Hour 5: Of Sinners, Saints and Cynics
Peter Lucianus was on a mission from God. He'd known that since he was a boy. Raised from a very young age in the teachings of Catholicism, his mother had made very clear to him that he was put upon the earth to serve the Lord. The only uncertainty he faced was how precisely he was intended to do so. However clichéd it sounded, and of course it did, to say that the Lord works in mysterious ways was true, though unlike most who spoke the words, Peter did not consider them an excuse for not studying His intentions.
It has been said that good men avoid situations they do not understand, and focus instead on those which they do, in order that they might prosper. Yet truly great men brave that which they do not understand again and again, until understanding is achieved. God's intentions could never be fully understood by anyone other than He Himself, but the way in which they would be expressed to him could only be in terms that he was capable of comprehending, as part of the mortal world. The conclusion was that increasing his overall wisdom and intelligence would be fundamental to determining his path in life.
To assist with this, God had granted Peter a sizable intellectual capacity. In his Standard Grades, he had gained 8 grade 1's, and in S5 he eased to 5 Band 1 A grades, meaning scores of 80% or higher. Few of his peers could hope to rival such scores, though that was unsurprising. Ignorant fools, and content to remain so what's more.
Peter wished that they could see the light. Or rather, he had done in the past, before realising that to divert too much of one's attention to such realistic improbabilities risked jeopardising his personal goals. God-given distractions? Perhaps being surrounded by and forced to interact with those so inferior to him was a minor test of sorts.
Presently however such thoughts were of little relevance. This servant of the divine here faced a true test of his abilities and capacities, physical, mental and spiritual. Physically, he had to survive the onslaught of his opponents. Mentally, he had to comprehend the path to victory, victory being defined in terms of God's plan for him on Caphraig rather than that administered by such as Peter Morgan of course. Spiritually, he had to maintain his faith at all costs, and use the associated wisdom and inner strength to assist with the first two aspects of his survival. As he progressed, he knew he would be rewarded – either through breakthroughs in his own self-acquired knowledge, or through divine reward.
Surveying his current location, Peter knew he had already gained such a blessing. He had made his way to the southern central tip of Caphraig, the southern side being more populated though also notably rocky along what passed for a coastline. The seas between the rocks of the island and the rest of the Western Isles were fierce, for the most part not to be tread by men save for dire emergencies. There existed gaps in his knowledge of the land's history, but the occasional small coves dug into the cliff face suggested a line of piracy had once existed in the area. Perhaps it local collaboration had inspired the creation of the lighthouse, at the top of which he currently stood.
From what could be learned from a few old markings and technical works that remained within the structure it was at least 350 years old, having been apparently constructed with the guise of assisting travel between other local islands. It seemed to Peter an argument with just enough truth to be proven, considering the local landscape. The decadence of sinners could not be underestimated, nor could their conniving. This he had always known, and it was such as this that reaffirmed that.
He had made his way to the location looking to take advantage of his relatively early exit from the classroom; a prime defensive site, it was likely that others would seek to claim it later. Of greater significance was that it was the best way to utilise the benefits of his granted weapon. The weapon God had guided his hand towards when selecting a rucksack in the classroom. A sniper's rifle.
The first consideration Peter had to make was why he had been given this, the second, how this related to his objective of completing God's requirements of him. After that came any other relevant factors. The rifle was a weapon of war. Considering the rules of this "Program" it was evidence that the organisers were serious. What it did not indicate however was how strong this weapon was relative to that received by any of his peers. Everything given could be carried in a rucksack, but the given bags were large, so as to accommodate weapons such as his own.
This meant it was reasonable to assume that small arms were the primary weapon, for a perhaps broader than usual definition of "small". The desecrated body of Manuel Noles was clearly the work of a spiked melee weapon, meaning a variety of styles had been provided for as well, presumably to increase the random variation within the Program. Peter had no interest in warfare beyond religious applications thereof, but was content with the idea that his was among the better weapons. No less than he deserved of course; his lifetime of loyal servitude warranted aid in a difficult test. That thought was reassuring.
The second question was more challenging, and that which he'd been considering since leaving the classroom. His intelligence placed him well as a teacher, and until a clearer picture of God's plans for him emerged it was what he had determined to do with his life. How he would go about this was less clear, as the current religious educational standards in schools left much to be desired, and even if qualified it would be hard to ensure he was listened to. When Peter spoke, people did listen, but sin being ignorant those with the capacity to make much needed changes could ignore him. Thus he had chosen to study theology at Glasgow University and determine his course from there.
He had an offer from as esteemed a university as Oxford, but had an innate disinclination towards returning to the south east of England. Once he had lived there, but it had been his mother's choice to leave and she would not do anything that was not at the very least approved if not mandated by God. With God being unwilling as yet to confirm the validity of studying in that area, Peter thought it best to remain in Scotland. Perhaps eight years was too short a time to have left behind the area's unbearable blasphemy and sin. It was a haven for the sacrilegious, who would defy God at every turn with their pursuit of money and vice in "The City". Not even the Sabbath was honoured by those heretics, and such a place Peter could not endure at present.
In any event, Glasgow was where his only true friend would be studying. Kim Magdalene was his protégé. A decadent sinner, yes, worse than most even. Yet her enthusiasm for her faith was unmatched by few he had ever met, and in any event she had come to him personally seeking redemption. If that poor soul could be saved, almost anyone could, even among his aggravatingly stupid peers. It felt almost blasphemous to abandon this quest before its completion. No, his mother's harsh disapproval notwithstanding, he needed to be with her.
Truthfully, it was such as this that confirmed that, in the absence of a more direct instruction, his role in life was that of aiding sinners in removing sin. Purification of sinners would certainly please his divine master, of that there could be no doubt.
And therein lay the answer to his question. Obviously the Program was designed and created by God, but the reason had until now escaped Peter. Now it became clear. His generation had sinned and on behalf of them all his high school year were to be punished with their deaths. This would be the ultimate show of purification.
Peter himself was not a sinner; he was unique in attempting to purge the sin of others. Considering he had been given a powerful weapon, God's intentions were clear. His past attempts at using Peter to educate had failed. Now the only effective means of purification was by the fire. By mortal hands these wretched traitors to the divine could not be judged; that task fell to those above, and this rifle would be the means by which the two would meet.
Having solved the puzzle, Peter felt greatly satisfied. He now had a purpose, and not only the means with which to fulfil it but also the location, having been led to this tower. As he looked out over the edge, he saw that not only did he have these things, but also two of the most wretched sinners he had ever known by which to begin his quest for purification.
Two girls passed within sight of the lighthouse. In the harsh light they were not easily visible, dressed as they were entirely in black. If the Devil took human form he would wear such as that. Unlike many with whose opinions Peter agreed, he did not interpret the girls' gender as automatically marking them as with sin; women were creatures of the Lord as much as man, and existed in all species. But females were unwilling instruments of Satan, who was able to access their souls and grant them seductive, deceptive capacities that preyed on the weaknesses of men. All too often they surrendered to these urges too, becoming willing instruments of unholy sexual desire. These two were particularly grievous offenders.
They fornicated regularly, and though unproven it was commonly thought they committed one of the few sins even worse than fornication itself by doing so with each other. The way their hands danced across each other was a clear indication of that to Peter. They also unrepentantly consumed substances that poisoned their mind and engaged in entertainment practices that actively blasphemed in every way. Their boasting of their atheism was the final seal on their condemnation to Hell, a place Peter now intended sending them both for eternity.
Jenna Widdowson and Jemi Britcher were unsuspecting. The lighthouse light was not on, as not even the boats the Program's organisers had to prevent escape were close to this part of the island; anyone who could escape on this side had done so with God's assistance, and thus deserved their survival. Thus it was too dark for anyone at the base of the lighthouse to clearly see whether anyone stood atop it. It mattered not of course, there was no way of escaping anyway. Peter could take his time.
Helping matters was that the gothic whores were moving towards him rather than away; for what purpose he neither knew nor cared, though as the closer they came, the harder it would be to flee should human failings cause him to miss, it was in his interest to hold fire for a moment.
As the distance closed, Peter placed the rifle through a gap in the railings atop the lighthouse's gallery. He did not want the moonlight to expose his position by shining off his scope, but the chances of that being even noticed by those below were slim. Even if they attempted entry they would fall quickly to the high-powered shots he could make. It was time.
"My goodness, and my fortress; my high tower, and my deliverer; my shield, and he in whom I trust; who subdueth my people under me." The rifle had been following the steps of the girls for a minute or to, to ensure he would judge correctly. Peter had never used a sniper rifle before, though he had studied the manual extensively. Knowing God was with him, he pulled the trigger.
As the bullet cracked through the air, its loudness caused Peter to retreat behind the cover of the railings. He had not expected the volume to be so great, and had surprised himself by not even looking to the result of his attack. Taking care not to be seen, he looked through the railings and was very happy with what he saw.
On the ground, blood poured from Jemi Britcher. Peter could see she was still breathing, but it appeared that she'd gone into shock. She was convulsing and shaking in Jenna Widdowson's arms. Peter relished her imminent condemnation, and again aimed the rifle to send her evil friend with her.
A second shot rang out, but Peter could not tell if Jenna had fallen because she'd been hit or because a violent spasm from Jemi had taken her balance. He aimed again, seeking a third shot to be sure of both kills, but the girls had fallen behind a rock. Peter sighed, able to see many in the area. They provided scant protection generally, but he could not curve a bullet past that one from this angle. A leg that presumably belonged to Jemi stuck out, but it seemed limp. What little life remained therein was gone.
Jenna was not safe yet anyway. She could not remain where she was forever, and the instant she broke cover she would be slain. For how long could she remain where she was, exposed and with her friend's dark blood presumably covering her. She deserved the suffering it must have been causing, along with that she would endure for eternity in the afterlife.
At that moment however Peter found himself looking not at the life he had just ended but to the east, where a third person had closed upon the lighthouse. The axe-wielding male was trying to remain unseen, but his death would come from above. He had no greater chance of detecting Peter than did the rotting Goths a few metres from him. Hold!
This creature was not like the others. He had faith. He was Darren Cooper, an aggressive individual who nonetheless was able to direct his passion towards causes which helped the less fortunate, those upon whom God had smiled but men had cursed. Such was his religious interest that he combined it with his prodigious musical talents, composing new pieces for the church.
Peter aimed his rifle. He had not been certain of the accuracy of the first shot, new as he was to the weapon. Now he had the confidence that even a more evasive target would fall. The girls had not expected opposition, Darren appeared to have been aware of their presence and was perhaps looking for an opportunity of his own.
Thinking on it a moment, Peter realised that their targets were the same, if indeed Jenna still lived. That however could be attributed to mere coincidence. Of greater significance was that Peter was not a sinner in the same sense that Jenna and Jemi were. God had charged Peter with the purification of sinners alone after all; it was men who had deemed that only one may leave the island.
Perhaps this represented a refinement to the rules by which Peter had to follow today. Perhaps he needed not to kill indiscriminately, but to target those known as sinners directly. After all, as a servant of the Lord, Darren himself would be receiving instructions. They were for him alone to know, but until they threatened those of Peter, there was no need to eliminate him.
Given the rules imposed by his mortal teacher, it was likely that in the future the time would come for surviving saints to determine among themselves whom was best place to fulfil God's will. In such a scenario, Peter would of course prevail. None were better in any way than he. He need not hasten needlessly though, and risk threatening his objectives. Caphraig was small, his time plentiful and the desire of the island's many sinners to purge each other for their own decadent reasons need not be underestimated. Such factors played beautifully into his favour.
After considering this a moment he returned his focus to his primary target, but dismay crossed his eyes, for Jenna was alive and had done the unthinkable and attempted to escape. She moved swiftly across the rocky ground, presumably aware that the bullet that purged Jemi came from the south. Alas, she had moved too far for as inexperienced a sniper as Peter to rely on accurately piercing her sinful hide.
Looking again, however, the disappointment soon faded. Darren now knew she was alone. Alone, fearful, and traumatised by Peter's actions. Soon to be slaughtered. Peter thought on what he had done, and what he had still to do. He felt fulfilled. As was always the case in life, saints had once again prevailed over sinners. Hallelujah.
Of all the places for Laurinda Davies to have found herself so soon into the Program, she was in the pub. The Crofter's Arms was the only pub on Caphraig, though its restaurant did have competition from a small seafood bit by the harbour for the tourists, and it was pretty much as you'd expect from such an institution on one of these islands.
It was an old stone building that had nonetheless been the subject of many attempts to modernise as the years had passed, and small remnants of various different decors could be seen here and there. As was traditional, it had two storeys, with whoever owned the pub living upstairs, and a basement cellar that served as a stockroom. As a place to hole up, Laurinda knew she could have found far worse.
What mattered in any event was that she was no longer stuck outside, exposed to the elements and to the inane backstabbing idiots that comprised most of the year. It was popularly called "cynicism", but to Laurinda it was realism – common sense. She figured most of her classmates would happily murder each other for a couple of hundred quid, let alone if their lives depended on it. She'd witnessed violence for far less in the past for a start.
She knew that being melodramatic about life wasn't a practical solution to anything. "Shit happens; get over it" was snapped at whinging ingrates often enough to be almost her catchphrase. But right now it was almost forgivable, since nothing constructive that could be done was immediately obvious. Almost forgivable; she still didn't want to be subjected to it.
Laurinda had had her share of bad times in life, as had everyone else. Right now though she didn't want to think about it. Depression in a pub made alcohol an easy answer, and there was still plenty of it there. Being drunk would just affect her focus though. Whatever the solution to her current predicament though, she would need to keep her wits about her, making the kitchen a sensible place to hide. It seemed like the cooker even worked, so if she wanted toast later on she could have it; that was something the others wouldn't have at least. Small mercies weren't to be underestimated in a crisis.
The problem with being where she was, however, was that she couldn't react quickly to unwanted guests on the premises. This was especially true when said guests were conscientious enough to try to avoid making a noise. Fortunately the creaky wooden floorboards gave the game away; unfortunately the unexpected disturbance startled Laurinda, who jumped up from beside the cooker she was hiding behind. Hitting a low shelf with her head, a plate fell from it and smashed on the floor.
A moment of awkward silence followed, with both parties uncertain how to react. The intruder switched their torch on, knowing someone else was in the pub. Weapon raised, a voice called out.
"Whoever's in the kitchen, I know you're there. I don't wanna hurt you but I've got a gun, so do yourself a favour and let's not make this turn ugly." The voice was calm and cynical, though relatively high pitched for its tone. Laurinda couldn't help but crack a small smile, though practical realities forced her not to get excited. Regardless however it was pointless to pretend she wasn't in the kitchen.
"How's about I come out quietly after you drop the gun. Not like you're the only one who's armed, after all." She raised her own weapon and stepped cautiously towards the door.
"Laurinda? Is that you?" Curiosity, deliberately muffled, affected the voice.
"That depends, Hannah, on whether or not you're still pointing the gun at the kitchen door." There was no response. "Come on, who're you gonna trust if not me?
"The last words ever heard by a lot of dead idiots. Trust never made it to Caphraig." The figure in the main bar area was unwilling to drop her guard, but didn't know where to go from there. It wasn't her choice in the end.
"Fuck you whore!" Being unwilling to die of old age in the kitchen, Laurinda took her chances, ducked her head, and charged through the door, a trident in her hand. Hannah Bishop ducked for cover, dropping her gun to the floor. As Laurinda took in the bewildered look on Hannah's face, she threw her trident aside and picked up the gun. It was no ordinary pistol.
"What exactly is this thing?" she said disgustedly. Hannah looked sheepishly at the floor, trying to avert her gaze.
"Tranquiliser gun. I told you whoever you were I didn't want to kill you." It wasn't very convincing, and Laurinda stared blankly at her.
"Didn't want to, couldn't, same thing really aye?"
"Well there's enough gullible people in our year that might have just come out begging me not to open fire just at me mentioning a gun, so guess I just hoped you were one of them. Besides, if it had been real, what good would that thing have done?" Hannah pointed towards the sharp pronged metal on the ground, but didn't move to pick it up yet. Laurinda nodded back knowingly; it was only luck that Hannah didn't have a real gun and knew it that saved her.
"So what happens now? Are we gonna try and kill each other for real?" Laurinda still felt on edge, even though she hadn't been in real danger; she needed to know where Hannah stood.
"Well I know you don't want to kill me. If you did you'd have speared me as soon as you saw Mr. Sleepy." Laurinda stared blankly at Hannah, trying not to wet herself laughing.
"Mr. Sleepy? What are you, 13?"
"Fuck up, you've never named your toys before?"
"Yeah, but what kind of a name is that?" Hannah was starting to get annoyed at this, and Laurinda having given in and started laughing loudly wasn't helping.
"Look, whatever. No, I don't have any specific desire to murder you, provided you stop laughing. Most people I wouldn't give a damn about, but you're…marginally less irritating than the rest of them, and like I said you've knowingly wasted a great opportunity to kill me anyway so it looks like there's no need for blood right now." It seemed painful for Hannah to admit it, and more so for Laurinda to show the gratitude she was feeling.
"Technically I've still got the opportunity you know. But aye, you're right. I don't know what your thoughts are, but if we're clear that we kinda trust each other, then we're probably as well sticking together for now. Got the whole pub to ourselves, and this place doesn't seem that hard for two of us to defend."
Hannah considered her options for a moment. No matter what she did, Laurinda almost certainly wasn't going to try and kill her. She wasn't just suggesting an "alliance" of sorts she was actively pushing for it. But if things changed then so might she, and Laurinda was almost as misanthropic as Hannah was. Looking at the alternatives though, there were about none. If she tried to take the trident it was all or nothing, and she wasn't confident enough about her chances for that. Equally if she ran off she'd face all kinds of risks – alone.
"Alright, fine, you can stick around. Try anything though and you'll regret it." Hannah sighed heavily and glared at Laurinda. She didn't want to admit to her gratitude at this outcome; one way or the other, it was better than the one she expected when she aggressively entered the pub. Laurinda however, feeling exactly the same way, saw through it, and ignored what she said.
"So where do we go from here? Don't suppose you have any idea what we should do?
"Well considering my life goals amount to a glorified version of 'Endure existence, then die,' no, I've got nothing."
Hannah's tone made it obvious why she had so few friends. They counted each other as such, and she got on okay with Emily Green, but that was about it. She was short with brown hair and thick glasses, and had a figure somewhere between someone who had entered puberty late and just plain boyish. She'd never cared much about appearances or social interaction though, with her misanthropy being caused and perpetuated by the way people generally treated her. That kind of cycle was hard to break, as Laurinda herself knew, though she could count the popular class clown Olly King among her friends at least.
Still, safety in numbers and in the familiar had caused Hannah and Laurinda's friendship, and had now brought them together in the Program. Laurinda considered herself quite fortunate, knowing that despite being nigh-insufferable, Hannah was extremely capable and intelligent, and would make a useful ally provided she didn't shoot her mouth off at anyone of the class's numerous apparent psychopaths.
"So this is our prison is it? Not to mention our courtroom and our graveyard if we get caught by anyone deadly," Hannah mused. She was inspecting the pub as though a prospective but bored buyer of a house, idly picking away at minor imperfections in the wooden supports. It wasn't tiny, and there was only the two of them in it, but knowing that death waited outside meant they couldn't leave, which automatically made it seem claustrophobic. She understood in that moment why house arrest wasn't a whole lot better than the normal kind. Laurinda didn't reply, though Hannah paid that no mind.
Laurinda was upstairs, attempting to make herself feel vaguely comfortable, however improbable that was in the circumstances. Glancing out of the window to see what kind of a view presented itself however, her heart immediately sank and her brain started calculating possibilities. She instinctively turned her torch off.
Though Hannah wasn't much of a talker, when she did speak she expected to be listened to, since to her it automatically made clear she was making an unnecessary effort in doing so; thus Laurinda's silence bothered her slightly. Making her way upstairs to find out what was going on, Laurinda said nothing and merely directed her to the window. They were not alone.
"Okay, no fucking about, what do we do? That thing is getting closer." By thing she meant person, but it wasn't a good idea to call Hannah on that right now.
"Either we kill her, get killed by her, or do nothing and hope she goes away, those are our three options." Hannah glared at Laurinda; that wasn't helpful, though neither had much of an idea how to react to this. They'd expected they'd have at least a few hours before needing to defend themselves. "Well alright, you tell me what to do!"
"I'm not one for blood," Hannah admitted, "and the only real weapon we have is that trident and a couple of knives from the kitchen. If we had a gun, fuck it I'd shoot her from the window. Her or us right?" It was a gut reaction that she didn't really mean, but in the circumstances she just wanted to do something, as long as it wasn't just standing on the stairs.
Hannah being more scared than she was willing to admit, even to herself, Laurinda was the first to realise what had to be done and took Hannah's tranquiliser gun from her belt.
"Hey what are you-"
"Shut up and get the trident. Stay close but out of sight." Laurinda was trying not to think about things. The windows and doors were all sealed shut and the curtains closed for security, ironically making this more difficult now since she didn't want to draw attention to herself. Returning to the window through which she first saw the figure, Laurinda quietly hid underneath it and undid the seal, bading Hannah guard the door. Softly opening the window without drawing back the curtain, the gun poked through and her eyes just behind it.
Laurinda fired twice towards the ground, unable to see well enough to aim correctly but fearful of what her victim might be carrying. Both shots missed and hit the ground beside the girl, causing her to look up in fear. The starlight shone just well enough against her collar to expose her neck. Two more shots were fired, the first bouncing off the collar but the second piercing the skin just beside it. Laurinda retreated, listening intently to the yelps of pain while gesturing Hannah to join her.
Outside, Rozelinda Mayfair was feeling more emotion now than she had done in a long time. Whatever had just hit her had done so with some power, and when she removed it from her neck, a small amount of blood seeped out. It felt like a bee or a wasp with a small hypodermic needle for a stinger had just attacked her, and it was uncomfortable. Looking at the object, it was hard to establish exactly what it was.
Yawning, she realised with horror that she'd been hit with anaesthetic. Whoever had done it was hiding in the pub, so she fled in case of further assault. The poor light was not conducive to an easy escape however, nor did she know to where she might run anyway. She was afraid. Fear wasn't something she was used to feeling; not even when the Program was announced had she truly felt it, at least not to this extent.
Her resistance to the darkness of sleep faded after some time, though whether it was seconds, minutes or hours was beyond her knowledge. Not knowing if she would ever awaken, Roz collapsed upon the ground a hundred metres or so from the pub, unconscious.
Keeping a healthy distance behind her, Laurinda and Hannah were upon her within moments of her collapse. Checking her pulse, they could see she was alive. Nervous glances were exchanged between them.
"What now?" asked Laurinda. Hannah was already answering the question by emptying the contents of Roz's bag into her own. She sighed when she saw the sleeping girl's weapon.
"How British, that the people hiding in a pub get a set of darts. Fancy a game?" Her sarcasm felt almost violent. Laurinda ignored her and turned back towards the pub. "Hey it's called a joke, retard. Help me out here."
"I'm getting my stuff. No idea how long Roz will be out for, but if she wakes up and finds us still here I don't think she'll be happy, do you?" Hannah wasn't the only one in a poor mood right now.
"Do you really think we'll be safer out here than in there?
"Don't know, don't care. I'm not staying here; you can please yourself. Come with me if you like, but no, I don't know where the fuck I'm gonna go." Hannah didn't respond, continuing instead to loot Roz's body. When Laurinda returned, Roz was left with no possessions but an empty bag and the clothes on her back. Hannah had taken all her things, even her watch, compass and map.
"When she wakes up – if she does – she'll have no idea who or where she is. But don't feel bad, she'd have done the same for us." Hannah seemed remarkably calm. But then cynicism was a way of life for her, and in this sort of situation, it was another word for realism. As Laurinda smiled in knowing agreement, the Queens of Sardonism escaped in search of a new hiding place, leaving behind the ransacked body of Rozelinda.
Life was a thing that needed a backdrop to keep it interesting, to keep one's attention. For some people that backdrop was pretty lights or colours; for others, it was sensations. Still others however saw the world through sound.
"Can you even see in a culture of hate,
That loyalty dies in the midst of the fight?
Will God come to you, when there's a knife at your back,
When green turns to red, and white turns to black?"
Music had always been a key part of Kim Magdalene's life, though it seemed somewhere between ironic and disturbing that the artist on her mind right now was Daniel McTaggart. He sang of the green grass of the fields soaked red with blood, and morality, the Light, turning grey or black. His determination to use God as a weapon against those with faith in either Him or the Government notwithstanding, genuine passion exuded from his voice, and he'd been an inspiration to Kim and her friends.
The Anti-Clique were spiritual politicians as far as Kim was concerned. Adam Lewis and Scott Irving were predominantly political, Mark Johnson and Kim herself predominantly religious, and Kenji Kamin was both at once. Daniel's folk-punk stylings held appeal with all five, since he called out the Government on the hypocritical fallacy that society was becoming. What's more, he focussed on the rights of the oppressed rather than aggressing against those responsible for the oppression. The group were loyal fans, and supported and promoted him at every opportunity.
At least, they did for a while. They first discovered him while he was in first year of university, making them S3s at the time. By the time he reached the end of his course though he'd changed. He got married to an outwardly nice but inwardly ambitious and calculating girl, Eliza, a childhood friend of his backing singer and own best friend, Marie Harlow. Daniel's politics became less subtle and more directly abrasive.
The shift was gradual, but it was his changing personality more than his lyrics that Kim noticed. He'd given up on fighting for student rights, and instead wanted to fight against the Government. Petty vandalism here, public disturbances there, that was no big deal. The Anti-Clique had done worse. That was only how it started though; Daniel and his core "non-subjugated ones" moved eventually to actual bona fide terrorism. When an attack on a Government building with firebombs left a well-known Perth official with 1st degree burns all over his face, the three of them received lengthy prison sentences.
By that time, the Anti-Clique had seen sense and officially distanced themselves. They had no choice! Kim had to admit there was a bit of a thrill in protesting, in doing something that carried real consequences if you got caught, but the thrill was in getting away with it and becoming known for doing a good thing. The riot in the school that Peter Morgan spoke about for example; the audacity of Scott in suggesting it, and the others in helping to pull it off, defied belief. But through things like that they gained power as a group, and extorted as much as they could from the school administration. That however was a far cry from nearly killing a man just for doing his job – two wrongs never made a right, so the man's reprehensibility was irrelevant. In order to keep helping the other students, the Anti-Clique had to accept a status as moderates among student protesters. Kim couldn't care less that the extremists denounced them though; she never wanted to be associated with that anyway.
It was ironic therefore that Daniel had succumbed to the hate he warned against in Prestwick Airport, one of his early songs. He and the Anti-Clique had essentially betrayed each other though, refusing to help each other when requested to. And now, here on Caphraig, people were already betraying each other. Blood already soaked the ground, formerly moral people like Mr. Morgan showed previously unseen colours.
Of course there was more than met the eye with Morgan; Holly was one of Kim's closest friends, so he knew Morgan better than many of the other students in social terms. He was genuine when he expressed remorse for what he was doing; whatever the truth actually was, it certainly wasn't that his own free will and nothing more caused him to murder Zoey Volta. She briefly pondered how he felt at that moment. Anything to distract her from her current pressing concern – a beer bottle, sitting in front of her on the ground.
Morgan had never been a pushover, as a teacher or a father, though Kim knew one could be forgiven for thinking so. He combined efficiency with empathy in order to best manage two key duties – maintaining order and running the school as an assistant head teacher should, and relating to the students in a way that enabled him to help them however he could. Kim had used her influence with him to exploit these tendencies ruthlessly for the benefit of the Anti-Clique, and in so doing learned much about him.
It was how she could say for certain that he was telling the truth when he claimed not to be running the show today; the look in his eyes in the classroom was of a man being forced to choose his own life or those of his charges. Less obviously, his unintended outburst suggested the stakes for him were higher, and his inability to so much as look at his daughter proved it. His family were at risk. Was that the choice he faced? To murder an innocent girl or know his inaction had murdered his innocent family?
If that was the case it meant he was playing the game too. He was nothing but a pawn of the Government and no more or less guilty of any sin committed on Caphraig than she or her classmates. The soldier who seemed to be in charge? He was perhaps representing the Government, though his determination to demonstrate authority was too overt for someone who already had it. That man, whoever he was, feared the students. An upstanding man of honour and status, not used to being in the same district let alone the same room as a bunch of foul-mouthed sinners, drinking, taking drugs, fornicating and otherwise causing offence as much as they could get away with. The law's view on the subject was meaningless. Only God could change human nature, and due to free will He wouldn't anyway.
There, those words again re-entered Kim's mind. She was a sinner; a creature of illicit consumption with a string of police cautions for incitement to unlawful protesting, implied though never proven to have included calls for violence. She was no terrorist, but had swung a punch or two in the past at those in her way.
But one aspect of her being remained pure and untainted; in only one way could she claim she was completely without sin. Her chastity. Originally a mere symbolic declaration of her faith when she discovered hers, it had gone beyond the common sense it made for an 11 year old to declare it and become the last refuge of her moral being, along with her faith itself. For so long as she retained each, Kim could claim purity. Stupors and highs were more reliable comfort blankets, but every now and again the relief of her success in being unwavering in this position served just as well.
Her brief joy at another reaffirmation of this though was stabbed by the realisation that she was once again thinking of earthly matters, relevant to her current situation. She felt like she was waking up after a beautiful dream the night before a horrible day at work or some such.
It was dawn in the late spring, so the first hints of sunlight were starting to emerge, though it was still dark enough to make it hard to see where one was. Kim's map dangled around her neck but she paid it no mind. She couldn't give a toss where she was. Her allocated "weapon" was kept as far away from her neck as possible, being presumably a taunt from God. Rationally, He was once again leaving affairs to mankind, meaning pure chance gave her the bag containing the noose. But her heart saw more comfort in blaming the Almighty for it.
Scott was an ardent atheist and used such statements as evidence of the rationality of his beliefs. But then, Scott's spirituality was rooted differently to Kim in that he liked to be in control of his destiny. The way Kim was, she didn't want to be, and she didn't believe she was. Her beloved crucifix waved gently around her neck, across the map. It was the greatest comfort she had right now, being the physical embodiment of God in this place…and more than that.
Kim turned her back on the bottle sitting in front of her, took the crucifix in her hands and softly kissed it, thinking fondly of the man who gave it to her. Her personal spiritual adviser, who served as the big brother that Kim, having two sisters for siblings, had never had. Peter Lucianus had made it his mission in life to save her from herself; they each believed that God had sent him to her.
She had only started going to church age 11, looking for spiritual answers to her mortal problems. Her father had become aware of this boy's authority and wisdom, despite both having only recently moved into the area. Kim was newly from Cardiff, and Peter, Kent, though it didn't take long for the latter and his mother to make their presence felt.
The odds of their having met in one corner of the country having come from two others were too remote to be coincidental. It was His doing, and every day Kim felt grateful for having him in her life. He could be very strict, certainly, and seemingly took pleasure from little other than religious things, but that was what she needed from him. She was a sinner, she had vices, she partook of thoughts deeds and behaviours that seemed to beg for damnation. To be saved, she would have to put her sin to the sword.
That was where Peter helped. The fact that he had no tact, or any social skills whatsoever, was quite useful in its own way. What he had was a capacity to connect with a person's inner being. Limited though his empathy was to determining how faithful a person really was, whether they claimed to be or not, it meant he knew that Kim's cries for God's mercy were genuine.
The path to Salvation was long and arduous, and simply leaving her sin at the door had been tried and failed. Somehow, Peter accepted that. He despised her friends in the Anti-Clique, yet accepted them too because he saw that they made her happy and helped her in their own way. For someone so intolerant of his own definition of "decadence", which was broader than that of most, this was surprising. He permitted far more from her than he did anyone else.
But then, the rules he applied to Kim weren't the same ones by which he held everyone else. She was trying for Salvation, and between that and the fact that he fancied her, somewhere down the line the rules changed. That made her laugh, even in the current situation. He'd never told her, and probably hardly even knew it, but not even someone with the social IQ of a toddler could deny his latent biological urges. Even if he could admit it he wouldn't want to; he saw himself as a saint, Kim was a sinner. His mother couldn't stand her in any capacity, her cries for redemption being seen by her as naught but lies aimed at destroying Peter. If only she knew!
The only problem was, as much as Kim loved Peter, and she did, it wasn't in that way. He naively believed otherwise, but he didn't provide her with that kind of emotional fulfilment. That task fell to Mark, who put up with her issues no matter how bad they got, and always hungered for a larger role in her life. As if that were even possible! She didn't want to say it until she was emotionally ready to deal with everything it entailed, but she was very much in love with him, and knew the feeling to be mutual.
Peter however, had never accepted him. Even though he was mentally incapable of understanding love in any way other than that extended by God to everyone, and even though Mark and Kim had never gotten around to forming an "official" relationship, Peter knew Mark reached her in a way that even he couldn't, and he resented him for it. He targeted all her group equally so as not to specifically alienate any one person, but all three of them knew whom he really hated. Not even his strong faith protected Mark from him, when usually it was the only thing in a classmate he considered a redeeming feature. Mark of course returned the dislike, but whenever they came to blows Kim refused to relent to either one. If they loved her, they wouldn't kill each other over her; it was as simple as that.
Thinking of Mark was normally a sure-fire way for Kim to feel peaceful. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, he was there, in her heart and soul. He was her heart and soul, no one save God himself had greater claim to them than him. Right now though, he was in danger.
He was still in the classroom when Kim left, and because of the risks she couldn't wait for him. For all she knew he was all alone, as she was herself. Several hours had passed. More than an hour still remained before those who had died first would be declared, and the thought of his name or Peter's being on it plunged her into tears.
Kim fought a desperate battle with her mind to not think about it, to return her thoughts to the happy times of being together with Mark, anywhere at all but there. It was for nothing. Thinking of such times only reaffirmed in her the likely reality of the situation, which was that they would never happen again. Everything she knew, everyone she knew, was dying if not dead already, followed or preceded by herself.
Her hand had found its way into her pocket. She withdrew it and saw a single tablet of ecstasy, subconsciously withdrawn from a small packet in her pocket. Cursing the futility of her plight and the absence of any hope, she turned back around to the beer bottle, placed the pill under her tongue and felt the alcoholic liquid flow into her mouth and body as she drank.
In that moment Kim Magdalene, the so-called "Virgin Mary" for her chastity and second name, felt a relief she hadn't known since coming to Caphraig. That the respite could only be temporary was a million miles away from her concern; it enveloped her, consumed her and made her happy. At last she was where she wanted to be, at last she was where she belonged. And with all the tragedy and death surrounding her, she couldn't understand why she'd want to be anywhere else but inside her bottle of beer. The music in her head had turned to that of her beloved clarinet; it played a happy tune, for at last she had reason to smile again. She couldn't think of any reason why she need ever stop.