Going Underground

by Denison, L. N

  Jen had every reason to be fearful; being from a poor background, many regarded her as a minority—but if anyone found out that she was of non-pure blood, as people with mixed lineage were regarded, her life would be worth nothing. Relocation would be forced upon those who weren’t born of English blood; the decree said as much. As with the Jews in the Second World War, people of non-pure blood would have to register their names with the appropriate authority. There was no escaping the registration process. The government had access to nearly everybody’s birth records, apart from the odd few that had fallen through the cracks in the system.

  The ex-government officials who lived under Waterloo Bridge had already been dealt with. They were regarded as curfew breakers for staying on the outside, and had been transported to one of the labour camps. That was many years ago, and it would be safe to assume that they were dead by now. Nobody could survive more than five months in one of the camps; the torturous regime would see to that. Their hardscrabble existence under the bridge for so many years would also have weakened them and contributed to their quick demise. The witch-hunts that had begun in the year 2026 were an unfortunate turn of events. Several rebel cells had infiltrated the English countryside throughout the continuing conflict, giving rise to conspiracies and a sense of paranoia among the hierarchy—and with the new threat, it was deemed necessary to rekindle them.

  Nobody was safe from the government’s scrutiny, but for the moment it was only a parchment stuck on a public notice board—only words outlining the government’s insecurities regarding the recent incursions. Jen had seen and heard enough as she made her way through the park amidst a sea of worried faces.

  While walking to school, Jen realized she had forgotten her bag. She didn’t think anything of it at first—and anyway, it was far too late to turn back and retrieve it. It then occurred to her that the bag could be her downfall. What if a patrol decides they want to take a look inside the warehouse, she worried, and they find my bag … and the tracking device? There was nothing she could do about it, apart from trying to find a new hiding place. Jen didn’t reflect on her oversight for much longer, as she passed through the school’s courtyard.

  Overnight, the school had been the target of malicious propaganda. Hurtful slogans had been scribbled over its white-washed walls, accusing the school of being a breeding ground for non-pure bloods, retards, and future single mothers—making them prime candidates for the government’s cleansing policies. Jen thought of only one group of people that could have committed such an act of vandalism: the cadets (no longer led by Myron) that congregated outside the gates every day.

  The slogans had upset a majority of the pupils, and a handful of the teachers, who had taken offence at the slurs on their characters, and the accusations made against them. Jen’s anger replaced her fear of the unknown, and she could no longer hide her rage. She felt persecuted by the growing mistrust and paranoia that was beginning to manifest itself wherever she looked. She openly voiced her hatred for the government, and its inane rules and regulations, to anyone that was listening. The handful that remained outside had quickly taken their leave of her, not wishing to endure her ranting any longer. Others chose to keep their thoughts to themselves—it was safer that way. Jen was walking a very fine line, and if the wrong person had heard her raving, she would have found herself at the mercy of the patrols.

  Jen had spent so much time dwelling on the morning’s events that she hadn’t heard the alarm sound for the beginning of lessons. By the school’s standards, she was officially late and resigned herself to being punished for her tardiness. The chances of her lapse being overlooked were very slim.

  *

  Jen hurried through the corridor to the last door on the left. She looked through the glass before entering. Everyone had their heads in their Math books, looking at a problem they had been given to solve while they awaited Jen’s arrival. Jen opened the door apprehensively; the Math teacher looked towards her and scowled at her lack of consideration.

  ‘Sit down, Miss Cole. I will deal with you later!’ he said sternly.

  Jen appeared relieved as she made her way towards the only desk left. She quickly sat down, but she couldn’t begin her lesson. Having forgotten her bag meant that she had also forgotten her books, and anything else that she might have needed. Jen stuck her hand up to get the teacher to acknowledge her, but he remained oblivious.

  ‘Mr. Crabtree—sir!’ Jen called out, with a slight hint of exasperation in her tone.

  The Math teacher peered over the rims of his glasses, and replied sternly.

  ‘What is it, Miss Cole! Are you not content with interrupting this class once already this morning?’

  Jen leapt up from her chair, stalked to the front of the class and, to everyone’s astonishment, seized Mr. Crabtree’s copy of the Math textbook from atop his desk.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, Miss Cole?’ he boomed. ‘Put that book back down!’

  Jen flung the book across his desk and waited for his reaction, but it wasn’t the reaction she was expecting.

  ‘Get out of my classroom!’

  Jen figured the old taskmaster had decided to forego the usual punishment so as not to ignite her legendary temper. She was overjoyed as Mr. Crabtree wrote out her permission slip to give her exemption from taking part in the rest of her lessons. Not only had she escaped punishment for her tardiness, she also got her wish of not having to stay at school all day.

  Jen had nothing to collect from her desk. She said her sarcastic goodbyes in a way that only she could get away with, and left the Math room for the last time. She entered the corridor and made her way towards the exit.

  Jen breathed a sigh of relief as she entered the courtyard. She walked away from the school for the last time, and never looked back. On exiting the gates, Jen made her way towards the academy in an attempt to lure Myron away. She didn’t know what to expect when she arrived and wondered if she would encounter the sergeant again. The academy loomed in the distance; Jen quickened her pace upon seeing Myron coming towards her.

  *

  Myron had come to a decision that would change things for both of them. Without consulting his superiors, Myron had left the grounds of the academy with his belongings in tow. Not until the evening roll call would his departure come to light, and by that time he would have covered a great distance. He had no intentions of going home, as he knew full well what would happen. Sir John would have him escorted back to the academy the moment he set foot through the door.

  Jen was delighted; her day couldn’t get any better, seeing that Myron, like her, was apparently making his break for freedom. For his part, Myron had been trying to convince himself that he was excited at the prospect of being hunted down. He knew that the academy would send someone to try and find him, and not want to involve Sir John, as he would deem it incompetence on the Major’s part for allowing his son to abscond in the first place. The last thing Calveden wanted to do was jeopardise his promotion prospects.

  Jen opened her arms to greet Myron, but all of a sudden he seemed to be in no hurry to rush to her. Within minutes of deciding to escape his hell on earth, Myron had come to the conclusion that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all. He looked helplessly at Jen, who wondered why he had stopped all of a sudden. His change of heart had followed a solitary thought: would it be better go into hiding with Jen, and be hunted forevermore, or should I just grin and bear my situation?

  There was only one decision. He must spare Jen from persecution, for it would be she that suffered, not him.

  ‘What’s wrong, Myron?’ asked Jen, furrowing her brow. ‘I thought you were leaving the academy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jen, I’m going back now!’ he said forlornly. ‘I shouldn’t have done this!’

  Jen wasn’t surprised by his move, and didn’t say anything as he walked dejectedly back towards the academy gates. Jen shook her head at his spinelessness, and turned away to make her dangerous trip through the park t
o get to the warehouse.

  *

  When she arrived, her heart skipped a beat as she observed a patrolman entering the warehouse. Whether he had gone inside out of pure curiosity, or perhaps was investigating a noise, she didn’t know. Whatever the case, a few minutes later he emerged with something in his hand: her bag! He emptied its contents out onto the gravel, and the accursed tracking bracelet landed at his feet.

  How could she have been so stupid? One, for leaving her bag in the warehouse in the first place, and two, for not getting rid of the tracking bracelet properly when she had the chance. She had left herself wide open, and had no one to blame but herself.

  The patrolman had no interest in the rest of the contents of the bag, only in the familiar device. He walked towards his colleagues, who had congregated around the corner from the warehouse, clutching the incriminating evidence triumphantly in his fist. Luckily, though, there was nothing in the bag that could be connected to Jen, other than the tracking bracelet.

  Jen quietly moved away from behind the bushes where she had been hiding, and made her way in the opposite direction from where she came. Although she had promised herself that she wouldn’t return home, she needed to, if only to gather fresh clothing. She fervently hoped her mother wouldn’t be there, as she was not in the mood to handle the fallout.

  *

  The hole in the wall Jen always used as a shortcut was within her sights, and the way forward seemed to be clear. The patrols had moved in the opposite direction, leaving Jen to move as she pleased. The cemetery was indifferent to her passing, its mouldering headstones and an overgrowth of bindweed, as silent as the dead that rotted in the spongy ground.

  What Jen found beyond the cemetery gave her cause for concern, however. On her approach towards the caravan, it appeared that someone had arrived before she had. Jen slowly made her way over to investigate, as the door swung in the breeze, clattering against the side of the caravan. She somehow knew that it wasn’t Lavinia, because no matter what state she turned up in, she would always shut the door behind her. Tentatively, Jen peered round the door, sighing with relief when she found the caravan was empty. It slowly dawned on her that the caravan had been ransacked. Certain items—little trinkets of no value that were still precious to Lavinia—had been smashed on the floor. There was no way that Lavinia would have done this, no matter how drugged out she might have been. But who did? It was far too early for the patrols to come after Jen; they needed to confirm that the bracelet was hers before they could seek her out for arrest.

  Jen wasted no time in gathering what precious little she had left in the way of clothing, and placed it in a bin liner. She couldn’t risk being in the caravan any longer than was necessary, just in case the looters decided to return.

  Jen stepped away from the caravan, only to notice that hers wasn’t the only one to have been hit. It made her think, based on the day’s events, that this might have been a hate attack—someone blaming the lower classes for recent events, using them as a focus for the prejudicial hate that was beginning to manifest itself in the wake of the decree.

  Jen scurried away from the caravan park, back through the cemetery. She needed to find somewhere other than the warehouse to make her home. Unfortunately, her options were limited with the new curfew time set for eight-thirty that night. There was one place she could go—a place that she often went when she was younger; a place she had, until that point, forgotten all about. It was within the cemetery itself: the mausoleum of a duke, who would have been next in line for the throne, if only the Royal Family hadn’t been banished to the North at the beginning of the war.

  The regal burial site sat way back from the rest of the dead. It was conveniently hidden from view by bindweed and an assortment of ivies, but Jen quickly remembered where it was. It would be her safe haven.

  Jen had made it to the mausoleum just in time, right before the sirens began screaming their monotonous song. She pulled away the thick ivy at the entrance, making sure to replace it as she entered. Jen knew from experience that the patrols were not as thorough as they should be when they made their rounds, but still, she couldn’t take the chance of leaving the entrance exposed. Although, she was not breaking curfew, the fact that she had removed the tracking bracelet made Jen more vigilant than usual. By now they would have found out who the owner of the discarded bracelet was. The records of bracelet wearers were kept within the Parliament walls, and Jen’s unique I.D. number, corresponding to the numerals engraved on the bracelet’s underside, had most assuredly aided the patrols—they now knew who to look for. So much for the government not knowing who she was!

  A deathly stench and the light from an overhanging light bulb greeted Jen as she entered the mausoleum. A mixture of damp and a scattering of dead rodents made her retch, but if she wanted to stay out of sight, it was something that she was going to have to live with until six-thirty the next morning. Even then, she would be reluctant to leave—she had undoubtedly been placed on an arrest list for her indiscretion.

  *

  Jen had found her own little crevice to curl up in. There wasn’t too much of a draft, and it was well out of the way. It hadn’t escaped her notice that someone else had used her old hiding place. Not only had the light been left on carelessly, but she had also come across a handful of political leaflets, which she picked up out of curiosity. She also found the previous visitor’s coat. Jen wasted little time checking the pockets of the coat for identification, but all she had come across was ‘Property of O. S.’ written on the maker’s label. Who was O. S.?

  It didn’t take long for Jen to remember Oscar Saracen, the rabble-rouser from the park, as she read through the leaflets. She had found herself sharing the same hideaway as the man who had shown her the truth—the man who others had ridiculed. She was humbled by the fact, but at the same time she shuddered at the thought of what had happened to him as a result of his theorising. Wrapping herself up in his coat, she wondered how he was coping in his new surroundings within the confinement of a labour camp, and the tortures rumoured to flourish there.

  After she had finished reading the propaganda leaflets, Jen rose from her crevice and quickly made her way over to the light switch. Curfew was only seconds away, and the light would only arouse suspicion. The mausoleum was cold and dark, and almost frightening. Jen found herself wishing that she hadn’t turned the light off in the first place, but it was preferable to having the patrols snapping at her heels—and having to find another new hiding place. She only had half an hour to wait for the transition period to finish—for the dusk to turn into moonlit night—as she prayed for a full, bright moon to shine through the grill to light her way.

  *

  The Hyde Park patrol had gathered at the perimeter to receive instructions for carrying out their checks that night. One of the places mentioned was the cemetery. Could Jen have made the wrong decision to take up shelter in the mausoleum? It was far enough out of the way to be regarded as secure. Normally, no one ever went as deep into the cemetery as the mausoleum, although the patrols had done so on odd occasions.

  The patrol had three specific areas that night, which they would monitor continuously until daybreak. They had the Knightsbridge district, where Myron’s family home stood in its magnificence, and the caravan park in its derelict state, with the cemetery lying in between both.

  Slowly, the seven-man team made their way towards their first destination, ready for action with rifles held on their shoulders. Every night, resistance would be met with skirmishes that sometimes left one or more rebels dead or captured. Many had taken umbrage at the ongoing regime, and out of defiance had chosen to take their chances with the patrols on a nightly basis, not caring about the outcome: whether death would be instant, or if it would result from slow, merciless torture.

  The posh district of Knightsbridge did not harbour anyone regarded as defiant—they knew better than to break curfew under Sir John Cutter’s aristocratic nose. The Cutter stronghold lay deep in the h
eart of Knightsbridge. There was nothing that John Cutter didn’t know about everyone that lived around him. Although he wasn’t the instigator of the curfew, he would stop at nothing to help in the capture of those who chose to defy it. He was the enemy in the eyes of others, and many wished him dead. His wife was an innocent in her husband’s machinations. She was in the early stages of dementia and was unaware of what was going on around her.

  *

  Knightsbridge hadn’t taken long to patrol. Everything seemed to be in order as far as curfew-breakers were concerned. The cemetery was their next stop, and not one of them relished the idea of walking through that spooky place in the dark—not even as a group. Their journey through would be thorough, but quick. And thankfully for Jen, they ventured nowhere near the mausoleum. They scurried through the cemetery like frightened schoolboys to escape the eerie sights and sounds surrounding them.

  With the aid of night-vision goggles, the exit to the cemetery was clearly in sight. One by one they ran towards the small opening, to the abandoned railway track that led to the next and final place on their rotation: the caravan park, which lay desolate and unlived in since that afternoon’s ransacking. The hole in the wall was just about big enough for each patrolman to barely squeeze through. It had been decided that the next rotation would not include the caravan park, as they found it far too inaccessible.

  Despite the compound’s lifelessness, the patrolmen dutifully searched for curfew-breakers until they reached where they had started. The whole circuit had taken a little under three hours to complete, with very little to show for it—not one prisoner—making for a very dull beginning to a potentially productive shift.

  *

  Hyde Park loomed in the distance, much to the relief of the patrolmen, who had grown weary of the lack of excitement that night. They needed something to stimulate them. On rare occasions, the patrols had been known to physically pull an unsuspecting member of the public out of their own home and brand them a curfew breaker just to satisfy their thirst for wanton brutality. They derived sadistic glee from beating innocent bystanders to bloody pulps, and condemning them to fates worse than death in the labour camps.