadly, they understand us very well.

  One of them shouts, ‘Fucking scum!’

  I place my speech on the wooden lectern. It’s too late to change the words. If I had the energy, I’d modify the content. I wouldn’t put so much emphasis on the moral principle. I’d let them decide whether naming rights constitutes good or evil. I’d talk more candidly about what’s about to happen. There are some in the audience – the hairdressers and kebab shop owners – who will doubtless give the speech a fair hearing. The
y understand there’s a carrot dangling in front of them. If they can see beyond brand-Birdseye, and the shame of renaming the town in honour of a frozen fish retailer, they’ll understand the money-making potential of the project. A cash-rich council means more investment, more customers and more money. I could probably just purse my fingers and say ‘money, money, money’ and they’d know what I’m saying.

  As soon as I open my mouth I feel like an out-of-town elitist. ‘Barrow is moving into a new era, ladies and gentlemen. In ten years’ time, you will think of Barrow as today we think of Barbados or Dubai – a major destination with a world-class international profile. That means your home values will increase, your wages will rise and new opportunities for commerce will emerge.’ Enough people are applauding. It gives me the right to continue. ‘I know the name “Birdseye” might take some getting used to, but naming rights are nothing new. We’re not doing anything the Romans weren’t doing when they called it Londinium.’ The crowd are thinking about this. There is something encouraging about the silence. They’re listening, at least. They can’t quite believe what they’re being told, but they’re listening. ‘Language must change, and it changes according to our needs. We own language. Language doesn’t own us.’ A woman has been shaking her head almost the whole time. She hates Lingua Franca; she hates the destruction of language and community. She doesn’t care if money comes into the town. None of it will do any good. She is holding a sign that says:

  Barrow-in-Furness – R.I.P.

  I’m of the opinion that we should provide some sort of training in emotional resilience. It’s hard to observe local people’s anger without feeling like you want to be on their side. It’s the humanising effect. It’s like showing a meat-eater around an abattoir. It’s important to keep a distance. Once you’re committed as deep as we are, there’s no way out. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet!’ The more I speak the more I realise I’ve said these things before. I’m reciting a script, or someone else’s poetry. It’s only when I pay close attention to the human faces that I realise I don’t really know what I’m saying. The words from my mouth don’t match what’s happening in my head. I say something about Shakespeare and I feel like I’m falling. I get a glance from Nigel, who knows better than to get involved. He waits at the side and makes no contribution other than to watch closely. He’s like one of the continuity folk on film sets; his next contribution will be to mention how much I neglected to say. There’s a commotion coming from the back of the crowd. Something is happening, but it will be dealt with. The challenge is to keep everyone contained to the point where they’re unable to create a farce. The guards are deployed in a semi-circle from the stage outward; I’m in the middle of the horizontal line. It’s a similar method to that which saved Ronald Reagan. If the enemy were to break the first line, someone would eventually take them down. Our critics like to mention that Lingua Franca benefits from subsidised policing costs. Nationalise the losses, privatise the profits. This might be true, but none of them have ever had a knife thrown at their head, which happened to me in Mitsubishi. There’s a chant coming from a section of the crowd. It’s indecipherable, but the tone carries a definite menace.

  Lingua Franca, language killer.

  Lingua Franca, language killer.

  I can see their homemade placards bobbing above people’s heads. There are lots of little shark fins coming towards me. They know what they want. They want tradition, community and the satisfaction of knowing they don’t have to consider themselves sell-outs. They want their community to be sacrosanct, an impenetrable fortress. Each of them is free to walk ahead, parting the crowd as they go. The chanting has built into something stronger. There are more numbers behind it now. They’re making all the noise. I feel a sudden jolt against my chest. Something lands next to me. On the stage is a turnip. Another vegetable – a radish – flies over my head. These are hard vegetables, not the kind that break upon impact. A potato strikes one of the cameras. A cabbage hits the boom pole and microphone. Somehow, the stanchion supporting the camera gives way. Someone scuttles onto the stage with a dustpan and brush. The protestors are carrying bags of vegetables, which provide a good supply of ammunition. Nigel raises a hand and the trumpeters strike up a song. The army will save us. The guards begin to coordinate their movements, shrinking the space in which the protestors can move. Suddenly we have an incident. I get a glance from Nigel that says it’s time to go. I need to say something that makes it look like I’m not just finishing early. I’m not meant to be scared. ‘So remember! A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Barrow is the rose, ladies and gentleman, and nothing smells sweeter than your new naming rights partner: Birdseye!’

  A cauliflower almost hits my head. One of the guards attempts to block the hail of carrots. Suddenly I’m obliged to exit. We don’t have to say anything else. We’ve said our piece for the benefit of the cameras. Someone puts a coat around my head. It’s supposed to be for my own protection but it looks undignified. I’m unidentifiable, except for the fact I have a coat around my head. I must look like a criminal leaving court after a guilty verdict. I’m taken to a secure area backstage. The councillor apologises for the behaviour of his people; they ought never to express an opinion. Nigel’s on his mobile phone, discussing what it all means. I’m in between two guards, whose professional duty is to get punched on my behalf. I think about what Kendal would say; she would laugh that I was pelted with vegetables. She’d say it’s my own fault for inventing Lingua Franca in the first place, and it’s only a matter of time until I realise what I’ve done. She’d say there’s still time to repent. It’s up to you, Miles Platting. The world is yours.

  10. THE SUFFIX QUANDARY

  The Walney Channel separates the mainland from our unit base. As per our requirements, the facility comprises of a temporary building for media equipment, portable toilets, recreation rooms, a static caravan canteen, medical centre, and most impressive of all, twelve shipping containers retrofitted with single beds, security slide doors and enough space for an average-sized adult. For the most part we’re standing on shingles, but there’s an extensive decked area on which most of the buildings have been erected. The units are made from recycled materials, with a groove in the roof designed to collect rainwater. The containers are stacked in two rows, connected by a metal staircase and walkway. The units were fitted off-site and brought here via cranes. It’s a credit to the builders that they can instal the unit base in such a short time. Each of the containers is a different colour; we have our own aesthetic, which is beloved by the Financial Times Life & Arts section. The public erroneously believes that we carry out the construction ourselves. We’re synonymous with bright colours and dynamic design. The spectacle is what matters – it would be worth choosing Lingua Franca for the spectacle alone.

  The advantage of our location is that no one can get to us. From our position on the banks of the slipway, the only feasible line of attack would come from the west – from Walney Island itself. There are road blocks in place to deter any rebels and a pop-up police station at the entrance of our settlement. We’re aided somewhat by the area’s topography; from the water there’s a steep muddy verge that acts as a buffer to anyone coming from the street. The patrol boats screen the water for any attempts at landfall. The connecting Jubilee Bridge allows us to monitor traffic that enters from Birdseye. Nigel likes to joke that we’re missing a trick with all this security: the Walney Islanders might delight in their sister settlement’s rebranding; they probably want to bring us cups of tea and blankets.

  From the stairwell, the view is of the grim, magnificent Devonshire Dock Hall – the largest shipping hall in Britain. It’s a vast, unwelcoming structure in which attack submarines are given a facial. It’s one of the largest oblong buildings you could ever see. Its purpose – in part – is to restrict satellites from being able to capture the secrets of shipbuilding assembly. You can almost forgive the scale of such a building if it were bo
rn of love – a cathedral, say – but when the purpose is to construct death ships you wonder how it ever came to pass. It’s almost as if the weapons are being made in this forgotten corner of England so that the rest of the country doesn’t notice. One of our mischievous arguments is that we’re liberating Barrow from its reliance on the death industry. The money will attract benign businesses that do kinder things. You don’t need to build weapons anymore; you can sell hot sausage rolls and cheap nylon clothes. Down below is our improvised town square. Everyone likes to congregate, play table tennis and drink beer. There’s a canopy under which the staff play ironic games of chess. The dress code is relaxed, owing to the mud and rain. I can see the checkpoint allow a couple of cars through. The journalists are on their way.

  The meeting room has enough space for everyone including the web developers, make-up artists, press assistants and goody-bag handlers. The photographer’s job is to capture images of Nigel looking serious. There’s room for the journalists, on the proviso they don’t ask any questions. The table at the side features a row of upturned coffee mugs. It’s the most popular thing of all, the table, and everyone seems to be looking at it. Nigel gets jealous of the table. He stands at the front with a cup of coffee. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was a chilled-out professor. I know better.

  ‘Welcome to the unit base, from which we’ll conduct the week’s operations. I’d like to thank our construction partners – Keane & Sons Builders – for delivering such a magnificent site in the days prior to our arrival. As you will know, the set build ensures we can manipulate the conditions to our advantage. We can ensure your safety while maintaining an aesthetic and standard for which Lingua Franca is world renowned.’