Running Scared

As it is winter, I do not have to wait long for the knock on the door from Grahame. As soon as I get home from dinner, I busy myself with throwing on more layers of clothing; a heavy cardigan under my jacket, two more pairs of woolen socks, my toughest boots to fight off the creeping chill of the snow, a hand-knitted bobble-hat.

I learnt how to knit when I was younger at the advice of a worker at the orphanage. Employment, though rare, is beneficial in the purchase of extra items. Though our main source of currency is in food coupons, a job will enable you to earn what you wouldn't receive otherwise, depending on who your employer is. Because I'm self-employed, only in business during colder months, I trade knitted scarves, hats, gloves, jumpers for useful things. If I were to knit a jumper for a high-ranking employee of the electric plant, I could swap it for a half-hour more of electricity or heating. I tend to sway more towards warmth, using candles as a main source of light. It isn't fair for those who have no work but we do what we have to make our own lives bearable.

The heating and light in this building only lasts for a couple of hours, just after nightfall and sunrise, unless you've made a swap with an employee at the plant for a little more. The limited supply during the day is to conserve our resources, power only being used if absolutely necessary, such as in the factories where the Community's surviving industry lives. Even then, hours are short to cut power usage down and the deafening clunking and whirring of the machines inside can only be heard at specific times of the day - generally just after breakfast and before lunch.

With nothing left to do except wait, I ease myself into the ratty armchair in my small sitting room, my movements stiff from all the clothing I'm wearing. I tap my feet anxiously, starting to wonder whether I should back out of the run while I still can, as the light travels across the room, going from weak sunlight, to dazzling bright as it peaks on the horizon, then dusk.

Then I hear it. The gentlest rap on the door.

I hurry over, unbolt the lock to meet Grahame. He's stood an inch away from me, his hands wringing a hat - one of my creations, I notice - in agitation. For all of his calm demeanour earlier, out of sight from everyone but me in this moment, I can see the beads of sweat dampening his hairline even in the darkened corridor. I snap my door shut quickly and quietly, raise an eyebrow expectantly. I feel more ready than he looks.

Without speaking, he crams the hat onto his head and leads me to the closest staircase, holding the door open to let me pass. This is one of the easiest times to travel the stairs when you want to be alone because the last thing the majority of us want to do after dinner is to traverse up and down narrow flights of stairs; we tend to stick to our rooms during the next few hours, waiting patiently for the electricity to turn on.

I take one of the candle holders from a shelf - spare candles are kept here for such journeys during the night - and strike a match against the wall. It illuminates our faces, Grahame seems to be a sickly pale wan, his skin looking stretched and worn. As I light the candle, I wonder over Grahame and his increasing apprehension, whether it will affect him on the run and endanger us both.

Pep-talks are not one of my strong suits. We make it down to the twenty-second floor before I can summon what I think are the right words to calm him.

"We're going to be okay, Grahame. It's a simple task."

My voice carries and I hear myself echoing down through the depths of the pitch black stairs, hear my words fly back up and pass me by. Somewhere above us, another person is moving on the staircase but they're too far away to cause me any concern. Besides, the occupants of this building stick together - rarely do we come across the news that someone has leaked information on another person here. You have to be more wary outside, where dwellers of other flats eavesdrop purposely to curry favour with the Enforcers, our law protectors.

"I know." he replies, but the shakiness in this remark does not convince me that he believes it. We remain silent until we hit the ground floor, where I hurriedly extinguish the light from potential prying eyes.

Deciding that my soothing tones will not be enough, I pull him back by his jacket with surprising strength before he steps outside and fix him with a stern look.

"Look, you asked me to help you so I am but I can't let you go out there if you're going to put both our asses on the line. You need to suck it up. Can I trust you if we run into an Enforcer? Tell me you won't fall apart."

He shakes his head, as if to clear it, and matches my steely expression. His jaw is tight, a muscle twitching sporadically.

"I can do this." he says intently, yanking the still smoking candle from my hands and placing it onto its shelf.

"Good. Before we leave, were you given any instructions when you drew the long straw? Did they tell you where to go?" I ask, desperate to get this run over with.

Though I've never partaken in the Straw Draw, I've sometimes witnessed it. The staircases are the only place where it's not unusual for more than one person to congregate so naturally, it was nominated as the best location to discuss illegal transitions. Of course, you're still at risk of being overheard but chances are, if you're caught listening in on the conversation and the next day the Runner is arrested, the whole group will know it was probably you who snitched and you'll be marked out as one for the rest of your life. Our walls of communication may be broken down but to be ignored is considered better than to be targeted with filthy looks and insults muttered under bitter breath.

"Yes. I'm to go to Building 45, to the twelfth floor and find room 142. That's where Stanley lives."

"Ahh, " I think to myself. "We would get Stanley."

Stanley is notorious in the Community for being the best brewer of illegal alcohol, but also the worst drunk. It's incredible that he's gone this long unnoticed by Enforcers because he has a tendency to crawl through the streets, bleary eyed and hiccoughing, shouting nonsensical theories about the government and how they want to kill him. His kind of stupidity is in a league of its own. He hits the bottle more than the rest of us and I'm certain that the abuse he's put on his body has had a permanent effect because he never seems to be sober. This makes dealing with him both tiresome and taxing; there have been stories that he's knocked out a few of the Runners in unprovoked attacks, fixated with the idea that they're Enforcers in disguise, sent to catch him out. No wonder Grahame wanted me to accompany him.

"Right." I say brusquely, trying for a nonchalant approach to the whole damned thing. "Let's just get this alcohol then."

Graham nods, manages to reach the door in two enormous strides. I'm mumbling encouragements, telling myself that at least I can have a warm bath when I get back - the power should be on by then.

"Amelia?"

His hand is pressed flat against the exit. The hesitance in his voice makes me look straight into his eyes - I'm caught off-guard by it. He waits a heartbeat and tears his gaze away from me, to watch the snow tumbling down outside through the grimy window. His finger trails an obscure pattern on the frosty glass.

"I didn't have to draw the long straw. I volunteered for the job."



The streets are small, narrow, always dingy even when the streetlights are lit. It's a maze of passageways and alleys, wound between the sky-scraping flats; you're always cast in shadows even during the day. I didn't dare bring a candle with us though; the light from it will act as a glowing symbol, enough to bring in a wandering Enforcer in a three-building radius.

I'm still reeling from the news that Grahame willingly volunteered to be a Runner. This is a first to my ears, practically unprecedented in the Community. It's the whole point of the Straw Draw; there are no volunteers. If the draw didn't happen, no one would get their alcohol.

Despite all of my extra layers, I'm frozen to the bone. I have to clamp my jaw shut to keep teeth from chattering, have wrapped my scarf around my head for more warmth. Grahame, leading the way because the path requires us to walk single file, is hunched over, the wind rolling off his back and into my face. Somehow, snow has gotten into my best boots.

"Are we close to Building 45 yet?" I call to him. He doesn't turn back to me but holds a hand in the air, fingers splayed out: five minutes. I groan in exasperation but otherwise remain quiet.

The rest of our walk continues without event. We make it to Building 45, nearly identical to our own of 92, and hurriedly push our way into the hall, though it provides little relief for our numb limbs. 45 is an older model than our building. It's smaller, with only about twenty floors, built when the Community wasn't as populated as it is now, before the child law was instated. The same interior though; the broken lift with graffiti plastered over the immobile sliding doors, the relentless stairs, the distinctive brown paint flaking away from the walls.

"Floor 12?" I recall, trying to rub some feeling back into my fingers.

Grahame nods, his nose and cheeks a luminous red. "Room 142."

Just as he is about to start the ascension, I grab his arm and he jumps from the contact. I've touched him twice in one day, this must be a record in the Community. Hastily, I let go as if he has burned me and fold my arms across my chest.

"Remember, we're going to appear odd. Hopefully, we won't run into too many people on the stairs because it's after dinner but you never know. Always be cautious because we're from a different building, we don't know if we can trust these people." I murmur, waving for him to continue.

I'm under no illusions that the residents of Building 45 are conscious of the fact that Stanley, serial drunkard and master brewer of illegal beverages, lives here. They know that other members of the Community visit him regularly for the shortest of times, they probably visit him themselves, but it's not to say that some won't take advantage of the situation. There will be those who are willing to divulge details to Enforcers for a crumb of bread.

The journey is full of slow footsteps, continual checks for people below and above and diving into corners of darkness every time we hear a noise, no matter how faint. We do not use a candle which makes the climb even more unnerving, our hearing heightened by our useless sight. By the time we reach the twelfth floor, I'm a bundle of nerves, wondering how on earth we're going to make it back downstairs with our arms loaded with alcohol.

When we come out into the corridor, the power still off, our troubles truly begin with trying to find the right door in such poor lighting. It's as dark as a chasm, stretching on and on before us. The only thing that helps us are the flickering beams of candlelight flooding out from beneath doorways. We soundlessly feel the numbers on the doors, tracing the shapes with our fingers.

"Amelia!" Grahame whispers. "I think I found it!"

I turn my head in his direction, holding out my arms as I meander through the corridor. My fingers brush something solid and warm and I feel his own fingers curl around mine. I yank my hand away, harder than I mean to.

All Grahame does is breathe out an apology but there's something in the word that sounds mournful. I have no time to dwell on it because he's talking again, fast and hushed.

"I'm sure it is, have a feel of the door number. I can definitely make out 142. What do you think?"

I run my fingers over the door, locate the numbers and work out the curve of the two, the edges of the four, the line of the one.

"I think you're right. Should we knock?"

Neither of us are prepared when the door flies open and we're confronted by the infamous Stanley himself. A flabby man, with thin, greying hair combed over his head from one ear to the other, he scowls at us with red-rimmed eyes. The stench of liquor on his breath nearly overpowers me and I feel my eyes sting from it. All he is wearing is a thin dressing gown wrapped around his large belly, a stained vest and worn out socks, a yellowing toenail protruding from one of the many holes.

"All I can hear is you two muttering outside my door. Just fuckin' come in, will ya? I don't have time for this." He doesn't trouble himself to keep his voice down and instinctively, I peer down the corridor for a sign of anyone coming to inspect.

We seem to have caught Stanley at a good time. He doesn't appear to be at his most drunk right now and he certainly isn't throwing any punches yet. I glance at Grahame, who gives me the tiniest of nods before marching into Stanley's flat. I scamper behind him, wanting to be out of this building as soon as possible.

I hear Stanley talking to himself, a string of profanities and insults aimed at me and Grahame, apparently unconcerned about whether we hear or not.

"Fuckin' sendin' me kids now. Gets worse every bloody year."

"I'm twenty-five!" Grahame hisses indignantly but Stanley pays no attention. He's rummaging around behind one of his cupboards, pulling out bottle after bottle. Flapping a hand at Grahame, he throws a black backpack over, indicating for him to start loading up.

Stanley, under his drunken garble, explains we must deliver the drinks to Bob (no less than Head Chef Bob, of our local cafe), who will stealthily distribute the bottles at meal times in exchange for coupons or other such items used for payment from customers. These will be couriered to him, by Bob, as soon as possible. Our job ends when we get to Bob, something I am immensely grateful for.

As Grahame packs the last few bottles into the bag, Stanley finally seems to have acknowledged me. He blinks sluggishly and grabs a nearby candle to hold close to my face. I force myself to stand my ground, praying that he isn't about to use me as a punching bag.

"You're a pretty 'un, you are." he says, leaning in for a better look.

"OI!"

Both Stanley and I jolt in alarm, nearly headbutting each other in the process. Grahame has appeared in between us out of nowhere, shoving Stanley back while I watch on in surprise.

"Stay away from her." he growls, the black bag of alcohol forgotten and abandoned by the cupboard.

Stanley stares at Grahame with narrowed eyes, like he's a puzzle that is too hard to work out. I'm prepared to flee if we have to, turning my body towards the door. He doesn't do anything though, only walks heavily over to the bag and thrusts it into Grahame's chest.

"You need to be careful with those sorts of things, lad."

Grahame is momentarily perplexed, fully expecting a fight. He responds by raising his eyebrow, his voice turning cold.

"What's that supposed to mean? Careful of what?"

Stanley pushes us both out of his flat, uncorking a bottle for himself. He takes a swig before eyeing us with mystification, gives us one last word before slamming the door in our faces.

"Emotions."