Prime State

  Prime State

  James Jefferies

  Copyright © 2018 by James Jefferies

  The right of James Jefferies to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  To: Helen, who made the journey a pleasure.

  Chapter One

  Several hundred kilometres to the north of the City, the country’s centre of trade and administration and the place where decisions had been centralised and the heavy fist of the State wielded, an out of breath Jerome Roberts crouched behind a low brick wall not entirely sure of where next he should go to be safe. Around the corner opposite him came a small team of Collectors, for that is what he knew their function to be, collecting criminals on behalf of the all-powerful State.

  The squad members were no more than twenty-five metres away, but they did not yet know his precise location, only that following his escape from the clutches of a security check and a subsequent sighting of somebody who might match his description, they had been sent to search for a recalcitrant. Their side arms were sheathed so far, but he knew that would change in an instant when they were so instructed through their personal radio headsets, to prepare for the kill or when one of them was sure that they were close. In this place, one less criminal was neither here nor there, and in fact some occupants were known to long for a swift end.

  The wall offered bare protection and he moved his body to lay flat against it, but despite his old and torn overcoat the cold of the brick made him uncomfortable as did the dirt and dust, but he shook off such trivial irritations as if they were nothing. He looked along the length of the structure and saw that it ended abruptly and there was a larger wall beyond, with a gap of about the length of two men between the old brick structures. Should he be fortunate enough to succeed in completing his escape from this present danger, he would soon have to traverse an open area and in this matter, in the face of trained Collectors who had an eye on a large reward for their efforts, he did not rate highly his chances of survival.

  Earlier that cold afternoon, he had taken the serious decision for his electronic name tag, with its embedded codes which when scanned would reveal his life history, misdemeanours and even his health problems should one care to delve deeply enough, to be removed from being attached to the front of his robe and instead hidden in a pocket, contrary to the rules of a sub-committee of the Grand Council, that fount of all wisdom and the pinnacle of the State. He knew that he could not risk it being scanned to show him present in the area in which he had trespassed, and he would have to make out that the badge had fallen from him due to hard manual labour.

  His was a name considered a danger by those in the higher echelons of power and he had been sent to undertake re-education and banishment in this well-known and rather unpleasant commune, called simply Number Three, where living was unpleasant, and life was tough. The inmates debated among themselves, when they could summon the energy, whether the awfulness of the living conditions was deliberate State policy or just the natural consequence of bureaucratic incompetence, due to low-level officials not really caring much.

  He knew there to be twelve communes, all of which were spread in the outer-areas of the land, but it was well known that Number Three was considered to be on the high side of harsh.

  His earlier brazen action might at least have succeeded in persuading the Collectors to let him pass, for he thought that even the dullest of them must surely be imbued with the idea that the path of honest sweat was a source of redemption. Not that they knew the meaning of redemption, for few of the recruits to such jobs were of the thinking kind, but they generally knew enough to look kindly on the masses who followed such a path, known officially by the State as the “Calling”. After all, did not work set one free?

  In the event his ruse had failed, and he had been apprehended at a check point by a guard who spotted that his badge was clearly not evident but seizing a rare moment of a lack of concentration by the guard he had fled from the place. Shouting and radio messages had been exchanged and Jerome ran so hard with the strength that came with terror that he had arrived in this old and run-down part of the commune, but now he knew that it was close to the game being up for him. If he was caught, death would probably follow in the brutal shooting or, if merciful and he survived that trauma, the State would doubtless grant him a doubling of his sentence.

  His lungs had nearly given out, but he was at last able to draw breath as he looked along the wall, and from the depths of his hardened character courage was built up sufficient for him to attempt the short crossing between the brickwork. He was waiting for some trigger, something to stir reluctant and tired limbs forward to make the attempt, and as he lay against the wall he placed a hand into a pocket and fumbled there to find anything that might be of value, and with a gambler’s instinct found a small round object which he knew to be a broken electrical device previously used for communication, but now useless for that purpose. His mind entered a state of intense concentration as he saw the glimmer of a way out of this endgame. He grasped the object in his right hand, the object he knew to be one that had given him much pleasure in its old life as a small mobile telephone, and he now felt its cold weight as he prepared for action which might just save his life or result in intense pain from the vicious ray of the Collectors’ side arms.

  Silence surrounded him save for the sound of wind and the small noise from the movement of grains of dirt close by. The Collectors were quiet as they went about their grim business and he knew they would soon move across to the wall. He had spotted an old glass window, intact despite the ruins of the area, some thirty metres away, behind his pursuers, and he knew this to be his only chance of distracting them. No other hope was possible, but he was not expecting there to be any.

  He braced back his right arm and with as much strength and accuracy as he could muster from his less than ideal position, hurled the small object towards the window. The arc of the missile curved majestically and, as if in slow motion, his mind oddly considered whether the glint of light from its surface would be seen. Such deliberations proved thankfully to be redundant as the marvellous smashing sound of glass echoed around the area. Without further ceremony, he was up on his feet and leaping across the chasm between the walls and his feet carried him away.

  Nimble of foot as a result of adrenaline surging through his body, he zig-zagged across the open space beyond, expecting incoming fire, but none came and to his immense relief he found himself well away and moving into a populated area where it would be harder to be tracked. This busier area was unremittingly dull and filthy from years of neglect, its only saving grace being the still functioning sewage disposal system which allowed some meagre measure of habitation without the ravages of diseases of the masses such as cholera. The people wondering around the place were uniformly drab, with olive-green work clothes underneath and, at this chilly season, overcoats of a grey and black hue, mostly torn and impregnated with the stench of the place. It did not take newcomers long for their nostrils to become used to the smell of poverty, within a matter of days in most cases, so that they soon fitted in with all the rest.

  The bright spots in the close mass of humanity were provided by the smart and distinctive blue uniforms of the security guards and force of Collectors, who were able to go about their business without feeling the tedious and debilitating effects of the cold and dirty surroundings, but in fact they rarely bothered with venturing into the deep centre of the commune. After all, why should they? Their uniforms would require washing and they might become sympathetic to the inmates, and so the practical drivers of human nature meant they kept away. Unless a target was being chased, of course.

  The comparatively small area of the commune, an old town taken-over for the purpose in an area where industry had long-since disappeared, meant that there were houses and a variety of buildings ready for use by the State, which simply built a fence around the old structures. And yet, those banished to these communes became a cheap source of labour and, one of the unintended but welcome outcomes, was the growth of light industry around the perimeter fence.

  The population of these communes had a higher average intelligence than might be found in the old prisons, for there were a considerable number of middle-class educated types that had fallen foul of the State and were in there for a mixture of punishment and political re-education. Enterprising businesses, keeping as far as possible well under the radar so to avoid State interference and, worse, nationalisation, recognised the labour pool and gave employment to these people. Despite the intentions of the regime, the base rigours of the market and opportunities had not been entirely quenched.

  The consequence of all this was that in the communes themselves and surrounding industries there was demand both for a mass of muscle to be used in old-style industries, where the wielding of the s
hovel and pickaxe were all that was needed, but particularly in the picking of fruit and vegetables in the surrounding large swathes of farmland and where labour was therefore able to be employed cheaper than machinery, and the more modern businesses where technical and intellectual skills were adopted. There had been many cases where workers from the communes had, upon their release, been immediately employed in the City by far-sighted managers. The paradox of all this was ongoing debate in the City following complaints by the trades unions that their members’ jobs were being undercut.

  He instinctively adopted the gait of men in the area, to make it hard to be spotted from a distance, his sharp but tired brain assessed that the Collectors could not have been told his name and were thus searching for some run-away. In due course, he arrived at a narrow but busy street, and feeling safe here at last, he allowed his shoulders to relax from their hunched-over posture and he continued his walk with the knowledge that, for now, he was safe.

  The street was long and wide enough for stalls to have been set-up and it did not take him long to see a street urchin standing behind an old table selling vegetables and rice. Coming across the young in these places was always a reminder that some mothers had elected to bring their young children with them, although what sort of education was available was not clear, but the alternative was usually the overstretched bureaucracy of the State machine and he could not blame someone wanting to avoid that for their children. He reached into a pocket and extracted some coins, after which he haggled with the young salesman and struck a bargain and bought enough produce to take back to his residence. He felt very tired and the adrenaline had worn off and he longed to rest in his own place and away from prying eyes.

  As he walked to his home, dodging between other shuffling, silent and benighted souls, he did not let down his guard and was ever watchful in the manner of those who are perennially haunted by fear, but quite by chance and against his better judgment he caught the eye of a person who exhibited, like him, a furtiveness borne of the innocent, yet harassed. As he walked closer to the figure, the eyes he saw became clearer to him and there was something in them with which he was familiar. At first, he thought that the owner would turn and disappear into the background, but instead the figure maintained its gaze with a boldness that verged on the reckless. If he had been an agent of the Collectors, this could prove to be fatal.

  The figure was smaller in stature than Jerome and as he drew close, despite its drab and shapeless covering, he was sure that it was female. There were other people around them and they were both not too bold as to jeopardise further their position. There was an appealing and attractiveness about the eyes, brown as they were and with something of a cry for help about them. As he drew level with the bold figure, not slowing down for fear of attracting the attention of prying citizens, Jerome merely made a subtle glance forward, as if to say, “follow me”. He continued walking on and he did not venture a slight turn to see if the woman was behind him until ten full paces had been made. She was there, and he was glad.

  After walking through back-streets and passing old hovels, they came eventually to a run-down house, long since dilapidated and now serving as accommodation on four floors for over thirty people. Climbing the old stairs of this ancient building to the second floor, he shoved open the sticky front door of his abode and went into a single room, consisting of small living space and a bed at one side, holding open the door to allow her safely inside. He looked back behind her but could see no evidence of them being followed.

  He immediately went to turn on a single gas flame on an old and decrepit cooker to heat some water so that he could offer her some of his precious coffee, and when that was set in motion he turned and looked at her. His curiosity was matched by hers, but she lived up to her boldness and removed her head covering, to reveal a face which was both stunning in its beauty as it was a shock to him. He was now certain that he recognised her from three years earlier, in another place and, it seemed, another world altogether.

  She was cold and tired but the relentless weariness that had been her long-standing companion, against which she managed for much of the long days to subsume from her day-to-day struggle to exist in this godforsaken place, now sprang forth in a sudden release as if she had been given permission to grieve at last. Tears came to her eyes, but she shook away the moisture and sat down heavily in an old chair which was positioned in front of an unlit fire. It took several moments before she looked up, blinking away the wetness from her eyes. So far, she did not recognise him, but aside from his eyes which had enticed her, there was something more about this man which allowed her to feel a measure of comfort.

  “Coffee?” he said, the first word passing between them, his voice firm and strong, cultured even.

  She nodded and knew that, in this place, she had not tasted the rare commodity for months.

  “There’s no milk or sugar, I’m afraid.”

  She shrugged as if such refinements would be the preserve of the elite only and hardly available here under any circumstances, save in the comfort of the guard house at the main gate.

  Finding an old box of matches, he extracted one of the few remaining and proceeded to light the fire, kindling a single small wooden log in a tiny grate and fanning it expertly so that it took hold. The flames warmed them both as he waited for the water on the stove to be hot enough.

  Her name would not return to him, so to avoid embarrassment and her discomfort he introduced himself, in the formal manner of more pleasant times.

  “Jerome Roberts at your service. Welcome to my humble dwelling.”

  He held out a hand which she took and as she did so, he bowed in an old-fashioned military way, but she was certain he was not from that background. She could see the frayed cotton on the cuff of a well-used shirt and the rough stubble on cheeks which were on the point of becoming hollowed-out and gaunt. His eyes, which she found to be attractive in their green-blue hue, gave away his true state of mind, which she deduced to be one of extreme stress. The thousand-yard stare, the shibboleth of those at the end of their tether, had become common currency in this hell hole and he had the start of it.

  “Sarah Backhouse,” she offered, and her eyes looked at his with a penetrating gaze, confidently and without fear.

  Her name was familiar, and he wondered for a moment from where, but he was exhausted, and his mind could not recall it, much to his frustration.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

  They looked at each other and she continued to hold his gaze, looking kindly at the tired eyes looking back at her.

  “How long were you given?” she asked gently.

  He continued to look at her and smiled, an action which was not supported by the grimness of his eyes.

  “Seven years, to begin with at least,” he said.

  “Been here for three.”

  Sarah did not react with any emotion other than resignation.

  “I have seven years too,” she said, “I’ve just completed one of them.”

  Chapter Two

  The country had metamorphosed into an animal that few people would have conceived possible. The population had been educated with an extremely high level of literacy and on the whole a comfortable way of life, with skilled jobs abounding and few people taught only to be hewers of wood and drawers of water, but enough citizens had been taken over by growing ideas that had eventually tipped the country into a whole new way of running itself.

  In the short period since that momentous day, due to the tremendous upheaval in society, historians decided that an analysis of it should be made and quickly too, much against the generally accepted practices governing these things that a good generation, or better two, should elapse before critical assessments could be made, so that the passage of time would create greater impartiality.

  Historians and those other people of a thinking nature who had all lived through the dramatic changes in society were overwhelmed and felt that they should make an effort to try to explain why society had reached the decisions it had. Some of them put the whole thing down to a failure in democracy, or, at least a restlessness for new ideas to be tried out. It was deemed to be a triumph of popularism in its purest form.