I Am Margaret

by Corinna Turner

  “All right, all right,” I sighed, unwrapping the manuscript. Taking a few typed pages out of his chest, I found a page, swapped it, found another couple, swapped those, and straightened the pile all up again. I took the rejected pages and put them safely down the trash hatch.

  “All done,” I told him.

  “Really?” His startled tone made me grin.

  “Yes, really. Do you want to hear?”

  “Yes, please. Seems you know me too well.”

  “Well. I had to try, didn’t I?”

  With the precious manuscript secured inside my jumpsuit and the ‘art case’ slung across my back, I crawled slowly, smoothly, down the side of the row of cars. With time to plan how to carry the bulkiest item and to arrange a shoulder strap, it seemed least likely to attract attention.

  In my more exposed position crouched by the nose of a car, I didn’t pause to throw stones at the guardroom door and moved straight over to it, swiping the card and slipping inside. Empty. Phew. I settled myself at the base of the grille to wait.

  Bane was punctual, but happily just as careful and quiet as before. I waited breathlessly as he inched his way up to the grille.

  “Bane?” I breathed.

  “Expecting someone else?”

  “Ha ha.” I eased the post hatch open and we made a mutual lunge for each other’s hands in the dark. “Love you.”

  “Love you too.” He held my hand close and didn’t say anything for a long long time. His chest heaved unsteadily against my fingers.

  “Bane, you okay?”

  “Yeah.” And then, because he knew me too well and I knew him too well, he went straight on, “s’just… I’m afraid. All the time, now.”

  “Afraid? Does someone know you hid Father Mark?”

  “No, no, not afraid for me. And no they don’t, and I still am, he refuses to leave, big surprise. I’m afraid for you. I’m stuck out here, can’t help you, every day I’m terrified your parents will call and say they’ve… they’ve received your… the box… and it’ll be too late. Every time the phone goes, every time the door bell goes, I… If anything happens, by the time I know it will be too late.”

  I tightened my grip on his hand. I worried enough about him, what he might get up to on his own out there, but… for a moment Polly’s screams echoed in my mind.

  “Bane, we both know it’s possible, but it is very unlikely, you know. We’re not at Prime Condition and my tissue type is a common one, no shortages. So I reckon I’m probably actually safer in here just at the moment than I would be, say, hiding out with the Underground.”

  “I know, I know. But… it just feels so much worse. I mean, if you were out here, at least I’d have the chance to protect you.”

  “You can be a little overprotective sometimes, don’t you think?”

  He was silent for a moment, but when he spoke again I saw his eyes flash as they caught the glow from the flood lights, though there was no moon tonight.

  “Actually, I don’t. Because you know, Margo, you… you’re not something that can be replaced.”

  “Well…” I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, so I swallowed a lump in my throat and went on, “Anyway, in just over a month the novel will be published and we’ll be escaping. It’s not that long to wait, now… Wait, here’s the book, before we get sidetracked. Take it now.”

  I shoved the package through the hatch; Bane undid his rucksack and slid it inside.

  “Now,” I went on, “I take it you noticed Sue put her own name on the short story?”

  “Did I just, the sly bitch!”

  “You didn’t say that to her, I hope?”

  “No, no. I was all sweetness and light. Made out it was a brave and generous thing she’d done to help you. Blah blah blah. Probably didn’t do it as well as you, but if she thinks I’m just being nice to her for your sake, who cares, it’s true.”

  “Umm, well, we’re going to have to be doubly careful about being able to prove the novel’s mine. Sue will have been sent a submission slip for identifying the manuscript—you’ll have to charm it off her or something. You also need to photocopy the whole manuscript—sorry about that—and send in the photocopy, keeping the original. I’ve got the wordProcessor thingy which you’d better take; here…”

  I passed the ‘art case’ back through the hatch. Okay, so people were going to wonder where it’d gone, but they were hardly going to guess the truth.

  “If you have the original manuscript and the thing on which it was written—the rather unusual thing, for a bonus—I think the press will believe you. But I suggest you send a detailed synopsis of the novel and copies of the entry slips and so on to some of the bolder papers before the publication—but do it anonymously.”

  “I see. When it comes out, they’ll compare the synopsis to what they read, then when I send photos of everything and a few of the original pages they’ll be ready to take the claim—and the proof—seriously.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Right. Well, I’ve got enough time before the end of the month to copy it. Why can’t I just get Sue to send it in, though?”

  “Sue mustn’t see it at all, Bane. If she reads it I don’t think she’d dare go through with it. I think she’d rather miss the deadline. Or possibly even own up.”

  “It’s that inflammatory, then? Good. What’s it called?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Um. Well, I really wasn’t sure what to call it, so I just went for, ‘I am Margaret’.”

  “I am Margaret? That’s a funny name for a novel.”

  “Well… it’s not exactly a novel. I thought I’d write a life story of a sample reAssignee and… well, I wanted it to be a true one.”

  There was a moment’s quiet as Bane digested this.

  “Margo, what did you write?” He pulled the manuscript from the rucksack, ripping off string and wrappings with a rustle that sounded deafening in the night silence.

  “Just… keep your hair on, okay?” I urged, as he tilted it to catch the light and flipped rapidly through it. “I’m going to be escaping, remember?”

  “Margo!” he moaned, “there’s Underground stuff in here!”

  “Yes, because it’s about me; it doesn’t matter, I won’t be here, right?”

  “Doesn’t matter? If we had a complete, polished, practiced escape plan ready I’d still consider doesn’t matter to be the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard you say! And we don’t!”

  “It’ll be all right, Bane.”

  “Don’t give me, ‘it’ll be all right, Bane’! You don’t know that! What if I don’t manage to get you out? Don’t you know what they’ll do to you?”

  “Stop it, Bane!” I gripped the rim of the post hatch with both hands, fighting against the most tremendous surge of panic, fighting not to demand he hand it back, that we call the whole thing off… “Please stop it! Don’t make this any harder than it already is! That’s the manuscript I want you to send in.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. You will send it in!”

  “I won’t!”

  There was a rustle of cloth, a familiar pop sound and his face was illuminated in the orange glow from his lighter. He held it centimeters from the corner of the manuscript.

  “I’m putting an end to this right now!”

  ***+***

  22

  THE POINT OF NO RETURN

  “Bane, put that out!” I hissed, terrified more for him than for the manuscript. “The guards will see you!”

  He shot a dark look at the towers and let the lighter flick closed again.

  “I’ll burn it somewhere else, then.” He stuffed the manuscript back into his rucksack. “‘Cause there’s no way I’m sending it.”

  “Bane, listen to me, please! When you wanted to bring me that wordProcessor I wanted to call the whole thing off. But Jon said you had the right to make your own decisions about what risks you ran. And he was right. So I let you bring it. And you’ve got to let me make my o
wn decision about this. I’m not a child!”

  For several long moments there was no sound but his breathing, deep and agonized.

  “Why, Margo? Why do you want to do this?”

  “Because this is the biggest chance to make a difference I’ve ever had or likely ever will. The whole world is interested in the winning EuroBloc postSort work, Bane! And right now, incredible as it may seem, that’s the book in your hand. I will not fail to take this chance simply because I’m afraid of a little pain.”

  He took my hand and held it to his cheek.

  “I don’t think simply and little are the words I’d choose,” he whispered. “I can’t bear to think of that happening to you.”

  “Then get me out of here.”

  “Oh, no pressure or anything!”

  “Sorry. Get us out if you can. If you can’t, don’t beat yourself up about it.”

  “I sent that damn flyer to you! I’ll have sent this damn thing in! I’m more likely to throw myself under a train.”

  “Don’t you dare talk like that!” I pulled my hand free and smacked his face—the slap sounded deafening in the quiet—I froze, furious with myself. But there was nothing but silence from the towers. He placed a conciliatory kiss on my offending hand so I took a couple of deep breaths and managed to speak more calmly.

  “How is the escape plan going, anyway?”

  “Well, it’s progressing. Slowly. Thinking up possible diversions is easy, but actually getting in—anything short of a full scale assault won’t work and a full scale assault seems… problematic.”

  “It’ll have to be a joint effort. If you can supply the right diversion, then if the Lord is with us, we can get out.”

  “You’ve got a plan for that already?”

  “No, I’ve been a bit preoccupied. But I will have soon. I think I’ll need your air gun—bother, why didn’t I ask you to bring it? I’m an idiot! It’s a perfect replica of the guards’ nonLees, you see.”

  “You’ll use it to get a real one.”

  “Exactly. I reckon I really am going to need it. Why didn’t I think?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He squeezed my hand. “I’ll work on diversion plans, you work on how to get out, we’ll meet in a couple of weeks to fit the two together. We can’t fix up something like this through letters with nothing but allusions and double-meanings.”

  “I suppose,” I said reluctantly. Bane and machine guns again, alas. “And I suppose you’d better go. Promise me you’ll look after that manuscript?”

  For a moment it seemed he wouldn’t answer...

  “I promise,” he sighed at last.

  “Promise you’ll send it in on time?”

  “Oh, damn it! All right. If humanly possible.”

  “Obviously. I hope I’m not as demanding as that!”

  Things dissolved into a lot of hand clasping and hand kissing for a while, but eventually we managed to wrench ourselves apart.

  “I hate this hatch,” snarled Bane, fastening the rucksack. “They could’ve made it larger!”

  “If I could get my shoulders in, I could probably climb through altogether, couldn’t I? But yeah, I hate it too. Now, be careful.”

  “You be careful!”

  We kissed each other’s fingers one last time and he began to worm his way back to safety. I waited again, until sure he’d have reached it, and headed back towards the dubious safety of the building, taking the less visible route under the bellies of the cars.

  Creeping quietly into the washroom, I pulled off my jumpsuit and sweater, slipping back into my nightie and dressing gown. With the other clothes concealed about my person, I was much less encumbered than on my way out of the dorm earlier. Good. Things had gone as well as I could possibly have hoped. There was no longer any chance of the wordProcessor being discovered and far, far more importantly, Bane had the manuscript. And had promised to send it in. It was out of my hands…

  Suddenly I was curled up, pressed against the wall under one of the washbasins, shaking, shaking, shaking so hard I fought to breathe, and the more I fought to breathe the more I shook… Because Bane was right, we didn’t have a plan yet, we didn’t have one, and even the best plans didn’t always work…

  Not collapsing into tears took all the strength I possessed and it was long, long minutes before my gasps eased, that teeth-rattling shaking subsided and my terror lessened enough for me to think straight. When it did I found the words there waiting and I began to recite them in my mind.

  Cum anxiatur in me spiritus meus,

  tu novisti viam meam.

  My heart is ready to faint within me,

  but You are watching over my path.

  I said them over and over until my heart slowed and all was still and calm once more. A bleak little voice asked me, yes, but what path?—I pushed it away. Enough. The night’s work was done. I was going back to bed.

  From then on my spare time was spent lying on my bunk, notebook in hand, thinking. I ran through scenario after scenario, jotting deliberately indecipherable notes, spending hours bouncing them off Jon, groaning as he picked holes and pointed out fatal flaws. Page after page went down the trash hatch, and we both watched the guards as much as possible, where they went, how they behaved, jotting down a coded record of their shifts, going around smiley and cheerful and striking up as many conversations with them as we could.

  “It’s easy to see how it could be done, just like that, unplanned,” said Jon, “like in a film. But only IF absolutely everything went right. And we’re up against a load of human beings with free will, not a bunch of actors following a convenient script.”

  “We have to take the camera room and two of the towers. That’s the bottom line.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve got to make sure no one knows we’ve taken them until we’re clean away.”

  “Well, that’s why Bane’s diversion is so important, isn’t it? They won’t have time to worry that they can’t contact the camera room if they think the Resistance are about to come over the walls.”

  “Let’s hope they’re not,” said Jon dryly.

  “What?”

  “Well, I’ve the feeling you’re expecting Bane to arrange some sufficiently large diversion all by his lonesome. Well, pardon me if I’m a little skeptical. It’s going to be more than a one- or even two-man job.”

  “He seemed confident about the diversion part.”

  “Good. Because without it, I don’t think we’re going to pull this off.”

  “No,” I said slowly, “neither do I.”

  “Margaret Verrall,” I told the guard handing out the post, trying to smile.

  The first of June—if all had gone according to plan, Fox and Wilson now had the manuscript. Bane hadn’t written to me in my Friday letter, so presumably he’d been too busy arranging it. Or he’d changed his mind and decided, for the first time in his life, to break a promise to me. Yes, squeaked a cowardly little voice from deep inside me, as I took the letter. Let it be that! I shoved the voice down as hard as I could, collected my breakfast and went to sit beside Jon.

  The tension was too much, and after spooning down my cereals untasted, I opened my letter immediately. There was a front and back page of what at a glance appeared to be space filler from Mum, and just a short bit from Bane in the middle.

  Hi Margo. I’m sorry I didn’t write last time, I was so busy. You’ll never guess where I was on Friday! London! I went all the way there with a friend of mine, he’s a reporter, incidentally. (BTW, did you know trains are much more comfortable on the inside?) London was quite something, I can tell you! Though, I’m not sure I actually liked it very much there. But I wish you’d been with us.

  We delivered that thing for you while we were down there, no problems. I told my reporter friend that if he made any inappropriate jokes about it I’d kill him and I don’t think he thought I was joking, which is good, ‘cause I’m not so sure I was. I do hope you’re all right, everything’s going fine for me. I’ll try and write a
bit more next time but your parents have to get this to the RWB office to catch the post. Love you, Bane.

  Right. On reflection, Bane must’ve been dissatisfied with our precautions for ensuring proof of ownership. So he’d gone one better and taken a well-placed friend into his confidence. An older friend. Resistance? He must be very sure he could trust him to keep his mouth shut.

  And the manuscript had gone in. It had definitely, indisputably, irrecoverably gone in. I couldn’t torture myself with the hope-fear it’d been lost in the post; that it hadn’t got there in time. Bane had put it through the letterbox of the publishing house with his own two hands, with the reporter watching for good measure. The point of no return had passed, all right.

  There could be no keeping quiet and letting the book pass into history as Sue’s work of fiction. With a story that could make his career, the Salperton reporter would only hold his tongue until it was actually published—and would make the biggest news. And there’d never really been any chance of that particular cowardice, had there? There were plenty of people in Salperton who would read that book and realize it was no novel. Perhaps we’d been worrying about how to prove my authorship for nothing. Still, better safe than sorry.

  Safe.

  Lord, give me strength, what a joke! The only thing that could save me now, other than an early dismantling or some other freak occurrence, was an escape plan: details-yet-to-be-finalized. Because escaping was so easy. People did it all the time. Not.

  My limbs were dissolving, that damn shaking again, and my stomach heaved. I lurched up from my seat and ran for the door, but the washrooms were far too far, and then I was down on my knees, throwing up my breakfast on the floor. Unfortunately I tasted it this time.