by Terry Tyler
She looks up at me, and just for a moment I do see Vicky in her eyes. The strain of the past months shows all over her face, and she's knocking her wine back as if it's lemonade.
"Do you think everyone's going to be really angry with me?"
The Viking shield-maiden persona has disappeared. Right now, she's a scared kid, but I'm not going to insult her by lying.
"A little, maybe. But those who matter most to you will understand, I think, won't they?" I look at Mac.
"Aye. Kara will prob'ly get a bit mouthy, and some of 'em will call you all sorts, but it won't last forever."
I nod. "He's right. Once Dex is gone, I think you'll be surprised by how quickly they forget. That's how things are now, isn't it? Sad to say, there are always new and more pressing worries."
Lottie clasps her hands together and brings them up to her mouth, almost as though she's praying. "And Mum. Do you think Mum will be okay?"
I put my arm around her shoulders. "I don't know, love. I hardly know her. But you have to tell her, either way."
She looks at me, and the expression on her face reminds me of my son Jarrah, some years back when he'd got his bike tangled up with a neighbour's cat, and I told him he had to go and apologise to the owner (fear not, the cat suffered little more than bruised pride). He was scared, and begged me, lip quivering, to accompany him. Now, Lottie looks exactly the same, and I know what she wants to ask, so I make it easy for her.
"Do you want me to come with you when you tell her?"
She nods and cries; she can't speak.
"That'd be great. Thanks, mate." Mac looks as relieved as she does.
"I'm glad I can help." I smile. "It's good to be some use, these days. To feel useful, I mean." Also, it will put me in good stead with Vicky, who will, of course, be up for grabs, as it were, as soon as she finds out the truth about Dex. Though obviously I don't mention this. "Do you want to do it today? This evening, perhaps?"
Lottie shakes her head. "Give me a day or two. To think about it, I mean. And I need to find Jax and tell him."
"Aye, good idea," Mac says.
I empty what's left in the bottle into our glasses. Two days. This will give me a chance to get my one decent pair of jeans and decent shirt clean and dry. Call me superficial, but after all I have been through in my many years, I know you have to leap in and take your chances for happiness when they present themselves. And I'm rather hoping that the possibility of a little good cheer with Vicky might be on the cards.
Chapter Six
Doyle
UK Central
July 20th, 2026
I hate it here.
I was so sure I'd be able to work these circumstances to my own advantage, because I'm used to ducking, diving and disappearing. But actually being here, with that bloody chip in my shoulder, is another matter altogether. All the cockiness has been Verlandered out of me.
My diary is the only thing I've kept from my old life. My pre-UK2 life, I mean. I like reading through old entries in the evenings, when I'm sitting within my four walls with all mod cons, as far as can be provided at this stage in the development of UK2. No one bothers to call it UK two-point-zero now, not even Erika, who was the last to hold out. Similarly, this new capital city has lost its 'UK' somewhere along the way, and we all refer to it as just 'Central'.
Unlike London, it does not have a name derived from its history, because those who established it don't care about the people and centuries of ages past. Central is a dreadful place, and deserves no better name. It is filling up; the communities in the south were the first to be emptied. I expect Eric Foster and his merry band are here somewhere, but I haven't seen them.
When I started my new job as Senior Data Analyst, I found my office set up with the basic technology to keep watch on the workers' movements, via their microchips. My staff feed data into relevant files, as I used to at BDC, before 'the fall' (another phrase that's been adopted by everyone). I analyse it, and send my reports to Big V.
There is much to analyse. Recruitment teams are sent around the country to offer those in independent settlements the chance to live a better life in Central. If a driver makes a detour, for instance, I must take a closer look; I am told it could mean he is giving aid to those resisting recruitment. I'm supposed to report any deviations from the given route, but I don't. I seek out the miscreant, have an informal word, give a warning; I've found it's mostly just curiosity. So much of the country has been flattened now, and they want to take a look around, or search for friends or relatives in the area.
I have to report some misdemeanours to Verlander or I'd end up under observation myself. More than three deviations from the terms of an individual's contract results in four weeks on Standard Observation, or SOBS, which means a bi-hourly check on the individual's location. Anything suspicious must be investigated.
Sometimes drivers make detours for looting, which is strictly forbidden. Collection teams go out on a daily basis to forage for food, clothes, meds. Stores operatives pat them down on their return, to check they're not stuffing the odd bottle of whisky into an inside pocket, which is Not Allowed. All goods must be paid for with credits earned.
It's crazy. Even though it's all there for the taking, we can't take it. We must work for UK2, in order to pay for it.
I try not to despise myself. I hate what I'm doing, and keep telling myself that ratting people out is just part of my job, as ratting me out is, I am sure, part of someone else's. Most of the time, though, I don't believe my own bullshit.
"Everything we do here is for the safety and wellbeing of the people," Verlander tells me.
Sure it is.
July 24, 2026
I'm sitting on my leather sofa in front of my big screen, watching Game of Thrones. I only watch shows about fantasy worlds now, can't stand to watch real life stuff. Families and normal streets. Can't do it. Gets me thinking about Mum, Mikey and Tommy.
Mum used to complain about the amount of US TV shows that my little brothers watched, because they were learning American slang. I don't know what she would think if she was here. In the Hub, where I work, memos and notices are written in American English, even though Verlander comes from Market Harborough. He writes 'color' instead of 'colour'. 'Recognized' instead of 'recognised'. 'Different than' instead of 'different to/from'. It's not England, it's a nowhere state, an annexe of the US.
Here in my flat I used to have the TV up loud to drown out the noise of construction, but it's out of earshot now, as more and more residential blocks are thrown up. And I mean thrown up. I worked on Rez 1 when I got here; I think they're on Rez 8 now, a good two miles away. I live in Hub Residential, reached via a covered walkway at the back of Hub Admin, because I am Level Two management. Only Verlander and Erika are Level One; the rest of the fortunate who live in Hub Residential are the other departmental managers (supplies, agriculture, recruitment, etc.), along with Libby the resident psychologist, doctors Porter and Carson, and general cronies of Verlander. Our deluxe block has a security gate with a guard, and all twenty-four apartments have wet rooms. I would have killed for such a pad before the fall. Now, I miss the draughty loft in Camden where I lived before BDC. I miss the damp patches on the walls of an earlier, shared house in Vauxhall, and even the vaguely hamster-ish smell of the two rooms above a pet shop in Bedford, where I lived when I first left home. Because they had history. They were real. Outside, there were shops, buildings new and old, traffic and dirt and litter and noise.
Not like now.
Now, I leave my apartment at eight forty-five each morning and stand on the moving walkway to the Hub, too lethargic even to walk with it. D'you remember those daft internet psych tests you could do when you were bored at work? Each morning on my way to work, I remember one question about whether you walked up escalators or stood still, allowing yourself to be transported. Didn't take much to work out that the latter meant you were a follower, the former that you were an ambitious go-getter.
Or maybe you
were just worried about missing your train.
Now, I stand still.
I hate the Hub.
Better than being in the Rez Zones, though.
There, the walls are thin, the showers tiny, and the hot water doesn't always work. You get two rings to cook on, and a tiny oven. Cheap, hard, two-seater sofas, a flimsy table with foldaway chairs, and a telly. The guys who came from the islands to work on construction think it's great because they can play video games for hours on end. They don't mind being able to hear people in the next apartment talking, arguing and fucking. Maybe because they're used to living in huts, I don't know.
Others are less keen; I was talking to one of the guys on Recruitment the other day. Stu came from a place in Sussex and is having a real problem with not being allowed to go where he wants. I want to talk to more of the people coming in from the settlements, but although my Level Two management pass enables me to enter the Rez Zones without question, I may need to explain the reason for my visit, should anyone pick up on it. My every move can be observed on screen, as I can observe those of others.
I was happier when I was working on the building sites; I socialise little in my new management role. In my lonely apartment I read a lot, but the choice is very limited. Trash action adventure, with heroes who protect the US government. Romances for the ladies. Nothing that isn't pro-American, now I come to think of it, or that would make us yearn for our past lives, and very little proper literature. Think I might go out and see if I can find some old bookshops. I'll stick two fingers up to whoever is watching my red dot on a computer screen back at the Hub, while I rifle through the conspiracy theory sections.
July 25th, 2026
I'm writing my diary at work because I'm bored. Nothing to do; no one's doing anything they shouldn't, today.
I can drive now. Never realised it was so easy. I never bothered to learn before, because I lived in London, and it was easier just to get the Tube. I like it, but on my rare trips out, I still cycle. I like to look at my surroundings, stop and chat to anyone I see along the way. Non UK2 people. But I have to be back by curfew. 8pm. Back in my apartment by ten. It's in my contract, the terms of which can be changed at any time, according to the whims of UK2 Administration.
I'm lucky. Most of the workers aren't allowed out at all.
Every day, I wonder if it's all worth it. I was doing okay. This loss of freedom is a far greater price to pay than I realised. Even when I don't want to do anything I shouldn't, I deeply resent that I can't just wander out and go for a midnight stroll outside the barriers. Why can't I? Who says I'm not allowed?
The people to whom I signed over my life, that's who.
I wonder what would happen if I told them I wanted to leave.
I wonder if I would be allowed to.
July 31st, 2026
My name is Brian Doyle and I am a management level worker bee in UK2. It's a fun-free zone.
Only one café-bar in the Hub is functional so far—Spritz, and it's Wanker Central, so I use the builders' rec hut between Rez 1 and 3, but even there Cooper the bartender makes cheerful yet pointed remarks if I have more than two beers.
As all purchases are made via our credit cards, isn't it enough that my consumption is on record, without it being questioned as it's taking place?
The other day Cooper said, "Hard day, bro? Careful; d'you know how long alcohol stays in the system? It can seriously affect your judgement, even the next day when you think you're sober."
I was having three fairly weak beers at nine in the evening.
I said, "Would you have said that to a customer before the fall?"
He just shrugged, along with a Verlander-esque grin.
I couldn't stop. "You wouldn't, would you? Because the customer would have told you to mind your own damn business."
The Verlander grin, again.
So I had a fourth, and this time he didn't say anything.
I expect I'll be referred to a Wellbeing Advisor to discuss my excessive alcohol consumption any day now.
Next morning I was instructed to perform Grade One Obs (commonly known as GOO) on Stu from Sussex, who has deviated from his route once too often, and has been reported by his team leader for being uncooperative. GOO means closing in on his every action, even activating the cameras in his apartment. Total surveillance. Listening in on his conversations. I won't expand on how much I detest doing this. I don't think I can do it for much longer. I listened in on a conversation with a fellow member of the Recruitment team, and heard him suggest that they tell the people in the communities to stay put.
Instead of forwarding the required report I went to see Verlander in person, and suggested that, as Stu was clearly unhappy in his job, he should be moved from Recruitment to the Grow Zone (agriculture), which might be better for him, psychologically.
Then I thought I'd ask, just so I was clear on the subject.
"If someone wanted to leave Central and go back to their community, could they?"
Verlander smiled, shaking his head. "Brian, Brian," he said. "That would be a step backwards, wouldn't it? Under UK2 law, all survivors must eventually reside in the new colonies, and getting them there is the job to which I have been assigned. Think about it; you weren't allowed to live outside the law before the fall, were you? We're giving people time to get used to the idea, and we expect some resistance, of course, but in time we'll have everyone on the same page." He winked. "Why? Not thinking of leaving us, are you?"
"Of course not."
He winks again. "Only kidding, I know you're fully committed! And yes, I'll look into your helpful suggestion about Stuart."
That was three days ago, and I haven't seen Stu since. He's not in his flat. Verlander tells me he's accepted the opportunity to work on a new colony in Lincolnshire, but the red dot marked 'Stuart Wilson' remains in one place: the secure rooms at the back of the holding bay. The holding bay is where new arrivals are parked until their housing is allocated.
Verlander tells me his chip is malfunctioning, but I don't believe him.
Has what I thought was a good deed backfired? If so, I am even more scared. And I wonder if, should I display dissatisfaction with my own job, my red dot might 'malfunction' too.
I can't do this any more.
I'm going to get drunk tonight. I don't care what fucking Cooper has to say about it.
August 2nd, 2026
I've asked about Stu; Julio, who administers the workforce, confirmed that yes, he has now been moved to work on UK Mercia, the new site in Lincolnshire.
So maybe he's okay. I can't do anything, even if he's not.
Verlander comes to see me, talks about my driving lessons and asks if I'm totally confident behind the wheel, there being no official driving test.
I assure him that yes, I am.
"Good, good," he beams, patting me on the back. "I'm all about expanding my key people's skill sets, you know?"
I don't have any answer to that, so I just nod in an affirmative fashion.
"Well, you're going to be needing that particular skill soon," he carries on, giving me a conspiratorial grin as if I should know what the fuck he's on about.
"I am?"
He puts his arm about my shoulder, and I cringe away from his cologne and minty-fresh mouth as his eyes fall on my diary. I know he's gagging to see what I write in this battered book that has no place in in the pristine Hub.
He lets go of me, and rests his arse back on my desk. Still too close, though.
"You're bored, right?"
I look at him, and wonder, in a vague sort of way, why he bothers to maintain that stupid suntan. There is a spray tan booth in the hair and beauty salon; I imagine he is the only customer.
An unwelcome picture appears in my mind, of a naked, orange Verlander wearing a plastic cap to protect his hair, privates dangling as he is sprayed by one of the salon girls. I know about the plastic caps because I had a permanently spray-tanned girlfriend for a while, back in the old days. She wa
s orange, too.
I'm not sure if I should admit to being bored, so I just shrug.
He taps the side of his nose. "Little bird tells me you don't come back from your trips out until a minute before curfew."
I look up at him and smile; I can do fake, too. "That a crime?"
He pats me on the shoulder. Wish he'd stop touching me. Makes me want to smack him in the mouth. "No, no, course it's not, Brian. But I know you're not being stretched here. And, right now, there's not a great deal going on; Cheryl can take over your duties for a few days."
Cheryl is one of Verlander's 'key people'; I suspect it is she who tracks the trackers.
"So what have you got lined up for me?"
He rubs his hands together and grins, like he's about to give me a big treat. He acts like this on the rare occasion he deigns to give my questions about the outside world a proper answer, too. I keep prodding him; I'm suffocating in a luxurious bubble, here in Central, cut off from real life.
I refrain from smacking him in the mouth, and say, "Come on, then. Don't keep me in suspense."
He folds his arms and looks up at the polymer ceiling-sky. "What you do here is of paramount importance, you know that, right? We so appreciate the work you do."
FFS, as one used to say on Twitter. I don't need pats on the back.
"But we've lost one body from Recruitment now that Stu has transferred, and I'm thinking you might like a break from sitting at a desk all day." He moves closer; if I didn't know he was shagging Erika Thiessen, I'd think he had the hots for me.
"You want me to go out with Recruitment."
He nods. "I think you could be a great asset to the team, Brian. You're a people person."
I am so not. "You reckon?"
He laughs. "Sure you are! People like you. OK, what we have is a whole bunch of Rez Zones, waiting to be filled. We need strong, capable guys for Clearance and Security, folks with medical knowhow to work in the clinics, women to run the shops, cafés, clean, you name it."