GLAZE

by Kim Curran

  ‘Is it some kind of religious thing? Because I know that some imams declared it forbidden. Zizi, my mother, met with some Islamic leaders last year to listen to their concerns.’

  ‘No,’ he says, before I have a chance to launch into the full story behind how Zizi won them over. He pushes open the doors and heads down the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

  ‘Oh, OK. Hey, wait for me.’

  I scramble after him, letting the door slam shut. I don’t want to be left on my own in this deserted office block. There’s something so sad about a place that was once bustling with people being deserted. I can almost imagine their voices echoing around this stairwell; the hushed gossip, secret arguments, all taking place away from the prying eyes of the office.

  ‘Where to now?’ I ask when I catch up with him on the next level down.

  ‘You go home,’ he says, grabbing hold of the banister and swinging himself down the whole flight of stairs at once.

  ‘That’s it? You rescue me and then disappear?’ I skid on the lino flooring of the landing and race down the stairs after him. We’re on the first floor now. Only one level to go.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  His feet land on the marbled ground floor with a loud bang. It takes him a little longer to find his balance. I hope he’s hurt himself.

  ‘I don’t even know your name,’ I say, from the top of the stairs. He’s standing in front of a fire exit that leads to the street outside. The light spilling through the dappled security glass throws him into shadow.

  He waits and thinks about it for a bit. ‘Ethan. It’s Ethan,’ he says finally. He stretches out his hand in greeting. I walk down three steps to meet it.

  ‘I’m Petri. But you already know that.’

  It’s a good handshake. Strong and confident. Zizi has drilled me about the importance of a good handshake. How it tells you everything you need to know about a person. She told me mine was like holding a wet fish and made me practice with her till she was satisfied it conveyed the right message about me. And about her.

  All Ethan’s shake tells me is that his hand is rough—calloused palm and leathery skin—weird for a boy not much older than me. Rough and warm, like he’s just taken it out of his pocket.

  ‘How are you going to get home?’ he asks, sliding his hand free.

  ‘Underground, I guess. It’s how I got here.’

  ‘I’ll see you back.’ He turns and opens the exit, pushing down on the bar. A blast of cold air rushes through the doors and blows my hair in front of my face.

  Outside it’s darker than I had realised. The autumn night’s coming in fast.

  ‘I’ll be fine on my own,’ I say, wrapping my arms around me to keep out the chill. ‘I don’t need an escort.’

  The truth is I’ve never been out this late on my own before. Not without Kiara or Pippa and a company car to drop me off and pick me up again. Zizi didn’t even know about the protest. I told her I was going to Kiara’s to do some homework. I couldn’t bear the smug, satisfied look on her face if I’d told her I was joining in some civil unrest. She’d no doubt go on and on about the marches she’d led in her day, ‘when protests actually meant something’.

  Ethan doesn’t say anything. He wraps his gun-metal grey scarf around his face again and leads me out of the alleyway behind the office block and back onto the street. It’s empty; not a single person to be seen.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ I ask, looking up and down. Sol-lights flicker on, doing a terrible job of illuminating the street. But they’re regulation now after all the power cuts.

  Ethan points up at a large vidboard overhead as an answer.

  A glossy actress dressed as a policewoman smiles down at us from the board. ‘Curfew has been called,’ she says. ‘Please return to your home.’

  The announcement disappears and the screen returns to showing an ad for the next election. The headline reads:

  REGISTER TO VOTE! THE FUTURE IS IN YOUR HANDS!

  Under it, there’s a head-to-head shot of Harris and Walters, the two party leaders, staring at each other, like boxers before a fight.

  A curfew? That means we have less than an hour to get back.

  The station is across the road. I will be fine, I tell myself. I can work out how to get home. What does he think I am: a kid? But a creeping anxiety prickling at the back of my scalp says it would be sort of nice to have some company. And maybe it’s on his way home.

  The concourse of the station is nearly empty when we enter it, with only a few commuters rushing for their trains. The curfew looks like it’s already taking effect.

  I place my wrist on the scanner and the doors open for me. Ethan looks left and right and then vaults over the barrier.

  ‘OysterChip against your religion too?’ I ask.

  He turns and faces me. ‘Look, it’s not because of some religion. I’m just not on, OK?’

  ‘OK!’ I say, holding my hands up in mock surrender. ‘But I’ve never met anyone who could but didn’t, you know?’

  ‘Well, now you have.’ He turns and heads straight for the Northern line, not even needing to check the map. I’m not so confident, having only got on the Tube for the first time today. I stop and trace the tangles of coloured lines with my finger, tracking from the station we’re at now to the nearest one from home. Seems like Ethan knows exactly where he’s going.

  ‘Do you remember when they hacked the boards?’ I say, when we’re standing on the empty platform waiting for the train, which the blinking electronic sign says will be here in five minutes—though the signs always say that. Whoever hacked them last year started out using the boards to display messages of revolution across the entire transport network. They must have got bored, because by the end they’d resorted to pumping out rude words and even ruder ASCII art. They finally got booted off, but the boards haven’t worked properly since. As most people stream their travel updates straight to their chip, they haven’t bothered to fix them. So now they’re stuck. Forever proclaiming the next train to be five minutes away.

  ‘It was all over the news,’ I say, after getting no response from Ethan.

  He sits down on a metal bench.

  ‘You don’t talk much, do you?’ I say sitting next to him.

  ‘You do enough talking for both of us,’ he says.

  I reel, hurt from his insult and go to stand up. But he grabs my arm.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not used to being around people. Sorry. I like it. I like listening to you talk.’

  I relax back into the seat. Placated for now.

  I watch the mice skitter up and down the tracks. ‘There are a million of them,’ I say, finding the silence too unbearable to leave unfilled. ‘The mice.’

  ‘How come they don’t get crushed by the trains?’ Ethan says.

  ‘They feel the vibrations on the tracks.’ I don’t know if this is totally true. But Ethan leans forward and looks at the mice. They scatter and a moment later the rails hum as a train approaches. It arrives, pushing a blast of air in front of it, and the abandoned newspapers dance around the platform.

  The doors hiss open and we step on. Ethan doesn’t bother to sit down. He stands near the exit, holding on to the black pole. I check the map again. It’s only four stops.

  I sit down and look at the blank screens where the video ads used to play. On-board advertising is a waste of time now that almost everyone commuting is hooked up and can block out the ads with their own images. Instead, companies have gone in for sponsoring people. They’re paid to wander the streets, looking cool, or loudly proclaiming how amazing some chocolate bar or other is, broadcasting their brands to anyone who sees them. I miss ads. Some of them used to be fun. Like the one with the massive giraffe chasing the pig. That used to make me laugh when I was little, although I can’t remember what it was for.

  I kick my heels against the base of the seats, making a clanging noise on the metal grill. Ethan says nothing.

  One stop down.

 
; I get up and walk around, peering out into the darkness. It was only a couple of hours ago my classmates and I were on this train heading the other way. They were holding their signs and chattering with excitement. Right now I’d even take Dave Carlton being an arse over Ethan’s heavy silence.

  Two stops down.

  I sit down again.

  ‘So, where do you live?’ I ask, giving in to the silence.

  ‘Not far from you.’

  ‘And how exactly do you know where I live?’

  ‘That day, the day you hit the boy with the dustbin lid, I followed you home to make sure he wouldn’t try anything. To make sure you were OK.’

  ‘Stalker much?’ I smile, and he shrugs.

  Weirdly, I don’t mind. If any other boy told me they’d followed me home, I’d be calling the police. But there’s something about him. Something calm and safe. Sure, I don’t even know him, but I believe it when he says he wanted to check I was OK. It’s why I’m all right with him seeing me home now. It’s why I want him to.

  Finally, my stop arrives. I stand up and follow Ethan off the train.

  ‘I’m good from here,’ I say, when we arrive at street level. The gates to my compound are only on the other side of the road. But Ethan follows me across anyway.

  ‘Seriously, there’s security everywhere.’ I point at the camera above the gates. It whines as it moves to focus on me. Phil, our security guard, will be behind it.

  ‘I’ll see you to your door,’ Ethan says. No arguing.

  ‘Look, it’s all very gentlemanly, but I think I can make it as far as my door.’

  He shrugs again.

  I sigh, and press my palm against the reader. The gates swing open.

  We walk past the large wooden houses that look identical apart from the subtle changes people have made to their gardens. This is a company compound, only for those who work for WhiteInc. It’s supposed to create a sense of community and ensure all the company men and women are happy little workers. It’s modelled after some village in the Netherlands that was named the happiest village in the world, right down to the lake in the middle and the old-fashioned orange street lamps lining the winding path. We don’t have to put up with solar-powered lights unlike everyone else in the city.

  I live right at the top of the street in the only house that looks different, because Zizi said she couldn’t work with the bad feng shui of the other buildings.

  ‘This is me,’ I say, when we reach the house with the enormous glass front and green, sloping roof. It’s so ridiculous that I’m ashamed of it. ‘Home, sweet… ’ When I turn back, he’s running away.

  ‘Wait!’ I shout after him, but he doesn’t stop. I stamp my foot on the ground. ‘Fine, be like that. But why did you even bother? Why didn’t you just let them taser me!’

  ‘You didn’t say anything about tasering my child!’ I turn around to see my mother standing in the doorway of our house, her arms folded. And I realise why Ethan ran. Zizi is glaring at a man in a police uniform, who in turn is grinning at me.

  4

  ‘HELLO, PETRA,’ the policeman says.

  ‘Petri. Her name is Petri!’ Zizi snaps, moving to stand between me and the officer. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? The least you can do is get my daughter’s name right if you’re going to come here, waving your baton around like a giant—’

  ‘Can we go inside?’ I shout, cutting her off. This is embarrassing enough as it is and the net curtains of number three are twitching already.

  ‘What have I told you about shame, Petri?’ Zizi turns her rage on me.

  ‘That it’s a patriarchal weapon of self-torture. But, come on...’

  ‘Actually, Petri, I’d like you to come with us,’ the policeman says.

  A policewoman appears in the doorway behind him. Her smile goes nowhere near her eyes.

  ‘Do you really think you can come here and arrest my daughter with no evidence? What exactly is she supposed to have done?’ Zizi comes and stands next to me and puts her arm around my shoulder. I wonder if this show of maternal protectiveness is for the cops’ sake. Because I know when she gets me alone she won’t be so supportive. Right now, I don’t know which will be worse. Being arrested? Or Zizi’s inevitable lecture?

  ‘Perhaps we should talk about this down at the station, Mrs Quinn.’

  ‘Ms Quinn. Ms!’ Zizi says, ‘And you might think you’re dealing with an idiot here, Detective Lee, but I happen to be the director of a multinational corporation, so you can’t just—’

  ‘Yes, Ms Quinn,’ he says, stressing the Ms like he’s mocking her. ‘We have accessed your files. Creative Director of WhiteInc, creators of Glaze. Very impressive, I’m sure. But this is about your daughter. Now, she can either come with us for questioning. Or, and this is such a cliché, we can arrest her and drag her away in handcuffs.’

  ‘Do you have a warrant?’ Zizi says, her nails digging into my shoulder. She’s genuinely scared. And now, so am I. I thought I’d just get a reprimand. A warning at most. But if they’re talking warrants…

  The policeman’s eyes flicker back and forth for a moment and then snap back. ‘I do now.’

  ‘We should never have adapted Glaze for the police force,’ Zizi says, shaking her head. ‘I warned Max that it would be used to violate civil rights. Look how right I was.’

  ‘We thank you for your contribution to the Metropolitan Police Service, Ms Quinn. And now, Petri, if you would come with us.’ He gestures towards a black car parked in front of our driveway.

  ‘She’s not going anywhere alone. She’s still a minor, you know? So I will be present during all questioning. I know our rights.’

  ‘Yes, everyone knows their rights. Everyone knows everything.’ He sighs and points to the car once more. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘I have to get my coat,’ Zizi says, and runs back into the house. When she returns a minute later she’s wearing a green combat jacket. The one she wears when she wants to show solidarity with the underclasses. Or when she’s on a mission. Just great.

  Head hanging, my fingertips nearly dragging across the ground, I slope towards the waiting vehicle. Why didn’t I give myself up when I had the chance, rather than racing across roof tops with some weirdo?

  Detective Lee opens the door for me, lays his hand on my head and gently guides me inside. I’m hit by that new-car smell I was told manufacturers spray inside before letting the car roll off the conveyor belt. Scent branding, it’s called. Like supermarkets pumping the synthesised smell of baked bread through their air-con. All manufactured to make us feel better about our lives.

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt worse.

  Zizi slides in next to me, Detective Lee and the policewoman take their seats in the front. The doors clunk closed and we drive away. I watch our house getting smaller and smaller through the back window.

  ‘What is going on, Petri?’ Zizi hisses next to me. ‘Who was that boy? And what has happened to your clothes?’ She looks at my bloody jeans and torn t-shirt for the first time.

  ‘You know the protest, the one Ryan McManus was organising?’

  ‘Against the closing of the school?’

  ‘Yep. Well, I kind of went and it kind of got out of hand. And I sort of ran. And that boy helped me.’

  ‘Petri, what did I tell standing your ground?’

  ‘Yeah, well, I panicked. They were firing water cannons and rubber bullets. Sorry, Mum.’ I only call her Mum when I want to annoy her; I know it drives her mad. It’s something to do with the power of names and how labels reduce women to outdated stereotypes. She wrote an article on it for The Times. Not that I read it, what with the paywall. I wasn’t going to pay to read the kind of stuff I can hear at the dinner table for free.

  She runs her fingers through her grey, cropped hair and sighs. ‘It’s going to be OK. I’ve messaged my lawyer and we’ll sort this out.’

  ‘Can’t you just call Max?’ I say.

  ‘No!’ she snaps. ‘This is a family issue.�
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  ‘But doesn’t Max play golf with the Home Secretary?’

  ‘That’s enough, Petri. Max is on a flight from Guatemala. Besides, you can’t run to him with every little problem like you’re a kid. You need to learn to take responsibility for your actions.’

  I can tell by the way her mouth twists when she said Max’s name that there’s more to this than my arrest. She and Max must have had one of their falling outs again. Perfect.

  ‘We’ll get all this sorted out, don’t you worry. Just you and me.’ Zizi pats my knee, then pulls her hand away in horror at the sticky red stain on her hand. She wipes it on the leather car seat.

  ‘Look, can’t you stay out of it?’ I say.

  In the pale glow from the lights streaking by outside I see her eyes widen. ‘Stay out of it? Stay out of it! This is a violation of your human rights, Petri. Or don’t you care about that?’

  ‘No, of course, I do. It’s just... do you have to make such a fuss? I’m sure it will all be OK.’

  She folds her arms and turns her head away from me. ‘Fine, I’ll stay out of it. But don’t come crying to me when they send you off to one of their encampments. And don’t you think I don’t know about them,’ she says, leaning forward and addressing the police officers. ‘I’m a member of Amnesty. I’ve been recording this whole exchange, you know?’ She leans back again. ‘See how they like it when their barbaric procedures go viral.’

  ‘I wouldn’t suggest you do that, Ms Quinn,’ Lee says, not even turning around. ‘You could be charged with inciting violence.’

  Zizi’s mouth drops open and snaps shut again. I try not to smile. The rest of the journey takes place in silence. Thankfully.

  The police station is a modern, new-build affair. All glass and chrome. I start counting the seconds till Zizi mentions taxpayers. I don’t have to wait too long.

  ‘Well, isn’t that wonderful. And how much did that cost I wonder?’ she says looking up at a large metal sculpture of a policeman, bending down on one knee talking to a child. ‘What a great use of taxpayers’ funds. I mean, of course, forget about keeping the hospital’s maternity wing open as long as the police force get their shining symbol of benevolence to fool us all.’