What to do about Katrina, Ep. I, Act I, sc. 17-19
Hotel blues & the end of a strange day
Welcome to all of you who have only just joined us. Ironically, you have joined us at the end of day one of Katrina’s unceremonious advent into this distinctive dystopia. Although this is Act I of Episode I, and we are going with the classic 3 act narrative structure, it is also true that each act itself can be broken down into a similar 3 act structure.
Such is the case with this first act of episode one. The principle, really, is simply about ‘turning points’. We all have them. So, these following three scenes are, well, not necessarily the turning points, but they are the setup for such, which you will encounter in Katrina’s tomorrow.
But you are certainly about to discover just a little bit more about her. The other characters, of course, at this stage, really have no idea…
So, then, if you have just joined us, I don’t know if you want to leap in with all these spoilers or would you rather start at the beginning? If so, this link is my intro, and this link is the prelude and scene one.
For the previously on Katrina, you can click there. In that previous instalment, erm, hang on, I have totally forgotten! Ok - I just reminded myself. Tom talked to Malcolm, who offered a little theory about Katrina’s mental state, and Audrey, Exhibit A, developed a few doubts about her posh English boyfriend…
In this instalment, Katrina is going to get settled into the hotel, whilst Tom just needs to make one more phone call. Except it’s to the final character you’ll meet in this first little act of act one. Enter Sean…
Katrina did not have a happy time of it going shopping.
First of all she was accosted by a mask-Nazi before her two apologetic chaperones were able to intervene. Then she soon discovered that a hundred Euros was nowhere near sufficient. She just about managed to cobble together some underwear, a bra, a few T-shirts and some slacks for jogging by the time she got into the nineties.
She decided that swearing would be a ripe tactic for persuading her chaperones to part with another hundred. That was just about enough to get some (very basic) toiletries, a moderate pair of running shoes and the kind of swimsuit that was sure to add precious seconds to each length and would make tumble turns somewhat dicey. Then there were the goggles and swimming cap.
Still, once they verified her antibodies, she gambled, they’d give her a larger advance. This would have to do for now.
Happily, however, she was left with just enough change to buy her two minders a coffee by way of sincere apology.
She was good at that.
Back at the hotel she treated herself to the merciful release of a shower then sat down on the end of the bed and wondered whether the television had anything worthwhile to offer that wasn’t news.
There was fuck all on.
So she clambered over the bed, propped herself up against the pillows and switched on the phone. Maybe the Internet would have something to say for itself.
She was just about to start by typing in ‘Nash Equilibrium’ when she managed to stop herself. That would’ve been amusing and mischievous, for sure, but she was more than witty enough to understand that telling them she knew all about their algorithm and their surveillance and all the rest of it would be distinctly unwise at this early juncture.
Still, it was worth thinking from their point of view. What would they expect her to look up?
Well, she’d been ranting on about bioweapons and Covid conspiracies so it would fit perfectly with her profile to start there. Indeed, it would’ve been suspicious had she not.
“So then,” she suggested to herself, “let’s see what their official narrative says.”
She looked it up on Wikipedia.
“‘The pandemic triggered severe social and economic disruption around the world, including the largest global recession since the great depression’ !! Oh for fuck’s sake! Diseases don’t cause recessions and social disruption! People do!”
She wondered whether they’d remotely switched the phone’s microphone on. She hoped so. She would’ve been quite happy for them to hear her thinking out loud.
She read on. “Just like they intended,” she said, softly and without emotion. She shook her head in disbelief. “They really must have their brainwashing down to a masterful science.”
One can only infer, she decided, that the entire mainstream media must’ve been complicit. And that is a fantastical and terrifying thought.
Or maybe the likes of David Icke and the rest of them are on to something, maybe there is some secret brainwave transmission device hanging around the dark side of the moon or hovering in one of the Lagrange points or embedded in one of the planet’s quasi-satellites.
Or maybe it’s just basic psychology.
It would never have worked in our world, she reminded herself. It was a final act of desperation by the remnants of the globalist cabal. Even the CIA didn’t consider it an option. They knew perfectly well at least half the mainstream media, including the BBC, would’ve immediately dispatched their investigative journalists, refused to subject the common people to constant fear-induced mass hysteria and then exposed the whole sorry conspiracy before you’d even had time to sneeze.
But clearly not in this world.
Likewise the MI6 she knew in her own Britannia. It took them less than a week to follow the money and report back to Kirsten.
Fortunately, there was at least a hyperlink at the bottom of the interminably ridiculous article to what they exasperatingly called ‘misinformation’. As she surmised, it would be odd if she didn’t look up Covid conspiracies. So that’s where she headed next.
“They really don’t like the truth, do they?” she sighed. “All that misinformation to muddy the waters. 5G huh? I don’t think Elon Musk’ll be too happy you talking about Skynet, ha ha. Ah, gain of function, there we go. You’re on to something there…”
She continued scrolling down and speed-reading it. She quickly found herself becoming increasingly fed up with it, though.
“Wikipedia,” she decided out loud, hoping someone was listening, “is crap! You hear me? It’s crap! It’s not a patch on our Gaiapedia!”
She put the phone back down beside her and contemplated the opposite wall.
“9/11,” she suddenly said. “Let’s see if they had a 9/11.”
They did.
Wikipedia had the official narrative.
“It was just like they’d planned. Everything.”
She stared at the wall again.
“How many people?” It was as if she was asking the Goddess now.
She looked it up.
Three thousand on 9/11. Previously, a million from the sanctions on Iraq. And then they did it again. Another million people.
Afghanistan. Estimates vary. Hundreds of thousands. Libya. Syria. Palestine. Yemen.
She felt sick.
According to Brown University, Rhode Island, the wars of the American Empire over the previous twenty years have murdered millions and created anywhere between 37 and 59 million refugees.
They will have spent some eight trillion dollars.
“Eight trillion dollars. They could have had all the things we have. And more.”
Katrina felt even more sick.
She switched off the phone and laid it down beside her again, then turned away on her side.
But she couldn’t sleep. That’s not going to work. Not going home that way. Not yet.
“That’s how many people I saved, isn’t it?”
She knew the Goddess was listening, even if she chose not to answer.
“This is part of my penance, isn’t it? I get to see how many people died. And not be able to do a damn thing about it.”
There was no answer to that. She closed her eyes.
If you can’t sleep, just close your eyes and see nothing.
You never know. It might go away.
It might dissociate.
“Danke Markus. Bis morgen.” Tom hung up, then returned to his contact list. Audrey looked on impatiently over the top of her aperitif. “Just one more, then that’s it,” Tom reassured her, taking the opportunity of a swig of Ricard while he pulled up the number.
“I will talk to my secret lover on Twitter then.” She took another sip of pastis and returned to her phone.
“Very funny. Sean! Tom.”
Sean Macavity’s perky Dublin twang came on the line. “Thomas! What’s up my friend? Long time no hear. Scurrilous gossip, please. What’s Peter been up to?”
“Now you know perfectly well even if he did tell me, which he doesn’t, I wouldn’t be able to say.”
“Ahh, you English are no fun. We’re supposed to be on the same side, remember?”
“That’s debatable.”
“Now, now. You need to learn some diplomacy, my friend.”
“Sure. Long day.”
“Ah. Then how about lunch and you can tell me all about it?”
“Funnily enough, that’s actually why I’m calling.”
“Excellent. Continue.”
“I need a favour.”
“Hmm. And what do I get in return? How about a date with that cute thing from the Consulate. Audrey, isn’t it?”
Tom chuckled and glanced across at her. She wasn’t paying attention. “I believe she’s spoken for.”
“Typical. Does she have a sister?”
“I’ll ask. Anyway, obviously you still owe me a perfect Guinness?”
“No such thing in Paris.”
“What about that rumoured Irish pub?”
“That’s a closely guarded secret, my friend.”
“So that’s where we’ll meet for lunch, then.”
“Hah! So what’s the favour?”
“Got a pen?”
Sean got a pen. “Go on.”
“An Irish woman, Ursula Catriona Sugrue,” Tom spelled out the letters, “date of birth 05 December 1948, from County Kerry. Tralee possibly. Sugrue is the maiden name.”
“Hmm. What is she? Terrorist, notorious spy, subversive?”
Tom chuckled. “I have no idea. But we had a girl show up at the Embassy this morning claiming this woman is her mother. Except this girl is maybe seventeen or eighteen.”
“I see. Intriguing. So she’s Irish, then? Send her over.”
“Half-Irish. And that’s not a good idea. At least not at this stage, anyway. Then again, now you mention it, why she didn’t go to your Embassy is a pertinent question.”
“Suspicious, then, is she?”
“You could say that, sure. Peter definitely thinks so.”
“No change there, then.”
“Quite. On this occasion, however, he may be on to something. You’d like her, though. She’s mad and beautiful.”
Audrey looked up at him suspiciously. Tom cupped his hand over the phone and reassured her, “I need to keep him interested,” he whispered.
Audrey wasn’t convinced. She shot him a disapproving glare. Tom ignored it. “I’ll send you a picture, hold on.” Tom forwarded it to him.
A few moments later Sean whistled. “Definitely send her over. We’ll take excellent care of her.”
“She’s exceptionally high maintenance, by the way. I’d advise against it.”
“So, she’s a challenge. Even better.”
“I’m quite serious, you know. Put it this way, I intend to wake up with a hangover tomorrow.” Audrey didn’t seem to hear that one. She kept on twittering.
“That bad, huh?”
“That bad, yes. like I said, mad and beautiful. Never a good combination.”
“Mad and beautiful, eh? She’s definitely a Russian spy, then. No doubt about it. Case solved. Anything else I can help you with today, Sir?”
“Very funny, Sean,” Tom laughed, “I’d just be grateful if you can find out what you can about Ursula Sugrue in time for lunch.”
“Not a problem. See you at twelve?”
“Done.”
They both hung up.
“So you do think this girl is beautiful, then? This is not the impression you gave me before.”
“I was keeping up his interest. And I promise you, I have happily washed my hands of her for the day, and the sooner I can do that for good, once Malcolm gets here, the happier I shall be.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Shall we have another drink, then?”
Audrey smiled. “And then you want me to cook? Or you want to eat here?”
Tom leaned back and smiled at her. “Whatever you want, Audrey. You choose.”
“Hmm. Then we eat here. I am feeling lazy.”
So Tom drained the last of his glass and smiled at her again. “Excellent choice. I second that emotion.”
And Audrey smiled, and began to feel better.
Katrina had decided with herself not to be so harsh about the hotel. Tom was correct about her ingratitude, and that wasn’t her usual self. She had always prided herself on her diplomatic skills, and antagonising potential friends wasn’t particularly wise. Especially since she needed all the help she could get, and had come to understand that Tom was, indeed, the important person she was supposed to meet at the Embassy. It made her realise just how stressed and distressed she really was.
Even if it was simple, in its way, the hotel was still nicer than she expected. Halfway down a quiet backstreet, nestled amidst nineteenth century tenements. Her room was functional and comfortable and the bathroom was fresh and clean. And Netflix could wait. That wasn’t even a worry, let alone the least of them. The hotel promised a good continental breakfast, and had a cosy restaurant for a good, honest French supper. Already paid for, too. So whilst she waited Katrina decided to park herself in the little guest bar with a drink and play some more with the phone Tom gave her, whilst keeping an eye on the rolling news on the television in the corner over there. She glanced around nonchalantly at the half-dozen other guests, none of whom paid her the slightest attention. Aside from her two minders, of course, whose orders were simply to mirror her routine. She wondered about asking if they wanted to join her for dinner. Except they’d probably say no. They’d find her mad and irritating with all her burbling and perturbed by questions of a classified nature. So she ignored them.
The alcohol continued to help. Of course she knew perfectly well she’d been given the phone so they could track her movements and her Internet activity. She didn’t mind this in the slightest. After all, if you know you’re being monitored then you’re in control of the flow of information, or misinformation, as the case may be. You know what they know, and can manipulate that, if you want.
So she held the phone up and considered the matter. The mischievous part of her still wanted to just type in ‘Nash Equilibrium’, if only to tell them something about her sense of humour.
No point giving too much away too soon, though. She thought better of that idea.
But she needed to find out if people she knew existed in this world. Anna Marten. Her civil wife and her soulmate. KGB cryptonym, MACMILLAN. If she is in this world, the watchers can’t know that. Same for Sarah Bishop. Cryptonym, NIMZO. They mustn’t ever know.
Except Katrina couldn’t exactly just type their names into the search engine. Especially not Google, which seemed to be the default on this phone. She considered looking up a different search engine, one not necessarily associated with nefarious metadata-gathering organisations with three letter acronyms, but even typing that in would raise questions. Besides, how would she know which search engines were acceptable in this world? Or even if there were any.
So she needed to make that search history believable and innocent. Hide Anna’s name within a long list of journalists she knew, perhaps. She would start with ones from the world of sports and entertainment, then perhaps move on to politics. Perhaps the British political journal, The New Statesman, for whom Katrina wrote a column when she was young. Socialist journal for whom Anna worked, diligently poking diatribes at the evils of Thatcherism interspersed with cunningly worded scurrilous exposés of junior Tory ministers, ably assisted by information delivered anonymously by sources embedded in the civil service. Many of whom, of course, just happened to be KGB. Of course Anna wasn’t to know that, though, was she?
If Anna had been discovered in this world, then her name would be mentioned on the Wikipedia entry for the journal. It’s not the kind of thing they’d leave out. She scrolled down the page, list of notable journalists associated with the publication.
She caught her breath, and lowered her eyes sadly. Anna wasn’t there.
Girton College, Cambridge. Notable alumni. Not there either.
She sighed and ordered another drink. Well, she supposed she could tell them whatever she wanted about Anna. She’s just a journalist, she would say. MACMILLAN? Never heard of that codename. Doesn’t exist. Forget it.
She tried not to think about Sasha. Maybe he was still alive in this world. Old enough to be her father and with a different wife and different children. He wouldn’t know her from Eve. He would not be hers.
She wondered whether this meant that she really could be free. A kind of emotional liberation. A new start, in a new world. In a different place. If she could get through the inevitable biographical questions. Like how come you ended up marrying a guy who worked for the KGB and moving to Moscow and all the rest of it? Were you a spy, too? If she could get through that, then they’d leave her alone.
And then what? Good question.
She looked across at the television, not really watching, just staring and thinking.
Then she had an idea. There should be a Commonwealth Games next year. She typed it in. Birmingham, apparently, end of July. Long enough for her to do the necessary training. Sure, the standard would be much higher than it was in her day, thirty years earlier, but that would just make it even more exciting and dramatic and challenging. And she so loved to swim and to run. Escape from the world. Leave it all behind. Just her and the water and the clock. It would take her a while, she knew, to become accustomed to her younger body again, but if, as she suspected, she was nearly eighteen, then that was around the time she first made the national team. And maybe she could do her music again and try and be an actress. The thing she loved the most.
Now that would be a challenge. Having to start from unknown obscurity like everybody else. Where the only thing you have going for you is talent. Being able to bypass all that by having a rich Scorpio boyfriend who lends you the money to make your own movies, well, that could be construed as cheating.
And as far as Katrina was concerned, cheating was a cardinal sin. Almost as bad as betraying a comrade.
That was the worst of all possible sins. That wouldn’t just end you up in Purgatory. That ends you up in Hell.
And Katrina never wanted to go anywhere near that place. After all, she knew exactly what that looked like.
And so she put the phone back down on the table, and thought even harder about making decisions.
By the end of supper, she’d made the right ones.
Still, always better to sleep on these matters.
And if she really can’t go home yet, if that was the will of the Goddess, then maybe she could at least dream it.
If that was her will…
To be continued…