The Master and Margate Pier

One gloomy morning in the autumn of 202–, Courts Commissar Sakhmanikova was perusing an inspection return from HAYCHEMCORTSERV.

‘Maggots!’ she exclaimed, twisting the superintendent’s pro forma report into a ball and propelling it deftly into the corner where a rubbish bin had stood before its presence was deemed injurious to staff morale. 

‘Raining maggots! I ask for a report on our achievements in repairing the courts estate and you present me with this?’ 

‘But C-C-Comrade Commissar,’ stuttered the hapless functionary, ‘it is good news that the court ceilings in District 13 are now robust enough to support the seagull corpse on which the said maggots are feasting. As a result, flooding is down by 99 per cent since we adjusted the reporting criteria – and ladybird infestations are at their lowest since records began. We even have a working lift in District 9, provided the only direction you want to travel is down…’ 

‘Enough! Get back out on the front line, Nicolas Godwyinskovich, and find me some court premises that are fit for a visit by the DPM/LC/SSfJ, or you’ll spend the rest of your career repairing the LAA website. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Admirably, Comrade Commissar,’ muttered the superintendent, retreating to the outer office. 

The commissar turned back to her paperwork, an application by SOLREG to take over the regulation of gas fitting technicians. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’ she mused as the office windows rattled from a distant explosion. 

Presently, she became aware of a smell in the office air; it reminded her of rotting seaweed. As she reached for her phone to call the Building Supervisory Committee, she was interrupted by a gentle cough. 

* * *

‘Please allow me to introduce myself.’ The transatlantic-accented speaker was a slender man sporting a grey polo neck, whom she had not seen enter. In the corner, an extraordinarily large black cat lounged on its hind legs against a filing cabinet, twiddling its whiskers in a contemplative manner. 

Somewhat discombobulated, Sakhmanikova accepted the proffered card, embossed with the logo ‘JudgeJipperty’.

‘Er, I don’t recall any other appointments this morning? And is that your cat?’ Gingerly, she reached for the departmental panic button. 

‘My apologies, Comrade Commissar – Jippity, down!’ he barked. The cat shrugged its shoulders and slunk behind the cabinet. ‘Forgive me again for anticipating the appointments process but I come directly from His Excellency the DPM on an assignment of the utmost urgency. I understand, not to put too fine a point on it, that your quaint physical courts premises are in a state of disrepair? May I be permitted to demonstrate the JudgeJipperty virtual alternative?’

Sakhmanikova nodded cautiously, but recalled a recent conversation with The Master. ‘As you know, Comrade, Comrade…’ somehow the name on the business card had disintegrated into an illegible blur. ‘As you know, while HAYCHEMCORTSERV is committed to transformation with AI, you will understand there are certain formalities. The Master, for example, will insist that systems are trained on historical case data and subject to extensive sandbox trials.’

‘Historical data? A sandbox? Oh, I can get us to a sandbox real quick.’

* * *

The rotting seaweed smell was now pervasive, filling Sakhmanikova’s lungs. It was late afternoon and she was facing a windswept beach. With a start, she realised she was seated on a harbour wall, alongside the giant cat who was dipping into a paper cup of whelks with a plastic fork held in his paw. 

Also present was the transatlantic stranger, along with The Master – and an extraordinary female figure constructed of shells, fettered with heavy irons.  

With a flourish, the stranger took centre stage. ‘Comrades! We are gathered for a momentous occasion! We are about to hear JudgeJipperty, a court, may I say, without leaky roofs, malfunctioning lifts – or maggots – deal with the case of the prisoner Mrs Booth, who has been found guilty of certain acts of immorality—’

‘Lawks a’mercy,’ interrupted the shell lady. ‘Silence in court,’ boomed the giant black cat, now sporting a full-bottomed wig. ‘The verdict of Bosher Street Assizes is that the prisoner be birched, then transported for seven years, and may God have mercy upon her soul.’

Sakhmanikova reeled backwards, appalled. The Master blinked in astonishment. ‘Assizes? Birching? Transportation? How old is your training data?’ she demanded. ‘I think we’re going to need a bigger sandbox,’ The Master added. 

The immense black cat leaned back against the harbour wall, lit a cigar and blew smoke into the sunset, a smug grin on its whiskered face.