century. Mr Seymour bought out the business five years ago and has since expanded it into export markets both around the country and internationally. Preacher Semple, Mr Seymour, good evening.”
Both men nodded. Adam winked at the camera. John grumbled under his beard; Magda smiled.
“Preacher Semple,” the newsreader said. “You claim the skyrocketing sales of Hells Bells vodka are the source of growing social problems throughout the city. What are you basing your claims on?”
Preacher cleared his throat. “Peter, these are not claims. These are facts. Every day members of my Congregation report to me the scourge they witness on the streets and sometimes in their own families. I myself have had the trauma of witnessing my own daughter’s slide into alcohol addiction.”
Magda scowled.
“Crime rates all over the city are up,” Preacher continued. “People don’t feel safe. And it’s not just the alcohol that causes the problems, there’s also the promotion of immoral lifestyles.”
The newsreader cleared his throat. “Let’s keep on topic, shall we?” He turned to Adam. “Mr Seymour, what do you have to say in reply to Preacher Semple’s claims?”
Adam pursed his lips and took a moment to think. “Firstly Peter,” he said, “I’d like to give you some of my own facts and figures. Hells Bells Vodka employs exactly 9,085 people, directly and indirectly, representing about a third of the city’s population. We export our product all over the world, and the income from that returns directly to Hailstone to support not only all those jobs, but numerous private businesses. We also sponsor local charities and run four food vans in the city to support the homeless population.”
“Who wouldn’t be homeless if they had no alcohol,” Preacher interrupted.
“That’s not entirely true, Preacher,” Adam shot back. “People become homeless for a variety of reasons, among them the bigotry of families turning them out because they’re different. I wonder how many of those homeless have families that belong to your Congregation?”
“Every individual in my church is given the opportunity to mend their ways and lead a godly life,” Preacher said.
“And as for your crime statistics,” Adam continued, “I wonder what the statistics are on domestic violence that is not fuelled by alcohol in the city? I’m reliably informed there are more than a few wives and children in certain parts of the city suffering violence from husbands and fathers and too afraid to speak out because of church rules.”
“That’s an outrageous accusation!” Preacher’s eyes bugged. “Especially from someone who lives a filthy, immoral lifestyle like you! Once alcohol is removed from this city, your damaging influence over our children will be gone too!”
“I wonder what’s more damaging, Preacher, a person who refuses to hide their differences, or a fist in the face?”
“Gentlemen,” Peter said. “Please, let’s get back on topic.”
Magda got up.
“Where are you going?” John eyed her.
“Bed. I can’t watch any more of this.” Magda left the room before he could argue.
She went straight to her bedroom, locked the door and swallowed a pill from a stash in the closet. Then she buried her face in the pillow and tried to sleep.
Thursday
Magda sat on the kitchen table and drank vodka. The door was locked, even though John had gone out earlier. She was amazed he’d left her alone. She’d downed three pills since she got up two hours ago. She’d gone into the bathroom and looked at fresh bruises on top of fading bruises on her face. She was a mess. Of course she wouldn’t go anywhere, looking like this. She couldn’t face Kat. She didn’t dare go to Adam. She thought about Joseph’s black eye, and the mayor addressing the Congregation, and the burning Hells Bells Vodka poster. These people should all be put in jail. The whole thing was completely insane.
She drained the last drop of vodka
Both men nodded. Adam winked at the camera. John grumbled under his beard; Magda smiled.
“Preacher Semple,” the newsreader said. “You claim the skyrocketing sales of Hells Bells vodka are the source of growing social problems throughout the city. What are you basing your claims on?”
Preacher cleared his throat. “Peter, these are not claims. These are facts. Every day members of my Congregation report to me the scourge they witness on the streets and sometimes in their own families. I myself have had the trauma of witnessing my own daughter’s slide into alcohol addiction.”
Magda scowled.
“Crime rates all over the city are up,” Preacher continued. “People don’t feel safe. And it’s not just the alcohol that causes the problems, there’s also the promotion of immoral lifestyles.”
The newsreader cleared his throat. “Let’s keep on topic, shall we?” He turned to Adam. “Mr Seymour, what do you have to say in reply to Preacher Semple’s claims?”
Adam pursed his lips and took a moment to think. “Firstly Peter,” he said, “I’d like to give you some of my own facts and figures. Hells Bells Vodka employs exactly 9,085 people, directly and indirectly, representing about a third of the city’s population. We export our product all over the world, and the income from that returns directly to Hailstone to support not only all those jobs, but numerous private businesses. We also sponsor local charities and run four food vans in the city to support the homeless population.”
“Who wouldn’t be homeless if they had no alcohol,” Preacher interrupted.
“That’s not entirely true, Preacher,” Adam shot back. “People become homeless for a variety of reasons, among them the bigotry of families turning them out because they’re different. I wonder how many of those homeless have families that belong to your Congregation?”
“Every individual in my church is given the opportunity to mend their ways and lead a godly life,” Preacher said.
“And as for your crime statistics,” Adam continued, “I wonder what the statistics are on domestic violence that is not fuelled by alcohol in the city? I’m reliably informed there are more than a few wives and children in certain parts of the city suffering violence from husbands and fathers and too afraid to speak out because of church rules.”
“That’s an outrageous accusation!” Preacher’s eyes bugged. “Especially from someone who lives a filthy, immoral lifestyle like you! Once alcohol is removed from this city, your damaging influence over our children will be gone too!”
“I wonder what’s more damaging, Preacher, a person who refuses to hide their differences, or a fist in the face?”
“Gentlemen,” Peter said. “Please, let’s get back on topic.”
Magda got up.
“Where are you going?” John eyed her.
“Bed. I can’t watch any more of this.” Magda left the room before he could argue.
She went straight to her bedroom, locked the door and swallowed a pill from a stash in the closet. Then she buried her face in the pillow and tried to sleep.
Thursday
Magda sat on the kitchen table and drank vodka. The door was locked, even though John had gone out earlier. She was amazed he’d left her alone. She’d downed three pills since she got up two hours ago. She’d gone into the bathroom and looked at fresh bruises on top of fading bruises on her face. She was a mess. Of course she wouldn’t go anywhere, looking like this. She couldn’t face Kat. She didn’t dare go to Adam. She thought about Joseph’s black eye, and the mayor addressing the Congregation, and the burning Hells Bells Vodka poster. These people should all be put in jail. The whole thing was completely insane.
She drained the last drop of vodka
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