5
SEVEN YEARS AGO
It has just begun to rain as I creep around the hedge, peering into the murky distance. I can hear my mother’s voice in my head, telling me not to venture out into the woods, telling me it’s not safe and making up stories about mystery animals she thinks should scare me. I smile as I somehow know she only says these things to try to make me stay close to home. I keep moving, even as the patter of rain increases, bouncing from the plants and hitting the floor.
I don’t even remember the first time I came to the woods on my own but I must have only been six or seven, walking to the edge of the village and staring towards the trees before dashing home again. My mother was always happy to let me play in the streets as long as I didn’t go too far. Even then, I knew her definition of ‘too far’ would not be the same as mine. Month by month, I would venture further until today, where I promised myself I would keep walking until I found the old lake people around the village talk about. It is officially out of bounds, with people saying Kingsmen used to patrol nearby to make sure no one ever went there. Either that was a myth, or they don’t bother now as I see nothing but scurrying small animals, apparently terrified of me.
I continue moving through the trees, quicker now as if the accelerating rhythm of the rain is keeping time for me. Soon I am running, giggling to myself as I know how naughty I am being. I cannot stop myself; I know every corner of the streets around Martindale and have a craving that is hard to describe, a need to find somewhere new.
It isn’t long before I end up sliding across a mossy patch of land, stumbling and covering my trousers in grass and mud. It won’t be the first time I return home looking like this and my failed promise to stay in the village is going to get me into trouble again … if my mother isn’t too busy looking after Colt, of course. He’s so young and she only has time for him at the moment. She lets me get away with things now because her attention has mainly been focused on him since my dad died. At first I pushed because I wanted attention, now I do it because I cannot stop.
As I pull myself to my feet, I emerge through a final row of trees and stand open-mouthed staring at the sight. I have seen images of lakes on the screen at home and know they should be full of water. In front of me must be the lake people around the village have spoken of but instead of the rain rippling the surface of water, it is clanging off pile after pile of metal and plastic objects. On and on the sea of discarded items goes, as far as I can see.
Crucially, there are no Kingsmen either.
I know I should turn and race home – I have seen what I came to – but somehow I feel drawn to the sight in front of me, stepping carefully across the sopping ground until I am at the rim of the rubbish. On the edge, wedged into the mud, is what looks like a cross between the thinkwatch strapped to my wrist and the thinkpads we use in school. I crouch and pick it up, running my fingers across a cracked screen and fumbling around its hard metallic edges for anything that might make it work. I don’t know what it is about it but I feel some sort of spark as I weigh it in my hands. I know instinctively that this object comes from before I was born, probably from before the war. I feel an uncontrollable urge to find out what it does.
As the rain starts to ease, I notice three more of the items and pick them all up, hurrying back towards a large tree that offers a degree of shelter. Each of the devices has a button at the top which pushes in but nothing happens when I try it. I twist each of them around in my hands, knowing they must have done something at one point. I compare them to my thinkwatch.
Grabbing a fallen branch, I whittle it on a tree stump, rubbing as hard as I can until I have filed it to a point. When it feels sharp enough, I use the wood to dig into the side of the device, pushing as hard as I can until it pops open. One by one, I open the other three too.
I am not the best reader in my class but I make out the word ‘phone’ written on a label inside one of the devices. I have no idea what it means but think I’ll memorise it and perhaps ask my mother at some point. I can pretend I heard someone in the streets talking about one.
I pull out all of the pieces inside, laying them on the ground next to each other, choosing the shiniest from each of the four sets and rebuilding one of the phones as best I can. My thin fingers dig easily into the corners behind the glass, pressing everything back together until I am convinced it will show me whatever it is that it does.
I press the button on the top, holding my breath, waiting for something to happen.
Nothing does.
The rain has gone by now but I check my thinkwatch and know I have to head home. Colt will have had his tea by now and Mum will start to get worried if I’m not back soon. Standing, I brush all of the parts underneath a bush with my feet and start to plan when I might be able to come here next. I glance at my watch again, wondering if the parts underneath are anything like the ones I have just taken out of the phone.
Somehow I know I will return here many times in the future.
I gasp again as I finally manage to shut down the memory. I had forgotten that day, the time where I first started exploring the items around the gully, taking them apart and putting them together again, trying to figure out how they worked. It wasn’t long after that when I first risked opening up my thinkwatch. I shake with shock at the fact the Reckoning has taken these thoughts from me, but that only makes me want to fight back.
I wonder if the Reckoning is going to keep pushing me, if it is trying to catch me out for all the things I have done wrong in the past, but somehow it doesn’t feel as if that’s what it was after. Perhaps my resistance was what it wanted all along?
I sense that the thinkpad wants my emotions, not my memories, so I don’t hold back, embracing the anger it has made me feel. Suddenly I am full of confidence as it continues to probe my mind. Words are drifting into my head but I push them away, instead forcing my questions towards it, wondering where the information goes, who invented it, how exactly it works. Each of my thoughts is resisted as a dull pain creeps through my forehead. When it shows me a crinkled black ball and asks me what I see, I respond that it is a crinkled black ball. When it says it has nearly finished and allows me to see myself standing and walking away, I think of myself in the spot I am now. The thoughts evaporate in a grey haze before I feel the tingling in my thumb again. This time, instead of drawing me in, it is pushing me away.
I stop touching the thinkpad and look up to see everyone else turning to face each other. Some are smiling, others frowning. Some seem confused, others as if they have woken from a long sleep. The only noise is a scraping of chairs, no one daring – or trusting themselves – to speak. I stand and turn towards the exit where lines of Kingsmen are standing close to the door. One by one people begin to file out, ruffling their hair, or touching their faces. I suddenly notice I am doing it too, my fingers scratching the back of my neck, as if rubbing away the memories.
I can see why no one really has an answer for what the Reckoning is. It is all the things people have told us it is: a conversation, a threat, a dream, a laugh, enjoyable, hateful, challenging, and so much more. Some people clearly have a life-changing experience but I feel the same as I did when I walked in.
Opie appears at my side but there is something not quite right about his eyelids. They are drooping more than they would usually and his pupils are larger. He smiles at me, asking if I am all right. I want to reply to say that it is him who looks strange but then we hear the commotion ahead.
The slow line of people leaving has stopped as we bunch forward into a semi-circle around the exit. Two Kingsmen are standing between us and the way out and I know instantly something is wrong. I have never seen a Kingsman with his sword unsheathed, but the two ahead are holding weapons at their sides. People are beginning to step backwards slowly as I see Paul isolated in the centre. He is glancing from one Kingsman to the other, panic on his face.
There is a moment of silence before he says: ‘You’ve got it all wrong.’ Neither of the guards reply, instead they reach forward at the same time. Paul sidesteps one of them but the other grips him by the throat, backing him towards a wall. Everyone seems to breathe in at the same time and we all know something bad is going to happen. I will Paul to go limp and not fight but instead his legs flail in resistance. They pin him to the floor, the second Kingsman wrenching Paul’s arm free and pressing his thumb onto one of the thinkpads. We all see the red line scanning downwards and then a momentary pause before it emits a crunching noise and flashes white.
There is no hesitation as the second Kingsman raises his sword and plunges it deep into Paul’s thigh, skewering him like a snared rabbit.