Heartland

Guy Bigley is dragged down the corridor by two Redshirts, huge hands under each arm. His chained, bare feet scrape along the concrete between hastily constructed, uneven brick walls painted dark grey.

The Redshirts throw Guy in his cell, slam and lock the door. He crawls over to the filthy mattress spattered with brown stains and curls into a ball, grasping the bruises around his ribs and gut.

The cell is narrow, a four-by-eight, but high, with a slit in the end wall above the drain and beneath the hook screwed into the ceiling. Too far up to see through, but providing a little light and open to the elements – he can smell damp dirt, and the draft makes him shiver.

Once, a beetle flew in, legs dangling under its massive, black, shiny, body; carapace open, wings a' blur. Hadn't been able to get out, though. Guy had tried raising it on his fingertips, and it would take off, but it never found the slit again, just battered itself frantically against the walls, until it fell and died in the corner, wing-cases wedged open.

Guy gingerly feels his face, the slightest movement making him wince, but touches his fingers to his nose, where the blood had congealed and his top lip burst. He begins tentatively picking at the scabs, trying not to think about the hook.

Crimes Against the Heartland they'd said. Ha, like he was guilty of that. The accusation still filled him with terror, though, but he'd held out during the interrogation. Will have to resort to other methods, the Sergeant, three gleaming brass buttons on each epaulette, had said.

Guy instantly regretted saying, "epaulette." He was sure it made this beating extra savage. He was trying to impress them with his knowledge of the Executive Division but, of course, it was a filthy, foreign word.

Guy must've passed out, because he's startled by the hatch in the bottom of his cell door squealing open and a paper tray sliding through. His ankles are tangled in his chains, and his breathing is shallow. Both nostrils are fully blocked by caked blood and he can only breathe through his mouth.

On the tray is a paper plate, with cold, crusty turnip slices and some whitish lumps swimming in a grey gruel. There's no cutlery. Luckily, he can't smell or taste a thing, so he drinks from the plate and forces down the rest.

Guy immediately needs to relieve himself, but he can't – first he has to extract the locket from the only place he could hide it. He fishes around up inside, finds the chain and pulls it out, before shuffling over fast as he can and squats over the drain.

Despite its ordeal, his half of the locket dangling between his fingers still has some of its golden gleam, turning slowly left and right, this way and that, in the gloom. Like an inverted lower-case "l," it's the only colour in the cell. He crawls back to the mattress and turns it over.

Emagine smiles back, her picture tiny, but clear enough to see the freckles across the bridge of her nose, darker, even, than her olive skin and mass of curls.

He'd taken it on a hill overlooking the Olympic Park, bathed in bright sunshine. They'd only been together a few months at the time, both so full of hope, at what the future held for their country, and for themselves.

His finger traces the edge, from the sharp tip, around its curve and down to what he can't help but think of as the cleavage of this unanatomical heart, to the broken hinge.

What would she think, if she were looking back at him now? Seeing his puffy and swollen face, probably with two fat shiners, one eye only half open, nose crooked, face red, sore and blood-stained. Told you so, most likely.

At least he'd got her out. She wouldn't share his fate, thanks to him. He even envied her, now. He'd kept showing her the glossy brochure they'd sent of the island. Palm trees, white sands and azure waters. He saved every documentary and news clip for her, showing the repatriation territories, telling success stories of the expatriates making a new life there.

It was probably why they only let her take one small travel bag. Room on the ship, he'd supposed, but also, what would she really need once she was there? No doubt spending all her time in a skimpy bikini.

She'd still looked mostly baffled, and defeated, when they came for her. And despite taking out the locket from beneath her blouse, breaking it in two and handing him his half pointedly, Guy couldn't ignore the thoughts gnawing at his heart as the days and weeks passed, that she'd shacked up with someone new. A tall, dark, handsome other guy with great abs. She'd never called or written, he was blocked on all her socials, or she'd created new accounts. Emagine couldn't go long without posting her gorgeous photos.

Perhaps, he thinks, as his eyes close and he drifts off, he might only get deported and even be able to join her in this paradise and so, with a little glimmer of hope, he sleeps better than he has in days.

Guy jerks awake when his cell door is flung open and a man in a white coat, flanked by two Redshirts walks in.

'A Mr. Guy Bigley?'

Guy mutters a, 'Yes.'

'Just here for your blood test. Don't worry,' the doctor says cheerfully, 'you won't feel a thing.' He jabs a needle into Guy's forearm, and dark red blood spurts into the tube.

'There, all done.'

Guy, feeling queasy, asks, 'What's it for? When...'

'Will you get the results? Oh, very soon. We can turn things around quickly now we've cut all that bloody red tape.'

After the door slams and the bolts slide across, Guy rolls over, letting out a moan, and stares at the wall. There are scratches in the paint. Nothing intelligible, like some poor bastard was dragging their nails down. Though, there is one crude, flattened, sideways "X" which may or may not be the symbol of the Resistance. Guy scrapes an upright cross through it, so it ends up as an asterisk. Or a star. The brick moves slightly, like it's loose. That's odd, he thinks, but his mind is swimming. Did they give him something?

He finds himself chained to a metal chair in his cell, an officer sitting opposite. They must've brought them in. Two even bigger Redshirts stand either side.

The officer is leafing through some notes. 'Ah, you're awake,' he says. He has clear, grey eyes, and a calmness that gives Guy hope.

Guy doesn't bother trying to impress this time by counting the buttons or pointing out the gold embroidery on the officer's red jacket.

'So, let's see. Says here your voting record is exemplary. And you've expressed support for almost all our mandates.' The officer pauses and reads for a time, raising his eyebrows. 'And you registered your wife, that's very good.'

Guy smiles weakly.

'But recently you've been a bit… vocal, no? I mean, in one post you referred to it as, deportation?'

'I… I'm sorry, sir, I meant repatriation.'

'Hmm, but you go on to question us, don't you? If they're even going where we say.'

Guy stays silent.

'We interviewed your colleagues too, and they expressed some concerns. Said you'd become increasingly outspoken about the Heartland. Can't have that, can we lads?'

One of the Redshirts tuts, and the other grins.

Guy hangs his head, 'I was just missing my wife, sir.'

'Hmm. Well, you've been a loyal supporter, so not a complete lost cause I suppose. It's only Year Six, Mr. Bigley. You have to give the Division a chance. So much of the old ways to overturn. We're just setting out towards our glorious, sunlit uplands.'

Guy's spirits rise.

'Unfortunately, I also have here your DNA results,' he holds up a slip of paper. 'I'm afraid they're pretty conclusive – your maternal grandparents weren't from here, were they?'

'Er, I, don't know much about my background, except for a history of heart disease on my father's side, but he, and I have lived, worked and paid our taxes,' Guy heard his own voice rising, 'all our lives. Honest, hardworking blokes, us. I'm as much from here as you are. I'm one of you.'

'Now, now Mr. Bigley, shouting will only make things worse.' The officer hands his papers to one of the left Redshirts and leans forward. 'Look, I'm sorry, my hands are tied. Take comfort in the fact that in the end, you came good and did the right thing for the Heartland. Think of the resources and services you'll free up, the hospital beds, your pension.' He stands. 'Guy Bigley, I hereby sentence you to death by hanging, to be carried out at dawn.'

Guy can't sleep. He stares only at the locket, at Emagine's smile. He did think he might've been dreaming though when, at first light, a butterfly flew in and landed on the opposite wall, opening and closing its wings, concealing and revealing elegant, swirling patterns, mirrored on each side. No, not the same, symmetrical, yet complete opposites.

There is no last meal. The hatch does not squeal open. Instead, there are four, slow blows clanging on the door. Overcome with terror, all Guy can think to do is hide the locket. To leave at least the tiniest mark on the world. He remembers the brick.

A key is inserted in the lock.

Guy can swivel it enough to get his fingers round the corners. He turns it and pulls it out. Yes, a space behind.

The bolts slide back.

There's something in there already, gleaming. He reaches in. Half a locket. He turns it over and is confronted by his own younger face, peering back. Finally there are tears, and he realises this might be the first time he ever cried for anyone but himself.

A Redshirt with a metal mace stands by the cell door, while the other slings a chain up and over the hook, wraps one end around Guy's neck and hauls him up.

His legs dangle uselessly and feet kick, his body turning slowly left and right, this way and that.