And wasn’t it the final humiliation, Luke thought, that cleaning Kyneston’s toilets suddenly seemed like the cushiest life imaginable?
Their workstation was a complex array of hoists suspended from a gantry that transferred newly cast components from the heavy press (the source of the thumping) into and then out of the preliminary finishing machine. Williams’s briefing was thorough and entirely mimed. His enactment of the fate of his previous partner – spine crushed when a slipped chain block swung a turbine into him like a giant wrecking ball – struck Luke as excessively realistic. Their boilersuits and chafing work boots offered no protection at all.
It wasn’t only the noise that made them communicate silently. The work was so arduous that every breath Luke took was used up powering his muscles. When the call came from Kyneston, he’d walk out of Millmoor with the physique of a superhero from those banned Union American movies. Assuming he didn’t fall foul of the machinery, in which case he wouldn’t be walking at all.
There were two breaks: a hasty lunch in a canteen that served up the unappetizing with a side order of the inedible, and a ten-minute tools-down in the afternoon. At shift’s end on that first day, every limb trembling with exhaustion, Luke crept out of the components shed and towards the bus stop. Back at the dorm, desperate equally for food and sleep, he limped up the stairs to the skanky communal kitchen. He’d need to eat to give him strength to get through the next day.
‘Luke?’
He turned from the cupboard he was searching for a tin of something that he might know how to cook – or even open – and saw a face he dimly recognized.
‘O’Connor B-780,’ the guy said, just as Luke’s failure to remember his name was getting embarrassing. ‘I mean, Ryan. I was a few years above you at Henshall Academy. Started my days straight after.’
‘Sorry,’ Luke mumbled. ‘Of course I remember you. I only arrived yesterday. Still adjusting.’
‘No worries,’ said Ryan. ‘No wonder you’re all over the place. Here, I’ll fix us both something.’
Luke would have eaten his own socks by that point, so he fell on the beans on toast that Ryan put in front of him. He was happy to let Ryan talk – though it turned out there wasn’t much to say about two years of days. His former schoolmate was considering converting to the military route: three years of labour followed by seven years of conscripted service as a ‘mauler’, then a minimum of ten years enlisted. As a mauler you were still a slave and didn’t get pay or benefits, but you did get a head start in your career in the forces.
‘Only downside,’ said Ryan, around a forkful of beans, ‘is that the maulers get all the most dangerous assignments. No compensation payable if you get injured or killed, you see.’
As downsides went, Luke thought that wasn’t insignificant. He didn’t mention Kyneston, remembering Kessler’s taunting and the reaction of the men he’d arrived with. But he had to offer small talk about something, so he told Ryan about the girl he’d met, the one delivering medicine. Ryan frowned.
‘Morphine? That doesn’t sound right. There’s no way a kid that age would have access to it. She must have stolen it, been trading it. You should report her.’
‘Report her?’
‘Safest thing,’ said Ryan. ‘Security here is fierce. Infringements are slapped on you for the smallest thing, and bigger violations add years onto your days. For serious offences, there’s slavelife. Apparently lifer camps make this place look like a palatial estate. But it goes both ways. If you flag up something dodgy, it buys you favour with Security.’
Luke thought that through. He was pretty sure the girl hadn’t been selling the drug. It had sounded more like she was delivering it to someone who really needed it. And while Ryan’s account of how Millmoor worked made a fair amount of sense, it also sounded a lot like snitching at school.
‘So where did you see her?’ Ryan asked.
In his memory, Luke clearly saw the rusted sign screwed to the wall, the word ‘East’ and the row of five 1s.
‘No idea, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘It was my first day. Barely know where I am right now, though I do know that my bed is a couple of floors up. Thanks for the feast, but I’m going to turn in. See you around.’
He pushed back his chair and left. And despite the million and one thoughts churning in his head, Luke was asleep the minute his head hit the thin, lumpy pillow.
On Wednesday, he got up and did it all over again. And Thursday. And Friday. On Saturday, he ate his congealed horror of a lunch in record time and was using the remainder of his break to poke around a corner of Zone D he hadn’t seen before (dirty and noisy, like every other corner he’d investigated so far) when a voice spoke from the shadows.
‘How’s it goin’, Luke Hadley?’
As far as Luke knew, only four people in Millmoor knew his name, and only one of them was a girl.