The System: Series 1: Level 6: Judgement Day Question Mark.

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Everyone wants a nice, clear, simple, reassuring story in which they are the heroes. Some other people are the bad guys, and the bad guys get crushed. But if you push people out of your story, or if you make them the bad guys, they'll come up with a different story. And you'll be the bad guys, and then you'll get crushed.

Judgment Day? Three heroes. One sits on the roof of an abandoned pub, waiting for sunrise, wondering if it might be his last. Another is at the wheel of a stolen car, speeding towards the coast. A third lies in a hospital bed, watching the light flicker above him. Fifteen years ago. A boys' school. A state school. But the kind people move house to get their sons into. Year 7 P.E. Basketball. A row of boys backed up against the wall bars in the gym. One by one, the line thins out.

Until there are just two kids left. One short and chubby, the other tall and gangly. The picking stops. No one wants either of these two. All the other boys, the chosen ones, look at them, a mix of contempt and pity, but mainly relief. Thank God it's not me. They start to snigger. The two boys, the unchosen, look at each other. Us. And them. Present day. The car pulls up at a deserted stretch of coast. A young woman gets out. Walks up to a padlock gate. Hunsby Cliffs Holiday Park.

A red and yellow sign below. Danger, keep away. That hasn't stopped her so far. I've been here before. On YouTube. The Ghost Park. It was shut down and abandoned when the cliffs started to collapse into the sea. A chalet with a tree growing through it. A go-kart track that's become a meadow. An empty swimming pool full of moss. But where's the ghost? I could spend hours creeping around, or...

I rustle from above, and there he is, silhouetted against the sky. All right? All right? When did you get so jacked? When did you start dressing like a 14-year-old boy? It's fashion forward, isn't it? How did you know where I was? The photo of you and your dad. It's the one holiday he ever took you on. You worked out from that? Yeah, and you showed me all those creepy clips on YouTube. Well, I practically left you a trail of breadcrumbs. So I did it.

What? I found him. Yay. You found Bo Leach? Yeah. Except for one tiny problem. Jake is staring at a patch on the ground. He's been staring at this patch on the ground for the last three minutes. Flash, I love you, but we only have 14 hours to save the Earth. We need to leave, now. We should go to the police.

You said no way we should go to the police. I've changed my mind. No. Why not? Because they won't believe it. We have zero evidence. Meanwhile, they have CCTV footage of you brutally assaulting someone and whatever insane lone wolf manifesto video you made.

We need to find Alex. And do what? Find out what they're going to do and make him stop it. Unless you have a better idea. Or we could just run away. What? People disappeared. Only we could fake our deaths like that bloke on his kayak. And go where? Do what?

I don't know. Run a beach bar and go like that Jason Bourne fella and his girlfriend. I don't want to run a beach bar. And I'm pretty sure she gets shot in the first five minutes of that film. And they're girlfriend and boyfriend, so for all those reasons, your idea sucks. Do you have any idea where Alex might be? In hospital? Why? He looks at me.

He was the one you beat up? He was going after your dad. He was going to target him. What? Why? He's not that rich. Is he? I think he was testing me. Do you think he's still a target? I don't know. I don't think so. But he might be.

Why didn't you mention this before? I don't know, I'm sorry. Alright, alright, it's okay. But now we really have to leave. Wait, give me the keys. What? No. You should stay here, I'll do this. This is all my fault. It's my fault too. How is it your fault? If you hadn't got expelled from me, your life might have been completely... I got myself expelled. You never even wanted me to beat that kid up. I remember the phrase white saviour being used a lot. On some level, I knew you'd beat that kid up.

I used you. And then I carried on using you, Jake. I used your flat as a place to go and do all the stuff I couldn't do at home. So what? Just make weed and drink and play GTA and have sex with boys. And then when things got heavy, when you really needed me. When Mum and Dad cut you off, I just went along with it. I didn't have to, but I did. It was just easier to do nothing. Well, I guess you've made up for it now.

You've definitely done some stuff now. No shit. Now I'm like officially aiding and abetting. I'm your freaking black saviour. So I guess we're even. Yeah.

So move it, bitch, cos now we need to go and save the rest of the world, innit? Sane. The two boys, both without fathers, one dead, one gone, become inseparable. existing in their own private parallel universe. A paracosm is called. A highly detailed imaginary world. It's a sign of great intelligence, apparently. A place where they were in charge. Secret codes.

Characters, espionage, subterfuse. In the playground, in the classroom, on the bus home, they're only half there. Background characters in other people's lives, avoiding the spotlight, but in the world that they created, they were the heroes. masters of their universe. Maya? Shit! Did they follow you?

Put it down, please, Maya. Get down on the ground! Maya, pointing a gun at a police officer is not a good idea. I wasn't looking for feedback! Get down on the ground! Empty their pockets, find the carcass. This is insane! Do it! I'm sorry about this. Well you will be some. Have you lost your mind? I actually feel extremely clear-headed. Thanks very much. Pull over. What? Pull over. Pull over. Pull over. Okay.

Where are you going? He walks directly towards the edge of the cliff. Jake? And flings the gun into the North Sea. I'm done with that shit. Well, come on and drive. That was our one bit of leverage, but fine. Year nine. For the tall one, bit by bit, day after day. The paracosm has started to feel like a prison. They're too old for this childish make-believe. But he cannot see a way out. Then, for the first time ever, the inseparable are separated.

Put in different classes for maths. The tall one sits next to someone new. They make jokes. They have things in common. He has a new friend. The possibility of being part of another group. A way out. doesn't know how to say this, it's beyond his 13-year-old mind to comprehend, let alone communicate. So, one lunchtime, instead of taking his usual seat by the short one, he goes and sits with these other boys. And that...

It's that. Without a conversation, a word, a look even. The friendship is over. The paracosm cracks and disintegrates into infinite tiny pieces. The short boy wanders further and further from the pack, cultivates his weirdness like a hard, spiky carapace, designed to keep people away, an act of aggression in itself. He grows his hair, long and greasy.

His glasses break and he tapes them together. A growth spurt finally comes and his trousers are five centimetres too short. Ankle swingers. Every day he looks more and more like a freak. It's like he's golden them to do something. And eventually, they will. Come on, come on, come on, come on. The cars in the city now are crawling through the early morning traffic. We should be hurtling towards the big showdown.

Instead we're stuck on a red light by a PC world. Maybe we should put the siren on. Do you remember what your dad said about Alex? No. He said that he'd either end up in prison or be a millionaire. Maybe he'll do the double. Underneath that nose job and the expensive clothes, he's still the same strange little kid. How did I not see it? Because he's very good at manipulating people. It's me too. I wanted it to be true. I needed it to be true. So I just went along with it all. That's how it is.

Most people are just going along with things, doing what their parents did, doing what the people around them do, not making a fuss. It's like the Milgram experiment. The bullying had been going on for years. The background noise of his life. The names, the barging in the corridor. Grabbing his bag and pulling him backwards. Having his tie pulled so hard that the knot can't be undone. Pea-nothing, they call that. Graffiti-ing his locker.

Chucking his bag on the roof, up a tree, over the fence, putting it in a bin, throwing it down some steps to a basement, then lining up around the railing at the top to goblin him when he runs down to get it. The spit pit, they call that one. But something about him... His refusal to toe the line, to change his accent, to dress normally, to act normally, to follow the rules makes them angrier and angrier. How dare he casually embody everything they're so desperately trying to avoid being.

He has this old blue parka that he always wears, too small, the sleeves riding up his forearms, the fur around the hood matted and filthy. The hood which has so many times been a target filled with stuff. rubbish, apple cores, then more elaborate, used toilet roll, a condom, someone's sister's tampon, a bottle of urine. Then one day...

As he walks along the fence opposite the coach stop where the boys, and crucially, also girls from the girls' school over the road, wait for coaches to take them to the suburbs and villages that lie beyond the urban sprawl. Three of them grab him. They lift him up.

and then two of them hook the hood onto the top of the fence rails whilst another shoves his hands under the waistband of his underwear at either hip and yanks down his pants and trousers, fully inverting them below his shoes. He's left dangling by his hood. naked from the waist down, as his coat and shirt ride up, the whole school watching over the road. His chin caught above the tight neck,

the collar strangling him. In a split second, he must decide what to do with his hands. He fumbles with the zip of his jacket, releasing his head, which sends him dropping down and out of the parka, blinded now by it, pulled up over his face, caught in the sleeves.

The cold winter air now felt not just on his legs, but his whole torso, exposed up to the armpits. With an effort, he yanks his arms free and pulls the shirt down. He lets himself one glance over the road at the massing kids as he pulls his trousers up. to cover his naked crotch. And there, leaning against that fence with his new friends is the tall boy. And he's laughing. Laughing so hard that you can see his teeth.

the molars right at the back. The fillings, the dangling uvula, the black hole down his throat.

Well, if he's conscious, he'll be in the private bit. And if he's not, we're screwed anyway. He never goes back to school. He stays at home. His mother, devoted, clueless, agrees to quote-unquote homeschool him, scrapes together enough to buy a second-hand laptop. He closes the bedroom door and a whole new world opens up. He barely leaves his room. A hukikomori, they call them in Japan. He learns to code, to hack. Goes deep into forums, message boards, 4chan and Reddit. Hours and hours and...

hours with the blue light in his face. And then, ripping bits and pieces off other people, he invents an algorithm, something that helps better track people's searches, writes a map of their desires. He sells it. invests the money, discovers that just as being poor was expensive, having money seems to generate more of it and he finds himself, at the age of 18, a man of means.

The good thing about hospitals is that everyone's so busy that if you walk with enough confidence, no one questions it. Even if you're a woman in her dad's hoodie and a man who's been sleeping in a rotten chalet. Okay, I think this is it. The private floor. The VIP area, where those who can afford it lift themselves up and away from the great unwashed. We creep down the corridor, peering through the little windows, until finally...

There he is. I can see a figure in a hospital bed. Someone else crosses in front of the door. Glasses, short hair. We duck round a corner. At 18, he leaves his bedroom and never returns. He sets about transforming himself, personal trainers and diet and therapy and a small amount of cosmetic surgery. He remakes himself.

But still, there is the fact that he is alone. For all he's done, there is no one there to see it. There is no one there to show him any respect. He knows what he should do, get a hobby, go dating, form some relationships, and yet... It all seems so... pedestrian. What does he really want? He starts to imagine something. The germ of an idea. What have he had? An army.

It starts as a joke, a fantasy, a thought experiment, but gradually an idea takes shape. And whenever he pictures his troops, loyal young men, adoring, brave, willing to die for him. There's one man he always pictures amongst them. I need to get in there. Where are you? Yeah, OK. Yeah, thanks for letting me know.

Yeah, I'm just doing that now. Okay, let's go. We approach the door, which she's left ajar. This is it. The big bad. The final boss. And there he is. A smallish man in a hospital bed with his face smashed in. It's hard to see him as the all-powerful puppet master in this moment. Wow. Look at us.

Come to finish me off, have you? Don't let him press the call button. Where my hell is staying? I thought the swelling in my brain had gone down. Why didn't you fight back? I wanted to feel the full force of your rage. Listen to me. This thing you've got planned. I haven't got anything planned. I can't even urinate without the assistance of a medical profession. Level six, judgment day, and whatever else Christopher Nolan's sci-fi movie bullshit phrase you've written on a whiteboard for it. Oh.

that. Yes, that. Are you hoping for the bored villain bit? You want the whole dastardly plan to be revealed whilst I stroke my fluffy white pussy? Yes, actually. Well, sorry. I don't know. What do you mean you don't know? There's a bit of a bifurcation. What? She'll know. It's when something splits into two branches. What are you talking about?

I brought Jess in early on as a researcher to help me put it all together. She's not your girlfriend. Oh, no, no, no. She's much too clever for me. To research what? The ideology. It's not really my thing, but young men do like a purpose. Is this a bluff? Is he bluffing? The 1% thing always tested well. Tested well? We did some focus groups. Race, religion, that's too divisive, but money.

You don't even have to make stuff up. If you can get people to stop worshipping the rich, then you can really get them to hate them. Old rich white dudes are the perfect bad guy right now. But you are a rich white dude. I am a young rich white dude. And not so rich anymore. That's part of the problem. The money was running out. I think we should go. Come on. So Jess found a new investor. A silent partner.

Anyway, there's been a power grab and I've been sidelined. That's why I thought we could have our own little inner circle splinter group. You know, this isn't going to work, right? It's all taking a bit of a turn for the fanatical. We've stoked up a lot of hay and now they're getting ready to weaponise it. How? I wanted to go medieval. You know? A bit of old school public shaming. Put them in the stocks.

Parade them naked through the streets, let everyone come out and throw their chamber pots at them, but... I'll probably do something more prosaic. Like what? I'll probably just kill them all. You need to stop it. It's what the people want. Do you want to see that guy's learn a lesson? I don't. You do, really, though. You don't know me. Why, he's trying to wind you up. We need to leave. Just a second. Everyone wants a nice, clear, simple, reassuring story in which they're the heroes.

Some other people are the bad guys and the bad guys get crushed. But if you push people out of your story or if you make them the bad guys, they'll come up with a different story and you'll be the bad guys and then you'll get crushed. I think we've evolved beyond all that crap. I think men like you need to find somewhere else to put all your testosterone. Oh yeah? Like where? Can't he just do a triathlon? Alex.

I am asking you nicely to please stand down your little militia. Or what? Are you going to threaten me with your antique pistol? I chucked it in the sea. Oh. Chekov would have something to say about that.

I'm just asking you to try being a decent human being. Why not see how it feels for a change? It's an interesting idea, but you really need to ask her. Jess comes back in. And following her is the pale guy. Finally. It took you so long, I had to go full on blue felt. Bonnie and Clyde here would very much like us to call off Judgment Day.

She's been trying to appeal to my better nature. And what did you tell them? I said it wasn't up to me. It's too late anyway. I've just given the green light. Wait, what about my dad? Is he on the list? God, no. Don't worry. That was just Alex going off piste and making it all a little bit too personal. The personal is political. Isn't that what the families say? It's unlike you to take an interest in the thoughts and ideas of women, Alex.

Anyway, I'm glad you guys finally got here. Stealing a police car. Very dramatic. Shark's been on your tail since yesterday. She gives him a nod and suddenly he grabs Jake from behind, pulls him into a chokehold. She reached into her bag. Gives us a chance to tie up some loose ends. And pulls out another antique revolver and raises it to Alex's head. Then she's turning towards me, the gun outstretched, pressing the barrel into my forehead.

She throws the gun to the floor. Bloody antiques. She turns to Shark. Right, give me your knife. I run at her. shoving her as hard as I can. In the same second, Jake swings his leg behind sharks, forcing him to topple backwards and release his grip. Who are you? I'm the revolution, babe. You want to join? A security guard steps into the room. Jake runs into the security guard, knocking him out the way. And we are running, running out the door, down the corridor, away.

Everybody want screw with a 2-2, and everybody want roll with a 4-4. Everybody want zig with a zigzag, and everybody want knock with a Thompson. Everybody wants free with the MP And nobody want one from the M1 Them police go Ring the alarm He's a bad man so ring the alarm And he's a bad man so ring the alarm It's time, boys. It's time to wipe that scum off the face of the earth. We need things to change, and they won't change if we don't do this.

Cut the head off. And if a couple more grow back, then we'll cut them off too. Because there's more of us than there are of them. That's why they're the 1%. We could beat them. We can beat them 99 to 1. They were warned and they did not change. Well, maybe they'll listen now. How was that? Yeah, that was great. Absolutely great. Nailed it. Oh, thanks. So what happened to the other guy? We were just doing a bit of restructuring. His time was up. A hedge fund manager, two landowning dukes.

The heir to a pharmaceutical fortune and the head of an online gambling empire were all taken. Each victim was taken by a young man apparently working with or for the man they kidnapped. One was posing as a personal trainer, another a cleaner, a driver and a... An anonymous video on YouTube declared that today was a day of judgment and that there were more to come. Jesus Christ.

The genie is out of the bottle. Pandora's box is wide open. It almost sounds like you're enjoying it. I'm sorry for their families. But I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a part of me that found it kind of exciting. We're in a Weatherspoon somewhere in Herefordshire. We drove the car as far as we dared. Then we walked, then hitchhiked, then walked some more.

We spent our last five quid on two pints of Stella and a portion of chips. God, that's good. I really fancy a cigarette. Maybe I should ask that old guy. Ooh, that's probably a bad idea. It's not your fault. What? Any of it. Some of it is. A bit. He manipulated you. Why, though? Revenge, probably. On the world. And on you. Why did he want revenge on me? You stopped being his friend. Oh, come on, we were 13. You dumped him. You broke his heart. Didn't break his heart. You might have done.

Thirteen-year-old boys have hearts, don't they? Maybe you were the only person he ever loved. And then you just dropped him. Twice. Poor bastard. That's what these men usually are. Little boys starved of love. And we can't help but give it to them, even though it will never be enough. Is this what you learned at Oxford? No, this is what I learned watching Oprah. Right. We should get out of here. Mile? Yes? What the hell are we going to do? I have absolutely no idea.

We'll just have to make it up as we go along. She heads towards the door, pushes it open into the darkness outside. There are no levels, no rules, no map for the journey we're on now. Are you coming? Yep. In part six of The System by Ben Lewis. Jake was played by Jack Rowan. Maya by Sienna Kelly. And Alex by Ian DeCastica. Bo by Matthew Needham. Jess and D.I. Cohen by Chloe Pirie. Coyote by Divian Ladwa. Jerome by Don Gile. Dr. Khalida Hassan by Suad Faris. And Grace by Ashna Riberu.

It was a BBC Scotland production for BBC Radio 4 commissioned by Alison Hindle and Rhian Roberts. The production coordinator was Claire Simpson. Editing by Joanne Willett. Studio production by Craig Dormer. Sound design and original music by Danny Kress. The System was written by Ben Lewis and directed by Kirsty Williams.

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