Kevin’s punishment for getting drunk was to show Isobel the ropes. Ben sniggered at his slow and methodical movements; a ten minute job took an hour.
To Isobel’s credit, she didn’t react to Kevin’s underhand comments. She had also picked up the basics before he’d even finished explaining them. Ben wondered if everything came natural to the Indigenes, devolved or not.
Nearer opening time, Ben slid the chairs off the table tops and arranged them around the table. The sweeping brush skipped and hopped across the floor as Kevin jerked it around. While Kevin’s hangover amused Ben, he worried about the impulses that had spurred the drinking. There were already enough intolerant people in Waverley without his own family joining in.
Kevin was sticking the sweeping brush behind the bar when Albert came downstairs. He looked around the modest tavern with a dozen round tables that could seat four apiece.
‘I don’t know why we bother keeping this place open. Our takings are small and anything we make goes to that scum, Marcus.’
Ben picked up a damp cloth and ran it along the bar. ‘Because it’s your place, Albert. And you said it yourself, the alternative isn’t any better.’
Marcus had picked Albert’s tavern as one business to receive a monthly supply of replicated liquor. Refusal wasn’t an option. An unmanaged neighbourhood in New York State and a lifetime of dangerous errands for the Agostini family was the grim alternative. What little profit the tavern did make mostly went to Marcus; but the arrangement wasn’t about the money for the Kings. It was about control and command—and showing other factions who was boss.
Kevin grabbed a towel from behind the bar and plunged it into the bucket of water he had collected from Waverley’s communal supply. He wrung out the towel and draped it over his head with a sigh.
‘Why the hell is everyone so against Marcus? The criminals aren’t that bad. I heard a few boys say they make real money doing jobs for them. Marcus doesn’t bother them unless he has something for them to do.’
‘I don’t want you hanging around with that crowd, do you hear me?’ said Albert. ‘Is that where you were this morning? Did they give you the alcohol?’
Kevin snatched the towel off his head. ‘So what if they did? It helps me forget about all this crap.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure it does. The hangovers are a hoot.’ Albert marched over to the door and jerked back the bolt. He opened it and the sound of muffled voices leaked through from the outside.
Ben stopped cleaning to look outside the small window beside the door. Passers-by greeted Albert with a few unkind words. Their intolerance angered Ben.
Old Pete had been leaning against the wall of a house opposite the tavern. He made a quick dash for the open door and removed his worn mask. He stomped his tatty boots on the wooden floor and removed his dirty coat, unleashing a putrid smell of stale body odour into the atmosphere. His noisy entrance seemed to cause Isobel some stress.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Ben. ‘He’s harmless.’
Old Pete sat down on the bar stool. ‘Shit, Albert. Why were you closed for half the day? I almost went to those Italian bastards in South. But I’m loyal, ya see, and thought you could do with the business. I hear them wops make their hooch in bathtubs using leftover dirty bathwater.’ He shivered.
‘I really wouldn’t care if you went to another tavern,’ said Albert. ‘You’re not good for business.’
Pete ignored him. His eyes cut to Isobel stood behind the bar. ‘To be honest wit’ ya, Albert, I was curious to see the new addition to your cosy little family.’ He looked her over. ‘How old are ya?’
‘Thirty-eight,’ said Isobel.
Pete lifted his eyebrows and laughed. ‘I thought all you devolved humans were at leas’ over fifty.’
‘I was changed eight years ago, against my will.’
Pete drew in air through his teeth as he studied her face. Ben noticed his gaze lingered longest on her breasts.
‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing. Time ain’t been kind to you. If the genetic clinics were still operating, I’d tell you to run and have a li’l extra work done, if ya know what I mean. But I suppose we all have to make do with what we got, these days. Right, Albert?’ He smiled and shifted in his seat. ‘Now, what’s a man got to do to get a drink around here?’
Kevin’s smile and Albert’s silence sent a sting of heat coursing through Ben. ‘I’d advise you to watch your mouth in here, Pete. You know nothing about her.’
Old Pete laughed and turned to Albert. ‘Well, would you look at that? Quite the little pup he’s growing up to be.’ He turned back around to Ben, his laugh fading, and gave him a look only Ben could see. ‘And what the hell do you know about her?’
Ben opened his mouth to speak but Albert came up behind Pete and put a hand on his shoulder. Pete nearly jumped out of his skin.
‘Look at me.’
Pete glanced at Albert sideways, an uneasy smile on his lips.
‘This is my business and when you set foot inside these doors, you show me and my family respect. If you don’t, you can go to one of the other taverns that you’re so eager to try. I can put in a good word for you, tell the “wops” what you called them and what you said about their drink. But I will also spread the word about your debts here and make sure they stick a “do not serve this man” sign on the wall. You won’t be able to get a drink in all of Waverley neighbourhood. I will take whatever punishment Marcus throws at me. Do you understand?’
Pete jerked under Albert’s grip.
‘Okay, okay. It was just a joke... Jesus.’
Albert released him, then patted him on the shoulder.
‘Good. I’m glad we understand each other. Isobel, pour Pete a beer. I think he needs it.’
Pete lifted his chin. ‘Since it’s free an’ all, got anythin’ a little stronger?’ The edge had gone from his voice.
Albert nodded to Isobel who took a glass bottle down from a shelf.
‘Just this once, and only once, do you hear me?’
She poured a measure of clear liquid into a tumbler.
Homemade moonshine.
Old Pete took a sip, and the edge to his personality instantly softened. ‘Sure, sure. Anything you want.’
Kevin no longer smiled.
☼
That evening the bar was moderately full; no different from any other night. Although people came in to forget their troubles, most couldn’t afford to drink all night. It was usually one glass and then they were gone. The new faces were most interested in Isobel, but she remained tight-lipped about her past when they asked her questions.
At 9.15pm, forty-five minutes before curfew, Albert closed and Ben cleared away the glasses.
‘Will you walk Isobel over to Sal’s tonight?’ said Albert. ‘She doesn’t know the way and I can’t wait around for Sal to come get her.’
‘I can walk myself. I’m not an invalid,’ said Isobel, breaking her silence that had stretched over most of the afternoon and evening.
‘I agree,’ said Albert. ‘But do you know where Sal lives?’
Isobel shook her head.
‘I didn’t think so. Let the young lad take you. Then, tomorrow night, you can make your own way there. Deal?’
Isobel nodded, keeping her eyes on Albert.
She slipped her coat on and they left for Sal’s cottage, a short distance down West Compound’s road just off Central Square.
The streets were quiet as curfew approached. Soon, Marcus and his men would look for people out after hours. It had become a sport to them.
‘Come on, we’d better hurry,’ said Ben.
Isobel picked up the pace, a little too fast for Ben. He broke into a light jog after her.
‘So, how was your first day working at the tavern? It’s not all that bad here. I’ve heard other neighbourhoods have it much worse.’
‘It was okay.’
‘Sal is really nice. She can be prickly at first, but when she gets to know you she’ll be—’
Ben broke off and wheezed into his mask. His jog slowed to a fast walk. He tapped the side of the oxygen canister slotted into a holster on his hip.
Isobel stopped and turned around. ‘You should head back. I can go alone.’
‘No,’ said Ben, bending over at the waist. ‘I promised Albert I’d get you there, and I will. I just forgot how fast you Indigenes can move, that’s all.’
‘Fine, I’ll slow down. What’s wrong with your canister?’
‘They’re old and leaky. They never hold a full supply of oxygen.’
‘What about making new ones?’
‘The criminals control industry and the factories are off-limits to us.’ Ben slowed his words to preserve oxygen. ‘Earth lost its skilled workers to the alteration programme. Nobody left knows how to make them.’
‘What about you?’
Ben frowned. ‘I don’t know how to make canisters.’
‘You’re young. Aren’t you considered skilled on Earth? Surely you can learn the skills you need to survive?’
He shrugged. ‘Never had the chance to learn anything. I was too young when I came here. I went from an orphanage to this neighbourhood. I’ve worked in the tavern with Albert for practically half my life.’
‘Then what about Albert?’ Isobel seemed adamant. ‘What can he teach you? Or this Sal woman we will see?’
‘Not much.’ Ben wheezed again. The Central Square and the obelisk came into sight. He saw Isobel shudder. ‘Five percent of the population was skilled before the alteration programme. Everyone else did menial jobs. Albert knows how to tend bar and keep Marcus from kicking us out of Waverley, but he learned nothing useful beyond that, like engineering or piloting.’
‘And Sal? What does she do?’ Isobel had slowed down her pace to match his. Her breathing, unlike his, was steady.
Ben took a few short breaths, tapped the canister. When fresh oxygen hissed into his mask, he sucked in a mouthful. ‘Sal is a self-taught accountant. She and Albert keep the books for the four Compounds in Waverley. But she’s also a mechanic with no clue about anything to do with machinery.’
Isobel frowned. ‘Seems to me like survival is more important than balancing books.’
They crossed the square and passed by the obelisk. Isobel stared at the stone structure.
‘It was built in 1930 by some French dude,’ said Ben. ‘Supposed to symbolise friendship between the Americans and the French, I guess.’
Isobel looked ahead. ‘I didn’t ask.’
‘What about you? Do you have family here?’
‘How far is Sal’s?’
Ben pointed to the road heading west. She left him without an answer as they approached a small cottage tucked among some taller buildings; modern yet dilapidated.
Several greyish lines against the faded-cream exterior provided evidence that plants once grew on the cottage walls. A metal door and boarded-up windows added to the abandoned look.
‘We’re here.’
Ben knocked on the door.
The cottage had been in Sal’s family for generations. When the neighbourhood had been walled off and Waverley divided into Compounds, her cottage fell into a different area to the one she’d been assigned. East Compound was for English-speaking residents. West was where the Spanish lived. The Spaniards allowed her to stay, as long as she fixed West’s generators first when they broke.
Post-industry, the World Government had distributed generators to provide electricity to the stranded people. It was the World Government’s last-ditch attempt to help; a pitiful mitigation for the mess they’d created. But the criminals had seized the shipments and controlled their allocation to the neighbourhoods. They also controlled access to new parts for broken or worn generators. While the criminal factions comprised the misfits of society—those considered unskilled and unfit for transfer—at the core of each faction was a powerful family.
Ben became impatient. He was about to knock again when he heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. Sal’s grease-streaked face appeared at the door. ‘I’m sorry, Ben. I didn’t hear you. I was in the back. My damn generator’s broken again.’ She looked at Isobel, hopeful. ‘You any good with machines?’
Isobel shook her head.
‘Pity. Empath?’
Isobel shook her head again. She stared at the key in Sal’s hand.
‘I know how to fix a lock and key,’ said Sal. ‘Anything more technologically complicated and I’m stumped.’ She stood back. ‘I told Albert I’d give you a place to stay and I don’t go back on my word. It’s not right for a grown woman to be staying with a man and two teenage boys. Come in.’
They entered her home and Ben removed his mask. Sal moved down a corridor barely wide enough for one. Ben glanced in at the first room to his right: Sal’s living room. Generator parts were laid out in neat piles on the floor, with labels attached for recognition and sorting.
They followed Sal into the kitchen at the end of the corridor.
Sal grabbed a tea-towel and wiped her hands. ‘My place isn’t much, Isobel, but I expect you to clean up after yourself.’
‘I am not uncivilised,’ said Isobel. ‘Will my movements be monitored?’
Sal laughed. ‘Not by me, or Albert, dear. But Marcus is a different issue. You’d do well to keep your head down and not give him any cause to take you out of East Compound or Waverley. Do you understand me?’
Isobel glanced at Ben. ‘I’m beginning to understand how things work around here.’
‘Well, that’s good. You’ll live longer that way.’ Sal rested her hands on the back of a chair. ‘Speaking of which, do you need special equipment to breathe? I should warn you, I don’t have much to help with that.’
Isobel raised her patchy eyebrows. ‘I don’t have any trouble with the air, inside or out. After devolution, my body retained a lung capacity from both species.’
Sal gave her face a quick wipe. Ben noticed the shake in her hands. ‘Good. Now let me show you to your room.’
Ben took it as his cue to leave. He started towards the front door. ‘See you tomorrow, Isobel.’
‘One minute, Ben,’ Sal called after him. ‘I need a quick word with you before you go.’
Ben waited while Sal showed Isobel the spare room. He held his mask in one hand. The canister on his hip was low on oxygen and barely functional. He thought about asking Sal for a new one, a better one, but she barely had enough for herself. He’d used up extra oxygen chasing after Isobel. If he took slow, steady breaths, he could make it back to the tavern.
Sal reappeared and gestured to the living room. She closed the door behind him. The room smelled of engine oil and grease. Ben stood in a cleared space where there were no parts.
‘I need you to tell Albert something, but don’t mention it to anyone else. I don’t want to worry anyone at this stage.’
Ben frowned. ‘Tell me what?’
‘It’s the books. They’re not adding up. Someone has been stealing money from my safe. There appears to be a crafty safe-cracker among us, because I counted the takings for Waverley and we’re short.’
‘Albert would never—’
‘Of course not.’ Sal waved her hand. ‘It’s someone else. Possibly someone at the bar who knows where we keep the money. I don’t want to scare anyone, but we’re close to owing Marcus more than we can pay him, and we all remember what happened the last time.’
Marcus had confiscated the starter motors from every generator until he’d been paid back in full. The neighbourhood had endured a week without light or heat in near freezing night-time temperatures.
‘This time it might not be the generators. Marcus might mess with the life support.’
‘Okay, so what do we do?’
‘We need to recover that money. It’s possible that whoever took it has spent it. I don’t need to explain the importance of keeping this quiet. Marcus doesn’t need to know. Not yet, anyway. If he finds out, then I’m hoping we’ll have thought of a solution.’
Ben stared at nothing. He had an idea who the culprit was, and he was at home nursing a hangover, probably with his feet up.
Sal opened the door. ‘Now, off home with you. There’s only fifteen minutes left to curfew.’
Ben stalled at the front door. He felt bad for asking. ‘The oxygen’s almost gone in my canister. Do you have a spare one?’
Sal strode to the kitchen and returned with a cloth bag that clinked. She fished out a battered replacement and shook it. ‘Here. Give me yours. There’s not much left, but this should see you home.’
They swapped canisters and Ben hooked the tube from the new canister to his mask.
Sal guided him to the door. ‘All right, be on your way. Isobel is safe here. I promised Albert that much. I’ll bring her to the tavern tomorrow and tonight I’ll educate her on how things work around here, who to watch out for, areas to avoid. And if you see a vehicle, stay off the main road.’
‘Thanks, Sal.’
☼
Ben neared the tavern to see Albert had left the porch light on. Terror gripped him and he looked around.
An innocent act could become a dangerous one. The porch light, which should be off post curfew, would act as a beacon for the Kings who patrolled after hours for fun.
Ben’s hands shook as he ran for the door and pushed his way through the environmental force field. Inside, he groped for the porch light switch and flicked it off. His heart crashed against his ribs as he watched out the side window.
Strong headlights dazzled him as the patrol vehicle rounded the corner. He stepped back into the tavern’s darkness and rubbed his eyes. The armoured car slowed, then came to a stop, its engine idling outside the tavern.
‘What’s your problem?’ whispered Ben. ‘I’m inside, where I’m supposed to be. Piss off.’
For a while the vehicle didn’t move. Its headlights stayed pointed at the tavern’s tatty front.
A red light crept towards the tavern. Ben jumped back from the infrared capable of detecting body heat. A part of the military vehicle’s arsenal that was now a play thing for the criminals. He stumbled towards the stairs.
His ankle hit the bottom step and he winced. He took the stairs two at a time and threw himself on his bed. He waited, heart in mouth, as the red beam bled through the wall, inched over his bed and passed through the opposing wall to reach the other side of the building.
If Sal was right and the missing money had pushed Waverley into debt, then Marcus may already know.
The beam retreated. He heard the vehicle move on, turn down another street.
He stared at the ceiling, remembering the time when he and a few boys in the orphanage had tried to escape. They’d been beaten and strapped to their beds for a few nights to teach them submission.
This life was no different. Waverley neighbourhood was one giant orphanage with a different name.
But why had one of the cars scanned the tavern?