Chapter 15:
Gethsemane
Having completed their mission, Renee and Constance planned to leave that day, after Renee met with Michael one last time. Renee had not yet told Constance about their encounter in the alley, deciding that there was no use burdening her friend with the added worry, and secretly wishing to keep her romance all to herself. There would be plenty of time for explanations back at the Baile. So she left Sullivan's pub without telling Constance where she intended to go. Constance smiled sadly, but did not ask.
Renee arrived back in the alley a full half hour before she was supposed to meet Michael. She was already imagining their final meeting; the sad smiles, the constant kissing, the refusal to let go. Part of her wanted him to never come, so that she would never have to say goodbye. She leaned against the wall, pressing her gun in her pocket against her thigh. She shifted so that the weapon did not dig into her leg.
He had said that he had this morning off, and that he would arrive at ten hundred. She had told him that she would give at least fifteen minutes between their arrivals. She was aware that she was probably overcompensating, but she wanted to extend their meeting for as long as she could.
The sound of a helicopter distracted her from her thoughts. She pressed herself back against the wall of the alley, silently cursing all Thought Police and their ancestry back seven generations. Then her blood froze as she heard the sound of a vehicle driving up the street.
In Oceania, cars in the city were almost never seen. Party members were not allowed to own cars, and proles were too poor to buy them. The only vehicles that were seen on city streets were the black vans driven by the Thought Police that transported prisoners to the Ministry of Love. They were treated by the proles with a mixture of fear and contempt. Being carted away by the Thought Police did not hold the terror it did for Party Members. Most proles were simply sent to prison camps for a few years, then returned without ceremony. But there was always the small percentage that never returned.
The van stopped a hundred metres from the alley where Renee waited. She could still hear the helicopter, continuing on its patrol. Her hand dropped to her pocket. Her heart hammered against her chest. She fought against visions of Miniluv and black-clad Thought Police. She realized dimly that they must have caught Michael, but pushed aside that grief for another time.
She heard the door to the van open and close, then the back doors open, and several people step out of the van.
"You'll have to go to the other end of the alley to cut off any escape route."
It was a man's voice, icy and flat. Businesslike. Suddenly, reason caught up with her mind, and she sprinted down the alley, away from the Thought Police. She turned down the street, and stopped running. Catching her breath, she forced herself to walk calmly, fighting the urge to run as fast as she could. She turned onto the street where she had seen Michael, then risked a glance upward at the still-circling helicopter. Looking down the street, she realized how many telescreens lined it. She walked past them, every instinct in her telling her to dart past them and not let them see her. Prayers to God, Jesus and the Virgin Mary floated through her head, begging for protection and inconspicuousness. Then a hand grabbed her arm and dragged her into a ruined building.
She was slammed against the wall, and her mouth covered as she gasped from the pain of having her wound grabbed so harshly. Tears sprang into her eyes, but she recognized Michael opposite her. He removed his hand from her mouth, and his grip on her arm relaxed, but he still held her against the wall. He looked different, somehow.
"There's Thought Police everywhere. We need to go," she whispered.
"No," he said. His voice was clear, with no attempt to hide it from anyone outside. "We'll wait for them here."
Then she realized what was wrong. There was no love in his eyes, none of the insecurity or fear that had permeated his being in all their previous meetings. His eyes were now cold and hard, looking at her with distaste. Everything fell into place.
"You're Thought Police?" she demanded.
He slapped her across the face with his free hand, then gripped her arm tighter.
A thousand scenarios for his betrayal raced through her mind. Maybe he had been captured at the Warehouse, and forced to seduce and betray her. Maybe he still loved her, and this was an act for the approaching Thought Police. But most likely, he had played her all along. The telescreens would have told him where to find her two nights ago, and he had waited for her, getting into the fight with the whore to get her attention. A Thought Police agent had probably seen Andrew talking with the musicians at the Warehouse, then her talking with Andrew, and assumed she was COR. Then the Thought Police had sent Michael after her. He had probably intended to turn her over to them after the Warehouse was bombed; in the confusion, no-one would have noticed another missing woman. But the pain, the love? She had believed him, and that hurt more than her arm.
He shook his hand from the blow he had dealt her. The tears started running down her face from the pain and betrayal, and she could do nothing to stop them. She clenched her jaw against the pain, and slammed her heel into his foot, feeling bones snap under the force. As he let go of her and stepped back, she rammed her other knee into his crotch.
She leaned against the wall, steadying herself with her uninjured arm. He moaned on the ground, but she concentrated on breathing. Tears dripped off her chin onto her blouse, but she paid them no heed. She listened hard, but could hear no-one coming. She looked down at the prone man at her feet.
The sting of betrayal was quickly boiling into a flood of anger and hate. She felt repulsed by the memory of his touching her, his kiss. The electric sensations were now disgusting and frightful. She hated what she once loved.
Without consciously thinking, her hand dove into her pocket and drew her gun. She had carried it with her since leaving the Baile, but never used it. Its weight was comforting to her, a symbol of the strength of the army behind her, and the friends who would never betray her like this man had.
He looked up at her, and their eyes met, only this time, both held equal hatred for the other. She tightened her jaw, and his head jerked up as red spattered the ground around him.
She had never heard a gun fired, and it surprised her how loud it was. It also surprised her that its recoil threw her hand into the air. It wasn't like on the flicks, where someone could fire successive shots without so much as a slight jerk to the hand. She could feel her wrist straining to keep the gun level, fighting the power of the weapon. And the flicks, as gory as Party flicks were, never really captured the horror of a bullet travelling through a human body. It was the smell that drove home the reality to Renee. She could smell the blood, sharp in the air, and she knew that she had taken her first life. She stared down at Michael's body, the pool of blood and brains still spreading on the dirty ground, and fought the nausea that came.
But she could not stay there. She plunged the gun back into her pocket and picked her way through the ruined building, to the back door that Michael must have used. Looking up at the helicopter, she walked across the street and stepped into a shop, then watched as Thought Police converged on the building she had just left. While they were inside, finding the mess she had left behind, she stepped back into the street and walked to the nearest Tube station. She rode that for a while, getting off, then getting back on. She crossed and recrossed Dublin, always carefully noting where the helicopters were patrolling.
Finally, three hours later, she arrived back at Sullivan's. Shadow was behind the bar, taking inventory. She went up the stairs and directly into the bathroom, where she threw up what she had kept down before.
Constance knocked on the door.
"Renee?" she called.
Renee wiped her mouth, then rinsed it with water from the sink. She opened the door.
"Are you all right?" Constance asked.
"No." She stopped, wanting to tell Constance everything that had happened, then decided that there would be time for that later. "But I'll be fine soon."
Constance nodded, but said nothing.
"Come on. We've got a train to catch."
Author's Note:
Gethsemane was the garden where Christ spent the night waiting for the Roman soldiers to come and arrest him. The original title for this chapter was "Judas Kiss," but I thought that gave too much away. :)
Disclaimers:
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell.
Gethsemane
Having completed their mission, Renee and Constance planned to leave that day, after Renee met with Michael one last time. Renee had not yet told Constance about their encounter in the alley, deciding that there was no use burdening her friend with the added worry, and secretly wishing to keep her romance all to herself. There would be plenty of time for explanations back at the Baile. So she left Sullivan's pub without telling Constance where she intended to go. Constance smiled sadly, but did not ask.
Renee arrived back in the alley a full half hour before she was supposed to meet Michael. She was already imagining their final meeting; the sad smiles, the constant kissing, the refusal to let go. Part of her wanted him to never come, so that she would never have to say goodbye. She leaned against the wall, pressing her gun in her pocket against her thigh. She shifted so that the weapon did not dig into her leg.
He had said that he had this morning off, and that he would arrive at ten hundred. She had told him that she would give at least fifteen minutes between their arrivals. She was aware that she was probably overcompensating, but she wanted to extend their meeting for as long as she could.
The sound of a helicopter distracted her from her thoughts. She pressed herself back against the wall of the alley, silently cursing all Thought Police and their ancestry back seven generations. Then her blood froze as she heard the sound of a vehicle driving up the street.
In Oceania, cars in the city were almost never seen. Party members were not allowed to own cars, and proles were too poor to buy them. The only vehicles that were seen on city streets were the black vans driven by the Thought Police that transported prisoners to the Ministry of Love. They were treated by the proles with a mixture of fear and contempt. Being carted away by the Thought Police did not hold the terror it did for Party Members. Most proles were simply sent to prison camps for a few years, then returned without ceremony. But there was always the small percentage that never returned.
The van stopped a hundred metres from the alley where Renee waited. She could still hear the helicopter, continuing on its patrol. Her hand dropped to her pocket. Her heart hammered against her chest. She fought against visions of Miniluv and black-clad Thought Police. She realized dimly that they must have caught Michael, but pushed aside that grief for another time.
She heard the door to the van open and close, then the back doors open, and several people step out of the van.
"You'll have to go to the other end of the alley to cut off any escape route."
It was a man's voice, icy and flat. Businesslike. Suddenly, reason caught up with her mind, and she sprinted down the alley, away from the Thought Police. She turned down the street, and stopped running. Catching her breath, she forced herself to walk calmly, fighting the urge to run as fast as she could. She turned onto the street where she had seen Michael, then risked a glance upward at the still-circling helicopter. Looking down the street, she realized how many telescreens lined it. She walked past them, every instinct in her telling her to dart past them and not let them see her. Prayers to God, Jesus and the Virgin Mary floated through her head, begging for protection and inconspicuousness. Then a hand grabbed her arm and dragged her into a ruined building.
She was slammed against the wall, and her mouth covered as she gasped from the pain of having her wound grabbed so harshly. Tears sprang into her eyes, but she recognized Michael opposite her. He removed his hand from her mouth, and his grip on her arm relaxed, but he still held her against the wall. He looked different, somehow.
"There's Thought Police everywhere. We need to go," she whispered.
"No," he said. His voice was clear, with no attempt to hide it from anyone outside. "We'll wait for them here."
Then she realized what was wrong. There was no love in his eyes, none of the insecurity or fear that had permeated his being in all their previous meetings. His eyes were now cold and hard, looking at her with distaste. Everything fell into place.
"You're Thought Police?" she demanded.
He slapped her across the face with his free hand, then gripped her arm tighter.
A thousand scenarios for his betrayal raced through her mind. Maybe he had been captured at the Warehouse, and forced to seduce and betray her. Maybe he still loved her, and this was an act for the approaching Thought Police. But most likely, he had played her all along. The telescreens would have told him where to find her two nights ago, and he had waited for her, getting into the fight with the whore to get her attention. A Thought Police agent had probably seen Andrew talking with the musicians at the Warehouse, then her talking with Andrew, and assumed she was COR. Then the Thought Police had sent Michael after her. He had probably intended to turn her over to them after the Warehouse was bombed; in the confusion, no-one would have noticed another missing woman. But the pain, the love? She had believed him, and that hurt more than her arm.
He shook his hand from the blow he had dealt her. The tears started running down her face from the pain and betrayal, and she could do nothing to stop them. She clenched her jaw against the pain, and slammed her heel into his foot, feeling bones snap under the force. As he let go of her and stepped back, she rammed her other knee into his crotch.
She leaned against the wall, steadying herself with her uninjured arm. He moaned on the ground, but she concentrated on breathing. Tears dripped off her chin onto her blouse, but she paid them no heed. She listened hard, but could hear no-one coming. She looked down at the prone man at her feet.
The sting of betrayal was quickly boiling into a flood of anger and hate. She felt repulsed by the memory of his touching her, his kiss. The electric sensations were now disgusting and frightful. She hated what she once loved.
Without consciously thinking, her hand dove into her pocket and drew her gun. She had carried it with her since leaving the Baile, but never used it. Its weight was comforting to her, a symbol of the strength of the army behind her, and the friends who would never betray her like this man had.
He looked up at her, and their eyes met, only this time, both held equal hatred for the other. She tightened her jaw, and his head jerked up as red spattered the ground around him.
She had never heard a gun fired, and it surprised her how loud it was. It also surprised her that its recoil threw her hand into the air. It wasn't like on the flicks, where someone could fire successive shots without so much as a slight jerk to the hand. She could feel her wrist straining to keep the gun level, fighting the power of the weapon. And the flicks, as gory as Party flicks were, never really captured the horror of a bullet travelling through a human body. It was the smell that drove home the reality to Renee. She could smell the blood, sharp in the air, and she knew that she had taken her first life. She stared down at Michael's body, the pool of blood and brains still spreading on the dirty ground, and fought the nausea that came.
But she could not stay there. She plunged the gun back into her pocket and picked her way through the ruined building, to the back door that Michael must have used. Looking up at the helicopter, she walked across the street and stepped into a shop, then watched as Thought Police converged on the building she had just left. While they were inside, finding the mess she had left behind, she stepped back into the street and walked to the nearest Tube station. She rode that for a while, getting off, then getting back on. She crossed and recrossed Dublin, always carefully noting where the helicopters were patrolling.
Finally, three hours later, she arrived back at Sullivan's. Shadow was behind the bar, taking inventory. She went up the stairs and directly into the bathroom, where she threw up what she had kept down before.
Constance knocked on the door.
"Renee?" she called.
Renee wiped her mouth, then rinsed it with water from the sink. She opened the door.
"Are you all right?" Constance asked.
"No." She stopped, wanting to tell Constance everything that had happened, then decided that there would be time for that later. "But I'll be fine soon."
Constance nodded, but said nothing.
"Come on. We've got a train to catch."
Author's Note:
Gethsemane was the garden where Christ spent the night waiting for the Roman soldiers to come and arrest him. The original title for this chapter was "Judas Kiss," but I thought that gave too much away. :)
Disclaimers:
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell.