‘No other nominations.’ Shiv turned to Riff. ‘So it’s a simple yes or no. Would you like to conduct the voting?’
Riff showed no outward signs, but Col felt her inner rage. She addressed the crowd. ‘All those in favour. If you choose Lye as your new Council member, raise your hand.’
A forest of hands shot up.
‘All those against.’
There were no negative votes. Lye inclined her head in acknowledgement. Her face had an almost unnatural calm. Perfectly modelled nose, high cheekbones, arched eyebrows, clear-cut mouth – yet her only expression was a kind of tightly drawn seriousness.
Riff turned to her. ‘You are our new Council member.’ She extended a hand. ‘Welcome.’
Lye shook Riff’s hand. ‘I’d give my life for our revolution,’ she said.
‘As Zeb gave his life for our revolution.’ Shiv pointed to the body on the stretcher. ‘Remember Zeb’s blood!’
If Lye was calm, Shiv put on all the intensity he could muster. He looked out over the crowd, swung his arms and raised his voice. ‘Remember who struck him down! Defend the Liberation! Fight against tyranny!’
Heads nodded in the crowd, but Riff cut him short before he could arouse them further.
‘Enough,’ she said. ‘We have our new Council member. We still have to grieve for Zeb.’
‘We must never forget,’ Shiv muttered, and dropped his arms.
‘I’d like to inspect the scene of this murder,’ said Gansy.
Dunga nodded. ‘Me too.’
‘The Council has to make arrangements for Zeb’s funeral first,’ said Riff. ‘Can we close the meeting?’
The Filthies shuffled their feet. No one had any more to say.
Riff took it upon herself to declare the meeting closed. However, there was no immediate move to disperse. The Filthies stood around talking among themselves, while the Council, now including Lye, discussed funeral arrangements.
Col also stayed where he was, deep in reflection. Riff had just suffered a political defeat on top of the emotional blow of Zeb’s death. She surely needed a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to lean on. Although she no longer liked to be seen talking with him in public, they could set up one of their secret meetings. Sharing her problems was the only help he could offer nowadays.
First, though, he had to talk to her long enough to set up the meeting. How? Impossible here. And impossible while the Council arranged the lying-in-state of Zeb’s body – probably in Zeb’s own cabin, surrounded by mourners.
It would have to be later, then. No doubt Riff would go with the other Council members to view the place where Zeb had been killed. If he could lie in wait for her somewhere along the way . . . He calculated their likeliest route. They couldn’t descend by the elevator that had now become a crime scene, so they would have to use the one nearest, then walk back along First Deck. That was his best chance to draw her aside, among the aisles and passages between the stored provisions on First Deck.
Keeping his face lowered, he threaded through the crowd and made for the exit.
Col avoided the elevators and went down by the stairs. He had forty-four levels to descend.
The Upper Decks had changed since the time of the old regime. The Filthies had spread out from rooms they had taken over into the corridors, which had become communal living spaces furnished with chairs and small tables. Some of the decks had been repainted, with bright yellows and blues replacing dull green and chocolate. However, the two thousand Filthies who had moved into the Upper Decks were fewer than the Upper Decks people who had departed, and many of the rooms stood empty.
Down past the Westmoreland Gallery he went, down past the workshops on the manufacturing decks. Here and there were memorials to the Liberation, marking the sites of particular triumphs or heroic deaths. The usual form of memorial was a tripod of three rifles fastened together, barrels pointing skyward.
He passed one of the Swank ghettoes too, a cluster of interconnecting rooms that had once been Nursery Rooms. The corridors outside the ghetto were bare and the doors all closed and locked.
He dropped his eyes whenever he met individual Filthies on the stairs or in the corridors. Even so, he sensed hostility and suspicion, a sudden stiffening of body language. Clearly, everyone knew about the murder, whether or not they’d been in the Grand Assembly Hall.
By the time Col arrived on First Deck, his calves were aching and his legs were wobbly. He made his way forward more slowly between stacks of crates, bags, boxes and barrels. The air was thick with mingled food smells, especially smoked fish and dried fruit. Some of the stacks reached up to the ceiling, but most were only shoulder-high.
When he reached the aisle where he expected Riff to pass, he turned off into a small passage at the side. How long would he have to wait?
Five days had gone by since their last secret meeting. Their precious stolen hours together seemed harder to manage all the time. He understood that Riff had a position to maintain, and he didn’t want to jeopardise that. Still, he longed to see more of her.
It had been different immediately after the Liberation. Back then, their relationship had been more out in the open, though never quite as public as he would have liked. He’d expected that he and Riff would grow closer and closer until they could declare themselves partnered, but instead they’d grown further and further apart. All because of this saboteur, all because of the increasing distrust between Filthies and Swanks.
Everything had turned upside-down since the Liberation. In the time of the old regime, he’d been the one who couldn’t be seen in public with her. She’d had to disguise herself as a Menial and come secretly to his room. He remembered how she’d taught him fighting skills, using pillows and a tie. In return, he’d taught her to read, sitting on his bed with a book spread across their knees . . .
He was so absorbed in his memories that the voices were almost upon him before he realised. The Council members came walking along the main aisle, exactly as he’d calculated. He dropped down on one knee and pretended to be tying a shoelace.
They went past while he watched from his side- passage. First Shiv and Lye, then Padder and Gansy, then Dunga and Riff. He tried to signal to Riff, but she didn’t notice.
He counted to ten, then walked out into the main aisle behind them. He gave a cough just loud enough for Riff to hear. But when she looked back over her shoulder, Dunga looked too.
Dunga was more on his side than any other member of Council, but that didn’t stop her from scowling at him. ‘What are you doing here?’
He had to take a chance. ‘I wanted a couple of words with Riff.’
Riff’s eyes flashed. ‘Now? Don’t you know what’s been happening?’
‘It’s okay,’ said Dunga. ‘I don’t want to hear your conversation.’
She lengthened her stride and moved up to walk with Padder and Gansy. Col and Riff dawdled at the tail of the party.
‘This is crazy,’ Riff muttered.
‘Dunga’s okay,’ said Col. ’She always acts gruff.’
‘Not Dunga. Everyone’s against you.’
‘I know, I was in the hall. I thought you’d want to talk.’
‘Not now.’
‘Later. We could—’
She shook her head before he could finish. ‘I can’t think about it now.’
They continued on in silence. She was angry and snappy, but not with him . . . at least, he hoped it was not with him. She had a lot to be upset about. He wished he could comfort her with a hug. Who else did she have, with whom she could let down her guard? Her closeness had an overpowering effect on him.
They were passing another side-passage between crates and barrels. He touched her on the elbow, suggesting a private moment out of view. She flung off his hand with contempt.
Col was stunned – u
ntil he realised where she was looking. Lye, the new Council member, was no longer walking with Shiv but had dropped back through the rest of the party. How much had she seen?
She fell in on the other side of Riff. ‘What’s his problem?’ she asked.
‘Oh, nothing important,’ Riff temporised. ‘Wants to talk about the running of the juggernaut. As usual.’ She turned to Col, her face expressionless. ‘You can explain at tomorrow’s Council meeting.’
Lye accepted Riff’s explanation without challenge. But she challenged something else. ‘Why should he come to our Council meeting?’
Col noted the word ‘our’. So recently elected, and already she was making assumptions!
Riff shrugged. ‘Didn’t you know? Colbert or his sister are often asked to attend Council meetings.’
‘Porpentines!’ Lye was indignant. ‘The old ruling family! The oppressors!’
‘We have to be practical,’ said Riff. ‘They can tell us things we need to know. Of course, we exclude them from all debate and decision-making.’
Col gritted his teeth. He resented the way Riff talked like other Filthies when she was in their company. She was so popular and admired, he was sure she could afford to stand up a little more for the Swanks.
She turned to him again. ‘Will your sister come to the meeting?’
Col made no reply. He didn’t know how Gillabeth would react to her humiliation in the Grand Assembly Hall.
‘Well, you be there,’ said Riff. ‘Ten o’clock tomorrow on the Bridge.’
The topic was closed, and Col found himself excluded from further conversation. He stopped and stood in the middle of the aisle, while Riff and Lye walked on. Riff had set no time or place for a secret meeting.
He raised his eyes at the very instant Lye turned her head to look back at him. Two impressions struck him like a thunderbolt. The first was that she wasn’t just striking or attractive, but beautiful. An extraordinary, gaunt kind of beauty: high cheekbones accentuated by hollow cheeks and sharply sculpted, down-drawn mouth. She was beautiful like a burning arrow.
The second impression was that she hated him. He almost staggered under the violence of it. Loathing poured out of her eyes like a jet of poison. He had thought her calm and impassive, but not in this moment, not now. Her hatred lashed him like a blow to the face.
It lasted barely a second before she looked away again. He might have thought he’d imagined it – but he hadn’t. It wasn’t just hatred for Swanks in general, or even hatred for all Porpentines. It was somehow more personal than that. He had acquired an enemy and he couldn’t guess why.
Gillabeth must have told everyone the latest developments long before Col returned to the Norfolk Library. They were all abuzz with the news: Orris and Quinnea at one end of the central table, Septimus and Professor Twillip at the other. Only Gillabeth took no part. She had thrown herself into one of her mad bursts of cleaning, sorting and tidying up.
The Library was no longer merely a library but also living quarters for seven people. They had moved into it temporarily after the Liberation while the Filthies selected cabins on the Upper Decks, and somehow the move had become permanent. Everyone had a sleeping berth between the bookshelves, with a mattress on the floor and a chair for hanging up clothes. There were a few other pieces of furniture, such as chests, cabinets and bedside tables that they had salvaged from their old rooms. A small kerosene stove and stocks of preserved food made them virtually self-sufficient.
The Filthies accused them of choosing to segregate themselves, but it had happened simply because they all felt safer gathered together in the same place. Whether it was the still, hushed atmosphere or the lofty rows of bookshelves or the smell of leather-bound books, the Norfolk Library seemed like a haven of peace and security.
Col took a seat in the middle of the table. On top of the table, directly in front of him, sat his baby brother, Antrobus. Though only three years old, Antrobus had his own personal pen and bottle of ink, supplied by Professor Twillip. He never touched the bottle or picked up the pen, but he liked to sit beside them, contemplating them with satisfaction and apparent affection.
Professor Twillip drew Col into the discussion he was having with Septimus. ‘What do you think? Is there any way this can turn out well for us?’
Col turned to their end of the table. The Professor smiled and blinked behind his glasses. Col’s old tutor was an eternal optimist, but even his smile was a little wan.
‘The Filthies will hate Swanks even more because of the murder,’ Col answered gloomily. ‘And Shiv will have even more power on the Council.’
Septimus frowned. ‘Whoever this saboteur is, he doesn’t care what happens to the rest of us.’
Septimus had been Professor Twillip’s research assistant for the past three months. His voice had recently broken, and his new deep bass seemed to surprise its owner as much as anyone else. He had matured in other ways too, his long limbs becoming less gangly and his features filling out until he was quite good-looking.
‘Perhaps the new investigation team will help,’ said Professor Twillip. ‘If they can actually discover the saboteur . . .’
‘I don’t believe it.’ Col shook his head. ‘Shiv will use them to harass us and interrogate us, but he’s got no clues to go on. I bet there’s not much real investigation.’
‘I wish we could discover the saboteur ourselves,’ said Septimus. ‘He must be an amazing actor.’
‘I’ve checked around,’ Col agreed. ‘Nobody has any idea who to suspect. I’m sure he has no secret helpers in the ghettoes.’
‘A complete loner.’ Professor Twillip nodded and put his fingertips together. ‘So strange. Such ruthlessness. I just don’t know anyone like that.’
Col had a less rosy view of human nature than the Professor, but he didn’t know anyone like that either. Many Upper Decks people had committed monstrous deeds under the old regime, but never as individuals acting on their own. It had always been more of a social cruelty.
A small gasp made Col switch his attention to the other end of the table. Quinnea was working herself up into a state.
‘Nothing like this ever used to happen in the old days! It’s too much for me! All of these Filthies getting themselves murdered!’
Col’s mother was an ethereally thin woman, perpetually a-tremble, with wisps of hair the colour of dead autumn leaves. Orris was trying to calm her down, without effect. He turned to Col in silent appeal for help.
‘It’s only one Filthy, Mother,’ Col said. ‘And he didn’t choose to get himself murdered.’
Quinnea shook her head. ‘I should never have listened. Dreadful, dreadful. It’s bad for me to hear that kind of news.’
‘Yes, but you mustn’t blame the Liberation.’ Orris tried to pat her hand, which caused her to jump like a startled rabbit. ‘One small unpleasant thing compared to many, many improvements. We’re all much happier now.’
Col had no doubt that his father was happier since the guilt of the past had been lifted from his shoulders. But he hardly looked happy, with his bulging eyes and sagging jowls. The habit of a lifetime couldn’t be so quickly shuffled off. Even when he talked of being happier, his voice still sounded lugubrious.
Quinnea sniffled. ‘I can’t help it. Perhaps I’m a – what do you say? – a reactionary. I can’t cope. Too many changes. Too fast. And all of my friends have left.’
‘We stayed to play our part in the new order,’ said Orris.
‘Nobody else did. The Turbots. The Trumpingtons. The Squellinghams. All gone.’
Col could have pointed out that the Squellinghams had been anything but friends to the Porpentines. But instead he said, ‘Victoria and Albert stayed.’
‘Not the same.’ Quinnea wouldn’t be consoled. ‘Not Queen Victoria the Second and her Consort, Prince Albert. Why can’t we say that an
y more?’
‘Because we don’t live under a monarchy any more,’ said Orris. ‘It’s a republic now. We have to move with the times.’
‘I don’t like the times. I liked it the way it was.’
‘We can learn new ways,’ Orris insisted. ‘I’m learning to be more like a Filthy. Not so slow and stuffy. More spontaneous. Look what I learned this morning.’
He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers – except they didn’t snap. Just a dull, muffled noise. He stared at them in disappointment.
‘It worked this morning,’ he said. ‘I practised until I could do it three times out of four.’
Quinnea looked away. ‘I don’t care about doing things with my fingers.’
‘No, that’s only an example,’ said Orris earnestly. ‘We can learn a new attitude to life. More light-hearted. We’re free to be happy now. I’m sure I’ve started breaking into unexpected smiles.’
Col said nothing. Light-hearted or heavy-hearted, his father was not an easy man to show love to. But Col felt a deep fondness for him. He was a good man, a very good man.
‘I was happy before,’ said Quinnea. ‘Do you know what was the happiest day of my life? The wedding day of my eldest son.’ She turned big, brimming eyes to Col. ‘Do you remember? So many well-wishers as we walked to the chapel. Hundreds of guests at the reception. Flowers and banners. Music and dancing. And the desserts. I ate three darling little cupcakes.’
Col nodded without enthusiasm. He had only a vague recollection of the ceremony in the chapel, when he had exchanged rings and vows with Sephaltina Turbot. The reception was memorable mainly because Riff had let her disguise slip. Then Grandmother Ebnolia had marched her off to the Changing Room . . . and he’d rescued her . . . and together they’d launched the revolution . . .
‘I remember that day,’ said Professor Twillip. He must have been listening from the other end of the table. ‘It was indeed a very happy occasion.’
‘Oh.’ Quinnea looked at him. ‘Were you a well-wisher or were you invited to the reception?’
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