She puts her cigarette out in the ashtray and then I do the same thing. Finding my hands suddenly inactive, I fiddle with a tassel from the blanket on the bed without looking at it.
‘Ben made me think a lot about animals and what we do to them,’ I say. ‘It’s funny when you think about all the things we consume and why.’
‘A lot of the NoCo people are drawn to the animal-rights side of things,’ she says. ‘It seems to come naturally. I tend to emphasise human rights more, although the two are very much connected. An animal has a right to live in peace just as a human has a right to the same. I always think that humans are doubly betrayed because you can lie to people, and make them hurt or disappointed as well as exploiting them. But then some people argue that people can at least take up arms and struggle against oppression, which animals can’t do. Still, I think if I had to pin down what NoCo is all about, it is about stopping the lies and telling the truth instead.’
Chloë leans back in the chair, then draws her legs up and crosses them. I’ve noticed that she doesn’t move around a lot when she is talking; she doesn’t gesticulate. She says and does everything slowly and gently. She goes on. ‘We all remember the point when we first found out that Santa isn’t real, or that meat is dead animal, or that Mummy and Daddy had to have sex to make you, or that when you buy something in a shop for £4.99 it probably cost something like a penny to make.’ She smiles at me. ‘You know when you’re a kid, and you suddenly find out all this stuff … You go a little bit mad for a while. Then you grow up and you find out that there’s another level of lies that you hadn’t spotted. You realise that if someone invites you to come in for coffee they actually want to have sex with you; that the advertisement that suggests you will be beautiful and thin if you use a certain shampoo is not true; that ‘Stupidly Low Prices’, when you go into the shop, doesn’t mean that at all; that the guy who e-mails you, saying he will give you a share of a few million pounds, is lying; and whenever you see something advertised as ‘free’ it just isn’t. You just think, “God, I’ve been conned again,” and you eventually get used to it.’
I start unravelling the tassel in my fingers, thinking about lies.
‘My favourites are those job ads that say No Selling Involved,’ I say. ‘You go for the interview and find that, no, you’re not actually selling the double glazing, you are merely “making an appointment” for a salesperson to call round.’
‘I know! If you stop and look around,’ Chloë says, ‘you see that we have decorated our world with lies. Every billboard, every shop front, every newspaper and magazine. Everyone knows that advertisements are a form of “lie”, but they can live with that. At the end of the day it’s maybe just a kind of fantasy contract. The advertiser tells you that having a certain car will make you seem sophisticated and sexy, or frivolous and fun, and then you can buy whichever car matches your image, knowing that all your friends will have seen the same adverts as you and understand the ‘code’ – they will read the car like it was part of your barcode of identity. Many people actually enjoy this part of consumerism and, well, while it’s not what I would have in my own personal Utopia, that’s fine, up to a point.
‘The trouble is that while a lot of these lies are fun – for some people, anyway – this culture of lying means that some truly evil people can get away with horrible things and tell lies about it which people do not question. Sportswear manufacturers tell people that they do not use sweatshops and people think, “Whew, I can carry on buying my favourite trainers with a clear conscience.” But it’s just not true. They do use them, but because they are subcontracted they don’t take any responsibility for them. Everyone seems to have their own fairy-tale version of how milk is produced, I’ve noticed. I know someone who thinks that we breed cows to produce milk without the cows ever being pregnant. I know someone else who thinks that cows carry on producing milk after the calf has been weaned and that’s how we get our milk. They don’t know that cows are forced to be pregnant year after year and their calves are taken away and killed, in terrible pain, screaming, so that we can steal milk that’s still being produced for them …’
‘You don’t have to say any more,’ I say, quickly, feeling sick. ‘I gave up milk myself when I worked that out … I just can’t deal with the details of it all. It’s so horrible …’ I think about toy farmyard animals again. Is it any wonder people don’t think that bad things happen to farm animals, when everyone grew up with these toys?
‘That’s very similar to the attitude you get when you talk to people on the streets,’ Chloë says. ‘I do understand it. Of course no one wants to hear about what they do to calves. No one wants to hear the word ‘screaming’ in relation to their milkshake or their pork chop. I’m terrible for this, actually. I always feel really guilty about upsetting people. I almost don’t want to tell them this stuff, you know? Sometimes when people find out you don’t drink milk, they say, “But it’s natural and lovely and people have drunk milk for ever …”, and so you go, “Well, I could tell you about how milk is really produced”, and, nine times out of ten, they will hold up their hands and go, “No, thanks”. No one wants to know. A lot of people have a vague idea that horrible stuff goes on, but they decide not to find out about it. We all grew up seeing pictures of starving children on the news every night. We turned into the generation that will not look, that changes the channel, that shuts its eyes. You switch on the TV when you’re, like, ten years old, and there’s a kids’ TV presenter showing you pictures of a famine and saying, “So, kids, what are you going to do about it?” Who can deal with that? Then again, a lot of people did help because they saw those pictures … I think what I am trying to say is that a lot of people out there just can’t cope with the pain and suffering in the world. They understand that they inflict a lot of it – by voting in governments that go to war for the oil, or by buying clothes stitched in appalling conditions, or eating animals that died in pain – but they also know that if they didn’t vote, governments would still get in, and if they didn’t buy those products, everyone else would. It’s almost logical to do nothing.’
I remember when the Ethiopian famine was headline news. I never saw those reports on TV, of course, but I did see my grandfather’s newspaper. I remember the popular kids at school being divided on this issue. Half of them started going around with sponsor forms all the time but the rest just constantly made Ethiopian jokes. Can you turn something like that into a joke if it’s that far away? Is that what enabled them to do it? I think about what Chloë has just said. Yes, as an individual it is logical to do nothing, in a way. That’s what I’ve spent most of my life doing. That was my excuse before.
‘So you try to persuade them otherwise?’ I say. ‘By taking to the streets?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I gave up pounding the streets years ago.’
‘But I thought … Isn’t that what NoCo does, in some form?’
‘NoCo? God, no,’ she says. ‘NoCo has another agenda altogether. We want to bankrupt the fucking corporations. That’s what NoCo is all about. The days of talking to middle-class women in the streets are over. Like I said, this is a war.’
I can’t help it. I’m thrilled. ‘But how?’ I feel my eyes sparkle as I look at Chloë.
She tucks her hair behind her ears again. ‘Do you agree with our aims so far?’ she says, seriously.
‘I think so,’ I say. ‘A lot of what you have said … They’re things I think anyway. I can see all the ironies, especially working here. Although, I must admit, it’s taken this experience – being here with all the seminars and the creepy teenage-girl stuff – to make me realise a lot of it. I’m probably a bit like what you said. I kind of knew all this stuff but I looked away because I didn’t think there was anything I could do about it. Look, do you want a coffee?’ I am suddenly desperate for some coffee. I need my brain to be able to keep up with this.
‘I’ll get it,’ Chloë says.
‘OK, thanks.’
‘Su
gar?’
‘No.’
While she’s gone, four words play again and again in my head. Bankrupt the fucking corporations. Bankrupt the fucking corporations. Bankrupt the fucking corporations. Bloody hell. She is back pretty quickly, holding two big mugs of coffee. I have a lot of questions but she starts talking again as soon as she sits down.
‘NoCo is a global organisation,’ she says, in a low voice. ‘We have people in almost every country, in many big corporations. We have three basic mottoes: Do No Harm, Stop Others Doing Harm and Do What You Can. Do No Harm is what we try to achieve in our personal lives but it’s also the overall aim of our organisation. In order to achieve this, we have to Stop Others Doing Harm. We want business to conduct its affairs without exploitation, murder and violence. We all try to throw a spanner in the works of those companies that persist in doing harm. We are pacifists, and some, although not a majority of us, are Marxists.’
‘I didn’t think there were any Marxists left,’ I say, sipping my hot black coffee. ‘Isn’t the general line on Marxism just that it “didn’t work”?’
‘What, because of the Russians? The Chinese?’ She laughs, then sips her coffee, too. ‘It’s a bit complicated. I suspect there were some real Marxists in there somewhere, a bit like there are some Christians in the Church of England. But I don’t know. I’m not a Marxist myself. I think most of us in NoCo just basically believe in equality – real equality. But not the American Dream version, that says that you can do whatever you want to make a profit, as if making a profit should be the priority in everyone’s life …’
I frown. ‘Of course, not everyone can have “make a profit” as their goal in life,’ I say. ‘If you are selling, rather than buying, labour, you have to operate on a loss. If you don’t sell your labour for less than it is worth, then there’s no profit margin.’ The mathematics of exploitation.
‘Now you sound like a Marxist,’ Chloë says, with a smile.
‘Oh, I was brought up by my grandparents,’ I say. ‘They were post-war socialists. They believed in equality, and the welfare state, and trade unions. I don’t know what they’d make of the world today. It’s changed so fast. My grandfather believed that everyone’s labour should be worth the same amount. That everyone in the world should have the same hourly rate for work.’
‘I like that idea,’ Chloë says, enthusiastically. She sips her coffee again; little sips because it’s still hot. ‘OK, where was I? Oh, yes. Stop Others Doing Harm. We believe that it should be globally illegal to hurt or kill people or animals for profit. We don’t know how this would be achieved, but it’s not up to us. It’s really up to the next generation, or the one after that. We just want to stop what’s happening now. As for the No Harm policy in our private lives …’
‘Everyone seems to be vegan,’ I say. ‘I noticed that.’
‘Yes,’ Chloë says. ‘It’s difficult in a situation like this where there are a lot of us together. Various people have spotted all the vegans, and we were worried that it might be, you know, commented upon more strongly. I was particularly worried that if anyone from the PopCo Board spotted us they might suspect that we were NoCo people – a lot of the corporations do know we exist, of course. Mind you, half of the other people here are on Atkins, or some other mad diet, so you can sort of blend in. I think we’ve got away with it, anyway.’
‘Are all NoCo members vegan?’ I ask.
‘Not all. We ask that when people join they make some lifestyle sacrifices. Meat eaters become vegetarian. Vegetarians are encouraged to become vegans. We try to reduce consumerism in our own lives. We agree to practise Do No Harm but within the realities of the third motto: Do What You Can. No one in NoCo has to become a monk. Loads of us smoke, although NoCo is very much against the tobacco industry, for example.’
I remember what Ben said. You do what you can do.
‘It’s weird, though,’ Chloë says. ‘Once you start practising Do No Harm, you can end up looking very odd. Most high-street or cutting-edge fashion – especially the kind of stuff people at PopCo wear – is all sweatshop-made. I mean, that’s why there’s so much choice now, so much more than when we were kids. They can afford to churn out every style because it’s costing nothing to make. Those of us in NoCo will be more likely to reject that kind of thing and go to charity shops instead. But if we’re not careful it’s possible for us to end up as an army of vegans who look like 80s students lurking around in corporations trying to sabotage everything.’ She laughs. ‘You’d pick one of us out in a crowd, easy. So every month, when I get my communications pack through, it includes lots of hints and tips on, for example, clothes you can buy that are cruelty-free but still cool, or up-to-date lists of vegan items from the menus of all the main restaurants in each city where lots of NoCo people are based. So you don’t have to keep asking, if you’re out for lunch with a client or something. You don’t have to seem weird even though, of course, you are. I’ve heard that there are a few NoCo chefs who specifically put vegan food on their menus and then tell us about it. I also disseminate information on box schemes and places you can buy ethical vegan products out of normal hours. We all stay in our offices so long that we are virtually forced into supermarkets. We also have lots of tips on how to Do No Harm in the supermarket if you do have to go. And a bit of sabotage, of course.’
‘Wow,’ I say, my eyes wide. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘We wondered about you, you know,’ Chloë says, shaking her head. ‘You carry a flask around with you, and a transistor radio, and you wear very odd – nice, but very odd – clothes. We were thinking that maybe you were already a NoCo member that we didn’t know about, and you were doing a really bad job of covering it up. Then we found out you’d been shagging Georges. It was all very confusing.’
I blush. ‘I never slept with him,’ I say.
‘Sorry,’ Chloë says. ‘Getting carried away.’
‘It’s OK. So what do NoCo members actually do?’ I ask. ‘How are you bankrupting these corporations, exactly?’
‘It’s very simple,’ Chloë says. ‘We recruit people, tell them the three mottoes and then they do what they can to help the cause. Our main aims at the moment are quite clear. One is to cost corporations money. Another is to sabotage their operations. Another is to get NoCo people into positions of power within the corporations. Another is to get the anti-corporate message out there, right into the minds of young people and teenagers, where it counts. I guess there are probably two distinct areas, or levels, of activity at NoCo. Some members are fairly low-level in their companies. They indulge in minor acts of sabotage. They put viruses on company computers, spill Coke on their keyboards – Coca-Cola is an excellent tool in resistance, we find: very sticky and dangerous when combined with technology – take time off sick on purpose, ruin stock, operate Go Slows …’
‘Go Slows,’ I say, smiling. ‘Sounds like a union thing.’
Chloë shrugs. ‘Well, they took away most of our unions, so this is what they’ve got in return. If you work at a fast-food restaurant, you can’t form a union but you can join NoCo. On your weekends off you can write graffiti on walls, mess with billboard ads, knock over displays of eggs in the supermarket or shoplift clothes and donate them to charity shops. It all helps.’ She finishes her coffee and peers into the bottom of her mug. As if satisfied that it really is all gone, she then puts it down on the desk. ‘In a sense, Esther best represents what can be done on this level if you’re in a company. I think you already know that her job is to plug PopCo products online. Of course, she goes online and does the opposite.’
Guerrilla marketing becomes guerrilla warfare. Of course.
‘So what about the other level?’ I say, fascinated.
‘Well, that’s people like us. We are well paid, sometimes quite senior members of corporations who have, perhaps, always thought we would “fight the system from the inside”, but we have become disillusioned at some point, or we haven’t known how. We are beyond the stage where we can s
imply sabotage our workstation and make a difference. There are lots of possible directions for someone at this level. Some people are what we call “invisibles”. They are attached to a local coordinator but they never attend meetings or receive any communications from NoCo. Their role is to climb as high as possible in their corporation. They are not encouraged to be vegans or to do anything out of the ordinary. Their brief is simply to keep their heads down, network like hell and get to the top. We already have one NoCo member at the head of a Human Resources division, apparently. HR is the main thing, I guess. If you can get NoCo members into HR, then you can get the people you want into each corporation. If we can crack HR divisions, then we can start marching people into Accounting and IT like an army of ants. Maybe we can even start getting people on Boards of Directors, who knows? The invisibles get where they’re going, then sit there and wait for instructions. In fact, one problem we have is working out systems of secret communication with the invisibles. This is one of the reasons we wanted to recruit you, actually. What else? We have quite a lot of people in marketing departments but we always need more.’ Chloë laughs now, and pushes her hair out of her face. ‘They have the most fun. Do you ever see a marketing campaign and just think, “Blimey, that company’s gone mad”? You know, something that just misses the point so totally?’