This Broken Land

by H M Sealey

  “No Gran, it really isn’t!” I gasp. “You’re breaking the law! I don’t care about the moral rights or wrongs, I care that, if you get caught, they’ll take you away from me. You put other people before me!”

  Tears burst out of my eyes and I can’t stop them; I stagger towards the door, my heart hammering in my chest, my head spinning. “I’m sorry if that’s selfish, but every time you smuggle someone away, you take a stupid risk, and I’m sorry, I can’t cope with that! I can’t wake up every morning wondering if this is the day they’ll catch you.”

  “Elsie, love?”

  “Don’t call me that. You don’t love me, not if you can put everything I have at risk.”

  I turn away, shove the door open and charge out into the night. I’m going to meet Dai. Dai always makes my world better. He’s one of my best friends and right now I need him to make sense of all of this. I need him to tell me I’m overreacting. I need him to laugh merrily and tell me I’ve misread the whole situation; that he isn’t under suspicion and that Gran is just Gran and has never done anything illegal beyond trading home-grown fruit and vegetables on the black market.

  ~

  ~ Five ~

  Josh

  I’m already waiting in the room when River appears, her dark gaze fringed with even darker lashes as hostile as the desert. It’s a nice room with a big, comfortable bed, huge television screen that encompasses most of one wall and two vending machines, one offering a choice of legal drugs and the other condoms. The curtains are drawn against the night sky and the bedside lamp gives the whole room a pink, friendly glow. The glow is a lie. There’s nothing friendly here.

  River stumbles into the room, pushed I think, and the door slams behind her.

  What do I say? How do I begin this conversation? I open my mouth then close it again, already regretting upsetting the only person here I’ve ever respected.

  River’s eyes fall on the tatty vending machines.

  “Fifty years ago most of these were illegal.” She says. I like her voice; she has a slight accent but I can’t place it. “Except cigarettes. But even then the government pretended there was this big war on drugs, but really they were as good as decriminalised by the 2000’s. It wasn’t a massive change to legalise them.”

  I shrug. “It’s just as well they did. They’re pretty popular. The treasury must make millions in taxes every year.”

  “Do you take any of them?” River turns those eyes onto me and I shrink beneath her stony gaze.

  “No. Never.”

  “Isn’t that considered a bit weird?”

  “Then I’m weird.”

  “You know we’re encouraged to try them?”

  I nod. “I like to keep a clear head. I don’t want to blur the edges of reality.”

  She gazes at me in what I think is surprise. “You like reality? I mean, this place?”

  I grit my teeth. Do I lie and say how grateful I am that the Rainbow Centre has seen fit to re-educate me?

  “I hate reality.” I tell her. “But I don’t want to blot it out. If I blot it out It’ll just stay like this forever.” And I don’t intend to stay here forever.

  Do I tell her my own, personal theory? What the hell? “It’s all about employment figures.” I say.

  For the first time the hostility in River’s gaze wavers, just a fraction. “Is it?”

  “Sure. Look, even fifty years ago they knew drug use was linked to mental health problems. If a large percentage of young people are signed off sick with mental health issues, then they don’t show up as unemployed, right?”

  “Everyone seems to have some sort of mental health issue today.”

  “I know, so they’re just given drugs to keep them quiet and enough money to live on, and bingo, they don’t need jobs.”

  River crosses her arms over her chest and frowns with interest. “That would cost the government a lot of money.”

  “I know, but it’s better than admitting there are no jobs any more, isn’t it? Can you imagine the response if all those people labelled unfit to work actually started looking for a job?”

  “So where’s the magic money coming from? To pay for them all?”

  I think about this. We’re not a rich economy any more. We haven’t even been in the top twenty for half a decade. Setting up the BSI cost squillions. But we’re not bankrupt either, even though we don’t actually manufacture anything any more. River’s right. More people claim benefits than not. But nobody complains.

  “I don’t know. Taxes from the drugs?”

  “That’s not enough.” She scoffs. “Especially as the number of people with long-term mental illness is actually falling. You haven’t thought this through have you Skye?” She stops and gives me a look of disdain. “Skye? Is that your real name? Seriously?”

  I shake my head. “I’m Joshua.” I tell her. “Josh.”

  River raises an eyebrow. “Oooh, defiance? Aren’t you meant to defend your gender neutral name and blame your parents for putting unnecessary labels on you?”

  “I’m Josh.” I say again. River stares at me for several seconds before her face erupts into a big, happy smile.

  “That was a really clever thing you did.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Arranging some Private Time. I’ve been racking my brains for some way to meet you.”

  I think my mouth drops open. “Uh?”

  River giggles. “Did I fool you? I’m sorry I hit you by the way, I just wanted to make sure nobody would guess about us.”

  Now I’m completely lost. Have River and I had a conversation I don’t remember?

  “Us?”

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s your eyes Josh, they’re not dead.”

  “My eyes?” I squint at her.

  River stops giggling and faces me, slim arms crossed, her gaze takes on a more serious expression.

  “Have you ever really looked around this place? At the broken people? They’re like zombies, not daring to think in case they think something that’s not sanctioned. I saw the way you looked at me.”

  I feel myself colour. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be offensive -”

  River scowls. “God, don’t start that. I can’t bear it. Tiptoeing around like frightened idiots in case something should be seen as offensive. I find the very existence of this place offensive. It’s a pity the rules are so inconsistent towards perceiving offence otherwise I could sue them.”

  A laugh rises up in my chest. I almost didn’t recognise it. Humour. Humour’s become a trap, a way of catching people who think racist or sexist thoughts in private. What we find funny condemns us.

  She regards me with a steady look. “I’m not wrong am I? You’re different.”

  Am I? I’m not sure.

  “I think so.”

  “I saw the contempt in your eyes for Miss Chalmers – God, she’s a total bitch. I bet no man ever wants to marry her!”

  I stare at River, probably with my mouth open. In one sentence she’s used derogatory sexist language and assumed Ms. Chalmers’ sexuality. She’s also openly insulted her by refusing to use her chosen title. People are either Mr. Ms. Or the ungendered Mussr, which is creeping into popular use slowly. It’d probably be more popular if it didn’t sound so stupid.

  River’s behaviour is not acceptable. It’d be better to admit to being a Nazi.

  Two options float through my brain. The first is that River is a plant. I thought I’d fooled them all here but possibly they’re testing me. Finding out if all warped thinking has been successfully forced out of my brain. I wouldn’t put it past Geoff Tarporley to deploy dirty tricks.

  The second option, of course, is that River is entirely genuine, and that those dark eyes saw something in me I can’t hide. I desperately want the latter scenario to be correct; but I’m not sure I dare believe her. It’s one thing to admit to keeping my old name, but admitting how much I hate these people is like saying I utterly despise everything society stands for. Which I do.

  �
��You’re looking at me like I just turned into a frog.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You’re making me nervous Josh. Say something.” She sounds concerned.

  “You…..you can’t say things like that about people.”

  “Why can’t I? She’s a cow.”

  “I – I think, I think I should leave.” I don’t want to get drawn into this. I detest Ms. Chalmers, but there’s nowhere safe for me to voice that hatred.

  For the first time River’s body deflates until she loses her hostility altogether.

  “You want to go?”

  I nod dumbly. River crosses the room and sits on the bed, gazing up at me with a far warmer gaze.

  “Why did you ask to meet me? I thought you wanted to talk. Or are you just like all the others?”

  “I – I wanted to talk.”

  “See, I knew it. So talk.”

  But I still don’t talk. I hover near the door. I’ve been here twenty years. I can’t bear another twenty. I can’t trust anyone; I learned that right back at the beginning, when I was a good deal more honest with the psychiatrists, assuming, rather naïvely, that they were there to help me.

  “Okay.” River nods. “I’ll talk. You listen. Do you know why I’m here Josh?”

  “No.”

  “I’m here because I’m doing what every teenager’s done since the year dot. I’m rebelling. My mum raised me with all the usual values about my right to be happy and the importance of being myself.” Her eyes slide down to the bedcothes and she begins to pull at a loose thread. “But when I started to read the bible, she freaked out. Asked why I couldn’t get stoned or pregnant like normal kids my age. She kept threatening me with one of the Rainbow Centres.”

  Is this true, or is she just trying to win my sympathy? “The Bible is hate literature.”

  River’s face settles into a sneer. “Do you really think that or are you just saying what you want them to hear?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters. Anyway, that’s why I’m here. Because I won’t worship at the altar of diversity. I’m a heretic and the Rainbow Centre is my metaphorical pyre.”

  “Really?”

  River doesn’t look up from the thread. “That’s the cover story anyway.”

  “Cover story?”

  “Uh huh. I could have been treated as an outpatient for my warped thinking.”

  Despite my fears, I’m fascinated. “What happened?”

  River snaps the thread from the duvet and finally meets my eyes. “If I tell you, will you believe I’m not trying to trap you?” She asks that gently and with unexpected innocence. I don’t answer because I can’t find the words.

  “I know that’s why you’re scared. You think I’m going to tell that creepy psychologist your secrets.”

  River slides off the bed, turns around and, to my amazement, lowers her loose shorts, the sort we all wear.

  I want to look away, but I don’t. Even through the thin fabric of her underwear I can see six red welts running over her backside and the top of her thighs. Two of them are turning blue. After a few moments she pulls her shorts back into place and turns around.

  “W – who did that?”

  “Geoffrey Tarporley. I wouldn’t have minded so much but I heard him arguing with Mr. Scott about who got to do it. They were both really enthusiastic. I’m surprised they didn’t take it in turns. They’re vicious perverts.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? I’m not. It shows I won. They had to resort to beating me because they’ve lost.”

  “Do – do they hurt?” They must hurt.

  “A bit. The doctor checked them afterwards, there’s some deep bruising but I’ll live.”

  She sits back on the bed and this time I notice her wince, just a little. “Their next move will be to drug me so I can’t argue with them at all. You just watch. If they can’t make me subscribe to their beliefs voluntarily, they’ll declare me mentally ill and put me on medication.” She gives a little sigh. “I watched mum draft the bill that gives them the right.”

  I don’t move from my position near the door but I’m so focused on this extraordinary girl I feel the whole world could explode and I wouldn’t even notice.

  “Your mum’s Diana Lamont, minister for Mental Health.” I say this just for something to say. River nods.

  “And that’s why I’m here, because I know. I know what’s going on in this mess of a country. I know why there are more people diagnosed with mental illness than there ever were. And I know what the government is encouraging those with mental illnesses to do. But most people don’t care, not when there are half naked celebrities showing their cellulite to gawp at.” A flash of bitterness runs through her voice as she speaks and she wraps her arms around her body.

  “Go on.” I say, half fascinated and half horrified by this conversation.

  “Remember you pointed out that drugs are known to contribute to mental illness, and that drug use has skyrocketed in the last half century?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that more people are diagnosed with mental illness than ever before?”

  I nod rather dumbly. Why is she telling me this? It’s common knowledge. NuTru has never made any secret that it prioritises the mental health of the country.

  “But did you know that the number of people living with long-term mental illness is decreasing year by year?”

  I consider this fact and I frown.

  “That can’t be right.”

  “It is right. One on three people will be diagnosed with some form of serious mental illness. Yet fewer than thirty percent of these will go into the mental health system for more than a year. You can look it up, the statistics are all there. How do you account for that discrepancy?”

  The answer seems glaringly obvious. “Better treatment.” I say at once. “More people are being cured.”

  River gazes at me with an odd, almost smug expression that I don’t quite like.

  “God boy Josh. That’s the answer my mother wants you to come up with. Try again.”

  “There isn’t another answer. If people stop suffering from whatever illness it is they had, then they must be better.”

  River shakes her head with the air of a teacher educating a stupid child.

  “Have you heard of AS drugs?” She asks.

  I nod. “Assisted Suicide.” I remember the debates, there were angry people on both sides.

  “My mum helped draft the first official euthanasia bill. I was only little but I’ve seen the footage of the protests outside parliament. My Body. My Choice. That sort of thing. I never trusted those protest groups though. Not when I realised that it was always the same group of people. Mum denied paying them, but I know she did, so they’d protest in favour of the changes she wanted to make.”

  River pulls her knees up to her body and rests her head on her arms. “First the AS drugs were just for the terminally ill who were in great pain, Mum made loads of speeches about that, about how it would never, ever be abused.” She gives a cynical laugh. “But now it’s offered to the mentally ill as a routine option.” She pauses. “And sometimes, they’re not given the choice at all.”

  I feel my eyes widen at that. “You’re kidding?”

  River looks at me and her face seems suddenly younger and sadder. “Look up the figures for Assisted Suicide. They’re huge. But it’s all done so quietly. That’s the discrepancy Josh. Those people aren’t recovering, they’re dying. I’ve seen the figures. The government is killing off thousands of people, often people without families and friends, and dead people don’t need jobs, homes, money or hospitals. And nobody even notices! I found out by mistake, when I was doing a school project.”

  Now she meets my eyes and doesn’t look away. “My mother’s government isn’t actively trying to diagnose and treat all forms of mental illness at all. This is a form of eugenics! It’s removing unproductive, expensive members of society by convincing them they shouldn’t have to
struggle on with life. There are even government targets Josh!”

  I’m appalled by River’s accusation, if it’s true.

  “I confronted my mother and she told me it was all conspiracy theories by conservatives who want to discredit her hard work. She said only lunatics believe in secret government agendas and did I believe the moon landings were faked and that the Illuminati were advancing their new world order too? But that’s why I’m here. I know too much.”

  I listen to all this in silence. I have no idea what to believe. She could be a conspiracy nut. I’ve heard of them. Chemtrails and UFOs. I know too much. Mental hospitals are full of people who claim that the government is trying to silence them.

  River scrutinises me over the carpet, her eyes steady. Then, quite suddenly, she looks away.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I – I don’t know.” I admit. “I haven’t had to think about anything much since I came here.”

  “That’s the point of the Rainbow Centres, to teach you what to think, not how to think.”

  “But a conspiracy to bump off the mentally ill? Surely they couldn’t get away with it.”

  River runs a hand across her smooth head. “So, look it up. You have computers in every room.”

  “I will.” I agree. “I really will.”

  I hope this is enough for her, she certainly seems genuine. She’s an odd sort of trap if a trap is what she is.

  “I miss my hair.” She says, abruptly changing the subject. “I used to wear it long.”

  “Is River really your name?”

  She gives a half-smile that softens her face. “It is actually. Mum didn’t believe in gender-specific names.”

  “River’s a nice name.”

  Her eyes narrow. “So’s Skye.”

  “But it’s not mine.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Twenty years.”

  River gives a grimace and I don’t know whether it’s because she’s in pain or whether the thought of so many years terrifies her.

  “Have you ever thought about escape?”

  I shrug as though this is a new thought. Of course I’ve thought about it. For the first five years I thought about nothing else.