Hatred

by M J Dees

  He directed Jim downstairs to the end of the hall, where Annabel was waiting. She was standing next to a prison officer and looking proud and dignified, despite the environment.

  “What are you doing here?” Jim asked, and immediately regretted how ungrateful he sounded. “Did you bring my glasses?”

  “It’s about the food ration cards,” she said. “They won’t top up mine unless I present yours as well.”

  “Oh God,” he said. “I can’t remember where I left it. I’d have to have a look. Have you searched the rooms?”

  Annabel nodded.

  “I can’t help you until they let me out and I can search for myself. Do you have my glasses?”

  “I don’t have your glasses.” Annabel looked at Jim in disbelief.

  He kissed her, and they led him back to his cell. Once there, he felt guilty. With a little more thought, he could have easily given her some ideas of where to search, but he was too preoccupied with his glasses. He felt guilty about the fact that his work, his lectureships, his writing had always taken precedent over Annabel’s music. She could never pursue her music career because she was always following him around the country, from one university to another.

  When the evening meal finally arrived, the prison officer escorting the trolley looked at Jim with curiosity.

  “Weren’t you a lecturer at the university?” he asked.

  Jim nodded.

  “What are you inside for?”

  “Breaking the curfew.”

  “Ah, you are of refugee heritage.”

  “Officer, it is very difficult for an academic like me to sit around with nothing to do. I don’t have my glasses, but maybe if I had a pen and paper.”

  “But you are supposed to be reflecting on the error of your ways,” the officer laughed, then reached into his pocket and produced a pencil, which was blunt. “I’ll sharpen it for you and I’ll bring you some paper.”

  The officer shut the door, but no sooner had he finished his bread and herbal tea than the door opened again and the officer delivered the sharpened pencil and a sheet of paper.

  Jim consoled himself that at least he could make notes on the paper, even without his glasses. But for a long time he did not use the pencil at all. He occupied himself with plans of what he might write with it, planning everything in his head before using the precious paper.

  By the time the shout came to go to sleep, he had already used the paper and had written on toilet paper.

  *

  As soon as the light came on, Jim packed away his bed and continued to write on toilet paper, conscious that not only was his supply of paper limited but that the pencil itself would not remain sharp forever.

  The activity passed the time until breakfast. When the door opened, Jim politely requested more toilet paper. They did not give prisoners entire rolls in case they stuffed them down the toilets to block up the pipes.

  With his pencil and paper, Jim no longer felt the emptiness that he had done in the early days of his incarceration, but having an activity didn’t seem to reduce the slowness with which time passed between meals. Knowing how long the period would feel and the anticipation of the wait he would have to endure would build up and fill him with anxiety.

  After his midday meal he would tell himself it was almost time for his evening meal and after his evening meal he would reassure himself it was almost time for bed, but the promising made neither arrive any sooner.

  *

  When Jim awoke on the eighth day, the ultimate day of his incarceration, gripped with a fear that they might not release him. There might be an administrative error or they might change their minds.

  The door opened, they delivered his porridge and coffee and the door locked again.

  “I am due for release today,” Jim shouted through the door.

  “Be patient,” an irritated prison officer shouted back.

  This reassured Jim, it suggested to him they had not forgotten. He even felt a little content as he ate his porridge. But then, as the hours passed, he worried again that perhaps they had forgotten him.

  The door opened and a prison officer stood there.

  “Take your things and go downstairs,” he said.

  Downstairs, they returned Jim’s belt and shoelaces, and he sat on the same bench as he had eight days before. Next to him sat two boys who were crying.

  “What’s wrong with you?” asked an officer. “We won’t whip you.”

  They did not understand him. Jim assumed they must be foreigners, genuine refugees.

  The officers fetched an interpreter and after a few moments of conversation they calmed down.

  “They are only 15,” the interpreter told Jim.

  They gave Jim his certificate of release and led him out to the exit where, outside, Annabel was waiting with Olivia. Jim felt happy for the first time in as long as he could remember, and on his return to the shared house, he allowed everyone to treat him as a martyr. The other residents looked after him, and his anxiety subsided.

  Jim was sure that his experience must have been better than the treatment many refugees were experiencing in detention centres, but it had been bad enough for him.

  *

  Jim had been doing sums. Their monthly outgoings exceeded their income and at the current rate, what meagre savings they had put aside would run out within three or four months at the most.

  He had to go shopping but only found bread, milk and a little fish. The European boycotts were making everyone feel the pinch. Unless Roberts agreed to the IMP system, which they had extended to prevent exploitation of developing countries preventing a flood of investment from raising local prices and causing a boom-bust, the boycotts would remain in place. Unfortunately, the exploitation of other countries was the only thing keeping the British economy afloat. The funding levy, money held back from international deals to support local economies of developing countries, was the real sticking point and the British public were not prepared to give up 5% to foreigners. To make matters worse, the IMP’s practice of using currency auctions to establish exchange rates was devaluing the pound even more. The UK was fast becoming a pariah on the international stage.

  They received another visit from the police. This time the officers were bearing armbands.

  “You must wear these whenever you leave the house and we do not permit you to leave the county,” said the officer.

  Jim tried his best to contain his indignation and managed until the officer had left, at which point he flew into a rage.

  “You are in no condition to go out at all,” said Annabel, fearing what Jim might do or say if they let him loose in a public space. “I will shop from now on before you get yourself thrown into prison again.”

  Every crime was being blamed on the foreigner and the measure, the government reported in its official media, was to protect honest citizens from this dangerous element in society.

  The postal worker brought more unpleasant news. A property tax demand for the coming year was twice as much the notice of overpayment of tax Jim and Annabel had received the week before. Jim screwed up his calculations and threw them in the recycling bin. This latest demand would eat up most of the paltry savings they had recently put aside.

  Annabel left him in his mood and went to the shops, but when she returned, her mood matched his.

  “There was nothing but bread,” she said. “No meat or fish, not even potatoes.”

  The couple had little time to wallow in their misery because there was a knock at the door. It was Allen’s wife, in tears.

  Annabel asked her to sit down, and she wailed about how she could not take things anymore. Mila, hearing the cries, came to help and stayed long after the consoled Mrs Allen had departed to console Annabel and Jim.

  “Why don’t you go to the tax office tomorrow,” she suggested after listening to their recent problems. “They might let you pay by instalments, that’s what I do. I’ll take Olivia to school for you.”

  This suggestion ca
lmed Jim, and the end didn’t seem so near anymore.

  *

  Foreigners and those with foreign heritage could no longer use public transport, so Annabel had to walk to the only shop serving foreigners. A thick fog hung in the streets which, at least, meant people were not staring at her armband.

  When she returned, she slumped into a chair. Her feet were throbbing. From downstairs, they could hear Mrs Allen sobbing.

  Upstairs, they had not seen Mr Allen’s wife for ages; she had shut herself off from the foreigners.

  A letter arrived from Mia Rodriguez in London. There, she wrote, the public sympathises with the refugees.

  “At least we know who we are talking to,” said Annabel. “We can relax when surrounded by armbands, without worrying who is listening in.”

  Jim thought about this little consolation. He was more worried about the fact that when the money ran out, they would have to sell the house. He was struggling to homeschool Olivia, who should have been starting her first year in secondary school and all these interruptions didn’t help. Olivia was happy with the distractions. She loved science, as did Jim, but he wasn’t at all sure how to teach it.

  Mila and the Allens came up from downstairs for a chat. Two polite police officers wanting to search the rooms interrupted this briefly. The officers were courteous; the search did not last long and when they had left, the conversation resumed and Jim gave up on teaching Olivia for the day.

  *

  Annabel’s feet were giving her so much trouble that Jim agreed to shop, as long as she promised to help Olivia with the lessons Jim had prepared for her.

  He thought he would return home with only two-fifths of a loaf of bread, but on the way back he discovered a hand cart selling vegetables.

  “May I have some of those large radishes?” he asked the elderly woman tending the store.

  “Of course,” she said, putting some in a bag and watching him eyeing the tomatoes.

  “I can’t get those with my ration, can I?” he said, conscious of his armband.

  “I’ll give you some,” she said. “I know how things are.”

  She handed Jim the bag and then reached under her cart and pulled out a handful of onions and slipped them to him.

  “Thank you,” said Jim, realising that there were still some who had sympathy for those with foreign heritage.

  Jim reached home full of optimism, but his mood soon changed when he saw a doctor inspecting the house with a builder.

  “They want to throw us out,” said Mr Allen Sr when the visitors had left. “My wife has heard a rumour that those with foreign heritage are being transported to remote detention centres.”

  *

  It surprised Annabel and Jim to see Mrs Allen at the door when they answered it. The other inhabitants of the house hadn’t seen her for many months, and her demeanour and tone of voice told Annabel and Jim that, whatever this was, it was serious.

  “It’s my husband,” she blurted between heavy breaths. “They summoned him to the police station this morning, and he hasn’t returned.”

  “Go to the station,” said Annabel. “Find out what has happened.”

  “Would you come with me?”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” said Jim.

  “I’ll come with you,” said Annabel.

  “Okay, I’ll come as far as the station, but I’m not going in,” said Jim.

  “You don’t have to come in,” Annabel reassured him.

  They knocked on Mila’s door and asked her to look after Olivia while they escorted Mrs Allen to the police station.

  Jim waited outside the station while Annabel and Mrs Allen inquired within.

  “They have arrested him on political grounds,” Annabel explained when they returned. “They can’t, or won’t, tell us anything else.”

  “He’s always writing letters,” Mrs Allen complained. “It must have been something he wrote in one of those stupid letters.”

  “He’s harmless,” Annabel mused.

  “He didn’t want to go out on the streets with that armband, but I made him,” Mrs Allen lamented. “The first time he went out, he got arrested.”

  “Good afternoon,” a man in a doorway said, as the group passed on their way home.

  “Do I know you?” asked Jim.

  “No, but you will be greeted more often,” said the man. “I am part of a group who greets those wearing armbands.”

  When they arrived home, there was a note for him explaining that he was eligible for three pairs of used socks.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight – 10 years 9 months before the collapse

  Annabel’s feet were hurting again, so Jim agreed to shop with the usual deal that she should attempt to get Olivia to make some progress with her studies. He took the old backpack he used to use when he worked at the university and put a beanie on his head to keep out the cold.

  He discovered that some tram drivers were sympathetic and would let him ride as long as he didn’t occupy a seat. Usually, he didn’t risk it but was feeling tired and didn’t fancy the long walk home, so he squeezed on by the door among the crowd.

  The tram hadn’t reached the next stop in the centre when a clean-cut youthful man turned to Jim.

  “Get off at the next stop,” he ordered.

  “Yes,” said Jim. He didn’t think about it because he always changed trams in the centre.

  As Jim waited for his next tram, the man appeared again.

  “Where have you come from,” he asked.

  “I’ve been shopping.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “Come with me.”

  Jim didn’t even ask for identification, he just followed the man.

  “I’m with the police,” the man said as they walked. “Would you like to see my ID?”

  “Not here,” said Jim, embarrassed that someone might see him being arrested.

  The man led him, not to the police station, as he had imagined, but to a modern-looking building next door.

  “He’s wandering around on a tram,” he said to a colleague. “I want to frisk him.”

  The man turned to Jim.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  Jim stood and waited.

  “Turn around,” said someone who was passing.

  Jim turned and faced the wall.

  The man returned.

  “Follow me,” he said, and headed for the stairs.

  Jim followed the man upstairs to an enormous room. He looked through his bag of shopping and found a notebook.

  “What are you doing?” The man asked, waving the notebook.

  “I’m writing a book,” said Jim.

  “Why?” asked the man. “You’ll never get it published. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-six,” said Jim.

  Another man entered the room. Jim perceived he was of higher rank.

  “Empty your bag,” he barked.

  Jim emptied the contents of his rucksack onto a table. A loaf of bread, a carton of milk, a Jamaican ginger cake, herbal tea bags.

  “You better not let us catch you on a tram again. If we do, you’ll be going to, you know where, understood?”

  “Yes,” said Jim.

  The man of higher rank left, leaving the other, stood in the corner.

  “May I go?” Jim asked.

  The man followed Jim as far as the stairs and, as Jim descended, he shouted after him.

  “Why aren’t you working for Unity?”

  Jim was silent.

  “You watch yourself and wait to hear from us. You should be on one of our work squads.”

  Jim trudged home.

  When he arrived, there was a commotion in the house. There were rumours they would release Mr Allen.

  There was a double reason for celebration. Mila had got some sacks of potatoes delivered to the house and they baked some in their jackets.

  The Allen’s were in a hopeful mood, and Mila got drunk.

  *

/>   The light mood in the house was short-lived. They did not release Christian Allen and his son, Hunter Allen, received a notice that they would move him to a camp for foreigners.

  Mila thought she might be one of those transferred and almost passed out. It was only when Jim gave her his and Annabel’s share of the rent to transfer to the Customs Department that she recovered.

  Annabel stayed in bed with a heavy cold all morning, but she dragged herself downstairs in the afternoon to help commiserate with the Allens. She took her sewing kit to repair Hunter’s rucksack.

  They would confiscate anything Hunter couldn’t carry, so he gave Jim a pair of his shoes. They almost fit.

  Once he had packed, everyone said emotional goodbyes and watched him leave.

  *

  A knock at the door. It was a polite police officer who asked Jim to follow him to the station.

  When they arrived at the station, another polite officer explained the situation.

  “I have a communication from the district council where you have a house,” the officer began. “Apparently, your house is in a state of complete disrepair, and you have neglected the land. A trustee will be appointed to see to the appearance of the property.”

  Jim sighed. So they were preparing to issue a compulsory purchase notice for the property and no doubt deduct the repairs from the agreed market value.

  As he approached the house on his return, Jim bumped into Mila.

  “They are doing house searches,” she said in a panic. “And beating the occupants.”

  Jim returned to his room and thought about his diary. Would they use it as sufficient cause to send him to a refugee centre?

  A knock at the door soon interrupted his silent fretting. Mila wanted to share the story she had just heard.

  “There were eight of them,” she began. “Pushing and hitting my friends. They rummaged through everything, stealing whatever they wanted. They even took letters. At the end they had to sign something declaring they were donating everything to the Humanitarian Protection Association.”

  Jim urged her to keep her voice down in case Olivia overheard.

  *

  Another knock at the door. Mila again, this time in tears and clutching some sheets of paper.

  “I’ve just come back from visiting my relatives,” she began. “He was sixty years old. They found some letters or something when they were doing a house search. At first, they sent him to prison, but then they sent him to one of the refugee centres. He died there, they’ve just returned his ashes.”