Brother in the Land (7 page)

We lost count of time after a while. There was no radio or TV, and all the public clocks had either fallen or stopped. There were watches and house-clocks but nothing to check them against. We still looked at our watches and said, ‘It's ten o'clock' or ‘It's dinner-time,' but it wasn't really, everybody's time was different.

It was the same with days and dates. You might think it's impossible for everybody to forget what day it is, but it's easy once there's no work to go to or appointments to keep. I fancied they'd be keeping accurate time up at Kershaw Farm, and maybe there was somebody somewhere cutting notches in a pole like Robinson Crusoe, but the rest of us lost track within a few weeks and the whole system disintegrated.

We took to estimating time by the sun's position, the pains in our bellies, and the quality of the light.

I don't know when it was, therefore, that the blue car appeared again. I know it was morning, and stunningly cold, and that the tinny quack of the loudspeaker carried a long way on the frigid air.

A combination of factors had weakened us: the onset of winter, the death of optimism, the growth of fear. Nobody hurried towards the long-anticipated sound. There was no capering throng, and no cheering. We paused in our tasks, glanced into one-another's eyes and moved without
unnecessary speed to the roadside where we stood, looking deceptively fat in our layers of shabby clothes.

The car crunched down the trash-strewn, hoary street, followed by a drab-green APC. Both vehicles stopped and the loudspeaker clicked.

‘We represent your Local Commissioner,' said the voice.

‘Aye,' muttered a woman close to me. ‘We know.'

‘Stand by for a Special Instruction.' We stood by.

‘In response to the acute shortages of food and fuel within his area, the Commissioner has drawn up a system of rationing which he proposes to put into immediate effect.' The speaker paused. There was a shuffling of cold feet and somebody coughed.

‘A registration-point has been set up at the council offices in Market Square. It will be manned for the next three days, and a ration-card will be issued to each person who presents himself for registration. Parents or guardians of children must take their children with them in order to obtain child ration cards. No card will be issued to one person for use by another. Issue of food rations will commence on the morning following the final registration day, a field-kitchen having been set up for this purpose in Ramsden Park. Vehicles will tour the town over the next few days, collecting food and fuel for fair distribution, and you are advised that as of now, the hoarding or concealment of food and fuel is an offence carrying severe penalties. You are urged to co-operate with the Authority in the interest of national recovery. That is all.'

The vehicles moved on. The woman who had spoken before said, ‘What the heck do they think we've got here; coal-dumps and supermarkets or what?'

‘I don't trust 'em,' a man replied. ‘Not after that hospital gag. They're getting nowt out of me.'

‘Aye,' said another. ‘We co-operated with authority all our lives and look where it got us.' He indicated the broken town with a sweep of his arm and sounds of agreement greeted the gesture.

The gathering began to break up. Dad and Ben had gone already, and I was about to follow them when I heard somebody
say, ‘I hope those Lodges'll turn their stock over all the same: they've enough stuff down there to feed an army.'

I glanced round. A knot of people lingered nearby, looking in my direction. I looked away quickly and went towards the shop. I didn't like what I'd heard, but I couldn't really blame them. Dad had doled out his stuff to a chosen few while the majority went hungry, and he couldn't expect to be the most popular man in town. Still, there was a new situation now. People were going to be fed regularly, including us. There was no need to hoard the stuff any longer, and I took it for granted he'd turn it over to the Authority.

I was wrong, though. As soon as I was back under the awning he said, ‘Those people out there were right – a man'd be a fool to trust 'em with his stuff.'

I looked at him. ‘Some of them were talking about us just now,' I said. ‘And there's no way they're going to let us get away with it, Dad. If we don't turn it in they'll shop us.'

‘Who?' he demanded. ‘Who's going to shop us? What good would that do 'em?'

I shrugged. ‘It won't do them any good, Dad – they'll do it out of envy. And even if they don't, those people aren't daft. This was a shop – they'll know we've got stuff stashed away.'

‘Well –' He jerked his head towards the cellar. ‘There's a perfectly good double-barrelled shotgun down there, and you've got that pistol. We've held our patch up to now and we'll go on holding it.'

‘But Dad!' I cried. ‘We've held it against unarmed people who're sick and weak. We're talking about soldiers now. If we try to stop them they'll kill us.'

‘All right, then,' he snarled. ‘That's exactly what they'll have to do, because they'll get nowt out of me while I'm living!'

Next day I took Ben along to get the two of us registered while Dad looked after the shop. It was a frosty morning and Ben made the most of it. There were a lot of people about, most of them heading for the council offices and he dodged among them, looking for icy patches to slide on.

Most people seemed to be co-operating, in spite of the rebellious mutterings of the previous day, and I was worried as hell about Dad.

I hurried a bit, zig-zagging between the ragged figures to keep the kid in sight. I was wearing this duffel-coat with Charlie's gun in the pocket, just in case.

When we got to Market Square there was a massive queue in front of the offices. An APC was parked in the middle and three or four blokes in fallout suits walked up and down the queue with submachine-guns, keeping everybody in line.

I got hold of Ben's hand and tagged on the end of the queue. He tried to break loose. ‘Gerroff!' he snarled. ‘I want to see the tank.' I tightened my grip.

‘It's not a tank,' I told him. ‘It's an APC.'

‘Well, I want to see the APC then,' he retorted. ‘I'm gonna get on top of it.'

‘No you're not. See that man with the gun? If he sees you by yourself he'll shoot you.'

‘Will he heck!' He started trying to prize my fingers apart
with his free hand, going red in the face. I gave his arm a jerk.

‘Give over Ben, will you? Dad said you'd got to stick with me.'

‘Did he heck.' It was Ben's favourite word, heck. He thought it was swearing.

‘Yes he did – you didn't hear him.' The queue shuffled forward a yard or so. ‘We've got to wait in this queue, or else we won't get anything to eat.'

‘ 'Course we will!' he piped, querulously. ‘What about all that stuff down the –.'

‘Shaddap!' I nearly jerked him off his feet, the poor little sod. ‘Ow!' He swung a kick at my shins. ‘You nearly pulled my arm Off, you big puff!'

‘Hey!' I put on this very stern expression. ‘Don't ever let me hear you use that word again. Dad'll half-kill you if he hears you.'

‘Will he heck,' he snarled. ‘The big puff.'

I was about to slap his head when I saw Kim. She'd just entered the square and was staring in dismay at the queue, which had lengthened since Ben and I had joined it. I waved and called to her, hoping that those behind would take us for brother and sister or something, and let her in. She spotted me and came over.

‘You've taken your time,' I said, giving her a broad wink. ‘Dad told you to come straight here.'

‘Nuts to Dad!' She was quick on the uptake. ‘I had to see someone.' She eased herself in beside me. No resentful murmurings from behind.

‘Who're you?' shrilled Ben.

‘Don't act the goat, Ben,' I said. ‘We're not in the mood.'

‘Yes, but –'

‘Give over!' I crushed his knuckles.

‘Who –?'

I squeezed harder. He winced and gave in, but it was too late.

‘Who is she, then?' said a voice behind us. ‘Queue-jumping, are we?'

I could have murdered our Ben. I turned.

It must have been my lucky day. He was a very short, thin guy with a sharp, stubbly face under a beat-up hat. His pinched, red nose had a droplet on its tip.

‘You talking to my sister, mister?' I rhymed. He eyed me nervously.

‘If she's your sister, how come the kid doesn't know her?'

‘Aye,' put in a woman behind him. I silenced her with a glare, then looked at the little guy.

‘Listen,' I hissed. ‘The nipper's fooling but I'm not. One more peep out of you and I'll chew your nose off: okay?'

He looked at me in silence for a moment. ‘ 'Ti'nt fair,' he muttered.

‘What is?' I growled. Having no answer to this he dropped his eyes and I turned my back on him.

‘You're learning,' said Kim in my ear. Her breath smelt sweet and made me tingle.

‘What're you doing here, anyway?' I countered. ‘I thought you'd see it as a trap or something, like my dad.' She shrugged.

‘There'll be a catch in it somewhere. They're getting all our names, for one thing, but what choice is there when there's no grub?' She glanced at me sharply. ‘Where is your dad, by the way?'

‘At home.' I hoped she'd leave it at that.

‘Guarding the stock,' she murmured. The queue shuffled forward again. I glanced around and was relieved to find nobody taking an interest in our conversation.

‘Yes,' I whispered. ‘His idea, not mine. Anyway, I thought you'd approve. You said if you were up at Kershaw Farm you'd hang onto what you'd got, remember?'

‘It's not the same.' She snapped, out loud.

‘Sssh!' I squeezed her arm. ‘Somebody'll hear you. What's different about it?'

‘He's one of us,' she hissed. ‘He's cheating his own people. I don't know how you can defend him.'

‘I'm not, but you said we've got to be as hard as they are and that's what he's being – hard.'

‘Stop throwing my words back at me! And watch what you're doing.' The people in front of us had moved without my
noticing. We closed the gap.

‘You're illogical,' I told her. ‘Like all women.'

‘And you're a sexist pig!' she retorted. ‘Like all men.'

‘I wish you'd both shurrup,' scowled Ben. ‘You sound like Mum and Dad.'

Kim caught my eye and grinned. I felt for her hand and squeezed it and we stood there like a family queueing for a movie.

What they did was, they gave the Spacers marked cards. I mean the ones who were taken along to register. Those with no relatives or friends didn't go at all, and died when the loose grub ran out.

You can always spot a Spacer. It doesn't matter how normal you try to make them seem there's always something; eyes or hair or the way they move. Even their clothes. I can't explain but you know what I mean.

Anyway, those characters at the offices spotted them all right, and marked their cards. Nobody knew at the time, but a couple of days later when everybody trooped up to Ramsden Park with bowls and plates and spoons there were two queues.

These queues were about a quarter of a mile long and it was raining, and when some people reached the front and showed their cards they were sent to the other queue. They had to go to the back and start all over again. We had to; me and Ben. We'd joined the Spacers' queue, only nobody told us – nobody called it the Spacers' queue. They just sorted people out when they got to the front, so that it wasn't obvious what was happening.

You've probably guessed the rest. They put something in the Spacers' grub. It all looked the same: a thick, brown stew, steaming hot, served from field-kitchens under canvas by guys in fallout suits. We stood about in the rain, shoving it into our mouths, chatting. There was a bit of a party atmosphere that
first time, in spite of the weather. It was great to know there'd be grub every day without our having to scavenge for it. There were soldiers dotted about with submachine-guns, looking for Goths. That was another new word; Goth. It meant anybody from outside. There were these bands of wandering people from God knows where, who'd drift in now and then looking for grub. Savages they were, with an extra-special viciousness that set them apart from the locals. It was them you had to watch out for when you went anywhere on your own. A local would usually back off if you showed him a club or something, but not a Goth. Goths were the worst, until the Purples started up.

Anyway, there were the soldiers and we felt safe. It was nice to eat without having to look around all the time like a thrush in a cattery.

It was three or four hours later that the poison started to work. I didn't see it myself but they said it was horrible. I heard some of the poor sods yelping and that was enough for me.

Next day we didn't go. The park must have been half-empty. Not only were all the Spacers missing, but a lot of other people stayed away as well. Quite a few came to us for food. It's not much fun when you don't know what you're eating.

I heard all about it afterwards though, from Kim. She said there were two queues again, and the worst thing was people's faces as they peered at their cards, comparing them; trying to decide which line was safe. If any. One or two even asked the soldiers, who thought it was no end of a laugh and gave conflicting answers; hinting first that this queue was for the chop, then that. Nevertheless people ate; hundreds and hundreds of them. Afterwards they trailed home sweating, waiting for the pains to start. It's amazing what you'll do when you're hungry.