Suicide Club

by Rachel Heng

  “Miles Davis,” he said. “You’ve probably never heard of him.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s meant to be—”

  A sudden pause. Classical music already occupied a gray area; there were still some experts who claimed positive, calming benefits, but jazz was a different matter altogether. And here she was, listening to it, not a recording but a live performance. It would almost certainly show up in her next maintenance review. For a second, Lea considered clapping her hands over her ears and running out the gate.

  But she stayed right where she was. As if it would make a difference, after what had happened with Todd, as if she was ever getting off the List. What mattered now was that she find her father.

  Suddenly she missed him desperately. Being here, being in this place, she felt strangely close to him. Were these the people he had aligned himself with? Was this the lifestyle Uju had been so against? Now that she was here, it didn’t seem that bad. Yes, there was meat, live music, and very likely alcohol, but Lea felt herself drawn in, felt the glamour sweep over her like a wave pulling her under. It did not feel unnatural—no, quite the opposite.

  The man was still eating his sandwich, a fresh trail of juice snaking down his other hand now, but this time she didn’t say anything. She watched it gather momentum, the heavy brown droplet catching in the hairs of his wrist, seeming to come to a stop before breaking free again and continuing on its downward path.

  The music continued, as loud and full of life as before, but now the roar of conversation had started up again. People had turned back to one another, bored already, and were carrying on with their conversations as if a live four-piece band were nothing unusual at all. They clinked glasses filled with a shimmering golden liquid, laughing and shouting, their eyes glinting in the evening sun.

  Everyone on the grass was moving into the house. Lea watched one woman’s heels sink into the soft ground. When she reached the wooden patio, Lea observed sadly that the cornflower blue stilettos were stained with mud, a clean line marking how far she had sunk as she walked.

  Lea felt herself giving in. She felt intoxicated by the smell of meat, the white flash of the attractive man’s teeth, the pulse-racing beat of the sultry music. Yet everything else—the smooth, poised people, the elegant surroundings—was just like any other party of lifers. This world was so familiar, yet so completely different.

  Where was her father?

  She allowed herself to be carried along by the crowd of chattering people. Soon she was tightly wedged between a group of women in matching dresses, who would every now and then let out a ribbon of shrieking laughter, and a large, rather squat man who she suspected would have heart problems within the next two decades. Sunlight flooded in through a large skylight overhead, bouncing off shiny foreheads. The room was dense with breath and conversation.

  Then, without warning, the noise drained away, the crowd stilled. Even the matching loud-mouthed ladies next to Lea turned to face in the same direction, faces alert as meerkats’. Lea turned too.

  It was only then that she noticed the box. It lay on the stage where the musicians had been set up before, placed on a table dressed with leaves and small wildflowers. The box was approximately as long as Lea was tall, and as wide as a coffee table. It appeared to be made entirely out of glass.

  “Doesn’t she look just beautiful?” one of the ladies whispered. The others murmured assent.

  They were talking about the woman who lay inside the box, arms arranged neatly on her stomach, feet pointing up. She was beautiful. From where she stood, Lea had a clear view of her profile: the small, rounded nose, full lips, skin the color of autumn leaves. Her eyes, Lea thought, would be dark when she opened them.

  “I heard it wasn’t easy.” The whispering went on.

  The voices grew quieter now, but they were jammed so tightly together that Lea could still make out what they were saying.

  “They did it themselves. She did it herself,” said the first whisperer. “That’s what I heard.”

  The gasp that followed was so loud that Lea wasn’t the only one to turn and look.

  The women mumbled apologies and went back to whispering, now huddling together so that Lea could no longer hear them.

  Just then, a woman in a long red dress, glittering and sequined, stepped up to the stage.

  “Hello, everyone, and thank you so much for being here today,” she said.

  A hush descended.

  “I see many familiar faces in the room, many faces dear to me and, of course, to Dominique.” The woman paused, setting her wineglass down onto the surface of the box, its glass base clinking prettily. “But I also see new faces, unfamiliar faces, curious faces. And even though I do not know you, I am glad that you are here. Dominique too would have been glad. Some of you will know that she planned all this herself, right down to the font on the invitations you received. The music, the decor, the food—she wanted it to be the best party she’d ever thrown, and you know that she’s thrown plenty in her role at the Club.”

  The crowd murmured its agreement. A few claps broke out, but most were quiet. A contemplative mood had descended—respectful, almost. Overhead, the electric fans hummed softly.

  “Dominique represents the best of us. She was a dedicated veterinarian, Club member, daughter. As you know, her number placed her first in line for the new experimental phase of mandatory extension treatments, the ones which the ‘life-loving’ fight to receive. Only once all the kinks have been ironed out, of course, and it would be guinea pigs like Dominique who would help the Ministry do that. The Third Wave, they call it. She would have had to receive them today. Who knows what side effects she’d have suffered—misalignment at best, physical impairment at worst. And even if there were no side effects, well, then she would’ve been sentenced to thousands—maybe more—years of enforced living, carefully guarded and maintained as a potential so-called Immortal.”

  Around Lea, people shook their heads and folded their arms.

  Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. The heat of the room slammed into her with a vengeance, oppressive and heavy. She looked around for an exit, but the room was jam packed and she was right in the middle. The panic within her grew.

  “Who’s Dominique?” she asked one of the ladies next to her.

  “That’s not funny,” the woman whispered sharply. “It may be a party, but we’re still here to pay our respects.” She turned pointedly away from Lea.

  Pay our respects. Despite the sun pounding down through the skylight, Lea’s hands were suddenly cold.

  “Dominique’s brief existence was more meaningful than that of any of the so-called Immortals who wanted to suck the best out of her. Someone once said death was the best invention life had to offer, and I know I’m preaching to the choir here, but I think it always bears remembering.”

  Applause. The woman in the box—Dominique—did not clap. She didn’t do anything at all.

  Was that what death looked like? So peaceful, so alive? Maybe she was alive, the whole thing a sick joke, an antisanct protest taken too far. Lea could see from where she stood that Dominique’s cheeks were dewy and plump, her fingers gently curled at her side.

  But when the man got up to the stage, Lea knew it was true. The man in the tux was no longer smiling.

  “Dominique,” he said, “my darling. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

  The woman in the dress shot him an embarrassed look, but then she took his hand. He leaned into her.

  “Your mother and I will miss you. But today we celebrate your decision, the inspiration you will provide to all others who live life and seek death on their own terms.”

  The crowd seemed to shift uneasily. Lea got the impression that they were not used to such shows of melancholy; they had come expecting a good time.

  After a long pause, he took his hand away from his face. His expression was jovial again, eyes crinkling, dimples pinching. Then he gave a faint nod and there was a click. Water began to fill the box,
submerging the body.

  “What are they doing? What are they going to do?” Lea realized she was gripping the arm of the lady who had told her off earlier. The lady was looking at Lea again, the same annoyance on her face, but then her expression softened.

  “Oh, honey. Is this your first time? Who invited you?” Her eyes were sympathetic now. She placed one hand over Lea’s trembling fingers. “It’s all very clean, the whole thing. A chemical of some kind. It won’t do anything till he activates it and you won’t see a thing.”

  Dominique’s mother was speaking again. “As Club leader, Dominique has left big shoes to fill. But we are happy, no, honored, that someone very special, very competent, will be stepping into them. That someone, as many of you already know, is also a talented musician. And here she is now.”

  Lea didn’t recognize her at first when she stepped onto the stage. Her face was bone white, and it appeared even whiter in the light gold dress she wore. She was clutching the violin like a newborn baby. It was only when she touched her bow to the strings, sounding the opening notes of a piece they had listened to together three days ago, that Lea realized it was her.

  Dominique’s mother held her wineglass above the open box. She stared down at her daughter’s body, then, as if as an afterthought, reached out with her free hand to stroke her face. There was no grief in her expression, only something Lea thought might have been pride. With a flick of the wrist, she emptied the contents of her glass into the box. The dark purple drops floated in clear fluid for a split second, then dissipated. The fluid in the box turned darker and darker, until the girl—the girl’s body—was no longer visible.

  You don’t see anything. The woman’s words rang in Lea’s head.

  The mist began to rise from the box just as Anja finished her piece: a fine, red cloud, like a tiny ecosystem storing up rain. The last note hung in the air. Silence. Then the thunderous roar of applause, pressing in from all sides.

  NINETEEN

  After the ceremony was over, the band started up again. People began to dance. The music was just as electrifying as before, but Lea was no longer listening. The notes that had made her spine tingle just an hour ago now sounded flat and jarring to her ears.

  She felt as though the blood had been drained from her body. Stupid. It had been so stupid to come here, even stupider to be drawn in by the flash and glamour. She was at a Suicide Club party. Lea thought of the videos, the large anonymous man, the wheat-haired woman, the Musk she had met. She looked around at the people milling about. Was it one of them who had organized those deaths? Who had filmed them? She shuddered.

  But still, Lea didn’t leave.

  Anja stepped down from the platform. There was something different about her—though her face was still pale, her posture was straighter somehow, her stride more purposeful. She held her violin by the neck, like a weapon. Lea noticed how sharp her collarbones were, how they held the straps of her gown away from the skin of her chest, how deep shadows gathered beneath them.

  People were talking to Anja. Lea watched as they closed in around her, shaking her hand, patting her shoulder, placing their hands on the small of her back. Anja didn’t seem to be saying much, but she was smiling, smiling and nodding. Pride shone from her face.

  Eventually the well-wishers melted away, floating off with their long glasses in hand, drawn away by the music or the sunny day outside. Lea continued to watch Anja from a distance. At first Anja stood alone, surveying the crowd. But she wasn’t alone for long. Soon, she was approached by a tall woman, dark-haired, sleek and garish all at the same time. She was very pale, with green veins running down her neck. Her eyes were a watery blue and lacking definition. Her lips were a gash of deep purple. When she spoke, Lea saw that though dazzlingly white, her teeth were abnormally large, and seemed to be desperately pushing their way out of her otherwise quite dainty mouth.

  The woman lowered her head to speak to Anja. From where she was standing, Lea could see her mouth moving rapidly, feverishly, without pause, but she couldn’t hear what was being said. Anja had her head tilted and seemed to be listening. From time to time she nodded, or appeared to ask a question. The other woman’s torrent of speech didn’t end; now she was speaking with her hands, her long fingers tense and insistent, clawing the air between them. Finally, she fell silent and still. Anja too was silent. She was staring at the empty space above the woman’s head and seemed to be thinking. After a few seconds, she turned back to the woman and shook her head. It was a quick, firm rejection. Lea half-expected the tall woman to start talking again, but she didn’t. Instead she pressed her dainty lips together, flexed her fingers and balled them into a fist. Then she reached out, shook Anja’s hand, and walked away.

  No sooner had the tall woman left when someone else approached, this time a man, rather portly, tawny-skinned, and with a scalp so shiny that it looked as if it had been oiled. The same thing happened with this newcomer—him talking, Anja listening, asking the occasional question, then pausing, thinking. This time, however, after a long pause, she looked back at him and nodded. The man nodded too, slowly, repeatedly, grasped her hand, and then walked away, still nodding.

  Lea watched as the scene repeated itself again and again, as different people approached Anja, one at a time. She watched as they talked, as Anja listened, as they waited, as Anja nodded or shook her head. Soon it became a kind of game for Lea, predicting whether the person talking to Anja would get a yes or a no. She realized it had little to do with the way the petitioner looked—there was no pattern linking the yeses to the noes, rather, the clues lay in Anja’s face. Something about the way she held her lips as she listened, the way she tilted her head, the long pause she took as she stared blankly into space—all of these pointed to a yes.

  Lea was so absorbed in watching Anja that she didn’t notice the familiar slouch of the man as he approached her. It was only when he started talking that Lea turned her attention to his face and she saw that he was her father.

  He spoke to Anja the way all of the others had before him. Watching Kaito now, Lea noticed for the first time that the way he moved his hands as he spoke was like a sculptor shaping invisible clay. Again Anja listened, again she asked questions, again she paused.

  And even before Anja reacted, Lea knew. She saw from the softening of Anja’s shoulders, the knitting of her brows, the cast of her mouth that whatever her father had said, Anja would agree to it, to whatever he was asking. But even so, when Anja finally nodded at him, Lea still wasn’t prepared for the sick feeling that started in her stomach and traveled up her spine, expanding into her lungs and tightening her throat, a parasite burrowing deep into her heart.

  * * *

  After speaking to Anja, her father moved to a corner to stand by himself and watch the band. No one spoke to him; he spoke to no one.

  It was an unusually hot day for so late in the year, and the room was packed to the brim. Everywhere, brows were shiny and necks sticky. But even so, Lea’s hands were ice. She felt herself move, as if in a dream, through the crowd.

  He didn’t see her at first. And then even when he did, his eyes slipped right across her face without recognition. This was, after all, the last place he’d expect to see his daughter.

  But when she stopped in front of him he started, blinked, shook his head. The space between his eyes grew pinched and sad.

  “So that’s it, then; this is why you’ve come back,” she said.

  “Lea,” he said, looking around. “What are you doing here?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t believe—” She swallowed and stopped. She felt the pressure behind her eyes building, the heat in her throat rising.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Lea,” he said in a low voice.

  “You came back to kill yourself,” she said flatly. Said aloud, the words lost their power, became pathetic, cowardly. But her feet were still cold, her hands still shaking.

  “Look, Lea—”

  “You came back to kill yourself,”
she repeated.

  Her father fell silent. They stood facing each other in that crowded room, two still islands in a sea of movement and noise. When Kaito spoke again, his words came in a rush.

  “They stopped my benefits decades ago. Of course they would—I was a fugitive, non-life-loving, low priority. Low probability. I got replacements on the black market, unsanctioned parts.” He spoke fast. He brought his hand to his lower abdomen. “First, my kidney. Which wasn’t the problem. Won’t be a problem, that is. No, the problem is this—” He grabbed Lea’s wrist. His fingers were bony but strong. He brought her hand to his chest. “My heart. I had it replaced without getting the right advice, without thinking. Later I found out there’s a reason why heart replacements aren’t granted to anyone over a hundred and fifty.”

  Lea felt the warm thump of his heart in the palm of her hand. She felt the hair on his chest through the crisp white shirt that was now slightly damp in the heat.

  “I’m misaligned,” he said, still in that low, urgent voice. “Do you know what that means?”

  Lea pulled her hand away.

  “Everything will go, but my body will stay alive. My heart will keep pumping, my body will survive. I’ll be a shell. Brain dead, but maybe not. Maybe trapped. Who knows?” Her father still had his hand over his own heart. “I’ll be sent to a farm, in all likelihood. My body will be slowly drained for nutrients, recycled into new synthetic parts. And my mind—who knows? They say you’re unconscious in that state, but what if they’re wrong? What if you’re trapped there, blind and deaf, unable to speak, for another hundred years?

  Lea balled her hands into fists. “Medtech is advancing every single day. You don’t know that that will happen.”

  He blinked. “But they won’t—”

  “What are you doing to help yourself? What are you doing to show that you’re worth the resources? Why are you slinking around in secret, why are you getting messed up with, with this—” Lea flung her hand out toward the crowd, toward the platform where Anja had stood, where the box in which Dominique had lain was now empty.