The Revenge of Atom

Eurydice, nicknamed Dizzy, was growing concerned about Edward. He was her son with David Wallace, a successful music producer in Los Angeles whose parents had operated a renowned chain of restaurants. And Dizzy herself was the daughter of a media giant and a minor aristocrat, so what infernal circumstances might have befallen young Edward, a physically and mentally healthy lad of 10 who lived most of the year not a stone’s throw from Hyde Park, were a little obscure.

But Dizzy was a sensitive woman who saw the petty cruelties of existence everywhere, from the checkout girl who gave her a dirty look on being asked to pack her groceries to the radio DJ who once asked what qualified the daughter of a press baron to wade in on a debate about “getting Britain back to work”.

So when David came back from one of his months-long stays in the US armed with pamphlets about an exclusive school in the California mountains, run by the popular music and fashion icon Danny Whitman, stage name Atom, she was a little sceptical.

‘I’ve seen his music’ she said in a non-committal way over glasses of red.

‘You’ve seen it?’

‘His CDs’ she clarified. ‘They were in all the shops in the early ‘00s. Daddy would have gone through the roof if he’d caught me listening to any of it. They had those content warning stickers on them.’

David smiled nostalgically. ‘Those stickers were more like artwork.’ His wife furrowed her brow and he altered his plan of attack. Nuzzling her neck, he said, ‘he was a young man, babe. I was pretty rough-around-the-edges too, before you came along and civilised me.’

She let him caress her erogenous zone and looked down at the little array of pamphlets. They depicted classrooms full of photogenic, multicultural children, some with crucifix pendants, others hijabs and all manner of religious apparel, being taught astrophysics by a cute Miss Honey, athletics by a handsome black woman, economics by a bearded man in a seersucker suit, and in a couple of cases meeting celebrities.

One of whom was of course Atom, in a recording booth and conducting a jam session with a gaggle of 12-year-olds, wearing (like every child pictured in the literature) a purple tartan uniform, skirts for the girls and trousers for the boys. “Playtime is serious business” ran the caption.

The other celebrity in the pamphlet that Dizzy was looking at was Michelle Obama, pictured sharing a joke on The Late Late Show with James Corden and a little girl. The caption read “Monesha up late with Michelle... Thank goodness it’s not a school night!”

‘What do you think?’ said David, who’d worked his way around to the back of her neck.

‘I’m thinking’ she replied.

Later that night, with David reading a new biography of The Beatles in bed and his wife on her phone beside him, Dizzy showed him an article on a feminist blog. POPULAR MISOGYNY, it was called, and featured a still from a music video. Atom was dancing with women in bikinis, whose bodies were painted with Egyptian hieroglyphics. “According to Daniel Whitman, real name of rapper Atom, whose album Tales of an Underachiever dropped last week, his stage name is inspired by the Egyptian myth of a god who created the universe with his seed. His music is certainly a fine display of male ego and sexual obsession, with lyrics about subjugating women...” Some examples were given.

‘Babe’ said David, ‘look at when this was written.’ He pointed to a date beside the byline. 2002. ‘He was 22. I told you he was wild back then, just like I was.’

He used her phone to look up some more recent articles. He found one about Atom’s relationship with his late mother, written shortly after she passed from breast cancer. “She’s the reason I’m where I am now” ran an emotive if rather obvious pull-quote. “She taught me how beautiful and important women are, the necessity of respect.”

Dizzy, David knew, had recently been concerned about the rise of “incels”. Involuntary celibates, as they called themselves, were a tribe of Internet-dwelling young men who blamed their virginities on women and had been responsible for several terrorist incidents. She’d heard of them from a news item about a 17-year-old in Canada who’d commandeered a lorry and driven it through a farmer’s market.

Afterwards she’d had a nightmare about attending a feminist rally beneath a baking blue sky when suddenly a long-haul vehicle started barrelling towards her, and she turned to run in that dream-like way where you don’t get anywhere and the air around your legs feels like treacle. She’d looked behind her and seen Edward in the cab, dead-eyed.

‘Would we all be staying in LA the first year?’ she asked David.

***

The car wound its way through the California mountains on a blazing July day not two years later, David and Eurydice upfront, smiling broadly from behind expensive sunglasses. Eurydice reminded Edward, playing a portable video game on the backseat, of the importance of first impressions. But neither parent was worried. Eurydice had fallen for Atom on meeting him at an LA studio where David was helping to produce his latest album, The Return of Atom.

He’d hugged her and talked for an hour about his mother, conveying a sense that he was just trying to give the next generation the advantages that she always struggled to give him. That his mother had been a stockbroker and economics lecturer from Connecticut didn’t enter into it. Something about him encouraged the feeling that he’d fought adversity. His thick American accent sounded more trailer park than gabled porch. To a woman like Eurydice, he was the perfect avatar of “safe” role models: she could empathise with and patronise him, without needing to come into contact with any unpleasantness. He was living proof of the can-do spirit that so many welfare beneficiaries back home, to her mind, failed to embody.

The car pulled up outside a glass-and-chrome edifice seemingly carved into the mountain, up a discreet side street indicated by David’s sat nav. To a random observer it might have looked like nothing more than an untenanted house awaiting the next visitation by a real estate agent and potential buyer, probably a well-known LA actor on the downturn, still rich but not insanely so.

A middle-aged couple in charcoal suits came out to greet the family. They led them through the house and into a scholar’s quadrangle, arcades wrapped around a central courtyard where students would soon be picnicking, playing, and catching up on reading assignments, according to the female of the couple. ‘You should see some of their faces’ the man piped up, ‘they think they’ve gotten into Hogwarts!’

If the secrecy of it all was likely to alarm Eurydice - the unmarked street, the empty house - she’d already been prepped by both David and the relevant literature. Children deserve privacy, and many children of A-list personages also attend the school. Shouldn’t kids be free from the paparazzi, even if their parents aren’t?

Edward was getting to be almost as tall as Eurydice, so she didn’t need to bend much when she put her hands on his shoulders and said, with that tearful sincerity so embarrassing to children (but comforting when recalled in times of loneliness): ‘you’re going to love it here, Eddie. I’m so jealous!’

***

Edward did indeed love it there. Discipline hardly seemed necessary, most of the children having been primed for the sort of affirmative liberal education that the school seemed to offer. The most that a teacher ever needed to say or do was a half-joking rebuke of “get with the programme”, or send a recalcitrant child off to enjoy some “me” time. These were children of the future - budding senators, humanitarians, and serious media personalities - raised from birth to take themselves very seriously.

By 14 Edward had fallen in love with Isabella, a mixed race girl from Illinois whose father was a rising star with the Democrats, and whose mother wrote books on education for underprivileged black youths. One evening he snuck into her room and lay beside her, sharing the bounty of a care package that his mother had sent him, filled with British sweets. They spoke softly so as not to wake Isabella’s roommate.

‘We’d get in so much trouble if anyone knew’ she said, her voice quavering a little.

‘It wouldn’t be that bad’ Edward protested. ‘They’d just put us in “me time” for a couple of hours. It’s not like we’re doing it.’

Isabella both cringed and giggled at that, punching his arm. ‘I didn’t mean from them. I meant from dad. He’d FREAK. Like that time my sister snuck out to see an R-rated movie with her boyfriend even though she wasn’t 17.’

Edward snorted, stuffing a gelatine shoelace in his mouth. ‘Big deal’ he said.

‘It was to dad.’ She affected his voice. ‘“That’ll look just dandy on the front page tomorrow, won’t it? Democrat’s delinquent daughter caught watching dirty movies!”’

Edward stifled a laugh. ‘Did he really say that?’

‘Yep. She said it wasn’t a dirty movie, and besides, he’s not important enough to be on the front page. He stared at her for like a minute and then walked out. I swear, I thought he was going to hit her.’

‘At least he’s around’ said Edward. ‘I’ve barely even seen my dad since he packed me off here. And all mum ever talks about are her charity projects.’ They looked at each other for a moment, and then gave one another their first kisses.

***

This would have been a year and a half after the “real” schooling began.

Six months of top-notch schooling in the various humanities and sciences, encouraged by a specialised diet said to be approved by no less an authority than Gwyneth Paltrow, and the parents of The Atom Academy’s young scholars seemed satisfied enough to book the rest of their children’s educations with that establishment. One day, on returning from a 10-day break, the regular teachers left an hour early (to not overload the kids on their first day back, they were told) and classes were led from the quadrangle for what was described as an “audience with the founders”.

Edward’s hand found Isabella’s as the crowd of teenagers were herded across a glassed-in bridge suspended above a crevasse, and into a network of tunnels cut deep into the mountainside like caves. It had the feel of a secret bunker, though great effort had been made to flood it with calming light, on pastel walls and abstract art.

They came to an auditorium, and when everyone was seated a film began on the big screen. An older woman with grey hair and in a puffy pink dress appeared. She was as heavily made up as a country singer, and her Tennessee twang added to the effect. She sat in a plush living room set. ‘Children of The Atom Academy’ she said. ‘It is both my honour and my sincerest pleasure to meet the finest children on God’s green earth right now. But I know what you’re thinking: who’s this OLD lady and what does she have to do with the price of potatoes?’ A ripple of polite laughter across the room.

‘Well, I’m going to tell you. My name is Evelyn Harper. Back long before any of you were even born I had my own television show, broadcast from this very living room, in which I’d spread the message of hope, and forgiveness, and doing what’s right in a fallen world. And ten years ago today I met a brilliant, but lost and confused young man, called Daniel Whitman. You might know him better as Atom.’

The audience erupted into cheers as the man himself appeared, over six foot and wearing a camo jacket with denim, trainers, and a lot of gold jewellery. He sat beside Evelyn and squeezed her hand. As if in response, Edward and Isabella squeezed each other’s.

‘This woman right here saved my life’ proclaimed Atom. Evelyn blushed. ‘And now it’s our task, with your help, to save the future.’

‘We know’ said Evelyn, ‘that right now many of you feel as though your parents just don’t understand you. They’ve given you everything you’ll ever need in life, but where are they now, and when you need them most?’ Edward heard a sniffle beside him, released Isabella’s hand, and decided to risk putting an arm around her. She yielded, resting her head on his shoulder. He silently thanked this strange Tennessean in her puffy pink dress.

‘They’re not here, that’s for sure!’ continued Atom. ‘And that’s okay. That’s the reason why you’ve been chosen.’ He pointed as he said this, and seemed to make eye contact with every child in the room. Edward felt his boyish heart expand, as if whatever loneliness he’d had was being healed. Where David, his father, should have been, cheering him on at sports days or sharing a takeaway, there Atom was, filling the silhouette. ‘I and my team handpicked each of you...’

And thus was the children’s introduction to the true purpose of The Atom Academy. They learned many things as the months rolled on, from the principles of the elders of Zion and how their malicious influence still controlled the world, to the dark truths behind numerous establishments. The more time passed, the darker the lessons became. They were taught how even the most seemingly innocent organisations - pizzerias, say, where families went to enjoy a meal and be entertained by mascots - were covers for child rape, torture, and sacrifice. One cartoon depicted a woman in a blue trouser-suit drinking babies’ blood from a goblet, her stained maw grinning as she dined alongside bearded men in weird religious garb.

But Edward’s favourite cartoon was the one in which a team of superheroes fought a league of villains known as the League of Zion, which was housed in a glass tower looming high above a city and broadcast propaganda to the masses. Using their expert fighting skills, it was the task of the heroes to stop the broadcasts and free the innocent citizens from their mental slavery.

Edward and Isabella excelled at both martial arts and firearms training, Isabella in particular relishing the feel of a PKM, one of the most common machine guns in the world. ‘Dad would FREAK’ she said more than once as she caressed the deadly weapon, learning how to load and unload it even while running and jumping. ‘He says if America didn’t have guns we’d all be a lot safer.’

‘He said that to you?’ asked Edward.

‘No. I saw him say it on TV.’

***

‘Hey, Dizzy, they’re showing your kid!’

Eurydice was in Essex, chairing a meeting of the Young Workers’ Trust, a charity set up to assist with promoting job skills among school-leavers. Someone had arranged a buffet in the elegant Tudor meeting room, and during a break a television played coverage of the MTV Music Awards, at which Edward was due to perform a dance routine with schoolmates.

Eurydice came out of the loo to find her fellow Trustees sat about as the teenagers walked on stage in their purple uniforms, carrying tote bags. She took a couple of sandwiches from the buffet and sat down. ‘He’s been looking forward to this’ she said. ‘Hasn’t talked about anything else for a year.’

‘I’m surprised you get to talk to him that much, what with you being on different continents half the time!’ remarked Sally Albright, an entrepreneur and philanthropist who’d written books about feminism and fought to be chair of the Trust. Eurydice gave her a look. ‘FaceTime’s a wonderful tool’ she said. Jealous bitch, she thought.

The dance began to rapturous applause from the televised audience. The children performed a gruelling balletic routine to the beat of generic synthesised hip hop as effortlessly as if they were walking to the fridge. ‘Who’s that cute coloured girl he’s dancing with?’ asked Tiffany Symons, an older Trustee, not very PC but with a good and cheerful heart.

‘That’s Isabella Gayheart, daughter of the Democratic candidate. She’s his girlfriend.’ On completing this explanation, Eurydice gazed for a moment out the window, which overlooked a courtyard dominated by a yew tree in full bloom. It was a rather wet and blowsy afternoon, but soon to be sunny again as the rainclouds spent their store. A couple of blackbirds alighted on an opposite window ledge and seemed to be kissing, almost. Eurydice’s heart couldn’t have been fuller. ‘Wait a minute, what are they doing now?’

Sally’s words drew her attention back to the screen. The dancing had stopped and the students were unzipping their tote bags. ‘What the fuck’ a man to Eurydice’s right said under his breath as guns were drawn from the bags. The broadcast was cut just after Eurydice had time to see Edward scream: ‘Now is the time to rise! This bloodshed will end only when the Jewish media loosens its hold on the mind of the Republic!’; before opening fire on a group of schoolgirls bussed in to cheer for Harry Styles.