“It’ll only be a few mornings a week, just so Rose can get on and do some chores. Please, Kate.” The wheedling in her tone dissolved some of my anxiety, and the giggles started to bubble up again. I looked back at Alan: obviously the book had proven far too boring, he’d moved onto a boxed-set collection of Beatrix Potter’s books.
“Ok.” I nodded. “Ok, two mornings a week, whichever days suit you, Rose.”
She grabbed my hands and I jumped, unsure what to do. As she gabbled and thanked me I brushed aside my reservations of Alan and my fear of Simon. This was a good thing: I just needed to convince myself of that.
Early that afternoon Nikky dragged me back to her small house behind the football pitch and I couldn’t help but gawk at the walls as she organised her clothes and toiletries into a holdall. Every conceivable surface was covered by artworks. The countryside in watercolours and oils, charcoal sketches of buildings and pencil portraits of people from the town. I touched the flat faces of two of the builders smoking on the site near where I lived; she’d captured every nuance of their features.
“Nikky, these are fantastic.”
She looked over and snorted. “Oh those, yeah, they’re okay. I did art and design at University. I try and do something every day.” She stopped suddenly. “That reminds me…”
As she bounded up the stairs I walked into her dining room, continuing to admire her art. I wandered to her easel to see what she was working on. It was the library. Instead of depicting the grey, cold stone she used bright and vibrant Indian ink with a host of colours, the stone shaded to look like opal. It wasn’t hard to see why she was kept at university. Only the higher echelon, both in talent and social class, had remained in education as more and more of the working classes and adults were conscripted and forced to fight. My local art college had closed early on in the conflict, with those who were enrolled moved to apprenticeships on the military bases or in the government offices that sprung up all over.
“Oh no,” she groaned, standing in the doorway and making me jump. “That’s terrible, don’t look at that!”
“Are you mad? It’s gorgeous.” I traced the library windows and the rainbow of ink that ran down the page.
“Really? Have it.” She broke into a grin. “Consider it a gift for you looking after the kids for me.”
“Are you sure?” I stroked the sheet again.
“Yeah, course. I don’t like it anyway.” She dumped her bag on the circular dining table and struggled with the zip. “I think I have too much.”
“Wait… is that the kitchen sink I see?”
“Ha-ha.” She grunted as the zip finally gave up the fight and closed. “Done, I’ve got my pencils and pad, I’m working on something extra special at the moment. I can’t wait to show you.”
“What is it?” I asked, immediately intrigued.
“It’s a surprise.”
I don’t like surprises, but seeing her face light up and the anxiety of this trip melt away, I stayed quiet and nodded, screwing up my face a little in mock irritation.
“I meant to say, Kate. Thanks for agreeing to look after Alan. Rose is drained, I mean, really drained.”
“It’s all right, I don’t mind.”
“You’re a star, you know that?” She grabbed her holdall and kissed my cheek. Without thinking I jumped back and failed to hide the horror from my face. “Oh God, I’m sorry, Kate.” She looked confused and crushed. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“No, no, I’m sorry Nik, I just don’t like all that sort of stuff. I’ve got my own shit to try and sort out, sorry.” I waved my hands around and shrugged. “I just, I don’t… sorry.”
The colour rose to her cheeks as she nodded and mumbled her understanding. I don’t think she did understand though, and I didn’t blame her. Following her through the small house I took her backpack while she heaved her holdall and locked her front door before handing me the key.
“Do you miss your home town?”
The question hit me as hard as a truck and I stopped dead in the middle of the deserted road.
“Yes.” The familiarities, the sights, the shortcuts, separately they were nothing but together they were home. I remembered the crumbling wall I always walked beside on my way to work, remembered digging and scratching the mortar between the bricks as I went.
“Is it far from here?”
“Mid-country.”
“Cool. I had a boyfriend from around there. Well, he was sort of my boyfriend for a bit. He joined the military police about a year before the bombs started and we split up. Turned into a right arse.”
“Yeah, I can believe it. I knew a few people like that.”
“I wanted a baby,” she blurted out. “But he didn’t. Said we weren’t married and it wasn’t proper. Said that people thinking like me was the reason things had gone so wrong. We needed to go back to our roots, family values.”
Family values, again.
“I’m not stupid, he was just spouting that poster crap plastered everywhere. He didn’t believe in it any more than I did. Especially when we were in the field by his house, and his parents’ room when they were away.” A faraway smile crossed her face. “But he split up with me anyway. I wasn’t the sort of girl he should be seen with. That’s what he said.”
“I’m sorry.” And I was. His behaviour wasn’t uncommon though, and many thought as he had. That somehow staying at home and ignoring what was happening around us would make everything all right. I had thought that way. There were demonstrations in my town. Those who spoke out, those who disappeared.
“What happened to your husband?”
I licked my lips and mulled over my reply. “He was conscripted a week before the bombs dropped and was shipped to a base. I never heard from him after the first wave hit. I waited for days, weeks for him to appear on the doorstep. I prayed to anyone who would listen, I begged for another chance, for him to be okay and I dreamed he would make his way home. I pictured him on the doorstep, I imagined myself in his arms. He never came, though, and when things started to go to shit I had to leave.”
“So who…” she trailed off and glanced at my bump. “Sorry, that’s none of my business.”
Swallowing I replied: “No, it’s okay. The father is dead. What we had wasn’t love.” I couldn’t tell her the whole truth, not yet. Not when I was still so judged with silent stares and whispers.
Thankfully, she didn’t ask anything more.
Her backpack was heavy. After a few minutes I found myself swapping it from hand to hand and wrapping the straps around my palm. I didn’t want her to leave. A small darkness crept across us as the sun disappeared behind a dark grey cold. Moving quicker we made it to the steps of the council building before the skies opened.
“Just in time! There’s been an incident.” The owner of the voice appeared from behind the door and I tensed: it was Simon. “An emergency meeting has been called.” He flicked a gaze to Nikky. “One of the fishermen is dead, things are getting messy.”
As he walked back inside I said, “Dead?” and looked at Nikky as she stacked her bags by the underwater school painting. She ushered me into the room and I inhaled sharply. It was packed already and my usual quiet corner occupied: everyone I knew was there.
“Dead?” I repeated, but she shook her head and sat down, indicating for me to follow. It was eerily quiet, and only a soft murmur of voices grumbled through the space. “Nikky, what’s going on?”
“It’s been months since a trial. We’re the jury, and the council the judges.” She bit her nails and tapped her right foot, the silver buckle on her flat pumps catching the sunlight through the window and reflecting onto the ceiling. I stared at it until three loud taps of a gavel on the top table commanded our attention. The four from our town council were present, but the Blackwood representative was missing. The Enforcers lined the room like sentries and no one spoke. Only the shuffle of bodies and the sounds of coughs and breathing could be heard: growing louder and louder,
crawling under my skin.
“What should be a happy day, is in fact a sad day. An hour or so ago the fishing boats came back with one less crewman, there’s been some confusion over what happened, but it appears that Alex Marshall is dead.”
There were several sharp intakes of breath around the room and my stomach churned as he cleared his throat and called: “Bring in the accused.”
The doors creaked and I forced myself not to turn around as two Enforcers escorted one of the fishermen in. It was Neil Proctor, Hayley and Glen’s neighbour who gave me apples twice a week. This couldn’t be right, he was no murderer, surely?
“Mr Proctor.” Mr Henley pointed to the single chair at the side of the room and Neil sat down, twisting his flat cap in his hands. From the back of the room I could see his legs shaking, and found mine were shaking also. With all the people in the room, the air was heavy and oppressive. He looked terrified, and so very alone. Roger spoke again, his voice cold and clipped. “Are you Neil Proctor, of Betterly House, North Lane?”
“Yes,” he replied, scanning the room. From my seat I could see the thin sheen of sweat across his face, and the furtive glances at the armed Enforcers at his side.
“You have been accused of the unlawful killing of Alex Marshall. We, the council, have decided upon this charge and your peers shall decide upon the true verdict according to the evidence.”
Why not murder? Simon had spoken of such a crime, what was an unlawful killing if not murder? Nikky was still, her head bowed and her eyes closed as though she was in prayer.
“How do you plead?”
Craning my neck around, I watched. Neil still scanned the room as the doctor, Simon and Deven sat at the table and Mr Henley paced the small space in front of them. Nothing was said, and the smell of fish and sweat grew and I licked my lips to stop myself from gagging.
“Mr Proctor. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
“You plead not guilty.” Roger nodded at Deven who was scribbling furiously on a pad and making notes.
“Mr Proctor. You have been accused of the most heinous of crimes. My position is one of impartiality. I shall ask you questions and you will have the chance to reply. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You left this morning with Alex?”
“Yes.”
“Following an argument with your wife?”
He remained silent and stared at the ground.
“Mr Proctor, three people have come forward and sworn to the council that they heard you arguing with your wife as you left this morning. Is that true?”
He looked up then and scanned the room once more, no doubt looking for his wife who wasn’t present. Eventually he nodded, but he still refused to look at Mr Henley.
“And you left the harbour angry with Alex, only to return four hours later with his body.”
It wasn’t a question. Tell them Neil, please, tell them what happened. I could see where this was going, from the tone of Mr Henley’s voice, the feeling in the air. It was deathly quiet, every shuffle and cough echoed in the room and I couldn’t tear my eyes from Neil.
“What happened, Mr Proctor?”
And then he spoke. Initially calm and controlled, his voice finally cracked and he sobbed. He had argued with his wife that morning. A small disagreement over the dinner plans for the week. He wasn’t angry when Alex had arrived; he was flustered but not angry. They’d set sail just before six and spent several hours casting the nets out. He’d seen two other boats and spoken on the radio to the other skippers. Alex had complained of feeling sick, and so they packed up and started to prepare to return; then he had slipped on the deck and hit his head. Neil hadn’t been able to rouse him and so he had sailed back and alerted the town. The doctor declared him dead on arrival. Several of the townspeople started to cry.
“We have a statement from a resident who claims you were in fact angry at your wife, and it was more than a disagreement over dinner.”
Simon beckoned to a woman on the front row. She stood and turned to face the room. She started to read and I closed my eyes. A statement. She documented how she had heard him shout at his wife. He’d called his wife a whore, liar, ungrateful. I found myself shaking my head. Neil? I’d never heard him speak in anything but quiet tones. The entire room was focused on her and she loved it, that was clear in the way she stood, the way she paused every so often, glancing at Neil and then at her audience.
I looked at Nikky and found her shaking her head and muttering under her breath. I searched for Hayley and, finding her gaze on me, I raised an eyebrow. She frowned, shaking her head slightly. The woman finished and sat down; the person to her right rubbed her back in a comforting manner.
“Are you a violent man, Mr Proctor?”
I sat up straight and crossed my arms.
“No,” he shook his head, “no, never. Ask Nazia, I’ve never laid a finger on her. Never.”
“I’m asking you, Mr Proctor. Not your wife. Is it not true you were involved in the Capital Riots four years ago?”
Silence. Just reply. It doesn’t matter what you say, just speak.
“And is it not true you spent three weeks in prison for affray?”
“It weren’t like that. It was a pub fight, I was only a—”
“I asked you if you were a violent man, and you replied no. Have you just lied to the court, Mr Proctor?”
“No, I—”
“You were convicted of violent disorder in the Capital Riots and you have spent time in prison for affray. You are a violent man.”
“It weren’t like that, it—” He stopped twisting his cap and stared at us. “Honest to God, I didn’t hurt no one. I just needed food, we all needed food. It were a bad time and no one listened. I just—”
“One hundred and thirty-eight people died in those riots, a further eight hundred were injured. Over half of the city suffered extensive and expensive repairs, shops were ransacked, women raped, and yet you sit here and tell us that it was all for food?” Mr Henley chuckled and glanced at us, his eyebrows raised. “Mr Proctor, come now.”
No further questions were asked. Neil couldn’t even defend himself against the accusations. He had stopped twisting his cap and inexplicably he looked up and directly at me. There were dark circles under his eyes. A small bruise framed his right eye socket and he looked tired and defeated. I looked down first.
Mr Henley read out two other statements, though the witnesses were not present. They confirmed the account given by the first woman. Then the doctor spoke. Head trauma, aneurysm, internal bleeding. I concentrated on only a few of his words. I couldn’t tear my eyes from Neil whose bloodless lips trembled as he muttered silently at the ground.
“Extensive bruising, unexplained post mortem bruising, no evidence of an accident.” Mr Henley rifled through the papers in his hands. “Post mortem bruising? Did you kick him when he was down, Mr Proctor? Did your anger get the better of you?”
He didn’t bother to reply.
“Indeed.” Clearing his throat, Mr Henley summed up the case; emphasising the Capital Riots and Neil’s aggression. “I ask the townspeople, those that agree with the guilt of Neil Proctor, stand.”
I had been on jury service before. I knew that more questions were to be asked of the defendant, and they were to have the opportunity to speak if they so wished. I wanted to know who else had seen Alex with Neil, why unlawful killing, was Alex sick before leaving shore, where was Neil’s wife? These were questions I should be free to ask; these were the principles of our law. Where was Neil’s defence? Yet so many of the room stood, only Glen, Mrs Carroll and I remained sitting. Glen shook his head, his lips moving wordlessly. Hayley stood to his right, chatting animatedly to the woman to her left. Mrs Carroll looked across at me, dark circles under her eyes and tears rolling down her cheeks. What was this? Through the standing bodies Simon watched me, frowning.
“What the hell is going on…” My voice trailed off. He looked down at me, the
n back across the room and down again before staring straight at Mr Henley.
“Mr Proctor. You have been judged by your peers. The guilt is decided, you will be exiled from the town this afternoon. We will not see or hear you.” Three strikes of the gavel and he was taken away by two Enforcers who guided him through the side door and out of sight.
That was it? Within a quarter of an hour his guilt was decided and he was banished to the Unlands. Someone whispered the words ‘scrupulously just,’ with venom in their voice.
I wandered with Nikky to the main gate. We didn’t speak for a long time until the guilt ate away at me. “I should have said something. How can that be it?”
“It’s the way of things here, Kate. When we started to rebuild this place, it was no different to the other towns. We, I mean women, were treated like those in the other towns, like we were some kind of reward for the men to claim. So the rules were set. No leniency, no second chances, all crimes treated the same and equality for all. The test of a society is how it deals with its enemies. The right choice is the one that keeps us alive. That’s what Simon said the day he set up the Enforcers.”
The right choice is the one that keeps us alive.
I waited with Nikky at the side of the road as the convoy of trucks were loaded with supplies and trade. Eight wheelbarrows of rice, six of flour and three of fresh fruit and vegetables were packed into the last vehicle.
I said my goodbyes and waved to her leaving the town, then walked to the beach. Sitting on the sand, I hugged my stomach and stared out at the water.
Chapter Eighteen
The following two days rolled into one, and Sunday, usually my one day a week to spend away from everything and everyone, was instead crowded with rowdy celebrations, screaming and cheering children and raucous laughter. The main street in the town was alive with people – over three hundred – and I sat at the children’s table, with Alan to my left colouring in and drawing. Groups formed and split away; the early twenty-somethings sat by the cider barrels playing cards; the builders kicked a football around further down the road, while the off-duty Enforcers stood by the food tables and systematically made their way through the piles of pies, sandwiches, cakes and salads. Old Tom sat on a deck chair at the end of the road, sleeping in the sun with his filthy hat covering his eyes and the top of his nose.
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