Markriss ignored the families after that.
Going in proved far easier than getting out; the barricade opened to him and others on the Willington side within minutes. During that time, no Prospect families crossed the line. He turned his back on them, taking his ten-minute walk as slow as he dared, while others—all single men—disappeared into side roads and alleyways. Soon, he was alone.
The power remained cut, so the further he stepped from the barricade the darker the main road became. In response, rioters had lit fires, spacing them four to every block, blooming dark flowers of soot against brick walls. No local community members were in sight, perhaps cowed by the display of brute force at the blockade. The streets waited, bare and simmering. Nothing moved; nothing was heard besides the hum of air-con and miles of generators, normally too low to detect. It grew difficult to ignore last night’s damage: the broken shop windows and stolen items left smashed on the pavement, the bloodstained walls and bodies.
He stopped, looking up to check the ceiling lites. Nothing but dark. He turned around, looked behind him. No one. He waited a few more minutes. No one came. Took a last glance, placed his feet wider apart. He leant his head back, arms outstretched behind his body, open-palmed, looking into the gloom above him. He closed his eyes and imagined gentle wind brushing his skin. The smell, soft and pungent, rich and warm. He tried to recall being struck by thin shards that fell from the sky, making his hands, face and neck tingle with the sensation of contact, nerves alive and humming. He saw himself walk through Watkiss streets while everyone around him ran by, newspapers over their heads, hoods raised, umbrellas held before them like shields. A game he sometimes played on the Inner City streets, only at night, when he was sure no one could see. He stood in the centre of the barren street, eyes shut tight, hands open wide, visualising being drenched by downpour. He almost felt the drops of rain collect on his tongue, a regular trickle falling from his chin and onto his shoes. He almost remembered.
A sound behind him. He opened his eyes. Someone was coming. He moved past a side street where a row of looted shops trailed away to a vague outline of terraced one- and two-storey buildings: the Poor Quarter. It was impossible to see any residents, even as he caught the flicker of orange light in every window: candles, he presumed. In ground-floor houses bonfires were ablaze, sending hyperactive flames dancing across bare brick walls and the black concrete of the street. Smoke became a man-made fog playing tag with obscure corners. There was the high-pitched yet distant sound of children’s laughter; no sign of them or anyone else.
Deep into the maze of houses where no fires were lit, Markriss caught a sense of something. Huddling bodies, shadows captured and thrown towards the main road, the faint whisper of many gathering as one. Maybe Somayina had been right, unwittingly. Ark Light, in telling a lie, created truth. He walked on, coming across another prone body. Curiosity stirred.
The man resembled a grim mannequin, teeth bared in an expression that could be read as anger or pain. He was fully clothed and almost devoid of violence apart from a tiny bullet hole crusted with dried blood located behind the right ear. The wound reminded him of a worm burrowed into an apple. Only a soldier killed with such precision. Markriss switched sides to see a larger exit hole above the left ear, providing an unobstructed view into the oyster-grey interior of skull. His gaze jerking automatically down the rest of the body in fits of movement, Markriss saw ragged fingers like uncooked sausages torn open with a blunt fork. A halo of blood surrounded them. The dogs had probably been at them.
Stomach convulsing, he left the corpse where it lay, shoes clicking, producing a hollow echo on forlorn streets.
Prospect was far worse than any ghost town, for it harboured an additional nightmare: it was occupied. Moving deeper towards his home block, faster now, reminded of how dangerous his streets were, his ears picked up strange sounds. Shuffling, scraping, a ghostly swish of cloth against concrete. The light tinkle of dislodged glass, the patter of stones. He breathed hard, heart thumping, sweat stinging his eyes. Dogs appeared in ones and twos, standing firm, marking his face with their mouths open, pale tongues dangling. Once again he wished he’d brought some weapon, partly hoping that this wouldn’t be his final regret. He decided to jog the last five minutes or so, and almost began when a sudden noise stopped him. The dogs pricked up their ears and vanished with a growl of confusion. Markriss stood to attention, waiting.
The sound grew louder; he realised what it was. Whistling. While he strained to catch the tune, the singing began in earnest, a baritone rolling and bouncing from concrete walls. The powerful voice carried well in the almost-silence. Two verses by the unseen man, detailing the trials of Inner City before spluttering on the words, coughing in loud, sodden bursts. Markriss suppressed a smile. He’d heard that song. Some nights he and Chileshe caught whistled melody drifting through their allocation windows. Only fear had stopped him recognising the tune. He’d never seen the whistling singer, though Markriss guessed he was well known and loved by Poor Quarter residents, and there was no doubt this man was one. He stepped onwards, sure that he would come to no harm from the whistler-singer at least.
Then the shadow of a man spoke from a cramped alleyway between two shops.
‘Don’t move, don’t you fuckin move . . .’ The voice was raw, fierce words spat onto the pavement. ‘You live four blocks away, right? I know. I watch. Run an believe me, I’ll bleed you, unnerstan?’
An unmistakable click of metal. Markriss’s head moved up and down, though he couldn’t remember thinking the actual word yes. Though scant, this was enough to tell that the man was tall and broad, inspiring fear that made him compliant.
‘I haven’t got tics . . .’
A peel of growling laughter. ‘Should’ve known.’ Emotionless, the voice was a quiet baritone, every word deep, considered. ‘Should’ve known that’s what you’d think. Typical Ivory you are, didn’t take long. Should be ashamed . . .’
Markriss shrank. Ivory—Poor Quarter slang for sell-out, traitor. Derived from ‘Ivory Towers’, people that lived in high-rise Excellence Award-funded blocks. Him.
‘So what? If you don’t want to rob me, I’ve got nothing. You might as well let me go.’
‘True . . .’ A reluctant admittance at best. ‘Although, supposing I had something to give you?’
Markriss’s head grew light. Unease was a razor-sharp pain in his guts, an omen of an embedded knife.
‘You want to kill me?’
Another roll of deep-throat laughter, a minuscule rendering of thunder, the vocal outside world.
‘That depends on you, Markriss. That depends on you very much.’
The sound of his name being spoken by this rasping, effortless voice was more chilling than his sentence: protest or questions were drowned by fear.
‘Heard our singing friend? They call him Sares. Sings like the heavens. They say he’s got ITS—nasty condition, you know? On the outside they’d call him mad. Give him drugs to sedate him, or lock him up, but he’d get treated. He’d get looked after. What does Inner City do? Ignore him. Give him a few tics and let him destroy himself with drink, wipe out everyone around him in turn. Let him infect Poor Quarter people with madness. Let him spread the word; we ain nothin . . .’
The voice paused, collecting itself.
‘He’s not the only sick one. There’s worse, aren’t there? People that live in Ivory Towers, born of the poor and made to believe they’re different. Separated. Given jobs an privileges, looked on better than the rest, exceptions that prove the rule. People like you.’
‘What d’you want?’
His words exploding before he could grasp them back, push them between his jaws and into the dark pit of his gut. The voice was silent for a moment, laughed again.
‘“Today as Yesterday, Tomorrow as Today, Is Truth,”’ he said, quoting the slogan with quiet force. ‘Heard that? I know you have. You’ll write that, once and for all, so everyone can see. You’re aware of what truth is,
Markriss. Write it for us. For your people.’
Injustice writhed in his stomach.
‘It’s not that easy! They wouldn’t let me live!’
‘What makes you think I would if you don’t?’ At its former level, the voice was free of anger or passion, speaking cold, hard facts. ‘You haven’t got long before I lose patience. You can’t have it both ways—you can’t live amongst us and write lies. If I don’t see changes I promise we’ll be meeting again. And I won’t be so friendly.’
‘But I can’t do anything!’
He was almost in tears, pleading.
‘Yes, you can.’ The empty, monotone conviction even more chilling than the distant click of the knife. ‘Now go home.’
A thin whisper of clothing, the fried pop of trodden glass as the figure became shadow, Markriss twisting on himself like the idling, stray dogs at play. Nothing. He was alone on the main road, shivering in disbelief. While he panted fear, regaining his composure, further whistling began to float like the non-existent breeze, adrift from far-away streets. It was all he could take. Covering his ears, Markriss ran the remaining four blocks, head down, eyes on pounding feet, elbows rigid beneath his temples.
Closer to Prospect Towers, he slowed. By the time he reached the building steps he was still breathing hard, throwing quick glances over his shoulder. Candles were placed in block windows, while a suitcase-sized generator provided enough power for the lobby lights. The mechanical hum was loud as he stepped through boarded doors, over the ghost of blood, towards the concerned faces of Pious and Chileshe. They rose from where they’d been talking, Chileshe hunched over the reception desk, the security guard behind, moving in worried unison.
‘Hey, steady, you need a seat . . .’ Pious said, Markriss stumbling into their clutches. He threw a strong arm around his shoulders, guiding Markriss across the tiles.
‘Markriss? Markriss? He’s not even hearing me . . .’ Chileshe floated somewhere beneath him.
‘I can hear you. I’m all right. I don’t need to sit down. It’s shock, that’s all.’
They eased him towards the reception desk, ignoring protests. Though he wouldn’t sit, he leant his tired body against the counter, trying to slow his heart. As he calmed, Markriss told them of the man in the alleyway, unable to extract fear from his voice. Pious, huge and adorned with cuts along with a bandaged hand that told of his encounters the previous night, ran out with a metre-long bar to find the streets empty. Markriss was too guilt-ridden to repeat what the voice had threatened, saying instead that he was accosted and released when the thief learned he had no tics. Pious returned.
‘An it looks like I’m working till Day-Lite again. They’re getting ready for more, you can tell,’ he said.
‘Earlier people were saying the Outsiders are going to attack the Corps.’ Chileshe’s voice trembled. Her mouth shut tight.
‘They wouldn’t take the chance.’ Pious, in heavy-set contrast, was tense and ready.
‘Not tonight—one day they might.’
Markriss pushed upright. ‘If that happens we’ll be on the front line and you can say goodbye to all this.’
‘Nice.’ The complaint in Pious’s eyes was difficult to avoid. ‘An while you’re upstairs sleeping I’ll be down here, minding “all this”.’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ He inhaled deep, let it out. ‘Look, I think I need to be indoors. I’ll come down when I feel a little better.’
‘Sure, take it easy, Markriss.’
He was waved away without a glance, wondering if he’d caused offence, far too tired to care.
‘You too, be careful.’
Chileshe appeared beside him. ‘I’ll come.’
She didn’t wait for acceptance, pressing the call button without another word. The doors shut. They rose like soda bubbles.
‘What happened to you?’
She wrinkled her nose, pushing up glasses. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘You never came to work.’
‘Oh! I took the day off, thought I should run off shots, right? Of the riot, you know. I wasn’t going out there last night, so . . .’
She broke off into nothing, discarded speech whistling through teeth. He felt as though he was encased in something solid. Words had left him. His body still shook. He watched numbers ascend.
‘Wanna see?’ Chileshe angled her digicam towards him. ‘Go on.’
She swiped through photos she’d taken with a finger. An old woman, lips caught mid-purse, veiled by cigar smoke in the dusk beyond a doorway, kids playing in the relic of old buildings, young men looking into the camera with absorbent eyes: the usual. Chileshe explained the woman was Ila, a nation who offered their first morning smoke to God by blowing into it, thanking the Moulder for raising them in health that day. He’d seen it all before, not wanting to look or imagine the lives of people he might have known a lifetime ago, outside. Chileshe swiped, passion making her unaware of his discomfort.
‘You should see, Markriss, some houses have window frames so rotten the glass hangs by hinges while kids play beneath it! Can you believe that? There’s no one taking care of the kids cos the parents work, you know, and they’re rough of course, kids all the same. Funny thing is, I walked with my expensive camera all day and no one even looked! I mean, I didn’t go as far as Outsider territory, but I was still in the Poor Quarter and I didn’t get robbed, beaten or raped. The place is a law unto itself, Markriss, it’s alive! There’s nowhere else in here like it!’
‘So,’ he said, head tipped at the cam, ‘you gonna show your editor those?’
A teeny smile, hands wrung as she stared at the metal floor. He was reassured by her raised head, the subject changed without comment. Chileshe understood the futility of recording events in that place. The lift slowed; a second later the doors eased open.
Markriss felt a generation had been born, raised and delivered back to earth in the time since he slammed his front door behind him that morning. He touched cold metal, a hand flat against the door. The pulse of his index finger beat steady affirmation. Chileshe said nothing, simply watching. Her thin, sincere face was ordinary and untended, bearing no make-up, someone with attention focused elsewhere, outside of herself, always on others.
‘I hear what you say, but facts are facts,’ he told her. ‘We’re lucky to be here, in this place. And we’re certainly better off than the ones we left outside.’
Her flinch spoke, even before she did.
‘Yeah, we are. What about them, down there? Are they?’
The answer lived in each other’s eyes. They looked everywhere else, waiting for the moment to pass.
‘I’m gonna go,’ he told her. ‘Shall I knock by you tomorrow?’
‘If the building’s still here!’
Her smile faltered when she saw his pained expression, eventually died. Markriss kissed the skin below her ear, avoided the look she gave him and pushed his ID into the door until the indicator went green. Home. Metal snicked to a close. He switched on lights, crossing the room. Back at the ledge, he stared at the criss-cross of roads and blocks, watching the streets for hours, from that place.
Later, inside the sleeper pit, a thin sheet tucked beneath his chin, Markriss listened to the shouts of Poor Quarter residents. Cackled laughter, calls of elation. The wailing cry of women. If night followed its usual pattern, he’d take three melatonin and attempt to find a few hours before the alarm. So he swallowed and waited, even as shouts grew loud and glass broke, showering brittle rain. He stared at the ceiling, trying not to hear or think, hoping for sleep.
8
Waking the next morning, iron-hearted, he showered and approached his window to view what was fast becoming familiar. Empty, war-zone streets. Shops blinking the light of long-forgotten amusement arcades. Chest and shoulders shaking, he chuckled relief. Nothing had happened. A young mother and child crossed the street from the Poor Quarter, peering at battered store fronts with all the wonder of viewing relics from a long-forgotten time. She tugged the chil
d as he dawdled. Groups of men boarded broken shop windows along Prospect Road, the routine thud of hammers reverberating until they were all.
He got dressed and ready for work. After collecting Chileshe from her allocation as planned, they rode the lift to the ground floor.
‘Last night was a relief.’
He watched for her reaction, unable to help smiling.
‘Yeah, I was thinking I wouldn’t be able to sleep and then bam, I was out like a Day-Lite. Must have needed it, all the walking I did.’
Animation lifted Chileshe’s voice, her tiny face focused on the blank metal doors. Strange. She wouldn’t even look at him. He ignored her odd behaviour, silence lending him voice, perhaps more than was needed.
‘I told you they’d be mad to try and attack the Corps. They’ll only end up getting themselves killed, they must know that.’
Out before they could be retracted. Words, his words. A wince flitted across her face, a bird in flight.
‘Yeah . . . But you saw my pictures. They do have a legitimate grievance, even though they’re not voicing it right. You really should look. Some conditions down there are really bad—it’s gotta be seen to be felt.’
She faced him at last, only he didn’t want to see. Her mouth a thin line, eyes blinking with concern from behind her glasses.
‘I know that, Chileshe. I do know,’ Markriss said, exuberance gone.
‘Course you do.’
She turned back to the doors, Markriss resuming his worried vigil. Doors opening, Chileshe stepping through the lobby, him struggling in her wake. Though he promised he wouldn’t let her strange air shake his cheer, the walk towards the reception desk was a test in good humour. Pious, a slidescreen held close to his face because he refused to wear glasses, was reading the morning edition of Ark Light. Closer, the headline became instantly recognisable—‘Prospect Rioters Claim More Lives’—because his sub-editor had penned it for his story. His first thought was pleasure. A front-page piece meant he’d be paid especially well.
A River Called Time Page 10
