The Disappearances (23 page)

‘So what was that all about?’ Lucas asked, trying not to get annoyed, trying to remember all that admir-ation.

‘Just a little note to Benjamin,’ Linus shrugged. ‘Something we developed a few years back.’

‘We? You know Benjamin? You never said you knew him,’ Lucas said.

‘I don’t,’ Linus said. ‘But a long time ago, when we were building the City, I thought it might be prescient to meet the leaders of the various civilisations around the UK. Work through a code, a messaging system, that sort of thing.’

‘And?’ Lucas asked, realising that without prompting Linus was going to tell him nothing.

‘And I left him a message. So he’d be ready for us. So he’d be able to prepare,’ Linus said, his face crumpled in bemusement as though he couldn’t understand why Lucas didn’t know everything already … or perhaps why he wanted to know in the first place.

‘Fine,’ Lucas relented. ‘So what now?’

‘Now?’ Linus asked, looking around, holding up his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘Now we find a place to watch until we’re ready to go in.’ And with that, he started to walk; Lucas watched him for a few seconds then, with a sigh, started to follow.

‘Benjamin? Benjamin?’

Benjamin stirred, and for a moment, he was somewhere else, somewhere very different. For a moment, the sound of Stern’s voice transported him back, back many years to a prison cell, a cell the two men had shared for twenty-three hours a day sometimes, eyeing each other cautiously, exchanging a few words, sizing each other up, working out who would defeat who, if it came to it, as inevitably it would, one day.

They had shared that cell for three years, seventeen years less than the sentence Benjamin had been given. And it was from that cell, or from the open area outside it, that they watched the Horrors unfold around them. When he’d been incarcerated, the violence had been limited to the bombing of mosques and churches, attacks on Gay Pride marches, street riots and a general feeling that the chaos was taking over, that it couldn’t be reined in, that the police and army were only ever playing catch-up.

But that had only been the beginning. Those, Benjamin realised later, had been the good old days.

He still remembered the moment he realised that the Horrors were never going to end well, that the destruction wasn’t going to stop until it stopped itself, until there was nothing left to destroy. It had been an ordin-ary day at the prison: kitchen work in the morning, then lunch, then free time in the afternoon. He’d enrolled on the education programme; had already passed five GCSEs and was now working towards his A levels. It had been way better than school; smaller classes and the people there really wanted to learn, even if every so often they got frustrated, even if that frustration got vented violently, even though guards would be called and prisoners dragged away for drawing a knife on the teacher when he or she put some red lines through their work. He felt like he was finally making something of himself; finally seeing who he was, what he might be.

At that time, the army was already on the streets of the UK, of much of Europe. Because of riots, mainly. And the riots were because of food shortages, which were exacerbated by the riots because half the roads were blocked off, because every vehicle that crossed the border had to be searched several times. And anyway, who wanted to drive anything into this godforsaken country? Even the relief workers were leaving food on the border and turning round immediately to go back home. Anyone with any money had already left, leaving a skeleton of doctors, managers; those who doggedly refused to leave, those that couldn’t. It was left to them: the terrorists killing each other, and the rioting, hungry masses who had started to burn entire cities to the ground. And the worse things got, the fewer deliveries there were, the less food there was to go round. It had become a vicious circle; Benjamin could see that from his position of relative safety, watching the news, shooting a look at his fellow prisoners if they got in the way or made too much noise. At one point the government had considered releasing all prisoners to save on the cost of keeping them alive, but they’d decided against it; had figured that adding thousands of hardened criminals to the toxic mix on the streets would not be a sensible plan. And so, the prisons, along with hospitals and nursing homes, were one of the few bastions of civilisation, prioritised for food, so safe that many prison officers were now sleeping in the corridors, bringing their families in to keep them away from harm, away from the rioters outside.

Benjamin had been in the prison a few years and had been in enough fights to prove himself. He was part of the establishment. People didn’t mess with him. And anyway, most of the prisoners wanted to listen; needed to watch the devastation. Because it was their world being destroyed, even if they weren’t exactly in it right now. Their families being killed, by terrorists, by rioters, by the police or army trying to keep order. Week after week the bad news came and cupboards or walls got new holes in them from angry fists.

Things were bad; Benjamin knew that much. But it was that day that he realised how bad; that day that he started to question the point of all his hard work, of having passed all those exams. Because he understood suddenly that this was not a small, localised fire that could be put out. It was a forest fire that would rage until there was nothing left to burn. And he knew that they were all going to die, all who were in the path of the fire, it was just a matter of time. He understood that there could be no other ending, just a variation of degree: whether everyone died or slightly less than everyone, whether they suffered a great deal of pain or a little less than that.

It had just been an interview. The usual post-traumatic-event interview with the Prime Minister in which he condemned the latest atrocity, said that the people of the world would no longer stand for these things, that ordinary people would fight these terrorists, these vandals, these murderers, that he was on the side of the ordinary people, that he would put more police on the streets, more tanks. And the interviewer had barely listened to a word he said, had cut in and said that they had another point of view. And they’d cut to a man, Pastor Hunt, and he’d started to talk, and as he talked, Benjamin realised he’d heard it all before, that he knew the sermon word for word. And when he looked closer, he saw the ‘I’ badge on his lapel; when the camera panned back to the interviewer, he saw that she had one too. And that’s when he’d known that there was no hope. That there was no going back.

As Benjamin quietly watched the interview, he had felt something change within him, and right there he had an epiphany. He was sick of it. This stuff – this anger, this violence – all of it was a disease, a disease that had got past the stage when it could be cured. Benjamin vowed that if he didn’t die, when it was over, when the fire had run its course, ravaged the world, he would make something better in its wake. He would build, somehow, somewhere, a better place, a place where violence no longer held sway, where people could express themselves without fear of attack, where they were listened to, encouraged, enabled. A place where he would lead, not from the front, not telling the people what to do, but instead from in among them.

He never thought it would happen, because he was sure he wasn’t going to live that long, not now, not when he could see the destruction hovering on the horizon. But that day, straight after the news, he went back to his cell, squared up to Stern, looked him right in the eye, and said something that he remembered to this day. ‘Hit me. If you want. Get it over with. Because it’s your last chance. If you want to have one over me, you’re going to have to kill me. And if you don’t, then you’re going to do as I say. And what I say is, there ain’t gonna be no more fights, no more violence. I’m sick of what’s going on. I’m ashamed. So we can wait here until everything’s gone, we can scrap like animals. Or we can be stronger than that. I want to be stronger. I want to start something good here. I want to build something new. Something better. So hit me. Now. Or help me build it. Your choice.’

Then he’d waited for the punch to land. Only it never did. Instead, Stern had held out his hand, clasped Benjamin’s. He had just got word, he told him, that his son was dead. The only thing that made his life worth living. His son, who was only three. He had been outside a restaurant that was blown up; got caught by the glass. He had been taken to the overcrowded hospital too late; left too long by the few harassed, overworked doctors who were still there. And now he was gone.

Benjamin remembered all this as though it were yesterday, and yet it also seemed a lifetime ago, not even his own lifetime, someone else’s, someone he used to know. He opened the window, stepped out into the sunshine and took a deep breath. It was good to be alive, he found himself thinking. Good to be part of this place of growth, of acceptance, of new beginnings. Everyone needed a fresh start, sometimes. Everyone deserved a second chance.

He walked towards the centre of the Settlement, past the artisans making furniture for the ever-expanding population, past the bakers, past the grassy knoll where small children were being entertained, and then he stopped. Because coming out of the sewing rooms, draped in a long white dress that was about three sizes too big, was one of the Settlement’s newest recruits. He smiled as he watched the women cooing over her, as Sandra pinned the dress here and there to try and make it fit Evie’s tiny frame.

And then she looked up, saw him, and he was forced to break his reverie and walk towards her. ‘Evie,’ he said. ‘You are going to make a beautiful bride. And a beautiful citizen.’

She smiled, but Benjamin noticed that it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

‘Thank you,’ she said. Then she turned to Sandra. ‘I should take this off,’ she said.

‘Not yet,’ Sandra scolded. ‘I need to pin it. You keep getting thinner, Evie. And you haven’t twirled enough. We want to see you twirl, don’t we girls?’

The women laughed and egged Evie on; Evie duly turned twice, but Benjamin could see that her heart wasn’t in it.

‘I tell you what,’ he said. ‘You pin, Sandra, and then Evie and I are going to take a walk to lunch. How does that sound?’

Sandra nodded quickly and hurriedly pinned the dress before whipping Evie back into the sewing rooms; seconds later she reappeared in her usual clothes, looking up at him earnestly. That was how it was for Benjamin; he made a suggestion and before he had considered whether it was a good one, it had been carried out, quickly, efficiently. It was the sort of thing that could go to a person’s head; could be quite intoxi-cating, Benjamin knew that all too well. But he also knew that any power he had was only as strong as the commitment he had to his people; knew that they were not sheep following him, but that rather, that it was he who served them, he who owed everything to them.

Evie looked up at him, anxiety written all over her face. He smiled. ‘So,’ he said, ‘shall we walk? It is a beautiful day today, don’t you think?’

‘Beautiful,’ Evie agreed.

‘And soon you are to be a citizen of this place. Does that make you happy, Evie?’

She nodded fervently. ‘Very,’ she said, her eyes looking strained.

‘But you are fearful, nevertheless. Is your fear related to this place, to committing to it, or is it more a question of love, of personal commitment?’

When he saw Evie’s eyes cloud over, he knew immediately that he had got to the nub of the problem.

‘I am not fearful of anything,’ Evie said quickly. ‘I am so happy here, Benjamin. I am truly lucky and I know that. We both do. I know that Raffy’s really sorry for what he did. And actually it was probably my fault really. So please don’t hold it against him. Neil said it was okay. He understood. Please don’t think Raffy’s … Because he doesn’t mean to be like he is. He tries …’ She trailed off; Benjamin could see the conflict in her face, the desire to protect Raffy competing with her own frustrations with him.

Benjamin nodded slowly. Then he stopped walking. Immediately Evie stopped, too.

‘Love,’ he said, ‘is a difficult thing. We can love in different ways. Love our country. Love our parents. Fall in love. And out of it.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But love should never make us fearful, should never weigh us down. We are not responsible for each other, do you understand that?’

Evie bit her lip. ‘I … I think so,’ she said. ‘And I do love Raffy. I really do.’

Benjamin smiled. ‘Good. And don’t worry about those wedding nerves. I believe everyone has those. Ah, here’s Raffy. So, are you nervous about the big day too?’

Evie swung round; she hadn’t seen Raffy approach.

‘Nervous? Not at all,’ Raffy said immediately, a slight edge to his voice. ‘I wish it was today. And so does Evie. Don’t you, Evie?’

He looked at her intently; she nodded. ‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘Of course.’

‘Good,’ Benjamin smiled, then, taking one last look at Evie, he left them to go and eat, walking back to his rooms where lunch would be waiting for him on his desk as it always was. But as he walked back towards his rooms, he saw something that he hadn’t seen for many years, something he never expected to see again, and he realised that lunch would have to wait. It could have been there by accident, could well have blown in the wind from some faraway place. But Benjamin knew that it hadn’t. It was old, dirty, had several holes in it. But the scrap of material that was lying in his path was without doubt a red silk handkerchief. And that could only mean one thing.

‘What was he saying to you?’

Raffy rounded on her the moment Benjamin was out of earshot. His hand was around her wrist, tightly holding her.

Evie looked up at him warily. She’d never known him like this – after the Neil incident, he’d seemed truly sorry, had really seemed to want to change. For a few days he had been like a different person – a little too focused on work, perhaps, but easy with her, supportive, cheerful, no angry glances when she talked to other people, no reproachful looks when she came back from an evening class. And then, suddenly, he had reverted again, only this time it was worse, this time he blew up at the slightest thing, flew off the handle and nothing would calm him down again. ‘He was talking to me about the wedding,’ she said. ‘He was saying what a beautiful day it was and how love was a powerful thing.’