Peaceful Quiet Lives

Forbidden lovers fall foul of laws in both nations born from the ashes of the Second American Civil War — Part 1, Chapter 3

Continued from Part I: Chapter Two

Part I: Chapter Three

I stare at the images attached to Doug’s email. My first thought is to wonder whether they have actually been faked. Matthew Ingram always seemed like a family man to me, happily married and very unlikely to visit prostitutes. Then again, who knows what really goes on inside another person’s head? For all I know, he could have been a tight coil of sexual frustration.

On the other hand, Matthew was worried about where reporting Christy’s alleged financial irregularity may lead him. Why had he consulted me prior to pointing out the embezzlement? Surely if he had orchestrated the fraud in order to frame Christy, he would have done so without telling me first. Moreover, if the visit to prostitutes had been genuine, surely the last thing he would have done would be risk exposure by trying to prove financial irregularity from a person he knew to have dirt on him.

I peer at the photographs, trying to see if they were fakes. Images show Matthew in an alleyway, exchanging money with a woman, entering a flat, and then a photo from outside the flat window shows them naked together in a sexual tryst. I can’t see any joins or obvious digital fingerprints that betray the photographs as fake, but to be sure I’d have to show them to an expert.

The sequence of events in the photographs seems implausible. Matthew Ingram is a very meticulous, careful, well-planned type. If he were to visit a prostitute, there is no way he would let himself be followed, much less have sex with her next to a window where curtains or shutters had not been closed. Such recklessness is entirely out of character.

I consider showing the photographs to Francis, a photographer colleague of mine who specialises in digital trickery. However, Francis is a party member and very loyal to the ideals of the NPAR. If he feels I am poking my nose into a matter that potentially incriminates a fellow party member, he may not take kindly to it. Furthermore, he often kowtows to Doug, even when I know he disagrees with him. Francis obeys at all times, and doesn’t have a rebellious bone in his body.

On the other hand, Francis works for me, and I can give him instructions. I weigh up the risk and decide to ask him about the photographs, but in a way that makes it sound harmless. Besides, the fact that he doesn’t question instructions means hopefully he won’t question mine too closely.

Before going off to find Francis, I glance at the media coverage of Matthew Ingram’s departure from Badger. His supposed immoral activities are plastered all over our front page, and on the pages of several rival media sites. SEX SCANDAL AT BADGER NEWS INC is one headline, IMMORAL ACCOUNTANT SACKED is another, and the Badger headline reads BADGER NEWS INC SETS EXAMPLE TO STAMP OUT IMMORALITY. The article will doubtless whip up readers up into a frenzy of moralistic tubthumping.

Badger News Incorporated today sacked their Chief Financial Officer, Matthew Ingram, for being caught seeking the services of a prostitute. When photographic proof was uncovered, Badger Chief Executive Officer Doug Hendrick immediately did the right thing, according to the company’s code of conduct, and had Matthew Ingram fired for bringing the company into disrepute.

As per NPAR regulations on employees being caught in such activity, immorality points have been issued to Ingram’s digital employment record, meaning that for seven years employers cannot hire him in a management function, and that during that time he can only work in less well-paid manual labour jobs. Such is the terrible price of seeking out immorality. It is to be hoped that by his example, others will be put off seeking sex for money.

The prostitute in the photograph has been identified as Marcy Hicks. Her arrest is expected soon, after which time she can expect to feel the full weight of the law, which may include a public flogging and a prison sentence. Again, it is to be hoped that her punishment will serve as a warning…

I stop reading, and my thoughts return to Matthew. Whilst he doesn’t face a public flogging, he has been vilified in the national media, so his career will be finished. I decide to pay his home a discreet visit, even though being seen with him is unwise. However, before I do that, I print off the photographs and take them to Francis.

I find Francis at his desk on the other side of the open plan office. He’s a thin, bespectacled, beanpole of a man with a very sharp set of piercing blue eyes. Whenever he looks up at me, I feel unnerved, as though he can see into the dark corners of my mind.

‘Francis can you help me with something?’ I ask, trying to keep my tone mild. ‘I’m preparing an editorial on photographic fakery, and how it is used in DEAR propaganda.’

Francis’s eyes narrow. I have his interest.

‘I was wondering if you could talk me through a comparison between a real photograph and a faked photograph.’

‘Yes of course.’

I place two photographs on Francis’s desk. One I know is faked, depicting Bill Sanderson, an NPAR politician, hovering in mid-air at a rally, as though levitating before the crowd. The other is the photograph of Matthew Ingram having sex with Marcy Hicks.

‘That one is real,’ I say, pointing to the sex photo, ‘and that one is fake.’ I point to the Bill Sanderson photo. ‘Can you show me the joins in the Bill Sanderson photo, and also show me how I know the photo of Matthew Ingram isn’t faked?’

Francis does a double take as he looks at the sex photo. He sighs. ‘I’d hoped the last time I saw that would be on the news this morning. You could have picked a less immoral example of a genuine photograph Sam…’

Francis’s voice tails off. Something in the photograph has caught his eye.

‘Wait a minute, is this the same photo that we’ve seen in the news?’

‘Yes of course.’

Francis frowns, glances left and right, then continues to scrutinise the image, before finally looking up at me and shaking his head.

‘It might be fake.’

I pretend to be shocked. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m not certain. It’s certainly a very, very convincing fake, if it is. But there are one or two elements in the picture. Perhaps if I look closer…’

Francis takes a lens from his desk and uses it like a microscope, poring over the picture for a few more seconds. Eventually he looks up again.

‘Did you think this was real?’

I decide to play the innocent. ‘Well, yes…’

Francis shakes his head. ‘Whatever you’re looking into, I want no part of it.’

‘What are you talking about? I just wanted a comparison between a false image and a real one, for this editorial…’

‘No. You’re trying to see if the evidence against Matthew Ingram is watertight. I can tell you this picture might be fake, but I don’t know for certain. It is not the New Puritan way to bring false accusations, and Christy Hendrick would not have exposed Matthew Ingram in this way unless she was absolutely certain. Yes, this photograph might possibly be fake, but she would not have known that. She would have had additional proof, I am sure…’

‘How sure?’

‘Party members do not turn on one another, Sam. I know you are my boss, but I won’t go up against Doug on this. I have my own family to consider. Sorry, but if you want to dig into this further, you’re on your own.’

I nod, expecting no less. ‘Fair enough. Thanks Francis.’

After writing my editorial for that day (a piece lamenting immoral decisions taken by those in positions of power, without actually naming Matthew Ingram), I leave the office around lunchtime to visit Matthew. I take the metro line to his home, in the eastern part of the city — a relatively affluent suburban area. After getting off the train, I walk to his street and stare up at his large, detached house, running my fingers over the white picket fence and gazing at the porch. Matthew will probably lose this house. He won’t be able to keep up with mortgage repayments.

The scent of freshly cut grass drifts in the air, but the weather is colder. Summer is fading fast. I shiver as I approach the front door and knock. A moment later, Matthew answers. He looks pale and dishevelled, but beckons for me to come inside.

We talk in his kitchen. I notice a nearly empty bottle of whisky by the sink, and a half full glass. He picks it up and begins to drink it in front of me.

‘I don’t care anymore,’ he says. ‘Report me for Prohibition violation if you like. It can’t get much worse for me.’

‘I’m not going to report you Matthew. I have the odd tipple myself, as you know.’

‘Yeah, well I guess booze is one thing most New Puritans don’t mind looking the other way about. Loads of them hide black market alcohol.’

‘Doug’s got pretty strong views on the matter. He foams at the mouth if you get him talking about booze.’

‘Yeah, but his father was an alcoholic, don’t forget.’

‘Where’s Amanda?’

‘At her mother’s, with the children.’

‘I’m sorry Matthew.’

Matthew shrugs. ‘I knew this could happen. Obviously, you know I’m completely innocent, right?’

‘Doesn’t Amanda believe you?’

‘I’m not sure. She’s a party member, and was very shocked. I think she wants to believe me, but because it’s my word against a fellow party member… Well, for now let’s just say she thinks she’ll be better off at her mothers, until things die down a bit. And then…’

Matthew sighs.

‘Well, technically she can divorce me, if adultery is committed. But adultery wasn’t committed. Those photographs are completely fake.’

‘Francis hinted as much.’

‘Francis said that?’

‘He wouldn’t commit one hundred percent. He’s a party member too, and didn’t want to get involved. But I could tell from what he said that he knows they are fake.’

‘He doesn’t want to stick his neck out. Understandable. I still can’t believe I did it. I suppose I just feared what might happen if it was later exposed that I knew about the embezzlement and did nothing. Guess I bet the wrong way.’

‘The house always wins,’ I say. ‘Especially when it’s a New Puritan house.’

Matthew indicates the room we’re standing in. ‘Speaking of houses, I doubt I’ll be here much longer. Can’t afford the mortgage payments on a manual labourer salary.’

‘Matthew, I’m really sorry. I wish there was something I could do.’

‘There’s nothing you can do. I just feel sorry for that poor prostitute in the photograph. Like I said, I’ve never met her. What was her name? Macy something?’

‘Marcy Hicks.’

‘Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, when Amanda saw the photographs, she was really, really angry. She kept saying things like I hope they whip her raw and bloody… She’s never had a kind word to say about, well, people in Marcy Hicks’s profession.’

‘We are living in a Christian theocracy,’ I point out.

Matthew frowns. ‘Are we? I sometimes wonder if anyone in the New Puritan movement has actually read the Bible. Jesus prevented a woman caught in adultery from being stoned to death. Jesus ate with tax collectors and prostitutes. He didn’t advocate publicly flogging them to within an inch of their lives.’

‘Yes, well the NPAR is a little more hard-nosed than Jesus. Are we really stuck with this situation? Is there no-one who can expose the fakery in these photos?’

‘I doubt any expert will certify them as one hundred percent fake,’ Matthew says. ‘They are too scared of the party.’

‘I’m interested in how Christy Hendrick got hold of these images of Marcy Hicks,’ I say. ‘She must have been to that brothel herself. She must have taken these photographs of Marcy with another client, before fabricating the images and putting your face in them.’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking I’m going to follow her and find out more.’

‘Be careful Sam. You’ve got a good career at Badger. You don’t want to throw it away, trying to get back at Christy.’

‘I just wonder if it wouldn’t be good to have some dirt on her, God forbid she should ever come gunning for me.’

‘If she does come gunning for you, don’t expect to win. She could bury you in exactly the same way.’

‘I know what you mean. When I questioned her about this business, there was something almost serpentine about her reactions. She’s dangerous when cornered.’

‘Christy has always been an odious bitch.’

I’m taken aback — not because I disagree, but because I’m not used to hearing swear words.

‘Seriously Sam, you resent her as much as I do. The way she interferes in everyone’s affairs, just because of who her father is. I hate the way she wastes money too, thinking she has a clue about management and business. Her fundraising role has always been a joke. Your articles, and the articles of the other journalists at Badger are what bring in the money and sponsorship, not her incestuous schmooze fests with party members…’

Matthew gulps down his whisky and pours himself another.

‘If the morality inspectors find you with that, you’ll be in trouble,’ I say.

Matthew shrugs. ‘Sometimes they can be bribed. Still, I doubt I’ll have any left by the time this place gets its next morality inspection. And after this, I won’t be able to afford black market whisky anymore. So, it’s farewell to the pleasures of the flesh.’

‘You realise this entire conversation might well be considered Enlightenment Sympathy,’ I point out.

‘Then you’d better hope there aren’t any listening devices in here,’ Matthew says.

‘Listening devices?’

Matthew nods. ‘I’ve heard rumours of them being secretly installed. Trust me Sam, things are going to get stricter, not freer. Things will get much, much worse. Soon there won’t be any safe place to hold a conversation with all the surveillance the government are legalising.’

I glance at the photograph of Marcy Hicks. Looks like her days are numbered. Perhaps mine are too.

At work that afternoon I write my usual column. Following the sacking of Matthew, the atmosphere is tense. Doug avoids me for much of the day, and Francis keeps glancing in my direction with an expression of suspicion mingled with worry. I think he fears I might use his name, should I press the matter of the faked photographs.

However, I have decided to let the matter rest. Without a photographic expert stating one hundred percent that the photos are fake, I cannot hope to get justice for Matthew, nor bring down Christy Hendrick. I consider visiting an independent photographic expert, outside of Badger, but given that the story made national news, I doubt anyone would be prepared to go up against the New Puritan party. Such is the grip they hold over the NPAR.

On the way home, I lurk outside the elementary school, hoping to catch a glimpse of the teacher with the long dark hair. But I can’t see her. I think back to when our eyes met across the playground, knowing something had passed between us in those few seconds, but frustrated that I could not find out what.

Eventually I give up and walk to the metro station, taking the train home. Once I reach my apartment I collapse on the sofa and sit with my eyes closed for some time, pondering all that has taken place. I feel angry. How can Christy Hendrick get away with this? It wouldn’t have surprised me if Doug had been protecting her too, perhaps advising her on the best way to deflect suspicion. He can be very manipulative.

I open my eyes, and again glance at the faked photographs of Matthew with Marcy Hicks. I flick through them absently, until my eyes come to rest on one showing him entering the alley where he meets Marcy. I recognise part of the logo for an Italian restaurant, and therefore I know which street this is. I absently wonder if other prostitutes can be found around that area. Perhaps they will now be hidden, considering that the place was seen in the news. I know that if Marcy Hicks has any sense she will have fled, but a part of me feels compelled to seek her out, and tell her how sorry I am.

On a whim, I decide to head out and investigate the street where the photographs were taken. I’m not quite sure why. Part of me feels the urge to try and find anyone else in the area who might know where Marcy is hiding. Another part of me is curious about any other prostitutes who might be in the vicinity. If I’m honest, I am not entirely sure what I will do if I find one. I cannot guarantee I won’t obtain their services. Such an act would be reckless, especially given what just happened to Matthew. But competing with my darker angels, an annoyingly noble part of me wants to try and find someone who knows where Marcy is hiding. I feel a peculiar urge to help her. She should not suffer just because Christy Hendrick has used her as a pawn.

Upon reaching the street where I know the photographs were taken, I take care not to loiter. I know this area is almost certainly under surveillance. Nonetheless, I glance at the alleyway, and the apartment block beyond, where Marcy Hicks supposedly had sex with Matthew Ingram. There are no obvious signs of the area being frequented by anyone in the criminal underworld. Traffic rushes past. People head in and out of restaurants. The wind picks up a little, and I start to wonder what possessed me to leave the warmth of my flat. What did I expect to find?

Feeling a little foolish, I turn to head back. Behind me I hear a voice.

‘You’re a party member?’

I turn to see a tall man in a long trench coat and trilby hat. He smiles, and I have an uncomfortable feeling he can see right through me. Before I can reply, he answers his own question.

‘I don’t think you are. Too awkward. Too out of place.’

I open my mouth, but can’t think of anything to say.

‘You can relax,’ the man continues. ‘The party has agents working undercover to try and infiltrate, but they are obvious and easy to avoid. Yes, they’ve got this place under surveillance, but it’s impossible to put us out of business. We’re like that dandelion that you can never completely uproot.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, I think you do. I also know what you’re looking for, but you won’t find it here.’

‘I’m not looking for anything.’

The man nods approvingly. ‘Admirable caution. I’ll just say 26th Avenue West, Newton Street. If you want what was here, you’ll find it there.’

The man walks away and disappears around a corner. Perhaps he has been stationed here by a criminal gang to redirect potential clients to where they can now find prostitutes. It seems a likely explanation. Either way, I decide to head to 26th Avenue West, to try and find someone who knows Marcy Hicks. Or to try and… Well, I don’t know. I’ve never hired a prostitute before. Has it really come to this?

I take the metro line to 26th Avenue West, a somewhat run-down residential area near a park, with tall apartment buildings on all sides. At first the streets seem deserted, but as I approach Newton Street, I see figures flitting in and out of the shadows. The place is poorly lit, and I begin to feel uneasy. Shivering in the night air, I move closer, wondering if I dare approach anyone. What if the man who sent me here was an agent of the party after all, and is using this as a place to snare the immoral? A voice in my head yells at me to leave and don’t look back.

An attractive woman stands nearby. She’s dressed according to the strict regulations governing female attire, with a long dress that covers her legs. But the look on her face as she catches my eyes seems to beckon me. I approach her and begin to speak.

‘Are you someone with whom I might conduct business?’

The woman laughs. ‘You’re a cautious one.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes?’

‘You’ve not done this before have you?’

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘These days, a girl must be cautious. I can’t take risks with someone I don’t know. Here’s how this works: you give me personal details. We investigate to make sure you’re telling the truth. If we’re convinced you’re not a high risk, you can return here, and we’ll make arrangements.’

The woman glances at her watch.

‘I can only stand here for another ten minutes to try and find new business, before I have a long list of appointments to attend to, so why don’t you start with your name?’

‘Actually, I want to ask you about another name,’ I say.

The woman’s smile melts. ‘If you’re police, I’ve said nothing that you can arrest me for.’

‘I know you’re being careful, but rest assured I’m not the police. I’m looking for Marcy Hicks.’

‘Everyone is looking for Marcy, especially the police. I think we’re done talking here.’

‘But I want to help her.’

The woman scoffs. ‘No one can help her now.’

She walks away. I feel powerless and irritated. A few other prostitutes lurk nearby, and I consider approaching one of them instead. However, it is unlikely they would be any more forthcoming. I decide to cut my losses and head home.

Just before leaving Newton Street, I glance behind me and see another woman following. Her face is hidden by the hood of a coat. Unsettled, I increase my pace, but behind me echoing footsteps inform me the woman is walking faster. Is she trying to catch up? What does she want from me?

I walk even faster, but the woman behind me breaks into a run. Panic hits me, and I consider running, but at that point she cries out.

‘Wait! Please!’

I halt and turn. Part of me expects to see Christy Hendrick. Perhaps she followed me and wants to blackmail me. Just being seen around prostitutes could land me in serious trouble.

A streetlight illuminates my pursuer as she moves closer. I try not to stare in amazement.

The teacher with the long dark hair in the elementary school.

It’s her.

To be continued in Part 1, Chapter 4.

Copyright 2020 Simon Dillon. The moral rights of the author have been asserted. For more information about Peaceful Quiet Lives, including articles exploring the themes, inspiration, and initial reactions, as well as purchase links for e-books and paperbacks of the novel, click here. For more information about Simon Dillon on Medium, click here.