Death is One of the Main Characters

It was surprising how quickly the old order fell. Hunkered in Balmoral, the Windsors and forces loyal to them tried to break out and take the rest of Scotland, but only got as far as Aberdeen before getting bogged down. Regime die-hards in Essex and Kent tried their best to harry the Rebellion's flanks, but were no match for the London Legion, the ragtag force of army deserters and citizen soldiers who fought so hard to free the port at Tilbury. And when units from newly-liberated Kernow marched to the Legion's aid, the diehards were forced into full retreat, besieged in Dover, where no supplies came because France, angered at the Windsors' decision to carry out a murder on their soil, was blockading all traffic. Some made their escape on small boats, washing up on the shores of the Channel Islands, and learned the hard way that the people of Jersey and Guernsey hated outsiders just as much as they did - and this time they were the outsiders. Few were surprised at how quickly the crapauds moved to re-open the camps left over from the Nazi invasion, this time for the 'resettlement' of English refugees, whose bitter complaints about their conditions fell on deaf ears in the islands. 

Meanwhile, in the liberated territories, the Rebellion got down to the business of forming a government. In honour of his great sacrifice, Freddie Mercury was grated the ceremonial title of First Citizen in a ceremony at the Tower of London, in which he emerged resplendent in the Crown Jewels of the former regime, each of which he ritually cast off and threw in a skip (they would later be broken down, and their gemstones, such as the famed Koh-i-noor diamond, returned to the countries from which the Windsors' ancestors had stolen them). It was decided that the United Kingdom should become a Union of five independent Republics: Scotland, Northumbria, Cymru, Kernow and Anglia, joined together in the name of Albia (a combination of the ancient names of these lands; a new goddess, stronger and brighter than tired old Britannia). As a fraternal gesture, the newly-united Republic of Ireland was invited to join us as well: for entirely understandable reasons, they declined, though officially the offer remains open. 

But for me and my parents, in Newcastle, life went on pretty much as before, barring six weeks or so of turmoil as regime loyalists tried to take the city. My mother reported on as much of it as she could for the Chronicle: it was tough, seeing her heading out in her flak jacket and helmet labelled PRESS, knowing we might not see her again. Dad did his best to look after me and my brother, keeping the war from the door and food on the table, and wondering what it would be like when he went back to teaching once fighting died down. 

By April things were mostly back to normal. Dad was back in school: he liked to say that whatever regime was in power, biology never changed, and however they decided to structure the curriculum he could teach kids about mitochondria and cellular meiosis just the same. But really, he cared for his kids: not just me and Jim, but the kids he'd taught, who he'd worried about during those weeks of explosions, sirens and uncertainty. Some seats in his classroom were empty; some would be filled by kids from other classes, whose teachers weren't lucky enough to return. None were the same as they were before the war broke out, but dad did his best to keep their spirits up, and did well. More than once, I've ran into one or another of his former students, who's told me how much he helped them cope. 

April, of course, is when I found myself part of the war. Some of that story has been told before, but some details were left out, and sanitised, to maintain the myth of the Tintin-like adventurer who foiled the Lipstick Plot. The truth, however, is a little grubbier and a lot more disturbing, but I think it needs to be told here both because I have to tell my own truth, and because it sheds a light on the kind of people employed by the old regime to do its dirty work. So, here is the story of how I killed a woman, at the tender age of just thirteen. 

As I say, things were returning to normal in Newcastle. The city was excited for the big speech First Citizen Mercury was going to make at City Hall, and my mum was working overtime reporting on the preparations. One Saturday, dad took my brother and me up to see her for a pub lunch at the Printer's Pie, the pub on Pudding Chare where the Chronicle journos went drinking. As a special treat, I was given some money and, while Jim and Dad waited for mum, allowed to walk the short distance to Forbidden Planet, where I could buy some of my favourite things - comics.

New issues were tricky to get hold of, of course, though cargo was coming through Liverpool and other Western ports again, but there was still a wealth of back issues to choose from. My tastes in those days ran mostly to superhero stuff, though I'd started branching out: I read Alan Moore's V for Vendetta in one sitting during one of the worst nights of the war in Northumbria, the sounds of real-life shelling mingling with the silent fireworks and explosions of David Lloyd's art. And I was looking at a recent work by another of those Albian Invaders, Neil Gaiman, when she came up to me. 

'Hello boy,' she said, in a surprisingly husky voice. 'What's that you're looking at?' 

I showed her the cover: a picture of a young boy with dark hair and glasses, riding a skateboard, followed by an owl. 'The Books of Magic,' I told her. 'It's about this kid who learns to be a wizard.' 

'Really? And is that what kids like these days? Boy wizards?'

I shrugged. There was something kind of weird about the way she said boy, but I figured that was probably just my dysphoria. 'I guess. It's a bit of an archetype, isn't it? You know, like Ged from Earthsea and that. The main thing is the guy who writes it, Neil Gaiman. He writes this book called Sandman which everyone's always raving about...'

She clapped her hands together and smiled. 'My! Archetypes and Earthsea! You are a bright child, aren't you?'

I blushed. 'I wouldn't say that, I just read a lot...'

'I can see that! So what is this Sandman about?'

'Well I've not read it yet, but from what I've seen it's kind of goth. You know, black clothes and graveyards and that. Death is one of the main characters.'

'Hmmmm! You know, speaking of graveyards, I discovered a really interesting grave in the churchyard of St John the Baptist, just across the road. A poet's grave, actually. I could show you, if you like.'

Going with her was naive, I know, but in my defence, I was young, and all the stranger danger videos I'd been exposed to in the eighties had told me to be wary of creepy dudes with stubble and booze on their breath, not posh, well-dressed women who talked about books. 'Just let me get this first,' I told her. 

It wasn't far from the shop to the churchyard, and it was on the way to the pub anyway. The lady was looking around a lot, but that was by no means unusual: after all, there was a war on. 

When we got to the churchyard she began to slow down, walking a little behind me. 'Where's this gravestone?' I asked her. 

'Just there,' she pointed. And then, while I looked in the direction of one of those old black headstones, she kicked me in the small of the back and knocked me to the ground. 

She was on top of me almost immediately, grabbing at the waistband of my jeans, trying to shove her hand inside, muttering 'Bloody fat children...have you even got a dick under all this pork, you piggy little cunt...'

Desperately, in shock, I thrashed around, managing to knock her arm away and get onto my back, but she was still on top of me. Frantically I got my hand into the pocket of my jacket. 

Things had largely gotten back to normal in Newcastle. But my mum still made sure both me and my brother carried knives. 

And so I stabbed her in the neck. Once, twice...I don't really remember how often. What I do remember is the look of horror in her eyes, the blood gushing out of her throat.

'You...you little...fucking....cunt...' she gargled, as if she was drowning. 'I was going...going...to...'

I scrabbled back against the gravestone and watched her fall to the ground. My heart was pounding. My breath came in ragged gasps. And suddenly I was aware of another man running into the graveyard, a balding, grey-haired man in a trenchcoat, a gun in his hand. 

I dropped the knife and threw my hands out. 'It wasn't me!' I shouted out instinctively. 

He lowered the gun, looked around, and returned it to his holster. He knelt over the woman's body, checked her pulse, then looked at me. 'It's alright,' he said, in a sonorous, Welsh-inflected London accent. 'It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you.' He reached into his coat and pulled out a badge. 'I'm a Republic Intelligencer. My name's Iain. And you are?' 

I told him my deadname, which I still went by in those days. 'That's a nice name,' he said, and produced a walkie-talkie from inside his trenchcoat. 'Listen, I need to call one of my colleagues, okay? Will you be alright while I do that?'

I nodded, and he got on the radio. As I began to calm down I looked down at the ground and saw the cover of my copy of The Books of Magic had been stained with blood. A rivulet of arterial spray, crossing the face of the protagonist, Timothy Hunter. On his forehead. Just above his glasses. Like a scar.