by Fiona Glass
And that was as much a death sentence as the beating would have been. No job, no wages. No wages, no food. Madoc was aware he’d done nothing to help the lad, just deferred his fate. Standing up to the bullies was harder than he’d thought. Bad enough when he himself got the punishment. But the guilt was a heavy burden when it was someone else. It had to be done, though, if anything was going to change. He knew that; he just hoped some of the other workers would realise it for themselves. Until then, he’d have to carry the load. He pursed his lips, whistled a grim little tune and trudged away, wondering what horrors Oates would have dreamed up by the time he’d finished work.
∞
'C’mon, four-eyes, I haven’t got all day.’
Madoc scowled and shoved his hands in his pockets before his fists betrayed themselves. At least it wasn’t Oates this time, just a cool young woman called Helen something-or-other who he’d seen occasionally around the docks. Unlike Oates and his bully-boys she didn’t look like she was enjoying this. Not that it made things any easier.
'C’mon,’ she said again, leaning back against the sink. 'You know the drill. Clothes, hygiene kit, any meds, and up to three personal items.’
'Yeah, yeah.’ He should be faster, he knew. She might look less intimidating than some, but give any caste an excuse and they’d run with it. But this was harder than he’d ever thought. The room wasn’t his, not really, but it had felt like home, and he still associated it with those two delirious weeks last year when Josh had been here and he’d had some hope. But Oates had been as good as his word about the punishment: he’d been bumped back down the ranks to baggage handler and with the demotion came a relocation to the common dormitory. One bed, one lock-up, shared toilet, shared kitchen facilities. He was going to miss the privacy of these four walls.
The woman clicked her tongue in irritation. He grabbed a bag and stuffed it with whatever clothes he could, throwing his shaving gear and dental kit in on top. But which personal items should he take? The photograph of his parents? The rag rug? The notebook he’d kept for years, with vague jottings and doodles, or the pen he’d found on the docks years ago and been awarded when none of the travellers laid claim to it? Or something else... his glance fell on the book that lay face down on the table. A battered, dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. One of the few things his mother had left him when she died. And one of the last things Josh had touched.
He picked up the book and the photograph and left the rest. 'All done.’
Her lips twisted in a look that was surprisingly wry. 'You sure? I could be looking the other way.’
He stared at her. Sympathy? From a caste? It had to be another trap. 'Thanks, but I’m good. Best lead the way.’
'Have it your way. Don’t say I didn’t give you the chance. For what it’s worth—’ She broke off and chewed her lip. 'Downstairs, then. You’ve been allocated a bed. And hurry. Oates’ll have me ki— That is, Mr Oates won’t be happy if we’re both late for work.’
At the doorway, he paused. Looked back at the place that had been his sanctuary; thought about the times—good and bad—he’d spent within its walls. Then tapped the door frame, once, and closed the door.
At the bedside in the main dormitory downstairs she waited again while he stuffed his belongings into his locker all anyhow. The book and the photograph he kept till last, running his thumb over the book’s cover before tucking his parents between the pages and hiding it under a pile of underwear. It was years since he’d last been in a place like this and he couldn’t remember if people stole from the lockers or not. Best not to take any chances, though. They’d have to get past his knickers if they wanted the important stuff.
Helen cleared her throat. Presumably getting impatient again. Not that he could blame her. Oates was always ready with his fists and it wasn’t just the non-castes he lashed out at. As a junior official she’d probably caught the wrong end of his temper a time or two as well. But when she spoke, it was to say something he didn’t expect.
'Back there... on the dock. What you did. It was very— well.’ She broke off and chewed her lip. 'Let’s just say not all of us feel the same way, Madoc. That’s all.’ And with a brief nod she’d gone, leaving him to get settled—if that was a word that could ever be applied to somewhere this stark and unwelcoming—into his new home.
∞
'No.’
Madoc stood at Oates’s side again, head down, hands by his side. Hands that had just betrayed him, possibly one last time. Clumsy from lack of sleep—the dormitory extracting its heavy toll—he’d dropped a traveller’s bag and broken something valuable. He tried to make amends. 'Sorry, Mr Oates, sir, I’ll pay for the damage of course.’ Even though that would take months on his new and limited wage.
But Oates was in a surly mood, and showing off to a couple of his bully-boy pals. He threw the whip to the nearest non-caste and barked, 'Give him a thrashing, then. At least ten strokes.’
A hundred times out of a hundred before now the non-caste would have done as he was told. Madoc had been forced to comply often enough. You simply couldn’t disobey when the orders came from a caste. But not this time. This time the non-caste stepped back, crossed his arms over his chest, and, echoing Madoc himself from a few days back, said 'No.’
Oates looked as though someone had smacked him in the face. 'What the hell’s got into you? Fine, someone else, then. Take the whip.’
No one did. They stood, heads a little bowed, apparently deferent, but nobody moved. Madoc held his breath, waiting for the end. Whatever Oates threw at them, it would not be good. In the end, though, the overseer just grabbed his whip back and sneered at them. 'Insolent puppies. Just you wait. Well? Don’t just stand there. Back to work.’
Madoc waited until he was out of earshot along the dock before approaching the non-caste, who had hair the colour of carrots and a freckle-strewn face. 'Thank you. That means a lot.’
'No problem. You’re Madoc, aren’t you? I’m Carl.’
'Nice to meet you, Carl.’ They shook hands, briefly, then Madoc frowned. 'Look, I appreciate it, really I do, but don’t go getting yourself into trouble on my behalf.’
Carl just grinned. 'Don’t worry, I won’t. It isn’t all about you, anyway. It’s everyone else. We saw what you did the other day. Made some of us feel bad that we hadn’t stepped in sooner, that’s all.’
'Well, yeah, me too but it’s hard when there’s a beating at the end of every bad decision you make. Aren’t you scared Oates will just take it out on you?’
'He can’t. He’s got targets set by the authorities. He won’t meet those targets if he gets rid of all of us, or beats us into the hospital or starves us so we can’t work. It’s a fine line, of course, but...’
Madoc felt his first real glimmer of hope since Josh had left. 'You think we can start to push back? Even with just the two of us?’
'You’d be surprised. And it might not just be us. There’s a lot of bad feeling amongst the workers.’ Carl clapped him on the back. 'Gotta be worth a try.’
∞
'We can’t possibly agree to that and you know it.’
'Don’t see why not.’
'What would we do for a living? We’d be signing our own death warrants.’
'Makes a change from signing ours...’
Madoc stifled a yawn and fiddled with his pen. A nice pen, similar to the one he’d left behind in his room. The campaigner who’d given it to him claimed it was the same one, rescued and kept safe all these years. Madoc rather doubted it—a pen was a pen—but it was a nice story and he was grateful for the generosity. If only it was a magic pen, he thought, and he could wave it now. The room was stifling, his head was pounding, and the argument had been going round in circles for the last three hours. All he wanted was to get up, stretch, go for a walk, breathe in the air outdoors. Get away from these endless recriminations, the sheer stubborn refusal on either side to see a different point of view. Even Carl, normally so supportive, was red-faced and mule-like in the
heat. Maybe it was time to take control.
'They’re right.’ Two small words, mildly spoken, but it silenced the room. He still wasn’t used to that, but this time he could make good use of it. 'I mean it. There has to be give and take. Otherwise we’re no better than they’ve been for the last hundred years and that’s really not the point.’
Faces gaped at him, from both sides of the table they were gathered round. Then the babble started again.
'See? Even he thinks you’re wrong.’
'We’re not wrong, you just need to accept—’
'Enough!’ This time, he raised his voice, and banged one hand down on the table top. It was the hand that held the pen, which smashed. Pity, that, but there were other pens out there and this was too important to just let go. He marshalled his thoughts, wondering how best to get his point across. Without antagonising everyone. Without losing whatever they’d gained so far. 'I’ve spent the last thirteen years working for this,’ he said at last. 'Working and, let’s be honest here, suffering too. And yes, it was unfair, and yes, we all want justice. Some of us even want revenge. But that won’t help in the end. We have to put all that behind us now. Equality means equal rights. For everyone. Not just us because we think they don’t deserve the same. That would mean we think we’re better than them. And that just means that we become caste in their place.’
Silence. Eyes that wouldn’t meet his gaze. Well, he’d done it now. Either they’d support him, or both sides would storm out in angry exodus. But something had needed to be said.
For a minute it was touch and go. But Carl came to his rescue as so often before. Still red-faced, but swallowing his rage, although Madoc could see the effort it took. 'He’s right. Whatever our grievances we can’t become bullies too. I suggest we adjourn for the day and re-think our approach. On both sides of the table, please.’
There was some muttering; agreement, mostly, although one or two surlier voices stood out. But they packed away their papers, scraped back their chairs, and began to file out in ones and twos. And unlike previous sessions, the mood was subdued.
Madoc scrubbed a hand through his hair and took a sudden breath. Had he helped? He could only hope so. By tomorrow they’d either have had a long hard look at themselves, or they’d have conveniently forgotten what he’d said and be back to arguing again. Well, only time would tell. He stood up, too, and swept the fragments of his pen into a neat pile. He sensed he wasn’t alone and turned, to find Carl hovering. Ready for war, by the look of him. This was going to be hell. Say the wrong thing and he risked losing the man who’d stood by him all these years. His best, perhaps his only, friend.
'I’m sorry,’ he said, quietly, offering a weary smile. 'If it’s any consolation that didn’t come easy for me either.’
Carl’s Adams apple bobbed. Then he lowered his gaze. 'Yeah. I guess that’s true.’
'We still friends?’
A small smile. Not the usual infectious grin, not yet, but at least it was a start. 'Right now I could cheerfully kill them all. And you.’ The smile reached his eyes. 'But I’ll get over it. Hopefully they will too.’
Madoc didn’t feel like laughing, but gave a small huff of amusement. 'Hope you’re right. I don’t like doing things like that but...’
'Someone had to? Otherwise this could go on for years.’
Another huff. 'Doesn’t matter how often I lose my temper. I think it’ll do that anyway.’
And even after Carl had slung his jacket over one shoulder and headed home, he stayed. Tidying, even though that was someone else’s job. Straightening the chairs. Picking up the bits of pen and putting them in the trash. Worrying, mostly. About the campaign, and the time it was all taking, and what would happen if they—he—failed. Worries that came back more frequently, now they had so much more to lose.
'Are you still here? I thought you’d have gone home ages ago.’
He jumped and spun round from the window he’d been staring out of. 'Helen. Yes. Sorry. Just... you know.’ Even now, the urge to apologise to a caste member was so strong. Ridiculous, really, after all this time.
She’d noticed too. 'Stop saying sorry all the time. Stop feeling guilty. Honestly, Madoc, this campaign is about more than just you. We’re all here to help. We want to help. You just have to let us in.’
You weren’t helping much earlier when they were all chewing each other’s faces off. But that wasn’t really fair. There was a limit to what she could do. 'I know. It just never seems to get any easier, that’s all.’
'Give it time. Things have been the way they were for over a century. It isn’t going to change overnight, however much we might want it to.’
And that was true enough, he thought as he was walking home. But time wasn’t as inexhaustible as everyone said it was. And he sometimes felt that for him, for the campaign that was so close to his heart, time was running out. He just hoped he could drag these talks back on track before it was all too late.
∞
'You realise this day will go down in the history books?’
'Give over.’ Madoc stood on the town hall steps with Carl by his side and listened to the cheers. For him. The people were cheering him. Mostly non-castes, of course, although he was going to have to get used to not calling them that any more. But there were a few castes scattered through the ranks as well, including Helen, on the front row, cheering as loudly as anyone. Carl, he noticed, had barely taken his eyes off her for the last half hour.
He raised a hand to wave back at them, feeling oddly regal and totally ridiculous. Just imagine all this fuss for him, a low-born dock-worker with short sight and a penchant for men. It didn’t make sense. Yesterday, they’d have been breaking the law, although the system hadn’t really functioned for years. Today, though, the law was theirs. All of them, whatever they looked like, whatever the circumstances of their birth. Madoc’s Law, they were calling it, which was even more ridiculous. Plenty of other people had helped him along the way, including Carl. He’d wanted to call it the Campaign Law, to honour all of them.
It was hard to believe, sometimes, that it had happened at all. Seven long years of negotiation, back and forth, claim and counter-claim. Four years before he’d lost his temper with them, three more afterwards. Sometimes he’d thought it would never end. Today, it had. This was the result. Two groups of people with everything in common allowed to mingle freely at last. He fought down the lump in his throat.
'Happy?’ Carl knew him well enough to sense his mood.
'Yes. No. You know...’ How did he even start to explain? 'It’s amazing. Just...’
'Surely you’re not having second thoughts?’
'Course not. I just wish Josh was here, that’s all.’
'You said he was a time-traveller? So maybe he knows, in some weird way. Wish I’d had the chance to meet him, though. He sounds like quite a guy.’
The lump in Madoc’s throat was back. He was saved from having to reply by a journalist, shoving forward to ask a load of senseless questions about how this all felt. As if you could quantify your emotions at a time like this. With a camera in your face, recording every grimace. He was useless at that sort of thing anyway. The small talk, the touchy-feely stuff. There’d never been much call for it round the docks.
He mouthed a few platitudes: best day of my life, couldn’t be more proud. Then passed the film crew on to Carl, who could talk for both of them. He himself was happy to fade into the background, grab a glass of bubbly, merge with the other dignitaries, then creep off the steps into the crowd and disappear. He wasn’t sure he deserved to be up there in the limelight, anyway. The whole campaign had been a group affair, with Carl and various others. Even Helen had joined in, in her own way. He’d only ever been the figure-head. Left to himself, he’d never have changed anything. Not without Josh, who’d fallen into the water—and his life—not five miles from here. Without that, he’d have gone on as he’d always done, resentful but obedient, until the day he’d died. But Josh wasn’t here to
collect any part of the reward.
He walked the streets, quiet because everyone who was anyone was at the town hall, towards the docks. Twenty five years ago, that had been. He’d never forgotten, though. Other details sometimes slipped his mind in the welter of meetings and interviews and endless paperwork. Not Josh. Never Josh. To this day he could trace every last line of his face, feel the bristles, the texture of his hair, the warmth of his body lying next to his own. Hear his voice, explaining about the castes, or saying, as he had so often, that he was only visiting. The ache was as strong as if he’d left only yesterday. Maybe, now things were different, he could start searching the records, combing past, present and future to track down the man he loved.
∞
'We want you to be best man.’
'You want what? Carl, are you sure?’ Madoc swept a hand through his hair. Some of the red was fading these days; the result of too much worry and too many years of hard work. 'I know it’s all supposed to be different now. But won't Helen have other ideas?’
'Don't be daft.’ Carl chucked a cushion off the sofa to sit down. 'A whole year with the new law and you’re still banging on about stuff like that? Anyway, it’s none of Helen’s business who I choose as my best man.’
'Keep talking like that and there won’t be a wedding and then you won’t need me at all.’
Carl picked the cushion up again and threatened to throw it at Madoc’s head. 'You know she doesn’t hold grudges. At least, I hope she doesn’t... Anyway, she hates the old system as much as we do. It's not just us non-castes who believed in a better tomorrow.’