Truth Sister

by Phil Gilvin

  ‘But I’m a Natural,’ stammered Clara. ‘How can you –?’

  ‘Go,’ whispered Bella. ‘And for Teacher’s sake, go quietly.’

  Clara hefted the backpack onto her shoulders. More bangs came on the front door. As she reached the fire escape, Clara heard a couple of gruff voices, brusque and demanding. Bella’s voice, saying, ‘Clara? Well, she went to work …’

  Gingerly she climbed down the steel staircase, desperate that it shouldn’t creak. In the small garden at the back of the flats grew some rampant laurels, and Clara forced her way behind them, hoping no-one was watching. She had to keep moving. Thrusting herself up into the laurels, backpack and all, she grabbed the top of the wall and scrambled over into the next garden. At the far end beside the house, a gate stood open. She loped down the neatly-cut lawn, past vines and olive bushes, through the gate and into the adjacent street, its row of plane trees standing unconcerned. She stared at them, her face scratched, her palms sweating, her heart pounding.

  It had happened.

  She lay with her back against a tree, its hard bark digging into her spine. Flies settled on her face and ankles, while the rough grass pricked her backside and legs. Sweat dribbled down her face.

  How she’d reached Hyde Park, or why, she wasn’t sure. She remembered walking fast, then running, then walking again, all the time glancing behind. She remembered avoiding the gaping cracks in the unkempt pavement because she didn’t want to trip. A pair of grinning men had leered at her from a doorway; groans and harsh laughter had come from a high window. A green gin-bottle had rolled in the gutter. She’d kept her Truth Sister badge covered under a strap of Bella’s backpack, and had hurried wherever her feet had taken her.

  ‘Ello, darlin’!’ The guttural voice, loud in her ear, made her jump. A woman was bending over her, a month’s grime in the creases of her face and a long dirty coat around her shoulders. She reached out and chucked Clara’s cheek. ‘What’s a loverly thing like you doin’ so far away from home?’

  Clara tried to wriggle away. Roots and seeds gritted her hands.

  ‘Aw, come on darlin’,’ grunted the woman, grabbing Clara’s arm and hauling her up. Her strength took Clara by surprise and, breathing whisky-fumes, the woman pulled her close. Clara turned her face away; the woman put a hand on Clara’s neck, stroking it. ‘Come on,’ grunted the tramp, ‘give us a little bit o’ satisfaction, girl. You’ll know how to do it, I reckon,’ she added, bending her drooling mouth forward.

  ‘Get off me!’ shrieked Clara, shoving her free palm into the tramp’s jaw. She heard the teeth snap together as the woman staggered backwards with a grunt. Shocked by what she’d done, Clara stared.

  The tramp recovered her footing and, cursing and swinging her right arm, toppled towards her. Clara gave a yell and jumped aside; the tramp lost her footing and tumbled into the dusty grass. This time Clara seized her chance. Grabbing the backpack, she put her head down and ran in the direction of the park gates. After a hundred yards she half-turned and saw that the tramp had not followed: she was staggering away, waving her arms and jabbering.

  At the gates, Clara paused for breath. Kensington Road was awash with cabs, carts and sweating horses. She dived in amongst them, dodging her way between the rattling wheels and the stamping hooves until she reached the opposite pavement. Stopping only to twist her arms into the backpack straps, she set off down Exhibition Road. As she walked, she stared at her open hand. With this, she’d pushed that tramp away. She shuddered to think what the tramp would have done to her if she hadn’t. It was almost as if the tramp had been a man.

  Her new courage didn’t help Clara decide what to do next. She had money, so, while keeping a lookout for Repsegs, she bought herself a drink from a stall. Then she walked east, she walked north; she wandered to the Closed Areas, then shied away in case they were being watched. As the afternoon wore on she found herself making for Chelsea Bridge, thinking to cross the river to where it was wilder and therefore, maybe, safer. At a corner, she almost bumped into three women, arguing among themselves as they walked by. ‘Look where you’re going, stupid,’ growled one of them.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Clara, and hung back. The last thing she wanted was attention, but even as she stood irresolute, one of the women cast a curious glance back over her shoulder. Clara reached the Embankment, but instead of following them towards the bridge she decided to turn in the opposite direction. Then she stopped and pretended to gaze out over the river. Meanwhile the three women had reached a Repseg checkpoint.

  She dared not stare, so she didn’t see how it started; but a moment later, she heard raised voices. Then there were gruff shouts and one of the women fell to the ground. Even from a distance, Clara could hear the screams and see the Repseg beating her. The other women were screaming too. ‘Leave her alone! She’s got her papers, she ain’t done nothing. Get off her!’

  Another Repseg held them back while the first continued to beat the woman on the ground, the victim’s body recoiling with each blow. Then, abruptly, the Repseg stopped and dragged the woman to her feet. Clara suppressed an urge to go and remonstrate with the Repsegs, perhaps to plough in and to fight them. Instead she turned and walked away. Her feet were heavy.

  Crossing the road, she saw more Repsegs approaching along the waterfront. Had they spotted her? Not yet. Then a couple of carts rolled by: those would occupy the checkpoint guards for a while. Seizing the chance, Clara crossed behind the carts and slipped down an alleyway.

  In a road full of tenement blocks where faded washing hung on sagging lines, she stopped for breath. It had all happened so quickly. This morning she’d been a Truth Sister, helping to maintain cloning like a good woman of the Republic. By tea-time, she was a fugitive. But maybe she’d over-reacted. Sophia’s warning had been unmistakeable, of course; and maybe it really had been Repsegs calling at the flat, ready to arrest her. But maybe it hadn’t. Maybe it was someone else, perhaps a colleague from the Ministry? She should go back to the flat and find out.

  Creeping along Sutherland Street as dusk came on, Clara kept close to the house-fronts. At last she was nearing the flat. Now she would have to go carefully, and she manoeuvred to keep under the cover of the shadowy horse-chestnuts that stood along the street. Lamps glowed in the bay-windowed houses, and Clara imagined women and daughters having tea together: a quiet home life that she’d never get back. Yet the quiet of this street was a quiet she didn’t like. Pausing behind the broadest of the trees, Clara eased herself forward and peered out. She could see the white portico of their flats and the steps that led up to it, standing out in the darkness. There was a light in a first floor window. It looked like the coast was clear. It would only take a few seconds to run up to the door. Yet still she hesitated, gripping the tree’s fissured bark for reassurance. Then, not fifteen yards away, a black shape detached itself from one of the great trunks and for a moment stood silhouetted against the window-lights. It was a Repseg – the cap was unmistakeable. So it was true: they were after her. Not only that, but they could spare an officer to watch the flat.

  Clara backed away as silently as she could. Surely the Repseg wouldn’t have seen her in this darkness? As soon as she dared, she broke into a run, doubling the street corner and sprinting down to the next. Gasping, she put out an arm to lean against a tree. But out there in the night were shouts and the sounds of running feet. She ran on.

  On Lupus Street a few stallholders were closing down for the night, lamps flaring on their empty barrows. One of the women was singing. As Clara rushed by, she wondered when was the last time she’d heard anyone sing.

  ‘Stop,’ came a shout from behind. ‘Security! I order you to stop.’

  She ran faster, her lungs aching, her knees throbbing. Behind, she could see the lights of the Repsegs’ electric torches, and she remembered the last time she’d seen them, on her first night in the flat. Then ahead, a line of orange-clad rec-workers filed across the road, dragging their shackled feet. She ran straight at the
line, forcing herself between them, climbing over the chains and out the other side. She could taste the dust from their clothes; she could hear their protests as she ran off.

  On a corner stood a walled-off entrance to one of the old underground stations. But the wall had been built badly, and one edge had fallen. Checking that the Repsegs hadn’t yet made it past the reclamation gang, she thrust herself through the gap, struggling to pull her backpack in after her, then panting in the darkness. She peeped over the brickwork and saw the torches approaching: three of them. She wondered if Shavila was there, or Keppel, who hauled corpses around like meat. The torches stopped.

  Low voices, terse. Then they were on the move again, splitting up. The nearest Repseg ran swiftly and easily, within a few yards of Clara’s hiding-place, her torch held out in front, its beam jigging up and down as her footfalls died away.

  Clara let herself breathe out. All was quiet. The breeze from the river blew her hair so that it tickled her ears. She wondered what had become of Sophia and – she admitted it – of James. And she worried about Bella. If they found out she’d covered for Clara, she’d be in trouble. Peeping out from behind the broken wall, Clara chewed her lip. She’d wait here for a while, then move inland. She could forget about crossing the river – by now, every bridge checkpoint would have been warned. A renegade Truth Sister was on the loose. She should be crying. She should have been grieving for everything she’d lost. But in a way, it was a relief. At least the secret was out.

  She dropped her pack and rolled her shoulders. Above the library buildings opposite, the Evening Star hung in the sky, a bright point in the darkening west. ‘At least you never change,’ murmured Clara. Then, without warning, a horny hand was clasped over her mouth and a muscular body thrust up against her back. ‘Shut up,’ hissed a voice, spit landing in her ear. ‘Bring the Repsegs in on us, would yer?’

  Clara felt something sharp pressed into her ribs. ‘Squeal, and you’ll get this.’

  ‘All right, May?’ came a second voice, low and hoarse. ‘Is she gonna come quiet?’

  ‘Yeah,’ muttered May. ‘You’re coming with us, love. Nod if you’re going to come quiet.’

  Clara nodded.

  ‘How many of these steps are there?’ asked Clara. She was holding on to the crumbling handrails with both hands, her feet groping their way from one slippery step to the next. A short way ahead, one of her captors carried a dark lantern that cast a black, swaying shadow onto the curving ceiling. Behind Clara came the woman with the knife.

  ‘Couldn’t tell yer,’ said the leading one. ‘You ever counted ’em, May?’ Her voice echoed off the hard walls.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said May, coming close up behind Clara. ‘This ain’t a bloody picnic. We’ve caught a Districter, that’s what we have.’

  ‘A what?’ said Clara.

  ‘She ain’t no Districter,’ said the first captor. ‘Hold up the lantern. Look at her skin. She’s been livin’ topside. She’s harmless, ain’t you dear?’

  ‘Well, I’ve no idea where I am,’ said Clara. She pulled her cloak tighter round her shoulders.

  ‘Hear that, June?’ said May. ‘She don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said the leader.

  Clara grimaced as her foot slithered on one of the steps. ‘Are you two called–’ she said, steadying herself, ‘–are you two called May and June?’

  ‘Here we go again,’ said June.

  ‘Yeah,’ said May, grabbing Clara by the shoulder, ‘and what if we are?’

  ‘They’re, er, nice names,’ said Clara.

  ‘Glad you think so,’ said May. ‘Cause it hurts when you fall down these stairs. There’s hundreds of ’em.’

  ‘I thought you hadn’t counted them,’ said Clara.

  ‘I was being figurative, like,’ said May.

  ‘When you’ve finished,’ said June, ‘let’s have some more light.’ They’d arrived at the end of the stairs, and she pulled the cover off her lantern. They were in a dust-ridden grotto, its curved walls and ceiling covered in tiles. Underneath their thick layer of grime, Clara thought, those tiles might be white. A couple of rats scuttled away from the light, and drips trickled down the far wall. Cobwebs glittered everywhere.

  ‘I know where we are,’ said Clara. ‘Is this where the old underground trains used to run? That men built?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it darlin’,’ said June, and guffawed. Now there was more light, Clara could see that she was short and wiry, with bandy legs. ‘Welcome to the Underground.’

  May, tall and muscular, prodded Clara with the knife. ‘Move,’ she growled.

  They descended another long flight of steps, and Clara shivered. They were in a kind of long tube, steep as a hillside, the walls daubed with graffiti and festooned with cobwebbed posters. A century of drips had left black stalactites dangling from the cracked ceiling. As they followed the circle of light cast by June’s lantern, Clara noticed the gleam of ridged metal under her feet. ‘Is this one of those moving staircases?’ she asked. ‘An escalator?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ muttered May. ‘But it’s bloody well killing my knees.’

  Once again, Clara found herself wondering at the effrontery, the utter confidence of the age that had built these things. She tried to imagine these escalators filled with travellers, actually carrying them up and down. Where were they all going? The answer seemed to be into the bowels of the earth; ahead she could make out a diffuse ochre glow. She was reminded of the Earth’s inner fires, of volcanoes and lava; or of the old superstitions about hell, where people’s souls would burn for all eternity. And she thought she really could smell burning.

  ‘It’s just along here,’ said June. ‘It ain’t much, but it’s home.’

  They turned left though a short tunnel and emerged into a vaulted space that stretched beyond sight to right and left. Clara realised that this was the main tunnel, where the trains would have run. On the opposite wall there were more aged posters: a woman showing off a pair of spectacles, and a man wearing nothing but underpants, advertising a bottle of something. He’d had his face scratched out and his chest was covered in illegible scrawl.

  She looked around. By the light of flaring torches fixed to the inward-curving wall, she could see fifty or sixty people, mostly sitting; though some were standing talking and, at the far end of the platform, a few were rolled in blankets, pupae in the dark. The roughly swept platform extended for ten feet, and beyond it was a drop of a three. Down in this pit a bonfire was burning, and there were stacks of wood to keep it fed. Next to the woodpiles was a different stack: long beams of dull metal, piled waist-high.

  ‘Wait here,’ said June, and picked her way to where a group of people sat in a rough circle, opposite the fire.

  Clara turned to May. ‘How did you all come here?’

  May shrugged. ‘We’re not a pretty sight, are we? But the point is,’ she said, stowing her knife away, ‘if we wasn’t here, we’d have starved.’

  Clara studied her face. It was grimy, and careworn; but there was a softness about May’s cheeks that made Clara think of grandmothers showing small girls how to feed the ducks.

  June came back. ‘You’ve to come and see the Committee,’ she said, indicating the circle of people.

  ‘Hey, are we off duty now?’ said May.

  June pulled a face. ‘Back topside, till midnight,’ she said. May swore.

  They came to the circle of women by the fire. ‘Here she is,’ said June. ‘Caught her hiding from the Repsegs – nearly brought them in on us.’

  The women – there were nine or ten of them, and no men – murmured amongst themselves. Clara felt the warmth from the blaze on her cheeks, and by its light she tried to read the dark faces and hollow eyes before her.

  ‘All right, June,’ said one. ‘That’ll be all.’

  Then one of the women, short, cloaked and wispy-haired, stood. ‘Clara?’ she said. The voice was hoarse and worn. ‘Clara Perdue?’

 
Clara gasped and took a step back. ‘Careful,’ said the woman, grabbing her arm. ‘You’ll be in the fire.’

  Clara stared. How could this be Ms Martin, the corpse that had been fished from the river and toted like an old sack by a Repseg? The shape was the same, but sunken; the eyes had the same wideness, but wary; and where was the mark? The right cheek was pale and bare.

  ‘Don’t you recognise me?’ said the woman.

  At last Clara managed to speak. ‘Amy?’

  Amy Martin it was. She didn’t smile, she didn’t frown; but she studied Clara thoughtfully.

  Clara had to keep talking. ‘I – I’m on the run from the Repsegs. I hid in the old station. I – that is–’

  Amy led Clara aside. ‘Hang on a minute,’ she said, and went back to the circle. Whatever it was she said, the other women nodded and resumed their conversation. When Amy returned she said, slowly, ‘I told the Committee I knew you. They’ll decide later.’ She looked Clara up and down. ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘I never expected to see you here.’

  Yes, thought Clara – me, of all people. The one who betrayed you and sent your mother to her death. Out loud she asked, ‘How did you get here?’

  Amy hadn’t taken her eyes off Clara. ‘We were on a recgang. We hated it, of course. Mother was ill. We escaped a few nights ago, as they were taking us back. There’d been a fight, so we slipped away. It was foggy; Mother and I got separated. The Repsegs say they’ve got her now.’

  Tell her, thought Clara. Tell her that her mother’s dead. But she said, ‘Er, how do you know the Repsegs have got her?’

  Amy turned up the corner of her mouth. ‘Ways,’ she said. ‘So. Why are you on the run?’

  Clara swallowed. ‘It turns out – oh Amy, I’m so sorry – it turns out I’m a Natural too.’