Jubilee Year

by Gerard O'Neill

  Heads turned when a whistle pierced the air to see a large German Shepherd straining at its leash. The dog barked excitedly as it cut through the gathering, sensing the fear and hostility to the dark uniforms flooding the concourse.

  Two thickset men in jeans stood to confront the interruption. They were thrown to the ground and handcuffed for their trouble.

  Storm got to his feet and moved quickly toward the entrance of the building closest to him. As he climbed the steps, a visage dressed in protective armor and a dark visor stepped from between the columns to block his way.

  “Stand where you are!” the officer ordered. “I have some questions for you to answer!”

  “About what?” Storm asked, suddenly afraid of what was about to happen to him. Behind the officer, Storm saw black riot squad trucks lined up in the yard beyond the building. White buses with windows covered by heavy metal grills were parked beside them.

  A kid bent double, staggered up the steps coughing from the effects of pepper spray. When he reached the top step, he found himself in the arms of another officer in full riot squad armor. Unable to make out his assailant and desperate to break free, the kid landed a futile blow on the black chest plates. The response was rapid and severe. The flurry of baton strikes brought him to his knees.

  “Why?” The kid cried out as he recognized he was under arrest.

  “You are part of an unauthorized protest,” he was told.

  Storm gasped, as another officer behind him pulled the cuffs around his wrists tight. A baton was passed through his arms and given a brutal twist. As his shoulder sockets threatened to pop, Storm bent forward to ease the pressure, and he was propelled head first in the direction of the waiting buses.

  “Where are you taking me?” Storm asked.

  “You will be processed,” he was informed.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Storm asked incredulously, stumbling forward.

  His knew his question was answered when he was slammed face first into the side of the bus. In front of his eyes was the same company logo he had seen on the white van earlier that morning.

  It was stifling hot inside the metal box on wheels. The thick glass plates of the windows were pushed ajar, but the gap offered minimal ventilation.

  The plastic bands bit into his wrists. He twisted against the hot metal wall trying to ease the pain. It helped a little.

  “You okay?” A voice in his ear asked.

  He raised his head to see a gaunt, bearded man.

  “The cuffs are frigging tight!” Storm gasped.

  “Yes, they are,” the stranger agreed. “My name's Alistair, by the way.”

  “I'm Storm. I'd be pleased to meet you...”

  “On a better day,” Alistair said finishing Storm's sentence.

  The two laughed despite the situation.

  Alistair gestured to the man on the other side of Storm. “He doesn't look too good, does he?”

  Storm turned to see his neighbor’s head lolled over his chest. The man's face was a grotesque mask. A large red welt bulged on his forehead, and one cheek was swollen so it had closed the eye. “Hey!” Storm shouted at the rolling head, but there was no response from the man.

  The bus lurched, and the injured man toppled off the bench, his limp head bouncing on the steel floor. As they bumped over the uneven roads, the unconscious man slid across the floor to collide against the metal bench legs.

  “Hey!” Storm yelled again, this time as loud as he could. “Someone's hurt in here!”

  But the driver was wasting no time. The bus never slowed. Every turn of the bus slammed the prisoners on the bench seats up against one another.

  The men and women on the benches worked the body with their feet, attempting to trap and hold it in one place, but the violent rocking rendered their efforts useless. The stench of feces filled the hot interior, and they retched as the bus rolled on through the streets of Sydney.

  They had come to a stop. Inside the bus, the battered prisoners listened as a heavy gate opened. The bus lurched forward once more before it swung around. The engine died, and the doors swung open.

  Those able to do so, lifted their faces to the rush of fresh air. They saw the dark uniforms gathered outside. The guards shouted and prodded until the prisoners were formed into a single line stretching the length of the high-concrete walled courtyard surrounding the three buses.

  Storm poked his head out of the line to look back. Two of the uniformed guards were standing inside the open door of the bus. They peered down at the prone body curled on the floor. Perhaps they were discussing who would take the hands and who would take the feet. They did not seem to be in a hurry.

  The line of prisoners filed into a large, drab concrete chamber. Each man followed the one in front. No word was spoken. The grim nature of their situation had sunk home.

  The stark interior echoed with the noise of dogs. The barking was loud and incessant.

  A sour-faced woman grasped Storm's wrist and twisted it until she could see the underside.

  He felt the chill of a vapor spray and snorted at the stink of antiseptic, but he could not pull his hand from her grip, and he watched her press a block of black plastic against his flesh. The jolt of pain was severe, and he yelped because of it.

  She squinted at the site of his injury and satisfied with the result, pushed him back into the line.

  He turned his wrist to see a black barcode surrounded by raised angry pink flesh. He stared at the brand mark in astonishment.

  A short, sallow-faced man with the voice of an automaton ordered the prisoners in turn to empty their pockets. He passed a smartphone over the new tattoos and each time the device gave a loud beep he said the mark was good and released his grip.

  Storm let the burned flesh brush against the leg of his jeans and he cried out as the vicious pain lashed him. The big man laughed and Storm knew he was truly alone in a way he had not been for many years. That was a lifetime ago when he and his baby sister were two haunted children in an orphanage. He remembered cold stone walls, and the equally cold stony eyes of adults that he had already learned to hope never saw him.

  Memories he had shelved so many years in the past, in a container that could never be opened again. He should have bloody well known better.

  A large man with thick hairy forearms pressed a bar of soap and a towel into the chest of each prisoner as they passed him. His blank eyes stared through each inmate as they might another can that passed by them on a conveyor belt.

  Storm shuffled forward in front of a line of uniforms.

  They told him to strip off his clothes, and he shivered as the guards watched the prisoners cower as ice cold water hit their naked bodies. He saw on each shirt pocket bore the same company insignia he had seen on the side of the bus, and the same logo emblazoned each cap on the head of each guard.

  When he stepped out of the shower he found his belongings had been replaced with a short-sleeved vest, a pair of longs, and a pair of plastic slippers. All of it a single vivid orange.

  20

  Lockup

  It was a large prison cell, but with thirteen men sharing eight bunks it would be an uncomfortable and sleepless night. They were among the last to be shoved through the cell door. Their bed would be the cold, sticky, polymer coated floor.

  Storm was pleased to find that he and Alistair were together still. Indeed, he was grateful for a companion, even if the man looked, at first sight, to be pushing thirty-five years old. He guessed the other faces surrounding him in the dank space were close to him in age. But for one, who caught his attention, perched on the edge of a bunk, the lines of a chunky body on display under his tight short-sleeved shirt and jeans.

  The chunky prisoner stared at Alistair with a look of contempt.

  “You know him?” Storm asked.

  Alistair didn't look up from the close examination he was making of his swollen wrists. The red welts left by the nylon zip band cuffs had begun to turn blue.

 
“No, but I can tell you what he is,” he replied.

  “What’s that?”

  “An agent provocateur.”

  “An agent what?”

  “He's an associate of the police or else a copper disguised as a protester. His game is to elevate the situation by raising the hostility level of a confrontation, to the point the police claim they are justified in using force to squash the protest.”

  “Were you one of the speakers?”

  “I was handing out pamphlets,” Alistair said, pulling his shirtsleeves over his damaged wrists, the examination finished.

  “I saw others like him, short haircuts, big and chunky, and dressed in jeans at the protest downtown.”

  “You were there?”

  “Yeah, but only by accident. We saw these guys unloading rocks, and empty bottles, and heavy sticks, that kind of thing, from a couple of vans parked in a side alley. They saw us, but we escaped into the crowd.” He paused in sudden realization. “Hey, I bet this place is full of protesters.”

  “The hospitals will be as well,” Alistair muttered.

  “If he's working for the police, why's he in here with us?”

  “To gather info,” Alistair said glancing up at Storm and holding his gaze. “What are you studying?”

  “I'm not a student. I came down from Coonabarabran yesterday to go to my girlfriend's graduation ceremony at her dance school.”

  “Oh, I see,” Alistair nodded. “I'm from Canberra, I'm not a student either. How did you find out about the rally on campus?”

  “We met some of your group when we ran from the riot squad in town. They gave us water and lectured us for a bit.”

  “It's good you turned up to the rally,” Alistair said, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Too bad you ended up in here. I would ask you for your telephone number so we can contact you to give you more information about the Party if I could write it down. Let's do that when they let us out.”

  “Tell me your number and I will ring you,” Storm promised, eager to cement the relationship. Alistair looked trustworthy enough. “I'll remember,” he added.

  Alistair's smile disappeared. He stared at Storm.

  “They are not going to let us out of here anytime soon.”

  “I won't forget your phone number,” Storm insisted.

  After the passage of several long hours, the guards came for them. They stood outside the cell ordering the occupants to move away from the door. When they entered the two turnkeys chose two of the prisoners, seemingly at random. They prodded the men in the chest with their batons and ordered them out the door.

  As the rest watched in stunned silence, the chunky agent provocateur got to his feet and threw a slipper, hitting a turnkey in the back.

  The officer spun on his heels and strode back into the cell, striking the prisoner across the face, and sending the man sprawling backward onto a bunk.

  The man launched himself at the turnkey, but he never reached the man, his feet sliding out from under him in a greasy pool of vomit on the floor. He landed heavily on his back and lay on the floor.

  “Do you see the irony?” The turnkey asked, standing over the man. “No?” He asked when he received no reply, and he laughed. “I didn't think so.”

  The prisoner scrambled to his feet and snatched at the guard's collar. It was by any measure, an ineffectual attack.

  The second turnkey ran the prisoner up against the wall and together the two guards forced the man to the floor. Their boots scraped the man's shoulders and neck, skated over the thick forearms he used to cover his bristly skull, but the kicking was half-hearted at best, with no real effort expended. They seemed to stop together as if on cue, and before any severe damage was done and together dragged the man into the corridor.

  When the door slammed shut Alistair turned to Storm. “He'll be useful during the interrogations.”

  “How's that?” A pimply faced, sandy-haired youth with a bruised face asked.

  “I think he's police,” Alistair replied with a shrug.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “His behavior when he was in here with us. The staged way he drew their attention and how they responded. The fact he is not here with us anymore.”

  “Yeah, well, we know jack shit about you as well!” The youth said with a snort.

  Alistair nodded his head in agreement and fell silent.

  Above the cell door, a single fluorescent light snapped off with a metallic click.

  A pale green light showed under the bottom of the door. The brightest light was a small red diode glowing above the dome of a security camera in the ceiling. It reflected off the enamel walls making them look as though they were splashed with wet blood.

  A student next to Alistair pulled a thin mattress from the stack the guards had dumped inside the cell.

  “Aren't they going to clean the mess off the floor? How are we supposed to sleep here with the stink?”

  “By closing your eyes and not thinking about it,” Alistair told him.

  In the dark came the sound of sobbing from down the corridor. An unsympathetic voice yelled for the prisoner to shut the fuck up.

  It was a long while before Storm fell into a fitful sleep. Countless times he woke from dreams populated with savage creatures filled with malevolent rage and the will to do bloody violence. Finally, he saw enormous orbs revolving in the depths of space and he fell into the vacuum.

  The turnkey's voice dug its way into yet another nightmare.

  “I'm gonna call this number one last time. Eight-four-two-seven-zero. Hey! Ya socialist scum! Don't you make me come in there to find you!”

  Still not quite awake, Storm rose to his feet. “That's me!” He shouted in reply. “I am eight-four-two-seven-zero.”

  The door opened and a pair of hard eyes regarded Storm from the folds of a pockmarked face.

  “You know what? You are a fucking zero and all. And I've been walking up and down the cells calling your number for at least three minutes. Are you deaf?”

  The youth with the black eye called out from his bunk. “I thought the point of giving us numbers was so you lot would know where you put us!”

  The sound of sniggers came from the cell next door.

  The guard stepped in the doorway. “Hey, red! You smart little shit! I've got my eyes on you and I'm gonna enjoy listening to what you have to say for yourself when you find out where you're going.”

  The man turned his attention on Storm.

  “C'mon, you.”

  “Where are we going?” Storm asked, feeling the cold, tight grip of fear in his gut.

  “No questions,” the turnkey replied. “Git your ass moving!”

  Storm recited the phone number in his new friend's ear.

  Alistair got to his feet, attempting a smile.

  The turnkey hesitated, reaching for his baton.

  Alistair held his hands up to show he meant no harm.

  “Keep it together, mate,” he said, holding Storm’s gaze over the shoulder of the turnkey. “No matter what! Okay? Keep it together.”

  The cell door slammed shut, and the lock fell into place with a heavy clunk.

  Alistair slid back down the wall to the floor. There was no way the boy would stand up to interrogation. Maybe he could if he were older. It was too bad.

  Storm’s heart was thumping a hole through his rib cage as he stood behind the turnkey. They waited before a locked door at the end of the corridor outside the cell he had left behind.

  The man grunted as he stabbed a large thumb at a square button. The man glanced up at the black camera eye above their heads and waved. Inside the door came the sound of metal turning and then the massive slab of metal slid into the wall.

  Ahead of them, Storm saw a wide metal stairwell. The same one the prisoners had filed down the day of their arrival. The turnkey didn't bother with the stairs.

  As the elevator slowly climbed the shaft Storm wondered why the man was alone. That had to be a good sign.

/>   The doors opened, and the guard led Storm into an empty room. He saw a table and a stool. On the table was an open cardboard box and inside it, he found his belongings.

  After changing back into his clothes he looked about him. Set into the wall opposite was a single large plate-glass window. Behind it, Storm saw the turnkey standing in front of a line of monitors.

  There was a sudden loud noise and the wall before him slid open to double the size of the room. On the far side, Storm saw the outline of a door.

  He wondered how long it would be before they arrived to march him outside to yet another prison bus.

  “Do you want to go back to the cell?” An amplified voice inquired.

  He looked over his shoulder at the turnkey behind the plate-glass window. The man jabbed a finger in the direction of the outline of the far door.

  Storm let out a ragged sigh when he stepped into the bright light. It was the same gray courtyard where the bus unloaded him. Today the concrete under his feet was wet from a passing shower of rain. The air tasted fresh.

  “Hey!” A familiar voice called out. “Over here!”

  He watched her go through the metal gateway in the high wall. He felt no electric thrill at her joyful wave. There was only an overwhelming sense of relief. He was free. It felt good.

  Behind Penny, appeared a tall, balding man in a brown suit.

  “I am pleased this has worked out so well,” he said happily as he joined them.

  “Yes, thank you so much,” Penny said once she had released Storm from her embrace.

  “Storm, this is Walter Bancroft.”

  “I'm with the Stone Law Group,” Walter told him, as he reached out his hand to shake Storm's. “We represent Penny's family in all legal matters. I am happy to tell you the police have decided in their wisdom not to lay charges. You are free to go.”

  “No fine to pay?” Storm asked, staring at Walter in surprise.