“What year is it?”
“2018, Sir!” The priest reached up and wiped away the blood where it had run into his eyes. As the rifle was cocked, he put his arms up again. “It’s Wednesday the 7th March.”
“Who’s the Pope?”
“John Paul III—and God bless His Holiness, wherever he may be,” he added, before going into an ever more irrelevant babble. The officer turned back to Jennifer and raised his visor. She looked into the sweaty face and eyes that reminded her of a rattlesnake, and hurried to prop her bicycle inside the porch. She passed through a cloud of exhaust and had to hold her breath to avoid going into a coughing fit that might get her more attention than she already had. She found a bucket and broom in a cupboard and managed to use the tap in a toilet. By the time she was back outside, the priest was already at work on the graffito with his jacket. She nudged him and got the wet broom into his hand. The problem with graffiti is that it takes longer to remove than to put up. Also, it usually doesn’t come off entirely. But, by much scrubbing and refilling of buckets, they did eventually turn an act bordering on Hate Crime into a smudge that only a close inspection would be able to make out.
“Where’s your ticket, love?” The officer’s voice was half friendly and half domineering. Jennifer tried for another smile and took out her identity card. His lips moved as he read the details of her name and address and age. He looked closely at the blurred picture of a fifteen year old girl that dated from the first emergency tagging of the population after The Pacification, and then at the young woman before him. There was little obvious correspondence. Ten months had been long enough for Jennifer to grow up. The officer squinted harder, but didn’t look as if he’d go to the trouble of arresting her. Even so, Jennifer made a bigger effort with her smile. You didn’t cross the officers of the Citizen Protection Service. One word out of place—one wrong look—and half-friendly tone would fade like the warmth of the sun as it passed into shadow. He’d then demand a look in her saddlebag, and she’d be in trouble. If it was followed by a search of her clothing, she’d be lost for sure.
She was saved by a crackle of static from the radio inside the van. This was followed by a burst of demented shouting that she couldn’t make out. But—“Sarge, Sarge!” the other officer cried. “There’s a Code Red in Dover Docks.” The officer swore and spat and swaggered back to the van. Before getting in, he turned to her. “Mind how you go, love,” he snarled.
The priest waited till the van was fifty yards back up the hill. “My Pope,” he said in a surprisingly clear voice, “is Alexander II. And no tyranny of armed thugs shall forever keep his Apostolic Vicar out of England.” Jennifer froze and looked quickly round. “Deus vult! Deus vult!” he cried with quiet intensity. He crossed himself. They were alone. But, if those whitewashed numbers had bordered on Hate Crime, this was the real thing. Saying these words in front of an informer, and it would be Ireland if you were lucky. Unlucky, and you’d just vanish on the forced march to Liverpool. She turned away from the priest and pretended not to have heard him. After all, he might be an informer. She got on her bicycle and began pedalling as fast as shaking legs could carry her towards The Strand.
The traffic directions still said to turn right by Deal Castle and continue along Beach Street. But Jennifer was on a bicycle, and even motorised traffic didn’t bother nowadays with one way systems. She carried on into Victoria Road, and then into Deal High Street. “MAKE DO AND MEND!” said the banner that was stretched overhead from one boarded up shop to another. “WE’RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER!” said a poster stuck on a disused bus shelter. There was a smell of fresh bread from the bakery, and a low chatter of conversation from the shabby queue that stretched along the pavement. The telescreen that covered the upper part of the Town Hall was still blank, but there was enough noise from the scraping of old supermarket trolleys as the shops that had survived The Break took delivery of fresh goods.
As she reached the junction with Oak Street, Jennifer wobbled slightly from the weight in her saddlebag and came to a stop. A cart drawn by dust-covered women was turning into the High Street to deliver wet fish. She nodded at the fishmonger, who was waiting expectantly in the middle of the road. He looked back at her and waved a greeting. But now the side street was clear, and Jennifer got off her bicycle and walked the last few yards of the journey home.
Leave aside the heap of uncollected rubbish against a wall, and the scurrying of a few rats, the Deal Conservation Area looked as she’d always known it. A few centuries before, it had teemed with drunken sailors from the Channel Fleet, and been one of the nastiest dens in England of whores and cut-throat smugglers. But, following its long decline, and an abortive plan to knock it all down and build again from scratch, it had gone through a long process of gentrification. Anyone who’d known these streets at any time before about 1980 would have scratched his head and stared at the rows of neatly-painted houses. For Jennifer, it was as it always had been. With every step towards the green door that fronted the biggest of the Georgian houses, she could feel her mood rising and falling. If scared of a reception she could easily imagine, she was glad to be home.
She leaned her bicycle against the front wall of the house and pulled out her keys. “I’m back, Mummy and Daddy,” she called softly as she pushed the door open. No answer. Jennifer bit her lip and fought against the slight tremor in her knees. Perhaps they were still in bed, she told herself. Or perhaps she’d passed them in the bread queue without noticing. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, then, taking care not to scrape against the banisters—why give her parents additional grounds for going ballistic?—carried her bicycle into the little entrance hall. She now heard someone downstairs in the basement kitchen, and could smell fresh coffee. “Count Robert took me all the way to his castle,” she said with forced brightness. “He was ever so funny on the journey.” She carried the bicycle down a couple of stairs and unlocked the door to the courtyard garden. She carried it out and leaned it against the side wall. She was back inside the house when she remembered the big purse she’d brought. Daddy usually brought back more, but she thought how nice it would be to dump it with a flourish onto the breakfast table. It might serve as mitigation. A seabird called mournfully overhead as she unlaced the straps and rummaged about for the purse.
“I’ve got a letter for you,” she said, hurrying down the stairs to the kitchen, “and there’s news all about….”
Her voice trailed off as she looked across the kitchen. “What are you doing here?” she asked coldly.
Mrs Maggs leered back at her. “Well, who’s been a well-brung up little Miss? She lifted her coffee cup in an ironic toast.
Jennifer felt a sudden chill run down her back, and she had to pause to keep her voice from shaking. “Where are my parents?”
“Now, those got tooken off early this morning,” the old woman cackled. “I heard the men roll up for them just after three. Soft-spoken man what was in charge—though your poor mother shouted your name most tearfully, I might add.” She took out a cigarette and held it carefully level to stop the tobacco substitute from running out. She struck a match and took a deep drag. “So, aren’t you going to thank me for coming in and locking up after them?” She breathed out a cloud of dark smoke.