Plato’s Race I

The message hadn’t made the slightest bit of sense. And yet it seemed genuine. It had come from a genuine domain, the address it told her to go to was genuine, it was void of typos and poor grammar. At least, as void as you’d expect for a message from the office of an MP. But why had it been sent to her? It was certainly intended for her; her full name was plastered all over it.

She’d been looking for work but would never have dreamed of applying for the role of an election agent for a VB MP. Firstly, she was grossly underqualified. Secondly, she was no fan of the party. She hadn’t made tidal waves in political activism, but she’d signed many petitions and stood on the periphery of a few demonstrations against everything they stood for. Thirdly, and perhaps most vitally, she had no idea what an election agent was.

Turning down the interview would violate a principle she held dear. If you’re given the opportunity to do something you’d never otherwise do, you do it. You’ll either be pleasantly surprised or, if it goes badly, will at least get a story out of it. You could also be killed, but what better way to go than a death that makes a good anecdote? Perhaps she could make a positive difference. She could slowly change the party from the inside, even go as far as to engage in civil sabotage. More importantly, the money was good. Surprisingly good.

Down an artery that ran from Cattle Square, parallel to the town hall, was a doorway set in an old terrace of shops. Between a betting shop and an ‘Italian’ takeaway, that in defiance of all natural laws of marketing, had found itself being named ‘Jeano’s’ and yet had remained in business for several years. Jessica pressed the warn out buzzer beside the door and hastily rummaged for the message, so as not to butcher the name of the man who’d be scrutinising every part of her being for the sake of a mundane admin role. The speaker above the buzzer crackled as if someone were listening but no voice came.

“Err, I’m here to see… Harry Stokes?… I’m Jessica Parsons. I have an interview? Here I think?”

“It’s open.” The static voice replied, flatly. She heaved open the stiff door and ascended the narrow stairs. Job interviews were not a suitable test for Jessica’s aptitude for anything. Like many people, the overwhelming pressure of having to pitch yourself in a 30-minute window, within the confines of arbitrary questions on strengths, weaknesses and for some reason abstract hypotheticals about how many piano tuners there are in England. All the while knowing the consequence of screwing it all up could be having so little money you starve to death, rendered her incapable of carrying out even basic human functions. Like navigating a very small, uncomplicated office space to find the person conducting your interview.

Every step of the stair drew a new bead of sweat on her forehead. Her short ascent of the stairs was enough for her brain to process every permutation of this all going very badly. What was she going to be asked? What even qualified her for this job? What if she’d not dressed right for the interview and they subconsciously reject her at first glance? As it happens, she wasn’t dressed appropriately for a job interview. Jessica lacked any sense of style. She looked something like a muddy blonde willow tree crossed with a supply teacher whose soul could be instantaneously shredded by even the most benign set of GCSE students.

As she summited the stairs, the flat voice called from an office. “Here.” Good, she thought. One less challenge. The office was humble. There didn’t seem to be a single item within that wasn’t purely functional. At the desk sat a man she recognised as Harry Stokes, MP for North Hatchfield and Duncester. He was known as a man of few words, but she’d expected at least ‘hello’ or ‘please take a seat’. He said nothing. He sat and stared seemingly at nothing. Perhaps it was a test? After a few seconds of agonising stillness, she took the initiative and sat in the seat in front of the desk. Stokes finally broke the silence.

“Thank you for coming. In your reply you mentioned that you could start immediately. So 9 o’clock Monday. Here. Your responsibilities will be quite varied. Odd jobs, errands, keeping the operation ticking over and being a sounding board of sorts. I’ve set aside 14 more minutes so if you have any questions, feel free to ask.” When he stopped speaking, his sentences didn’t ‘land’, they seemed to come to an abrupt halt.

Jessica choked on the regiment of questions that made a mad dash from her mind to her mouth. The only one that broke free happened to be the most useless.

“What?” Stokes rose his eyebrows in anticipation of words that would surely follow. Jessica stammered. “What… I… I’m so confused. I… I’m here for an interview? I… I’m sorry…” Of all the scenarios that cycled through her brain as she’d walked up the stairs, none had anticipated an interview that consisted of no questions. It broke her. “I can’t do this. I don’t know what’s going on. It doesn’t make any sense… I don’t like it. Why did you bring me here!? I’m… I’m going to go.” She stood to leave.

“Jessica.” Said stokes. Not a modicum of alteration in his voice.  “Would you like a glass of water?”

“Yes please.” This didn’t necessarily calm Jessica, but she suddenly felt as if she’d returned to a dimension that she recognised.

“Water please Fatima.” Stokes said. Seemingly at no one. Jessica turned her head, and through the door, saw a young woman in a bright red cardigan, with oversized glasses and a stoop, shuffle off to a kitchenette.

 “You’re confused. I understand. The party has a blanket deal with FACTory. I can use any of their services. Their recruiting app pulled your CV. That’s how I found you. I could have a river of young party members lining up to interview for this job. But I didn’t want some spotty, chinless son-of-a-landlord with an accent like someone trying to swallow a boiled egg. I need a voice of dissent. But one that can get a day job done and isn’t likely to burn down my office in an act of revolt.”

More information wasn’t making the situation any clearer for Jessica. The odd state of the interview had been disarming. The explanation had made her feel like the rest of her limbs had fallen off.

“I… I still can’t do this. I need the job, but this goes against so much of what I stand for. How can I support a party like this?” It suddenly occurred to Jessica that if she wasn’t going to take this job, an opportunity to scrutinise a small cog of the political establishment had landed in her lap. “How can YOU support a party like this!?” She jabbed a finger towards Stokes. He seemed nonplussed.

“This party has been in power for over 30 years. It has the support of a firm that’s near omniscient. It has the sympathies of the best-established media outlets. It has a monopoly on politics. And all opposition is irreparably fractured. I’m telling you this because no one would believe you if you were to repeat it, but this country is hurtling to collapse, and it’s because it’s helmed by the type of people who are so out of touch with reality, that they’re legitimately perplexed at why homeless people don’t just buy houses. I’d like to tell you more, but we need to earn each other’s trust. I ask that you at least give me a few days of your time. By the end, you could choose to stay on, and mould the world from inside the machine. Or you can run off with whatever unflattering information you can get your hands on and scream at a deaf world about how terrible I am.”

In the time he’d spoken, two glasses of water had been placed on the desk. Jessica took a long swig as she pondered her next move. Why not? She thought. A few days would do no harm. It would be a few days pay. If she said no now, that would be that. Saying yes would at least buy her time to navigate these tricky moral waters. Perhaps she could push real change?

“…Okay” She said after a hearty gulp.

“Very well.” Stokes said. And abruptly stopped speaking. He turned to his screen and stared. It was as if he’d been switched off. Jessica moved one leg around the corner of her chair as if to stand and leave. But was she supposed to? Was that it? Stokes continued to say nothing for some time.

“I’ll show you out.” Came Fatima’s voice with a chirpy wheeze. Jessica moved swiftly to the corridor; Fatima turned to Stokes. “Oh Harry, Leonard Parker has written in again. Something about a lorry and a robot with a hat? I’ll tell him to come to the surgery next week… let me know if… I should tell him something else.” Stokes continued to pretend that there wasn’t anything in the world other than himself and his screen.

Jessica and Fatima shuffled down the narrow corridor. “You must’ve made a good impression for him to gab like that. He’s only said two words to me all day. ‘tea’ and ‘bastard’.” She shook her head. “it’s weird when you first start here, but I reckon you’ll like it. See you Monday!” Fatima prodded a button on the wall by the top of the stairs, the front door buzzed. She shuffled off leaving Jessica to collect her thoughts. Which had spilled everywhere like fruit from a cart in a car chase from any poorly written action film.

The walk from the office to the care home may as well have never happened for all the attention Jessica paid to it. Her mind was swimming with unanswered questions that bred like bacteria. She let herself into the care home. She’d been there enough to memorise the code, the few staff running from room to room like infantry in a siege had long ago stopeed actively monitoring the front door and greeting visitors. The pyramid of needs that they catered to for residents had been shaved down as far as security at this point. In light of ever thinning budgets and an ever-shrinking workforce.

In the corner of the vast living room, sat her dad. As he always did between the hours of 8am to 11pm. A thin, metal probe protruded from the arm of his chair and spanned his lap. On it was a screen displaying rolling news. As Jessica crossed the room and called to her father, his face broke from its transfixion on the screen, shot with momentary confusion, then eyes widening in pleasant surprise.

“Hello Jessie!” She trotted over to him and swung her arms around his neck as she had done since she was a child. He patted her back with his shovel-like hands. She pulled a seat next to him and produced a bag of sweets from her satchel. Resting it on the arm of his chair.

“How’d it go lass?” He asked in frantic anticipation.

“I got the job!”

“Oh that’s brilliant!” His mouth widened with glee. He turned to nearby residents in search of recognition. “You hear that?” Very few of them had heard that. They weren’t in the slightest bit interested. But Lance remained fully inflated by the news. “So what is it anyway? The council is it?” She didn’t feel ready to tell him. But didn’t have the heart to lie. He was from a long line of people who saw the likes of men like Harry Stokes to be the source of all injustice. And he very much blamed them for him finding himself living God’s most neglected waiting room.

“Oh, just an office job.” She said dismissively. “Admin mostly, I think. I’m not sure what they do really.” What she said, was technically true. Lance leaned forward. Not a lot happened in the home to the point where even the word ‘admin’ sparked intrigue.

“And the people… the boss… they’re nice people are they?”

“Yeah they seem to be. The manager is a bit… strange though. Can’t work him out.”

“Oh?” He said in mild surprise. “Well, they go a bit weird after a while those types. Office people.” He turned back towards the screen and sank back into the chair. Jessica never tried to force conversation on her visits. She wanted her dad to feel like he was at home, and not like seeing his daughter was a special occasion. Like any good, functional family, their home life consisted of ignoring each other most of the time. They both sat and stared at the screen in silence for a while.

A headline crawled across the bottom of the screen. “Health secretary quizzed on care home contracts”. A more descriptive headline that didn’t seek to downplay the story might have read ‘Man in lofty position of power, gifts acquaintance massive new cash flow by granting control of care facilities for society’s most vulnerable, to a healthcare firm with a mortality rate that would make the grim reaper drool.’

“Bastards.” Muttered Lance. Jessica sat for a while, worry and guilt drowning out the sounds and peculiar smells of the care home. The news eventually bored Lance enough to make him speak. And at that, he pulled out a rolled-up magazine and turned to Jessica. “Here, did you read that thing about the robot what got hit by a lorry?”