Out-and-Out Liars; Of Ice, Fur and Fire. (Chapter 4, Part 5)

 

 

                                                                                 5.

 

She was daughter of a mercenary and mercantile race, National Geographic Magazine sent her the DNA mouth swab kit the result of which revealed that her ancestors had never travelled outside the British Isles and never mixed; she was one hundred percent Anglo-Saxon. Hadn’t they originally filled a vacuum left by the retreating Romans as occupying force? So why should she feel any qualms, over a dozen centuries later, about asset stripping a land her Germanic ancestors had meant to…well, asset strip anyway. Karen Smith was twenty-six, she had been in London only three years now found herself in the privileged and very lucrative position of negotiating the telephone bid at the world famous Auction House Christies on behalf of a Saudi Prince for, (page 13-18 in the catalogue),  Lot 26: The United Kingdom, otherwise known as Great Britain,

 

One hundred and fifty pounds… over there.” Bellowed the middle-aged, ruddy faced auctioneer in a cut-glass accent and the alcoholic shakes as he leered out among the general tat of a country that would soon only exist only on the Footsie 100, Nasdaq, in cyber-space and on BBC Radio 4. and which was about to come under the hammer. The country was already being auctioned off by share-holders who lurked in smug  monetary oasis, like crocodiles, removed from the lives of their own extended family whose habitat was being sold off piecemeal in a bid for the largest share of the waterhole. The populace waited with baited breath and deeply frightened eyes, their blurred poverty-curfewed silhouettes reflected against the myriad cell-block windows of their fuel-poor over-priced hovels, “Any advances on one hundred and fifty pounds;… for this glorious reversible collapsible nineteenth century mahogany card table”. The mainly Chinese clientele stared back blankly.  “Going once, going twice, I repeat, do I hear two hundred?  He bought down a hammer on an green velvet auction block, indicating an inanely grinning Russian oligarch.

 

Karen felt she was at the top of her game; she was about to justify her existence on the planet, especially in the eyes of her highly-strung parents, an international arms trader and politician respectively, who had sent her away at the age of six to Preparatory school, then to Rhodean private girls school and had constantly reminded her of the expense she had cost them and cautioning her that the only attitude to take towards them, was not one of affection, but extreme gratitude. During these periodic parental Power Point presentations the possibility of a simple hug was incrementally eroded and replaced by the need to embrace the idea of the acquisition of wealth as surrogate; her parents even began to look like characters on bank notes. Karen Smith had a brief  moment of insecurity when  her emotions spiked; on the verge of selling her own country. she wondered weather a warm hug might indeed be preferable. She swatted the invisible thought with her hand, hardened and dialled up her Saudi buyer.

 

“Lot 26. the United Kingdom”. Announced the auctioneer. “The United Kingdom. 244.820 square kilometres . Population 60 million, optional. Comes complete with external territories The Channel Islands, The Isle of Man, Anguilles, Bermuda, British Virgin Islands, The Falkland Islands, Saint Helena, Turks and Caicos Islands, South Georgia. Five previous owners: the Celts, the Romans, the Saxons, the Vikings, the Normans, current owner the Bank of England. Constitutional monarchy, again optional. Can we start the bidding at 5 billion dollars”.

 

Before long, imperceptible nods and micro-gestures had pushed the bidding price up to a cool 20 billion. Karen Smith knew her job, she would hold out, her Saudi boss was out for a bargain and had an absolute limit with no reserve; Greece, after all, was also up for grabs in the coming months.

 

“Twenty-six billion pounds, cheaper than the Damian Hirst collection”. Someone who looked suspiciously like the Chancellor of the Exchequer George Osborne was in the audience, and Karen felt that throughout, the bidding price was being raised artificially. “Do I hear 27 billion dollars?” An almost inaudible grunt came down the telephone; Karen Smith raised an eye-brow.

 

“That’s 27 billion for Lot 26, The United Kingdom”. The room fell into a hush. “Do I here any advances on 27 billion? Going once, going twice. Sold! Would you see one of our ushers afterwards”. The auctioneer said to a slightly depressed Miss Smith. There was an immediate hubbub of conversation as everyone turned to see who the current owner of The United Kingdom might be. She was vaguely aware that her Saudi boss intended to digitally map the country, recreate it as a virtual museum and film studio for period costume dramas and then dismantle the whole and turn it into an aircraft carrier.

 

“Now Lot 27, a collection of original 1960s larva lamps…”

 

She walked past the Natural History museum with a massive sense of anti-climax; she was unaccountably miserable and exhausted. “That’s lovely dear”, said her mother absent-mindedly down the phone as Karen sat under an oak tree staring at a buttercup in Hyde Park. “Don’t be short-changed on the commission, will you dear. You can be a soft touch”. Having just made the biggest deal in her career Karen expected…well she wasn’t sure exactly what she expected; all she knew was, she wasn’t getting it. She hung up, lay down and fell into a deep sleep.