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2 months, 21 days until the vote
“If you knew me and you really knew yourself, you would not have killed me.”
This was said at the end of the twentieth century, by Felicien Ntagengwa, a survivor of a horrible genocide in what is now the Rwandan Free State. I cannot read it today without thinking: this could just as easily have been said by Polly, who was taken for dismantling the very day we arrived at Salperton EGD Facility.
This could have been said by any reAssignee.
Margaret Verrall—blog post, ‘The Impatient Gardener’
Warm and cozy, I woke slowly. Bane lay beside me, nose tucked into my hair. Raising my head slightly, I looked across him to the bedside clock. Yep, five minutes before my alarm would go off.
I slid my arms around him, my hands rubbing his broad back and shoulders. When he woke gently, with me wrapped around him, he—usually—didn’t expect to see anything when he opened his empty eyes.
A good day. Bane stirred sleepily, gathered me close and buried his nose deeper in my hair.
“Good morning, husband,” I whispered in his ear.
“Good morning, wife,” he murmured back.
Awake. No panic. No pain. Now we had a few blissful minutes to snuggle before the alarm.
“Love you, Margo,” he whispered into my hair, as though it might make up for all the things he would probably say later.
“Love you, Bane.” Because it almost did.
Later… Oh. Today was the big day. He hadn’t remembered yet, had he?
The alarm split the peaceful silence.
With a sigh, I disentangled myself and sat up, reaching in my bedside drawer for my chart and thermometer. Time for my fertility checks. Though why I was bothering at the moment…
I pushed the self-centered complaint from my mind. At least my cycle was back to normal after all the starvation and stress of the past year. My body had finally adjusted to our relative safety: now, if only my mind would do the same. Not that safety was precisely what awaited me today.
Drawer closed again, I headed for the bathroom. Married couples got one bedroom apartments here in Vatican State. I’d sleep in a shed in the Vatican Gardens if it got Bane his eyes back. I pushed that thought away as well. The EuroGov weren’t going to return Bane’s eyes just because I agreed to bed down among the spades and pruning shears.
“Coming to Mass?” I asked casually, pausing in the doorway. Bane wasn’t officially a Believer but sometimes he came to Mass, just to keep me company, as he put it.
He sat up in bed, rubbing his loose lids—they were always itchy in the morning—the familiar scowl settling on his brow. “Don’t know.”
“Well, I’ve got to get dressed, anyway.”
Going into the bathroom, I washed and pulled my clothes on quickly. Seemed a million years since we’d arrived at the Vatican the first time—but it was only, what, six months? After several months hiding with the Holy-See-in-exile on Gozo, we’d returned to the Vatican about three months ago following the bloc-wide protests in January that forced the EuroGov to (among other things) withdraw from the ancient Free State.
Three long months since the EuroGov had removed Bane’s eyes. How I often longed to be back in the little Citadel of Gozo, helping Bane launch the Liberations which had helped spark the protests, stressful as it had been waiting every day for the EuroGov to find us. But back then, Bane had been whole…and happy.
Bit ironic, since today I was off to Malta. But on my own. Well, with Pope Cornelius, but not with Bane. As Eduardo, the Head of Vatican Security, had put it with his usual lack of tact, “If you come, Bane, you’ll only endanger Margo, since the guards will be looking after you as well.” It had been a week before Bane had spoken to Eduardo again.
Bane was half-dressed when I went back into the bedroom—he’d decided to come to Mass. Now he’d be like a bear with a cut paw because he’d failed to overcome his dependence on me. As opposed to a bear with a cut paw because he was staying behind…
A bitter taste in my mouth, I went to join him by the bed. He’d laid two shirts on it, one red, one blue. He picked up the blue one. “This is…the red one, right?”
I wanted to tell him, yes—he’d spent three hours with Jon yesterday, learning to tell his shirts apart by feel—or trying to—but it wasn’t really kind, was it? “It’s the blue one, Bane,” I said softly.
He swore and flung the shirt across the room.
“Well, I’m really impressed you were able to narrow it down to two.”
“Oh, don’t be stupid, Margo! I remembered where I put them, didn’t I?”
I swallowed, my heart contracting in increasingly familiar pain.
His arms dropped to his sides, far too wearily for seven-thirty in the morning. “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice, as though unsure how many more apologies he was allowed. “How are you supposed to know how I knew?”
I stepped forward and tried to put my arms around him.
He shrugged me off. “Don’t coddle me! I don’t need a hug!”
Perhaps I do. I headed for the living room. “I’ve got to go, Bane.”
“Wait, I’m coming.” He pulled on the red shirt—all he needed, April being pleasantly warm here—and grabbed his stick from beside the bed. He found his way through the doorway quickly enough, then stood still, head turning from side to side.
“I’m right here” was on the tip of my tongue, but he’d just say I was coddling him. He started in my general direction, then paused. “Better put my eyes in, hadn’t I?”
“However you’re most comfortable.”
“Don’t want to scare people, do I?”
He went back into the bedroom and through to the bathroom. Suck, pop. Suck, pop. He’d a love-hate relationship with the glass eyes—in some ways his sockets felt more comfortable with them, but they irritated him too. Like a lot of other things.
Finally Bane was slipping his arm through mine, just felt like walking arm-in-arm with my wife projected belligerently in every aspect of his stance.
Jon waited in the main passage. He shared one of the larger ‘bachelor’ apartments with Unicorn, Bumblebee, and Snail, who as Vatican Secret Service agents were spared barracks living. “Good morning,” he said.
“Is it?” said Bane.
Ignoring this customary mutter, I said, “Morning, Jon.”
“I just heard on the radio,” went on Jon, as we headed off, “the EuroGov are still wriggling. But I think your Easter blog post has helped a lot.”
Easter Sunday was a week behind us, now. The whole day had been a disaster. The homily had been about how much God loves us and Bane had actually walked out in the middle. I’d had to go with him because I knew he couldn’t find his way across the massive basilica on his own. And when I’d tried to go to a later Mass instead, he’d been thoroughly horrible about it. I’d lost my temper and yelled back, and then I’d felt twice as bad…
Okay, I wasn’t going to think about it anymore, was I?
The blog post was the only good thing that had come out of it. I’d hurled all my anger at the EuroGov, once more attacking Sorting—the practice of choosing which teenagers were ‘perfect’ enough to live and which would be reassigned for use as spare parts—in what everyone assured me were very well-chosen words.
“Make sure you get in a few good lines about it, while you’re in Malta,” Jon added, “Keep the pressure on.”
“I can’t believe you think this trip is a good idea,” growled Bane, under his breath.
Jon declined to get drawn into yet another argument on the subject. “After all,” he went on, “they’ve got two good reasons for having the referendum on Sorting and Religious Freedom at the beginning of July, haven’t they? It’s before exams—so it’ll save them money marking future reAssignees’ papers—and it’s less than a complete semester for the reAssignees to catch up as far as the fitness program is concerned. The EuroGov always talk like they’re going to win.”
“But the longer they leave it, the more time they have for their propaganda machine to change people’s minds,” I said.
“Yeah,” conceded Jon, “but we should win the religious freedom vote, whatever happens.”
“True.” No more risking the death penalty just for being a Believer: even that alone would be a huge victory.
“Anyway, they’ll have to make the final decision soon. Unicorn says they’re up to something else too, but Eduardo doesn’t know what it is yet.”
“Unicorn says,” snorted Bane, concentrating fiercely on locating all the odd tables and chairs spaced along the corridor walls with his stick. “Enough with the code names! We’re not doing Liberations anymore! His name’s Jack, y’know.”
“Yes, and so’s Snail’s, near enough.” Jon refused to be drawn. “And Bee’s name is Thom and I’m Jon. So we stick to code names in the flat. Hard to get those mixed up.”
Bane said nothing; just reached for the call button for the lift—and started scowling again when he had to feel around. Jon could walk from our room door to the lift and put his hand straight on the button, providing he didn’t stop to speak to anyone on the way, but then, he’d been blind from birth.
When we left the elevator, we walked on without talking. Things would improve soon, surely? Bane would get more confident, he’d start to be happy to go out by himself, he’d feel so much better then. Soon. Please, Lord?
Bane misjudged the step into St. Peter’s, stumbling, and I grabbed him before I could even think. He shook me off, his face crimson—picturing a load of people watching his misstep, eyes full of pity? There were only two Swiss Guards, staring unmovingly into the basilica.
“I’m fine, Margo!” Bane snarled, so fiercely my heart shrank again. He strode forward several determined strides—then stopped dead. Traced a large circle with his stick—encountered nothing. The emotions flitted across his face: panic, fear, and above all the pain of wounded…pride? Self-respect?
Despite the aching lump in my chest, I paused only to genuflect, then went to him and silently brushed my arm against his. He took it, and we went on across the vast marble floor. In silence.
Since all the Religious Suppression laws, plus all Sorting and Dismantling, were suspended until the referendum, St. Peter’s Square and St. Peter’s itself were open to the public for the first time in decades—a security nightmare as far as Eduardo, was concerned. All access points from square or basilica into the rest of Vatican State were heavily guarded and covered with cameras, and a front section of the basilica was cordoned off for Vatican State residents only. Eduardo could still be seen at every Mass, hovering anxiously near Pope Cornelius.
A few other agents we knew from the Liberations entered, clearly off-duty: Spitfire from “Plane” team gave a wave. I waved back as he, Discus, and Croquet filed into the pews, then led Bane to our usual place, Jon following.
Kneelers and benches were arranged permanently in the Residents’ part, while chairs were set out in the public section according to how many people were expected. Bane settled himself in our pew like a gloomy black cloud, turned his face down to the floor and said nothing. No apology this time. A lump filled my throat. I would have allowed him as many apologies as he liked; they were better than silence.
I knelt and tried to pray. I felt so…ragged. Desperate. Helpless.
Lord? Please let it get better soon. Really soon. I don’t think I can go on like this much longer. It hurts so much. I want to pray that we’ll somehow get his eyes back, but I know that’s stupid. The EuroGov might have given them to someone else already. They might even have destroyed them. We have to learn to live without them. But I don’t know how. Help me, Lord? Please help me, please please please?
Bother! Tears leaked from my eyes, and I fought to keep my breathing steady. No use. Jon’s hand touched my arm in silent comfort. Bane didn’t notice, though, thank God. It would make him feel even worse.
We stood to begin Mass, and I tried to wipe my eyes surreptitiously. Didn’t want everyone shaking their heads and saying poor Margaret and Bane.
Time for the daily battle to concentrate…
…The voice of the reader faltered. What was distracting her? People were looking around… Oh. A tramp was shambling up the main aisle. That wasn’t unusual: the poorest were among the first through the doors when the Basilica became open to the public again. What was unusual were the two Swiss Guards discreetly trailing after him. The guards might pause an unfamiliar person to see if they knew about the Vatican homeless shelter, recently re-opened just inside St. Anna’s gate, but tramps were never turned away from the house of God…this guy must’ve done something to alarm them.
He reached the rope barrier and moved through the central gap as though in a dream.
The guards tried to intercept him. “Sir… S’cuse me, sir, that’s a restricted area…”
The man just stumbled on as if the guards hadn’t spoken.
“Sir, please stop. You’re not allowed in this area…” They hovered, keeping pace, reluctant to manhandle him, especially in the middle of Mass. He didn’t seem to hear them. Was he deaf?
He was a mess, all right. Hair, dark with grease and filth, almost reached his shoulders and a beard grew unchecked across his lower face. His clothes were rags and he moved as though he’d crumple to the ground with each faltering step.
“Sir!” He was approaching the altar area now—the guards’ hands reached for him, hesitated, their eyes seeking the Holy Father. Pope Cornelius made a tiny gesture—let him come.
The man walked into the balustrade around the subterranean tomb in front of the high altar and staggered to a halt. Raised his head dazedly as though only just realizing where he was. His hoarse whisper carried in the silence. “Margaret Verrall?”
Everyone looked at me. Verrall was my maiden name, but I’d ended up keeping it after Bane’s parents disowned him shortly before our wedding.
“Margaret Verrall?” A thin, desperate edge to his voice that brought me to my feet. I could almost see the strength draining out of that ragged figure…
“Catch him!” I cried, as he fell like a rag doll towards the marble floor.
One of the Swiss Guards lunged and snagged him just in time. A look of surprise crossed his face as he stood there supporting the man’s weight; the guy must be light as a feather.
I slipped past Bane and hurried forward. Who on earth?
The Swiss Guard lowered his burden to the ground, pillowing the man’s head on a kneeler cushion. I crouched beside him and Unicorn appeared at my shoulder, blue eyes even more hyper-alert than normal. Grass Snake was also heading my way. Despite all the new freedom, I was still the EuroGov’s Most Wanted and was guarded accordingly.
“Sir?” I touched the man’s shoulder gingerly. Was he conscious? “Can you hear me? I’m Margaret Verrall…”
His eyes flew open. Brilliant green eyes, like mine.
Unmistakable.