Truth Sister

by Phil Gilvin

  ‘I’m amazed you’re still getting away with it. Even with all the distractions the Republic’s got, you’d think a travelling band of thieves might attract their attention.’

  ‘Yeah, but we’re not the only ones, see. There’s others. They say there’s this really big band over at Albans, north o’London. They do their stealing in broad daylight, and they’re armed, too. The Repsegs don’t dare go near ’em. Apparently they do the old rob-from-the-rich-give-to-the-poor thing. You know, like Robin Hood? So no-one’s going to give them away.’

  ‘Robin who?’

  Jack grinned and shook his head. ‘What did they teach you at that school o’yours?’

  ‘Not very much, I’m beginning to think.’ They walked on for a minute. ‘But,’ said Clara, ‘you never feel like going off on your own again? Why do you stay with the Scrapers, Jack?’

  ‘They’ve done right by me, haven’t they? They’ll look out for me, so I’ll look out for them. I reckon that’s the only rule you can have – watch out for your mates.’

  ‘I mean, if I was thinking of going off on my own – that is, would you–’

  They both jumped as a figure loomed out of the shadows. ‘Jack, Clara – got a job for you.’ It was Ma’s voice. She’d dropped back down the line, and now fell into step beside them.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Jack. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘Shush. It’ll be dawn soon, and we’ll be stopping. But we’ve heard there’s something happening, up in Oxford. The Don says we’d better find out what. He says you two can move fast, and you can keep your wits about you. Plus, they won’t worry too much about kids.’

  ‘You want us to go and have a look,’ said Jack.

  ‘Where?’ said Clara.

  ‘About a mile west there’s the main road to Oxford,’ said Ma. ‘Keep your eyes peeled – if you think there’s a patrol, hide – but if you see anyone who looks likely, try getting the news.’

  They plodged through long muddy fields where the rain had beaten down the ripe corn and the stony soil stuck to their boots, until they came to a thick hawthorn hedge, festooned with spiders’ webs. A faint red light was growing in the east.

  ‘More rain coming,’ muttered Jack. ‘I hope the Don finds us somewhere dry.’

  ‘That’s a gate down there,’ said Clara, pointing along the hedge. ‘Looks like it leads into the road.’

  They leant on the gate listening to the birdsong erupting in the woods behind them, while from further off came the squawkings of a rookery. Clara looked at Jack. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  Jack cocked an eye. ‘Yeah, your life story, hey? You never told me much, y’know.’

  ‘No – that is – I’ve decided to go–’

  Jack held up a hand. ‘Wait. Someone’s coming.’

  Around the curve of the road, a figure came into view. It was laden with a heavy backpack and clasped another bundle in its arms. It scurried, rather than walked, and kept glancing back over its shoulder. As the figure drew closer, they made out the features of a girl of about their own age, red-faced and panting. Her badly-fitting canvas boots made a flopping sound against her thin ankles.

  ‘All right?’ called Jack, as she approached.

  The girl said nothing, and hurried on. They saw that the bundle was a baby.

  ‘We wanted to know,’ said Clara, ‘what’s going on up in Oxford?’

  Jack nudged her. ‘Careful,’ he muttered.

  The girl didn’t stop, but half-turned as she passed. ‘Stay here, and you’ll bloody well find out,’ she spat. They watched her struggle along the road for another minute until, with a final look back, she disappeared into a side-lane.

  Jack plucked a long blade of grass, shoved it in his mouth, and climbed up on the gate. ‘Well, she was a friendly one,’ he said between his teeth. ‘What d’you think she meant?’

  ‘Let’s get behind the hedge,’ said Clara. ‘I’m worried.’

  ‘What’s got your string in a knot?’

  ‘Can we just hide, Jack? I didn’t like what that girl said.’

  The hedge wasn’t tall enough to hide them properly, so, the ground being wet, they crouched on their haunches. For some minutes, nothing happened except that the dawn chorus grew louder. Jack stood up to ease his knees, then quickly squatted down again. ‘They’re coming,’ he hissed.

  ‘Anyone see you?’

  ‘Nah. Too far off. But listen.’

  The first thing they heard was the rooks cawing as they rose up in annoyance. Then Clara heard the distant sound of footfalls: hundreds of them, booted feet thudding on road. It grew and grew, then resolved into the one-two swing of a marching army, mingled with shouts of command and the iron clop of horses’ hooves. Clara and Jack crouched low, peering through the hedge. It seemed an age before the column reached them. Then at last two riders came, followed by rank upon rank of marching women. Through the thickness of the hedge, Clara and Jack could only see the soldiers’ legs, the boots and the thighs covered in dust and spattered with mud. They marched four abreast, right across the width of the road, and on and on they came. From time to time more riders passed, some shouting orders; further along the line, whistles blew. Ten, nearly fifteen minutes went by before the end of the column passed and began to disappear down the road.

  Jack swore. ‘There’s got to be a thousand in that lot,’ he said. ‘And I bet they’re not the only ones who’ve come this way.’

  ‘There must be at least that many already in Oxford, if the Don’s heard about them.’

  ‘Let’s get back,’ said Jack. ‘He needs to know about this.’ Acker leant against a tree, hands thrust deep in his coat-pockets. ‘It’s the war with Milland, o’course,’ he said. ‘Most of these bastards’ll be going further on, up to Banbury or somewhere.’

  The others were sitting on a dry-stone wall, not far from where Clara and Jack had left for their reconnaissance. Nearby stood an empty cowshed, in which the rest of the Scrapers were settling down for a day’s sleep.

  ‘Well, there’s still too many of them for my liking,’ said Ma.

  ‘We have come by many a long road to get here,’ said the Don, ‘and I do not wish our efforts to go unrewarded. As I recall, the villages on the Abingdon side of the river have proved particularly well-stocked in the past. The troops, of course, will be coming up from the direction of London – on this bank. So, we shall not waste our journey. We shall cross the river, avoiding Oxford and its garrisons, and pay a friendly visit to Cumnor, Eynsham and so forth. We will likewise avoid Oxford on our way back.’

  ‘You mean back to London then?’ said Catwall, wagging a finger. ‘To join with the Underground?’

  At this, Clara caught Ma’s eye, but said nothing.

  The Don gave Catwall a stare. ‘As I have promised, I think you will recall,’ he said.

  ‘There’s a bridge not far from here,’ said Acker. ‘Clifton Hampden. I put away a couple of Repsegs there, once.’

  ‘Then you will have fond memories of the place,’ said the Don. ‘Lead us to it.’

  Clara stood up. ‘I – I have to go.’

  The Don frowned. ‘Explain yourself, young lady.’

  Clara looked around. Acker was studying his fingers, but everyone else was staring at her. Jack’s jaw was set; Tesley was grinning again. ‘I have to go to Oxford,’ she went on. ‘I want to find out – er, I want to find out what happened to my parents.’ There were many other things Clara wanted to know, but explaining them to the Scrapers would be difficult – not to mention risky.

  Acker guffawed. ‘Fat chance you’ll have, darlin’. Exactly how are you planning to do that?’

  ‘I think – at the library – they’ll have records. There might be something …’

  ‘Y’know,’ said Acker, walking towards her, ‘I was beginning to think you wasn’t a spy. You’re good – you had me fooled, I’ll give yer that.’ He stood inches away, looking down on her. She could smell his stale sweat, and the
oil on his coat. ‘But if you’re running off to Oxford – well, it’s enough to get me all suspicious, like. You’re a spy after all. Ain’t you, darling?’

  ‘It is strange, I agree,’ said Catwall, peering at Clara.

  ‘I’m no spy,’ cried Clara. ‘I was hunted out of London, and if they realise I’m in Oxford, they’ll be after me again.’ She swallowed. She hadn’t thought about it before, but her own words made her realise the risk she’d be taking. ‘I – I just have to do it.’

  ‘And, o’course,’ said Acker, looking at the Don, ‘she’s heard everything we’ve said, so she can tell her Repseg friends where to look for us.’

  The Don eased himself to his feet. ‘Those details, my dear boy, can be changed. But I believe you are being unjust. Young Clara here has been useful. She has served us well, and even though her heart has never been quite with our line of business, I trust her. Come, my dear.’

  With an uncertain glance at Acker, Clara walked over to face the Don, who raised his eyebrows and stared into her eyes. ‘Do you swear,’ he boomed solemnly, ‘never to speak of the Scrapers to any person, in any circumstances?’

  ‘I do,’ said Clara, blinking. ‘I swear. I’m sorry, I–’

  ‘Then we shall take the risk,’ said the Don. ‘Peace! I have spoken. But if you are going, Clara, you had better go now.’ He nodded to Ma, then lumbered off towards the shed. Acker followed. ‘You mess us about,’ he muttered, ‘and–’ He gestured with a finger across his throat.

  Clara looked down, and took a deep breath.

  ‘We’ll miss you, you little thing,’ said Ma, coming up to her and giving her a brief hug. ‘Take care, won’t you? Who’s going to look after you?’

  ‘I’ll be all right, Ma,’ said Clara, ‘I promise. But thank you.’

  Ma kissed her on the forehead. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘here’s twenty boudicks. You’ll need a bit of money, I reckon.’

  ‘I know how to steal now,’ said Clara, with a wry smile.

  ‘And never to get caught?’ said Ma. ‘You be careful how you go. Now, do you know the way?’

  ‘Um, over there?’ said Clara, guessing where north was.

  Ma chuckled. ‘Follow straight on to the next village. From there you’d better get off the road. If you swing right, there’s an old track across country. You’ll cross a couple of roads, and when you get to the old pylons, you’ll be nearly there. Two or three hours, I should think. Oh! And here – take this.’ She fished in a pocket and produced a battered old compass. The markings were barely legible, but the needle still seemed to point the right way.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Ma,’ said Clara. ‘That’s very kind.’

  Matty came running from the shed. ‘Clara! Clara!’ she called. ‘Jack said you were going.’

  Clara swallowed. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I am.’

  Matty sighed, and bowed her head. ‘Everybody always goes,’ she muttered.

  ‘I’m sorry, Matty,’ said Clara, blinking. ‘I’ll always remember you, though. You and Ma, you’ve been so kind to me.’

  ‘Come on, Matty,’ said Ma. ‘We need to get some sleep.’

  They said their goodbyes, but as Matty was turning to go Clara said, ‘Where’s Jack?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Matty. ‘He wouldn’t come.’

  Despite the thick clouds that now hid the sun, the temperature climbed and climbed. Although Clara tried to cool herself by stripping off as many clothes as she could, that only made her pack heavier. Worse than the heat, though, was the unease that Clara felt growing inside her. She was shocked at how much she missed the Scrapers’ company. Company – that was it. It had been less than two weeks, but in all that time she hadn’t been alone. The Scrapers had befriended her, accepted her, and she hadn’t been afraid – even of Acker – until Tesley had forced himself on her two nights ago. Tesley – should she have told Ma about him? Ma would have listened, wouldn’t she? But then, what would Tesley do? Laugh it off, probably. Say that Clara had lied. Or maybe he’d hurt someone …

  But all that was behind her now. She was alone again. And, she hated to admit it, she was sorry that Jack hadn’t said goodbye. Besides all this, she was taking a big risk in going to Oxford. She’d have to be very careful.

  Her progress was slow. More troops passed close by, and even though the hedgerows hid her from the road, she threw herself down amongst the furrows until they’d gone. She skirted around another Closed Area, left to rot since the days of Nile Flu, and, further on, picked her way across the bones of an old bridge. No birdsong broke the silence, no fluttering of leaves, no whispering from the dead stones.

  At last, after what seemed like days, she began to encounter more people. There were houses here, and she saw a group of girls skipping on a patch of thin grass. Women lounged in the shade, gossiping or eyeing the weather. They stared as Clara passed by, and she tried at first to meet their gaze; but there was only hardness in their eyes. She heard children being called indoors.

  On a boarded-up house a poster read, in large letters:

  Do YOU know a traitor?

  REWARD

  Cloning Law Violations – 200 boudicks reward for information leading to the arrest of any person violating the cloning laws.

  Report to Town Hall.

  The price of a Natural had gone up, then, thought Clara. She hurried on.

  She found herself thinking of Tesley. How had he managed it? How had he first got her trust, and then abused it? She was lucky they’d been interrupted when they were – how far would he have gone otherwise? But another shock was that Tesley considered her, Clara, a target. She was nothing but a small, plain girl who had no idea about Naturals and how they should behave. She remembered the feel of his hand on her back. It was almost like – like he felt desire for her. Surely Tesley couldn’t be so desperate.

  Eventually, where two of the major roads converged, the growing hum of voices began to resolve into shouts and cackles. The pavements here were busier, and outside a noisy ale-house two women were fighting in the gutter, cheered on by a small crowd. Grateful for the distraction, Clara slipped by; but she noticed that one or two of the spectators threw the occasional anxious glance down the road.

  Beyond the impromptu wrestling-match the High Street was alive with activity. She’d arrived on market-day. Women, and a few men and children, bustled around her and past her; further off she could see coloured awnings and rough placards advertising food, or clothing, or ironmongery. Mingled with the tang of sweaty bodies were the aromas of roasting meat and baking bread, while the stink of quenched iron suggested a forge nearby. A small crowd laughed and jeered as a pet man, dressed in red and yellow, performed tumbles and tricks. Clara edged around them and reached the parapet of the ancient lichen-stained bridge over the Cherwell. She peered over. The muddy swirl welled up against the banks, and Clara watched as broken branches and twigs drifted into view; followed by something else. The woman floated face-down, her bare legs slab-pale in the brown water, her hair rolling like smoke around her head. And in her back, staining the woollen tunic with a splash of crimson, was a deep gash that slowly emptied and filled with brown river-water as the corpse bobbed in the current. Clara turned away.

  After several minutes sitting on some stone steps, she made herself stand. The last thing she felt like doing was buying food, but she’d walked a long way and had had nothing since breakfast. She picked out a baker’s stall, but as she made her way towards it there was a commotion, and the crowd fell back to the sides of the road. By the time she reached the stall, she was part of a thick press of bodies.

  She turned to the baker. ‘What’s going on?’ she said, wincing as someone trod on her foot.

  The baker, a stocky woman with wide hips and a greasy cap, grimaced. ‘Even more soldiers, it’ll be,’ she growled. ‘That’s the third lot today. Here they come.’

  A cloud of dust billowed up at the eastern end of the bridge. Clara squeezed between two tall women to peep out at the column of marching figures, led
by three officers on horseback. The woman on the leading horse was shouting something, and the crowd edged still further back as she waved a long sword at them. Clara gasped, and the officer turned as if she’d heard. She halted the column, dismounted and strode in Clara’s direction. Clara tried to wriggle back into the crowd, but stumbled and finished up on her back. A bony woman fell on top of her, and there were shouts and curses. Clara felt the officer’s hand clamp onto her upper arm, and she was dragged to her feet.

  The officer shook her. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she spat. ‘Too much gin, hey? Little manlover!’ Then, throwing Clara to the ground, she sauntered over to the stall and grabbed a handful of loaves.

  ‘Hoy!’ said the baker. ‘Are you going to pay for them?’

  The officer said nothing, but brought her sword up to within an inch of the baker’s nose.

  The baker swallowed. ‘Please – er, take them,’ she said between her teeth. ‘Free samples, specially for you. Best in Oxford, they are. My compliments.’

  The officer grinned. Then, chucking a couple of the loaves to her companions, she re-mounted. ‘Move on!’ she cried. Clara scrambled to her feet as the column resumed its march. In silence the crowd watched the soldiers marching by: perfectly in step, each uniform identical, each shape identical. Waists all the same height, shoulders all broad and muscular. Faces all the same. Just as you’d expect from Clones. From the days when cloning still worked properly. But the thought of the mad children at Beale came into Clara’s head. Pureclones, or Geemos? Who could tell?

  As the back of the column passed, the crowd spilled back over the road amid muttering and murmuring. A few shook their fists, and Clara saw one woman being held back. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ her friends were saying.

  ‘Bastards,’ muttered the baker, as she spread her remaining stocks over the stall.

  ‘Where are they all going?’ said Clara, rubbing her bruised foot.

  The baker gestured with a loaf. ‘Up to Birmingham – they reckon they’re going to sort ’em out once and for all. Fat chance. Did you see – can’t even afford the ammo now, can they? All they’ve got is swords and knives! No good against guns, are they?’