Slated

Chapter 12

It turns out the Thame Show is a very big deal.

When Mum, Amy and I finally get there after inching along in traffic queues on rambling country lanes through fields and farm buildings, there is a long line of people waiting to go in. Everyone is in high spirits, chatting and jostling as they move slowly closer to the front. When we pass into the tent that covers the entrance, though, all fall silent.

There is a security gate that must be passed. Mum seems surprised. "They've upped this since last year," she says in a low voice.

But it doesn't seem to be this that has silenced the crowd. Overseeing it all are several men in grey suits, standing behind the security grill, unsmiling. Scanning the crowd. No one meets their eyes or looks at them directly, yet when everyone carefully looks everywhere but one place, it becomes obvious that is the place to watch.

Mum had explained on the way that the Thame Show began centuries ago, but had started to die down with the decline of the farming industry early in the 21st century, until it stopped altogether. With the big agricultural push for self-sufficiency by the Central Coalition decades later, it and other country shows were reinstated, and this is now one of the biggest. Bigger than it ever was.

When we get to the front we have to walk one at a time through the gate. Amy and I both set it off, of course, with our Levos. We are taken to one side, closer to the grey-suited men, and scanned head to toe.

With no reason for fear that I can identify, my hands start to shake. When they are done and wave us in, Amy takes mine in hers and almost has to half drag me on wobbly legs towards Mum, who waits.

"What's with you?" Amy says. "You've gone all white."

I shrug, and look down at my Levo: a little low at 4.6, but holding steady, now that I've remembered to start visualising green trees blue sky white clouds green trees blue sky white clouds...
Mum squints at me as we walk into the show. "Are the crowds too much for you, Kyla?" she asks, and slips her arm across my shoulders.

"I'm fine," I say, and with Amy on one side and Mum on the other, soon I am. And I'm not sure what even bothered me in the first place.

The show is all noise, with people and animals everywhere. Rich country smells fill the air. I find I am quite content to stick close to Mum, even when Amy disappears with her friends.

There are endless displays and competitions of fruit and vegetables and baked goods made from same; crafts and wood carving; livestock of all sorts in pens and in rings. Mum seems to know almost everyone, and says a few words now and then as we go along.

"Kyla! You made it," a voice calls from behind.

We turn, and there is Ben, and Tori. His smile is warm, but her hand is curled around his arm. This is mine, she is saying, and he is allowing it to be there.

Mum smiles. "Is that Ben? I haven't seen you since Amy stopped going to Group. You've gotten taller."

"Yes, Mrs Davis."

"Good timing," Mum says, waving at someone. "Can you keep an eye on Kyla? I'm going to have a drink with a friend."

I flush in embarrassment. Someone else asked to babysit.

"Of course," Ben says. "We were just thinking of going to the Sheep Show, if you'd like to come?"

Tori rolls her eyes. "Oh, joy. It is billed as the Miss World of sheep. I can hardly wait."

Mum raises an eyebrow. "You'd do well to take care with your words here today, young lady, she says, her own words now so quiet it is hard to hear them over all the voices and noise surrounding us. Then she disappears with her friend.

Tori's mouth drops open. "Who does she think she is?" she says, loud and bristly, ignoring Ben's ssssh.

"If you don't know, little girl, then I'll tell you," says a man standing behind us, who must have heard every word. "That is Sandra Armstrong-Davis."

"So?" Tori says, a hand on each hip.

"The daughter of William Adam M. Armstrong."

Understanding starts to cross Tori's face, but I am none the wiser.

"What does he mean?" I say, as we walk away.

"Don't you even know who your own mother is?" Tori says.

I look up at Ben, confused.

"She is the daughter of Wam the Man, who showed no mercy, and crushed the gangs back in the 2020s," he says. "He was the Lorder PM, before the terrorists blew him up."

"But I thought her parents died in a motorway accident," I say.

Tori laughs. "They did, if you call blowing up a motorway an accident."

"Are you all right?" Ben asks, and links his other arm with mine. "This is all stuff that happened a long, long time ago. I figured you'd know all about it."

"I'm fine," I lie.

We go to the Sheep Show. There are a variety of attractive sheep – if you're into that sort of thing – with interesting names, like Lady Gaga and Marilyn Monroe, all paraded about while their virtues are extolled, and then a prize ceremony. It seems so silly, that soon all of us – even Tori – are laughing and cheering along with the crowd. Marilyn wins.

Next is a sheep shearing demonstration. The ewe struggles at first. Then there is realisation in her eyes: this man pinning her down is too strong. She can do nothing but lie limply while sharp blades so close to her skin relieve her of her wool; nothing to keep her warm through the winter. Maybe that doesn't matter as she is nearing the end of the line.

Wonder if she is visualising her Happy Place to get through it?

Mum and Amy find me there. "Ready to go?" Mum asks, and I nod.

Leaving is easier than arriving; there are no security checks, and we just spill out a gate. But off to one side are a few men in grey suits, watching the exit. Checking faces, one by one, as everyone leaves. And as if they are standing in a collective blind spot, the crowd pretends they don't exist.

Late that night I stare at the ceiling. Amy confirmed Mum's family history. Why hadn't anyone told me?

Maybe it is because they knew I'd connect the dots in a way Amy would not. Mum's parents were killed by terrorists; her dad's life work was routing out and annihilating gangs that almost destroyed this country, long before Slating was a treatment option. Back then they were all put to death.

Yet now she is fostering two Slateds. Two new daughters who were criminals, no matter what they remember now. Who could very well have been gang members, terrorists, or even both.

And just when I am starting to feel like maybe, at least some of the time, I understand her and what she is about, now this. I find I don't get her, at all.

The other thing keeping me awake is those men in grey suits that everyone ignored. Somehow I couldn't quite bring myself to ask who they were, but for some reason their mere presence filled me with cold dread and fear. So much so it was hard to even move. But some small kernel of self-preservation inside made me go on, screaming don't make them notice you. Did I succeed? Amy had to help me walk when we arrived.

There is a slight sound, downstairs: Sebastian? He is not curled along my feet as usual; maybe, he can help me sleep. I slip out of bed and down the steps.

"Sebastian?" I call, softly, and walk into the dark kitchen, the floor cold under my bare feet. Goose bumps walk along my arms and up my spine.

I turn towards a movement, not so much a sound as a disturbance of air that is the wrong size and shape for a cat.

Light floods my eyes.

I open my mouth to scream.