The Disappeared (32 page)

‘Thanks.’

‘Then you’re on your own. You get caught, you don’t mention me. Got it?’

‘Okay.’

She shrugs off her black suit jacket and hands it to me. It’s not a bad fit. A little short in the arms. Her red dress is tight. She’s watching me from under hooded eyes. I swallow. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I say.

‘Because I feel like it.’ She laughs and shakes back her hair and wriggles her shoulders with pleasure. For a moment she reminds me of Carma.

‘Come on, they’ll be starting soon,’ she says.

I follow her meekly, even though I’d like to shake her. She’s behaving like this is a game of dare. She’s not interested in abused children, but she likes the idea of being a bit naughty. A nasty thought strikes me: was I ever that selfish? But I have to push it away because we’re out in the corridor and I need to concentrate.

I try not to slink along or look over my shoulder. I walk tall and pull together my jacket so that my Academy shirt doesn’t show. As we approach the hall I see the two broad guards standing just inside the doors. My heart races.
I’ve got a press pass
, I remind myself. When we pass through the door both the guards’ attention is fully fixed on Janna and her swaying hips. ‘No recording equipment,’ one of them says. He waves a scanner over me and then starts on Janna. ‘Steady on!’ she giggles and bats away the scanner as he brings it closer to her chest. She hands him her communicator to add to a pile already confiscated. He grins at Janna while he takes her name. ‘You can collect it afterwards,’ he says.

The hall is rammed. The rows of chairs go all the way from the back to the foot of the stage with only a narrow gap down the middle. We sit near the back at the end of a row. We’re close to the maintenance room. The door is still closed. I hope Ali is okay.

I’m surrounded by a sea of suited journalists. Because only the official cameras and microphones are allowed, they’re all clutching old-fashioned notepads.

A man with silver hair comes on stage and the audience rustle into silence.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he says. ‘In a moment we will go live on the Info and, following a short speech from our esteemed leader, there will be an opportunity for questions from the press. But first I would like to thank you all for attending. Today we are lucky enough to witness a great leap forward in education. Today a dozen new Academies will be opened. Let me introduce to you the man who has built up a system which has eradicated teenage unemployment and bolstered the production power of our factories . . .’

All around me the audience clap.

‘. . . The Leader.’

The curtains at the back of the stage part and there he is.

My father.

He looks like he does on the TV. He doesn’t seem right for real life. His tan is too deep and his hair is too shiny. Like he’s impersonating himself.
That’s my dad
, I tell myself, but it means nothing.

A whippet-thin man in trainers bobs in front of the camera and gives a countdown. The Leader snaps on a smile. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he says, ‘we’re here today to celebrate. We’re here to celebrate success.’ He pauses like he’s about to give us the punchline of a joke. ‘Not my success in instigating a more effective Academy framework and not your success in supporting a system that guides young people to realise their full potential, but the success of those young people themselves.’ He turns to the audience and widens his eyes. People are always talking about what great presence he has, but actually in the flesh he seems a bit . . . intense. Creepy even.

‘Seventeen years ago this country had just come out of the Long War. Times were hard.’ He bangs his fist on his hand. ‘Our young people were without guidance or prospects. They were low, they were useless, they were without
purpose
.’ He stamps his foot to match his raised voice.

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing; he sounds ridiculous, but everyone else is listening intently.

‘Today we have a system that teaches young people to work. A system that shows them there is a reward, yes, a sweet reward
if
you work hard and contribute to the country. We have let our children know that we don’t tolerate slackers or non-conformists.’ He pauses to sweep the audience with his flashing eyes. ‘We have to teach the children that idleness leads to destruction. And do you know what, ladies and gentlemen? They thrive on it. We have given these children boundaries and expectations and they have stepped up to the mark and taken their place as useful members of society.’

I almost shout out:
As slave labour
. But I choke it back.

‘Academies don’t just give these children an education –’ he raises both hands like a conductor ‘– they give them a future.’

The applause is deafening. Bile rises in my throat. What is wrong with everyone? They’re taken in by his glaring and pointing. They’re only hearing his stamping and shouting. None of them are listening to what he actually says.

The Leader is reaching out his arm to draw an Academy student on stage.

‘I’d like you to meet someone special,’ says The Leader. ‘This is Carma.’

Carma appears on stage. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since she disappeared to have her baby. Her stomach is flat again, but she’s walking a little stiffly. She tosses back her hair and smiles to the camera.

‘Carma, can you tell us what your life was like before you came to the Academy?’ says The Leader.

‘My mum had a morph addiction and my dad hitted us. It was ef—’ Carma catches his eye. ‘It was big bad.’

Janna looks at me. I shake my head. Kay told me that Carma was born in an Academy. She’s never met her mother.

‘Tell us about your life at the Academy,’ says The Leader to Carma.

Carma takes a deep breath. ‘I’ve been given inspiration, education and aspirations,’ she says in a rush.

Janna snorts. She’s right. Inspiration, education and aspirations? King Hell. The scriptwriter could at least have given her something to say that sounded like her. But nobody seems to care. They’re all clapping again.

‘And soon Carma will be ready to continue her contribution to society by joining our factory workers.’

The audience clap again. The Leader gives Carma a gentle push off stage, but she walks slowly, waving and blowing kisses.

The Leader spreads his hands ‘Any questions?’ he says.

Before he’s finished the words I’m on my feet. ‘Why are electric shocks used on Academy inmates?’

The hall goes silent. The expression on The Leader’s face doesn’t change. His eyes flick sideways to his aide with the silver hair. He pushes his smile out even further. ‘The Academy system provides a package of sanctions and rewards,’ he says. ‘Discipline is an essential factor in enabling children to fulfil their potential—’

‘Are you saying it’s acceptable to use electric shocks? And beatings? To starve children? To drug them—’

‘These children have a history of violent non-conformist behaviour. It’s disappointing when we have to listen to these so-called liberal protests. Do you really think our children, our country, would benefit if we allowed them to run wild? Maybe you’re too young to remember a time when violent students terrified their enforcers – the very people trying to assist them?’

‘Enforcers don’t assist anyone,’ I say. ‘Enforcers encourage unmarried sex between students and allow brutal fights to take place. They stand by while malnourished children are kept in filthy conditions and if anyone dares to speak up about this treatment, what do you think happens to them? They’re thrown out into the Wilderness.’

There’s a sharp intake of breath when I mention the Wilderness.

‘You are mistaken,’ The Leader says. ‘Enforcers are trained to get the best from their students.’ His smile has gone.

‘I don’t think you should beat children to get what you want from them. I don’t think young people should be imprisoned in Academies at all.’

People are muttering and turning round to try and get a look at me.

‘We
need
Academies.’ The Leader clenches a fist. ‘We need to be tough to get the best.’

The audience are still nodding their heads, but there’s an air of unease.

‘Children need discipline.’ He slaps his hands together. ‘It’s discipline that’s got us where we are today.’

‘He’s getting angry,’ Janna whispers. She’s right. He’s waving his hands even more than before and a flush is creeping up his neck.

‘No one said that getting back on our feet would be easy. There are always sacrifices to be made. Every difficult decision I make, I make for the good of this country.’ He’s glaring out at the audience. ‘If you only knew—’

The Leader’s aide touches his arm, but The Leader shakes him off.

‘Are you saying that Academy enforcers do use electric shocks and drug the kids?’ calls someone from across the hall.

The Leader grips the side of the lectern. ‘Let me tell you what this comes down to. We need every citizen’s efforts just to endure. Criticism does not sting me, but this soft and weak attitude could be our undoing. I urge you not to be taken in by this feeble talk. Academies are the backbone of this country.’

I’m angry now. ‘Don’t try to explain it away.’ I raise my voice. ‘Don’t use your rhetoric. There’s nothing that you can say that will make it right to mistreat children. You are
wrong
.’

‘No, young man,
you
are the one who misunderstands. You have no idea how important it is that our children learn. We can’t survive without their contribution and they must learn their duty and if we have to beat that into them—’

‘CUT!’ shouts the aide.

We’ve got him. He’s admitted it.

The Leader is red in the face now, jabbing his finger at the audience. ‘It’s for their own good!’ he shouts. ‘It’s for the good of all! You can’t begin to appreciate just how tough life is. I am trying to help my people. And anyone who gets in my way will be—’

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ one of the suits from The Leader’s party interrupts.

The aide leads The Leader away. The journalists have all started talking.

‘Let’s not get overexcited,’ the suit continues. ‘The Leader is following a punishing schedule at the moment and I fear it may have taken its toll on his health. I think we should avoid taking remarks out of context.’

‘Is it true Academies use electric shocks?’ a man with a booming voice yells out.

‘He said the kids should be beaten. Is that official policy?’ calls a woman.

‘No,’ says the suit.

‘But he said it. He said it live on the Info,’ she says.

The aide reappears. ‘The Leader said that appropriate sanctions were used.’ He glares accusingly into the crowd. ‘And we were not live.’

I turn to Janna. Not live? I don’t believe it. After all that. None of this has even been heard by the public. What a waste.

The aide goes on, ‘You should be aware that The Leader’s “live” performances always have a fifteen-minute delay period to safeguard from any unfortunate incidents.’ At this point he looks out with laser eyes to where we are standing, but I’ve already dropped to my knees to hide behind the row in front.

‘But is it true?’ repeats the woman.

‘It
is
true,’ says a tiny voice.

The whole hall swings round to see who said it.

It’s Ali.

Ali spoke.

Ali keeps talking. ‘Academies hurt kids. The enforcers electric shock us and hit and burn and scare us. We’re dirty and hungry and sad. All the times.’

My chest swells. She’s such a good girl. I try to make my way towards her, but there’s a crush of people surrounding her and the hall fills with sound. The journalists are yelling out to the aide. Some of them are on their feet. One of the men in suits powers through the crowd towards Ali, but she is swept up into the arms of a journalist who cradles her on her knee. A journalist with a beard grabs a camera from the container of confiscated items and tries to take a photo of Ali, but he is rugby-tackled by one of the guards. In the confusion Janna sidles up to the container and retrieves her communicator.

The aide flicks the switch on his microphone. A wail of feedback silences the room. He gives us a tight smile. ‘Obviously there are a lot of questions to be answered. We will transport you all to the Leadership building where we can have a thorough debriefing and we can address any queries on Academy policies.’