by A. J. Betts
The son’s long neck rippled, causing me to consider how he’d fold his tall body to fit inside his capsule. I wondered, too, how he’d manage to hoist up the top crib and lower it down upon himself from the inside, screwing it around so that it clicked shut. It would be a tricky feat, without anyone to help him. Trickier yet to set his capsule moving.
I was about to ask when a cold breath emitted from the vent below. Chhh, it sounded. I wriggled as he’d told me to, clearing a path for the engine’s air. Chhh.
‘It’s working!’ I shouted, my voice rebounding. The son’s blue head tilted in response. Had he understood? ‘The air is working!’
‘Move . . . your . . . back.’
That’s what it looked like he said, so I wriggled further from the air vent. Chhh, it exhaled.
‘What’s your real name?’ I called, for in the other world he wouldn’t be the son anymore. He’d be just a boy who’d made the choice for a better life.
‘Will.’ It’s what he seemed to say.
I smiled. ‘Will, the air is working.’
He peered in at me with monstrous eyes, his lips distorting with each word.
‘I’ll . . . be . . . back.’ Was that what he said? Or, ‘Move your back’?
‘I don’t understand!’ I called. ‘Tell me when we’re out.’
In slow motion, his fingers tapped at the curve. His face too close.
Big eyes to see me with. Big mouth to trick me with. Big hands to push me with.
This time, I saw exactly what he said. I heard it too.
‘Don’t. Come. Back.’
Chapter 17
I rolled as a marble rolls.
I tilted into the curve, a girl in a marble, rolling, rolling, falling.
Then my neck lashed and my face hit the glass with a punch. Knees thumped. Hands slapped.
Worse than the pain – the shame.
I was a fool.
Like a god, he’d put me into this crib. Like a friend, he’d promised to come with me. Like a monster, he’d pushed me into a lonely hub for me to drop down into the dark, deep water, away from him and everything.
I felt the marble rock, then shift, as if judging up from down. Chhh, said the air.
Light was a tight circle far above. The service hub. And in it I could see the son’s head peering down at me from a forgotten house in the only world I’d ever known. The only world that might ever be.
Even as I watched, the circle began to narrow as the hub’s lid was pushed back into place. It was the shape of a scar. Then a hook. Then there was nothing.
There was only me inside a capsule that rocked and turned as I sank further into a dark, dark hole.
The marble turned. Helpless, I turned too. My tiny world kept turning when I only wanted stillness.
In my constant slipping, I tried to find something to hold on to, but all I could feel were the sheets, the book, and other small shapes, which slipped as I did.
Only when I gave up fighting did the marble give up too. The capsule held me in the dark, no longer falling but floating. Calmed, it found its own leaning, and I leaned with it, trying to slow my breaths.
Chhh, said the vent.
I knew who I was. I knew I wasn’t mad. I knew I’d been foolish, though, to think the son could rescue me. Now I was utterly alone, bruised and hurting in a small dark ball whose exhalations were my only comfort.
Chhh, they said. Chhh.
My mouth tasted of blood. My body trembled.
I held a sheet with one hand and sucked at the thumb of the other.
I dreamed of stars but woke to dark.
It was darker than any night. Too dark to see myself. Was I even alive? Did I still exist, down here?
Only the occasional bump told me I was moving. A nudge from the right. A shift towards the left.
There was no sense of time. Perhaps it didn’t apply in a watery place between worlds. I could have been gone for a day. A season. Or just a fragile moment.
Somewhere else, the people I knew would be eating breakfast, or dinner, or collecting water, or working, or sleeping. By now the children had probably performed a play of my life. I wondered which girl had acted my part, and how my story was told. Would they have shown me tending to bees? Smoking paperbark and fixing filters? Would they have rendered me as clever – Sharp as a tack – and skilful at solving riddles? I hoped the teachers were good enough to turn a blind eye to my last, awful weeks. I didn’t want to be remembered like that: grotesque and stupid. Mad.
Somewhere up there, Luka would be mourning the girl he’d befriended. Celia would be blaming herself for sharing our secrets, leading to the treatment that caused my ‘death’.
Only the son knew the truth. Will. Only he knew how I’d rolled and rolled into nothing. Perhaps he comforted himself with the belief it had been the kindest choice.
It wasn’t. This would be the cruellest death of all.
I saw my fingernails first. Then my hands, knees, feet. Next I saw the whorl of sheets, then the latches at the seals that were keeping me in.
What had been darkness was now a heavy blue, though I couldn’t find the source of the light. There were no growlights down here. Water simply shimmered as it wished.
I pressed myself to the curve to look through. How could there be so much water? I wondered. How could I not see the sides of it?
After so much falling it was a relief to sense I was rising. Tiny bubbles, I noticed, were scurrying up the outside of the crib. I tapped the glass as they passed. ‘Where are you going?’ I asked as they skipped and bumped like children running up stairs.
I tried to push myself to sitting but something scratched at my back. When I twisted to reach behind me, my fingers found a sharp hardness which I grabbed and dragged around to see: little toes, chubby legs and a lacy white dress.
I screamed and hurled the ugly doll, but it bounced off the glass and fell by my feet, making me recoil. What was it doing here? I hadn’t brought it, which meant the son must’ve hidden it among the sheets, even though he’d known I hated it. Wasn’t it bad enough to push me out with lies? Did he need to torment me too? The doll pointed at me with its lifelike hands.
‘I hate you!’ I told it, my eyes stinging with new tears. ‘You’re not even real.’
I didn’t want this ugly thing to watch me die, so I kicked it. Fake eyes blinked then stared at me coldly.
I threw it again, wanting to dent its puffy face and puckered mouth. I kicked at its head of golden curls and its stupid white dress. I stomped at its belly and chest until the thing cried out, but not in pain.
With unmoving lips, the doll said my name.
‘Hayley.’
I drew back, incredulous, as the son’s urgent voice spoke.
‘Listen, Hayley. There’s a lot to say and not enough time. Morning is coming . . .
‘I don’t know everything, but there is another world. At least, there was. They had a problem, you understand? Something to do with the stars . . . Some people left that world and hid in this one, along with the seeds. They were our first generation and they were only supposed to stay until the danger passed and it was safe to go back, but the screens stopped working, like I said, and the other world stopped talking, which meant no signal ever came. They waited and waited but there was no sign, from God or anyone, and some of them went mad because that’s what waiting does . . . Some voted to leave. Some voted to stay. Three servicers went out and more tried to follow, but there was chaos so they sealed the service doors, and when babies started being born, no-one told them about the other world because it mightn’t even be there anymore, and why make the children mad too? They just taught them this world was everything, just as they taught the third generation, and by the time the fourths came along, no-one remembered differently anyway, only the judge and maybe a doctor. But Hayley, even I don’t kn
ow everything because stories get jumbled, and I’m not sure what’s true or not, but I want to know what’s there, so much. Of course I want to go with you. I’d give anything to visit the other world, ruined or not, and to see what you will see. But I can’t, so listen, Hayley: if the other world’s still there, and I hope it is, and if you find it, you have to –’
The doll jerked. The speaking stopped.
I scrambled for the thing and lifted it up, pressing the button on its chest. I heard its insides whir then the son’s voice – Will’s voice – begin again from the start. I listened hard, hoping he might finish this time.
‘. . . if the other world’s still there, and I hope it is, and if you find it you have to –’
What, Will?
I shook the doll – ‘I have to what?’ – but the doll refused to go on, though I pressed the button again and again, hearing Will urge me outwards, upwards as the quiet marble lifted to a lightening blue.
I don’t know much, I heard him say, and I realised I already knew more than him: that there was more water than could be dreamed of; that there were bubbles that skipped like children; that above me a circle of light grew bigger and brighter than an opened hub ever could.
But then a lurch and sudden darkness. The capsule shook as a huge and solid thing wrapped around it, blocking the light from above. It was like a many-fingered hand, and I could just make out the pale circles that pulsed as it gripped the glass, its body roiling and pulsing. I knew there were eight arms without having to count them.
It was Luka I thought of. Luka, it’s an octopus. A giant one! You should see this!
The beast adjusted its grip, and as it did so I spotted its marvellous eye. I wondered what it must think of me. Had it ever seen a girl in a capsule, floating at the whim of water and beasts? Did it believe that I was the strange one?
With a muscular throb it peeled itself off then pushed away, kicking up and up into the incredible blue.
Son, I thought, not with hate but unexpected pity. Will. You should be seeing this too. You should have come.
For I understood then that, unlike me, he never had a choice. Not really. The world needed Will as a hive needs its queen. It was his job, after all, to keep the world safe with his butchery and bond and lies. He’d lied to me, many times, but I couldn’t hate him for that. He’d wanted to join me. I’d seen his desire for out.
And now I felt sorry for him, for he would never witness a giant octopus, or all the shiny, shimmering meats that were flitting outside the capsule. Nor would he see these skipping bubbles or the fattening circle of light above.
So I saw it all for him; for both of us. I observed all I could, enraptured by the light and the immensity of blue. Dazzled like this, I didn’t even notice how silent the vent had become, or how shallow my breaths were.
I guess that’s the nature of air, not to be noticed.
I wanted to sleep, but something kept dripping on my leg, forcing me to stay awake. It was just a small drip. One after another.
It confused me. A capsule shouldn’t drip, should it? I couldn’t remember. My head felt heavy. My thoughts were slow.
My fingers found a wet spot along the join of cribs. Another drip was fattening there. Further along I found others.
And then I felt the sickening sensation of falling. Beyond the glass, water had darkened again and the bubbles had all skipped away. I tried to recall what Will had said. This is the latch you use to open the cribs . . . But only when you’re there, understand? Was I there? Was I out?
How long had it been since the last chhh of air? The only sound now was the rhythm of dripping on the damp sheets beneath me.
I didn’t understand how the crib’s engine worked, but I knew it was broken and this knowledge was enough to revive me. Panic me.
Think, Hayley. What do you know?
I knew I was good at puzzles. I knew how to tend the bees. And I knew about seeds: how they always reached up to the light.
And so I would too. If the capsule was falling, I would need to go up by myself.
My hands worked the lever as the son had, but in reverse, unclipping and pulling, then turning in a circle and pushing. My arms wrenched as I tried to free myself from the airless capsule that was no longer keeping me safe. I pushed and tugged until something clicked, then shifted.
Water rushed me. It pummelled my neck and chest as I kneeled, my hands gripping the handle at the top of the crib. I twisted my body – knees pushing left; hands pushing right – then rocked and heaved with what little air I had left.
The cribs were squealing but the water was louder. It bellowed and roared then snatched me up and out where I was folded, tugged, twisted and stretched, my eyes searching through the sting of salt for light as I kicked and pulsed as the octopus had, fighting up, up towards the light that was above and out and waiting.
A gasp.
Air!
A hard suck at air and again I was falling.
I kicked. You have to fight. Was that what Will had been trying to tell me? . . . and if you find it you have to fight?
I fought.
I fought and I slapped, squinting each time I rose. I flailed at water until I kicked something solid. I reached for it – a crib – as it lifted beside me, pitching and wheeling. It overturned with a splash and I grabbed for its edge.
The open crib slopped and rocked, slopped and rocked. My shoulders ached but I heaved my body up, dragging myself over and in.
There, like a baby, I was slopped and rocked in this world that was too harsh for sight. Beyond my eyelids, a giant flame seemed to burn.
I breathed. Twitched. Forced one eye to open.
Then gasped again.
Out.
Acknowledgements
I wish to sincerely thank the following people for making this book possible.
Pan Macmillan Australia, especially publisher Claire Craig, editors Georgia Douglas and Ali Lavau. An absolute dream team. Thank you for your passion, dedication and belief.
Early readers Ryan O’Neill, Donna Mazza, Robyn Mundy and Marilyn Betts. Thank you for your wisdom and generosity.
Zeitgeist Agency, especially Benython Oldfield, Thomasin Chinnery and Sharon Galant. Thank you for your enthusiasm and conviction.
Fellow writers, friends and networks in Western Australia, in particular Meg McKinlay, Brooke Davis, Julia Lawrinson, The Literature Centre, SCBWI, WritingWA, cycling buddies, and staff and students at SSEN:MMH. Thank you for your advice, kindness and hugs, and for remaining interested through the many years this has taken me.
To the best neighbours anyone could wish for: Ross, Wendy, Marguerite, Ruth, Jean and Will Morgan, and Pam and Les Parker. Thank you for your love, support, and ocean views.
I wish to thank the Australia Council for the valuable development grant (2012–2013), and Edith Cowan University (South West Campus) for the generous Australian Postgraduate Award scholarship provided while undertaking my PhD.
About A. J. Betts
A. J. Betts is an Australian author, speaker, teacher and cyclist. She has a PhD on the topic of wonder, in life and in fiction.
She has written three novels for young adults. Her third novel, Zac & Mia, won the 2012 Text Prize, the 2014 SCBWI Crystal Kite Award, and the 2014 Ethel Turner prize for young adults at the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards, and was shortlisted for the 2014 Queensland Literary Award. Inspired by her work in a children’s hospital, Zac & Mia is available in 14 countries. Adapted for television by California’s AwesomenessTV, Zac & Mia is now an Emmy-award winning series.
A. J. is originally from Queensland but has lived in Perth since 2004.
Also by A. J. Betts
Shutterspeed
Wavelength
Zac & Mia
This is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned in this
novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.
First published 2018 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000
Copyright © A. J. Betts 2018
The moral right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.
The author and the publisher have made every effort to contact copyright holders for material used in this book. Any person or organisation that may have been overlooked should contact the publisher.
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available
from the National Library of Australia
http://catalogue.nla.gov.au
EPUB format: 9781760781354
Typeset by Post Pre-press Group
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