Toxic Treacle Read online

  In a well-practised manoeuvre, Tragic clasped his hands together and Monkey quickly stepped on them to be pushed upwards, trying to catch a glimpse of what lay behind the security fence. But it had been designed specifically to avoid all such attempts at snooping. Even the bridge had had its parapets dismantled so that prying eyes could not infiltrate the male zones.

  ‘Aw, man!’ Monkey teased. ‘It is so unjust that you’re going to see it before...’ He stopped short.

  They had both heard it; the breaking of glass followed by the muted footsteps of a group trying to move quietly. Security usually travelled in stealths for safety so, the chances were, it was a brotherhood.

  ‘Quick!’ Monkey whispered urgently, jumping down to the ground and grabbing Tragic’s sleeve.

  He dragged his friend down the slippery bank of the river and pushed him under the vaulted stonework of the Upper Bridge. They backed away from the open air until they were several metres in from the edge, balancing on a narrow ledge of brickwork that was barely more than a foot’s width wide. It ran along the underside of the bridge about thirty centimetres above the fast-flowing water and was slippery with mud from the recent spring floods. Monkey pulled his hood down as low as he could over his face and pushed his chequered scarf down inside his jacket out of sight - he didn’t want anything light-coloured to give away their presence.

  They could hear voices on the towpath; probably about a dozen of them.

  ‘Where’d they go?’ a voice echoed from the riverbank.

  ‘Dunno,’ replied another. ‘Reckon they’re Villagers?’

  ‘Neh, Mooners or Elders judging by the flag,’ said the first voice.

  Tragic poked Monkey as though reprimanding him for allowing his scarf to be seen. Eldridge Way brotherhood also wore chequers, in green rather than blue but, still, easy to mistake in the dark.

  Monkey was annoyed with himself. He was hanging on to the metal struts under the bridge and trying to steady his breathing as he listened to the dialogue above them.

  ‘They gotta come back this way - ‘less they’re gonna swim home. So, if we stay here, we’ll cut ‘em off,’ he heard another voice remark.

  ‘Cut ‘em off, then cut ‘em up!’ There was the sound of laughter and Tragic shot Monkey a look of terror.

  Monkey’s mouth was dry and, despite the cold, his palms were sweating. Or were they? Carefully, he let go of the metal struts and wiped them, one at a time, down his jacket. He flinched as he pushed his right hand down the fabric and, peering through the dark, saw a deep stain. It was blood where he’d pressed his palm into his own blade so hard that he’d cut himself. The last thing he wanted was to be leaving a trail of blood. Still, no point worrying about that just yet; he had to get himself and Tragic out of there first.

  He beckoned Tragic to follow him as he slowly began to edge his way along the ledge, away from the towpath side of the bridge, back towards the road they’d just come along. He knew he wasn’t leading his friend to safety, but at least they would stand more chance of escape if they doubled back on themselves and legged it through a built-up area. If they’d tried to run out along the towpath into the hinters, there was nothing but the turbine park and a bio-fuel depot. Tentatively, he pushed one foot forward then slid the other after it, inching forwards, his fingers clinging to the ironwork above his head, his back pressed against the damp stone. Every few steps, he turned his head, checking that Tragic was keeping up.

  The voices overhead were getting further and further away and the lights of the town, glimmering on the river, grew closer. If they could make it back to town, there was a delivery duct just metres from the Lower Bridge; they could dodge into it and make their way back towards The Plaza, then up through the village - it shouldn’t be too bad at this time of night. Villagers weren’t much of a threat. The town lights were still on, so Monkey knew it must still be before midnight. Suddenly, a piece of stonework gave way under Monkey’s foot and he slithered off the ledge sending fragments of stone into the river.

  ‘Hey!’ A cry went up from the hood. ‘They’re there!’

  Tragic swore. ‘We’ve got to get out of here!’

  Monkey’s leg was dangling in the water, icy from recently melted snow. His slashed hand was sore but he clung to the metalwork above his head to save himself from slipping into the swollen river. Just then, the football that had been concealed under his jacket, slipped out and hit the water with a splash before being carried away downstream. He cursed under his breath.

  ‘Over there! Get ‘em!’ someone from the brotherhood cried out.

  ‘Just run for it!’ Monkey hoisted himself back on to the ledge and they shuffled, as quickly as they could, towards the eastern side. The footsteps of the brotherhood running across the road above them reverberated through the fabric of the bridge. They were overtaking them. There was a flash of light and a gunshot echoed deafeningly around the arched underbelly of the structure as a bullet ricocheted off the pillars that supported it.

  Monkey and Tragic both ducked instinctively but it was hard to manoeuvre in such a confined space. Monkey could make out the silhouettes of their pursuers at the eastern side of the bridge, waiting for them. He clenched his teeth in exasperation; they’d been too slow! He looked back from where they’d come, but the outlines of the rest of the hood told him that they’d got them in a pincer movement - both exits blocked. There was nothing else for it.

  ‘Into the water,’ he whispered. ‘Quietly as you can. Don’t make a splash.’

  ‘Are you raggin’ me?’ Tragic asked in shock.

  ‘Just do it!’

  ‘I can’t swim in that.’

  ‘You won’t have to,’ Monkey said, lowering himself off the ledge and gasping as the cold water hit him. ‘Well, not very far anyway! Look where the footie’s gone.’ He pointed to the white ball bobbing westward away from town and drifting across the river towards the north bank. ‘Take a deep breath and keep your head down until I get us out of range, then all you’ve gotta do is float. The current’ll do the rest.’

  ‘No wa...!’ Another shot echoed round the underneath of the bridge, instantly prompting Tragic to slither into the swollen river. ‘Crap!’

  ‘Hold on to me - and don’t struggle!’ With that, Monkey pushed off from the side.

  ‘There they are!’ shouted one of the hood from the bank.

  Monkey braced himself for the shot that he was sure was going to follow, then felt relief course through him as the whole town was plunged into darkness. Midnight! Saved by the Energy Conservation Shut Down.

  ‘You’re doing fine,’ he reassured Tragic. ‘We’ll have you home in no time.’ With one arm held firmly on to his friend and the other acting as a rudder, he steered them diagonally across to the Nurturing Zones. Monkey was an excellent swimmer but negotiating a seething mass of water was tougher than he’d realised. Tragic had done exactly as he’d been told and his compliance had been a huge part of their success. Together, they’d half-drifted, half-swum until they were out of sight of both the bridge and the brotherhood.

  ‘Jack-heads!’ Monkey laughed as he helped Tragic out of the river. ‘They’re probably still looking for us back there. Stupid buffs!’ They’d come ashore by the Lunar Park in the hinters of Uplands; about a mile out of their way. But they were safe - cold and wet, but safe.

  ‘I just want to get back,’ Tragic said, shaking the water off his ring-cam and pressing it.

  ‘Leave it,’ Monkey warned. ‘We’re in for enough anguish when we get home. No point in inviting it already.’

  The pair walked home in silence. Uplands was a district mainly allocated to young nurturers with pre-schoolers. Its own brotherhood was young and, by and large, adhered to the curfew so the chances of meeting another hood were slight. They were grateful for the chance to relax their vigilance. By the time they parted company, it wa
s almost two in the morning. Monkey’s hand was throbbing but the buzz of adrenaline pulsed through him. Tragic was shivering and seemed drained.

  ‘See you tomorrow, ‘Monkey called as they went their separate ways. ‘Usual place - OK?’

  Tragic nodded slowly. He turned towards his home, then stopped and called after his friend, ‘You’ve been a good mate to me, you know, Monk. I want you to know that, whatever happens, you’re the best.’

  Monkey shook his head again and laughed. ‘Less of the tragic, Tragic! We came out of it all right didn’t we?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Tragic said. ‘It’s not that; I meant what we were talking about earlier...’

  ‘You’ll be fine. I’ve told you, stop being a wuz.’

  Tragic gave a half smile and nodded sadly. ‘Check you later.’ Then he walked down the hill to his home.

  Drama queen! Monkey chuckled to himself; anyone would think he was going to his death rather than his graduation the way he went on. He broke into a jog - he was going to get some macro anguish from Vivian about tonight, but what did he care? He’d only got two more months of her in his face all the time and then graduation. He couldn’t wait!

  The Tragic Disappearance of Tragic

  The following morning, Monkey kicked his heels against a clump of grass that had broken through the concrete of the road as he waited by the disused loco bridge.

  ‘Time,’ he said to his clenched fist.

  ‘O-8:45,’ an automated voice replied from the ring on his left hand.

  He looked round impatiently. The street was deserted. Most mornings, he and Tragic tried to time their journey to school to casually coincide with that of Angel Ellison but he knew that, by now, she’d be long gone. Almost everyone of school age would be in class and most of the nurturers would be at work. The only people left on the streets at this time would be the young nurturers with their bubbies and post- nurturers with their pets; the feral pre-breeders of the hoods looking for a rush, and the special security squads sent out to round up any brotherhood members too slow to evade the school patrollers - staff sent out to hurry along tardy students. If he didn’t get to school soon, Monkey would find himself arrested, hauled off in a stealth van and shipped off to The Farm.

  ‘Tragic,’ he said into his ring-cam, then waited for it to light up. But it didn’t.

  Monkey sighed. He wished his mate would get a move on. It wasn’t like Tragic to be late. Jane, his nurturer, was always up at six to make sure that her son was awake and fed before she left for the studio. Jane certainly took her role seriously - not like Vivian. Sure, she’d been there for him when he was younger but, for the last couple of years, she’d practically washed her hands of him. Not that it bothered Monkey.

  He spoke to his ring-cam again, ‘Tragic?’ But still nothing.

  Where was he? Maybe he’d caught a chill last night? Monkey speculated. Their little escapade had certainly put the wind up him. That, coupled with his stupid fretting about graduation, might have been enough to make him ill. But, although sickness would explain his friend’s absence, it wouldn’t account for the fact that Tragic wasn’t answering. Even if he was in bed, he would still be able to speak, wouldn’t he?

  Monkey looked round anxiously checking for patrollers or catchers. It was no good; he couldn’t wait around any longer; he needed to get to school himself before the electronic register alerted the school to his absence and they came round looking for him. It was imperative that he made it through the next few weeks with a clean slate. If Tragic didn’t show up later, he’d go round to his house after school and find out the score face to face.

  He pulled up the collar of his jacket and winced as he pushed his hands deep into his pockets. Vivian had thrown a frenz last night when she’d seen his hand. Still, it paid to have a nurturer who was a doctor. She’d stitched him up and dressed it and, although it still throbbed, he knew it would earn him max kude at school. He wouldn’t tell them it was self-inflicted of course, he’d just say he got it in a jar last night.

  There’d been some extreme anguish when she’d seen the blade. But he’d refused to give it up. He wrapped his bandaged hand around it now; it was his security as he walked to school alone. Monkey knew, though, that he’d have to find somewhere to ditch it before he reached the gates. He didn’t want the detectors going off the minute he passed the scanners. He’d be in enough bother today just for being late.

  The houses of Moonstone Park were secluded and detached. Built in the early part of the previous century, they denoted the status of the nurturers who lived there. Most were surrounded by large sustenance patches and screened from the road by hedges and walls. As a doctor, Vivian’s family warranted a house in a professional zone, but Tragic and his mov were there almost by default: Jane was an artist and ‘creatives’ were normally allocated houses in The Village. But, as Jane did commissioned work for The Assembly, she’d managed to acquire a house just inside the much sought after Moonstone Park boundary; one of two converted gatehouses to a larger mansion that was now a pre-school. Vivian was forever telling Monkey that he should be grateful for where he lived, but Monkey wasn’t impressed. Mooners had a rep for being wuzzles - not quite in the same league as Villagers, but not far off - and as such, were often the target of anguish when they went into town. If Monkey’s mov had lived in an artisan or manual zone, he’d get more ‘spect and less angst and life would be easier all round.

  Moonstone Academy was of a more recent design than the other buildings in the zone. It had been built at the end of the last century, just before the war and was one of the more affluent, academic and, consequently, ‘soft’ educational institutions in town, a reflection of its catchment area. It also had a male head teacher, Professor Reed, one of the few providers to rise to a position of authority in post-war society. And, although physical punishment had not been allowed for half a century, Professor Reed had an air of authority that, despite the law, suggested it was always a possibility. As a result, there was little trouble at Moonstone Academy compared to some of the other schools in town. But still, Monkey was reassured to know that he’d got his weapon for the journey - it only took a few restless hoods to decide to go looking for trouble and that would be the end of his dream - and no way was Monkey risking that.

  In his head, Monkey had his life all planned out. He wasn’t one of those materialistic pre-breeders like Piers Fielding, who wanted a penthouse and a pool and a boring job on the exchange buying and selling commodities such as wood or apples or electrics. Once Monkey had graduated, he was going to enrol for soccer school and become a pro.

  But, in order to ensure that that happened, he had to keep clean for two more months. As he approached the enormous metal gates of the school, he checked that there were no cameras watching, then bent down, as though refastening his shoe, and carefully slid his blade into a tight gap between the walls of two sustenance patches, a couple of houses down from the gates. He stood up, pushed his hood from his head and walked leisurely up to the iris recognition scanner at the entrance to Moonstone Academy. Once he’d been checked, the single metal barrier swung open allowing him to enter the grounds. He made his way across the forecourt, only vaguely aware of the cameras whirring, tracking his progress to the double doors at the front of the building.

  The lobby was deserted. Instruction had started and he was going to be in big angst. He placed his ring-cam against a second scanner and began to walk past, but a siren sounded. Shiltz! He’d thought he might have got away with it.

  A stocky patroller came out of the office, one of the many providers brought in by stealth vans to work in the school.

  ‘Michael Gibbon?’

  ‘You must be new, geez,’ Monkey said, cheekily. ‘It’s Mickey to my friends.’

  ‘I’m no friend of yours. Now, get inside!’ the provider ordered. Monkey shrugged and did as he’d been told. ‘Wait there until Pro
fessor Reed calls you.’

  ‘Or?’ Monkey laughed.

  The burly man approached him with a look of menace in his eye. ‘There is no “or”. You wait there like I told you. End.’

  Monkey’s bravado faded and he put up his hands as a sign of capitulation. ‘Hey! Easy!’ He leant back against the wall.

  ‘Stand up straight!’ the patroller barked.

  Monkey slowly pulled himself upright and gazed at the poster on the opposite wall: Hug the hood to make them good. Couldn’t this guy read? He was supposed to be being nice to Monkey, not shouting at him! Everyone knew that shouting bred resentment and resentment was hatred - and the only antidote to hatred was loving kindness. So, why was this new bloke intent on breeding resentment and hatred? Professor Reed ran a clean school; he never needed to shout. Sure, he doled out punishments - like sweeping the yard, scrubbing the hall floor or washing down the walls of the sports hall - but he would never shout.

  With that, the Professor opened an inner door. ‘Come in, Mickey.’

  Monkey eyed the patroller with a look as if to say, You see! He knows how to show respect. Then, he followed the head teacher into his room. One wall was dominated by an enormous screen showing dozens of images from all round the school. Every room, every corridor, every open space was relayed live into the head’s office.

  ‘My data tells me that you were fifteen minutes late this morning. I’d like you to explain yourself,’ he said.

  ‘Erm...’ What could he say? He looked down and saw the bandage on his hand. ‘I cut myself at breakfast and my mov had to stitch me up.’ It wasn’t a total lie - only the bit about it happening at breakfast.

  ‘And if I contact Doctor Mov Gibbon and ask her, will she verify your story?’ the Professor asked, looking him straight in the eye.

  ‘Of course!’ Monkey feigned offence. ‘But she’s in clinic this morning.’