by Phil Gilvin
Butcher noticed. ‘Modern technology,’ she said, nodding. ‘Or I should say, reclaimed technology. Fruits of the Knowledge Project. No need to rely on people’s bad handwriting anymore – and they’ve even found out how to make carbon copies!’
Clara didn’t know what a carbon copy was, but she was too bewildered to ask. After following in Butcher’s wake through another office and back into another corridor, she was relieved to find that they’d actually arrived somewhere. She slumped down in the nearest chair. It was low and upholstered, and she gratefully allowed it to swallow her. She was hot and weary; Butcher was talking too fast, and Clara had no idea what she was letting herself in for. But one thing kept coming back to her: she’d arrived. She’d found somewhere to put her bags, and tonight she’d have a room of her own. At least for the time being.
Harriet Butcher had bustled off and returned with two mugs of steaming tea; and Clara, having wondered why she should want boiling liquid inside her on a boiling day, was gratefully sitting with her hands wrapped around one. The drink was refreshing her, and Butcher had flung open a huge window. Up here on the second floor there was a little breeze, though the buildings opposite glared unbearably bright in the late afternoon sun. Mosquitoes whined around the ceiling.
Butcher, now settled behind a battered wooden desk, gestured with her mug. ‘So, Clara,’ she said. ‘What do you know about the Knowledge Project?’
To Clara’s strained nerves, it felt like a test, an interrogation. For a moment she couldn’t remember which things she was supposed to know, and which she wasn’t. But then she recalled her lessons at the Academy, in what seemed like a different life – this was something they’d been taught, so it was all right to answer. She tried to sit a little straighter in her chair, but the thing just sagged lower.
‘Well,’ she began, ‘it’s important …’ Concentrate, she told herself. ‘We have to recover the Old Knowledge. Men had grown so careless that they stored everything on computers, so when the energy ran out, all that was left was books.’
‘Go on.’ A fly had settled on Butcher’s ear, and she hadn’t noticed.
‘So, because men had let us forget the old knowledge – like, er, how to make candles – we’re having to read all the books to find out. And then we can make new things, like those typewriters.’
Butcher nodded, and slurped her tea. ‘Exactly. Anything else?’
Clara frowned. ‘I can’t think of anything …’
‘No, I suppose not. Unless you were lucky enough to get a job here, you wouldn’t need to know any more than that.’
‘And I need to know more now?’
‘Oh, yes. Certainly. But I’ll just tell you the most important things today. The rest will come later.’
Clara let the chair swallow her again.
‘The first thing,’ Butcher said, making the points on her pudgy fingers, ‘is that not all of the Old Knowledge is good. As you know, it’s because of men that the world is in such a mess. That’s why the planet warmed, that’s why the plagues came. So it follows that they didn’t use their knowledge properly. Some of the things that men learned are best forgotten, you see? Or else when we make our own new world, we’ll be no better off.’
Clara felt her eyelids drooping. The hum of the mosquitoes was sending her to sleep.
‘So as you go through the books and papers, you’ll have to make decisions about what to keep, and what to throw away.’
‘On my own?’
‘Not at first. There’ll be women you can ask. But as a Truth Sister, you have the knowledge and understanding to learn.’
‘Oh. Is there anything else?’
‘Yes. You’ll find some things that will shock you. Things that men used to get up to, and, I regret to say, some that women did, too. You mustn’t be afraid, but tell your collator, and something will be done about it.
‘And the last thing is, look out for anything – anything at all – that might help with cloning. It’s imperative that we keep it going, so that we can stay pure. Women are the pinnacle of evolution, and we have to keep it that way.’
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Clara mumbled.
‘I’m sorry, my dear. You’re tired. And do call me Harriet.’
‘Thank you – I – I’ll try to remember.’
Butcher smiled. ‘Do you know, Clara, I’m so glad you’ve come. I just know we’re going to be friends.’ She looked into Clara’s face. ‘Now come along. I think this particular pinnacle of evolution needs a rest. Let’s go and see what Martina’s found for you.’
Clara nodded and allowed herself to be led downstairs. Tomorrow she’d have to try to find her way round this warren; but for now she was grateful to have Harriet Butcher around. A familiar face in a hostile world – even though Harriet was one more person to keep the secret from.
Clutching the directions Martina had written out, Clara made her way towards Pimlico, stopping every hundred yards to swap her suitcases over and ease her arms. The dry season was advancing, and those drains that were still in use sent gorge-choking fumes from every grid and cover. Near Belgrave Street she found a long, rusty wire fence sagging from concrete posts and enclosing one whole side of the road, as well as the streets beyond. Closed Area, read the sign. Trespassers Will Be Executed. She stared for a moment. After the population crashed, there was less money to maintain the roads, the drains, the pipes. Across all of Anglia whole neighbourhoods, whole villages, had been deserted and allowed to rot. At first, people had been allowed to go freely into the abandoned streets, but soon those places became a magnet for criminal gangs, and the government sealed them all off. But more effective than the fences was the threat of summary execution for anyone found in a Closed Area. Some said that dead bodies littered the streets; but Clara couldn’t see any. She gave a start as something moved in the distant shadows, but she shook her head and smiled as the fox took fright and scampered off.
She found the address, an imposing, porticoed place of dark brick with three storeys and tall windows sitting opposite a dejected red-brick block. Rising in the next street was the spire of a Provis Depot: at least she’d be able to get food easily. After a moment’s hesitation, she pushed open the front door. The hallway was bare, concrete-floored and white-walled, the staircase was narrow, and there was no lift. By the time Clara reached the second floor, she was panting and sweat was running down her face. Chewing the inside of her lip, Clara knocked on the door of flat number eight. It was a minute before she heard a chain being loosened, and a bolt drawn. Then the door opened, and Clara’s mouth dropped open.
The dark hair had been cut short, and had lost its sheen; the olive skin was paler; and there was a droop to the shoulders that hadn’t been there before. But Clara wasn’t mistaken. ‘Bella!’ she gasped.
‘Oh!’ said Bella. They stood for a moment regarding each other.
‘Um, I’ve started work early,’ said Clara. ‘They – they gave me this address.’
Bella tutted. ‘They would,’ and carried on staring.
After a minute, Clara couldn’t take it anymore. ‘Look, can I come in?’
Bella inclined her head, and stood back to let Clara pass.
As she struggled into the narrow hall, her suitcases scraping on the walls, Clara said, ‘I know you said you didn’t want to see me again–’
‘That’s right. After what you did to Amy …’
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry, all right? But there’s no time to find anywhere else tonight. I promise – tomorrow I’ll ask Martina to find me somewhere else. Then you can get rid of me. Till then, I’ll keep out of your way.’
‘Who’s Martina?’
‘Oh. Receptionist. Ministry of Knowledge.’
‘Ah, you’re there, are you? Shows what a first can get you.’
‘Don’t be silly, you got a first too–’
‘Yes, but I didn’t have to betray anyone to get mine.’
Clara leant back against the wall, fighting back tears.
Afte
r a moment Bella said, ‘You can have the spare room, behind you.’ She gestured towards a doorway then led the way down the hall, pointing things out as she went. ‘Lounge. Loo. Kitchen. And don’t touch any of my stuff. Especially not my spring water,’ she added, indicating two crates of bottles.
‘Can I have a key?’ said Clara.
Bella shrugged and opened a drawer, then handed Clara a pair of keys. ‘This one’s the front door, this one’s the flat. Front door stays on the latch till dark. Woman in flat one sees to it.’
‘Right,’ said Clara, and bundled the luggage into her room. Then she made for the front door.
‘You’re going out?’ said Bella.
‘I think I’d better,’ said Clara. ‘Don’t you?’
Bella frowned. ‘But it’ll be dark soon.’
Clara opened the front door. ‘I’ll find some food. Should still be some shops open.’
‘Clara?’
‘What now?’
‘You’ll need your badge for work. Truth Sisters have to wear them.’
‘Just leave me alone,’ said Clara, pointing a finger. Then she realised what Bella had said. ‘Oh. Yes, thanks. Er, have you got any thread?’
‘I’ll leave it in your room. And I’ll clear my paintings out for you.’
Clara left.
Later that evening, Clara dried her tears and hauled herself off the bed. On the low dresser – one of a very few items of furniture – lay a plate with the remains of a cheese sandwich and an empty glass. The tap water, obtained at the risk of a venture to the kitchen, had tasted sugary. Rummaging in her bag, she found the Truth Sister badge: her very own. She studied the design. The book, for recording knowledge, and the compasses, for mapping the land. She liked it. Maybe with this, she thought, I can carry on pretending. Then maybe, after a while, it won’t matter. Maybe I’ll get away with it.
Get away with it – yes, that was what she had to do. First, she had to get out of the flat. Already Bella had talked about Amy, so it wouldn’t be long before the subject of Naturals came up again. And although it still hurt that Bella’s friendship had turned to hatred, at least it made things more straightforward: Bella would have to be regarded as an enemy. After that, all Clara had to do was carry on lying to everyone she met, and pretending she was someone she wasn’t. That was all.
A surge of loneliness took her. Here she was, back in London but without a friend in the world; and now she had no home to run to. Unbidden, Sophia’s face came before her eyes: her mother’s dear, familiar face. But a weak face, Clara thought. Yes, that was it: her mother wasn’t evil, only weak. James, just like a man, had led her astray. Sophia had said that Clones weren’t normal, and that cloning was finished.
‘We’ll see about that.’ Clara said it out loud, the words flat and deadened in the tiny bedroom. She nodded. She’d seen it for herself: if you have Naturals, you give power back to men, and you get trouble. Look at what’s happened to me, she thought. So we’ve got to make cloning work. We must. And, even if I’m not a proper Truth Sister, I can help to make sure things are better.
With that thought, and to keep herself busy, she set to sewing the badge onto her tunic with Bella’s needle and thread. But the needle was blunt and the cloth was tough, so that almost at once, she stabbed her thumb. Drops of blood fell onto the precious badge. It took another hour to clean them off, sew the badge on, take it off again because it wasn’t straight, and sew it on once more. Even then, she thought she could see two little brown marks on one of the book’s pages.
Blinking, Clara padded to the window, pushed back the mosquito screen, and leaned out. Along the street, the old lamp-posts had not yet been removed. They stood in a long row, like sentries, one of them right outside her window. As the summer darkness began to fall at last, Clara wondered what it would be like with the street lit, as it must have been down all those forgotten ages. Who would have needed those lights? Who would have been out on the streets at night? But she supposed if you could see where you were going, night-time wouldn’t be such a scary place. With a sigh, she rolled back onto the bed and tried not to think of all the things she’d lost.
There were shouts, and the sound of breaking glass. Clara blinked, then groped her way to the window. The night was heavy, warm, and black as a cave. More noises to her left – grunts, the sounds of scuffling. Running footsteps. Lights came on – electric torches, waved to and fro. A voice called out, ‘Stop! It’s the Guard! We’re armed. If you don’t stop–’ Then more footsteps from the right, a man’s voice, then another Repseg shouting: ‘Got him! Get some light down here.’ The torches picked out shapes, fifteen yards up the street. There was movement, the sounds of hard hitting soft; cries, a liquid gurgle. Thud, thud, thud; vomiting, cut short. The lights revealed a dark shape on the ground. A torch was waved at the houses, and Clara ducked down. Further up the street, someone threw open a window. ‘What’s going on?’ they called.
‘Republican Guards, Ma’am,’ came the reply. ‘Apprehending another terrorist. No cause for alarm.’
The householder said something that Clara couldn’t hear.
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ the Repseg answered. ‘Underground scum. Just a man. No, Ma’am, no more. Won’t disturb you again. Goodnight, Ma’am.’
As soon as the window was closed, the Repsegs gave the man a few more kicks. Clara heard their laughter fading away down the street.
There was a freshness in the air as Clara made her way along Millbank the next morning. She’d left the flat early to avoid Bella, but already the embankment was busy with women on their way to work, mostly going the same way as Clara. She kept close to the parapet, avoiding people’s eyes and now and again glancing behind to see if the Repsegs fancied “apprehending another terrorist”. To her left were the ruins of the old Millbank Tower, its broken carcass and hollow windows staring out on the new day. The rec-gang were already at work, and the occasional crash could be heard as masonry fell.
Once she’d passed the Lambeth Bridge checkpoint, Clara allowed herself to breathe out. Surprisingly, she’d managed a few hours’ sleep during the night, and she felt a little stronger. The sounds of the Repsegs arresting the Natural (Clara had convinced herself that that’s what his crime had been) had haunted her dreams, but had to look hard to find a small patch of dried vomit. It was difficult now to believe it had happened at all.
Beyond the bridge was a little park. It looked nice and secluded, she told herself. She could cut through there, then keep to the back streets until she got to Whitehall. The fewer people she met, the better. Then two women, talking in low voices, came to lean against the parapet a few yards away. One of them was staring at her. Clara turned and hurried off, trying to lose herself in the throng.
‘So, Clara, how has your morning been?’
To Clara’s great relief, Harriet Butcher had sought her out for a mid-morning break. The morning was hot, and a stale smell percolated down Whitehall from the river. Clara’s tea was thinner today, and there was no milk; but it was still welcome.
‘All right, thank you Ma’am – I mean, Harriet. The collator gave me some papers to look through. She’s very busy today, she said, so she hasn’t been able to help much.’
Butcher was looking out of the window. ‘Mm,’ she said. ‘Journal of Cloning, I suppose.’
‘No, I’ve been looking through some old papers by Emmeline Anger.’
‘Who? Never heard of her.’
‘It’s boxes and boxes of handwritten notes. She was a researcher at a university, but apparently she committed suicide before she could finish her work. So they want to know what she was up to. Oh! And I found some Journals of Computing.’
‘I wouldn’t waste too much effort on computers,’ said Butcher. ‘Men became dependent on them. Never forget that.’
‘No, of course,’ said Clara. Butcher the teacher had returned, she thought – so she wasn’t surprised when Butcher said, ‘I wonder how they’re doing at the Academy?’
The Academy.
How long ago was that? Not even three months. Clara had been just another pupil, nervous about her exams. And now – well, how things had changed.
Something in Butcher’s tone tore her thoughts back to the present. Her old headmistress was staring blankly out at the blue sky and scowling. Clara had never, even when the girls had been on their worst behaviour, seen Butcher’s jaw so hard-set.
‘Harriet?’ she said quietly.
The scowl vanished, the blandness returned. ‘I’m sorry. I was miles away. More tea?’
Clara held out her cup, but Butcher broke in: ‘I see you’ve sewn on your Truth Sister badge. That’s good – now everyone can see that you’re one of us. You’ll find about a third of the staff here are Truth Sisters – and all of the management. We’re the only ones allowed to wear white, of course.’
‘Yes, Ma’am, thank you,’ said Clara, trying to smile. ‘I … I’m very proud.’
‘And so you should be, Clara. All those years of effort you put in at the Academy. Your mother must be proud, too.’
‘Yes, yes. Thank you.’ Clara wondered if Butcher could tell just how false her smile was.
She changed the subject, as Butcher poured the tea. ‘Harriet,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I’ve been put in a flat with Bella – Isabella Karah–’
‘Well that’s good, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Clara with a sigh. ‘We’ve had … a falling-out.’ She could have added that Bella disapproved of Clara’s correct and entirely justified betrayal of Amy, and that it was therefore Bella who was at fault; but with things as they were, she thought that would be a bad idea.
‘And you want to move? Oh dear, that can be tricky. Have a word with Martina, but it’ll have to be approved by the accommodation team. Might take a while.’