Junior was hovering in the doorway. Spight hadn’t forgotten his promise to him, and rounded him up as they left the room. He was proud of the boy, but there were some serious discipline issues he needed to address. First, he had other business to attend to.
There were no lights on in the fat farm’s gatehouse. Spight left Junior in the Land Rover – despite his protestations the boy had fallen asleep in his seat almost as soon as the engine started – and strode to the front door, thumping on it loudly. Mrs Harrow answered it wrapped in an old dressing gown and scowling, which was quite an achievement considering all the facial surgery that had attempted to remove this ability. When she recognised the Mayor on her doorstep her eyes widened with terror but she let him in and offered him tea. He refused and demanded to see her husband.
‘He’s still asleep, he’s had a very disturbed night.’
Spight barked a laugh. ‘Haven’t we all! Fetch him.’
Mouth twisted in disapproval at being ordered about in her own home, she led him to the kitchen and went to wake her husband. Spight crossed the room to the door at the far end and unlocked it with a key from the bunch in his pocket. When Dr Harrow came in a few minutes later, in dressing gown and pyjamas, face lined with exhaustion, he found the Mayor examining the paraphernalia of his laboratory. There was a faint smell of almonds in the air.
‘How is our special project coming along?’ Spight picked up a glass retort stoppered with a cork bung and stared at the colourless contents, shaking it to set them swirling.
‘Don’t touch that!’ Harrow snatched the glass out of Spight’s hand and set it gently on the worktop. ‘It’s volatile, and there isn’t enough ventilation in here if some gets out.’
‘It works then?’
The doctor pursed his lips as he considerd the question. ‘We’re close. Efficacy on subjects has been one hundred per cent. But as I say, it’s volatile. The problem is keeping the gas from breaking down before it’s done its job. Works fine in an enclosed space, but if you want to promote it as a chemical weapon, it needs to operate within acceptable parameters when dispersed in the outdoors.’
‘How long?’
‘Weeks, maybe months.’
‘You’ve been saying that for the last eighteen months.’
‘We’re doing something new. If you want this done properly, without silly accidents, you have to give me the time I need.’
‘I need something saleable ready by the time the next cargo exchange takes place. It’s getting too risky to keep going as we have been. We need something new to offer, and this is going to be it. This is going to put Devon on the map and make us a global player.’
‘I need more laurel to work with.’
‘I’ll have some cut and the leaves brought to you.’
‘Make sure they’re not shredded this time. As soon as the leaves are damaged we start losing the cyanates. I need more subjects too. Not cats this time.’ The light of scientific fervour was in Harrow’s eyes as he said, ‘We’ll need to test on a … er … human subject. Preferably someone young and fairly fit, so we can be sure of the result.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. I believe you’ve just met and ministered to him. We’ll just have to heal him from that, first.’ Spight headed towards the door. ‘Of course, it doesn’t need to be said that this project remains top secret. No one is to know about this until we are ready to launch our product. Not your wife, not Bob, and definitely not Fred. Understood?’
‘Of course, Sir. You can count on my discretion.’
*
The narrow bed in a tiny attic room was lumpy but that wasn’t why Bob couldn’t sleep. The events of the last day kept playing through his mind. Ever since he had woken Spight to tell him about the sabotaged shipment, things had felt like they were spiralling out of control. More to the point, Spight was out of control. His casual insistence that they snatch twenty-five people from the streets of Plymouth in broad daylight was proof of it. So was his acceptance of Fred torturing someone who had, at most, helped thwart him. Not harmed him, not harmed anyone, just got in the way of his plans. What happened when Bob, or someone he cared about, got in the way? They’d end up on a boat to New Jersey for a life of hell, at the very least. It was the threat they had all lived with for years; it was beginning to feel like an inevitability.
Bob knew what faced the people who were freighted to the Real USA. In the beginning, he told himself they were offering at least some of them opportunities they would never have in Devon, but casual jokes and asides from Dwight and his crew had killed that illusion. Most of them ended up in baby farms, brothels or as slave labour. A handful might be married off, but the net result was the same.
Despite what his family or the rest of the village might think, Bob was not proud to be working for the Mayor, but what other choice did he have? He relied on Spight for imported drugs to manage the progression of a degenerative disease that could kill him in a matter of a few years if it remained untreated. He flattered himself he had softened some of Spight’s worst excesses, but it was becoming clear that any influence he might once have had was waning just as it was most needed.
Now it seemed like the insurgency he had always taken for a bit of a joke, something that only fretted at their borders, was actually an organisation that, with a little help, might at least get this one boy out of harm’s way. And Bob had a pretty shrewd idea who could put him in touch with them.
How much should he tell her? Could he tell her everything? He wasn’t sure he could bear the shame.
Before he left he checked on the prisoner and found him blearily awake and flinching away from the intrusion of light into his cell. Bob said nothing, just closed the door gently and relocked it. He was tempted to set the boy free, but it was too risky, and for the moment he was probably safe enough, now Fred was off the premises. If all went well, the prisoner’s colleagues would be along to rescue him before too long. He would benefit more from time to heal.
Dorcas offered him breakfast as he passed the kitchen, where she was sweating over a huge pan of crisping bacon from a neighbouring farm’s pigs. He thanked her but said he needed to be on his way and asked if he could borrow one of the farm’s bicycles.
‘Yeah. They’re all bone-shakers, but you’re welcome, so long as someone gets it back here. Round by the garage.’
There were three bikes leaning against the garage wall, with torn seats and rusted suspension. He took the one with pumped tyres and set off down the drive, weaving from side to side to avoid the potholes. The sun was blazing overhead, beating into his scalp, and it was a relief to disappear under the dense woodland canopy shrouding the lane. By the time he emerged above the village, clouds had rolled in, the wind had changed direction and the temperature had dropped. Seagulls screamed overhead, presaging the approach of a storm. Sweat cooled against his skin and he batted at horseflies clustered above his head.
The last bit of his journey had to be circumspect. It was important no one should see him approach the house. A couple of Door Knockers were out by the church noticeboard, taking down posters advertising last night’s meeting, chatting about what they were anticipating in the delayed cargo. He parked the bike behind the churchyard wall and slipped down an alley before they saw him.
As he went through the gate and up the path, he noticed the curtains in the windows of the cottage were drawn. He knocked on the door. Then checked his watch. Of course, she would be at the schoolhouse, teaching.
But the door opened and Mrs Prendaghast stood there, looking tired and strained. She blinked at him in surprise.
‘Good morning, Aunty Iris, can I come in?’
Fat drops of rain began to fall and a rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance.
*
The unexpected knock at the front door had brought a clutch of fear to Primrose’s heart and sent her running upstairs to Mrs Prendaghast’s room, where she stood behind the door and wondered what to do if someone came in, looking for her. Of co
urse, it could just be someone concerned that the teacher had put a note on the schoolroom gate that morning, saying school was closed for the day because she was sick; someone wanting to know if they could do anything for her. Primrose strained to hear what was being said downstairs, but rain began beating against the windows and she couldn’t make out anything except a man’s voice, unfamiliar.
The tone was urgent and fanned the flames of her fear. She crouched down, ignoring the pain of her wounds, wrapping her arms around her knees and trying to make herself as small as possible.
After a few minutes, the door creaked open and Mrs Prendaghast’s face appeared around it, seeking her out. She looked excited but weary. To Primrose’s young eyes she looked not just old but suddenly ancient.
‘It’s alright, you can come back downstairs.’
‘Has he gone?’
‘Yes, and I didn’t tell him about you, though I don’t think it would have mattered. It appears my nephew has had a long overdue change of heart.’
This didn’t mean much to Primrose, but she was pleased to be able to return downstairs, where she perched on the edge of the chair by the stove, which retained a bit of warmth. Her heart still had a rabbity beat.
‘What did he want?’
‘He wanted me to get a message to someone. Funnily enough, I was planning to do that anyway, about you, but it’s become even more urgent. I’m going to have to go out for a while, and I need you to promise me you will stay in the house, and not set a foot outside it, or let anyone see you. If anyone else comes to the door, go back upstairs and keep quiet. I’ll lock it behind me.’
‘I promise.’
‘Good girl. I’ll be back as quick as I can. Help yourself to food, and there are some books in the bedroom if you get bored.’
The teacher bustled about fetching a raincoat. After checking there was no one in the lane outside, she went out into the downpour and Primrose heard the snick of the door being locked.
What a luxury, to be awake, and alone in a house. She couldn’t remember that ever happening to her before. There had always been siblings, parents, other fat farm residents. She stretched out and examined the room, dim behind drawn curtains; after a few minutes, she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. She could sleep, but the cuts under her bandages must be starting to heal, because they itched like crazy. She scratched at an arm, but remembered Dorcas telling her she’d be scarred if she did that, so she stopped.
Reading, that would keep her occupied.
Most of the books in the bookcase under the window in the bedroom were dull-looking theory textbooks on teaching, philosophy and other dry stuff. But there were also thrillers, many of them translations of Scandinavian and African authors, according to the descriptions on the covers, and Primrose looked at these with excitement. Foreign books were never seen in the classroom. How curious that her teacher should have a library of them at home. She picked up a stack and took them to the bed. To have a bit more light, she opened the curtains a crack – no one would be able to see in up here. The house opposite showed her a blank wall with no windows. She was safe.
Sitting against the headboard, she felt the weight of the books in her hand, stroked the well-worn covers. Looking inside, she saw that none had been published after 2030, which was still more than ten years before she was born, and a few years after Devon’s Devolution. She didn’t know much about the details, it was something no one she knew talked about, except to say it was a good thing, without explaining why. Her dad had, sometimes, when he’d had a few drinks and come back from the pub, said it meant they’d sent all the Pakis packing. He’d laugh at that, but she didn’t get it and he never bothered to explain. What were Pakis?
One of the author photos on the back of a book showed a woman with dark skin, almost black. Primrose had never seen such a thing before. Everyone she knew was pale, or grey after a long winter. She stroked the photo, and wondered what it would be like, and if it would feel any different.
She opened the book at a random page and started reading. The story drew her into a world so different from hers it might as well have been science fiction. The world it evoked was hot, dry, full of the names of foods she had never heard of, wildlife she had never seen, families exchanging remarks made in anger that couldn’t hide the warmth at their core.
It was too much; the contrast to her own life was so stark it made her sad. She put the book aside and lay back against the pillows feeling scared and frustrated. There really was a whole world outside the borders of the place she had always called home, but she’d never learned about it, or seen it. Unless Mrs Prendaghast managed to find someone who could smuggle her out, she never would. And if she did leave, then what? She’d know no one, have nothing, be fit for nothing and the thought was terrifying. Maybe she would be better off back at the farm. She was useful there and she knew the rules.
Lightning flared through the gap in the curtains and a moment later a BOOOMMM of thunder overhead made the cottage shake and Primrose jump. Mood dark and mind whirling, she slumped down into the bed. Something was digging into her. She reached back and rummaged under the pillows and a hardback book emerged in her hand. The front two-thirds of the lined pages were filled with handwriting she recognised from Mrs Prendaghast scribbling on the board in school. This must be a diary, Mrs Prendaghast’s diary. Guiltily, but with no idea of replacing it, she turned to the beginning and read the title at the head of the first page.
A record of events in the County of Devon,
from the time of Devolution to the present day
by Mrs Iris Prendaghast
This wasn’t a diary, it was a secret history. Surely it was meant to be read, and Mrs Prendaghast wouldn’t mind if she had a look. After all, she had told Primrose to read what she wanted from the bedroom.
I do not pretend this will be anything other than a partial record. As it will probably remain unread, that doesn’t seem to matter. But sometimes I find myself so at odds with what I see happening around me, I feel the need to write as faithful a record as I can just to try and understand it, and to convince myself the world is out of joint, not I; perhaps if I commit my thoughts and observations to paper the world will make more sense.
So. Where to start?
The fat farm. In the parlance of my teenage years, what the fuck?
It was proposed to us initially as a way to run essential services. Volunteers were invited to donate a kilo or two of excess fat, rather like we used to do with blood before we ran out of ways to store it, and this was rendered into biodiesel and stored for emergency use. Once we were all acclimatised to the idea it was suggested some citizens might like to become permanent donors in exchange for a guaranteed home and as much food as they could eat. Things had already started to get tough, but I was still surprised how many put their hands up. Mostly older people who were struggling with the return to a largely manual labour force and had no family to support them through old age. (It would have been called retirement once, but fat chance of that now. Pun intended.)
Once this pattern had been established, and around the time the newly elected Mayor Spight decided it was essential he have fuel for his fleet of cars and boats (I suspect he had been raiding the civic store for some time already), it was decided at a Council meeting that families should be given the opportunity to ‘safeguard the future’ of one of their offspring. No reward was offered, but it has often struck me how the fortunes of families have improved rapidly soon after they have offered up their child. Usually girls, as they are more efficient at storing fat cells. The birth rate has rocketed in recent years, with most families (and young, single people) having limited or no access to birth control, so I understand some parents might think they are doing the child a kindness, but I have heard stories of some having a child with the deliberate intention of giving them to the farm as soon as they are old enough. The youngest child I have lost from my class was poor, dear Primrose at eleven years old, but I hear stories sometimes of much younger
children, some as young as eight or nine, from other settlements. I have no way of corroborating this.
Primrose put down the notebook. The thought of a child as young as eight enduring the harvesting process and its aftermath was repugnant. She was also touched by Mrs Prendaghast’s obvious affection, and dismay at what had happened to her, which she had suspected but not known for sure. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she resumed reading.
Each community now has at least one, managed by a Matron and a skeleton (pun also intended) staff. Their food comes from the local farms and community gardens, but is also heavily reliant on expensive, poor-quality but high-calorie imports; I have often thought it a ridiculously unbalanced energy input to output ratio. Rather like running an internal combustion engine in order to deliver transport. In one, possibly quite unexpected way, it was a stroke of genius for Spight to set them up. Everyone in the county is now complicit in their existence; we are tied by our collective guilt.
Where Spight gets the money to pay for all the crap he brings in is something no one has managed yet to ascertain. There is no real economy to speak of. Devon has limited exports: perishable foods such as meat and dairy, and some vegetables and fruit. The ‘Real’ USA states we trade with are in dire need of our comparatively clean foodstuffs – having destroyed much of their agricultural land, poisoned their air and water, and precipitated an ecological collapse even before their own disunity and our Devolution – but as we import their chemical insecticides and fertilisers in exchange, I am not sure how much longer that will pertain. Thankfully we do not have the resources to buy them in bulk; it is largely those farms owned by Spight’s family that use them.
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