Of course not everyone could see that. Lucas thought that if he offered people freedom they would respect him for it, would welcome it. But people didn’t want freedom; they wanted rules, regulations, structure. Why else had man clung on to religion for so many years? Why else had dictators flourished throughout history? People didn’t want freedom; they didn’t know what to do with it. They wanted only the appearance of freedom; they wanted a belief structure that told them how to behave, that punished the bad, and made everyone else feel safe, and in return they would ignore any holes in the theories, any contradictions, any unsavoury facts that it didn’t suit them to dwell on. That’s how mankind had always lived. How it always would.
He walked into the Meeting House, through the centre, up to the raised platform and held up his hands. Everyone fell silent.
‘My friends, brothers and sisters,’ began the Brother. ‘It is so good to see you all here, as it always is. Let us give thanks.’
There was a ripple of something, and it grew louder. Then louder still. And then the Brother smiled, because it was a cheer; the people were cheering him, all five thousand of them, their hands up in the air.
‘Brother!’
‘Welcome back, Brother!’
‘Let us give thanks!’
‘We are safe again!’
The Brother allowed it to continue for a few minutes, basking in the adoration, then he held up his hands again.
‘Friends,’ he said, seriously now. ‘Friends, I am touched by your welcome, moved by your passion. But today is not a day for celebration. Today is a day for commemorating our dead, our fallen. As you know, your former leader, Lucas, left us recently, ran from the City that had looked after him all his life, taking with him one of our young. Clara, the last of the Disappeared. We don’t know where he took her; I think perhaps we do not wish to know. Because when he left, brothers and sisters, we discovered the truth – the bodies piled up outside the City walls, the rest of the Disappeared. It was Lucas, brothers and sisters. Lucas who was responsible for the deaths of our young. Lucas fell prey to evil, brothers and sisters, and we did not succeed in helping him, in fighting it. We are to blame as much as he. But now we must join together; now, we must be as one, united in our desire to keep evil outside these City walls. But first, let us give thanks for all that we do have; for this City, for each other, for the food that we grow, the work that keeps our minds active and our bodies strong.’
‘We all give thanks,’ everyone said fervently.
The Brother’s eyes fell on Clara’s parents, their eyes still bloodshot, their hands entwined, clinging on to each other for support. He smiled to himself.
‘Let us give thanks to this great City.’
‘We all give thanks.’ More loudly this time.
‘And finally …’ the Brother paused, looked to the back of the room where one man sat, camouflaged by former D’s who still knew their place, who, to their credit, did not dare to sit with former A’s or B’s as they had done when Lucas had gathered the people together. The man nodded and the Brother allowed himself a little smile. ‘And finally, let us give thanks to the System, which was shut down by the forces of evil, but which we will bring back, as soon as we can, to protect us, to look over us. So that we will lose no more of our beloved children. So that we may be protected from the evil that roams outside, that threatens to grow in this City if we are not vigilant.’
‘We all give thanks.’
The Brother smiled. Everything would be okay. Everything was just as it should be once again.
31
Raffy knew the man was there the minute he sat down to eat his lunch. There was no sign of him, but Raffy had an ability to pick up on the little things, a change in birdsong, an unidentified rustle in the branches of a tree, things that others wouldn’t notice, things that told him to be on high alert.
He sat, took out his food and started to eat, but really he was waiting. And sure enough, a few minutes later, the man appeared. Raffy gazed at him thoughtfully. ‘You were right,’ he said, his voice expressionless.
‘Yes,’ the man said. He sat down a few feet away from Raffy. ‘I’m sorry about that. I just thought you should know.’
‘You’re not sorry,’ Raffy said, his dark brown eyes staring at him insolently. ‘You told me for a reason, and I suspect that now you’re here to tell me that reason. You want something from me. What is it?’
The man smiled. ‘Not much gets past you, does it?’ he said.
‘On the contrary,’ Raffy said, staring at him, his big brown eyes half hidden behind his unruly hair. ‘Quite a lot does, evidently. You had to tell me about the watch. Seems I’m the last to know about a lot of things. So tell me. Why are you really here?’
‘A lot of things? You’re referring to your brother? To all the lies he spun you over the years?’
Raffy didn’t say anything; he took another bite of his sandwich, then wished he hadn’t when he realised his mouth had dried up. He realised that he had no interest in eating now and spat the food out.
‘That bad?’ the man said. ‘So I’m guessing you won’t be too pleased to hear that he’s coming this way?’
Raffy looked up abruptly. ‘What?’
The man shrugged. ‘He’s coming here to take you away. You and your girlfriend.’
Raffy’s eyes narrowed. ‘We’re not going anywhere,’ he said, his voice low, threatening. ‘Lucas can do what he wants, but I’m ready for him.’
The man pulled a face. ‘I’m sure you are, Raffy. But can you really speak for Evie? Now that you know about the watch?’
Raffy didn’t say anything; he wasn’t going to let this man see that inside he was boiling with rage.
‘She chose me, not Lucas. She’ll always choose me,’ he said. Then he stood up. ‘Is that it? Because I’m going to get back to work.’
The man nodded. ‘You haven’t eaten much,’ he observed.
Raffy stared at him with thunderous eyes. ‘I’m not very hungry,’ he replied.
The man smiled. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Look, you’re right. I’m sure you’re right. If Lucas does come here, Evie will tell him to go; she’ll do whatever you say. But, and it’s a big but, if she doesn’t, if things don’t go entirely according to plan, I have a little proposition for you.’
‘What kind of proposition?’ Raffy asked, turning around, his eyes flashing. ‘Who are you anyway? You never tried to join the Settlement. I asked around.’
The man laughed. ‘All right, you’ve got me.’ He looked at Raffy cautiously. Then he sat back. ‘Truth is, we’ve got something in common. You’re not wild on Lucas; I’m not happy with your brother either. Not happy about a few things that he’s done. I figured we might be able to help each other. I mean, I can’t imagine you’re too keen on him coming here, trying to take you away from the first place you’ve been happy in your whole life. Trying to take Evie away from you. See, I don’t think Lucas is the kind of person you can trust, is he? I mean, he’s demonstrated that in the past, hasn’t he? So how about you sit down again and let me tell you my idea. Just in case Evie doesn’t see things like you do. Let me tell you, and then you can decide what you want to do. Does that sound okay?’
He looked up at Raffy hopefully; Raffy took a deep breath. He didn’t like this man. Didn’t trust him one bit. But he’d been right about the watch. If he was right about Lucas … if Lucas was really coming …
He let the breath out, sat down, looked at the man. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Tell me your idea. But I’m not making any promises.’
‘I wouldn’t expect you to,’ the man smiled, reaching his hand out. ‘My name’s Thomas, by the way. It’s very nice to meet you.’
‘This is where they are?’ Lucas looked at the large fence ahead, so different from the City wall. It appeared to simply mark a boundary rather than keep people out or in. ‘This is where they live now?’
Linus nodded. ‘Wait here,’ he said. They were a few hundred metres from the perimeter of
the Settlement; Lucas watched curiously as Linus ran to the fence, waited, appeared to throw something over it, then ran back again. Lucas found Linus more irritating than he could put into words, but at times like this he could only marvel at a man twice his age who seemed as fit and lithe as a teenager, who seemed to know everything, who never ceased to surprise. Lucas, who had spent his life obeying orders, could not fathom Linus, but as he watched him running back, he shook his head in admiration. Although, of course, he had no idea what Linus was up to. As always, Linus hadn’t told him anything.
‘So?’ he asked, not really expecting an answer, or at least not one that meant anything.
‘So?’ Linus repeated, distractedly.
‘So what was that all about?’ Lucas asked, trying not to get annoyed, trying to remember all that admir-ation.
‘Just a little note to Benjamin,’ Linus shrugged. ‘Something we developed a few years back.’
‘We? You know Benjamin? You never said you knew him,’ Lucas said.
‘I don’t,’ Linus said. ‘But a long time ago, when we were building the City, I thought it might be prescient to meet the leaders of the various civilisations around the UK. Work through a code, a messaging system, that sort of thing.’
‘And?’ Lucas asked, realising that without prompting Linus was going to tell him nothing.
‘And I left him a message. So he’d be ready for us. So he’d be able to prepare,’ Linus said, his face crumpled in bemusement as though he couldn’t understand why Lucas didn’t know everything already … or perhaps why he wanted to know in the first place.
‘Fine,’ Lucas relented. ‘So what now?’
‘Now?’ Linus asked, looking around, holding up his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘Now we find a place to watch until we’re ready to go in.’ And with that, he started to walk; Lucas watched him for a few seconds then, with a sigh, started to follow.
32
‘Benjamin? Benjamin?’
Benjamin stirred, and for a moment, he was somewhere else, somewhere very different. For a moment, the sound of Stern’s voice transported him back, back many years to a prison cell, a cell the two men had shared for twenty-three hours a day sometimes, eyeing each other cautiously, exchanging a few words, sizing each other up, working out who would defeat who, if it came to it, as inevitably it would, one day.
They had shared that cell for three years, seventeen years less than the sentence Benjamin had been given. And it was from that cell, or from the open area outside it, that they watched the Horrors unfold around them. When he’d been incarcerated, the violence had been limited to the bombing of mosques and churches, attacks on Gay Pride marches, street riots and a general feeling that the chaos was taking over, that it couldn’t be reined in, that the police and army were only ever playing catch-up.
But that had only been the beginning. Those, Benjamin realised later, had been the good old days.
He still remembered the moment he realised that the Horrors were never going to end well, that the destruction wasn’t going to stop until it stopped itself, until there was nothing left to destroy. It had been an ordin-ary day at the prison: kitchen work in the morning, then lunch, then free time in the afternoon. He’d enrolled on the education programme; had already passed five GCSEs and was now working towards his A levels. It had been way better than school; smaller classes and the people there really wanted to learn, even if every so often they got frustrated, even if that frustration got vented violently, even though guards would be called and prisoners dragged away for drawing a knife on the teacher when he or she put some red lines through their work. He felt like he was finally making something of himself; finally seeing who he was, what he might be.
At that time, the army was already on the streets of the UK, of much of Europe. Because of riots, mainly. And the riots were because of food shortages, which were exacerbated by the riots because half the roads were blocked off, because every vehicle that crossed the border had to be searched several times. And anyway, who wanted to drive anything into this godforsaken country? Even the relief workers were leaving food on the border and turning round immediately to go back home. Anyone with any money had already left, leaving a skeleton of doctors, managers; those who doggedly refused to leave, those that couldn’t. It was left to them: the terrorists killing each other, and the rioting, hungry masses who had started to burn entire cities to the ground. And the worse things got, the fewer deliveries there were, the less food there was to go round. It had become a vicious circle; Benjamin could see that from his position of relative safety, watching the news, shooting a look at his fellow prisoners if they got in the way or made too much noise. At one point the government had considered releasing all prisoners to save on the cost of keeping them alive, but they’d decided against it; had figured that adding thousands of hardened criminals to the toxic mix on the streets would not be a sensible plan. And so, the prisons, along with hospitals and nursing homes, were one of the few bastions of civilisation, prioritised for food, so safe that many prison officers were now sleeping in the corridors, bringing their families in to keep them away from harm, away from the rioters outside.
Benjamin had been in the prison a few years and had been in enough fights to prove himself. He was part of the establishment. People didn’t mess with him. And anyway, most of the prisoners wanted to listen; needed to watch the devastation. Because it was their world being destroyed, even if they weren’t exactly in it right now. Their families being killed, by terrorists, by rioters, by the police or army trying to keep order. Week after week the bad news came and cupboards or walls got new holes in them from angry fists.
Things were bad; Benjamin knew that much. But it was that day that he realised how bad; that day that he started to question the point of all his hard work, of having passed all those exams. Because he understood suddenly that this was not a small, localised fire that could be put out. It was a forest fire that would rage until there was nothing left to burn. And he knew that they were all going to die, all who were in the path of the fire, it was just a matter of time. He understood that there could be no other ending, just a variation of degree: whether everyone died or slightly less than everyone, whether they suffered a great deal of pain or a little less than that.
It had just been an interview. The usual post-traumatic-event interview with the Prime Minister in which he condemned the latest atrocity, said that the people of the world would no longer stand for these things, that ordinary people would fight these terrorists, these vandals, these murderers, that he was on the side of the ordinary people, that he would put more police on the streets, more tanks. And the interviewer had barely listened to a word he said, had cut in and said that they had another point of view. And they’d cut to a man, Pastor Hunt, and he’d started to talk, and as he talked, Benjamin realised he’d heard it all before, that he knew the sermon word for word. And when he looked closer, he saw the ‘I’ badge on his lapel; when the camera panned back to the interviewer, he saw that she had one too. And that’s when he’d known that there was no hope. That there was no going back.
As Benjamin quietly watched the interview, he had felt something change within him, and right there he had an epiphany. He was sick of it. This stuff – this anger, this violence – all of it was a disease, a disease that had got past the stage when it could be cured. Benjamin vowed that if he didn’t die, when it was over, when the fire had run its course, ravaged the world, he would make something better in its wake. He would build, somehow, somewhere, a better place, a place where violence no longer held sway, where people could express themselves without fear of attack, where they were listened to, encouraged, enabled. A place where he would lead, not from the front, not telling the people what to do, but instead from in among them.
He never thought it would happen, because he was sure he wasn’t going to live that long, not now, not when he could see the destruction hovering on the horizon. But that day, straight after the news, he went back to his c
ell, squared up to Stern, looked him right in the eye, and said something that he remembered to this day. ‘Hit me. If you want. Get it over with. Because it’s your last chance. If you want to have one over me, you’re going to have to kill me. And if you don’t, then you’re going to do as I say. And what I say is, there ain’t gonna be no more fights, no more violence. I’m sick of what’s going on. I’m ashamed. So we can wait here until everything’s gone, we can scrap like animals. Or we can be stronger than that. I want to be stronger. I want to start something good here. I want to build something new. Something better. So hit me. Now. Or help me build it. Your choice.’
Then he’d waited for the punch to land. Only it never did. Instead, Stern had held out his hand, clasped Benjamin’s. He had just got word, he told him, that his son was dead. The only thing that made his life worth living. His son, who was only three. He had been outside a restaurant that was blown up; got caught by the glass. He had been taken to the overcrowded hospital too late; left too long by the few harassed, overworked doctors who were still there. And now he was gone.
Benjamin remembered all this as though it were yesterday, and yet it also seemed a lifetime ago, not even his own lifetime, someone else’s, someone he used to know. He opened the window, stepped out into the sunshine and took a deep breath. It was good to be alive, he found himself thinking. Good to be part of this place of growth, of acceptance, of new beginnings. Everyone needed a fresh start, sometimes. Everyone deserved a second chance.
He walked towards the centre of the Settlement, past the artisans making furniture for the ever-expanding population, past the bakers, past the grassy knoll where small children were being entertained, and then he stopped. Because coming out of the sewing rooms, draped in a long white dress that was about three sizes too big, was one of the Settlement’s newest recruits. He smiled as he watched the women cooing over her, as Sandra pinned the dress here and there to try and make it fit Evie’s tiny frame.