6
None of us moves. We all know the rules of Reckoning day; don’t miss it and don’t cheat. Or, I suppose, don’t get caught. Paul screams in agony as dark, black-looking blood spews from his leg, pooling on the floor. We have all seen far worse on our screens, where people are punished and killed routinely as a warning for their transgressions. It feels different to witness it in person, the anguish uncomfortably real, Paul’s cries of pain rippling through my ears. I feel like covering them but, within seconds, more Kingsmen pour through the door, lifting Paul and carrying him away as he drips spots of blood behind them.
Everything has happened in a matter of seconds.
Behind me, a voice breaks the stunned silence: ‘I guess that’s what happens when you cheat.’
They are stating the obvious, although their tone makes it sound as if this is something perfectly normal. I have never been friends with Paul, yet it didn’t feel right watching him writhing on the ground.
Before I can begin to process what has happened, someone steps forward and walks through the door and within moments we are all following. I feel Opie’s hand at the bottom of my back guiding me but only for a second.
Outside, there is another wave of celebration. From the top of the steps I can’t see anything other than streamers, confetti and people waving and cheering. There are more faces than before and the sun is higher and brighter. At the entrance are two cameras but I avoid them, hiding behind Opie’s imposing figure before sliding through a gap between people and disappearing into the crowd.
It is hard to move because everyone is so tightly packed but I squeeze in and out of the masses before the numbers eventually thin. Kingsmen are still circling as I reach the back but, as one of their hands edge towards his sword, I say that I have just finished, holding up my thinkwatch. He could choose to scan it to make sure I’m telling the truth but instead he stands to one side, letting me through. Colt and my mother are in the crowd somewhere and Opie will wonder where I have gone but I need this moment for myself.
On the outskirts of the village, the only other people I can see are lone Trogs sweeping the confetti in the space between the Kingsmen and the buildings. One of them has his shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing the think-watch on his wrist and the gentle yellow face. I don’t bother going home, instead dashing through the deserted streets, heading towards the gully.
Past the village border, over the ridge, through the trees until I am sitting in the same spot as I did yesterday, lying on the dry-again ground and listening. When I was a child, Mum would tell me bedtime stories of how things used to be. She would talk about birds chirping to christen a new day but, as I close my eyes, there isn’t even a rustle of the wind to comfort me. I try to picture what the lake might once have looked like but can’t think of anything other than the piles of unusable glass, silicon and plastic that litter the hollow bowl in the ground.
My thinkwatch begins to beep and I know it is time. For a moment I do nothing except open my eyes, squinting at the bright blue of the sky. I hold my wrist in front of my face but it takes a second or two for my eyes to adjust to the crisp dark words on the screen.
‘Silver Blackthorn: Member’
It is hard to know exactly how the decision is arrived at. No one has a definitive explanation. The phrase ‘Await further instruction’ drifts into view and I know I will be given my role in society at some point tomorrow. The circular white-grey portion in the centre of the metal begins to swirl yellow and red until it settles into an orange colour. Initially, it burns bright before fading into the more gentle hint I have seen on other people’s thinkwatches. In the centre is the outline of a lightning bolt, etched in a slightly lighter orange shade.
I should share the news with my mother and Colt; they will both be excited and disappointed at the same time. My status will reflect on the pair of them and they will gain greater credits because of it – but it is still likely I will have to leave Martindale to fulfil whatever role I am assigned. Most Members are sent to the bigger cities, where there are the bigger industries and they can be of more use.
I lie thinking for a while, drinking in the air, and then take my time returning to the village, allowing myself to enjoy the trees for one final time, even if they don’t feel quite like they belong to me when it is sunny. As I stand on the bank that overlooks our houses, I see lines of citizens ready to get back onto the train. Pockets of people are drifting through the streets but, as I look towards the hall in the distance, I can’t see anything other than the black dots of the Kingsmen.
At the house, Colt and my mother are both waiting for me. People around the village say we all look alike but I have never seen it. My mother’s hair is lighter than mine and nature has lined her face with wrinkled reminders of what it is to bring up two children. I cannot ever imagine a time where she would have been able to chase around avoiding trouble in the way I somehow manage to. Colt is excited but Mum says something about wondering where I went. I don’t mention the gully, or Paul, instead flicking through the message screen on my watch and showing her the colour and the news. Her smile is a mix of pride and sadness. Colt bounces on the spot in happiness. He has short brown hair cut into a bowl shape, almost as if Mum has done it with a pair of scissors and a dish. Perhaps she did?
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’.