The Real Story Of 'O'

Prologue

Prologue

McTaggart had been a councillor for decades and spent most of it defending the councils’ right to have decent offices. Known to many as “the Maggot,” although no one could remember why, McTaggart liked to think of his nickname as a positive thing—because he cleared up issues, dispersed discontent, “like a maggot demolishing a bed sore.”

McTaggart was still recovering from his TV interview a few weeks before. His main argument (“different budgets for different departments”) had gone down like a lead balloon, and the “use it or lose it” theory only made things worse.

He had to reclaim his name, turn things around; the election was coming up, and he wanted to remain—keep his seat—at least until the mortgage was paid off.

Then he came up with an idea, an innovative pop-up idea stolen from his granddaughter Annabel.

Annabel had a thing for Barbie dolls, especially Barbie’s camper van, and as McTaggart idly watched her pull a kitchen from rear, an idea hit him, causing him to sit up like a jack-in-the-box.

“I’ve got it,” he shouted.

Annabel, lost in the pleasure of rearranging her dolls, didn’t hear, but by the time she had Barbie’s tiny tea towels hung in a row, McTaggart had his pop-up library hung, drawn, and implemented on the back of a fag packet.

It covers all bases, he told himself: demolition of that damn wall of gratitude (which was a complete health and safety nightmare) and literature for the masses on a shoestring.

“Embrace the digital age,” he yelled at Isobel, his long-suffering wife, causing Annabel to pause over her miniature tea set and look up at her silly granddad.

McTaggart could not wait to impress the councillors, the town, the whole of Argyll. His pop-up idea was innovative, ahead of its time, a financial godsend.

“If it’s good enough for Mattel Inc., it’s good enough for Argyll,” said McTaggart, and the council swallowed it whole. They loved the idea.

Soon they’ll be everywhere, McTaggart told himself, despite Ms Frasier and her motormouth objections. All he needed was the right event, with the right audience and the right press; not only would they buy it, but his seat would be as safe as a Barbie in a camper van.