Utopia Page 3

  Lake’s left fist is clenched so tightly that his knuckles have turned white. Suddenly there is a loud pop and I see his hand immediately relax.

  Zaine releases his arm. “Got it. Bet that feels better, don’t it lad?”

  Lake doesn’t look up to meet his gaze, but he nods in agreement. “You’re telling me,” he says, rubbing his arm.

  “Great,” Catherine says, taking Zaine by the arm and pushing the curtain aside. “Zia, would you mind applying some antiseptic cream to Mr De la Rey’s cheek, and then you’re both free to leave.” She points at a white plastic pot on the table next to me. “Oh and Zia, you’re in paediatrics next, but it’s been lovely having you,” she adds, before leaving with Zaine. I hear their laughter grow fainter as they walk down the corridor.

  Turning back to Lake I feel my heart begin to race like I’ve started running, which incidentally is what I’m considering doing. He’s looking stubbornly at the floor but I don’t let that fool me into thinking that he isn’t paying attention. Slowly I reach for the tub, but just as I feel my grip begin to tighten around the container it’s knocked out of my hand. I watch as it rolls under the bed and bend down to retrieve it.

  “I don’t need help from someone like you,” he spits.

  “I was just trying to help,” I reply, but I let my voice trail off as he gets to his feet.

  I stand frozen as he pushes open the curtain and storms down the corridor without looking back. Not even as much as a thank you, I think to myself as he disappears around the corner.

  ***

  The rest of the afternoon passes rather more uneventfully. I catch glimpses of the others as we move around the infirmary, but never long enough to talk to them. Just after five o’clock I finish my final placement in cardiology and head back towards the front door to meet my mother. I sit down on one of the blue plastic chairs close to the exit, to take the weight off my aching feet.

  After waiting ten minutes, I stand once more and begin impatiently pacing the foyer. In the distance I hear an ambulance siren wailing. This is unusual because the compound only has one ambulance which is strictly reserved for emergencies. The gentle stream of people walking past soon turns into a raging torrent as medical professionals rush to greet the latest arrivals. I spot my mother in the congregation, anxiously biting her lower lip. She sees me and waves me over.

  “I’m sorry Zia, but you’re going to have to walk home alone because I need to stay late tonight,” she says.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Will you be okay to walk home? Have you got your key?” she continues, ignoring my question.

  “Yes it’s fine, I have my key.” I reply. “What−”

  The ambulance screeches to a halt outside the main entrance. The back doors are yanked open by waiting medical staff and six bodies are wheeled and carried out. I watch in alarm as staff members wearing white uniforms become contaminated with dark red stains.

  “There’s more coming on foot,” the driver of the ambulance announces to nobody in particular.

  My mother joins the array of medical staff running alongside the injured patients as they disappear into the mouth of the infirmary. A man in his late thirties with tattoos on his face is wheeled past me; I recoil in horror when I realise that there’s a dark hollow filled with congealing blood where his eye used to sit.

  What on earth has happened? I think to myself as the procession of battered and bloodied bodies are paraded past. Judging by the number of tattoos I think that the incident is probably gang-related and find the notion ashamedly comforting. However, my resolve weakens when the next trolley passes me. She’s young, probably only thirteen-years-old; her blonde hair is matted with blood and she’s crying loudly cradling her head in her hands.

  I walk through the front doors to escape the chaos, my heart pounding in my chest. I wonder how often my mother deals with situations like this, and whether she enjoys it. Maybe these situations are the sort of thing that she’s alluding to at the end of a long day when she says that she used to find the job fulfilling, but now it’s different.

  The young girl’s anguished cries resonate in my memory as I walk back the way we arrived this morning. She should still be attending school, but I don’t recognise her. A good education was once seen as paramount, but increasingly it seems that people don’t bother to ensure their children attend school. There are no jobs anyway.

  Turning the last corner, I suddenly stop. Standing in front of the entrance to our apartment block is a large gathering of scruffy-looking teenagers talking loudly amongst themselves. I pull my coat tightly around myself, put my head down and stride confidently towards them, hoping to slip through unnoticed. As I near the door I glance up, catching the eye of a squat boy with a shaven head and podgy cheeks.

  “What d’you think you’re looking at?” he yells in a voice that is higher than I’d have imagined and betrays his younger age.

  The group falls silent and turns to look at me in synchrony.

  “I just want to go inside,” I reply, but my voice catches in my throat and sounds smaller than I want it to.

  He steps between the doors and me, blocking my path with his ample figure.

  Looking me up and down, he purrs, “Me too, the only question is your place or mine? Might as well make it yours seeing that we’re here already.”

  I know that he’s making a sexual innuendo and my chest heaves as my body prepares to fight or flee. I feel like I want to explode into action and collapse at the same time. Rape and sexual deviancy are becoming increasingly prevalent within the compound. I stare wide eyed at him, watching the corner of his lips pull up, transforming his mouth into a snarl.

  I look around for a way out and consider running, but I don’t want to incite them to chase me. I’m confident that I could outpace and outdistance the globular boy in front of me, but there are other, fitter members of the group that I don’t rate my chances against so highly.

  The words slip out of my mouth before I can catch them. “Look, just move please, I want to go home.” A range of scenarios have run through my mind in the short time that I’ve been standing, but those words weren’t in any of them.

  He walks menacingly towards me. “Or you’ll what?”

  “She thinks she’s better than us,” a girl’s voice calls from my left. In truth, she probably has a point, but I bite my lower lip to prevent those words from accidentally slipping out too.

  The group of approximately ten members form a ring around me. Although the fat boy is acting as the mouthpiece I get the impression that he’s not the leader, just someone with something to prove. I feel another person slip past my back and turn around to look at them, but as I turn the fat boy grabs a handful of my hair and pulls me sharply towards him.

  I fall to the ground.

  “Where are your manners? Look at me when I’m talking to you!” he screams, and I feel his spittle spray over me.

  The rest of the group erupt into laughter, and I feel a sharp pain in my side as one of the girls jabs me with a heeled boot. My breathing becomes uneven and escapes me in sharp gasps as I begin to panic.

  “Let her go.”

  The voice is calm and quiet, but edged with authority and confidence. The boy pulls back and straightens up, staring at the person stood behind me with a puzzled expression.

  “Why?” he asks.

  “Because I’m the leader, and because one armed or no armed I could still whoop your lardy arse.” The mysterious voice begins to laugh, making light of the situation, but nobody touches me again.

  Seizing the opportunity, I clamber shakily to my feet and run towards the door without looking back. I throw myself against the painted wood and feel the door release as it swings open. Once inside I lean my body weight against the door, pressing it firmly closed behind me, but I’m unable to resist the temptation to look back through the glass towards my rescuer. In the centre of the group stands a slender boy with a mop of dirty blond hair and a blue
smudge on his cheekbone.

  Lake?

  Chapter Five

  I deadbolt the apartment door and flop down heavily on the sofa without removing my coat. Staring at the ceiling I begin to slow my breathing, trying to bring my heart rate back within normal range. Questions explode in my mind like fireworks. There are so many things about what just happened that don’t make sense; maybe I overslept this morning and this has all just been a bizarre dream. I run the incident back through my mind on a loop like I’m watching it happen to someone else. How can the same boy that I saw being knocked about by his father last night be the leader of a gang of hooligans tonight? And even more incredulously, why did he go out of his way to help me when he didn’t even say thank you earlier? Maybe this was his thanks.

  I lie along the sofa with my head propped up on the arm rest reading in silence, but also listening. I listen for my mother in case the gang are still outside and say something to her, but I can’t hear anything. After a few hours there is the familiar click of my mother’s heels as she walks up the concrete stairs. She fumbles briefly with her key before the door swings open, letting the cool night air rush in.

  “Hi Zia. Sorry about earlier,” she says, taking off her coat and hanging it beside the door. “How was your first day? Tell me all about it.” She turns to face me with a grin that stretches from one side of her face to the other and all the way up to her eyes.

  “It was great,” I reply enthusiastically, although I’m not sure how much I believe what I’m saying. It was awkward would have been a more candid response. I move fast, trying to change the topic of conversation before she detects my insincerity. “So what was the incident?”

  “Yes, it was all a bit of a mess, wasn’t it? Have you eaten?” she replies, sidestepping the question herself.

  “No, I was waiting for you. I’ll start dinner now. So what happened did a building collapse or was there a fire?”

  “No,” she says slowly, perching on the end of the sofa. “Actually it looks like it was an attack on a gang by a rival gang. We don’t know what happened but from the injury pattern some suspect that it was another nail bomb.”

  With growing unemployment and little purpose other than to reproduce then expire, many adolescents are joining gangs to give their lives structure and a sense of purpose. However, these gangs often clash, and more gangs inevitably leads to more conflict. A nail bomb was thrown into a brothel in Narrowmarsh last month resulting in over thirty casualties. I always thought that nail bombs were the cruellest of weapons, designed to kill indiscriminately but also to maim as many people as possible by flinging shards of metal in all directions.

  My mother’s face droops when she exhales heavily. “This is a changing world that we’re living in, Zia, and it’s not changing for the better.”

  I yank open the fridge door and peer at the almost empty shelves. “We could do with going to the food bank soon.”

  The food bank is where everyone collects their food from. We’re allowed as much food as we want and it’s always highly nutritious but often very bland, although some people sell their best foods for extra money. Food is delivered daily through the solid metal gates which are the only break in the concrete wall that surrounds us. There are two sets of gates, creating a sort of air lock between them, and the inside gates are electrified. When we receive a delivery the outside set of gates are opened and the food is left in the air lock, so we never actually see the people from outside. Then once outside have left, the inside set of gates are de-electrified and opened so that the food can be collected. Waste disposal is simply the reverse of this process but it’s anyone’s guess where it goes.

  “Oh, not tonight, Zia. Tomorrow, we’ll go to the food bank tomorrow,” my mother protests.

  I scowl thoughtfully at the meagre contents of the fridge. “Okay.”

  “Have you got any plans tonight?”

  “Well since we’re not going to the food bank−” I close the fridge door. “I’m just going to see Jo,” because I want an impartial audience to relay the events of the day to, I think to myself.

  ***

  After dinner my mother falls asleep on the sofa as usual, leaving the television talking to itself. I slip into my coat and gently pull the door closed behind me, taking care to lock it. Outside my breath comes in visible bursts in front of my face. I stand surveying the compound in the cold clear night air until the chill starts to make its way through my coat.

  Pushing open Jo’s front door I am enveloped by the familiar warmth and stagnant air. I breathe though my mouth, knowing that I’ll get used to the smell in a few minutes and it will fade to the back of my consciousness.

  Jo props herself up on her elbows when she hears me enter. “I was thinking about you today. How’d it go?”

  I settle myself at the foot of her bed. I don’t think that I’ve ever known Jo to be ill-tempered. Had our places been reversed I’m not sure that I could have been so gracious about the dog-eared cards that life had dealt me, but then the deck is rigged for all of us really. I’m undecided whether her positive disposition makes her situation easier for Jo and everyone that helps care for her, or just makes it more tragic.

  “It was good,” I say, injecting the same enthusiasm that I’d used on my mother. Jo looks at me, in me, and raises one eyebrow. “Okay, it was hard,” I confess, sighing deeply. “I just didn’t seem to fit in.”

  Jo laughs. “Zia, you’ve only been there for one day.”

  I nod because I know that she’s right. Jo was born an old soul and is one of the wisest people that I know. “There were a couple of interesting things that happened though.” Jo leans closer as I tell her about the incident that unfolded at the infirmary as I was leaving. “I’ve never seen so much blood in my life. And where his eye should’ve been there was nothing, just a black hole.”

  Jo screws up her face and turns anyway. “Oh my gosh,” she says quietly as I come to the end of my story. “Have you got anything nicer to tell me? Otherwise I’ll have nightmares tonight.”

  I pause for several moments. “Well there was this boy.” Jo’s eyes flash with curiosity, but she tries hard to keep her expression neutral. “I helped treat him for a dislocated arm and he was horrible.” I see the spark in her eyes flicker and fade. “He just made me feel really uncomfortable and didn’t even say thank you, but then−” I falter as I think how to phrase it.

  “Then?” Jo echoes. Captivated.

  Unfortunately for Jo, boys are not something that feature frequently in my life.

  “I had to walk home alone because Mum was still needed at work, and there was a group of yobs stood in front of the entrance. As I tried to walk past they stopped me and started pushing me around.”

  Jo looks at me pitifully. “Oh was that you? I heard the commotion.” “But then he stopped it. The guy from A and E was their leader and he let me go,” I say, perplexed.

  Jo mirrors my expression. “Yeah, that is strange. Maybe he felt bad about the way he acted.” I lower my eyebrows, unconvinced by her explanation. “I really don’t know,” she reconsiders.

  I look down at my wristwatch. “I’m sorry Jo but I should get going; mum’s probably still sleeping on the sofa and she’ll regret that in the morning.”

  “No problem, thanks for coming round and catching me up.”

  “Of course. Is there anything else you need me to do whilst I’m here?”

  “No thanks. Goodnight, Zia,” she says, lying back down.

  “Night Jo,” I reply, closing the door softly behind me and turning the key.

  Turning back towards my apartment, my hands fly up to my chest protectively and I gasp in fright. Sitting, balanced on the balcony, is a dark hooded figure. I stare wide-eyed, unsure whether I should unlock Jo’s door again or sprint for my own. I stand like a statue as the figure slowly raises an arm and pulls back the hood, removing the shadow cast over his face. His features look sharper in the moonlight, his eyes set deep in their sockets like precious gem
s in a rock face.

  Lake stands up. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Well then what the hell are you doing skulking in the shadows at the end of my balcony?” Prior knowledge tells me that I should be wary of him, but I’m tired and don’t have the brain power to screen my thoughts before they leap out of my mouth into the ether.

  He smiles wryly. His lips are dry and cracked, but they reveal a perfect set of white pearlescent teeth. “I just wanted to let you know that my gang won’t give you or your mother any more trouble.” He walks towards the steps to leave.

  Questions surge through my mind and out of my astonished mouth. “How did you know what number I live at?”

  “I saw you looking over the balcony.”

  “So what you were just waiting to see if I reemerged on the off chance?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And how did you know that I live with my mother?” I demand, suddenly angry.

  “She came back a couple of hours after you. You don’t look alike but you both have the same arrogant strut."

  “Oh yeah I forgot, because I ‘think I’m better than you’ wasn’t it?”

  “You know, you should be more like this at work.” He turns and begins to descend the stairs rapidly.

  I want to tell him that I agree because then I’d tell ungrateful gits like him where to go; but he’s gone.

  Chapter Six

  “Time to get up; breakfast in ten,” my mother calls in a musical voice, like a bird at first light.

  Rolling over, I try to make sense of the circle of numbers painted on the clock face like part of an Ouija board. Six o’clock−that is an ungodly hour. Throwing back the duvet I mentally will my body to rise, but none of this translates into motion. After several long minutes I relent and throw my legs off the side of the bed, knowing that the rest of my body will reluctantly follow. I dress in the same clothes I wore yesterday and haphazardly pull a brush through my sleep-matted hair.

  Sleepily I shuffle into the living room and take a seat at the table. I’ve never really had much of an appetite in the morning, but I can see my mother has made an effort so I take a slice of toast and pour myself a cup of tea. She looks up from her book and smiles, before reabsorbing herself in its pages. I’m glad that we don’t talk because it gives me chance to steel myself for the day ahead.