Chocolate 9, Passionfruit 7 [Heroes of the Revolution]
Title: Hole in your heart (where the rain gets in)
Author: lost_spook
Story: Heroes of the Revolution
Flavor(s): Passionfruit #7 (After the first death there is no other), Chocolate #9 (resentment)
Toppings/Extras: Whipped cream
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 2015
Notes: 1961, 1968, 1972, 1976; Charles Terrell, Anna, Michael Seaton, Louise Seaton, Liz Cardew. (All as children/minors, except Charles.) I wrote this in January and then realised that it had two characters I hadn't introduced yet and two spoilers. I think I've caught up with all that enough to actually post it now...
Summary: A dictatorship is merely a fact, a regime only an impersonal idea, until the first time the truth of it comes home.
***
four walls make a prison (Charles Terrell, 1961)
Charles leant back against the wall of the cell, and panicked in silence. This was the second time he’d been arrested in one year. The first had been worse - a confusing, terrifying event. He’d been interrogated, threatened, held without rhyme or reason as far as he could tell, but that had been down to a misunderstanding, and Charles had thought Whittaker had cleared all that up for him. But, no, it seemed that incident had been enough to get him viewed as a potential threat to security and so here he was again, locked up, this time as a precaution.
He shifted away from the wall and sat down on the bunk. Was that how it was going to be now? Every time the government got nervous, any time there was fighting, or trouble, or threats, he’d be back in here? He could see any hope of the sort of life he’d wanted slipping away from him, and along with it the political career he’d only just embarked on. It could be worse than that, too. If the government got even more paranoid, maybe next it’d be people close to him, somebody he’d stopped to talk to that morning without good enough reason.
Yesterday, he’d been afraid for the future of the country, but he found that was an academic thing in comparison to this: giving up on himself, losing faith in Whittaker - and the bitter irony that he’d so nearly bought Elizabeth a ring. He closed his eyes, and lay down, close to tears. What the hell would they leave of his life, after this?
One of the security guards pushed the door open; he wasn’t even allowed to be miserable in peace, it seemed. He’d gained a cellmate - a young man, Afzal, he said his name was, probably around Charles’s age. Charles half sat up and gave him a quick smile, before he turned away again, not ready to talk.
“Now look what they’ve done,” said his fellow prisoner. He sounded much too cheerful still. “Gone and shown the world what sort of bastards they are. It’ll be the end of them, if they’re not careful.”
Charles only shook his head, still staring blankly at the wall. He could only see the prison.
*
death sentences (Michael Seaton, 1968)
They shot him. Michael Seaton could never get that thought out of his head, right through it all - from the moment he heard that world-shattering sound as he walked away; then running back, already too late by the time he turned, and on, through the funeral he hadn’t been allowed to go to. He did what he could, though, hanging about outside the cemetery, kicking his heels against the wall and smoking a smuggled cigarette, as if he didn’t care, but he did.
They’d got into the compound down by the river, him and Tom, just for the hell of it. Of course, it was Michael’s idea; things like that were always his idea, and that was the main reason he was outside the cemetery now, instead of inside it with Tom’s family and other friends. Tom’s mother hadn’t exactly said anything, but she couldn’t speak to him, wouldn’t look at him. It had been Michael’s idea to go in there, and he’d been able to run fast enough to get out again, while Tom hadn’t.
Michael had heard someone saying afterwards, that the soldier who shot him had said that that made it all right. If Tom wasn’t fit enough to give much to society, there was no room for him, not in these days. Times had changed, and life was harder. And Tom always had been the first to fall over anything lying in his path, and suffered from just about everything going - hay fever, asthma, short-sightedness - but what did that matter? He had a sharp sense of humour and plenty of ideas, just mostly the sorts that didn’t involve crazy dares like Michael’s. They’d been friends for ages, even though they were both aware that people around them disapproved in a sort of vague, nebulous way. Michael’s family were better off than Tom’s, which didn’t matter to them, but other people were more wary.
They must be nearly finished in the cemetery, Michael thought, and straightened up before getting out of there. He was here for Tom, not to cause any more trouble, so he threw down the remains of the cigarette, and ran away.
His father had always said things about joining the army. It was in the family, and all that. Michael had never been interested before. Now, he went so far as to say he might, and that’d show everybody.
That was what he said; what he’d already decided was that he would. And one day, he’d find that soldier again, and shoot him, and he’d tell him before he did it why, that he’d got it all wrong: Tom was the useful one, and any bloody idiot who couldn’t see that was the one who deserved to die.
*
paper chain people (Anna, 1972)
Catherine Miller folded the sheets of newspaper over and carefully cut them into a paper chain of people. She wasn’t supposed to - her mother saved the paper for wrapping, toilet paper, or lighting fires, all sorts of things - but still Catherine would do it. Now she unfolded them, stretching them out across her parents’ bed, naming each one of them in her head.
“Oh, Catherine,” said her mother, coming into the room. “Must you?”
Catherine shrugged, and then let herself half fall off the bed and onto the floor. She wriggled half under the bed, pulling out a pile of paper. “You’ve got all this here. Could I use that instead, then?”
“Those are important!” Mum said. “Now, put them back where they were. I’m sorry, Catherine. It’s only that it’s too useful to waste - and I’ve told you that I don’t know how many times before!”
Catherine knew that would be the answer, really, so she was already gathering up the papers in her arms to put back into the box, and then they fell through into a muddled heap on the flowered patterns of the old carpet. She saw a marriage certificate for Mum and Dad, her brother’s birth certificate, some boring bank things, and then she picked up her own birth certificate, and then stopped, holding her breath as she saw how different hers was.
“Catherine,” said Mum in alarm, and she crouched down beside her.
Catherine stared at it. Unlike her brothers’ certificates, there was no father in the column where there should be, only her mother, her surname still given as White, not Miller. She looked up at Mum, eyes wide, waiting for the explanation.
“I meant to lock those things back up again,” said Mum, sounding tired. “I am sorry, Catherine.”
“What does it mean?” Catherine wanted her to say that it was all some sort of silly mistake. Her Dad was her Dad; hers just as much as Philip and David. “Why is it wrong?”
Mum put an arm around her. “No, it’s not wrong. Darling, I’m so sorry. It doesn’t make a difference, you know that. It never has. You’re ours, both of ours, and you always have been.”
“But I’m not me,” she said, and screwed up her face at the alien thought. “And my proper Dad - he didn’t want me, did he?” There was an empty column on the piece of paper. He hadn’t wanted to be there, hadn’t wanted anything to do with her. Maybe it shouldn’t matter, but it did.
Mum took the document from her, and looked at her seriously. “Catherine, your Dad is your Dad. As to your - your father, well, it wasn’t like that, either. Now, tidy up that newspaper and come downstairs. I’ll make you a hot drink and I’ll explain as much as I can. All right?”
Catherine nodded, and did as she was told, but she screwed up the paper people, getting the ink over her hands. Better that way, before they knew they were nobodies after all, destined for the fire.
*
exits and entrances (Louise Murray, 1976)
One fall was all it took, only a stupid trip over that one low step leading into the house, and suddenly Nan could no longer walk about briskly and do everything she wanted. It seemed to be the signal for all sorts of problems to fly at them both. Nan went to the doctor, and then afterwards a woman came round, asking questions, and put Nan down for the nearest Centre. They said they would of course take care of Louise, but that was when Nan lied, and said she had a niece who would take Louise in; she’d sort that out herself.
“We’ll have to find you somewhere to go,” Nan said, after they’d gone. “I can’t keep out of their hands, but you can and will.”
She didn’t think of anything, though, having to get the doctor out again, and they took her away sooner than expected. She lied again through it all, saying that Louise was already gone away, when she was hiding in her wardrobe, just in case they checked the room.
Afterwards, Louise was left alone in the small but terribly empty house, and cried till she nearly made herself sick, her face swollen and blotchy. But nobody came, nobody helped her, and nobody helped Nan, either. Tears, Louise learned then, didn’t help. Nobody even noticed, or if they did, they pretended they didn’t. She still had to get up, wash her face and find somewhere to go, all by herself.
There was no one else left now. Dad had died years ago, and Mum had got herself into trouble with the authorities. Louise knew she was supposed to have an aunt, but nobody had heard from her in years. There had only been her and Nan, and now it was just her.
She packed a haversack and ran away, out into the back streets and hidden alleys of London, trying to keep out of the way of the people who collected in the homeless and the strays.
That was when she found the theatre. It was closed down now, and boarded up, tattered, fragmented posters by the door still boasting of the success of its last play. Louise had never been there before, but she and Nan had once been to one of the big theatres, years ago, when they were all still open.
She crept inside, claiming it as a place to stay, and later, she stood on the unsafe boards of the stage and told the non-existent audience that she’d stop it all somehow. It wasn’t the first or last bit of bluster they’d witnessed.
*
naming of things (Liz Cardew, 1961)
“Say your name,” said Emily’s new foster mother, Mrs Cardew.
“Elizabeth Cardew.”
Mrs Cardew nodded and kissed her forehead. “And it’s always, always that, remember. You do understand?”
“Yes.” That was a lie. Emily Elizabeth Iveson was nine years old and she didn’t understand any of it. She didn’t understand how Father could be dead; she didn’t understand why Mother had to go away, and she didn’t understand why suddenly it seemed she wasn’t allowed to even exist any more.
Mrs Cardew hesitated, as if seeing something beyond Emily’s obedient expression, but then she only asked if Elizabeth would like some milk and biscuits.
“Yes, please,” said Emily - Elizabeth - and followed her. She didn’t understand any of it, but if Mother had run away and left her, then she might as well be somebody new, somebody who had an adopted mother who was here. In lieu of any other explanation, she made what sense she could of it all by blaming Mother.
Mrs Cardew hesitated again, and said, “She loves you, dear. She loves you very much.”
People kept on lying and not explaining, thought Elizabeth. Mother had told her it was important for her to go away, but Mother had also said she would come back, and she hadn’t.
“Who?” said Elizabeth, with the virtuous air of one who had learned her lesson perfectly.
***
Author: lost_spook
Story: Heroes of the Revolution
Flavor(s): Passionfruit #7 (After the first death there is no other), Chocolate #9 (resentment)
Toppings/Extras: Whipped cream
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 2015
Notes: 1961, 1968, 1972, 1976; Charles Terrell, Anna, Michael Seaton, Louise Seaton, Liz Cardew. (All as children/minors, except Charles.) I wrote this in January and then realised that it had two characters I hadn't introduced yet and two spoilers. I think I've caught up with all that enough to actually post it now...
Summary: A dictatorship is merely a fact, a regime only an impersonal idea, until the first time the truth of it comes home.
***
four walls make a prison (Charles Terrell, 1961)
Charles leant back against the wall of the cell, and panicked in silence. This was the second time he’d been arrested in one year. The first had been worse - a confusing, terrifying event. He’d been interrogated, threatened, held without rhyme or reason as far as he could tell, but that had been down to a misunderstanding, and Charles had thought Whittaker had cleared all that up for him. But, no, it seemed that incident had been enough to get him viewed as a potential threat to security and so here he was again, locked up, this time as a precaution.
He shifted away from the wall and sat down on the bunk. Was that how it was going to be now? Every time the government got nervous, any time there was fighting, or trouble, or threats, he’d be back in here? He could see any hope of the sort of life he’d wanted slipping away from him, and along with it the political career he’d only just embarked on. It could be worse than that, too. If the government got even more paranoid, maybe next it’d be people close to him, somebody he’d stopped to talk to that morning without good enough reason.
Yesterday, he’d been afraid for the future of the country, but he found that was an academic thing in comparison to this: giving up on himself, losing faith in Whittaker - and the bitter irony that he’d so nearly bought Elizabeth a ring. He closed his eyes, and lay down, close to tears. What the hell would they leave of his life, after this?
One of the security guards pushed the door open; he wasn’t even allowed to be miserable in peace, it seemed. He’d gained a cellmate - a young man, Afzal, he said his name was, probably around Charles’s age. Charles half sat up and gave him a quick smile, before he turned away again, not ready to talk.
“Now look what they’ve done,” said his fellow prisoner. He sounded much too cheerful still. “Gone and shown the world what sort of bastards they are. It’ll be the end of them, if they’re not careful.”
Charles only shook his head, still staring blankly at the wall. He could only see the prison.
*
death sentences (Michael Seaton, 1968)
They shot him. Michael Seaton could never get that thought out of his head, right through it all - from the moment he heard that world-shattering sound as he walked away; then running back, already too late by the time he turned, and on, through the funeral he hadn’t been allowed to go to. He did what he could, though, hanging about outside the cemetery, kicking his heels against the wall and smoking a smuggled cigarette, as if he didn’t care, but he did.
They’d got into the compound down by the river, him and Tom, just for the hell of it. Of course, it was Michael’s idea; things like that were always his idea, and that was the main reason he was outside the cemetery now, instead of inside it with Tom’s family and other friends. Tom’s mother hadn’t exactly said anything, but she couldn’t speak to him, wouldn’t look at him. It had been Michael’s idea to go in there, and he’d been able to run fast enough to get out again, while Tom hadn’t.
Michael had heard someone saying afterwards, that the soldier who shot him had said that that made it all right. If Tom wasn’t fit enough to give much to society, there was no room for him, not in these days. Times had changed, and life was harder. And Tom always had been the first to fall over anything lying in his path, and suffered from just about everything going - hay fever, asthma, short-sightedness - but what did that matter? He had a sharp sense of humour and plenty of ideas, just mostly the sorts that didn’t involve crazy dares like Michael’s. They’d been friends for ages, even though they were both aware that people around them disapproved in a sort of vague, nebulous way. Michael’s family were better off than Tom’s, which didn’t matter to them, but other people were more wary.
They must be nearly finished in the cemetery, Michael thought, and straightened up before getting out of there. He was here for Tom, not to cause any more trouble, so he threw down the remains of the cigarette, and ran away.
His father had always said things about joining the army. It was in the family, and all that. Michael had never been interested before. Now, he went so far as to say he might, and that’d show everybody.
That was what he said; what he’d already decided was that he would. And one day, he’d find that soldier again, and shoot him, and he’d tell him before he did it why, that he’d got it all wrong: Tom was the useful one, and any bloody idiot who couldn’t see that was the one who deserved to die.
*
paper chain people (Anna, 1972)
Catherine Miller folded the sheets of newspaper over and carefully cut them into a paper chain of people. She wasn’t supposed to - her mother saved the paper for wrapping, toilet paper, or lighting fires, all sorts of things - but still Catherine would do it. Now she unfolded them, stretching them out across her parents’ bed, naming each one of them in her head.
“Oh, Catherine,” said her mother, coming into the room. “Must you?”
Catherine shrugged, and then let herself half fall off the bed and onto the floor. She wriggled half under the bed, pulling out a pile of paper. “You’ve got all this here. Could I use that instead, then?”
“Those are important!” Mum said. “Now, put them back where they were. I’m sorry, Catherine. It’s only that it’s too useful to waste - and I’ve told you that I don’t know how many times before!”
Catherine knew that would be the answer, really, so she was already gathering up the papers in her arms to put back into the box, and then they fell through into a muddled heap on the flowered patterns of the old carpet. She saw a marriage certificate for Mum and Dad, her brother’s birth certificate, some boring bank things, and then she picked up her own birth certificate, and then stopped, holding her breath as she saw how different hers was.
“Catherine,” said Mum in alarm, and she crouched down beside her.
Catherine stared at it. Unlike her brothers’ certificates, there was no father in the column where there should be, only her mother, her surname still given as White, not Miller. She looked up at Mum, eyes wide, waiting for the explanation.
“I meant to lock those things back up again,” said Mum, sounding tired. “I am sorry, Catherine.”
“What does it mean?” Catherine wanted her to say that it was all some sort of silly mistake. Her Dad was her Dad; hers just as much as Philip and David. “Why is it wrong?”
Mum put an arm around her. “No, it’s not wrong. Darling, I’m so sorry. It doesn’t make a difference, you know that. It never has. You’re ours, both of ours, and you always have been.”
“But I’m not me,” she said, and screwed up her face at the alien thought. “And my proper Dad - he didn’t want me, did he?” There was an empty column on the piece of paper. He hadn’t wanted to be there, hadn’t wanted anything to do with her. Maybe it shouldn’t matter, but it did.
Mum took the document from her, and looked at her seriously. “Catherine, your Dad is your Dad. As to your - your father, well, it wasn’t like that, either. Now, tidy up that newspaper and come downstairs. I’ll make you a hot drink and I’ll explain as much as I can. All right?”
Catherine nodded, and did as she was told, but she screwed up the paper people, getting the ink over her hands. Better that way, before they knew they were nobodies after all, destined for the fire.
*
exits and entrances (Louise Murray, 1976)
One fall was all it took, only a stupid trip over that one low step leading into the house, and suddenly Nan could no longer walk about briskly and do everything she wanted. It seemed to be the signal for all sorts of problems to fly at them both. Nan went to the doctor, and then afterwards a woman came round, asking questions, and put Nan down for the nearest Centre. They said they would of course take care of Louise, but that was when Nan lied, and said she had a niece who would take Louise in; she’d sort that out herself.
“We’ll have to find you somewhere to go,” Nan said, after they’d gone. “I can’t keep out of their hands, but you can and will.”
She didn’t think of anything, though, having to get the doctor out again, and they took her away sooner than expected. She lied again through it all, saying that Louise was already gone away, when she was hiding in her wardrobe, just in case they checked the room.
Afterwards, Louise was left alone in the small but terribly empty house, and cried till she nearly made herself sick, her face swollen and blotchy. But nobody came, nobody helped her, and nobody helped Nan, either. Tears, Louise learned then, didn’t help. Nobody even noticed, or if they did, they pretended they didn’t. She still had to get up, wash her face and find somewhere to go, all by herself.
There was no one else left now. Dad had died years ago, and Mum had got herself into trouble with the authorities. Louise knew she was supposed to have an aunt, but nobody had heard from her in years. There had only been her and Nan, and now it was just her.
She packed a haversack and ran away, out into the back streets and hidden alleys of London, trying to keep out of the way of the people who collected in the homeless and the strays.
That was when she found the theatre. It was closed down now, and boarded up, tattered, fragmented posters by the door still boasting of the success of its last play. Louise had never been there before, but she and Nan had once been to one of the big theatres, years ago, when they were all still open.
She crept inside, claiming it as a place to stay, and later, she stood on the unsafe boards of the stage and told the non-existent audience that she’d stop it all somehow. It wasn’t the first or last bit of bluster they’d witnessed.
*
naming of things (Liz Cardew, 1961)
“Say your name,” said Emily’s new foster mother, Mrs Cardew.
“Elizabeth Cardew.”
Mrs Cardew nodded and kissed her forehead. “And it’s always, always that, remember. You do understand?”
“Yes.” That was a lie. Emily Elizabeth Iveson was nine years old and she didn’t understand any of it. She didn’t understand how Father could be dead; she didn’t understand why Mother had to go away, and she didn’t understand why suddenly it seemed she wasn’t allowed to even exist any more.
Mrs Cardew hesitated, as if seeing something beyond Emily’s obedient expression, but then she only asked if Elizabeth would like some milk and biscuits.
“Yes, please,” said Emily - Elizabeth - and followed her. She didn’t understand any of it, but if Mother had run away and left her, then she might as well be somebody new, somebody who had an adopted mother who was here. In lieu of any other explanation, she made what sense she could of it all by blaming Mother.
Mrs Cardew hesitated again, and said, “She loves you, dear. She loves you very much.”
People kept on lying and not explaining, thought Elizabeth. Mother had told her it was important for her to go away, but Mother had also said she would come back, and she hadn’t.
“Who?” said Elizabeth, with the virtuous air of one who had learned her lesson perfectly.
***