The Lighter That Shone Like A Star (Story of The South) (18 page)

The sound of an unfastening zip awoke Sofia with a start. Rolling over, she could see that Russell was still asleep. She elbowed him hard in the ribs and sat upright as the tent opened and a female face appeared through the gap. Sofia’s heart was pounding. They had been found.

“It’s illegal to camp in these woods. Come on! Up you get! Scram,” the woman hollered into the tent. Russell had woken up and joined Sofia in a sitting position.

Sofia opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Her throat felt closed over, her entire mouth bone-dry.

The intruder looked Sofia and Russell up and down, her expression unreadable. “Come with me,” she said eventually. “You two look dreadful.”

Perhaps it was out of pure despair or their inability to think straight, but a groggy Sofia and Russell packed up their few belongings and followed the thirty-something woman, who was out walking her dog.

The sun was peeking over the horizon, the moon still visible high in the sky. Walking had become a challenge in itself for Sofia, her knees throbbing and whatever energy she had left rapidly diminishing.

“I live in that cottage just over there,” their captor or saviour – Sofia could not decide – said.

When they entered the woman’s rustic home, the scent of breakfast filled their nostrils. The pair slumped on chairs at a rectangular dining table and cradled their heads in their arms, exhausted and hurting all over.

“Here, drink these,” said the woman, placing two glasses of tepid water next to the two teenagers. They guzzled down the water. The woman fetched them another glassful, and another. Sofia licked her cracked lips, squinted through heavy eyelids and managed a raspy “thank you”.

“Have you eaten?”

Sofia shook her head. A few minutes later, the woman gently shook Sofia awake. On the table there was a plate of buttered toast, some cereal and milk, a pot of tea, a jug of coffee, and more water.

“Help yourselves to whatever you like.
Poor sods. How long have you been living like this?”

“Not sure,” Sofia managed.
“Week maybe.”

The woman shook her head dramatically, “Oh goodness, how terrible!”

Neither Sofia nor Russell replied; too busy shovelling down some of the food in front of them.

After they had gorged themselves on toast and cereal, they poured a mug of hot coffee and cradled it between their hands, blowing the warm steam up to their chilly faces.

“My name’s Phine,” said their saviour (definitely not captor, Sofia had decided).

“Sofia.”

“Russell.”

Phine smiled, a bond of trust had formed between them.

We should have given fake names.

“How old are you?” Phine asked, more concerned than curious.

“Fifteen,” replied Sofia. Maybe the stranger in front of them would be more sympathetic towards them if she did not know that they were already adults. She knew she was right from the pity in Phine’s dazzling blue eyes – or were they purple?

“You were limping,” it was not a question.

“Yeah, but it’s nothing, really,” Sofia insisted.

“I’m a nurse,” said Phine. “Show me.”

Sofia slowly folded the bottom of her dress to show the nasty wounds on her knees. Russell looked away, the sight of her weeping scabs making him feel nauseated.

“Ooh that is nasty. But I have exactly what you need in my car. In a few hours it’ll be all cleaned and cured,” promised the nurse.

“Only a few hours?”

“Oh yes, we nurses are very good you know. Well, in Hurburt at least. It’d take a good week or two anywhere else.” Phine left the cottage to retrieve the ointment, leaving Russell and Sofia alone.

For the first time in days, Russell smiled. “You look awful,” he said.

“Cheek!
You look worse. And you reek.” They both laughed, feeling happier just for having eaten.

“Plan?”
Russell wondered.

“Eat. Drink.
Rest. Heal.”

“So, stay here?”

“Yeah,” nodded Sofia.

Sofia could see the argument rapidly forming in Russell’s mind, but she also saw it evaporate just as quickly. How could they even consider leaving this little safe haven while Sofia could barely walk?

The cream was cool and soothing on Sofia’s broken skin, a moan of relief escaping through her lips.

“Right, I have to go to work,” Phine started.

“Oh, okay. Well thank you for helping us,” Russell replied, pushing himself slowly to his feet.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you two can’t go anywhere! I spoke to Joan, next door, and she’s going to pop in through the day to make sure you’re alright. Now, the bathroom’s upstairs and I seriously suggest you shower and take a bath, towels are in the closet. Help yourselves to food and drink. All I ask is that you don’t do a runner with all my things, not that anything I own is of value anyway.” Her face broke out in a grin, her eyes sparkling. It was contagious, and Sofia and Russell beamed back, offering their eternal gratitude.

For the rest of the morning, neither of them shifted from the hard, wooden chairs on which they were perched. Moving was far too much effort. Eventually, Sofia decided it was time for a wash. It was not until she stepped in the shower and black water dripped from her body that she realised how filthy she really was.

Wrapped in a soft grey towel, she ran a bath. Her knee was already getting better, the scab looking clean and healthy. She applied another coat of the cream and waited for the bath to fill.

When she had bathed herself and finally felt clean again, she found Russell laying across one of the coffee-coloured sofas, playing with his ScribblePad.

“Nice shower?”

“Amazing. Now you go, I can smell you from here,” Sofia joked.

He sauntered out of the room and she jumped on the second, slightly smaller, sofa and charged her own ScribblePad. She scrolled through Scribbler only to see that none of her friends or Freddie had recently scribbled.

Light on the Landing was still scribbling as always, but even things seemed difficult for them. Every other Scribble was a denial of a rumour or an apology for something that was not their fault.

Jimmie’s cousin Lynk had apparently joined them on tour. His scribbler consisted mainly of photos of the band, updates of locations they had been a few hours before, and replies to Light on the Landing’s fans who seemed to consider Lynk somewhat of a sixth member.

Maybe a couple of weeks ago Sofia would have been one of those fans, but now she only wished that she had never met the band. It all began at their concert, and she wished they had never put on their Pipton gig.

Russell re-entered the living room around an hour later, looking much more refreshed. They remained in horizontal positions on the sofas all day, watching TV and only moving to get coffee or snacks. At half past four, a key turned in the lock and Phine stepped through the door.

“Well, you two look a lot better than when I left you! Sofia, how are your knees?”

Sofia revealed her legs showing that, miraculously, they were completely healed. No scabs, no scars.
Completely fixed.

“Excellent! Did Joan pop in?” she enquired.

Sofia shook her head.

“I knew she wouldn’t! Useless she is, that woman. Oh well, at least you’re still here and recovered,” she said, retracting her ScribblePad from her handbag as she entered the kitchen.

Sofia picked up the remote control from the nest of tables beside her and flicked through the channels. She would never have normally watched the news, but she had been away from civilisation for almost a week now and she wondered if anything big had happened.

Speaking in a far-too-formal register, the news reporter was wrapping up the day’s events.
Typical
, she thought.
The one day I want to watch it and I miss it.

She reached for the remote control again, but then something caught her attention. It was her face. One of her old school photos was on the television screen, the word ‘missing’ in big letters.

“In further news, the two runaways that left Pipton a week ago have still not been found,” the reporter stated. “Sofia Vassallo and Russell Chaney fled their hometown without word to any family or friends. While the parents of these missing teenagers insist that they have nothing to run from, new evidence suggests that Terexian-born Sofia and her close friend Russell are guilty of starting a fire in their school hall during a Light on the Landing concert, seriously injuring several audience members.”

Russell and Sofia were dumbfounded, staring at the TV screen as if it might explode any second.

The reporter continued, “If anyone knows the whereabouts of these two sixteen year-olds please contact the number on the bottom of your screens immediately. The families are offering a reward if their children are found safe.”

Sofia was completely and utterly stunned. How could anybody think that they started the fire when she was hospitalised after the concert? How many people would have seen Freddie carry her out of the hall? Why were they only looking for them, and not any of the others? Her mind was racing. Should they run now? Or were they safer with Phine?

Loud banging filled the cottage. Someone was at the front door. Sofia looked towards the kitchen where Phine stood, telephone in hand.

“I’m so sorry.”

Who am I? That question had begun to play on Prisoner 001’s semi-conscious mind. Fragments of memory were scattered throughout his dreams, mingling with imaginary scenarios, making it impossible to distinguish memory from drug-induced fabrication. He was being chased by a fox with an entrancing silvery-grey coat.

Through field and forest he ran and ran, but there was no escaping the impossibly fast animal, bearing its fangs menacingly. He tripped over a rock. The fox would get him now… but it did not. Instead, a boy stood before him and helped him to his feet. Prisoner 001 recognised the young man but before he could get a better look, his eyes shot open and he was back in the bright white room.

Deb was by his side every morning, observing his slow deterioration. He slept for longer each day. The gashes on his back took more time to heal even with Deb’s magical healing powers.

When Prisoner 001 was taken for Round Seven, the wounds were still weeping. Blood poured from the broken skin after the first strike. Every crack of the whip tore Prisoner 001 open, physically and mentally. The pain was relentless and unbearable. A thick rope of leather crashing against skin, flesh and bone, again and again.

Round
Seven was the first time Prisoner 001 arrived in Deb’s healing room aware of his surroundings. Barely. Dragged in by his two guards, he could vaguely make out his healer’s horrified face, her pitiful gasp. He had been broken.

There would be no way he would even consider resisting against this torture.
Torture. He had always assumed that in order for a person to be tortured, they must have something valuable – information or answers. He was wrong.

He was being tortured because he had
nothing
valuable. To begin with, he simply had no magic. Now, he had no past, no present and no future. He was nobody and he was nothing. He had lost all will to live. He no longer appreciated Deb’s help.

The guards lay Prisoner 001’s broken body on the steel bed, face down. Deb rushed into action, hooking him up to an intravenous drip full of medicine that would knock him out for a good few hours.

Before he slipped into his induced coma, he felt a cool cream being gently applied to his shredded skin. He muttered “thank you,” and white turned into black.

Two people were in the healing room when Prisoner 001 awoke the following morning. Deb greeted him with a relieved smile. The heavy bags under her eyes meant that she had not slept that night.

She had been joined by a younger girl whose head was shaved. Written on her right wrist in black ink was
Prisoner 002
. Prisoner 001 held up his right wrist, ran his left hand over his bald head, and said “snap”. Nobody laughed.

“I have been sent here to tell you that you are moving on,” said Prisoner 002. There was no mistaking her Rysked nationality; pale skin, dull grey eyes, pale blue lips.
The characteristics of a race of people that spent so much of their time invisible. But not anymore.

“Where?” asked Prisoner 001.

“Further North. I am taking your place. You will be going to a camp now.”

Prisoner 001’s heart sunk. He was terrified. At least with the public whippings he knew what was in store. Now, he had no idea what would happen. Maybe it would be better, but maybe, somehow, it would be a million times worse.

The camps had been advertised as a safer alternative to the army, designed for those with other skills that could help win a war. But Deb had told Prisoner 001 the truth: the camps were designed to break people, bit by bit. Starvation, thirst, physical pain, emotional trauma.

Once you entered a camp, there was no way out… except death.

Prisoner 001 felt sorry for his replacement, guilty that she would be taking his place as the public example. He had endured a fortnight of captivity and excruciating pain, although it felt like a lot longer, and he would not wish it upon anybody else. Except Eimaj. The reason for all of this. Being punished for not adhering to Eimaj’s specifications of a perfect person, that was what this had quickly become.

According to Prisoner 002, conscription to the army had become compulsory for all those who were able to display signs of their magic. However, Eimaj and her inner circle still had the final say.

Queues of people filled the streets, waiting to be seen by one Eimaj’s cronies. Families huddled together, their futures undecided. Would they be torn apart or kept together? It turned out it was hopeless. Even if an entire family was sentenced to life in camp, they would be separated.

Prisoner 002 did not remember if she had a family or if she queued alone. All she could recall was being unable to impress the cloaked man before her. She was dragged
out of the small room and thrown viciously into the back of a truck along with fifty others.

One man had managed to make a chair invisible, but he was apparently unfit for the army – too short or too fat – she could not remember. And he was not alone. People were too old or too young, too fat or too thin, too stupid or at least stupid enough to resist. Some were denied because of the pigment of their skin, others because of their sexual preferences, and many due to beliefs that did not adhere to Eimaj’s own.

Hearing these disgraceful stories made Prisoner 001 even more curious about his own past. Would he have queued with his parents? His wife and children? Was there somebody in a camp who missed him, or somebody training for a war to save him? Or did he have nobody?

No, he was definitely not alone. He meant something to someone, once upon a time. A boy, saving him from a fox… that was who waited for him.
Somewhere. Prisoner 001 sighed,
maybe I would have been going to camp even if I could do magic,
he thought.

If Prisoner 001 expected his own special torture sessions to come to a halt when he arrived at the camp, he was very much mistaken. Deb accompanied him, administering the cooling lotion to his back at hourly intervals during the van journey.

Prisoner 002 was assigned her own healer, but the man smelt of alcohol and stale cigarettes. He did not seem as kind, caring or considerate as Deb. Another pang of guilt towards his replacement.

The camp was empty – desolate – when he arrived. He was the sole prisoner. Prisoner Zero-Zero-One. Tall electric fences encircled the large area of field, coils of barbed wire running around the top. No escape. There was only one building. It looked like an abandoned school, but most of it had been demolished. What was left resembled an auditorium, with some corridors and classrooms still attached around the outside.

The rest of the campsite was in open air, certain areas covered with sheets of brown canvas. Sleeping outside would be the only option for most.

However, being the first ever prisoner did have some benefits. Prisoner 001 was not made to sleep on dirt and stone. Instead, he was assigned one the old classrooms, a dusty mattress cushioning him from the cold, hard ground. Deb had a mattress next to his.

There was no food or water and no windows. A heavy padlock reminded them that there was no way out.

No machines or drips lined the walls, which both comforted and worried Prisoner 001. Hopefully there would be no more whippings, but maybe they would continue and he would not be given the luxury of Deb’s healing hands.

A broken television set stared at Prisoner 001 from the corner of the room. He walked over and caught his reflection in the screen. A gaunt, emaciated, pale remnant of a man stared back at him. Whoever he had once been, that was no longer him. The torture, the lack of food, the mental manipulation that had caused him to forget all he ever was… it had destroyed him. That night, he struggled to find sleep.

Screaming punctured Prisoner 001’s ears, pulling him from his dreams with a start.

“Deb!” he shouted instinctively, looking around the dim room for his healer and only friend. His eyes finally focussed on her lifeless corpse, a hooded figure looming over her. “No. What have you done?!” he yelled at the guard, pushing himself up from his mattress.

Deb’s murderer whipped around, her hood falling to her shoulders revealing her impossibly bright hair, her piercing eyes, her sharp nose, and her vicious smile. The personification of evil stood before him.

“Eimaj,” he whispered.

“Prisoner Zero-Zero-One,” she said.
“How lovely to see you again.” Her voice was silk, but eerily so. Enjoyment ran through her tones, pleasure licking over each word. Prisoner 001 recoiled, repelled by the woman in front of him.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asked.

“Yes,” Eimaj replied simply.

The prisoner smiled, staring into Eimaj’s hate-filled eyes. “Thank you.”