Toxic Treacle

by Echo Freer

  ‘And your sister?’

  ‘Ask her yourself,’ Monkey challenged.

  Penny was OK. At thirteen, she was just becoming a pre-nurturer, so she wasn’t allowed to play with Monkey the way she used to when they were younger; most of her time had to go on domestics these days. But, even so, he’d spun her the line that he’d cut it on a kitchen knife, so he felt confident that she wouldn’t let him down.

  The teacher spoke into a small mic above the plasma-board on the wall and an image of Penny’s division came forward on the screen. A provider was teaching maths but the Professor interrupted.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Penny Gibbon.’ The lens swivelled round until Penny’s face was centre screen. ‘Penny, I’d like you to tell me how your brother cut his hand.’

  Without hesitation, Penny replied, ‘He cut it on a kitchen knife, Professor. Mov Vivian had to suture and dress it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The screen returned to the multi-image again and Monkey stifled a grin. Nice one! But his relief was premature. ‘Now, perhaps you can explain the security report placing you and Trevor Patterson out of zone after curfew last night?’

  Oh crud! There was nothing else for it; he was going to have to use his old favourite. ‘Wasn’t us, Professor. Must be mistaken identity. You know what these old security cams are like.’

  ‘Credit me with some intelligence, Mickey,’ the head teacher said. ‘If I refer this back to Security, you know what that would mean, don’t you?’

  Monkey nodded, suddenly sober with the realisation of how close he was to losing everything.

  ‘You are a bright boy, Mickey and, after your graduation in a few weeks, I think you should seriously consider applying for university.’ Monkey rolled his eyes but the Professor was not finished. ‘I’ve seen many a pre-breeder like you waste his intellect once he graduates, and then end up in some menial job, regretting it. You could easily follow in your nurturer’s footsteps and become a doctor. Or, you could do worse than becoming a teacher like myself...’ Monkey raised an eyebrow - he’d rather have been caught by the hood last night than even contemplate a future like the Prof’s.

  Professor Reed ignored Monkey’s silent insult. ‘I would like to make you wash the yard with a toothbrush but, obviously, you need to keep your hand dry. Therefore, you will cut all the grass pathways in the school sustenance patch - with scissors. Now, before you go to your division, perhaps you can throw some light on the whereabouts of Trevor Patterson?’

  Monkey shrugged. This, he didn’t need to lie about. ‘I dunno. He didn’t turn up this morning and he’s not answering his ring-cam.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ replied the head.

  ‘So why’re you asking me? Ask his nurturer,’ Monkey said.

  The Professor held him with a contemptuous stare before turning his back on him. ‘Dismissed.’

  Monkey reckoned he’d got off lightly, considering that they’d actually been clocked last night. It could’ve been much worse. People had been sent to The Farm for less. They’d only gone out to kick a ball around: it wasn’t like they’d set out to cause trouble. Anyway, there was no way he was cutting any grass or scrubbing any yards or anything else in his own time: he would truck off Art to carry out his punishment - go through the motions to satisfy the Prof and Security.

  He left the office with a bounce in his step and a smirk to the new patroller sitting in the foyer, then tried Tragic again. But there was still no response. He didn’t know what Tragic was playing at and he was annoyed with him, so he closed down his own ring-cam and strode into class, holding up his bandaged hand like a war wound.

  Absent Friends

  Monkey couldn’t wait to get to class so that he could impress Angel with his battle injury. Mov Felton, the I.D.H.C. teacher, had tried to get large with him. She’d accused him of being late and then disrupting the instruction by bragging about his injured hand. Monkey had just laughed at her. He was one of the oldest in the class and just killing time. Apart from Tragic, who would be leaving at the end of the week anyway, the only pre-breeders left in his division were Jordan Grainger, Mark Watts, Leon McRae - tags: Danger, Fuse and Kraze - and Monkey himself.

  Kraze had been the leader of the Mooners since Daz had gone to The Farm. It had been a toss up between him and Monkey but Monkey had let Kraze have the role. Kraze knew that Monkey had relinquished his claim to leadership and, in a strange way, that gave Monkey the upper hand. Kraze might be the front man, but Monkey was the power behind the hood. What Monkey said, went - regardless of Kraze’s opinion. If Monkey decided to pay attention and work hard, then the rest of the hood paid attention. If, like this morning, Monkey decided to disrupt I.D.H.C., the rest of the pre- breeders followed suit. They talked, they joked, they tossed the key to the plasma-screen around between them and, generally, ignored Mov Felton. She flapped, she ordered, she threatened. But Monkey knew there was a limit to how many times and how many students could be sent out. They were in a win-win situation and, like it or not, Mov Felton had to put up with them.

  In fact, Monkey’s beef was not with Mov Felton, it was with her subject: Identity, Diversity, History and Citizenship! What was the point of it? Hadn’t he had enough of that at T.R.E.A.C.L.E.? Today, they’d been watching pre-revolution footage of some war crimes trial. An old man was sitting with his arms folded, refusing to answer questions, claiming that he didn’t recognise the Court.

  Monkey draped himself over his chair with his back to the screen and called out, ‘I refuse to recognise this instruction!’ Everyone laughed and he enjoyed being the centre of attention, especially where Angel was concerned.

  It had not been a personal protest against the instructor, it had been a gesture of disrespect for the tedium of the subject. Now, if Mov Felton had shown them vids like the ones Tragic had acquired a few weeks ago, then I.D.H.C. might not have been such a brain-drain.

  Tragic had told Monkey to go round to his house one evening. ‘Just you, not the rest of the hood, OK?’ he’d insisted. He’d shown Monkey vids, old ones from before the war, of football matches. Matches, the like of which Monkey had never seen. They were proper matches with goals and winners and tournaments and trophies. There were even some international games; one country playing against another. Imagine it - going across the ocean to other lands and cultures just to play football. Monkey had been enthralled.

  ‘Where d’ya get them?’ he’d asked Tragic.

  ‘Jane got them for me. She found them.’

  Monkey eyed him, unconvinced. Tragic never could lie.

  ‘OK - if you say so.’

  Monkey hadn’t pushed it. He’d sat back and watched in awe at the skill of those old guys. He knew, of course that competition was the enemy of co-operation but, to watch those old footballers working together and scoring goals and winning trophies, it certainly didn’t look like competition had spoiled their co-operation - that was real teamwork. And the thrill they’d shown when they’d driven the ball into the net, it was inspirational: like nothing he’d ever seen before.

  That’s when he and Tragic had started going out to kick a ball around - and score goals - even though it was only against a door or between jumpers. Several times a week, they’d split from the hood, watch the old vids and then go out and play football. It had become their ‘thing’. And, that morning, the boring vid of the old geezer with his arms crossed had only served to remind Monkey of Tragic’s absence and the fact that, in five days, when Tragic graduated, it would be a permanent situation. It wasn’t something he wanted to dwell on.

  ‘Hey, who wants to see some gore?’ he pushed back his chair noisily and sauntered across the classroom to the table where Angel was sitting with a group of pre-nurturers. Ignoring Mov Felton’s pleas to sit down, pay attention and think of others who wanted to learn, he pulled the bandage away from his palm to reveal the top of the gash on his hand. />
  ‘Neat, eh?’ he said, smiling at Angel.

  Moni Morrison leant across, looked at his hand, then flashed him a smile. ‘Quite the wounded soldier, aren’t you, Monkey?’ Moni, the daughter of a T.R.E.A.C.L.E. trainer, and an enthusiastic assistant at meetings herself, had always had a soft spot for Monkey: a soft spot that was far from reciprocated.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Monkey retorted coldly. If Monkey dreamt about being chosen for breeding by Angel, he had nightmares that Moni might get to him first. He was eager to dispel any possible feelings that she might be harbouring in that field.

  ‘You do know that conflict never resolved anything, don’t you?’ Moni went on. ‘It’s so pre-war. Civilised societies communicate with empathy.’

  Monkey raised his eyebrow and shrugged. ‘Guess it must be in my genes.’ And he walked from the room, throwing Mov Felton the excuse that he needed to relieve himself.

  Later that afternoon, Angel walked home from school with him and expressed no surprise when he retrieved his blade from between the walls.

  She pointed to his bandaged hand. ‘It must hurt,’ she said, keeping a circumspect distance from him as they talked. Any behaviour that smacked of flirting was strictly forbidden outside the Breeding Centres.

  ‘Neh! You should’ve seen the other geez,’ Monkey laughed.

  ‘You could’ve got caught,’ she went on, anxiously. ‘Didn’t you think of that?’

  ‘We’re too clever.’ He ducked and dodged, avoiding punches like one of the pre-war boxers Tragic had showed him on vid. ‘We’re like neenjas.’

  Angel smiled. ‘So, what happened to Tragic, then? If you two are so clever, why didn’t he turn up today? Was he arrested?’

  ‘Neh!’ Monkey laughed, as though it was the most ridiculous suggestion in the world. ‘He had a meeting about his graduation,’ he lied. ‘I’m just going to see him now.’

  Angel looked at him but said nothing. Monkey averted his eyes guiltily and they walked on in silence until they came to the disused bridge.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ Angel said, giving a slight wave and heading home.

  Monkey gave her a nod before turning southwards towards The Village boundary and Tragic’s house. He felt uncomfortable about lying to Angel. He liked her; liked her a lot. Tragic was forever telling him that it didn’t always work out that they’d be able to breed with the nurturer of their choice, but Monkey hoped, more than anything else in his life (except maybe becoming a pro-footballer) that no one else would choose him for breeding before Angel turned sixteen - especially Moni Morrison. He felt his face flush with rage, before putting the thought out of his head and breaking into a jog.

  When he arrived at the small lodge that Tragic shared with Jane, far from allaying Monkey’s fears about his friend’s absence, what he found only served to deepen them. The one thing he could always say about Tragic’s home was that it was just that: a home. Jane’s artistic temperament had created a welcoming atmosphere. It was hard to explain it but, whenever he went to Tragic’s, there was a warmth about the place. It was cosy and friendly - much more so than any of his other mates’ houses. Friendlier than his own home, if he was being honest.

  As he banged on the door now, though, it wasn’t at all welcoming. The shutters were down and there were no lights on inside. He called through the mail-slat but no one answered. There was no sound or movement at all.

  Perplexed, he ventured round to the back of the house. The windows at the back were also shuttered and the doors locked. His attention was drawn to the cables from the wind turbine by the side of the sustenance patch; they were draped over the fence and attached to the generator of the other gatehouse next door. That was weird. Why would Tragic’s nurturer give away their electricity? Didn’t she know it was illegal? All surplus supplies had to be given to The Assembly.

  Monkey hoisted himself up on the roof of the bike-house and peered through a damaged slat on the shutters over Tragic’s bedroom window.

  ‘Tragic!’ Monkey called, banging on the shutter. ‘Tradge! Are you in there?’

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness inside the house, he could make out several items strewn across the bed and floor: clothes, shoes, backpacks and papers. Tragic, apart from being tragically attached to his nurturer, was also tragically tidy. But today, not only was Tradge missing from school, he was missing from home, too. In other circumstances, it would be natural to assume that the house had been jacked, but Monkey had been all round and there was no sign of entry. Had he been arrested, as Angel suggested? Or maybe he’d done a runner - but to where? There was nowhere to run - Security was everywhere. And, more worryingly, if he had been arrested because of last night, wouldn’t they be round looking for Monkey before long?

  He slid down from the roof of the lean-to and the door swung open to reveal that it was empty: the bikes had gone. Security didn’t take people on their bikes - Monkey knew that much. Perhaps Tragic had graduated early? Maybe he hadn’t wanted the whole graduation party thing and had just slipped off to the Breeders’ Zone without any fuss? But, then, why would he leave his room in such a mess? Why hadn’t he taken his things with him? If he’d graduated, surely Professor Reed would’ve known and wouldn’t have been giving Monkey the third degree as to his whereabouts? And why was Jane giving her power to the post-nurturer next door?

  Something was seriously not right about this. Monkey spoke into his ring-cam. ‘Angel.’ The girl’s face flashed on to the screen and his stomach tightened with a frisson of excitement. ‘Can I trust you?’

  Searching for Tragic

  ‘Your dinner’s ready,’ Vivian said wearily as Monkey pulled on his jacket. He ignored her and headed for the door. She raised her voice to try and sound authoritative.

  ‘Mickey, you haven’t eaten and you need to take your vitamins.’

  She held out her hand with two tablets in the palm.

  ‘I told you - I ain’t taking no more vitamins. What is it with the vitamins anyway? When I was a bub, you said if we ate a healthy diet we’d get all the nutrients we needed - right? So why, the minute we get to twelve, does The Assembly start pumping us full of vitamins? Maybe, instead of sending all the pres to T.R.E.A.C.L.E., they should send all the nurturers to nutrition class, eh?’

  ‘Just take them - please.’

  He took the tablets and put them in his pocket. ‘I’ll take them later.’

  Vivian sighed. ‘Thank you. But you can’t go out, you have homework to do.’

  ‘And?’

  She sighed again. ‘Just because you’re about to graduate, it doesn’t mean you can give up on your education. You’re out roaming the streets every night. When are you going to knuckle down and start acting like the adult you’re going to be in a few weeks?’

  Monkey eyed her with contempt. ‘What - one of those adults you’re so fond of downing at every opportunity?’

  ‘Here we go again,’ his sister, Penny, groaned.

  Instantly, Vivian turned to her daughter and her voice softened. ‘It’s all right, darling.’

  ‘Oh yeah - she’s your darling! I’m just some fegging piece of crap you can’t wait to pack off to the good-riddance heap...’ Vivian slammed her hand down on the table. ‘I am sick of you and your foul mouth!’ she railed.

  His grand-mov, Sarah, piped up, ‘We wouldn’t have stood for it in our day. Mind you, we weren’t trying to be everything to everyone...’

  ‘Thank you - I really don’t need this right now!’ Vivian snapped at the older woman. Vivian turned her back on Grand-mov and tried to position herself between her son and the door. ‘You are not going out tonight. I forbid it.’

  ‘Forbid it?’ Monkey gave an ironic chuckle. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really! Now, go to your room and do your homework.’

  ‘Go boil yourself in crap,’ Monkey sai
d, calmly pushing her to one side and leaving the house.

  It was a ritual they went through most nights and Vivian never won. It was amazing to Monkey that she hadn’t given up by now. There’d be anguish again tonight when he got in, but what was new? After all, what could she do? Ground him? Fat chance of that! He’d just go out anyway. Corporal punishment was illegal and, if she even tried to lift a finger to him, she knew he had twice her strength. So, if he retaliated, she’d come off worse - and then have to explain herself to the authorities; probably even lose her job. She was in a no-win situation, whichever way you looked at it.

  ‘How dare you!’ Vivian yelled down the path after him. ‘Come back this minute!’

  Monkey ignored her. He pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, covered his nose with the chequered scarf of the Mooners and tossed the vitamin tablets to the ground. He breathed a sigh of relief to be out of the house and felt for the security of the blade in his pocket. OK - he was ready.

  His walk through Moonstone Park was uneventful with the exception of a group of pre-nurturers, whispering and giggling as their skirts swished by, rushing home from T.R.E.A.C.L.E. before curfew. Monkey recognised a couple of them from a younger division at school but he averted his eyes, pulled his hood lower and tucked his injured hand up his sleeve to conceal any distinguishing feature that might identify him later.

  As he approached the disused loco bridge, a lone figure was leaning against the wall, one leg bent, raised foot pressed into the bridge, head bowed. The garb was the same as Monkey’s: hood pulled low, nose and mouth covered, hands pushed deep into the pockets.

  ‘Woz happenin’?’ Monkey asked.

  Angel pulled down the scarf and smiled. ‘I’ve been waiting ages. I was starting to think you weren’t coming.’

  Monkey stepped back and looked her up and down, approvingly. Although The Assembly had never outlawed trousers for nurturers and pre-nurturers, wearing them was generally frowned upon. Except for the female security officers, of course. Nurturers were not allowed in the security forces; only those females who had either chosen not to breed, or had been unable to. Trousers were deemed to be the garb of providers: harsh, straight and to the point - not at all feminine. Monkey grinned. Seeing Angel standing there in batties and trainers rather than the normal skirts and court shoes of pre-nurturers looked weird. But, to an outsider or, more importantly, to the security cameras, she looked every inch one of the pre-breeders of the brotherhood.