The Poor List - Synopsis

Set in the UK plc in a very near future, The Poor List is the story of one man’s accidental journey through the uncharted waters of the War on Terror and out again. After a stint working for the government and a failed music business career, Curtis McCabe has found a job working for Acamedia University in South London. His work,under the exiled American Professor Morton Studds, is to ‘do a Rich List in reverse.’ McCabe’s, along with five other researchers, (one of whom has just been found dead), are to trawl the country’s urban centres, soup kitchens, refuge centres and hollowed out cities to find the top 100 poorest people in the country for a project ‘vital to the country’s renewal’ (but which is,in effect, a type of game show designed, inter alia, to boost the PR needs of the Acamedia chain of Universities). In order to preserve academic objectivity and in the name of scientific authenticity the researchers have had to immerse themselves in the milieu that they have been studying. This has meant assuming false names and working undercover in order to collect independent data. After two years in the field, McCabe has collected a mountain of (practically unusable) research and has come under pressure from his supervisors to produce articles, synopses and a film or his promised lifelong job will disappear. His penultimate study, his last chance, will take him up north to work for a council sub contractor outfit whose bosses are part of a network of very dangerous and very powerful people. Here McCabe finally meets who he thinks will play as the top five poorest people in the country. But, instead, his relationship with them, their friends and other acquaintances not only changes McCabe’s perspectives on a lot of things but slowly ensnares them and him in a haunted and viscous world of corrupt intelligence agents, political sociopaths and deviants who are at the centre of an immense Psy Ops operation that might or might not be being played out on mainland Britain; an operation that McCabe’s two sets of bosses may well be playing decisive parts and about which McCabe has no idea of the murderous scale of, or on whose side he is meant to be, until it is virtually too late. In the meantime, McCabe has been abducted, temporarily, by some of his former employees who need him for some infiltration work of their own. Plus, McCabe is determined to find out what happened to the supposed love of his life who disappeared on a ISD mission, as it turns out, quite similar to the one he has just been thrust into. Thus begins a hilarious tale of , subterfuge, sex terrorism and philosophy, full of unconventional and outrageous characters, set against a backdrop of an almost unrecognizable Britain in the midst of a political and social crisis that threatens to tear the country apart.

Work in progress/Forthcoming: McCabe looked through the clear side of the two way mirror. A man was bent over a formica table, his trousers pulled down. Judging by his exposed rump the detainee was some thin middle aged Caucasian. Two other operatives looked on

distractedly. Holding his erect penis in his left hand, Boyd readied himself. McCabe heard Boyd’s timberless voice through the intercom say, “Cheer up love. It’s not the two inch of cock that does it, but the twenty two stone behind it.”

Chapter ten excerpt: “. . . The crowd was now furious. Some of them had organized themselves into groups and had started to throw bricks and bottles at the police lines. Others had camcorders with them. One was filming the car. He held the small machine up to his face and focused on the Trooper. He were subdued anyway by a couple of huge police officers and dragged away. Somewhere further up the sloping road a police officer, detached from his colleagues,got upended by three hooded figures and somebody whooped with frenzied joy leaping over the Trooper’s bonnet. Boyd edged through the human soup forcing people out of the way trying to get to the other side of the road. The noise outside then boomed exponentionally into a roar of rage and triumph “Fuck.” There was another heavy thud. From top left, a watery yellow liquid bubbled down the Trooper’s front windscreen. Boydy swore again and flicked the spray and wiper stalks. The car was being hit continually now. A squad of about eight shielded and visored operatives rushed past them, manhandled and truncheoned whoever got in their way and snatched a group of people by Lisa’s side of the car. In the struggle McCabe saw a small woman of about thirty disappear under a busy scrum of officers. Someone wrenched the bag from about her shoulders and its contents sprayed briefly into the air. There was another surge of screams and noise as the police hauled away a thrashing figure. Other individuals around her pushed and struggled but were forced back with huge plastic shields or coshed with batons. A pall of dark languid smoke curled high over their heads from streets further down. “ Get this scum off to a containment area or something.” Boydy shouted. “No politics please.” Tony slurred. “You read too much Daily Mail Boydy. The correct term for these people is ‘useless eaters’.” “Nothing wrong with the Daily Mail.” “I’m a fuckin’ philosophu me.” Boydy told them and laughed from a wide lob sided maw. “I think I knew her.” He said into the din and scanned the swirling crowd. But the woman was nowhere to be seen. McCabe twisted himself back round and from his high seat briefly caught sight of all the glass, clothing, sodden cardboard signs and all the rubbly rubbish beneath…

…Another traffic cone flew past the window to McCabe’s left and landed on a woman’s back. A Molotov cocktail arced through the air and exploded somewhere up ahead with a noise like someone’s head hitting a pillow. They picked up speed. The riot police in front of them cleared a path, beating back the crowd. People started to hammer, frenziedly now, on the roof and windows of the Trooper. The crowd engulfed the policemen momentarily. Boydy swore and stopped. A mob of people started to pound the car’s bonnet, windows and roof. Distorted and angry faces pressed themselves up against the windows and started to rock the Trooper from side to side. “Carry on Boydy, carry on. We can’t stop here all fucking day.” Dermott shouted dropping something bright and heavy. Boydy revved the engine. The swaying ceased and a man clambered up onto the front of the Trooper. “Fuck this and fuck you sunshine.” …Later by the museum McCabe said “I think I’m still in a state of shock. I’m not made out for this type of work.” “Don’t fret,” Tony told him. “You won’t be going point just yet.” Some Reviews “- A terrible indictment of all that is wrong with contemporary Britain. Lock this depraved ‘writer’ up.” [hypothetical] The Daily Mail “… a dark satire on the war on terror.” Wigan Review of Books “Please find enclosed your manuscript. Thank you for thinking about Random House in your quest to get published.” Random House