In Gracie Mae Bradley’s futuristic short story, two friends take part in a direct action at a sifting centre.
\n","content":"\nGracie Mae Bradley is a writer and civil liberties expert, with a particular interest in state power and technology. When she offered Skin Deep her short story, With Hope, Without Hope, Absolutely, we jumped at the chance to publish it. First, though, we asked her some questions.
\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSkin Deep: Why did you write this story?
\n\n\n\nGracie Mae Bradley: I’ve just finished writing a science fiction novel, and as a respite from the novel, I’ve been writing short stories, most of them speculative in some way. This story began life as my attempt to write something that wasn’t wholly dystopian, but as it turns out, I had to let dystopia in to illuminate the stakes. I was interested in exploring something that novelist-organiser Yara Rodrigues Fowler touched on at the launch of her book There Are More Things – the relationships and political consciousnesses that are brought into being when we act on the world together.
\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSD: Speculative fiction often builds on present-day anxieties and material conditions. What real-world themes come up in this futuristic story?
\n\n\n\nGMB: The story is inspired by an action I was part of all the way back in the mid-2010s. An international coalition called a pan-European day of action against immigration detention, and I responded to a callout by local anti-raids groups to go to Harmondsworth detention centre with my friend. The point of the action was to try to break the isolation between the people arbitrarily detained in the centre, and those of us outside. The day didn’t unravel in the same way as it does for Promise and Ayo, but it was still quite intense.
\n\n\n\nReturning to that action almost a decade later, the stakes are even higher. I am still struck by the people I encounter who genuinely believe that the rise of the far-right inside Parliament is unlikely to have a material impact on their day-to-day lives. This story is my attempt to illuminate the stakes, and the possibility for social miracles that exists even in these times. That’s why the title comes from the Marxist thinker and geographer Mike Davis: “Fight with hope, fight without hope, but fight absolutely.”
\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n***
\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThere are fat magnolia petals everywhere, confetti on concrete, spring making itself known, despite everything. People’s patchy front gardens are trying their best. The white-and-red crossed flags hung from high poles at every corner make a canopy with the trees. The lawns underneath are brown and crusted. Not enough light.
\n\n\n\nWe’re in a worn place near the airport, part gritty suburb, part industrial installation.
\n\n\n\nSomeone drops their banner as we get off the bus, an announcement that rolls out like a red carpet. Shut Them Down.
\n\n\n\nWe aren’t doing a great job at being nondescript, but we know they know we’re coming. The cameras would have flagged us as soon as we left the university. Knowing our profiles, as soon as we left our houses, probably. They could have rerouted the bus. They could have put us all under pre-emptive house arrest, if they’d wanted to. Or just detained us in one of the centres too, me and Promise at least, the darkest-skinned ones in the group. Re-education warehouses for the rest.
\n\n\n\nPromise is a few paces behind me. I catch her eye and give a little wave. She winks back, in step with a curly-haired white woman who, from what I can hear, is telling Promise about how her partner has been deported from the UK to Jamaica for refusing to join the Legion. I didn’t catch exactly which draft he dodged – perhaps Haiti; perhaps Sudan – just that the government has told them he can keep in touch with their two-year-old by videocall.
\n\n\n\nI lose the thread as I stop to help with the escaping banner again.
\n\n\n\nIt’s arbitrary, which protests they allow to pick up at least a bit of steam. I’ve always assumed it’s to make sure the police and the Tommy Squad have a chance to try out what they’ve learned in their training. A safety valve that keeps them from turning on each other, keeps them on the same side; though they’re not in the same place together too often. Good opportunity for the drone videographers to get bits to post to socials too. We’re all forced to watch the highlight reels. Encouragement or deterrence, depending on where you stand on the government. Dear Leaders.
\n\n\n\nWe walk up the pavement for a few more minutes. The street seems asleep. It’s at the end of the road, past a row of pebble-dashed semis. Sign over the striped security barrier that reads West London Sifting Centre. Underneath, white hand in brown. Underneath again, a slogan.
\n\n\n\nKeeping culture simple, keeping Britain loyal.
\n\n\n\nIt has none of the grandeur of the towering Victorian prisons that I knew in North London as a kid. Doesn’t impose. Just a squat municipal building in a field, bordered by a tall green fence.
\n\n\n\nWe approach the striped barrier, thirty of us, perhaps.
\n\n\n\nBurly, shirted figure shouting in the guard box.
\n\n\n\nA whistle, the signal.
\n\n\n\nWe run.
\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n***
\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPromise and I met a long time ago at a boxing class on Fordham Park, well before everything got slanted, even if the beginnings were in train. Enjoyed sparring for a year. Thought it would help us fight fascists in the street. Didn’t really help once they got into government. Anyway.
\n\n\n\nI’d been doing my Masters, while Promise was fresh into the civil service, back before government staff got purged. We were similar heights, and she was one of the few women in the group who could be bothered to partner with a southpaw. We’d gotten stronger together, admired the emerging swells of bicep and lat that made themselves known over the weeks. Then I’d seen the book in her changing bag, the pastel pink Audre Lorde reprint. I’d been reading it at the same time, and I told her I’d seen. What’s the worst that could happen to me if I tell this truth? It wasn’t anything more complicated than that. We were friends.
\n\n\n\nWe got a place together when we both got eviction notices, about a year after we’d met. Just as the upstart right-wing party started campaigning for white priority in the housing system, and the old government, last gasping, agreed to meet them halfway. No-fault evictions re-instated if the eviction would assist an ‘Indigenous English’ person in getting off the housing list.
\n\n\n\nA friend’s auntie in Brixton had taken pity on us, let us hunker down in the guest flat in her attic eaves. My bed was in the living room, by the rattling boiler that kept Promise up all night. Too irregular, she would say. It stopped her from dreaming. So she had the sole bedroom, view over the muddy alley.
\n\n\n\nI’m the youngest of five, noise has never bothered me.
\n\n\n\nWithout a proper living room, we spent most of our time together in the kitchen. It had dandelion-bright walls, and a rotted sash window that was always filmed with condensation. There was the blurry bay tree from the neighbour’s garden behind. When we moved in, it cradled a nest of slick, translucent baby birds.
\n\n\n\nWe were up in the flat for dinner one night, laptop screen resting between the spice rack and the counter, watching the footage of the women’s vigil.
\n\n\n\nFor the commentators, it was a riot. Not in the fun sense, but in the grotesque breakdown of respect and civility sense. The gammon anger into puce sense. Sycophantic, they devoted most of their key lines – as their contracts stipulated, I assume – to the bravery of the police and the Tommy Squad. Applauded the beatings as discipline.
\n\n\n\nThe commentators were the price we paid for knowing what was happening around us. There hadn’t really been any straight news since the election, not after the government had made the social media companies as slanted as they were. So Promise and I got quite good at tuning the lurid voices out. Sat up dissecting the footage in whispers, saw something different.
\n\n\n\nThe woman they disappeared off the bandstand and held for the night. The woman dragged out on her knees.
\n\n\n\nThe officer they’d nicknamed ‘the rapist’.
\n\n\n\nBy that time, the footage, the odd guerrilla radio show, and the Signal broadcasts were all we’d had for months. Even our letters to friends in the sifting centres didn’t get through anymore. It was hard for us to go out unaccompanied, two Black women who hadn’t yet joined the Legion. Like many of the other minorities in the newly regressed places, we scraped by on overseas remote work. Robocalls, content mods. No more boxing, no more reading group at the bookshop in Peckham. Thank God for our VPN, and our street’s mutual aid group. Brought us groceries and organised us into big convoys for doing the essentials at least, even if the Tommy Squad would still try from a distance with the piss-bottles, and worse, if the street was quiet.
\n\n\n\nTimes were dicey. They were worse than dicey, really, what we’d been scared of for a long time had actually come to pass. So when it came to the demo at the sifting centre, Promise had taken some convincing.
\n\n\n\nNot politically. She got the politics. That was one of the many, many things I loved about her, and a big part of why we’d been able to house share for so long, but she did tend to get in her head about things more than me. An artistic temperament. Cerebral. Which meant thoughtful and considered, sometimes; pensive and stuck, others. Like the week soon after we moved in together when we couldn’t buy olive oil, because she got into a doom loop researching labour rights violations on the Greek islands. A temperament poorly-suited to no-longer-creeping fascism.
\n\n\n\nBut that evening the footage and my proselytising were enough to freak her out of her head and into action. To get her to understand that if we were going to end up in a sifting centre and then deported to God knows where, it would be better for us to throw some sand into their eyes as we went.
\n\n\n\nSo finally, after a couple of hours batting it back and forth over the kitchen table, Promise agreed that it was worth responding to one of the Signal callouts. A call to a solidarity action with the men stuck in the sifting centre out by Heathrow.
\n\n\n\nThere’s a kind of weary acceptance you get to in your thirties, I think. Especially after you’ve been stuck for months because the world has unravelled around you. And my weary acceptance, which I’ve had quite a lot of time to get to, is that I’m a jump in with both feet kind of woman.
\n\n\n\nBeing the youngest of five will do that to you, by the way. Turn you into a person who jumps.
\n\n\n\nThere’s always a soft landing on top of whoever jumps first.
\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n***
\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe sifting centre is dead ahead of us.
\n\n\n\nI remember the women’s vigil and anxiety pierces my stomach.
\n\n\n\nI look for Promise behind me, reach for her.
\n\n\n\nA man leads us in a chant as we walk round the striped barrier, into the car park. He has a broad Bristolian accent, and matted locs, and he smells of sweat and eucalyptus and wet earth.
\n\n\n\nThere are three more people in shirts now, sifting centre staff, gesturing towards a sad steel-barriered pen at least twenty metres from the building. No one inside would ever see or hear us from there.
\n\n\n\nOne of them speaks loudly into my ear as he points us towards it, smirking. “We know you have a right to protest and we’re happy to facilitate, please head over to the designated area, and protest away.”
\n\n\n\nPromise starts in the direction he’s indicating, unsure, when a slight, silver-haired Asian woman in a knitted cardigan takes her other arm and keeps her moving. “Stick to the brief and with the rest of the group, you’ll be safer,” she murmurs. Promise raises her eyebrows at me with a smile behind her mask, I can tell, and in that moment we both realise, I think, that we probably should have shown up in time for the safety briefing that morning, rather than faffing around with work.
\n\n\n\nThe men in shirts near the guard box are conferring, angry. One of them is on the phone.
\n\n\n\nThree of our group, at the front with the banner, run down a road that goes between the prison and the metal perimeter fence. They kick and slap the fence as they go, and the deep noise of it booms into the nearby rapeseed fields and against the building and back up the road again. Faces start to appear at the windows as we join in the drumming. All of the metal on us, belts, and keys, and flasks, and jewellery clink as we run. Promise and the others close to me start to shimmer with sweat. We pass another shirt whose face is an unhealthy mushroom colour, fat like a raincloud. He’s speaking into a phone and a radio at the same time.
\n\n\n\nFrom the direction of the airport, a siren sounds, underneath it the scarab buzz of a drone. I flinch as the sifting centre activates its mosquito devices. My head feels caught in a sharp mesh.
\n\n\n\nI look behind me and see that another woman has unfurled her own small banner. She’s running, arms outstretched. “Keep hope,” it reads, in English and then in French and in Arabic. Despite the mesh and the ringing in my ears I feel something in my stomach and then my chest, not anxiety, as I look from her banner to the faces at the window, some of whom are waving now. Not anxiety but something warmer. And Promise’s hand is still tight in mine.
\n\n\n\nThe men in shirts behind us are pulled taut, waiting for someone. The sirens’ mounting screams make me wince.
\n\n\n\nWe reach a bend in the road at the corner of the building and the others stop running and form a circle. My throat burns from the sprint and the pollen and there are little pinpricks bursting in my calves. The sun is warm on the air. Promise bends forwards with her hands on her thighs.
\n\n\n\n“Promise, are you good?”
\n\n\n\nShe turns and the light catches her forehead, the curl in her dark eyelashes and the baby hairs that fuzz out of her braids.
\n\n\n\n“I’m good Ayo, I’m good. I think they’re trying to get them on the phone, look. Do you have Mish’s number?”
\n\n\n\nWe link arms and take our places in the circle as I look for the piece of paper with his number on it. Under the sirens, I can hear us all panting. My arm is pulled towards the woman on my left, joined at our crooks, as she pushes her hair back from her red cheeks. There’s a smell of onions and something animal rising from us; a smell that would be unwelcome indoors but which, after all our effort under this bright sky, binds us more closely, makes sense.
\n\n\n\nThe man with locs is in the centre of us all, holding a loudspeaker. Another person in a hoodie is holding up a banner with a phone number on it, facing the building. An invitation to the people inside.
\n\n\n\nI scan back down the road. The people in shirts are still waiting for something, someone. Not trying to get any closer. We have time.
\n\n\n\n“My friend is in there, I know he’d like to speak to us,” I offer. “I write to him every week.” The man with the locs takes out a small blue Nokia and hands it to me.
\n\n\n\n“Do you want to do the honours? Explain that we can put him up to the megaphone so everyone can hear, and we’ll transcribe it for the Signal broadcast too, but only if he wants.”
\n\n\n\nI’ve spoken to Mish on the phone before, but not often, because it costs him more to receive a call than a letter, even if letters don’t work anymore. He picks up straight away. Promise is close enough to hear the shake in my voice and squeezes my arm with hers as I explain the situation. Mish’s voice is bright and eager, assenting.
\n\n\n\nI hold the phone out to the man with the loudspeaker. “He’s happy to speak to you. He’s in the window in the top right, I think.” I give the blurry figure a wave. He seems to wave back, and then his voice comes out staticky over the loudspeaker.
\n\n\n\n“I know I don’t have long, friends. We don’t have long. Refuse. They want us to prove our loyalty to this fucked up island. They – ”
\n\n\n\nThe line cuts. I check the shirts at the end of the road and dial again.
\n\n\n\n“Fuck. It’s not worth killing your own just to be able to stay here. They’ll never accept us. You’ll never be able to accept yourselves. If you go to Sudan, if you go to Haiti, and you join the Legion, even if you think you’ve proved yourself, it will never be enough. They’ll never accept us. We won’t ever be – ”
\n\n\n\nThe scream of tyres and sirens blanks his voice, pierces the spell. I look at Promise and see her face wet behind her mask. And then I look with a heavy flower of panic in my throat to the three navy vans at the end of the road, which are disgorging a swarm of body-armoured officers onto the tarmac towards us. Behind them, on foot, tens of men in red and white, bottles and makeshift clubs in hand. Tommy Squad.
\n\n\n\nIn the distance the mushroom-faced shirt looks smug.
\n\n\n\nA voice behind me. “Fucking TSG and Tommy Squad? At the same time? Shit.”
\n\n\n\nWe scatter round the corner and towards the perimeter fence. Promise is loping well ahead, making good ground, and with my eyes on her I miss the megaphone cord that catches my feet. Two broad pale sets of hands catch me before I fall; pull me with them.
\n\n\n\nSmoke rises from a handful of coloured flares someone in our group throws behind us. My head fogs with the hum of the drones and the mosquito device; the sirens, from inside the prison now, and the boom of sound cannon in the vans behind us. I can barely think, daren’t look back, but I can tell they’re gaining on us: shields on batons, boots drumming hot ground. Piss-bottles burst and gush on the path in front of us, drums echo up in the prison windows as the men hit the glass, urge us on.
\n\n\n\nWe’re running towards a break in the barbed wire that tops the fence. The break is over a gate, and the gate is almost definitely locked, but low enough that we might get over. Up ahead, one man makes a cradle with his hands and Promise steps up and then vaults over. The woman in the cardigan does the same. “Keep hope” flutters behind then disappears.
\n\n\n\nI step into a cupped hand and jump up at the gate. Someone takes me under my thighs and helps me over. I hear the West Country accent behind me, still on the other side, saying they should try to make it back to the street, they won’t have time to get over. That’s the last I hear of them, the last scintilla of eucalyptus, because Promise has me by the hand, Promise and her baby hairs, Promise whose voice is warm and urgent and sharp.
\n\n\n\n“Ayo, we have to go.”
\n\n\n\nSo we run. Through the rapeseed fields, air ripe with pollen, flowers the height of our heads. we lose the rest of the group in that bursting yellow crop, the two of us in the bower under the sun.
\n\n\n\nAfter a short while I look behind us, through broken stems that have sprung back already to cover our path. Nobody. So I look at Promise, brown and gleaming, petals all through her, everywhere. She takes off her mask and faces me. A small pool of sweat under her nose.
\n\n\n\n“Just a breather for a minute. A minute. We still need to get the broadcast out for Mish, make sure people know what he said.”
\n\n\n\n“A minute,” I concur, as if my heart isn’t screaming that the drones and the Tommy Squad and the police will be on us by then.
\n\n\n\nI know that beyond the next few minutes, we’re out of options. Or at least out of good ones. I know that Promise knows, and she knows that I know. We’ve been over it enough together, up in the eaves.
\n\n\n\nI can hear something seeking us out.
\n\n\n\nPromise looks up from the broadcast that she’s tapping out on her phone with a sad mouth that says she’s still with me, that she won’t change her mind.
\n\n\n\nA burst of crows sweeps out of a nearby tree, disturbed.
\n\n\n\nI can’t help but give in to the vertigo. Replaying how it all got slanted so quickly. The Powell speeches went into the LLM and out came the policy that won the election. That was how degraded things had become by then. How weak. It was enough.
\n\n\n\nI see two shapes that look like butterflies coming from the direction of the sifting centre.
\n\n\n\nThey’re not insects. Flight too regular. Wings mechanical, too jagged.
\n\n\n\nI pull Promise to her knees for more cover.
\n\n\n\nShe keeps typing, and I keep on replaying.
\n\n\n\nI can hear them getting closer.
\n\n\n\nPromise holds up her phone, shows me the icons at the end of the broadcast that mean it’s been delivered.
\n\n\n\nThere’s a froth of voices around us now in every direction, boots close enough to shower us in petals and dust, rice at a wedding. A mist of sour yeast hangs in the air.
\n\n\n\nThen Promise stands, and they’ll definitely see her now, and as she stands, she pulls me up off my knees. They’ll see us both.
\n\n\n\n“Ayo, not like this.”
\n\n\n\nWe’ve only ever scenario-planned up to getting the broadcast out. That’s the bit that’s bigger than both of us, the now-satisfied “why.”
\n\n\n\nOne of the crows flits close and then away from us, a flash of metal butterfly in its beak.
\n\n\n\nPromise shrugs, and then she runs, and I run too.
\n\n\n\nThe dust and the boots and the froth come down after us, and the birds swoop and rise in gleams.
\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWith Hope, Without Hope, Absolutely was longlisted for the fiction category of the 2026 Disquiet Prize.
\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nStay in touch. Subscribe to Skin Deep’s monthly newsletter.
Illustration by Hannah Buckman
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