This Broken Land

by H M Sealey

  “Except for the slaves.”

  “Frankly, they’re all white girls or white men.” Her smile widened. “Call it karma for hundreds of years of oppression. And the money it brings in is used for any number of worthwhile projects.”

  “But you’re white!”

  “And believe me, I feel a great deal of guilt about what my ancestors did. Which is why I work so tirelessly for equality now.”

  The doctor pulled Missy’s shirt aside and pressed a cold stethoscope against her chest. “Now, breathe for me.”

  Missy did, astounded by the cruelty in this woman’s attitude. She allowed the doctor to check her blood pressure, her eyes and ears before the woman plugged something into a socket and switched it on.

  “Come and sit here, push your hair forwards to expose your neck please.” The doctor glanced at Zeb. “I take it you want her marked on the back of the neck?”

  Zeb nodded. “Sure.”

  “Marked?” Missy enquired.

  “Just sit down and stay still. If you move it’ll mess up the numbers and we’ll have to start again, which means two wounds for you rather than just the one.”

  Missy didn’t move. “Wounds?” She queried the word.

  “It’s a small brand, that’s all, nothing to make a fuss about.” The doctor was already preparing disinfectant and a dressing.

  “I don’t want to be branded! I’m not a cow.”

  The doctor didn’t look at her. “I can have you held down if you’d rather. For goodness sake it’ll only hurt for a day or two. Do you know, before the Minister for the Protection of Slaves took up her post, you would have had to wear a collar, and they’re extremely uncomfortable after a few hours. This was considered the most humane option. It’s discreet and permanent.”

  “But you can take a collar off again.” Missy argued, still refusing to move. “What happens when people stop being slaves?”

  The doctor looked up. “They don’t.” She said. “Now come here or will you have to be restrained?”

  Missy held her ground. “I’m not going to let you brand me!”

  Zeb made a grab for her. With her hands bound together Missy had no way to fight back, rather than wriggle, as Zeb forced her, face-first, onto the bed. He gripped her head tightly with one arm and held the other against the small of her back. Missy kicked out, tears of helplessness filling her eyes.

  “Stop it.”

  Zeb moved his lower hand long enough to give her a sharp slap across the back of her legs. “Stay still!” He commanded. “You’ve already caused enough trouble.”

  Pressed against the sterile cloth covering the bed, Missy heard the hum of the machine as the doctor adjusted the numbers, rather like an old-fashioned library stamp, turning the little metal pieces until she was satisfied with the line.

  “My mother used to have a pyrography kit that worked just like this.” The doctor’s tone was conversational as she waited for it to heat up. “Only there was a point at the end, instead of numbers. For burning patterns in wood and leather.”

  Zeb grunted, clearly not caring about any pyrography kit the doctor’s mother may have had.

  “Lovely little machine isn’t it?” The doctor continued. “No need for great big branding irons and fires.”

  Missy felt the heat the instant before the pain sizzled into the soft skin at the back of her neck. She screamed as the Doctor held the white hot metal in place for several seconds. She could smell her flesh cook.

  “That’s it.” The doctor’s voice was clinical. “Just another moment. Don’t move.”

  Missy couldn’t move. The pain was sickening, and it didn’t ease even when the doctor finished her ministrations and pressed a cool pad over the burn.

  “There, wasn’t too bad. It’s all done now. The pain’ll ease over the next day or so. I’ll check it again tomorrow and re-dress it. Hardly worth all that fuss now was it?”

  Missy’s mouth didn’t respond to that, she was too busy trying not to howl like the miserable, cornered creature she realised she was.

  ~

  Elsie

  The doctor who brands me does so without any hesitation at all, just like I’m a piece of property to be marked. I’m pushed forwards, my hair is pulled aside and my neck erupts in fire that doesn’t dissipate when whatever they used to make the brand is removed.

  I’m led, stumbling, frightened and in pain, along concrete corridors with about ten other girls my own age, into a new room. This one is big, with rows of grey camp beds that might be ex-army and still no windows although I don’t take a great deal of notice of the décor. It’s a prison; I don’t care what it looks like.

  We don’t talk to each-other, we’re all in shock and still groggy from the drugs. I glance around at the others, something drove us all to suicide. I wonder what it was in each case?

  Finally the restraints around my hands are clipped and I rub my wrists as I’m allotted a bed near the wall. I raise my eyes again and search for Kit. Why did he let them brand me? He’s the only ally I have, my only hope. However much I dislike him, his is the only face I want to see.

  “Elsie!”

  I raise my head in surprise and there she is, already sitting on one of the makeshift beds, knees tucked up to her chin looking as dejected as I feel. The moment she sees me she leaps off the bed and stares as if I’m some sort of two-headed ghost.

  An instant later we’re in each-other’s arms, hugging as though we each expect the other to disappear in a puff of smoke. Who knows, maybe we will. Maybe this is all a nightmare. Or maybe the AS drugs worked and this is some kind of Hell.

  Tears flood our faces and neither of us speaks for a few moments. The other girls don’t seem to care, they just flop down on their beds. I think they’ve finished getting angry and demanding their rights now. Three of the ten I was with at the beginning are still recovering from the punishment they received for trying to escape and one was taken away for something worse. We all saw it happen and nobody wants to be next.

  I’m surprised Missy hasn’t tried to escape though.

  “I can’t believe it’s you.” I mumble into her shoulder.

  “Elsie, why are you here? Did the Wolves take you too?”

  I shake my head and my neck starts to throb beneath the dressing.

  “It’s a long story.” And one I still don’t fully believe. For all its faults, the government of Old Britain cares about human rights. I know they do. I’ve seen the campaigns. I’ve marched in some of them. Rights for Same Sibling love, rights for multi-gendered persons, rights for Paedophiles. We have one of the safest, most equal societies in the world.

  So no way would anyone advocate selling people into slavery. They just wouldn’t. The Assisted Suicide drugs are a mercy for those struggling with mental illness. The government cares about them, I’ve watched Diana Lamont’s speeches; I’ve seen her cry with passion.

  “I’m scared Missy.” I whisper. “Really scared.”

  “Me too.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard Missy admit to fear before.

  “Where are we?”

  “I think this night be one of the Nuclear Bunkers built in the 1950’s. Do you remember we visited one in History once, on a field trip. Hack Green I think it was.”

  I nod. I remember. It was underground, all concrete and echoing feet.

  “A Nuclear Bunker would make a good place to keep slaves. It’s not like there’re any windows to climb out of.”

  “S – slaves?” I hate that word and I’ve avoided using it so far. Even when they branded me.

  “Well, it’s what we are. We’re going to be sold. There’s no point in pretending otherwise.”

  She shifts a little, pushes back her hair and shows me her neck. “See.”

  “I have one too.” I tell her.

  “Painful, isn’t it?”

  “Agony.”

  “Dai always said the stories of slavery were real. Should’ve listened to him. It was my own fault. I didn’t hide like they tell you
too when the wolves came. I wanted to see them.”

  I clutch her arm suddenly. “Dai came to look for you!” I omit the bit where I betrayed him.

  Missy groans.

  “Idiot. Trust him to try and play the hero. He’ll get his stupid self into trouble. He might even end up here.”

  I swallow. “Do they have any male slaves?” That word tastes so bitter on my tongue.

  “Yes. From what I can gather there are factories all over the Border and most of the labour is supplied through slavery. It’s why this Border place is very, very rich. No wages to pay.” She sighs and we curl up together on the bed.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here.” I say, then, realising what I’ve just said, I cover my mouth with a little cry of dismay. “I don’t mean I want you to be here. I just meant – I just meant -”

  I break off as a huge sub escapes my throat. Missy rubs my back gently.

  “It’s okay. I understand what you meant. I’m glad to see you too.”

  For a few minutes we sit together in silence in this dank, unhappy place where even the breathing sounds broken.

  Finally I ask the question to which I know I don’t want the answer.

  “Who – who do you suppose would buy us?”

  Missy shrugs. “I’m guessing men.”

  I swallow. “As maids right? Housework? Maybe looking after children?” Please let it be maids. I’m quite good at cleaning although I’m not very organised.

  “Perhaps. If we’re lucky.”

  “And if we’re not?”

  I sense Missy’s reluctance to talk about this, but she will have thought it.

  “Zeb – that’s the guy in charge – and his father talked about brothels.”

  That word makes me want to curl up in a ball and scream. I know sex-work is a perfectly valid career choice, but it has never ever been my career choice.

  Somehow I escaped the Sex-Ed practicals at school. Sometimes I had a heavy cold, or the Flu, or my period. I think I claimed to have my period every week for months when I was twelve, Ms. Harrison was quite concerned about me. Once I broke my arm. Gran’s big mallet did the job. One big whack to my forearm and it was in plaster for weeks. Nobody asked me to demonstrate any weird sexual techniques while I was so badly injured.

  I didn’t care how unnatural my desire not to sleep with every man I met was, and I was told a thousand times that I was repressed and that therapy could help me get the most out of my body, but I just can’t. I just don’t want to be touched. Not by somebody I don’t love. I used to daydream about Dai touching me, but the idea of letting anybody get that close to me, so close they’re inside me with no barrier between us, that’s terrifying. Suppose they somehow saw the thoughts I have, the unacceptable thoughts, the fears, the secrets? The things I keep hidden in the dark?

  Apart from Sex-Ed I was an A student, so my ability to accidentally miss those classes was largely overlooked. I kept saying I’d take time to catch up but I never did. It’s the only place I vehemently disagree with the education system, but there’s no point in protesting. Only Christians protest Sex-Ed. Not everything can be safely protested.

  But, since I started teaching, I’ve seen the Sex-Ed classes in my own school. I’ve seen the crying girls afterwards. And the white-faced, humiliated boys. I remember Sally Richards sobbing in the toilets, blood in a trail down her leg while the teacher patched her up and snapped “it’s only your hymen for heaven’s sake. It’s supposed to bleed.”

  I shudder at the memory and I wonder about Missy. Missy escaped Sex-Ed by loudly citing the diversity policy and claiming such classes went against Shinto of which she was suddenly an avid practitioner. I don’t know whether or not Sex-Ed classes do go against Shinto and I’m not sure Missy knew either, but no teacher dared contradict her. I envied Missy then. I had no acceptable reason to sit out of Sex-Ed.

  We don’t have the opportunity to speak any further. The heavy door opens with the scrape of a bolt being drawn back and an old woman with a large bruise on her jaw and a horrible taste in clothing nods to a man beside her and gestures to Missy.

  “Lester wants to see her.” She says. “And watch out, she has a proper right hook for such a skinny little thing.”

  The man strides across the room and the girls around us all shrink away. I remember marching with a Women support Same Sibling Love protest when I was fourteen. It was all organised by a teacher who even hired a bus to take us to the event. But the women there were angry, fierce, they shook placards and scrawled graffiti on the front of a business rumoured to oppose same-sibling love. I think they smashed the windows too, to prove how fiercely they valued equality.

  Where are those angry women now? Why aren’t we standing up and demanding to be heard?

  I know the answer to that. Because nobody could stop the same-sibling march, nobody would dare. The women had more power then than we pretended. Here we’ll be beaten and there would be nobody to sue afterwards. We have no power at all.

  The man stands in front of Missy and produces more of the zip ties. “Hands.” He demands. Missy rolls her eyes like she always used to at school.

  “Do I have to?”

  “You do if you want to eat.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t want to eat.”

  “Yeah, they said you were a mouthy bitch. Come here.”

  He grabs one of Missy’s wrists in a big fist, spins her around and forces her arm up, behind her body.

  For a few moments Missy bears the pain, I can see the determination not to give in, not to submit in her eyes. That same determination she had when she used to climb the big tree on the edge of Hunter’s Wood. I never made it past the first branch.

  Then she gives in and howls. “All right! All right!”

  I watch as she consents to the nylon restraints and is taken away from me again. Just like Gran. Just like my whole life is gone.

  Then, when the door slams shut, I drop down onto the hard mattress, my heart throbbing more painfully than my neck, and I sob so pitifully that it feels, like Alice in Wonderand, as if I might drown in my own tears.

  ~

  Asim

  “Wake up!”

  Dai was shaken awake and blinked into Asim’s concerned features.

  “What?”

  “They’re here again, the Mutaween. You have to hide.”

  Dai threw back the bedclothes. “Where?”

  Asim grabbed the torch and flicked it on, then he crossed the attic carefully, picking his way from beam to beam.

  “There’s no floor here, so if you don’t step on the wood you’ll fall through the ceiling. My father thinks it’s better if we keep the attic looking like an attic, not a bedroom.”

  Asim made his way to the water tank, and flashed the torch to the dark, spider-ridden space behind it.

  “There’s not much room.” He said apologetically, “But Uncle Baraq’s hidden there before.”

  Dai nodded and began to haul himself into the dusty crawl space.

  “What about the bed?”

  “I’ll roll it up with the other stuff. Just hide.”

  Dai paused, his long body half in, half out of the hole. “Thanks. Shukran jazīlan. Is that right?”

  Asim smiled. “Yeah. Sounds a bit formal though. Just stick to shukran.”

  “Will your dad and uncle be okay?”

  “They’re not here. It’s just my mother and Alaia, so I need to go down and be with them. My father always reminds me I’m the man, when he’s not here. I have to look after the women.”

  Dai wriggled further into the space. “I didn’t look after Missy.” He said softly. “If I’d been a better man, she wouldn’t have been taken. I’d had a huge argument with her the day they took her. I don’t even remember what it was about.”

  Asim pushed a large crate to the crawl space to cover it should the Mutaween search.

  “In this country,” he said in a sombre voice, “My mother and sister aren’t even allowed out of the house
without Baba or Uncle Baraq or even me.”

  “Then at least the Wolves couldn’t take them.” Bitterness rose in Dai’s voice. Asim gave him a strange, adult look.

  “Is it better to be safe than free?” It was a peculiar question and one which didn’t have an appropriate answer.

  Asim rolled up Dai’s bedding and thrust it between the two crates that held old crockery wrapped in paper, then pushed the torch into its hiding place by the hatch, and jumped down onto the landing below on silent feet.

  “Where’ve you come from boy?”

  The same large, pirate-like member of the Mutaween stood at the top of the stairs, gazing at him with an unfriendly scowl. “You’ve been in the attic? What’s up there?”

  “N – nothing.” Asim dusted his clothing and straightened up. “I just like to play up there. That’s all.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “You’re too old to play. You should be studying the usul ad-din by now. Boys your age should spend their time immersed the Hadith, so you don’t go the same way as your uncle.”

  That upset Asim but he remained respectful. “My Uncle Baraq is a good man.” He said as firmly as he dared. “He was forgiven.”

  The man’s scowl deepened. “So you say. In my book there should be no repentance from apostasy. The man should swing.”

  “Well, it’s lucky it’s not your book that decides these things, isn’t it?” Asim held his head uptight and did not break eye contact. For an instant he heard his father’s fearless voice in his head, even though Eshan feared far more than Asim would ever realise. It is your job to take care of mama and Alaia. Never forget that. Every time a woman is killed or raped, or even lashed or imprisoned legally, at the root of it is a man who did not do his duty and protect her or instruct her correctly.

  Asim was never quite sure men should take the blame for everything women did any more than he thought it fair to blame women for their own assaults when such assaults happened as they inevitably did. Surely women were more than robots programmed by men?