Chapter 3: On The OC

James didn't go straight back to the flat. The last thing he wanted was his landlady asking why he was there in the middle of the day. He managed to make a coffee last an hour at a stand up booth round the back of the bus station. He'd moved on when a black and white had pulled up, its crew looking for their morning break. He walked for another hour or more, staying off the main streets. Then he queued up with others — no doubt also newly work free as a result of the latest initiative - at the mis-named "Opportunity Centre" to make sure that he was at least registered as looking for work. The girl behind the counter hadn't made any effort to suggest any likely "opportunities" she couldn't even tell him when the next round of sponsorship interviews were likely to be scheduled.

"No," she said, pushing his registration card across the counter, "we've heard nothing here. Been a rush on today. Lots of you solitaries having a change of heart are you?"

He shrugged and took the OC — as the Opportunity Card was known to all. It was a joke. "Being on the OC" meant doing nothing in the slang of his mates. Still, he thought as he slipped it into his pocket, at least it gives me a reason for being out on the streets.

He stepped out on to the street. Women were pouring out of the office buildings, heading for lunch. He tried to stay out of the way of the more boisterous groups as they went in search of vodka and sushi — the currently fashionable lunchtime deal. They'd be even worse when the bars turned out he thought.

The sharp stainless steel and neon facades of the vodka bars held no attraction for him, even if he'd been able to go in, which he couldn't; even if he had the money, which he hadn't. Every one of the doors on the main street had the same sign, the Mars symbol in a red circle with a red diagonal line through it. One of them even used a graffiti style sign with the arrow pointing down as its logo. 'The Broken Arrow' it said over the door. He glanced through the window as he passed. Male waiters, of course, made their way between the tables, dressed in short skirt like garments barely covering their genitals and strappy sandals. They were naked from the waist up. James knew the sort of reaction they'd get from the clientele. But at least they had jobs.

There were still a few places where he could get a sandwich or a bowl of soup. Down towards the river. He could try down there. It started to rain. He didn't even bother to turn up the collar on his coat. He'd be soaked soon enough whatever happened. The first place he tried was shut. Black and yellow tape criss-crossed the door. "Police — Crime Scene — Do Not Enter" it said on the tape. James could imagine what the crime had been. Serving food to solitaries was enough to attract the attention of the black and whites.

Around the corner, one last place was open. It was filled with others like himself. He got a bowl of soup and a crust of bread and found an edge of a table to perch on. A discarded copy of the day's free newspaper lay on the table. He took it up without much hope of finding anything other than government propaganda.

It was pretty much as he had expected. The news pages had details of the previous night's ministerial broadcast, scare stuff on plots against the government and the threat posed by dissidents. There was an article by the minister responsible for the Sponsorship Programme highlighting the contribution it made to public order and social cohesion and announcing the launch of their new hot line allowing public spirited individuals to call in details of anyone suspected of being an unregistered solitary.

He managed to spend another hour on his soup. Finally he was attracting enough disapproving looks from behind the counter to encourage him to leave.

James found his way back to his flat. Luckily, his landlady was out. He let himself in and sank down on the couch.

He slipped his ident card into the television set and got the validated message. It seemed to him that it took a little longer than usual. Why was that? Paranoia, he thought. He flipped through the channels, three of them had blanked screens with the "no males" symbol showing. He didn't waste his time staring at them, the ident card made sure he couldn't access "unsuitable" material as the government had it. The fourth screen at least was showing a programme he could watch, More news though; more current affairs, more propaganda. Florence Daniels was being interviewed again, this time about some of the latest measures introduced by the Ministry of Home Affairs. "It's very important," she was saying, "that sponsored males have the chance to contribute to the household fully. That means being engaged in the domestic tasks of the household as well as contributing by their earnings from the workplace. After all it's only reasonable that sponsors should benefit from the time and effort they put in."

"Would you like to comment Minister on reports that the government is to legislate on aspects of sexual behaviour within the household?"

"I'm not sure I want to give these reports any credence by commenting on them, Kirsty, The position of New Order has been consistent on this. We don't believe in interfering in people's personal morality. Of course there are some practices that we don't believe are appropriate in today's society."

"You're talking here about fellatio and male on female penetrative sex?"

"Yes. I think it's hard to see those activities as consistent with the sort of society we are trying to build. I think we've been pretty clear that we feel that sort of thing is symptomatic of a failure to recognise the new position of women in society and that there is really no justification for its continuation. These practices aren't widespread, though, and we certainly see no need for legislation on these matters at this time."

Even the mention of sex made James nervous. Of course he masturbated, what man didn't? What woman for that matter? And, as far as he knew, the government hadn't outlawed that. Yet. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had sex with a woman though. Before the first New Order election, certainly. As Florence Daniels said, they hadn't legislated against it, but the social climate sure as hell had made it unlikely! Unless you were in some sort of relationship or sponsorship, in which case you'd be having sex in some other way whether you wanted it or not.

"Well thank you Minister," the interviewer was winding things up. She turned back to the screen. "There will be a discussion later tonight on the Government's measures to counter dissident activity. So be sure to tune in to News Night with Gail Trimble at 22:30."

James frowned. The 'dissidents' just seemed to be an excuse for whatever repressive measures the government wanted to introduce. He decided to get some coffee and got to his feet.

Just as he did so, he heard a knock on his door. He opened it warily. There were three women there, two uniformed police officers and another in plain clothes. The woman in plain clothes peered at him distastefully. "James Leonard?" she said.

She flashed an identity card at him. He didn't really get the opportunity to read it.

"Accommodation check," she said. "Stand by the wall please," and then after a noticeable pause, "Sir."

James knew about the checks. Last year, when a number of dissidents had been arrested on conspiracy charges, the Government introduced spot checks on accommodation occupied by un-sponsored, ident card holders. He had heard about them but this was the first time they had called on him. It wouldn't take them long he thought looking around the room.

"By the wall, the officer told you," barked one of the uniformed women. James jumped to respond. "Thank you, Sir," she said with snarled politeness. "But turn around please." As he did so he felt the women push the top of her night stick between his buttocks. She stood very close to him and hissed in his ear, "and if you make a move, I'll shove this so far up your arse you'll feel it in the back of your throat."