by Amy Lord
Trailing after the builders in their dirty work clothes, I turned the corner into the foot tunnel that ran around the station and up onto the street outside. A crowd had gathered at the bottom of the stairs, all focused on something that I couldn’t make out. They whispered to each other, looking around nervously.
As I got closer, the sea of people parted and I caught a glimpse of what was causing such consternation. On the wall, almost ten feet high, was a painting. It looked familiar and I searched my memory, trying to figure out where I had seen it before.
It was a replica of a photograph that I’d seen in one of Simon’s books and, years before, it had been infamous across the world. It showed a young girl, on her knees, screaming into the camera, as behind her stood two soldiers with automatic rifles, poised to shoot. In the original photograph, the background of the shot was littered with debris: bodies broken and bleeding, men being dragged away, hope dying.
In this painting, the background had been stripped away, instead focusing on the girl and the two soldiers in that moment before her death. Above the image, in bold letters, it said:
FREEDOM WILL BE OURS
I couldn’t help myself, I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth. But no one took any notice. They were too busy staring at the graffiti, powerful in its simplicity, the imagery subverting the common message that had always accompanied it: we will destroy all who fight against us.
In the bottom corner of the painting, like a signature, was a symbol I had seen before. It had begun to mark walls around the city, briefly, before the authorities had it removed. It was the symbol I remembered seeing a few weeks earlier, being painted out of existence by the station caretaker: a heart with the word Lumière scrolling across it. It was the symbol that always returned.
The murmuring of the crowd was silenced as two pairs of feet clad in army boots descended the stairs from the street. The soldiers stopped two steps from the bottom, eyeballing the people gathered there, who avoided their gaze.
They were young, with broad shoulders and bullish expressions. Like all the patrols, they carried guns. A young boy close to the front, holding his mother’s hand, couldn’t tear his eyes away. The first soldier noticed and smiled at him. Perhaps he meant to be kind, but there was something chilling about the way he looked at the child. The boy’s mother picked him up and hurried up the steps away from them. They didn’t bother to move aside and let her pass easily.
With the soldiers blocking the stairway, the crowd couldn’t disperse. The first soldier, still smiling, took the final two steps and turned to see what had captured all the attention.
He saw the graffiti and stared at it for a long time, his jaw tightening. Slowly, he turned back to the crowd, nodding to his companion, who lifted his gun to point at them.
‘You need to leave,’ the soldier said loudly, gesturing to the stairs. Without raising their heads, the people began to filter past, beginning the slow climb to the surface.
As I waited for my turn, he took out his radio and pressed a button. It crackled: three short bursts of static. ‘Level one graffiti in sector nine, over.’
A response erupted from the handset, but I couldn’t make it out. ‘Repeat, over.’
I reached the stairs and started up. As I walked past him, the second soldier looked me full in the eye. I fixed my gaze on my feet, not daring to look back at him.
Somewhere at the top of the stairs, where the first passengers were emerging onto the street, there was a commotion. A shout came ringing out of the darkness, echoing down the stairway and along the tunnel, causing everyone in it to stop moving and stare upwards.
‘Freedom will be ours!’
As the shout fell away, the soldiers looked at each other and the remaining passengers resumed their ascent, a new sensation burning in their chests. I was filled with anger; I knew it wasn’t enough to worry about Simon, to wonder what had happened to him. I had to do something to get him back.
Twenty-eight
After that first portrait announced itself, brazen on the wall of the underground station, others began to appear. There was one painted on the corner shop, in an underground car park, on bus shelters, even on the pavement itself.
As quickly as the authorities could remove one, another would appear to replace it, somewhere even more prominent. There was a current in the air, whenever you took to the streets. It was like people were waking up from whatever dream they’d submitted to, years ago.
Wherever you went, people would catch your eye, boldly tilting their chins and daring you to judge them. If you nodded in greeting, they would smile. People began to find their voices; on public transport, conversations were carried out in regular tones, where before they had always been conducted in whispers. Confidence was growing.
But as the people became more daring, the attitude of the soldiers who patrolled the streets also changed. They were freer with their weapons, more intimidating. More on edge. They became pack animals, beating men with their rifle butts at the slightest excuse.
In classes, the students were more open with their questions. We touched on subjects that violated the curriculum.
But it was me who chose to take it further. I was home alone one night, going through my bookshelf, when my eye fell on the novels that I had saved from my father’s collection. One of them was more worn than the others; I slid it carefully from its place on the shelf. Nineteen Eighty-Four. I remembered how Simon had referred to it during his class and something stirred in me. I opened the book and began flicking through it.
My eye landed on a particular page and I began to read.
*
The next day I arrived at the university early, so I could have the staff office to myself. My first class was a small postgraduate literature group. It was only the most dedicated students who pursued their education to this level, as a degree didn’t guarantee a respectable job if your face, or your family name, didn’t fit.
When I walked into the classroom, they were all seated, chatting amongst themselves. I shut the door firmly and marched to the front, dropping my bag onto the floor. In my arms, I carried a stack of photocopies.
The students turned to me expectantly. ‘Today we’re going to do something a little different.’ I held out the papers. ‘Who here has heard of a novel called Nineteen Eighty-Four, by George Orwell?’
A deathly hush fell over the room. The students looked at each other nervously. Our lessons were carefully structured to ensure they never strayed from the curriculum. Several raised their hands. After a pause, the rest did too.
‘Have any of you read it?’
They looked shocked. ‘It’s banned,’ one girl said confidentially, leaning towards me.
I slapped the pile of paper onto my desk and placed a hand on top of it. ‘Literature is not something that should be banned. Why do we read? Why do we write? It’s not simply for entertainment. We want to be able to understand something profound about ourselves, about the human condition. We want to connect emotionally with people and situations we will never be able to encounter in our own lives.
‘Our stories are how we grow and understand our place in the world. They give us a voice. They are fundamental to our being. We shouldn’t have to live without them.’
I lifted the photocopies and began to circle the group, placing a small pile, stapled in the corner, on each desk. There was a benign title on the cover, and then a blank page.
‘In this document, you will find the first eight chapters of the novel Nineteen Eighty-Four. We’re going to read them and discuss the concept, the themes, the message the author wanted to convey.’
I circled back to the front of the room and perched on the edge of my desk. ‘You all know the status of this book; it’s been mentioned here. If you don’t want to participate in this, I fully understand. If that is the case, you may leave now. This won’t count against your final grade. But I ask all of you not to discuss this outside of the classroom.’
I looked around the room,
focusing on each of my students. ‘Now, who would like to begin reading?’
They looked at each other, their expressions worried. I gave them a few moments to make a decision. I didn’t take this lightly. No one got up to leave.
There was a cough, the scraping of chairs. One girl raised her hand. ‘I’ll start,’ she offered tentatively.
She began to read, stumbling at first over the words, but quickly gaining fluency. After each chapter was complete, another student would take over. The power of each forbidden word reverberated around the room.
We came to the end of the eight chapters surprisingly quickly. As the last reader fell silent, everyone in the room exhaled. I watched them as they digested what they had read and heard.
‘So.’ I looked around. ‘What did you think?’
They stared at me and then all began talking at once, their voices excited. I could barely make out a single comment, but I grinned, exhilarated by the passion flooding the room. At that moment, there was a lot of noise in the hallway. I checked my watch; it was time for the lesson to end.
‘That’s all the time we have for today, but listen guys, we will pick up this discussion on Thursday. Go home, think about what you’ve read here today and we’ll come back and discuss it. Next class, I’ll give you the next set of pages.’
They got to their feet, still talking animatedly.
‘And remember,’ I called out. ‘Keep this quiet, okay?’
As the others left, one girl rushed to the front of the room. She smiled nervously. ‘I just want to say, I think that was amazing. You’re so brave.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m a teacher. It’s my job to introduce you to literature that means something, that will help you to think independently.’
‘Well, I think you’re doing something special.’
With a quick wave, she hurried after the other students, her eyes shining.
*
Despite his unexpected kindness, I never expected the major to search for Simon. It was an empty promise, like so many I’d received over the years.
After my students left, I was careful to collect every copy of the text I’d made, tucking them inside a folder where no one would see. I scanned the room, searching for anything that I might have missed.
When I was satisfied the room was clean, I turned to leave. The major was standing in the doorway, watching me. I jumped and almost dropped the folder. Half a dozen copies of Nineteen Eighty-Four fell out and slid across the floor. Cheeks burning, I dropped to my knees and hurried to shove them away before he noticed.
‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
He came into the room, taking care to close the door behind him. The chatting voices of the students in the corridor faded.
‘Do you have time to talk?’ he asked. ‘It’s about Simon.’
I nodded, unable to speak, clutching my things to my chest. The major pulled out a chair and sat down. Uncertainly, I placed my books and the illicit folder on the desk and went to sit across from him.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.
‘This won’t be easy to read, Clara,’ he said, handing it to me.
I took it wordlessly. The sheet had been folded twice; I smoothed out the creases and began to read, the paper trembling almost imperceptibly. He waited until I’d finished before he spoke.
‘I did what I could for him, but these are serious charges.’
I stared at the paper, trying to process the words, accusations against Simon. It was a copy of his arrest report. His name and ID number were printed at the top of the page in bold letters. I read them three times to be sure they didn’t belong to someone else.
‘No. This can’t be right. Simon isn’t a terrorist; this is ridiculous.’
But it was there in twelve-point type: conspiracy to commit acts of terrorism.
‘What exactly are they accusing him of?’ I asked, my voice close to breaking.
The major shifted in his seat. ‘The full details are classified. All I can tell you is that Simon was involved in a number of serious incidents, including one where four people were killed.’
I stared at him. ‘You can’t expect me to believe that?’
He gestured to the paper that was still clutched in my hand. ‘It’s there in black and white, Clara. I know it’s not the truth you were looking for, but that doesn’t make it any less so.’
I got to my feet. ‘This isn’t the truth. I refuse to believe it. He’s a teacher, for god’s sake! He would never, ever hurt anyone. Not like this.’ The piece of paper crumpled as my hand closed into a fist.
‘I don’t know what else I can tell you. I went through the proper channels to find this report; this is what we have on file.’
‘Did you speak with him? Is he okay? What did he say?’ My voice wavered at the thought of Simon, locked up in a cell somewhere.
The major shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, he’s been transferred out of the city, to one of the facilities where we keep prisoners suspected of terrorism. They’re extremely high security; no visitors allowed. Not even me.’
‘Can’t you try? Surely you know someone who works there?’
He got up and walked around the desk to stand in front of me. He placed his hands on my shoulders. ‘It wouldn’t work, Clara. I am sorry, you must believe that.’
I nodded, dropping my eyes to the floor. He squeezed my shoulders, pulling me against him in an awkward half hug.
‘You can keep the report,’ he said. ‘But if anyone asks, it didn’t come from me.’
I shoved the paper into the pocket of my jeans as he straightened his jacket and headed for the door. ‘Take care, Clara.’
I waited until he was gone before I slumped into a chair, my eyes glazed. I didn’t want to believe any of this. The more I thought about it, the more I knew that Simon wouldn’t be involved with people who weren’t honourable. And if they were fighting against the government, then maybe they would help me to find Simon.
*
I took a chance on the only person I knew who might be involved in Simon’s group. Elizabeth looked pale. I watched from a distance as she emerged from a late-afternoon seminar, waiting until she was alone.
‘We need to talk.’
She looked around, surprised to see me there. But there was something else in her expression; something that might have been fear. After a brief pause, she nodded.
‘Not here.’
She set off through the campus, with me walking silently at her side. We passed by the students’ meeting hall and out onto the old playing fields, behind what used to be the gym, back in the days when team sports were still allowed.
When we were a safe distance away, Elizabeth dropped her bag onto the grass and plopped down beside it. She rummaged around, pulling a plastic-wrapped sandwich out. I sat down beside her.
‘I want to know if you’re involved in this… group… that Simon belonged to.’
She took a bite of the sandwich. I waited while she chewed carefully and swallowed.
‘I might be.’
‘I need to get a message to them. I need them to help me to find Simon.’
She took another bite of the sandwich, shaking her head.
‘It’s not as easy as that…’
I cut her off. ‘I don’t care. I need them to help me.’ I got to my feet, brushing grass off my trousers. I looked her square in the eye. ‘They owe me that.’
*
This time the message was waiting in my office. After class was over I retreated to my sanctuary, some paperwork to fill out, and photocopies to shred. It was a dull afternoon and I had to flick on the light as I went in.
Something crackled under my foot; there was a piece of notepaper on the floor, shoved under the door. I stooped to pick it up, tossing my bag down.
We should meet.
I crumpled the paper in my fist, squeezing my eyes closed. I could picture Simon, so earnest in his desire to help Jerome. I had been so dismissive, so af
raid. With a frustrated noise I hurled the paper across the room, where it hit the window and fell behind my desk.
There was no decision to make; the note didn’t say anything about when or where to meet. It just said that we should. And I didn’t even know who ‘we’ was. For all I knew, some member of the Authorisation Bureau was bored and had made it his mission to toy with me. I remembered the soldier on the bus and a cold feeling settled in the pit of my stomach.
My reflection stared back at me from the blank monitor of the computer. I studied this blurred version of myself: the gaunt cheeks, eyes bruised from lack of sleep.
A flicker of movement made me spin round. I inhaled sharply. There was another sheet of paper, carefully folded, pushed under the office door. I got up, moving tentatively towards it, holding my breath. I pressed my hand against the door, listening, but could hear nothing in the corridor outside.
I yanked the door open, heart racing, but there was no one in sight. The note demanded my attention. Hurriedly I closed the door and locked it. The handwriting was the same as in the other notes I’d received.
Penny Crescent.
Wait outside the entrance to the gardens,
away from the street.
Tomorrow. 10pm.
Come alone.
Twenty-nine
I don’t know how I managed to get through my classes that day; they passed by in a blur of anticipation and nervous energy.
A little before 10pm I found myself standing alone in an unfamiliar neighbourhood, a scarf positioned so it obscured the lower half of my face. It was a freezing cold night; whenever I exhaled my breath fogged the air. Crystals of frost were beginning to quicken on the pavement beneath my feet.