Truth Sister

by Phil Gilvin

  These particular Repsegs were armed with coarse truncheons, and they were followed by some blue-uniformed women, who held lanterns on poles. Together they formed a cordon across the road. Then into the pool of light shuffled a column of shaven-headed people, all dressed in dirty orange overalls. Their heads were bowed, and their feet scuffed the ground as they stumbled along. The chains that joined them clinked and rattled.

  James wiped the sweat from his forehead with a sleeve. ‘Reclamation gang,’ he muttered over his shoulder. ‘You can tell. See how dusty they are.’

  He was right: they looked as if they’d been pelted with flour. A grimy cloud swirled about their feet, and an acid smell rose from their slack bodies. As Clara watched, one of the men in the line sagged to his knees. With a train of curses, a guard gave him a truncheon-crack across the head. Two of the other prisoners hauled him up, and the line staggered on. Soon they had passed into the next street and a Repseg waved James on, giving Clara a brief nod before disappearing after the others.

  ‘Poor bleeders,’ said James, watching them. ‘The papers are always telling us, aren’t they, how great the Republic is, because there aren’t so many executions nowadays. Well, I reckon that’s just because people get put in rec-gangs instead. And that kills ’em inside a few months, sure as any noose.’

  The gang had hung their dust in the air, and Clara began to cough. James passed her a clean handkerchief.

  ‘Do they teach you about rec-gangs at the Academy, Miss Clara?’ James said when she’d wiped her mouth. ‘All these tower blocks round here, there’s so much steel in ’em. And these gangs – what they’ve done wrong, I don’t know, but they have to go and take those buildings down with nothing but their hands and a hammer. They just bash away at the concrete, no matter how high they have to go. Hundreds of feet up, some of ’em. And if you don’t fall to your death, or get hit by a lump of concrete, the dust gets you in the end.’

  ‘The dust?’

  ‘Fills your lungs up, till you can’t breathe anymore.’

  For a moment Clara wondered what it must be like for that sad chain of people, to be on the lingering road to death. Then she shook her head. This was just a servant talking – and a man, at that. ‘Yes, well,’ she said briskly. ‘Of course we’ve learned about reclamation. We need iron and steel, don’t we? Men dug every last bit out of the ground, so we have to re-use what we’ve already got. But nowadays we use it properly. Ms Carrow says we’re not so wasteful as to use it in buildings now, like men did.’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘And she says, it’s such a difficult job that you wouldn’t want to give it to honest working women. Or even servants. The criminals have to do it, so they can pay society back. That’s why it is, James. You wouldn’t like to do it, would you?’

  James sighed. ‘If you say so, Miss. Hang on, there’s a bit of a hole here …’ He guided Alf forward, easing the cart into a ditch where a crack in the ancient tarmac had been left to worsen, then out again. The wheels groaned, and Clara felt the wooden seat smacking into her backside. Her teeth jarred, and she tried not to cry out.

  ‘James,’ she said, looking back, ‘wasn’t there enough room for us to get around that hole? There definitely seems to be some level ground over there.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Miss,’ said James. ‘D’you want me to go back and try again?’

  Clara bit her lip. She was positive that James had driven through that hole just to jolt her about, for disagreeing with him. I can take it, she told herself. I’m going to be a Truth Sister. I’m better than these people and soon I’ll prove it. I will.

  James squinted up towards the sky. ‘Feel that wind,’ he said.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Clara, pulling out a sheet of flimsy paper from under the seat. ‘Oh! It’s The Republican Woman. You’ve got Mother a newspaper.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. She lets me do that now and again. You know, trusts me with money and that.’

  Clara smoothed out the sheet on her lap. The cart still rocked and swayed over the broken road.

  ‘Not much in there, I’m afraid,’ said James over his shoulder. ‘To read that stuff, you’d think everything was fine with the Republic. It claims we’re winning the war with Milland. I wouldn’t know about that, but if we’re doing so well, why’s it still going on? And there’s not one word about the food shortages. Or the Dutch pirates.’

  ‘Pirates?’

  ‘It’s common knowledge. About two weeks ago, some of the Tilbury trawlers ran into trouble. Dutch captured two, took all their catch. Put the crew out in boats, off Dogger Bank. But the paper says nothing. Still, that’s the way it is these days. We’re not told anything.’

  Clara peered at the sheet. ‘It says something about the Knowledge Project.’

  ‘Yeah, but if you read it, you’ll see it says exactly nothing. Nothing that’s new, anyhow.’

  ‘It’s too dark, James – I can only just see the headlines. Mother lets you read her paper then?’

  ‘Oh, ah, yes. Great woman, your Mother. Hold on again.’ This time the obstacle was a pile of spilt rubble; and this time Clara had to admit that James did pick his way skilfully around it.

  ‘Oh, one thing it does say,’ he went on. ‘Did you know the All Mother died?’

  ‘What, Mater Tilia? Had she been ill?’

  ‘Not that I know of. But then again, I wouldn’t. Only being a servant, and that. “All Mother”, that’s another new thing. They used to call ’em “Prime Ministers” when I was little.’

  They drove on, along dusty roads where spindly bushes had forced their roots through the pavements. The cart-lamps picked out the Republican slogans painted on the tenement walls in big white letters: Workers for Womankind; Sisterhood and Strength; and, further on: Save us from Evil Men. A couple of women stared at them from a street-corner. Briefly the wind dropped, and Clara looked around.

  ‘I can hear voices again,’ she said. ‘Is that another reclamation gang?’

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ said James.

  ‘How long till we get to the bridge?’

  ‘Not far now. Just a couple more streets.’

  ‘James, you know we were talking about purity?’

  ‘Yes, Miss?’

  ‘What if someone’s not Pureclone? Can they be good, too?’

  ‘Of course they can,’ answered James shortly. ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Clara. ‘Just this girl, at the Academy. She, er, turned out to have a forged Authentication.’

  James turned his head. ‘Who?’ he said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was a friend of mine – and they’re having an enquiry.’

  ‘Oh,’ said James. He cleared his throat. ‘How did they find out?’

  Clara wasn’t going to answer that one. ‘It’s horrid to think she might have been a Natural all this time,’ she went on, ‘and we never knew it.’

  They crossed a large intersection into a wider street. Here there were more women around, hurrying along with bags, rucksacks and cases. Most carried lanterns. A cart passed them in the opposite direction, and James gave the driver a brief nod.

  ‘I mean,’ Clara went on, ‘we don’t know for sure. But if she’s Pureclone, why would she have a forged Authentication?’

  James wiped his brow. ‘So she’s a Natural, and you never knew?’

  Clara shook her head. ‘That’s right. She was my friend, and I never knew. She’s deceived us all. I wonder what they’ll do to her?’

  ‘The Republic does a lot of things, if you step out of line,’ said James. ‘People get sent on rec-gangs, others get exiled. Some disappear.’

  ‘Disappear?’

  ‘Hold on,’ said James, reining Alf back to a walk. ‘What’s this?’

  Clara stared. Blazing electric lamps lit up the wide approach to London Bridge, where four of the old roads met. She squinted into the light, holding on to her cloak as the wind tugged at her hair. In front, another cart and a taxi cab had stopped
, their horses stamping and snorting, while further ahead, several wooden barricades had been erected. Red-and-white barrier poles closed the roads. Clara could see a dozen armed Repsegs hurrying to and fro, with Alsatians panting on short leashes.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ she whispered. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Just stay calm, Miss Clara,’ said James. ‘We’ll be all right.’

  Clara knew that when people tell you to stay calm, there’s usually a good reason to panic. Now she could hear more sounds tossed on the wind: a gaggle of voices, a tinkle that might be breaking glass. ‘What’s happening?’ she said. ‘Is it a road block? What are those Repsegs doing?’

  James didn’t answer.

  Someone shouted an order, and one of the barriers was raised. The first cart lumbered forward onto the bridge, but the noises were getting closer. ‘More light here!’ cried one of the officers. An electric spot-lamp was aimed at the dark opening of one of the side-streets; but as yet, nothing emerged except noise.

  One of the passengers in the taxi cab was leaning out, arguing with a guard. ‘I don’t carry my papers around everywhere, officer,’ she was saying. ‘You know that robbers operate in these parts. Now if you Repsegs would keep the streets safer …’

  A slim woman strode up the line; her uniform bore the three stars of a sergeant. After a brief argument, the passenger settled back in her seat, grumbling, and the sergeant passed along to Clara’s cart. The shouting was now mixed with metallic clangs and deep thuds. Apart from the sergeant, everyone was watching the side-street. Two more carts pulled up behind them, the drivers craning their necks and demanding to know what was going on.

  ‘Excuse me, officer,’ began James, ‘my mistress here wants to know what’s happening.’

  The sergeant gave James a hard stare, but came round to the side of the cart and addressed Clara. ‘Good evening, Miss,’ she said. ‘Can I see your papers – and your man’s?’

  ‘Oh!’ said Clara. ‘Er, yes, they’re in … that is … I can’t remember–’ James thrust a bundle of papers under the officer’s nose.

  The sergeant raised an eyebrow, but took the papers and examined them by the cart’s lamplight. Although Clara’s heart was thumping, she was interested. She watched the grey eyes scanning the paperwork and felt a vague respect for this efficient, confident woman. Maybe being a Truth Sister wasn’t so great after all. ‘Will there be a riot?’ she asked.

  The sergeant handed the papers to Clara, and grinned. ‘Yes,’ she said simply, ‘there will. I see you’re from the Academy, Miss Perdue? Very good. Ms Butcher still there? I’ve done some work for her before. Went to Fortis College myself – you know, the security training school.’ Then she waved at the spot-lit street. ‘This is just a bit of routine trouble. Subsocials in the East End claiming they’ve got no food, wanting to get at the Provis Depot across the river. All nonsense, of course – they’ve got the Welfare Shops, haven’t they? But half of them are probably Naturals, so what d’you expect? It only takes a few troublemakers from the Underground – and of course there’s men in there – to make the mischief.’ She took off her cap and wiped sweat from her forehead. ‘Nothing we can’t handle, though.’

  ‘Will we be all right?’ asked Clara.

  Just then, with a cry of ‘Move on, then,’ the barrier was raised and the cab in front began to rattle forward. The sounds of tramping feet were getting nearer, and Clara could see the remaining Repsegs standing alert, eyes fixed on Monument Street. From its mouth, a cloud of dust and vapour edged into the light. The dogs began to bark.

  The sergeant leaned forward, listening. ‘Right,’ she snapped to James, ‘move on. Over the bridge, go.’ Then she called to the drivers behind them, ‘You too – never mind your papers – get moving. Caddon, there, keep the barrier up – no, keep it up. All officers to the barricades – knives ready.’

  Swiftly, the officers formed a line inside the fence. James goaded Alf into a trot, and Clara hung on against the sudden jolting. Before they got far, the noise broke upon them like a wave. A crowd surged out of Monument Street and made straight for the barricades: ragged women and unshaven men, grubby young thugs and bent old crones blinking in the searchlight, all of them shouting and screaming. ‘Food! Food! We got no food! We’re gonna starve!’

  A woman held up her baby. ‘We need medicines!’ she shouted. ‘She’s dying before my eyes.’

  ‘When you gonna turn the water back on?’ shouted another. ‘It’s been off for a week – we’re having to drink the ruddy river.’

  The sergeant held up her hands for silence. ‘This is an illegal gathering,’ she cried, her voice shrill and strong. ‘If you’ve got complaints, make them through the proper channels. I’m giving you one minute to disperse. One minute.’

  There was a general mutter as the sergeant’s words were passed back through the crowd; and a pause, as if a great breath were being drawn. With a shout, they surged forward. Clara, now only feet away from the fences, could see everything. There was anger and pain in every face: staring eyes in sunken sockets, browned teeth in twisted mouths. She could smell their sweat, their desperation. ‘Food,’ they chanted. ‘Give us food.’ A man yelled something about the Barrier – ‘It won’t last another winter’ – and a woman was cursing the Republic with all the words she knew. ‘Bloody Clones!’ she screeched. ‘They ain’t human! Let’s get rid of ’em!’

  The crowd thudded into the barricades and began shaking them, beating with their fists. A cloud of dust rose up; Clara cried out as James cracked the whip to make Alf go faster. Some of the rioters tried to climb over, and the wooden panels began to sag. The guards leapt forward and attacked, stabbing and beating. The dogs growled and barked. Cries rang out as the crowd fell back, and Clara clapped a hand to her mouth as one woman fell to the ground, screaming and clutching a bloody stump of wrist. Turning her face away, Clara caught a glimpse of three figures huddled in a doorway: a woman and a man, hugging a small child between them. Tightly they held, so tight; and Clara could see the way their eyes locked and held, the way they caressed and cosseted the child, behind the yelling mob. What on earth were they doing there?

  James had got the cart on the approach to the bridge, and Clara was beginning to think they’d escaped. Then, with a snap and a crash, one of the barricades collapsed. Fifty of the mob raged over the splintered remains and ran for the bridge. A woman with tattered white hair and sinewy arms came straight at Clara, brandishing a nail-studded club. Their eyes met and Clara screamed. James turned, shouted, put his arms over her; but the blow never fell. The sergeant had appeared from nowhere and knocked their assailant to the ground, where she fell senseless.

  ‘Get down,’ cried the sergeant, stepping over the body. ‘They’re throwing bricks!’

  James grabbed Clara and lifted her down behind the cart. There was a deep thud as something landed in the foot-well, and she crouched lower. She could hear herself crying. James leapt up and grabbed Alf’s reins, trying to soothe the horse and keep out of sight at the same time. Bricks and pieces of glass were falling all around, and the shouts were getting louder as the Repsegs beat the rioters back. The dogs were loosed.

  ‘Attention,’ came a voice. Clara peered over the cart’s wheels and saw that the sergeant now had a loud-hailer. ‘This crowd is to disperse, now,’ she called. ‘This is your final warning.’

  The shouts and curses grew louder still, and more missiles fell. A half-brick rolled under the cart against Clara’s foot. With a grunt, James dropped down beside her.

  ‘I warn you,’ went on the sergeant. ‘We have loaded guns here, and we will–’ she broke off and staggered back, dropping the hailer. A chunk of masonry had struck her on the neck, and Clara gasped, expecting her to fall senseless, or dead. But the sergeant simply shook herself, and retrieved the hailer. ‘I’ll take that as a “no”.’ She gave a brief nod, and Clara had to thrust her palms over her ears as the air was filled with explosions. James pushed her down, and Clara was conscious o
f a rain of detonations as the Repsegs fired into the crowd. The air was full of the smell of burning metal.

  The shooting stopped, and Clara realised she was whimpering. James panted and cursed under his breath. As the echoes died away, there was a scream – no words, just a drawn-out, wailing yell. Another gunshot, and the screams ended.

  James peered out from under the cart, then gingerly raised himself to look over. Clara discovered she’d been holding tightly onto his arm. Quickly she released it before drawing herself up beside him. Gun smoke was eddying away on the wind, and the Repsegs were gathered around something on the ground. In one of the carts behind, someone was sobbing. But what held Clara’s gaze was the devastation beyond the smashed barricades. Bricks, stones and wood covered the ground, and broken glass glittered like spilt salt. One of the police dogs lay limp, a long knife buried in its flank; but everywhere lay the bodies of rioters, the cruel spotlight picking out the dark stains that spread from them. The three people in the doorway had fallen together, the child under its mother, a toy dog lying nearby. Clara wanted to bury her face in James’ chest, but she couldn’t do that, so she turned away. James steadied himself on the cart.

  There was a groan, and the little knot of officers parted as the thing on the ground got to its feet. It was the sergeant, and she came towards them, rubbing her neck.

  ‘Whew,’ she spluttered. ‘That was warm. Still, I hope you’re all safe? You on the back cart – you all right?’

  Clara remembered her manners. ‘You … you saved my life,’ she said. ‘I thought that woman was going to kill me.’

  ‘Yes,’ James said hoarsely. ‘You did, you saved her. Thank you.’

  The sergeant frowned. ‘Your servant seems to be grateful,’ she said, rubbing her neck again. ‘I hope he’s not too familiar with you? You got far to go?’

  ‘Why, no,’ said Clara. ‘He – I trust him completely.’