Chunky-Knit Jumper

Later that day.

Trawsfynydd, Wales.

“I remember… not remembering why we had even been fighting,” Gemma said, playing with the rings on the chain around her neck. “But it was horrific.”

“You don’t remember now? Or you didn’t remember then,” Mike asked.

“Neither. Both. I think 23 was…not quite the height of my love of drink, but I was well into the ascent by then. Not a great year for me. Broke up a marriage and a band.”

“Your band! It was you and your husband?”

“Oh, yes. King Charles Xavier, the worst two-piece rock you’ve ever heard. His drums, my guitar. We played basement gigs in Leytonstone. Bloody terrible. I loved it.”

“And you were 23? What year was that? Twenty…”

“Christ, that would’ve been… 2018.”

“Pre-COVID!”

“Ha,” Gemma shook her head. “Old man Mike, still saying ‘pre-COVID.’”

“COVID was my 9/11,” he said.

Gemma rolled her eyes. “9/11 was your 9/11, Methuselah.”

“I was five! You were, what, six?”

She rubbed her fist over her heart and nodded. “Too young to bear such a burden.”

Mike slid up and down, and generally fidgeted, trying to find a slightly different position. They’d been crammed into this storage shed for a couple hours now, situated outside near the facility’s motor pool, waiting for nightfall. Gemma’s wild idea was that even though the shuttles were all automated, they didn’t used to be, as evidenced by the fact that a driver had to pick her up her first day. She wanted to gamble that the old, manual-drive vehicles were still in a garage somewhere, and maybe they could use one to get out. And after watching her get them out of the bunks in the first place, Mike wanted to let her do whatever she wanted.

“We’ve got at least another few hours until the sun goes down,” Gemma said, similarly fidgeting. “I’m not going to be able to fucking stand at the end of this.”

“And we’ll be caught immediately⁠—”

“And we’ll be caught immediately, yes.”

“I’m glad we agree on the hopelessness of this plan,” Mike said.

“Hopeless is where I thrive.”

“So,” Mike said, straightening up. “You’re rough with me about being hung up on my divorce from fifteen years ago, and you wear a wedding band from a divorce that was, what, a quarter-century ago.”

“Yeah,” Gemma scoffed, “but I don’t go round moaning about it now do I?”

“Do you ever hear from him?”

“I did, once or twice, not long after, just for admin-y type things. And his new wife reached out a few years later to invite me to his funeral.” She was staring at the ring, slowly rotating it back and forth, passing it between her fingers.

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m the one who murdered him.” Mike squinted. Gemma chuckled. “No. But see, I’ve cultivated a reputation such that you genuinely considered it.” She sighed, still looking down. “Car accident. In Cozumel, actually, on their honeymoon.”

“Jesus.”

“So cliché, really.” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Dying on your honeymoon. But in such a mundane way. Not quite poetry, that. I didn’t go, though. To the funeral. I couldn’t face him. I really couldn’t face her.”

“Why?”

“Too embarrassed? It’s a regret. I should’ve been there. I owed him that, at least. And her, because I don’t know. Because I was still jealous and angry.” She shook her head again, much bigger this time. “Ancient history.”

“Did you ever re-marry?”

Gemma started to crack up, then put her hand over her mouth to stifle it. “No, no, no,” she waved dismissively. “No. A lot of bad dates, a lot of bad sex. But nothing ever serious, except work. I got mad serious about work. I guess I wanted to prove to myself I wasn’t the fuck-up he died thinking I was.”

“That’s… heavy.” Mike nodded, trying to come off a bit sage-like.

“There’s that word again!” Gemma said in a low, manic whisper. “Is there something wrong with the Earth’s⁠—”

“—with the Earth’s gravitational field⁠—”

“—in your time?”

They both laughed as silently as they could. “Hey, though,” Mike added. “I’m impressed you found sex, even if it was bad. I think London’s slowly going celibate.”

“I KNOW!” Gemma whisper-shouted. “When did that start? This bloody generation. They refuse to touch for any reason.” She looked at Mike and smirked. “I should, before you uh, start tomcatting around our little slice of paradise here. I’m good on that.”

He nodded. “No, of course. I mean, you are my boss.”

“And yet,” she said, “you’re still trying to turn me on.”

A few more hours, and a few more stories later, they felt like it was almost certainly night. The sounds of random passers-by had also subsided, and they didn’t hear many doors closing, cars driving, or anything really. It was as good a time as any to burst out and be immediately caught on CCTV, they agreed.

Mike pushed the door to their hideaway open a bit and peered through the crack. It was what they’d been hoping to see: a car park, dimly lit by a smattering of halogen street lamps, with no people around at all. He looked over at Gemma and gave a cheesy thumbs-up. She bugged her eyes out and nodded a little. “What does that mean,” she whispered.

“Right,” he whispered, and slid it open a bit more to have a better look. A few metres away there were a handful of boxy white-and-blue shuttle buses, the kind with no manual controls whatsoever. Not useful. A slightly sleeker navy blue car with a prominent Magenta logo on the door, and also, no manual controls. Great. He turned back to Gemma and shrugged. She put her hand gently on his shoulder and pulled him away from the door, then just crawled through it herself and stood outside the shed. After a quick irritated glance, Mike also stood right next to her.

“It’s gotta be here,” she said. “Why would they have gotten rid of it?”

“A whole host of reasons? Money? Space? It broke down?” Mike could think of more, but she’d already walked off, wandering between two of the shuttles.

“Come on,” she whispered loudly. “They can certainly see us on cameras if they’re watching.”

It didn’t take long to check every vehicle parked there and come up empty. Gemma looked around flabbergasted, seemingly at the end of her plan as it stood. Mike rubbed his eyes. “We can’t even go back,” he said, deflated. “They’d arrest us.”

“Mike, we’re already prisoners. How many layers of arrest do you think there are?”

“They could put us in an actual prison?”

“That’s…yes, no you’re right.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” They both heard the voice from off to one side. A door was open on a small service building on the far side of the car park, a man standing in the doorway. “The real prisons are full.” He was walking slowly toward them, a high-powered torch in his hand, shining brightly on them both. “They might deport you. To where I’m not sure. They don’t tell us stuff like that, innit.”

Mike and Gemma both tried to shield their eyes, the man only visible as a silhouette to them behind the blinding light. It was no use. “We can go back inside,” Mike finally shouted over to the man. “Well, I can go back inside. I can’t speak for her.”

“I’d just as soon walk,” Gemma added. “I can just walk, if you let me.”

“Just come in here, please.” He gestured with his torch back to the building he’d just exited, then turned and went back toward it. Mike looked at Gemma, her face one of desperation, but not defeat. He pat her shoulder and started to follow the man. Might as well. There was nothing to lose at this point. She already lacked her freedom.

They both followed the man into the building. A single, windowless room, filled with old steel file cabinets, empty peg boards, a stainless steel desk and the most uncomfortable metal stool Mike thought he’d ever seen. A warm glow came from a domed lamp on the desk. The man turned off his torch and spun round. They both instantly recognised him. The smile grew so wide on Gemma’s face.

“Chunky-knit jumper!” There he was, Garfield lanyard still around his neck. She threw her arms wide open. “Come here!”

He actually laughed, seemingly in better spirits than their last encounter. “Look, I’m not a—” he started, but was interrupted by Gemma diving in for a massive hug. She threw her arms around him and squeezed. He was about a head shorter than Gemma, plus a lot scrawnier, so was absolutely enveloped by her for a moment. Mike chuckled, but stood back away from them near the doorway.

“Don’t worry,” Mike said. “I won’t hug you.”

“Right, okay, look,” the man started again, trying to compose himself. “I’m not a monster. I didn’t take this job to be a prison guard. You know? I’m a technician. This is just something they asked me to help with.”

“That’s a pretty shit thing to be asked to do,” said Gemma. “Guard convicts, get pushed around by them. You don’t even have a weapon. What if we were violent?”

“Are you?” He sounded a bit sheepish.

“We are not,” Mike replied. “Well, I’m not, but her⁠—”

“Enough with the good cop, bad cop,” Gemma barked at Mike. “Listen,” she turned back to the man, “we’re just trying to get out of here. He’s putting on an uncharacteristic front because his wife might have been in the London bombing last night.”

Mike looked at Gemma sternly. We’re going to do this now apparently. Speaking of being asked to do things one didn’t agree to do.

“I’m… shit, I’m sorry,” the man said, and he did seem like he was trying to mean it. “Look, I’m Romesh by the way,” and Gemma and Mike both introduced themselves. Nobody attempted a handshake. “I know why you’re out here. I saw you on the monitors earlier, walking all the way here, climbing in that shed.” Gemma elbowed Mike hard and nodded toward Romesh. Mike leaned his head back and sighed. “You’re looking for a car, yeah?”

“We know,” Mike said. “There aren’t any manual-drive cars anymore.”

“Ah, no,” Romesh quickly replied. “Well, I was going to say, here.” He tapped the cold steel desk against the wall. Sitting on top of it was a long, skinny key. “This is for the old passenger van. You can take it if you want. I moved it into the garage hours ago, put it on fast charge. I had a feeling you might be looking for it.”

They both stared down at the key. Mike started to talk but was quickly interrupted by Gemma. “What? What the fuck?” Mike pointed at her and nodded.

“I don’t know. Fuck it, man, I’m from South London, man.” Romesh said with a wild cackle. They both looked at him. Gemma squinted. “The Electric,” Romesh continued. “I never bounced there. Like I said, I’m a technician. City College! I’ve been to gigs there though, back in the day. Waaaay back in the day. Back when there were gigs!”

Gemma started breathing normally again. She got a nice tingle in her brain thinking of The Electric, an old venue in Brixton where she’d seen loads of shows. “Did say that, didn’t I. Sorry, I don’t react well to being grabbed.”

“I was out of line. This whole place is out of line,” Romesh said. “It’s messed up, what they put you guys through. Making you do all this work for free, barely letting you leave. And now they’re taking away your phones? Blowing up their political enemies?”

“Blowing up… what?” Mike stepped forward. “Who blew up who?”

“I don’t know, man, it’s a bit suspicious, yeah?” Romesh lowered his head and spoke in a more hushed tone. “That old book by that woman politician starts going viral on Telly and Understairs, and she’s running for election down in London, and starting to do well, and suddenly she gets blown up? On a live stream? Pretty suspicious innit. The feds weren’t gonna let her be at the protest at all. And suddenly they did? And then there’s a bomb? It’s pretty suspicious. Everyone’s talking about that now. It’s crazy, bruv.”

Mike started shaking his head, and steadied himself on the desk. “Mike? Mike.” Gemma grabbed his shoulder as his knees buckled a bit. Romesh backed up and Gemma pulled the stool out, guiding Mike down onto it. “That’s his wife,” she told Romesh as Mike breathed heavily.

“Ex-wife,” he said as he closed his eyes.

“What! Linking with Elizabeth Marsh! Bruv listen, I wish I could tell you she was okay. But they aren’t saying anything. And she hasn’t posted in a day, none of them has.”

“Your phones all still work?” Gemma knew the answer, but fished for something to be freshly irritated about. Mike quietly counted backwards from five, breathing slowly and deeply. Gemma squeezed his shoulder and dug her thumb in, massaging it.

“Bet, and it’s fucked up, innit.” Romesh shook his head. “Listen though, you should go, if you’re gonna go. I said I’d handle this and nobody really checked back up on it, but eventually they will.”

Gemma nodded, blinking a few times. “Romesh, I love you. Thank you.” She was choking up a bit.

“Londoners have to stick together, right?” Romesh said, cackling again. “Or not really, I don’t know, it’s good to be unpredictable, yeah? Once in a while. We lost that, you know. Unpredictability.”

“There’s still gigs, you know.” Mike looked up at Romesh, then gestured at the guitar case on Gemma’s back. “She played The Harp last night. She’s great.”

“Ah, bet, I don’t know if harp music is for me, mate.” He nodded keenly at both of them. “But keep the dream alive.”