THE SOUTH

Accents of red littered the studio. The buttered swipe of colour across the guest’s lips, the plump scatter cushions strategically placed to be in shot, the flashing light of camera four which soon would shine static as the recording began. Hannah glided under the sterile bright lights without an ounce of anxiety. Simon, the BBC’s morning news anchor, shuffled his papers without breaking gaze from the camera. He knew the country would be tuning in this Friday morning. Moving the conversation away from the weekend’s forecasted heatwave, he began.

“With the government’s record announcement on migration policy earlier this year, we’re joined by Hannah Knight, Minister for Migration, to tell us more.” Simon turned to Hannah, exposing his aggressively white veneers. “Hopefully not too far to travel from the Home Office this morning, Hannah?”. Friendly introductions, the most obvious trick in the book. Hannah had been media trained when she first became an MP eight years ago; she had been confronted with every interviewer imaginable in that time. The honest, the earnest, the over privileged, the ambitious. Everyone had a downfall. She tilted her head at Simon, eyebrows slightly raised. You’ll need to try harder than that, she thought. The overconfident. “Always happy to migrate over for a conversation with my good friends at the BBC”. Hannah continued, to Simon’s surprise, and the breath he’d inhaled in preparation for his first question seeped from the corners of his tight mouth. “Last time I was here, I shared that the United Kingdom has become the first country in the world to achieve a zero percent net migration figure; something no politician, historian, scientist, anthropologist – nobody - thought was possible. Yet here I am, 6 months down the line, and this country is still leading the charge on the new type of net zero”. Getting ahead of the narrative was critical for Hannah, but came at the cost of Simon’s ego. He grilled her, his sharp tongue delivering pointed questions: how could net zero migration be possible; was it ethical; could it be scalable; what might it mean for the UK’s economy and society?

Hannah’s assistant, a short, meek, balding man with thick framed glasses, stood off camera slowly nodding. They had prepared for this, and Hannah had stuck to the agreed narrative; shooting off answers as if their approach was entirely obvious, with no cause for alarm, and an underlying expectation that their medals would be in the post. The assistant checked his phone, pursing his lips as he realisedthey had less than a minute to wrap the interview. His anxiety busied his hands, picking lint and dust from his blazer. Several hairs scattered the left-hand side. He brushed them away, hurriedly.  

THE NORTH

Accents of red littered the bunker. The steel piping stretched from the curved ceiling to the polished concrete floor, where they met with printed arrows. The signage here reflected one of the bunker’s most important rules: no residents were to look up. It was obvious you were underground from the main corridor’s giveaways. The inescapable smell of damp. The long rectangular lights tracing the ceiling, flooding sterile light into a space where daylight was forbidden. The echoing of any sound, where noise could not be free.

This Friday morning, the muffled sounds of idle gossip escaped from the security room. Andy sat on the swivel chair next to his security comrade, both pairs of shined black boots resting on the counter. Screens of the bunker filled the wall from top to bottom, decorating the room with different angles of the complex. The gravel drive, half a mile long, winding around the lake from the unassuming b-road through to the bunker entrance. The functional rooms flitted on and off the screens, taking it in turns to be monitored: the boiler room, the electrical room, the store room. Critical areas though, they were broadcast 24/7: the cells, the salon.  

A gentle whirr from the central control system competed with a small television in the corner. “Come on Andy, turn that crap off, her voice goes right through me”. Andy rolled his eyes, hitting the mute button, and slurped his tea. “For someone that’s not passed their probation yet, you seem to have an awful lot of opinions, mate”. Andy feared opinions and curiosity in a place like this. They’d made it clear when he took this job: everyone being held here is dangerous, and can’t under any circumstances be allowed back into the world. They must live on the fringe of society, down here. Andy’s mind was re-centred as the flashing control panel signalled an issue with the ventilation system. It was approaching 35 degrees outside, with an earlier than expected heatwave sweeping through the country. Though the security room ran off its own circuit, as Andy opened the reinforced steel door, the heat from the main corridor blast over his body. He turned back, silently hoping that his team-mate would offer to check out the issue. They both knew the recon would involve passing by the cells, and Andy soon had his answer.

As his boots boomed down the main corridor, Andy took a left and unlatched the submarine style hatch. He manoeuvred his overweight body through the hole, and it automatically locked behind him. Stepping cautiously, he made his way down the metal steps one at a time, gripping the chilled handle as he went. He couldn’t remember the last time a new batch had been brought here; it must have been while he was on holiday last week. In the last 6 months, they’ve been regular as clockwork. At the base of the stairs, the real walk began. The cells lined the bunker as far as the eye could see, a dim light demarcating each entrance. Most were sedated, and barely lifted their heads as Andy made his way past, eyes down. A gentle tapping sound stopped him in his tracks, as his body stilled and his head cast to the left.

Sitting, cross-legged, in-front of the barred door. A little girl, no older than seven or eight. The pale grey overalls she’d been assigned engulfed her tiny body, and merged with her porcelain white skin. She pointed to her hair, “Please sir, it is why?”. The rest of his body turned to face her, and he gently crouched down. Her hair was shoulder length, dark brown and glossy; the kind of condition humans never appreciate until they’re older. Her finger still pointed to her forehead. “You’re not from here, you’re not welcome little lady. You’re on the fringe of our society. This makes sure you don’t forget that”, he said, pointing to the perfectly angled fringe she’d had cut upon arrival to the bunker. She didn’t understand, and as Andy stood back up, he gave the girl a half smile. He paced away, back towards the ventilation room, allowing opinions and curiosity to privately flit through his mind: who could be behind this place, what had these people done, and what was to be done to them?