by Alex Marwood
By the fireplace, Eilidh laughs loudly in the middle of a group of older women, and a knot of envy forms in her sternum. It’s Romy’s first solstice too, but no one is gathered around her draping her with garlands, tying friendship bracelets around her wrist, smoothing unguents into her skin. Sometimes she feels as though she and Eilidh live on different planets.
‘Stay in the light,’ says Somer, again.
Her head snaps back into the here and now. ‘What?’
‘You don’t know,’ says Somer. ‘It’s not like you think. Lucien, Vita, Uri – they’re not there tonight.’
She wants to let out a loud ‘doh’. ‘I know.’
‘Listen to me, Romy.’
She listens, resentfully.
‘Drink slowly,’ says Somer. ‘You’re not used to it. None of us is, and it can get away from you before you know it. People … aren’t the same tonight. You’ll see.’
Eilidh brushes past. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Yes,’ says Romy. ‘Hang on. Don’t go without me.’ She turns back to her mother. ‘I can take care of myself,’ she says confidently.
‘I know. I know.’ Somer lets her arm go, looks suddenly tired. ‘Just … stay in the light.’
In the courtyard, Kiran presses tankards of cider into their hands. She drinks, and nearly spits, for her first taste of alcohol is not, as she had expected, like a particularly nice form of apple juice, but sour and bitter at the same time. Kiran laughs at the expression on her face. ‘You’ll get to like it,’ he assures her, and she takes another sip. Without the element of surprise it’s closer to palatable, but she can’t imagine she will ever grow to like it. But hey – you can pretend to like anything.
Ursola approaches, smiling, her strange boxy camera in her hand. ‘You two,’ she says. ‘Solstice photos.’
The girls straighten up, feel strangely self-conscious. Photographs aren’t part of their lives. Kiran makes to step back, but Eilidh holds his arm. ‘Can we have Kiran too?’ she asks.
‘Really?’ asks Ursola. ‘You don’t want your very own?’
Eilidh shakes her head. Smiles her sweet smile. ‘I don’t,’ she says. ‘I want it to be the three of us. It’ll always be the three of us.’
‘Well, if you’re sure … ’ says Ursola. ‘Is that all right with you, Romy?’
‘Yes,’ says Romy, and crowds in the other side of Kiran. Feels warm and loved, and part of something.
‘Smile,’ says Ursola. ‘Say cheese.’
This is a splendid party. Trestle tables piled high with dried fruit, the pork and mutton they reaped in honour of the occasion earlier in the week, great heaps of flatbreads. No holding back tonight. The Leaders have locked themselves away and the people are free to cut loose. A tradition. Freedom, for one night and one day, two nights a year. The courtyard is strung with paper lanterns, candles burning in Mason jars, two great bonfires blasting out heat. By the makeshift dance floor the drums are starting up, a steady, heady rhythm that makes her want to sway her hips, throw her hands in the air. Women, in dresses, heads wrapped in garlands and cloth turbans in place of hair, are already straying into the open space, still in groups, starting to dance, throwing back their heads and laughing. She feels at once shy and arrogant: uncertain of how one approaches these people in this mood. An electric anticipation hangs in the air that she’s never felt before.
‘This is going to be a good one,’ says Kiran, with all the knowledge of three solstices under his belt.
It’s four o’clock and dusk is drawing in.
The Guards are there. Not in uniform, but still clumped together, keeping apart from the rest of the Drones. Another tribe within their tribe. They lounge on straw bales like watchful cats, the three women as uneasy in their dresses as she is in her own. They don’t talk, she thinks. The men and the women. Not with us, but also not much amongst themselves. Several of the men are smoking, a habit she’s heard of but never seen.
Off the leash like the rest of us, she thinks, and takes another drink. Her cheeks are oddly flushed and the drumbeats, which sounded so outlandish when she was a child, are making her want to dance. And then Dom turns his head and stares at her. His eyes narrow and his lips move. He’s saying something about her. Just a couple of words, but it is enough to make all of them turn to follow his gaze. The men, the women: still as statues and staring, as one being.
She blushes and turns hurriedly away to look at her friends. The way they look, she thinks. I don’t like it. It was as though they were sizing me up.
Midnight, and Romy is drunk. Smeared with pork juice and sugar, ripe with sweat. The Guards still stand by the barrels, watching, eyes narrowed, exchanging comments from the corners of their mouths, and Romy is on the dance floor, shaking her body. This is something different. Something primal. There is no music. Just drumming, drumming, drumming: the men queuing up to take over as others tire, the firelight licking the walls and making their shadows huge across the ground. I understand the dress now, she thinks. The freedom of her unclothed body beneath feels louche, delicious.
She throws her hands in the air and jerks her hips, side, side, forward, back, and then, from the crowd, Kiran is there with her, dancing in her rhythm, his feet moving to match hers as though they are one person. There’s a sheen of sweat on his face and in the firelight his cheekbones are so pronounced they throw shadows. And her hips fall into line with his hips and they raise their arms together in the air, no touching, no speaking, just looking, and she is filled, suddenly, with a rush of lust that terrifies her.
And then Eilidh has her by the hand and she’s sliding off through the gyrating bodies, and she’s laughing with relief. My God, look at us. We’re adults at last! Us, from the Pigshed, dancing as though the world will not end!
‘This is amazing!’ cries Eilidh.
‘Isn’t it?’ cries Romy, and pushes away the disturbing thoughts. Throws her arms round Eilidh because she needs something physical, a touch from someone, anyone but him. I must not think of it, she thinks. It’s forbidden, and besides, it’s Kiran.
She can smell alcohol on Eilidh’s breath, realises that she’s far drunker than Romy is herself. She wobbles on unsteady legs as Romy holds her and nearly takes them both over. Staggers back and pushes her slipping garland back onto her head. Laughs like a child and turns to Rohan, starts once again to dance.
On, and on. The drums thunder into the darkness and bodies move closer and closer. How do they keep it up? she wonders. Now she’s stopped, she doesn’t want to go back. She wanders over to the food, slaps a chunk of pork into a flatbread and eats. The meat is cold and greasy and the bread is turning stale, but she is ravenously hungry. It’s two in the morning. A few more hours until dawn begins to creep over the horizon and the solstice is over.
On the dance floor, a hand reaches out and touches a buttock, is slapped away. A woman sways, sandwiched between two men, and suddenly Romy feels uncomfortable. She looks around and sees the adults, smeared and bleary, and senses that the atmosphere has turned. Men are grouping together, standing on the edge of the dance floor, watching. Licking their lips.
She turns to the nearest person, who turns out to be one of the Guards. ‘I could do with a nap,’ she announces.
‘Fucksake,’ says Dom. ‘No stamina.’
‘She’s stocious,’ says Phil.
‘Not as stocious as that one,’ says Ace, and points at the dance floor. In her own little space, as though the crowd has parted to make room for her, Eilidh sways in her sweat-stained dress, small breasts proud under the flimsy cloth, her crown long since gone. She gazes up at the cold sky, though the stars are obliterated by the glow of the firelight.
‘Come for a walk,’ says Dom. ‘You’re overheated. It’s cooler in the orchard.’
‘No,’ says Romy. ‘I want to go to bed.’
‘I’ll bet you do,’ he says.
Suddenly, the three girl Guards, Ash and Fitz and Willow, are standing beside her. ‘Come on,’ says Fitz to Wil
low. ‘I’m done. Let’s get 143 home before she keels over.’
‘Hold on,’ says Dom. ‘I’m coming with.’
‘Not a fucking chance,’ says Ash.
‘I don’t want to go yet,’ Romy protests. The drums are still thundering and she feels she shouldn’t leave until they stop, though she longs for sleep. She staggers slightly, bumps into the table, sends a clatter of empty tankards crashing to the ground.
Fitz’s strong arms, hauling her upright. ‘Oop,’ she says. ‘That’s enough for tonight. You young ’uns.’
‘You’re only twenty-two,’ says Romy.
‘A world of difference,’ says Fitz.
On the dance floor, Eilidh suddenly clamps a hand over her mouth. Too late. People jump backwards as cider and fruit and not much bread burst out over her feet, over the gravel around her. Romy laughs, goes to point it out to Dom, but finds that he is no longer there beside her. ‘Hunh,’ she says, and staggers again. Ash slams her drink down on the table and grabs her other arm. ‘Right,’ she says, ‘we’re out of here.’
Romy lets herself be led away. She is very tired, and longs for her bed. And then her mother, and Cara, the Cook who shares her dormitory, loom out of the gloom and reach for her arms. ‘We’ll take it from here,’ says Somer to Willow, and Romy is surprised to find that she is glaring.
‘We were just—’ says Willow.
‘I know,’ says Somer, ‘thank you,’ and they take the weight from her legs of jelly and walk her home.
She glances back as they reach the field gate and catches sight of Eilidh, running unsteadily towards the alleyway that leads to the chapel, her hands clamped over her mouth again.
A few seconds later, several Guards slip quietly into the dark behind her, for all the world like a pack of wolves on the scent of prey.
34 | Somer
February 2014
And then there is no more Eilidh.
She vanishes one day, just like that. Vita goes to Glastonbury that morning to sort out a crisis that has arisen there, and Lucien is locked in his quarters, meditating, so only Uri is in charge. Ursola, coming down to check on her when she fails to show in the Infirmary for her shift, finds her bed made, her box beneath it and all her clothes still hanging at the end of her bunk, only her medallion gone, and after a few hours of calling and searching they give up and stop speaking of her, take over her tasks as though she had never been. And Somer finds Romy crying silently behind the godowns for her lost friend, but you never talk of the ones who’ve gone, so she just gives her a consoling pat and moves on with her duties.
They don’t see Vita for another week. On the seventh day, as Somer and Ursola are sharing a jar of peppermint tea in the corner of the orchard – how well she is beginning to be reaccepted, since she became a Leader – Somer hears the Guards’ radio network crackle, and moments later Uri strides across the orchard towards the road gate with thunder on his face. He stands in the middle of the drive, folds his arms and waits.
Vita crests the hill in the car, sees him in her way and pulls up. Gets out, and the shouting begins.
They don’t need to eavesdrop. They’re near enough, and invisible enough, and, even if Uri and Vita have noticed that they’re there, it seems that their emotions are running so high that they don’t care. Ursola sits rigid beside her, slows her breath. Perhaps they want this to play out in front of witnesses. For the rumour of discord to sweep the compound. It must be in someone’s interest, though whose is anybody’s guess.
‘Where is she?’ he asks.
‘Gone,’ Vita replies.
‘Gone where?’
‘Gone. I took her out of here. I’m not having it.’
‘Not having what?’ he sneers.
‘You know. Jesus, Uri. You think I’m blind? Even your father … ’
A laugh from Uri. Not a nice one. ‘Well, aren’t you the clever one?’
‘That poor girl. Jesus. Can’t you keep them under control?’
He laughs again. ‘Who says I want to?’
‘They’re not … toys. They’re not bloody treats for your robots. And Jesus, Uri, she’s your sister.’
‘Half-sister.’
She shakes her head as if in disbelief. ‘I don’t believe you. What the hell has happened to you?’
He folds his arms again. Doesn’t answer. Then: ‘He’s furious, you know.’
‘I doubt he’s even noticed.’
‘I don’t suppose he would have,’ he says, ‘if I hadn’t told him.’
Now she folds her arms, too. ‘Oh, you are the funny one. I suppose you think that’s going to undermine me.’
‘Well, I’ll enjoy watching you explain.’
‘It won’t take much explaining, Uri. If their Father can’t keep them safe, their Mother will have to. Simple as that. And you know what? He’ll accept that, because I’ve been running this place for years.’
‘Bullshit,’ he says.
‘Oh, come on,’ she says. ‘Who do you think’s been keeping this place going? Your father?’
Somer realises that Ursola is looking at her. Turns and sees that her face is tense. She’s as uncomfortable as I am, she thinks. I’ve never seen Vita this passionate before. She’s the calm at the centre of our world. The eye of the storm. What’s happening?
‘Well, if you think you’re in charge, you’re even more deluded than I thought,’ he says. ‘It’s me, Vita. He’s just been waiting for me to get old enough and strong enough. You’re nothing. You’re a … a … placeholder. If you were in charge they’d all be dead on day three.’
‘Wow,’ she says, ‘you really think that highly of yourself?’
‘Just ask him,’ he says. ‘You just ask him.’
‘Oh, kiddo,’ she says. ‘How old are you? Thirty-five? And you still haven’t worked out that your father will say anything as long as it makes people like him? Are you ever going to grow the hell up and figure out how things really work around here?’
She starts back towards the car.
‘Things are going to change,’ she tells him. ‘Your little personality cult has got way out of hand. This is the final straw, Uri, I’m telling you. It was bad enough when it was just you exerting your droit de seigneur. You can’t have a whole pack of them created in your image.’
To Somer’s surprise, Uri responds with a laugh. ‘Just extending the privilege,’ he says.
Vita stops, a hand on the door handle, and looks up. ‘What’s that meant to mean?’
‘Like you haven’t been his personal procurer for years. Why, Vita? You need to ask yourself that. Are you really so scared of him leaving you that you have to pimp for him?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
He folds his arms again, waggles his shoulders.
‘There were plenty of women,’ she says, ‘who were ready to mother the One.’
Somer feels sick. I don’t want to hear this, she thinks. I don’t. I don’t want to hear it.
An explosion of mocking laughter rings out across the orchard. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘That really was a stroke of genius, my love. It’s been such a sacrifice for him, making all those babies.’
Vita slams the car door. Marches back across the sward. ‘You know what, Uri? You’re way too confident. Way. This place wasn’t founded on tyranny and it won’t survive on it. You can rule people with fear for a while, but you can’t rule that way forever.’
‘Oh, you stupid old woman,’ he says. ‘You stupid old woman. You’re a fucking relic.’
‘Well at least I’m not a fucking rapist,’ she snaps. Gets back into the car and slams the door.
Somer doesn’t speak until Uri has marched away towards the Guard House. ‘So Eilidh’s gone, then,’ she says.
Ursola nods. ‘Yes.’
‘Another victim of solstice?’
Another nod. Somer feels a stab of anger. No one smuggled me out, she thinks. No one showed me anything but scorn.
‘Somer?’
She turns to look at Vit
a’s deputy. ‘Yes?’
‘I think something’s coming,’ says Ursola. ‘I think this place is changing and it’s going to get worse.’
Somer considers what to say. Words like this from someone so deeply embedded in the higher ranks of the Ark are two things at once. Flattering, to be taken into confidence after all these years. And frightening. For all she knows, this could be a test.
‘We’re all here by Father’s grace,’ she replies eventually. ‘Uri as well.’
And one day Father will no longer be here, she thinks as she drinks her tea. And someone else will lead. And he said it himself, over and over again. There can only be One. Not two.
Among the Dead
November 2016
35 | Sarah
The Year Tens are holding an anti-bigotry demo on the lawn outside the science labs. They have wrapped their faces in scarves and pulled slogan T-shirts over their uniform jumpers, and are punching power fists into the air beneath banners on sticks that read JC4PM, FUCK THE TORYS, PUNCH A TERF TODAY and TRUMP OUT. In front, a gaggle of Year Sixes play some complicated skipping game without ever glancing in their direction. The rest of the school is looking at its mobile phone.
‘Ah,’ says Helen, ‘schoolyard politics. Always one execution away from utopia. They’ll tire of Magic Grandad eventually.’
‘I do wish they’d learn to spell “Tories”, though,’ says Sarah.
‘Or go and look “bigotry” up in the dictionary,’ says Helen. ‘And since when has “feminist” been an insult?’
‘Well, it always was in some quarters,’ says Sarah. ‘Just not among progressives.’
‘Ack, “progressives”,’ says Helen. ‘Another word that knots my knitting.’
‘D’you think we should break it up?’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Swearing? Inciting violence?’
‘Mm,’ says Helen. ‘I suspect the fact that no one’s paying the slightest attention might undermine our argument. How’s home?’ she asks. ‘The kids tell me the half-sister has come to stay?’
Sarah grins. ‘Yes. I went to talk to her and ended up bringing her home. Did they tell you she’s pregnant?’