The Mark. Edyth Bulbring
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The Mark
Edyth Bulbring
Tafelberg
For Charlotte, who loves stories
My name is Juliet Seven. The date is 264 PC. This year, I am going to wipe out my father and my sister. And then I will off myself. The Machine will record that I lived for fifteen years, worked as a drudge, and that my last address was Room 33, Section D, Slum City. Everything I do this year was spoken of before I existed. And it will be written in the blood of those who survive me.
1
The Monster
A man flails in the breakers, thrashing the sea with windmill arms. “Monster!” he shouts.
The Market Nags are the first to come screaming out of the shallows, breasts bouncing free from their underwear. “Monster, it’s a monster!” They swirl in circles on the beach, looking for a place to hide.
The monster siren pierces the squeals of children being pulled from the breakers by beach wardens waving swimmers towards the dunes. “Get out of the water. Get out!” Their eyes scan the sea.
Sun-worshippers jerk free of their torpor and abandon towels and bags. They stumble for the shelter of the dunes, dragging children along with them.
“Run. Before the monster gets you. Run!” They urge toddlers along, slapping their blistered legs. The Market Nags gather their wits and clothes scattered on the beach, and follow them to safety.
Glee swells my chest as I watch these fools. Buzzing around like flies trapped crazy behind a mesh screen. The sand trickles through my fingers as I wait for my moment.
Then, in the chaos of umbrellas toppling onto the sand, I scramble to my feet and get busy. My hands rifle through baskets, slip under towels. What I find goes into my bag. Those who run for the safety of the dunes do not look back. They are oblivious to me and to the rest of us, with our quick fingers, moving among their things.
But I watch out as I work. My hands are blind but my eyes see everything and everyone around me. When I am done, I squat on the sand and watch the rest slip away, absorbed by the shadows as though they were never here. Except for one. Kitty. The girl I am always looking out for.
I watch Kitty as she sways along the beach, stepping over a bucket and spade. As she kneels to adjust her sandal strap, she reaches into a discarded bag and palms a purse.
My knees crack as I rise to follow her. I track Kitty across the sand, watching her stop, scratch her leg, and fix her sandal again. She grabs something off a towel and straightens a flag on a sandcastle. My bare feet mirror her prints on the damp sand.
Kitty reaches the foot of the steps leading from the beach onto the main road.
“Stop,” a voice shouts.
Kitty does not stop; nor does she turn around. She glides up the stairs with the poise of a girl who works at one of the local pleasure clubs. Her back is straight, her breasts thrust forward. All that is missing is a tray of drinks balanced on her hand.
“Hey, I said stop.” The voice is too loud and too close.
My stomach leaps into my mouth and I swallow bile. Keep walking, Kitty. Don’t look back.
But Kitty stops. She turns around, freezing as she recognises the uniform. Green and yellow. A Locust. I read her face, open to me like the expanse of beach sand. I must act now, before it is too late.
As the Locust races towards her, I scream and fall down, lie on my back. I whip my head from side to side, roll my eyes, simulate spasms wracking my chest. I whimper, like a child who has had her fingers slammed in a door.
The Locust turns around, sprints away from the steps towards me. I tense my body in preparation for a boot in my ribs. This is the Locusts’ favourite way of dealing with children who cause trouble. Instead, though, he kneels down on the sand and eases his hand under my neck. I try not to flinch.
I peep at him from under my sunglasses. His face is covered by a sun shield. But he must be a young one, new to his trade. For sure he will soon learn the mean tricks of the Locusts.
“Just calm down. You’re going to be all right.” The Locust soothes me with gentle hands until I stop whimpering. Perhaps he is someone’s brother, grown in the habit of comforting a younger sister.
A shadow blocks the sun on my face as a man leans over us. “Take your hands off my daughter. She hasn’t done anything.”
The Locust turns to him. “She was having a fit. I was just trying to help . . .” His protest trails away as he looks towards the stairs. But Kitty is gone. She is safe; I can breathe again.
I wriggle away from the Locust’s gloves and pull myself up. I smile at him. Thank you for caring, my smile says. I force it onto my face like I would squeeze pus from a boil. Smiling at Locusts is one of my strengths from years of practice.
I look up at the man glaring down on us. He is the one whose windmill arms had warned about the monster. But he is not my father. He is my handler.
I allow Handler Xavier to take me in his arms, and I rest my chin on his shoulder. I bleed a tear through lids that have become cracked by the sun.
“Father, father,” I say. The unfamiliar words sting my lips. I cling to him as I have learnt a daughter should.
“You can leave her with me,” Handler Xavier says. “She’s soft in the head.”
The Locust smacks the sand off his gloves and walks away, rubbing his jaw.
I relax and tell my heart to stop galloping. It’s fine. You won’t get caught. Not today.
But the Locust stops, looks back, and touches the handset on his belt. I hear the beep-beep as he presses the button.
My spine tingles.
The Locust straightens the handset and watches us. I shut my eyes tight. If I cannot see him, he will not be there. And when I open my eyes again, he is walking away across the sand. Slowly.
Handler Xavier pats my back, his expression tender. But it slides off his face as soon as the Locust is gone. My handler is a man of many faces. The face he made screaming in the water was that of a terrified man warning swimmers he had seen a flesh-eating monster and they should get out of the sea. Fast.
The face Handler Xavier shows me after the Locust has left us is of a man alert to danger of a different sort. “The Locust saw something. He’s tracked your number on his handset and he’s going to report it. Stay low and get home fast.” The handler drops me on the sand and strides towards the shoreline.
He jogs along the beach. His elbows slice the air and his fists punch the sky. Now he is a jogger, taking his exercise by the seaside. He runs on the spot, throws himself onto the sand, does a set of push-ups.
He glances in the direction of a group of Locusts patrolling the beach. As soon as they have passed, he quits exercising and strolls towards the steps. Whistling.
I crouch on the beach, watching swimmers go back into the water as the beach wardens give the all-clear signal. The children settle onto the sand and rebuild their sandcastles. The sun-worshippers ease back onto their towels. They smear their skin with sunblocker and hide behind sunglasses. The danger of the monster is past.
Umbrella shadows lengthen, and we do not have much longer to enjoy the beach. When the curfew siren shrieks, many of us must return to the ghetto.
I watch the Necromunda, the sea scavengers on their bobbing seacraft, diving far beyond the surf line. The Scavvies’ bodies are black from the sun, their skin leathered by sea salt. Soon their shift will be over and they will return to shore and offload the spoils from the underwater city.
The loot is stored in Mangerian warehouses, where it is sorted and then sold to the Posh – the only ones with enough credits to buy relics from the time before the seas rose up and swallowed