Who Runs the World?

by Virginia Bergin

  ‘Why aren’t you there?’ I ask her.

  ‘I’ve abstained,’ she says.

  On what should have been my first 150 Court I had to abstain, because it was me facing restorative justice for punching Jade – which I did when she said the only reason I was so quickly accepted into the 150 was because of my Mumma. I wouldn’t have punched her for that; I punched her because of the nasty and very un-true things she said about Mumma. She said we were privileged, that Mumma abused her privilege; that we got new tech before anyone else did (we don’t), and that the only reason Kate – ‘that old witch’, Jade called her – was still alive was because my Mumma had a guaranteed supply of inhalers. None of it was true. I felt Kate rage possess me. I punched. Jade punched back. I punched again.

  Her nose bled. I came back to myself and I sat and comforted her. Her arm reached up around my shoulder and she comforted me back . . . but I was a 150 member, so it didn’t – it couldn’t – end there. Not for me; I had taken my first step into Mummahood. I was becoming an ‘adult’, so I had to face justice as an adult.

  The restoration decided upon was that Jade should apologise to me – and that I should help her in whatever way she chose; for six months, or until she decided otherwise. I thought she never would ‘decide otherwise’. For a week, Jade revelled in the arrangement, even though the Court was that I should be thanked by her for every deed done. It was a harsh Agreement; it tested us both. At the end of the second week, Jade had had enough. Justice has been done, she told the 150. I wasn’t even that grateful to her, for losing patience with the process. We both knew: she shouldn’t have said what she said and I shouldn’t have done what I did.

  Justice truly had been done.

  Since then, I abstain a lot. A lot more than I should do. Abstentions are rare. So rare. If it occurs, it usually means a 150 member can’t separate her feelings from the facts. Most of us, most of the time, are more than capable of making decisions. It’s how we are raised, what we are raised to do – and it started right back in the Granmummas’ time, when life was one agonising decision after another. Me, I love facts. I know facts. You give me a mathematical problem, and I will show you the answer, even if I have to skim a thousand stones to work it out. You give me Casey needs a hip operation vs Silver-Moon’s Mumma has leukaemia – and I abstain.

  Plat . . . she never abstains.

  ‘Please, River, let’s just go home. Yours, mine – I don’t care! Let’s just go home. We’ll talk about it at home,’ Plat is saying.

  I run – stumbling – for the Granmummas’ house.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ Plat says, putting herself between me and the Granmummas’ door. ‘Please don’t do this.’

  I can hardly hear her. What I hear is the pounding of blood in my own ears, from the running and –

  Didn’t it feel like this, last night, when I killed a man? The crashing pounding of blood? The whoosh of life when a life has been taken.

  ‘Give me one good reason,’ my brain forces me to say to Plat.

  ‘Because I love you,’ she says.

  Oh, Plat. P-L-A-T-I-N-U-M! I love you too . . . but Plat . . . she also loves the law, and politics, and justice, and reason. ‘Because I love you’ is hardly Plat’s style. ‘Because I love you’ makes no sense to me right now.

  ‘It has been Agreed, River.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘The verdict.’

  My brain squints at Plat.

  I feel . . . I think I must feel as baffled and angry as Mason ever has done. But I am not Mason. I have a right. I take hold of Plat’s hand. I squeeze it. Then she stands aside.

  I push open the door.

  I scan the room and the room scans me.

  It looks so normal – and so not normal. Every sofa, every table, every chair, every everything in the Granmummas’ enormous kitchen has been pulled to the sides so the 150 can cram in; even the doors to the never-used dining room have been flung open to accommodate the crowd.

  They sit or stand, higgledy-piggeldy, but roughly in a circle. That’s what a Court always looks like; no one separate, all in a circle.

  I am in the middle of it. No one goes into the middle. I am in the middle.

  In that circle, part of that circle, sits Mason.

  He stares back at me . . . with just the slightest shake of his head. A quiet ‘no’ – but around it, there’s a ripple; evidently the Community has been introduced to Mason – and evidently many of those who are not Granmummas are still struggling with the fact of his existence . . . just as I did.

  I was right: none of the Littler Ones are in the Court to observe. Only 150 voters: Teens like me, the Granmummas, the Mummas – but not my Mumma?! I scan the room again: no Mumma – only Kate, who gets up from her place next to Mason and comes to me and says, ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ even as other neighbours get up – to comfort, to chide, to . . . I do not know what this is.

  ‘Well, I am here,’ I tell her, very quietly.

  I’m not biologically related to Kate, but sometimes . . . I feel more like her daughter than Mumma’s. I sound like her, sometimes. I do know that. Sounds like is not the same as thinks like. I do remind myself of that. I remind myself of that now.

  ‘Everyone should sit down,’ says Yaz. ‘That includes you, River.’

  Yaz deputises as facilitator of the 150 when Mumma isn’t around . . . but it turns out Mumma is around. Yukiko is holding an open notebook, filming the proceedings. An open notebook on which PicChat Mumma’s face is scanning the room – and sees me.

  I see her register that. Register me. Register me, and ignore me.

  Granmumma Rosie gets up from her chair and goes and perches on the arm of a sofa. I am being given a seat. This is not the usual way of things; if you’re fit to stand, you stand. Plat pushes through the circle to stand behind the chair. I go, and I sit, and I am grateful to sit. My knees are shaking. Plat’s loving hands rest gently on my shoulders.

  ‘Yaz, what was the result of your investigation?’ my Mumma asks.

  I look at Mason.

  ‘That I’m guilty as hell,’ he says, looking straight back at me.

  ‘Yaz?’ my Mumma says.

  ‘Manslaughter,’ says Yaz.

  ‘That’s right!’ says Mason. ‘I slaughtered him!’

  Yaz wheels over to him. ‘This is being recorded now,’ she advises. ‘We’re going for the lesser charge. On the basis of the evidence.’

  ‘Basis of – lesser’n what? What are you saying?’

  ‘Lesser than murder. It was not deliberate. It was accidental. It was self-defence.’

  Mason squints at her.

  ‘And it was not, in any way, pre-meditated.’

  ‘Pre-what?’

  ‘You didn’t think about killing that asshole prior to . . . accidentally killing him,’ Kate tries to help out.

  ‘Oh NO – NO – NO – NO – NO!’ cries Mason. ‘WAIT THE HELL UP HERE! I thought about killing that bastard about ten thousand times a day!’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ Kate murmurs. ‘Trust me: you didn’t mean to kill him.’

  My heart – my deafening, pounding heart – feels like it could burst straight out of my chest and lie there beating, bloodily, in front of everyone.

  ‘But I did it,’ I tell them all. I do that; I speak.

  ‘Got witnesses says I did,’ Mason blusters on. ‘Whole village of she-wolf witnesses. And I did.’ He seeks out the camera. ‘I did it, and I meant to.’

  Sweet has a toy, a kaleidoscope. She loves it. I don’t love it. It makes me dizzy, makes the world split and twirl. I feel like I’m looking through it right now. I feel like I’m feeling through it.

  ‘Accidental?!’ he says to Yaz. ‘This ain’t no accident. I meant to kill him.’

  ‘But it’s in your best interests to –’ Yaz tries.

  ‘My best interests?!’ Mason rages. ‘My best interests?! Put it down as I meant to kill him or the deal’s off.’

  ‘What deal?’ I
ask . . . out loud, but to no one in particular. My heart lies like a stone at the bottom of the kaleidoscope world.

  ‘I’ve got a reputation,’ Mason says – to Kate. ‘And maybe that’s all I’ve got, but I’m telling you—’

  ‘Stop filming,’ Kate says to Yukiko – and Yukiko does. ‘Scroll back. Wipe the conclusion. Re-cap. Charge is murder. Plea is guilty.’

  The court ripples with consternation – and I see Kate stare Mumma down.

  Plat – gently – hugs my shoulders. ‘But I did it,’ I tell them all, my heart pounding with fright.

  ‘This is a done deal, Sweetie-pop,’ Kate speaks across the room to me. ‘Don’t mess this up.’

  ‘But I did it . . .’

  ‘Do not mess this up or we’re all in trouble. All of us.’

  Every head in the room nods. My Community is unanimous. Our 150 is united in Agreement . . . and Mason . . . is too. As he nods he fixes me with a stare and a long, purposeful grin. A long, purposeful grin I don’t even have a name for – sad, glad, angry, wistful? A kaleidoscope grin.

  I sit back down, feel Plat’s sweet hands curve around my shoulders – offering a comfort I can’t even feel.

  ‘Are we ready to record this?’ asks Yukiko.

  Granmummas, Mummas and the oldest Teens nod. Mason nods.

  Yukiko hands the Community notebook to Casey.

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ she whispers. ‘I mean, I just don’t think –’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ says Plat, stepping forward.

  ‘Your career!’ exclaims Zara, her Mumma.

  Plat, she just takes hold of that notebook. ‘Recording,’ she says.

  She points the camera at Yaz.

  ‘A man was killed –’

  ‘Murdered,’ Mason chips in – is waved down to silence by Kate.

  ‘A man was murdered. Method and location information online with this report. Pictures same. Witness reports same. Post-mortem report –’ it’s only now, when I see Yaz look to her, that I even realise Akesa is in the room too – ‘available shortly. Cause of death: blow to head –’

  ‘De-liberate,’ Mason blurts.

  ‘– resulting in catastrophic brain haemorrhage,’ Akesa says.

  ‘We have the perpetrator,’ Yaz says.

  Plat turns the notebook camera to Mason.

  He runs a hand through his hair. That’s what he does, I know, when he is anxious. Is it only me who sees that hand is shaking?

  ‘Yo, hey,’ he speaks to the camera. ‘It was me. I did it. I meant to. No one asked me to ’fess to nothing. I hid out in the woods for weeks after I run from here. No one –’ he shoots a look at Yukiko, who mouths words – ‘aided or a-betted,’ he says, slowly. ‘I didn’t get no help from no one and I did do it, and I did mean to.’

  Plat shifts the notebook away; a ripple in the room as Mason reaches and grabs it back. ‘Code of Honour,’ he speaks into the camera.

  Yaz takes the notebook off Plat, speaks directly into the camera.

  ‘We have an admittance of responsibility,’ she says. ‘Assessments confirm that although the perpetrator is suffering from depression and anxiety –’

  ‘What? Who’s saying that? Did you say that?’ Mason demands of Akesa.

  ‘– his mental health is otherwise sound, although he appears to have a variety of delusions of a . . . culturally transmitted nature.’

  ‘Now what is that supposed to mean, she-wolf?!’ Mason snarls.

  ‘We don’t know how to restore,’ Yaz says to my Mumma.

  ‘Understood,’ my Mumma says. ‘As the case involves a boy, it’ll be decided by the National Council. Thank you to the 150 for their deliberations and for Agreeing not to discuss this case outside the Court . . . and to the accused, for being so helpful. The Court can go home.’

  There’s a murmur of – relief? Is it that? It’s so hard to tell – which way is up, which way is down, which image is true.

  I look at the window because I cannot look at anyone else. It’s snowing again. I hear a single flake falling. Falling. It screams, sounds like a jet crashing.

  ‘Come home now,’ Kate says.

  The room . . . it’s empty. I don’t know how it got to be empty.

  Only Plat and Kate and Mason remain.

  ‘Come on,’ Plat echoes, helping me to my feet.

  My legs are numb. I can hardly walk. I walk.

  In the lane, stumbling home through fast-falling snow, I say again: ‘But I did it.’

  ‘He’s taking the rap,’ Kate says, breathing so deep on the night air a fear about her lungs manages to burst into my stunned brain. ‘D’you understand?’

  ‘They talked to him,’ Plat is saying. ‘He Agreed.’

  ‘He Agreed,’ Kate echoes.

  ‘Code of Honour,’ Mason whispers to the sky, astonished by the falling of snow.

  CHAPTER 24

  RIGHT AND WRONG

  ‘It’s not right.’

  That’s all I keep saying. To myself – and to Kate, and to Plat, and to Mason. And what gets said in between chills me colder than I have ever been.

  ‘You’re worth ten of him,’ Kate says, sitting me down at the kitchen table. ‘Sorry, Mason, but that’s how it is.’

  It’s shocking – so shocking – to hear these shocking things coming out of Kate’s mouth . . . but what is apparent to me is that this isn’t some kind of hate or anger speaking; it’s logic, drenched in sorrow. Muffled by snow.

  ‘Guess so,’ says Mason.

  ‘But . . . he’s a boy,’ I say. I’m not even sure what I mean by that – not any more. I was brought up to believe they were precious. Dangerous but precious?

  ‘And he’ll still be a boy, wherever he ends up,’ Kate says. ‘D’you understand? It’s his job to produce sperm, and it always will be. Maybe in another sixty years it’ll be different. Maybe it’ll take another hundred years. It’s harsh, but that’s how it is. You, though . . . River, I don’t know what “restoration” would get decided on if you took the blame for this, but I’m pretty sure it’d be bad news – for your future. For our future.’

  ‘Took the blame? I DID it. The whole village knows I did it! This is not right.’

  ‘You’re the only one thinks that,’ says Mason. ‘I mean, ain’t that how it works around here? If the most people think it’s right, it is right.’

  ‘We’d just say that it had been Agreed,’ Plat says quietly. ‘But Kate is right: you’ve got to think about your future.’

  ‘What about his future?’

  ‘What about it?’ Mason snorts.

  ‘His future is set,’ says Kate, grimly.

  ‘The way you’re talking . . . you’re making it sound like he’s a different species or something.’

  ‘Ain’t me that’s different,’ he mumbles.

  ‘He might as well be a different species,’ says Kate. ‘Didn’t what that man did to you prove that?’

  I feel sick at the memory of it, sick and angry – and I wonder what it’s going to take, and how long it’s going to take, to find a place to put that memory – far, far away from everything that is good in my world.

  ‘That wasn’t Mason.’

  ‘No. But Mason wasn’t raised like you.’

  ‘He’s still a person though, isn’t he?’

  ‘Technically, yes.’

  ‘I’ve read about this’, Plat says, ‘about the way some men used to talk about women – now listen to how you’re talking about him.’

  I’ve never seen this, Plat challenging Kate. Makes my numbed brain – heating with anger – wonder again why Plat abstained.

  ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘How is it not the same?!’

  ‘Because in between then and now we nearly got wiped out. Them and us. All of us. The whole of the human race. This isn’t prejudice, this isn’t sexism, this isn’t anything other than practicality. Wake up, girl! It is not the same!’

  ‘Then how come it sounds the same?’ says Plat.

 
Kate sighs, gets up and shoves the kettle on the stove.

  ‘You weren’t there, you don’t know how it was,’ she says. ‘You, River, the Mummas – all of you: you’re clueless.’

  Kate says that to me a lot. Usually it’s about whatever I’m wearing. She says it wasn’t just men who died; it was fashion.

  ‘No voting, no education, no legal rights, no decent jobs, no decent pay, no control over fertility. Wasn’t that how it was?’ says Plat.

  ‘Not in my time. You’re muddled on your facts. Things had changed.’

  ‘Not for all women.’

  ‘No.’ Kate turns around. ‘For sure. And for the rest of us, in the countries where everything was supposed to be just peachy . . . it wasn’t at all. It was a different kind of bad. It was a sneaky, poisonous kind of bad. So sneaky I hardly even knew it at the time. Equal, but not equal. Different standards. And it was normal.’

  The kettle screams, so quick to boil in our super-heated house. Kate shoves it off the heat.

  ‘It was so normal we never really questioned half the things that went on,’ she says. ‘I never questioned it. I never even thought about it until River came along.’

  She sits back down at the table. She grabs my dread-frozen hands, clutches them within her age-frozen hands – her hands that are tool-cut scarred from years of hard work.

  ‘You have freedom,’ she says to me. ‘I didn’t even know what it meant until I saw you. Sweetie-pop . . . if my mother could see you, she’d be so amazed, and so proud and –’ Kate wells up; she doesn’t really do positive expressed emotion – ‘she’d also tell you to shave your legs and use mascara.’

  Kate’s Mumma sold cosmetics to her neighbours. That’s how she made money Kate’s Daddy couldn’t touch. Her money.

  Kate shrieks with crazy laughter. Emotion overload.

  ‘Ah! I’m just kidding! Well, I’m not, because you really would look a whole lot better if you’d – oh, don’t listen to me . . . my mother, she would have been blown away by you,’ Kate says, wiping away those rare tears before they can fall.

  Mason, he shifts back his chair – slowly; a quiet grumble.

  ‘And I think your mother would be proud of you,’ Kate tells him.

  ‘I don’t know what she-wolf dropped me,’ Mason says.