Here is a short story set in future times when the great global warming swindle has evolved to cause suffering and injustice. Enjoy.

I felt like slitting my wrists as I gazed through my office window to the river beyond. Many stories below, a broad avenue was baking in the fierce sunlight. Although until recently this grand thoroughfare had teemed purposefully, now it was deserted except for the occasional clatter of hooves.

Even though it was Sunday, and even though my children were not yet old enough to understand, I was now slightly less at odds with the stricter energy rationing that had forced my working practices to change. I had explained this in detail to my dear wife on many occasions, but she found adapting to the currently fashionable political ideas almost impossible. Naturally, I did not enjoy having to work seven days each week to accommodate the latest rules. However, I knew that in time some new entity would rise to prominence and declare those rules as false; the only true source of concern, therefore, was how long that wait would be and whether, when change inevitably arrived, the new rules would be even harsher.

In the meantime, my problem was that as an architect I need quality light. A steady, clear illumination such as on a day like today, rather than the unreliable flicker of a candle. Like most I had experimented in the early days, hoping to preserve my old routines and work outside the hours of daylight; but even a room filled with candles had proven to be unsuitable for my professional requirements. In fact, notwithstanding the growing body of expert opinion to the contrary, a flame’s constant motion always left me feeling nauseous and ill-tempered.

As I reflected on the fact that my boys now stayed in bed, rather than wave me off with a kiss each morning, I was distracted by the sound of a car. I immediately hopped from my chair, throwing open the great sash window for a better view. After a minute or two I spotted it. A black car, carrying only the driver, was crawling along the tarmac. Its pace was so slow that I had time to mix a cold Manhattan. By the time I returned to the window with my cocktail the car was almost beneath me; so close in fact that I could make out the driver’s moustache.

I glanced away from the car only because I heard some shouting. On the pavement, a male and female were throwing punches at each other. The man was dressed in the undyed fabrics that were now the standard attire of people of modest status. From  my vantage point the female appeared to be much younger, at least judging by her infantile physique. She referred to herself as Nancy and was making her point most forcefully, bringing herself close to tears whilst clawing his neck. Some coins flew from the man’s hand and Nancy dropped to her knees to collect them as though claiming a debt. Once free of her grip the man stumbled about, kicking his feet and waving his fists. After scooping up all the cash, Nancy clambered to her feet letting fly with comments about the size and functionality of his genitalia plus allegations about his sexual orientation, inadequate personal hygiene and inability to hold his booze. In response, the man spat, unsheathed his sword and charged at the childish female who easily side-stepped her attacker and, as he blundered past, shoved him in the back thereby hurling him onto the road.

I leant out of the window as far as I dared, but the point of impact was hidden by the branches of a tree. Nancy’s screams and the yelping brakes left me fearing the worst. By the time I arrived on the pavement both man and car were motionless in the road. A crowd had already gathered. At its centre Nancy appeared distraught, pushing the people away and hissing for all she was worth.

“She’s in shock! Look how she fights us. Come now dear, let us comfort you,” said a tall gentlemen who seemed to be the leader. He tried again to put his arms round Nancy, but she misinterpreted this kindness and clawed at this face.

“Have you sent the boy?” shouted someone from the road. “We need to get the police here now, I don’t know how long I can restrain him!”

I skirted the crowd and ran into the road looking for the man. In front of me was the driver with his head forced against the bonnet of his car and his arm pulled high up his back by a man called Simon. Some feet away from the car the man lay motionless. The crowd had decided leave him for the medics, presumably for fear of worsening his injuries.

Simon’s grip must have been strong because the driver began crying. “He came from nowhere! I wasn’t going fast, he came from nowhere!”

“Not going fast! It was like you had murder on your mind,” shrieked a new voice as Simon again called for the boy to bring the police. “I saw the whole thing and as the Lord is my witness you were going well over twenty.”

The crowd roared with horror.

“For the love of God what were you thinking?”

“Over twenty!”

“Murderer!”

Just as I was about to make myself heard over the din Nancy made a run for it.

“Grab her, she’s traumatised. The poor baby needs help. The police will comfort her, give her a hot meal,” declared the tall gentleman.

Three obliging men gave chase and soon returned with Nancy who was now red faced and crying uncontrollably. They left her in the care of a burly woman called Bessie who began comforting her. In the meantime the three men stood guard in case Nancy tried to flee again.

After almost an hour the crowd, which was now over forty strong, grew impatient. In the circumstances I doubt that I was the only one to feel relieved when, at long last, there was a shout from one of the lookouts followed by a great cheer as two policemen cantered into view.

“The boy got through, the boy did it!” they all sang and clapped.

Simon was so relieved that he loosened his grip allowing the driver to stand upright and rub the swelling around his left eye.

The tall gentleman strode into the road and flagged the policemen down. The senior officer, who held the rank of sergeant, reigned in his panting mare and jumped off.

“Officer, there he is, by the car. My friend has detained him pending your arrival.”

“What is all this?” asked the sergeant, pushing people off him because he needed room to pull on his high visibility jacket. “What’s occurring?”

“That ‘man’ has driven his car at such a speed as to make it nothing short of a weapon. No less dangerous than the bullets in your rifle or the blade in your sheath.”

“He was doing more that twenty, we witnessed it, we saw it first hand!”

“More that twenty?” queried the officer, now appreciating the gravity of the crime. He signalled to his colleague, who dismounted and (after successfully donning his high visibility jacket) ran towards the driver brandishing his cuffs.

At this moment I fought through the throng so that I was close enough to make myself heard. “Sergeant, I must speak with you. My name is Martin Verity and I work in that office,” I began, pointing to my window that was still open. “I saw the entire incident. I can tell you this much, that car was going no more than ten. At the most! That woman,” I said, now pointing at the wretch in Bessie’s loving arms, “pushed the victim into the road. The driver had no chance.”

“A victim you say? What is all this?” asked the sergeant who was being overpowered by the weight of people closing in to listen.

“There sir,” I shouted, forcing myself through with an enormous shove, using my shoulder and arms to clear a path.

“Ah, I see…has someone called for an ambulance?” asked the sergeant, wiping his sweaty brow with his silk riding glove.”

“We sent the boy for the ambulance as soon as he found you. I hear they are on their way.”

“They’re held up in the city centre,” called one of the lookouts, “by the buses. Apparently the buses have all stopped and nothing can get through.”

“So be it,” said the sergeant as we both bent down to inspect the man.

We immediately recoiled at the powerful stench of alcohol seeping from him as he started making a terrible moaning sound.

“What is all this?” asked the tall gentleman peevishly. “The driver’s over there. Come sir, let’s bring this to an end. And please make sure you tend to the victim’s daughter, she’s in a terrible condition being comforted by Bessie.”

“But she threw him into the road, I saw it,” said I, fighting off the arms that gripped and tugged.

“Liar! He’s a liar!” boomed the crowd. “Why does he accuse a poor girl, she can’t be much more than thirteen, look at how she weeps…”

I was taken aback by the stern look that the sergeant gave me. Without another word he stormed towards the driver and waved his colleague aside with a look of menace.

“I was driving carefully, I know the rules, there was nothing I could do,” pleaded the driver pre-emptively.

At this a diminutive lady burst from the masses, fell to her knees and introduced herself as Bernadette. “I was the first on the scene,” she lied, as somewhere in the distance a siren heralded a vehicle approaching. “This so-called man has blood on his hands today officer. It was like he deliberately wanted to take a life such was his wild driving style. Rarely have I seen such disregard for human life.”

For the first time the sergeant seemed unconvinced and, realising this, Bernadette stood to her full height taking him by the hand. The crowd fell silent as she lead him to the back of the car. I followed as best I could so that I would be on hand in case anybody became interested in establishing the truth.

Over the heads that bobbed and snarled an ambulance could now be seen. Six old nags pulled it at moderate speed, flanked by an unofficial escort of scooters; the little Vespas and Piaggios weaving this way and that, ignoring traffic lights with a vengeance. In addition, dozens of young men on horseback were keeping pace admirably, their fine stallions more than a match for the scooters.

In the meantime Bernadette had removed her enormous black hat and was pointing at the rear of the car, staring at the sergeant. He did not immediately understand. Bernadette shook with frustration, as though willing him to notice the exhaust pipes. She composed herself, and then in a voice designed to reach even those at the back said, “Officer, dear sir, see…it runs on petrol…”

The pressure was immense as the onlookers fought to witness this dark twist.

Bernadette was once more on her knees crying into her hands. “What about the children!” she moaned. “The little baby children. Oh sweet baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph. For the love of all that is good, for the sake of humanity protect us, protect us all from this evil.”

The sergeant, clearly moved (as was the crowd which now stood silent) signalled for the paramedic who had arrived moments earlier. The crowd, swollen by the scooter riders and horsemen, looked on as the sergeant ordered the paramedic to apply oxygen to Bernadette.

Gradually, poor Bernadette’s suffering was eased. She clasped the oxygen mask tightly to her face, still pleading for the sake of the children. Once she was in a satisfactory condition, the sergeant knelt beside her. In order to reassure her that he understood, he placed his cheek against hers. People in the crowd also embraced, assuming that the sergeant had finally grasped the implications of what had occurred today; that he understood the full weight of the driver’s crime.

After some moments the sergeant removed the oxygen mask so he could hold Bernadette’s face. Then he nodded, and said, “I understand your pain, I feel it too. For all that is good, for the good of our children, and for the good of their children’s children, for the good of all the children of the world, I will do the right thing. I will right this wrong.”

Somewhere above a bird sang, and the sergeant’s face darkened. “Now my dear Bernadette, if you will excuse me, this I must to do personally,” he said, looking across at the girl sobbing in Bessie’s protective grip.

With his colleague at his elbow the sergeant returned to the front of the car where the driver still stood, trembling. At his signal, the younger officer clamped the driver in heavy handcuffs and held him fast. Then, in accordance with standard practice the sergeant drew his knife and sliced at the driver’s nose until it hung away from his face. There was much blood and tears of pain and pity as he then lead the driver to his horse where he shackled him to the thick leather strapping across its rear haunches.

Avoiding the dung, that now seemed to be everywhere, the sergeant addressed the driver with a solemn, even morbid, look in his eyes. “I mark thee for the sake of humanity, so that we might all have a world to share, to marvel at, for all eternity. You will be taken to the cells where further punishment will be administered. And I warn you to expect no mercy.”

This proclamation was met with approving shouts. The thought of the driver’s suffering sated the crowd’s bloodlust because, however brutal, there had to be justice.

Each officer mounted his horse and, as the people parted to let them through, the driver, who had long since abandoned his earlier protests of innocence, ran behind to avoid being dragged by his chains.

By now the sun was a little lower in the bright blue sky. Some people shuffled off, ready to recount all they had witnessed to their families and friends. I noticed the victim stir, pushing the paramedic away. He shook and rubbed his head and then stood up on the spot where he had passed out some time earlier. Then, completely unharmed, he staggered away to find Nancy who had broken free in the ensuing celebrations and was nowhere to be seen. In the circumstances I decided against offering any further argument. As I made my way back to my office I refused to watch as what remained of the crowd, lead by the tall gentleman, started dismantling the abandoned car.