Truth Sister

by Phil Gilvin

  When her stomach had subsided, she was no longer shivering. The sun was warming the bank, the river was beginning to stink and mosquitoes were whining around her ears. An idea struck her, and she dragged herself over to the corpse, which had a neat hole in the middle of its forehead. Swallowing, she made herself go through its sodden pockets and was rewarded with a small purse containing forty waterlogged boudicks. She glanced up. If any of the travellers on the bridge had looked down, they’d have seen her. But then, she was pretty much the same colour as the mud, and so was the dead Undergrounder. Forcing herself to turn the thing over once more, she undid its dark cloak before scrambling up to drier ground, where a low wall encircled a reclamation site.

  She was sick, her throat was raw and every bone and muscle in her body hurt. She was filthy with stinking mud and vomit. But she had money, and she was free.

  It was late the following afternoon when Clara trudged down the lane that led to Briar Farm. She’d have to go carefully, she told herself. She didn’t know what she was going to find.

  What had brought her back? Maybe she thought her mother hadn’t been arrested after all. Maybe Grana was still there. Or maybe she clung to a hope that she might still be safe in her old home. It was those thoughts that had made her return across Vauxhall Bridge after the gunfight, covered in mud as she was, braving the stares of the passers-by. She’d made her way downriver and given Frieda the fright of her life, making up a story about accidentally having fallen in the mud. Frieda had found her a bucket of water and helped her to get the worst off her clothes, then doubtfully accepted the ten boudicks Clara forced upon her.

  She’d taken the first post coach she could. It had brought her through towns and villages where Clara kept to herself, suspicious of everyone. She feigned sleep, alert for the low whispers that could spell trouble. But all she’d heard from the other travellers was an argument between two women about how to get a good servant.

  At Dorking, they’d passed a large statue of a cockerel, headless and daubed with anti-men graffiti. Clara bought herself a copy of The Republican Woman to hide behind, and tried to concentrate on its reports of victories against the Millanders, record wheat yields and the latest Crimes of Men. How much of this is truth? she thought. All of this news can’t be wrong. No; it was she who was the problem. She was a misfit, someone outside of society: a sub-social and a Natural.

  Unlike Amy! The thought made her sick: she’d betrayed Amy, and as good as killed her mother, when all they’d done was forge some paperwork. And all the while, it was she herself – and not Amy – who was the Natural. Well, now she was getting what she deserved.

  She got the coach to drop her for the night at an inn called The Red Lyonesse. She didn’t have a clue where it was, but she’d been grateful to spend some of her boudicks on a good meal. As she ate slowly (her throat was still swollen), she listened to the women at the next table telling stories about the horrible things the Scrapers did. They’d burned down a woman’s house, they said, and the poor woman had just had her cloning licence turned down too. The woman herself had vanished: no sign of a corpse, with or without its flesh. Clara took herself off to bed as soon as she could, washed all her clothes again, and lay naked under a thin sheet. Her bruises and hurts gave her a bad night.

  In the morning, she’d paid for her room with the last of the money, and set off to walk the rest of the way in clothes that were still drying. She couldn’t afford breakfast, but the kindly landlady – from whom she’d had to ask directions – had made her take some bread. Clara had stammered out her thanks, then left as soon as she could. It had taken her the rest of the day to reach Briar Farm, sometimes walking, sometimes running, sometimes hiding and often crying. Twice more she’d had to ask the way, hardly pausing to thank the women she’d stopped.

  And now, here she was: back home at last – if home it was. The ruts in the lane had got deeper, the verges overgrown. Thistles and nettles were invading the hedgerows, and stiff briars poked their spines at her as she passed; the only sound was the wind in the leaves. She scuttled across the lawn to the shelter of the porch, and pushed on the front door. It was fastened, despite the time of day. She gave three rapid knocks. For a moment nothing happened, and Clara began to fear that the Repsegs had taken everyone, that the cottage would be an abandoned shell, like Emily Bradley’s house. She was just wondering whether she should pass the night in the barn when she heard a door opening somewhere within; and then a voice.

  ‘Who – who’s there?’

  ‘Aunt? Aunt, it’s me, Clara.’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Aunt? Won’t you let me in?’

  The bolts were drawn; one of them gave trouble, and squeaked. The door opened a fraction, and Grana peered out. Then she stared. ‘Clara?’

  Clara looked over her shoulder. ‘Please, Aunt – can I come in?’

  Her aunt pulled the door open, then swiftly closed it as Clara slipped in. In the gloomy hallway they stood regarding each other.

  Clara couldn’t contain herself. ‘Aunt, please,’ she burst out. ‘Mother – where is she?’

  Grana bowed her head. ‘Oh, my dear! Oh, she was taken. They came for her. And James.’

  Clara’s heart sank, even though deep down she’d known. ‘Who came?’ she forced herself to say. ‘Repsegs?’

  Her aunt pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, and wiped her eyes. ‘Mm,’ she mumbled, sniffing. ‘Four of them. James tried to fight, but your mother told him to stop. They still beat him, though.’ She shrugged as if to say, what did he expect.

  ‘What did they say, the Repsegs?’

  Grana didn’t answer, but blew her nose noisily. The candlelight reflected dully on her silver bun of hair. Clara thought how old and shrunken her aunt looked. And disrespectful though it was, Clara felt herself stretch out a hand to pat Grana’s shoulder. Grana stiffened and twisted away, still sniffing.

  ‘Aunt,’ said Clara, ‘why did the Repsegs take them?’

  Grana waved a hand. ‘Something about Naturals. All nonsense, of course. I’m sure there’s been a mistake.’

  Clara sighed. ‘When did they come?’

  ‘Two days ago. I was in the kitchen, making the breakfast. It was horrible.’ She turned away again. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. But, Clara – what are you doing here?’

  Obviously there were things her aunt didn’t know. ‘Mother wrote,’ she said. ‘She said she was worried about something, and asked would I come home.’

  ‘Ah! She did, after all?’ said Grana, shoving her handkerchief away and blinking at Clara.

  ‘Uh, yes. Aunt–’

  ‘Oh, but look at you. You must be worn out. I know just what to do with you.’ Grana nodded to herself, and bustled into the kitchen. ‘Yes. Come and have some tea, and I’ll see about hot water for a nice bath. Then tomorrow, we’ll go up to town.’

  ‘Up to town, Aunt?’

  ‘Yes. Oh dear, oh dear. It has to be a mistake, you see.’ Grana’s hand shook as she ladled water into the kettle from a bucket of well-water. A small pool collected on the stone floor. ‘So we must go and see the authorities. We have to put things right.’

  Clara took the kettle from her and set it on the hob. ‘Aunt, I’m not sure they’ll listen.’

  ‘But they must,’ wailed Grana. ‘They have to. Your poor mother, she’ll be so frightened. They must listen to us.’

  ‘Yes, Aunt,’ said Clara. Maybe now wasn’t the time to explain how implacable “the authorities” were. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  And even if Clara had wanted to argue, she soon found she didn’t have the strength. Weariness overcame her, and she allowed Grana to fuss and flutter. It seemed better for her aunt to be busy, even if she did drop the cutlery on the floor, and peel too many potatoes. They said little as they ate, Grana repeating now and then that it all had to be a mistake, and Clara struggling to keep her eyes open. It was the old clock, still ticking the minutes away, that had the most to say. Eventually, than
king her aunt once more, Clara struggled up the stairs. As she sank gratefully under the sheets, she could smell the lavender that Grana had pressed under her pillow.

  But at first, sleep didn’t come. The window still rattled – a squall of rain had arrived, the gusts tugging at the loose casement – and her head was too full. Tomorrow, she must find out exactly what had happened, although she’d already guessed most of it. Someone had discovered that she, Clara, was a Natural. The fear that had bound her to Sophia and James, when they’d held that last debate in June, had borne its bitter fruit. The authorities had arrested her parents – Grana didn’t interest them – and at the same time they’d moved for Clara. If she hadn’t forgotten her sandwiches two days ago, they’d have arrested her at work, and if Bella hadn’t covered for her, they’d have taken her at the flat. Once more she hoped Bella was safe.

  The window rattled louder, as if someone was trying to get in. She climbed out of bed with her candle, its flame quivering in the draught, to see what was making the noise. The hasp had been loosely nailed down, obviously as a temporary measure until James could find a proper fastening. And he never had. Sighing, Clara grabbed a sock and shoved it into the frame.

  Back in bed, she blew the candle out. Her eyelids drooped. The Repsegs – and she couldn’t help suspecting Tori Shavila was deeply involved – had traced her to the Underground, and set up the false exchange. That hadn’t gone according to plan. But they could still find her – what could be easier than checking with the coachwomen on the post? They’d have reached the Red Lyonesse already. They’d be here in the morning.

  She closed her eyes tight. The wind rustled the trees in the garden; downstairs, a door opened and closed. Everything seemed normal, but Clara knew that was an illusion. There was nothing for it: she’d have keep moving if she wanted to avoid capture. At first light, she’d leave. There was no time to explain to Grana, but she couldn’t expose her aunt to any more risk. That was it, she’d get up early.

  Clara had lived in that room for so many summers that she knew exactly how the light should look, how the shadows should fall, at any time of day. So when her eyes snapped open, she needed no clock to tell her that the morning was half gone. Cursing, she dragged on some clothes. Pulling back the curtains, she retrieved the sock from the window-frame and looked out. The sun was high and bright in a sky dotted with fast-moving clouds, while the wind was tossing the grasses and flowers in their beds. She shook her head. Now there was no chance of sneaking off without Grana noticing. She’d just have to tell her aunt she was leaving at once, and face down any arguments.

  She laced up her boots and went to the door, only to find that the handle didn’t work. She pulled it and tugged it, but it wouldn’t turn properly. This was all she needed – more delays. Just what, she wondered, had James been doing since she’d left? The window was broken, the door was broken – what else was going hold her up?

  She banged on the door. ‘Aunt!’ she called. ‘Aunt Grana. My door won’t open. I think the handle’s broken.’

  Grana’s voice came muffled from below. ‘Won’t be a minute, dear.’ Clara thought her aunt sounded more cheerful this morning. She heard the stairs creaking in their old familiar pattern as her aunt made her way up them. There was the rattle of a cup and saucer too. She’d made her a morning cup of tea.

  ‘It’s funny, Aunt,’ she called. ‘There wasn’t anything wrong with the handle last night.’

  She heard the cup being set down, then a noise as if a chair was being moved. Now her aunt’s voice came from the other side of the door.

  ‘That’s because I hadn’t taken the spindle out,’ said Grana.

  ‘What?’ said Clara.

  ‘I waited till you were asleep, then I got a screwdriver and took the spindle out of your door.’

  Clara couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Aunt? Aunt? What’s going on?’

  ‘What’s going on? I call it cleansing.’ There was a slurp as Grana sipped the tea.

  Clara shut her eyes tight, and rested her back against the door. She gave a little sob and slid to the floor, weeping.

  Grana prattled on while she drank. ‘I’ve sent for the Repsegs. You must see it’s the right thing. My Sorority friends agreed. You may be a Natural, but you’ve had a Truth Sister’s education. So you know how important it is to purge the world of impurity.’

  Clara sniffed. ‘But, Aunt, please! We’re – we’re family.’

  ‘Hah! That’s hardly my fault, is it? You’re clueless, Clara. Clueless like your mother.’

  Clara wanted to say, “Mother’s not clueless”, but still she couldn’t. Instead, she said, ‘How can you do this to me?’

  Grana chuckled. ‘To you? You think it’s all about you?’ She set her cup down. ‘Oh no, there’s more to it than that. There was a time, you see, when – when things were happier. Mother and James and I, we were servants, and we kept our place. I always thought we’d look after each other.

  ‘James loved me, you see – as a brother should love his sister. We were close, so close. I taught him to ride the pony, you know. And we two always played together. We were inseparable. He once carried me home, when I fell from the big oak. But that was on the old farm.’ Her voice grew fiercer. ‘And then Mother died, and old woman Perdue got sick, and everything fell on silly useless Sophia. And she wasn’t up to it. The crops weren’t gathered in, the milk was always sour, the new lambs died. I could have managed that farm better in my sleep.’

  Clara was staring out at the willow leaves, hissing and dancing in their wind-blown freedom. But her own freedom was about to be taken from her. It wasn’t fair.

  Grana was still talking. ‘But who did Sophia turn to for help? To James. A man. Do you know, I never set much store by the Republic in those days. I thought it was just a passing fad, thought it would end, like all these things. But James helped me to see one thing – the Republic is right about men. They only think about themselves. That’s where all the world’s troubles have come from. You must have learned that at school.’ She sipped her tea again. ‘And now you see how right they were.’

  A fresh gust rattled the window, trying to open it. If only it could have its way. She made her way over to it.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said aloud.

  Part of her wanted to listen, to know more about her parents’ past – but now was not the time. She saw that the nail that held the hasp down was only bent over. Pushing her fingers under it, she found she could get it to twist. Carefully, she pushed and pulled it back and forth.

  Behind the door, Grana went on: ‘Then your mother sold the farm, and made us all poor – and why should I lose everything just because your mother was a whore? We’ve no fine things now, nor proper clothes, and the furniture’s falling to bits. Why me? That’s what I asked myself. How was that fair? So I moved out.’

  The nail came out. Clara felt her heart racing as she eased the window open and looked down. Below were some dense bushes, which could cushion her fall. This is it. It was her only chance to get away. But Grana mustn’t suspect. Carefully closing the window so that it didn’t slam, she tiptoed back to the door.

  ‘I only came back here because my money ran out,’ Grana was saying. ‘And the Sorority elders said it would be good for your mother to have company. Ha!’

  ‘You heard, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘When Mother and James were telling me that – that I was a Natural? It was you who broke the flour crock in the kitchen.’

  ‘I couldn’t believe my ears,’ said Grana. ‘Despite what I knew, I’d been a fool. I’d never realised you weren’t cloned. That was when I decided they’d have to be punished. Purity, you see. And, of course, I’d have the running of this place. It’d be better than nothing.’

  ‘Why didn’t you report us at once?’ said Clara. She grabbed her cloak – she had no food to take, but she’d rather starve than be captured.

  For a moment, Grana didn’t answer. ‘Because I was too soft. I wanted Medea’s opinion.’ />
  ‘And you didn’t see her till last weekend. And you – you took me out for lunch.’

  ‘I told you I was soft,’ said Grana.

  ‘Please let me out,’ Clara whined, trying to sound helpless.

  Grana chuckled, dry and mirthless. ‘Very funny. No. The authorities will want the whole collection. They came for your – your parents the other morning, when I’d just served the porridge. Nothing like food for getting people off their guard.’ Clara heard her set the cup in its saucer.

  Now Clara wanted the conversation to end. The sooner she jumped, the better. ‘And that’s all?’ she said.

  ‘The Repsegs said you were missing. I told them I’d keep a look out, in case you turned up. After you arrived last night I sent a message, through the Sorority. So the Repsegs will be here soon. Anyhow, I must get on – there’s always housework to do. Use your wait, Clara, to think about the wickedness of men. I hope they’ve executed James now. He’s no brother of mine.’

  Instantly, Clara hurried to the window and wriggled out. She managed to fall feet-first into the bushes, and dragged herself free before sprinting for the barn. If she could only get there before Grana looked out of the kitchen window. Once behind the barn, she paused to listen: if Grana had noticed, she wasn’t making any noise about it. Climbing the fence into the field, she ran again, trying to keep the barn between herself and the cottage. The field was muddy and deep-furrowed, and stank of dung. She thought of James, working this field with Alf the farm horse. Grana had said she’d loved James when they were younger. What had happened, to make her disown him now? Was she jealous of Sophia? Clara didn’t understand, but right now she had other things on her mind.

  She reached the tangled hedge at the end of the field; forcing her way through at a place where some deer had made a gap, she found herself at the brink of a stream. As she hesitated, she heard the distant baying of dogs. The Repsegs?