The Shift of Numbers

Copyright © David Warrington 2010

David Warrington asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the works of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN: 978-1-4709-3061-5

“The country was founded on the principle that the primary role of government is to protect property from the majority, and so it remains.”

Noam Chomsky

Michael adjusted the looking gla
ss with his thin nimble fingers. Each one seemed
perfectly
designed for the task at hand
. He peered through the bronze magnifier att
ached to his glasses and with
expert movement
s removed another tiny butterfly-
shaped piece of metal.
He sat in a hug
e circular room with bare
white-
washed
walls and no windows. The ceiling was domed and melted into the walls, giving the impression of an underground chapel or mosque. In the centre, dwarfed by the space around it, stood an intricate mechanical device about the size of an elephant and a sturdy wooden desk that Michael sat dutifully at. The only echoed sound - an occasional whir or buzz - came from the cameras attached high on the walls as they zoomed and moved around, each placed equidistantly around the lofty circle.
He stopped for a moment lost in thought, his mind reliving the events of the morning…

As was his routine, he had caught the train from Aldgate, an opulent area in the suburbs close to the capital. Then it was a short walk through the lively bustling streets to the vast government building he was now in. It felt to Michael, fighting through early morning befuddlement, marching, hunched and automatic through the footsteps of his everyday route that the warm rainy drizzle was bleaching the life out of the walls surrounding him. Pools of vibrant colo
u
r mercilessly washed
down into the dank and
extremely effective maze of tunne
ls and pipes beneath his feet, l
ike someone was
rubbing energy
out of the city and depositing it in a river heading swiftly towards the sea, to be further diluted. Only until the sun goes down, he mused, as
he passed another half-
finished
watercolour
of a coffee shop, until the neon glow of night reignites the city and
the walls are repainted,
energised
and refreshed.

At the edge of his con
s
ci
ou
sness
,
through the whoosh and sputter of the wind and rain
,
he could hear the latest 3-minute overplayed wonder offered up by popular music culture. This tinny insubstantial offering came from an open taxi window that crawled along besides him at walking pace. The window opened presumably to offer the world a
morsel
of this musical marvel, a moving stage made complete with swirling
bitter
smoke from the cabby’
s tapping fingers. The song tried to offer him a glimpse into a world filled with meaning, a whole relationship squeezed
into verse. He didn’t get it, b
eing spoon-fed other people’s feelings in bit
e-size chunks, never living the dream but
realising
what it is via song, s
ensation creating the need to listen again and again, all the while subconsciously learning t
o desire the feeling it creates,
a
ll available at the push of a button.

…Snapping out of his reverie, he noticed a shrill woman’s voice some distance ahead calling his name. As he walked, peering through the human traffic
,
an elderly looking woman was upon him
,
grabbing at his arm.

“MICHAEL,” she exclaimed in a disbelieving voice,” I can’t believe it’s you!”

“Hello
,” r
eplied Michael
, vaguely
recognising
the face
(or, at least, its origins before it had been covered in a mask of wrinkled, papery skin)
.

“What ar…” she managed t
o say before a loud bang originating from the direction of the road momentarily deafened them both. Before he could look round to find its cause
,
he found himself on the floor, being pressed downwards by what felt like a very large person. Out of the corner of his eye, cheek pressed onto the grimy wet concrete
,
he saw several children running away from an expensive car, watched speechless
ly
by all on the street
. (Later he realis
ed that despite all the commotion he still
placed a value on the car in an instant and transferr
ed that meaning firmly
onto the unfolding situation: c
heap car, transporting illegitimate kids to school
-
maybe a misfire
;
pricy car equals mafia bombs, excitement and
, perhaps,
a touch of intrigue
.
) Glancing back he caught sight of t
he woman he was just speaking to being quickly le
d away and placed unceremoniously into the ba
ck of a car (black and valuable
). Suddenly he felt himself lifted onto his feet by strong arms. Quickly looking around, he saw the back of a muscular gentleman in a suit jogging swiftly away. As he unconsciously patted himself down to check for any injury and searching for something to wipe the street off his face
,
he r
ealis
ed everyone was looking at him.

“Michael…Michael?” Awoken from his reminiscence, he looked up to see the tea lady pointing at a cup of tea expectantly.

Michael worked
as a master p
rinter. His primary job consisted
of making printin
g plates by hand. These plates we
re what the government
used to print money. It was
an intri
cate and delicate job that took
up 6 hours of his day. For his service to the company
,
and indeed the whole country
, he wa
s paid
,
on a yearly basis
,
120 thousand
of the pounds he made
so well. By far th
e most important part of his week began as soon as he arrived
; even with today’s intrigue he still made it in on time. In fact
, he prided himself on his punctuality; he hadn’t been late in 13 years. T
he last
time was
when his wife had gone into labour causing him to miss the 8:04 from Aldgate.

This special job only took 15 minutes but was the glue that bonded
his
country together. He received
a red envelope, delivered by armoured car at exactly 5 past 9. In this envelope
was a letter telling him
the amount
of currency the government would
need producing over the next week. Not 1 note above or 1 note below this number must be
produced, or the whole country’s monetary system would
be thrown into chaos - well that’s what
he was
told regularly.

The number in the envelope wa
s
then programmed into a wondrous
looking machine. It could only be described as a large lur
ching mechanical insect that spa
t out sheets of money at regular intervals. Michael’s beautiful plates comprise
d
a small part of the exot
ically designed innards and had to
be replaced every few months, keeping his nimble fingers busy. Every piece of valuabl
e paper printed in this way had to be
counted and packaged, ready for another armoured car to pick it up. Interestingly
, if the money wa
s sto
len on the way to the bank, it wa
s still circulating in the community in which it was intended to be spent and as such would be of little consequence to the country as a whole. On the other hand
, if the
red envelope was intercepted and
the number in it
changed, the correct amount of new notes would not be produced, creating chaotic waves in the equilibrium of the monetary system.

*

Joan worked
across town from Michael in a factory. Her job may well
have
be
en
as important to the country as Michael
’
s,
but for her 8 hours a day she wa
s paid 13 thousan
d pounds per year. Joan destroyed the money that wa
s so carefully made across
town. She and a 43-strong workforce did this, as the money got dirty, torn and soiled. Money wa
s delivered in an armoured car every 12 hou
rs to the factory. Michael knew why the money wa
s delivered to the factory in an armoured ca
r and in his social circles it wa
s considered as a bit of a joke
. (It wa
s
so
as not to devalue the perception of the worth of the dirty little pieces of paper,
rather
than to keep the robbers at bay). You see, due to the skill of Michael at making his plates
, it wa
s nearly impossible to
counterfeit the notes and this wa
s the basis
on which the whole system worked
. So
,
at any given time
,
a small computer in the basement of a h
igh security government contained two numbers. The first wa
s the most important of numbers and today it
wa
s
13,324,284,734.65
. This number wa
s the amount of currenc
y in pounds that the country had
in
circulation. The second number wa
s the total amount of money in the country, bo
th electronic and “real”; this wa
s a very large number.

In this country, like m
any others, the government taxed its people’s wages and it taxed everything they bought
. For example
,
a carrot that was grown by Bill would be sold to a shop for 8p; Bill would have to give 5 percent of his 8p to the government. The shop would then sell on the carrot to Michael for 16p and give 5 perc
ent of this to the government. S
ubsequently
, Michael would
eat the carrot. So the carrot Bill grew would have earned the government 1.2p and
,
for some time
,
Bill was the only per
son who grew carrots. This meant that, if he made
too many carrots
, they would be worth less and this was
due to
the fact that there were
only so many carrots people would
buy. To sell a greater number of carrots would require
either
reducing the price to make them more attractive to the consumer or spending money on advertising to increase consumer awareness of his product. Bill had been known
,
on a number of occasions
,
to destroy quantities of carrots with this very thought in mind.

Bill
’
s problem arose when John - another farmer - started up his o
wn carrot farm convinced that it
was
a
good way to make money, but placing him in direct competition with Bill. The
upshot was that both of them had
to make their produce appear more attractive to con
sumers like Michael. They did
this by lowering the price of their
carrots and making
better looking
carrots.
So
,
in consequence
,
they both
strived
to produce more handsome carrots in a sho
rter time than ever before. And Michael had never bought
a cheaper, more beautiful carrot in all his life.

Unfortunately, living in a small country that could only sustain 1
commercial
carrot f
arm, both farmers had a problem:
they were both working extended hours to produce exquisite looking carrots and were both skint. Bill was even having marital difficulties affected by this state of affairs – his wife had no money.

Both Bill and John realise
d
after some time that thi
ngs couldn’t go on as they were;
both had very little money and even less free time. So
,
they organised a meeting in a local pub to put th
eir affairs in order. A
fter a lot of shouting (mainly by Bill about his wife) and a large quantity of ale, John had an idea. Its simplicity was foolproof - they would get a respected scientist to tell the newspapers that carrots contain
ed
special chemicals that prevent
ed blindness and actually improved
eyesight. The only stumbling block would be the scientific community; but
,
by using all the
ir combined savings and finding,
via some dodgy
business types,
a suitably malleable scientist, the plan was set
in motion.