Toxic Treacle (20 page)

Vivian looked up. ‘My job,' she said, matter of factly. And then, as she continued administering a pain killing injection to the leg of a wounded provider, ‘You did well in there, Mickey - I was proud of you.'

‘Yeah, right! I was born the wrong gender for you to be proud of anything I ever did.'

Vivian shrugged. ‘People change. You've changed - or at least I thought that you had.'

Monkey felt his hackles rise as the old, familiar pattern of behaviour between them threatened to start up again. But, before he could come back with some sarcastic retort, an excited childlike yell echoed through the cavernous entrance lobby. It was Penny.

‘Mickey!' She threw herself against his chest and hugged him. ‘I'm so sorry! I should never have dobbed you in - or Angel. I'm really, really sorry.'

Monkey held her at arm's length and looked at her sternly.

‘So, why d'ya do it?'

Before Penny could reply, Vivian's concern was of a more urgent nature. ‘How the hell did you get here? Why aren't you at home with your grand-mov?'

Penny lowered her eyes and bit her lip. ‘Moni brought me. On the train.'

‘Moni?' Monkey shook his head in disbelief. ‘And you expect me to believe you're sorry when you're still hanging with that squirrelling snake.'

Eric raised his eyebrow. ‘Monica Morrison? But she's a witness for the Prosecution.'

‘No, she isn't,' Penny said, eager to tell them the good news. ‘She's changed sides.' Monkey raised a querying eyebrow. ‘It's true,' Penny continued eager to convince him.

‘After you got arrested, Eric... I mean, Dad,' she corrected, ‘came round loads and was talking to Mum and explaining all the rebel stuff, about working together to make decisions about children. Anyway, I told Moni...'

‘You told Monica what I'd been talking to you about?' Eric's jaw set.

‘Yes - and she agrees with you and she said she was going to come here and tell you all before they could call her as a witness.'

‘Yeah, right!' Monkey was sceptical.

‘Where is she?' Eric asked.

‘She's just over...' Penny turned round; then stopped. ‘Oh!'

Moni had disappeared. Monkey scoured the crowd for any sign of his former adversary. He had an uneasy feeling about her involvement.

Vivian looked at her daughter. ‘Penny, I want you inside the court with the other children.'

‘Aw, but...'

‘No, buts - do as your mother tells you,' Eric interjected and Penny skulked off into the courtroom.

Vivian stood up and walked towards another injured protester. ‘Now, Mickey - I'll do my job and you do yours: don't you have an Assembly to address?'

Storming the Assembly

As Monkey headed for the door, he gave one last look round the courtroom. Of the original forty four prisoners, only twenty three were still standing. Apart from Angel and Eric, Monkey knew only Trevor, his father, Tom, and Karl from the village. Darren Bates, having been rendered helpless by a stun gun, had received a blow to the head and lay unconscious in the foyer of the courthouse; Jane Patterson, like Sally Ellison, had been injured in the riot and had not, as yet, regained consciousness. Others had had limbs shattered in the fighting. A provider called Alan, whom Monkey had met on The Farm, had been knocked to the ground and trampled on when the storm troopers had arrived: his body lay on the ornate marble floor of the foyer covered in coats.

Casting a look around the dead and injured, Monkey took a deep breath and focused his mind.

‘Right then!' He squeezed Angel's hand - he knew better than even to suggest that she stay behind with the nurturers and children - and they stepped outside once again.

The courthouse seemed to have become a focus for the protesters and security forces alike and the surrounding streets were chaotic. Monkey watched as a barrage of horses charged towards a group of protesters and they scattered, terrified, running for their lives. Others lobbed stones, bricks, scaffold poles - anything they could lay their hands on - at the security forces. Some of the protesters were lighting homemade incendiary devices and throwing them into the sea of security. One or two could be seen holding up ring-cams, recording the scenes of violence and brutality on both sides.

‘The Assembly Building is about a kilometre that way,' Eric said, pointing to the road directly in front of the court. ‘And I suspect that, whichever way you choose to go, the roads will be much the same. This isn't some isolated little protest, you know.'

Monkey thought for a second then looked round. ‘If we can't go to The Assembly, let's see if The Assembly will come to us. Is there a PA system anywhere?'

Trevor ducked back into the building and returned with an old-fashioned megaphone.

Monkey put it to his lips. ‘Stop it! All of you!' There was no discernible hesitation in the affray. The faces of the security officers were concealed behind visors, but the universal expression of the protesters was anger. The wail of sirens drowned out anything he might have hoped to say and Monkey saw a wall of stealths trundling towards him from the direction of The Assembly. They were three wide and several deep, taking up the whole width of the road.

‘They're here!' he said, grinning at Angel and the others with a degree of satisfaction. ‘The Assembly's coming to talk. We've done it.'

But as the battalion of armoured vehicles moved closer, Monkey's confidence faltered and, finally, died. This, he realised, was no delegation for conciliation; this was an invasion force. The armoured vehicles rumbled down the street, showing no respect for the people in their path, ploughing on relentlessly, with no regard for human life. Providers, nurturers and even children fell under the caterpillar tracks, their screams of fear and pain inaudible above the din. Monkey saw a young breeder, not much older than he was, try to climb up one of the vehicles but an officer appeared from the turret of the stealth and brought a baton down on the side of his head. He lost his balance, caught his belt on the side of the vehicle and was dragged screaming along the road until the fabric finally snapped and he tumbled, helpless, under the tracks of the first vehicle and then the one following it.

Angel gasped and buried her head against Monkey's shoulder. ‘This is awful. You have to stop it.'

Monkey put the loud hailer to his lips again but what could he do? He looked around at the scene of mayhem before him and realised he was impotent. Nothing he could say could have any impact on what was happening. He lowered the speaker and shook his head.

‘All that crap we used to be taught about sowing the seeds of love and reaping the harvest of compassion. Look at them...' His voice tailed off.

Angel took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Come on, you can't give up now. You were a hero in there.'

Monkey raised the loud hailer again. ‘Put down your weapons now. This is not respect...'

A crush barrier was hurled through the air and landed at his feet.

‘It's no use,' he said to Angel. ‘We've got to get to The Assembly. We've got to speak to the Premier. Get her to see reason. Repeal the Segregation Laws, otherwise, it's going to escalate.' He looked round for a way round the back of the courthouse or down a side street but, everywhere he looked, there was rioting.

Placards and banners were now being set alight and tossed at the security forces. Anything flammable was burning. Suddenly, everything happened so fast. A building that was under refurbishment burst into flames, sending shards of glass like needles into the crowd. Security regrouped and, with arms linked behind their backs to form an impenetrable wall, they systematically began penning protesters into small groups down the side roads.

One group managed to burst through and surged forwards, attacking one of the stealths and rocking it so violently that it toppled and fell onto its side, blocking the road and sending a wave of triumphant cries through the crowd.

Instantly, there was a deafening report, as though a gun had been fired and Monkey saw a white vapour trail arcing through the air as tear gas grenades were fired into the midst of the protesters filling the streets with biting chemical vapour.

‘Cover your eyes!' Monkey called out as he squinted, to try and lessen the effects. People were panicking as cartridge after cartridge of gas exploded into the streets of the capital. ‘Keep calm!' he yelled, frantically looking for the protective helmet he'd put down to address the crowd. But to no avail.

A burning, tearing sensation ripped at his throat as though he was choking on acid. He sank to his knees, weak with the shock. Angel! He had to make sure she was OK. He tried to call out her name but spluttered and collapsed, coughing as the gas burnt his lips and choked in his throat. Tears streamed down his cheeks as though a thousand onions had been rubbed into his eyes. The scenes of mayhem blurred before him. Staggering forwards through the fog, he reached out into the thick corrosive cloud, trying to feel his way out of the chaos; desperate to ease the burning in his eyes, nose - anywhere that had been exposed to the gas. He needed to breathe: if he could only get some clean air into his lungs. He stumbled against a wall and slithered down to the ground.

Then, through the confusion and chaos he heard a voice, ‘That's him. That's Michael Gibbon. He's the ringleader.'

Painfully, he wrenched open his eyes - just enough to recognise the speaker. Even through her headgear she was unmistakeable: Moni Morrison was standing in front of a platoon of storm troopers and she was pointing straight at him.

She was the last thing Monkey saw before a blow to the head rendered him unconscious.

Gone Fishing

A klaxon sounded, followed by a metal door being battered from outside. Monkey's head pounded. His throat felt as though he'd swallowed something caustic. His eyes were raw. He was aware of a rolling sensation beneath him, as though the whole world was being rocked. An electric light flickered on overhead and he raised his head tentatively from the rough pillow. Nothing was familiar. The room was small and stark with metal walls painted dark grey. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and felt rivets beneath his feet, like rows of cold carbuncles running along the floor.

He was at sea, of that, he was in no doubt. Monkey had never been on a ship before, but he'd heard about them - and seen them in I.D.H.C. at school. School! It seemed like a lifetime away.

The rolling of the waves, the ache in his head and the nauseated feeling that he'd ingested something toxic made him stagger back against the bunk. Where was he? Was he being transported? If so, to where? He looked round the tiny cabin. There were no windows: nothing to give him any indication as to where he was, or even whether it was day or night. He felt sick.

‘Stand!' The door burst open and a female wearing a security uniform strode in.

Monkey straightened up, but a sudden lurch sent him staggering forwards and he threw up down the front of the guard, before collapsing on the floor. She turned, without speaking, and the door clunked shut behind her. Monkey remained on all fours surrounded by his own vomit. He closed his eyes to try and curb the hideous swimming sensation in his head. Could his life get any worse?

The door opened and the guard reappeared with a bucket and mop. ‘Clear it up!' she barked. ‘I'll be back for you to report to the Governor's cabin in fifteen minutes. And make sure you're properly attired.' She indicated a familiar pink jumpsuit on the end of the bunk before, once more, leaving him alone.

If Monkey had been in any doubt before, this confirmed that he was, once again, imprisoned. Only, this time, it would appear he'd been upgraded from The Farm to one of the penal ships anchored off the coast.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked the narrow corridors of the penal ship, cuffed and shackled, until they came to a cabin at the fore. The guard accompanying him opened the door and ushered him inside to where a female, small-built with a face like a terrier, sat behind a gargantuan desk.

‘Ever been fishing?' she asked, without looking up.

Monkey thought back to the days when he and Trevor would take their rods and sit on the banks of the river for hours on end in the hopes of catching the barbel that was rumoured to be the size of a porpoise. They seldom caught so much as a tiddler, but the memory brought a nostalgic lump to his throat. He nodded; frightened to open his mouth and speak, in case it triggered a rush of emotion.

‘Good. You'll be on fishing detail from O-4:00 hours tomorrow.'

***

By four o'clock the following morning, Monkey was glad of any reprieve from the boredom of his solitary cabin. He had neither spoken to, nor seen, anyone since his meeting with the Governor the previous morning. His meals had been delivered to his cabin, as had his all-weather gear. But, if he had any illusion that the fishing that had been referred to bore any resemblance to the gentle angling he and Tragic used to enjoy, it was shattered the second he was led on board the boat. This was fishing of an altogether more arduous nature.

He was assigned to the small fishing vessel - his fluorescent pink oilskins the only thing to identify him from the normal crew - that and the ever-present guard who accompanied him to prevent any attempt at escape. Although, how anyone was supposed to escape when they were miles from land with swells sometimes several metres high, Monkey didn't know.

The work was hard - harder than he had ever imagined; setting the drift nets, hauling in the catch, drenched by waves that often crashed over the bows threatening to knock him overboard. Monkey ached in muscles he never knew existed. He would return to the penal ship every evening, exhausted. The days and weeks passed in a haze of sea spray and fish. Sometimes on the boat, they would drop anchor for an hour or two once the nets were set and the others, a provider and his son, would invite him into the galley for a mug of tea, but his guard invariably shook his head to warn them off - fraternisation with the prisoner was not allowed.

Each day was exactly like the last - perhaps the haul would be bigger or the weather better, but the routine was the same. Get up at 4:00, back at 20:00, asleep by 21:00. Except for Sundays. Sundays were rest days - and he made the most of them, spending every Sunday in an exhausted stupor, trying to recoup enough energy to face the week ahead. There was nothing to do in his cabin - he wasn't allowed books or a plasma-screen. All he had were his memories and he lay on his bunk, hands behind his head, reflecting on his life before he knew anything about P.A.R.E.N.T.

He'd heard nothing from his father about any sort of re-trial - he'd just been dumped here and left. He was drifting through his life, much like the nets drifted in the ocean.

One night, about a month after his arrival on the penal ship, he crashed onto his bunk too tired to undress. It came as a shock to him to realise that he had forgotten his own sixteenth birthday. It had come and gone the previous week with no celebration; no cards or gifts and no graduation party. He felt numb. When he thought of the plans he'd had - he'd been going to have a massive send-off. Angel would have been invited - and the others from the hood. He'd have been bought gifts for his new breeder pad and talked about his plans for the future as a pro-footballer. He allowed himself an ironic smile as he thought about how he would have been trying to impress Angel, hoping against hope that she would choose him for breeding later on. He sighed, wondering where she was now. Had she been arrested, too? Was he responsible for ruining her life as well as his own? He did a mental checklist of the other people in his life: Trevor, Eric, Tom and Jane - Vivian! Now there was a surprise: Vivian with all her male-hating, Distaff-supporting, pro-revolutionary fervour, suddenly changing her tune.

Had it all been worth it? he wondered. Would they ever change the system and, if so, could co-parenting really work in practice? Could males and females truly work together to raise children like in the olden days? If so, why had there been a revolution in the first place? All these questions went round and round his head until, finally, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He woke the next morning to a clattering of feet along the metal corridors. Although his cabin had no porthole, he sensed it was much later than he was normally woken. Slipping out of bed, he put on the light and banged on the door.

‘Hey! What's happening?' he called. ‘Let me out!'

After a few moments, the door opened and a male guard entered holding a large paper bag. ‘Here you are, mate. Get dressed.'

Monkey looked in the bag. It contained Eric's sweats, the clothes he'd been wearing before he'd been arrested. ‘What's going on?'

‘It's over, mate,' the guard said, grinning. ‘Unity's only bleedin' well won the election. And the new Premier's offered an amnesty to all political prisoners.' He punched Monkey on the arm, playfully. ‘We done it, mate! It's over. And you? You're a feggin' hero, you are.'

Monkey was carried along the corridor in a rush of released prisoners, all cheering and jostling to get to the recreation area. An enormous info-screen was showing streams of civil unrest from Wessex to Deira; from Anglia to Mercia. The news item stated that the entire country had erupted into scrupulously timed and synchronised riots immediately prior to the election, forcing the resignation of the Premier and the dissolution of The Assembly. The Unity Party had won a landslide victory. Pictures of the civil unrest and subsequent national celebrations were flashed onto the screen, including an image of Monkey on the steps of the courthouse, rallying the rioters through a loud hailer - judiciously edited, he noticed, so as to omit his somewhat less than glorious collapse and arrest. But, what wasn't seen didn't matter, and a roar of whoops and hollers went up from his fellow freed prisoners. Monkey felt himself being lifted up into the air and propelled around the room on a sea of raised hands to chants of ‘
for he's a jolly good fellow
.' Someone yelled, ‘Three cheers for Mickey Gibbon!' and the entire penal ship reverberated with cries of appreciation.

Monkey felt confused; bemused even, by such hero-worship. He was as accidental a hero as ever there was and, regardless of how the media portrayed him, he knew the truth. And there was someone else who knew the truth too. As he was carried round the crowd on a wave of adulation, Monkey craned his neck to see the screen and try to catch a glimpse of her. The newsreel was on a continuous loop and he waited until his part came around again, scouring the screen for any sign that Angel had survived unhurt. But there was nothing to appease his anxiety. When the celebrations had subsided, he was left feeling flat and fearful. He just wanted to see Angel but he had no idea if she was alive or dead.

A fleet of luxury State coaches came to collect the released prisoners and there was a sense of camaraderie as the men said their goodbyes, each wishing the others well. An air of expectation hung amongst them with the talk of the New Assembly and the changes that would be made. Everyone was excited to be going home. Monkey stared bleakly out of the coach window as they neared the capital, ready to be transferred to the locos for the last leg of their journey. He was sixteen now: a breeder in the old regime. But who and what was he now? And did he even have a home anymore?