Runners

by Ann Kelley

  ‘Hey, look what I found,’ Buzz whispered, shoving the tattered remains of a comic book under Sid’s nose. ‘Spiderman!’

  ‘Yeah, where did you get it?’

  ‘Found it.’

  Sid thought about the Spiderman suit he’d had when he was four. Ten years ago. He wouldn’t take it off. He’d even worn it to bed. A bit like Lo and her fairyprincessdress. And he thought about something his father had said when he was thirteen, when his mam was worried about his obsession with Brunel.

  ‘We all need heroes,’ his dad had said.

  ‘Listen up, people, stop yammering. Lights out.’ Rook barked from his bed. Buzz crept back to his sleeping bag and hid the fragile comic in the torn lining.

  With exercise and good food Sid put on muscle. He was no longer the puny lad he had been when he arrived twelve weeks before. Lo wouldn’t recognise him, he thought. At least he didn’t have head lice any more. There was nowhere for them to hide on his shaved head. He still hadn’t any new body hair, while Rook had the enviable signs of pale fluff on his upper lip and his voice was sometimes as deep as a man’s.

  One day, marching with his team along the old promenade, past the sea defences of piled-up broken vehicles, coastguard vessels patrolling the bumpy sea beyond the harbour, they saw a women being chased by soldiers. She was younger than the women who were in charge of the Repops, and obviously pregnant.

  A Runner.

  Sid didn’t see what happened because they went into another road, but he heard the shots. All the boys were subdued that evening in the gallery.

  He still didn’t allow himself to think about his parents and what might have happened to them.

  One evening, exhausted after toiling in the hot dusty fields all day, he and Buzz were sitting in the same little park where they had first met. He hadn’t seen much of Buzz these past weeks, as the younger boy had been in a different work group until now. Swarms of gnats hovered around their sweaty heads. The boys were trying to make a sound from stems of grass held between their fingers and put to their lips. As they blew obscene sounds came from their mouths and they giggled.

  ‘You from round here then, Buzz?’

  ‘Nah, man, I’m from Mousehole.’ (He pronounced it Muzzel).

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Next village. Little harbour, boats an’ that. Ma and Dad in tourism.’

  ‘What, a guest house?’

  ‘Green tourism. Yurt village like.’

  Sid thought of the tents and yurt he had seen at Freedom Farm.

  ‘Were they reduced?’

  ‘Nah, Runners. But not me. I wanted to stay. Anyway, I’m legal, aren’t I?’

  ‘Where are they now, do you know?’

  ‘Dunno, do I?’

  ‘Don’t you miss them?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’ Buzz looked down thoughtfully, then said, ‘Good life here though?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose it is. When we going to meet girls then?’

  ‘Who cares, man? Got Ms Gull, innit?’ Buzz made an obscene gesture.

  ‘Yeah, who cares?’

  Muzzel, Sid thought. Another town with a ‘z’ in it. Two even.

  One week they spent each day on the slate roofs of the town, painting them white. Most of the Repops enjoyed this, even though it was hard, hot work. In the cool of the early mornings and late evenings they leapt from roof to roof, swung from old chimney pots, slid down sloping roofs before grabbing onto rickety guttering and swinging themselves up to safety. Roof-running was dangerous and exhilarating. Sid was one of the best. Being small and neatly made, he was supple and athletic.

  One evening, as the sun was disappearing over the distant hills and the air was cooling, they were playing tag on the way back to the headquarters, as usual. But it was rather slippery after a sharp rain shower and one of the older boys, a clumsy lad called Stone-chat (who they called Chatty, because he was) slid down a roof and fell to the ground.

  ‘Don’t move him,’ ordered Rook and sent one of the smaller boys to fetch the TA. But it was a long time before they came and lifted him onto a stretcher and took him away. Chatty was still alive, moaning horribly.

  All the boys were all shocked by the incident.

  ‘What’s the point of painting roofs, anyway?’ said Buzz, rubbing his aching arm. He had white paint spattered all over his face and arms.

  ‘The Warming. White paint reflects heat back into the sky. We did it ages ago where I lived.’

  Sid wondered why there still wasn’t enough power. Occasionally they had power at night, but more often than not the lights wouldn’t come on at all. At least here by the sea there were fewer mosquitoes and flies than in the city and no shortage of food.

  ‘Is Chat going to be OK?’ Sid asked Rook a couple of days after the accident.

  Rook looked at him strangely. ‘Don’t be so naive, Starling. He’ll have been reduced. What good is he with a broken back?’

  Sid went cold with horror. Of course, that’s what they would have done with Dad, too. He was useless to Fortress Kernow without his legs. He admitted the worst to himself and felt terribly alone.

  On fieldwork weeks they marched two by two, hoes, spades and forks over their shoulders, back to the fields each day. They sang. They didn’t know where the song came from. School? Childhood? Hey ho, hey ho, it’s off to work we go. He thought of little Lo singing it with him; he thought of the roundabout and Mal the Reducer.

  An incident occurred one damp humid day: Sparra stuck himself through the foot with a garden fork. Right through. He fainted over the fork, his foot still stuck to the earth. No hesitation, Sid (he still thought of himself as Sid) drew out the tines smoothly, held the boy as he fell, and called for help.

  Rook came up to him later in the high fields.

  ‘The lad’s going to be fine. You did well, Starling,’ he said. ‘I think you’re probably officer material.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. I have observed that you’re admired by the men,’ (Little kids, Sid thought) ‘and you have leadership qualities.’

  ‘Would I be able to grow my hair like you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s one of the privileges that officers have.’

  Sid’s heart swelled. He was beginning to enjoy being with these boys – men. He was going to be a leader of men. If he played his cards right. If he learned enough. If he kept on the right side of Rook. If he worked hard, did as he was told. Maybe one day he could train to be a Reducer? Wear black leathers, ride a powerful motorbike, fire guns. Get tattooed. Grow a beard. He felt more cheerful than he had felt since the day when the bridges had come down.

  I’m stronger than Dad, he thought. He pushed the unspoken betrayal away. Of course he was physically stronger than Dad; who wouldn’t be? He remembered his father reading to him when he was little. Before he had had his accident he had played football with his son, taught him about all sorts of things – politeness to his elders and betters, how to cut bread, how to hold a cricket bat, how to tie a knot, how to build a bridge of bricks, how to admit when he was wrong, and respect for his mother. Sid couldn’t actually remember what else, but he knew that his father had shown him how to be a man.

  Sid tried to remember his mother’s smile, the smile in the photograph, thin and hopeful, her dark wavy hair under the thrown-back wedding veil, but he couldn’t. Only her bitten lips and the frown lines she had worn between her eyebrows since Dad’s accident. In a way, the accident had eclipsed The Emergency, when they were herded with neighbours and strangers into the newly formed ghetto. The accident happened at the same time, so that when he was discharged from hospital, instead of going home to Brunel Avenue, it was to the ghetto.

  Life had changed overnight for Sid. No more yard to play in, or room of his own. He had to share with his little sister. And he often missed school to go with his mother to search for basic food.

  It made him sad to think about his parents, but he knew he should remember as much as he could so that he could tell Lo when she asked.
If she asked.

  It hit him that he was the man of the family now. And he remembered his mother’s plea to him to look after Lo. The responsibility was like a heavy weight hanging around his neck. Shame made him blush as if his thoughts had been spoken aloud. How could he even for a moment have wanted to be a Reducer?

  The first opportunity he had to look for his grandparents’ house, he took off at a trot. Once a week each boy had two hours’ leave from Repop duties. He headed for the further part of town, where there were rows of houses on a hill, because he remembered a hill. He was searching for a large monkey puzzle tree in a small front garden, but most of the front gardens were given over to veggie plots. Empty houses had been burnt to the ground or left derelict, with wheel-less rusting vehicles collapsed on cement drives. There were no monkey puzzle trees to be seen. The tree he was looking for had been a strange shape, like a pine tree but with very spiky branches. No way could you climb it; there weren’t even birds’ nests in it. it was pretty useless really. But his grandmother had been proud of it. She was short-tempered, couldn’t be doing with kids. Grumps, Dad called her. Gramps was all right though.

  He walked disconsolately up and down for a mile or so, until he got to the town centre again, and the swimming pool. He was sure he would find it eventually, but time was running out. He had to report back at 0900. It was best to search in the early part of the day, before it became too hot. With thirty minutes left, he ran beyond the pool towards the other side of town.

  ‘What are you doing, boy? Aren’t you supposed to be in camp?’ A short belligerent man in TA fatigues stopped him by jabbing him in the chest with a leather riding crop.

  ‘Sir,’ Sid stood to attention and saluted. ‘On morning leave, Sir.’

  ‘Show me your ID, boy.’

  He eventually let him go, but Sid had lost precious time. He would have to try again another day.

  One day, Sid was working on his own at the edge of a field, mending a dry-stone hedge, placing chunks of granite into the gaps, and thinking about Isambard Kingdom Brunel. How he would have enjoyed mending this wall, because that was what he was good at, building things. Sid did what he often did before The Emergency, he pretended Brunel was there chatting to him.

  ‘Hello lad, it’s Sid, isn’t it? Knew your father. Good man. Sorry about his accident.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, sir. He admired you above all other men.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Mr Brunel – I wonder if you might be able to help me? You being a famous engineer.’

  ‘Call me Izzi,’ Brunel wore a tall black hat with a narrow rim, a waistcoat under a long jacket and smoked a cigar.

  ‘Oh I couldn’t do that, sir. You’re a famous dead person.’

  ‘Do call me Izzi, my boy. Makes me feel more alive, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Who are you talking to, man?’ It was Buzz.

  ‘No one, myself. Bad habit.’ Sid scratched his shaved head, embarrassed.

  ‘I talk to my little sister, sometimes.’ Buzz did a one-hand handstand and leapt up again.

  ‘Didn’t know you had a sister. What’s her name?’

  ‘Dolphin.’

  ‘Dolphin? Isn’t that a fish?’

  ‘I dunno. It’s her name but I called her Doll. Anyway, we’ve all been given the names of birds.’

  ‘Yeah, suppose.’

  ‘What sort of a fish is a dolphin, then?’ asked Buzz.

  ‘Big, fast, jumps out of water, smiles. Or did. It’s extinct,’ he told the younger boy.

  ‘Smiles? Doll smiles a lot.’

  ‘Good name for her then, innit? What do you talk about?’

  ‘Stuff. Things what happen. Tell her what I’m doing, where I am.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Three. She can talk and stuff. They took her with them when they ran.’ He sniffed and blinked fast.

  ‘Girls are different from us,’ said Sid. He thought about Lo, her love of pink things, being a little mother to her dolls, wanting to play tea parties. She didn’t like guns and football or building things. But his mother didn’t fit. She hadn’t been a girly sort of mother. She had played rugby with a women’s team. Did weightlifting. Was good at putting up shelves and mending things. He tried to remember the last time she had kissed him goodnight. She used to read to him when he was little, before Dad’s accident, before Lo was born. Then she would kiss him. Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bugs bite. He choked back a tear and sniffed hard and noticed that Buzz was having trouble in that department too.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  JUST LATELY ROOK was making a point of sitting with Sid at mealtimes. In spite of himself, Sid was flattered. But he was wary, also. He wouldn’t give anything away about Lo.

  ‘Tell us how you came to be with the Reducer then, Starling.’

  ‘Didn’t I say?’

  ‘Missed it.’

  ‘He came off his Harley. I looked after him.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘East of here.’

  ‘Yeah? Where exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know. Woods.’

  ‘So where is he now?’

  ‘Dunno. Went back to his squad. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Why were you there? Were you hiding, or what?’

  ‘On my way west.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Told you. My grandparents are here somewhere.’

  ‘But why weren’t you put with Repops where you lived?’

  ‘Dunno, a mix-up. Anyway, had adventures.’ Sid sniffed.

  ‘So, what was the Reducer’s name?’

  ‘Mal.’

  ‘Mal? That means bad.’

  ‘Does it? Well, he wasn’t bad. Taught me to shoot and how to build an earth oven.’Sid thought of Mal with sudden affection, as if he were an uncle or an old family friend.

  ‘Malodorous – bad smelling; malnutrition – faulty nutrition; malfunction – not working. Maladjusted. Like you, see?’ Rook dug Sid in the ribs.

  Sid grunted. Rook was too clever. He didn’t trust him. Never would he forgive him for telling about the photograph. It was malicious, malevolent, maltreatment.

  In the musty classroom there was the high whine of mosquitoes, and the smell of feet. Sid fought off sleep. The lecture was on the onset of Climate Change.

  ‘So, as I explained before, when the ice-caps completely melted during the second half of the twenty-first century sea levels rose by seven metres worldwide. 2055 – the turning point for civilisation. Write down that date in your books.’ Ms Thrush waved away a fly buzzing close to her face and turned her gaze on the boys.

  Sid already knew that. He had been taught all about Climate Change at his school in the city.

  ‘Entire nations moved to higher ground. The world suddenly shrunk to far fewer suitable habitats for animals and humans.’ A murmur went round the room. ‘I think Ms Gull has told you all about the CCP? The Chemical Castration Programme?’ They nodded, squirming in embarrassment.

  ‘Any questions?’ Ms Thrush asked.

  Sid raised his hand. ‘Please Miss, why didn’t they sterilise women instead of reducing them?’

  ‘Good question, Starling. It happened at first, of course, when the Population Reduction Programme began, but it became obvious that there would still be far too many people to feed.’

  The boys fidgeted in the heat. Blue-bottles zig-zagged across the room, banging against the dusty windows.

  ‘Even when the great Cow Flu pandemic killed millions worldwide,’ she continued, rapping her stick on the front desk, causing the sleepy boy who sat there to jump, ‘many nations banned couples from having more than one child. Some low IQ couples were not allowed to have any. But still there was not enough water and food for everyone. So, the obvious had to happen. Breeding was forbidden.’

  Sparra started to chortle behind his hands.

  ‘Grow up, Sparrow,’ she said crossly. ‘That still wasn’t enough. To simplify, the rulers of all the countries i
n the world got together and came to the conclusion that only solution for the survival of Earth, and incidentally for the survival of mankind, was to rapidly reduce numbers to save a few: a special few, of whom you are among the… er… chosen,’ she stuttered to a halt. ‘Silence!’ She pointed to a boy at the back.

  ‘How come you weren’t reduced, Miss?’

  ‘Any intelligent questions?’

  ‘I can see why I was chosen,’ said a hefty boy called Jay, ‘but why choose that lot?’ He swept his arm round to include the entire class, who jeered and clapped and laughed at his insult.

  ‘Healthy, fit and bright boys and girls between the ages of eight and fourteen are going to be the parents of the future.’ Sweat glistened on her high forehead. She was losing control of the class, and knew it. ‘It will be up to your generation, when the time comes, to be ready to do the right thing for humanity.’

  ‘Sleep with a lot of girls,’ quipped Finch.

  ‘Okay, that’s enough, boys, that’s enough.’ The teacher rapped her cane on the desk. They eventually calmed down.

  ‘How many people are left in Fort K, Miss?’ Sid didn’t know the boy who’d raised his hand.

  ‘Enough to grow food, Robin, do other vital work, guard our water supplies, guard our borders, be involved with food and biogas security, work at recycling metals and other vital products, and the important job of teaching and caring for the chosen Repops.’

  And kill Runners, thought Sid.

  ‘Why do people want to get into Fort K, Miss? Aren’t they being looked after in their own zones?’ the same boy asked.

  ‘All the eastern counties of England, Ireland, Wales and Scotland were badly affected by the initial flooding. Whole cities and towns disappeared, including London, which used to be the capital city, as I’m sure you know. We grow plenty of food in Fortress Kernow, enough to feed the local population, but no more. And more importantly, we have…? What do we have?’ She pointed at a gingery boy in the back row who was almost asleep. His neighbour jabbed at him.