Reckoning (5 page)

The rest of the day is a haze of congratulations, with messages arriving on my thinkwatch from friends every few minutes until I know what everyone else has been selected as. The village has produced no Elites but only one Trog – a relatively good year. Opie's fears were not realised as he comes around to tell me he is an Intermediate, proudly showing off the pale blue on the face of his thinkwatch with the imprinted sword. Although I don't understand how the grades are arrived at, I know Opie well enough to realise that he would not have fought back against his Reckoning in the way I did.

As the sun sets, the sharpness of the season returns, the moisture in the air sticking to my throat and a frost appearing underfoot. This is one night no one will go cold, the one evening a year where everyone has electricity to heat their houses and watch the Offering. Despite that, it has been an annual tradition for Opie and his family to come to our house. Although that doesn't mean things are the same every year. For one, his family grows rapidly. He has four younger brothers: Samuel, Felix, Eli and the youngest, Imp, who is six. They each look like smaller versions of Opie, as if he has been captured at various points in his life. Imp is the only one who differs slightly; his grin is more lopsided and his eyes are a different colour, though they all have the same distinctive mess of blonde hair and sense of adventure.

My mother sits with Opie's parents on the sofa as Colt plays with Eli at the back of the room. I lean next to Opie on the floor, playing thumb wars with Imp, who cheats by pinching my knee and then pinning me. I tell him he should sleep with one eye open but he tells me he does anyway. Seeing as he has four older brothers, I am inclined to believe him. There is a small smear of dirt along his knuckles and under his chin, as there always seems to be. I try to lock that image in my mind as a way to remember him. He spoils it by whacking the back of my hands and asking if I want to play slapsies. Usually I would say no but, as a final hurrah, I decide to teach him I can hit hard for a girl.

As I have him shrieking in gleeful pain, the screen switches itself on. We all stop talking and shuffle ourselves around to face it. It is small and the colours are too bright but it functions when there is power. Many of my early memories involve huddling around the screen underneath blankets. Tonight, the radiator in the corner, brown through age, is plugged in and spewing warmth into the room, although I still think it would be nice to have the comfort of a blanket. We rarely light an actual fire.

The national anthem plays as a St George's cross flutters on screen before fading to an image of King Victor. The orange of his hair is amplified by the colours on our screen, distorting his face. It is the same introduction that opens the public floggings and hangings, which are shown automatically on our screens once a month.

The screen fades until it reveals the outside of Windsor Castle. More trumpets, more flags and then it is time to get serious. Imp shuffles uncomfortably on the floor but I put my arm around him and he snuggles into me, nestling his head under my armpit.

The screen changes to a much dimmer scene. A caption at the bottom tells us it is the Tower of London and there is a row of seven people against a wall – a lot fewer than any other year I remember. I gasp and turn to Opie as the camera pans past Paul. His face is swollen, purple and bloody as he hangs limply from cuffs attached to the wall. Opie seems unmoving, which I can't blame him for. These are the circumstances we have all grown up in. Although we have watched the parade of cheats each year, to actually see someone we know still comes as a shock.

The Minister Prime is on the screen, a face which, if anything, is more familiar than the King's. He is our monarch's right-hand man and is always there for the televised punishments and executions. Aside from the annual State of the Nation speech, it is always the Minister Prime who addresses us – even when the King is sitting next to him. He has short black hair and a square, solid-looking jaw with wide, broad shoulders. His eyes are as dark as his hair and, as he strides along the line, I find myself focusing on how big he is, his heavy boots thumping off the floor with every step.

The Minister Prime walks along the line, allowing the camera to showcase everyone. Some of the cheats have been beaten more than others; Paul is among the worst. There is a cut along the side of his face, his eyelids are black. He can barely open them as he says: ‘My name is Paul Fisher and I tried to cheat the Reckoning.'

‘Is that him?' Opie's father asks.

‘Yes,' Opie replies.

‘Good.'

Opie doesn't take after him but his father, Evan Cotton, has always been the most patriotic person I know.

After everyone has confessed, a Kingsman strides along the length of the line, cutting the thinkwatches from each of their wrists. There is only one thing worse than being a Trog – Paul has been condemned to life as an Outcast. He will be sent to the mines and have to live on whatever food or water they choose to give him, as well as having no status. It is a far worse punishment than death. To further enforce the point, we are told that all of the cheats' families have had their status downgraded to Trog.

The King knows how to send a message.

After that, we switch back to an electronic map which has England and Wales divided into the Realms we know. We all know there was once a ‘Scotland' but we are no longer supposed to speak of it.

A man wearing a Kingsman's uniform runs through a list of overall statistics: the percentage of Elites is marginally up this year but so is the amount of Trogs. Members are a little down but Inters are steady. Because of the increased number of people taking the Reckoning, however, the projected figures show a sharp upsurge in the predicted productivity of the country. Opie's father gives an approving whoop at the news.

We then get the results for the Realms. The South has again produced the most Elites, which has everyone, including Opie, bristling in annoyance. We are third, with the East behind us. We are also third for the number of Members produced but second for Intermediates. Even I feel myself holding my breath as we reach the final figure and cannot stop myself cheering as we find out we have produced the fewest number of Trogs. I give Imp a squeeze and feel Opie rubbing my back. I am nowhere near as nationalist as some are but even I like the idea of winning at something. Even though I am not convinced being a Trog holds as much shame as people seem to think.

In the final results, the South has won the Reckoning and we have come a distant second. The West is third, narrowly behind us, and the East fourth. We are reminded that these results determine how much rations each area gets and it is hard not to get drawn into the excitement of the moment. All of the people around me should be able to eat more next year, even if it is only a slight increase. Last time, we were fourth – so it is an incredible turnaround.

Next, we get the same speech we hear every year. Only the numbers change. ‘Twenty-five years ago, this country was destroyed by selfishness, incompetence and lies. Eight years on, King Victor united this nation in peace, showing us the light where there was none. Tonight we show our gratitude.'

A Kingsman turns, pressing a button on the screen behind him that displays a list of names. ‘This year, for the thirteenth time, the South was victorious in the Reckoning. These are the names of every young boy and girl who will become Elite men and women.'

I squint but the words are too small to see. He presses another number and one zooms into focus, reading ‘Hoyle Brent', before they all begin scrolling sideways. They whizz across the screen far too quickly for any of us to be able to read.

The Kingsman reminds us that each Realm has to provide four Elites, not that any of us could have forgotten. One by one the names on the screen freeze, revealing the Offerings from the South who will be going to serve the King. Then the two Members, a boy Inter and a girl Trog are confirmed. He says there will be partying on the streets tonight and maybe there will be.

The West is next, names scrolling along the screen until there are four more Elites, two Members and a female Inter. No Trog is required from the West this year.

It feels as if everyone breathes in together as we are told it is time for the North. Eli and Colt join the rest of us in front of the screen as we all huddle together, not because we're cold but simply as we are so used to doing it. One by one our Elite Offerings are named, although they all come from the bigger cities.

The last Elite to come from Martindale was named Hart and he is the village's only Offering too. I remember sitting in this spot two years ago when his name appeared on screen and the ripple of satisfaction and excitement which went through us. It gave our community a feeling of purpose, that we were a part of the Realm and could contribute the same as everyone else. The morning after that Reckoning, we all went onto the streets to wave Hart goodbye and wish him well, everyone grabbing his wrist to stare at the strange grey-black colour on his thinkwatch that we had only previously seen on screen. I still remember him telling his mother that he loved her and the tears that came. Most of all, she was proud of him, as we all were. I can't think of anything that has brought us together quite like that did. This morning's celebrations felt forced and mechanical in some ways, prompted by cameras and flags. That moment was spontaneous, an eruption of pride in ourselves and respect for Hart.

None of us has seen or heard from him since.

After the Elites, it is time for the Members. The boys are always chosen first and a full list of names appears on the screen, although the words are barely dots before the first one zooms into place and everyone starts scrolling sideways. I can feel the sweat on my hands as I clutch Imp tighter, using him as the blanket I don't have, before the screen halts on a name from one of the cities I don't recognise. Opie is next to me and I can almost feel what he no doubt does at this moment – the excitement, fear, pride and realisation.

Then it is time for a female Member to be chosen. I see the dots of names on the screen and know mine is there somewhere. Imp wraps his arms around me and I feel Opie's reassuring hand on my spine. One name comes into focus and then they are all scrolling at speed. I think I see mine a few times but it is just a jumble of letters blurring into one. As they begin to slow, I find myself holding my breath and as the carousel slides slowly from one name to its final selection, I realise it has been inevitable this whole time. Everyone seems to gasp together but somehow I already knew what was going to happen. My thinkwatch beeps and buzzes at the same time as my eyes focus on the screen and the name that has been selected: ‘Silver Blackthorn, Member, Martindale, North'.

7

People start knocking on our door almost immediately, many bringing offerings of food: buns, bread and fruit. I eat nothing, leaving everything for my mother and Colt to have. There are pats on the back and words of encouragement but, most of all, smiles of pride from villagers who see me as someone their own children can aspire to be. It feels strange as I am just me, the same person I have always been. I wonder if I really have done something worthy of the adulation; did my Reckoning have something special about it which prompted my choosing or is it really a random lottery?

Opie's mum hugs me and says well done. Imp clings to me, only letting go when his mother says it is time to go home. She kisses me on the head and says she'll see me tomorrow as she shivers her way out onto the street. Opie doesn't seem to know what to say, offering a half-shrug, half-wave which is about as emotional as I would expect him to be in front of others. The bewilderment in his eyes is enough to tell me how he feels.

And then it is just me, Colt and Mum. My brother doesn't seem to know whether he should be happy or sad but then neither do I. Pride and fear, confusion and exhilaration, loss and anticipation; I feel it all and more. I was expecting to leave to go to the city for work but there would always have been the opportunity to return home on odd occasions. This is final.

Soon my mother sends Colt off to bed, saying he needs his sleep before tomorrow's big day. Then she holds me and I feel as if I'm a child again, being cradled by my mummy after she has told me I won't be seeing my father again.

‘I'm so proud of you,' she whispers in my ear but I don't know what to say as I haven't done anything out of the ordinary, I have simply been chosen. Even if I wanted to reply, there is a lump in my throat that stops me from saying anything.

She sends me to bed with a final kiss on my head and says she will wake me in the morning, although we both know the chances of me sleeping through the night are non-existent. I lie awake and think of the extra provisions and status she and Colt will have and realise the good it will do for everyone. I try to think of what I may have to do as an Offering and wonder if this has already been decided.

I drift in and out of consciousness and, as the sun begins to rise, Mum joins me in my room, sitting behind me in front of the mirror, combing my hair. I don't mind, even though I can't remember the last time I allowed her to help. She runs a damp sponge through it, gently easing the teeth of the comb through as she does so, removing the last bits of dirt and grime from my trip to the woods yesterday. She doesn't ask if I was out with Opie, although she probably knows.

The position of the mirror forces me to look at us both and I can see what everyone has spent a lifetime telling me: we share the same eyes. There are a few more crinkles around the corners of hers but we each have a matching deep, dark brown colour that almost makes it look as if we don't have pupils. She looks into mine briefly, before returning to what she is doing, pulling my dark locks back tightly, leaving the strand of light, silver-white hair at the front to fall loose. I tuck it behind my ear and then ask her to tell me the story of how I got my name. She has told me many times before but I always find it comforting and we both know this will be the last time she tells it.