Chapter 6
*
There seems to be a new woman at this place: I’ve seen her in the courtyard. I tried to make eye contact with her, but I was made to go back to the cell. They’ve been trying to prevent us communicating nonverbally, because a number of friendships have been formed between inmates. What they don’t know is that we talk to each other in the corridors, just before we go to sleep. It’s not just casual chat but a way to discuss our plans of how to get out of here. I’ve been meaning to for so long, but now I’m serious, and I know I’m not the only one. It’s strange how you think about something and you realise that other people around you have been thinking exactly the same thing. The plan is that next time we are summoned out for our tasks, we form a mass exodus and just go for it, get out of there. Sure, they’ll shoot at us. But we don’t care about that anymore. We know that we’ll never be free, and we’d rather risk death than stay imprisoned. If we’re lucky, we’ll finally be away and then we can set about the process of reclaiming society. We can also find out why this all had to happen. Besides, we’re not safe here. The only thing is that I’m going to have leave some good friends behind, and some friends who I have yet to make. I’m assuming that my life is already over, and I’m wondering where I’m going to. They’ve tried to get us to believe in this galaxy far away. A few of us resisted: what a waste of time. They just ended up in the maximum security area. I just lied to them; told them that I’d be willing to serve the purpose of this panel of lords. They haven’t even named them. I’m now bound by the principles of Your Fate, but that is only official. They can break our bodies, shatter our wills, manipulate us and coerce us, but they can’t change what’s inside us.
*
Anne looks around the classroom, pensively. She knows that she will miss this place, but she knows that the most important thing is to decide her future and the primary judge of that will be the test that she does today.
‘Ok, can I have your attention, everyone!’ announces the teacher. ‘Including you, Julie. And what exactly are you doing?’
Julie smirks. She has been stabbing Emily in the back with a compass. She has not invented any reason for this other than her own sadistic pleasure. She quickly puts the compass in her pencilcase and smiles sweetly. ‘Nothing, Mr. Burnham.’
‘If it’s what I think I saw, I want to speak to you.’ He is reluctant to give this talk, as, although he is almost certain what she is up to, there are plenty of papers to be marked later on in the evening, and he simply wants to relax at the end of the day. ‘But you’ve been polite, so I’ll let you off this time. Now then: the test. You will be the first students to take the general test which, as you know, is to be completed along with your A-levels. You will have an hour to complete the test. Silence is expected but, if you wish to ask any questions, you may raise your hand. We have a break now, then we do the test. Is there anything else that you would like to know now?’
No-one says anything.
‘Good. Ok, everyone, go and get a cup of coffee and make yourselves comfortable.’
All the students saunter out of the class, except Anne.
‘Aren’t you going for a break?’ asks Mr. Burnham.
‘No, I’m ok here, thanks.’
‘Anne, stop being so difficult. I’m not asking, I’m telling. It’s for your own good.’
‘Why can I not take a break here?’
Mr. Burnham pauses for a while. Suddenly, he softens.
‘We want students to buy coffee. In particular, we want them to buy NL Cafe. They have offered us sponsorship money, in return for a quota of increased sales.’
Anne smiles. ‘So it’s not really for my own good.’
‘Anne, you are a very difficult student. To be frank, I don’t think you are going to succeed in your test. I am concerned about you. Perhaps we can have a talk?’
‘Yes. That’d be good. What happens if we fail the test?’
‘I cannot tell you that.’
Anne laughs. ‘And why is that?’
The skin on Mr. Burnham’s face turns to a markedly pallid hue.
‘You ask too many questions. Ok, I’ll admit it. If I tell you, I’m in for the chop... I mean.... literally. Please don’t let on. We’ll be done for.’
‘Its ok, it’s ok. I won’t tell any of the other students. I just wanted to know, that’s all. I accept that this is a troubling situation, Mr. Burnham. Perhaps we can work out a plan when we have our chat?’
‘Yes, yes, that’d be good. I’ll let you know when I’m available.’
‘Mr. Burnham: one last thing. Given what you have told me, can I avoid taking the test today?’
At this moment, a few other members of the class make their entrance. Mr. Burnham points to the right. Anne reads the signal and follows him out of the class.
‘I feel light-headed today.’ Says Jim. ‘Just when I’ve got to do this crappy test, and all. What is the point?’
‘The point is to learn.’ Says Tim.
Emily has tactfully moved to a different seat in class, but Julie has decided to sit behind her again. She gets up and ambulates to the desk in the far south-west of the room, so Julie decides to sit next to her.
If only Mr. Burnham could show up.
‘We don’t learn anything from this test. We just do it. It’s all bullshit government hype. I just get so bored with it: I just want to piss off to uni and do what the fuck what I like. No more of mum and dad and teachers and fucking authority breathing down my neck.’
‘It seems that it’s a general test. I think it’s to do with citizenship, kind of teaching you to be a respectable citizen and that. But you can’t find much out about it. No info on LookUp or the college boards or anything. I guess we’ll find out for sure when we do it.’
Mr. Burnham returns. Emily prepares to put her hand up but Julie pulls it down. She puts the other one up but that one is pulled down too. This goes on for around 10 seconds, before Mr. Burnham shouts:
‘WILL YOU TWO STOP IT AT ONCE!’
Julie does her surreptitious trademark smile. ‘Sorry, Mr. Burnham. We were just playfighting.’
He is now confident that he knows what Julie is doing. He decides to play the human chess match by meeting stealth with stealth.
‘It’s best that you two sit separately.’
Julie creases the skin on her forehead, pulls down her mouth, and turns her hands out in an offended manner.
‘Oh, I don’t believe you. You just can’t do that. We’re friends.’
That must be the biggest bullshit she has ever told me, he thinks.
Tears form in Emily’s eyes. Wishing to maintain her dignity, she looks down at the desk in front of her.
‘Well, while you do the test, it’s best that you sit separately.’
As Emily gets up, Julie whispers ‘That was all your fault. Next time it’s going to be worse.’
‘Julie! If you have something to say, you share it with me.’
‘I just saying “See you later”, that’s all.’
‘Well, that’s enough. Let her concentrate on her test.’ Something about him projects what he is thinking: I know what you’re up to. Invisible to the distant observer, Julie pulls a sneer. She now hates Mr. Burnham. The fact that he has seen through her facade makes her feel unimportant. From now on, she will be watching him closely and looking for weaknesses that she can exploit to her advantage.
‘Ok.’ He makes his way to the main desk and collects the pile of test papers. He chooses the order of the students to hand out papers to by unifying the desks into rows: each row will receive a paper each. As he hands the paper to Emily he whispers ‘I know what’s happening. I will keep you two separate.’ Julie looks at them both with unbridled resentment, while taking care to keep it discreet. There is one desk that is unoccupied, but everyone is too concerned about the test to notice.
*
Simon Evans is behind the podium on the stage of the NW Theatre. Next to him is his wife, who has an arm on her husband’s shoulder, and is smiling proudly. Henry Reeves is on the other side, posing with his hands on his hips, glancing at Evans repeatedly. From a distance, it seems that he is pleased to be with his idol, but no-one can detect the envy in him. One day, he hopes to lead the New Way, but for now he must let someone else be the centre of attention. He daydreams that Nigel Stant will make the decisions for him, and the rest of the ministers will do all the necessary drudgeries while he performs his tour in every capital city around the world.
I wonder if I could make it all happen a bit sooner...
‘Are you all listening?’ announces Evans, through the microphone on the podium. ‘Because if you aren’t, you are required to leave.’
A few people in the audience try to suppress their laughter. They know a fact unknown to the rest of the world: ‘leave’ in this context means something different from what it seems like initially.
‘As you all know, we are doing well, very well. And it’s all thanks to you: the people. Except you.’ He points towards a seemingly random place in the crowd. ‘Get lost now, you’re not welcome here!’ A section of the crowd boos and jeers. Evans’ lips pucker into his trademark smug smile.
I am just so proud of my popularity.
‘That brings me to what we will do with the heretics. Basically, the simplest solution is to get rid of them. The ultimate way to do that is to ensure that there are no more of them. Now, you have to remember that we passionately believe in upholding that quality which is essential to a successful society: freedom. So, from next month, we will be offering a choice: either they go in for a special operation, which will be entirely paid from your.... the government’s funds, or they will have the privilege of...um......’ He pauses for a moment. ‘Being in a show. It’s a real good one, it is. It’s all private at the moment, but we’re planning to introduce it as national entertainment.’
There is an almighty cheer from the crowd, and a few snorts of derision as everyone tries to find the offending person.
How can I make them hate these people?
‘You may have compassion for them....but they are not people: they are below that. I urge you to abstain from such remorseful feelings. They have been branded for a reason: they are evil... and I know that each and every one of you is innocent. And I will not take this crap any more!’ He begins to flail about maniacally. ‘They have brought shame upon society ! I care about you, the people! And I must protect you from these scourges! They bring the wrong music, the wrong plays, the wrong films to a grateful audience. If they dwell in the most vicious slums, they are rats, and if they dwell in the most luscious mansions, they are thieving from the earth. All in all, they deserve nothing but extinction!’
A huge section of the crowd begins to copy the flailing, furious at what they believe is happening.
‘If you see one in the street, go and put it out of its misery! This is a civilisation and is no place for it!’
I wish I hadn’t said that. All this killing is getting boring.
‘Actually, that is strictly not necessary....’
But if they do a bit of killing themselves, they won’t be bothered by the executions....
‘Do so if you feel like it, but generally do to them what you please. Anyway, I have something else to announce.’ He pulls Mrs. Evans closer to him. ‘Mary I have got married, and she is planning on popping out plenty of sprogs, who will inherit the....uh....’
.....the throne.
‘... the earth. For they will be meek and gentle and will wait their turn gladly. Because I have done such a brilliant job, it is only right that there are more people in the world like me, which is why I am very keen to replicate myself through my little baby factory here.’ Mrs Evans puts on a smile which seems extremely false to those in the row in the front, but everyone else sees someone beaming with affection. ‘I want to have more than 100 children! Each and every one of them will be your descendents as well as mine! I want to have the largest family of all: the NW species.’
‘Finally, I have the answer for the future. We all going to a wonderful place, which will not be shared by our opponents. It is in a galaxy, far from planet Earth. It is ruled by a number of lords, who will judge us at the end of our lives. It is so important that you all partake in this venture, that I am making it compulsory. We are still working on what it will be called, but we have converted a cinema in London to a building fit for the purpose of worshipping these lords. Everyone must be there on Thursday, no matter what. We will be checking every house and home in the country! If you are not there, you are not a true citizen! You will be punished in the here and now, and in life after death, because you are a traitor to our nation, our species, our world! And it belongs to us, and we shall take back what is rightfully ours! We have already succeeded in achieving possession of the nation, but that is not enough!’
‘YEAH!’ echoes the crowd, in unison.
‘If we cannot possess it by persuasion then we shall claim it back from these traitors! Those who do not believe! Those do not follow our principles! Those who have no place in the destination to which we are bound, all of us! We shall it claim it by the spilling of their blood! We cannot save their souls if they will not convert!’
Everyone begins to jostle each other in the frenzy which has taken place.
‘And finally: for our good the heretics will not be allowed into the political process. This is now a one-party state. I’m leaving now.’ announces Evans. Intoxicated with the roar of the crowd, the audience notices the words but not the meaning. His wife and Reeves follow him. No-one notices that they have just gone.
*
The owner of Independent Entertainment, the last remaining private news channel, agrees to sell his business to the New Way. He is disappointed about this decision, but, on reflection, it is better to lose his business than to lose his head. At the end of the meeting with Mr. Reeves, he asks what else he can do. He finds himself being carted in a van across an unfamiliar motorway. By the end of the day, he is in an abattoir, suspended to a conveyer belt. He wonders why this had to happen before the whirring blade before him obliterates his life.
The following day, fragments of his body are labeled as mutton and make their way to the supermarkets, in order to capitalise on the demand that has taken place owing to the E.coli scare that has affected other meats. Protestors have made public the question of what the government are doing about it, but they were soon forced to quit by the opprobrium around them. A number of people became sick, but the hospital refused to treat them on the grounds that they were heretics. An article at the front of the Saturday Chronicle explains that ‘heretic’ is Britain’s new dirty word. All across the country, they are hated.
*
They line up in single file outside the classroom, anticipating their results.
‘I just want to get this over with.’ Moans Jim. ‘I expect I got it right. Can get this sorted out then get out of here.’
‘Yes, the wait isn’t all that enjoyable, but it is exciting getting the results. This decides our future!’
‘Which uni are you planning to go to?’
‘Durham is my first choice but it depends on my results.’
‘Bit far away, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but I’d like to live up there.’
‘Fair enough.’
Suddenly, they are in the cramped room known as the exams office; the room that they have never previously been in.
‘One person at a time!’ commands the clerk, who is evidently handing out the results.
Jim and Tim look at each other.
‘You were here first.’ Says Tim. ‘So you go first.’
‘Sure.’
The clerk shuts the door behind them.
‘Can you show me your Student ID?’
Jim fishes around for his wallet, and goes through his cards. After putting his NUS card to the back of the pocket, he uncovers his Student ID card. He takes it and puts it in the palm of the clerk, who reads the card. On receiving the information required, he searches a pile of papers on his desk. He finds the appropriate document and scans it with his eyes.
‘You will need to go to room 103.’ He states.
‘Uh... have I passed?’
‘You passed all your A-levels, but you failed the general test. The staff will need to have a talk with you.’
‘Ok.’ Jim looks petrified. ‘I hope it’s good.’
‘I don’t know anything about it.’ Says the clerk, dismissively. ‘But good luck.’ He adds, with a more encouraging tone.
‘Thank you.’
Jim opens the door, and makes his way through. ‘You next.’ He tells Tim.
‘Any luck?’
He shakes his head. ‘Got to go to room 103, apparently. Clearly the new system. Will tell you how it goes.’
‘Ok. Good luck with it.’
He makes his way up the steps to the first floor and goes through the dark blue double doors, which now seem to resemble a portcullis. He has never been to the room before, so he has to look around a bit: it turns out to be the second door on the right.
‘Hello?’
‘Come in. Close the door behind you.’
Jim looks around, nervously.
‘We’ve got some good news and some bad news. Which would you like first?’
‘Uh...I’ll have the good news.’
‘The good news is that you’ll be taking a holiday.’
‘That seems good. Where am I going?’
‘Erm....we don’t know yet.’
‘Ok, well I’ll look forward to it.’
‘We also have to tell you the bad news: you’ve failed the general test.’
‘Well, these things happen I suppose. Do I get to retake it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, ok. I guess there’s nothing I can do then. What happens next?’
‘We’ll let you know.’
‘Ok, cheers.’
*
Sidborough is now ours! With no military presence, all they could do was watch helplessly as we got them out of the town hall. And now I’m back home. As I look around, I realise that it is empty. You mean to say that all that time.... Never! What would be the point of taking me away from there if they’re not even going to occupy it? Suddenly, a siren announces itself from across the street. I quickly make my upstairs, find the nearest room I can and shut myself in. It is at this point that I wonder if any of this is realistic: how can we take over with our bare hands? How we are going to get hold of the resources that we need? We could try the barracks, but they’ll slaughter us. I hug my knees to my chest, and just wait. There’s nothing else to do. I wonder about looking out of the window but do not want anyone to notice me. Around half an hour later, I’m startled by a knock on the door.
*
‘You are under arrest.’
He knows there is no point in resisting. Only when he is at the police station will there be any purpose in discussing his fate. He smiles and nods.
‘Ok.’
His colleagues, scattered across the edges of the table in a circular fashion, look at him in a deploring manner.
‘Mr. Tyler! What have you done?’ asks Susan.
He considers replying by raising his middle finger at her, but decides against it. If the police were not here, would he risk it? It seems his reputation is such that his behaviour would make no difference, unless it were an extreme, which would serve to make it worse. How can he make it better? It seems that it is impossible to do so, so all he can do is to try to keep in the frying pan, which is better than the fire.
‘Oh, just the usual I expect.’ He winks. ‘I expect I’ll find out.’ He looks at her with a glint in his eyes.
‘Isn’t he scandalous?!’ Susan asks, and exclaims.
The rest of the board stare at him intently, showing disapproval in every conceivable way.
Mr. Tyler feels the anger within him building to a crescendo, one which, if uncontained, would threaten to erupt like a volcano and obliterate their pathetic world, where the most trivial of matters are regarded as a major event. He sees the car outside the building, which serves as a reminder that this is serious, that there is not simply a threat this time: he is to be punished. He guesses it is inevitable. For so long, he has tried to resist the rule of the boring, but he knows now that this cannot be done.
‘Can I tell my daughter about this?’ he asks.
‘No, don’t worry. We will tell her.’
‘How do you know my daughter?’
‘We know your whole family.’
‘How?’
‘We cannot disclose that, Mr. Tyler. Everything you say from now on will be taken down as evidence.’ The policeman smiles with his eyes, in a bittersweet manner, the crux of which is the message ‘I’ve got you nailed.’
Mr. Tyler takes his place on the seat on the car, and puts his head in his hands. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ he mutters to himself. He doesn’t bother to pay attention as the car drives down the road, even though his favourite tree is here: although one of the many Cypress trees in the area, this one holds special meaning for him. He pretends to fall into a slumber, hoping that this will encourage the others to tell the truth.
Once they are in West Street, the driver speaks: ‘We’re here.’
So much for that option.
They all proceed to the building which Mr. Tyler has seen so many times, but has never entered. The glorious two-storey invention before him seems like it could be used for any purpose: he wonders whether it was built for use by the police. He admires the arch, and marvels at what must have gone into it: the determination to make a dream true, the bravery to create at such an altitude, the painstaking effort, the hours devoted...
They take him to a room to the side of the hall; he barely has time to inspect his surroundings. He is invited to sit down in front of the desk, while the others take their places on the other side. He takes a closer look at them. The one on the left has oval features. There is a scar on his cheek. Tyler’s prejudices cause him to guess that perhaps he has been on the other side of the law previously, and made ‘good’. His hair is arranged in a pompadour style, much like that of James Dean. He has sharp, green eyes that seem to be currently communicating menace. He has very broad shoulders and a wide, firm-looking chest that suggest he is no stranger to physical effort. The uniform seems different from what it used to be: it is a paler blue then the previous uniform, and has a red collar. Interestingly, there are also medals pinned on the right: they mean nothing to Tyler, but there are three of them, all a greenish-orange colour, and with a disc that shows a picture of someone vaguely familiar. Tyler thinks he may have seen this person on television, but he is not sure of the name. The officer on the right has square features, several freckles located near the nose and jaw, and short, blond hair. He has blue eyes. His body is so nondescript, so lacking in distinctive features, that it can be described only as ‘average’. He has the same uniform and number of medals, suggesting that they are the same rank. The pale grey walls exactly match the colour of the desk. There are four fluorescent white lights on the ceiling, ominously shining onto the desk below them. A row of plastic seats is set at the back of the room: the officers take them and position them so that there are two on the side of the desk, and one on the other.
‘What is it I’m supposed to have done?’ he asks.
The others hesitate, and mutter among themselves.
‘Well?’
‘You have been arrested on suspicion of collaborating to depose the government. You will now be helping us with your enquiries.’
‘How am I supposed to have done that?’
The officer on the right launches a backfist which seems to give Mr. Tyler no time to react.
‘We ask you the fucking questions, not the other way round.’
‘Do you care for a drink, Mr. Tyler?’ asks the other.
‘No.’
‘Wrong answer. You’ll fucking have one whether you like it or not. Now, what’s your tipple?’ He gets up and saunters over to a cupboard. On opening it, it becomes apparent that it contains various bottles of spirits. ‘Brandy? Vodka? Gin? Whisky? Go on, enjoy yourself. It’s all yours.’
‘I know what you’re trying to....’
Mr. Tyler gets another backfist.
‘Honestly. We’re your friends. We want you to enjoy yourself. Now, come on. Let me know which, or I’ll make the decision for you.’
‘Brandy.’ he decides, as this is his favourite alcoholic drink, though this situation is making him change his mind.
‘Brandy it is.’ The officer smiles with his mouth, but not with his eyes. He takes the bottle from the cupboard. It is a generic, supermarket version: Mr. Tyler despises this, but he has made the decision now. The officer unscrews the bottle, tips the glass to the right, and pours in the dark brown liquid. A generous amount flows into the glass, and Tyler thinks of objecting, but decides instead to raise his hand.
‘Yes, I can tell what you’re thinking. But we want you to relax.’ He winks at the other officer. ‘All or nothing for you this evening.’ He walks over to the desk and glides the drink onto the desk. The other officer grabs Tyler by the neck, and tips it back. His mouth is held open and the brandy is poured into it.
*
Jim is on the stage of what seems to be a theatre, with several others. They are seated on the hard, wooden, floor while a crowd of what seems like several thousand jeer at them. A guy whose face he recognises, but whose name he cannot identify, approaches him. He looks away, hoping that he will not be beaten: the bruises on his skin tell the closest in the audience all that they need to know about his recent past. There are scars on his lower legs, his wrists and his right cheek: every time he sees them he is reminded of what happened. He just looks ahead, straight into the crowd, but even that is painful. He can’t look them in the eyes: he has no confidence. He wants to spend the rest of his days alone, which seems like the only way he can live in peace.
‘This is going to hurt a bit.’ His recently-made enemy says to him.
He grimaces as he feels the scraping against his lower back: he thinks that he’s going to pass out, but as he has told himself before, he must keep on going.
‘Expect this is the only way in which you’ve ever been touched.’ The marker mocks. Finally, the implement is lifted from Jim’s back. He breathes a sigh of relief: all done. He gets up, but is pulled down.
‘Wait. I haven’t finished yet.’ The marker spits out. Jim catches sight of a blade, which quickly disappears from view. He tries his best to keep consciousness; he remembers the last time he lost it only too well. The scraping continues on his forehead. Every moment of it seems like an external manifestation of the pain that he keeps inside: that caused by the world, the entire world, turning against him; that which will take a lifetime to heal.
He finds himself being marched to the back of the stage, with the booing of the crowd in the distance, which seems like a harbinger of his demise. He finds himself in a grand room with a number of posters on the walls, but he doesn’t have time to look around. Soon, he is in a corridor. The double doors at the end are opened and he is yanked through them. The lorry is outside. He is marched into it, before being left in isolation. He sits downs and waits, wondering at the destination at which they will arrive.
*
We are now in a town known as Camberley. I have never been here before, but I remember that it is somewhere in Surrey. We haven’t dared to use the railways, so we have got here entirely by letting the roads guide us. Some of them are busy, mainly with freight vehicles. Whenever there is a passenger, we edge away from the road slightly and break up so that they think we are individual pedestrians. The most daunting thing was going over a level crossing in Farnborough: the country is sparsely populated these days, but there were a few citizens going over. We knew that they would tell something about us. They stared at us, but I guess they must have decided that they were outnumbered, and simply kept away from us. Sooner or later, someone will know: but we are getting towards London, where we can take on the rulers themselves. What we really need is armaments; all we are at the moment is a militia. Regardless, we will go for it: if we don’t take the risk, we are back in captivity. We march along Park Road, prepared for a confrontation. As we reach the centre of the town, several people stare at us, but they are not armed, and decide to back off. I decide that we could approach someone and ask where the barracks is. Everyone is retreating, so it is difficult to ask them.
I hear the words: ‘I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!’. I turn round, quickly, to be greeted with the sight of someone running towards us with a meat cleaver.
I haven’t planned for this.
I take a stone out of my backpack and throw it in his direction. It misses, but I continue to concentrate on him. Every