Who Runs the World?

by Virginia Bergin

  ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ I tell him. That’s what I say, with my heart full of fear. ‘We’re going to be fine.’

  I look down at the station. It looks warm and welcoming – like home.

  I think about going home.

  ‘You sure I look OK?’ he’s saying.

  I look at him. He hands me the riding cape.

  It’s hard for me to say; he is so transformed. Under a garish woolly hat, his shaved face looks thin and frightened – on top of a body that is bulky with layers. At Mason’s own insistence, the layers include a dress of Kate’s and breasts made of socks . . . which are visible beneath the shapeless baggy jumper that was added on top, because the coat Kate also donated will not do up over the bulk. His sock-breasts have become dislodged. They look wrong. Wonky is normal, everyone’s breasts are wonky, but one has migrated to shoulder height and both have become strangely lumpy. I lay my hands on his chest and I wiggle and squish those socks into a decent shape and configuration.

  Milpy stamps: What is going on here? she demands to know.

  ‘There,’ I tell him.

  ‘I look normal?’

  Now really isn’t the time to try to explain to him that people come in all shapes and sizes, dress in all kinds of ways; that’s true for the village – and that’s even more the case in Birmingham, from what I can remember. It’s got to be five years since our last school trip, but I still recall being amazed at how many different kinds of people there were. However, he is also wearing socks over his rubber-hooved feet in snow. We didn’t have any kind of footwear large enough, no boots that would fit him.

  ‘Do I, River? You gotta tell me, because I got freakin’ fear of them she-wolves.’

  And then there’s his voice. That it’s deep isn’t a problem – plenty of people have deep voices – it’s what that voice says that’s NOT NORMAL.

  His appearance is the least of our problems.

  ‘Yes! But . . . look, you need to keep quiet, OK? Let me do all the talking.’

  ‘We gonna have to talk?! To she-wolves?!’

  ‘I’ll do the talking.’

  ‘OK, River, OK,’ he says, shaking with cold – and fear?

  ‘You put this on,’ I tell him, handing him back the riding cape. ‘We need to walk the rest of the way.’

  ‘Then you take it.’

  I’d love to – any more of this chat and I’ll die of cold (and nerves?) right here. ‘You put it on. I’ve got my coat.’

  He hesitates.

  ‘Put it on!’ I call over my shoulder as I grab up Milpy’s reins and lead her on and down.

  The moonlight is so bright, but this path, deep in snow, is treacherous – bad enough for humans, for Milpy it’s an outrage. I sense it’s going to take a whole ha-ha-harvest’s worth of carrots to make up for this.

  ‘I’m sorry you ever even found me,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry about it all, River.’

  Yes, so am I, I’m thinking. But what has been found cannot be un-found. What has been done . . . cannot be undone.

  I wish, with all my heart, that these things weren’t so. But they are.

  ‘Hush,’ I tell him.

  I stop just before we reach the station. I choose a level patch on the snowy path where there’s a collapsed and rotted once-was bench, a brass plaque (‘In memory of Edward’) hanging on by a single nail. I stop and I watch. An angry horse and a shaking boy wait with me. I’ve got no way of telling what the time is, and I do not want to miss the train . . . all I can do is watch as more and more cars and motorbikes and horses and vans and lorries and carts arrive.

  Milpy, furious, is stamping her feet; Mason is stamping too – the cold must be eating into him from the feet up.

  ‘OK, let’s go,’ I tell them, as soon as the flow of arrivals slows. The train must be coming very soon.

  The angry horse? She’s eager to continue. The boy? He just comes trudging after us.

  When we reach the station, I drape Milpy’s reins loosely around the fence – so she’ll think she’s tied, but won’t hurt herself if she has a random panic . . . which is what Mason is having:

  ‘I ain’t never been on a train,’ he mutters, teeth chattering.

  I’ve made him stand in his rubber hooves in the snow. Scared? Yes, he probably is. Freezing from the feet up? Definitely.

  ‘Shh!’ I tell him, heading for the waiting room. I stamp the snow off my feet before we go in – and Mason does the same and I wish he hadn’t because the socks he’s wearing have frayed on the rocky path and his hooves are showing. I’m tempted to leave him outside – and I almost do; the waiting room is deliciously warm so I go to shut the door behind me quick as I can, only to realise that my cape-and-hoof companion has failed to follow me, so I grab his hand and pull him in before anyone can complain about the heat from the blazing wood burner escaping.

  The hard metal seats that used to be in the waiting room are dumped outside, rusting, and the room is filled with armchairs and sofas, on which people – mainly Granmummas and Littler Ones – lounge, sipping tea or snoozing . . . and now stirring at the blast of cold. The only positive thing to be said is that the room is dark apart from the glow of the fire and the notebook and lamp on the Station Manager’s desk . . . but not dark enough: ‘Big sister! Where are your boots?!’ a Littler One pipes up as the room looks at us with weary half-interest.

  ‘She lost them,’ I tell the Littler One as I smile and whisper Good morning! at the waiting passengers. I’m so glad it’s so early – at any other time Courtesy would mean I’d need to formally introduce us; right now everyone is too sleepy to care.

  ‘Who are you?’ the Station Manager asks – almost rudely. The train must be about to come in because she’s tapping away on her notebook like mad, hurrying us on, glancing at a railway control console I don’t understand on which lights are blinking. ‘Need names,’ she says. ‘And reason for journey.’

  I didn’t even know we’d have to do this, sign in for this journey. On the school trip someone must have done that for us. The Station Manager has her hand hovering above the keyboard.

  ‘So . . . we’re May and River.’

  She types super-fast into her notebook.

  ‘Going to the National Council.’

  She looks up at me. ‘Are you River of Zoe-River? From the tech village?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper.

  ‘Your Mumma’s our National Rep, isn’t she?’ she whispers back.

  Whispering is no good in this place. Granmummas in that waiting room nudge each other as they sip final slurps of tea, pulling on boots and coats that are warming by the fire.

  I nod. ‘Could you please take care of the horse? I’ve got horseradish vodka,’ I tell her.

  The Manager peers out through the window. In the darkness, Milpy is just an angry hulk of a shadow – but somehow, as though she knows we are speaking about her, she tilts her head. Moonlight glints reflected from her eye. Yup; she is furious.

  ‘I don’t drink,’ she says.

  ‘And honey! I’ve got honey!’ – and I have. Or rather, Mason has. I elbow him and he jumps to it, and wrestles the rucksack out from under the riding cape. He hands it to me and I rummage and set TWO jars of honey down on the Manager’s desk. The crazy seasons make hard work for the bees, so honey is still a precious, precious sweet. Two jars is A LOT.

  The Station Manager eyes them – as other eyes in the room are doing – then gently slides them back at me. ‘I don’t need honey,’ she says. ‘Just tell your Mumma we need another points guard at the interchange.’

  ‘Oh, I really can’t . . .’ That’s what I start to say – whole roomful of people listening now. In my village everyone knows me, knows I can’t – and won’t, and wouldn’t – make any kind of special plea.

  ‘I’ve told my 150 Ella needs assistance,’ the Manager says.

  ‘Assistance?!’ a Mumma in the room chips in, confirming my fear that everyone IS listening. ‘Her eyesight is going! She needs to stand down
! She’s dangerous!’

  ‘She’s a Granmumma,’ another Granmumma says. ‘Don’t you forget that.’

  ‘I am not forgetting that,’ says the Mumma. ‘How could you even think I would? How could any of us ever? She is still dangerous!’

  ‘Train!’ cries the Granmumma, shaking the sleeping girl at her side – because – THANK THE EARTH! – the train is rolling in.

  ‘Tell your Mumma,’ the Manager says to me, bustling out of the door. ‘Tell her we need assistance at the interchange.’

  ‘I really can’t,’ I say – too late; she’s gone, everyone else is bustling out too – though I notice the looks in my direction. At least it’s not at Mason.

  I leave the honey.

  We follow the bustle out on to the platform. Goods are being loaded at a frantic pace: I see winter cabbages, parsnips, potatoes, other root veg and apples, apples, apples (where we live is good for them, and you can store them until spring if you know how). I take a look back at Milpy.

  ‘Horse is mad as hell,’ says Mason.

  ‘Thought I told you not to speak,’ I whisper back . . . looking at Milpy. I’m glad I left that honey because I’m fairly sure she’s not going to be a gracious guest. I grab Mason’s hand and bundle him on to the train and we find ourselves some seats . . . Though this train is mainly goods with only a couple of passenger carriages, there is plenty of room for everyone . . . but everyone seems to want to sit by me.

  Which means sitting near Mason.

  He’s got the window seat. I’ve got the aisle . . . and the crowd.

  So your Mumma’s a Rep, is she?

  National! Her Mumma’s a National Rep!

  Does she know what’s happening about Cornwall?

  Oh please, what about Cornwall?!

  No fish! That’s what you do, isn’t it? It’s not even been that stormy –

  We risk our lives! What would you know about the sea?!

  I know when people aren’t pulling their weight!

  Fish! My Crystal-Rose needs cancer meds – will you tell your Mumma that? Crystal-Rose in Taunton East.

  Yes – but what about our comms?

  What about comms?!

  The satellite’s going to go down. Think about that!

  Yes! What’s your Mumma doing about comms?

  What’s your Mumma doing about fishing?

  What’s your Mumma doing about healthcare?

  Crystal-Rose. Healthcare. Comms. Fish. I don’t know, is all I can keep saying – because I don’t. I’m so sorry, I can’t help you. I don’t know. And all the while, Mason, next to me, he’s freaking out . . . I can feel the tension, in his whole body and most particularly in his hand. It’s still clutching mine, and it’s covered in sweat.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I whisper at him – out of the corner of my mouth, because although no one seems remotely interested in him, my knowing he’s a him is making me so anxious . . . if these people saw what I can still see plain as day – IT’S A BOY! – there’d be questions so much more tricky than fishing – or even cancer.

  ‘It’s so fast,’ he whispers back, voice all shaky. He glances at me; the lights in the carriage are low, but his eyes glint in them like those of a small creature: bright and round and crackling with terror.

  I don’t travel much, except on the motorbike or on Milpy, so I understand a tiny bit – but still! ‘You’ve been on a plane,’ I whisper through gritted teeth. He has been on a plane – and I never have. ‘This is at least a thousand kilometres an hour slower.’

  ‘I couldn’t see outside!’

  ‘Then don’t look. Shut your eyes.’

  ‘Is she travel sick?’ a Granumma asks. ‘I’ve got ginger,’ she says.

  ‘Granmumma stash,’ Crystal-Rose’s Mumma mutters.

  ‘It’s old,’ says the Granmumma, ignoring her and shaking out the bag, ‘but it’s still good.’

  Crystallised ginger . . . it’s a lovely, precious thing. I can’t say no to this kindness, so I pick up a lump with a thank-you-so-much and hand it to Mason – who takes it in his hand without looking – he’s too busy staring out in terror at the snowy, moonlit land whizzing past.

  ‘We had a long journey,’ I tell the crowd. ‘We’ve really got to sleep right now.’

  ‘Put that in your mouth and suck on it,’ I whisper at Mason, tapping the hand that’s clutching the ginger. ‘Close your eyes, lean against this –’ I pull off my outer fleece (I’ll be warm enough without it, just) and stuff it the other side of Mason’s head – ‘and try, please just try, to at least pretend to sleep.’

  I squash against him, squeezing his hand HARD and hoping he understands: YOU MUST DO THIS! He puts the ginger in his mouth. Lays his head against the fleece.

  ‘Ut’s hot,’ he mumbles, rolling the ginger around his mouth.

  I ‘snuggle’ closer for the purpose of whispering, ‘Do not spit that out.’

  ‘I dun’t like it.’

  ‘Shuddup. Close your eyes.’

  Around me, I listen to the discussion rumble on – and ‘discussion’ is the right word, because that’s what it becomes. Although these people are all from different 150s, they are so used to talking things through, the element of bicker disperses as soon as there is no longer the possibility of bumping an issue straight up to National Council level. The Train Council forms; advice and information is exchanged, suggestions and solutions are offered. Even the Cornish fishing situation is clarified: only Granmummas will go out when winter storms threaten – when Every child is our child, who would allow a person to risk death for cod?

  The discussion eases into Agreement: We have to have comms or we have nothing, Crystal-Rose’s Mumma says to murmurs of Agreement as Mason and I ‘snuggle’ in a rigid sort of way. Mason because of the terror of the whizzing-too-fast world (and possibly the ginger), and me from the terror that someone might realise (how can they not?! Isn’t it obvious?!) that my travelling companion is as rare as a rhino, Kate would say – rarer, in fact, because the last I heard, rhinos and most other once-was endangered species are really doing OK now.

  XY numbers, they have become controlled. Unlike in the early days, when supplies of frozen sperm ran low and the human reproduction rate plummeted, the IVF programme has offered choice. Granmummas like Casey were brave and tough enough to step up and give away sons, because it seemed to be the only way the human race would survive. Now . . . it is considered that we are safe. Human beings are no longer in danger. There aren’t yet enough of us for the world to be as it once was – but who would want that anyway? Most things I have ever read or heard about the once-was seem either unbelievable or undesirable (with some exceptions, such as an abundance of chocolate, Chicken Tikka Masala and Ibiza, because when Kate told me about that holiday she took with her cousins, it did sound like a whole lot of crazy fun).

  You can choose. I will be able to choose: whether to have a child, and whether to have a boy. They can be selected for. These days, the choice to have a boy that will have to be given away is made before conception.

  Mason . . . when was he born? Did his Mumma choose?

  My eyes are tight shut, but I cannot sleep.

  CHAPTER 27

  PINK AND BLUE

  ‘River, I think we’re here,’ Mason says.

  As if I didn’t know it. As if I have been sleeping. I turn my head a little and I look up into his face and . . . my heart lurches – most unexpectedly – with feeling. Pity, I suppose. His eyes; they’re weasel small-and-bright still. Such fear. Like me, I don’t think Mason has slept at all.

  Our travelling companions have gone already – I was waiting for them to leave – and they are out on the platform unloading a chaos of goods, so I take us through to the end compartment, where we exit without any further tricky questions being asked . . . and as we walk up the steps into the station, it feels like any confidence I had is still sitting there on the train, waving me goodbye.

  It’s not just that the reality of what I have come to do is
closer now, it’s Birmingham. IT FREAKS ME OUT, as Kate would say.

  It isn’t even light yet, but the place is buzzing. The vast station concourse is packed – with movement; every kind of person seems to be there, lugging goods, chatting – shouting! BUSY BUSY BUSY and not a single face I know – not that I would want to see a face I know. I clutch Mason’s hand tight and pull him out of the station into the cold, cold air and I breathe in deeply and nearly choke because the air itself – though cold with snow – is wrong to me. It’s full of strange scents and full of strange sounds and there are people, hundreds of people, absolutely everywhere; walking, talking – SHOUTING! People on foot, people in bicycle-drawn rickshaws, people pulling carts, people on horses, people leading horses pulling carts, electric cars, motorbikes . . . the swirl of it all around us; elevated roads swishing up and down to the station, a criss-cross of routes where packed streets meet –

  And I look up, and I see Mason grinning – grinning! – at me. Grin so huge it’s like a shout. His hand is no longer in mine.

  ‘This is where my Mumma lives?!’

  ‘No! I mean . . . I don’t know . . . maybe?’

  ‘I hope so! This place is amazing!’ he says, turning this way and that. ‘Skyscrapers! Freeways! It’s Grand Theft Auto AND Assassin’s Creed! They got cars AND carts and horses! It’s the business! This place is THE business! Look –’ he says, pointing – ‘they got KFC! They got McDonald’s! I know them signs!’

  Those signs are so once-was they’re filthy and broken and there’s moss growing on them.

  ‘Can we get a burger?!’

  He looks at me, as excited as a Littler One on her birthday.

  ‘. . . Those places don’t exist any more.’

  ‘But there’s signs . . . !’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Toast?’ he says. ‘If they’re just selling toast we could get that, couldn’t we? We could get some toast? And soup! I don’t even care if there’s vegetables in it! I don’t even care if there’s insects!’

  There is nothing I’d like better than a pile of toast right now, and a big fat cup of sage tea. And to be back home, in the kitchen, and not in this scary city . . . and for none of this to ever have happened. But it has happened, and here we stand: the killer no one knows is a killer and the boy no one knows is a boy, and I am so very tired and hungry – and cold; it’s already eating through my coat. Even the cold is hungry.