by Terry Tyler
They travelled in the dark; the van slowed down, stopped, the guard who sat in the back with them got out, and her mother hissed, "Now. Like I told you." But Lilyn couldn't remember what her mother had told her, apart from the fact that her daddy was dead.
Her mother grabbed the man in the front seat and he made a weird gurgling sound, a door was kicked open and Mum said, "Go! Now! Down there, straight ahead, run as fast as you can, don't look back and don't stop!"
Lilyn remembers hurtling through bracken and trees, soaking her feet in muddy puddles, her chest hurting, her side aching with a stitch, but not daring to stop until her mother said she could. Hearing footsteps behind her and being so, so frightened because she didn't know if they belonged to Mum, or John, or the men from the van, but she knew she mustn't look back.
She remembers slowing down because she really couldn't run any further, then feeling her mother's arm around her shoulders.
"Don't speak," she said. "We'll walk till we get our breath back, then we run again. But first I've got to take this bugger out."
'This bugger' turned out to be something in her arm. Her mother slit the skin, cried out and said lots of bad words.
Lilyn said, "Mummy, use the Healit pen." Lilyn loved the Healit pen. Her mum used it whenever she or John cut themselves, and it mended their wounds straight away, with magic foam that solidified and helped the skin knit back together underneath, while the shell protected it. Often she thought it was worth getting hurt, just for the fun of seeing the Healit pen mending it.
But Mum said she hadn't got one any more; instead, she used some stuff that made her yelp, and put a big plaster over it. Then John started to cry, and Lilyn had to put her hand over his mouth while their mother ground the thing that was in her arm into the mud, with her foot.
For a whole night and some of the next day they ran, then rested. Ran, rested. Nothing to eat but some squashed protein bars from Mum's pocket, and nothing to drink but one bottle of water between three of them. John got piggybacks for some of the way, but Mum said Lilyn was too big for them. Her legs hurt and hurt, and John cried and complained, but their mother said they must go on, and on, until they were safe. And then there was a hut and two men who gave them cereal bars, apples and fizzy drinks, and drove them to a house with people in it, and finally they could stop.
When John was asleep, her mother told her about her father's last gift to them all; the deleting of their records.
"He gave you the best present a father could ever give a child," she said, though Lilyn thought, privately, that she would have preferred a kitten. She did not understand the value of her father's actions until years later.
She all but forgot about Baby Rae. She has clearer memories of her old dolls, given to her by a nice lady in the first place they lived in. It was dirtier, messier and darker than MC12, but Lilyn liked it more. The people there were more 'chilled', Mum said. More 'real'. Lilyn thought that was a funny thing to say, because all people were real, not like on the TV.
She missed the TV much more than she missed her baby sister.
It was a while before Lilyn realised that where they were was the wasteland, and she was now a rat, because it wasn't like how her school friends in MC12 had talked about it. At school, she'd learned that the wasteland was like a horror film, and the rats were filthy and evil. She did meet a few people who were a bit scary, but the houses they lived in felt more homely than their flat in the megacity. Less white and not so many sharp edges. Sometimes they settled for a while, and Lilyn and John went to funny little schools with just a few other children. Some places had electricity, so they could put on lights when it was dark, but in other places they used candles. They moved around a lot. Mum said that 'they' left the wastelanders alone as long as there was no trouble, but it was best to keep 'under the radar', because she'd hurt the man in the van, and she would be in trouble if ‘they’ caught her.
Now and again there would be lots of shouty people and fighting, and her mother would wake them up in the middle of the night and tell her they had to leave. Just like that. She had to grab all her and John's stuff together and drag him, half asleep, into a van.
John always liked to go off and play by himself, but one day he never came back. He was nine; Lilyn knows that, because after she was eleven it was just her and her mum. There was lots of panicking and crying and people going out looking for him, but they never found him.
One night, a lady called Norah said that with a bit of luck 'they' would have picked him up and taken him to a Hope Village, so at least he'd be safe. That confused Lilyn, because her mum had said, 'I'm not taking my kids to one of those hell holes', after her dad died. How would her brother be safe in a hell hole? Then her mum started wailing, "What if they take him back to that bloody place and dump him in NPU? I shouldn't have left Rae, I know I shouldn't." And everyone had to calm her down; Norah told her she'd had no choice and that Baby Rae would be just fine.
Lilyn didn't see how Norah knew that. Norah was doing to her mother what grown-ups always did to Lilyn―telling lies to stop her being scared. Pretending everything was fine when it wasn't.
That made Lilyn feel frightened, so she hummed loudly to block out the grown-ups talking, and looked at some pictures in Norah's old books. Best of all, she liked being in bed, when she could hide her head under the covers and make believe she lived in a cottage like she'd seen in the books, with lots of flowers and animals, where there was no one scary at all.
Lilyn's mum died, not long after that. It was probably a year or two after John disappeared but, looking back, Lilyn can't remember, because it seemed that her mother was always drunk and going on about only having one left; sometimes she'd be as 'high as a kite', other times 'away with the fairies' (Norah and Oscar said she was 'using'), but mostly she was just drunk. Until one day she died. They said it was probably her heart, but no one knew, because Mum made them promise never to take her to one of those places where you could see a doctor; she said they would still be looking for her because she hurt that guard.
After that, Lilyn went with Norah and Oscar and some others to a place called Fakenham, and it was much nicer there. There were people who knew what to do when you were ill, and a man called Ricky who knew people called 'contacts'; one gave them food and medical supplies from the megacity twenty miles away. Every Thursday, Ricky would fill bags with the stuff he and his friends made in the caravans, and go out to meet the 'contacts'. When he came back he would have all manner of goodies; everyone at Fakenham loved Thursdays.
In this new home there were tunnels where they grew vegetables, and some of the people would go out to the coast on their funny half-bike-half-car things called 'quads', to catch fish.
Norah and Oscar taught her more reading and writing, and history; her mother had given up after John went away.
Mostly, Lilyn just remembers being happy there, and she hadn't been happy for years. Then one day Norah said she wasn't a kid any more (which Lilyn had actually known for some time), and soon after that she met Dan, who had lived in the wasteland all his life, and then she was very happy indeed.
Lilyn can see Dan and the others now, tying the boat up at the jetty that he, Lock and Jude built.
There's no beach, because Waxingham didn't used to be the seaside. Until the 2040s there was a coastal hamlet called Nearstrand between Waxingham and the sea, but the dunes washed away, leaving the houses prey to the might of the advancing North Sea. Many of them were destroyed in fierce storms in the winter of 2051, and the hamlet disappeared. Now, there's just an old road and a field where holidaymakers used to pitch their tents; they disappear then reappear as the sea washes in and out. At low tide the top of a rusty old car is visible, caught in some rocks; if you paddle out to it, you can see a skeleton in the driver's seat.
Once or twice, Lilyn has thought how her brother John would have loved to see that.
She waves at Dan from the window of what was once the Travellers' Rest café; he waves back, and holds
up a massive net of fish. They're laughing, shouting to each other; Dan, Lock and Shanna. She calls out to Beth, who is in the kitchen making bread.
"It's a good catch!"
"Great stuff!"
Lilyn smooths her hand over the protruding curve of her stomach, and settles into the comfortable window seat to wait for her friends and the man she loves to return.
Chapter 4
Eyes Everywhere
We're in Parasol, Lori's favourite bar, and Nash is telling Lori and Sian that he's thinking of getting some work done; he's decided his jaw and brow bone lack definition. They're saying, yeah, go for it, why not? Though of course you look great just the way you are! Is this because of his Mr Average score on Spark? Is he thinking about increasing his options in the future?
Is he going off me, too?
Maybe he feels like I do―that we don't feel right, but actually calling it a day feels like too daunting a leap.
I watch Colt talking to some friends. If I have another drink I'll be in danger of casting caution to the wind and asking him to look up my family, so I switch to water.
Nash and I wave goodbye to him and Lori as we step aboard the ten-thirty, and as soon as it glides off I wish I hadn't been such a chicken.
Nash spends the journey examining his chin on his Fixx mirror, making it sharper, more square, and then ridiculously big, which he shows to me to make me laugh; it does look funny. Feels like a long time since we really laughed together.
Bad day.
I wake up and reach for my com, same as every morning, only to find that I have notification of an employment demerit, and not just of the 'late back from lunch two days running' type―it's a bloody four-pointer. Like, one bad move away from suspension on half pay, investigation pending.
I'm shaking; at first I can't take the words in.
It's not specific; all it says is that I've expressed opinions in direct opposition to the MC12 ethos, which in my role as a Balance counsellor is unacceptable. But what? What have I said? Worse is to come―the next page shows me that one week’s salary has been automatically debited from my account.
My heart thumps. Lentil soup all month it is, then; how dare they do this, without giving me a chance to defend myself? A black cloak of paranoia sits heavy on my shoulders; do they know what I'm thinking? No, no, it says I've expressed opinions―but when? Did I say something ill-advised in Parasol the other night? I don't know all of Lori's friends, but I can't have been slagging off Balance, I wasn't that drunk and I'm not that stupid. If I'm with people I don't know well, I'm always so careful not to say anything that could be construed as in any way controversial. Especially when Atlanta's there―she's one of those who listens out for stuff to report.
The notification says only that I should refer to Ginevra Carlton for full details.
I'm not telling Nash. I'll never hear the last of it.
I have a meeting with Ginevra later today, thank goodness, but as it turns out I don't have to wait, because she's there, looking for me, when I get off the ziprail.
"I've heard," she says, even before I open my mouth. "A four point employment demerit is serious. It’s not just a slapped wrist."
We walk slowly, so that she can fill me in before we get to work. Turns out it was a guy called Jacob, a new client from last week. He's in his mid-forties; I'm never comfortable with seeing older people because I'm painfully aware that they might not want to be counselled by someone who was still in nappies when they were making all the mistakes I'm currently making, but no one else could fit him in.
I was uneasy about Jacob from the word go. I looked him up on Heart to get an idea of where his head was at, and it seemed like a place more complicated than I had the experience to deal with.
"Apparently you concurred with him about the feeling that someone's always watching you," Ginevra tells me, "and you said that some days you can't think of anything you'd like to do more than bugger off and live in the wasteland."
My mouth drops open, and I laugh, in total bewilderment. "But that was a joke; we both laughed after I'd said it, and it was only in reaction to what he was saying; I was just trying to lighten things up because I felt completely out of my depth. As for being watched―he said that every time he sends a private message he feels like someone is sitting in a room somewhere, reading it and making notes about him, and I just said, 'Yes, I understand that', because I know my father felt the same way. He needs a psychiatrist, not a counsellor. I just let him talk, mostly; you must have seen my notes? I've actually recommended that he have a psych session."
"I know, I know. Thing is, he's complained to Lydia that he was only having a bit of a 'wobble', but that you were eager to encourage the idea that we'd be better off living in the wasteland, and he thought your attitude was both dangerous and unprofessional. The recordings of your session will be looked at, obviously, and your brain activity, so they can decide in what capacity any negative comments were made."
"And will I get refunded, when they see the truth?"
"Partially, maybe." She pauses. "Is that what you think?"
"No! Well, now and again, but I swear, I only said it in jest."
"It's okay, I believe you. Lydia's concerned, though―I've been asked to keep an eye on you, and it's likely that your sessions with me will be monitored for a while."
Usually, my sessions with Ginevra are private; she's trusted to report anything that worries her.
I feel like someone's stamping on my chest; for a moment I can hardly catch my breath. I glance up at the streetlights where I know audio cams are secreted; is Security listening to our conversation, even now?
"Monitored for how long?"
"Until they're satisfied that you're fully with the programme, I imagine. It's not as bad as it sounds; no one will actually be sitting there listening. They'll set surveillance for keywords and phrases. We've got to be careful, that's all."
We reach the Wellness Centre, and I'm so grateful that Ginevra has gone out of her way to make sure she talked to me off the record.
"Thank you," I say, "for doing this for me. Warning me."
"Ah, you're one of the few under my care who actually thinks, rather than fitting everyone into neat boxes as per the approved Balance programme. There aren't many of us about." She gives me a little pat on the arm, says, "See you after lunch," and walks on ahead of me.
I feel better for talking to her. Not alone. Not so scared.
As I walk through the ID scan and move onto the walkway to Balance, though, I consider the situation. If they really think I'm a disruptive influence, what's the worst they can do? Send me to a Hope Village? Well, I can always escape, and find a nice little indie off-grid to live in. Sneak onto a boat to Europe, maybe. Live in the mountains of Northern Spain and survive on nuts, berries and goat. Or head out to an Indonesian island, preferably one of those that hasn't become a rubbish tip for waste plastic.
It's only when I reach Balance that I realise Nash didn't feature in any of these imaginary scenarios. He wouldn't come with me anyway; he'd rather lose a leg than try to exist without his smartcom.
My afternoon session with Ginevra feels like a charade. This morning I saw Blake, a troubled young man obsessed with the past. He spends his evenings looking up old maps and scouring Heart for pictures of the towns and villages that perished under the megacity jackboot; he's convinced he was born in the wrong time, is fixated with a fantasy version of 1950s England that he's absorbed through watching films made over a hundred years ago, and spends hours in virtual reality scenarios set in the last century.
I talk at some length about Blake's case, because I want to show whoever is listening that I'm not scared of them. Reckless, maybe, but as the day has progressed I've become more and more angry about that demerit. I even say that I understand Blake's obsession, because I'd like to know more about the country before the megacities, too. Ginevra looks uneasy, but the words tumble out of my mouth and I let them, hating that I have to temper what should b
e a private conversation to fit in with the 'acceptable' way of thinking.
I say, "I'd love to talk to people who live in the wasteland to experience the reality of a technologically backward world," and her eyes widen in warning, so I swiftly add, "you know, so that I can help my clients understand that it might not be the utopia they imagine."
"Oh yes, indeed," she says, and her shoulders relax. "Too many people imagine the pre-megacity age as a lost, golden era, but dramatic changes aren't implemented for the sake of it; they arise as the solution to a problem, or problems."
I'm pretty sure Ginevra is only playing to the camera, so I just nod and make noises of agreement.
"Look," she says, flicking on the wall screen to show a series of pictures, graphs and statistics. "Air quality in urban areas is better than it's been for centuries. Species extinction is slowing down, all over the world. All types of farming have been standardised, to beneficial effect. On the home front, violent crime in the megacities is ninety per cent lower than in the old inner cities; police are more likely to be called out to Hope Villages, or off-grids reporting trespassers. The total surveillance that some older people complain about has so many benefits; nobody complains when it manages to foil a crime yet to be committed, do they?"
Yes, definitely playing to the camera.
"The UK is listed as one of the top ten best countries to live in for aged care. Advances in medicine in the last twenty years have been phenomenal. Families can thrive and grow here, children are safe, and receive the best education possible. Before the megacities were built―before the Hope Villages, too―the problems of homelessness and unemployment were out of control. Homelessness is now a problem that belongs to the past." She gives a little chuckle that doesn't sound like her at all. "It's been eradicated, like smallpox in the twentieth century!"
I'm sure she knows about MC12's dark areas; buying drugs like blitz in the bars near Tech Village and the clubbing district in the north of the city centre is as easy as ordering your lunch on 2-Go, and I've heard that a new version has been developed that bypasses NuSens by mimicking the body's reaction to a gym workout. Dealers can get you cigarettes and vaping products, and there's a nasty little worm called Head Fuck―it's like LSD―that you can incorporate into your VR scenarios, easily downloaded from the dark net. People end up on psych wards; it's become a 'dare' amongst young lads.