She had already phoned Mr Baker, the caretaker, but there was no answer. She hoped that wasn’t significant in any way. Mr Sykes would be arriving soon too, although what he thought he could do was beyond her. But then, why was she here? To see the school’s final moments she supposed.
Funnily enough, the school that had been so ugly in its lifetime, now looked beautiful in stark black relief against a bright cauldron of glowing scarlet, gold and orange. She glanced across the playing fields to where a few groups of onlookers stood and was about to turn away when two small figures at the far side of the football pitch caught her attention.
She squinted through the flickering flames and smoke and could just make out two children standing on the outskirts of the school playing field, watching the school burn.
‘Little Timmy Anderson,’ she said in surprise. ‘But who’s that with him?’
He was chatting animatedly to another boy and, although she peered through the darkness, she couldn’t quite make out Timmy’s new friend’s features.
A sudden gust of wind blew smoke across the fields, obscuring her view for a second, and when it cleared she could see Timmy quite clearly, however his friend was nowhere in sight.
She scanned the playing fields, her eyes straining to see in the dark. Where had Timmy’s friend gone?
Timmy didn’t realise he was once again alone as his lips were still moving and she could see his head bob, as if agreeing with an invisible companion. His face was alight and he looked truly happy. And then, incredibly, for the first time ever, she saw little Timmy Anderson throw back his head and laugh.
Sue Tingey is the author of the fantasy romance series The Soulseer Chronicles and lives with her husband in East Grinstead, West Sussex.
She spent twenty-eight years working for a major bank and after taking voluntary redundancy in 2001 spent another fourteen or so years working as a practice manager for an arboricultural consultancy. She has now given up the day job to allegedly spend more time with her husband; he however has noticed that an awful lot more writing appears to be going on.
Sue admits that storytelling is her obsession and was thrilled when she was offered a three book deal by Jo Fletcher Books in 2014.
You can learn more about Sue on her website suetingey.co.uk or contact her on Twitter @suetingey.
Discordances • by Stephanie Saulter
Discordances
A ®Evolution Story
by Stephanie Saulter
The cold was in his fingers; thin and pale and pointless things, as stiff and immobile as the twisted trees above him, standing bare against a steel-coloured sky. Frost rimed his ears, was raw in his nostrils, had cracked his lips. He could not feel his feet.
So he was alive. Well, that was something.
He rolled over, wincing as small twigs and stones made themselves felt against his bruises from the past few days, and sat up. He pulled his knees to his chest and stayed low, partly to hoard what little warmth had built up between his body and the nest of fallen leaves and flotsam into which he’d burrowed for the night, but mostly in the hope of avoiding attention. No one had been there to see him crawl beneath the barren shrubbery in pale and shifting moonlight, but it would not do to assume he remained safely alone.
A silver mist had spread across the ground, leaving crystal traces on bent blades of grass and brown leaf litter. Beyond the scattering of trees that formed his refuge, the rest of the park was still and silent. The light was so weak and watery he wondered for a moment if day had truly come; but no, he remembered moonset and the blackness into which he had finally surrendered, too exhausted for even his cold and hunger – and fear at every rustling sound – to keep him awake through one more night. The thought had come to him, as he drifted into oblivion, that he might well never wake again. But here he was, shivering into another bleak dawn. The sun was there somewhere, trying to break through the thick blanket of dirty grey cloud, and he must get up too.
He shuffled sideways until he was clear of the bushes and could stand. Leaning against the thick bole of a tree that would block any view of him from the park, he clenched and unclenched his fingers and toes until they sang with the pain of returning circulation. Then, with a last cautious look and listen, he slipped out from beneath the thin shelter of the trees.
He saw no one on his way out of the park save a woman, heavily muffled and hurrying along one of the hardtop paths that cut through it. She glanced with suspicion at the black-haired boy crossing the frozen sward, huddled into his threadbare coat. He kept his hands shoved deep in its pockets and his head down, and they passed each other without incident.
At the gate he paused and glanced both ways. To his left a pair of figures, more early-morning workers no doubt, were disappearing into the fog. His path led to the right, and he breathed a sigh of relief that the street in that direction was deserted. He followed the metal railings of the park until they ran out, then crossed over and made his way along increasingly narrow and potholed streets until he came to another set of railings – higher, and topped with cruel spikes – and another large, locked gate. Through it, a shabby yard littered with stacks of crates, soggy and bursting bags, and sharp-pointed clumps of old and unidentifiable equipment could be seen. Behind them, the dark hulk of a windowless building was wreathed in mist.
The young man peered through the gate, hands unthinkingly pulled out of his pockets to grasp it as he pressed his face against the bars. The cold bite of the metal made him flinch, and he hid them away again. There was no sign of life in the yard, no chink of light from the warehouse. Its massive entrance was covered by a roll-down door from a previous century, the metal pitted and grimy. He wondered if he had been sent on a fool’s errand, or worse yet, into a trap. The odds were not good; but then, they were little better elsewhere. He turned his back and settled down to wait.
*
The wind picked up as he stood there, knifing at him, shredding the fog. He had begun humming to himself, a habit from childhood that he turned to more and more as a distraction from loneliness and hunger, fear and cold. Sometimes he could get lost enough in a tune to forget his circumstances entirely, though his chattering teeth meant he was not quite capable of that today. He was beginning to think it was foolish to remain exposed like this, parched with thirst, aching with cold, head swimming with hunger, and that it was time to give up and move on, when something slammed into the gate at his back and sent him staggering.
The shock of it was worse than the impact; although that too was awful, deafening, the crash of metal against metal reverberating through him like a blow to his own body. He reeled away mid-note, and spun, panicked and shaking, hands instinctively out of his pockets and raised in defence.
A man stood behind the gate, holding a piece of steel that looked to have been plucked from one of the piles of debris. He trailed it deliberately along the bars against which the boy had been leaning. It clanged, echoing the blow that had launched him halfway into the street. He backed away as the man pressed his finger against the lock and the gate slid back. The man stepped through, squinting hard-eyed at the shivering boy.
‘What’re you doin’ here? I don’t know you. What’s your business? Stop movin’, I’m talkin’ to you.’
The tone was threatening, but there was enough inquiry in it to suggest that a beating might not be the only possible outcome. The boy stopped and raised his hands, slowly, trying to still his trembling. Between the cold and the fear, he did not succeed.
The man was solidly built and wore a thickly padded rain jacket. His eyes travelled over the thin figure in front of him, taking in the woefully inadequate coat and worn boots, lingering on the hands raised hopelessly to shoulder height. He turned his head and spat.
‘One o’ them. Where’d you come from?’
‘Re-re-re-Recombin.’
‘You a runaway?’
The boy shook his head
sharply. He had heard there were norms who did not look unkindly on those who had taken the matter of freedom into their own hands, but instinct told him this man was not one of them.
‘They let you out?’
He nodded.
The man grunted. ‘Don’t know that I approve, but that’s the way things are. Drop your hands, boy, they’re not things I want to look at. You got a name?’
He did as he was told, clenching his numbed fingers. ‘L-Ly—’ He stopped, took a deep breath. ‘Lyriam.’
‘Yeah? An’ what were you for?’
‘I don’t know. I never got sent out, and then—’ Another wave of trembling threatened to overtake him. He gritted his teeth and fought it down. ‘Factory work, I guess.’ He half-raised his hands again, flexed the loosening fingers, and then forced himself to shove them back in his pockets. They would be of little use if the man decided to go for him, and the odds of that might be lessened if they were out of sight.
‘So you’ve never worked? How old are you?’
‘Around seventeen. I think. I have worked, in crèche, and then in the dorms, we had to do everything for ourselves. They trained me to use tools and things. I can work, I want to work.’ He swallowed, taking in the man’s proprietary stance, the way he had emerged from behind the locked gate. ‘I’m looking for work, that’s why I came here. Someone said maybe you had some work?’
The man looked him over again, with a hint of amusement this time. ‘It’s heavy lifting. You don’t look strong enough to stand up to a good breeze, boy.’
‘I’m stronger than I look,’ Lyriam said defiantly, drawing himself up. ‘Most of us are.’ A loud rumble sounded from the region of his stomach, and the man laughed.
‘Maybe, if you get some food in you. UC’s opened up a soup kitchen couple blocks away on Provost. That way.’ He pointed. ‘More gems than a cheap bracelet. You get yourself something to eat and be back here by eight, you can help get this place cleared out. Twenty credits, that’s it. Name’s Garvey. I’m doin’ you a favour.’
*
It was not the first United Churches food station Lyriam had been to, though he had not visited for over a week – not since a gang wielding crucifixes and cudgels had demolished the one on Southbank and attacked the volunteers manning it. But his last few credits had long since been spent, and he knew he had no choice. Garvey was right: hunger was making him light-headed and weak, and even more vulnerable than usual. He could not risk returning to the warehouse, or going anywhere else for that matter, in such a state.
He realised he must be almost there when he turned a corner and saw a figure in the distance with a head of glowing, dark blue hair, hurrying in the same direction. The person turned into an opening in a high brick wall, through which a delightfully rich, savoury smell wafted onto the street. As he approached, someone else crossed over from an alleyway, pushing back her hood to reveal a mass of shimmering orange-red curls as she also disappeared behind the wall.
Lyriam stepped into the churchyard. There was a checkpoint just inside, an arrangement he had not seen before. He guessed it was a new security measure, and felt himself begin to relax a little. A matronly norm woman holding a tablet looked perplexed at his straight black hair, but entered his name and nodded as it confirmed he was already registered.
‘When’s the last time you ate, son?’
‘Couple of days.’
‘Okay. Drink this first, slowly.’ A large mug of steaming rehydration broth was put into his hands, and he wrapped them gratefully around its warmth. The woman focused on his fingers, blinked, and then remembered herself and looked back up at his face. ‘Then go get some solid food from over there.’
She indicated the queue inching forward to a table behind which two more volunteers were ladling thick stew into bowls. Almost everyone waiting for food, or scattered around the edges of the churchyard already eating, had hair that glowed in sparkling, jewel-like colours. He knew that the few who didn’t would, like him, bear another, equally unmistakable engineered mutation. ‘There’s a medic station inside the church if you have any hurts that need attention,’ the woman went on. ‘They’ve got donated clothes as well, coats and things. You look like you could use something warmer, a hat, maybe some gloves . . .’
She trailed off awkwardly. He managed a smile.
‘They probably don’t have any that would work for me. But thanks.’
*
He was back at the warehouse before the appointed hour, full to bursting and cocooned inside a hooded, fleece-lined parka. The volunteer in charge of assigning winter gear had glanced at his hands, and without comment rummaged in a large box and come up with a pair of purple mittens into which all of his fingers could comfortably slip. They felt warm and safe for the first time in days.
Garvey was waiting out front, along with another heavyset norm man who scowled at Lyriam with undisguised dislike.
‘What’s this for?’ he snapped. ‘He can’t do anything.’
Lyriam opened his mouth to protest, despite the warning in the back of his brain that it was probably better not to, but Garvey answered first.
‘Don’t be so judgmental, Dirk, my old mate,’ he said peaceably. ‘Live and let live. The boy wants to earn his keep.’ He regarded Lyriam thoughtfully. ‘He’ll get paid what he’s worth.’
Dirk gave him a sharp look and turned towards the warehouse, saying roughly, ‘Let’s get on with it then. Don’t look like anyone else is showing up today.’
‘I am.’ The voice came from the open gate behind them. Lyriam caught his breath as a tall, powerful-looking woman stepped inside the yard. She had dark, weathered skin, broad cheekbones and large brown eyes with deep folds at the corners. Her head was bare, and her close-cropped hair glowed a deep violet. She was wearing a short, quilted jacket, and appeared untroubled by the cold.
It seemed to Lyriam that Garvey looked ever so slightly disturbed to see her; though anyone who knew anything about gems, and had heavy work that needed doing, should have been glad.
‘What’s your business?’ the boss asked.
‘I heard there was work here.’
‘So there is,’ he said, jerking a thumb towards the warehouse, its door now raised. ‘Clearing this tip out. Hasn’t been touched in a century, more or less. Everything needs to be sorted for recycling before the place gets demolished.’
The woman gave the yawning entrance a thoughtful look, and glanced around at the piles of obsolete rubbish littering the yard. ‘I can help with that.’
‘We start now, go ’til sundown. Full day’s work for you, forty credits.’
‘Fine.’
It was double what Lyriam had been promised, but he knew better than to complain. Chances were this woman could move twice what he could. Maybe in half the time. He nodded cautiously at her. She returned a look that was not unfriendly, but questioning. He slipped his right hand out of the mitten, and she grunted an immediate acknowledgment. There was a muffled oath from Dirk, but she reached forward and grasped his hand without hesitation.
‘Lyriam.’
‘Biane.’ There was a look of calculation in the woman’s gaze, as if some new variable had appeared in an equation and she was having to rework it. But she only turned away, fists on hips, and looked at the warehouse again. ‘We waiting on anything to get started?’
‘Nope.’ Garvey led the way. ‘Place is full of all kinds of old shit. Sooner it’s gone, the happier I’ll be.’
*
The warehouse was ancient, creaking, piled to the rafters with detritus, and full of damp rot and rodents that ran squeaking every time they tackled a new section. Judging by the items inside, carefully packed away a very long time ago, it had been a storage facility for household goods.
‘Has this stuff been here since the Syndrome?’ Lyriam wondered aloud, coughing through a cloud of dust rising up from the
crumbling cardboard boxes he was shifting. Garvey, checking and assigning them to the different collections of plastic, metal, textiles and various other materials accumulating out in the yard, nodded.
‘Yeah, pretty much. When people got too sick to care for themselves and had to go into hostels. Or back to their parents.’
‘They must have kept on hoping,’ Biane said quietly. ‘That there’d be a cure and they could get their lives back.’ She lifted a hard-sided plastic barrel that Lyriam had just tried and failed to shift out of the way, stepped easily around him with it held above her head, and spun it into place for Garvey’s perusal. ‘Or that their children would be able to reclaim their stuff, even if they couldn’t.’
‘I guess. But most of the kids would’ve been in the same boat. By the time babies were Syndrome-safe, it’s not likely there would’ve been anyone left who even remembered what was in storage.’ Garvey peered inside the barrel, sneezed, and snapped the lid back on. ‘More old clothes and sheets.’ He marked the side of it for Dirk, coming and going with a hand truck that was the only way to manhandle heavy items out through the narrow passageways between stacked shelves and piles of debris. ‘This is taking too damn long.’
Lyriam did not answer. He worked barehanded, his mittens carefully tucked away in the pocket of his new parka, itself carefully hung up in the shadows behind a rusted steel support girder. He did not doubt that Dirk was quite capable of ‘accidentally’ including his new belongings in the piles of refuse, and did not wish to lose them to the norm’s casual malice. But for all his good sense when it came to his own property, he had to keep reminding himself not to linger or become distracted by the artefacts of long-lost lives that he was sorting through; not to stop and wonder at the strange items whose use he could only guess at, nor at the sheer volume of personal possessions represented by this warehouse, and doubtless many more just like it. He knew Garvey wanted them to work quickly, but he could not help thinking there were whole worlds of things that could be learned from this place, if only they had time.
The Jo Fletcher Books Anthology Page 7
