This is the seventh chapter (and start of part two) of a novel being published in serial form in the Daily Sceptic. It’s a dystopian satire about the emergence of a social credit system in the UK in the near future. Read part one (the first six chapters) here.
At the school skate park watching Poppy practise, the smooth chromatic curves of the metallic bowl shimmer in the last of the afternoon sun.
“She’s very good, isn’t she?” Dr Phillip Cristoph-Renn, the mild-mannered Headmaster, nodded, approvingly.
“Yes, isn’t she just. And Verity, too.” Verity, Poppy’s best friend, like Poppy, perhaps because of Poppy, was also a devout rollerblader. Inseparable at the school since toddlerhood, they were now in their final year.
Ella watched mesmerised as the two girls glided around the park, bound together in a mimetic dance, the calm swooooooshing of roller blades timed to their graceful movements; up the ramp, down the ramp, up the ramp, down the ramp, pausing for a split second at each end on top of the deck, wheels hooked over the edges of the flat-ridged surface, spinning themselves around: seamlessly, perfectly, instinctively.
“Is she looking forward to the competition next weekend?” asked Dr Cristoph-Renn.
“Are you joking? We’ve heard almost nothing else for the last fortnight! She can’t wait. She pretty much sleeps in her rollerblades.”
“Well, it’s obviously paying off,” he continued. “I’m reliably told,” his mouth narrowing into a tight circle and enunciating his words in the very precise way he did, “they have a very good chance of getting through to the finals.”
“Yes, Poppy was telling me that too. Apparently the Darcy are favourites but we’re a close second.”
“Yes, well, good,” he said, “We shall see. Ah, Mrs Elentine, how nice to see you here,” he finished, ambling over to another parent and slightly bowing Ella a courteous goodbye.
Ella waved back. She had grown increasingly fond of good old Cristoph-Renn over the years, and after a short-lived spell in which she’d mistaken his placid demeanour and ruminative nature for timidity, or perhaps simply inertia, had come to learn that his mild mannerisms sheltered balls of unbreakable steal.
“Wow, Mama, did you see that one,” interjected Ted, his biggest sister’s physical prowess a constant source of awe. “When can I do that?” “Not quite yet darling,” Ella replied.
“Poppy!! Can you wrap up, please? We need to get back.”
It was nearing 4pm. Tomorrow she had the Zeeta Appeal hearing. She had a ton papers to read later that, true to form, Zeeta had dumped on them last minute. Plus, they had to collect Libby from art club on the way home – that would add another 20 minutes onto the bike ride home.
“Poppy, come here!! It’s time to go!”
Poppy skated to the furthest corner of the park, pretending not to hear. A twinge of irritation rose in her, but before she had time to act on it –
“Hiya!” came Shirles, beaming as she barrelled over to Ella.
“Afternoon!” replied Ella, smiling back, genuinely pleased to see her. “How’s it going with the Adamses?” The Adamses were Shirles’s new family; three boys, all at the school.
“Oh, you know, hard work! Boys, eh. Amazing this skate park, isn’t it? Can you believe we were all so cynical when he announced it?”
“I know. And it’s amazing. Probably the best thing in the school now.”
Fiercely independent, and proud of it, St Benedict’s had attracted national attention seven or eight years back when it had announced the skate park plan. As with all unorthodox ideas, ridicule outweighed praise. But Dr Cristoph-Renn had stuck to his guns, claiming it would be beneficial for the kids and trailblazing for the school. And, some half decade later with St Benedict’s now the pathfinder for the under-18s rollerblading national competition and the school’s two year wait-list largely pinned on the success of the initiative, he’d been proved right.
“I mean, it’s bloody obvious, isn’t it,” Shirles was saying, eyes fixated on Poppy, lost in a sport she loved. “Of course if you let kids do what they love, they’ll be happy. All this maths and science and exams and algebra, I mean, I’m sure they need all of that one day but just let them be kids, that’s what I say.”
“Eliot! Eliot!! Come back here! Sorry Ella, gotta run, these boys will be the death of me.”
Watching Shirles rushing off to capture her squally charge, Ella had to admit she’d thought the skate park an ‘out there’ an idea, too, when they’d first announced it. It had seemed wacky and radical and how on earth was it to be paid for and surely a school’s job ought to be to focus on English and Maths and exams, she’d remembered saying to Theo.
Come to think of the skatepark; what was Poppy still doing over there?
“Oi!!! Seriously. I’m going to get cross. It’s getting late and Ted’s getting hungry. Be reasonable. Come on!”
Poppy, glided obligingly towards them, “Let me stay longer Mum, I’m begging you. Can’t I just go home with Verity?” she asked. “We want to practise our top deck trick for the weekend. We’ll cycle home together.” “Please Mrs M, please,” Verity sailed over, “My Mam wouldn’t mind and we’ll go the route by the Complex, there’s no cars there.”
Ella froze, caught.
Nearly 13, they were going to have to start encouraging Poppy to find her own way home, at least some days. And, it was an undeniable irony that the area around the Complex was safe – stultifyingly, sanitisedly, stupefyingly safe. Provided, that was, that one was prepared to close one’s mind to the evils being orchestrated behind its gated doors.
But Poppy was barely just 12, Verity 11, it was close to five miles and, because they wouldn’t let Poppy have a BIM, Ella’s fault, of course, they’d have no way of contacting them. Not for the first time, she missed her phone. What irony, she thought.
Poppy, bang on cue, bleated, “You see Mum. It would be sooooo much easier if you’d let me have a BIM. Then you’d know I’d be fine.”
“Oh not this again Poppy. It’s a flat NO, you know that.”
“But why Mum?! It’s so unfair.”
Ted tugged at her leg.
“Mum, I’m hungry. Can I have some bread with the crusts off?”
“Come on Poppy, please come with us. It’s getting late.”
“Mum, just let me and Vez go back together.”
The tugging from Ted became a positive yank – he had some strength about him now – threatening to pull her bike leggings down. “Ted, hey little man, what you doing? We’re about to go, I promise.”
Letting the big guys go solo would have the advantage she could whizz back on the road. She’d risk her life on potholes, sure, but she’d shave 10 minutes off the journey that way, plus the extra 15 minutes escorting Verity back. 25 mins. That would be helpful with case prep.
Twenty-five minutes? For your child’s life? Seriously Ella.
She looked again at the sky. The light was fading quickly.
“No, darling, it’s a no. I’m sorry. What if something happens? We’d have no way of knowing.”
“Which is EXACTLY why I need a BIM!”
“Oh Mrs M, please”, piped up Verity. “My Mum let’s me go alone….”
Ella, firmer and a touch irate now.
“I’m sorry guys. It’s just no. Come on please, I’ve a ton of work still to do. We have to get back.” Poppy look stung. She glared as she and Verity bladed over towards their bikes.
“You don’t understand how important this is to me, Mum. We have a chance of winning the whole competition. It’s a really big deal and you’re nagging me to go home just cos you’ve got WORK to do!! It’s NOT FAIR.” She made a point of stomping one rollerbladed foot into the ground as she passed Ella.
“I’m sick of it Mum, your stuff ALWAYS beats our stuff!”.
And then, the kicker:
“Dad would have let us stay!!!”
Look out for chapter eight next week.
Molly Kingsley is a founder of children’s rights campaign group UsForThem.
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