Organic

He sits alone on the bench. The park is empty. He takes a deep breath in, holds it, exhales, thankful for the brief moment of peace and quiet. He knows it won’t last. The sun will rise, flooding down its unflinching light to drown him as he sits here. The others will come then, almost as if the light has released them from the cramped depression of their flats.

They’ll tumble in; families, couples, young men or women on their morning runs. Each one coming to invade his personal island of solitude. Still, he’ll sit here, trying his best to drown them out. 

He remembers when he didn’t hate people. A simpler time. Now he can’t stand them; brainwashed in their everyday life, not realising what has been taken from them. They blunder through their simple existences, thick smiles plastered to their faces. It makes him feel sick.

But they’re not here yet. There is still a golden sliver of time as the crimson sun rises above the burned-out buildings of London. There it is now. He watches as the fireball edges its way over the rooftops. A wave of golden-yellow light creeps across the park towards him, forcing the darkness of the morning back into the shadows. This is his favourite part of the day; he remembers what it was like before; the happiness. The golden wall comes.

A metre away.

A foot away.

It passes over him, instantly warming his old, grey skin. He squints into the light of the park. And there they are, as if on cue a young jogger comes running into the park. He chuckles at the sight of her; how did we become so predictable?

Ding, Dang, Ding. A jingle rings out, breaking the silence of the early morning. He looks up and sees the billboard fly overhead, nursed on chains by a drone. Morning Sunshine! Enjoy Creation! Big red type reads across its front. Beneath it the sigil of the Org glows in electronic light, a constant reminder to why he is here.

He feels like flinging a rock at the ugly machine as it flies past, but doesn’t, knowing the consequences he would face if he did. It’s jingle chimes again, and he restrains himself, setting his eyes across the park instead.

An older woman walks through the ornate stone gates. She shuffles uncomfortably, clearly favouring one foot over the other. He recognises her walk, as well as the overly-neat, almost alien in its precision, hair-do that sits atop her head.

As she walks, her eyes settle on him. He groans. He came here to escape people like her, nowhere is safe in this god-forsaken city.

She staggers over to his bench and sits down beside him. There is silence for a moment, before she speaks: “McStreet.”

He sighs, “Morning, Miss Neville.”

“I heard on the grapevine that our friend high up has disappeared.” Right into it then, he should have expected it. Anabelle Neville only speaks to him if she needs something, or knows something.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.

“And how would you know this?” He looks over to her out of the corner of his eye. Her cold, grey eyes meet his, studying him.

She speaks: “Oh, you know. I have my sources.”

A sly smile plays at the corners of her lips. He looks around, scanning for anybody watching them. She is playing a dangerous game speaking so plainly somewhere so public.

“So what if he has disappeared. Members leave for a day or two. It’s normal.”

She frowns, “Members do not leave without me knowing about it.”

“How can you be so sure? You speak like you’re a member yourself.”

“Perhaps I am…” the statement hangs in the morning air. He watches her. 

He knows that she isn’t a member; Anabelle Neville, traded to Britain as a child during the last-days of the Rapture, and the early days of the Org. He knows this woman’s history, as he knows everyone’s in the Resistance: it is his job to.

“Don’t play games with me.”

“I won’t if you don’t.” She places a palm on his shoulder. To anyone onlooking, the small gesture would look like one of endearment, but the way her cold eyes burrow into his speaks to her true intentions, “What did you do to him, John?”

He bristles at the use of his name. Only his friends call him John, and this woman is not a friend. “Miss Neville, Why would you think I have done anything to our friend?”

“Just a hunch, I suppose. Men of your age, and your temperament, have been known to snap on occasion.”

He shakes his head and chuckles, “your age…” he repeats under his breath. A young family enters the park, a mother and father talking happily, a small girl on the father’s shoulders. She giggles to herself, kicking at her father’s hands as they try to keep her from falling. He tries to remember being her age, being so full of joy and innocence.

“You know our friend is as much use to me as he is to you.” He says at last, “I wouldn’t make him disappear. For the sake of our cause as a whole.”

Neville watches him. He doesn’t look at her, instead focusing his attention on the ever-growing population of the park. They have to be weary - a fact she doesn’t seem to take any consideration for - the Org has too many ways to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“I also heard that our friend’s larder had been raided as well.” She says.

“What of it?”

“We both know what was in his larder.” 

He did. The thought of it made his mouth water. The thing he missed most about society before the Rapture, before the Org. A thing most people alive now would have never experienced, may not have even thought about in their lives. Organic Food.

The thought brought his simmering annoyance at the woman beside him to a full bodied, blistering rage. The memory of the food of his childhood flooded into his mind: homemade pizza, summer barbecues, his grandmother’s rice pudding, homegrown tomatoes; all outlawed by the Org. 

Ecological damage was the reason they cited originally. After the climatic disasters of the Rapture, Britain's population had been idle enough to accept it. Afterall, food production had been known to be one of the biggest contributing factors to the disaster’s outbreak.

But now, he knew better. The Org had been the ones who’d first heralded the idea of lab-grown food. Who had then pushed the concept of divine creation into the public subconscious. Who had then outlawed all killing, human, animal or plant, naming it “destruction of creation”, and then ultimately who had seized control.

“Are you accusing me of what I think you are?”

“It depends.” She smiles at him; her lips curving into a mocking, almost knowing, jeer of amusement, “Don’t worry. My lips are sealed. I don’t tell.”

“Goodbye Neville, this is outrageous.” He makes to stand up.

She speaks and he pauses: “We have known about their secret stashes for a while now, and ever since we’ve known about them, they have been raided.”

“If you are suggesting that I have not only raided our friend’s larder, but also made him disappear, then you are deeply mistaken. Even if I wanted to, do you think a man of my age would have the ability to?”

Neville nods to a young couple as they pass, hand-in-hand “Morning,” she smiles, before turning back to him. “I heard a story a few years back about a man who raided a larder. Got the taste for organic food. He came back to his flat and had to face a life of eating the mulch grown for us. It drove him mad. He returned to the Member’s house the next night, with a taste for organic matter. No one saw the Member again.”

“Gossip.” He dismissed.

“All I’m saying is that it’s not unheard of.” She fixes him with a glare, “John, If you have done something, all I ask is for his telecom. You know we have been after it for a long time now, it is all we need to break free. We are close, so damn close.”

He smiles briefly at her blatantly misplaced optimism, “Miss Neville, I did not make our friend disappear, I did not raid his larder, I do not have his telecom and I can assure you that I did not eat him.” 

Her frown brightens his day. He stands: “I am leaving now, I will not let you ruin my day any longer. I will probably see you at our next meeting, until then, I hope our paths do not meet.”

Without looking back, he walks away, following the gravel path across the park. He passes happy families, couples, an old man, sat on the edge of a small pond, dangling bare feet in its cold waters. Thick smiles are plastered across all of their faces.

As he comes to the stone gates of the park something in his pocket vibrates, sending a buzz that reaches across the old flesh of his leg. He pushes a hand into his pocket and feels the cool metal of their friend's telecom. He looks back over his shoulder, Neville watches him still from the bench. Her cold grey eyes study him.

He smiles, raises a hand, and waves, turning away from her and disappearing into the grey of the city.