Folkestone & Hythe Council’s Halloween Nightmare: The Night Councillors Were Forced to Tell the Truth

The following is a work of satire. All events and dialogue are fictional, although the councillors named are real.

Folkestone & Hythe District Council held an extraordinary full council meeting on Halloween. The meeting was extraordinary in that everybody knew why they were there.

At seven o’clock, Councillor Paul Thomas took the chair, glanced at the agenda and announced that the first item was an investigation into an unexplained presence in the Civic Centre.

“We’ve had complaints about a strange figure wandering the corridors after dark,” he said. “Apparently it makes a low moaning sound and nobody can understand a word it says.”

“That’s the council’s external consultant,” said Bridget Chapman. “He charges by the hour.”

The figure materialised in the public gallery. It wore a black cloak, carried a turnip and had the pallor of a person who had read all 376 pages of the agenda pack.

“I am Mistress Prudence Wraith,” it announced. “I died in Hythe in 1694. I have returned on the night of Samhain to see how the living govern themselves.”

“You’ll need to register to speak,” said Thomas.

“I am beyond mortal law.”

“That hasn’t stopped us charging for parking,” murmured Tim Prater.

The apparition explained that the ancient Celts believed the boundary between the living and the dead disappeared at Halloween.

“Sounds like the planning department,” said Jenny Hollingsbee. “Nobody’s sure which side of the boundary anything is on.”

Prudence raised her turnip.

“For one hour, everyone in this chamber shall speak the truth. No evasions. No euphemisms. No answering a different question because the real one is awkward.”

A terrible stillness descended. Somewhere in the building a printer began shredding its own output.

“Can she do that?” whispered Jim Martin.

The council’s entirely fictional Special Adviser for Circumlocution, Sir Osbert Muddle, rose with all the dignity of a man preparing to say nothing over several paragraphs.

“In circumstances where a purported supernatural directive may be considered, subject to validation of its jurisdictional provenance, to possess a prima facie—”

“Yes,” he suddenly blurted. “She can. And I’ve just spent six months writing a policy that says absolutely nothing.”

He sat down looking as if someone had removed his trousers with a planning notice.

“Let’s proceed,” said Thomas. “Declarations of interest?”

Every hand went up.

“Not interests in the council’s business,” he said.

“Oh,” said several councillors, lowering theirs.

“What have you all declared?” asked Prudence.

“An interest in getting home before ten,” said David Wimble.

“An interest in hearing what everybody says,” said Tim Prater.

“Is that true?” asked Prudence.

“No. Only the bits I can use against them later.”

Thomas banged his gavel.

“Item two. Approval of the previous minutes. Are they accurate?”

“Not remotely,” said the clerk, to his own considerable surprise. “They say the discussion was constructive. It was forty-five minutes of people agreeing with themselves.”

“And why do we record ‘the council noted the report’?” asked Bridget Chapman.

“Because ‘the council had no idea what the report meant’ won’t fit on the template.”

“Right,” said Thomas. “Moving on.”

“You’re not allowed,” said Prudence. “You haven’t approved them.”

“Then I propose we approve them as an accurate record of the inaccurate record.”

“Seconded,” said somebody automatically.

The vote was unanimous.

The ghost looked impressed. She’d watched several witch trials but had never seen a group of adults convict a document of accuracy quite so quickly.

“I welcome this exercise in openness,” announced Jim Martin.

“What does ‘welcome’ mean?” asked Prudence.

“It means I’m hoping it finishes before the webcast audience notices.”

“And what does the council mean when it promises to listen?” asked a woman in the gallery.

“It means we let you finish talking,” said Martin, “even if we’ve already decided our reply.”

“But what if we change your minds?”

“Then we’d have to organise another meeting. Please don’t.”

Jenny Hollingsbee stood up.

“This administration must be held to account.”

“What does that mean?” asked the ghost.

“It means asking the questions we’d find insufferable if we were the ones being asked.”

“Excellent,” said Prudence. “You do understand democracy.”

“Not at all,” said Hollingsbee. “But I’ve studied the seating plan.”

Belinda Walker raised her hand.

“Could we please discuss the things residents actually care about?”

“Certainly,” said Sir Osbert. “Provided we can first agree what constitutes a resident, what care denotes in this context, whether the things are within the authority’s competence and whether the word ‘actually’ unfairly excludes hypothetical things.”

“In English, Osbert,” said Prudence.

“No. The answer is no.”

“That’s the shortest you’ve ever spoken,” said Thomas.

“It’s the first time I’ve been unable to charge by the paragraph.”

David Wimble announced that he’d had enough of unnecessary regulation.

“Then why,” asked Bridget Chapman, “is your proposal thirteen pages long?”

“The first twelve explain why there shouldn’t be any forms. The thirteenth is the form for agreeing with me.”

Stephen Scoffham suggested a sustainability assessment of the apparition.

“She’s walked here from 1694,” he explained. “Excellent carbon footprint.”

“She’s floated,” corrected Mike Blakemore.

“Even better. Could she take over the council’s vehicle fleet?”

“You’d need a transport strategy,” said Sir Osbert.

“How long?”

“Eighteen months.”

“And the ghost?”

“Three hundred and thirty-two years. She qualifies as a long-term contractor.”

The public gallery began to enjoy itself.

One man asked why the council kept saying projects were progressing when he could see no progress.

“Because ‘we are still discussing the discussion’ sounds terrible on a leaflet,” answered Sir Osbert.

A second asked how a council could approve a report nobody had read.

“By a show of hands,” replied the clerk. “Observe.”

Every hand went up again.

“Stop doing that!” cried Thomas.

“Sorry,” said the chamber. “Muscle memory.”

At five minutes to eight, Prudence offered a final test.

“What, councillors, is the most frightening thing in this room? Is it the ghost? The ancient pagan curse? The approach of death?”

“A supplementary question,” said Sir Osbert instantly.

“A public speaker with their facts right,” added Tim Prater.

“A meeting that runs into the following day,” said Paul Thomas.

“A resident who knows which committee made the decision,” said somebody at the back.

Prudence shook her head.

“Not one of you has mentioned the thing which most terrifies those who govern.”

She pointed towards the gallery, where a small child in a vampire costume was waiting politely with a plastic pumpkin.

“Trick or treat?” the child asked.

“We don’t distribute sweets,” said Thomas. “Council policy.”

“Trick, then.”

The child produced a sheet of paper.

“I’ve got twenty-seven questions. Mum says they’re all allowed as supplementary questions. The first is: what happened to the money?”

Sir Osbert made an animal noise.

Jenny Hollingsbee demanded to know which money. Jim Martin requested a definition of ‘happened’. David Wimble asked whether it had gone abroad. The clerk tried to attach the question to the next agenda pack.

Paul Thomas looked at the clock.

It struck eight.

The truth spell lifted.

Sir Osbert sprang upright.

“Chair, while we naturally welcome the opportunity to explore the complex and multifaceted dimensions of the child’s entirely legitimate concerns, it would be premature, imprudent and potentially counterproductive to prejudice the outcome of an appropriately constituted review by offering an answer at this stage.”

There was applause from every political group.

The child stared.

“So you don’t know?”

“We cannot rule out knowledge,” Sir Osbert replied, glowing with relief.

Prudence tucked her turnip under her arm.

“In my day we lit bonfires to keep evil spirits away.”

“Do they work?” asked Bridget Chapman.

“Not on this lot,” said Prudence. “They’re immune to fire, reason and ordinary questions.”

“Could you at least frighten them?” asked the child.

The ghost nodded, leaned towards the microphone and whispered three words.

“Independent external audit.”

They evacuated the chamber in eleven seconds.

The minutes recorded that the meeting had concluded early owing to unforeseen circumstances. The webcast described the ending as ‘a technical difficulty’.

For once, both accounts were true.

The Shepway Vox Team

Dissent is NOT a Crime