Reckoning (4 page)

I can sense it stretching further, delving deeper, wanting to know more about me. My throat is dry and I am desperate for a drink but before I can even think about doing anything, it has taken me again.

5

SEVEN YEARS AGO

It has just begun to rain as I creep around the hedge, peering into the murky distance. I can hear my mother's voice in my head, telling me not to venture out into the woods, telling me it's not safe and making up stories about mystery animals she thinks should scare me. I smile as I somehow know she only says these things to try to make me stay close to home. I keep moving, even as the patter of rain increases, bouncing from the plants and hitting the floor.

I don't even remember the first time I came to the woods on my own but I must have only been six or seven, walking to the edge of the village and staring towards the trees before dashing home again. My mother was always happy to let me play in the streets as long as I didn't go too far. Even then, I knew her definition of ‘too far' would not be the same as mine. Month by month, I would venture further until today, where I promised myself I would keep walking until I found the old lake people around the village talk about. It is officially out of bounds, with people saying Kingsmen used to patrol nearby to make sure no one ever went there. Either that was a myth, or they don't bother now as I see nothing but scurrying small animals, apparently terrified of me.

I continue moving through the trees, quicker now as if the accelerating rhythm of the rain is keeping time for me. Soon I am running, giggling to myself as I know how naughty I am being. I cannot stop myself; I know every corner of the streets around Martindale and have a craving that is hard to describe, a need to find somewhere new.

It isn't long before I end up sliding across a mossy patch of land, stumbling and covering my trousers in grass and mud. It won't be the first time I return home looking like this and my failed promise to stay in the village is going to get me into trouble again … if my mother isn't too busy looking after Colt, of course. He's so young and she only has time for him at the moment. She lets me get away with things now because her attention has mainly been focused on him since my dad died. At first I pushed because I wanted attention, now I do it because I cannot stop.

As I pull myself to my feet, I emerge through a final row of trees and stand open-mouthed staring at the sight. I have seen images of lakes on the screen at home and know they should be full of water. In front of me must be the lake people around the village have spoken of but instead of the rain rippling the surface of water, it is clanging off pile after pile of metal and plastic objects. On and on the sea of discarded items goes, as far as I can see.

Crucially, there are no Kingsmen either.

I know I should turn and race home – I have seen what I came to – but somehow I feel drawn to the sight in front of me, stepping carefully across the sopping ground until I am at the rim of the rubbish. On the edge, wedged into the mud, is what looks like a cross between the thinkwatch strapped to my wrist and the thinkpads we use in school. I crouch and pick it up, running my fingers across a cracked screen and fumbling around its hard metallic edges for anything that might make it work. I don't know what it is about it but I feel some sort of spark as I weigh it in my hands. I know instinctively that this object comes from before I was born, probably from before the war. I feel an uncontrollable urge to find out what it does.

As the rain starts to ease, I notice three more of the items and pick them all up, hurrying back towards a large tree that offers a degree of shelter. Each of the devices has a button at the top which pushes in but nothing happens when I try it. I twist each of them around in my hands, knowing they must have done something at one point. I compare them to my thinkwatch.

Grabbing a fallen branch, I whittle it on a tree stump, rubbing as hard as I can until I have filed it to a point. When it feels sharp enough, I use the wood to dig into the side of the device, pushing as hard as I can until it pops open. One by one, I open the other three too.

I am not the best reader in my class but I make out the word ‘phone' written on a label inside one of the devices. I have no idea what it means but think I'll memorise it and perhaps ask my mother at some point. I can pretend I heard someone in the streets talking about one.

I pull out all of the pieces inside, laying them on the ground next to each other, choosing the shiniest from each of the four sets and rebuilding one of the phones as best I can. My thin fingers dig easily into the corners behind the glass, pressing everything back together until I am convinced it will show me whatever it is that it does.

I press the button on the top, holding my breath, waiting for something to happen.

Nothing does.

The rain has gone by now but I check my thinkwatch and know I have to head home. Colt will have had his tea by now and Mum will start to get worried if I'm not back soon. Standing, I brush all of the parts underneath a bush with my feet and start to plan when I might be able to come here next. I glance at my watch again, wondering if the parts underneath are anything like the ones I have just taken out of the phone.

Somehow I know I will return here many times in the future.

*   *   *

I gasp again as I finally manage to shut down the memory. I had forgotten that day, the time where I first started exploring the items around the gully, taking them apart and putting them together again, trying to figure out how they worked. It wasn't long after that when I first risked opening up my thinkwatch. I shake with shock at the fact the Reckoning has taken these thoughts from me, but that only makes me want to fight back.

I wonder if the Reckoning is going to keep pushing me, if it is trying to catch me out for all the things I have done wrong in the past, but somehow it doesn't feel as if that's what it was after. Perhaps my resistance was what it wanted all along?

I sense that the thinkpad wants my emotions, not my memories, so I don't hold back, embracing the anger it has made me feel. Suddenly I am full of confidence as it continues to probe my mind. Words are drifting into my head but I push them away, instead forcing my questions towards it, wondering where the information goes, who invented it, how exactly it works. Each of my thoughts is resisted as a dull pain creeps through my forehead. When it shows me a crinkled black ball and asks me what I see, I respond that it is a crinkled black ball. When it says it has nearly finished and allows me to see myself standing and walking away, I think of myself in the spot I am now. The thoughts evaporate in a grey haze before I feel the tingling in my thumb again. This time, instead of drawing me in, it is pushing me away.

I stop touching the thinkpad and look up to see everyone else turning to face each other. Some are smiling, others frowning. Some seem confused, others as if they have woken from a long sleep. The only noise is a scraping of chairs, no one daring – or trusting themselves – to speak. I stand and turn towards the exit where lines of Kingsmen are standing close to the door. One by one people begin to file out, ruffling their hair, or touching their faces. I suddenly notice I am doing it too, my fingers scratching the back of my neck, as if rubbing away the memories.

I can see why no one really has an answer for what the Reckoning is. It is all the things people have told us it is: a conversation, a threat, a dream, a laugh, enjoyable, hateful, challenging, and so much more. Some people clearly have a life-changing experience but I feel the same as I did when I walked in.

Opie appears at my side but there is something not quite right about his eyelids. They are drooping more than they would usually and his pupils are larger. He smiles at me, asking if I am all right. I want to reply to say that it is him who looks strange but then we hear the commotion ahead.

The slow line of people leaving has stopped as we bunch forward into a semi-circle around the exit. Two Kingsmen are standing between us and the way out and I know instantly something is wrong. I have never seen a Kingsman with his sword unsheathed, but the two ahead are holding weapons at their sides. People are beginning to step backwards slowly as I see Paul isolated in the centre. He is glancing from one Kingsman to the other, panic on his face.

There is a moment of silence before he says: ‘You've got it all wrong.' Neither of the guards reply, instead they reach forward at the same time. Paul sidesteps one of them but the other grips him by the throat, backing him towards a wall. Everyone seems to breathe in at the same time and we all know something bad is going to happen. I will Paul to go limp and not fight but instead his legs flail in resistance. They pin him to the floor, the second Kingsman wrenching Paul's arm free and pressing his thumb onto one of the thinkpads. We all see the red line scanning downwards and then a momentary pause before it emits a crunching noise and flashes white.

There is no hesitation as the second Kingsman raises his sword and plunges it deep into Paul's thigh, skewering him like a snared rabbit.

6

None of us moves. We all know the rules of Reckoning day; don't miss it and don't cheat. Or, I suppose, don't get caught. Paul screams in agony as dark, black-looking blood spews from his leg, pooling on the floor. We have all seen far worse on our screens, where people are punished and killed routinely as a warning for their transgressions. It feels different to witness it in person, the anguish uncomfortably real, Paul's cries of pain rippling through my ears. I feel like covering them but, within seconds, more Kingsmen pour through the door, lifting Paul and carrying him away as he drips spots of blood behind them.

Everything has happened in a matter of seconds.

Behind me, a voice breaks the stunned silence: ‘I guess that's what happens when you cheat.'

They are stating the obvious, although their tone makes it sound as if this is something perfectly normal. I have never been friends with Paul, yet it didn't feel right watching him writhing on the ground.

Before I can begin to process what has happened, someone steps forward and walks through the door and within moments we are all following. I feel Opie's hand at the bottom of my back guiding me but only for a second.

Outside, there is another wave of celebration. From the top of the steps I can't see anything other than streamers, confetti and people waving and cheering. There are more faces than before and the sun is higher and brighter. At the entrance are two cameras but I avoid them, hiding behind Opie's imposing figure before sliding through a gap between people and disappearing into the crowd.

It is hard to move because everyone is so tightly packed but I squeeze in and out of the masses before the numbers eventually thin. Kingsmen are still circling as I reach the back but, as one of their hands edge towards his sword, I say that I have just finished, holding up my thinkwatch. He could choose to scan it to make sure I'm telling the truth but instead he stands to one side, letting me through. Colt and my mother are in the crowd somewhere and Opie will wonder where I have gone but I need this moment for myself.

On the outskirts of the village, the only other people I can see are lone Trogs sweeping the confetti in the space between the Kingsmen and the buildings. One of them has his shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing the thinkwatch on his wrist and the gentle yellow face. I don't bother going home, instead dashing through the deserted streets, heading towards the gully.

Past the village border, over the ridge, through the trees until I am sitting in the same spot as I did yesterday, lying on the dry-again ground and listening. When I was a child, Mum would tell me bedtime stories of how things used to be. She would talk about birds chirping to christen a new day but, as I close my eyes, there isn't even a rustle of the wind to comfort me. I try to picture what the lake might once have looked like but can't think of anything other than the piles of unusable glass, silicon and plastic that litter the hollow bowl in the ground.

My thinkwatch begins to beep and I know it is time. For a moment I do nothing except open my eyes, squinting at the bright blue of the sky. I hold my wrist in front of my face but it takes a second or two for my eyes to adjust to the crisp dark words on the screen.

‘Silver Blackthorn: Member'

It is hard to know exactly how the decision is arrived at. No one has a definitive explanation. The phrase ‘Await further instruction' drifts into view and I know I will be given my role in society at some point tomorrow. The circular white-grey portion in the centre of the metal begins to swirl yellow and red until it settles into an orange colour. Initially, it burns bright before fading into the more gentle hint I have seen on other people's thinkwatches. In the centre is the outline of a lightning bolt, etched in a slightly lighter orange shade.

I should share the news with my mother and Colt; they will both be excited and disappointed at the same time. My status will reflect on the pair of them and they will gain greater credits because of it – but it is still likely I will have to leave Martindale to fulfil whatever role I am assigned. Most Members are sent to the bigger cities, where there are the bigger industries and they can be of more use.

I lie thinking for a while, drinking in the air, and then take my time returning to the village, allowing myself to enjoy the trees for one final time, even if they don't feel quite like they belong to me when it is sunny. As I stand on the bank that overlooks our houses, I see lines of citizens ready to get back onto the train. Pockets of people are drifting through the streets but, as I look towards the hall in the distance, I can't see anything other than the black dots of the Kingsmen.

At the house, Colt and my mother are both waiting for me. People around the village say we all look alike but I have never seen it. My mother's hair is lighter than mine and nature has lined her face with wrinkled reminders of what it is to bring up two children. I cannot ever imagine a time where she would have been able to chase around avoiding trouble in the way I somehow manage to. Colt is excited but Mum says something about wondering where I went. I don't mention the gully, or Paul, instead flicking through the message screen on my watch and showing her the colour and the news. Her smile is a mix of pride and sadness. Colt bounces on the spot in happiness. He has short brown hair cut into a bowl shape, almost as if Mum has done it with a pair of scissors and a dish. Perhaps she did?