BLUEMANTLE by Karen Langston (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📕

“But a realisation? Of why some choose to follow?”

Chase dragged his eyes back to the space between them. He stared at their glasses, avoiding Ursel’s searching expression. “I think so. Yes.”

“Look at me.”

Chase hesitated, then looked up to meet her gaze. Something jolted inside him.

“I trust you,” she said. “But I need to be sure. If what you felt has changed your impression of the Scene, then I know I’m right about you.”

Chase closed his eyes and saw himself on the edge of a precipice. He couldn’t tell which direction it would mean to fall. He opened his eyes and looked into Ursel’s. “What I felt has changed everything.”

Ursel let out a deep breath and released her shoulder. Her whole body relaxed, like overstretched elastic. Taking a moment to regain her composure, she said at last, “There’s something I need to tell you.” She swallowed and reached out, touching his hand. “I’ve heard news. There’s going to be another chance to find Wella.”

–

“…so the old guy says to the barman, ‘You can keep your donkey. My chain’s too old for the pulling,’” at which Weldon cracked up, bent double with laughter.

Despite herself, Tinashe laughed too. The joke didn’t need to be funny; she felt Weldon had a way of telling them which made his own good humour infectious.

It was early evening. They had been playing leicon for an hour at the Bayley Road Sports Centre on the edge of Glade Park in Spire Wells. Having just finished a match, they were packing up their gear, red-faced and breathless.

The tension from their argument a week ago had been short-lived. Tinashe knew Weldon to be sensitive; his reaction to the swallow hole didn’t surprise her. His rant against ‘Users’, however, troubled her. She feared the degree to which he was influenced by the Authority’s escalating campaign, with its graphic demonisation of the Scene. Yet she knew Weldon’s response was the prevailing reaction. The murals made it easy for citizens to blame the Scene: a simple target and a plausible scapegoat.

He nudged her with his elbow. “Listen to this. I’ve got another one—”

“Save it for the journey.” She pulled out a pencil and a scrap of paper from her kit bag and scribbled something down. Folding the paper, she handed it to Weldon.

“What’s this?”

“Today’s score.”

Weldon unfolded the paper and read, “Weldon – twelve. Tinashe – twenty-one.”

“I noticed you failed to bring our score pad. Don’t want you forgetting the damage on the rare occasion I actually beat your bony arse.”

Weldon laughed and shoved the piece of paper in his wallet.

“Come on, let’s go,” she said. “We’re already late.”

They had arranged to meet Chase and Naylor at Su-Lin’s, a café on Third Went that specialised in traditional Wydeye street food. The café was little more than a timber shack, recently reinforced with recycled paper pasted to the walls to keep out the cloud. Inside, smoke-spewing braziers stood in the centre. A large hole in the roof allowed the smoke to escape and the patrons to breathe. Circling the braziers were an assortment of pallets and packing crates, roughly modified to function as tables and stools. Citizens perched, holding foil parcels in one hand, picking at the contents with the other. The menu was limited yet popular: kobbos, a spiced lentil cake, and balkra, cold curried meatballs, finished off with mishi, fried rice balls dipped in sugar syrup.

By the time they reached Su-Lin’s, Naylor had already arrived and was stood in the queue. He gestured with raised arm and a stabbing index finger towards a vacant table. Weldon responded with a thumbs-up and weaved a path over to the table, followed by Tinashe.

It had been nearly two weeks since the raids. Fear continued to loom large, with Special Forces maintaining an intimidating presence. New pictures appeared on the Wall of the Missing, including those of a number of children. No one dared to ask questions, or even to speculate. Citizens were well aware of the consequence of paying uninvited attention. And when any neighbour, work colleague or cousin could be an informer, talking in confidence required a high-risk faith in trust. Wary of threat from all sides, most citizens felt they had no choice but to hold their tongue.

Despite the air of fear and intimidation, the size and condition of most quarters, particularly in Rader, forced the issue of venturing out. As a result, the café was fairly busy.

Having queued for food, Naylor approached, arms loaded with parcels of wrapped foil. He let them tumble to the table and sat down. “Dig in,” he said, with a smile that didn’t appear to belong.

“Thanks,” said Tinashe, reaching for a parcel and teasing it open. “Where’s Chase?”

“I don’t know. He said he had to go somewhere but that he’d come after.”

Eyes down, they tasted the food in silence.

Tinashe glanced at Naylor. His fraught expression betrayed a mind elsewhere. “So, anyway,” she said, attempting to sound more casual than concerned, “how’s things with you?”

“Oh, you know. Head low, wings like the crow and all that.”

“And Clo?”

“Not so good. It’s that time of year again.”

“Oh yes, the Test. How did she get on?”

“Bad news. She has to resit.” Naylor shrugged, raising his eyebrows. “Oh well, there’s always next year.”

“That’s tough for her. Same thing’s happened to the son of a friend of mine. It’s not like it’s something you can revise for. And he’s one of these competitive types; he has to know where he went wrong so he can improve. But they don’t tell you, do they?”

“No. They don’t tell you anything. She’s the only one left in her grade that has to retake. It’s really knocked her confidence.” He let out a deep sigh. “Hopefully next time.”

Weldon reached over and picked up the remaining foil parcel. “I take it this is Chase’s? He’s too late. I’m claiming it.” He ripped open the parcel and tucked in.

“Actually,” said Naylor, “while he’s not here, there’s something I wanted to flag with you both. Not necessarily