This Broken Land

by H M Sealey

  She’s so brazen, doesn’t she realise this could be monitored?

  - It was good. I answer, and add a smiley face. This is basic messaging, the sort of thing my grandparents did when they were kids.

  - So, fancy blowing this one-horse town?

  - I don’t follow you?

  - Didn’t you ever have those lessons at school? The ones where they looked at the old “Cowboy and Indian” films to show how the genocide of the Native Americans was fictionalised as if it was okay?

  I remember the lessons.

  - Yes.

  - Well then, the cowboys always said things like “let’s blow this one-horse town” when they were leaving. Only you have to imagine the American accent.

  I really, really hope she isn’t saying what I think she’s saying.

  - Leaving?

  - Yep. I’m not staying in this place. I’m going.

  - You can’t just go.

  - I can. I’ll find a way. Come with me Josh, please.

  I haven’t seen my real name written down for a long time. I stare at the four letters for some seconds. I can’t come with her. I have no idea who this girl is; I can’t jeopardise my own chance of freedom.

  - Why now? I thought I’d talked her into not throwing away her chances of leaving this place before middle-age.

  - I think our conversation was monitored. I need to put as many miles between us and this twisted prison as possible before they tell my mother how much I know. Will you come with me?

  She’s definitely a conspiracy nutter. If she lied about her identity then she probably lied about everything else. This friendship isn’t safe.

  I type the words I can’t on the keyboard, but I don’t get as far as pressing the return button. A hand closes over mine.

  “Say yes Skye.”

  Mr. Scott holds my hand firmly, I gaze up at him in horror. Why isn’t he in bed?

  “Mr. Scott, sir, I was just….I mean, she sent a message….”

  Mr. Scott nods benignly. “Tell her yes. Tell you you want to escape.”

  “But I don’t -”

  Mr. Scott presses a finger over my lips and crouches down beside me in the dark room.

  “Listen to me Skye, I have reason to think this girl is part of a whole network of dangerous terrorists, fascists and bigots. They’re all insane. I want her to run, and I want you to go too. Win her trust. Find out who she knows and what they’re planning.”

  I’m appalled at this. “Mr. Scott, I don’t want to betray someone.”

  Mr. Scott meets my eyes with a gaze that is far softer than usual. “Of course you don’t, but you’ve already worked out she isn’t who she says she is, haven’t you? I assume that’s what you did the moment you left my office? It’s what I would have done.”

  Do I admit this? I decide he might as well know he’s right. “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “River Lamont died sixteen years ago.”

  “Good boy.” I hate the patronising edge to his voice. I’m not a boy. I haven’t been a boy for at least ten years.

  Mr, Scott straightens up, and to my horror, moves me out of the chair. “May I?”

  Do I have any choice but to let him type my answers?

  - All right. He writes. But follow my lead, I’ve done it before remember.

  - You got caught.

  - Then we’ll be more careful this time.

  - You’ll really come?

  - You’ll have a better chance with me. Meet me in the toilets after breakfast tomorrow.

  The toilet block is unisex. In the old days, before people understood the fluidity of gender, bathrooms were segregated, men and women. Some of the really old buildings even have Ladies and Gentlemen still visible on the doors. Segregation is always bad. Unless it’s connected to Islam or it’s the black kids are being given extra privileges to make up for what my ancestors did to them centuries ago.

  - Okay. River answers, and I watch helplessly as Mr. Scott concludes the conversation and logs off.

  “There.” He says with a thin smile. “I want you to meet with Director Summerday, Dr. Tarporley and myself at seven sharp tomorrow morning. Do you understand Skye? This is very important.” He bends forward in the chair and brushes my face with his fingers. “Perform well in this and you’ll be free by next month.”

  I edge away from his wandering hands. “Why does River matter to you?” I ask? “If she’s delusional, she just needs help.” She’s hardly a criminal mastermind. In fact, I’m not quite certain what she is.

  “Well Skye, that depends.” Mr. Scott keeps his voice low although I think we’re alone in here now.

  “Depends?”

  “On whether she genuinely believes she’s River Lamont, or whether she’s taken that name on purpose, for another reason.”

  I think about this and I feel more confused than ever. “This doesn’t make sense. Does she have a real name?” I ask.

  Mr. Scott nods briskly. “I assume so, only we don’t know it.”

  They don’t know it? How is that possible? The government knows everything about everyone. Nobody could just pop up with a new identity. There’s the DNA database for a start.

  “Why was she sent here sir?” More pertinently, who sent her? River said her mother sent her to the Rainbow Centre because she found something out about Assisted Suicide. That sounded like more than the rantings of a lunatic but it didn’t sound like some criminal plot either. “I mean, aren’t there records? Forms? Someone has to authorise her transfer.” She can’t just appear out of thin air. Somebody must know something.

  Mr. Scott’s big hand squeezes my shoulder. “When you meet with us tomorrow we’ll go through all the information we have, if you agree to help us. All I can tell you is this young lady isn’t who she seems.”

  “Why would she say she was River Lamont? I mean, why say you’re someone easily verifiable as dead?”

  “Psychosis.”

  “So she’s not a criminal then?” He’s willing to let me leave the Rainbow Centre to follow a mentally disturbed girl like I’m James Bond. There’s more to this story than he’s telling. Way more.

  “I didn’t say that.” Mr. Scott switches the computer off and vacates the chair. “Now, it’s late. Go to bed Skye.” Then he catches me in that pale, cold gaze again. “Unless you’d like to sleep in my room tonight? We could meet Director Summerday and Dr. Tarporley together?”

  I think I manage to suppress my shudder at his offer. I can’t ever reject this man outright, he could make my life here hell. I mean, more than it already is.

  “I think….I think I should try to get some sleep sir.” I say, and Mr. Scott nods.

  “Sensible decision. Seven tomorrow. Don’t be late. And Skye,” We head for the door together, his hand still on my shoulder. “You’ve made the right choice. Your help will be deeply appreciated. If I were you, I’d start thinking about what you want to do with your life once you’re free.”

  ~

  ~ Seven ~

  Josh

  Director Summerday is a jolly-looking woman, verging on obesity with a fondness for ridiculously garish kaftans. Her hair is dark, greying slightly, and she wears it piled up on top of her head.

  Mr. Scott is already in the room when I arrive, a few minutes before seven in the morning. So is Geoff Tarporley who stirs his coffee and grins at me.

  “Ah ha, our new secret weapon.”

  “Sir?” I don’t want to be anyone’s weapon, secret or otherwise.

  Geoff laughs and his jowls wobble up and down. “A joke Skye. But I knew you were nearly ready for release.” He puffs himself up. “I can always tell when someone’s responded to the reason and kindness we offer.

  I very almost snort at this. Reason and kindness? I’ve witnessed neither of those things in my time here. There’s no reason with these people, just emotional arguments.

  “Yes sir.”

  Mr. Scott stands and pulls out a chair opposite Director Summerday.

  “Sk
ye Kessler Ma’am.”

  Director Summerday smiles. “I’ve heard all about you Skye. Or do you prefer Joshua?”

  Is that a test? Do I lie? “Skye’s fine Ma’am. I’m used to it.” My real name would be profaned on her lips anyway.

  “Good for you Skye. It’s a lovely name. Joshua is a relic of the old patriarchal, religious system.” She screws up her face in disgust. “Parents should be jailed for giving their offspring biblical names. It’s abuse.”

  I don’t respond. I don’t have a response. Instead I glance around the cosy, rose-pink office and try to swallow the sickness in my stomach for the twentieth time.

  “Now,” Director Summerday pulls her laptop towards her. It’s quite an old fashioned laptop. Or maybe it’s just one of those retro designs. “River Lamont. Although that’s not her real name. I’ve been in touch with Diana Lamont and she’s deeply distressed that anyone would steal her dead child’s name. Despicable is what it it. “

  “Yes Ma’am.” I agree. I still can’t believe River was lying to me.

  “So. As far as we know, this girl is part of a terrorist organisation known as Family Matters.”

  “Family Matters?”

  “Uh huh. Twisted people all of them. People traffickers, bigots, racists and Homophobes of the worst sort. Well, what can you expect from Christians.”

  She catches my eye suddenly. “Do you still consider yourself a Christian Skye?” She asks with a sudden snap of teeth that makes this woman look like a fat crocodile. What do I say? How much did I say to River yesterday? We didn’t mention religion I don’t think. How much did they hear? I can’t outright deny it.

  “I – I’m not quite sure.” I say, but instantly feel awful inside. The fact is, I do believe in God, though I think I do so as a deliberate act of defiance rather than an act of faith. I choose to believe in God because it isn’t allowed, and I am still master of my own mind. Inside my head, I’m defiant. On the outside I comply. I’m too much of a coward not to. But nothing they’ve done here has ever convinced me sin no longer exists, and this last decade had categorically strengthened my belief in the devil.

  Director Summerday leans forward over the desk. “Don’t be scared. We need someone genuinely sympathetic to the girl’s beliefs. You’re not in trouble, and provided you can prove you’ll never act on your beliefs, you’ll still be allowed to leave.” What exactly does act on my beliefs mean? Do I have to promise I’ll never pray?

  “Yes Ma’am.”

  “The girl was in one of the refugee camps when we caught her. You know what a shambles those places are.” I do. So many people from the continent fled the European State of Islam as it expanded. We have massive camps full of French and Germans and Dutch, all living in squalor in the south. Meanwhile the ESI makes war with Russia and the British Government wonders why they can’t just be friends. At least Russia didn’t disband their army like we did.

  “She was teaching some nonsense to the children. Trying to counter the decent Sex-Ed and moral classes we’re offering down there. That’s the problem with the camps, people like her can peddle their disgusting beliefs amid the chaos. Goodness knows how many more Christians are there, spreading their poison. Anyway, we got her when she tried to make the poor kids pray.”

  Director Summerday pauses and picks up a glass of orange juice. “I mean, it’s not like the refugees spiritual needs aren’t catered for. We sent several practising Witches in to teach all that sort of guff. But prayer?” She sniggers into her juice. “Give me strength. It’s been illegal in public places almost as long as smoking. It’s too offensive to minorities.”

  Mr. Scott reaches in front of me and pours orange juice into my own glass. Director Summerday slurps hers before continuing.

  “We have quite a few Same-sib activists in the camp, rooting out this sort of filthy, Christian abuse.” Same-sibling activists are militant and violent. I’ve read about them on the news. They’re pretty scary.

  Then she sighs and smacks her lips. “This girl calling herself River is part of Family Matters. My thinking is, if she escapes, she’ll take you straight to other members of the organisation.” She gives me a cold smile. “I’d love to get a lead before my brother.”

  I give the director a quizzical look. That makes no sense and I think it might be safe to query this.

  “Your brother Ma’am?”

  She laughs and rests her face on her oversized hands with red talons.

  “My brother is a police officer Skye. He’s been chasing Family Matters for months. We were always competitive.”

  For a moment I’m caught by an old memory. A memory of my little sister Rachael halfway up a tree, determination in her face to climb as high as me. I try to shake the image away just as I’ve learned to shake any remaining memories of my family away. It’s too painful to dwell on them.

  I’m not even looking when Geoff Tarporley climbs up from his seat and pushes a syringe into my arm. I yelp.

  “What was that?”

  “GPS tracker. So we can keep an eye on you.”

  I rub my arm. I can’t demand he remove it. Director Summerday stands, reaches out over the table and takes my hand.

  “You get me information about Family Matters Skye, and you’ll leave the Rainbow Centre with a very generous stipend and an accommodation anywhere you like.”

  And like Judas I have a great desire to throw her thirty pieces of silver back in her face. But I can’t. I’m just not brave enough. Mum and Dad were brave. They were still arrested; their bravery didn’t help them.

  “I – I’ll try Ma’am.” I promise, wondering how I can dissuade River from running away. They’ll track us wherever we go now.

  “Good boy. You have no idea how irritating my brother can be. I want to rub this in his face.” She chuckles. “Do you know, he still calls himself a policeman. Man. I think he only does it to wind me up.” I expect this brother of hers is only trying to wind her up too. He must have ticked the box to declare himself a feminist when he joined the police. He wouldn’t get a job if he didn’t.

  My arm still aches and I scratch the site of the injection as I slip into the bathrooms to meet River. I wrinkle my nose at the smell. I’m old enough to remember proper, flushing toilets that used water to flush away human waste. These can’t be very hygienic. None of us have particularly functioning immune-systems thanks to the poor diet, when sickness hits, it spreads through the whole population very quickly.

  “Josh.”

  River is half in a cubicle, but to my surprise, she’s not alone.

  “River.”

  There’s a man with her, slumped over on one of the toilets. As I see his face I gasp, he looks awful, so covered in bruising and swollen flesh that he doesn’t have much of a face left.

  River checks we’re alone. “This is Howard Steele Josh. He was brought in last night.”

  “Right.” I stare down at this slight, beaten man with a shaven head and eyes so puffy he looks like a newborn mouse just waking up.

  River continues to dab his still-bleeding wounds with a cloth.

  “He’s coming with us.”

  “What?”

  “When we go today.”

  I feel my eyes widen and hiss in her ear. “How many people have you told?”

  “Just Howie. He’s an old friend. He’s safe. Well, safe for us. He isn’t going to be safe in here for long.” River meets my eyes with her own earnest pair. How much of her story is a lie? “They’re going to be questioning him a lot.”

  Howard manages to shift his head and look at me. “They – they’ve already been questioning me.”

  “But you haven’t told them anything. Right?”

  Howard gives a little shake of his head. “Nothing. That’s why I look as bad as I do.”

  I gaze from one face to another, feeling so totally out of my depth I want to run and hide. I take a quick breath.

  “So you know each other?”

  “Yes. Howie’s one of the good guys.” Sh
e squats down beside him and squeezes his shoulder. “I can’t believe they caught you. You must be getting old.”

  Howie spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor and offers a grin. “Yeah, I must be.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got mad. The Wolves are still abducting anyone they want and nobody even admits it’s happening!”

  “Oh God.”

  “They took my fiancée this time. One more lost person. I’d had enough. I got pissed and forgot to hold my tongue.”

  River gazes up at me with those big, hopeful eyes and I feel horribly torn. What do I do?

  The site of the injection itches again and I scratch it.

  “We should go then.” I say.

  River nods. “Will it work?”

  “It did last time.” That, at least, isn’t a lie. It did work. And it will today, since it’s been prepared.

  We head across the hexagonal complex towards the kitchens where the delivery van is parked. A van is a big event here; the bigger companies can afford to buy petrol, but we don’t see a lot of cars.

  We hover by the corner, near the big, open kitchen door and watch the crates carried in. They all have the USA flag on the sides which means it’s some horrible, chemical rubbish that barely passes as food. No wonder none of us have the energy to think about escape.

  The thing about the kitchen assistants is they all wear these stupid caps over their heads for hygiene reasons and our severe haircuts are what mark us out as Rainbow Centre inmates. Inmates for life have visible facial tattoos, but I’m not that unredeemable apparently.

  “This way.”

  It’s not actually that hard to escape the Rainbow Centre. Very few people try because of the consequences, plus, once we’re out, where is there to go? The police are rubbish at finding the Wolves when they attack, but they can track down someone who doesn’t believe the State ideology in ten minutes.

  The back of the kitchens are empty; everyone’s in the canteen, eating or serving breakfast. I pull open the store cupboard and flick on the light. River has her arms around Howard. She’s wiped the worst of the blood from his face but he still looks mangled.