Bane’s eyes opened all the way and his lips parted in silent protest, but he didn’t speak, bless him.
“Urm,” I said. But fortunately Dad was just walking out of the door.
“Well, I seem to be in their good books.”
“You think? Just you wait if they find out I helped you!”
“Perhaps the EuroGov will come and take me away.”
I smacked him again, but he just sniggered at me. I couldn’t feel too angry with him, anyway, still high atop that storm surge of relief that’d swept me up when I saw him alive.
“You know, I think I’m going to pray...” I rose from the bed, my arms lifting, and spun in a slow circle.
“Oh good, that kind of praying.” Bane turned his head to watch.
I danced in thanks, mostly, that the Lord had given us victory in our little endeavor, even if it’d perhaps been rather ill considered, and thanks above all that Bane was alive and suffering from no injury that a bit of time and rest wouldn’t fix. And a little bit of appeal at the end, that we would go on being free and alive, were it the Lord’s will...
And with all that expressed, I danced into stillness again.
“That’s the only type of praying I like watching,” said Bane.
“You should try it sometime.”
“Nah, I prefer to dance with other people.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.” I went to sit on the floor by the bed.
“If you don’t mind, Margo, I think I’ve got more important things to worry about right now than speaking to something I’m not convinced exists.”
“I’d have thought they were the sort of important things that would’ve made you quite interested, actually.”
Bane snorted.
“Margo, the way I see it, there’s only one way to find out for certain and I don’t want to know that much. I can wait.”
“Well, according to that reasoning, the only way to be certain that the sun will rise tomorrow is to wait until it does.”
“I won’t argue with that.”
“Yeah, but you’ll go about as though it is going to rise, won’t you?”
“Actually, right now I frankly couldn’t give a damn.”
“Oh dear. Poor Bane is hurting.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Well. It could be worse, you know.”
“Your bedside manner sucks, Margo.”
“Sorry.” I rose on my knees to draw the duvet up over him again. “I’d offer to kiss it better but I think you’d rather I didn’t.” But I did brush a tangle of black hair back from his sore forehead and place a gentle kiss there.
“Umm,” sighed Bane, “Your bedside manner is improving.”
We were on tenterhooks for a long time, waiting for that knock on the door, but it never came. After all, Bane had never showed up at the hospital, we’d both worn gloves, we’d left nothing behind, the guards had never got a proper look at my face, we’d both scanned in and out at the gates and dozens of couples must’ve climbed that fence that night… The police were looking for two needles in a haystack.
It’d taken a long time for us to relax. But the days had drawn on into weeks, and then into months, and gradually we’d accepted that we’d got away with it…
I pulled my mind back to the mortifying business of the night. Say my prayers before going down to Jonathan’s bunk? I’d been trying so hard with my last prayer, but the fear sat inside me, cold and dark like… like a black hole. As I lay alone in the darkness, it sucked all my efforts into it, leaving nothing but the memory of Uncle Peter, dying. I couldn’t remember when I’d last cried, before I came here… okay, perhaps I could, it was when we heard Sister Kate had been executed, but still, I wasn’t weepy. Yet here I was, crying myself to sleep night after night.
There were still a few people whispering, but the nighttime quiet had already settled over the dorm. The whole idea was that everyone else should be awake to notice me go down. Surely I’d manage not to cry with him right there beside me! I slid down to the floor, paused, then pulled my blankets off.
The rustling sounded loud enough to wake the dead, and when I lifted Jonathan’s ‘curtain’ and scrambled inside, I’d no sooner let it fall than there was an outbreak of whispering followed by a great deal of giggling. Success, I suppose.
“How are we going to arrange ourselves?” I breathed, once I’d located Jonathan’s ear. His bulk already seemed to fill the narrow bunk and top to tail would’ve been far the most comfortable, but it only took one person peeking and we’d be rumbled.
“I thought we could probably arrange a blanket between us,” he murmured back, “without it being visible. It will take a while to get it straight as well, in this confined space, which is… probably best.”
Ah yes, a good quantity of ongoing rustling sounds were quite indispensable for true success.
“Okay,” I whispered, and then thought it prudent to give a tiny, smothered giggle. Which sparked a positive eruption of giggling from beyond the curtain. Which made me blush.
Jonathan’s plan proved even more awkward than anticipated. Every time we tried to move a blanket, we’d find one or other of us was lying on it. We’d move one part of our body and find another still trapped it. The incredibly frustrating exercise produced as much panting, heavy breathing and general thrashing around as our listening audience could possibly desire.
Finally, blanket positioned, we flopped gratefully down, only to find ourselves pressed together like a pair of sardines. Every line of his warm, firm body touched mine and my cheeks, already flushed from all the exertion, grew painfully hot.
“I’m sorry, this is awkward,” he muttered—blushing too, I’d bet.
“How… how should we… you know, lie. I… bet someone peeps in the morning.”
“Yeah. Let’s just… face each other, you think?”
“Right.”
We both turned on our sides and that did give slightly more room in the bed, though even with the dividing blanket our limbs became embarrassingly entangled.
“Um. Okay. Good night, Jon.”
“Night, Margo.”
Right, prayers. Ignore the handsome now-somewhat-less-than stranger beside you. This was so embarrassing. Hello, Lord. Please watch over Bane. Please, please? Don’t let him do anything stupid. Please watch over Mum and Dad. Please watch over Father Mark. Please don’t let him do anything stupid either…
And all too soon I came to it… ‘Domine…’ I now, at this moment, willingly accept whatever… ‘quodcumque … quodcumque…’ kind of death, ‘quodcumque…’ and Uncle Peter was stretched out in my mind, bloody and pale, as they sliced him to pieces—had he been screaming inside, screaming and screaming in utter, helpless agony as they killed him? Or had he been praying, his prayer helping to keep that pain at bay?
Could even the greatest love of Our Lord hold back that pain? What’d it be like to have every part of you cut away while you still lived?
‘Quodcumque…’ I couldn’t say it, even in my mind. I trembled with the effort of holding back the tears, and I could not say it. My throat was burning and I wrapped a hand over my mouth to keep from making any sound. But my troubled breathing told Jonathan enough.
His hand found my shoulder and pressed it gently.
“Margo? Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I gulped. Unconvincingly, I’m sure.
“Is it your… uncle?”
“Sort of,” I whispered.
“I… was upset enough when you told me. And you had to watch. That must’ve been awful. Is that it?”
“Not… not entirely. I… it’s making me… I’m having trouble with… with one of my prayers.”
I’d have liked to talk to Uncle Peter about this problem, but that was definitely out, this side of the grave. Bane would’ve been second choice, for despite having no faith or theological knowledge to speak of, he tended to cut to the heart of things. But I couldn’t speak to him either.
“One I sa
y every night,” I whispered, “only now I can’t.”
Jonathan was silent for a long moment.
“Are you trying to make an Act of Acceptance?”
“How’d you… guess that?”
“‘Well, I’ve said it myself for… a very long time now. And I always… have trouble… saying it after hearing about someone being… you know… executed. Like that.”
“Having trouble,” I whispered miserably. “It’s been a week now and I haven’t managed to say it at all!”
“Perhaps you’re trying too hard. It’s only been a week.”
“No, I’m just a spineless chicken! I mean, what do I think, that if I say it the Lord’s going to say, ‘Oh, Margo, so glad you offered, I’ve got this worst possible martyrdom lined up for you?’ That’s nonsense! He won’t make it happen to me! The judges and dismantlers won’t even make it happen to me unless they find me guilty of Inciting and Promoting and like that’s going to happen with me in here and a whole bunch of people’s safety resting on my silence and I still can’t say it!”
I trailed off, drawing in a deep breath perilously close to a sob. Jonathan’s arm slid around my shoulders and his other hand found my back, rubbing comfortingly.
“It’s all right, Margo. Don’t you see, you still want to make the Act, and that’s far more important than whether you actually manage it or not?”
I was inclined to argue with him, though it was the sort of thing Bane might’ve said, but I couldn’t because my arm had just wrapped itself around him without my permission and my treacherous eyes were leaking into his broad chest.
Brilliant. Just brilliant.
Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. A strange noise drummed in my ear. My pillow was strange too. Warm and so firm it wasn’t really very comfortable.
Opening my eyes, I found myself looking at... someone’s neck? My pillow was the same someone’s chest, under a blanket, which didn’t do much to soften it. Something that whispered and giggled was sneaking up behind me…
That brought me fully awake. Jon and I, now officially a couple… probably best if my nightie wasn’t visible. I checked the blankets, but they were drawn safely up to my chin. Jon opened his eyes and winked in my direction. Ah. He’d probably woken when the first whisperer set foot out of bed.
I closed my eyes and lay still, snuggled against Jon’s chest, trying to breathe slowly and deeply and not blush. Not sure how well I managed the last, but it must be pretty dark in the bunk recess.
Light pressed against my eyelids as the curtain was lifted at one end. How many eyes were being applied to the gap? Lots—there was a deafening outbreak of giggling. Jon stirred with convincing sleepiness and buried his nose in my hair. The giggling became briefly ear-splitting and quickly receded across the room. Phew. That was over with.
I opened my eyes and found Jon’s gray-blue ones staring through me as usual.
“Um, sorry about last night,” I whispered.
“You don’t need to apologize,” he muttered, “if I’d had to watch that, I don’t imagine I’d be too happy either.”
“Some of the others have had nightmares,” I said grimly. “Horrible woman.”
The friendlier of the two night guards unlocked the door then and stuck her head in.
“Good morning, girls and boy. Washroom open.”
“We’d better get up,” said Jon, when she’d gone.
“Yep. Now, where’s my nightie gone?” I said, nice and audibly.
Jon grinned.
“You’re still wearing it,” he murmured.
“Ah, good. I think I might put it on straight away next time. It was rather cold last night.”
“It was, rather,” said Jon, more audibly.
There. Hopefully we wouldn’t need to worry about being seen in our nightwear in future. I exited Jon’s bunk and climbed back up onto mine to get dressed, once again failing not to blush. How long would it take for this to get back to Bane?
The thought made me feel horrible. Bane knew enough to figure out the truth, surely? If he was able to think about it clear-headedly enough. Perhaps I could find some way of hinting at the truth in my letter?
Right. Time for breakfast, and no doubt a whole load of very personal questions with it.
***+***
13
THE 1001 LIVES OF ANNABEL SALFORD
“…‘Annabel Salford,’ called the dismantler, consulting his clipboard.
“Annabel stepped forward, not waiting for the guards to reach her. Her heart pounded with a foolish, irrational fear but she ignored it. Her mind was full of people, the people she would help, the people she would save. Her eyes might let a great-grandmother see her great-grandchild, her heart might save the life of a young mother, her hands might spare a grandmother from long years of arthritis-ridden agony…
“The list went on and on. She would change almost as many lives as there were parts in her body... and there were, she knew, because she was a smart and well-educated girl, a very great many parts in the human body.
“She held her head high, excitement thrilling through her as she went to meet her destiny, and her only, faint, regret, was that the greatness of that destiny so often went unappreciated.”
“Stop, please stop, I have to go throw up,” interrupted Jon, whose expression had been growing steadily more revolted as I read. “It’s simply awful! I feel ill!”
“I’ve finished, anyway.” I put the pad beside me on the bunk. “Now, this is very important, when you say it’s awful, do you mean the content or the actual writing?”
“The content, of course, the writing’s as good as usual, though… rather sickly.” He did actually look faintly green around the edges. “You make it… you almost make it sound okay. You almost make it sound like someone could think it was okay. Even when… it was happening to them!”
“Good.”
“You’re not really going to send that in, are you? You don’t really think that!”
“Yes, I am, and of course I don’t. But I’m trying to win the competition, aren’t I? If I do, I’ve got a hundred thousand words to tell the real story. And if the novel is to be about Sorting, the short story also has to be about Sorting. I somehow don’t think mine’s going to win if I tell it the way it is.”
“I suppose not.” He shuddered. “Ugh. That’s ghastly.” He was quiet for a moment. “You know, the monsters at the EGD might just love it.”
“That’s the idea. Right, I’d better get it copied out before supper.”
It’d taken me several days to hammer the idea out in my mind, several more to write and re-write and re-re-write it. It probably wasn’t the best possible submission ever, but it was the best I could come up with in the time. It was Thursday, our letters would be posted in the morning; there was no time for anything else.
I copied ‘The 1001 Lives of Annabel Salford’ out as neatly as I could, then got out my letter. I could finish it off now.
I’m enclosing the story you asked for. I think you should give it to Sue when you’ve typed it up. Here’s a few lines for Sue, anyway.
Hi Sue, I hope you’ll be able to drop me a line some time. Bane’s got a short story to give you—he can explain all about it. There are some people who will enjoy reading it more if they think you’ve written it. But if you write anything down about the story, you’d better put my name, don’t you think? Otherwise you could get in trouble.
Anyway, I hope no one’s stolen that entry slip you were worried about and that your application’s gone okay—sometimes naughty boys will go taking anything that’s not nailed down, won’t they! I hope to hear from you soon. Love, Margo.
“Who goes around stealing entry slips?” asked Jon, after I’d read it to him in an undertone.
“No one. Y’see, she’ll have to actually enter to get the entry slip from school. But she’ll incriminate herself if she then hands the story in with my name on it. If no one sees who leaves Sue’s envelope, then if and when they realize it’s a reAss
ignee’s entry, Sue can say she never entered because she lost the slip and hopefully they’ll assume it was stolen. If things get sticky enough she can even blame Bane. He won’t care.”
Jon frowned.
“I’d have thought it would be better to hide behind Sue’s name for as long as possible.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to put a black mark beside her name for the rest of her life and I doubt she’d do it then—who can blame her? As it is, let’s face facts; the story probably won’t even win.”
“But if it does?” said Jon, levelly.
“They might very well make it public as the winner without noticing that the name on the entry and the name on the story’s manuscript don’t match. Then even if they found out and disqualified me, everyone would know a reAssignee had just written a better story than any of their perfect New Adults. Embarrassing, huh?”
“Very. I wonder if they would disqualify you? If they found out after the announcement? Or would they just keep quiet. Claim you missed the novel deadline.” His brow darkened. “And have you dismantled a.s.a.p.”
I firmly suppressed the worm of disquiet wriggling in my belly.
“Quite honestly, Jon, I’ve no idea. But I can’t get Sue in trouble and it’s bad enough getting her to lie for me to make the entry.”
Jon winced.
“Yeah, I know, but… that story’s great propaganda for them. If you win, but don’t manage to present the other side of the story—the real side—who’s to say it won’t have done more harm than good?”
“A reAssignee would’ve won a competition designed to prove the benefits of Sorting to the human race. They’d have a hard time playing that down! And I think as soon as it was known a reAssignee wrote it, a lot of people wouldn’t take that short story seriously at all: they’d take it as satire. Anyway, I honestly don’t think it’s going to make things worse.”
I Am Margaret Page 13
