‘You’re a bit of a coward, aren’t you?’ Jen sneered.
Myron said nothing. He didn’t want to fight her; he just wanted to listen to what was about to be said.
The mysterious figure upon the platform began to speak. The acne-ridden, bi-focal wearing, teenaged crusader introduced himself as Oscar Saracen. He began to whip the crowd up into a riotous frenzy with his visions of the future, speaking of conspiracy theories and the truth behind the war, which the sceptical crowd found hard to swallow. A murmur swept through the crowd, irritating the speaker.
‘Listen to me!’ he screeched through the megaphone. The crowd became silent again.
‘Everything that I have told you so far has been the truth, and I have the evidence to prove it!’ he assured the crowd.
‘The Government bureaucrats have been lying to us for years! The war has been nothing more than a cleansing exercise that has gone terribly wrong and—’
The crowd erupted in mocking laughter, thinking that he was a crazy man, not believing a word he said.
‘Please, let me finish! Why do you think we have so many labour camps now? We started off with five and now there are ten. Wake up and smell the coffee! We are all in danger!’ he shouted in frustration at the crowd’s disbelief. ‘The government is deceiving us! They are going to wipe us all out!’ he added.
The crowd’s laughter turned into booing and jeering, and then they began throwing small rocks and dirt clods at him to get him off the stage. Oscar was not going to give them the satisfaction of shutting up, as he continued to spout his conspiracy theories to the unwilling crowd.
Myron unwittingly turned to Jen and confessed that he believed every word that Oscar had spoken so far. It was something that they both agreed on.
‘But just because we’re talking to one another, it doesn’t change a thing,’ Jen told him point blank. ‘I still hate you.’
‘Same here,’ Myron shot back, but the look on his face told Jen he was still slightly frightened of her. Jen smiled to herself. She had no intention of embarrassing Myron further—she had taught him his lesson, and as far as she was concerned that was the end of it. The more Oscar ranted, the more convinced Myron and Jen became that he was right.
‘I know everything he’s said is true—I’ve heard it myself!’ said Myron.
‘I know it’s true, too,’ Jen concurred. ‘My mother had told me when I was younger that we weren’t safe, and that so far we had been lucky.’
Myron looked puzzled; what was Jen trying to say? Was she unwittingly telling him that she was a non-pure blood? He had to know more.
‘Are you on the list that Oscar’s talking about?’ he enquired.
Jen began to shuffle away nervously to avoid answering his question.
‘You are, aren’t you?’ Myron pressed. ‘I knew it!’
‘No, I’m not on the list, but it doesn’t mean I won’t be in the future. As far as the government is concerned, I don’t exist!’ Jen’s eyes smouldered as she barked, ‘Now, get out of my sight before I pummel you—move!’
All the time Myron and Jen were having their own private discussion, a governmental patrol began to approach the stage area. Oscar, still trying to avoid the stones hurled by the crowd, didn’t notice the patrol. Myron and Jen were likewise oblivious to what was going on around them, but it didn’t take long for them to find out. The majority of the crowd had decided that they didn’t want to spend time in one of the labour camps and slowly began to disperse. Without thinking, Myron grabbed hold of Jen’s hand and began to run in the opposite direction. Jen snatched her hand away.
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ Jen snapped angrily. ‘Get away from me!’
Myron appeared exasperated by Jen’s hard-headedness. The way he saw it, he was doing her a favour. Jen was a stubborn creature, and it was going to take a long time for her to forgive Myron for tormenting her and to trust him enough to go anywhere with him. At the moment, the fact that she hated him ruled her thinking. Myron took the bull by the horns and grabbed Jen’s hand again, running a little further with her, but only to a safe distance away from the patrol.
‘Go, get out of here! You should be safe now,’ Myron said, letting go of her hand and pushing her away before running in the opposite direction, back towards the military academy. Jen marvelled that, after all she had said to him, he still chose to help her. The way that their relationship stood at the moment, Jen was surprised that Myron hadn’t whistled the patrol over to get her away from him, and have her sent to a labour camp.
*
Oscar had just begun his descent from the stage when five members of the twenty-man-strong governmental patrol approached him from the side and took him straight into custody. As per the orders they had received, he would be taken from the park to one of the labour camps he had just been theorizing about.
Oscar knew the edict all too well: Should anyone be caught conducting or even attempting to conduct malicious propaganda rallies, he or she would be sentenced on the spot to a life of perpetual torment at the hands of the camp’s scarily efficient torture technicians. Oscar had resigned himself to the fact that he could be entering into something that he may not survive—as very few people ever did. If Myron had not looked up when he did, Jen would have been subjected to the same fate just for being in the audience. Myron, on the other hand, would not have been touched—unfair in some respects, but that was one of the perks of having a father who worked within the Parliament walls. Sir John Cutter was an integral part of the war office, and held sway over the military. He knew almost every move that had been played out in the war so far. However, there were certain issues that he knew nothing about, things that the hierarchy had chosen not to share with him—giving rise to the countless conspiracy theories that were voiced through the likes of Oscar Saracen.
*
Jen had made it to within fifty yards of the London Reform School’s stately but gloomily depressing buildings. She had five minutes before the beginning of her first lesson of the day, which would be marked by the screeching of the main building’s alarm system (not unlike the one in the caravan park). If she were to arrive even a microsecond late, the punishment would be severe. Tardiness was not tolerated, no matter what the reason. The once-outlawed caning was the favourite form of punishment used by most of the teachers, but some of the more lenient ones still preferred a less painful punishment, such as detention, or an abundance of line writing.
Jen ran through the corridor to reach the English room. No sooner had she reached the door than the alarm began to ring out throughout the building. She had to be seated before the end of the alarm to be regarded as on time, which she successfully achieved. Her English lessons were the one thing she looked forward to. Jen loved to write, anything from prose to short stories, but she hated reading. Jen would get so far through a book and then lose patience, deciding that she had had enough.
The English teacher had appeared from behind the door with a despondent look on her face. Mrs. Denham had received news that the Scottish forces had begun to push further south, crushing anything and anyone that stood in the way of their progress. The small town in which she lived had been hit, along with several others in the same area, just outside Watford. The news that her husband and his regiment had been despatched to deter any further attacks was the main reason for her despondency. She had explained the situation as best she could to the dazed pupils in front of her, giving ominous warnings about changes to come as a result of the attack.
Mrs. Denham was in no mood to teach, and dismissed her class forthwith. In fact, she had told them all to go home for the day, as the attack had affected more than half the school. Jen was put in a quandary as to what she would do for the rest of the day. She couldn’t really do anything, because she had no money, and she certainly didn’t want to go home.
*
After a little thought, Jen decided to take a walk over to the military academy in hopes of catching up with Myron. She ha
d thought long and hard about whether or not she had been too hard on him—after all, he had saved her from the clutches of the prowling patrol earlier that morning. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as she thought, and maybe there had been a certain amount of peer pressure with regard to the hateful insults that he had dished out on a daily basis—someone pulling the strings from behind.
Jen approached the iron gates which prevented outsiders from entering the academy. In the distance, she could see Myron; he was in the middle of an exercise with his fellow class members and hadn’t noticed her. She peered at him through the railings, watching as he was put through his paces on the assault course.
It wasn’t long before one of the assault course instructors spotted her and went to investigate.
‘Oi! You there!’ he shouted as he approached. ‘Move away from the gate!’
Jen had taken no notice, standing firm as he drew closer. The sergeant grew visibly angry at her insolence and began to pick up his pace. Jen could see that she was in for a confrontation and built up her defences. Meanwhile, the sergeant’s quick departure from the assault course had not gone unnoticed: everyone, including Myron, had focused their attention towards the gate. Myron became concerned for Jen upon seeing her standing there, her face set in a defiant sneer. He began to try and draw Jen’s attention, signalling for her to move away. Jen could see what Myron was trying to do, but chose to stay put. She was aching for a good fight and decided to take her chances with the burly sergeant.
Nose to nose, they stood between the railings of the gates that separated them. Jen stared into the sergeant’s face with menace, as he did with her, and neither was about to back down.
‘For the last time,’ he growled, ‘move away from the damn gate.’
Jen’s only response was to fold her arms across her chest. This angered the sergeant to the point of opening the gate and confronting Jen head-on. Jen found herself having to move slightly as the gate opened outwards.
‘Move away from here—now!’ the sergeant ordered as he butted his forehead up against hers.
‘Don’t tell me what to do—I’m not one of your bloody lackeys!’ was Jen’s saucy reply.
The sergeant had had enough of Jen’s disrespectful attitude.
‘All right, you asked for it!’ he said, shoving the gate against her with such force that she stumbled awkwardly backward and landed on her backside. Clearly upset, Jen didn’t have the strength to fight back. She could only do what she had been told to do in the first place. The sergeant watched as Jen got up, dusted herself down, and then backed away from him, knowing that she couldn’t win that particular battle. The sergeant smirked as he thought about his small victory, all the while watching Jen walk away from the academy’s boundaries.
Jen hadn’t moved very far from the academy, finding a bench to sit on while she waited for Myron to leave for the day. Unfortunately, she would have a long wait. Myron was among a handful of cadets lucky enough to be able to leave the compound whenever he wanted, but six hours of strategic lessons had prevented him from leaving at his preferred time of three o’clock. Jen had stretched herself out across the bench to take a much-needed nap, as she hadn’t had much sleep the night before. Many people had passed her by, looking down on her with a sense of pity, thinking she may have been a vagrant, and putting their loose change in her jacket pockets.
*
Finally, six hours had passed. Myron left the confines of the academy to take in some air. He walked out of the gate and made his way to the bench he was accustomed to sitting on to stare out across Hyde Park. Myron loved to watch people, curious as to how different their lives might be from his own. Just by examining the way they presented themselves and their mannerisms, he could often tell if they had lived a hard life or not. Myron hadn’t expected to see Jen lying on his bench as he turned the corner. He looked down on her and revelled in her serene state. He hadn’t the heart to wake her, but at the same time he wondered to himself why she was there in the first place. Why had she tried to get his attention when he knew that she hated him? Myron perched himself on one of the bench’s steel armrests and continued watching over her as she slowly awakened. In her groggy state Jen could make out a silhouette of a figure hovering over her and was startled when it spoke.
‘What are you doing here?’ Myron asked inquisitively. ‘First you beat on me, then you try and seek me out, and now here you are, sitting on my favourite bench. What do you want from me?’ he pressed.
Jen smiled uneasily at his abruptness, which she fully deserved.
‘I … I just wanted to thank you for your help earlier today,’ she said haltingly. ‘I think … I think maybe I misjudged you. And I want to apologise for attacking you yesterday. I’d like … I’d like to call a truce.’
Myron was gobsmacked by the change in Jen. ‘I want to apologise, too,’ he said bashfully. ‘I always hated ragging on you and the other students outside the Reform School. It wasn’t my idea, you know. I was forced to do it.’
It was as Jen had suspected: someone else was dictating the abuse—but because Myron was of a higher rank than the other tormenters, she had presumed that he was the instigator. At the same time he couldn’t appear weak in front of his subordinates, and had to behave like the ‘man-in-charge’ for the sake of appearances.
‘The hatred I had for you, it was —’ Jen paused in mid-sentence.
‘You said “had”—does that mean you don’t hate me anymore?’ Myron enquired.
‘I think that your earlier actions may have cancelled out the hatred, yes,’ Jen responded. ‘I’m Jen, by the way—Jen Cole. I thought you ought to know my name, at least.’
Myron smiled and thought to himself: I wonder what ‘Jen’ could possibly be an abbreviation of? Jennifer, Jenna—what?
‘My name is Myron Cutter—pleased to meet you, without meeting your fist! Now, tell me: what is Jen short for?’ he enquired inquisitively.
Jen frowned at Myron, clearly frustrated by his question.
‘OK, I’ll tell you, but if you ever call me by that name, I will beat you senseless.’ She sighed and added reluctantly, ‘My full name is Jenara Celesta Cole.’
How exotic, thought Myron, considering her lowly social standing.
‘What a wonderful name,’ he said. ‘It accentuates your beauty.’
Jen wasn’t sure what ‘accentuates’ meant, but she knew it could only be something good, and she thought Myron was gallant for expressing his feelings in such a way.
Myron quickly changed the subject before he said anything else to get Jen’s heart fluttering.
‘Do you know what I like most about sitting here?’ he said. ‘It’s peaceful, and I can get away from reality. I come here every day just to watch people.’
Jen sat up to allow Myron to sit next to her, and together they watched people and interpreted their moods and lifestyles as they strolled through the park. Some looked happy, but too many had withered and drawn faces.
‘Look at that poor sod,’ Myron remarked. ‘I bet he’s a workhorse, toiling at more than one job just to keep a roof over his head.’
With deep sadness, Jen watched the bent old man hobble by. She knew what it meant to be poor and was thankful that people had been putting their loose change in her pocket—at least now she could have something remotely edible to eat. She suspected Myron had been born with a proverbial silver spoon in his mouth and had never had to ask for anything, for which she sincerely hoped he was grateful. Myron and Jen were so different, but a certain chemistry was brewing that they had never felt for one another before, stemming from the events of the last two days. A proper relationship would be risky, as there had been talk of a decree being raised within Parliament for segregation of the classes. Myron’s father had said as much at the dinner table, and he felt that Jen should be aware of what was going on. What Oscar had said was true, but nobody apart from Myron and Jen believed him. The English teacher had warned that things were going to change, which sealed Jen’s convic
tion in what she had heard that day. They rose from the bench together and said their goodbyes, sharing a half-hearted hug and separating until the next time they met. Neither knew when that time would be, as the situation would dictate their every movement from that moment on.
Chapter Two
It was almost time for curfew and Jen was anxious to get away from the park, with only twenty minutes to spare. Myron offered to take her home before he left, but she declined. She had decided to take the risk and leave home three days earlier than the law allowed. There was only one problem with her carrying out her intentions: the tracking device that was attached to her wrist. She hunted around desperately for something sharp enough to pry or cut it off. There had to be something—even a piece of glass from a broken bottle might suffice. The park was always full of winos over an evening before curfew began, and they would drop their liquor bottles on the ground after draining them of their contents.
Myron had turned around to see if Jen was still within his sights, only to see her shapely posterior pointing upwards towards the sky. She was almost bent over double, scouring the ground for the one thing she needed to secure her freedom. Myron was curious and had to know what she was up to. He doubled back, not caring if he got caught breaking curfew.
‘Jen, what are you doing?’ he enquired upon reaching her.
Jen stood up and turned around, and then showed him the tracking device, which had been successfully hidden under her clothing until that point. Myron stared at her wrist and the small stainless steel band with the impenetrable clasp. It didn’t look like much, but from Jen’s point of view, it was a growing inconvenience.
‘Can you help me get rid of this horrid thing?’ she begged him.
‘With pleasure,’ Myron replied. He pulled a switchblade out of his pocket, flipped it open and grabbed Jen’s wrist. Jen was a little apprehensive as to how Myron would manage to remove the tracker. He hooked the blade under another part of the clasp, a place Jen hadn’t even considered. Almost instantly, the band fell to the floor. Jen picked it up and put it in her bag, astounded at how easy Myron had made it look.
Going Underground Page 2