by Ken MacLeod
A small crowd, a dozen or so, had formed a semicircle around her, and elsewhere in the room heads had turned to face her, some with tentative half-smiles, some with looks of vague puzzlement, a few with frowns. Hugh elbowed into the semicircle. The abstracted, unfocused gaze of the woman’s big dark eyes snagged on the intensity of his look. He responded to the eye-locked moment with a quick, casual nod, as if she were someone he knew, which he felt she was. Her double-take became a triple, but it didn’t shake her voice by a note.
She was into the final chorus and one or two of her listeners had joined in by the time Hugh felt a parting in the press of bodies behind him, then a nudge.
‘Excuse me.’
Hugh turned to meet the vaguely familiar face of a male student: glasses, ponytail, piercings, strands of beard, busy important frown. Oh, yes: Craig, the Student Union’s social secretary, recognisable from his campaign flyers a few months earlier. Hugh stepped aside. Craig took a few paces forward and stopped, leaning slightly forward from the waist.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the woman, ‘but I’m going to have to ask you to stop singing.’
The woman shrugged. ‘I have stopped,’ she said. She had an accent that Hugh could only identify as English, and that sounded to him posh. The accent wasn’t in the least like Voxy’s, but the voice was. Her complexion and her eyes made him think of rowan and heather, of peat lochs under grey skies.
A few voices were raised in objection.
‘Fuck off, Craig!’
‘She’s no using a mike!’
‘Oi!’
Craig turned and glared, then spread his hands. ‘Nothing to do with me, folks,’ he said. ‘It’s the law, and you know it. If we allow singing or music in here, we’ll lose our licence.’
‘Aw, fuck, can you no turn a—’
‘Same goes for swearing,’ Craig added. ‘Creating a hostile environment.’
‘It’s all right,’ the woman said. She stood up and waved her forearms. ‘Thanks for the support, everyone, but leave it.’
A few hands clapped, Hugh’s included. The woman turned away and clicked open the snaps of a guitar case. The crowd dispersed, part of it following the social secretary in a still-protesting huddle. Hugh stayed where he was. The woman packed away her guitar. She seemed to be on her own.
‘That was good,’ said Hugh.
‘Thank you.’ She frowned. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No,’ Hugh said. ‘But…’
He didn’t know what to say.
‘It’s funny,’ she said. ‘I thought you looked vaguely familiar.’
‘Maybe I just looked familiarly vague.’ Hugh was at that time working on the theory that when you couldn’t think what to say, you said the first thing that came into your head, however flippant or banal. It seemed to work for everyone else.
The woman gave a small, unimpressed laugh.
‘Could I get you a drink?’ Hugh said.
‘Oh, would you?’ She sounded surprised. ‘Thanks awfully.’
‘What are you having?’
‘A vodka and lime, please. That’s not too girlie, is it? You can say it’s for yourself, can’t you?’ She grimaced. ‘I don’t have my cert updated, and anyway…’ She shrugged one shoulder, then looked away.
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Hugh. This time he knew what to say, but didn’t because the woman herself so plainly didn’t want to speak about it: the humiliation and annoyance of having to show she wasn’t pregnant before she could buy alcohol. Instead, he sighed sympathetically, then smiled complicitly. ‘Mind my pint.’
He put the glass carefully on the nearest low table, and rejoined the queue. By the time he got back the beer was flat. He didn’t much mind.
‘Thanks, uh…?’
‘Hugh Morrison.’
‘Thanks, Hugh.’ She sipped, regarding him.
‘And your name is…?’ he said.
‘Hope Abendorf.’ Another laugh, this time at herself. ‘And I’ve heard all the jokes since kindergarten.’
‘Jokes?’
‘My nickname was Hope Abandon.’
With her slender English-posh vowels, that did sound a little like her name, the way Hugh heard it. Hape Ebendon.
‘No jokes about that from me,’ said Hugh.
‘Good,’ she said.
They went on talking, and didn’t stop. There was one awkward moment, when she was telling him something about her course – art and business studies, which as she said was about right for minding some village gallery or craft shop in the Home Counties – and his attention wandered. A tall, long-haired, bearded guy in leathers and metal – could have been a biker, could have been a re-enactor – strolled past and suddenly turned and fixed Hugh with a blue-eyed glare and said, in a language Hugh didn’t speak and had never heard but did understand, ‘You be good to that one,’ and strode straight on, through the wall as if it weren’t there. Or as if he weren’t, to be more rational about the matter. It had been ten years since Hugh had seen someone who wasn’t there.
‘Am I boring you?’ Hope asked, her tone light but sharp.
‘No. Sorry.’ Hugh blinked, and shook his head. ‘Something you said just reminded me of something, that’s all.’ He smiled. ‘You have all my attention.’
The way he said it, slow and precise, it sounded like a promise. Which, as it turned out, he kept.
4. A Scar of Thought
Fiona Donnelly rang the doorbell at 10.15 the day after Hope’s queries to her friends. She was about forty-five years old and she was a district nurse. She’d been alerted by Hope’s monitor ring, which like all such devices logged its results with the local health centre and the national database. Her visit had popped up on Hope’s diary when she’d fired up her glasses that morning, and Hope had nodded in agreement. Mrs Donnelly had been her visitor when she was pregnant with Nick.
Still, when Hope opened the door and saw Mrs Donnelly standing there in the little basement-flat front yard under a light dusting of snow, she felt a slight pang of dread, like she always did when she saw someone in uniform on her doorstep. It wasn’t much of a uniform, just a hooded blue fleece over a blue tunic and trousers, with a few badges and discreet sensors – cameras, mikes, sniffers – pinned here and there over the chest, but there it was. Authority. Hope had had a slight nervousness about people in uniforms since she was a girl in Ealing, back when Ealing was still des res and she was about ten, and the men from Environment had come to take away the Aga.
‘Hi, Mrs Donnelly,’ she said. ‘Come on in.’
‘Fiona, please, Hope. It hasn’t been that long. Let’s not be strangers.’
‘No, no,’ said Hope.
Fiona took off her fleece, shook the ice particles off it, looked about for a peg and hung the garment on a handlebar. The two women walked crabwise past the bikes, and sat down at the kitchen table.
‘Coffee? Tea?’
‘Tea would be lovely, thanks. No milk or sugar.’
Hope put the kettle on and rustled up tea bags. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Fiona slip a computer out of her tunic pocket and wave it in front of her chest before setting it down on the table. The nurse peered and poked at it for a few seconds, then sat back, no doubt relieved that no molecules of dangerous substances had been detected in the air.
Over cups of tea Hope and Fiona did some catching up. After about ten minutes Fiona pushed away her empty cup, tapped the tabletop beside her computer and moved to business.
‘Work OK?’ she said. ‘Not too stressful?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Hope. ‘Not at all. It can run itself if it has to, and if it gets too stressful – can’t imagine, but if – I can just let them know I need some time off. They’re always happy to have me back after I’ve been away.’
‘Fine, fine.’ Fiona’s finger twiddled on the tabletop, writing. ‘Any general health problems? Anything that might not have shown up on the logs?’
Hope shook her head. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. She straightened her
back and wiggled her shoulders. ‘I should get a bit more exercise, and take a few more stand-up breaks, but with all this snow…’
‘Yeah, I know. Global warming. Well, so long as you keep that in mind. Get outside more than just the school walk and the shops, OK?’
‘Oh, I do, I do, we go for walks at weekends…’
‘Fine, fine – like I say, keep it in mind, make a little extra effort. Anyway… we’ll book you in for a first check… next month?’
Hope put her glasses on, invoked the diary, tapped the table and synchronised diaries with the nurse’s computer.
‘OK, the twelfth of April, fine. Twelve-thirty.’
Fiona looked down at the tablet, sighed, and looked up.
‘Now,’ she said. ‘Sorry I’ve got to say this, but… I’ve got to. You’ve thought about the fix?’
‘I’ve thought about it.’
‘And are you going for it this time?’
Hope compressed her lips and shook her head.
‘Why not, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I do mind you asking,’ Hope said, more lightly than she felt. ‘But I just don’t want to do it, and that’s that.’
‘Do you have any safety concerns about it?’
‘No.’
‘Faith issues?’
‘No,’ Hope said. ‘I don’t.’
‘Shame,’ said Fiona. ‘Because I could have set your mind at rest about safety, and given you some tips about placing a faith objection.’ She put a forefinger against the side of her nose, and tapped, gazing idly out of the window at the bare branches of the bush outside. ‘You’re absolutely sure you don’t have a faith objection?’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said Hope. ‘We – Hugh and I – have been over all this.’
‘Much as it pains me as a not very good Catholic,’ Fiona said, with a wry look, ‘I have to tell you that there are non-religious faith objections, if you see what I mean. Off the top of my head, uh, Green Humanism for one…’
Hope burst out laughing.
‘Green humanism? What’s that? Humanism for little green men?’
‘It’s about leaving human nature alone, as I understand it,’ said Fiona, a little stiffly. ‘As well as the rest of nature. No mucking about with genomes. I gather they also object to the New Trees.’
‘Well, there you are.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got nothing against New Trees. And I could hardly pretend to, because Hugh works with new wood all the time. Well, half the time, but you know what I mean.’ Hope propped her elbows and began waving her hands. ‘Look, Fiona, Hugh and I have been through all this. It’s not enough to claim you believe something, you have to show it in some way, and I’m just not prepared to do that if I don’t actually believe in something, and the fact is, there’s nothing out there for me to pretend to believe in, let alone actually believe in.’
‘Well in that case, my dear, I’m afraid you’re stuffed.’
‘So to speak!’ Hope acknowledged Fiona’s joke. ‘But isn’t it enough that I just don’t want it?’
‘No,’ said Fiona. ‘It isn’t enough.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, if that was enough, if just saying no and not giving a reason was enough, where would we be? It would be just chaos.’
‘It’s enough now,’ Hope said. ‘Or was until a couple of days ago. And I don’t see chaos.’
‘Well…’
‘And anyway,’ Hope went on, ‘the ruling is being appealed, so I’m not in any legal difficulty by not having the fix.’
‘I’m sorry, Hope, but you are. The ruling stands, and unless it’s overturned on appeal or the law is changed, we have to take it into account.’
‘We?’
‘The Health Service. We have to do our best to persuade.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Hope. ‘But I can’t actually be compelled. Not yet.’
‘Uh, that’s not strictly true, Hope. The local health centres have all changed their policy in line with the ruling. There’s a provision already for court orders. We hope it won’t come to that, obviously.’
Hope felt a cold jolt.
‘But there must be thousands of mothers in my position! You can’t take all of them to court!’
Fiona rubbed the back of her neck, between the collar of her tunic and the curve of her pinned-up hair.
‘Well, no,’ she said. ‘But I’ll be honest with you, the idea is that a few cases will be enough to make the rest fall into line. You just have to hope your number doesn’t come up.’
‘This is so fucking unethical,’ said Hope.
‘No, it’s not,’ said Fiona. ‘Not on any ethics I was taught, at work or anywhere else.’
‘What about my choice? Doesn’t that count for anything?’
‘Yes, it does. You do have a choice. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.’
‘It’s no choice if it’s hedged about with conditions I can’t meet.’
‘But the conscience exemption—’
‘That goes against my conscience!’
‘Look,’ Fiona pleaded, ‘the centre will give you every opportunity, they’ll bend over backwards to accommodate everyone who has a genuine conscience-based objection, they’ll hand out exemptions like Tesco vouchers. But what they can’t accept is people just saying no for no reason.’
‘I don’t get it,’ said Hope. ‘If faith kids are allowed to be just the same as nature kids, the problem can’t be that bad in the first place. I mean, you’re not allowed to beat your child just because the Bible says you should. You’re not allowed to rely on praying over a sick child, no matter what your beliefs are. If the child’s sick enough, you’ll still get hauled up for neglect if you don’t call a doctor. So the fact that the nutters can get away with this one means the fix isn’t all that important – it’s regarded as a good thing to have, I’m sure, but not having it can’t really be thought of as that bad. So why can’t I just say I don’t want it?’
‘It’s the principle,’ Fiona said. ‘When we had conscription, we allowed conscientious objection. But you had to convince a board that your objection was genuine conscience and not just cowardice, because otherwise every coward or anyone who just didn’t want to be bothered could claim it was conscience. You can’t have people dodging an obligation just because they don’t feel like it.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying!’
‘I’m sorry, Hope, but from where I’m sitting, it is.’ Fiona shrugged. ‘I sympathise, obviously, but all I can say is, I hope you’re not one of those picked to be made an example of.’
The remark stung. Hope stared across the table at Fiona: friendly, businesslike, almost motherly. In the grey light from the window and the white light from the LED fixture, she sat in a halo in which she looked serene, concerned, informed, everything a visiting nurse should be. She’d sat across this table so many times, held Hope’s hand, helped to bath Nick when he could be cradled in the crook of one arm. Hope knew she had her best interests at heart.
‘Oh, thanks,’ said Hope. She looked away. ‘Well, the site can run itself but I don’t earn any money that way…’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Fiona. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
‘That’s fine.’
Fiona gave a tight smile. She reached into her tunic pocket and took out a small yellow-and-white carton, about the size of an aspirin packet. Printed at the top of one side was SynBio in friendly, flowery pink font. She placed it on the table, carefully, but her hand shook a little and Hope heard a hollow, plasticky rattle.
‘Just in case you change your mind,’ Fiona said. ‘One tablet, down with water. The sooner the better, obviously, but it can sort out quite a lot even after six months.’
Hope shifted her gaze from the packet to Fiona’s face. She flexed one shoulder.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
Fiona made for the hall.
‘You will think about it, won’t you?’ she said as she shrugged into her f
leece.
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Hope, opening the door.
Fiona gave her a tight smile and went out, into the now thicker snow. Hope got the door closed before she started crying. Fiona wasn’t a villain. Fiona was just a person who represented an impersonal system closing in and grinding them down. That was how Hope saw her.
That morning, Hugh arrived at his work shortly after 9.30. He wasn’t late: as far as he was concerned, the billed-for day began when he set off on his bicycle, and he’d set off at 8.00 prompt. The shower had ended as he reached Acton – or rather, he was out from under its cloud, which he could see behind him whenever he glanced over his shoulder. Which was often, given that many of the vehicles on the road were almost as quiet as his bike, and a lot faster and heavier, and the cyclists more dangerous than any of them. Unlike most of the heavier vehicles, bikes were steered by humans, and almost all by cyclists. Hugh rode a bike, but he didn’t consider himself a cyclist.
As he whizzed through the traffic and raced across junctions and around roundabouts, Hugh found himself preoccupied – though not distracted, because the parts of his brain that dealt with cycling in traffic had long since laid down reflexes that operated below the level of his conscious thought – by the vision, indeed the full-sensory hallucination he’d had the previous evening. Sight, sound and smell; and to all appearances an awareness of Hugh’s presence, though perhaps not that of anyone or anything else in the hall or in the house.
Hugh, for reasons that will later become painfully clear, was a confirmed scoffer about anything that smacked of the supernatural or even of the paranormal. He was less troubled by his visions than might be supposed. In his early teens he had read with delight the poem of Lucretius, in a tatty old paperback published by Sphere Books in 1969 with a Max Ernst picture on the cover. He’d found it in the attic of his parents’ house, which had once been a Free Church manse, amid a stash of dusty old rationalist works, presumably from the minister’s library. (Hugh had only made sense of this when he’d noticed that most of the books were critiques of the historical record of the Roman Catholic Church.) On the inside cover, the pencilled words were just legible: