They were feeling confident on the other side of town, close to the railway tracks and escape, when the sound of a horse and cart up ahead forced them into a church garden. But the cart and those walking behind were following and worse, more towners could be heard arriving from the other side leaving them trapped in a pincer. They quickly climbed up the fire escape onto the church roof, as good a place as any to hide until nightfall.
They could see the church vegetable patch down below with the gravestones removed years ago. There was less fertile soil the further inland and closer to the scorched earth.
Jambit spied another cart approach.
‘The three R’s,’ he whispered.
Bastian put his head in his hands, today of all days was the trial. Jambit slipped on the roof causing a thud which attracted the attention of those on the ground. Bastian quickly peeled a banana and threw the skin over the edge.
‘Monkeys,’ someone said, and movement returned.
The three R’s, previously known as brothers Richard, Ralph, and Roger, had been caught in the jungle tormenting a young giraffe with sharpened sticks. The poor animal, unable to survive its cuts and gouges, was put down. The Party approved of hunting and animal slaughter for food and fabric as long as it followed strict guidelines: a quick death close to the one nature had intended and for which predators were given teeth and prey flesh. But any meaningless sadistic cruelty had no place in the new society.
The brothers, aged eighteen to twenty, were released from the stocks on the back of the cart and marched into church at the point of pitchforks with their widowed mother sitting on the front pew next to Klara Johnson. Bastian and Jambit listened carefully.
‘There is no doubt to your guilt,’ said the Judge, a boy younger than the accused, ‘nor indeed in my mind the type of citizens that you would have become.’
The congregation nodded in agreement. The boys had little wits but plenty of spite.
‘I am therefore ready to pass sentencing,’ said the Judge, and he nodded to Klara. ‘Each of you will be sent forthwith to the University of Holistic Medicine to undertake studies that will lead you to Scotland. Case dismissed.’
‘Your Honour?’
‘Yes, Nabulus, what is it?’
‘The two runaways, Bastian and Jambit.’
‘You’re certain of their guilt, subversion?’
‘Indeed. I have all the paperwork here.’
‘That won’t be necessary. I hereby sentence them both to life on a chain-gang once they are apprehended. Is that right?’
‘Absolutely,’ replied Nabulus.
‘Damn, I’m late for my surfing lesson,’ said the Judge.
‘Then I hope you don’t lose a leg, there’s a new man-eater off the coast.’
Bastian watched from the roof as the congregation tumbled outside, some throwing their pitchforks into the back of the cart. In the shadows, the brothers were talking with Klara.
‘Don’t worry, boys,’ she said. ‘Scotland needs you, even if these fools think they don’t.’
Richard and Ralph laughed, unable to contain their glee.
‘Indeed, it offers the perfect environment for your disposition,’ said Klara.
‘Do we ever come back?’ asked Roger, kicking his heels.
‘Sometimes on supervised trips. But don’t worry, once your eyes are opened, you’ll never want to,’ said Klara. ‘Those that do the hardest jobs for the Party get the best treatment.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
They scrambled down the steep embankment thinking only of escape and unconcerned for the rocks that grazed their bare knees and elbows.
‘We’ll move at night and rest in the day,’ said Bastian looking at the disused railway line ahead.
‘Agreed,’ said Jambit, but still the junior partner used to taking orders.
‘Can’t believe the three R’s are going to Scotland,’ said Bastian as they made tracks.
Jambit laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Bastian.
‘It’s just what I hear that’s all.’
‘And?’
‘Some village folk say it’s more a place of dying than retiring.’
‘Well, that’s what happens after you retire, you die,’ said Bastian. ‘Don’t mean the bit in between is bad.’
‘You’re right. I’m sure your parents are having the time of their lives.’
But they both wondered what went through your mind after you put your feet up for good: acceptance, lamentation, anger at Death or fear as he stalked you?
There was an old billboard lit by the moon, ‘Fly-tippers will be executed,’ with STP in large letters underneath. Jambit picked up a chalk rock and drew an O between the ST and P.
‘It was you!’ said Bastian.
* * *
They were dragging their feet as the sun came up, weary and sure to wilt under the rising heat. They had beaten a path with thick foliage encroaching either side that provided the perfect camouflage for any big cats waiting to pounce.
‘You think it’s empty?’ asked Bastian of the building on the horizon.
‘There’s a good chance,’ gasped Jambit doubled over. ‘We’re too far inland for most company.’
‘Well, come on then, at least try and move, or do you want to die out here?’
‘I’m too dehydrated.’
Bastian gave him the last drops of coconut milk from his own flagon and they began to stumble forwards on aching legs.
Outside the large white building atop the hill that nearly killed them was a tall billboard with the words, ‘Edward Says Keep Out,’ and a militiaman drawn either side.
‘I couldn’t think of a better reason to go in,’ said Jambit, looking at the poster.
They pulled up a roller door and crawled underneath into an area marked ‘dispatch’. Bastian slammed the shutter back to the ground, louder than he had hoped but making sure there was no way through for one of the giant rats he’d seen outside.
‘I need water or I’m gonna die,’ said Jambit, and he stumbled to the floor.
He looked up at the white panelled roof giving them shelter and shade from the unrelenting sun. There were windows across the top and the cold concrete floor felt good against his back as he lay in the aisle between racks of goods stacked on pallets and wrapped in sheets of plastic.
‘I can’t move,’ he said.
‘Then stay here,’ said Bastian.
Five minutes later he was back with two bottles of water and
