A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  There were few cars in the gaping caverns of lock-ups. Those he saw looked older than the building, decaying skeletons patchworked with rust, picked clean of even the simplest bolt, relics from Dinium’s gas-guzzling days. The lock-ups housed grimy mattresses and bobbled blankets. Silhouettes crouched over fires watching husks of view-screens. He wondered how anyone could stand the choking smell of oil, dirt and sweat in that place. Hot, stifling, an odour of lost hope.

  Against his wishes, though he didn’t dare say it, Nesta led him further.

  ‘Can’t we just do it here?’

  ‘You want them man to kill you? I’m protectin you, bro.’

  Their steps, shivering flame, occasional darkness. Sparks, the return of orange light. The etched shadow of Nesta’s broad face.

  ‘Why d’you hurt her? What did she do to you?’

  They kept on. Scuffled feet rebounded from crumbling, broken walls until they were everywhere. Feet walked above, behind and beside them, unrelenting. He could only see Nesta’s profile, imagining the contemplative expression he might have found with better light. He’d seen it often enough.

  ‘See that kid? Ashmeed. He got sickness, man. Had it years. You an I both know that shit’s easy to treat—there’s a Geb of suppressants and painkillers that could help him, even some that could cure it. Thing is, you need money. You need to be privileged. If not you end up like Ashmeed, smoking piahro for pain and killing yourself, all cos of bad air an a sickness that ain’t even fatal. It’s not right, Mars, you know it’s not right, innit?’

  A subdued curse of pain as the flamethrower died. Clattering. His lighter, too hot to hold. They were so far inside the car park that distant fires in various lock-ups helped illuminate their direction. He felt and heard his bike squeak, barely saw the frame.

  ‘What’s that got to do with Misty?’

  ‘She wouldn’t ever have sickness. There’s no way she’d suffer without medicine.’

  ‘That’s not her fault!’

  Anger warmed him. Strangely, he was grateful to Nesta for reigniting it, shedding light on his fear, forcing it to fall back. A shuffle, a halting scrape. Nesta stopped.

  ‘I know, Mars, you’re right. I was wrong to take my shit out on her. Wait a minute.’

  He was only gone a few seconds, yet Markriss feared he might go insane in near dark, blind, wondering at his agreement. If Nesta knew he was wrong, why fight? More sporadic fumbling, a switch clicked, louder than he’d thought possible. Harsh white light flooded the lock-up from a single rectangular lamp fixed in the left-hand corner of the unit. The lock-up itself was greasy and fairly empty. One single mattress without a blanket or sheets, a series of oily tools laid in an interestingly neat row beyond the makeshift, thin bed. Various lengths of wire coiled into lazy circles like snakes escaping the sun. Nothing else. He noted a small rectangular window on the back wall just above the mattress, covered by a mesh of metal. Negligible light. Markriss was struck by the cleanliness of the lock-up in comparison with the others. Privilege indeed.

  ‘We can deal with our business here,’ Nesta said. ‘This is mine.’

  They faced each other. Markriss laid his bike on one side, walking into the damp, confined almost-room, hands limp, unsure what to do. How to start. He’d fought before. Going to the school he did, in the zone he lived, he’d faced off with opponents on many occasions. It was the thought of brawling with a best friend that made him self-conscious, pressured by gravity of choice. He replayed the image of Misty, wide-eyed with pain, head craned upwards, hoping it might fuel him.

  Nesta also seemed wary. He made slight, unwilling movements that were hardly noticeable, no defensive gestures. Markriss came towards him.

  ‘Why did you say I was right about Misty?’

  Nesta blinked. Surprise replaced anger.

  ‘What d’you think? You were right. I shouldn’t have done it. What d’you want me to say?’

  Markriss waited, frowning from harsh light and confusion.

  ‘You weren’t saying that out there, laughing with your team.’

  ‘What, you want me to admit it like some doobs? In front of everyone? It ain got nothin to do with them.’

  They faced each other off, tense. Markriss’s breathing was quick and shallow. He felt his writhing heart.

  ‘Lissen, Mars, we don’t have to—’

  A pre-emptive roar, Markriss throwing a wide, arcing punch that connected with Nesta’s cheek, knocking his head to one side and propelling him as far as the roughened grey wall. He crouched a moment, catching breath until Markriss swung a hard kick aimed at his stomach. He made an airy oof noise and fell to his knees. Markriss stepped back.

  ‘Get up. Fight.’

  Nesta spat on concrete, a dark coin, heaving phlegm from his throat.

  ‘If I was to fight I’d kill you, Mars. What would your mum think? You don’t know me.’

  ‘I don’t care. Fight.’

  Another kick to the stomach. Nesta curled on the floor, gasping. This time Markriss stood to one side, waiting until he got to his feet. Nesta tried to look jovial, even though he was hurt and his cheek swelled with an apple shine.

  ‘I’m trying to say, innit. You’re right to be angry. It was wrong but I wanted to, Mars. I was gonna kill her, right in the park.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Markriss kicked out again, slapping him with his weaker left hand, a blow that sent Nesta reeling onto the mattress holding that cheek, looking up with gleaming eyes. He was high. Maybe the few puffs of the splint had tipped him over the edge. Predatory now, Markriss stamped a foot on his chest, forcing Nesta onto his back, retching and spluttering beneath his trainer.

  ‘I can’t, Mars,’ he wheezed, a hand on his chest, his voice much like Ashmeed’s. ‘I can’t shut up, you’re the only one I can tell—’

  ‘Tell your mates. And fight back.’

  Another punch, a strong right. Blood flew from Nesta’s mouth, splattering onto the floor. He spat the excess onto the mattress, thick tendons of red that hung for one moment, stalactite. Nesta laid his bruised cheek not far from the tools, still coughing. Markriss noticed that what he’d mistaken for oil was in fact blood, dried and dark, mostly coating the working ends of each tool. Further patches spotted the concrete, patches he’d first taken for shadows and oil spots, and began to see as something more. Something worse. He stopped, mesmerised by implication. Nesta raised himself to a seated position, mouth streaming with blood that circled his lips, a perpetual messy grin that seemed clownish.

  Markriss let his hands fall, seeing the tools, the dark patches.

  ‘You get me now? She wouldn’t have been first, not at all. Can’t help that, can I? It’s different here: Watkiss was a different me, you lot don’t know what I do.’

  ‘How many did you bring here?’

  His voice was flat, colourless; Markriss barely heard himself. The closest to seeing Nesta’s face was his whirlpool crown.

  ‘Six man.’

  Nausea, eyes swimming. The stained mattress, the wires, the cold tools, everything became as vicious as the knife he carried. Beyond his thunder of outrage Markriss heard a slight, furtive scratch which became blunt knocking, a thud. Nesta gasped, facing the mesh window.

  ‘Seven,’ he giggled.

  Before Markriss registered, a booted foot slammed against the mesh repeatedly, until a corner gave way and a rush of boots appeared, kicking at the dangling frame, frantic. He erupted into movement, running for his bike and jumping on as the mesh clanged to the floor and Nesta’s uncontrolled laughter just about rose above the continuous thump of the road team’s boots hitting concrete. He stood, pedalling one-handed, making his tired legs move harder and faster than ever, twisting back on himself to free the knife from his back pocket, crying with the pain of foreign movement. A storm of footsteps battered his ears, over shouts and a wet explosion of artillery spittle splashing his back and ankles. Markriss pushed harder, wretched with fear. A hand flailed against his back. He lashed out
with the knife, twisted again, feeling a thud of connection, a yelp of pain and grim satisfaction as he grabbed the handlebars in both palms, concentrating on riding faster.

  Though he tried to hold it, the knife clattered to the ground with a sound like receding metallic laughter. Roars of triumph from the boys. Stamping. He kept on through complete darkness, unsure where he was headed, trying to stay away from the fires on each side, punching and kicking whenever someone came near, sprinting with his head down, neck bared, teeth grinding in panic.

  A sensation of movement without progress, riding mid-air. No wind, a still nothing, bathwater warm. The shouts, screams and ache in his legs fading. His feet moving and breath expelled, nothing registering. Something expanding, somewhere ahead. A swirling glimmer of constellation, pinks, blues, purples. Shifting and turning, closer. A static jewel, similar to Nesta’s whirlpool crown yet bright, pretty as morning. Like the wheels of a bike when his brother was alive and they rode single file to play inside a derelict Ark Station, moons ago. Dark as narrow walls, the stench of vaporised concrete and unwashed vagrants, a cocoon-like presence of pervasive night wrapped around his body, pressing his arms tight by his side, lifting.

  The bright rectangle of the outside world, streetlights highlighting a coursing flow of street kids pouring into the underground car park, like a thousand seething rats into a drain. Taunts and battle cries. He sprinted full pelt, lost but uncaring, whimpering a vow to take some with him. Above that hopeless, desperate prayer, a bang over one shoulder. Jerking panic. ‘That’s it’, he had time to think. A high-pitched whisper close in his ear, the bike wobbling alarm, a scream from a kid, a thud, and the sibilance of someone unseen calling ‘hush’, rolling with the momentum of their run. Another bang, echoing, nowhere near him, and still he jumped once more, and swerved.

  The road team ducked for cover, or fled for the shelter of abandoned lock-ups. He emerged into night alongside yet another shot, almost as if he had been fired into the Gunnersbury streets, dust and concrete showering his head. Kids and ragged adults ran in the same direction, scattering across the estate. No one seemed to know what was going on. Ignoring everything, keeping speed, Markriss left the clamour behind, waiting for the final shot that never came, even when he surged past the estate entrance, out towards Iseldown’s main street, following signs for Watkiss Town.

  Far from that place, a lengthy verge ran parallel to the halting flow of mid-evening traffic. He slowed, pulling over, tired legs unable to rotate, lungs burning his chest. Draped across bicycle handlebars, alive to the hum of vehicles, Markriss watched the grass spin lazy revolutions. He wrenched harsh breath into his cooling body, mouth open until his vision cleared, and he could rise.

  4

  Alength of white cloth is draped across each machine. He can’t help thinking they look like shrouds. No burnings, no burials. Just twin, humped objects at rest on either side of the room. His mother waits by a passage wall, gifting strength without her presence. We should have done this years ago, she says afterwards, sitting rigid at the kitchen table.

  His day finally arrived. Seven years of dedicated study had brought him to the eve of success, and could be measured by the ticket. A simple rectangle with rounded edges, printed letters and code numbers that promised so much, in so few words. He read the information as if it might somehow disappear. No matter how many times he looked, each character remained as bold and exciting as the flap of the letterbox and fall of the envelope, almost one week ago:

  Markriss Denny: Single

  Frm: Western Central

  St To: The Ark

  Fee: Waived

  It rained; it had been raining all day. Dark bands of water keeping the city indoors, fearful of going out and being ‘washed dirty’ as some called it. He’d argued with his mother most of the morning about going out into the downpour, and yet he savoured the smell of damp concrete, wet against his tongue, and mist creeping lonely streets. People long spread rumours of water contamination. Sickness spread by micro-particles inhaled, perhaps swallowed. Markriss didn’t care. He entered the derelict Ark Station a few blocks from his house, picking his way through the weeds and brush that swamped rusting tracks, remembering how he’d lain there as a child. He wandered familiar streets, letting water soak him to the bone in vague hope that he would become born again, a new man rising from the carcass of the student. No more rain. No wind, no prickle of sunshine, nothing of the life he lived. Alone, apart from others dashing from dry spot to dry spot, Markriss surveyed the landscape of his hometown as though enjoying a stroll in summer heights, committing every street sign, building and alley to memory. Hours later, when he eventually returned, he wrung half a bucket of water from his clothes.

  His mother held a small party, inviting old friends, neighbours and a smattering of college students he remained in contact with. There was the lecturer he’d become attached to, speaking quite loudly in his usual un-ironed blue shirt. The young Persian lady who wore nothing but black clothes, black lipstick, and painted her eyelids in heavy onyx shadow. The thin, wispy mature student from their writers’ circle with round, wired glasses who stared at Markriss without pause and said ‘Thank you very much’ almost too softly to be heard, over and over. The man who sat in a corner, insistent on wearing his E-Lul Metro mask, ignoring all.

  No one from Regent’s and E-Lul had been invited, not even teachers. He’d heard Nesta sold piahro in crumbling housing blocks, moving through the Gunnersbury underworld with frightening ease. On the few occasions he’d seen Misty she’d been quiet and reflective, a loner who seldom raised her head. Raymeda had become torn between the silence of her cousin and a blossoming political awareness. Her studies were discarded in favour of rallies and marches on behalf of the Outsiders, a left-wing organisation whose principle aim was the closure of Inner City. The strain proved too much. By the time she realised what she might forfeit and refocused her attentions, it was far too late. Both young women failed their finals, shocking everyone and securing their schoolgoing fates for another two years. They would attend college in the hope of resitting their exams, any chance of entering Inner City over, save by way of menial work. Markriss, just as amazed as the rest of their school, felt sorry for them, though he made no moves to console or help. He’d been running with an older crowd ever since Gunnersbury. Students who were studious, and less prone to lead him towards trouble.

  He soon grew bored of his own party, leaving the guests (each as unexciting as the tuna-paste sandwiches his mother laid for those who feared spices) and heading for the podroom he’d shared with his brother. He remained on the threshold, staring at their covered sleepers for the last time, feeling that to enter would be to give way to emotion, to swim in a grief Willow’s calm mourning never allowed. To vent all the anguish and pain he’d felt when he touched his brother’s body and found it cold, more butcher’s meat than human being.

  A shuffle of feet on stairs and familiar scent of jasmine brought news of his mother’s arrival. She kept precious steps away, observing his silent tears. When he left the door to come towards her she hugged him close, both tall as the other now. She buried his head into her collarbone, stroking his neck as though he were a child. At first, when he felt damp in his hair, he thought their roof had leaked again; then caught himself, wishing he hadn’t been chosen. Perhaps Willow read his mind, for she held him at arm’s length, wiping her eyes with the back of a sleeve.

  ‘Are you scared?’

  He’d been sitting in the living room of a college friend when the story of Ark soldiers shooting dead a trio of burglars emerged. The incident took place yards from the L1 town he’d been assigned, ironically named Prospect. He’d been avoiding the topic all morning, another reason for his admittedly foolhardy run into a downpour that could possibly make him ill. His mother had bided her time, while he’d opted for cowardice.

  ‘A little . . .’

  ‘Don’t be. Everything that could happen there already happens here, you know that. At least y
ou have opportunity. It’s almost as if they took all the opportunity with them, hidden inside that building . . .’

  He coughed dry laughter, no more than a harsh puff of air at most, guessing it might be the desired response. In that house, humour had died years ago. She squeezed his shoulders as though she’d just remembered the fact, her expression calling for gravity.

  ‘You should take this.’

  She passed something from her hand to his. When he looked down, Markriss saw a thick black leather-covered book. Gold-embossed title. The Book of the Ark. He raised its weight to his eyes.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A book your father used to love. He was going to take it with him. Obviously, that never happened.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘It’s not that type of book. It’s essays, mantras, meditations. Instructions on how to live inside that place. They’ll do you good.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  He kept his eyes low, on bumped leather, caressing lines and creases.

  ‘No matter what happens, don’t look back. Do the best you can, but most of all don’t dare look back. Just look after yourself. Don’t think about me, OK?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Markriss. Don’t you dare look back. Right?’

  He was crying too hard to free the words.

  ‘Right . . . OK, mum . . .’

  He wiped away tears to find her already striding downstairs, strong back reflecting a thousand questions he wished he’d the nerve to ask. He closed the door on his brother’s room.

  The last well-wishers left by eleven and the minibus arrived just past midnight. He wouldn’t let his mother carry any of the four suitcases he’d packed, mostly with books and clothes (everything else could be found within his allocated apartment, he’d been told), even though Willow insisted she could manage. It was an hour’s drive to a meeting point near Western Central Station, situated in the heart of West Marvey. For the first twenty minutes they were the driver’s only passengers, until they picked up a lanky boy and his father somewhere near Taurion. Though they greeted each other cordially, no one said a word for much of the remaining journey. Willow held her son’s hand, keeping her face turned towards the window.