Broken City

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

 “I like a warm welcome,” Tom takes my hand and the gun in his. “Next time Deeta remember the safety catch.”

“Did you find anyone?” asks Ralph.

“Yes.”

Tom doesn’t elaborate but I know that we are safe again, before us rising out of the rubble is another group of buildings.

“Is that it, Tom, Marshall Territory?” I ask breathlessly.

“Yes.”

The disapproval in his voice is pronounced.

“Tom, why is it you and Dad were so annoyed that we had to come here? Dad said it was an unpalatable situation.”

Tom is so silent that for a while I think he will ignore my question.

“The Marshall’s have a reputation for being ruthless.”

“They’re cruel?”

“Maybe just canny, but in a certain situation to a certain set of people it amounts to the same thing.”

“How do you mean?”

“The Marshall’s will help anyone Deeta—but only for a price, for different people it’s a different price.”

“What was our price, Tom?” I ask fearfully.

“We didn’t have any time, we were desperate and had to agree to anything.”

Fear, icy cold and paralyzing, wraps itself around my heart.

“Tom, what is it—what did we agree to?”

“Our tribe was our price Deeta, usually when they absorb a tribe they select one of the tribal elders to serve on the Marshall council, but we had no choice but to take whatever they offered us and they didn’t offer one of our elders a place on their board. We’re Marshalls now; our lives will be governed by the Marshall high council and we must obey their laws, our own are obsolete.”

For a while it seems hard to take in and I don’t understand why it will be so different.

“Will it be so very bad, Tom?”

Tom pauses and taking my arm pulls me round to face him.

“They have a draft Deeta!”

“A what?”

“A draft, all those over the age of thirteen must enter the guard—it’s obligatory.”

“You mean me too?” my tone is horrified.

“I mean you, Clare, Jan, Ralph and Ricky—all of you.”

“But we can’t, can we?”

I hear uncertainty in my voice and am rather surprised that I’m not having full blown hysterics.

“You’ll have to, we all will,” answers Tom beginning to move forwards again.

“Not you Tom—you don’t have to do anything, technically we’re not your tribe,” I smile. “Is it very bad manners to say that I wish it was your tribe going through this and not ours?”

“If it was my tribe we wouldn’t be in this position.”

 His voice is soft and for a second I think his statement has more than its surface meaning.

As we move into the Marshall territory I begin to notice its’ difference to our street and the streets we passed coming here. Our compound was a grey and dilapidated affair surrounded by buildings that were no more than ruins, here though all the buildings look as though they are being used.