Running Scared

We're protected by the darkness, the streetlights yet to flicker into life. Grahame is still fuming from our encounter with Stanley as we navigate our way through the lanes towards the cafe. Just as we were preparing to leave floor twelve, Stanley stuck his head out of the doorway of his flat to shout after us; we must deliver the you-know-what to you-know-who at his workplace. At least he had enough wits about him to keep the objects and person nameless.

"The way he was leering at you." Grahame mutters darkly, hoisting the bag higher over his shoulder. He's been saying this over and over all the while and I've found myself rolling my eyes on more than one occasion. I point out, for what I hope is the last time, that everything is fine.

"Besides, " I seethe, crunching my boots on the snow. "I can look after myself."

"I never said you couldn't! I'm just saying, the guy was a creep."

"Why is it such an issue for you? Stanley got a little too close for comfort, so what? Why should you care?"

Grahame balks at my words, his voice strained. "I never said I cared."

Of course, because to care would mean to endanger yourself. I never presumed he did anyway, it was more a slip of the tongue, nothing more. So why should he react so strongly to it? The rest of us would have just given an apathetic shrug of the shoulder, calmly stated our indifference to each other. There's something different about Grahame though, some part of him that doesn't quite keep up with the normal attitude here.

I sigh just as the lights in the street flare up. It takes a while for them to glow brightly enough to see past the end of your nose but their arrival makes me nervous, knowing that Enforcers will be prowling the streets soon, looking for agitators of the peace. Grahame is oblivious though thankfully, he seems to be keeping his thoughts to himself now.

But then I see something moving against the flurry of snow, something heavy enough to make enough noise for me to hear. Something that doesn't care that it is being heard - not likely, in our city - or something that simply isn't afraid at all. There's only one thing it could be...

I now notice the flash of red, a sure-fire way of identifying an Enforcer; standard red uniform, gun secured snugly at the hip. There was a time in this country when guns were banned but the law was lifted so our Enforcer's could keep the growing population under control. Occasionally, when there are riots in neighbouring cities, you hear of the terrible stories of people being shot down, innocent bystanders in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Enforcer's do not look upon us as individuals. To them, we are a collective, one large entity with a single mind.

My thoughts barely assembled, I panic and shove Grahame hard in the chest so that he stumbles back, bottles and all, into a heap of snow. It softens the landing - for him and the alcohol - even more importantly, the fall is noiseless because of the make-shift cushion. He's concealed behind a skip but if the Enforcer gets any closer, we're both in trouble. His mouth opens with indignation, a lecture no doubt coming my way but I motion wildly for him to shut up before turning back around just in time. The Enforcer steps into the beam of a streetlight and eyes me up.

"It's late." he sneers and I don't question it. To backchat an Enforcer would be the last thing you will ever do.

This one seems familiar to me and I realise I've seen him before; lurking around the Court, always hauling new prisoners in, his face void of any mercy. I think his name is Jones, his reputation known to be one of the worst Enforcer's to get messed up with.

"I'm just heading home. Couldn't sleep - needed a walk." I spit out bluntly. It's not uncommon for people to traverse the streets for a few minutes when they're bored - they usually only stick to a two-building perimeter though.

As if reading my mind, he leans in and scrutinises me, probably watching for signs of blatant lying. I force myself to relax, let my shoulders creep down a little, manage to unfurrow my brow. I'm confident I look as calm as allowed in such circumstances. Grahame should know to keep quiet; both our lives are at stake.

"Where's your building?"

"Ninety-two, sir."

"Bit far from home, aren't you?"

"I got lost." I say, immediately wanting to curse myself. Still, the lights have only just turned on and it's not impossible to lose yourself in the rows and rows of identical paths, the twists in the night that can lead you astray. Most of us know our way round by now, know the Community like the back of our hand even if we don't venture far from our assigned buildings. My age doesn't help my cause - I should have adequate knowledge of city routes by now - but I'm hoping that I come across younger than I actually am.

Jones weighs my words, blinks at me a few times with his steely grey eyes and steps back. I dare not even breathe as he surveys me once more before continuing on his beat, picking up a whistle that only sounds sinister in my ears. He pauses only to yell back at me, without turning, his face pointed up at the snow in the sky.

"Best get back to ninety-two, girl, before I come back around. I won't be so lenient if I catch you again. Nighty night."

It's a long while before I move again, even Grahame hasn't said a word but I know he's still crouching in the snow behind me, waiting for my word that the coast is clear. Jones' warning has fixed me to the spot, made me immobile from fear. It's only when the threat truly dawns on me that I spring back into action, spinning on the snowy floor so that I tumble into the wall to my right.

"Grahame - up, now. Please. Have to leave. Please." I gasp, seeing his pale face peer around the skip, his eyes wide with the terror that crushes us all in the Community. He's on his feet and by my side in a flash, his shoulder permanently stuck to mine unless we have to pass through a particularly narrow street, where he walks so close behind me that I can feel his hot breath stirring against the exposed skin on my neck.

I nearly tell Grahame to deliver the alcohol to Bob on his own but I'm either too concerned with being caught by Jones again or feel guilty about abandoning him after a chance encounter with an Enforcer. The sign of the cafe makes me quicken my step, Grahame practically running to keep up with me. When a disgruntled looking Bob opens the door to the cafe (after a sweeping surveillance of the streets around us), I feel like hugging him. We hand the bottles over a little too eagerly because Bob fixes us with a suspicious glare.

"Now, what's the matter with you two? Look mighty jumpy to me."

I wave a hand at him, look at Grahame with only the slightest hint of hysteria in my eyes.

"Nothing, just want to get home to the warmth. You try sneaking through the streets in the snow, see how you like it." I snap, my tone sharper than I mean for it to be. Bob doesn't seem to take notice of it though, doesn't know me well enough to know it's not usual for my character.

We're about to leave when Bob calls us back - he's holding out three bottles of alcohol, which Grahame hurriedly stores back in the black bag.

"Your share. I expect the payment for that one in the morning but the other two are free. One for each of you." he grumbles, snapping the door shut without another word.

Our walk back home is nerve-wracking, the both of us on constant vigilance. I scan the streets, strain my eyes to see the furthest points in case I catch any movement, ready at a second's notice to dart away if I do. I will not be caught again.

I'm close to tears of joy when we reach our building, never so glad to see it in the entirety of my life. I only really start to feel safe again when we're on the stairs, circling over and over as we climb higher to our floor. Grahame lets me lead, watchful of the floors we leave behind but I can tell how relieved he is to be under the full glare of the lightbulbs, can see it in the way he starts to lessen the amount of times he glances over his shoulder.

Breaking out onto our floor, I'm thankful that the ordeal is over, already thinking about the bath I'm going to run as I head to my door; the cold has gone so deep in me that I can feel it in my bones, radiating from the inside out. I'm shuddering as if I'm still outside.

Grahame has not gone into his room yet. He's stood stiffly by his own door with the black bag of alcohol in his clenched hands, watching me, deliberating.

"Grahame?"

He chews his lip, looks at his door then back at me again. The next thing he says is the last thing I assume.

"Do you want to come in?"