I am Not A Number Read online

  ‘I don’t have to agree with everything they stand for,’ Ashwar says.

  ‘But it’s a pretty major thing,’ Conor carries on. Mr Hart watches from the front of the classroom. His arms are crossed, but his Core band is still showing.

  ‘It’s worth it for the other policies,’ Ashwar says. ‘Did you know that that seventy per cent of A and E departments are taken up with drunk people at weekends? Seventy per cent, Conor. How can that be a good use of public money?’

  ‘There are other ways to deal with it than banning drinking in public and increasing the legal age,’ Conor says.

  ‘Are there?’ Ashwar looks around. ‘No other government has wanted to tackle it and see where it’s got our country. Nothing is getting better. It’s getting worse. We need a change and we might not like all of the Trad’s policies, but it’s a small price to pay if the rest of it is working.’

  ‘Is it?’ Mr Hart asks. ‘As Conor brought up the subject of immigration, let’s talk about that.’

  Cameron yawns loudly from the back.

  ‘Am I boring you, Cameron?’ Mr Hart asks him.

  ‘Just a bit,’ Cameron says and people around him laugh.

  ‘I can see nothing boring in people being forced from their homes.’ Anger is beginning to tick through Mr Hart. ‘They’ve lost everything: their communities, their families, their way of life. They don’t want to leave everything they love. They don’t want to trek hundreds of miles carrying everything they own on their backs. They don’t want to put their children in blow-up dinghies and set out across an ocean that might drown them all. They do it because they have to.’

  ‘But what about our country?’ James challenges him. ‘If the Core Party had it their way we’d let them come here and wreck our way of lives and our homes. That’s not exactly right, is it?’

  ‘These people don’t wreck our homes, James. They actually boost our economy, but that never really gets reported, does it?’

  ‘Perhaps because they don’t boost it enough,’ James says.

  ‘So what would your solution be?’ I ask James.

  ‘We should just send them back.’

  Send them back? As if they’re objects, not people.

  ‘I would hope,’ Mr Hart says, ‘that if the roles were reversed and it was our homes and families blown apart, that we would find compassion somewhere. That people would help us and let us in.’

  The bell cuts him off. There’s a longer pause than normal before we all get up.

  I get a message on my phone as I walk out of the classroom. People are believing the lies, Luke texts.

  I know, I reply. I’m scared.

  Don’t be.

  Meet at oak at break? Sara coming too.

  Okay.

  Someone smacks the back of my head. It’s hard enough not to be a joke, but there are too many people pushing in front and behind me to know who it was. Shoulders, elbows squeeze down the corridor to first lesson. It’s the same as always but everything has changed. The crush of it unwinds memories of last night and although I can breathe now my lungs remember. The splinters still thread through them and I have to push past people, get out of the way, to reach a space where I feel safe.

  It’s starting to rain a bit as I walk to the oak tree. The sky feels tight, dripping down headaches the way it does before a storm. I think Sara might use it as an excuse not to turn up, until I see her legs sticking out from where she’s leaning against the trunk the other side.

  ‘You’re here,’ I say when I get to her.

  ‘I said I would be.’ She doesn’t look angry, but there’s an edge to her words.

  ‘How are things?’ I sit opposite her, cross-legged. The leaves above us are umbrella enough for now.

  ‘A bit odd,’ she says. She picks a blade of grass and its roots come up too.

  ‘I used to think those were a fairy’s legs,’ I say, pointing to them.

  Sara laughs. ‘You always were a bit strange.’

  I want to tell her that there’s a part of me that still believes it, but she’s shredding them apart already.

  I hate this awkward feeling that’s sitting between us now.

  ‘Luke’s going to be late,’ I say. ‘Aldridge is having a go at him about homework.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sara says. And the wall goes up again. Somehow I have nothing to say to a friend who I can usually talk with all day and night.

  I watch the rain falling.

  ‘You don’t have to support the Trads you know,’ I say, ‘just because your parents do.’

  ‘Same back to you,’ she says.

  ‘But I believe in what the Core Party says.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Most of it.’

  ‘So why can’t people believe in most of what the Trads say?’

  ‘Because they’re wrong.’

  ‘So says you.’

  ‘And so says you up until recently.’

  ‘Can’t I change my mind?’

  ‘I don’t think you have,’ I say. ‘I think you’re supporting the Trads because you’re scared.’

  ‘Scared?’ Sara does a laugh that isn’t really one.

  ‘Yes. Like we all are. Since the soldiers came with the guns.’

  She pulls up a clump of grass this time. Too many fairy legs to count.

  ‘You know they now say they’re going to really limit our internet.’

  ‘Mum says that’s good. We can actually chat like in the olden days.’

  ‘I’m serious, Sara.’

  ‘Well, what would the Core Party do? Make us use it until our brains explode?’

  ‘They don’t think banning the internet is the solution to cutting depression. They want to do active things, like put more money into mental health.’

  ‘Can we talk about something else?’ Sara asks. I know she feels the fracture that’s opening up between us.

  ‘But what about the Trads putting up the age of consent?’

  ‘It’s to cut teenage pregnancies,’ Sara says, but I know her heart isn’t in it.

  ‘More like it’s to cut all the fun from our life.’

  Sara breathes out as though she’s fed up with me, fed up with it all. ‘Can’t you tell me something I want to hear about?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like why is grass green?’ she says. ‘If the bottom bit in the earth is white, how come the top bit is a different colour?’ Sara crosses her legs and we sit opposite each other with our knees almost touching. She’s like my mirror. ‘Because surely, if they’re exposed to the sun all the time, they should be bleached-white. Or at least a bit sucked-dry yellow from the wind and everything.’

  ‘I do actually know the answer,’ I say. Sara’s laugh is genuine this time. It makes me want to hug her tight and tell her that we’re going to be okay.

  ‘I thought you might, mega-plant-brain.’

  ‘It’s not really green,’ I tell her. ‘It’s the chlorophyll in them. It absorbs all the other colours and has no use for the green so sort of chucks it out again.’

  ‘Of course it does.’

  I hold Sara’s hands, one and then the other. ‘I’m not going to let all this Trad and Core stuff make us fall out,’ I say.

  ‘Nor am I,’ Sara replies. She puts up her pinky finger and hooks it through mine as we used to do at primary school.

  The thunder is so sudden that we scream. We’re laughing as we jump up and grab our bags. And I don’t care that the rain really starts on us as we run back to school, because I’ve got my best friend by my side, our fingers still linked.

  ‘Love you, Starry,’ I shout.

  ‘Love you right back, Rudey,’ Sara laughs, wiping under her eyes so that the rain can’t paint mascara down her cheeks.

  ‘Do you want a lift, Luke?’ Darren asks him.

  ‘I’m all right, thanks.’

  ‘You’ll get soaked,’ Darren tells him.

  ‘I like the rain,’ Luke smiles. There’s a soldier close by so I know he won’t wan
t to kiss me, but he squeezes my hand. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Get in, Ruby,’ Darren says through the window. ‘I’m blocking the traffic.’

  But it feels wrong to just leave Luke like this. Since we’ve started going out, I don’t think we’ve ever said goodbye without at least a hug. So I lean in to kiss him, just quickly, but enough to feel his lips on mine.

  A car horn behind us ruins it.

  ‘Ruby,’ Darren shouts.

  I don’t bother to check if a soldier has noticed us before I get into the car.

  ‘Not your wisest move,’ Darren says as he starts the engine.

  ‘They can’t lock me up for kissing my boyfriend.’

  ‘You might just have to play along with them for a bit,’ Darren says, as he starts to drive. ‘Until things settle down.’

  In the mirror I can see Luke walking away, his bag on his back.

  ‘What if I don’t want to?’ I ask.

  ‘They’ve got guns, Ruby,’ Darren says. And it’s enough, that one small word, to pull me right back into reality.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘We’re not just a party of words, but of actions. We will take back the reins of our destiny. We will fix our nation.’ – John Andrews, leader of the Traditional Party

  ‘Ruby.’ Someone is shaking my shoulder. ‘You’ve got to wake up.’ It’s my mum’s voice, but I turn away from her, curl the duvet closer to me and feel my dream try to find me again. ‘Ruby.’ She sounds urgent this time, enough to make me open my eyes. It’s still dark.

  ‘What is it?’ I’m not late for school. It’s definitely still night-time outside.

  ‘You’ve got to get dressed.’

  ‘Why?’

  My bedroom door kicks open and a soldier stands in the light from the landing. My heartbeat blocks my breathing.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Mum says, but her hand on my shoulder is shaking. I see now how she’s already wearing her clothes and her coat. ‘I’ll help you.’ She stands up and looks straight at the soldier. ‘You don’t have to watch.’ Her voice is calm, before she walks across my room and pushes the door. The soldier moves his foot forwards so she can’t shut it completely, but at least he turns his face away.

  ‘I don’t want to get up.’ If I lie down and close my eyes then none of this is happening.

  ‘You have to,’ Mum says, pulling the duvet from me. The shock of the cold wakes me fully.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I whisper.

  ‘I don’t know. They just came to the house and said we have to go.’ She turns on my lamp. The light makes me blink. Makes this all too real.

  ‘Where’s Lilli?’ I ask.

  ‘Darren is with her now.’

  ‘But she chose a Trad band,’ I say. ‘They can’t make her go anywhere when she’s not even a Core.’

  ‘We are, though,’ Mum says calmly. ‘And it seems that’s enough.’

  ‘And you’re going to let them do this?’ I grab Mum’s hand as she opens my drawer.

  ‘What are our options?’ she asks. I don’t know whether she’s going to shout at me or cry.

  My arms feel empty of everything but fear as I take off my pyjamas and pull on my underwear and Mum passes me my jeans.

  ‘Where are they taking us?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And for how long?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ruby.’ If she wasn’t whispering she’d definitely be shouting at me.

  She passes me my black T-shirt, but I open my cupboard and pull out my new pink one and my white hoodie and grab my trainers.

  ‘You can bring a small bag,’ Mum says.

  The soldier pushes open the door.

  ‘Time’s up,’ he says.

  Mum takes the bag from my chair and starts stuffing clothes inside it. I pick up the charm bracelet Sara gave me and check I’m still wearing my new necklace from Luke. I reach for my make-up and purse and put them in the bag too.

  ‘Don’t forget the armband that you chose,’ the soldier says. I look up at Mum and she nods, passing me the purple strip of material to pull up over my sleeve. I feel like I’ve trapped it over my mouth instead.

  ‘We’re okay, Ruby,’ Mum says. She puts her hand on my shoulder and I know she wants to steady me, but I can see everything she’s thinking in her eyes. ‘Here.’ And she picks up my phone from next to the bed. I put it in my pocket before we leave the room.

  Lilli and Darren are waiting at the bottom of the stairs. My sister’s face is stained with shock. On her arm is the Traditional band, bare and gloating. I’m trying to find something to say to her, anything to make her less afraid, but I know all that’ll come out is lies.

  ‘Give me your phones,’ the soldier says.

  Darren looks at him steadily. ‘I need it for work,’ he says.

  ‘Give me your phones,’ the man repeats, putting out his gloved hand.

  My mum takes hers from her bag, Lilli gets hers from her jacket and they put them in his waiting palm.

  ‘Yours?’ The soldier nods at me.

  ‘I don’t have one.’ I stare at him, but he simply adjusts the strap of his gun.

  ‘Give him your phone,’ Darren tells me.

  I need to text Luke. I’ve got to tell him what’s going on.

  ‘Do as he says, Ruby.’ Mum speaks quietly.

  I feel hate more than anything as I take out my phone. I want to slam it into the soldier so hard that I break his bones. Instead, he curls his fingers round my hand before I have the chance to grab it back.

  ‘Next time,’ he says, ‘do things the first time you’re asked. We’re going to instil discipline into this country, even if it kills us.’

  There’s a coach waiting outside our house. There are no lights inside it, but I can see the shapes of people. It’s all too quiet. We should be kicking, screaming, saying we don’t want to go, but those guns silence us.

  Mum climbs the steps first and Lilli goes next. She looks like a little child again, with sleep still ragged in her hair, and I want to pull her back and take her away from here to keep her safe. But I don’t. Instead I follow so close behind her that she has no choice but to keep going into the coach.

  I recognise some of the people sitting in the rows. Mick Alum, who used to cut Mum’s hair. Ron and Saskia from a few doors down with their three young kids. One’s only a baby, strapped to Saskia’s front. Everyone’s faces are the same, painted with disbelief, as though we should all blink and wake up.

  The doors of the coach close. Mum sits with Lilli, so Darren and I sit across the aisle from them. I’m closest to the window and can see our closed front door, the scrawled C painted across it. Darren puts his hand on top of mine and even though I need him to calm me I yank my hand away.

  I stare out at the houses and streets I know so well. Behind the windows and doors people are sleeping. They don’t know that we’re being taken. I want to bang so hard on the glass that it smashes. I want to scream so loud that I drag every single person from their dreams. But I can’t and it’s this that squeezes my lungs again so tight that I only have space for tiny breaths.

  ‘I’ll look after you,’ Darren says. ‘I’m sure we’ll be back here before you know it.’

  I won’t look at him. I don’t want to see in his eyes what he really believes.

  The coach stops and I watch as an elderly couple are led from their house. They get on the coach and talk loudly as they walk down the aisle. They’re either genuinely unafraid or they’re good at pretending.

  ‘Good evening,’ the man smiles, as they make their way to the back.

  ‘This is a bit of an unwelcome surprise,’ the old woman says, before I hear them shuffle into their seats. They’ve somehow brought a bit of light with them. There’s humour lapping around their words and it makes me feel human. And strong.

  When we stop again, I see a soldier banging on a door daubed with a C. He waits, bangs again and a man opens it in just his pyjama bottoms. He has s
hock and terror sliding over his face as he steps back inside.

  It’s only a few minutes before he reappears with a woman by him, her bleached-blonde hair still shaped by her pillow. He keeps his arm round her as they walk to the coach and somehow I’m now one of the shadows watching as they come up the steps, bewildered.

  ‘There are places here,’ the old woman calls from the back. ‘You’re very welcome to them.’

  They walk towards her, their fingers clasping hard to each seat they pass.

  ‘That’s it,’ I hear the old woman encourage. ‘Nearly there.’ And I wonder if she realises that this nightmare is real.

  We stop for a woman with two children. She carries one of them, a sleepy-looking boy with his legs wrapped round her waist, arms gripped tight round her neck. The other child is crying as she’s dragged along. She’s wearing her pyjamas under her coat. When the soldier picks her up to bring her to the coach she kicks out and Darren and I stare as the soldier holds the girl from him, as though she’s stinking rubbish.

  Her screaming is louder when she’s put in the coach. It’s as though her mouth is actually in my head, the noise taking up all the space.

  ‘Shh, Amalie, shh,’ her mother says. The girl sits down in the aisle and I hear her start to sob now.

  ‘Get her up,’ the soldier says behind them, as the coach doors close.

  ‘Come on, Amalie.’ The mother’s voice is angry now, as her other child clings to her.

  ‘Move her,’ the soldier says, flecks of panic walking up his words.

  My mum stands. Darren tries to grab her, but she ignores him and goes to bend down next to the little girl.

  ‘Come on,’ I hear her say. ‘I’ve got two daughters I’d like you to meet.’ The sobbing becomes stilted. ‘They’re tired too,’ Mum continues, ‘but we’ll sit you in a seat and when we stop you can play with them. Okay?’ When she stands up, she’s holding the girl in her arms.

  They walk towards us, the mother behind, the girl’s tears caught in hiccups now.