Truth Sister

by Phil Gilvin

  The passers-by took the hint and went their separate ways, leaving Clara to get her first proper view of the corpse. The face was slacker than it had been, and all the colour had been leached from the cheeks. The wispy hair, soaked and browned by the river, was beginning to dry in the breeze. Water ran from the nostrils, bruises blackened the exposed arms, and the forehead bore a yellow lump. But there was still that large mark on the right cheek, and Clara gave a gasp as she remembered again the open door of the head’s office at the Academy, the plump woman with the frightened-rabbit eyes. It was Amy’s mother.

  ‘Hello!’ said a voice.

  Clara looked up to see Shavila grinning at her.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Shavila. ‘It’s not a pretty sight, but we’ll get rid of it now.’

  The other Repseg was checking the corpse’s pockets. ‘Happens all the time,’ she said, without looking up.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Shavila, ‘most of the rec-gangs only have a few guards, ’specially if they haven’t got too many men to look after. So sometimes, a few get away.’

  ‘But they don’t get far,’ said the second Repseg, glancing up. ‘These uniforms are orange for a reason – and it’s not ’cause it’s a nice colour.’ With a flick of her forearm she rolled the corpse over, making a slapping sound like wet washing. Slanting across its back was a line of three circular wounds, dark blotches in the white skin, exposed through ragged holes in the overall.

  ‘See,’ said Shavila. ‘The guards on this gang were armed. Automatic weapon, too. Looks like she hadn’t got far when they shot her. We found her floating against the steps here.’

  ‘What – what will you do with her?’ said Clara, trying to keep her voice from shaking. Part of her wanted to run.

  Shavila’s colleague now crouched over the corpse, and grasping it round the waist, swept it onto her shoulder. Then she stood erect, toting the sodden weight as if it were nothing more than a towel.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss,’ said Shavila, ‘but do I know you?’

  ‘Yes’ said Clara. Ms Martin’s dripping head was now dangling on a level with her own. She dragged her gaze away. ‘You saved me at London Bridge, back in July. There was a riot.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Shavila, nodding. ‘I remember that one.’

  ‘Yes, one of them came at me, and you stopped her. I’m so grateful. But you were hurt,’ said Clara. ‘They threw concrete at you.’ Then she gasped. ‘Oh! Your teeth.’

  Shavila raised her eyebrows. ‘What about my teeth?’

  ‘They’ve grown back! You lost, I don’t know, four or five teeth. You were badly hurt. And now they’re all back.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Shavila. ‘Doesn’t take long. You’re Ms Perdue, aren’t you?’

  Clara nodded. ‘You remember?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. From the Academy, wasn’t it? Your manservant was a bit over-familiar, I think. Did you get home safely?’

  This wasn’t a good thing to be talking about, but there was no way out. ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Clara. ‘Anyhow, he’s not my problem anymore.’ At least that’s the truth, she thought. ‘I live in town now.’

  Shavila eyed Clara’s Truth Sister badge. ‘Working for the Republic? Good for you.’

  ‘Tori,’ put in the other Repseg, ‘can we get on now? My uniform’s getting wet.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Shavila with a grin. ‘Corporal Keppel, Ms Perdue.’

  Corporal Keppel stepped forward and nodded to Clara, almost hitting her with the corpse. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said, her gaze sweeping Clara’s face. ‘Where are you working?’

  ‘The Ministry of Knowledge.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Keppel, picking at her big nose. ‘Good luck with it. Great hope of the Republic, and all that.’ Then she turned and set off down the embankment. Clara watched the corpse’s head bobbing up and down in time with Keppel’s strides. Passers-by glanced, then turned away.

  ‘Nice to meet you again,’ said Shavila, with a half-bow, and set off after Keppel.

  Clara tried to hurry home, but her legs were like paper. She thought she was going to be sick, and stopped to lean over the parapet above the brown waters. She retched, but nothing came except watery eyes. Amy’s mother was dead, and it was Clara’s fault. How could it have come to this? A woman was watching her. Maybe she only wanted to help, but Clara didn’t wait to find out. She hauled herself off the wall and hurried back to the flat, her heart beating fast.

  She was desperate to tell Bella – anyone – about what she’d seen. Back at the flat, she rubbed a hand over her face before thrusting the key in the lock. But in the stuffy living-room, she found she was going to have to wait before sharing her troubles. Bella was asleep on the couch, one arm dangling on the floor.

  Clara tiptoed into the kitchen and poured herself some tap water, draining the mug in one. Then she looked in the larder. There was a little bit of mutton, some okra and a few lentils. Maybe cooking would take her mind off things. What could she make? A stew?

  Forty minutes later, she took the cutlery through. As she laid it out, Bella began to stir.

  ‘Uhh,’ she said, ‘I’ve been asleep.’

  ‘Get yourself to the table,’ said Clara. ‘I’ve made some stew.’

  ‘You’re a star,’ said Bella, rubbing her eyes.

  Clara served out. Then as she carried the dinner into the living-room, there was a knock on the door. ‘Who could that be?’ she said.

  But Bella had leapt up, all her lethargy gone. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ she said as she made for the door. ‘We’re about to get the cupboard fixed.’

  Clara stood with the bowls in her hands. ‘What, at this time of day?’

  She heard voices from the cramped hallway: a low, hesitant rumble interlaced with Bella’s. The door opened and a tall man with slicked-back yellow hair lumbered in, tool box in his hand and a grin on his face. As Bella guided him by the arm into the kitchen, Clara caught a whiff of something perfumed.

  The heat from the bowls finally began to burn her fingers, and she set them on the table with a thud. Clara didn’t know what was going on. Getting the cupboard fixed? By a man? At seven in the evening?

  Laughter came from the kitchen. Something told Clara that it would be a bad idea to storm in and demand to know what Bella was doing. Something also told her that she’d spent the best part of an hour making that stew, and that she’d better get it to its destination at once. She was just about to start when Bella returned, her face unreadable. They began to eat.

  ‘There,’ said Bella after a minute. She gestured with her fork. ‘We’ll soon have it fixed.’

  ‘Bella,’ said Clara. A clatter from the kitchen was followed by a hammering, a stomping and more hammering. ‘Bella,’ she repeated.

  ‘Mm?’ said Bella. ‘This is delicious. Is there any left? It’d be polite to leave some for Tom.’

  ‘That’s Tom from the Academy, isn’t it?’

  Bella threw a glance at the kitchen door. ‘Yes. They chucked him out, just for being a man. Can you believe that?’ She twisted back to the table and swallowed another mouthful. ‘It’s dreadful, isn’t it? I mean, we can’t just let him starve.’

  After a couple more mouthfuls, Bella got up to go back to the kitchen.

  ‘Bella, what’s all this about?’

  ‘Just getting a cupboard fixed. Nothing. What did you think?’

  Clara tried to speak gently. ‘You can tell me. I can keep a secret.’

  ‘Secret …’ said Bella. ‘I don’t know what you mean – at least–’ Her lip trembled, and she shaded her eyes with her hand. Then she slumped down again and whispered: ‘I told you, didn’t I? It’s like I need something, so much. And it’s something to do with – that is, I can’t help it.’

  A grinning head appeared around the kitchen door. ‘Finished, Miss,’ boomed Tom.

  After he’d gone, Bella shooed Clara away. ‘I’ll do the dishes,’ she said. ‘No need for you to dry up.’

  Clara sat in the privacy
of her room and wondered. Bella and a man! She recalled their conversation about the paintings, about those pictures of men. Bella had always been a playful girl, over-familiar just for fun; but Clara had thought that the Bella of the Academy, the Bella she knew, had simply had a rebellious streak. She’d done it to show that she didn’t care for the rules. But now there had been the pictures, and there had been Tom’s visit. What was happening? Clara had read it in Bella’s face: a kind of pain, a longing. A longing for Tom? For a man? It should be wrong, all her lessons at the Academy had told her that – but somehow, Clara knew it wasn’t Bella’s fault.

  Later, Bella was silent and pensive. She lay back on the couch, a sketch pad on her lap, the pencil hissing over the page, this way and that. At last, she stretched and threw the pad face-down on the rug. But Clara had glimpsed the sketch, and wasn’t surprised to see another likeness of Tom.

  Bella sighed. ‘Are you ashamed of me?’ she said. ‘For being attracted to a man?’

  At least Bella herself knew what was happening, then. ‘No,’ said Clara. ‘It’s none of my business. But I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  Bella buried her head in her hands. ‘Neither do I, Clara. Neither do I.’

  Clara slept more soundly than she’d expected. Although she did dream of orange blobs floating in muddy water, and although she did worry about Bella, she didn’t notice the night passing. As she dressed the next morning, she felt calmer, calmer than she had done for a while. She looked in the mirror. Well, all right, she didn’t look calmer. She didn’t look as if all her worries had vanished overnight. But maybe that would come with time. In search of breakfast, she padded off to the kitchen. It’s Bella, she told herself. I’m not the only one with troubles.

  She was spreading runny butter on thin toast when Bella edged into the kitchen, shading her eyes. She’d thrown on a thin gown tied loosely at the waist, and Clara found herself staring at Bella’s smooth legs.

  Forcing herself to swallow the toast, Clara said, ‘How are you?’

  ‘Rough,’ said Bella. ‘Couldn’t sleep. Look, could you drop this in at work for me?’ She held out a folded note.

  ‘Of course,’ said Clara, looking up into Bella’s face. ‘Was it your stomach trouble? You’ve stayed off the tap water, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know what it was. Couldn’t get comfortable. And now I’ve got a stinker of a headache.’

  ‘You want to get yourself something to eat, then go back to bed.’ Just the sort of thing Sophia would have said to her.

  Under a grey sky, Clara delivered Bella’s note, then made her usual way to work. At Westminster Bridge, the pedestrians were held back while a column of troops passed, a stamping line of grey. Clara couldn’t see much over the heads of the other bystanders, but she guessed there must have been a couple of hundred soldiers. The bridge quivered.

  ‘Off to fight the Millanders,’ said Frieda, handing Clara her bun. ‘I hear things aren’t going well. Still, Coventry’s a long way off.’

  Clara fished in her pocket. ‘And you usually hear right, Frieda. Anything else in the paper?’

  Frieda blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Oh, that hasn’t made the paper yet. Not much in there, to tell the truth.’ She pulled a sheet out from under the stone and handed it to Clara. ‘They’ve taken more Naturals, that’s all. Oi,’ she called as Clara turned away. ‘Ain’t you forgetting something?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Clara, trying to laugh. She handed over a coin. ‘Sorry. I was miles away.’

  She had a better morning at work, scanning through a mass of papers, some of which told of measures to improve Clone integrity. These she passed to the collator, who nodded thoughtfully and catalogued them. Clara was still thinking of Bella and of Tom, it was true; and she hadn’t enjoyed hearing from Frieda that “they’d taken more Naturals”. But the contented feeling she’d had during the night was still with her. It didn’t even vanish when she discovered she’d forgotten her sandwiches. It would be nice to pop home at lunchtime.

  The sun had broken through, and Clara felt its heat on her head as she walked along the Embankment, rehearsing the things she ought to say to Bella. She wanted to be helpful, to warn her that she mustn’t bring Tom to the flat again; because if she carried on, however long she kept it secret, she was bound to get caught in the end. Clara pictured Bella being dragged away and sent to a rec-gang like Amy and her dead mother. And she didn’t think she could stand it. Tonight, she thought. I’ll talk to her tonight. Lunchtime would be too short.

  ‘Only me,’ called Clara as she got back to the flat. ‘Forgot my sandwiches.’ A sudden draught slammed the front door behind her.

  From the kitchen she heard the clink of spoon on bowl. ‘Mm,’ called Bella, ‘I thought you might come back for them. Want some soup?’ she added, as Clara reached the kitchen. Bright sunlight streamed in through the fire-escape door, which rattled against the stool that Bella had used as a doorstop.

  Clara slumped down in a chair and reached across the table for her lunch box. ‘No thanks, Bella. These’ll do me.’ She looked at her friend. Dressed in her smart work suit with neatly-brushed hair, Bella looked just like the hundreds of other office workers Clara saw every day. ‘You going in this afternoon, then?’

  Bella nodded. ‘Went to see Dr Daniels. Quick in-and-out. She said there wasn’t anything to worry about. Come to think of it, she seemed a bit ill herself. Looked worried.’

  ‘But you’re okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m feeling a bit better. Thought I’d better put the hours in.’ She looked up. ‘Thanks for looking after me.’

  Clara bit into her cheese sandwich. ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  Bella smiled. ‘Yes you have.’ She looked Clara in the eyes until Clara became quite uncomfortable. ‘Oh,’ said Bella suddenly, ‘I nearly forgot. You’ve had a letter.’

  ‘A letter?’ said Clara.

  Bella reached up to the shelf and handed Clara the envelope. ‘Came this morning. You don’t often get anything, do you?’

  Clara studied the envelope. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Can’t be Aunt Grana again, so soon.’

  ‘Bit of a scrawl, isn’t it?’ said Bella. ‘Who’s it from, then?’

  It’s definitely not Grana’s writing,’ said Clara, studying the envelope. She worked the end of a knife under the flap and pulled out a single sheet of cheap paper. ‘It’s more like …’ She unfolded the grease-stained page and read. Yes, she did know that writing. It was her mother’s, but Clara hadn’t recognised it because it was so untidy. In places it was almost carved into the paper; in others the ink had run thin. Throughout, it was a shaky shadow of Sophia’s usual elegant script. And that was almost more frightening than what the letter said. There was no greeting:

  I know I promised not to write, but I have to warn you. On Sunday we heard from Alice Bailey that two Repsegs had been asking questions about us – you and me – at the greengrocer’s. Then yesterday the manservant (you know who I mean) spotted a stranger with binoculars up on the Wainhill. She was watching the house. We think someone may have found us out. We both know you’d never have given us away, my dear, but we are worried. We think they’ll come for us soon. My darling, if they know about us then they will know about you, too. I’m so sorry, but we cannot help. You must fly at once. Get out of London. Get out of Anglia.

  Clara’s hand went to her mouth. They’ll come for us soon. She was shaking.

  Bella was watching. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing – that is – I – it’s news from home.’ Clara felt her stomach lurching, but she forced herself to stand. Her voice was high-pitched and raw. ‘I’ve got to go. Now.’

  ‘Clara, what is it? Is someone ill? What’s the matter? Can I help?’

  ‘I – I can’t say.’ Blinking, Clara forced back the tears.

  ‘Come on,’ said Bella briskly, ‘I’ll help you pack. Your poor family. There’s lots of things going round, they say. I hope it’s not Red Fever. But they’d have quarantin
ed the place if it was that. Malaria? I wonder if it’s malaria. That can be bad, I know. Have you got a doctor at home?’

  Clara was in her bedroom, cramming clothes into a large suitcase while the escaping tears dripped from her face. Bella followed. ‘Come on. What a lot of things you’re taking – wouldn’t it be better to travel light?’

  Clara wanted to take everything: to disappear, to never come back. No trace must be left. But she couldn’t tell Bella that.

  ‘Look,’ said Bella, running into her own room and returning with a backpack, ‘just take what you need for now. You can use this. A few changes of clothes – that’s it – and a cloak. No, the light one. It’s not going to be cold. Have you got any money?’

  ‘A little,’ mumbled Clara.

  Bella grabbed Clara’s purse. ‘Twenty boudicks. That won’t get you far. Here,’ she added, rummaging in her own, ‘here’s another twenty. Take it.’

  Clara stood and blinked.

  ‘Poor thing,’ said Bella, shoving the notes into the purse. ‘Oh, you’ll need food. Look, you finish packing while I sort you out some fruit and a flask. You can take your sandwich and the end of that loaf.’

  Clara slumped down on the bed. She forced herself to pick some clothes out of her suitcase and push them into Bella’s rucksack. A change of trousers and a tunic, some pants, some thin socks. A towel. What was the use, though? Where could she go? It was almost worth staying and getting caught.

  She tried to work quickly, but nearly ten minutes had passed before she returned to the kitchen. Bella was leaning against the doorpost, reading Sophia’s letter.

  ‘Give me that!’ cried Clara, dropping the backpack and snatching the paper from Bella’s hand. At the same time, there came a smart rap on the front door. Clara gasped.

  ‘It’s all right, Clara,’ said Bella. ‘Really, it’s all right.’ She grabbed Clara and, with a whimper and a sniff, hugged her close. ‘Now quick,’ she said, releasing her. ‘Here’s your food. You’ve got to get away. Down the fire escape. Go!’