Anton sighed. I’m getting too old for this.
As that thought escaped him, his years of working flickered in his mind’s eye. The bending over, lifting, pushing.
The war, the imprisonment.
And suddenly he was grateful the worst he had was aching muscles and a touch of arthritis.
He arched his back and groaned. Using a gnarled fist he slowly massaged the tight knots that plagued his muscles. He lay on his bed, one arm curled at a dangerous angle so he could reach the most awkward muscles. The other arm supported his head, with his fingers gently kneading his pounding, wrinkled temples.
Suitably satisfied that his pains were eased, Anton lifted himself off the bed and shuffled into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on. He looked out of the window as the kettle began to whir. He was in one of the highest towers in town, which was previously used for University accommodation but was now little more than prison. Below him, a few people dragged themselves along the concrete and grass heading towards the main complex or into one of the two towers after a hard night shift.
The kettle bubbled and steamed and he lifted it off, pouring the hot water into a dirty cup. Water was regulated between seven and eight in the evenings and the same time in the morning. It was only six, so the washing up would simply have to wait. Tea and coffee was rationed too. He opened one of the cupboards above his head and took a sugary sweet from a container and dropped it into the cup of boiling water; he stirred it and watched the sugary clump dissolve.
A rap at the door made him jump. The water sloshed up the side of the cup and onto his hands; the cup crashed to the floor, cracking and sending the liquid into the air. Anton yowled as his feet were scolded and he bounced from side to side trying to ease the pain. The knock at the door came once again.
He made his way into the living room, sidling around the furniture and State Books. “Yes, bloody...!” he shouted, before remembering who the only person that came to his door was. “I mean, right with you!”
Nursing his hand with the other, he opened the door just enough to see through the crack. The person was not who he was expecting. Dressed in the same livery as himself, he could only have been a comrade... and social visits were frowned upon by the State. Anton knew what this was about, and the thought dropped in his stomach.
“Hello,” the person whispered, “Anton – I need to speak about-”
“Sorry, I’m not interested,” Anton lied, “I have work soon.” He held a crooked finger up to his lips, and then pointed to his ears.
The visitor nodded. He opened the door further, though the man remained at the entrance. Anton scuttled over to a small desk by the side of his chair and pulled out regulation State paper and pencil and wrote in small, shaky letters:
Common Gardens, half the hour.
The visitor nodded again and left. Anton listened to his footsteps fade away down the hall, echoing in the emptiness.
He breathed out and looked up at the ceiling, head lolling on tired shoulders. He could see the cracks where the microphones were unashamedly disguised and closed his eyes, his past occupation bringing a quiet tear to his eye.
--
The lift clattered open and Anton stepped outside. The sun was weak, enveloping the complex in a wintry light. He winced as a frosty wind, carrying the smell of early-morning dew, chiselled at his bare skin. Shivering, he began the short walk to the Common Gardens, pulling his collar up against the wind.
Anton’s eyes focused on the concrete underfoot as the world around him began to wake. Cars and buses choked into life, breaking the halcyon morning silence; from the town centre, the Industry Zone began to pump thick smoke into the air with a sickening gurgle. Voices were raised. The original town bell let out seven dolorous clangs. Anton breathed in deeply, hoping for the fresh dew and grass smell, but what came was the waft of petrol, gas and smoke - and in just a few minutes the facade of purity was shattered with precision timing.
Anton stepped into the Common Gardens, looking around for the visitor. The Common was a large and artificially made flower garden – the smells were weak, if present at all, and the effect was nullified by the grey-brick buildings which flanked every side. He was happy for the first time that there was a crowd here. Most hustled and bustled and muttered cruel language under their breath. Anton knew that his conversation wouldn’t be overheard here.
He saw his visitor through the crowd. He was nearer the centre, where a cracked fountain spluttered unclear water. Anton said nothing when he reached his target, but instead signalled for them to walk away, into a deeper throng of people. The fountain was bugged, he knew that much, at least.
“I guess you know what this is about, don’t you?” the visitor whispered, close to Anton’s ear.
“I have an idea, my friend. I knew after that cull that I’d be wanted eventually.”
“Indeed – you hid very well from that, by the way.” The visitor laughed quietly. Anton faked a chuckle along with him.
“We don’t have long.” Anton urged after a period of silence.
“Quite. Take this. Read it. Memorise it. Burn it.” The visitor whispered vehemently in his ear. They were so close Anton could feel flecks of spittle on his ear and the warm breath that accompanied it. The visitor slipped a small sliver of paper into Anton’s half-open fist. “It has my phone number on too. It’s a mobile, it’s illegal, so don’t ring from your home. If you want no part in this, don’t bother. You’re a last resort, a last chance. Sorry to have dragged you into this.”
Anton watched the man walk into the crowd and dissolve into the other bodies. He fingered the crumpled paper in his fist. Before leaving, he glanced around to see if anyone had noticed and then, he thought – they wouldn’t have anyway. That would be using their own sense, and many have forgotten how to do that. But just in case...
