New Reality 2: Justice (17 page)

That was true, but she knew exactly what they were capable of; at that point, she would rather take her chances with the boy. Regardless of that, she edged a little closer to the group but still remained on their periphery. The last thing she needed was this lynch mob calling her a sympathiser.
 

"I bet he's
gay
," another man said. "That has to be it. The authorities have found out and he's running away."

The man who was making claims of homosexuality stood out in the crowd. As thin as a pole, he was sitting in the corner in a pair of tight-fitting trousers. He had his legs crossed in a way that Marie was sure most men would find uncomfortable. In his delicate hands, he clutched a small leather bag. With his lips pursed so tightly they'd damn near vanished, he glared at the boy from the estate through his pink eyes.
Had they been cosmetically altered or were they contact lenses?
Either way, they glowed like a little girl's dream.

When the boy looked up through his dishevelled fringe, there was a collective gasp. An angry scar ran from his chin diagonally across his face. The fear he'd carried with him had been replaced with what seemed to be a rage-fuelled confidence. He stepped forwards. "You think you're so fucking
special
, don't you? You're all here in your wonderful fucking trains, paid for by the state that we subsidise with our hard-earned money."

"And so you should! You're the drain on the system, not us." The gay/not-gay man said—no one in Nirvana's privileged class was gay.

"I'm the drain on the system, am I?"

There were only holes where the emergency stop buttons used to be. They were removed because the terrorists from the estate had made good use of them. They'd jump on a train, rob everyone, hit the emergency stop button—which would grind the train to a halt, opening all of the doors in the process—and make off with the loot. There was no out for the commuters or the boy.

"
We're
the ones who help your systems run.
We're
the ones who clean your streets, drive your trains, and tidy your houses.
We're
the foundation of this shitty fucking economy, and
we're
the ones made to pay for it with our fucking taxes."

Another step forwards and Marie could smell him. He had the damp, earthy tang of someone who didn't wash often enough.
Did they even have running water on the estates? If so, how filtered was it?

"You're all fucking arseholes. You're happy to take all the benefits of our labour, but when we need help, you throw us to the dogs. All I want to do is use the same train as you so I can get to work on time." A film of tears covered his eyes and he shook; his words became panicky as his breathing quickened. "If I don't get there, I'll lose my job. I have a baby to feed."

A twinge ran through Marie's stomach and her head spun. Another street rat and another bastard child.
How could the city, with all its wealth, let people live like this poor boy?

The man who'd offered Marie his seat stepped up next to the blonde woman. "You should have left for work earlier."

"There was a raid on the estate," the boy said. "It was locked down. No one was allowed to leave. All I want to do is get by, and you don't even want me to breathe the same fucking air as you. You wonder why there are terrorist attacks." When he stood upright, he was much taller than Marie had first realised. With his broad shoulders pulled back, he glared at those around him and tugged on his shirt like he had something beneath it. "When you beat a dog enough times, it's going to bite back."

A tense silence fell over the carriage.
 

Maybe he
was
a terrorist.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

After a time, it was clear the boy wasn't a terrorist. Or, if he was, he had nothing on him at that moment that would cause any harm to anyone.
 

The commuters' courage grew and the tense silence was soon filled with their insults again. Each and every one of them called the boy's bluff; each and every one of them chipped away at his resolve.
 

"Faggot."

"Street rat."

"Scum bag."

It was an embarrassment to be associated with these people. It was tempting to stand at the other end of the carriage with the boy, but it would do nothing to make them realise just how ridiculous and nasty they sounded. If anything, it would alienate her from a group of people she felt very far removed from already.

When the long platform of the next train station came into view, the boy craned his neck to look out the window. Marie saw him gulp and sadness filled her heart. The poor boy was fucked!

There must have been twenty police officers in full riot gear waiting for him. Batons raised and shields ready, they followed the train down the platform at a jog so they would be directly outside the doors to their carriage when they opened.

The boy turned away from the police, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly.
 

The peroxide blonde woman took it to another level in the presence of so many men in uniform. "It's no more than you deserve, you horrible rat." A smile split her overly made-up face; it was a wonder her foundation didn't crack like a patch of sun-baked mud. "It's off to New Reality for you."

The boy didn't react to the woman. Instead, he stared at Marie's chest.
What the fuck? He was copping an eyeful before he was punished?
She looked down at her own cleavage. Then she realised what he was staring at. On her black work shirt was the embroidered letter 'R'—for Rixon.

As much as she wanted to be separated from this crowd, she was one of them… the worst kind. She'd be seeing this boy in a few days when he existed in a world of his own making—if he made it that far.

When she made eye contact with him, Marie balked. It was like staring into the eyes of a nineteen-year-old Frankie. It wasn't the colour—although his warm, brown irises were strikingly similar. There was something else in his stare. Something fierce yet fractured and lost. Like Frankie, he had a strong spirit in a world that was set on crushing it. There used to be hope in his eyes—maybe as recently as just a few minutes ago—but now his life was over, and the boy knew it. The game was up, regardless of how hard he fought.

The words sat on Marie's lips, but before she could speak them, the doors opened and a policeman ran onto the carriage. With a sweep of his leg, he knocked the boy to the floor.
 

The boy fell with a hard thud and was then dragged off the carriage by his ankles.

Despite the commuters and officers shouting, Marie heard the boy's words above all else. "Please, all I want to do is get to work on time. If I don't, I'll have my hours taken away and I won't be able to feed my family.
Please
."

His pleas meant nothing to the crowd as a sea of officers closed in, obscuring him from view. The air was filled with a flurry of batons that delivered a tattoo of thuds to his thin body.

After a couple of cries, the boy fell silent. All that remained was the sound of pounding bats and the occasional dry crack of breaking bones. Soon, even that was lost.

Lost to the jeers from the enraged passengers.
 

Lost to the closing doors.
 

Lost to the train pulling away from the platform.
 

Lost forever and probably only missed by one that was too young to understand.

Several gulps did little to shift the burning lump in her throat, but it was enough for her to get the words out she had wanted to say. "I'm sorry." For what good it did.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Marie stared at her dinner, and the same thing that had been on her mind all day continued running through it. He was just a boy—a boy with a child of his own. Now he was gone from them forever. Although destined for New Reality, there was no way he would have made it there. The poor bastard probably didn't make it off the platform. It looked like he was dead before the train had pulled away, even before the doors had closed.

The chink of her knife hit her plate as she cut through a potato. The images continued flashing through her mind: the officers dragging the boy onto the platform, his screams, the cracking of his bones… his silence. She lifted the hot potato to her mouth.

When Frankie's warm hand touched the back of hers, Marie jumped and pulled a sharp intake of breath. When she focused on him, she saw he was smiling.

"How's your food, darling?"

Bland, tasteless, uninspiring.
Although in truth, it had nothing to do with the dinner. She could have been eating roast lamb, cooked to such perfection the bones shed their meat like a waxed leg shedding a silk stocking; her response would have been the same. Had she given it to him, that is. Frankie didn't need to know everything; life was hard enough as it was. She smiled and nodded. "Mmm, nice. Thank you." The tone of her voice sounded empty and cold in her own head.
 

She chewed on the fluffy potato and chased it with a piece of chicken. One bite released a rush of garlic butter; the first taste she'd registered that evening. "The meat's nice." And it was.

Another squeeze of her hand and Frankie continued to stare warmly at her. This was often as close as they got to one another, and that was the problem. Frankie wasn't cold or detached, but he wasn't tactile either. The touch of another human—especially one she loved as much as Frankie—was what Marie craved most often after a hard day. It was rare for him to give it to her.

After one last squeeze of her hand, Frankie pulled away, speared a piece of broccoli, and shoved it into his mouth. It was so large, he had to store some of it in his cheek and his words were muffled. "So, how was your day?"

It was easy enough to withhold the words, but the hot sting that spread over her eyeballs was harder to control. Within seconds, tears were streaming down her cheeks. A shake of her head and she pointed at herself. "Look at me, all I've done lately is cry."

"It's okay; life's really stressful at the moment."

Life was stressful but it was stressful for both of them. They say ‘a problem shared is a problem halved’. They obviously didn't mean when you shared it with a lifelong partner. Suddenly you both have a problem and it becomes ‘a problem shared is a problem doubled’. But she couldn't hold it back. "Work's
so
hard. I hate it on the best of days and I'm so fucking
tired
at the moment, Frankie." It wasn't worth telling him about the boy. Whenever they talked about the estate, it hit him harder than their other worries.

Frankie's eyebrows raised in the middle as if he would cry himself. Was Marie giving him another reminder of how he couldn't provide for their family?
 

"The extra work I've been telling you about should be coming through," Frankie said. "As soon as it does, we'll be okay. It'll be a large lump payment that'll hopefully be enough to get married on."

Hopefully? Should? How could she build a future of hopefully and should?
Although now wasn't the time to attack his plan. "This pregnancy is taking a lot of energy from me at the moment. I have to squash the poor thing into a corset every day and swan around as if I feel great. It's
exhausting.
" On top of that, she had to see shit like she had that morning with the boy.
 

Silence filled the room, and Frankie ran light strokes across her palms with his soft fingers.

The tickle—almost too much to bear—brought more tears gushing forwards. It was much harder to remain resolute in the face of his kindness. After a deep sigh, she said, "A man offered me his seat on the train today."

Frankie's eyes flew wide. "You think he noticed?"

At first, Marie shrugged, but who was she kidding. "Yes, I think so."
 

A deep frown crushed Frankie's forehead and he returned his attention to his dinner.

A problem shared… What do
they
know?

***

The silence that hung between them gave power to the depression that was wrapping its tarred hands around Marie's very existence.
When did life get so fucking hard?
 

As alluring as the abyss was, she couldn't afford to slip into it. She was going to be a mummy soon.
 

At least she had Frankie with her. A partner and a baby on the estate tonight would be sitting at home, waiting for their provider and lover to return. At what point would she accept what was an all too familiar reality for those people? Her partner wasn't coming home. Her child had lost its father. Food wouldn't be on the table that night.

Despite the dread that gripped Marie's stomach, she still ate her dinner. There was no way she could waste it while people starved in the city.
 

Not chewing enough, the hot lump caught on the sadness in her throat and burned on the way down. When she looked up, she saw Frankie was watching her. "Why didn't we get married, Frank?"

"I don't know. It seems ridiculous now, doesn't it? We were young and living in the moment. We didn't want the debt, did we?"

The last lump of broccoli turned into a bland mush in her mouth. Overcooked vegetables were the worst. She'd been too distracted while cooking that evening. After pushing her plate aside, Marie reached over to Frankie.
 

He took her hands again.

"Hindsight's a wonderful thing, eh?" she said.

"Although, in our defence," Frankie replied, "it's not easy to get married on a teacher's wage. The wankers in suits are happy for me to teach their fat little children but when it comes to paying me a decent salary…"

The video screen came to life in the kitchen and both Marie and Frankie turned to face the bright glow—a conditioned response from almost every citizen in Nirvana. No matter what time of day, breaking news was breaking news and it was shown all over the city. At least it wasn't waking them up in the middle of the night. Or interrupting them having sex—not that they did it frequently enough for that to happen anymore, that honeymoon period had long gone.