One of them was trying to ignore an angry man who was shouting and gesticulating. The man’s finger was stabbing at the guard’s face. Kessler would have had you on your back in a second with a snapped wrist and piss-soaked pants for that, but the guard just cringed.
Two lads in their early twenties had scrounged a dustbin lid and a length of metal piping from somewhere and were attempting to prise up the shutters. A group of women were cajoling the other guard to open up. One of them was flirting in a way that wasn’t exactly appealing, but was certainly distracting.
For the first time Luke properly understood what the ditcher sisters had done. Letting people have free stuff was only a small part of it. At every store across Millmoor, the scene would be much the same. Dozens of guards would be taken up on this policing. And these younger, more inexperienced ones weren’t doing a great job of looking fearsome – which might make people bolder, more willing to risk defiance. If trouble flared up at one location, hopefully Security wouldn’t be able to call in reinforcements either, thanks to Renie’s busy night with her knife.
All that achieved on the ground, with just a little computer mischief. Luke let out a low whistle. Impressive.
He hurried on, keen to see more of the club’s plans unfold. He’d steer clear of Zone D for now. Would the place be eerily quiet, or would people have bottled at the last minute and shown up for work? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
But he knew where he could admire one of Jackson’s banners – his sector’s Labour Allocation Bureau. The same sods who’d waved through his solo assignment to Millmoor, despite the requirement that under-eighteens could only do days with a parent or guardian. The same ones, he had learned during his months in the club, who were responsible for many more outrageous decisions.
The banner was half hanging off by the time Luke arrived. The West Sector LAB was a pitted concrete building some six storeys high. It wasn’t as tall as the towering accommodation blocks that ringed Millmoor’s outskirts, but it still loomed over the smaller administrative buildings around it. The Doc’s little message was slung across its top floor like a jaunty bandanna.
It had been detached at the top right corner, and two nervous members of Security were dangling a third guy over the edge of the roof. He must have been having even less fun. He was slashing at the fastening on the bottom corner with a blade tied to a broom handle. The banner sagged but the slogan was still clear, so neatly lettered it must have been done by Asif: ‘UN-EQUAL’.
A small crowd had gathered to watch and a woman near the front was heckling. Her skin seemed somehow too large for her, as if she’d been a big lass before coming to Millmoor and being put on the Slavery Diet. The place had done nothing to shrink her voice, though.
‘Shame on yer!’ the woman bawled up at the roof. ‘Policin’ yer own kind. Git a proper job. You was my kids, I’d tan yer hides!’
She spat emphatically on the pavement. Several others in the crowd took up a chant of ‘Shame! Shame!’
Whether through fright, or because he did indeed feel ashamed, the guard being dangled upside down fumbled with his pole and it slipped from his fingers. The group of onlookers scurried back to avoid the blade as it fell, then surged forward to cover it. Luke didn’t see what happened to either pole or knife in the scuffle that followed. But by the time the crowd eased apart again, there was nothing on the ground.
‘You wait!’ the woman yelled at the roof. ‘You tell your lords an’ masters we’ll give ’em a Millmoor welcome if they ever come to visit!’
Well.
Luke knew he shouldn’t be surprised. Mancunians were a feisty bunch. But when all you saw, day in, day out, was people looking knackered and hungry, you somehow forgot that.
He grinned. Decided to do a circuit through South Sector to see what else was going on.
Everywhere he turned there was something to catch his eye. He stopped short when he saw a woman standing in a dorm block doorway with some friends.
She was wearing a dress.
She was nearly old enough to be his mum, and it wasn’t a terribly nice dress. In fact, it looked like it’d been run up from bedsheets. But he hadn’t seen a woman in a dress since coming to Millmoor. Mostly, ladies escaped the boilersuits, which were for heavy labour. But trousers and tunics were the order of the day, and non-regulation wear was banned. The frock might not be much of a fashion statement, but it was a political statement all right.
One of the woman’s friends noticed him staring, and pointed him out to the others with a laugh. Luke felt himself go bright red and wanted to bolt, but the lady in the dress turned round and saw him. An embarrassed but proud smile lit up her tired face, and she brushed out the creases in the skirt, which was kind of sweet.