New Reality 2: Justice

by Michael Robertson

  "Look at him!" Frankie said. "As if she's not already shitting herself."

  The crowed quietened.

  A couple more seconds passed and Kuntz beamed like a giddy schoolboy. He held the silence.

  Then he let rip. "Slut. Whore. Slag. Prostitute."

  Every insult made the woman flinch and her eyes filled with tears.

  The camera showed the audience laughing; some of them so hard their faces were red.

  When it fell silent again, Kuntz sat down next to her and held one of her hands, tilting his sympathetic head to the side. "Is that what you want people to call you, darling?"

  The woman's bottom lip wobbled as she shook her head. "But I've only slept with one man. I've loved him for years and getting pregnant was an accident."

  Kuntz jumped from the seat and threw his arms wide at the audience. "We don't care about the story, do we?"

  A resounding "No!" fired back at him.

  Kuntz smiled and turned back to the woman. "Did you hear that?"

  The crowd laughed.

  Something pressed against Marie's palm. Was it a small hand or foot? It was hard to tell. She rubbed her belly. "What's wrong with this world, Frankie?"

  Frankie sighed. "Everyone's measured by either their finances or potential finances; the less you're worth, the less you're valued."

  The sound of Kuntz's shiny shoes clipped against the stage as he paced up and down. "So you sleep with someone, get pregnant, and now you expect to keep it?"

  All the woman could do was nod while tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Did they seriously expect her to have an abortion? Was that Jezza’s aim? The thought of a sixteen-year-old GG being raped hadn't left Marie's mind. The imagery was so vivid, she could see the old man lying on top of her and slathering over her sedated form. How many women had experienced the same thing to avoid this kind of humiliation? Was there ever a time where having a bastard child wasn't a social crime?

  With his face twisting into a red mask of hate, Kuntz rushed at the woman. "And who's going to pay for it, you whore?"

  The television's speakers struggled to handle the rapturous applause.

  Frankie pointed at the screen. "They've turned her microphone off. Look, she's trying to say something but they've muted her."

  When Kuntz spread his arms wide again to the crowd, he looked like he thought he was the new Messiah. After he'd drunk in as much applause as they could give him, he cocked an eyebrow. "Shall we bring the daddy in?"

  Sparks exploded from the stage, and the crowed jumped to their feet. A side door opened and a man fell through as if shoved from behind. For a moment, he looked at the crowd and then he dropped his head. The barrage of abuse was clearly too much for him.

  As the camera panned across the people in the audience shouting, spitting, and throwing hand gestures at the man, Kuntz walked over to him and put his arm around his shoulders.

  He led the man to a chair next to the woman as the crowd bayed for blood. When the pair held hands, they turned feral.

  It took a few minutes for the crowd to settle down and when they finally did, Kuntz said, "I didn't say we condone your behaviour."

  Returning Kuntz's scorn with a hard glare, the man held on.

  Jezza's voice broke into a screech. "Let go of her hand. Now!"

  The man dropped it like a scolded child, humiliated in class.

  "Just couldn't keep it in your bloody trousers, could ya?"

  The crowd laughed.

  Frankie leaned forwards and buried his head in his hands. "I just don't get it. Are people so fucking stupid that they can't see these poor folk need help?"

  "Have you not met Kitty and her friends?" Marie said. "I'm not sure I've ever met a crowd like that lot. They're so easily manipulated by our government's bullshit."

  A shake of his head and Frankie fell back into the sofa again. "There's no hope is there?"

  The laughter finally died down and just as the man in the chair opened his mouth to reply, Jezza ran onto the stage, closing the distance between them in three long strides. "All you thought about was your libido, wasn't it? Now the world has another unwanted bastard child to take care of."

  There was another kick against Marie's palm. "It's okay, darling, you're not unwanted."

  A shake ran through the man as he stared at Kuntz. It took a few seconds before he finally said, "But I do want it."

  Turning into the primate he so closely resembled, Kuntz jumped up and down like he was about to pop. "Until when? Until you find another woman to impregnate and leave?"

  "I haven't left her."

  "It's just a matter of time. I know your sort. I see them every day on this show. You're not going to stay around, pal. None of the estate rats do."

  The man opened his mouth but didn't reply.

  The bipolar Kuntz softened his voice. "So what do you do for work?"

  "I told you backstage."

  "But they weren't backstage, were they, Estate Rat?"

  Another roar of laughter erupted from the crowd.

  "So, are we going to try this again, Street Vermin? Where do you work?"

  The man spoke to his lap. "I don't. My employer—"

  "So you're going to be another drain on the state? I'm going to pay for your child to be raised with my tax credits, am I?" Before the man could reply, Kuntz had turned his back on him and was looking at the audience. "And these people? These good, hard-working people will have to support your kid? Not very fair, is it?"

  The wild crowd erupted again.

  A snarl formed on the man's face and he stood up. Two huge bodyguards rushed onto the stage but that didn't stop him pointing at Kuntz. "You don't pay tax. The wealthy don't pay for anything."

  "I beg your pardon? I pay tax."

  "A nominal amount—not anything that helps the state in any way; the wealthy are virtually exempt." The man jabbed a thumb into his own chest. "I've probably paid more tax credits than you, and you've been working twice as long as I have and no doubt earn ten times more."

  Kuntz raised an eyebrow at the camera. "I'd say it was more like twenty times more."

  The camera picked out a montage of laughing faces in the audience.

  "So what's next for you?" A quick check of where his bodyguards were and Kuntz moved forwards. "Terrorism? Blow yourself up in protest of your own laziness?"

  As the man fell back into his seat, beaten, broken, and ashamed, Frankie said, "Do you remember when this show first started? Kuntz's manifesto was to help people resolve their issues, to be ‘an intermediary in social problems’. He's turned it into a fucking circus. A circus led by a dancing monkey."

  It was only then, while studying the slumped bodies and drawn features of the man and woman on the stage, that Marie realised she and Frankie were sitting in exactly the same way. They were a postcode change away from being the two guests on the show.

  An extreme close up of Kuntz's face dominated the screen. "If there's an afterlife," Frankie said, "he's got a seat booked at Satan's top table."

  Marie saw the man and woman's mouths were moving. "They've turned their microphones off again."

  "It's because this world doesn't want to listen. It just wants to hate. Turn it off, Marie; I can't have that egotistical prick polluting my space any longer."

  Two sharp claps of her hands and the television screen turned black. In the stillness left behind, Marie's heart suddenly felt a lot lighter.

  ***

  About ten minutes passed, during which time both Frankie and Marie sat and stared. The show had robbed Marie of her strength, lethargy running through her body like she had mud in her veins. "What's going to happen to us, Frankie?"

  Frankie's voice was soft and sounded defeated. "I don't know. I really don't know."

  "I'm scared, Frankie."

  When he didn't reply, Marie turned and stared at the side of his face. Instead of looking back at her, he kept his focus on the blank television.

  They'd skirted around the issue
for too long now. "Why don't you just say it?" Marie said.

  "Say what?"

  "That you want me to have an abortion."

  Wrinkles spread across Frankie's brow when he faced her and his voice cracked as if was fighting back tears. "Because I don't. Jesus, Marie; where did that come from? I love you and our unborn child. I'm scared too. I'm scared about what might happen to us. I'm scared to have to raise a child on the estate. I'm scared we won't make it. The last time I felt like this was when I had my breakdown, working in the corporate world. I'm scared the pressure of life will make me have another one. I'm scared that I'm not strong enough. When you've broken once before, life has a good way of reminding you of your fragility. I'm scared of almost everything. The only thing I know for sure is that I want this baby and I want you."

  A rush of grief both burned her eyes and choked her. When she looked into Frankie's soft stare, she could see he was welling up too. Before she could compose herself enough to respond, Frankie got to his feet and left the room. As he passed her, he gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Another bumpy bus ride and Marie was on the smooth-running train again. When would Navidson's house be fully operational again? Sure, it was sad that the people from the estate felt the need to blow themselves up, but the hot, sweaty, and stinking bus journeys were getting tedious now.

  The train was so busy that Marie remained standing, zoning out as she stared into space. With her mind drifting away, she ran her finger around the outside of the rectangular credit card in her top pocket. Despite its size, the card carried a heavy weight. What if she lost it? What if it was stolen from her? It was stupid to have it on her at all times, but what else could she do? Leave it at home for Frankie to find?

  It had been two days since GG had given it to her, and two days since Frankie had told her how scared he was. In those two days, neither of them had spoken about it again. What good did it do to dwell on their fear? They needed positive action, not negativity and pessimism.

  The atmosphere in the control room over the past few days had been strange. For the first time in weeks, Marie and GG had barely looked at one another. They'd planned they would meet on Friday in the café, so there was nothing else to say. There was no reason to take any risks and make Rixon suspicious.

  But could she trust her? Why did she give her the credit card? Was it to lower Marie's guard? To make her reveal everything? If it was, it had worked. Marie was such an idiot; she'd handed information over about her and Frankie too freely. What would Frankie say if he found out? It didn't bear thinking about. Besides, it wasn't going to happen. Frankie didn't need to know.

  The urge to put a protective arm across her middle gripped Marie. The carriage was so busy that anyone could bump into her at any point. But if she did, someone might suspect she was pregnant. Instead, Marie stared at her feet and gripped the upright pole in the middle of the carriage.

  Another strange occurrence this week was that Doug hadn't been at work. The obnoxious man was always there, strutting around the control room, just to remind everyone they were being watched. Where did he go after the meal and why hadn't he returned? Was it because of her pushing him too hard? She was hardly subtle about trying to get information from him.

  While keeping a hold of the pole, Marie dipped her sweating forehead into her bicep and wiped it. The corset itched worse than ever, the heat of the train making her sweat profusely. At that moment, she saw the sign on the wall that explained the carriage was air-conditioned. It felt about as air-conditioned as an oven.

  When a man next to Marie stood up, smiled, and pointed at his seat, Marie's chest tightened. Oh my god. He knows I'm pregnant. She shook her head and forced a smile. "No, thank you."

  Although she looked away, it was obvious the man was still watching her. Was someone trying to catch her out? Was he another person employed by Rixon?

  When the man tugged on her arm, Marie turned to him and frowned.

  At about five feet and seven inches, he was no taller than Marie. Dressed in a grey suit, his hair was perfectly sculpted. He looked like he didn't feel the heat. "You look hot, love. Why don't you rest your legs?"

  "I said no."

  The abruptness of her reply made the man step back. "Fine, be like that. I was only trying to be nice."

  Marie watched the rejected man sit back down. He didn't know she was pregnant; how could he? She softened her tone. "I'm very sorry. This heat is getting to me. Thank you for the kind offer, but I'd rather stand, thank you."

  A nod of acceptance and the man turned to look out of the window.

  The paranoia was getting to her. It was impossible to know who she could trust and who she couldn't. One wrong decision, and she and her entire family were fucked.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Despite the train making several stops, the man who had offered Marie his seat still hadn't got off. When she looked over, she found him staring back at her. He looked pissed. Talk about sensitive! She looked out of the window again. It wouldn't be long before her stop. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to see him after today. Although, knowing her luck, they'd be on the same train tomorrow.

  The next stop was abrupt and caught Marie off guard. With a firm grip still on the pole, she managed to keep her footing.

  The doors opened and a herd of suited commuters boarded the train, the warm July heat rushing in with them. The air conditioning was shit as it was; how was it ever supposed to do a job in this heat with so many stops?

  A shrill beep was accompanied by the familiar mechanical female voice. "Doors closing; please stand back. Doors closing; please stand back."

  When Marie heard shouting outside the train, her body snapped tight. An ineffectual angling of her neck did nothing to show her what was going on, but the voices grew louder as they rushed towards them.

  "Stop him!"

  "Get him!"

  "Don't let him on!"

  The lethargy in the hot carriage vanished, the other commuters looking first at one another and then at the closing doors.

  Before the gap was too tight, a boy of no more than about nineteen jumped in sideways. Dressed in rags, he had clay-red skin and greasy hair.

  A woman with a scraped back, peroxide ponytail pointed a bony finger at the boy. "An estate rat." Her drawn-on eyebrows sat so high on her forehead, they were virtually in her hairline.

  When the boy moved to one end of the carriage, everyone else moved to the other.

  The doors had closed by the time an out-of-breath police officer banged on the other side. His white skin was paler than most—almost like an albino. Although his mouth moved, it was impossible to hear what he was saying; the soundproofing on the high-speed trains was too good.

  Several of his colleagues caught up with him, all of them as animated as the first and just as muted because of the door.

  The automated train started pulling away.

  The other commuters shoved and pushed one another to be as far away from the boy as possible, but Marie held her ground. She was far enough back to make it look like she was scared of him, but she didn't want to fight to be amongst the crowd. Besides, he was just a boy. How dangerous could he really be?

  It was impossible for Marie to tell who in the group was speaking.

  "What's he doing on here?"

  "Is he a terrorist?"

  "Oh my God!"

  The boy panted and huddled in the corner, his long fringe covering his eyes as he stared at the floor. It seemed that he wanted to be as far away from the commuters as they did from him.

  Marie continued to watch him. Was this boy a terrorist? If he were, wouldn't he be more forthcoming about it?

  The woman with the blonde ponytail stepped forwards, her bright red lips twisting into wrinkles. "He's not a terrorist; he's nothing more than an estate rat."

  A man next to her got to his feet. "Why did you get on our train? There are busses for your kind. You're not allowed on here."

&nb
sp; A chorus of agreement sounded from the other passengers and soon jeers were being thrown at him, although no one had found the courage to step any closer than the blonde woman.

  An old lady, wobbly on her feet, called out, "Street rat!"

  The short man who had offered Marie his seat stood on tiptoes to see above the crowd. "Scum bag."

  "Rapist."

  What the hell? Marie stared at the man who had said that. Where did that one come from? She held her tongue.

  In the barrage of insults, Marie lost track of who was saying what.

  "Murderer!"

  "Faggot. That's it, he's a faggot."

  The man that had offered Marie his seat held his hand out to her. "You're too close, love, come down this side away from him. You don't know what he's going to do."

  That was true, but she knew exactly what they were capable of; at that point, she would rather take her chances with the boy. Regardless of that, she edged a little closer to the group but still remained on their periphery. The last thing she needed was this lynch mob calling her a sympathiser.

  "I bet he's gay," another man said. "That has to be it. The authorities have found out and he's running away."

  The man who was making claims of homosexuality stood out in the crowd. As thin as a pole, he was sitting in the corner in a pair of tight-fitting trousers. He had his legs crossed in a way that Marie was sure most men would find uncomfortable. In his delicate hands, he clutched a small leather bag. With his lips pursed so tightly they'd damn near vanished, he glared at the boy from the estate through his pink eyes. Had they been cosmetically altered or were they contact lenses? Either way, they glowed like a little girl's dream.

  When the boy looked up through his dishevelled fringe, there was a collective gasp. An angry scar ran from his chin diagonally across his face. The fear he'd carried with him had been replaced with what seemed to be a rage-fuelled confidence. He stepped forwards. "You think you're so fucking special, don't you? You're all here in your wonderful fucking trains, paid for by the state that we subsidise with our hard-earned money."