Liberator Read online

  Col had it on the tip of his tongue to say, ‘Antrobus can speak if he wants to.’ But he knew Septimus would never believe him.

  ‘We ought to return Murgatrude to Mr Gibber,’ he said.

  ‘You want to get a good scratching?’ Septimus shook his head. ‘You’re braver than me if you pick him up.’

  Col addressed his baby brother. ‘Antrobus, we have to return your new friend to his owner now.’

  Antrobus looked at Col: a long silent stare. Then his owl-like eyes swivelled back to Murgatrude. Impossible to tell what spark of intelligence passed across – but Murgatrude began to purr.

  ‘He is a cat!’ cried Septimus.

  Col still wasn’t so sure. He knelt down and encircled Murgatrude in one arm. No reaction.

  He lifted the animal in both arms and rose to his feet. Amazingly, Murgatrude continued to purr.

  Septimus laughed. ‘So you’re braver than me. As if I didn’t know that.’

  Col’s grin was one of sheer relief. ‘Fancy a visit to Mr Gibber?’

  ‘No, but I’ll come anyway.’

  They made their way down to Dr Blessamy’s Academy on Thirty-Seventh Deck. Their school had become a Swank ghetto inhabited mainly by grindboys and grindgirls, the most humble level of student in the old school hierarchy. Mr Gibber and Dr Blessamy were the only two teachers who had stayed on.

  The entrance to the Academy had been closed off with a barricade of overlapping blackboards. Someone had drawn cartoon figures on the blackboards – some Filthy, presumably, mocking the Swanks inside. None of the Filthies had yet learned to write, but they were very good at drawing pictures.

  Half a dozen heads popped up above the barricade as they approached. Col recognised Snellshott and Clatterick from Class 4A. They were still wearing their old school uniforms, green jackets with red piping. There were whistles of amazement at the sight of Murgatrude curled up in Col’s arms.

  They made a gap in the barricade, and Col and Septimus passed through. Murgatrude continued to purr with frequent rasps and creaks and wheezes. The students escorted the visitors across the schoolyard to Dr Blessamy’s rooms, where Mr Gibber now also resided.

  Septimus knocked on the door.

  ‘Come!’ answered Mr Gibber’s voice, after a count of thirty.

  They entered the study. Mr Gibber was leaning back in the headmaster’s chair, feet propped on the headmaster’s desk, in an attitude of posed nonchalance. The desk itself was overspread with sheets and a quilt, and appeared to double as a bed. Dr Blessamy sat sleeping in an armchair on the other side of the room. A blanket covered him up to the shoulders, a pillow supported his head, and his mouth hung open.

  ‘Ah, students to see me.’ Mr Gibber cracked his knuckles, smirked, then wiped the smirk from his face. ‘Porpentine, isn’t it? How can I help you, Porpentine?’

  Col simply held out his arms. ‘Murgatrude.’

  Mr Gibber almost overbalanced in his chair. He jumped up and waggled a finger. ‘Oh, you bad Murgatrude. Where have you been?’

  Murgatrude switched from a purr to a low spitting sound like a firework getting ready to explode. Mr Gibber withdrew his finger.

  ‘I’ve been so worried,’ he told Col. ‘I’ve been beside myself with worry.’ He turned to Dr Blessamy. ‘Haven’t I? Beside myself?’

  Dr Blessamy remained fast asleep. Mr Gibber produced an india rubber and lobbed it in the direction of the old headmaster’s open mouth. He missed, and the rubber bounced off Dr Blessamy’s chin.

  ‘Wha–wha–what time is it?’

  ‘I said, beside myself.’ Mr Gibber raised his voice. ‘Haven’t I?’

  ‘You have? Who has?’

  ‘Pacing the floor, crying uncontrollably, tearing my hair out.’ Mr Gibber reached up to demonstrate, yanked at a few gingery strands, then desisted. ‘Well, perhaps not quite tearing my hair out.’ He turned to Col and Septimus. ‘That would be going too far. A bit excessive, wouldn’t you say?’ For the first time, he focused on Septimus. ‘You were in my class too.’

  ‘Septimus Trant.’

  ‘Yes, I remember a Trant.’ Mr Gibber swung round to Dr Blessamy. ‘Do you remember a Trant?’

  Dr Blessamy scratched at his eyebrows. ‘What’s today? Is it the end of term yet?’

  Mr Gibber twirled a finger to indicate a screw loose. ‘One of our students has come back to say hello. Two of our students. Are you pleased?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Dr Blessamy sat up straighter. ‘Very pleased and . . . more than pleased. Hello to their dear old headmaster. Very . . . er . . . very . . . er . . .’

  ‘Pleased.’

  ‘Indeed. My young charges. Every Dr Blessamy has a duty to educate the young. Fine young boys and girls.’ Dr Blessamy seemed to have difficulty focusing. ‘Are they fine young boys and girls, Mr Gibber?’

  Mr Gibber stuck out his tongue at his old employer and turned back to Col and Septimus. ‘He stayed here out of devotion to his young charges. Calls it his sacred duty. Sad, sad, sad.’

  Dr Blessamy rocked his head from side to side. ‘What’s sad, Mr Gibber?’

  ‘You are. Going downhill fast.’

  ‘I’m not going downhill.’

  Mr Gibber addressed himself to Col and Septimus. ‘One foot in the grave. On his last legs. He needs me to tuck him up and adjust his pillow and give him his daily glass of milk. Me!’ Mr Gibber appeared highly delighted. ‘A hired teacher! How demeaning for him!’

  ‘I don’t think I’m going downhill,’ mumbled Dr Blessamy.

  Again Mr Gibber indicated a screw loose. ‘Which one are you today?’ he demanded.

  ‘Which one? I don’t know.’ Dr Blessamy picked at his bald scalp, releasing a small shower of scurfy flakes. ‘The first?’

  ‘Think carefully. The second? Or the fourth? Or the twenty-first?’

  ‘The twenty-first?’ Dr Blessamy brightened for a moment, before Mr Gibber’s expression deflated him. ‘Not the twenty-first.’

  ‘Rack your brains.’

  ‘The seventh?’

  ‘Keep racking.’

  ‘Oh dear. Can I have a clue?’

  ‘No, you have to work it out for yourself. Which one are you?’

  Col could hold back no longer. ‘Which what?’

  ‘Which Dr Blessamy. There have been nine since the first Dr Blessamy founded the Academy in 1851. He knows he’s one of them, but he can’t remember which.’

  ‘You suggested the twenty-first,’ Septimus accused. ‘There never was a twenty-first.’

  ‘Just a little test for him.’ Mr Gibber sniggered. ‘I try to keep his mind active. It’s for his own good.’

  It seemed more like cruelty than kindness to Col. He’d had enough of Mr Gibber’s conversation.

  ‘Here’s Murgatrude,’ he said, and leaned forward.

  Mr Gibber didn’t take the animal directly from Col’s arms, but dived under the desk and emerged bearing a wastepaper basket. He held it out, and Col deposited Murgatrude into the bottom of the basket.

  ‘Home again, home again,’ Mr Gibber crooned softly. ‘You bad Murgatrude.’

  ‘We’ll be off, then,’ said Col.

  Mr Gibber looked up before they could leave. ‘And how are the two of you? Doing well?’ Mr Gibber directed a smile towards Septimus. ‘You’re doing very well for a grindboy, I hear. Keeping company with the Porpentines in the Norfolk Library.’

  ‘We’re all equal now,’ Septimus retorted.

  ‘Of course we are.’ Mr Gibber’s smile widened until it was more of a grimace. ‘You are, I am, he is. All Swanks together, all equally inferior to our new masters. High or low, Porpentines or Trants – they despise every one of us exactly the same.’

  Col never knew how to react to Mr Gibber. ‘What are you saying?’
/>   ‘Nothing, nothing. Why would I say anything? I’ve been wrong so many times before. All my lessons gone into the garbage bin. Nobody would want to hear my views.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Would they, Dr Blessamy? Do you want to hear my views?’

  ‘Wha—? Did I fall asleep again?’

  ‘You see? He couldn’t care less about my views.’

  ‘The Liberation hasn’t worked out as well as we hoped,’ said Col slowly, ‘but it’s still better than the tyranny of the old system.’

  ‘If that’s what you think. Of course, of course. Optimism! You’ll need all your optimism after what happened with Victoria and the Governor.’

  ‘You heard?’

  ‘Only rumours.’ Mr Gibber licked his rubbery lips. ‘What will the Filthies do next?’

  ‘I don’t know. Have you heard any rumours about that?’

  ‘Oh, what would I hear? I’m only your humble Mr Gibber.’

  Col wondered whether Mr Gibber had heard rumours, he was smirking so much. But getting the truth out of him would be more trouble than it was worth.

  With a nod to Septimus, Col turned on his heel and headed for the door.

  For two whole days, Liberator had remained exactly where it was. No vibration of turbines, no movement of rollers. Col visited other ghettoes, but no one knew what was happening.

  On the evening of the second day, he decided to make contact with Riff. It would have to be a conversation in pub- lic, but perhaps that would lead to a meeting in private. His best chance of finding her was on the Bridge.

  He went by way of rarely used staircases, hoping to avoid awkward questions and confrontations. The few Filthies that he couldn’t avoid appeared preoccupied.

  He remained unchallenged until the final set of steps up to the Bridge. At the bottom stood two Filthies wearing the red armbands of Shiv’s new security force. Since when had Shiv been guarding access to the Bridge?

  It was too late to turn back, however. He summoned up an air of confidence. ‘I have to talk with Riff.’

  They looked him up and down. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Is she on the Bridge?’

  ‘Nah. Only Gansy and Dunga.’

  Dunga was more on his side than most, Col remembered. ‘I’ll talk to Dunga, then.’

  ‘Nah.’

  Col didn’t register that he’d been denied access until a raised arm barred his way.

  ‘You can’t talk to anyone.’

  ‘I need to speak to her.’

  ‘Yeah, but does she need to speak to you?’

  The two red armbands shared a guffaw as though they’d just made a joke.

  ‘Go back to your own kind, Swank.’

  Col held his temper and retreated. He could have told them he was an adviser to the Council, but he could see it would make no difference.

  How would he ever manage to talk to Riff again? Hanging around in corridors lying in wait would only draw the attention of the security force. There was only one sure way to catch her alone – and he was desperate enough to take it.

  He directed his steps towards Riff’s cabin on Forty-Second Deck.

  She wouldn’t like it, he knew. Some weeks after the Liberation, she had told him it was too risky to meet in her bedroom. Yet hadn’t she always got away with it herself, when she used to pay secret visits to his room before the Liberation?

  Forty-Second Deck was the same deck on which the Porpentines had once lived. But Riff, like many Filthies, had chosen an outer room right next to the juggernaut’s exterior walls. The portholes in those rooms had stayed sealed for more than a century until the Filthies uncovered them.

  Col was in luck. There were no Filthies in the corridor outside Riff’s room. He strode up to the door and made a show of knocking. Then he turned the handle, walked in and shut the door behind him.

  His eyes took a while to adjust. The light filtering down from the porthole was thin and pale, a bluish shade of moonlight.

  Riff’s room seemed both strange and familiar to him. It was familiar because he’d often visited her in the weeks after she’d moved in, up until the time of the first act of sabotage. It was strange because everything looked different waiting here alone in the moonlight. How long would he have to wait?

  The porthole was high up in the wall, with a chair placed underneath. To his left was the bed; to his right, the wardrobe, washstand and chest of drawers. A three-shelf bookcase filled in the angle between the chest of drawers and the back wall.

  He remembered helping Riff install that bookcase. It was her pride and joy, scavenged from a drawing room two corridors away. Together they’d chosen the volumes to fill it: not only the collection from Col’s old room, but the most interesting-looking volumes from far and wide. It had been like a treasure hunt, competing and comparing their finds.

  A wave of sadness washed over him. He sat on the side of the bed, and felt like crying. Those first few weeks had been such a magical, golden time. They’d sat here on the bed and talked everything over, from plans for the route of the juggernaut to plans for the redecoration of Riff’s bedroom. The future had seemed so bright and beckoning, and he’d been so much a part of it.

  Looking around, he saw that Riff had done almost no further redecorating on her own. Was that a good sign? They’d talked of hanging pictures, putting up new lampshades, finding better rugs. But Riff hadn’t got around to any of it.

  One particular memory almost broke his heart. It was a memory from the very beginning after Riff had selected this room, when he’d helped her prise the metal cover off the porthole and the sunlight had come streaming in. They’d sat side by side just touching hands and letting it pour over them. Simple, glorious sunlight . . .

  And he’d expected it to last forever. He shook his head, rose to his feet and crossed to the porthole.

  The chair was where they’d put it on that very first day. Many times they’d stood on it to look out together – gripping one another round the waist, laughing and barely balancing. He mounted it now, and applied his eye to the thick convex glass.

  The scene outside was dark and ugly. The moon was no more than a sliver, low in the sky, and the buildings of the coaling station were drowned in shadow. The frame that had telescoped out to meet them had now telescoped back in again, until it was barely distinguishable from the other great spidery structures that carried the coal-loading pipes. No human activity anywhere. It was as though Botany Bay and the juggernaut were ignoring each other.

  His memories took a darker turn too. He remembered how Riff had started to discourage his visits, and he’d been so blind he hadn’t even realised what was happening. He’d kept on saying the same things, the wrong things – like the time he’d tried to persuade her they should become partnered. Too late, too late! As the acts of sabotage continued and suspicion of Swanks increased, the periods of distance between them had grown longer and longer, the periods of closeness shorter and shorter.

  A sudden sound made him spin round. Someone had laughed in the corridor outside.

  He knew that laugh. Riff had returned to her room – and she wasn’t alone!

  He stepped down from the chair in a hurry. What if the other person came in? This was something he hadn’t expected.

  He looked around frantically. Where to hide?

  The handle turned and the door opened a few inches. He saw Riff silhouetted in the strip of light.

  ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a while yet.’

  His gaze fell on the bookcase in the corner. It was waist-high with a triangular space behind. He crossed to it in three noiseless strides, squeezed in and ducked down out of sight.

  Two people entered the room. Col crouched even lower as the ceiling light snapped on.

  ‘So this is your room,’ the other person said.

  Col could h
ave groaned. It was Lye.

  Col heard the sound of a chair sliding across the carpet. Edging forward on hands and knees, he peeked out around the end of the bookcase. Riff had shifted the chair from under the porthole to sit facing Lye, who perched on the side of Riff’s bed.

  The blood beat in his ears, and he felt a surge of rage. Lye had taken his place. Why had Riff invited her in? Why was Riff so friendly with the girl who was his worst enemy?

  Strangely, they were both dressed all in black. Lye sat up very straight on the bed, with that cool, posed manner of hers. Why couldn’t Riff see through her?

  For a while, the rage in his mind distracted him from what they were saying. When he did concentrate, it was as he’d expected: Lye was trying to ingratiate herself with Riff. She was claiming some connection between the two of them, something to do with a long-dead relative by the name of Arrod.

  Riff seemed impressed. ‘You mean the Arrod who—’

  ‘Who was hooked up to be changed into a Menial. Just like you. But he burst out of his straps and escaped from the Changing Room before they could operate. He hid on the Upper Decks for more than a week. Then they caught him. They broke every bone in his body and flung him back down Below.’

  ‘As a warning,’ said Riff. ‘I know the story.’

  ‘Everyone does. He was already dying but he refused to die. He hung on for three hours. He wouldn’t give in until he’d passed on every scrap of information about the world above. He was a hero. A martyr.’

  ‘And your great-grandfather.’

  ‘Yes. My Mam used to tell me his story over and over. It was the bedtime story I always wanted to hear. He brought back precious information just like you.’

  ‘Except I didn’t have to die for it.’

  ‘But you would have. If you’d had to.’

  ‘Would I?’

  Col saw Riff’s shrug. You didn’t have to die because I let you down the food chute, he thought. I was the difference.