Chloe Patricia Beale Creative Writing: May 2014

Crossing Over

I cross the border. It is early, too early for the sun to creep over the sky and cast light over the earth’s surface. I am safe. The grass is knee high, thick and knotted. There is no wind to make it sway, so my movements have to be especially careful. But it is quiet, no one to be seen for miles on either side. The border for Territory Four is silent and still. I move into the woods, toward the city.

***

My footsteps fall on each new concrete slab as if they had never felt their cool, dimpled surface before. This is a new place, except I have been here before. Seen its lights and heard its calls. It is a city, and though the names of the buildings and the parks and the people are different, they are always the same.

‘Any spare change?’ Broken backed and hollow the man reaches up toward me. He is unshaven and old. His eyes trace the back of my head as I move past him, shoes still tapping the pavement. I can’t help him. There are far too many with far too little, and I can’t give parts of myself to all of them. That’s what has led me this far.

I continue towards the heart of the city. It’s never hard to find. It will be pulsating with life, people moving in and out of buildings, in and out of jobs and families and other people. It will be throbbing, feeding the outskirts of the city. Once you find the current you can find its core. In this case it is a small, dishevelled building tucked in between two cracked, grey tower blocks. The door is covered by a white arch; painted onto it are black-hand prints. The border of the building is painted a deep mould green, the uneven bricks jutting and pushing into the buildings front. I walk towards it, place my hand over one of the prints on the arch. It feels warm. Living.

‘Can I help you?’ A man’s voice drifts towards me, deep and controlled.

‘These are interesting.’ I keep my eyes on the prints.

‘Not everyone gets one.’ He moves passed me and into the building. I follow him through.

‘Only a few.’

‘Who gets to decide?’ He’s carrying a large box. He dumps it onto a counter and steps behind the desk.

‘Can I help you?’ He places his hands palm down on the counter.

‘I need a place to stay.’ My eyes remain fixed on the backs of his hands. There are smudges of colour all along the fingers, and a small silver ring in his right index finger. The nail of his left thumb has a dark blue bruise underneath.

‘You have money, we have rooms.’ He moves away from the counter and goes into a back room. Two small patches of moisture sit on the counter. Slowly, they disappear.

‘This is a hotel?’

‘A hostel, really,’ he calls from the back room. I nod and glance around the reception. The tiled stone floor is cracked in places, and the pink walls change shades as your eyes move around the room, a sign of damp. The curved stairs are white marble, black veins running through the surface. A chunk of the bannister has been ripped out half way up.

‘Sign in.’ He emerges from the back room, and starts to rifle through some notes beneath the counter. The book is a faded red with tea stains on the open page. I pick up the pen next to it and sign a name. He pops up from behind the counter and takes a look at the book.

‘Nice to meet you Valerie.’

‘Val, actually.’

‘Right. You have the money then?’

‘That’s not what I said. I need a place to stay.’ His hand covers my name on the page and he looks up at me.

‘I can’t help you.’

‘I’m not asking for your help. I’m asking for a room.’

‘You don’t have any money. You’re asking for charity.’

‘I’m asking for an exchange.’ He leans away from me.

‘A room isn’t worth that.’

‘Ever slept on the street?’

‘No.’

‘Then you don’t know what a rooms worth.’ He moves out from behind the counter and steps in front of me. His arms are folded, and I can see a white scar stretching across his forearm. ‘I’ll work for you. I can do most things.’ A statement, rather than a plea.

‘Work for me? I don’t own this place,’ his voice is almost spiteful.

‘Then ask whoever does.’ I stand, and cross my arms in a mimic of his posture. My eyes focus on his. After a while he lets out a short, sharp laugh.

‘Shit.’ He sighs and moves around the desk. ‘Come,’ he calls, and I follow.

***

‘There are six main territories. This is where you’ll find the largest settlements of people. The densest living areas. They’re all almost identical. It’s uncanny.’

I pause.

‘I like the Mains, they make you feel like you could still be part of something. That you’re not something that’s fading away, or dying. For me, that feeling comes when you move to the Skirts. The areas that border the Mains, the slums. The places where nobody has anything but they stay as close as possible to the places that still breathe life. They try to catch the wisps that float outwards, catch the hard work and minimal pay. None of the Mains are polished or even well maintained; they’re decomposing, like everything else. But I enjoy the people who live there. Their secret optimism, their willingness to attempt change. They’re active. In the Skirts everybody is standing still, just waiting. For something nobody really likes to talk about.’

The room is dark and quiet. To my right I can hear a soft, wet sound.

‘Generally, if you’re born in one territory, you live and die in the same territory. For most this isn’t an issue. The territories are huge. I was six years old when I understood that they’re cages. Even if they are unusually big ones.’

The sounds stop, and it’s just the sound of my own breath that I can hear. I can taste the stale, smoky air as it hits the back of my throat. I don’t know what to say, what he wants to hear. So, I just talk.

The sounds start again.

***

I’m stood behind the counter of the hostel playing with the silver band covering my left thumb.

‘Excuse me?’ The small frame of a young woman stands in the doorway. I look up as the cool air creeps in through the open door. She shuts the door and moves into the foyer silently. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’ She takes the small bag off of her back and sets it down quietly.

‘You didn’t.’

‘Oh.’ She stares down at the cracked floor. ‘I need a bed, please.’

‘Sign in.’ I head to the back room to pick up a key. I take the one that is rusting the least. I place it on the counter and stare down at the book.

‘You’re in room two, Stacey.’ Her large, dark eyes stare at me from a small face. My eyes narrow slightly as I stare. She seems almost familiar to me. She is small and pale and her face is so open it makes me want to reach out and touch it. I don’t. ‘If you need anything, let me know.’

‘Thank you.’ Her slight mouth breaks into a smile. She picks up the key and heads upstairs. On the counter a bronze key-shaped imprint appears.

***

I wake and sit up, staring at the exposed brick in front of me. It is cracked in places, small crumbles scatter the floor. I look beside me. The bed gently leans towards Jack’s sleeping body. His chest rises and falls three times, then I move from the bed and head for my own room. I get dressed and begin dragging my eyes over the cramped pages in my notebook. I flip through page after page of information, each headed with a different place I have visited, the name I used there, the people I met. I try to trace the outline of a pattern, to string the locations together in some sort of formation. Again, it is seemingly random. My movements are spontaneous and dislocated, and yet I feel a sense of unease.

‘Coffee?’ Jack asks from the doorway. He eyes are slits in his head, his movements slow and clumsy.

‘Tea please.’ I don’t take my eyes off of the page. There has to be a pattern. Something I can’t see.

‘I never know which one it’ll be with you. Sugar today?’

‘No, thank you.’ I hear his footsteps retreat and pat down the stairs. I keep flicking through the pages. The book is almost full, but there aren’t many places left for me to go. Re-visiting somewhere is far more complicated.

‘What are you reading?’ Stacey’s voice floats towards me through the doorway. I’m surprised I didn’t hear her boots beat along the floor.

‘Something I wrote. To help me remember,’ I say.

‘Oh.’ She comes into the room and sits on the bed. ‘Like what?’

‘Your name, for example. For when you leave.’ I stand and pace, trying to find a particular page.

‘I don’t have much time anywhere really.’ From the bed her feet barely touch the floor.

‘You’ve been here almost a week. That’s quite good comparatively.’ I can’t find the page and the words are so close together I can barely read them. I close the book and pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers.

‘This place is a lot nicer than the last. The people are better. It’ll be a shame when I have to leave.’ Her legs are swinging gently to and fro. The rhythm makes me almost nauseas.

‘Why don’t you stay?’ I look up and stare at her. Her large woollen jumper hangs loose on her small body, one shoulder exposed by sagging fabric. She has thick black leggings on similar to my own. Her legs won’t stop moving.

‘I would, but I can’t stop. Annette said she’d find me. But she said I shouldn’t stop anywhere too long.’

‘How will she find you then?’

‘She said she would. I don’t really know how, but she has before.’ Her eyes are staring at the floor and her legs are swinging and her body convulses with each movement and I can’t concentrate. I wonder who Annette is.

‘I’d like her to teach me. I think it could be useful. To know how to find someone like that. From nothing.’ As she’s talking I reach my hand out and place it on her knee. She stops moving and looks up at me.

‘Stop that. Please,’ I say as she stares into my eyes. She nods and looks at the floor.

‘Sorry.’ She grabs a handful of her hair and starts to pull on it gently. Over and over.

‘I think she just knows me well. Maybe to her I’m predictable.’ I remove my hand from her knee and move towards the wardrobe, searching for my jacket. It’s warmer today, but I always think it’s artificial. Comes from the tight, tall buildings packed together. Most days I don’t notice the sun.

‘Where will you go next?’ I shrug on my jacket.

‘I don’t know yet. Maybe somewhere with a lot of water. I’ve never been somewhere with a lot of water.’ She looks at her feet, her right sock has a hole on the little toe. I stop moving and look at her.

‘Sea water? To the coast?’ From Four, you would have to cross at least two borders to reach the nearest coast line. She shakes her head violently and a small laugh escapes her throat.

‘No, of course not. Can you imagine? Me, a cross-over.’ She looks down at that hole again and sighs. ‘Besides, Annette would never find me’.

My eyes remain on her for a few seconds longer, then I move out of the doorway to the top of the stairs. I stop and turn back.

‘Who’s Annette?’ I ask. She looks up from her ripped sock and stares at me.

‘No one.’

I head downstairs, and waiting for me on the counter is a cup of tea. I take a sip, and as the warm black liquid slides down my throat I remember a woman I met in Two who had access to fresh milk. It was the best tea I had ever tasted. Jack emerges from the back, his steps quiet and his movements quicker. The coffee’s caught up with him, and I can smell smoke on his clothes.

‘Good morning,’ his voice is raspy, and he takes another sip of coffee.

‘Who’s Annette?’ He looks at me for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly.

‘Never heard of her.’

‘Stacey’s never mentioned her to you?’ My tea tastes bitter. It should have been sugar this morning.

‘Stacey barely says anything to me. She’s a wanderer, she’ll be out before I can ask her how long she plans to stay. They go as fast as they come,’ he says it quickly, mumbling the end. He reaches for his tobacco.

‘Do you never wonder where they’re going?’ I ask as I stare into my tea. Jack fixes his eyes on me for a moment, then they flit away.

‘Why?’ He takes out some filters and I can see his hands shaking slightly.

‘I do.’ I stare at him. His stubble is growing out, longer than usual, and the circles under his eyes are getting darker. His hands fumble slightly as he’s trying to roll. He abandons the attempt and takes another sip of coffee. He looks at me for a long moment.

‘Where did you say you were from again?’ He puts the coffee mug down.

‘I didn’t,’ I say. He nods.

‘And if I asked, would you tell me?’

I look at him for a moment, my eyes narrowed.

‘You already know,’ I say.

‘Four’s a big place.’ He smirks and takes another sip of coffee, turning back towards the stairs. ‘But not big enough,’ he calls. I stare as he climbs the stairs, his bare feet patting each step.

***

‘I asked my mother why we could cross the borders and others weren’t allowed. She told me we weren’t allowed either, but we do it anyway. Because that’s who we are. It’s in our blood. To be cross-overs. To keep moving, and hiding. I was completely terrified for the next three years. Every time we moved anywhere, I thought we were going to be caught. I became a fantastic hider, if only through fear.’

I hear a soft laugh from the corner of the room.

‘Gradually the fear faded. I’m no longer scared when I cross borders. Cautious, but not scared. When you cross enough times, you realise that they’re just lines in the dirt. We’re all still stuck together on the same piece of earth. I think I realised that even they would fade eventually.’

I pause, and the eyes stare at me through the darkness, waiting.

‘That was scarier. The only life I had ever known, the one in which I could keep myself safe, would eventually crumble. I ignored it and kept moving.’

‘I think that’s normal,’ he says. But it doesn’t make it right.

***

‘I don’t think those are really necessary.’ I point towards the basket of food. Bread, margarine, processed chicken in a can, tinned vegetables, an abundance of potatoes. I’m pointing at the tin of baked beans Jack has just dropped into the basket. Full of salt, no nutrition, shit taste and expensive.

‘I need something to go with the potatoes.’ He’s chewing on the inside of his mouth. Corned beef is twenty-five percent off today.

‘Butter?’ I provide as an alternative.

‘It’s not butter. It’s also very plain.’

‘And cheap. I’m surprised you’re not mal-nourished,’ I say as he puts the beans back on the shelf. He laughs softly.

‘I’m one of the lucky ones.’ We head to the till to pay. Jack’s shoes are dragging lightly on the floor with each step. I want to buy him something nice to eat. But I don’t have any money, and I don’t think I’ve seen chocolate available in a supermarket for at least six years. We’re heading towards the front of the shop. I spot something on the shelves and smile, before sticking out my hand quickly and stuffing it soundlessly into the inside of my jacket. Jack places the basket onto the belt and throws the items on. Our measly purchases don’t look so bad against everyone else’s. Makes it look almost normal.

‘Thanks.’ Jack pays and I pick up the bags. We wander out of the shop and head through the city. ‘I need to stop somewhere,’ he says to me. I nod and follow. I’m looking forward to getting home so I can show him what I’ve taken. I don’t really feel bad. I can’t, not towards a system that’s taken so much from us already. Stealing is the least of my worries.

I follow Jack through the streets. Most people walk on the roads. Roads were built with tarmac, not slabs, so there’s less to fall over when walking. The slabs on the pavement jut out from the ground like teeth. There are holes in the tarmac, but they’re much easier to avoid. Nobody really drives anymore. It’s not an option. Jack walks slowly through the city centre, unhurried. The grey buildings lean in slightly, as if they’re looking at us as we walk.

We turn down a small, dark alley and Jack lets himself into the only door. I follow him into a large hallway. The floors and walls are tiled with what looks like designs from the late twentieth century, a colourful mess of patterns now smudged with dirt and mould. I wonder how the building has managed to keep this design, or even how it’s still here at all, wasn’t gutted during the Reform. Everything was ripped out when they made the borders. They took away anything original, replaced it with uniformity.

I follow Jack up a flight of stairs and through another door. It leads to a large room, dark and musty. There is a small group of people sat around a worn table in the centre. They glance at Jack, registering his arrival, before turning to stare at me. I think I may have interrupted something.

‘She’s with me,’ Jack calls to no one in particular. It floats into the darkness and hangs over their still faces. I stand and wait. The man at the head of the table rises and smiles at me. The rest take this as an indication to turn away.

‘Welcome. Take a seat?’ He motions to one of many seats still available around the table. I nod and take the nearest to me. Jack is at the other end of the table. ‘I’m David.’ He smiles again. His voice leaves a bright trail in the dark, heavy air. It doesn’t quite fit.

‘Val.’ I don’t smile back. I say it quickly, quietly, hoping it will get lost.

‘It’s good that more people are becoming interested in the cause.’ David takes his seat. The rooms falls into uncomfortable silence. Nobody moves.

‘Cause?’ I ask. I have a very good idea of where this is leading, and if I sound ignorant enough, Jack may not be tempted to invite me again. Jack looks over, the barest flash of amusement on his face.

‘You already know,’ he says to me directly, no hint of shame in his voice. The group turn towards me.

‘We’re going to start a revolution, Val.’ David smiles again, and I can see all of his teeth.

***

I shove through the door on my way into the alley. Jack wanders through behind me and closes the door quietly.

‘How dare you?’ I say turning to him, staring him straight in the eye.

‘I thought you’d be interested.’ He doesn’t flinch. He pulls out a tobacco pouch from his pocket and starts rolling. I’m angry at him. I’m angry because he doesn’t know why I have to hide. Angry because I want him to understand. I watch him steadily place the tobacco onto the paper. ‘Seemed like your kind of thing. I think you’re over-reacting.’

A flash of blind rage takes over me and I shove him hard. He hits the wall behind and drops his cigarette. I stare at him for what seems like a long time. I reach into my pocket and shove the pack of biscuits I took into his chest.

‘Don’t ever assume anything about me again.’ I turn away from him and walk towards the city.

***

‘When the announcement came that the world would be split into sections, there were so few left to fight that it was agreed upon without much conflict. People, those who believed in a revolution, had thought to protect what little they had left.’

‘How do you know?’ He asks me from the corner of the room, eyes focused on the make-shift easel in front of him.

‘From people. From memories passed down through families. I’ve met a lot of people who have had something to say.’ He nods, concentrating on a particular stroke of his brush.

‘They had once agreed that things needed to change, and the only way left to them was to start a war. Riots broke out in every major city across the world, and the foundations of civilisation began to crumble. It was a huge operation, led by a number of people whose priority was to make the world into something else, something different that worked for its majority, not just the prosperous few. The idea was to end the suffering caused by economic inequality. To undermine a stagnating system which practised favouritism on a few, and left the majority to flounder and fall apart. They failed.’

The brush stops, and I can hear a large intake of breath, sucked through tar and ash and fire. The smoke fills the room and clings to the ceiling.

‘After the fighting, the official government programme was one of unity. They made us smaller, my mother used to say it was to make us more controllable. They brought what was left of the world together, in the hope that people were so broken they wouldn’t unite, but instead become containable. This was when the idea of Territories was introduced, as a precaution. They placed borders onto their new world, non-existent lines that people had imbedded into them not to cross. Most were so glad the fighting had stopped that they no longer wanted to argue. As it turned out, they would rather have their family and be contained, then be free and see their loved ones killed.’

‘It’s not a choice anymore’ I hear him mutter.

‘Border guards were put in place, and people lived happily in the knowledge that as long as they remained in their zones, they would be safe, protected. This was passed down so thoroughly through generations that it became a feeling of fear, rather than that of security. Now people don’t cross because they’re scared. Scared through a generational Stockholm syndrome, and scared because if they are caught, their system will kill them, not protect them. This is what I’ve been told.’

My eyes move over to the shadowed figure in the corner of the room. Two white dots stare back at me.

‘And now, people are starting to become angry again,’ I smile. ‘But of course, you already know.’

***

I can see the dust fall from the ceiling, float down through the stale, grey air and settle neatly on the board in front of me. Myself, Jack and Stacey are sat in the back room, playing a game I had only ever heard of before. Monopoly. It’s old and the cardboard is damp, something Jack inherited when his granddad died. The box says ‘Manufactured in 2002’. I’m not sure how he managed to hold onto it. I don’t know who’s winning. I think it might be my turn.

‘Do you want one?’ Jack offers his tobacco pouch to Stacey. She looks at him for a moment. He doesn’t talk to her very often.

‘She doesn’t,’ I answer for her. I keep doing that. Her eyes turn towards me as I continue to scan my investments.

‘No, thanks.’ She gives him a small smile, before taking a strand of hair in her hand a running her fingers through it. Over and over.

‘Just thought I’d ask.’ Jack leans back and continues smoking. She repeats movements. Small, quick, repetitive movements. Unlike Jack, who moves once every three minutes or so.

‘It’s not a good habit to pick up.’ I don’t even know what piece I am. Is that an iron?

‘Right now’s the perfect time to be picking up bad habits. Won’t have to live with them for too long.’ He doesn’t smile to himself. Instead he takes the die and rolls. I look at Stacey. Her hands have stopped moving, but she’s still holding onto the piece of hair, stretched out in front of her small face.

‘Don’t start,’ I shoot quickly at Jack.

‘She’s not fucking stupid, Val. She knows what’s going on as well as we do. Well, maybe not as well, but she’s got a good idea, haven’t you?’ He moves his hand slowly through the thick smog of smoke, bringing the cigarette to his mouth. He takes a long pull, watching her. She tucks her hair behind her ear quickly, takes another piece from the other side, near the back.

‘I know some stuff. I don’t really like to listen too much.’

‘Why? It’s important.’

‘It’s terrifying.’ Jack keeps staring at her, Stacey holding his gaze, still fidgeting with her hair. He takes the die and rolls. He takes his turn. Doesn’t buy anything. Stacey rolls. It’s quiet for a long time.

‘Just because it’s going to end, doesn’t mean we have to go with it,’ I say into a silent room. There are no windows letting in natural light. In fact, I’m not even sure what time of day it is. I feel as though I have always been in this room, staring at its sickly pale yellow walls stained with human life, with sweat, scuffs and shit. I stare at the board as though it’ll pack itself away the moment I stop.

‘I think you’re right,’ Stacey whispers at me.

‘You want her to be right.’ Jack is sprawled out on his back, slowly bringing the cigarette back and forth to his mouth, parting that grey sea of smoke each time.

‘Don’t you?’ Stacey asks. He stops with his hand midway to his lips. The sea floods back in around his hand, engulfing it and dulling the splotches of colour.

‘If you want something to happen, you can’t just sit around and wait. Pass me the dice.’ He chucks the die onto the board. I move for him. He cranes his neck to look where he’s landed, stares, and shrugs back to the floor. No purchases, as usual. ‘You’ve got to do something.’

Stacey reaches for the die and rolls. She moves her piece and stares at the square she’s landed on.

‘Annette always used to tell me that she wanted to buy a boat. She wanted to buy a boat so she could sail away on it. Away from this rock, she used to call it. I was always confused, because I was young and I didn’t know any better. There’s no coast in Four, if she set sail anywhere, she’d just reach the same land at the other end, wherever she went. The same rock. Then I finally understood what she meant, but by that time she didn’t want a boat anymore.’ Stacey places the coloured paper into the bank and buys Pall Mall. She puts it next to her other purchases. She has more than me. Neither of us know what to do with them.

‘Why not?’ I ask.

‘Because she doesn’t have anywhere to go.’

‘She could go everywhere,’ Jack muses beside us.

‘What is everywhere? I’ve never even been out of Four.’ Stacey leans backwards, sighs heavily. ‘I don’t even know what the other zones look like. What they do there.’

‘Very similar to what we do here, I imagine. The cities will be the same. Look the same. So will the people. They move and talk and think the same things that we do. I think that’s the point.’ I don’t look at them when I say this.

‘Of what?’ Stacey asks.

‘Of the zones. No one sees or hears or breathes anything outside of it all their lives. It pacifies people. Gives them comfort.’

‘Not anymore.’ Jack lets out a soft laugh from the floor.

‘You don’t know that for sure,’ Stacey tells me, her brow furrowed. She’s looking at me and her eyes are too big for her face and I can’t keep from staring at them. They’re so familiar.

‘No, I don’t,’ I say. I roll the die. Seven. I land on free parking. There’s no money left. Stacey is pulling on her hair again, stroking down any lose strands. Jack is still laid down, cigarette hanging limp out of his mouth, staring at the ceiling like it’s about to collapse.

‘What does she want now?’ I ask. They both look over at me. I can feel their eyes on my skin.

‘What?’ Asks Jack.

‘Annette. What does she want now?’ Stacey is staring at me, wide-eyed, her mouth slightly open. Jack throws the die onto the board, but I don’t move his piece. He sighs deeply and sits up, taking the turn. He lands on jail. Don’t pass go. Don’t collect £200.

‘Shit.’ He laughs to himself softly, places his piece onto the barred square, and lies back down. The room is swallowed by silence. Stacey is still staring at me, her eyes boring into my cheeks.

‘Nothing.’ Her eyes glaze over. They’re still pointed towards my face, but I don’t think she’s really looking at me anymore. ‘She doesn’t want anything.’

‘What about you?’ I ask. Stacey focuses on my face again and pauses for a moment, staring. Then she shrugs, so quietly and simply that I almost miss it. That’s when I remember who Annette is. She’s not her mother. Stacey doesn’t have one, not like I did. One to protect her, and to carry her through borders and to tell her that she’s the reason they live and breathe. That they keep going.

Stacey has Annette. And Annette doesn’t want anything.

It’s my turn.

***

‘The violence got worse gradually. Before, if you were caught, you were contained. Taken to a prison camp, re-habilitated. It was still wrong, but it wasn’t murder. I remember the exact moment. When it changed.’ I look out of the large window. The city is moving, breathing. It pulses with life.

‘This belonged to your father, my mother said to me.’ I hold up my ring to show him.

‘She didn’t ever tell me much about him, apart from how good of a man he was. Keep it safe, she said. I used to ask where he was, but that stopped when I was about nine. I didn’t really know what it meant. It was a gift, something I had rarely received. It was far too big, so I kept it on a chain around my neck. When I got older, I put it onto my thumb. It fit, just about. We were crossing from Two to Three, and I lost it in the wilds. I insisted on going back to look, and I did, no matter how much my mother shouted after me. I found it, eventually, caked in mud. When I got to the edge of the wilds, just bordering the Skirts of Three, I saw ahead that she was surrounded by border guards. There, on the fringes of Three, my mother was shot once in the head. I stayed silent, even as my throat burned and my muscles ached to move. They dragged her away, and I went back to Two.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Jack doesn’t take his eyes off the canvas and the brush keeps moving. I can’t imagine how this is helping him, but I smile.

‘My father saved my life that day. The ring fits perfectly now.’

***

‘I just think they were trying to placate us,’ Jack tells me as we walk through the street. ‘They didn’t want us to know, so they split us all up, to give the allusion of security. To make us compliant, submissive. When it looks like something’s being done, people shut up and watch it happen. It doesn’t matter what they’re actually doing. People just need to see movement, production. Now that’s falling apart and people still want to know. Breaking everything up just made everyone reach out further.’ He talks as if he were there while this was happening. Neither of us were there, but fear imbeds itself in the roots of each generation, carrying it with them. Jack knows these things because his Grandfather knew these things. His Grandfather knew these things because his own Grandmother lived through these things. History happens to those we know, and knew. It happens to people, to us.

‘We couldn’t have discussed this in private?’ I say quietly. Truth is this is all Jack has been talking about recently. Since we became closer, more intimate, he speaks a lot more openly. About a lot of things, but mainly about revolution. I have to remind him continually that such conversation is in fact severely punishable. He ignores me.

‘We’re at a tipping point. There’s one direction they can go in now, and that’s to enforce the mistaken decisions they’ve made. They keep pulling, latching on and hoping we don’t fall. But we’re steadily moving closer, and now, we’re on the edge.’ He’s getting continually excited, his hands flitting about the air like they’re trying to catch something. I watch as they push through the air. They’re still splattered with different colours of faded paint. I’m trying to place a time when I’ve seen him painting.

‘Val, are you listening?’ He’s got himself worked up and he’s staring at me, waiting for me to agree. I’m about to tell him to calm down when we round the corner and just up the road I spot a barricade. A wall of border guards all in worn out riot gear stand with their dented shields and bruised faces. Jack stops dead but I grab onto his hand and keep moving. We can’t make ourselves stand out. I can feel his palms start to sweat and squeeze his hand twice in reassurance. Up ahead there’s a small alleyway to the left which we can duck into. I keep moving, Jack in tow, and keep my eyes to the ground.

‘Don’t look at them and don’t stop,’ I whisper beside me. But I can see him staring. He stops dead, and I don’t try and drag him. I’ll just draw attention. I stop with him and turn towards him. He’s staring at the wall, right at the faces behind the cracked shields. I look at him, almost pleading. I’m really good at disappearing, becoming invisible. Right now, it’s myself and Jack stood alone, staring into a barricade of battered border guards. We’re completely vulnerable.

‘Jack, please,’ I say between gritted teeth. I quickly look over to where he’s staring, and I understand instantly why. Just behind the wall dotted metres apart are guards holding guns, pointed straight out in front. I run my eyes quickly over the barricade and spot at least six of them. I start moving forward again and then I spot one of the guards staring at me. Staring blankly, like they’re trying to draw a memory. I recognise those eyes, and that rigid expression. I lower my own eyes and move, Jack follows. I head straight for the alley and duck into it. I speed up once we’re alone, dragging Jack behind me. I head straight back to the hostel, shove the door open and fling Jack inside. I lock the door and lean against it. I take a few breaths, and look up at Jack. He’s leaning against the desk, his features pulled into a mask of confusion.

‘What the hell was that?’ I ask. Jack doesn’t look at me, he just stares at the cracked floor.

‘They’ve never had guns before,’ he says quietly. His hands tighten on the counter, and he looks up towards me. ‘Something’s changed.’ I stare at his face, damp with sweat.

‘They have. Just not here,’ I say.

I watch him silently as he grows angrier. He lets out a short, hard laugh.

‘Shit.’ He pushes himself away from the counter and goes behind it, starts rolling a cigarette. I think about that face I saw in the crowd, those eyes boring into me. It won’t be long before he registers what he saw. They’re coming into the territories.

It’s time I moved on.

***

I put on my coat and sling my back pack over my shoulder. As always, everything I need fits into one small backpack. It goes unnoticed by most, just someone going to work or on their way home, picking up some food for dinner. Not someone who’s about to cross the border.

I creep quietly out of my room and onto the landing, avoiding the floor boards that squeak. I make my way down the stairs and head for the front door. Taking hold of the door-knob, I pause for one moment and almost turn back. I shut my eyes, breathe, then pull.

‘Val?’ I spin around to see Stacey stood in the kitchen doorway. Clad in a baggy top and shorts, rubbing half closed eye lids, she looks at me, confused.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Just out quickly,’ I say automatically. Even I can hear how feeble the excuse is. She stares at me for a moment, her brow slightly furrowed. She looks upset.

‘Why are you leaving?’ Her voice is small, but it carries across the space between us and hits me straight in the stomach. I look at her, notice her eyes begin to shine, her mouth curling downwards.

The knot in my stomach tightens.

‘I can’t stay Stacey. I’m sorry. It’s better if I leave.’ I try to reassure her, my voice a whisper.

‘Better for who?’ She asks. She walks towards me, closing the space between us. She stops a few steps in front of me. The look on her face, now magnified, makes me want to turn and run.

‘For everyone.’

‘I want to come with you.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘I’ve never been out of Four, Val.’ She stares at me, the brown pools of her eyes pleading. I turn away. ‘You can’t go,’ she says bluntly.

‘I can.’ I take one last lingering look, then pull the door open. I feel her hand on my arm, her grip firm. I want to turn, to tell her to let go. But I can’t look at her.

‘She’s not coming,’ she whispers from behind me. ‘She’s not coming for me Val.’ I stand, frozen, her hand still glued tightly to my arm.

I realise then why Stacey is so familiar. She is me, younger and more fragile. Looking for someone to help her. To carry her over borders. But I am not my mother.

‘I can’t help you,’ I say. ‘You need to learn what everyone else has had to. How to survive.’ Her hand moves away from my arm. After a long time, I hear her footsteps as she retreats across the reception and goes back upstairs. A moment’s pause, then I cross the threshold of the building and close the door behind me.

I move away from the building, stumbling, and stop, bent forwards, eyes closed, breathing. I lift up my head and take one last big gulp of air before I head away from the hostel, away from Stacey and from Jack. Away from their disappointed stares and confused expressions. I keep moving one foot in front of the other, keep putting more and more distance between myself and them. I walk until I start to enter the Skirts. The air keeps getting thinner, my shoulders lighter. I keep moving forward, determined to make it out of the city before the sun comes up. I find the main road that will carry me out and away from the city, out into the wilds. Just as my foot is about to leave the cracked tarmac and hit dirt, I stop. My foot is mid-step, frozen in the air, and I’m staring at that compact dirt like it will devour me and I can hear the sound of my own breath it’s so quiet. I put my foot back on the tarmac and wonder how long it will take Jack to realise I’m not there, and how long it will take Stacey to tell him and whether she already has.

I turn back and retrace my footsteps. Faster this time, my feet fly over the concrete,

and then I start to run. I run back into the Mains and back to the street and back to the hostel. I stop just outside those doors. The black hand prints still cover the archway and I put my hand on top of one of them again. I let myself in quietly and sneak up the stairs. As I open Stacey’s door I can see her huddled form under the quilt. She turns as she hears me enter, and stares at me. We hold each other’s gaze for a moment, before her eyes soften, and I see them start to shine again.

‘Pack your things. One bag. Bring something warm.’ I close her door and head to Jack’s room.

***

‘This is a terrible idea.’

I stand above Jack, half-awake and sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. They’re red, and the paint on his hands is spreading across his face.

‘This is what I do,’ I say. I pause and stare at him. I don’t think he’ll understand. ‘We’re heading to the North coast. I decided a few days ago. I can’t make plans, it’s not safe. I have to be un-traceable.’ I stand in my over-worn thick coat that drowns me, bag pulling at my shoulders.

‘I’m not coming with you,’ he says bluntly.

‘I didn’t ask you to.’

‘So why did you bother coming in here?’ I stare down at him. He moves from the bed and stands in front of me, swaying slightly. He’s tired.

‘It’s getting worse,’ I lower my voice. ‘It used to just be at the borders. The violence, the guns. It’s not anymore. The borders are spreading. The cages are getting smaller and they’re moving inside of them now.’ He stares at me, disbelieving.

‘You’re warning me now? You were at the meeting Val, we’re responding! We’re taking action. You’re just running.’ He reaches towards pockets that aren’t there. ‘I knew what you were. I figured it out pretty quickly. I wanted you to stay. To help. I thought you’d be able to help.’ He laughs softly and turns away.

‘This is who I am.’ I pause, trying to think. ‘It’s all I have. And I’m not going to stop. Not for you.’ He stares at me for a long moment. He’s looking at my face, and he’s trying to recognise something there. I know he won’t find what he’s looking for. I never can.

***

We step out from the hostel and I re-trace my steps back towards the Skirts. The air is thin, light, carrying a faint orange hue from the imminent sunrise. I try to walk fast, but Stacey is slowing me down. Her treads on the tarmac are unusually loud and heavy, and they echo through the towering buildings. I stop and turn behind me. Stacey catches my eye and immediately knows to quieten. I continue onwards, following my own path out of the city.

It is getting lighter and lighter, but the streets are still completely clear. We walk through the Mains, the windows and doors all shut tight around us. There’s no movement or light coming from the tower blocks, there’s no wind, no birds and no voices. It is silent. I can hear our breath rise and fall with our footsteps.

It is getting lighter and yet no one is moving. I lead Stacey through the narrow streets towards the market square. There is a flea market there every day, where people desperately try to sell things no one needs for money to buy food that they can’t afford. It is the only place I can think of where people might have started to gather, to set up for the day. It is so quiet that my ears start to ring and I need to see other people, know that they’re outside starting their day. Talking, moving, breathing.

The market is a large square surrounded by buildings. The only way in is through one of the many small streets surrounding it. I make my way down one of these, Stacey just behind me. If I reach my hands backwards I can touch her. My footsteps are getting faster and faster and I know she is struggling to keep up. I reach the edge of the square.

It is empty. Silent. The air is thin, stifled. The buildings are blocking the air from entering, suffocating me. I stop dead. Stacey almost smacks into the back of me.

‘Val?’ She whispers. She moves around me and into the square. She steps out from the shadowed street and the sun hits her face. She looks back at me, still moving away.

‘Come on,’ she whispers again hurriedly. She walks into the square, and even I can’t hear her footsteps. It might be the ringing in my ears.

Something is wrong.

Stacey reaches the middle and turns back. She smiles. And before I notice the dark silhouettes hidden in the surrounding streets, I see her body jolt forwards, like a hand has ripped through her back and out of her rib cage. She falls to her knees. I want to move from the shadow of the street, I want to pick her up and run, but I can’t. My feet are stuck once again to the concrete. My throat burns and my muscles ache, just like before.

It doesn’t get easier.

Stacey falls lightly onto the ground and I stare at her small, still body. Her eyes have glazed over and I know that she is dead.

The border guards move from the shadows of the surrounding streets. Their scuffed boots drag along the pavement and their worn faces stare at Stacey’s body. A pool of thick red blood is spilling out beneath her, filling the cracks in the concrete. One of them moves from the group and I recognise him. The one from the barricade. He crouches down beside Stacey’s stiff body and flips her over. A moment passes and his eyes narrow as they look up from Stacey, from the blood trapped in between her smiling teeth.

And I run.

***

‘They followed me. They’ve never been able to do that before.’ Sitting in the small dark meeting room where I was once so reluctant to be, Jack sits across from me at the broken table, staring at the floor. The others aren’t here yet. ‘I can’t run anymore. I’m trapped.’

He remains silent, clutching his hands together. He looks down at the colours covering them.

‘I can’t know for sure if they’ll realise what they’ve done. If they know it wasn’t me. Maybe they’ll stop looking.’ I laugh, louder than I should. I want to scream. ‘That’s the second time someone has been shot because of me.’

‘They must know how people are feeling. What they’re planning.’ Jack pauses. He’s not listening. ‘It’s not safe. You were right. They’re coming away from the borders.’ I lace my fingers together and lean my head on them. After leaving Stacey in the square I found my way back to the safe house, the hideaway for Jack’s revolutionary crusade. I haven’t stepped outside since.

‘I did what I do best. I ran. And I hid.’ And I’m still hiding. He looks up at me.

‘You did what anyone would have done.’

‘That doesn’t make it right, though.’ I look into his eyes. I don’t want him to forgive me. He turns away.

‘I want to show you something.’ He gets up and heads towards the door. I follow him up twelve flights of stairs and down a long, dark hallway. We head so far back that I can no longer see through the darkness. I hear Jack fumble with a key to my left, and then a door swings open. Natural light streams from the room and onto my face. Jack gestures for me to enter.

We’re at the top of the building, and the wall on the far side of the room is entirely made of glass. You can see straight out over Territory Four, almost to the border. The view is incredible. All my travelling and I’ve never seen as much at once as I do in this very moment.

‘This is my contribution to the cause.’ I turn and stare at where Jack has just spoken. I look at the walls, and mounted in every available space are maps. Hand drawn, hand painted maps. Maps of our island. Of our rock.

‘I’ve been painting these since I was about fourteen. I found an old map when I cleared out my Granddad’s flat. A map from before the borders.’ He stares at me, and smiles. ‘It was huge Val. You wouldn’t believe…’

‘How do you know what it looks like?’ I ask. I walk toward the paintings. Some are painted from further distances, encompassing everything. Some are maps of each territory, or even each Mains, each Skirts. They all include different details on them. Safe houses, government buildings, unofficial state surveillance dens, everything.

‘That’s what the hostel is. It’s what it became, when I realised who was visiting. Not everyone who came, but sometimes. Wanderers, cross-overs. Individually, no one knew much. But together…’ He gestures around the room. ‘Collectively, I’ve been able to map all of the territories. I followed the format of the map my Grandfather left behind. People under-estimate each other. I don’t.’ I stare at him, wide-eyed. ‘I need you to help me finish them.’ I turn and reach towards a painting. I feel the lines, the cities, the wilds. I can feel every bump, every groove and stroke of the brush.

‘What happened wasn’t your fault. The Territories, they’re not natural. But you’re right, you don’t have to leave. You want to do something? Stop running and help me. Tell me everything you know.’ I stare at the maps in front of me. The colours that I’ve seen so many times before smudged onto Jack’s hands look so much brighter on paper. I turn, and I look at all of the maps, of everywhere I have been. And it feels too small. And I know that I’ve always been trapped, whether I’ve been running through territories or not.

‘I think they’ll help,’ Jack says from the middle of the room. I look over at him, encased in his paintings.

‘I’ll do what I can.’ I walk towards him. I catch sight of a pile of empty black paint tins in the corner of the room. ‘That’s what the hand prints are for.’ I realise.

‘Everyone who’s contributed to this. I’ve been doing it for twelve years now. I’m so close.’ I nod. A map tells people that there’s more. There’s more to this earth than what’s inside their zone. It tells them that there are others like them. It tells them that we’re here.

Chloe Patricia Beale Creative Writing

Tuesday, 27 May 2014

Monday, 26 May 2014

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