Against The Tide
The 'first five pages' of a dystopian tale, entered in for the Stockholm Writing Festival. Not selected for the long list
Thames Zone
(Year Three)
The piles of cards simmer with consequences.
Tide prefers not to think about what it all means as he sorts, codes and files cards that catalogue the unpatriotic malfeasance of others. Most of the time he adds blue dots for ‘Misplaced Actions’. Only the other day though, he needed an extra allocation of yellow dots for the number of ‘Verbal Transgressions’ he was having to code. Just add a red square to the yellow dot when it refers to a banned historical reference. It is all supposed to be easy but his brain aches. Keep it simple, Tide. Keep your head down, complete your allocation, and move on.
Cards are piled high on the desk in front of him every morning. He works through his allocation, noticeably slower than his colleagues. Names repeat but it is all a blur; occasionally patterns form but he tries not to think about them. Edward Tide knows that thinking doesn't get you anywhere, not these days. Just do your duty - perhaps a little faster than you’ve been managing recently, Tide - and get home before curfew {shit, curfew … it’s always me … last out of the Archive, always hurrying}.
The streets are deserted. Head down, he hustles along, desperate to catch that last Autotube for a fast-track run to the tower block. He has to get past the front door before the steel bolts are activated. Even if he beats that deadline he will only have a few minutes to grab his evening meal from the vending array and race to Apartment 13/113, the door marked ‘Tide’.
The rain is never-ending. His standard-issue Thames Zone raincoat does little to repel the insistent drizzle even with the collar turned up. Dazzling streetlights emphasise the darkness of the alleyways and provide stage lighting for the security cameras focused on every passer-by as they hurry about their business. Their business is, of course, to be where they are required to be by the precise time they are required to be there. The cameras record every last-minute pre-curfew dash; a record is assembled, tallied by silent watchers; an accrual of demerits. Tonight, the cameras watch Tide. A note will be made in the Log that this is the thirteenth consecutive night he has been this close to the deadline prescribed within the by-laws. Details that are captured and added to the database, logged under ‘Tide’.
Timekeeping. Time and Tide.
He hurries along, head bowed {not noticing the face in the shadows, the same one that was there yesterday}. There are only five minutes to spare when the barcode on his wrist opens the hall doors. The glare of the well-lit lobby illuminates the bank of vending pods. They call it the ‘Good British Food’ range, hearty portions of enforced patriotism. It is ‘not British’ to complain so why would you? It’s shepherd’s pie, Tide, the inner voice says, you don’t need all that fancy ‘foreign’ stuff now, do you?
Pressing [113] to head skywards. The clanking, jerking mechanism is a symbol of the neglect and indifference of faceless landlords who ruthlessly evicted those who failed Citizenship tests. Generous annual rental payments are made by the Regime for these high-rise rabbit hutches used to house the Citizen Servants who - among other things - process the invoices. Tide’s steps quicken along the narrow corridor; the tattooed barcode opens his front door and the lights flicker on. The television screen hums into life and the Announcements begin.
His energy ebbs. It has been another bad day. We’re watching you, Tide.
Though he is away from watching eyes, he never feels relaxed. These broadcasts intrude daily. The Announcements are part of the grind, deeply ingrained into life as they now know it. It is hard to remember a ‘before’, which is probably just as well. The Committee is very clear, “There’s no good that comes from Remembrance”. Citizens are encouraged to look forward {even if, Tide thinks to himself, there isn’t anything to look forward to}.
Each Announcement is presaged by a dull chime: {bong} Transgressions are up in Zone 7. All ‘Best of British’ food selections will be withdrawn for 3 days {bong} Crop production in Zone 3 is falling behind. Citizens will be redeployed from Zone 5 until targets are met {bong} Nine escapees attempted to migrate from Zone 7 to Zone 6 yesterday. They have been moved to Detention Centre C. Sentences will be served in our offshore facilities {bong} In Thames Zone (Tide’s attention momentarily focuses on the screen) Enforcement Unit Sigma will commence clearances around Building 13 tomorrow evening, Day 257 of Year 3 (Tide’s tired brain wrestles clumsily with the potential impact) {bong} something else … {bong} words fading into the background …
It is nearly time for ‘Room 101’, entertainment for the masses, pumped into their accommodation every night. They say the 2-hour feed is for Citizens’ pleasure but it feels a lot like a live warning. Transgress and this awaits you. Toe the line and you will be fed, housed, and employed. Model Citizens contribute to Society while transgressors are taught hard lessons on their behalf. These days Tide has become inured to its casual brutality.
{bong} And finally, delivery robots are NOT to be tampered with. Transgressions will be dealt with severely. Enforcement Unit Gamma is now operating under Code Amber legislation with ‘shoot to disable’ powers. Citizen Vigilante Groups in Thames Zone and Zones 5, 6 and 7 are operating under enhanced powers.
It had been a sleepless night. Tide is late, again.
Another rain-soaked start and his overcoat is still damp. The harsh wool of the work suit scratches at his skin as he rushes for the Autotube … damn, already missed the 6.17 … it’s going to be close. As the 6.23 pulls in Tide scans his barcoded wrist on the panel by the rear door. Nothing. The Autotube slides off towards the administrative heart of the Thames Zone.
Right, the 6.29, last chance, Tide. His plan to offset yesterday’s demerit marks is fading into a futile remembrance. Ignore that, there’s no good that comes from Remembrance.
The train approaches. That camera on the platform turns towards him. Is it on him? It feels like it. One last chance as the carriages slow and a mechanical exhalation breaks the silence. As Tide flashes his wrist, the door opens and he slips into Seat 13. He’s cutting it fine. Time and tide wait for no man (he silently urges the train to move). Ahead in Coach A agitated noises breach the orderly silence of rush hour. Centrally-generated communications project warnings and reassurances, all designed to reinforce dependence. The displays are flashing red [Citizens, stay in your seats, Enforcement Unit Sigma Investigating]. Heads stay down in Coach B. The heavy thump of riot boots is followed by barked orders and a single raised voice of protest. Tide risks a look, noting a hint of Zone 1 green under the grey raincoat.
A migrant, perhaps. Unheard of in the Thames Zone. Snatched words plucked from swiftly muffled arguments. The tell-tale buzz of a Stunner, then silence.
There is no way for Tide to reach the Archive on time but this ‘Incident on the 6.29’ provides a bona fide reason to be late. The screen blinks [Timekeepers may accept Code 723 excuses from late arrivals]. The Hooter had long-since sounded as Tide (Citizen 13,000,013) reports to the Overseer, who frowns as he passes over a large pile of filing cards. Moments later, a note is appended to Tide’s file: recalcitrant. “We’re watching you, Tide. Get to work.”
He wakes with a start. He should not have been asleep. Waking up is not a scheduled part of the working day. Every day is a work day until the targets are met, targets that remain tantalisingly out of reach.
Waking up. At work. This is not good.
He raises his eyes cautiously, expecting the all-seeing eye of the camera to be pointing in his direction, logging his indiscretion with its disapproving lens. He anticipates the stirring upstairs, some movement towards him and a gut-churning summons to the Overseer.
And yet it is calm, except for the arm raised at Desk 7. Tide places a hand over his pounding heart. He feels the thumping anxiety through the breast pocket of his work suit and, unexpectedly, something else altogether {what the hell thinks Tide, as the paper rustles incriminatingly}.