A Kinder City: A Market World Novel

Contents

David

Rachel

The Third Court

The Social Capital

Juno

The Old Town

Football

A Feast

The Hall of Monsters

The Hall of Beasts

The Road-Beast

Sarah’s Journey

The Moot

The Yellow Beast

Little Mikey

Into the Forest

The Broken Land

Franklin’s Castle

Return to the City

David and Juno

Truth to Power

Friends and Half-Friends

Re-education

Boxer

Sarah and Franklin

Franklin’s Horses

The Battle in Old Town

Adam Mann

Full Audit

City Square

Aftermath

David

David Ashwood lies sprawled across his bed. He could sit at a desk in the study room, but he prefers it here, by himself. He turns the pillow endways on the headboard, punches a hollow in the stuffing and lies back. He needs to think.

Volume One of the Standing Orders is propped up on his lap, open at the One Law, but he is numb with exhaustion and the clauses seem to merge into each other. He knows he should care. He has sworn before the City to enforce the Law, the one thing in Market World that you can never trade. He is an oath-bearer, an Enforcer new-minted, he wears the black uniform and he must never break his oath.

The light clicks off. The long room is in darkness, lit only by the moon shining silver through the window above him. He should raise his hand and wave it at the motion-detector but he doesn’t move.

Sarah, that’s her name. He wonders what she’s thinking of now. He remembers the great horse that pulled her cart, black as boot-polish and bigger than any horse he has ever seen, with a great yoke of muscle across her shoulders and scarlet flowers plaited in her mane. Juno, Sarah’s horse, and he’d stood with his hand on the bridle, talking softly, calming her, with the Enforcers all round them holding their whips ready and Adam reading Sarah the One Law.

Sarah hadn’t understood what was happening. She didn’t take any of it seriously. He guesses she’ll be in a holding cell, sitting on the bed, like he is. Perhaps she’ll have a blanket round her. She’ll be a bit nervous now. He could help her.

She’d look up with that curious, slightly mocking expression when he tapped on the cell door. He thinks of the way she smiled at him and raised her eyebrows at the same time. He’d sit there, maybe next to her on the end of the bed. He’d go through everything carefully, make her understand that smuggling was a serious charge, but it would all be alright, she’d have a friend, someone in court who was on her side.

They never understood, the villagers, you can’t give stuff to your friends when you have a good harvest, you have to trade with a willing buyer and that means money and a bill of sale. Why does it matter? The One Law, no exceptions. You let people do what they felt like, that way led to chaos, the Great Hunger, the time before he had any real memories. People told him his parents had been good, honest people, but they always looked sideways when they said it. One of his uncles had snorted and sighed at the same time: ‘Too honest for their own good.’ Anyway, his job was to enforce the Law, but you can explain it, why it’s there, show people some respect.

He wonders what it is like, sitting on the seat of a cart with the reins held loosely in both hands, the touch of a breeze on your cheek. People would look up at you as you passed by, some of them would wave and shout greetings, maybe you’d give someone a lift. Your horse would pull at an easy pace, thinking of the stable. You’d call out some words that the horse understood and it would trot a little faster for a bit. You’d be sure to reach your village before sunset.

The manual slides down onto the floor and the light clicks on. How can he help her? He slips back his sleeve and touches his wristband, the wristband that everyone in Market World wears, with the tiny screen that flashes for every transaction, that shows how much you have, how much you owe. Seven hundred and fifty-two credits. You are your account. That’s what he’s worth.

He blinks and reaches out, then hesitates and gets to his feet. Nothing stirs in the room. He moves silently past the beds, grey blankets all neatly folded, according to regulations. He pauses by the half-sergeant’s cubicle. Curtis. He has a way of twisting his mouth when he’s accusing someone, Denny’s got a moustache just like his and takes him off brilliantly.

No echo of boots on the spiral iron staircase. He passes down to the main notice board and checks tomorrow’s Audit Schedule again. Her name is S. Cordell. First case, Court Three: 11.15 am. He pauses at the lower landing, then moves on, keeping to the side of the passageway. He turns a corner into the Holding Corridor. Yellow ceiling and walls, grey floor and strip-lights that glare at him, the stink of new paint in his nostrils.

He pauses and hears voices and the stamp of a boot in the corridor. He turns back and passes through the side-gate into the courtyard. The moon shines out, full and brilliant, from behind dark clouds. The cobble-stones and the low buildings in front of him are silvered, weightless, enchanted. His spirits rise. He breathes the hot, raw smell of horses, sweat, shit and leather, and enters the stables. The stalls stretch out to his left, just like the row of beds in the dormitory. The straw rustles as a horse shifts from one leg to another.

He’s never been in the stables before. The mounted patrol keeps to itself. You only see them at ceremonies. Word is, they despise everyone, even the Entrepreneurs.

Something heavy thuds against the side of a stall and he pauses, silent. A lantern gleams to the right. Words he can’t make out, then a voice says, quite clearly:

‘Easy there.’

The horse whickers softly. David nods.

‘That’s Juno.’

The lantern swings up out of the stall towards him and a voice calls: ‘Who’s that?’

The lantern blinds him for a moment and he holds a hand in front of his eyes. ‘It’s alright. I just came to check on the horse they brought in today, the black one. She’s called Juno.’

A broad-faced lad comes forward, holding the lamp out to the side. He wears corduroy and his hair is dark and tangled.

‘So that’s her name. You here for a bet?’

‘She was scared. I just want to see how she’s doing.’

The boy looks up at him and puts his hand to the side of his face, as if it helps him think. For a minute neither of them speaks.

‘She’s big, ain’t she? She yours?’

David nods.

‘Sort of.’

The lad hangs the lantern from a hook set in the wall.

‘She’s not easy here. I got her away from the others.’

David nods again and swallows. Juno’s hindquarters are taller than he is. She almost fills the stall. He takes a deep breath and holds his belly in and eases himself in beside her. After a moment she leans away from him and he slides past her, the warm flank pressing against his chest. She turns her head and gazes at him.

‘Can I talk to you?’ he says. ‘Just wanted to see how you’re doing.’

Juno blinks and moves her head and he has the feeling that she understands him.

‘You’re going to be alright. We’ll look after you.’

He leans against Juno’s neck for a moment. The blood pulses in her body. She watches him as he pats the yoke of muscle across her shoulders.

The boy hands him something.

‘She’ll like this.’

It fits snug in his palm, a brush. He presses the bristles against the back of his left hand.

Juno lowers her head and he rubs it down her neck, then again and again. She gives a soft whinny, just on the edge of hearing. The boy chuckles.

‘You ain’t done this before, have you? Here, you got to push when you brush her down, put your strength into it. And do it in circles, round and round. She loves it. And this one’s to keep the brush clean.’

He balances a metal square with tines set in it on the edge of the stall.

David leans into Juno’s flank and rubs the brush down against her coat and round and feels a shiver run through her. The rich sweet scent of her rises up all round him. He brushes her again, bending towards her, his free hand reaching up onto the curve of her back. She whinnies with pleasure and her coat gleams where the brush has been. He works his way slowly along Juno’s flank, learning the curves and bulges of her muscles, the power that is in her. She stamps her feet just once. He moves slowly past her and she shifts over and he leans into her other flank. The lad stands back, holding up the lantern, his eyes on David.

David straightens and stretches both arms upwards. His back aches. He stands by Juno’s head.

‘Try this.’

The lad holds out another brush. He rubs it against the back of his hand. It’s softer, it almost tickles him.

He rubs it all the way down Juno’s flank and on down the hind leg and feels her lean towards him.

The boy grins:

‘She likes that.’

He works round with the soft brush, long even strokes, all the way round to her head. Juno closes her eyes and holds herself absolutely still.

The lad hands him a felt cloth.

‘Gently, now. She likes to have her face cleaned. I’ll get you a stool.’

He folds the cloth and strokes Juno’s face with it, her forehead, her cheeks, her nose. She turns her head for him and her eyes meet his and don’t look away.

The boy holds out a comb.

‘Now you make her beautiful.’

‘But she’s lovely already’, he thinks. He pulls the teeth of the comb evenly through the forelock, lifting it away from her eyes, and then through her mane, dividing it. The red flowers have gone.

‘You haven’t got anything I could tie in it, have you? A bit of ribbon?’

He slips out his wristband, then slides it back under his cuff. The boy doesn’t notice.

‘You’ll make a stableman yet. We don’t go in for that kind of thing. You could plait it.’

David reaches up to the mane, bunching the coarse fair hair in his hand.

‘I’m not serious. You’ll be here all night.’

‘’Salright.’

‘Hang on, I’ll get you some steps.’

The step-ladder creaks and sways sideways as David climbs up. He leans into Juno’s neck. She stands stock-still for him, like a sculpted horse, and his heart calms. He needs both hands free to plait.

He works at the task, at peace. The stable-boy shifts his weight from one leg to the other and scratches himself. He hears the movements of other horses, like fenders, bumped against a quay-side by a quiet sea.

He leans back. The ladder totters and the lad grabs it.

‘Not a bad job.’

He doesn’t say anything. The plaits are dark tassels dangling evenly against the sable of her coat.

He’s finished now. He doesn’t want to leave, he could maybe stay there with Juno.

‘Adam does an inspection later. You’d better get going.’

‘Thanks.’ He turns to Juno. ‘You’ll be out of here tomorrow.’

‘One way or another. Franklin’s buying up horses. Any he can get.’

He can’t see the lad’s expression. He doesn’t say anything, just runs his hand down the side of Juno’s face, and edges backwards out of the stall.

‘She likes apples. Can you get her some?’

‘No problem.’

‘Look, about the horses, I need to have a chat with you. Tell me about Juno.’

‘One thing I know, she ain’t right for Franklin. Sit yourself down.’

He fetches out a couple of stools and they squat in the circle of light, in the warmth of the stable, with the noises of resting horses all round them.

‘She’s a Percheron, what we call a heavy horse. She’s strong as two ordinary horses and she keeps going, but she’s got a mind of her own.’

David listens as the lad tells him about the different breeds of horse, how to look after them, how to treat them. He feels he’s entered a different world, somewhere warm and kind, not ruled by order and the law, where his oath is a small thing, no longer the loadstone and burden of his life.

When the lad has finished, he asks:

‘Have you got anywhere a bit out of the way where you could maybe put a horse like Juno? So Franklin’s crew don’t see her?’

Martin grins and rubs at his wrist as if his wristband’s too tight.

‘Might have.’

He flips back his cuff and they click. David knows he’s paying three times what stabling usually costs. The lad wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, spits in it and grips David’s.

‘Done. I’ll look after her. Franklin don’t know the difference between a Percheron and a cross-bred pony.’

They both catch the sound of boots stamping across the yard.

‘You’d better get out of the way. That’s Adam.’

The door starts to open and David slips behind it.

‘How’s it going, Martin?’

‘Nothing to report, sir.’

Adam sniffs the air and peers round. He stares at Juno.

‘You been prettying that horse up?’

‘Sir.’

‘Well don’t. She’ll only go to Franklin.’

David hardly breathes. He waits until the sound of Adam’s steps has faded, then edges round the door and creeps out into the yard, into the silver light of the enchanted world. No sign of movement anywhere. He sneaks across to the side-door and looks back. Adam stands three paces behind him. He has a white scar running from the corner of his right eye to his mouth and a way of looking at you as if he’s judging you.

David shivers.

‘Ashwood. What are you doing out here?’

‘Couldn’t sleep, sir.’

‘Don’t push it. I’ve got my eye on you.’

Adam strides off on his patrol round the barracks.

Everyone is in bed when David enters the dormitory. As he passes the end cubicle, Curtis shifts in his sleep. The half-sergeant’s cold eyes glitter and then close. David freezes and tiptoes to his bed, lies down, takes a deep breath and is instantly asleep.

Rachel

Paul Ferris, Commander of the City’s Enforcers, checks his hair in the mirror, smooths the smile from his face and tucks his gold-braided cap under his left arm. His black uniform is crisp and perfect, the silver lanyard looped across his chest, the gold stars on the epaulettes brightly polished and a double-row of ribbons above the breast pocket.

He steps out of the office, crosses the landing, taps on the Chair’s door and pushes it open.

‘Come in.’

Rachel West, Chair of the City Council, rises to meet him. Her hazel eyes are warm and direct with a faint smudge of tiredness above them. She wears a fitted dark linen suit, tailored to resemble an Enforcer’s military uniform. A thin gold chain encircles her neck with the city crest, the balance with the two tiny scale-pans, at her throat.

She holds out her hand. ‘Always good to see you.’

‘And to see you, Madam.’

He grips her hand and bends forward. She smiles and pauses, her eyes on his, and shakes her head, ever so slightly.

‘Business. The Council will make a decision on the Development Programme this morning.’

She points to the model on the table behind them. It seems like a child’s toy, everything neat and orderly, brightly coloured, miniature, clean. You could imagine playing with it, rearranging everything until it satisfied you and no-one would mind at all. Lilliput towers, the strongholds of the Entrepreneurs, rise up at the heart of it all, clustered to the west of City Square. Opposite them and much smaller, are the Halls of Justice.

If you knew the City well you might notice that the massive sheds of Franklin’s factories next to the Pit, the great rubbish dump, the no man’s land between the southern boundary of the City and the Old Town, have all been left out. You’d be more surprised that the vast forests that lie beyond the farmland have vanished. Great fields stretch out to the edges of the table. Silos and barns and sheds, huge and made of metal, not timber and thatch, cluster in identical farms laid out equidistant. Wide straight roads run North, South, East and West into the city, smooth as paper, where now there are only trackways and paths. The Old Road, that has linked the City to the harbour from the time before the Great Hunger, has disappeared.

Ferris runs a hand along one of the roads and inspects the grey mark on his thumb.

Strange machines harvest the crops, each with a tiny figure in white overalls and red helmet piloting it. He leans down and touches one. No horses anywhere.

At the edge of the model, the geology is labelled. Arrows point to coal seams, lead, tin, and oil for lighting and a metal called aluminium on the northern margin. A new structure, something he’s never seen before reaches up, like a fortress but not a fortress, gleaming steel sheds and towers and gantries, pure, silver and glistening. Pipes snake round the sheds and silos, branching into off-shoots and re-joining. They fuse into a massive bulge, like a tumour, out of which a chimney rises higher than any of the forest trees. Great wagons enter and leave, laden with minerals and devices and crates.

He points:

‘No horses, everything powers itself. This is Franklin’s dream.’

‘Franklin’s no dreamer.’

Smaller roads run between the four great roads, binding them together, like a net cast over Market World. Metal castles stand at the junctions of the highways and the lesser roads. A wisp of cotton-wool smoke issues vertically from one of the chimneys. The forest is gone and with it the villages. Just one remains, thatched cottages, an ancient windmill and women queueing to draw water from the well. Children chase ducks into a pond and labourers rest on the bench at the door of the public house on the other side of the village green.

Rachel reaches down and touches the tip of the church spire.

‘Franklin’s dream has the potential to enrich everyone in the entire City, that’s what he says. They leaked it months back and the final report has been circulating for at least a week. There’s no denying that people like him.’

‘You don’t trust him, do you?’

She touches the balance at her throat. ‘Does anyone?’

‘I don’t trust this model.’

‘No-one trusts it. They just think it’s the way forward.’

‘It’s the Entrepreneurs – they always want more.’

She smiles and places her hand on his sleeve. ‘Times are changing, Paul. Maybe it’s time to change with them.’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps Franklin has over-reached himself. Popular or not, we should never have given him the contract for security and re-education in the Old Town.’

‘He offered the best value for money. There have been no complaints. Like I said, people like him, and it is election year. He has a silver tongue.’

‘No complaints. No news at all, only rumours. When did you last receive a report you could trust about what goes on in his factories? He has some scheme underway. I trust him no more than I trust his smile – or his plan.’

Ferris fixes his eyes on hers. She returns his gaze.

‘I have my duty to the people of Market World. If this proposal makes us all richer I must support it.’

‘Of course. And I have my duty to enforce the One Law. I hope the meeting goes well.’

Rachel pauses outside the entrance to the Great Hall. Weariness drags at her. She unwraps a miniature chocolate truffle without looking at it, slips it between her lips and crushes it with her tongue. The coarse sweet relish of it overwhelms everything for an instant. She touches the other chocolate in her pocket with her finger-tips.

Footsteps patter towards her.

‘Madam?’ Esther, her assistant, holds out the wine-red folder. ‘The meeting papers, and the proposal.’

She stands back respectfully. Her dark hair is tied back and she wears no jewellery.

‘Esther. I trust you, you know that.’

‘Madam?’

Rachel puts the back of her hand against her mouth. ‘No matter.’

She closes her eyes for a moment.

‘Madam, they’re waiting for you.’

Her eyes snap open. She straightens her back.

‘Excellent.’

She sweeps through the double doors into the Great Hall. The room in which the City Council meets is high-ceilinged, with oak panelling and a glass wall on the right. She glances out over the city, her city. The only buildings taller than the Halls of Justice are the great towers of the Entrepreneurs, stretching upwards – the Dagger, with the gold-plated hilt, balanced on its impossible point, the Swan with its graceful tower curling over to the helipad, and the red scaffolding where they’re rebuilding the right wing, and the others in the haze behind them. Franklin’s Tower, tallest of all of them, stands directly opposite, black steel-clad concrete studded with myriad windows. Sometimes she thinks she sees tiny figures in those windows staring down at her.

The boulevards stretch out like canyons between the boutiques and stores and market halls of the centre, out to the residence blocks and shops and supermarkets of the suburbs and beyond, to the yellow and brown of the fields and the green of the hills and the dark fringe of distant forest. Only the Enforcers go beyond the cultivated land. That’s where Franklin’s dream lies. That is the world over which he would cast his web.

The southern suburbs are only visible if you open a window and lean out – the first city, the Old Town, as people call it now, residence blocks, sheds and mean timber housing jumbled together with alleyways and paths and cobbled streets snaking among them. Franklin’s factories are there, somewhere among it all, crouching behind their metal ramparts with their giant chimneys, and, although no-one talks of it, his Security Centre.

For one instant she feels the weight of it all.

She slaps the folder down on the oak table that runs the length of the room. The golden balance at the right-hand corner of the table, the emblem of the City, quivers. The Council members rise to their feet, the Citizen Delegates to her right, six of them in work clothes, neat and decent, all watching her, and the representatives of the Entrepreneurs’ Guild on her left. The Entrepreneurs wear pin-striped business suits. Their hair is neatly trimmed. Guild pins sparkle at their lapels. They spread their elbows and let their notepads and folders sprawl across the table. Their assistants sit on upright chairs behind them, along the wall.

She keeps her eyes on Franklin at the far end of the table. He pulls himself to his feet. His jowls sag to a double-chin and his blond hair is combed forward over a bald patch. He’s built like a barrel and he watches her with the eyes of a hunting dog.

You’re out of condition, she thinks, but you’re still dangerous. No-one knows how old he is or which generation of Franklins he comes from. There has always been a Franklin, since Franklin long ago made the first trade and set up the first market. Trade and the