Matronly Duties

by Melissa Kendall

“I wasn’t his prisoner,” I state. “Howard rescued me from the men who kidnapped me, and took me back to his family home not knowing who I was.”

  “I know that’s what you think, Ma’am, but Howard James is the leader of the Trads. He is the one who orchestrated your kidnapping. It was all a ruse.”

  “I don’t understand. Howard was nice to me. He didn’t harm me in any way. In fact, if it wasn’t for him, one of the men who kidnapped me would have likely raped and murdered me.”

  “I’m sorry that happened to you, Ma’am, but facts are facts. Mr James was the one who organised your kidnapping.”

  I shake my head. No matter how many times people say it, it still doesn’t sit right with me. “No,” I say with as much authority as I can muster. “I want to see Howard. I want to hear him tell me he kidnapped me.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms Greene, that’s not possible.”

  I growl with frustration. “Not possible now? Or not possible ever?”

  “Ma’am, the accused and the accuser are not allowed to speak with one another until after a trial has taken place.”

  “But I am not the accuser. I haven’t accused him of anything.” I am getting sick of him not listening to me.

  “Yes, Ma’am, but the government is and as a representative of the government—”

  “But I am not a representative of the government! Not for another five and a half weeks!” Lowering my voice but keeping my tone firm, I add, “I want to speak to Mr James, and I want to do it now.”

  “You’re not allowed, Ma’am. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head as he says it.

  Argh!

  I choke down the scream threatening to spill forth. This talking in circles is getting tiresome. Detective Simpson stares at me, a look of concentration on his face. I try to school my features so he can’t see my aggravation.

  Without saying a word, the detective sighs and leaves the room. George and Mr Denham follow him. I flop down in a chair. It appears I won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. When he returns, he’s alone and has a thick folder in his hands. He opens it and flips through the pages.

  Too curious for my own good, I ask, “What’s that?”

  “Oh, this?” He waves the file as if he isn’t sure what I’m talking about. “This is Howard James’ official criminal record.”

  I hate the condescending tone he uses, but there is no point reacting because that is probably what he is aiming for. Instead, I shake my head. Even though the frustration and confusion I’m feeling is tearing me up inside, I concentrate on making my face a mask of indifference.

  He pulls out a long piece of paper and hands it to me. It’s an OSP report in which Howard is accused of stealing food from government stores. As I read the details, I should feel shocked by the report, but I’m not. From everything I saw and all the stuff we discussed during our brief time together, I had pretty much deduced Howard was involved in stealing from the government. His words had indicated to me, though, that everything he did was because he needed to survive.

  Trying to be as passive as I can, I say, “I’m sure any citizen who’s starving and needs food would do something similar.”

  “And you’re fine with that?” he asks.

  “No, I’m not. However, I understand why people might steal. There are always two sides to a story, and desperation can make even the best of men turn to extreme measures to feed his family.”

  He huffs at my words and then starts flicking through the folder’s contents again.

  “What about this? Do ‘the best of men’ destroy government property?”

  The document he hands me is yet another security report, along with a photo of Howard. He is in the background, watching as a group of men vandalise a building.

  “If I’m not mistaken, all this photo shows is that Mr James witnessed others committing a crime.”

  “Do you honestly think he isn’t barking orders at them?” he growls.

  I tuck my hands under my thighs so he can’t see them shaking, and take a deep breath. I am starting to worry the detective is correct, but I’ve been taught to be objective and hear all sides of a story. Something tells me I haven’t heard everything there is to know yet.

  “What I think is irrelevant. You came here to ask me about my kidnapping, and as I’ve tried to tell you, Howard wasn’t the one who kidnapped me.”

  Detective Simpson’s eyes flash, and he flicks through the file again.

  “Maybe this will remove the blinders you’re wearing.”

  Frustrated, I’m unable to hold my tongue any longer. “Just because I don’t see everything from your point of view does not mean that I’m wearing blinders—”

  He shoves a photograph into my face, and my voice catches in my throat. It’s a picture of Howard, as clear as day, with a hand around a man’s throat. He has him pinned to a wall and with a Taser pointed at his chest.

  “See anyone you recognise?” Detective Simpson asks, sounding extremely pleased with himself.

  The roar of blood in my ears makes it hard to concentrate. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants but keep my posture stiff and my expression blank. I struggle to keep hold of the tears that threaten to overflow. I cannot deny that the image in front of me paints a picture of a violent criminal. The longer I look at it, though, the harder I find it to reconcile the man I met with the one in the picture.

  “How about this one?”

  This time, I gasp before I can stop myself. The image the detective shoves in my lap is one of Howard with three men whose faces I recognise. Two of them were part of the group that kidnapped me, and the third is the man who tried to rape me.

  “Why?” I ask, my voice shaking far more than I would like, “if you had all this evidence of his criminal acts, why was he not already in jail?”

  The detective returns my question with venom. “Because, missy, even though OSP surveillance teams and undercover officers have collected evidence of his crimes, they have all been minor infractions. Which means that we can’t just arrest him on sight. We have to have a warrant first, and every time a warrant has been issued for him, he’s disappeared.” The detective returns the photos to the folder and closes it. “Thankfully, we have him in custody now and there isn’t a chance of him going free.”

  His tone is far too gleeful for my liking. I don’t even try to hide my reaction. The tears run unbidden down my cheeks.

  He frowns and cocks his head to one side. “How he managed to get you under his control so quickly I have no idea, but I suggest you wise up, Ms Greene. You’re treading a dangerous path.”

  As quickly as the tears started, they stop. “I’m not under anyone’s control.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  Unwilling to let him have the last word, I say, “And you could do to remember who is going to be the next Matron, Mr Simpson.”

  ***

  An hour later, I’m finally cleared to return to my room. As I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, everything seems to be upside down. It’s like I’ve been living in a fantasyland for most of my life and all of a sudden the bubble has burst. A harsh new reality has seeped in.

  Is keeping us isolated from society really for our protection, or are they actually making sure we’re unaware what real life is like?

  Too keyed up to sleep, I go into the bathroom. A warm shower usually helps me relax.

  Turning the taps on, I strip while the water heats. So much has changed in such a short time, I find it hard to wrap my head around it.

  I step into the shower. The water pelts down on my tense muscles, massaging away the tension.

  It’s hard to fathom that in a couple of days I’ve gone from being a mere Matron in training to a victim of kidnapping and attempted rape.

  How do you get back from that?

  The events of the previous days replay over and over in my mind: Waking up in a strange bedroom, meeting strange new people, learning about life and love, and . . . fornication from them.

  Fornication—no, sex�
��was such a foreign concept before Howard showed me how wonderful things could be. And not only the physical. Why did he have to be a criminal? No, not just a criminal. The top Trad, the one who gives all the orders.

  Tilting my head under the spray, water runs down my face and washes away the tears.

  I brush my lips with my fingers. Hours later I can still feel the tingle of Howard’s lips against mine. Even Detective Simpson’s hateful words can’t wipe away the memory of how Howard made me feel with a kiss. I never knew my whole body could come alive like that. And then there was the not-so-small matter of my heart.

  ***

  “You’re back,” Gail says when I take my regular seat at breakfast.

  “Yep.”

  “Where have you been?”

  I was gone less than forty-eight hours, but it’s nice that someone missed me. “Nowhere in particular.”

  “Yeah, right. You’ve got bruises on your wrists. It doesn’t look like nothing.”

  I curse myself for not paying better attention. I dressed in a long-sleeve, high-neck shirt this morning, but the sleeves have pulled up and the bruises are clearly visible. I put my hands in my lap and pull at my sleeves, hoping no one else has seen.

  “Come on, you can trust me,” Gail prods.

  I look over my shoulder to make sure none of the handlers are close by. I haven’t specifically been banned from telling anyone, but I don’t need any more trouble. I lean in so I don’t have to speak too loud.

  “I was . . . kidnapped.”

  “What! When?”

  “When I was out on my Sunday run. A group of Trads accosted us and took me captive.”

  “Oh my gosh! Are you all right?”

  “As good as I can be given everything.”

  “Well, that explains why all external activities have been cancelled until further not—”

  “What do you think you are doing?”

  Gail jumps and I almost fall off my chair at Headmistress’ angry voice behind us. When I turn around, her expression is the if-looks-could-kill kind.

  “Sorry, Headmistress, I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “You know exactly what I mean. No one needs to hear about your little incident.” The disdain in her voice makes it sound like I willingly got myself kidnapped just to annoy her.

  Part of me wants to blurt something entirely inappropriate, but I hold my tongue. Gail’s watching me with sympathy and concern, which is enough to remind me that not everyone hates me.

  ***

  “Okay, Ms Greene, that’s all we needed. Thank you for sparing us some time.”

  Howard’s lawyers have been questioning me for the last hour. They are the first people I’ve been able to speak freely with about my kidnapping in the last few weeks. Other than a few subsequent visits from Detective Simpson, I’ve been carefully monitored. I’ve also been kept busy with the preparations for Dedication Day and my investiture as Matron.

  I should actually be at a rehearsal right now, much to Headmistress’ annoyance. The opportunity to escape her scrutiny for a few hours was too good to pass up, though. I also hoped that I might be able to see Howard in the process, but that hope was dashed the moment I arrived. The law was clear. There would be no communication until after the trial.

  As the lawyers leave, George enters. “Time to go, Ma’am?”

  “Yes, yes it is.”

  I trudge out of the room with George hot on my heels. Halfway down the hall, a movement to my left catches my eye, and I look up.

  Howard?

  I’m moving before I even realise it, running towards him. His hands are cuffed behind his back and his shoulders slumped. Two OSP officers hold him by his elbows, leading him towards a room at the other end of the hall.

  Before I can reach them, George grabs me from behind.

  “No, please, I just want to talk to him.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms Greene, it’s not allowed.”

  I struggle to wriggle free but George holds tight.

  “Howard!”

  When Howard looks up, I struggle for breath. He looks like he has aged ten years and his right eye is swollen and purple. My initial reaction is to run to him, wrap my arms around him, and beg him to tell me none of it’s true. The other part of me—the part that is scared of the truth—stops me. If I never hear the truth then I don’t have to deal with the possible disappointment.

  Still, the sight of him makes me want to jump for joy, and when he smiles at me, I smile back tenfold.

  “Are you okay?” he mouths.

  I nod, and his posture relaxes. Before I can ask him the same question, one of his security detail punches him in the ribs.

  “No!” I cry as Howard doubles over. “George, what are they doing? He didn’t do anything.” Howard looks up and shakes his head at me. The look of resignation on his face stops me cold.

  “Come on, Ma’am, we need to leave.”

  “No. That is inappropriate behaviour. They can’t hit a prisoner for no reason. He’s still a human being. He has rights.”

  “Although the sentiment is admirable, Ma’am, you do not want to get in the middle of this.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. We are leaving now.”

  After one last look at Howard, I let George drag me in the other direction.

  ***

  Dedication Day was something I once looked forward to, but when it finally arrives, I wish nothing more than for it to be someone else’s turn. Yesterday I received notification that the date for Howard’s trial has been set for the end of the month. I have protested more times than I can count and tried to convince OSP that he’s innocent, but they are intent on putting him to trial. And there is nothing I can do to stop it, even once I am Matron.

  Looking around my room, knowing this is the last time I will be here, it’s hard not to lose myself to the despair. All my clothes and belongings have already been packed and moved to my new residence, leaving me with a single suitcase and some toiletries that I will need today. The team that will dress me for the ceremonies will be arriving soon to prime, primp, poke, and prod me within an inch of my life. Then it’s off to the memorial service, where the entire city will gather to honour the billions of people that didn’t survive the asteroid.

  Afterwards, a parade will wind its way through the streets, floats of all kinds showcasing various community groups. Following that, the outgoing Matron, Ruby Angelo, and I will have lunch and discuss the handover of power. Then it is on to the investiture ceremony and I will formally become the new Matron of Oceania.

  A loud banging on my door tells me it is time.

  “Ready when you are,” the first of the stylists says as they enter. The two women look far more excited than they should be, but when they stand me in front of the mirror two hours later, I am happy with the result. I look smart and authoritative, but pretty at the same time.

  When I leave my room, Gail and the other women from my class are standing behind George.

  “Just a minute,” I say, moving past him.

  “Look at you,” Gail says. I swear I can see a tear in the corner of her eye.

  “Yeah, I don’t scrub up too bad.”

  Gail chuckles, but I can tell it is only halfhearted. “You’re going to do great.”

  “Thank you. You, too.”

  I quickly say goodbye to the other girls and wish them well before turning back to Gail.

  “I’ll come back and visit when I can.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’ll be fine. You’re getting out of here. Enjoy it.” She wraps her arms around me in a lightning-fast hug. “Now go before I start blubbering and make a fool of myself.”

  I nod at George. “Time to go.”

  The memorial service is moving as always, and I am proud to see that two hundred years after the fact there is a still an amazing turnout. During the one-minute silence at 8:23 a.m.—the exact time of impact—I have a quick look at the crowd. Every single person has their head turned towards t
he surface. Some have candles, others torches, but every one of them is silent. I wonder where my parents are. They never missed a Dedication Day service when I was younger. I expect them to be here today, but so far they’re nowhere to be seen. I hope they are all right.

  A gong chimes to signal the end of the minute, and the crowd erupts in cheers. I don’t have time to bask in the celebrations as I am whisked off to my next engagement.

  When we arrive at the parade, I take my place on the podium next to Matron Angelo and watch as she wishes all attendees well and announces the start of the parade. I am captivated by the way the citizens cheer and wave at her. By the end of the day, it will be me they wave at.

  Once the last of the floats has passed the platform, I am ushered to Matron Angelo’s cart and accompany her back to Matron House. She doesn’t say a single word during the fifteen-minute drive. She just stares out the window.

  When we arrive at Matron House, security escorts us inside and straight to the dining room. My butt is barely on the seat before the servers are placing lunch in front of me. Matron Angelo picks up her fork and starts eating. The quiet is weird.

  “Is the silence thing normal?”

  “Sorry?” she says, looking up from her plate.

  “I was just wondering if the no-speaking thing was normal.”

  She looks around like she has no idea what I’m talking about. “Oh, I never really noticed. But I guess you’re right. They do not speak very often.” She glances down, returning her attention to her food.

  I am tempted to ask what I’ve done to offend her, but the fear of starting an argument keeps the words inside. Going with something far less likely to cause contention, I ask, “So what is being Matron like?”

  Ruby pauses in her eating but doesn’t look up. “Everything they train you for.”

  Her response is odd and only fills me with more curiosity. “But what’s it like? I’m sure it’s not like being at MITI.”

  “No, you are right, it isn’t like MITI. Being Matron is challenging. There are plenty of meetings that go on forever. The staff are nice, though they can be a bit frustrating at times. Getting out with the public is a bit trying, but the visits are usually worth it. Use all your training and you will do fine.”