‘Let me guess,’ the doctor said, letting the cotton drop back over Luke’s middle. ‘Workplace accident. You tripped and fell. Right onto something shaped like, oh, a Security baton?’
Startled, Luke glanced at the doctor’s face. Was this a trap? Careful, Luke.
Maybe this Jackson was Kessler’s pal. Did the smiling medic patch up all of the Security man’s ‘little lessons’, keeping them hush?
‘Workplace accident,’ Luke agreed. Jackson frowned.
‘Of course it was. And I’ll tell you what: it’s not nearly as bad as it must feel. I think you hit your head on the way down, which sent your neural pathways into a state of hypersensitivity. But it’s nothing I can’t fix with some heavy-duty analgesics. Wait a sec.’
Jackson turned away to rummage in a mirror-fronted cabinet.
The doc was right: Luke already felt much better than he had on coming round in the waiting room. He’d thought Kessler had pulverized a few of his ribs, but when he risked a look at his midriff, all he could see was livid bruising. That made sense, in a twisted sort of way. Kessler couldn’t go round beating people half to death. Slaves might be chattels of the state, but that didn’t mean sadistic Security guards could just break them. Kessler must have known exactly what he was doing, landing every blow for maximum agony and minimum actual injury.
Jackson turned back with a fat tub of ointment. As he smeared it lightly across Luke’s abdomen, the last of the pain lifted away. Luke wanted to cry with relief, and spluttered his thanks.
‘No problem,’ said Jackson, straightening up and looking Luke in the eye. ‘Least I could do for the friend of a friend.’
And there went Luke’s heart again, leaping against his not-busted-after-all ribcage. What did the doc mean? Luke didn’t have any friends in Millmoor, just a mute work partner, a former school acquaintance, and a barely teenage taskmaster.
The doc.
The doc. The one who knew stuff. Who ran Renie’s show.
‘A friend? Would that be, uh, one of your younger patients? A girl?’
Jackson laughed, a low, reassuring sound.
‘Renie’s never been a patient of mine. She’s got more lives than a cat, that girl. You could throw her off a roof and she’d land feet first. Looking after you today is the least I could do, after all you’ve done for us, Luke Hadley.’
Luke flushed at the unexpected praise.
‘I’ve not done much. Nothing that anyone else wouldn’t do.’
‘That’s not quite true, I’m afraid,’ said Jackson. ‘There aren’t many that see this place for what it truly is. Even fewer who realize that the slavedays aren’t an inevitable part of normal life, but a brutal violation of freedom and dignity, perpetrated by the Equals.’
Luke stared at the doctor. Was that what Luke thought? He wasn’t sure. He’d dreaded his slavedays – still did dread the decade stretching ahead. He both resented and envied the Equals. He hated Millmoor, and the cruelties and indignities he saw here every day. But just like Abi and the rest of the family, Luke had never questioned the fact that he’d have to do days eventually.
‘I shouldn’t get heavy,’ said Jackson, sensing his confusion. ‘You’ve had a wretched time of it this afternoon. Go back to your dorm and rest. But there are a few others like Renie and me, and we get together occasionally as the Millmoor Games and Social Club. If you fancy joining us, we’d be glad to see you. Renie can tell you when.’
With that, Jackson opened the door and yelled down the corridor for his next patient.
To his astonishment Luke woke the following morning pain-free, with only yellowing bruises to show where Kessler had laid into him. Which was good, because he had a job to do. During tools-down, he went straight to the canteen storeroom. Kessler wouldn’t be expecting him back so soon – if at all. He filled his boilersuit pockets with as many packets as he could conceal. That night, he went to the rendezvous spot arranged with Renie for the previous evening, planning to cache the food there. But she was waiting for him.
‘Knew you’d come tonight,’ she said, snapping some definitely-not-Millmoor-approved gum in her mouth. ‘Doc said that if you showed, I was to tell you that the next club meeting’s this Sunday. See me by Gate 9 of the South vehicle repair yard, 11 a.m.’
She stuffed the pilfered food inside her hoodie, and melted back into the gloom.
‘Wait!’ Luke hissed. ‘This club. What did Jackson mean – games and social? What do you do, really?’
The girl’s face reappeared, bobbing disembodied in the drizzle of light from a lamp post.
‘Chess. Scrabble.’ She shrugged. ‘We had Cluedo, but it got taken off us for being subversive. Bumping off poshos in a mansion, and it could have been one of the servants what dunnit.’
At Luke’s disappointed expression, she threw back her head and cackled.
‘Only joking. You’ll find out soon enough. And remember: no one will make you play. We may have chosen you, but you have to choose the game.’