Who Runs the World?

by Virginia Bergin

  ‘It can’t be helped, River. You’ll get your room back soon enough. Probably.’

  As my mouth opens to express outrage, Kate looks up, grinning.

  ‘You will get your room back.’ She smiles at my most unamused face. ‘You’re just going to have to wait a while. Go ahead, get what you need.’

  I trudge upstairs and I walk into my room, averting my gaze from my bed because I have one mission here, and one mission only: the location of my snuggliest PJs.

  And I find them, and I grab them and I turn and –

  It closes the door with a quiet click. It’s standing there wearing my pink satin dressing gown, a ‘Now THIS is the kind of thing girls used to wear!’ gift from Kate. The dressing gown is unbuttoned, and it is very naked underneath.

  ‘Brother!’ it hisses.

  CHAPTER 10

  CODE OF HONOUR

  It advances up on me. With one hand, it takes hold of my arm. The other hand lays itself over my lips.

  Even in this moment, a part of me thinks, Oh for crying out loud!

  But most of me is just freaked out. Fully, completely, totally and utterly FREAKED OUT.

  Its face – breathing stinking, sick breath straight into my face – looks ashen, shaky, sweaty as it listens for a moment, to the silence of the house . . . me just standing there, holding my PJs, trying – so hard – not to think . . .

  MAN

  MEN

  KNIVES

  RAPE

  MURDER

  GUNS

  WAR

  KILL

  DEATH.

  It drops its hand from my face.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?! Je-sus! Listen to me, kid: there’s wimmin all around here. Not a word of a lie: the place is swarming with them.’

  The hand leaves my mouth to wave wildly at the window, then swoops back to clutch my other arm. ‘You’ve gotta get out of here!’

  The stench of its breath gusting into my face as its crazy eyes stare into mine.

  ‘These wimmin, they’ll rape and kill you soon as. Better to die in the jungle than here!’

  I am . . . rigid with terror.

  ‘Snap out of it, brother,’ it gusts, shaking me – then suddenly it stops and grabs its arms right around me. A tight, brutal squeeze – of a hug.

  One single strange cluck chokes in its throat. Is it going to be sick on me? I’m thinking as it swallows the cluck down. It releases me.

  I’ve just been bear-hugged by an XY.

  ‘Don’t you worry, don’t you worry now,’ it says, stepping away, methodically buttoning the way-too-tight dressing gown with shaking hands. ‘We’ll figure this out. We’ll get you out of here,’ it says, looking up at me . . . alien XY tears in its eyes.

  Was that what the cluck sound was?! Crying?! Crying because –

  ‘You’re scared?’ I speak my thought in uptalk; my thought is too strange.

  It swipes the back of its fist against its eyes. ‘Takes more than this to scare Mason,’ it whispers – then cringes, backing away from the window. Despite shut double-glazed panes you can hear the village: the Littler Ones shrieking in a new Hunt-the-Boy game; Hope’s Mumma calling out, ‘Hope? Hope?!’ And I wonder . . . if I shouted right now, what would it do?

  ‘But I ain’t gonna lie to you, brother, this is what you’d call a bleak situation. Know what I mean?’

  I nod.

  ‘We’re talking maximum bleak here,’ it whispers, looking anxiously at the window. ‘Maximum bleak.’

  ‘RIVER!’ Kate yells from downstairs.

  The creature stares wide-eyed at the door – then swivels its head to look at me. A shush finger creeps up to its mouth.

  ‘RIVER!’

  Oh no . . . oh no, oh no, oh no.

  ‘DO YOU WANT A CUP OF TEA?’

  What a fine, what a just perfect time for Kate to suddenly remember that I exist.

  The creature pads silently over to me. It lays its finger on my lips.

  ‘There’s actual wimmin in this Unit,’ its sick breath whispers, stinking, into my face.

  My heart is pounding so loud I’m worried it will hear it. I’m even more worried that –

  ‘RIVER!’ Kate calls.

  OH. NO.

  I hear her heavy tread stomp up the stairs. One-two-three –

  ‘I’M JUST COMING!’ I shout, from behind the finger of the thing.

  Three-two-one. That’s Kate, back in the kitchen. Waiting to give me a talk about Hormones, I expect.

  The thing pants into my face.

  ‘What the hell is going on here, brother?’ it whispers.

  My brain is spinning. I’ve got to protect Kate, protect me – this is supposed to be important – protect the future of humankind?! – protect Mumma, protect the Granmummas, protect the secret . . . how do I do all that? How do I do any of that? All I’ve got is:

  ‘She called me, I had to answer.’

  The truth. That’s the truth.

  It stares into my eyes. Its finger pushes hard into my lips, then whips away.

  It throws a slap at its own face. It slaps itself again – so hard I flinch.

  ‘I ain’t right,’ it whispers. ‘Get me some of that water.’

  There’s a jug of water by the bed, and a glass. I pour a glass, feeling the weight of the jug. It’s a heavy jug. You could hit someone with it, if you had to. I offer the glass.

  ‘No,’ it decides. ‘Could be drugged. Don’t you drink that neither.’ It rakes a shaking hand through its hair. ‘River? That your name, is it? River? My God. I mean. My God. They’re calling you by your name?’

  It paces, padding silently, sick face screwed up tight.

  ‘I’m gonna get you out of here, River. I’m gonna get you out of here,’ it mutters.

  I take one step towards the door.

  Lightning fast, it blocks my way.

  I think I might just scream because every scrap of calm I’ve got is failing me. It looks agitated and sweaty.

  ‘There’s no need to be scared,’ I tell it. ‘No one wants to hurt you. Everyone wants to help you.’

  Womf! It slaps itself.

  ‘See, now, River . . . so just let me ask you a thing. I wouldn’t want you to take this the wrong way or anything, but, see, River . . .’

  It screws its eyes up and rubs its palms hard against them . . . then they slide down its sick, sweaty face. Its fingers dig into its cheeks and it stares at me . . . ‘Are you some kind of girl?’

  I cannot move. We just stare at each other.

  ‘As I live and breathe . . .’ it says. ‘You’re a goddamn girl?’

  Thoughts are getting thrown about every which way in the swirling panic of my brain. So, truth:

  ‘Yes.’

  It can’t seem to speak.

  Kate can. ‘RIVER!’ she yells.

  Oh, and she really IS coming up the stairs this time. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. I see fear surge into its eyes.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ it says, tensing.

  The door whips open; Kate glares at me – then sees the empty bed, then sees it . . . and clutches her chest.

  ‘This is my Granmumma,’ I tell it. ‘She wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  No, she would not. The fly would feel no pain. It’d just be smashed to death. Obliterated in an instant.

  It strides across the room in one bound – straight past me – grabs the jug, raises it and –

  ‘NO!’ I scream at it, grabbing its arm. ‘NO!’

  NO. And I am stronger than it – when I grab that arm, yanking it down, the jug smashes on to the floor. Fear and desperation are fast to act; this is what I learn for sure in this moment. My fear and desperation made me stop it – the boy’s fear and desperation, so much quicker, make it snatch up a fat shard of glass and wave it.

  I . . . FLIP.

  ‘We saved you!’ I yell at it. ‘I saved you!’

  ‘She bloody well did,’ pants Kate, ‘so just get a grip.’

  It falters. Staring at m
e with its mad, killer eyes.

  ‘You only saved me so you could rape me,’ it says.

  ‘FFS!’ shouts Kate – it’s Granmumma speak, but the creature seems to know it, is distracted by it. ‘You really need to get a grip!’ Kate wheezes at it.

  I nod, ferociously – it darts a look at me.

  Confused, it waves the shard at both of us. I launch myself at it – and fell the creature in just one go, pin it underneath me – WEAK! IT’S SO WEAK! – grab its wrist and bash-bash-bash that shard out of its killer hand. Bash-bash-bash – BANG! I hear the front door slam.

  ‘STOP!’ Kate is yelling – I’m not so lost in the fight that I can’t hear her breath failing.

  Mumma running up the stairs, straight into the room.

  ‘River!’ Mumma shrieks.

  I’ve got it pinned. It’s going nowhere. ‘Get her inhaler!’ I shout at Mumma.

  Mumma runs straight back down the stairs.

  ‘I saved you, I bloody well saved you,’ I’m hissing into its ear.

  Kate is gasping. ‘No-one’s-going-to-hurt-you . . .’ Her breath falters totally.

  ‘Code of Honour,’ it tells the floor.

  ‘I’ll freaking hurt you if I have to,’ I spit into its ear, my heart bursting with fear and anger at the sound of Kate’s failing breath.

  ‘Code of Honour!’ it cries.

  Mumma comes stomping back – I hear Kate shoot a dose of her inhaler.

  ‘I’ll call H&R,’ Mumma says. I glance up, see Kate grab Mumma’s arm even as she takes another shot.

  ‘Let him go,’ Kate pants at me.

  I feel the creature’s weakness, but also its fight-or-flight tension beneath me. It’s a tension I recognise, from the catching of wild things – even an estuary-netted salmon, helplessly drowning in air, is prepared to thrash and snap for life.

  ‘Mumma – we can’t trust it,’ I growl.

  ‘Code of Honour,’ it speaks to the floor.

  ‘Shut up,’ I snarl at it.

  I look up; Mumma and Kate just standing there – and I’ll never forget how they looked: Kate, still trying to catch her breath, eyes burning with once-was; Mumma, perhaps more frightened than I am and certainly more confused. Mumma, caught between us, between the once-was and the now.

  ‘What does that mean, “Code of Honour”?’ my Mumma speaks to the boy.

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Kate manages to get out – third shot now. One more and we’ll be calling Akesa back whatever happens.

  ‘Not to me,’ Mumma says. ‘What does it mean . . . Mason?’

  It sounds so weird, to hear my Mumma call the thing by its name.

  ‘I owe her my life!’ it tells the floorboards. My hand is on the back of its skull. My fingers grip its scalp through its stinking filthy hair.

  ‘I still don’t . . .’ Mumma says.

  ‘It means he’s not going to hurt anyone – are you?’ Kate says, her voice soft – and not from the breathlessness.

  ‘Correct, sir,’ the creature speaks.

  ‘Code of Honour,’ Kate says, and I feel the creature try to nod under my grip.

  ‘Code of Honour,’ it rasps. ‘Code of Honour.’

  ‘Let him go,’ Kate says.

  I strain to look up; I’ve got to see Kate speak the words I can’t believe I’m hearing. This is insane – thoughts blast into my head. This is totally bloody crazy.

  Mumma looks at Kate, then turns to me. ‘River, let him go,’ she says.

  I release the beast. I scramble to my feet and stand over it.

  ‘I owe you my life,’ it says – and cranes its neck to look up at me.

  It tries to peel itself off the floor, but whatever surge of strength it managed to dig out has left it: it passes out. Once again, I am concerned that I might have killed it.

  Me and Mumma lift it back into bed, and under Akesa’s remote instruction Mumma reinserts the cannula into the back of its hand; chemistry and biology hanging right there, in a bag of clear fluid that is dripping life into its veins.

  ‘I told you it was dangerous!’ I hiss at Kate and Mumma over its unconscious body.

  Mumma looks at Kate.

  ‘He’s not dangerous,’ Kate says. ‘He’s just . . . scared.’

  ‘Scared?’ Mumma asks Kate.

  ‘Yes! Scared! Fear makes people do all kinds of things. Trust me, I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it plenty. He is just scared.’

  ‘What would he be scared of?’

  ‘You heard him, he thinks he’s going to get raped! He thinks he’s going to get raped or killed – wouldn’t you be scared?’

  ‘. . . I don’t know,’ my Mumma says. ‘I mean . . . yes . . . but I can’t imagine –’

  ‘Well, try!’ shrieks Kate.

  ‘Shh!’ I hiss – because the creature is twitching. ‘Mumma – call H&R and get it taken away.’

  ‘She’s not going to do that,’ says Kate.

  ‘He’s dangerous!’

  ‘He is not!’ snaps Kate.

  ‘Mumma!’

  ‘. . . Every child is our child,’ Mumma whispers. Global Agreement No. 2.

  ‘Damn right,’ says Kate. ‘Damn bloody right.’

  Not if it’s a boy, surely? I’m thinking.

  For the whole of the rest of my life I will never forget the look it gave me, craning its neck to look at me as I pinned it to the floor.

  And I didn’t even understand what it was. I didn’t even understand.

  I think, perhaps, I do now . . . but it is not a look I ever want to see again on any person’s face. It is not plain-and-simple gratitude. It is not the non-look terrified glance of a creature – set free – checking the hunter isn’t coming after it. It’s the worst thing you’ll ever see in your life: a person who feels grateful just for being treated like a person.

  Bad enough.

  The twist?

  Deep down they know no one should have to feel grateful for that. And you know it too.

  A BOY ON PLANET GIRL

  CHAPTER 11

  NOT NORMAL

  Not Normal is not being able to tell your best friend in the whole world what is going on. Not Normal is eating alone. Not Normal is having to stop chewing mid-mouthful so you can listen . . . in case there is something happening upstairs. Not Normal means a stomach so tight with anxiety all you can do is pick at your food and listen, pick and listen.

  Pick, listen and realise . . . Not Normal is not contained. Your own kitchen has been invaded by it. Savoury smells, sweet smells, delicious smells, all cocooned in extremely toasty kitchen warmth . . . but all your nose tunes into is wafts of weird cleanliness, disinfectant and sickness. A distinct, bad-breath stink is in your house.

  Not-Normal must be kept warm. I drag myself out of my seat and yank open the kitchen stove and shove more precious wood in. Behind the iron door I hear wood that wasn’t quite ready to burn hiss . . . and that is exactly how my thoughts are: hissing. Not quite dry enough. Not quite ready.

  The wood spits. Even behind the iron you can hear explosions of fury; pockets of moisture, super-heating too, too quickly. And I sit back down and for a moment, the stove spluttering, the shutters drawn, curtains pulled across, I can almost imagine . . . winter has come.

  When the sputtering stops, I hear their voices. Mumma. Kate. Its. Low, murmuring, but I hear them. So I haven’t killed it. Seems like it’s not that easy to kill an XY – or at least not this one. Not even accidentally. I shove away the plate of delicious food I have only picked at, and go upstairs.

  ‘Ah! Here’s River!’ Kate says – in a gentle, happy (i.e. weird) voice as I stride in, ready to fight. The boy’s gaze swings my way and locks on.

  ‘We were just explaining to Mason,’ Mumma says, ‘how there’s really nothing to be afraid of here.’

  Except for him, my brain jumps in. The creature – he’s awake! – and the way he’s looking at me. What is that?

  ‘Isn’t that right, River?’ Kate asks in that weird lullaby voice.


  ‘Suppose so.’

  Kate gives me an un-lullaby glare.

  ‘I mean, yes, of course.’

  It clears its throat, sniffs. ‘I wanna see for myself,’ it tells me – me, not Mumma or Kate.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea right now,’ says Mumma.

  ‘There’s always tomorrow,’ Kate says. ‘Don’t feel you have to push yourself.’

  ‘I wanna see,’ it tells me, reaching to pull out the IV.

  ‘No! Don’t take that out!’ says Kate.

  ‘It’s what’s making you better,’ says Mumma.

  It looks at me. ‘It’s true!’ I tell it. ‘I mean, for crying out loud, all we’re trying to do is help you. Just keep the bloody thing in, can’t you?’

  It’s the tension that’s making me speak like that . . . a thing I am, for sure, going to have to explain to Kate and Mumma later, because I am very much aware that they are staring at me in tight-lipped shock.

  The creature eyes me, then gives a curt nod. It shakily manoeuvres itself out of bed – still buttoned into my too-tight pink satin dressing gown (that I am so never going to wear again). Mumma goes to offer it a helping hand, but the creature recoils.

  And I deduce a thing that further observation will teach me is right and true: it is afraid of my Mumma. You’d think it would be afraid of me, for pinning it . . . and anyone with any sense would be most afraid of Kate, who is truly fierce. But Mumma? It’s afraid of my firm-but-fair, reasonable, sensible Mumma.

  ‘Give the guy a hand,’ Kate tells me.

  Boy. Him. His. Son. Male . . . Guy?! I don’t think I’ve ever even heard that word before. What – exactly – is a ‘guy’?

  The creature darts a look at her like it has heard that word. Like it knows that word.

  ‘I’m good,’ it mumbles at me.

  I know what that means – it’s Granmumma-speak for ‘I’m OK, thank you’. The creature doesn’t seem OK, but I don’t want to help it – I don’t want to touch it – so I don’t . . . Instead it curls a fist around the coat-stand, which becomes a giant walking aid for the tour.

  A tour, that’s what it feels like. I know because I have been on a tour to Birmingham. The whole school went. I was raging cross about it because I’d be missing two live Maths classes and my first Dynamics seminar. I was raging cross on the train – I’d been on one before – and I was raging cross until we got there. Then my jaw dropped. So many things I’d never seen before: tower blocks, tons of roads, an escalator, tons of people – I mean every kind of people – a museum packed with art, including religious objects, that was just incredible to me . . . and . . . the National Council.