Bastian shook his head.
‘This area was exhausted long ago.’
Suddenly, May’s left leg gave way and Bastian rushed to grab her arm as she first slipped and then dangled over the hole once covered by a lattice of carefully placed branches and palm tree leaves. The lion beneath sprang to the side pounding the earth and shaking the soil, roaring with its jaws wide open. May felt a claw scratch the heel of her shoe as Bastian pulled her up. The beast with the red feathers in its side looked forlornly at the blue sky before pacing in a circle, knowing the end was near.
‘So, that’s their game,’ said Bastian. ‘Quick, help me cover it back up.’
‘So they can kill someone.’
‘We don’t know who it is yet, what if it’s Nabulus?’
They hid on the jungle outskirts hoping Malthus and Harriet were attempting to get June off the hook, but they were trying to get her out of the way. Harriet was approaching with the milkmaid and distracting her with conversation.
Bastian walked to the big cat, careful not to make the same mistake as May and from the edges he kicked away the branches before emptying his revolver into the lion’s den.
‘Good kill,’ said Malthus.
‘An easy one,’ said Bastian. ‘He slipped up.’
The lion lay on his side motionless like a big stuffed pussycat.
‘So, you are loaded after all,’ said Harriet.
They were joined by the others alerted by the shots.
‘We’ll drop the lion off at the butcher’s,’ said Nabulus.
‘Can I have the head mounted, and a rug?’ Bastian asked.
He was beginning to wish he’d been more careful with the bullets.
‘You want the paws left on the rug?’
‘Is there any other way?’
The meat went to the high street butcher to be freely distributed amongst the villagers in neatly packed white paper parcels that showed up the blood. The taxidermist took the skin and was paid by Nabulus in ivory for her skilled work.
That evening, Bastian and May swore not to tell June the truth, though they all knew her time was running out. And if the village sick were willing to kill June to keep their names clean then just how safe was May?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bastian was back at his old school upon May’s invitation to explain the lion-hunt to her class of second years. The teachers that had once made him nervous were all retired but it was still the same with pupils taught and reminded how to spot subversion at home.
In school term, the older boys were unknowingly given chaste berry tree herb in their fruit juices by the catering staff to prevent any distraction from their studies.
School years were six to sixteen with any prior study deemed as child cruelty and completely unnecessary, like homework. And there were no longer inhalers, epi-pens, spectacles, or special menus on school premises. And those with short-sight, long-sight, or dyslexia were given no extra time to read the jungle map before their eleven-plus exam. Upon successful completion, the young citizens received their dob from a commissar, a rite of passage in black ink and half an inch long on the underside of the right arm.
Bastian stood in reception, building up the courage to ask for Nora’s old school file. There was a calendar on the wall in front. Not only had the Party changed the year, it had also renamed the months of which there were now only ten. And no seasons, which everyone agreed were redundant due to the weather remaining constant: scorching, with regular and unpredictable storms. The first month of the year was Lionary followed by Snakiuas just to confuse everyone with the spelling, then Zebran, Monkuary, Lama, Hippolytus, Giraffen, and Septiger the only month that contained, at least in part, the name of a previous month and often used as a reference point by the old-timers. The final two months of the year were Flamingous and Rhinember. Each month had 36 days, apart from Rhinember which had 5 extra given to celebrating the dawn of the New Year and the STP.
‘Ah, Bastian, we’ve been expecting you. Please take a seat, I’ll fetch May,’ said the receptionist, not much older than the schoolchildren herself.
No longer were the young forced onto the employment scrapheap whilst old-timers refused to leave their posts. Bastian took a seat and placed the mounted lion’s head on his lap flicking away the giant bluebottle flies with the back of his hand.
‘You might want the janitor to fix the school sign, someone’s changed STP to STOP,’ he shouted after her.
‘Not again!’
O had become the symbol of mischievous delinquency as well as more serious subversion. But both would face serious consequences if caught in spite of youth’s tendency to test the rules, push the boundaries.
From the back office a familiar face stepped to the front of the reception glass to check the school attendance register.
‘I hear our graffiti artist remains as determined as ever.’
‘Nabulus,’ said Bastian, ‘what brings you here?’
‘A talk to the school-leavers about the 100 points. Unfortunately, I’m a little early, they’re still in acrobatics class. But there’s always something to check up on, sweep away the cobwebs instead of brushing them under the carpet.’
‘But you’re in the Ministry of Coordination, not Cooperation,’ said Bastian.
‘I’m looking for potential care assistants amongst the village’s adorable children. Those that show the right aptitude at a young age often go on to prove everyone correct in their first opinion.’
‘I’m sure it’s a difficult job,’ said Bastian. ‘Caring, I mean.’
‘Indeed, it is. But give me the child at school and I’ll give you the carer in Scotland.’
Bastian glanced down the corridor at the children spilling out of afternoon assembly. On the wall, a poster-boy was advertising for the commissars with his handsome chiselled face and square chin above their motto, ‘There’s no compassion in the jungle.’ Behind him a female citizen smiled broadly and held a stalk of wheat. Underneath was a list of placements for new recruits: in the desert forts, jungle plantations or new prisons,
