Justice (Chapter Twelve)

 

Chapter Twelve

The next morning, chained to the rest of the girls, a few away from Imogen, we made our way to the feeding hall. I felt my eye jerk a Samba rhythm of its own accord; the other chose not to partner.

My tongue swept the table clean of glutinous porridge.  None of it hit the floor.

Isaac sat opposite, his bruised face turning patchwork. He raised an eyebrow at me and mouthed,

“You O.K?”

I shrugged and mouthed back,

“Just great.”

The door onto the dais opened and The Fringe took centre stage. Her puffy cheeks ballooned as she began,

“Good morning. Today, the following recruits will be leaving the main group for a session to ascertain their suitability to continue with the second chance that Sense has bestowed upon them. Isaac Coleman, the assessor you have been allocated is me. Clara Knight, you will be met by Mr Yanis at the end of this meal. Continue.”

Every captive seemed to stop breathing at the name of Yanis. Every captive apart from Isaac – he hardly seemed to have heard what she’d said after she’d claimed him as her charge. He turned his head towards The Fringe and stood up.

“I’m not going to some meeting with you, you fat witch. I can save your time; I’m not suitable for this, not suitable because I’m not a Fascist – get it? Sense can take their offer and stick it right up…”

I had to admire him and with Yanis as my assessor, I had nothing to lose,

“ I’m not going either. Tell Yanis I’m double booked – rather feed the dogs than sit with a murderer like him. I know what he’s done. I know all about him. Everyone in this room knows what he’s done.”

We looked at each other and, for the first time, a flicker of a genuine smile crested from the corners of Isaac’s mouth.

It was only a matter of seconds before we were lifted from our seats by Reds and un-cuffed from the lines. The Fringe beckoned with her stumpy, padded fingers until we were presented before her like animals to be judged in a farm show. Isaac, clearly on a roll, jerked his head forwards and spat, his spittle hitting The Fringe’s neat orange plimsolls.

“Take them down to the pits. They can think about their ‘one to one’ responses down there. Let’s see if they’re still the best of friends after a little close proximity.”

And with that we were taken away.

Whoever designed the cells in the pits had a sick sense of humour. Throughout History so many prisoners have dreaded solitary confinement and feared the madness that often goes with it. Ever the trend setters, Sense had taken a different approach when it came to punishing errant teenage Parasites.

The cell was no more than three feet across, floor to ceiling, five feet. We half knelt, half crouched, facing one another in the glare of the intense white light that hailed down from the entire surface of the ceiling and blasted off the white walls. It was worse for Isaac; he was over 6 foot and his legs were forced to coiled under and around him in a tangle of cramp. Not that I could claim to have direct experience in the matter, but it felt as if we had been locked in a fridge, a fridge with a light that didn’t go out when the door shut.

“Didn’t think you’d have the guts to shout out in the hall.  I appreciate the support little girl, but I might have been better off in here on my own.”

“Likewise. Funnily enough, I’m not an expert on Darkmoor’s pits. If I’d known, I might have kept my mouth shut.”

Part of me wanted to say that if I’d known my face would end up wedged in his armpit, like a sweat-absorbing sponge, I definitely would have kept my mouth shut, but I didn’t want to draw any more attention to our close physical contact.

“So, what’s the deal with your mate who came into the compound with you?”

“Shannon?”

“Don’t know her name, but know she’s wearing orange.”

“She was my friend, one of my closest friends from home, Surrey. Let’s just say that we ended up in a spot of bother in London and the Reds picked us up.”

He tried to move his legs around. Unsuccessfully. Yet, his shuffling meant that I had to readjust my position - with limited options. At close range and under the spiritual, white light Isaac looked pretty rough. His lips were chapped, his right eye socket almost convex and his lips swollen. Yet, under the strata of several beatings, his defined cheek bones and varnished brown eyes were still very much in evidence.

“So, what happened to her to make her go over to them?”

“You know they’re listening – right now – while we’re talking, don’t you?”

“Am I asking you something they don’t already know?”

He had a point.

“Short version is that Fake Finger, you know, the tall Orange with the prosthetic, she got to Shannon.  She tortured her. Cut off her finger and made her watch.”

“I should be surprised, but I’m not. They’ve done worse in my neighbourhood. Wouldn’t think it was normal to go over to the people who’ve just cut your finger off though. ”

“Well, she’s Orange now. Said she wants to be on the winning side. Sold out a friend of ours – I mean mine. Guess you never know who you can trust.”

He nodded.

Apart from tiny, painful movements, there wasn’t much else we could do but stare at each other and talk. Perhaps that was another ruse of Sense; let the parasites talk, let them make a bond and then see what dribbles out.

“So, Robert Yanis hey? You must have done some pretty harsh stuff to get him. You some big shot rebel or something?”

“Oh no, I’m just some little girl.”

“Funny.”

“I should never have been caught. We’d managed to breach a Sense building, got what I needed, we were running, split up, tried to hide, but somebody wouldn’t let me share their space and I got tackled by a fat Red. Compound and then here. Want me to make up a song about it?”

“You’re alright. I can tell from your voice that your singing would be pretty painful.”

I found myself laughing. He wasn’t wrong.

His warm eyes turned down to the knot of limbs covering the cell floor.

“I need to sleep.”

“In here?”

“No, in a five star hotel. Yes, in here. I just need to shut down, OK? Got a problem?”

“No. Do what you like, just keep to your side.”

“There are sides in here?”

Fantastic. One minute he wants my life story, the next it’s shut down. Perhaps reciprocal conversation rules don’t apply from in his neighbourhood. It was clear he had no chance of sleeping or resting in here – that was the whole point. Why he was bothering to try was beyond me.

Seconds later, hunched on his knees, Isaac began to emit gentle snores. I watched in disbelief as the tension dissipated from his shoulders.