Reuben

Joseph was sitting at the bus stop next to his C4 prescribed briefcase when he first saw the woman he would later come to know as Marilyn.

She was so nervous she was barely upright, and as he watched her flit across the road towards him, he saw eyes red-raw with tears and tiredness.

She was clearly a Class 5. He could tell by her clothes; a colourless linen pinafore and equally tepid turtleneck, somewhere between brown and grey.

She clutched to her chest a tan leather satchel and hurriedly placed it at his feet. It was nothing like his mandated labourer’s briefcase, which was dull and heavy and made from something resembling leather that he preferred not to think about too deeply. No, this was like the craftsmanship of the old time. There was nothing like this around anymore.

She scurried off as quickly as she came, and, in a blink, she was gone.

Joseph looked down at the satchel, hoping its supple skin and delicate stitching might reveal more about its bearer, but was shocked to find a mans hand, rugged and ringed, already gripping the handle of his own bulky briefcase and wrenching it away.

“Dumb sheila,” said the voice that belonged to the hand, and Joseph shielded his eyes from the sun trying to catch a glimpse of the face that went with it.

The man, who Joseph would also later come to know on a first name basis, was one of the more peculiar C3s he’d come across. Or perhaps he was a C2? Joseph couldn’t be sure; all the usual identifiers were unusually at odds with each other. The hair - a sort of reddy brown, tinged with gold and silver - was pulled tight and low into a long curled pony tail. That indicated C3, as did the white bondy stretched taught over a bloated gut and tucked into belted jeans. The shoes though? They were a different story. And the belt buckle... far too shiny. Joseph actually hadn’t seen either of them before, but he also hadn’t come across many 2s.

The pony tailed man strides to the kerb with Joseph’s briefcase and gets on the bus, disappearing with the hiss and clunk of clumsy air brakes and metal doors.

Joseph fumbles in his pocket for his bus pass and makes a feeble attempt at going after it, but resigns himself to waiting for the next one. They were on a strict 6 minute schedule, so it wouldn’t be long.

He used to drive to work before it all changed, but only the Class 1s and 2s were allowed to drive now. Joseph was a Class 4, comfortably hidden in the middle with just enough brain and skill not to be relegated to the sewers. Not high enough to be noticed in the street but not low enough to be looked down on either. Just the way he liked it. For the most part he was left alone, occasionally making eye contact with other 3s and 4s with whom he was allowed to share the bus.

Joseph toed the kerb in worn black work boots, his body trying to make sense of the agitation in his mind as he ran over the details of the unnerving encounter. He notices a worn black leather notebook clinging to the edge of the gutter, right where the man with the pony tail got on the bus. Looking over his shoulder, he picks it up and before his brain realises where his legs are taking him, he finds himself sitting in the private stalls of the public restrooms.

The black leather notebook was so worn it was almost grey, and the corners were gently curved in such a way that it had surely been eased in and out of the same back pocket at least a thousand times.

He opens the careworn cover and sees a singular scrawl on crisp white paper. The pages preceding it have all been torn out.

“Jack Torben, Middleground Finishing School, 3:17pm.”

Completely mystified, Joseph looks down to the leather satchel and unbuckles the heavy clasp. It was filled to the top with hurriedly stacked notes, all in the old money, and certainly at least $20,000. No one traded in this currency any more. In fact the punishment for having it was beyond the contents of the satchel alone.

A ransome maybe? A bounty? A kidnapper's fee? Joseph knew there were a few of those happening lately, even though they tried to keep it out of the news.

A decisive knock on the cubicle door interrupts Joseph’s thoughts.

“I believe you have something that belongs to me fella,” came the low rumble.

“Hand it over and I’ll forget your face.”

Joseph rushes the worn notebook and leather satchel under the door without a word.

“Thanks brother. I believe this one's yours.”

He shuffles Joseph's bulky brown case back across the tiles with a polished toe.

Unusually cordial for a crim, Joseph thinks, as he does his best to regain some semblance of composure back to the bus stop.

The bus arrives with a familiar hiss and clunk and the driver asks Joseph where he’s headed.

“Middleground, please,” he says, against all better judgement. He’d never been to Middleground before in his life; or since it had been renamed Middleground at least.

He didn’t even know if it was approved for C4s, but it was too late for that now.

The clock ticks over to 3:12 and Joseph steps off the bus onto the millimetre perfect lawn of a quiet residential street.

“Middleground Finishing School” reads the gilded sign across the road.

A swish black van that could surely only be reserved for the Class 1s rolls into the school car park. Instinctively, Joseph moves back off the nature strip to seek a little more obscurity from any watchful eyes.

He’s startled to see the same pony tailed man from before getting out of the van, only this time he’s immaculately dressed. Waistcoat, tailored pants, pocket watch, cane. Joseph had never seen anyone dress this way before, not even the 1s.

He marches through the school gates and comes out not 60 seconds later with a blonde haired, blue eyed boy that can’t have been much more than 3 years old.

“Where’s Lydia?” the boy asks, “she always comes to get me with mama.”

“Your mum has come to pick you up today fella. I bet you’ve missed her.”

He slides open the back door of the black van and inside is the C5, Marilyn, from this morning, same grey-brown linen pinafore and desperate, swollen eyes. She lets out a shriek and pulls the boy into what appears to be long awaited embrace.

This must be her son, Joseph thought. The children had all been redistributed to C1 families during the changeover. They were deemed the only class worthy of teaching the new way.

“Dumb sheila,” the bloke says again, shaking his head as he slams the door shut to stifle the emotional reunion.

The van takes off quickly before another one arrives in its place. 3:17pm, just like the black notebook said.

This time a woman gets out. She doesn’t belong to any of the main classes, but she’s wearing an olive green cotton shirt and skirt, which means she must be the house m’aam of one of the C1 families. Perhaps this was Lydia?

A familiar low rumble comes from over Joseph’s shoulder.

“You can help with the next one if you’re so interested, brother.”

He whips around to see the pony tailed man standing before him. He was calm, not menacing, and smiling with an air of faint amusement and curiosity. He hands Joseph the worn leather notebook and chuckles, bloated belly jiggling under tailored waistcoat.

Finally Joseph gets a good look at the man’s face.

One of his pupils is permanently dialated, a souvenir from a brutal car accident when we was a boy, and terrifying scars criss cross his mouth and cheeks from disfiguring acne.

Joseph opens the book to read the next decisive scrawl. He could barely stand from the shock.

“Reuben Amos. North Port Primary. 4:35pm”

He knew that name. In fact, he'd chosen it himself. He liked Reuben for its literal simplicity, it meant "behold, a son".

Joseph's racing thoughts are interrupted by the scene of hysteria now playing out in the Finishing School car park. Lydia is back at the van empty handed, and her C1 is screeching in bitter torment.

“Where is he, where is my son?! Somebody’s taken my son!!”

A firm hand clasps his shoulder and snaps him back to the present. His ears fill with a low rumble,

“Do you want to get yer boy back, Joseph?”

Joseph could barely muster a nod as his brain pieced together the puzzle that had been laid out before him. The satchel, the cash. It wasn't a kidnapper's fee, it was a retrieval one.

The underclasses were paying to take back their own kids.

The pony tailed man handed Joseph back the leather satchel. Only this time it was empty, and Joseph knew what he had to do.