I had a good feeling as soon as she told me her name. I could pass as her kid brother; she didn’t look much older than twenty. She was shocked I had no parent with me, said she’d take me under her wing. She laughed. It was a joke, she said—Skylark’s wing. I impressed her with how I’d managed on my own. When I explained I was heading with the others to a reception centre, she said that was the worst possible plan.
I have to admit, I didn’t like the idea of those inoculations. Skylark told me: “Late inoculation? Bad idea. You’re as sick as a dog for weeks. It’s best having the first injection at birth, when the side effects are negligible. And, you know, Caleb, you won’t be the same afterwards.” I remember she snapped her fingers twice in front of my face and said, “You’ll lose your spark.” I asked if she’d lost her spark, and she laughed. Said she’d been on the road a long time, skipped her adult booster.
And those reception centres, she warned me, keep you for months before handing you over to a work camp outside one of the enclaves, and there were no proper schools on the camps as Mother thought. See, Mother had it all wrong. Skylark said I’d be a slave for years, indentured at the camp, doing filthy work on the fish farms and at the incinerators—and there’s no guarantee of getting the right to stay.
Skylark offered to help me but warned me not to tell the other people in my group because she couldn’t help everyone. She had space in her sidecar for just one, and she thought I had—what did she say?—real grit.
She chose me. But the journey with Skylark was worse than I expected, and—if I’m telling the whole truth—once or twice I wondered if she’d tricked me. It was confusing; I thought Skylark wanted to rescue only me, but there were others, and we met up with them near the coast. She’d rescued all of them, one at a time, and I was the last to arrive. Once we’d crossed the Channel—the worst part, which I don’t like to think about—everything happened so fast. Skylark dropped me off with Ma Lexie, and I haven’t been hungry or cold since then.
I turn my back to the parapet railing and look over at the work shed. The kids aren’t up yet. They’ll be happy about my promotion, but I can’t allow any slacking. I always tell them: the sooner they finish their work, the sooner they can play. But with Mr. Ben gone, they won’t be afraid any more. Ma Lexie should find some older boys, like me, if she wants to make the business successful. Zach and Mikey are young for this work. They need too much help. And I know she never takes girls. Skylark told me so.
When Father finds me, or when I find him, he’ll be impressed. I’m only twelve years old and I’m in charge.
I’m not sure how Father will track me down. Five weeks after he left, his messages stopped. Maybe he fell ill and he’s in a hospital somewhere. At least we have a fail-safe. I’m sure he’ll eventually return home, and I imagine the scene every night before I fall asleep. He’ll open the tin—slotted into the stone wall surrounding the graveyard—and read Mother’s message. I watched her write it: We can’t wait here any longer. If you’ve sent messages to us during the past twelve weeks, we haven’t received them. We’ll follow you to England—we’ll be fine with Caleb’s English. They won’t turn us away if we accept indentured work. Then we’ll find our compatriots in Manchester. We know you are safe. We feel it in our hearts.
When I think of compatriots, I think of old people with white hair, sitting around with nothing to do. Drinking tea and complaining. I think I’m better off with Ma Lexie and the other kids. Ma Lexie says she’s putting aside a little money each week for me, and when I’m fifteen she’ll hand it over.
One day, definitely, I will find my family’s compatriots. I’ll have to tell them about Mother, about how tired she felt, and how she became confused and started sleepwalking. She disappeared one night. The people we were travelling with couldn’t wait for her to return, but I refused to leave. I searched for days and days, looking in the hedgerows and ditches, but nothing. She didn’t find her way back, and, in the end, I had no choice. I sorted through her stuff and decided what to take with me. I traded her clothes. I unpicked the straps of her backpack, removed her documents and the last of our money. She told me at the start of our journey that money had only two uses until we reached Father—to buy food and to pay bribes. So, I took the money, a page from her passport, her sewing kit, and a photograph of my father, which would help me to trace him.
After three weeks without Mother, living and sleeping alone in my tent, I decided to join a small group of migrants who came through, heading north “towards kinder weather.” They kept saying the gods were angry. My parents never talked about the gods, but I didn’t say so.
Skylark’s eyes lit up when I said I used to help my mother with her sewing. She messed up my hair, laughed and said, “I’ve just the job for you.”
I smile to myself because she was right. This job is perfect. It’s hard work, but I don’t miss school any more, only my friends. Yesterday, though, I nearly lost my nerve—pushing the needle through fur—it woke up memories, and the soles of my feet began to sweat.
I wash the keys, and in front of the two kids, I hang the keys around my neck. They grin, and Zach says, “I heard him leave last night. Gone for good?” Mikey offers a high-five, but I ignore him.
“Hurry. I’ll bring breakfast. I want you both washed and dressed double quick.”
As I slot the key into the stairwell door, I say to myself that the worst is over. Yesterday, I was one of the kids. Today, I’m Ma Lexie’s right-hand man. I pull open the door, lock it behind me and walk down the concrete steps.
There’s another voice besides Ma Lexie’s inside the flat. I place my ear to the door. A man’s voice. The same man as before?
When I first arrived at this housing block, hand in hand with Skylark, I stayed in Ma Lexie’s flat. Never went out for three full weeks. Ma Lexie said I deserved a good rest, and I must eat three meals every day. She brought home a kitten for me to play with. And a man came to check my teeth. Another time, Ma Lexie came home with a woman—a nurse or a doctor—who told me to undress, down to my underpants. She checked me over and asked about the scar on my thigh. I told her it happened a long time ago, but I think she knew I was lying. I didn’t want to talk about it.
Ma Lexie positioned my mattress in the kitchen. I couldn’t see her bed from where I lay. She gave me earplugs so—as she said—she could have privacy. I knew what she meant because, on the road, I’d hear grunting and yelpy sounds from other tents in the night. Those noises didn’t bother me. But the earplugs did—dirty with old earwax. I used them all the same—scratched off the worst. After all, Skylark and Ma Lexie had saved me.
I knock and the boyfriend opens the door. He smiles and says, “Hello, mate. Long time no see.”
Ma Lexie passes me the breakfast box and a flask. I try to look past her into the flat.
“Is the kitten here?” I ask. The boyfriend smirks, making me feel embarrassed. I’m the overseer and I shouldn’t be asking about kittens. I say, standing to attention, “Thank you, Ma Lexie. I won’t let you down. I’ll do a better job than Mr. Ben.”
The door closes and I hear the boyfriend laugh. I look down the stairs. I’ve never been in the stairwell alone. On Sundays, Mr. Ben took us down to the street, handed out pocket money and took us to a neighbouring block, to some relative of Ma Lexie’s, an old man. He sold sweets and second-hand toys from the living room of his flat. One time, I persuaded Zach and Mikey to pool their money with mine, and we bought a pack of playing cards. It was worth it because the kids were getting so bored, and I was tired of inventing games. But they found it tough waiting an extra week for sweets.
I climb back up the stairs. One day, I’ll have my own flat. I’ll look out for my neighbours, make myself useful, and I’ll win the janitor’s job, like Ma Lexie. That’s the easiest way I can see to make serious money, because only a janitor can run a business on an enclave roof. All I’d have to do in return is brush and mop the stairwell and wash down the solar arrays. I’ve already decided that
I’ll run a petting zoo on my rooftop or, even better, an aviary with cockatiels, budgies and lovebirds—a business I can run without any help. On the roofs surrounding Ma Lexie’s, there’s a laundry, a strawberry farm and my favourite—where Odette works—a garden with trellises, climbing flowers and birdbaths. Truth is, the birdbaths are in my imagination because I like to remind myself of the one in our small garden at home. I haven’t visited Odette’s roof, but when Ma Lexie’s in a good mood, I hope I’ll persuade her to take me there. I guess she might be frightened because beyond the rooftop garden, on the next block, stand the wretched beehives.
Zach and Mikey watch me closely. The skin under Zach’s right eye starts to twitch, and he lifts a finger to press down on his eye socket. He’s worried, I guess, that I’ll pick on him like Mr. Ben did. We sit outside the work shed on a raffia mat—a picnic, enclave style. I set out the flatbreads, the bruised apples, and I start pouring juice in our chipped beakers.
It’s unfair to make the boys feel anxious, so I half fill my beaker and fill each of theirs to the top.
“It’s market day tomorrow, boys.” They nod at me. “We need to finish all the clothes on the table. Any problems—come to me. Let’s not disappoint Ma Lexie. Hey?” They nod again. “Start on the easy jobs and make sure you finish them neatly. Push anything difficult to one side—I’ll take a look at them this afternoon. I’ve a special order to finish this morning for Ma Lexie. And don’t forget to wash your hands after breakfast. Okay?”
“Mr. Ben is gone for good?” asks Mikey.
“Yes. But we mustn’t mess up. Or I’ll be following Mr. Ben, and you two will be back on the street.”
I take my drink and flatbread and pace the rooftop boundary. It’s all the exercise I get. I lean over to check the street. Four floors below me, people are rushing to the shuttle station—off to Manchester, the city our enclave serves. I tried to tell Mother that I didn’t want an office job, but she didn’t listen. I wanted to work outdoors. After watching Ma Lexie, I’ve decided I want a life in business. I could be Ma Lexie’s business partner. When she’s old, I’ll run the whole operation for her—choose the recycled textiles for our remake clothes, expand the team and build a fashion brand.
My plan is much better than Mother’s. According to Mother, once we earned our right to stay, we’d take a flat in one of the enclaves, which are cheap because everything is subsidised, she said, for people who agree to live there. And then we’d find Father. When I turn eighteen, Mother said I could apply for an implant, cognitive chipping, and there’d be no looking back then. But how’s that going to happen now, with two missing parents? I’ll never gain approval for an implant—my family might be criminals, or politicos, for all that the authorities know.
Mother dreamed of a life one day in the city suburbs. She’d retire with Father and I’d support them. I’d be married in this dream, and my wife and I would be city workers. We’d all live together. But that was Mother’s dream, and I think her ideas were old-fashioned.
We work late every Friday, and today we’re even later than normal. We’ve pressed all the finished clothes, folded them neatly into plastic containers, which are stacked, ready for the market. Ma Lexie bangs on the steel door, and I jump up to unlock it for her. She’s carrying a deep bowl with our fish-and-rice supper. This one day of the week, Ma Lexie sits at the worktable and eats with us. She serves. In silence—for we are much too tired to talk—we begin wolfing down our meal. I glance around the table because, sitting quietly together like this, I imagine we look like a family.
Ma Lexie pushes away her empty dish. I stand up and start to clear the table, but she shouts, “Zach! You move the dishes. It’s your job now.”
I blurt out: “Let me do it one last time, Ma Lexie. Look how tired he is. He worked so hard today, believe me.”
She stands up, folds her arms and glowers at the younger boy. “Do as I say, Zach.” She leaves, and Zach takes our dishes to the rooftop sink to rinse them.
I collect my sleeping roll from the back of the work shed, push it under one arm and heave my backpack on my shoulder. Dog tired, I drag a sweeping brush behind me as I step past the solar arrays towards the overseer’s hut, determined to sweep out the worst of Mr. Ben’s junk. I’ll push his junk into a pile, cover it with one of our tarps. Then I’ll feel happy to move my stuff in tonight.
First, I dare myself to check the mattress. I stoop down, not too close, and breathe in. It’s okay at the edge. I stretch across to the middle of the mattress. Still smells bad. I won’t sleep on it tonight. I turn the mattress over so the other side will bake in the sun tomorrow. It might be okay by night-time.
As I straighten up, a plastic bottle clatters across the roof a metre behind me. Nice shot! I look across, wave to Odette, and she waves back. She likes to send a message at this time of day. Almost a routine. I glanced across at her during the day as she served drinks to the garden’s visitors. They pay a membership and expect good service. And there’s such a long waiting list for membership, that visits by each person can only add up to one hour a week. Odette keeps a record, and she’s told me that everything in the garden has to be perfect every minute of the day—it’s stressful.
I wish I could meet Odette face-to-face.
It isn’t easy having a long-distance friend but we manage. We call across with one-word greetings. Mainly we throw messages in this short plastic bottle. We’ve put a stone inside; the extra weight helps. Before we settled on this particular container and this size of stone, we lost a few messages when they fell short, ended up in the street. It took us a while to perfect our messaging. In those days, while we practised, we’d wait until the street was quiet before making an attempt. Odette has the real knack. Her throws are more accurate than mine. I like that about her.
I drag out Mr. Ben’s chair, sit down facing Odette’s roof and pop open the bottle’s lid. I peer in—I’m being careful because last week I found a live beetle under her crumpled message. She won’t catch me again. And I’m planning my revenge. I pull out the paper and flatten it against my thigh. Her written English isn’t good: Wats goin on your roof. I seen no fat man tday. I reach over and grab a pen from the side pocket of my backpack. I correct her spelling when I reply: What is going . . . I saw . . . today. Then I write: Mister Ben is history. He’s gone for good. I am the new overseer. She might not know the word “overseer,” so I add: I’m the new Mister Ben. Going to market tomorrow with Ma Lexie.
The label on the bottle—a smiling peanut—makes me laugh as I fasten the lid.
I take three strides backwards, imagine the flight path, run forward three steps and launch the bottle. Too far to the left, too high, it bounces on the parapet railing and drops onto the roof. Odette has her hands on her head. I hold out my hands. No sweat.
How old is Odette? I haven’t ever asked, and she doesn’t know my age either. Anyway, what does it matter? We don’t have a street of friends to choose from. I haven’t noticed anyone my age on any other neighbouring building. There’s the old man who hangs out laundry, and the old woman who farms the strawberries. At a guess, I think Odette’s older than me, fourteen or even fifteen. When she finishes reading my note, she looks up and shouts, “Well. Done.” She scribbles a note again and whirls around, readies herself and makes a short run up. She throws the bottle and I catch it. What a thrower!
The message reads: Clever boy. Bring me a prez from the markit. There’s no space left for a reply, and I’m too tired to go hunting for another piece of paper. I wave, give the thumbs-up and wave again.
Opening up my backpack, I dig out a roll of papers and add Odette’s latest message to the top. It feels good to collect them together, as if I’m telling myself I can still make friends, given the chance. Flipping through them, I notice we never talk about the past. What’s the point, and what can you write on the edge of some packaging material? If I had a whole sheet of paper I might tell her more. I’d like to tell her that my parents are educated—my father is a
n English teacher, and my mother a city clerk. In her spare time, she sewed costumes for the local amateur theatre group. My mother once complained that people assumed all the road walkers were poor, that we all left our homes because we had nothing to lose. I wouldn’t tell Odette that my father was strict, and my mother didn’t really listen to me.
I sweep out the hut, throw my rucksack inside and fasten the padlock on the outside of the door. My sleeping roll fits between the solar arrays—they’ll offer a shield if the wind gets up during the night. Lying down, I feel peaceful for the first time today. The scar on my thigh starts to itch. I rub my finger along the lumpy line. It feels oddly soft.
After the first attack, Mother told me: “Those wicked people, they don’t know anything about us. They attack the fear that lives deep inside, rotting them.” In the middle of the night, they had rampaged through our camp, slitting open many of the tents. Mother and I woke when we heard screams, and we ran off. The young men and women in our group—those without children to defend—they ran at our attackers and fought in the mud. Afterwards, when we came out of hiding, we found that many of our companions were injured, and we did our best to help them.
The injuries were bad. Our camp cook was bleeding from a deep wound on his upper arm. Someone had stopped the blood flow with a belt fastened tight above the cut. But the wound needed stitching, and we had no medic. At the start of the journey we had a midwife, but she left us for another group heading east.
My mother took control. She lit a fire and boiled water because, she said, everyone knows that’s the first job in an emergency. She took out her sewing kit and held a needle in the hottest part of the flame. “The middle of the flame isn’t the right place,” she told me. “If you put the needle there, it will come out covered in soot.” I couldn’t believe my eyes. My mother, totally focused, so brave.
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