by Rebecca Ward
Boudicca Jones and the Quiet Revolution
Rebecca Ward
Copyright © 2020 Rebecca Ward
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Anne Heasell
For our mothers: near, far, lost, loved.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
TUESDAY
WEDNESDAY
THURSDAY
FRIDAY
SATURDAY
SUNDAY
MONDAY
About The Author
Each beat of her heart pounds through her head like a dead fish hitting the slab. As she turns to look at the house, a chill wind streams across her bruised eye making her wince.
The vast, old villa has definitely known better days. What is left of the late afternoon sun picks out a camouflage of peeling paint and green moss. Raggedy plants grow high out of broken iron guttering, waving an unruly welcome. Gaps beneath the steps to the front door reveal an uninviting gloom and a dank stench, and worn wooden boards barricade the front door and windows. Not altogether inviting.
With no doorbell or knocker, she picks up a small stone and throws it at the tiniest slither of blue window left in the fanlight. The sharp crack that follows goes right through her and as she turns to run when a huge ‘WHAT?!’ bellows out of the letterbox.
Tentatively, she looks back to the house and gaining her composure she approaches the door.
‘WHAT?!’ Spittle sprays right in her face.
‘Hi. Sam? Samuel McCabe?’ She surprises herself with the timidity of her voice. No reply. ‘I’m Ruby Jones’ daughter,’ she whispers, already regretting coming to this house. ‘Jones. My mother is Ruby. You know her from, well, you know…Do you think I might come in?’ She waits, peering through the letterbox, but can’t make out even an inch of who is behind it. She tries again, ‘Ruby. Ruby Jones?’
‘Yes, I heard you.’ He speaks a little gentler. ‘Go down the side passage.’ A dirty nail leads a stubby finger out through the letterbox, points left and then disappears, slamming it shut.
She pushes aside some overgrown weeds and edges along a dark passageway littered with old boxes, muddy glass bottles and piles of newspapers. She is glad it is daytime; at night the creepiness factor would be off the scale. There is a wooden gate at the end. She knocks. Nothing. She twiddles the latch but it doesn’t budge. She tries to work out a quick escape route. Can she get over the fence if she has to? There is a fine net fixed to the top of it. The gate looks rickety; perhaps she could kick it in? She is big on exit strategies, even before she’s arrived.
‘What on earth is this place...?’ she thinks, trying to quash thoughts of serial killers and chain clanking dungeons. She places her right hand flat on her stomach. It is something her mum got her to do to calm her down when she got wound up as a kid. ‘And breathe, just breathe,’ she chants. She feels the rise and fall of her stomach but her meditative calm is short-lived. Her new ‘friend’ is back.
‘HAIR!’ he barks from the shadows, unbolting the gate.
‘What?’ she says, confused. ‘What has hair got to do with anything?’
‘Hair. Show me your hair!’ he says impatiently.
She takes off her hat and unpins her plaits. Her russet locks tumble round her shoulders, she forces a smile like a beauty pageant contestant who will stop at nothing to win the crown. Except this beauty queen has a thumping black eye.
The gate swings open. Before her stands a grizzly bear of a man. Round-shouldered and pot-bellied, his face covered in bristles, a full head of silver-streaked hair, his swollen and worn hands clasped in front of him. A plaid shirt and jeans give him a younger look than his years, which she guesses is around 60. Hairy toes poke out of worn flip flops. She looks him square in the face, a smile twitches at the edge of his mouth and his fuzzy eyebrows raise in amusement. His eyes belie his age, active and sparkling. His whole life is there in his eyes and he has had fun.
‘I know, gorgeous, right?!’ he says cheekily, and gives a huge belly laugh. ‘Get your arse in here girl. You never know who’s lurking.’
He grabs her arm and pulls her through, slamming the gate behind her.
She follows Sam into the most extraordinary garden she has ever seen. Huge oak trees hold up fine nets 30 feet above their heads, like a giant’s strawberry patch. All at once there are flashes of vivid red, green and electric blue. Then yellow, white and the palest pink. As her eyes focus she sees more than a dozen parrots and parakeets perched high in the trees. As one they squawk and ca-caw a welcome serenade. The delight of this extraordinary kaleidoscope of feathery fireworks makes her convulse into giggles.
‘Shut it!’ Sam bellows. They screech even louder. ‘That never works.’ And he is laughing again, his shoulders bobbing up and down.
She follows him into the back of the house, sensing eyes on her but not sure where from. She has to get back on her guard. It had fallen in an instant, as Sam is so immediately likeable. Her mum would say he has a “good aura”, but then again she knows that, he was her friend.
He leads her through a micro-jungle of potted plants to a small kitchen, piled high with dirty dishes. She follows Sam’s particular route as he swerves round his own junk. She is glad to move quickly through the kitchen, it smells pretty rancid. Each plate a petri dish for some colonising organism. Through another door they emerge into a battered library of sorts. Makeshift shelves of breezeblocks and old pallets house hundreds of books, some so well-thumbed that their spines no longer reveal their contents. There are no windows in the room, just books from floor to ceiling. Two battered, brown leather armchairs sit like tired, old sows, content in the amber glow of a brass reading lamp. She inhales the powdery smell: like old hay tinged with vanilla. Some might find it suffocating. She finds it heavenly.
‘Reed!’ Sam calls out.
‘For a man trying to keep a low profile he sure likes to shout,’ she thinks.
She reaches out to take the nearest book but Sam shoots her a damning look. She retracts her hand, a moment away from whistling to look otherwise occupied.
‘Reed!’ he bawls once more, absentmindedly flicking through the book on the top of the nearest pile, which she makes out to be some kind of plumbing manual.
A tall, skinny boy slouches into the doorway, his thick black hair hanging across his eyes. She notices he is wearing black from head to toe, just like her. His knees have done their worst on his tight jeans, splitting them right across. A leather thong necklace buries its silver treasure under the collar of his faded shirt. He has no socks under his scuffed black trainers, his toes wiggle as she watches. The only part of him not slouching. She thinks he is probably just a year or so older than her, around seventeen but it is hard to tell without seeing his face. He takes a deep, pained breath and then says slowly and very calmly, ‘You don’t have to shout Sam. I am right here.’ He continues to look at the floor without saying hello to her or even looking her way.
‘Do you want some tea?’ Sam says. Her eyes are transfixed on the boy’s hands, covered in a myriad of silver skull rings. Nails bitten to stumps. ‘Tea dear?’ he repeats. It takes her a second to realise Sam is talking to her.
‘Sure. I mean, yes. Thank you,’ she mumbles, distracted by th
is boy who does not seem at all put out by having a stranger in their house.
Then her stomach rumbles loudly alerting the whole room to the fact that she hasn’t eaten for hours. Sam chortles, ‘And toast, definitely toast.’ She is horrified, but Reed slinks out without a second glance.
Sam turns to her and smiles wearily. ‘My nephew Reed,’ he explains. ‘Very serious young man, but very special.’
‘Oh, right…’ she says, thinking he seems pretty rude. But what does she know; she doesn’t have a wealth of experience to draw from. Her knowledge of boys her age mostly comes from the books she reads – Heathcliff, Harry, Pip. Not your average boy on the street stuff. Maybe this is quite normal? Sam gestures for her to sit in one of the armchairs and she falls happily into it, relieved to be off her aching feet.
‘My dear,’ Sam begins, lowering himself into the other chair. ‘I think it would not be entirely presumptuous of me to guess all is not well…Ruby. Did they get to her?’
She nods.
‘Not good. Not good at all. I’ll get onto the others. Those TrueSec imbeciles?’
She nods again feeling tears starting to well up and looks up to the ceiling to try to force them back down. She read that somewhere, though it doesn’t seem to work in practice. If the tears are coming you can’t force them back in using gravity. She rubs her sleeve across her eyes and Sam reaches across and pats her other arm.
‘When did they come?’ he asks, kindly.
‘Erm last night, around six-ish,’ she says, her voice catching.
She just about gets that out without breaking down.
‘You’re safe now,’ he says, allaying her primary fear, though of course that is just the tip of the iceberg.
Sam leaves her to go into the kitchen. She just stares unblinkingly around her. The room feels so permanent, established, and sturdy. Something she has never experienced before. But then she remembers the backyard aviary. It is definitely not your average household. Heavy with stress and tiredness her eyes close, her body needing to shut down. The kitchen clock tick ticks away next door, marking every single second of her solitude.
Panic rouses her from her deep sleep. She has been covered over with a huge, mothballed, fur coat. It is warm but she doesn’t want to think what else might be living in it so she shrugs it off with a shiver and it scrunches up at her feet. A small amount of light picks out Reed’s silhouette, he is stood leaning on the doorjamb again, watching her.
‘Boudicca’ he says, quietly and considered, like her name is a beautiful foreign word or a far-off star he is wishing on.
Before she can reply he turns on his heels, shutting the door between them.
‘Bodi,’ she calls out after him, but he is gone.
✽✽✽
On Sundays Bodi's mum lets her wear whatever she wants from their stash of clothes. ‘It is the day for individuality’ her mum says. ‘A way to give thanks for your freedom and the power of your mind to do what it likes.’ Her mum is prone to grandiose statements, but today Bodi embraces the small amount of freedom that is hers.
She is wearing a red wool coat with a mottled ermine collar. Skinny blue jeans with paisley patches and a snakeskin belt. A vest top with a Smiley on it. Heavy army boots and stars on her socks. Her leather satchel jangles with badges, ribbons and charms. Her curly, long, red hair trails down her back. She is a sight to behold and though some may not consider it so, this is to her mind her Sunday Best.
Bodi has escaped home for the day. She is sick of being cooped up in the flat, so she is dawdling in Green Park enjoying the autumn sunshine on her face and ignoring the funny looks. The city gardeners have been busy pruning the beds and all is neat and chaste. Not a shrub out of place. Unusually for Bodi, the order aggravates her. She finds herself scouring the beds, seeking out any resilient weed that has survived the cull.
Someone standing right in her way brings her to a sudden stop, interrupting her daydreaming. She can’t make out their face as the low-hanging sun blinds her, radiating around their silhouette like an Hallelujah! moment. They both do a polite sidestep waltz, matching each other as they move. ‘Sorry’ they both mumble, stepping again, disentangling their shadows, and going their separate ways.
‘The autumn sun’s not going away without a fight,’ thinks Bodi, soaking in the warmth on her face knowing the brittle change to winter is just days away. She meanders along the path, falling back into the carefree world of her own making. The park is heavenly quiet save for the thrum of the traffic and the gleeful squeal of an escaped toddler bounding across the grass.
The heart of the city is kept pristine for the country’s President who comes and goes from her London residence in armoured cars, windows blacked out. Bodi presumes that they are blacked out on the inside as well, so little is her public compassion. She travels by car from one grand residence to another never setting foot outside her electric gates, dictating laws through a series of chinless lackeys. It has been years since anyone has seen her in the flesh. Myths abound that Populus, the city’s army of dissidents, burned her face off before they disbanded; that her left hand has been replaced by a hook; that she killed her own family unflinchingly. There is a new myth every year. Everything is inflated and nothing substantiated, but it keeps civic contempt flowing like wine at a wake.
Giving in to the evening chill, Bodi gives up on her walk and heads home. A few streets over, she passes a truck which has backed into a telephone pole and wires are cascading down into the street. No one is helping the truck driver who is looking forlornly at his dented truck while batting off insults from disgruntled residents and shop owners. If he leaves the truck to get help he can’t be sure it will be in one piece when he gets back. The wires may not get fixed for months, and the locals are starting to get angry with the driver. Before long he will have to risk leaving to find a nearby garage, which will no doubt charge him every penny he has to move his truck.
Here, less than a mile away from the park, it is like stepping back in time to The Blitz. Londoners live in decrepit buildings, alongside those that have disintegrated entirely. The power and water supply is hit and miss and people rely on ill-maintained telephone lines. Entire streets are closed off for being unsafe, where potholes have become craters and houses have crumbled into the gutter. Most families live in precarious structures, held up by blind faith.
The sun had shone brightly on the park and those few with the time and money to rest on a sunny Sunday afternoon, but beyond that the majority of lives are darker and lived on a shoestring. The middle class has dissolved like an aspirin to ease the President’s biggest headache - accountability.
Bodi has never known the city any different. She has not lived in a thriving metropolis with tourists coursing in and out of its veins vibing off the ‘buzz’. Her London is a carcass of its once vital self.
As Bodi makes her way home, she walks past sun-faded hoardings for luxury apartments advertising shiny, new lives. Behind them stand tall, empty shells: grey, windowless and uninhabitable. “Buy today in this exclusive development” is printed across photos of a glamorous couple whose smiling mouths have long since been scratched out. Next to them, a restaurant serves dirt black coffee from its side door and a corner shop is piled high with tins and packets of non-perishable goods. You eat what you can when you can and many go hungry. Bodi’s stomach grumbles in recognition of that sad fact.
Realising the time, Bodi crosses the bridge to get home, the wind blowing off the river puts her on edge. She used to love crossing the river and revelling in its skyline, especially when the sun is setting so beautifully. It is the perfect way to appreciate the magnificence of the city without troubling yourself with its grimy reality. That all changed last year. She resists looking over the railing in case she sees another body lying in the mud below. At first she couldn’t make out what it was: dumped furniture, a poor, abandoned dog…But no. The image of the bloated, grey figure washed up at low tide still haunts her. It makes Bodi pick up the pace and
hurry back.
Nearing home, she does her coat up to the neck, ties her hair back hastily and pulls on a black beanie. This is not an area to stand out. Her right hand habitually holds firmly onto the strap of her satchel. Local kids often race past on stolen bikes and grab what they can. She once saw a pensioner knocked unconscious for a bag of tin cans.
Head down, gone is the showy confidence of earlier and a knot of fear starts to grow in her stomach. Across the street a squadron of junkies trip along on their toes racing towards their next high. Mums shriek for their kids to come indoors, NOW. Fierce, salivating dogs yank against their heavy chains pegged into front yards. Where Bodi lives is a ghetto, but it is the perfect place to disappear.
Nearly every new family who moves into her block of flats is concealing something or is on the run. Everyone assumes you have something to hide and consequently there is an unspoken honour code between this band of strangers. You don’t ask questions.
The block’s lights are just coming on, flickering blue-white neon tubes stripped of their casements. The harsh glare reveals the filth that covers the concrete blocks that were cobbled together for temporary housing more than four decades ago. Damp, grey washing hangs like shrouds across balconies, covering the skeletons of broken furniture, useless TVs, rusting bike wheels. Each flat the same: run down, cold, miserable, and each holds a different story of loss, wrongdoing and fear.
As Bodi rounds the corner to her block she stops dead in her tracks. A black van is parked just below the stairs to her flat. The paintwork is dull and rusty; it has blacked out windows and no other markings. She is instantly petrified. They are here. She has run through this day with her mum every week of her life, but now it is here she is unable to recall a single detail of what they had discussed. She feels sick to her stomach and her knees buckle. She falls against the wall. Her sight blurs, panic flooding through her. Stern voices echo from her flat but she can’t hear what they are saying. She just recognises her mum’s name being shouted repeatedly. Ruby.