by Phil Gilvin
Clara felt herself relaxing. Here was a Prime Sister confiding in her, asking for her help. Oh, if it could always be so easy.
‘Please, Ma’am,’ she said, hesitating. ‘What happened to Amy Martin?’
Hedera shrugged. ‘The girl at the Academy? Well, the revertant mother was the real criminal. She was sent to a reclamation gang.’
‘And, Ma’am – Amy?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not relevant. You mustn’t show too much interest in Naturals. How can you keep pure if you do?’
Clara’s heart thumped. Had she gone too far? Better change the subject. ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ she said. ‘Er, what about Genetics – Geemos? Are they as bad?’
From the speed at which the silence fell, Clara knew she shouldn’t have said it; but why it was wrong, she didn’t know.
Hedera fixed her eyes on her. ‘Why do you ask?’ she said slowly.
‘Oh,’ said Clara, as innocently as she could, ‘Ms Carrow taught us about them. She said they were disastrous, another work of men.’
‘Well, you won’t hear of any nowadays,’ the old woman snapped. ‘Those abominations ended years ago. You know what Ms Teacher said: we women are the pinnacle of evolution, and we must keep pure. Say it after me.’
Clara did, fervently.
‘What put such a thought into your head, child?’
‘Nothing, Ma’am,’ said Clara, swallowing. ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am.’
‘Let me be clear. Women are the pinnacle of evolution, are they not? So why should this glorious Republic want to meddle with that? Why should we try to improve on perfection? I’ll say it again,’ she said, stamping one of her sticks on the carpet, ‘genetic modification does not happen. We are pure.’ She breathed out. ‘No, girl. It’s Naturals that are the problem. Naturals, and of course the Underground. And those peddlers of superstition, those idiots who cling to the old religions.’ She chuckled. ‘You’ll remember your old teacher, Medea Carrow?’
‘Y-yes, Ma’am–’
‘She has a new job, too. She’s hunting down Naturals.’
Clara’s heart skipped a beat; but the old woman continued: ‘She’s surprisingly – how shall I put it? Surprisingly zealous about stamping them out. Well, I’ve added religion to her duties, too. There’s one particularly pernicious priest, up near Oxford, who I really need to take care of. Your friend Medea is going to do that for me.’
Clara let out a breath. If Carrow was hunting Naturals, it was better that she do it somewhere else. ‘Is the priest trying to brainwash people?’ she asked, recalling her lessons.
Hedera’s lip quivered. ‘No. That is, yes, I’m sure she is. But there’s another reason. Anyway, that’s not your business, Ms Perdue.’ She shook herself. ‘All I’m saying is that you should take your lead from Harriet and Medea. This is what being a Truth Sister means, girl. You need to help the Republic in any way you can, and do whatever is asked of you. Follow their good example, and we’ll soon be rid of religionists, of criminals – and most of all of Naturals. By the Teacher, child, I feel dirty just talking about them. Bring me that water again, before you go.’
Clara hurried to fetch the bowl. Soon, it seemed, Clara could find herself hunting Naturals. And at once she knew that she couldn’t do it. How could she “stamp out” Naturals – like Amy, or Sophia and even James – when she was a Natural herself? She placed the bowl on the desk and stood back, trying to conceal her trembling.
‘Well, Clara Perdue, get you gone,’ said Hedera, with a sigh. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again.’
As Clara carefully closed the door, she heard the drip of scented water behind her. Then she ran to the toilet.
Clara had settled into a routine that meant leaving work late, so that Bella would have finished in the kitchen by the time she got back to the flat. But this evening Clara felt drained. She’d spent the whole day fearing that they’d found her out, and she felt almost as exhausted as if they had. She had to get some food inside her, and there was a half-finished pot of stew that would take five minutes to heat up and even less time to eat. She’d leave early, and Bella would just have to share the kitchen for once.
But Bella wasn’t there. Except for a crate of her precious spring-water bottles, all empty, the kitchen was tidy and unused. Relieved, Clara guzzled some tap-water before turning her attention to the stew. When she’d shovelled it down she mopped out the pan with a crust of bread, then went to change while she waited for the kettle to boil. Then she heard a groan.
Pushing open the lounge door, she saw Bella stretched out on the saggy couch, with a blanket thrown over her. Rimy eyes blinked at her from a puffy red face. Next to the bed was a bucket.
‘You needn’t worry,’ croaked Bella. ‘I’ve emptied it.’
Clara frowned. ‘You look bad.’
‘Stomach. Happens sometimes.’
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘I don’t want your help, all right?’
Clara put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, there’s no-one else, Bella. You need to drink something.’
‘Not water,’ said Bella. ‘Boil it first. Tea or something. Boil it for five minutes.’ She passed an arm over her forehead. ‘I’ll go to the doctor’s tomorrow.’
‘Is it much further?’ asked Clara. Bella had been leaning heavily on her arm for almost two miles.
‘N-nearly there,’ said Bella. She was hunched in a thick cloak, her eyes cast down, her breath quick and shallow. ‘Mother’s old doctor. She knows me.’
They turned into a row of plain, two-up-two-down houses where bins overflowed onto the pavements. Dodging broken glass and dog excrement, Clara guided Bella to the third house down and rang the bell. Inside, the surgery belied its shabby exterior: all was tidy and clean, the waiting-room was bright and comfortable, and the receptionist was helpful. ‘There’s a half-an-hour wait,’ she said, ‘but that’s not too bad for a Thursday.’
Bella slumped down into a chair and Clara took the chance to flex her arm and shoulder. She gave a large yawn. Putting Bella to bed last night had convinced Clara that she’d need help to get to the doctor’s, and Bella had been too ill to argue. Then Clara had slept badly, even though Bella hadn’t disturbed her again. And she’d had to get up early, too.
‘Dr Daniels used to be our doctor,’ said Bella, ‘when we lived in Bromley’. Her voice sounded raw, Clara noticed, but she was shivering less. ‘Then Mother moved down to the coast and Dr Daniels came here. It’s the pits, isn’t it?’
Dr Daniels was a dark-skinned woman with dimpled cheeks and a broad smile. Bella introduced them, then Clara sat by as the doctor gave Bella a quick examination. ‘Same old trouble, Ms Karah?’ she said.
Bella nodded. ‘Ran out of spring water. I was thirsty – thought one glass of tap water wouldn’t hurt. Well, I had a couple.’
The doctor shook her head. ‘The government have got to stop this. If it’s any consolation, Ms Karah, I’ve got other patients who have worse reactions than you. But you,’ she went on, pointing a finger, ‘you really must take more care.’ She turned to her desk and wrote. ‘Here’s a prescription. It’s the usual stuff – should settle you down in a few days. Take that, and make sure you don’t drink straight from the tap. Get hold of some spring water today.’
‘Not sure I can get there. I could take a cab, I suppose.’
The doctor nodded at Clara. ‘Can your friend help?’
‘Oh!’ said Bella. ‘Well, she’s not really–’
‘I’d be happy to,’ said Clara. ‘I went to the messenger office earlier – they’re not expecting me at work today.’
‘What was all that about?’ asked Clara as they made their way back past Battersea Park.
‘What?’ said Bella.
‘About the government. And tap water, and spring water?’
Bella glanced at Clara. ‘Dr Daniels thinks there’s something the government are putting in the water, that some people have a bad reaction to. Like me. Spring water hasn’t got that something,
whatever it is.’
‘So how come the rest of us aren’t affected?’
‘She doesn’t know. But she reckons she’s seeing a lot of cases, and the trick with spring water seems to work every time. The medicine’s just to settle me.’
Clara wasn’t convinced, but she said: ‘What about boiling the water?’
‘That works a bit, apparently.’
They called at the chemist’s shop, then Clara spent the afternoon taking a cab to Perivale and back, returning with three crates of bottled water that she had to carry one-by-one up the staircase. At least Bella had paid for the cab fare, and at least she’d thanked Clara. It was a start.
‘Harriet,’ said Clara, holding a handkerchief to her mouth, ‘where’s all this dust coming from?’
They were hurrying along the Euston Road a few days later, and the wind-blown particles were settling in an ever-thicker blanket. ‘We’ve had dust-winds before,’ she went on, ‘but this is worse than smoke. Is it from a reclamation site?’
Butcher spared Clara a glance. ‘No, not this time,’ she puffed. ‘This stuff is everywhere.’
‘Yes. The sun looked so red this morning. But if it’s not from a reclamation site, where is it from?’
They stepped aside as a woman came towards them, coughing. ‘This is where the Knowledge Project helps, you see,’ said Butcher. ‘We’ve discovered that it’s from a volcano.’
‘But there are no volcanoes in Britain.’
Butcher had to slow down in order to talk. ‘Some eruptions are so big,’ she panted, ‘the dust gets carried high in the air and blown all around the world. And of course, since men made climate change, eruptions happen much more often. Remember the dusty autumn we had five years ago? You’d have been in second year then, I suppose.’
‘Umm …’
‘Anyhow, I meant to ask – had any letters yet?’
Clara reddened. ‘Er, not yet,’ she said. ‘I expect they’re busy.’
‘I’m sorry for you,’ said Butcher. ‘No, really. Still, you’ve got a bit of company at work, eh?’ They emerged from the shelter of some plane trees. ‘Here we are. The Republic Library!’
Staring ahead, Clara saw an imposing building with ornate turrets and towers, pierced by many dark-eyed arches. She felt she ought to say something. ‘It’s very impressive,’ she began; but then noticed she’d left Butcher behind.
‘Here,’ called Butcher. She was standing at a small gateway in a thick wall. ‘That’s not it, Clara. It’s in here. Show your pass, now – tight security.’
Two Repsegs checked their passes and rummaged through their bags before letting them in. They passed through the gate.
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Clara. ‘It’s – it’s–’
‘Impressive?’ said Butcher, winking.
‘It’s beautiful!’ Clara gazed across the elegant courtyard to the red-bricked, grey-tiled library, its stately outlines softened by the dust-haze. A flag bearing the Horologe flew from a tall pole, and from a narrow tower a clock peeped down on them. To their left a plinth housed a great bronze statue. The figure was hunched forward, wielding a pair of compasses.
‘This is a library?’ gasped Clara. ‘How many books are there?’
Butcher smiled at Clara’s enthusiasm. ‘A few million,’ she said, ‘as far as we can tell. We believe there used to be more.’
‘Wow. And who’s that statue? Is it a man?’
‘No,’ said Butcher. ‘That’s Marie Curie. The mother of physics.’
Ahead of them, three Repsegs marched out of the main entrance. Clara saw they carried guns.
‘Yes,’ said Butcher, noticing, ‘plenty of security, as I said. ‘Do you remember your lessons on the energy crunch?’
‘Yes,’ said Clara. ‘When the Internet failed, books became our only hope.’
Butcher nodded. ‘Hence the security.’
‘And that wall – the one we came through?’
‘It’s new. Security too.’
‘I’m so looking forward to this,’ said Clara. ‘To be helping – to be doing something useful.’
Butcher seemed a little overcome. Clara thought she was about to pat her arm.
In the open, airy entrance hall they climbed white steps to a long desk, and gave their names to a thick-set woman with wire for hair. The woman looked up and down the columns of a heavy ledger for a minute. Then she glared at Clara. ‘You’re not listed,’ she said.
Clara felt her cheeks getting hot. ‘Not listed?’ she said in a small voice. She noticed the Repseg who’d been slouching on the end of the desk stand straighter.
Butcher came to the rescue. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Clara has a Letter of Introduction.’ Fishing in her bag, she produced a long brown envelope which she handed to the clerk. Clara leaned heavily on the desk, letting her own bag fall to the floor. The Repseg resumed her slouching.
‘Hm,’ the clerk boomed in a voice not entirely suited to a place of study. ‘Letter-head seems authentic. “This letter,”’ she read, ‘“grants the bearer standard right of access to your library. Please provide her with such assistance as is reasonable.”’ She glanced down at the signature and raised her eyebrows, then sniffed the paper. ‘Mater Hedera,’ she said, nodding. ‘You’re privileged, Ms Perdue,’ she went on, dipping her pen in the ink and writing in the ledger. ‘By all accounts, Mater Hedera won’t be doing mundane things like letters of introduction for much longer. Here – keep it as a souvenir.’
Harriet Butcher took Clara on a tour through quiet dark rooms and cool white spaces that echoed like heaven. Everywhere was clean and polished – not much of the volcanic dust had been allowed to find its way in – and the air smelled clean.
‘Standard access is all you’ll need for now,’ explained Butcher as they padded along a marble-floored balcony. ‘You can go everywhere in the library except the classified section. You have to get to my level before they let you in there. You can come to the library any time your work requires it – tell your collator beforehand – and of course you can’t take books out.’
Clara looked longingly at the rows and ranks before her. You could find a book on anything in here. And – what an idea – to take books home, to read them for enjoyment. But no, of course they must be kept safe. They must stay here. Anyway, she hadn’t a home to take them to.
When they left the library, the air was already clearer. Two women were sweeping the dust off Marie Curie, and Clara wondered idly why the statue showed the discoverer of radioactivity wielding a pair of compasses. Then she remembered something she’d found that afternoon.
‘I read something interesting,’ said Clara. ‘They’ve known about climate change for a long time.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Butcher. ‘A hundred years and more.’
‘I found a Sorority paper from seventy years ago – they thought climate change would stop after men all died out.’
‘Hmph,’ said Butcher. ‘Wrong on both counts. The climate is still changing – seems like there are more floods every year – and men didn’t die out. And you must have been wrong about the date, Clara. Nile flu didn’t come to kill off the men till – let’s see – sixty years ago at most.’
Clara frowned. ‘I thought I had it right,’ she said.
‘By the way,’ said Butcher. ‘Are you still looking for somewhere else to live? Martina says there might be a place going, over in Chiswick.’
‘Ah, no,’ said Clara. ‘I think it’s okay now. Bella’s talking to me again. And the flat’s fine, apart from the kitchen cupboard. The door keeps falling off, and Bella says she can’t get anyone to fix it.’
‘Same old story, I’m afraid,’ said Butcher. ‘Still, at least you’re friends again.’
“Friends” was probably stretching it. But that improvement in her life, and the idea of now being able to use the Library, meant that she was very close to feeling contented. Mater Hedera wanted her help, and had even confided in her. She was friendly with Harriet Butcher. No-one suspected. Di
d they?
One morning when a stiff wind blew from the north, Clara made her usual way down to Frieda’s stall at the east end of the bridge. There her eye fell on dried bloodstains and crystals of broken glass on the pavement. A woman in frayed overalls had just arrived with a bucket of soapy water and a broom, and was leaning against the wall pretending to size up the job.
‘More trouble with the Underground,’ Frieda nodded to where the cleaner had now lit a cigarette.
‘What happened?’
Frieda shrugged. ‘Who cares?’ She fiddled with the news-sheets, tugged at her ear. ‘So long as they keep ’em out of my way. I heard they tried to get at the Provis Depot down the road. Repsegs chased ’em up here.’
‘I suppose they’d take them to the lock-up?’ Clara said, trying to sound knowledgeable.
Frieda sighed. ‘No, they’d probably beat ’em to death and throw what’s left in the river. That’s all it is nowadays, ain’t it? Life or death, but mostly death.’
Clara peered at her. ‘You all right?’
Frieda pulled a threadbare handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose noisily. ‘Don’t worry about me, love.’
Clara waited.
‘My brother,’ Frieda conceded. ‘Haven’t seen him for years – he’s in the navy. Was in the navy. You wouldn’t think they’d let men on ships, but there’s a few, shovelling coal and that. Expendable, I suppose. Anyhow,’ she said with a sigh, ‘his has gone down in the North Sea, hasn’t it? And I know he’s only a man, right, and you’re not supposed to get worked up about men, are yer? But I can’t help it. Used to play together, we did.’ She shook her head and made an attempt to stand straighter. ‘They’ve tried to make out it was those Dutchies – but Jake used to laugh about them, like. Said they wasn’t so much pirates as beggars, with the little boats they had.’