"The Red Tie" - 4
Weekly serialisation of my short dystopian thriller.
Less than ten minutes later Vincent has arrived in the Market Square. With the Ministry situated on one of the main adjoining roads, it’s familiar enough territory, though he’s used to being there when people are rushing to and from work, or at lunchtime amidst the general bustle for food and the like. There are a number of small bars and entertainment venues nearby, and the area still has a reputation for being ‘lively’ on Saturday evenings — though he cannot vouch for that personally. Seeing the square mid-way through a Friday morning, he is struck by how different it feels. It is a sensation manifest not simply in the fewer people present, but how they look and move, their lack of urgency, the absence of noise. When a tram rings its bell, the sound echoes across the square and bounces from the facades of the buildings.
Vincent slackens his place to browse in a number of shop windows. At some point he will need to get some new boots and, on looking into a shoe shop, is surprised to see not only how costly they have become, but how little choice there seems to be. Then, resisting the temptation to venture into the bookshop next door (after all, they know him there!) he settles on looking in through their window, attempting to spot volumes on which he has worked. He sees a few, but again is taken aback by the fact that the books are more expensive than he remembers. Unsettled, he makes his way across the square, into the relevant side street, and past the accountants. The window of the menswear store is almost entirely empty, an employee mid-way through re-dressing it. Two mannequins stand unadorned, and in one corner three large boxes look as if they are waiting to be opened.
Inside there is a warm kind of hush, as if the environment has been designed to envelop and cosset its customers. Vincent pauses and takes a breath during which time an assistant, having marked his entry, is already heading his way.
“Good morning, Sir. How can I help you?”
Vincent doesn’t feel as if he needs any help; he just wants to find the ties and see what they have on offer. His default has always been to ask for help only as and when he needs it, but now the other man is immediately in front of him and he has no wish to appear rude.
“I’m looking for a new tie.”
“Ah,” smiles the assistant, then, turning on his heel, says “if you’ll follow me.”
“Just browsing, you know,” Vincent offers to the other man’s back.
“Quite so.”
He trails the assistant past two rails of trousers, one of jackets, the wall to his left adorned with small box-like shelves within which an array of shirts nestles. Most are white, the rest plain and tending towards the paler end of the spectrum. Just beyond the jackets is a single carousel of ties. Although it has been some time since he has been in the store, Vincent is sure he remembers them having at least three times as many.
“Ties, sir. For work perhaps?”
Momentarily thrown by the other man’s slightly rising inflection, Vincent allows his right hand to brush through those on the side of the display immediately facing him.
“Yes,” he says, then turns the carousel slowly clockwise in order to examine the remainder. They are nearly all blue.
“Were you looking for anything in particular, sir?”
Vincent is fingering two ties in turn, both identical to ones he has at home.
“I was hoping for something a little different colour-wise. Or with a more striking pattern.”
“I’m afraid these are all we have at the moment.” The assistant offers an apologetic wave of the hand.
“But I remember your selection being so much greater.” Vincent wants to say ‘more than just blue’ but refrains from doing so.
“Yes.” The man hesitates for just a heartbeat. “Recent instructions from Head Office, I’m afraid. Apparently there isn’t the demand any more. Across the range.”
Vincent is struck at the oddness of the phrase. He lets his hands fall.
“Then I think I’ll leave it for now. I’m afraid I don’t need another blue tie.”
“I perfectly understand, sir.”
As he turns, Vincent has the sensation not only that he is being allowed to leave, but that some kind of transaction — if only of understanding — has passed between them.
“Thanks for your help anyway.”
On his way to the front door Vincent can’t help but notice the cctv cameras embedded in the ceiling. Taking his eyes from where he is walking, he inadvertently collides with one of the rails and, in order to cover his embarrassment, makes a show of examining the trousers and jackets it contains. They are either blue, black or grey; the shirts nearby white, pale blue, or creme. He dawdles just a little to see if he can get a glimpse of something other; a flash of green or pink perhaps, the hint of check or herringbone. But there is none.
The assistant, now back at the counter, looks up from the journal in which he has begun to write, nods but says nothing.
*
“I think what was decided on was entirely reasonable; do you not agree?”
Mid-way down a long panelled corridor on the third floor of the Ministry two men are walking side-by-side, heads slightly bowed as they speak, their voices barely above a whisper.
“Entirely logical,” says the second and taller of the two. Both are grey-suited, a small emblem stitched into the fabric of their black ties.
“And of course unanimous,” replies the shorter man. He is wearing round spectacles, their dark frames in stark contrast to the whiteness of his skin.
“It was never not going to be so. And now that we’re starting to get some data through in terms of buying trends, well — it demonstrates the policy is working.”
“Does it?”
The tall man — who has been entirely focussed on where he has been placing his feet — glances to his companion.
“Don’t get me wrong,” the bespectacled man clarifies. “I’m merely suggesting that it may still be too early to say. That’s all. Yes, the data is giving us an indication that things may be calming down a little — if I may use that phrase — but it’s not conclusive yet. And we can’t lose sight of the fact that — in the grand scheme — these are just small measures. Very small measures.”
“Indeed; like when we banned hoodies.” The tall man resumes his concentration on his feet. “But it’s all about momentum. Or breaking momentum. Just as the Prefect said. And it’s the only way to go about such things, with some caution; it’s not as if we’re monsters.”
As if it was a private joke, the phrase makes the shorter man laugh. “Hopefully those days are long behind us — not that I choose to remember them that often.”
“Nor I.”
“Lessons were learned though, wouldn’t you say?”
“Isn’t that the purpose of history?” Although a question, the taller man’s tone suggests statement rather than enquiry.
“That all depends on which books you read.”
They both laugh.
If you can’t wait for the rest of the serialisation, you can buy a discounted copy of the book.