She needs to keep walking, thinking. To think about the present is to survive: The frozen foot. The thick wool squelching. The smite of the wind. The punishment of the cold.
No, she will not do it tonight. Even if there is a man. It is too much of a risk. She has packed to leave, but it does not matter. She has not brought everything she needs anyway. Perhaps she already knew it would not be tonight. She hasn't planned enough. What would she need on the other side? There were wild possibilities there.
She wished she was fearless and brave. She used to fantasise about being one of the people whom Power did not terrify. Before the Emperor's noose had tightened to a stranglehold, protesters were known to march, to accuse Power right to its face, right into the eye of the state cameras. Sometimes she would imagine she was one of them: wielding the knife of truth. That's what her father used to call it. She wanted to cut things, reveal lies and inconsistencies in bold, colours. She wanted to challenge and damage and maim. Write Truth in newspapers and letters. March and yell and scream and render Power ridiculous to the whole world.
And then it had come. The worst night.
The son of the janitor had run to warn them. His face was the colour of lemonade.
'They're here'
Then: she and father, side by side, staring at the closed door. Finally turning to look at him. Noticing for the first time that he was old and tired. Sagging skin; eyes sick of fighting.
The scratch of tweed. Mint and tobacco as he pulled her into his arms. His words hoarse with emotion.
'They are coming for me, love, not you. I am an old academic -- I have betrayed the state many, many times. You are just a child. It's me they want. They won't look for you. They won't waste time.'
Her tears running like sand in an hourglass:
'NO papa, no -'
Father gesturing that she mustn't, that they have no choice. The cold metal key in her hand. Warm tears on her neck as he held her one last time. The shock of sudden darkness of the hiding place. Then: the faint sound of marching boots. Louder; then thunderous. Knuckles banging. Closing her eyes, preparing herself. Waiting for his shouts of agony as he is beaten and dragged out; preparing for him yelling until she can stand it no more. Waiting for the moment when she will step out and be taken away with him.
But it doesn't happen like this.
Power is too efficient for histrionics, too sinister for screams, too advanced for brute aggression. Power never acted like you expected
In reality the knuckles were brief. They gave to a loud bang then low voices, then nothing. Silence. Probably a quick needle in a vital artery. Was it lethal?
She didn't know. Possibly sedation. Torture and prison would follow. Most people killed themselves. They were carefully guarded but still they found ways.
The rain falls heavier now. It spits at her through the darkness, in diagonal sheets on the swelling, revolting sea. She wipes the cold rainwater from her face, tries to gauge how far she has to go. She can get to the other side before dawn. From here she can get a passage home.
Suddenly there's something else there in the ash grey light.
Is she imagining it? She looks again.
A smudge. A drip on a canvas.
A figure.
A person running.
She cannot see. Rainwater has spread a glucoma over her vision.
She waits.
He's closer now.
He is running, or trying to.
One leg is bicycling out.
She recognises his gait, the tweed.
Suddenly panic claws her stomach.
A sharp urgent shout erupts from somewhere inside.
FATHER!
Her voice is absorbed by the pulsating orchestra of the waves.
The din of cold wind.
She drops the rucksack. Begins to run.
Her hood is down. Flopping behind her like a dead animal.
The cold rain bites. Hairs stray and whip around her face.
The sand buckles at her sliding, flailing feet. She struggles; loses her footing; almost falls; keeps going until she knows absolutely that her chest will detonate and burst into flames. But it's too late.
FATHER!
NO!
The lips of the waves are closing over his ankles, creeping upwards.
Desperately she looks out to sea. Maybe there is a boat. Maybe it has all been planned.
Maybe the man is there lurking, cautious between the shadows, getting ready to rescue him.
Father slows.
A speck negotiating the broken tide.
Now he will stop. Now he will turn around.
But he keeps moving. His coat billows; the splashing beats a baritone as he moves into deeper waters. The waves move through and around him. He is in up to his chest. Up to his throat. Then there are only the black waves in the unsettling darkness.
Beneath the dark clouds, the faintest rash of dawn is on the horizon.
The zip of the shoreline opens and closes.
Her screams cut her throat like a rough surgeon.
YOU ARE READING
Tales of Disturbance
Science FictionA young teenage girl, haunted by the memories of her father's execution, attempts to escape a cruel regime by night. A solitary woman, abandoned by her husband, inadvertently plays into the cruel hands of 'the state'. In another totalitarian regime...
