by Vic James
‘Let me guess,’ the doctor said, letting the cotton drop back over Luke’s middle. ‘Workplace accident. You tripped and fell. Right onto something shaped like, oh, a Security baton?’
Startled, Luke glanced at the doctor’s face. Was this a trap? Careful, Luke.
Maybe this Jackson was Kessler’s pal. Did the smiling medic patch up all of the Security man’s ‘little lessons’, keeping them hush?
‘Workplace accident,’ Luke agreed. Jackson frowned.
‘Of course it was. And I’ll tell you what: it’s not nearly as bad as it must feel. I think you hit your head on the way down, which sent your neural pathways into a state of hypersensitivity. But it’s nothing I can’t fix with some heavy-duty analgesics. Wait a sec.’
Jackson turned away to rummage in a mirror-fronted cabinet.
The doc was right: Luke already felt much better than he had on coming round in the waiting room. He’d thought Kessler had pulverized a few of his ribs, but when he risked a look at his midriff, all he could see was livid bruising. That made sense, in a twisted sort of way. Kessler couldn’t go round beating people half to death. Slaves might be chattels of the state, but that didn’t mean sadistic Security guards could just break them. Kessler must have known exactly what he was doing, landing every blow for maximum agony and minimum actual injury.
Jackson turned back with a fat tub of ointment. As he smeared it lightly across Luke’s abdomen, the last of the pain lifted away. Luke wanted to cry with relief, and spluttered his thanks.
‘No problem,’ said Jackson, straightening up and looking Luke in the eye. ‘Least I could do for the friend of a friend.’
And there went Luke’s heart again, leaping against his not-busted-after-all ribcage. What did the doc mean? Luke didn’t have any friends in Millmoor, just a mute work partner, a former school acquaintance, and a barely teenage taskmaster.
The doc.
The doc. The one who knew stuff. Who ran Renie’s show.
‘A friend? Would that be, uh, one of your younger patients? A girl?’
Jackson laughed, a low, reassuring sound.
‘Renie’s never been a patient of mine. She’s got more lives than a cat, that girl. You could throw her off a roof and she’d land feet first. Looking after you today is the least I could do, after all you’ve done for us, Luke Hadley.’
Luke flushed at the unexpected praise.
‘I’ve not done much. Nothing that anyone else wouldn’t do.’
‘That’s not quite true, I’m afraid,’ said Jackson. ‘There aren’t many that see this place for what it truly is. Even fewer who realize that the slavedays aren’t an inevitable part of normal life, but a brutal violation of freedom and dignity, perpetrated by the Equals.’
Luke stared at the doctor. Was that what Luke thought? He wasn’t sure. He’d dreaded his slavedays – still did dread the decade stretching ahead. He both resented and envied the Equals. He hated Millmoor, and the cruelties and indignities he saw here every day. But just like Abi and the rest of the family, Luke had never questioned the fact that he’d have to do days eventually.
‘I shouldn’t get heavy,’ said Jackson, sensing his confusion. ‘You’ve had a wretched time of it this afternoon. Go back to your dorm and rest. But there are a few others like Renie and me, and we get together occasionally as the Millmoor Games and Social Club. If you fancy joining us, we’d be glad to see you. Renie can tell you when.’
With that, Jackson opened the door and yelled down the corridor for his next patient.
To his astonishment Luke woke the following morning pain-free, with only yellowing bruises to show where Kessler had laid into him. Which was good, because he had a job to do. During tools-down, he went straight to the canteen storeroom. Kessler wouldn’t be expecting him back so soon – if at all. He filled his boilersuit pockets with as many packets as he could conceal. That night, he went to the rendezvous spot arranged with Renie for the previous evening, planning to cache the food there. But she was waiting for him.
‘Knew you’d come tonight,’ she said, snapping some definitely-not-Millmoor-approved gum in her mouth. ‘Doc said that if you showed, I was to tell you that the next club meeting’s this Sunday. See me by Gate 9 of the South vehicle repair yard, 11 a.m.’
She stuffed the pilfered food inside her hoodie, and melted back into the gloom.
‘Wait!’ Luke hissed. ‘This club. What did Jackson mean – games and social? What do you do, really?’
The girl’s face reappeared, bobbing disembodied in the drizzle of light from a lamp post.
‘Chess. Scrabble.’ She shrugged. ‘We had Cluedo, but it got taken off us for being subversive. Bumping off poshos in a mansion, and it could have been one of the servants what dunnit.’
At Luke’s disappointed expression, she threw back her head and cackled.
‘Only joking. You’ll find out soon enough. And remember: no one will make you play. We may have chosen you, but you have to choose the game.’
Then she was gone.
Luke lay awake in the dorm that night, thinking about his family, and about Doc Jackson’s club. His whole life he had been surrounded by the noise of his sisters and parents, a sound so familiar that it went as unnoticed as breathing – until it wasn’t there any more. So he sometimes just talked to them anyway. Which wasn’t weird at all.
He’d hear nothing from them until December at the earliest, once he’d been here three months and the customary restriction period on outside communication for all new slaves had passed. And it wasn’t as though he could tell them about the club in a letter, anyway. So a one-sided conversation inside his head would have to do.
What would they make of how he’d spent his first weeks in Millmoor, and his plan to go with Renie on Sunday? Because he was pretty sure the club’s activities were nothing to do with board games.
‘Forget about it, son,’ Dad would counsel from under the hood of the Austin-Healey, hand held out for a spanner. ‘Keep your head down. Just get on with your work.’
‘Don’t go getting into trouble,’ he could hear Mum say. And Abi would surely remind him that he knew nothing about these people he was getting mixed up with.
Daisy might think it rather cool. She’d never been one for doing what she was told. (Though Luke hoped she was being more obedient at Kyneston.) Would Millmoor have turned Daisy into a Renie, streetwise and defiant?
Luke saw that it came down to a single question: was getting involved with the club worth risking another thrashing from Kessler – or worse? Possibly even endangering his transfer to Kyneston?
Mum and Dad would say no, without a moment’s hesitation. But they hadn’t been here and seen what life was like in this place. It wasn’t up to Mum and Dad any more, he realized. It was as Renie had promised: the choice was his.
That realization didn’t help him sleep.
On Sunday morning, Luke reached the vehicle depot half an hour early. He prowled around the wire fence, curious. There was a row of Security 4x4s raised on hydraulic jacks, to be worked on from below. He knew what Dad would have said about that: it was incredibly unsafe without axle stands, too. Were the authorities who ran Millmoor that ignorant, or did they simply not care about the people who slaved here?
Or was it something worse? Were Millmoor’s many accidents – like what happened to Simon’s Uncle Jimmy, or the man who used to do Luke’s job – more than just negligent one-offs? Perhaps they were part of how slavetowns operated. Risky work and harsh living conditions would keep people focused on themselves and their own challenges, unable to see the bigger picture.
Is that what Doc Jackson had been trying to say?
Was Luke beginning to see Millmoor for what it truly was?
Renie materialized at Luke’s elbow. Her nod of approval at seeing him scoping out the depot turned into a grin when he explained how he’d fixed up a car with Dad.
‘It’s not like I’ll get much chance to use what I know in here,’ Luke said ruefully.
‘I’m seventeen next month. I should have been learning to drive. I already can drive, sort of. But I won’t be getting behind a wheel or under a bonnet any time soon.’
‘Never say never, Luke Hadley,’ Renie retorted, jaw working furiously at some gum. ‘C’mon. Let’s get you introduced to the club.’
Luke switched on his mental satnav to try and remember the route, but after fifteen minutes he was lost as they took shortcuts and nipped through buildings and courtyards, making it impossible to keep track of roads followed and corners turned. Did Renie not trust him with the location of the meeting?
‘Scenic route?’ he asked, a little sharply.
‘Least amount of surveillance route,’ she replied, still hurrying ahead. Soon after, she ducked beneath the half-lowered shutter of a warehouse goods entrance and headed for a door set into the wall of the cavernous space inside.
Luke didn’t even have time to run a hand through his hair and plaster on his best how-do-you-do face. He needn’t have worried. The Millmoor Games and Social Club appeared to be half a dozen people in some back room.
They were seated in outsize black-mesh office chairs around a wheeled desk littered with cans of soft drink and an empty fruit bowl. It was like the judging panel of the world’s crummiest TV talent show.
There were two grey-haired women who must be last-ditchers; they looked old even by ditcher standards, well into their sixties. A skinny guy was swivelling his chair with nervous energy. A shaven-headed black bloke sat next to a petite woman with a ponytail and a wan complexion. Were they Renie’s parents? But she gave them no special acknowledgement. Then Doc Jackson. Beside him: two empty seats.
‘Hello, Luke,’ said the doctor. ‘Welcome to the Millmoor Games and Social Club.’
The others introduced themselves: Hilda and Tilda, Asif, Oswald – ‘Call me Oz’ – and Jessica. The two women with matching names were sisters, but Oz and Jessica didn’t claim Renie.
‘And this is Luke Hadley,’ said Jackson, slapping a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he sat down. Despite the frankly odd assortment of people, Luke felt a buzz of excitement.
‘So you’ve already seen how we socialize, Luke,’ the Doc said, smiling. ‘Things like the food and the air-con parts, that’s the small stuff we do every day. It’s not only essentials. A book or some music, or a love letter from outside that hasn’t been read first by a censor – anything from out there that makes life in here more bearable, we’re on it.
‘But though that’s all important, none of it changes anything. And changing things is what the club is all about, Luke. It’s the game we play. Let us show you.’
Luke nodded, tense but intrigued.
‘If you decide you don’t want to play, we’ll understand,’ Jackson continued. ‘But if that’s the case, we ask that you don’t mention the club or its activities to anyone. Jessica, why don’t you go first and show Luke how we roll.’
It turned out the fruit bowl wasn’t empty, because Jessica reached into it and drew out a small, folded square of paper. She frowned at it.
‘Honestly, Jack, your handwriting is terrible.’
Jackson held up both hands. ‘What can I say? I’m a doctor.’
‘It’s a good one, though,’ Jessica continued, reading from the paper. ‘“Identify and destroy Security evidence on charges against Evans N-2228.” I’ll take Hilda and Oz: her for the identifying, him for the destroying.’
She looked up at Oz. They might not be Renie’s parents, Luke decided, but they had a thing going on, which was kind of sweet.
‘Tell us more, Doc,’ rumbled Oz.
Jackson laced his fingers together, suddenly businesslike.
‘Barry Evans lost a hand in an accident at the poultry processing plant. He’d been telling his supervisor for ages that the equipment was faulty, but nothing was done. The day he gets out of hospital, he goes in during the night-time shutdown and smashes the place half to bits. No one saw him, but they caught him on camera and they’re going to slap him with slavelife. Find the footage, delete it. Make sure it’s off any backup servers. And if they’ve anything else incriminating, make sure that disappears too.’
The two women looked at each other and Hilda smacked her hand on the tabletop. Was it enthusiasm for their task? Disgust at what had happened to Evans? Luke couldn’t tell. In fact, he could hardly believe what he’d just heard, but the draw had already moved on and Tilda was reaching into the bowl. She hooted as she unfolded the paper she had selected.
‘“Live interview with ABC A.M.” – is that the Aussie radio people, Doc? – “at 11.15 p.m. Tuesday, about conditions inside British slavetowns.” Asif, you do the talking, and I’ll get us a secure line out through NoBird.’
‘Excellent,’ said Jackson. ‘You’ll do a great job. Which means there’s one game left this week.’
The room fell quiet. Asif quit swivelling his chair, silencing its squeak; Renie even stopped chewing her gum. The seven people in the room all looked at Luke.
No pressure.
‘You need to know,’ said Jackson, turning squarely to him, ‘that what we do has consequences. The penalty for the things we’ve just discussed could be many more years of days. But we do them because we believe that the consequences for everyone else, if we don’t, will be much greater.
‘I’d like you to join us, Luke. I think you could do great things for the club. But only you can choose whether or not to play. There aren’t any winners in our game – not till it all ends. And the opponent never changes.’
Luke eyed the fruit bowl, which sat in front of Tilda. A single square of paper, folded to the size of a thumbnail, lay at the bottom.
He looked back at Jackson, wiped his sweating palms down both legs of his overalls, then steadied them on the edge of the desk.
He’d always enjoyed games. This one was worth playing.
He reached out to the bowl.
7
Abi
Daisy was thrilled with her job at Kyneston. Even Mum and Dad had come to accept it, once they’d seen that their youngest daughter could cope.
But in Abi’s humble opinion, it wouldn’t end well.
Abi had been the first to see the cot, when Jenner had shown them around their cottage. She’d asked what it was doing there – in the third bedroom that should have been Luke’s.
Jenner had looked sheepish, and promised to explain when he briefed them on their assignments the next day. When he walked into their kitchen that morning, Abi got up to clear everything off the table, because otherwise there’d be no stopping Daisy cramming more toast in her mouth. It was imperative they make the best possible impression, if they were to get Luke back quickly.
She didn’t trust herself to return to her seat, given that Jenner had taken the empty chair next to it. Instead, Abi hovered by the sink as he began to talk. Her parents’ assignments were exactly what Abi had hoped for when she’d filled out the forms for Estates Services. Mum would be nursing a lady up at the great house, and seeing to the slaves. Dad would take care of Lord Whittam’s vintage car collection, and maintain the other estate vehicles.
‘And I think you’ll be perfect as Kyneston’s administration assistant,’ Jenner had said, looking right at Abi with that lovely smile. ‘I hope that doesn’t sound undemanding for someone as bright as you. It really isn’t. I took over the Family Office myself when I left uni last year, and you wouldn’t believe how much there is to be dealt with. I need someone I can rely on to ensure that happens.’
Abi went bright red. She’d be working alongside him. It was a nightmare and a dream wrapped up in one thrilling but super-awkward parcel, bow-tied and with a gift tag saying ‘crush’. She saw Daisy snigger and sent her a ferocious glare.
Then Daisy’s assignment stole everyone’s attention away – Abi’s included.
Daisy would be child-minding a baby. A baby born to a girl who’d been a slave here on the estate. She had been inappropriately involved with his eldest brother, Jenner had exp
lained, but had tragically died in an accident a few months ago.
They all had lots of questions, but it was clear Jenner didn’t want to talk about it. He said ‘That’s all I can tell you’ a bit crossly, and Abi mouthed ‘Shut up’ in Daisy’s direction.
Soon after, Heir Gavar had turned up. The expression on his face was furious, as if he’d come to accuse them of stealing something. He was even taller than his brothers and big, wide across the shoulders. The baby had looked very small, lying along the crook of his arm, but she was sleeping peacefully and Gavar held her so carefully you’d think she was a porcelain doll.
‘That’s the kid?’ he’d said to Jenner, pointing at Daisy. ‘You’re joking, right? She’s still a baby herself.’
‘Don’t start,’ Jenner said wearily. ‘You know how it’s got to be.’
The heir muttered something crude and Dad pushed his chair back as if he was going to tell him off for swearing, before thinking better of it. Poor Daisy looked like she might die of fright.
Gavar called her over with a curt ‘Come here’, but Daisy was too petrified to obey.
‘Go on,’ Mum had said, nudging her gently. ‘He’s not going to eat you.’
And Abi’s heart swelled with pride as her little sis did the bravest thing ever and walked over to stand in front of Gavar Jardine. He looked at Daisy like his eyes might burn holes in her.
‘This is my daughter, Libby,’ the heir said, angling his arm slightly. The baby was adorable, with round rosy cheeks, curling coppery hair and long dark lashes.
‘She is the most important thing in my life, and now she is the most important thing in yours. You must be with her at all times, and when I am at Kyneston I will come and find you every day. I’ll know where you are. You are to talk to her – proper talk, not stupid chatter. Play with her. Show her things. Her mother was an intelligent woman, and she is an intelligent child. You are to address her as “Miss Jardine” at all times. If any harm comes to her, you and your family will pay for it. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Daisy, nodding her head emphatically. Then, ‘Yes, sir.’