Page 12 of Crocodile Tears
Neil liked to listen to trashy music as he drove. Alex tried to block it out; his own tastes ran more to Pre-R rock, but he couldn’t be bothered with an argument, so he leaned back in his seat and gazed out of the window, watching the world go by.
They soon left Oxford far behind. Cambridge had disappeared beneath the water decades ago, but Oxford had remained. It was still as prestigious as ever, but, like the rest of the world, had been forced to adapt. Further education was a luxury few could afford, so Oxfordnow offered degrees in subjects it had never troubled with before, simply to attract students.
“Did you hear they’re building floating cities now?” Neil said as the duck splashed through a lost zone. “Next step will be floating roads, and one day we won’t need ducks at all. We’ll be able to drive everywhere on dry land, like they did before the Rising.”
“I like driving through the water,” Alex said moodily, staring out of the window.
It was a beautiful autumn day, and the trees were a riot of orange and brown. They drove alongside a lost zone for several miles, the water gleaming silvery-grey in the bright sunlight, fallen leaves floating on the surface, dotting it with different warm hues.
“Do you ever wonder what it was like?” Alex asked suddenly.
“What was what like?” Neil glanced at him.
“Life in the old days – before the Rising.”
“Not really.”
“I like watching old movies – the really old ones, from before – just so I can imagine what it was like to live back then.”
“Why?” Neil asked blankly.
“Did you never think how different your life would have been if the Rising hadn’t happened?” Alex asked. “I mean, there were no indentured servants before the floods.”
“It was a long time ago,” Neil dismissed, missing the point entirely.
“What’s your history?” Alex glanced sideways at him. “Where did your family come from? Were they displaced in the Rising?”
“My grandmother’s family lived in Great Yarmouth, which of course was one of those coastal towns that completely disappeared. A nice woman took her whole family in – mother, father, and two sisters.”
“It seems like there was a good feeling back then, at the start,” Alex said. “Everyone mucked in to help out.”
“Maybe, but you couldn’t expect it to last. It’s all very well putting up with homeless people in your house for a few weeks, but when the whole world is falling to pieces and there’s no prospect of them ever leaving because the refugee camps are full to bursting, and the governmentcan’t provide enough housing… well, you can see why they had to come up with a different solution.”
Neil had a point. After a while, people’s goodwill had worn thin, and they’d demanded assistance with their unwanted burden. Anxious to avoid the kind of warfare that was tearing Europe apart, the government had created the indentured servant system. Refugees provided services such as cooking, cleaning, and childcare – anything to help out – and in return, they received accommodation, food, clothing, and medical insurance from those who took them in. It was only supposed to be temporary, but over time the system had developed to become an entrenched part of society.
Now, there was an Indentured Servant Agency to oversee their welfare, and a separate court system devoted solely to them. Servitude became an acceptable penalty for most non-violent crimes – the government was delighted not to have to house criminals when land was at a premium and money was in short supply.
People frequently sold themselves into service to escape terrible living conditions, or to provide a lump sum for family members, and the economy had grown to rely on them. A new type of fraud had emerged where servants took a signing fee and then absconded, so now they were required by law to wear identification necklaces and be implanted with microchips. Slowly but surely, the system had become embedded in all aspects of everyday life.
They passed alongside another lost zone. The buildings rising up out of the water were a greenish-brown, covered in moss. Their windows were dark, the glass long since gone, making them look like gaping mouths, wide open and begging for food. Dozens of rope ladders covered them like scars, stretching between the buildings, linking them and dipping down into the water beneath, where a number of rafts bobbed. Raw sewage was clearly visible floating on the top of the water, turning it into stinking brown sludge.
“Quarterlands,” Neil said with a shudder, locking the duck doors.
Those who refused to become indentured servants had taken refuge in the thousands of abandoned high-rise housing estates. There was no electricity, fresh water, or sanitation; they were violent, disease-ridden places, but they had become a sanctuary, of sorts, for the lost and dispossessed.
“I don’t know why you locked the doors,” Alex said. “Anyone living there would have to scale down the side of their building and paddle their way over here on a raft – we’ll be long gone by then.”
“All Quarterlanders are scum,” Neil said firmly. “You can’t be too careful in areas like this.”
Nevertheless, Alex felt the crumbling old buildings had an air of forlorn majesty. He took out his notebook and sketched a few in passing, adding wings so they could fly, free of their flooded earthly prison.
“I love your drawings,” Neil said. Alex glanced at him in surprise. “I pick up the ones you leave around the flat and keep them in a little folder, because I’m sure one day you’re going to be a famous artist, and then they’ll be worth something.”
Alex snorted. “I doubt it. They’re just doodles.”
“No – they’re good. You’re really talented. I’ve often wondered why you aren’t doing an art degree. I mean, why business? It seems like such a dry subject for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” He lowered his sunglasses and arched an eyebrow.
