After: Nineteen Stories of Apocalypse and Dystopia (13 page)

He jist looks puzzled and I don’t blame him. Coz if it’s so bad for you, what’s me
and Morris doing with it? What’s me an’ Morris an’ the Krew doing with it, making
Hairies? I feel worse than ever. I say, “Even if it makes you feel…Billy, how
did
it make you feel?”

I think he won’t answer, can’t answer. And then he says, “Big.”

I’m silent.

We’re done with the channels now, passing out of the Fleet and into the Thames. Sint
Paul’s vanishes behind the high spoil heaps and into the dusk. Billy cranes his neck
to see it go, and then he says, “Did you see Nelson?”

It’s a second before I know what he’s talking about. It feels like years since this
morning, years since we beached the boat below the steps and went to explore. I think
of the holes in the floor. I think of wading into the black water, finding Nelson’s
black coffin on its white marble stand. I think how I asked him for help. How I got
no answer but the Hairy splashing out at me like a bad joke.

But Billy’s looking at me, hopeful. So I get ready to make up some story how I really
did meet Nelson himself down there in the cellars, in a golden room glittering with
shandyleers and dimonds.…Just as I open my mouth, a thought comes to me and I shut
it again.

I got my answer.

I go hot and cold all over.

I asked if I could trust Morris, if it was safe to leave Billy with him—and the answer
was no.

So Billy’s coming with me.

It’ll make things twice as hard—twice as dangerous. We’ll need so much more stuff,
we’re so much more likely to be seen. Can I explain to Billy what it’s all about?
Can we really do it—can we really make it all the way downriver to the sea? A bubble
of excitement tells me we can.

I sit up straight, feeling better than I have for hours. I don’t hafta try and explain
to Billy why I’m going away. I don’t hafta leave him behind. We’ll live and die together.

Screw Morris! We’ll
both
go!

And Billy’s still looking at me, waiting to hear about Nelson. I say, “Yeah, in a
way I did meet Nelson, Billy. In a way, I think I did.”

Billy says, “I saw him too.”

I go hot and cold again. He sounds so matter-of-fact. I almost ask what he means,
and then I daren’t. “You did?”

Billy nods. “He was upstairs. I told you he was. I made a wish.”

My voice comes out all faint. “You did? What was it?”

He says proudly, “To be with you, Charlie. Just to be with you.”

I’
M MAKING DO WITH LESS
. A
ND THEN LESS AND LESS AND LESS
. I’m even eating less. But I don’t know if it’s better to eat a lot so as to live
off my fat later on, or eat less so as to be in practice for not having enough food.
I’ve heard, though, that if you’re fat you stretch your stomach, so you need more
food to feel satisfied, so I’ve decided it’s better to shrink mine.

I’m practicing for getting out of here.

I won’t be able to take anything but the clothes I’ll be wearing and what I can stuff
in my pockets.

Also I’m hardening myself up for the cold. Sometimes I sleep with the window open
no matter what the temperature. I live in the attic. Nobody notices what I do up here.
I even have a book though I don’t know how to read it.

If I keep quiet and do my jobs I’m practically invisible. Just like Mother said: “It’s
always good to behave yourself so as not to get noticed.” She also said, “Stand up
straight, say thank you and please.” I don’t. I keep quiet and hunch over so as not
to be seen.

I was sold for quite a respectable sum. Or so Mother told me, and proudly. I don’t
blame her. I presume she had to do it.

And these are not the worst people to be sold to. I’ve heard some get beaten. These
people don’t do that.

Trouble is, now that I’m getting breasts, I can tell that they’re beginning to see
me no matter how quiet I keep.

I tried to leave before but I didn’t get far. I was too young. I didn’t realize how
hard it would be and how I’d
have
to be tired and hungry—how I’d have to maybe be freezing or wet. That’s part of running
away. This time I’ll be ready. That time I came back by myself. They didn’t even know
I had gone.

When they took me, they promised they’d let me go to school so I was glad to go with
them, but they never did let me. They kept saying, “Next year,” and when it was next
year they still said it. Pretty soon even they stopped saying it because it was clear
there wasn’t going to be a “next year” for me.

There are lots of books around. More than anybody would ever need. I thought maybe
I could teach myself to read. I looked at captions under pictures, but there aren’t
very many pictures and that hasn’t helped much. If I waited till the baby was a bit
older, surely there would be some simpler books, but I’m not going to wait.

When they first took me, it was just great. I couldn’t believe my luck. Plane rides
and hotels. Wonderful food—though some of it so odd I didn’t dare eat it, and I was
homesick every now and then for lentils. They got me the first frilly blouse I ever
had…and that was the last, too. It was tan and silky. I did all sorts of things I’d
never have had a chance to do except for them—as they kept telling me. That’s when
I thought I really would get to go to school.

They kept telling me I should be grateful—and I was. Actually I’m still grateful,
but I think I’ve paid them back enough by now. I don’t know how long I’ve been here.
I wish I’d had the sense to mark off the years.

The one good thing is, they never whip me. That’s what they used to do back home and
it’s one of the reasons I wanted to get out of there. They always talk sweetly. My
so-called father calls me a hundred different things. They all sound good. “Madam,
if you’d be so kind…Miss, by your leave.” Talking that way is his joke. Like, “My
dear, clean the toilet and be quick about it. Sweetheart, change the bed and wash
the sheets.” (He doesn’t even say “sweetheart” or “my dear” to his wife.) Now and
then he says, “Miss Whatever-your-name-is…” He really does forget my name and that’s
why he says “madam” and “my dear.” That’s odd, too, because they’re the ones named
me what they wanted me to be. My real name was much too long and complicated for them
to remember. They never even tried.

Now that I’m getting breasts my so-called father is looking at me in a different way.
All that fancy language he talks, all those “madam”s and “sweetheart”s, “dear lady”s,
and “by your leave”s might turn into something entirely different. He pinched my breasts
as though to see how much they’d grown.

My so-called mother (“Call me Mother in front of people.” Though people hardly ever
come here), she was the one decided what to name me when they took me. She wanted
something simple and easy to say. She calls me B. I do know that letter. She spells
it
Bee
. I know
A
and
C
, and
E
, and some others, too. I like
O
.

Here, I have to do what I don’t want to all the time. I mean
all
the time. Easier to list what I
don’t
do than what I do do. And I can’t think of a thing I don’t do.

They’ll miss me when I’m gone. I’m going to have to be careful, though I don’t think
they can risk setting the cops on me since I’m here illegally. I didn’t realize that
until recently. I’m a secret. They bought me when I was ten. To get me in the country
they pretended I was their daughter and got some sort of phony passport.

I don’t want to do anything to put the baby in danger. I’ll leave at night when they’re
home. I’m sorry for the houseplants. I don’t think my so-called parents will remember
that they’ll need to water them. Maybe they’ll forget about the baby, too. At least
it’ll make a fuss.

There’s a big wall around their place and an iron gate that’s always locked. There’s
broken glass along the top of the wall and sharp points on top of the gate. They say
to keep robbers out, but I think it’s for keeping me in.

But I have the gate key now. They’ve turned the house upside down. They’ve frisked
me and more than once. He did it. Looked everywhere on and
in
my body. Then, for the first time, they whipped me. I almost told them where the key
was, but I managed not to. Finally they got tired and stopped. Then my so-called father
scared me in another way than pinching breasts. He said I was a pretty girl but he
could make it so I wasn’t if I didn’t behave myself.

But they’re not all bad. They were kind enough to give me a day to rest up after that.
I guess they knew I’d need it. “Mother” even served me supper in bed. She said, “You’ll
get breakfast in bed, too, if you show us where that key is.” They were extra nice
all day (I got dessert. I got a heating pad on my sore spots) but I said I didn’t
know, so I didn’t get breakfast in bed.

Next day I pretend I’m worse off than I am. I hobble around and sit down sideways
whenever I get to sit. They’ll never think I could go off tomorrow. Weather report
says rain. Perfect.

Middle of the night and I’m off—my pockets full of peanut-butter sandwiches. Now all
I have to do is find a school. I’m not sure what a school looks like, even though
I’ve seen pictures. I know sometimes it’s a little school and sometimes it’s a great
big building school. At least it should say
school
on it. I can read that. It’s got two O’s.

After I let myself out, I hide the key under a big tree next to a parking lot a few
blocks away. I dig it in nice and deep. That’s what I did last time I ran away and
how I got back in before they found out. That time they didn’t even know the key was
gone. They’d left it on the hall table.

It’s drizzling but I have a big black garbage bag over me. I walk on down the road,
turn a corner, and then another corner. Walking anywhere I want. I keep turning corners
just because I can.

This right now is what it’s like to be free. Sometimes I run even though I have a
lot of heavy stuff in my pockets. Sometimes I hop and jump. All I know about freedom
is what I know right now.

I turned so many corners, at first I don’t suppose I get far, but now I’m getting
somewhere. I’ve taken smaller and smaller roads and this one is the smallest of all.

Then I hear something crying. I hold still and listen. There’s a big bush by the side
of the road that would make a good place to hide. That’s got to be where the creature
is. I move closer. The crying stops.

Since I don’t know what it is, I’m a little worried about reaching around in there.
But I’m thinking how I know what it feels like to be wet and homeless even though
I haven’t been that way very long.

I crawl under the bushes and feel around until I touch wet fur. The creature cries
again. It doesn’t bite me. I pull it out and under the streetlight.

It’s nothing but skin and bones, and so dirty and matted, I hardly know what it is.
But then…it’s just what I’ve always wanted and knew I’d never get to have. I even
have a name all picked out. I don’t know yet if it’s a boy or girl, but I’ll call
it Mr. O’Brien. There was once a man came to visit my so-called parents and that was
his name. I was in the kitchen cleaning up, and he looked in at me with curiosity
and kindness. I would have said something but he took me by surprise. They usually
kept me hidden when people visited. If he had come again I would have been ready to
say something, or I’d have made some sort of sign, but he never came back. Usually
when there were guests, “Mother” locked me in the attic. I only saw that man for a
few seconds, but I’ll remember him forever.

This Mr. O’Brien here is some kind of puppy, I don’t know what kind. It’s mostly brownish
unless this is dirt. I hope we get to be friends and that it grows up to be big and
dangerous. I’d like to see my so-called father try to come after me then.

I put Mr. O. in with me, under my big black garbage bag.

We walk until there aren’t any more streetlights. I’m looking for the real Mr. O’Brien,
or a school, whichever comes first, though right now any dry warm place would do.