by Tina Shaw
Falling to my knees, I gasp for air and a strange rasping noise comes out of me.
Hern grabs my jacket and hauls me up. Even in my distress I’m surprised that such a small man is so strong. Soon he’s got me out of the gates and we’re running, Hern pulling me along. Behind us, the tumult of screaming and gunfire continues. Although I’m in shock, the streetwise part of me still has some idea where we’re heading. Off to the left. Into an alleyway. Through a courtyard. It’s quieter now we’re away from the House of Law. Across a street.
A cobble catches my toe and I stagger, sobbing.
“Not here,” gasps the little man, urging me on.
An alleyway. A courtyard. A park. Trees.
And finally, finally Hern lets me collapse sobbing to the ground, head in my arms, my face buried in the grass, but I can still see my mother being shot in front of me every time I shut my eyes.
Eventually – it might be minutes or hours – I take a shuddery breath and raise my head. Hern is sitting on the grass nearby. There are thin trees all around with pale, dappled trunks. As I slowly regain some kind of equilibrium, I’m surprised to recognise the park near Emee’s house, the park where I kissed her under the trees. But it’s no comfort. All that is a world away now, and there’s no going back.
22
“I am actually a Travester,” Hern confesses as we make our way home to the Cerel district.
“What?” My mind is dazed and it’s hard to take it in.
“Oh yes,” he continues, “I dye my hair, you know. I’ve lived like a Cerel for years, ever since I fell in love with a Cerel woman, many years ago. I went to live with her family, and even though my wife ran away with another fellow, I’ve stayed on.” He makes a snickering noise. “Anyhow, I prefer Cerels.”
We stop in Market Square and Hern makes me sit on a step while he goes over to a stall and fetches two mugs of chicory, thick with cream, and a paper cone of warm honey cakes.
“Go on,” he says. “You’ll feel better if you eat.”
Eating is the last thing I want to do as I numbly cradle the warm mug between my hands. The chicory makes me think of Boss, and the Director’s house. I see the Director’s new socks, his polished shoes, and there’s a cold, dead feeling in my heart. I know I have to go back home to Nanna, but how can I tell her about … Along with Jorzy being taken, I’m afraid this latest news might destroy her. Thank the gods Marina is safely out of the city.
“Just a nibble,” Hern presses, holding out the cone of greasy honey cakes. I shake my head, thinking I’ll be sick.
“There’s something I have to do …” The words come out with difficulty.
Swallowing a mouthful of the chicory seems to help, to give me some strength. It’s cloyingly sweet. Yet it seems so wrong to be drinking a creamy, sweet beverage while my mother lies dead on the flagstones outside the House of Law and Jorzy is … nobody knows where he is. With a shudder, I force myself to take another few sips of the chicory.
“You know our building, right?”
“Oh yes,” says Hern. “I sometimes visit your nanna. In fact, I used to visit before your father was taken away, when you were still toddling around in nappies.”
“Can you go and tell Nanna what has happened?”
The man is confused. “But won’t you want to – I mean, your family–”
“There’s something I have to do,” I repeat, handing him the mug, still half-full. The cone of honey cakes lies untouched on the step. “Please?
Hern stands up and absentmindedly touches his forehead. He has lost his hat in the tumult and I can see where his hair is growing back pale under the black dye.
“Of course, of course, if that’s what you want.”
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I’m about to head off when Hern’s reedy voice makes me pause.
“Y-you won’t do anything reckless, will you, Leho?”
The little man stands there in his funny old suit, a woollen tie knotted at his throat, with an imploring look in his brown eyes. He’s a man I’ve only met once before, briefly, yet one who has saved my life. A man who was once friends with my parents. And I wish I’d known Hern better before now.
“Why did you keep away?” I ask, curious.
The little man ducks his head. “Ah, well, there’s the rub, oh yes,” he mumbles. “I used to meet your father at the pub, you know. But the house, well, once your mother had her … accident, nobody was allowed to visit. You must’ve known.”
Yes, I knew all about that. My mother hadn’t wanted anybody to see her. That was why she hid away in the inner room and only came out for meals. She was afraid that if other Cerels saw her – saw what the Black Marks had done to her – that they might start to protest, and more people would get hurt.
“She was never ashamed, you know,” I say fiercely.
Hern comes forwards on quick little steps and pats my arm. “I know, Leho, I know. We all loved your mother. There was never any question of shame.”
I turn and walk quickly away before I start sobbing again. Past the vegetable stalls, the loaves of bread and the lengths of calico. At the end of Market Street, I turn right and head quickly to Bit’s house. Up the dusty inner stairs, to the door that is never locked. Bit opens it before I’ve even had a chance to knock.
“What happened?” he asks. “People have been saying … some kind of commotion at the House of Law. My mother’s terrified.”
“I’ve come for the pistol,” I tell him in a low voice. “Where is it?”
Bit hesitates, but goes off to fetch it. While he’s gone, his mother comes into the room behind me. Perhaps she’s been visiting a neighbour. A thin, pale woman, she comes over and grips one of my hands. “Leho,” she whispers, “I’ve been having terrible dreams. Something bad has happened, hasn’t it?”
And I can’t help it, tears spring into my eyes. “My mother,” I whisper.
When Bit returns, his mother is holding me against her shoulder, a big boy bending over a small woman and sobbing into her neck.
* * *
Next I hunt out my friend Eric, finding him at the ruins. He’s with a gang of boys I vaguely know. They’re squatting in a circle playing peaknuckle on the stony ground. I stand off to one side, in the lee of a shattered building, and watch as each boy takes it in turn to throw the knuckles into the centre, trying to get close to the dried pea. One round finishes, and coins change hands. When the next round goes to start, Eric gets up and walks over.
I lead him away from the group, so we can speak in private.
“I need bullets,” I tell him.
If Eric is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He’s probably used to all sorts of requests. The stocky boy squints at me. “What kind?” is all he asks.
With a glance back at the group, I pull the pistol halfway out of my jacket pocket.
“How many?”
“Three.” It’s a lucky number for some.
Eric rubs the toe of his boot into the ground. “How d’you know it works?”
I see Moustache shooting the gun into the air. “It works.”
“All right then,” says Eric. “I can do that. How d’you want to pay?”
My skin feels taut and waxy in the early autumn sun. I think of all those weeks working at the garden, and the cache of coins I’ve tied into a rag and hidden in the basement of our building.
“I’ve got coins,” I tell him.
Eric names his price and I accept it. Then we arrange a meeting place for one hour’s time. I watch Eric as he scrambles over the fallen stones of the wall and makes his way swiftly through the cemetery. With the pistol heavy in my jacket pocket, I follow more slowly. There’s plenty of time to get the coins then meet Eric with the ammunition.
* * *
When I reach the garden, there is no sign of Boss. The blackened stove is cold, his cot neatly made up, as if it hasn’t been slept in recently. Even after just two days’ neglect, weeds are starting to appear. I wonder briefly about where he could b
e, then put him from my mind. There are more important things to think about.
I wait in the shed, sitting on my usual crate, the pistol in my hands. Time passes slow as mud. My thoughts are mud. I see my mother on the ground, and bite my lip. Once, I imagine I hear Jorzy’s voice, but when I strain to catch the words the voice drifts away. I stare at the bright window, blinking back tears, and feel hollowed out, like the pumpkin after Boss has scooped out the seeds. I look at my hands holding the black pistol, and think they are the hands of a stranger.
The evening outside is glorious, one of the last of the summer days. Birds are making a racket in the trees, roosting for the night. In the shed, dust motes hang in a shaft of light.
I’ve got no idea of the time. I’ve got no plan. I just know I have to wait for darkness to fall, then I’ll make my move. Then I’ll go and find Jorzy. Then I’ll go home and face up to Nanna. If I don’t find Jorzy, there’ll only be the three of us from now on and it gives me a sad ache. Sirens flare in the distance. Then I notice noises … lights and activity, coming from the house. Something is happening.
I get up and peer out the window.
I can’t see the terrace from the shed, but I can hear the sounds of a scuffle. Raised voices. Pistol in hand, I hurry out of the shed, skirting around to the back where there’s a view of the terrace yet where I can still remain hidden.
What I see is astounding. Boss is grappling with the Director. A Black Mark officer is at the tall doors, hands outstretched. Other men, behind him, are jostling to get outside, except the officer is holding them back. White faces peer from the upper-storey windows. Boss holds the Director, as if embracing him from behind. A glint of steel catches the light. Oh gods, Boss is holding a knife to the Director’s throat.
“Come now,” the Director says, his voice carrying clearly across the lawn. And you have to give the man credit, he is cool-headed. “Valerie, my friend, put down the knife and let’s talk about this–”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Boss roars.
The Director jerks in his arms like a puppet, then quickly composes himself. One of the Black Marks has to be held back from rushing down to them. I crouch low behind a bush. It’s like watching a play being acted out.
“Come, Valerie, haven’t we always been friends?”
Boss’s face is wet with tears. “My sister,” he whimpers.
My hand grips the pistol, thinking I’ll have to step in and finish the job. I can see Black Marks edging closer, signalling to each other. Any more weakness from Boss and they’ll be on him, as quick as that.
“What about your sister, Valerie? Perhaps I can help.” The Director’s voice is creamy smooth. You wouldn’t think the man is in any danger at all. Yet from my angle I can see his gaze is fixed on the senior officer, who stands on the steps, hand on the pistol in his belt. One nod from the Director and it will all be over.
“Help?” Boss gives a wild laugh. “When have you ever helped any of us? You hate us.”
“Now, now, Valerie,” the Director’s voice sounds world-weary, “I’ve given you a good position here, haven’t I? Food, shelter, productive work. You’re overwrought, my friend, you need to rest.”
The senior Black Mark takes another step closer to the two men. Another Black Mark is edging around to the side. I want to shout a warning to Boss. He only has a few seconds left before he’s ambushed.
“Yes,” murmurs Boss, loosening his grip a little, his shoulders sagging, “you’re right … I need to rest.” No, I’m screaming inside, don’t give up! But just like that, Boss steps away from the Director and the knife slips from his hand to clatter on the stone flags.
That’s when the officer raises his pistol and aims. Everything happens very quickly. The gunshot echoes around the garden. Boss crumples to the ground. The Director pushes the body with the toe of his shoe. Shaking his head, he takes out a handkerchief to wipe his face. The senior Mark bends over Boss, a hand to his neck, while the other Black Marks are milling around like overexcited dogs.
“Good work, shooting that man,” the Director murmurs, turning towards the house. “You’ll be rewarded.”
Behind the bush, I’m shaking. Now – it’s my turn. I step forwards and raise the pistol. There’s a cry as somebody spots me. The Director turns and I pull the trigger. The shot rings out, nearly knocking me off-balance. I’m paralysed, holding the pistol with both hands, arms shaking, smoke rising from the barrel. The Director staggers to the ground, a hand to his shoulder.
Screams. Black Marks running down the lawn. The senior Black Mark stands to train his gun on me, and I’m ready to meet my end.
“A doctor,” somebody shouts.
But then a woman runs out of the house. “The House of Law,” she cries, “it’s burning!”
The news is so shocking that everybody stops and looks at her. It gives me a single moment, and I grab it. I run for the gate, quick as a hare, and away.
* * *
The city is in mayhem. Shouts echo from buildings. Fires are burning in Travester shops. People run through the darkness carrying sticks, tools, whatever they can use as a weapon. And they are all heading in the one direction. I pass a scuffle in an alleyway and am amazed to see it is three Cerel boys setting on a lone Black Mark. I hurry on, back to Via Parada.
Even from the end of the street, it’s obvious what is happening: the House of Law is alive with orange and black flames. It looks like a huge glass lantern. Smoke billows from the top of it. People are running screaming from the big double doors. Black Marks are scattered, confused. Cerels are throwing stones – whatever they can lay hands on – at the glass walls. There’s the sound of a crack and a jagged line shivers down the glass. A cheer rises up.
It’s unbelievable. Yet somewhere in there is Jorzy.
I run towards the building. Near the entrance is a patch of dark blood, but no sign of my mother’s body. Oh gods, where is she? I don’t have time to stop and think about that. Racing into the building, smoke and heat hits me in the face. I put my arm over my nose and keep on. Muffled figures pass me – lurching out of the smoke, escaping the building. Another crack sounds and a flame leaps up from the floor. I weave past it.
The Travester in his red shoes, his face smeared with ash, appears in front of me like a horror. He’s gripping a metal box to his chest.
“It’s all going up in flames,” he screams, running for the exit.
Stairs, leading down. I don’t hesitate, thinking of underground cells, and skid down them. Funnily enough the smoke isn’t so bad down here. The fire seems to be burning somewhere up above, maybe in the main auditorium. A long corridor, doors. Screaming. “Jorzy,” I mutter. Please don’t let it be Jorzy screaming.
The corridor opens out into a larger room, its steel door hanging open. Smoke is seeping in from vents in the ceiling. There’s a table, chairs. A Black Mark jacket on one of the chairs. My gaze is drawn to a body lying curled in a corner. The face is covered in blood, but I instantly recognise Jorzy, would recognise him anywhere. Dear gods, is he dead?
“Jorzy!” I cry, dropping to my knees, my throat clenched. Please, no. Not after all that has happened. The hellish scene above vanishes from my mind as I bow my head over my brother’s crumpled form. First my mother, now my brother: I’ve gone from one kind of despair to another and my heart feels about ready to break.
Then a groan issues from him.
“Jorzy?” I whisper.
My brother groans again and opens his eyes.
Oh the gods, he’s alive.
The sound of screaming brings me back to reality. There’s no time to waste.
“Jorzy, it’s me,” I tell him, getting my hands under my brother’s shoulders. “Come on, you have to get up.” I move him into a sitting position. As thin as he is, Jorzy is still bulky, a dead weight.
“Leho?”
“Yes, it’s me. But we have to hurry – the place is burning.”
Jorzy struggles, seems to make an effort. With my
help, he starts to get to his feet. He turns his head and spits a mouthful of blood and teeth onto the floor.
“Can you walk?”
“I … think so.”
Leaning heavily on me, we make our way out of the room. In the corridor, Jorzy comes to a stop.
“What?” I cry, desperate now to get us both out of the inferno. “What is it?”
Jorzy seems to straighten. “There are others,” he says simply.
Looking wildly along the corridor, I see what I didn’t notice before: the row of locked doors. How long do we have? More screams come from up above. There’s a crashing, splintering sound, like a beam falling.
“We have to go!” I’m really desperate now.
But Jorzy doesn’t budge. “It won’t take a minute.”
Right. I’ve got no choice, so run to the first closed door. The lock is a simple bar that lifts easily enough. Flinging open the door, I find three people huddled inside. They’re in such a bad way my heart goes out to them, and I realise that if not for us, they would have been left to suffocate in their cell.
“The House of Law is burning,” I tell them urgently. “You have to get out.”
They don’t need any more persuading, and hurry out as best they can.
Jorzy, in spite of his weakened state, staggers to the next door and lifts up the bar. Together, we open all of the doors. Cerels scramble, crawl, run – out of the cells and up the stairs. I take hold of my brother again and guide him towards the stairs. Above us, flames leap up the glass walls.
“What a sight,” murmurs Jorzy, with a bloodied grin. “I told you, didn’t I?”
Panting, muscles screaming, I prop up my brother. It looks like he’s about to pass out.
“Told me what?” I say, trying to hurry us up the rest of the steps and out.
Despite his injuries, Jorzy smiles. “A revolution,” he says.
23
Two days later, I’m pushing the handcart that carries the body of my mother, wrapped in a sheet, through the cobbled streets to the Cerel cemetery.
