Flaw and Order:

“In the Canadian justice system, the people are represented by several equally irrelevant groups: the RCMP, who investigate crime; the Crown Counsel, who prosecute the offenders; and a third group who, without training or experience or indeed any common sense, have taken it upon themselves to persecute irresponsibly. These are their stories.”

Courageous Buffs de l'histoire, let us scurry backward in time to the turn of the century. Do you recall the year 2000? We had no sooner weathered the incredible and harrowing near miss of Y2K, than we faced the grim prospect of another President Bush in the United States. Not a year later we watched in horror as the Twin Towers fell to terrorist attacks in New York, and then war in the middle east, as if in anticipation of biblical prophecies.

Meanwhile in Canada, the Conservatives of our nation were pulling themselves together after years of ignominy at the hands of Brian Mulroney. A complete lack of confidence had Canadian voters reeling drunkenly away from that fabled chin, into the arms of a deranged and mentally unstable band of butt-slapping glad-handers known as the Liberal Party. Although we must admit that things were stable under that Chretien government for ten years, the Reader can only be too aware that prices were being paid for that prosperity, prices the voters could not see.

Preston Manning then welded the Conservatives back together into a strange and witless force of politics, notably represented by Stockwell Day running and jet-skiing his way out of our hearts forever. Not a day went by in that dismal, charcoal drawing of an era that we didn’t hear about some outrageous gaff by prairie politicians attempting to stick both feet in their mouths.

BC, however, had no claim to righteousness. The decade previous was marred by persistent shocks to our sensibilities. During that time I was delivering chemicals to restaurants in the Lower Mainland. I would listen to CBC radio and, on a near daily basis, find myself swearing in disbelief at what seemed like blind stupidity.

A Sunshine Coast politician, Gordon Wilson, was at the helm of a small but potentially influential party, when he up and abandoned them- during parliament- for a seat in the Liberal Party of BC. Our infamous radio pundit, Rafe Mare, then publicly strafed him over the air. It was an epic, Rafe Mare rant that left Wilson stammering and sputtering in a futile way over the radio. This was within memory of the Bill Vanderzalm, the leader of the Social Credit Party, who was caught and prosecuted for breach of trust. It was the same era that NDP Premier Glen Clark underwent the most profoundly ill-smelling investigation that British Columbia had heard of, and the most bizarre display of partisanship in politics: The Fast Ferry scandal. And it did not end there.

“Casinogate”, the most sinister breach of trust that never happened, finally ruined Glen Clark, and probably sunk the New Democratic Party of that time: Something that did not happen, put a stop to business as usual. In fact, that was business as usual for BC. We require no laws to be broken, no crimes to be committed. Verifiable activity like that is for the RCMP and the Crown Counsel to pursue.

Yes, yes, yes, we were all aware of how the Hell's Angels were taking over the Port of Vancouver and shipping historic amounts of drugs, weapons, and sex slaves through it. Oh, of course we knew that gang violence is on the rise because the big gangs had given up street-level sales for wholesale, leaving it up to non-affiliated street gangs to struggle for territory, who then murdered each other and others in public. No, we did not need to be told again and again that there was a serial killer freely preying on sex-trade workers. Nor did we need to be made aware- again- that some transient truck driver had been slaying hitch-hikers on the Highway of Tears for decades. We Get It! But Baal’s Thundering Farts, we will DRAW the LINE at the building of a deck on Glen Clarke’s House! Enough is enough, people!

At the time, who could not notice how blood-thirsty everyone was for Glen Clark's political life? The fast ferries were a disaster in BC, but they are now a successful enterprise in Australia and other places. It was a very profitable industry, just somehow not in BC. Casinos are now everywhere, and gambling is a fact of life for us, but somehow a casino complex on the Vancouver waterfront was a danger to our way of life back then.

So then we elected a Liberal government, which promptly cut health spending and education in half in order to promote private schools. The writing was on the wall, you see, long before Glen Clark sunk. A plan was in place, and the best interests of the people had little to do with it. Underneath the wafting odour of Clark's persecution lay the rotting corpse of socialism, dead at the hands of ruthless opportunists, and fed on by their witless band-wagon jumpers.

A new sense of profiteering had set in. Someone had erased the bar that W.A.C. Bennett had set, that so many others had fought for. It was as if a decision had been made in the wake of the Beat Era. The Beats themselves had soldiered on, but the generation following had given up. The keys to the coffers of BC fell into the hands of people interested in short term profits, and the effects of their policies would be felt for years.

Today, as some pundits can be heard lamenting, BC has gained a reputation for scoffing at the laws, and welcoming profit-minded opportunists from elsewhere. It was in the 1990s and the 2000s that we began to explore that. A new sense that the old standards had secretly been tossed out like so much bad produce, filtered outward through the government, and interacted with other influential social agencies. It was the sense that nobody was watching, that nobody was really in charge.

The effect of that 'new deal' was not like a great Hoy Sin sauce, it was not a chocolate ganache on the ice cream of society, but more like a cheap lubricant for simple-minded manipulators, like telling them true freedom was at hand.

Even when somebody was watching, though, we seemed to just roll with it. There was the time when the Ministry of Social Services fell before the Gove Inquiry in 1995, following the death of a five year old in its care. Changes were made which satisfied as many expectations as possible, and then it was business as usual. This new era would brook no idealism without the obligatory blank stares, the demand for unusually high standards of evidence for your ideals, and finally the fake realism that results in sagging hopes.

It is worth it to peer back at the Gove Inquiry to get a sense of who we are discussing here.

On a blustery day in Victoria BC, Chief Justice Gove sat down in his seat before a packed room of spectators and the principals of the disturbing case before him today. It had taken far longer than anyone could have suspected to investigate the case of this dead child, Matthew Vandreuil, a client of the Ministry of Social Services in British Columbia. After eighteen months of compiling data and getting to the bottom of the issue, he had brought people to this room to discuss the distressing file and what should be done to prevent similar events in the future.

The room was bright, and the furnishings all made of light-colored Oak, lacquered for effect. The microphones were on and set just right. On his right was the Bailiff, the Sheriff he had co-opted early on for this process, and beyond him was the Attorney for the Province of BC. Today, the spry man appeared to be quite taxed by the antics of the Ministry of Social Services, who were opposing him on his left.

Although there was barely room for four people in the Defendant's Counsel Table, ten or more of them, all wearing wigs reserved for British Parliamentarians, had crammed themselves into that space, with much ado about who was to speak first and when. Today they appeared to have someone held captive among them, but it was hard to see.

“Bailiff,” said the Judge, “Would you please retrieve my gavel from the Ministry's people?”

“Yes, your Honor.”

The Bailiff walked over to the Counsel table. The captive struggled, attempting to speak through the duct tape over his mouth, and one of the defendants picked up the gavel and struck him with it. He made to do it again, but the Bailiff got a hold of it and tried to wrest it away.

“NnnOO! No! It's mine. I WANT it. Don't do that. Stop it! Wait. Give it back! I want it!”

Returning the Gavel to the Judge, the Bailiff asked,

“And the Wigs, Your Honor? Shall I remove them as well?”

Judge Gove drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“I fear that if we don't stick to our agenda, we will be here another eighteen months,” he said, “In any case, I suspect they stole those somehow from their rightful owners. I'll make a call.”

“And the captive?”

“Let them rack up whatever charges they will. We will prosecute the case before us. Who is it, anyway? Just out of morbid curiosity.”

“It's Alan Buchanan, Your Honor. The Minister of Social Services, himself,” said the Crown Counsel.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Your HONOR we obJECT!” yelled the Ministry representative.

“That is not a prerogative you have today,” said Gove, “You will refrain from commenting and allow your Attorney's to comment, and then only when I ask you something.”

A different wigged fellow had pushed the first aside and stood up to speak,

“Your Honor, we dema- we request to know why you haven't asked the Crown Counsel any questions? We have-”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the Inquiry is over. You are attending to hear my findings, not to respond to questioning. And as you should be aware, if there are questions, it will be the Crown Counsel asking them, and you will be answering them, or face a Contempt of Court charge.”

“ContEMPT of COURT?! Why I, wha- I. This is, this is, this just outRAgeous!”

A woman in a similar wig pushed that man aside.

“Your Honor-”

“Take the wig off,” Gove said.

“The Wig?”

Gove nodded at her. She turned to her people and they all conferred in quiet whispers. Then she turned back to the Judge.

“We can't, your Honor. The legal accoutrements of the Ministry requires us to represent Families in an official capacity.”

“It doesn't, Miss. It really doesn't, and anyway that statement doesn't make any sense. But now we come to the point of the Inquiry, which is that the Ministry of Social Services does not appear to realize that they have an important role in our society. Or, at the very least, the people administrating the Ministry do not take that role seriously.”

The group of wigged representatives reacted vocally, protesting the statement, gesticulating and voicing their outrage. Several passed out. The Crown Counsel pinched the bridge of his nose. The exaggerated drama went on for a couple of minutes before another man stepped up to speak.

“Your Honor, Madison Kennedy here for the Ministry of Humane Sensitivity and People Welfare.”

“No, Mr. Kennedy,” said Gove, “You are the Ministry of Social Services.”

“Nope!” said Kennedy, shaking his head furiously.

“You can't-”

“NO.”

“Simply-”

“Nope! Uh uh. Can't hear you. Can't hear you!”

“Change the name of your mandate and avoid the consequences of your behavior!”

“Can. We can do that. That's, that is, what we're going to do.”

Another woman shoved him out of the way,

“Blithering Pundit for the Defence, Your Honor.” She was pushed aside for another wigged woman,

“Lizzie Borden, Your Honor, for the Ministry of Hostile Maidens.”

A man bumped her out of the way.

“Lawston Space, Your Honor, for the Ministry of Babies in Jeopardy, Families and Women.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” said Gove.

“We have thoroughly examined the highly esteemed report and are pleased to report that we have secured funding for a revolutionary computer management system. It is our hope that the few workers we have left will onboard effectively as team players and truly take the ball and run with it.”

Gove and the Bailiff, as well as the Crown Counsel stared at the man in a mix of vexation and disbelief.

“What part of this Report, esteemed or not, pray tell, suggested any need for a new software program?” Gove demanded.

“Well, it's all subject to interpretation.”

“And how much did the tax-payers pay for this?” asked the Crown.

“That information is not available, but it did involve cuts to the Canadian Space Agency budget. But then,” he chuckled, “How badly do we need to explore Mars anyway? Am I right?”

“Bailiff arrest that man.”

“With pleasure, Your Honor. May I use the Gavel?”

“By all means. Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait!” screamed Lawston, “You can't arrest me without a charge.”

Gove looked at the Crown Counsel.

“Oh! Criminal Negligence, Your Honor.”

“Oh yes? Will that stick?”

“I'll make it work.”

“Very well then.” The Bailiff took Lawston Space by the arm, but met little resistance, so he handed the Gavel back.

Another woman had stepped up.

“Vanice Joplin, Your Honor, for the Ministry of Women and Families and Babies and Cultural Appropriation.”

“Enough. You will all remain seated, and SILENT, until I have delivered my findings.”

“But-” Gove's Gavel rebounded off of her forehead. She collapsed on the floor as the Bailiff retrieved it.

“And take off those wigs!”

In truth, we cannot attest to the actual carnage of that fabled hearing. It may have come to pass that no one suffered any injury, or unlawful abduction, at all, but Justice Gove did deliver his findings on the matter of the deceased boy, and those findings were not in favor of the Ministry of Social Services. Said Ministry did go on the change its name several times, however, and also spend enough money for a Mars Lander on software that later was deemed bulky and inefficient. As to how effective the Ministry became as a result of Gove's recommendations, one can only speculate. And so, without further ado, Let's be about it, then.

The first inkling of any especially weird weirdness was the odd meeting about my son's diagnosis from the pediatrician. Caryl, the school “counsellor” had arranged all of it.

“It's part of the need to specify what supports we can apply for. Our funding for special supports is quite limited, you see, and your son appears to have some, extra special needs.”

“Well, I see. I mean I did ask for your help with this, but he's already got medication. I'm not sure why we have to go through this extra step. He's got the diagnosis from the doctor, and we have the meds.”

“You can rely on us to take care of these things. It's all in your son's best interests.”

Caryl, and the Principal of the school, had been sympathetic to our situation. After exploring options that did not work well, such as special diets and other things, the boy's ADHD had combined with work and school to put me in a state of exhaustion. I came to them and simply asked that they help me out. They were glad to hear it.

However, the pediatrician showed me the results of his tests and I couldn't help but question them.

“Well, hang on,” I said, “He's only eight years old. You are saying he has Conduct Disorder?”

“Those are the test results, yes,” said the bespectacled man, “And results indicate that there is also some Antisocial Personality Disorder, Depression, Anxiety, Avoidant Parental Modeling Disorder, Learning Difficulty Disorder: Reading and Math Subtypes, and Prolapsia.”

“Uhm,” I began, “First of all, 'prolapsia' is something you made up. It's not a thing. Secondly, at least a couple of the things you mentioned aren't disorders in the DSM. There is no such disorder as 'Parental Modeling Disorder' or whatever you said.”

“Well it's gonna be,” he grumbled.

“And not lastly, Conduct Disorder and Antisocial Personality disorder are not diagnosable in children his age. Conduct disorder is diagnosed in teens who have consistent contact with the Law, and Antisocial Personality Disorder is just the natural outcome of Conduct Disorder when nobody but the penal system treats it. You can't actually diagnose them in a child his age.”

“Well those are the results of the tests.”

“False positives are not reassuring.”

“Mr Mac has been studying psychology at school,” Caryl said.

“Ah,” said the Pediatrician, “How pleasant. My son has a PhD in it, and I've been practicing for twenty years.”

“Doesn't make me wrong.”

“I see. I get it. You know, Mr Mac, we all want to believe the best about our children, but the data doesn't lie.” He gave a very loaded look at Caryl, and packed up his laptop.

“I'll leave the paper copies to you,” he said to her, “And send the file to our people.”

She looked up sharply, at that, and nodded quietly.

“My time is valuable,” he said to me and then left.

I definitely felt like something was afoot, but without having any useful questions to ask, and then without any likelihood of getting straight answers, it seemed better to get back to what I was doing.

I was working, and going to school, and being at home for the kids. Burning the candle at both ends, so to speak. At the time that the kids came to live with me I had completed my diploma in Hotel Management and taken a job at a hotel in town. It had gone well for a while, but the night audit position was untenable. The kids were up early, and one had to be in school every day.

For about a year, I would get home from work at about 7:30 am, take the boy to school, and then sit on the couch with the younger one while she watched “Big Comfy Couch”. Later, we moved a short distance across town, which meant that the kids would go to a different school about a block away.

It was almost easier. I had a reliable daycare person, until it turned out that she had over charged the government.

“Oops,” she told me, “Sorry about that.”

“Oops? If I don't pay back that extra $2000 I won't be able to get daycare paid for.”

“Look, I don't know what else to tell you. We do what we have to do to get by.”

So, there was that. I didn't have that spare money, so I didn't have daycare.

At work, I had asked for the evening shift because the night shift was killing me. I got it, but the low pay was still sinking us. An opportunity came up when the Manager of the restaurant attached to the hotel quit. I knew it paid better, so I took a chance and made the transition.

However, it was not a management position at all, only a Bar Manager, under a very contentious woman who had a habit of scheduling me in the mid-afternoon, when she knew I had to pick up the kids from school. That lasted about nine months before I went back to school to learn counselling. With student loans, work became less stressful, but I still needed to work for extra money. I took positions at local motels and pubs, but that often seemed like temporary mistakes I was making.

Moving to a new house helped some. This new house had a very large basement with several rooms and letting out those rooms became an adventure on its own. Some people, it is no shame to say, are just animals. That they can walk, and talk will never camouflage the humanity they lack. Maybe that sounds cruel, but we are not speaking about criminal misfits, people who had fewer opportunities in life. We are talking about people who really are supposed to know better. Oh, I had a couple of criminal misfits, and one sociopath but, actually, I found him much easier to deal with, and nicer, than some of the girls I dated, and some of the 'normal' people I rented to.

And in one case, it turned out that authorities themselves were no better. I raced home one day to find that the downstairs had been raided by police. It seemed that one of my tenants had allowed a couple of drug dealers in, and the police felt it was convenient to raid about then.

The senior officer told me, “You really should be more aware of who you are renting to. These guys are well-known to us, and they can't afford to stay in any place for long, so they rent rooms from people.”

I didn't rent to them!

“I never rented a room to them. But you already know that, don't you?” I accused, “I'm just wondering why the tenant let them in.”

“He has a criminal history as well. We are holding him for questioning and then we'll release him.”

“Oh really,” I said, “So let me follow this through. You knew about these guys, and you somehow knew they were here even though they were hiding, and you are releasing the guy who let them in? Now you are telling me that it was I who endangered my kids? Why does it feel like you are playing fast and loose with the truth, Officer.”

“Have a nice day, Mr Mac.”

That's people for you. That was what life was like. And so, in that strange, Rod Serling-esque hindsight, it is no surprise that one day I got a visit from three ladies who claimed to be from the Ministry of Children and Families.

There was little if anything unusual about them except that they wore wigs, such as you might find on British barristers. Being witless, I invited them in and offered them tea. They sat in our living room, and I was thankful that they came on a day when I had actually cleaned up. In fairness to myself, I did laundry and dishes regularly, but nobody would accuse me of being a neat and tidy parent.

“What kind of tea do you have?” asked the older of the ladies.

“I have English Breakfast tea, and Lapsang Souchong. And a few lemon and peppermint teas,” I said.

“Oh,” she replied, “I've never heard of that one. I'll be fine without, thank you.” The other two then declined, although they had accepted at first.

I sat down with them then and with some uncomfortable silence, the interview began.

The elder woman, apparently the leader, was a chunky lady made up with some skill in a cardigan matching her brown hair (which peeked out from under her wig), a brown skirt and brown flats. She seemed to be holding the moment for her companions, as if awaiting something as a demonstration. The other two were a blonde and brunette in their twenties, dressed perhaps too casually for her company. They seemed pleased to be there, but continually looked to her for direction.

I made to speak, but the elder one cut me off.

“SO we understand you are pursuing a higher education, Mister Mac.”

“Yes. Call me Hugh. On the advice of my mentor at the counselling school, I decided to enrol at the university to study psychology. I'm in the second year now and I think I'll end up going for a specialization in forensic psych. It's-”

“Yeah, we took a course in psychology,” they all said at once.

“Ah. Uhm, so what are we looking at here?”

“We just have a few questions.”

“Such as?”

“No need to be on edge. So. You're a parent. Correct?”

“That's the story,” I said, “I reckon I'll stick to it.”

They looked at each other knowingly. The elder leaned into it a bit as she asked,

“And, where are your children now?”

“Well, you can hear one of them watching tv in her room,” I said, “The other one is in the park across the street. Look. He's coming back right now.”

My son ran up the front steps and into the house, leaving the door wide open, of course.

“Dad. Where is Mom's yellow softball?”

“You guys had it. Where did you put it?”

“It was in the-” he caught sight of the ladies in wigs, “Hi.” he said, and came to stand beside me.

“Hello,” said the elder woman, “And so, this, is your son?”

“Yyyyyyyyyyyyes,” I replied, no longer sure this interview was a good idea.

“How come you are wearing those things on your heads?” Angus asked out loud.

“They are official wigs, and we wear them as symbols of our station and authority,” said the blonde one.

Angus looked at me, as if to say the entire scene needed an explanation, but that he probably wouldn't buy it if there was one, and that I should probably make them leave.

I looked back at him as if to reply, ‘you are probably right, but I'm curious about them, and I'd like to press them for information'.”

He looked back at them, “They're kind of weird.”

And then to me he said, “Is there something wrong with them?”

“Everyone is entitled to their dignity, son.”

“Huh. I'll be in the park.” and then he left.

“What a charming young man. Where does he live?” Asked the older one.

I rubbed my forehead a bit and struggled to see what was afoot.

“That was my son,” I said, “And he lives here with me and his sister.”

They looked at each other again,

“I'm not sure you understand, Mister Mac. We have a report that your children are missing.”

I could only stare at them, but then a few moments went by and it seemed like something had to be said.

“And yet, you just met a young man who called me 'Dad' right in front of you, and that didn't affect your findings at all in this, investigation?”

“Well as you must know, people aren't always truthful.”

“Excuse me; Who reported them missing?”

“That information is confidential.”

“No, it's not,” I said, “The law is clear that I have the right to face my accuser.”

“Only in Court, Mister Mac, and we are not in court, are we?”

“Look, is there something you need to tell me? Because you can't investigate me without going through the RCMP.”

“Oh, we know all about your rights, Mister Mac,” said the younger brunette, “Let's just say that we're suggesting something.”

“And what would that be?”

“Just that we will find out what you have done with your kids,” said the blonde one.

“Justice will be served when we finally bring you to trial. You and all your kind.”

“What kind, pray tell, would that be?”

“You know very well what we are talking about Mister Mac,” said the older one.

“Maybe,” I replied, “But if you don't express it verbally, how can you be sure you were heard correctly?”

That threw them. They looked at each other in confusion, finally leaning in to confer in whispers. Finally, the huddle broke.

“I'm not sure what kind of game you're playing, but it won't work,” said the leader, “We don't have to say it plainly for it to be official.”

“Uhm, yeah ya do. It's the law.”

“We're done here. We will be in touch, Mister Mac.” And then they left.

I'm glad I didn't waste any of my Lapsang Souchong on them!

Still, the whole scene left me feeling uneasy. I had no experience to compare this to, so I waited until a friend of mine, also a single parent, came over so the kids could visit. Once I gave her the low down on what happened, she groaned and said,

“I know exactly what you're talking about. Those women are insane- I mean, wait. That was harsh. They mean well, and they did help me out of a tough position way back when, but OH MY gawd, say one thing- even hint that you might have found something off-colour funny, and they will make your life a living hell.”

“Well, what? Do they work for the Ministry?”

“No. Well kind of. They are like special deputies. They just find it easier to say they are social workers. Mostly, they just want to stamp out the evil influence of men.”

“Great.”

“Yeah. They have a network through the schools. Be careful what you say around them.”

“Huh. I guess I better. Are you going to stay the night?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright then.”

That night, after dinner and movies with my friend and her kids, we retired to bed, pleasantly exploring cohabitation. She slept soundly beside me while I awoke somewhere in a deeper part of morning. At least I thought I had.

A rustling under the Maple tree outside caught my attention, but I knew the lowest branches were some thirteen feet from the ground. My window on the second floor, looking out on the street, was just below them. It was pitch black. I couldn't even see the ambient light from the street of the city. And then the thing blocking the window moved upward, revealing the huge eye of a black bird looking in my window at me.

The gargantuan Raven croaked lightly at me, a deep and short query.

I stood now on the wrong side of Mission Creek. The kids were beside me shaking with fear. We were at the top of the wooden staircase on the ridge above the creek, while below us the forest at the edge burned, taking the bridge and the lower stairs into its embrace. We could only go forward and follow the trails.

“Come! This way. We'll get to the Turtle Pond and see from there!”

“Dad, how come this part isn't on fire?” Angus asked, his mind always casting about for danger.

“Because they keep all the underbrush clear here, son. Every year they do it. Ahead there are roads we can get to. All we have to do is stick together, Okay?”

“Okay,” they said. We ran along the well-beaten paths. We knew them and had walked through them since they were little kids. I could not fathom the fire though. Okanagan Park had long since burned itself out. That was 2003, and this was 2006. It was all over.

The Turtle Pond was intact. Looking around, I could see that the fire had moved elsewhere, but that was no hint of safety. It was still smack in the middle of a pine forest. Smoke was drifting through the trees now. No wafting sparks yet, but the burning smell was harsh and alarming. We needed to get to a road.

“Remember the roads? Not far from here are houses, and that means the firemen will be there evacuating people. We have to get to them, so we are going to make a run for it, okay? Stick close and don't run off without me.” They nodded.

We took off. The chain link gate to the access road was not a hundred meters from the pond down this main path. We rounded the bend and came in sight of the road.

“Dad, the fire!” Angus yelled.

“I see it.” Fire was sweeping fast from both sides, threatening to engulf the trail and the road, but beyond it was clear. We had minutes at best before we would be consumed.

“Listen to me,” I said to them, “The fire hasn't gotten us yet, and it has to cut off that trail in order to get us. All we have to do is run fast and get to that road, so that's what we're going to do, alright?”

“Dad, I'm scared,” said Missy.

“I know, dear. So am I. Ready? Let's run!”

With one in each hand I ran through what had become a tunnel of searing flames.

Into a garden path, which led to an overgrown cave. Now the kids were not with me, and I knew they were safe.

“Oh thank god,” I said, and walked with the relief of whole worlds removed from my shoulders. I breathed in the cool clean air and brushed aside the draping moss that disguised the lever to the cave.

“Never mind, you,” I told the large spider that stood in front of the lever itself, waving its front legs at me. I grabbed one of them and picked him out of the way so I could pull the lever.

“You're all bark, anyway,” I said, putting him back.

The great mossy door swung back to reveal the tiny grotto. A cave, in appearance, it was actually a vertical slit in the rock that had been eroded into a spacious area by the waterfall off to the right. The pool that had built up had deposited a sandy beach that had direct sun on a daily basis, and above that was a deep hollow in the rock big enough for a very comfortable room. There a wide desk of fine, black wood held my ongoing works. Beside that was a great fireplace which had a natural flue in the rock behind it. Several chairs and small tables crowded it. Next to that was the great bed of crystal, still not made from the last time I was here.

“What are you doing here?” It was Nicole's voice. She stood up from my chair and rushed into my arms.

“Nicole? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Dweeb! I'm dead, remember? I'm allowed to be here. Why are you here?”

“I don't know. I was having a bad dream, and then I was here.”

She released me, “You're familiar with this place, aren't you?”

“Now that you mention it, all of this feels like, well like it's all mine.”

“It is.”

“But I don't remember any of it.”

“Mm, I see. You haven't exactly been here before. And you can't stay.”

“What does any of that mean?”

“I can't tell you, but if anyone can figure it out, it's you.”

“Nicole,” I pleaded, unable to hold back what I needed to say, “Why couldn't you hold on just a bit longer?”

“You know better than that,” she replied, “It was my time. I didn't want to go, but I had to. Now you have to carry on, and teach the kids to as well.”

Definitely not what one wants to hear. The day of her passing was still fresh in my mind posting the conflicting impressions, the contending senses of horror and secret relief with the added horror/outrage that such feelings could even exist; supporting and blending into confusion about how to work through it, and was it even really happening? The severing cruelty, leaving one adrift and hopeless and alone.

We reach desperately for any wisdom in such moments, only to reject any sympathetic sentiments, or sentimentalism offered because there is no such safe haven from our despairing yet resolute existence. It is not and will never be that easy but is raw, grating and scraping us clean of pretense. Easy, is having that other person, and building them up knowing that you may one day need them to do the same, in stark contrast to the awful doom of being alone: THAT, is hard; that is pain; that is desperation. Going alone leaves one with the terrible question of what you could have done to avoid that, what you could do right now, what you would be willing to do to avoid another day by yourself, in your own head.

I looked up to find her watching me work through it all.

“It's your job,” she said, “It's what you are good at, and what you are needed for.”

“What did you mean, that I can't stay here?”

“You can't live in both worlds. This is just an introduction. A renewal. It's time for you to get busy. And it's time for me to go, too. I just wanted to look one last time, but as long as you're here I have one last thing to say.”

“What's that?”

“You're a dweeb.” She smiled and faded away.

What could I do? I sat with that for a while, in my chair. Absently I started to make the bed, but in my distraction I may have only pulled the sheets around a bit. The grotto entrance closed with an ominous grating of rock together, so I picked myself up and headed on toward the next step. I had been putting it off for so long now.

“Hugh! Wake up!” My partner was just about frantic when I awoke. She was shoving me roughly.

“Okay okay. What?”

“You were having some kind of nightmare. It scared me.”

“Did I say anything?”

“No, you were just thrashing about.”

I told her about the giant Raven, and the fires, but skipped the part about the grotto, and Her. I remembered nothing after that.

Adjusting her nighty for her, so it covered her again, I then kissed her lightly.

“I'm fine. Just a bad dream.”

She rolled over and thrust her bum into me, “Threw all the blankets off. Now I'm cold.”

With all of that going on in the background, I occasionally had to visit the school to deal with Angus's “issues”. There was always a 'Wig” at the school those days. It had become a fashion, of sorts, to be seen wearing one, unless you were among the set of parents who were semi-intelligent or better.

“Ugh,” said another parent to me one day, “Those bitches are impossible!” It was a bit surprising from her, since she was normally almost prudish in her manners. We had only spoken a few times before, at birthday parties and such.

“They're like the 'Thought-Police',” she said, “I caught them coaching my son on how to spot political incorrectness.”

“Seriously?” I said.

“Hugh, I'm not even exaggerating. She was saying to him, 'Now what do we do if we hear someone gendering other kids, Michael?' And she did it right in front of me! I stopped her and said I didn't think that was appropriate at all, but she turned on me and explained how shocked she was that people still indoctrinated their children in gender. And then- I couldn't even believe my ears- she said she was putting my comments down in Michael's file.”

“Really?” I drawled, “Is that even legal?”

“I wondered that myself,” she said, “It turns out that it is, but then it depends on what is intended by the use of the information. Suppose you did do something criminal. They would be obligated to hand it over to the RCMP, but they are free to keep it and build it.”

“My sister is a police officer,” she explained.

“Huh. Well, it sounds all benign. I mean it makes sense to have information about people,” I agreed, “But then I know from my classes in statistics that not all information is the same. Right? It is one thing if you and I participate in providing our demographics and our, eating habits or whatever, but we have to rely on others to collect it objectively. I'm not sure these Wig-people are objective at all.”

“They're not objective at all,” she chuckled, “They're openly pursuing an agenda, using our kids. And those wigs look stupid on them.”

Angus came running up to me just then,

“Mrs. Wiggins wants to talk to you,” he reported. I looked at Michael's mom,

“Here we go.”

“Good luck.”

Mrs. Wiggins' wig was askew when I caught up to her at the office, and her greying hair was sticking out in several places. Aside from that, she was well made up. Her white cardigan draped over her burgundy blouse and contrasted nicely with her black pants and burgundy flats.

“Mr Mac,” she began right away, “I have yet another report that your children are missing. Do you care to explain this, yet?”

“Missing? You sent my son to get me so that you could claim he is missing?”

“I sent A child. Whether it was your child or not remains to be seen, I'm afraid.”

I was at a loss to know where to go with this, but not certain it was a good idea to blow her off. I changed tack.

“How many days exactly have they been missing for, Mrs. Wiggins?”

“I'm afraid that information is not available.”

“Why don't we check? Come. The book is right here.” I had been to the office enough to see where Mrs. Plamondon kept the attendance record. I grabbed it off of her desk and flipped through to the most recent days. Mrs. Plamondon, a ginger woman in mom-jeans about my age, turned from where she was talking to another parent.

“Hugh. What are you doing?”

“Sorry Leah. Mrs. Wiggins is looking for my missing children.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake. Give me the book, please. We seem to go through this every week now. If it happens again, just come and get me, okay?”

I handed the book to her, “Of course. Thank you.”

“Scoot,” she smirked at me, “I'll take it from here.”

I headed for the office door and overheard Leah giving it to Mrs. Wiggins,

“Janice it is not appropriate for you to be telling people their children are missing. Look. Angus and Missy are listed right here. They were not missing.”

“Mrs. Plamondon, I am not entirely sure you are on the correct page, here,” said Mrs. Wiggins. I stopped just outside of view, but close enough to hear the response.

“It's my office, Janice. My page. Now, you've done quite enough today. I think it's time you went home.”

“Oh! What? Why I- I will bid you good day, Madam!”

“And take off that ridiculous wig,” she added.

There was more outrage from Janice. I smiled as I walked out of the school to the car. I think we can all agree that, if there is a single person in charge of the universe and all of reality, it is probably an elementary school secretary.

But it wasn't over yet. At my car, another Wig was talking to my kids. When I got there, this person, a man in his late twenties, actually looked up from my kids at me with full contempt, as if I was the one intruding on his relationship with them.

“Excuse me,” I said, “What are you up to?”

“Just making sure these children know who they can can run to when there is trouble, Mister Mac.”

“Well at least you're admitting that the kids are mine. That's a step in the right direction.”

“We admit nothing to the likes of you,” he smarmed heavily, “In fact, listen, can I just let you in on something? As of right now, a study commissioned by the Canadian government by social workers all across Canada is being released to the public. Yeah. It's a study on child welfare in Canada. And. When the public gets wind of what is in that report; well, I can tell you that your kind won't be roaming quite so freely, abducting children.”

“Well, which is it?” I demanded, “Are these children missing or abducted? Anyway, if you think a crime has been committed, you have to go through the RCMP. Why don't you call them right now? Tell you what. I'll call them for you so you can get the ball rolling.”

I pulled out my flip phone, because I hadn't yet decided on the smart phone idea. When I began dialling, Buddy just started walking away, scowling.

“You haven't heard the last of this,” he said, “It's called the C.I.S. 2003! Look it up!” I got in the car and pulled away.

“What did that guy want, Dad?” Angus asked.

“He wants you to tell him what a bad man I am, son.”

“Are you going to go to jail?”

“Uh, no,” I said, “Did you see how fast he went away when I offered to call the police? That means he is doing something he knows he shouldn't be doing.”

“But what if they take you away?”

The possibility that I might go away mysteriously was a common theme at our house. Since Nicole was gone, the kids worried a lot about what would happen to me. I had taken to reassuring them by saying I was bullet-proof and fire-proof, to which the kind folks around us responded by telling them that simply couldn't be true; that Daddy could go away or be killed or arrested at any moment.

“In that case,” I said without skipping a beat, “Just call the police and tell them the Wigs came for me. They will know what to do and come and get me.”

“K,” they said.

At home we went about our daily routine. The kids took off while I sat down at the computer. The conversation with the Wig at the car had piqued my curiosity, so I looked up this study he mentioned. Sure enough. There it was. An official study commissioned by the government, performed by social workers combing through data collected by social workers everywhere but in Quebec.

It was detailed and thorough, tracking all incidents of the mistreatment of children in Canada. Unfortunately for the Wigs, it did not implicate men or fathers in particular. In fact, it told a far different story than they were prepared to hear. I had enough statistics classes under my belt that I could tell what a huge project this was. Never mind the study itself, just mining the data would take many people many hours.

Even a quick perusal revealed that there was no clear-cut narrative for anyone to crow about. Just taking the result that some 30% of homes where abuse or neglect were reported were homes of single mothers, compared to the 4% of households of single fathers; we cannot boil that down into a statement about single mothers. To do so is simply irresponsible. We simply cannot draw any easy narratives from this data. Having said that, there were a couple of revealing numbers. In table 8.2b on page 87, “Unsubstantiated and Malicious Reports, by Referral”, was the very disturbing stat showing that only 53% of referrals by “Professional or Service”, which included Doctors, ambulance drivers, counsellors, school officials and nurses, were substantiated. In statistics, 53% is hardly better than chance.

You could roll dice and almost have the same results. We are not 'jumping at shadows', apparently, but maniacally throwing each other under the bus, here. Worse was the stat below those, stating that 2% of referrals by professional or service were unsubstantiated and malicious. That was over 2000 cases across Canada. Unfortunately for those authorities, 2000 cases, in statistics, is NOT chance. It's a pattern.

Even in the case that these were all completely separate assholes pursuing their own private agendas; well firstly, that is a LOT of assholes, but secondly, we have to remind ourselves that these assholes are not leaders. They are not the kind of people who stand up to everyone and provide a shining example but are the kind of people who slink. They crawl out from under rocks, metaphorically, and snipe at people for the worst kinds of reasons. They are followers, and as such will act when they believe they are sanctioned to do so. These assholes apparently felt sanctioned to carelessly ruin people's lives.

Obviously, no one truly supports that kind of villainy, but there can be no doubt that the general sense of active persecution is the buoy they cling to. That such behaviour is socially sanctioned, we understand, is only offered opportunistically by them for personal reasons, but it is nonetheless the evidence of those social sanctions.

Or maybe we are simply witnessing a general lack of education at play when it comes to the exercise of authority. Considering the outcomes, however, that is not better in any way. How digestible would it be to simply accept that the people in authority are just mindless when it comes to judgment? Why not at all, they might say. They will just simplify everything for us! Feel the wrath of the righteous!

Perhaps we are simply watching the dismal fallout of politics, but that too, is unpalatable. In that case, we have dispensed with yellow stars because the targets are much easier to find: Single Mothers and Men. Don't bother trying to defend yourselves, vermin! Your children will tell us everything we need to know.

It was as though a mutated strain of feminism had achieved a political value expressed in funding and job creation; not real feminism, which commonly expresses a basic humane sentiment, but merely a glib and pragmatic assumption of the logic, boiled into a gritty paste meant only to grease wheels in back room bargaining. Most days it doesn’t suffer verbal expression at all, but only acts as a litmus test to see how 'on board' a person is, whether they belong.

Following that are huge swaths of people who, for one reason or another truly need to be on board that doomed ship. They need the money or the employment, and so adopt the right-speak that gets them in. Or they actually are feminists, perhaps, but don't realize just how damaged the politics are these days. They get trapped on a ship they don't want to be on, but don't dare leave. Or they are just people, not brave or strong enough to stand up to the group. There is some understanding available for them.

In sociological terms, we might suggest that our system of sentiments is in a state of negative imbalance. In layman's terms though, it's just fucked up. Nobody actually leads this backwards-heading ship, and so there is plenty of room for people to just do as they like. Without any real guidance, we get a hideous over-reporting of each other because people are scared to be perceived as on the wrong side of the rail. Others misdiagnose because they can, and some report others because it makes them feel good to hurt people- and they know that nobody is watching. Without any real guidance, we get the 'guidance' of people who would not admit responsibility for their own behavior, who look to each other to find out what to do and mostly just copy what they see. They are monkeys operating a circus, voted most likely to throw their feces if you smile at them.

I turned off the computer for a bit. It was time to make some dinner.

“I'm going to walk over to the store and get some meat pies, okay?” I told the kids, who were watching tv in the living room. No response.

“Well did you hear me, like at all?”

“YES! Gawd.” they said.

We were barely a block away from Superstore, so the weekly shopping I used to do had morphed into a quick trip whenever I needed something. I made it past the park, and then through the fence when something hard hit me on the head, and then a cloth bag went over my head. People grabbed my limbs. I was hauled away and stuffed into a trunk. Unlike the guy from “Taken”, however, I couldn't suss out what direction I was going, only that it did not take long to get there.

Once the car stopped, the trunk immediately opened and I was hauled out. We walked a short distance into cool air. I could hear Mission Creek in the distance. Whoever held me turned me around roughly, and then yanked off my hood.

Around me stood a thick shrubbery of Wigs. The guy from earlier that day at the kids' school was there, as well as Janice Wiggins. The school Principal, as well as Caryl the school counsellor and the Pediatrician, stood over to the side, frowning at me like the others. A number of fellow parents were there with Wigs on, but none that I knew personally or spoke to. At the head of them all was a much older man, with a bigger Wig. He pushed his glasses back up his large red nose frequently and scowled at everyone.

“You fuckin monkeys have really stepped in it this time,” I said.

“We know all about you, Mister Mac,” said the Big Wig.

“Oh? What is my grandkid's name?”

“Eh? What?” He stopped. Several of them crowded in to confer with him, and then broke.

“Your games won't work this time,” he said, “The hand is in the other glove now.”

“You mean the shoe is on the other foot?” This was unprecedented. I had suffered a fair amount of abuse, both verbal and physical over the years, but I had never been kidnapped. Given that it was now about twenty minutes that I had been gone, the kids would start worrying in about ten. I looked around at these hapless wigs and decided to speed things up.

“Look, you seem to be holding a court of some kind. May I get up to speed on what the charges are and all of that?”

“Did you look up the report I mentioned?” snarled the guy from earlier.

“Yes I looked up the report,” I smarmed.

“And? Well?” they said.

“You bozos actually thought it was going to implicate me or men in general in abusing children didn't you? Did you even read it? It doesn't say anything of the sort! It says idiots like you shouldn't be in charge of yourselves, let alone anyone else. Now get on with this! My kids are getting hungry. What do you believe you are charging me with?”

“The Inquiry has already been persecuted, Mr Mac. You are here to find out our findings, not remind any questioning.”

“Inquiry?” I said, “Well, you have to have a Mandate from the Court to perform an official Inquiry, or from the Coroner's Office, I believe. Can I see the Mandate?”

“You're not in a Court, Hugh!” Caryl yelled, “Gawd!”

“We will mandate the court up yer ASS if you don't pipe down and listen!” said the Pediatrician. The others cat-called their approval.

“Shut it,” I said, “And take off those fuckin Wigs. You look like idiots. Get on with it if you are going to.”

“We have been made aware of your criminal history, and are here to make you aware of your judgment.”

“Oh, you are going to make me aware of my judgment, are you? I feel like I am all too aware of my judgment, and I can tell that in my judgement, you are a raving band of wigged Howler Monkeys! Anyway, what criminal history? I have a clean record.”

“Well, we know differently, don't we? I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree on that part.”

“No. You can perform a criminal record check on me any time you want, and it will come up clean. I have a copy of it at home. It's kind of the gold standard. The whole, 'checking with the RCMP, who are the only people allowed to keep that record', that really puts that issue to bed. If they say I don't have a criminal record, then I don't have one.”

“Well other agencies have-”

“Nope. Everyone has to go through the RCMP. If the RCMP hasn't laid charges and prosecuted a case or investigated, then there isn't a case. End of story.”

“Look,” said the Big Wig, heavy with impatience, “We have access to people at the Ministry. Any time we want we can get the dirt on people like you, so spare us the bullshit, okay?”

“Firstly, I don't have a history with the Ministry. Secondly, what you just suggested is illegal, and so Thirdly, they would never admit that this was possible because it is illegal and people would be fired for doing it. The whole Ministry could be investigated for that kind of thing, so I think it's more likely that you will be investigated for, well, all of this, really. Now look. It's time to wrap this up. My kids will be getting worried.”

“Very well. You have had this coming. After reviewing your case, Mr Mac, it is your judgment that you will be given this one opportunity to admit to your crimes. Do so, and we will set you free. Failure to do so will result in punitary measures.”

“Punitive,” I said, “Punitive measures.”

“Hugh!” Caryl cried passionately, “Don't do this to yourself. Don't do this to your kids!”

I was just about to tell her to shut up again when a police siren chirped. The lights flared up and RCMP flooded the gathering. They began arresting the Wigs, naming each of them and formally accusing them of theft of the wigs they were wearing. An officer came up to me.

“Care to explain all of this, Hugh?” she said.

“As if I could! I went out to get dinner for the kids, and they kidnapped me. Dragged me here for this kangaroo court.”

“From what I hear,” she said, “You bring this on yourself.”

“This is an official procession!” cried the Big Wig as they removed his hair piece, “We are convincing that man of crimes against humanity!”

“Convicting!” I said, “You're convicting me.”

“OH SHUT UP!” he yelled back. Then he was stuffed into the back of a cruiser and gone.

“Weirdos,” the cop said, “Why don't you get back to your kids? They called us when you didn't come back.”

“How did you know to look here?”

“The school secretary.”

“Nice,” I said. I was anxious to get back to the kids, but I also needed a minute or two to process this absurd event.

“Where did they get the wigs?”

“Stolen from an official government supplier in Britain about ten years ago. Took some time to get the warrants together.”

We both shook our heads at them.

“Do you think this is the end of this? Is the horror at an end?”

She looked at me, studied the moment a bit, and then took some time to really respond.

“In my humble experience, Hugh, people like yourself inspire the worst in these ones. Honestly, I'm not sure why you don't just get along with them. You scare them, and they do crazy things because of it. This,” she pointed around at them, “Is mostly your fault.”

“Wwwwwwhat??!!” I said, “Get the fuck out of here. How is this on me at all?”

“So No,” she totally ignored me, “It's not over. They will just wear the wigs on the inside from now on. Now you just won't be able to tell them from normal people. Congrats.”

“That's bullshit,” I griped quietly, “Can I get a ride home?”

“No.”

We stood there a few moments, watching the Wigs get taken away, then I left. I picked up some meat pies, cooked dinner for the kids, and then we watched the season ender of Rock Star. The kids went back to school the next day, and I went back to mine. Everything went back to- normal, I guess.