Going Underground

by Denison, L. N

  GOING UNDERGROUND

  By L. N. Denison

  Copyright © 2015

  All rights reserved

  ISBN- 13: 978-1511428651

  ISBN- 10: 1511428651

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter One

  It had just struck 3:14 on an overly hot Wednesday afternoon. Jen stared at the clock in the Math room, waiting impatiently for the last minute to pass before the bell rang to signal the end of class. Fifteen other eager faces joined Jen in looking up at the clock. They all wanted to be the first to leave, and they already had hold of their bags, ready to bolt towards the door. Jen gripped her bag so tightly her knuckles turned white. As the minute hand landed on the 3, she lurched to her feet.

  ‘Please leave quietly, and in an orderly fashion!’ the Math Master demanded amidst the sounds of chair legs scraping and bells ringing, his request falling on deaf ears. Sixteen bodies began to make their way towards the classroom exit, all pushing and shoving in a frenzied manner as they tried to squeeze through the small door.

  ‘Get out of my way!’ Jen barked, as she elbowed others aside.

  The others always made way for Jen. She had built a fearsome reputation around her infamous redheaded temper. Everybody was afraid of what she might do next, and she had been sent to the only place they thought could handle her. A place that wouldn’t tolerate her mood swings. A place that would tame her. Each pupil had a reason for being sent to the London Reform School for Troubled Teenagers, but none as severe as Jen’s. She had been forced out of many institutions because she lacked the patience to maintain any decorum. She caused no end of trouble—fighting, verbally abusing her teachers, swearing—but the destruction of school property, and a small matter of arson finally initiated the discipline she desperately needed.

  The school was unusual in that the pupils were free to come and go, unlike other schools of the same type, which operated almost like prisons. The pupils of the London Reform School were allowed to go home at the end of the evening, but there was a downside to that privilege. Each pupil had to wear a tracking device around their wrist to monitor their whereabouts at all times outside the school. Jen had nearly reached the end of her time. Four days remained before she turned eighteen, and got the freedom she so deeply desired.

  *

  The hallways of the architecturally gothic school building were dangerously congested, with a hundred other students scrambling for the exit to the courtyard. Jen slung her bag over her shoulder and began to push her way through the throng, not caring who she hurt along the way as her sharp elbows flew in all directions. Her main objective was to get out of the building as quickly as she could. She hoped that the small group of cadets from the Military School down the road would have gathered outside the main gate. They came every day for one reason only: to goad and heckle the pupils as they left their classes for the day. Jen had grown to hate them all, but she had set her sights on the instigator of the abusive tirades: cadet leader, Myron Cutter. Although Jen found Myron extremely attractive (as did many of the other girls), he had had a go at her on a personal level once too often. He always referred to Jen, in her moth-eaten hand-me-downs, as ‘lower class gutter trash’. Trying to get her to react by poking and prodding her as she left the school grounds. He never targeted any of the other pupils, only Jen. Maybe he had heard rumours of her reputation, and wanted to see how much taunting it would take to see her lose her temper.

  It had reached the point where enough was enough. She so desperately wanted to take him down a peg or two, and would do anything to achieve it. Today, she was in the right frame of mind to exact retribution.

  As soon as the pupils spilled out of the exits, the cadets began their usual abuse. Myron had spotted Jen in the distance. He took note of the incredibly angry look on her face, and it only stoked his malice.

  ‘Oi, you! Gutter trash! Get your scrawny little arse over here!’ Myron shouted.

  Jen’s simmering anger had begun to boil over, and her need to wipe the smug look off of Myron’s face grew out of control. Every word that came out of his perfectly formed mouth only fuelled her conviction. She watched and listened as Myron’s minions continued their spiteful barrage, until she had heard enough. Gaining speed as she approached the main gates, Jen circled around to where Myron had entrenched himself. He turned around to face her and she paused, wondering how she would tackle his six-foot, perfectly proportioned frame.

  ‘What are you going to do, gutter trash? Going to beat me up, are you?’ Myron mocked.

  If she needed another reason to attack him, this was it. She launched her small frame towards him, grabbing the collar of his trench coat and dragging him to the ground with sheer weight. He cried as he fell, landing awkwardly on his knees. Jen smirked down at him, revelling in his pain, although she wasn’t finished with him yet.

  ‘Is this what you wanted, you piece of crap?!’ she growled.

  Myron’s minions could do nothing but watch helplessly as Jen bent down and pushed with all her strength until he fell onto his back, and then straddled his chest.

  Again, she paused, looking right into his pain-stricken blue eyes. She pinned his arms between her legs, preventing any movement on his part. Myron looked up towards his fellow cadets, wondering why they hadn’t attempted to help him. But there was nothing that they could do: they were trapped behind a crowd of onlookers who were determined not to let them pass through. Jen took hold of Myron’s head, craftily running her fingers through his raven-coloured hair with both hands, and turned his face to face her own. Beads of sweat stood out on Myron’s forehead and upper lip. He was understandably nervous about what lay ahead. How could he not be, with a pair of menacing, emerald green eyes staring piercingly into his own? Jen clenched her right hand into a fist and held it high, ready to strike.

  ‘I’d watch out if I were you, Myron! I’ve heard that she can kick giants’ arses!’ shouted a voice from the crowd. A collective laugh went up. Myron’s eyes widened in terror.

  Jen, too, began to laugh at Myron’s obvious discomfort. He was visibly puzzled as she unclenched her fist and brought it back down to her side. She pulled at his trench coat collar again, dragging him into an awkward leaning position.

  ‘I just wanted to see you squirm!’ she whispered close to his ear, letting him know her disdain for him in no uncertain terms.

  ‘I’ve wanted to do this for a long time—to make you suffer in the way you make everyone else suffer. You’re a goddamn bully, and I hate you!’ she hissed, before cheekily kissing him on the forehead.

  Jen rose to her feet, setting him free from her vice-like grip. All Myron could do was remain on his back, looking toward the sky and trying desperately to hide his obvious embarrassment as the onlookers stared down at him.

  ‘Don’t just stand there! Go after her!’ Myron squealed, turning his attention toward his subordinates.

  His minions were still not able to reach him, however, and nor could they get to Jen to av
enge his honour. She had made her point, and Myron had to live with the fact that he had been beaten by a mere slip of a girl.

  *

  Jen was quite satisfied with finally putting her nemesis in place, and she left the cheering crowd of onlookers behind to make her way home. She liked walking through the cemetery, all the way to the old railway tracks and then, a few hundred yards away, the caravan park. She had lived there with her mother for the last fifteen years. It’s true that the richer people are, the better their accommodations; it was also obvious that being poor had forced Jen and her mother to live like tramps in squalor. Living off of other people’s charity! It was worse than living under Waterloo Bridge.

  Jen passed the same degraded headstones she saw each afternoon on the way home, her walk through the cemetery bleak and depressing. There were no sounds to be heard or people to be seen, just Jen trying to get home amidst the cemetery’s grey nothingness. Going home was a prospect she always dreaded. Every day was the same; as soon as she set foot through the door, the abuse would begin. Lavinia Cole was relentless, always reminding Jen that she was at fault for the way they had been forced to live, and never for one second blaming herself or taking responsibility for their situation. Jen hated her mother with a passion, and to say they had a strained relationship with one another was an understatement.

  Jen reached the caravan park and braced herself for today’s tirade, but it wasn’t to be. She opened the door to their three-roomed, four-wheeled house and paused, struck by the silence. She crept into the caravan slowly and tentatively, peering around the corner. The place looked empty, notwithstanding the usual array of empty vodka bottles and piles of dirty clothing strewn all over the floor. Jen stepped over the trash into the kitchen area, looking for something to eat. Jen hadn’t eaten all day and she was starving. She would fare no better upon opening the small fridge—predictably, it was bare, and so was the pantry. It was not unusual for Jen to find nothing to eat; Lavinia would regularly find food for herself one way or the other, without giving any thought to Jen or her hunger. It was a wonder that Jen hadn’t died of starvation by now.

  *

  It had been several hours and there was still no sign of Lavinia. The ten-thirty curfew was fast-approaching, and Jen hoped that her mother would stay where she was for the night. She was enjoying the silence far too much to have Lavinia ruin it for her. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, than Lavinia graced Jen with her presence. She fell unceremoniously through the door, then to the floor in a drunken stupor, muttering something under her breath.

  ‘What the hell are you still doing here? I don’t want you here!’ Lavinia mumbled. ‘Just go—leave me alone!’

  Jen looked down upon her mother with unconcealed hatred, and wondered why she had stayed here as long as she had. She thought of the prospect of turning eighteen, and smiled despite herself. Not only would she be free of school, she would also be free to leave her mother’s hold.

  ‘I hate you, you old witch! I can’t wait to turn eighteen!’ Jen screamed. ‘In four days I’ll be gone and —’

  ‘Good!’ Lavinia interrupted.

  ‘— and I won’t have to put up with your crap anymore.’ Jen finished in a whisper.

  Jen really didn’t care what happened to Lavinia overnight. She didn’t see a reason to make her comfortable, when all her mother had done was make her life a misery. Jen wished her mother ill and hoped that she drowned in her own vomit, and told her as much before Lavinia fell into an unconscious state.

  Jen retired to the sofa for the night, remaining fully-dressed and covering herself with a moth-eaten blanket. She lay contemplating the next day. Should I leave home tomorrow, three days before my eighteenth birthday, or should I ride out the storm? If she were to leave home early she would be breaking the rules, but she didn’t care about that. Her main concern was to get away from Lavinia and the caravan as soon as possible, and never mind the consequences.

  *

  The reason for Lavinia’s hatred towards Jen was unjustified. It wasn’t Jen’s fault that Lavinia had been chased out of her own village, or that she had been ostracised by her family for having a child out of wedlock. When it was brought to light that the father of the child was English, Lavinia was given two choices: she could face the consequences of her actions, or leave the serenity of her village. Lavinia preferred the latter to what was planned for her had she stayed. Punishments for sinful acts were almost archaic in nature; the sin that Lavinia had committed was punishable by stoning. She preferred to take her chances on the outside, living in filth and degradation, rather than facing the prospect of a painful death at the hands of people she had thought loved her.

  Her brother drove Lavinia as far as North London and left her there with her luggage in one hand and two-year-old Jen in the other. After an agonising journey to the heart of London, they finally made their home under Waterloo Bridge, a temporary stopgap until Lavinia could find work and somewhere a little more suitable to live.

  From the moment of their arrival, life would become one big struggle. As the war between England and Scotland escalated, so did the English government’s need to rid itself of the minority groups: namely, people such as Lavinia and the others under the bridge—non-pure bloods, as they were known. Social standing meant nothing, as the people under the bridge had proved. Each one had, at some point, been an integral part of society—at least two had been members of Parliament before the witch-hunts began, forcing them into hiding.

  Lists of known non-pure bloods had been posted in all the patrol stations across the Southeast, and one by one they were rounded up and placed into labour camps. There were five such camps, all situated dangerously close to the main battle areas along the North-South divide. Lavinia could count herself lucky—nobody, apart from the people under the bridge, knew that she or Jen existed. So, for a while, they were safe from harm. Lavinia had to learn how not to be so Scottish, trying desperately hard to pick up the English dialect and rid herself of her broad accent. This was a necessity before she could even consider going to look for work. She practised every chance she had, and with anyone who would listen to her.

  It took months, but Lavinia finally felt confident enough to pull off a Londoner’s accent. She looked for jobs to support herself and Jen, but trying to find work proved difficult. Employment opportunities were few and far between unless you wanted to join the Army or become a prostitute; Lavinia was far too refined for the latter, and would never consider the former. Then one day, while out looking for work, she had spotted a notice in a dirty, unpolished window: ‘Waitress wanted—enquire within.’ Lavinia jumped at the chance. The job didn’t pay much, but she did get free meals, and she could take any leftovers back to the bridge for Jen.

  After a few weeks, Lavinia’s boss offered her keys to a rundown caravan on the outskirts of Hyde Park, just beyond the cemetery and the old railway tracks. It used to be part of the Connex Line before all the trains had become defunct. The true misery began soon after Lavinia and Jen moved into the caravan. After five lonely years of living in London in poverty, Lavinia turned to black market booze and recreational drugs for comfort. She sometimes forgot that Jen even existed. And that is when their mutual hatred for one another had truly manifested itself and began to spiral out of control. True, Jen was only seven, but she knew that her mother resented her ever being born—after all, she mentioned it nearly every day during her drunken or drug-induced stupors. Jen had decided to rebel against Lavinia, letting her know that she hated her just as much, if not more, and the day that she turned eighteen would be welcomed by both of them.

  *

  The external sirens began screeching deafeningly at six-thirty in the morning, their noise echoing through the caravan park. The alarm was known as a time siren, meaning that everybody had to be up and out by the time the sirens ceased, or risk facing punishment at the hands of the ever-present governmental patrols. Jen stared blankly at the ceiling after a restless night. There was no need
for her to get up straight away, as she had nothing to eat and nor did she have to change. Lavinia had already left the caravan to go to work, still wearing the same clothes that she had passed out in, still reeking of alcohol, and with the added feature of dog breath—an unpleasant bonus for the very few customers that frequented the restaurant.

  Jen wiped the residue from her eyes and slowly rose to her feet, taking a good look round as she stretched. She was quite relieved that her mother had already left, and she wouldn’t have to start the day with an argument. Jen headed towards the door, grabbing her bag along the way.

  Jen’s breath smoked in the dawn chill as she made her way towards the hole in the wall, just beyond the tracks that led to the cemetery. But upon reaching the hole, she had decided that she would take the long way round, heading in the direction of Hyde Park. She didn’t know why she wanted to go that way at that particular time. She would usually go to the park to vent her frustration, to scream as loud as she could after a war of words with her mother. Jen suddenly realised that she just wanted to try going through the park without having to vent for a change—to take in what was left of the scenery after stray missiles had left behind unsightly craters, denting its beauty. As she began to walk through, Jen could see that something was going on in the distance—a rally of sorts. Jen’s curiosity took hold. She needed to know what was going on, or what was about to happen.

  Jen’s slow pace had built to a trot as she approached the crowd, perhaps one hundred and fifty persons strong, waiting patiently for the mysterious figure on the makeshift stage to say what he had to say. She pushed her way through the unfamiliar faces that stood in her path, making her way through to the front. Once there, she found herself standing next to the one person that she professed to hate the most, the person she had humiliated the day before: cadet leader, Myron Cutter. She looked at him sideways, trying to shrink him with her glare. Myron tried to act cool, but his nervous manner betrayed his fear of Jen.