Truth Sister

by Phil Gilvin

  Chair: Yes, too much toxicity might raise suspicion.

  Member for Slough: So what is this toxicity?

  Ms Kapoor: Only in large doses and for some sensitive subjects. Effects on digestion, that’s all.

  Member for Slough: What about men?

  Ms Kapoor: Men? They have not been our concern.

  Member for Slough: And your workers?

  Ms Kapoor: They are well paid. If they don’t like the job, they can leave.

  Vote – agreed, 19 to 1.

  Clara nodded. So what Catwall had said about Aquaster was true. Every woman who had drunk from the Republic’s water supply had been poisoned, manipulated, violated – just as the “Member for Slough” had said. Memories came to her: a day spent ploughing through pointless papers at the Ministry, papers by Emmeline Anger, who’d claimed the same thing before “committing suicide”; a sickly-sweet smell from the taps; the stink from the Waterco supply pipe.

  The Republic had covered it up, too – the minutes had said that “no announcement” was made. This had been going on for thirty years and more. Had Ms Kapoor’s company (it didn’t say who that was) now had time to develop the “improved” version? Maybe it was still “toxic”. Was that why women like Bella were getting sick? And did that mean that some women were now permanently sterile? She frowned. Wait a minute, what about Sophia? Her own mother had – she fought down a shudder – naturally conceived her. Why hadn’t Sophia been affected by the Aquaster? Then she gave a gasp. Of course! There was a well at Briar Farm, and the well-water probably didn’t contain Aquaster. James had said that the old farm had had a well too. It began to make sense.

  She flicked back through the pages, but there was no more mention of Aquaster – this was all. Yet she did notice two things: the meeting had been chaired by “Ms C. Hedera” – no surprise there – and it had been held at Waterco’s headquarters. Clara wondered who had got paid for what. Had the Member for Slough taken the money, too, despite her objections in the meeting?

  The Member for Slough … Clara returned to the other volume, and took it over to the window again. The second meeting, the later meeting – what was it they’d said? Here it was: “… sympathy to the daughters of the Member for Slough, following her sudden and tragic death.” She grimaced. Even in those days, it didn’t pay to oppose the Republic.

  She put the volume down on the windowsill and looked out. Below, in the courtyard, people were still coming in and out with supplies for the siege. Then two Repsegs came marching through the main gate, and with them was a bony woman with a thrust-forward neck. A woman with an all-too familiar frown on her face. It was Medea Carrow.

  Clara crept to the landing above the reception desk and peered down. Carrow had been delayed by the security checks, but her first hissed words were enough: ‘Where is she?’

  Clara knew all too well who “she” was, without staying to hear the receptionist squeaking something about “upstairs”. Where to run? Those other stairs – the breeze she’d felt earlier – there must be an open door somewhere. She abandoned her pack, abandoned the books, and ran. She clattered down the narrow stairs, half-twisting her ankle as she went, then down a corridor to a fire door, mercifully propped open. Out into a courtyard she ran, hesitating only a moment before scrambling over the hot railings and into the street. She sprinted back around the library and down a side lane. Maybe she could lose herself in the crowds; maybe Carrow hadn’t seen which way she went.

  Clara was panting already. Heads turned as she raced by, but she didn’t care. They’re hunting me down, she thought, her stomach churning as she realised how badly the Republic wanted her. She turned into Market Street, pushing past the startled shoppers, dodging around a bony girl restocking a stall, pressing on and on until her lungs hurt. She risked a glance behind and saw the caps of two Repsegs, turning into the street after her.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought. Why did I leave the Scrapers? Then she thought of James, of his strong arms, how he could help her if he were here now. She thought of Sophia, sitting by her bedside, telling her it had just been a bad dream …

  A throng of perspiring women and girls lined Cornmarket Street to watch another line of soldiers marching through. Some cheered, others looked sour; loud came the stamp of boots on road. Over the noise, a woman with a loud hailer was announcing all the victories these soldiers were going to have. The stupid soldiers ready to die, the identical soldiers with their faces all the same. Clara forced her way through the crowd, making in the direction of Giles Street; another glance behind – the Repsegs were still following. The cheering grew louder. At the corner, some young girls were jumping up and down, trying to get a view of the soldiers. As she drew level with them, Clara noticed a gap between the marching ranks – a few yards separated one battalion from the next. In a moment she knew what to do. Grabbing the arm of a red-headed youngster, she shouted: ‘Hey, come on! Follow me!’ Then, pushing and elbowing, she forced herself though the crowd and into the gap between the ranks, sprinting through before shoving into the spectators on the other side. Behind, there was uproar – as she’d hoped, some of the girls had followed, and were dodging in and out of the marching lines while the crowd bayed and hooted. She didn’t look back, but ran on through Jericho, down to the old railway that now served as a rough track, on and on. After another fifteen minutes she could take it no more, and threw herself down under some myrtle bushes, trying not to be sick. A minute dragged by, then another. Back down the track, all was quiet.

  Hours later, under the shade of an old road bridge where the track stank of rotting weeds and the puddles still lingered from last night’s rain, Clara sat and wondered.

  They want me, she thought. The Republic want me. I’m a criminal, and they’ll never stop hunting me. What can I do?

  She thought of running away, to Milland – but no, there were two armies in the way. Or maybe she could go south, get to the coast, join some pirates. But they’d probably kill her. What about west? Maybe she could get into Wessex. But the Republic had friends in Wessex. She wouldn’t be safe, even if she could get past the gangs and chieftains who fought over the Dorset badlands.

  She stared out at the old willows, their drooping branches swishing gently in a light breeze. In the foreground, some hollyhocks had forced their way through the brambles, and their pale yellow flowers glowed as the afternoon sun shone through them. There were hollyhocks just that shade at home, thought Clara.

  Home. What a strange word to use. Briar Farm was where Sophia and James had betrayed her, had turned her world inside-out; it was where Aunt Grana had imprisoned her. So why did she still think of it as home? She sighed, and hugged her knees, one hand grasping the other wrist. She wished she could have seen Sophia and James before they’d been taken away. She wished she was still with the Scrapers. She wished she could have said goodbye to Jack.

  She wished a lot of things.

  It was raining again. Clara’s feet squelched inside her boots as she trudged through the puddles that lay along the yellow grit of the old railway. She’d been walking for nearly two hours without a cloak – that had been left in the Bodleian – and her sodden clothes stuck to her back, chest and legs. She didn’t know where she was going – she just wanted to get as far away from Carrow as possible. The idea made her turn and stare back down the path; but she saw nothing but rain.

  Eventually, as the downpour eased, she came to a place where red-roofed houses peeped through the trees on her right. She swallowed and licked her lips. It was a long time since breakfast. If she’d learned one thing from the Scrapers – and especially from Jack – it was how to burgle. This was the edge of a village – still inhabited, if the smell of smoke was anything to go by. She could get something from here. But shouldn’t she keep going? It would be a couple of hours before it was dark enough for burgling, and in that time she could cover a good few miles.

  Her stomach won. She couldn’t be sure she’d find anywhere else to burgle, and besides,
she was weary to the bone. And, as a glimmer of sunshine forced its way through the clouds, the decision was made. She’d have to wait for the cover of darkness, but in the meantime she could sit by the river and dry out. She hurried down the narrow lane to her left.

  At the water’s edge she found an old plank-built boathouse, still mostly intact, fronted by a sloping bank of gravel and earth. She dropped gratefully down onto the bank and threw a couple of stones in the river. They sank with deep, resonant ploops that seemed to carry all across the fields on the far bank. She threw no more. You never knew who was listening.

  She lowered her head. ‘Mother,’ she whispered. ‘James.’ A deep loneliness welled up inside her, a wild, endless longing; and at last she knew what she wanted. She wanted her parents. She wanted to see them again, hear them again, live with them again. Maybe even love them, whatever that meant. Because her parents, with all their faults, were all she could be certain about. They’d tried to do their best for her – admittedly they’d failed – but they’d tried.

  She shivered. Her clothes had hardly begun to dry, but now a rising mist was chilling the air. The flies and mosquitoes grew drowsy, and their buzzing faded until all she could hear was the gurgle of the river and the occasional plop of a fish taking an insect. And a deeper drone coming from her right, somewhere downstream.

  She frowned. That sounded like a motor. She had no idea where the nearest main road was – the village behind her must have a road, she supposed, but that wasn’t the direction from which the noise was coming. She listened again – it was definitely a motor, making a throaty, half-choked rumble. And it was getting nearer.

  Even after the shock of discovering that Carrow had followed her to Oxford, Clara couldn’t believe that they’d found her again. There must be another road close by, maybe a busy one, and that was probably just a military motor-van on its way up to Oxford. Probably.

  She scurried inside the boathouse, its entrance choked by nettles and its half-open timber doors rotting on their hinges. Along one wall lay a broken rowing-boat, and at the far end a flight of rickety stairs led up to a balcony stacked with bundles of cloth, cobwebbed rope and rusty cans. Not daring to shift the doors, she hid behind one and peeped out through the gaps in the boards.

  Now the sound was clearer, but more puzzling. There was a rough chug-chug, broken now and then by a roar as someone tried to get more out of the engine; but there was also a smoother, higher-pitched hum. There were shouts, too, and although Clara couldn’t make out the words, she could sense the fear in them. She realised that the sounds were coming from the river itself – the motor must be on a boat. Still she couldn’t see it, for the stream curved here and bushes grew right down to the river’s bank. Then, to her horror, she heard shots. If there were guns, surely there must be Repsegs! The shouts and yells grew louder, and the engines – for now Clara could distinguish two – thundered once more. A deep thud came, followed by a whine and a detonation. Spumed waves rode upstream against the current; and then the first boat came into view through the mist.

  It was a great black motor-launch, its pointed prow riding high over the water and its deck crammed with people. Even as Clara watched, shots rang out and one of the women fell into the river. The rear of the launch appeared, with thick black smoke pouring from it. It was listing, too, its engine wheezing like a dying woman. More shots came, and more people toppled into the water. Then, with a thrill of horror, Clara recognised a tall man in a pale flapping coat, jumping off the far side of the launch. It was the Don! The Scrapers – or some of them, at least – were on that boat, and the Repsegs were after them. Clara put a hand to her mouth and shook her head; but soon there was no doubt. The launch was closer now, and she recognised many of the panic-stricken faces. Acker was there, scrambling over the foredeck as the launch began to heel to its right. Catwall clutched something to her chest while a woman next to her went down under the gunfire. Quickly now, the launch spun round and lodged its nose in the far bank, its stern sinking into the water. Bodies slid from the deck and into the river, where the current took them away. Survivors scrambled to the bank and ran.

  Still Clara stared across the river from between the doorplanks, unable to move, whimpering every time another Scraper fell. The thickening mist, now mingled with bitter smoke, made the scene like a nightmare. She could feel her heart pounding as the Repsegs landed their own craft – a low-slung speedboat with a gun mounting – alongside the wrecked launch. One after another, they leapt down into the flat meadows to give chase. She heard more shots, and shouts receding in the mist. With a slurp, the launch settled on the river bottom, only its prow still visible, nosing up against the bank.

  A sudden splash near at hand made Clara jump. She braced herself, ready to run; but then she saw two muddy arms and a head appearing at the near bank, not ten yards away. The head bobbed down for a minute, and Clara began to think it had sunk, until, with an effort, the figure hauled itself out of the water and lay there on the gravel slope, gasping. Then Clara cried out – there was no mistaking the short, bony figure. It was Jack.

  At Clara’s cry, he looked up, alert. He turned, ready to jump back into the river. Clara dropped onto all fours and peered around the door. ‘Jack,’ she hissed. ‘Jack! In here.’

  He looked around, confused. When he eventually spotted Clara, he raised himself into a crouch and – inexplicably – shook his head. Then from across the river came a volley of shots, and Jack scuttled into the shed. Clara watched, puzzled, as he edged around her and, keeping his back to the wall, made his way deeper inside.

  ‘Stay down,’ she whispered. ‘They’ll have to come back for their boat. Keep hidden till they’ve gone.’

  The creak of boards told her he’d made his way up to the balcony.

  Clara waited, and waited. Eventually she eased herself into a sitting position, with her back to the wall. No sound came from the loft, and she began to doubt whether she’d really seen Jack at all. What did that shake of the head mean? Why had he avoided her like that? As quietly as she could, she crept again to the edge of the door. From here, she had a better view of the Repsegs’ launch. There it still was, swaying in the rapid water. Beyond, the mist that covered the meadow had taken on a blood-red tinge as the sun set. Even if the Repsegs had brought torches, the mist and darkness would soon defeat them and any Scrapers who were still alive might get away.

  Sure enough, in a few minutes the Repsegs returned. Clara counted four. Stowing their guns in the launch, they reversed out into the current and roared off upstream, towards Oxford. The launch’s wake slapped on the banks, leaving the froth drifting, and in the fresh silence an owl hooted. Clara waited another few minutes, listening, making sure the Repsegs wouldn’t return. Now the darkness was really settling in, and when she looked back into the shed she could hardly see.

  ‘Jack?’ she called softly. ‘Jack, I think they’ve gone.’

  There was no answer. Clara groped her way towards the steps, treading gingerly until her eyes adapted to the dark.

  ‘Jack?’ she called, louder. ‘Are you all right?’

  A horrible thought seized her. What if he’d been wounded? What if he’d lain on the balcony bleeding to death, while all the time she could have helped him?

  ‘Jack!’ She hurried up the steps so that they creaked loudly. Then, as she reached the top, something thumped into her midriff. With a cry she toppled backwards, grabbing at anything within reach – but the woodwormed handrail snapped and she fell into space, landing on her back six feet below. Winded, she struggled to her feet only to meet a punch to the jaw, then another to the chest. She staggered backwards, horrified to see Jack coming at her out of the shadows, fists raised again.

  ‘You bitch,’ he cried. ‘They’re all dead! They’re all dead ’cos of you. I’m gonna kill you!’

  Still gasping, Clara had no time to speak before she had to dodge behind a pillar as Jack attacked again.

  ‘Traitor!’ he shouted. ‘Spy! You told ’e
m, didn’t ya? You told the Repsegs where we were. Acker was right – we shoulda stuck you when we had the chance. Well–’ he pulled something from his pocket ‘–I’m gonna stick you now, bitch!’ A penknife glinted in the dying light.

  Jack!’ cried Clara. ‘What are you–’

  But he started at her once more, slashing the air with the knife. Clara could only dodge as he thrust forward again and again. She ran out through the doors, but he was hard on her heels; she must turn and face him. As his arm swung once more, she managed to grab the wrist. Taller than Jack, she forced him upward and threw him off balance, so that they tumbled together to onto the stony earth. Jack struggled and kicked, but Clara managed to bring a knee up and sink it into his belly. As he doubled up, she wrested the knife from his hand and rolled away. In an instant she was on her feet; but the fight had gone out of him. Trembling, unable to speak, Clara watched him.

  Jack rolled onto his side, a dark shape in the doorway. ‘You told ’em,’ he sobbed. ‘You told the Repsegs. Ma said you was one of them Truth Sisters – she remembered your badge. And now they’re all dead. They’re all dead!’ The last words came out in a scream that wrung echoes from the shed, the bushes, the very river.

  Clara stood panting, staring down at the knife. She strode over and dragged Jack to his knees, dropping down before him and forcing the knife back into his grip. ‘If that’s what you think, Jack Pike,’ she shouted, ‘go ahead and kill me!’

  Jack didn’t move, his eyes like two pale lights in the gloom.

  Clara pulled her tunic up. ‘Go on!’ she shouted, her voice shrill and quivering. ‘You know where to put it. Kill me, Jack, if that’s what you want.’

  Jack knelt there, staring.

  ‘Make it quick,’ said Clara.

  His hand trembled. Then, with a whimper, Jack threw the knife away and dropped to the ground, sobbing.

  Clara turned on him. ‘I was a Truth Sister,’ she said, her voice thick. ‘They trained me up as one. Then they found I was a Natural. They wouldn’t have me after that.’ She swallowed. ‘I’ve been chased and chased, and I’ve lost everything. And now, you try to kill me.’