Who Runs the World? Read online

  How could anyone not know these things?! It’s sniffing the loaf of bread. My cousins’ gorgeous sour-dough. Fresh-baked.

  ‘Bread.’

  ‘Don’t look like bread.’

  It sniffs some more, bites down slowly, tears away a mouthful. It chews, eyes on me.

  ‘’S’ disgustin’,’ it mumbles, but it keeps on chewing, biting off more, like it’s ravenous, while the other greedy hand searches, finds my water bottle and . . . suddenly it tosses the loaf at me – and I catch it.

  Regret that immediately: shows so clearly I am watching, alert.

  It eyes me.

  ‘Why doncha take a little bite of that yourself?’

  Terror alone would stop me. I have also been stuffed full of cake at my cousins’ house, but I have got to get out of here, so I pull a chunk of bread off – away from the creature’s bread-mauling area – and take a bite.

  It, Milpy and I chew.

  Me and Milpy are watching it.

  It is watching us.

  It unscrews my water bottle, sniffs . . .

  ‘Water,’ I whisper.

  It glugs – and glugs.

  ‘Don’t taste right neither,’ it mutters – and my heart skips a beat as it pulls my knife out of the rucksack. My good knife, my favourite super-sharp blade that was given to me by Kate. Belonged to my great Granpappa.

  It releases the blade – seems to know just how – and holds it up. The blade of the knife shines true in the late, dying Sun.

  I feel my whole body tense up so hard any fearful shaking stops.

  ‘Was you thinking to stab someone, little brother? That what you was thinkin’ of?’

  That’s a thing men did, isn’t it? That’s what I’ve heard. Kate says women did too, but Mumma says there are statistics. Men stabbed people, shot people, killed anyone. Prisons rammed full of them and still they did not stop.

  ‘’Spect you’d like to stab me right now, eh?’

  It makes a tutting sound and waggles the knife at me.

  ‘It ain’t the way, li’l brother. It ain’t the way. I mean . . . I guess sometimes it maybe has to be the way, right? We’ve all seen that. But –’

  Something in the rucksack catches its eye. It pulls it out, the jar of honey, holds it up with a puzzled look.

  ‘Honey.’

  ‘Think so?! I’ve heard of that!’

  It drops the knife – blade open – the other side of its body, and manages to get the jar open. Scoops out a fingerful and sniffs it. Looks suspiciously at me.

  ‘You first,’ it says, offering the fingerful.

  Its hands . . . They are so filthy.

  It grunts. ‘Brother, we are both gonna die anyways,’ it says, honey running down its finger. ‘Welcome to the jungle.’

  With my mouth, I take the honey from its finger.

  The touching of it, the creature, makes me shudder.

  ‘That good, huh?’ it says, and delves another filthy finger into the jar, shoves it into its mouth and sucks it.

  Its eyeballs roll back. ‘Sweet!’ it says. ‘That IS good, ain’t it? . . . So, kid, you gonna talk to me?’

  I can see huge beads of sweat popping out on its forehead. I am sweating too. My sweat is fear, its sweat is sickness – pouring out of it. It keeps eating though, grabbing the bread back, dipping chunks into the honey jar, swigging at the water – and all the while mumbling talk and questions at me . . . I don’t answer. I see streaks of blood in the bready mix of chewed-up food in its mouth and it winces when it swallows, rubbing at its throat. And its stomach? I hear loud gurgling and churning, smell the stink of vile farts.

  ‘So how come you ain’t sick? I been loose FIVE WHOLE DAYS – got sick DAY ONE. Had to drink goddamn filthy water got green stuff growing in it. Green stuff! Veg-et-able material growing in the freaking water! Brother, come on, might as well name your Unit – and don’t go telling me you’re Alpha material, because I know a Beta-boy when I see one . . . but how come you ain’t on the T-jabs? You oughtta be by now! Kid, you got X-S body fat. X-S! Round the ass – and your pecs! Serious!’ it says, jabbing my left breast.

  I flinch and shrink and twitch to run.

  ‘Whoa! Don’t get all like that! Them flabby pecs is probably what’s keepin’ you alive! You’re probably digestin’ yourself!’ it laughs, ripping off bread and dunking it into the honey.

  It raises its eyes from the jar, studying me as it chews.

  ‘Hey, it doesn’t matter at all now, does it?’

  I study it right back. I . . . say nothing. My mind has landed in a bad place. My mind has landed in a place where the thought that cannot be is.

  ‘D’you even know where you are, Beta-boy? Cos I sure as hell don’t! Bloody jungle, brother! Bloody in-fin-it-y of it! Know what that means? Endless, my brother. This goddamn jungle goes on forever.’

  It doesn’t. It goes to the village. I’m no great runner, but I think, if I can remain calm, I can out-run this sick thing.

  ‘Yup, we is lost . . . lost and damned and done for. So this is just great, ain’t it? This is juuuuuuuust ber-illiant. Two runnin’ dead men sharing a last supper and only one of us got anything to say.’

  ‘I just want to go home,’ I whisper. I am telling it to myself. I am willing it to happen.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll bet you do. Ah, HELL – it ain’t me you’re scared of at all, is it? It’s the wimmin, ain’t it? Oh God! You seen them? Have you seen wimmin?!’

  I nod the tiniest of nods. I feel physically sick – but not as sick as the creature; it’s rubbing its belly, sweat popping, hairy face grimmer than grim.

  ‘You seen wimmin . . . around here?’

  I nod an even tinier nod.

  ‘Je-sus.’ It wipes a shaking hand across its filthy hair; eyes darting. ‘They’ll kill you quicker than the jungle, if they don’t – Kid! Oh God, oh brother-mine . . . did they . . . mess with you? No shame here, brother. If them wimmin touched you it ain’t your fault. We all know that. We all been told what wimmin’ll do to any ’scaped male they find – and if they done it to you, IT AIN’T YOUR FAULT. No shame on you, no blame on you. IT AIN’T YOUR FAULT. You listen to Mason now.’

  I shut my eyes, just to make it STOP for one moment, but the sound of the thing retching makes me open them again – it’s doubled over, gripping its belly, head-sweat falling like raindrops.

  ‘Get out of here,’ it says, voice twisted with pain.

  I edge myself up, on to my knees, then one foot to the ground, knuckles to the tarmac, willing power into my legs. It looks up at me, fighting whatever agonies I can hear battling in its guts.

  ‘D’you hear me? Don’t let the wimmin get you!’

  It doubles up again with a horrific groan. My legs tense with sprint-intention.

  It vomits – bread and honey and water and . . . blood? I should run. I should run – but, even in a nightmare, who leaves a sick person?

  ‘Go,’ it says, wiping its mouth. ‘Brother: die free.’

  CHAPTER 2

  MAN

  I glance back, mid-sprint: see it hauling down its shiny red leggings. See a penis, dangling. Scrotum. Strange, floppy things, all of them.

  I have never seen an XY in my life. No one has seen an XY in sixty years.

  I realise, running, that I have hardly even believed they existed.

  I mean, sperm has to come from somewhere, so obviously they do exist . . . but not in my world. Not in anyone’s world. It didn’t matter who a person was or how they lived or who they loved: the virus – ‘the sickness’ – targeted anyone with a Y chromosome. Those who survived, they were put into the Sanctuaries to keep them safe – and they can never leave. The virus is still here. The virus would kill them.

  It cannot be an XY.

  A person might choose to change their body, to make their body male . . . but no one in my world would randomly attack and hurt another person, or call someone ‘brother’ or ‘man’. The genitals, they’re just the final confirmation.

&nbs
p; This thing that cannot be, is.

  MAN! MAN! MAN! MAN!

  The thump of my boots pounds the word into the road as I run and run – and it is only when the road is about to bend, to curve up and around the hill, that I shoot one last fast look back –

  And see.

  It is lying in the road – not moving.

  I stop.

  In the UK, it has been Agreed: if any creature – a human or any other animal – suffers and cannot be helped, it should be freed – quickly, kindly and as painlessly as possible – from its misery.

  There are no Agreements I know of that apply, specifically, to XYs. Why would there be?

  But what I do know is that they can’t live outside the Sanctuaries.

  It is going to die. It knows it is going to die.

  I have wrung birds’ necks. I have bashed countless fishes’ heads. I’ve taken my turn to slit the throat of a pre-stunned lamb. I chose to. It was hard, and it was very upsetting – but in our village anyone older than a Littler One who wants to eat meat needs to understand what ‘meat’ is before their Teen years are over.

  I wish my sharp, sharp knife wasn’t lying on that road.

  It still isn’t moving.

  Milpy, who has poked her nose into the rucksack, investigating, pulls her nose out of it. Stands there, crunching, watching me . . . My Little Conscience.

  It might already be dead . . . That’s the thought I hold on to, clutch onto for my own dear life – as I walk – jog – walk – jog – hesitate – walk back down the hill.

  It isn’t dead.

  It’s lying on its back. Its breathing is shallow and fast. The text of the UK version of the Agreement about helping death in humans is very specific, and all of us who are trained and of an age to act upon it know what we must do: no matter how hopeless the situation, no matter how great the suffering, no matter even if death was anticipated and clear instructions left . . . if at all possible, it should be the decision of the person who suffers as to whether they should be assisted.

  Which, in this case, would require checking for consciousness. Again.

  I do not want to do it. I’m telling myself that I’m not even sure whether the Agreement applies to an XY . . . But if it doesn’t, wouldn’t I have to treat it like any other kind of creature? It is going to die: the kindest, quickest thing I could do would be to slit its throat. Or smother it? Would that be easier? Would that be more bearable than jets of blood? It is doomed . . . and I feel doomed too. I do not want to risk it waking again . . . but I do not want to kill it. I do not want this. I do not want any of this.

  But this is what I have.

  I look down at my knife, lying on the road, blade still out.

  I pick up my knife. Angle it, whizzing brain considering as the blade picks up the soft gold of sunlight fading through woods. I take good care of my knife. Granmumma Kate won’t tolerate dull edges on any kind of blade, so I was raised to keep tools sharp and clean and ready to do their job. Kate says it’s a disservice – to the maker most especially – to do otherwise.

  I look at my knife. I look at its throat. Muscles, bones, veins, arteries.

  Its eyes barely flicker as I shout, ‘WAKE UP! WAKE UP!’

  But maybe it’s a softer shout than before.

  And I clap my hands, I do.

  But maybe it’s a softer clap than before.

  I do not want to reach down and shake it. I do not want to touch it.

  I clap and shout loudly. I make myself!

  It does not stir.

  All I can hear is breath: its and my own and Milpy’s – she has run out of items to eat and has come up to me to nudge me because she is wanting to get on.

  Breath . . . and a crowd of rooks settling in for the night with a Hey, hello, how-are-you, we-all-here? rowdy chorus.

  Caw, caw, caw.

  The warmth of this October day is dying. The chill of night is minutes away.

  I have the panting, strained throat of a dying creature bared before me.

  I wipe the blade on my shorts.

  There is no way I can do it. I just can’t.

  I fold the knife closed.

  I feel that I have failed.

  I will have to accept my failure, and the consequences of it.

  Someone else will have to release the creature from its misery.

  I haul it up on to the cart, twist it over – pulling its arms, my feet slipping on apples – so it is tummy down and won’t choke on its own vomit. Then I take a run and try to leap up on to Milpy – and find I haven’t got the strength. Not good. But easily fixed; I’ll lead her on and find a place where there’s a roadside bank high enough to scramble with less effort on to her back.

  The creature turns, groaning – and I vault over the edge of the cart, clambering over apples, to grab it and shove it back on to its stomach even as it vomits.

  Milpy has stopped; ears pricking back – to the side – in front – every which way . . . she is spooked.

  I see how this is and what I’m going to have to do: I’m going to have to walk all the way home, because I cannot leave the dying creature – but I cannot leave Milpy either. There is a thing right behind her. A thing that doesn’t smell right. A thing that doesn’t sound right. A thing that is not right. And with darkness coming on, an ancient horse-fear is already taking hold.

  There is no point trying to tell a horse she lives in a land without wolves.

  I am going to have to walk by Milpy’s side – so she knows I’m there – but also keep an eye on the creature . . . although I could let it choke on its own vomit. Grim job done.

  I . . . can’t.

  I go up to Milpy’s head, expecting to have to jump up and grab the bridle to force her to pay attention to me, she’s so spooked – but she lowers her head, and I take hold of her muzzle and breathe words of encouragement into her soft, hairy nostrils. She is sceptical; I can tell that. Her ears are panicking even as I speak – and when an owl hoots, her head shoots up so fast she could have knocked me out. No pep-talk is going to work here. With a click-click of encouragement, I urge her on. Drop back to her side, one reassuring hand on her as she Agrees the deal and hits a pace that’s on the brisk side of steady for her and on the exhausting side of a jog for me. I drop back a little further, so I can see and hear the creature.

  It vomits again.

  Spooked horse, vomiting creature. Vomiting creature, spooked horse. Vomiting creature. Vomit and diarrhoea and delirium. Ranting, muttered and shouted insanity. And, when a plane flies over, it yells at the sky: ‘Go to Hell!’

  In the middle of the nightmare of that night, it rains.

  It would have been easier and better to have mercifully killed it.

  Teeth chattering, soaked to the skin. Exhausted.

  That’s my body. My brain? It stopped working hours ago.

  A creature, a horse, darkness and rain. Vomit. Diarrhoea. Delirium.

  Hours of it.

  But I am home.

  I drag open the never-much-used big gate. Milpy refuses to enter.

  Kate comes out of the house. Kate worries when I come home late. (‘Old habits die hard.’) No one else in the village worries like Kate worries. Maybe the rest of the Granmummas would, but they mostly all live together these days and don’t know anything about daughters and granddaughters who come home late. And . . . what is there to worry about?

  ‘Where the bloody hell do you think you’ve been?’ she asks, battered umbrella over her head and no coat on. Kate’s breathing is atrocious. It’s going to kill her if she’s not careful, Mumma says. That, and that she should never have smoked. Kate says Pah! and blames it on once-was air pollution. She says it’s her heart that’ll kill her, same as everyone else. (When it stops, you stop.) (Too bad, so sad, bye-bye.)

  ‘Nowhere . . .’ is what I’d usually say, with a huge grin – and Kate would smile and roll her eyes, because that’s what she used to say to her Mumma, back in the days when a girl late home was apparently
a truly scary thing.

  Nowhere. That’s what I’d usually say, and then I’d tell Kate all about whatever me and Plat had been up to.

  Tonight, I have no more words.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Kate snaps, instantly detecting the not-right-ness.

  The rain is coming down so hard.

  ‘Is Mumma home?’ I ask, shivering.

  I know she won’t be, but I wish she was.

  ‘Get in!’ says Kate.

  That’s usually a private joke from the once-was too – ‘Get in!’ – but tonight it doesn’t feel funny at all.

  ‘Kate . . .’

  I haven’t got the words to explain. All I can manage to do is stand back and point at the cart.

  It fell quiet ages ago. It stopped moving.

  Kate eyeballs me. It is a sign of how quickly she has understood the not-right-ness of the situation that she doesn’t even say, This had better be good. She walks straight past me to see for herself.

  She sees. Even in the darkness, she sees.

  She clutches her throat. ‘Dear God . . .’

  Before she can even start gasping, I run for the house, turning over everything on the kitchen table, searching, then running and flinging open Kate’s bedroom door, instantly deciding a hunt through her mess is a BAD IDEA, and running to grab an emergency inhaler – the last – from the drawer in Mumma’s study. And running back outside, and handing Kate the inhaler – and she shakes it and shoots . . . and breathes.

  ‘I think it’s an XY! I found it in the woods!’

  ‘SHIFT!’ Kate shouts at Milpy and thwacks her rump.

  Kate is not so strong these days. She is seventy-five. But –

  For a split second, Milpy considers this unexpected event; she has been shouted at all night, she has had her head pulled about, she has – as far as she is concerned – escaped the wolves, she has had a wrong-smelling, wrong-sounding thing right behind her – and now: SOMEONE JUST HIT HER!!!

  She rears. The cart bolts bust open as the weight of apples heaves backwards – and the creature and a ton of apples tumble out.

  Milpy, having made her point, goes back to still and stubborn and wet and furious. She lifts her tail, farts tremendously and deposits a seriously runny pile of cross, tired, anxious poo.