‘Is this meat?’
She nodded as she took a bite of her roll. Her tongue flicked out, catching a drip of a brown sauce that escaped the bread. ‘It’s called Lorne sausage.’
The words sounded foreign. Presumably its acquisition was something else the natives took pride in.
A rider on a gyrocycle skidded into the car park, idled by the van and shouted something incoherent towards the vendor before screeching away. The vendor chucked his wares into the hold, slammed the doors and kangarooed off in the same direction.
‘Hurry with the food,’ the native said.
When I finished she stuffed the wrappings into the mugs and took them to the side of the car park to stash behind a rock.
‘What’s Dead Man’s Ferry then?’ I asked when she returned.
‘It takes the convicts to the prison ships.’
‘But why Dead Man’s Ferry? They’re convicts, they’ll get out sometime won’t they?’
‘Huh. Some do but not all.’
She swung round in her seat and faced me, her expression hard like a mask pulled so tightly over her face if she twitched a muscle if would crack and shatter into fragments at her feet. I could feel my palms begin to sweat. It was weird. I wanted to know what was going on but I didn’t want to hear what she had to say.
‘Your father is not coming back. And neither is your mother.’
My heart bounced over my lungs and hid, pounding beneath my ribs.
‘You are an orphan Sorlie.’
She watched me as if I were a specimen in a jar, as if she could see my chest constrict, as if she wanted to see me in pain.
‘I don’t believe you. You said back there that Pa would know where to find us.’
‘I lied. I had to say something to get you off the Base. Then was not the time to tell you.’ She stretched her neck and peered in the rear view mirror as if willing an interruption, then took a big breath.
‘Your father went off to avenge your mother’s name. Up until her last mission she could never carry out her status of Hero in Death. She had been expected to die when she went on her missions. She was to walk into situations with the targets, then blow herself and them up.’
I held my hands over my ears but the native grabbed one and jammed it under my ribcage and kept the pressure on it.
‘She could never carry the whole plan through. They said it was because she was a coward but it was because she loved you and your father too much. And even though she always managed to carry out her task and kill her designated targets without blowing herself up, the Military was not satisfied. Her survival was disloyal to the State. She was not a true hero. They warned her after the last mission that if she did not kill herself with her target the Military would take you away and train you as a first line suicide fighter. Your mother would never allow that.’
I gasped, and a hollow sound escaped me. I pressed my free hand to my mouth to keep down the food. My saliva was drowning me. The pain I felt from the native’s fingers clawing into my fist was nothing as I imagined my mother strapping bombs to herself and walking up to her target. What was she thinking of when she detonated? Was she thinking of me, or Pa, or was she thinking of the pain it may cause? I thought of her blown into fragments of flesh and bone and hair and blood. Her soft hands that smoothed oil into my dry skin at night, ripped from her arms. That small white hand, her right hand that wore the opal ring I gave her for her birthday, charred and lying on a floor somewhere, discarded and swept up with the trash.
All these years I had no idea what Hero in Death meant other than that my parents were forbidden to talk to each other. Why had I never tried harder to find out?
Images of Ma’s smiling face flashed through my mind and then of her in recent years – her sadness, her decline.
‘I didn’t even say goodbye.’
I hadn’t realised I had spoken these words aloud until the native released her grip on me and said, ‘You must forgive yourself for that, Sorlie. There is nothing you can do about it now.’ Her words were words of kindness but the accusation resonated in the tone. ‘After her mission, for reasons known only to the Military, they designated her Un-Hero in Death, and for this your father lost his mind. He assassinated her commander and was in turn executed. They say he wasn’t even court-martialled.’
I stumbled from the cab and spewed the animal food onto the car park. Snot ran down my face; vomit clung to my nostrils and burned my throat. I wanted to curl over and lie in my own stinking mess.
She did not come, so I climbed back into the cab and took the wet wipe she offered. There was nothing else I could do.
‘I am so sorry Sorlie, but this is why we have to leave. He tried to be a good man but in the eyes of the State you are the son of a traitor. Both your parents have been disgraced despite their years of loyalty. Your life at the Base has ended; you can never return.’
‘Why? Why’d he do it? He must have known what would happen. He knew I’d be left alone.’
‘His love for your mother was too great. He couldn’t bear to live without her. And he knew your life was about to change no matter what happened to them. They wanted your freedom, a life free of military commitment.’
Freedom. That was Pa’s word, his place, the place he told me we would all be headed one day. So how would living with my grandfather bring me freedom? He lived in a hellhole penitentiary.
Lights from an approaching military truck wiping over the native’s face reset her expression to hard.
‘Dry your eyes. Don’t say anything,’ she said. ‘Try to look normal.’
Normal – after what she’d just revealed?
The truck stopped on the spot the white van had vacated. They shone a hunting light over our Jeep. One of the men got out, walked to where the native had stacked the mugs, and urinated on the gorse. The other climbed from the driver’s side, spat on the ground and swaggered towards us. But before he got to the door the native jumped from the cab and flashed her ID.
The man stopped short as soon as he saw the military coat and saluted. He glanced in my direction and said, ‘Sorry ma’am, didn’t realise.’ The snigger in his voice raised the native’s brow but she kept schtum.
‘That will be all soldier,’ she barked.
He marched back to the truck and they drove off, throwing us an insulting blast of the horn in their wake.
‘It’s ok. They’re searching for the illegal food, not us. The vendors will come back later to collect their mugs and rubbish.’
It took me a while to find my voice. ‘What’s going on? Where is he? Where’s my father?’
‘I’m sorry Sorlie. I told you. He’s dead.’
My teeth started rattling like crazy, making my head thump big style. The native placed a blanket around my shoulders and hugged me. She was warm and even the smell of vinegar couldn’t prevent me putting my head against her breast and allowing my tears to flow. Tears for Pa and the tears I hadn’t yet shed for my mother.
‘It’s a shit situation, I know. This is the real world Sorlie. The world outside of military childhood is shit. There’s nothing we can do about your parents, but we can try to make the shit smell a little better for those who are left behind.’
• • •
I don’t know for how long we stayed like that but when she eventually pushed me back to my side of the cab I found my left hand had gone to sleep and my ribs ached from lying over the partition. When the blood began to flow again, the pain of pins and needles attacking my hand brought tears back to my eyes. I gulped them down and scolded myself. From now on I intended my mind to be a desert – dry, devoid of tears; that way nothing could hurt me again.
The native took my hand and rubbed it. ‘Your pa knew something was going to happen. Before he left he reminded me of the packet your mother gave me many years ago, not that I needed reminding. He left his Jeep in the g
arage for my use.’ She smiled then. ‘He even backed it in. Thank jupe he did, I could never have reversed it out in a hurry.’ She pulled the present from the holdall and handed it to me. ‘Take it. Your mother asked me to deliver you to your grandfather and give him the package for safe keeping until you celebrate your coming of age, but that was before your parents were declared traitors. Also she did not know your grandfather as I do.’
‘How do you know my grandfather? And how can you even dare to disobey my mother’s instructions?’
Ishbel shook her head and pressed my hands over the present. ‘You do not understand. This is your original DNA passport. Keep it hidden from him. He must never know you have this. Don’t be tempted to look at it in case it’s discovered.’ She squeezed my hand hard and brought back the pain. ‘Your life could be in danger if it is.’
‘Why?’
‘Because this holds the secret of your heritage.’
‘So?’
‘You need to be protected from the State. And your grandfather is still in their pay.’
‘I don’t understand. Why do I need protecting and how can you know my grandfather better than my mother did?’
‘I just do and now you must go to him, much as I hate to take you. And as to your other question, well, we all need protecting from the State one way or another.’ She tapped the present. ‘Look Sorlie, there are some things you are too young to understand and right now I do not have the time to explain. Just keep it hidden.’
‘But he’s my grandfather. If I am in danger from him why do I need to go there?’
She whistled through her teeth. ‘You are not listening. Your parents were declared traitors, and you, their son, are now an outlaw. And even though your grandfather works for the State, we are certain he will keep you hidden until the time comes for you to leave him.
‘But what if my grandfather sells me to the Military in the same way he did with my mother?’
‘He will not do it this time.’
‘How do you know?’ I could hear my voice rising, the pain of my parents’ death replaced with an intense fear of what was to come. I had never met my grandfather; all I knew of him was what Pa had told me on our camping trip.
‘You just have to trust me. He will not harm you.’
‘Who are you? And who are we – you said we?’
‘That is of no concern to you now. Let me just say, at the moment I am only one of a handful of persons in Esperaneo who care for your well-being.’
‘Who are this handful? My grandfather?’
She looked to the sea. ‘No not your grandfather. I doubt if he cares for anyone, but he has a debt to pay. I can’t tell you any more so don’t ask again. I’ve already said more than instructed. Come, we must go, or we will be late for our Transport.’ She handed me the packet. ‘Stow it on your person.’
I tucked it in my inner wear and hoped it wasn’t too obvious. She threw the holdall onto my lap before starting the Jeep. I looked at the native, who had cared for me since I was small, who had told me stories and sang me songs, but who had never hugged me until today. She was a Celt, the underclass I was not supposed to associate with, and yet she had just told me that she cared for me with a warmth I had never witnessed in her before. Those amber eyes with the far-away locked in them told me she cared.
As if to confirm this she put her hand up to my face and said, ‘I’m sorry I slapped you. I will try not to do it again.’
Who was she? She pulled rank on military personnel and was now speaking to me as a Privileged would do. Suddenly I wanted to go home with this new-look native to care for me; to be talking or wrestling with my friends or watching the Games Wall with my feet on the table and a tub of popcorn on my lap; to be back in the safety of my sleeping room, waiting for my parents to return from their missions. But I knew that safe life was long gone with my parent’s deaths – their traitors’ deaths. The native was right, life’s shit.
Chapter Six
The road north dropped towards the town before resuming its winding way through the desolate High Lands.
‘I thought we weren’t going to the ferry?’
‘We’re not,’ she said.
The road elbowed and almost doubled back on itself as if the engineers had intended to carry on into the town but changed their minds when they saw the wretchedness there. As we approached the bend, the native slowed to a crawl and hunched over the steering wheel to survey the shambolic harbour. A container truck spilled human cargo onto the concrete dockside where waiting guards kicked them into line and began shifting through them. They were natives, mostly men, some women, chained together by wrists and ankles. Some were in a bad way and needed help from fellow prisoners; the inert were unhooked from the line and dragged to one side, then carted off in another truck. It reminded me of archive fishing-trawler footage when the catch was hauled and the tiddlers thrown back for another chance, the only difference being the throw backs here had run out of chances.
The open maw of the ferry swallowed the remainder whole. We watched as they disappeared into the black, blinked out one by one like viruses being eradicated from a flash memory device. One caught my attention: a boy of about my age, with a shock of rust-coloured hair, walking straight-backed among the haunted and wasted figures around him. He twisted his body from the regiment until his hate-filled eyes sparked across the floodlit quayside to me. He did not belong there even though he was unmistakably native.
‘Did you see that?’ I said, even though I knew she had.
The native swallowed dryly and remained silent as she accelerated from the scene. It was bizarre, like some cameo play she’d laid on for my benefit.
‘Why the chains?’ I said to break the silence. ‘Why don’t they use the Tag and Stun?’
She snorted a bitter laugh. ‘They wouldn’t waste their tags here. These souls are addicts – alcohol and drugs. They’re bound for the prison ships five miles out in the bay. They don’t even make it to the islands. They’re worthless to the State. Life expectancy out there is less than a year. Disease, starvation and deprivation kills them. It would be kinder to put them down. It’s no better than the clearances.’
The native clearances of the late Sixties’ Purist regime, when the natives from all corners of Esperaneo were purged from their land; this was taught history. Pa said Academy shied from teaching the wretched real history of Esperaneo, but some history they are proud of.
Once, a boy asked the tutor why the Land Reclaimists continued with the clearances even though it was originally a policy brought in by the Purists who’d been their enemies. The tutor’s face turned purple before he ran from the class. Next day the boy was missing. He was never seen again. My parents knew the family so I asked why he no longer came to class. Pa’s eyes flicked a warning and he pursed his lips as if to sound a raspberry. No need to ask what that meant. We could all communicate with our eyes – sometimes it was all we had. Only gouging could stop that, but that rarely happened.
Another boy once punted round an image of a book called Everyone’s Watching. Perhaps he wanted us to read it and use it for code, but we never found out because he too disappeared from school. Pa said it was because he was specially chosen to be sent with the new military recruits to the borders. The only way this was special was because the boy was just nine years old.
Academy was a long way from the misery I had just witnessed on the dockside.
‘Why did you bring me here if we’re not using the ferry?’ That rusty-haired boy with the fight in his eyes looked neither addict nor worthless.
‘You need to learn something of the misery of others before you enter the Prison System.’
‘You make it sound as though I’m to become a prisoner too.’
Her silence was unnerving.
Huge drops of rain pelted the windscreen as we left the dock behind. The native flicked the wipers on full,
and as they screeched across the screen I held my hands up to my ears again to try to blot the painful sound out. Was it only a few days ago when Pa and I went on the camping trip and he’d complained about the noise?
With a muttering grumble the native clicked the wipers to slow.
The headlights on the Jeep intensified as we passed through a tunnel of trees and they remained on high because, away from the dock lights, the sky was growing darker. It seemed that daylight would never appear in my life again, and I didn’t want it to. We pulled off the main road and bumped along a small single track until we came to a gate. The native stepped out to open it, then drove into the field beyond and cut the engine.
‘We wait here.’
‘Is my father really dead?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid he is.’
The pity in her voice made me want to punch her and instruct her to stop lying to me and to bring my father back, but I knew she wasn’t lying and it wasn’t her fault. Instead I wiped my hand across my nose and mouth and asked the other question on my mind.
‘How long will it be until we reach … our destination?’ The name of the place stuck in my gullet.
‘Soon a Transport will arrive and I’ll take you to your grandfather. When I hand you over to him I won’t speak to you. My mission will be complete and you may never see me again.’
She made me sound like a parcel of oats. I thought she was finished but as she looked up at the sky she said, ‘I’m glad I was your native, Sorlie. You were a special child and I know that you’ll grow into a very special adult. It’s not been easy for you, but I suppose you’ve known no other life.’
‘Why can’t I go with you? I don’t want to go to my grandfather’s. I’ve never even met him.’ My throat burned.
‘Please don’t cry.’
‘Then don’t take me there.’ I could hear my screeching but didn’t care. ‘Why can’t I stay with you? I want to stay with you.’
Ways of the Doomed Page 4