Opus Veda

Rain spittled from a grey sky. The Kendi Estate residents poured into the park and festered around its pavilion. Kasia risked Natasha's passive aggression and took another day off. A memorial was a legitimate excuse even for Riese.

If only she could tell them the full truth: she was joining Revolution Britannia afterwards. No doubt there was an HR policy for that too.

The park sat on Southwark's border. A chink in its armour. The council usually gated it off to Lambeth, with wardens politely ushering the poor away and, if necessary, backing their words up with tasers. But for big events they could request the pavilion, as regulars jealously quibbled over a mindfulness space being shared with, and stained by, those too feckless to improve their lives.

Today these parkgoers scampered back into Southwark; the orange-bibbed running club marshalled itself down another. The Kendi crowd squished under the pavilion's planked roof. On a central slab of lacquered tree trunk, two chrome urns rested. Misha's mother Selen stood by the ashes and beckoned Sermon forward. He placed a tablet on the plinth. A famous streamer appeared onscreen, throned on a gaming chair in a studio festooned with merchandise. To the locals shock, he addressed them.

"Hey what's up guys, we're gonna spent a minute for Misha and Joey in… London England what's happenin' guys?"

Misha's favourite influencer had directed his stream to her memorial. KSI modelled himself on a figure from the early century, after having the original man deleted from the cloud. New KSI kept his American accent and values, true to the nation who despite their isolation, remained the masters of taking and recreating the heritage of other cultures.

He was big news, and somehow Sermon had got him. Messages of condolence and mean-spirited humour cascaded down his chat channel. He spent a minute reading the nicer comments of those who paid to highlight them. Selen filmed herself watching, sniffling and with wet eyes.

"Well guys uh... I never spoke Misha personally but... she's been supportin' me a long time and I'm really grateful for that. Checkin' out her profile and man... she seemed like a decent girl. Much love to her friends and family, what happened was a tragedy man... I ain't sayin' I'm for any side or nothin', but... we in America wishin' y'all an end to the conflict soon. Chat, if y'all could donate to their crowdfund I'd greatly appreciate it. Her mom's donatin' it to the shelter Misha worked at - great cause, we need more of that here. I'll link it in chat. England! Stay strong!"

He kissed his hand, held it to the camera, and returned to his gaming schedule. The buzzing Kendi crowd, unable to fit around the tablet, feverishly poked at their devices to read his chat channel.

Others added respectful tokens to the memorial table. First Chanel, adding daffodils ripped from the outside flower bed. The children, Eva included, propped up a poster collage of sights in Cyprus, its Chinese base covered by glitter. Misha's friends had clubbed together to spread the ashes traditionally: for those who tried to emigrate, the urns were shipped to their desired home and there scattered. Everyone photoed the display, paid their respects to Selen, and dispersed.

Kasia found Sermon vaping outside. She traipsed over the lawn, enjoying the novel experience of bouncy grass under her feet.

"Go on then, tell us how you managed to wrangle KSI."

"Went through the Panther circuit didn't I," he held his fist up, "the American chapter might 'ave the wrong idea about our skin colour, but anyone in their situation is on the same page deep down right?"

"Yea! It was a nice gesture of him."

Sermon tutted, "but it is just that, ain't it!? Another gesture... none of it means shit without results. We lost, Kash."

"We did better than anyone else..." Kasia pouted in protest, "better than the police. And the Reds only showed up after we did, right?"

"Yea... I reckon you're right sista," Sermon looked around and nodded. He perked up as a small figure sped towards him.

"Uh oh! Here she comes look!"

Eva had ducked around Selen and gone straight for Sermon.

"Uncle Serms! Introduce me to you new mate then! I'll throw him some photos and get a ticket to 'Murica."

"You'll be coming right back when they find out your background!" Kasia prodded Eva's shoulder, "you should travel east moja córka!"

"Ah they'll let her in," Sermon brushed Kasia off and fist bumped Eva, "who could say no to a cute little singer with a sob story like yours ey?"

"Dayum straight! I just need Imany to coach me. Oi imagine if I had her voice and mamusia's looks, I'd never leave the charts!"

Kasia laughed and swatted Eva's shoulder, but Sermon was searching around them, his brow raised.

"Where is the old bird anyway?"

Imany had used her old tricks well, slipping past the wardens despite reeking of alcohol and cigarettes, watching the memorial from afar. Only when the crowd left did she sway to the pavilion, snapping a white lily out of the duck pond en route. Selen's nose wrinkled as she arrived. She had the plinth to herself.

It suited her. They'd last met after the vagrants attack on the estate. Selen had been contacting directors to make a film of it - of her murdered family - right after Imany had killed for two dead children that were not hers. It took discipline to resist tearing into Selen here and now.

She placed the lily on the table, covering the tablet's camera with it, and clenched her fists. Footsteps, awkward and hesitant, shuffled toward her. Kasia's. They pondered in silence what might have been. Imany, if she had not fallen into the social trough, glued to the General's speech as her community was ravaged. Kasia, if she had cared sooner; if she had connected to another mother so close, beyond the superficial world of friendship.

"I tried to join up last night..." Imany's voice croaked.

"You tried to join the Revolution?"

"No Kasia not them. Something even more stupid. I learnt long ago that violence leads to violence, I shoulda known after you lot went down the tunnels it would come back to us…"

"We all missed it. It's not your job alone to watch the whole estate."

"Since when did you become such a therapist?" Imany scowled, "I got my medication. I saw Opus Veda's attack and I thought 'good on them'. Reds tryin'a rule the country but it's the Vijis who put villains in the ground. I tried to contact them. No luck of course."

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"I'm sure you'd make a great terrorist," Kasia shrugged, "it woulda been nicer to have you on my side."

"You're goin' red then?"

Kasia went to deny it, but she was fed up of doing so. She nodded.

"Dear girl..." Imany gripped Kasia's shoulder, "they're gonna take everything from you."

"No more than anyone else, and I might leaving something for Eva other than debt. Perhaps, for once, a reason to be proud."

"Perhaps. I get ya. What a shame we've been given the choices we have."

She breathed in and took in surrounding park. Two characters headed towards them, blue and confident. The Detectives.

She pulled Kasia away with her, linking their arms. Kasia tried to pull free.

"I don't think we should do that at a memorial-"

"Oh be quiet you frigid little cow... help a tipsy lady steady herself," she led Kasia to the exit where Selen wasn't, "no one in your damn generation touches each other; what do you think I have COVID?"

"No one in any generation touches. You just have no boundaries. Must be 'neurodivergent' or something..."

Imany growled.

"And I am not frigid," said Kasia, "I get it whenever I want kurwa."

"Pissin' about in them nightclubs doesn't count. When was the last time someone romanced you?" she nuzzled her head into Kasia's neck, "Katarzyna my love-"

"Literally don't start."

They headed home, bickering about their rotten lives, enjoying each other's company despite it.

Selen began boxing everything up. The turnout had been touching - and famous! It was more intimacy than she was used to, and it was a story worth telling. Even the detectives were sincere, far removed from the corrupt mercenaries she saw online.

Now dusk fell, and she was alone. Left with the remains of her only family. It all hit her. Memories of her daughter, the sweet child whose energy earned cautionary but affectionate school reports; the earnest teen who chose a job of service over a chance for security; the social worker who allowed a user to take her, and for her naivete, was left abandoned and pregnant. Selen had distanced herself to teach Misha a lesson: in this world, she would need to play smarter and tough it out on her own.

All Selen's lesson had given her were ashes. She had a list of people to blame, but the finger was starting to point at herself.

Her lip trembled.

"I'm sorry Ms Abbas. Am I too late?"

She spun. A striking figure watched her, patient, hands gently clasped in front.

"Not at all!" she welcomed him into the pavilion, "Call me Selen."

"Andrez," he bowed his head. His face disarmed her, androgyne and ivory white, with coiffed black hair. Several social classes above anyone she met today. She bowed deeply.

"Oh goodness… Were you a friend of Misha's?"

"I was at the scene of the crime. Medical response," he swept his gaze around the pavilion, as if looking for something, "I'm deeply sorry for what occurred. To be left alone like this… People in your position, I find, start to question the choices they made. Perhaps they seek others to blame. I recommend you instead turn whatever you've done in the past towards good for others. What happened to Misha and Joey doesn't need to happen to anyone else."

His words caught her, left her open and condemned. Guilt churned inside until she choked on it. She needed a change of subject.

"Would you like a photo with them?"

"Thank you but no. 'Professional boundaries' is the term I get reminded of."

"Oh sure! The detectives said the same thing! I guess you spoke to them when… well, when everything happened."

His eyes narrowed. A flicker of a smile.

"I like to check in on them now and then; they're a good pair. As police go you might consider them a rare treat."

His silver eyes searched Selen's face, making her splutter and giggle. She offered to give him a minute and stepped outside.

Andrez ran a finger along the tablet and disabled it. His hands fell to rest on the urns. His eyes drooped down until they closed.

This had never been his intention. And for that his nights had been full of anger. Surveillance always insisted on leaving vagrants be, always monitoring them for chances to exploit, but these Goldsmiths were due to push too far. He had placed a spy, Kristoff, among them. As soon as Kristoff spotted the children was time to go in - Andrez would neither use traffickers nor leave them unmolested. A company of revolution soldiers - who were perfectly fine to exploit - happened to be nearby.

But they were sloppy and crude. They left the job incomplete. An amateur mistake, easy to expose and unworthy of a military force. Open for a revenge move. By the time Kristoff could warn him it was too late. Andrez had failed, and now Kristoff was revealed under his command too.

His head angled. His nails clawed the urns. His face darkened with pure contempt.

Time to move. He took a Lira from his suit pocket and flicked it onto the plinth. Checking the pavilion a final time, he moved away.

Selen waited at the entrance with expectant eyes.

"So… how long have you been a paramedic?"

"Not a paramedic Ms Abbas," he held his hand out, "I was the doctor."

"Oh a handshake…" Selen took his hand and beamed, "god I can tell you're not from round here. Or should that be 'rand 'ere'?."

He gave her a closed but warm smile and left. Selen thought of offering him a friend request, but thought better of it.

Andrez thought of the vagrants he had massacred, and thought nothing was more appropriate.

* * *

Back home, the residents moved on to the next concern: clearing up their ruined and powerless homes, still wrecked by vagrants.

They caught someone they weren't expecting. The Landlord, expecting them to be away, was inspecting their homes behind their backs. Only extreme circumstances brought her out in person, always escorted by growling, petrol-fuelled 4x4's.

In the grimy plaza of Kendi estate Ali Hogarth radiated. Her body was surgically tuned to the molecular level, as the vicious cycle of wealth and beauty pushed the par for both upwards. As status quos changed, the Ali's of society changed their biology to meet it. Mixed-race was currently top, as researchers found the Germanic ethnicities of native English folk to be the least attractive.

Ali thus obscured her Saxon looks with added melanin, brought her height down, and her curves out. Most saw in her something they'd never reach, and her social life was packed with adoration, resentment, and the pleasure of playing with people who felt both. She knew to match inferiority with security, and in a place like Brixton, surrounded herself with muscle.

Maintenance workers were clearing out the damaged properties as the locals returned. Before they could reach their landlord, Ali clicked her fingers at a suited middle manager and locked herself in her car. The crowd formed around the convoy, forcing the wary man to address them.

"We've cleared out the debris. Your properties are habitable," he pointed to the severed cables, "we weren't entirely sure why this needed to happen? The power grid is the onus of the local council regardless; you will need to appoint legal aid to petition them on your behalf."

"And 'ow much will that cost?" Jason pressed into to the manager, pushing him back.

"Pricing tends to be discussed with the solicitors. I'm sorry, but it's beyond my remit to advise there. For now it's best you clear these cables, for your own safety."

"You wan' us 'andlin them wires!?" said Chanel, "we pay service charge for the square, ain't 'ad nuffin' don' to it for years!"

The manager squinted to understand her as locals chattered in agreement. He adjusted his glasses.

"Regular flooding makes renovation to the garden and playground unfeasible, if you'd refer to our previous response on the issue. To make matters worse, we are under greater strain than ever given recent events. If the Revolution hadn't-"

"Always blamin' someone else!" Chanel stabbed his chest with a yellowed finger, "revolution this! Viji tha'! You lot 'ad excuses well before then - 'risin' costs' - why don' you get tha' silicon tart to come out o' tha' jeep and an' remind us!?"

"Ms Hogarth appoints me as operations manager to-"

"Gwarn' den lav! Come ou' 'ere an' 'elp us clear up then!" Chanel pounded her fist on on the car's tinted window - albeit the wrong one - and turned to the locals, "ahm gonna put one'a them wires up 'er cun'!"

The crowd cheered and began filming in case she followed through with her threat. Security men packed around the car. The manager inched to its door.

"I think it would be best if we stop for today... For those of you with lost possessions, if you could email us proof of purchase, we'll begin with insurance proceedings," he smiled mechanically and closed himself away.

The convoy left the plaza, spewing exhaust fumes. Emails to the affected residents declared their flats as legally habitable, which they understood to mean liable for rent and service charge. They lingered around the loose cables, squabbling over who should deal with fixing them.

Kasia and Sermon left them to it. They had somewhere else to be.