by Luke Kennard
‘Little girl with white hair?’
Samphire blew him a kiss.
‘I’m going to find you something.’
After Samphire’s bedroom door clicked shut – a light, plastic click like the capsule from a Kinder egg closing – Karl stood. It started to rain on the caravan, a lovely sound which got heavier and made him want to curl up in a ball. The door clicked.
‘Look at this,’ said Samphire. She rifled in her poncho and handed him a small, polished stone. Its markings and layers of minerals made it resemble a Japanese painting, with valleys, mountains, sky, a branch with blue blossom in the foreground bisecting a pale moon. Then you looked again and it was just a trick of the eye – a random pattern. Then you turned it and it seemed impossible that someone hadn’t carefully painted a landscape on it with a single-hair brush.
‘It’s lovely,’ said Karl.
‘It’s jasper,’ said Samphire. ‘A picture stone. It’s just a polished stone you can buy from a gift shop for a pound. I can’t remember where I even got it. Hold it up to the window.’
Karl did as he was told. He looked through the window to the horizon. The hills, one symmetrical and topped with pines, one with a sharper precipice, rolled into one another to the east. The skyline was uneven but for a perfectly flat area to the west. Then he looked at the stone, which depicted exactly the same scene, the lines a perfect match to his eye, differing only in colour – the stone was a yellowish brown. The world could look like that too in certain lights. He looked back at the landscape. Right in the centre, an oak tree in the middle of a hedged-off field appeared to be missing some of its branches, as if a bite had been taken out of its top right. He looked back at the stone. Was he imagining a tiny mark in the middle of its ‘field’ in exactly that shape? He laughed, half in disbelief, half to shrug it off.
‘Even the farmhouse,’ he said.
‘I only noticed yesterday,’ said Samphire. ‘I absolutely freaked. To be honest, it’s why I asked you over. I wanted to show someone.’
‘It’s not painted?’ said Karl, examining the stone closely, its pits and seams of mineral.
‘It’s a natural formation,’ said Samphire. ‘Weirdest thing.’
They stood looking out of the window until a flock of starlings passed overhead.
‘Why won’t you tell me how you know Janna and Stu?’
‘Why this obsession? I’ve told you.’
‘They’re trying to separate me and Genevieve. They’ve got her on this high-powered corporate scheme. But it’s like they’re grooming her for something else. They stole a photograph I have of her, long before …’ he trailed off.
‘What?’ said Samphire.
‘You know something,’ said Karl. ‘Why won’t you tell me?’
‘This has been a blast, Karl. I must invite strange men to my house more often.’
‘You’re scared of something.’
Outside, but as loud as if it were happening within the caravan, Izzy sounded the self-drive’s horn, one short, one long.
‘It’s your chauffeur,’ said Samphire. ‘What a pity.’
‘Give me something,’ said Karl. ‘Just before I go. I promise I’ll leave you alone.’
‘You’re so annoying.’
‘You’ll never hear from me again.’
Samphire sat down on the thin cushion and rubbed her eyes.
‘Your mentors,’ she said. ‘Janna and Stu, they’re not just a couple who happened to get a job working for The Transition. They met on The Transition. They were put together by their own mentors, who were, way back, put together by, et cetera. That’s how … That’s why it works.’
‘No,’ said Karl. ‘Come on. I don’t believe The Transition can just systematically split up everyone who enters the scheme.’
‘No, of course, not everyone,’ said Samphire. ‘Just the right ones. Someone like Genevieve … She’s of great interest to The Transition because she’s unusual and attractive and smart. There are different categories, different qualities they look for. She’d be highly rated as a 4K, at a guess.’
‘Which is what?’
‘You shouldn’t keep pictures of someone lying around like that – I’d murder you.’
‘I didn’t tell you anything about the picture. What’s a 4K?’
‘I don’t have time to give you a full briefing,’ said Samphire. ‘4K is very good.’
Outside Izzy leaned on the horn for a long five seconds.
‘Somebody worth holding on to,’ said Samphire.
42
THE CEILING TRAPDOOR thudded and Karl heard a heavy footfall on the spiral staircase. At first he couldn’t tell what had changed about Stu’s appearance. He had a laptop under his arm, a black T-shirt with a white circle printed on it and his head was completely clean-shaven.
‘Every leap year,’ said Stu. ‘Keeps people on their toes.’
‘It looks …’
‘Takes a while to get used to,’ said Stu. ‘Janna hates it. Think you’re ready to start your assignment?’ Stu put the laptop down on the Formica table. ‘It’s all online, but you’ve only got two hours before lights out, so don’t waste it. Be back to pick it up at eight.’
Karl, compulsively scratching his cheek, was two paragraphs into an intensely lyrical description of the dead flax growing in the stairwell when he remembered, with a start, that he hadn’t checked his Study Sherpas© account in some time. He logged in to his profile page to be met with a new one-star review. He felt winded.
ONE STAR. Ruined my fucking life. WHERE is my DISS on ELIPSIS in Henry JAMES? DO NOT USE THIS FUCKING TIME-WASTER, LEARN FROM MY MISTAKE I am probably going to fail my degree now thanks to this cunt.
Karl instinctively started to write a response, but there wasn’t even a window to do so. Oh well. He went back to his essay. Atrophied on a branch already dead at the root, he wrote. He spent an hour working on his thesis. He finished his cup of instant coffee and went to the bathroom. The shaving light flickered and then settled, alarmingly brighter than before, a fluctuation in voltage.
He inspected the familiar raised red patch on his cheek, which looked angry. Floodlit by the malfunctioning shaving light in the basement bathroom, his face seemed to be visible in high definition for the first time, every enlarged pore and acne scar. He scratched his cheek and tried to focus. His face had bothered him the whole time he was writing – a tingling sensation to the right of his jaw. He craned closer. Something … It was like a tiny stitch or staple in the middle of the welt he had never left alone, the one Janna and Stu had tried to confront him about on the first night. Karl scrambled out of the bathroom to his holdall and went through the side pockets for some tweezers but found nothing of the kind. The only thing in the kitchen drawer with a sharp point was the bread knife, which had a cheap plastic handle and two fangs at the end of its serrated blade, a throwback to open fires. Back at the bathroom mirror Karl held the over-long knife by its very point like a dart, for maximum precision. He moved around until he found the right angle for the light, located the stitch again and worked at it until he hooked it, then lost it, then hooked it again and pulled out a loop of hair. Then he threw the bread knife into the corner of the shower. He was equally nauseated and entranced. He pulled the tiny loop with his fingernails and it unravelled into a single hair, which kept coming until it was almost two inches long. Bells tolled in his head. He wished he could tell someone about it. Instead he ran his finger over the giant hair protruding from his cheek.
‘You were there all along,’ he said.
43
IT WAS JUST GONE EIGHT. Karl showered and put on one of his two button-down shirts. Earlier he had walked down to the park and picked some daffodils which now drooped in a jam jar on his bedside table. He hated waiting. He was eager to see Genevieve and explain what had happened last time, or have her explain it, or pretend it had never happened. He walked from the bedroom to the desk room, then to the wet room and back again, describing a figure of eight. He pac
ed like this for five minutes, retracing the path Genevieve had anxiously trodden two days before. Then he climbed the little spiral staircase to the basement entrance and knocked on his ceiling, their floor. Nothing. He knocked again.
After more pacing Karl checked his watch and saw it was nearly 8:30, thus half of his visiting hour was over. This wouldn’t do. He put on his shoes, left the French windows open and jogged around to the front of the house. Janna opened the door.
‘Oh,’ said Janna. ‘Hi, Karl.’
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ said Karl. ‘I know I’m not supposed to come to the front door. But Genevieve’s late.’
‘Is she?’ said Janna. ‘I thought she was with you. I’ll go and check her flat – two ticks.’
Janna closed the front door and Karl took a step back. It was cold. He could see Stu in the living room ironing a shirt. Stu gave him a salute, which Karl returned then tried to be very interested in the honeysuckle climbing the wall on the other side of the front door, which opened again.
‘Karl,’ said Janna, ‘I’m sorry, but Genevieve says she doesn’t want to see you.’
His brain felt roughly half the size it needed to be in order to process this.
‘Is she allowed to do that?’ he said.
‘Well, I don’t know, Karl,’ said Janna. ‘I’ll go ask the eighteenth century. Look, don’t worry. She’s really busy – we’ve got her working with a delegation from Toronto next week and she has to prepare a presentation.’
‘That’s … Okay,’ said Karl. ‘Tomorrow, then?’
‘Well, she’s not designated to visit you tomorrow,’ said Janna. ‘But the next day, if she feels like it.’
‘Right,’ said Karl. ‘Tell her I said hi.’
He took the knocker and pulled the front door closed on Janna, which felt like a small victory.
Back in the basement he tried to lie down and tried to pace. He reached for his tablet. There was a message from Mr Roderick. I’ve done it, it read. I’ve done it. I’d crack open a bottle of something fizzy if it wasn’t cider. Open attachment NOW.
Karl accessed a long list. Each journal had its own identity code. Some of the codes were in bold, but the majority were greyed out. There was a time when that many manuscripts would have required a vast archive hall. Karl chose a greyed-out code at random and skipped to the last entry:
JULY 7TH
The life of a glass collector. Skyway is a rooftop bar, which is cool, sometimes you just want to drop a glass over the side but it might hit someone and the glass collector would be first on the suspect list wouldn’t they. Two girls in the kitchen – fit – they were like what brings you to Chicago? Are you studying? I honestly didn’t know what to say. Nice to know I still look young enough to be mistaken for a student. I wasn’t about to admit to failing a remedial life-coaching course was I. So I said I was on an exchange. Then it was like a thousand questions in half an hour while we deep-cleaned the kitchen. was I single? Was I gay? favourite sex position? might sound sort of invasive, but the way they asked it was funny, I didn’t mind. On Saturdays I easily find at least $30 in dropped change and am saving up the flight home although what will I do there, my life is here now. This is something I will go more into later. Well this is supposed to be an opportunity but I can honestly say I feel too old for it. Maybe ten years ago, maybe twenty. Weather or not
The journal ended mid-sentence. He tried another.
Ever get the feeling you’ve been lied to? Jason keeps on at me, but I don’t mind where we’ve ended up – I always wanted to see Japan and this could be a great opportunity if we work our way up. For now it feels a bit like being a typist again, but it’s bearable.
He read deleted journals until 3 a.m. and found a similar narrative trajectory in each one. Those who hadn’t finished The Transition and gone on to open gourmet cheesemongers or theatre companies for babies or invented a new mouthwash were shipped away to work for numerous Transition franchises and concerns overseas. It was, he gleaned, a voluntary move, at least at first, but then the B-streamed protégés found themselves living in a new city in another continent, with an income that more or less covered their rent and little chance of saving for the considerable airfare if they wanted to get back to England. The broadhead contract, as Keston had called it, presupposed compliance, and most probably it sounded like an attractive proposal. The Transition contract tied the client into the scheme for life, even if they started an independent business. And those who didn’t were employed to maintain the organisation in various ways. He read the final journal entries of data-enterers, cleaners, corporate entertainers, waiters. Two of the journals he read concluded with their protégés working in a factory where The Transition’s tablets were manufactured.
I am going out of my mind – I never even understood that phrase before now: I LITERALLY feel separated from my mind like I’m watching my body from a wall-mounted camera. Watching my poor little body standing at the counter attaching tiny batteries to tiny sockets. I have never stuck factory work for more than a week as a holiday job and even then I admired the mental firepower of the people around me who’d done it all their lives. god this is hell. Yesterday I heard voices in the hum of the machines. My mother’s voice, my EX mentor’s voices and Michael’s voice of course Michael’s voice, god I could kill him. they didn’t say much – they didn’t even say things I remember them ever saying, but it was like I could HEAR them, actually HEAR them rather than I was imagining them and I had no control over what they were saying.
A later entry read:
Kill me.
And the next day:
Sorry. Struggling yesterday. Things seem brighter today. I had my lunch in the quad and it was cold, but the sunlight hit the giant paracetamol-shaped factory with some kind of force, like an indeFATIGUEable force, like it was god saying there’s more than this. God, I don’t know, ask a poet.
That was the last entry. Karl spun through the list and picked another.
I feel, like, titanically alone. I’m trying not to think about Natasha. The days pass quicker that way. What the fuck IS this? Which part of the contract stipulated that I was going to end up an actual fucking slave?
44
KARL GOT TO Roderick’s Orchard desperate to speak to Mr Roderick. He felt like an excitable dog, running in and out of every room to find his master. He was crestfallen to find him absent and tried to busy himself. He was sluicing down vat B when the water pressure dropped to a trickle.
‘It’s a trap, then?’ said Karl, looking up to find Mr Roderick standing in the doorway. ‘They cherry-pick the best protégés and send the rest of us halfway round the world and leave us there.’
‘Late night?’ said Mr Roderick.
‘They’re going to split me and Genevieve up and then pack me off to Abu Dhabi.’
‘Travel is the best education,’ said Mr Roderick.
‘Why are you letting me know all this?’ said Karl. ‘Why do you want to save me?’
‘It’s not personal,’ said Mr Roderick. ‘It’s the right time, that’s all. It could have been this time next year with another protégé called Mark or Sophie, with Karl Temperley safely at the top of a distant Transition hotel scrubbing toothpaste flecks off a mirror.’
‘Look,’ said Karl. ‘It’s not that I think I’m too good to clean toilets – that’s probably my natural station in life. I’m a prole with an aristocratic degree and my handwriting and draughtsmanship are appalling. In the nineteenth century I couldn’t have even cut it as a minor clerk.’
‘Or you’d prefer not to.’
‘It’s only technological advances that have given me what I have and it’s not much,’ said Karl, aware that he was talking too fast. ‘I don’t even know how to repair the tools of my own trade. But what I do have is Genevieve and there’s very little I wouldn’t do to make sure she’s okay, and that means being by her side. Even if romantic love is a tawdry invention of twentieth-century capitalism. So whatever you’re planning, I’m in. I
mean you are planning something, aren’t you?’
He searched Mr Roderick’s expression for anything other than faint amusement.
‘I mean you are, right?’
Mr Roderick put a hand on Karl’s shoulder.
‘Come to the bar,’ he said.
‘Every six months for the last few years I’ve harvested the censored journals,’ said Mr Roderick. ‘Just on a hunch. At first it was a hundred or so, but it’s a franchise now, with branches all over, so we’re talking thousands a year. I knew there was something to it.’
‘So when do we go to the press?’ said Karl.
‘We’ve both seen what’s happened to the people who quit The Transition or tried to move against it,’ said Mr Roderick. ‘It’s remarkable how easy it is to ruin someone – nobody realises how very precarious they are. We rely on little electronic transactions, paycheque to paycheque, to keep food in our bellies and a roof over our heads. So the solution: I could just take the story to the press, on my own – I’m sure there are some very good journalists within living memory. But imagine this instead: we send all the censored diaries to every single Transition tablet: Zing! Suddenly every protégé has access to the whole truth. To both sides of the story. Then we walk away. No whistleblowing, no glory, no victimisation. We put the truth about The Transition in the hands of those enrolled on it and we let nature take its course – an uprising? a mass walkout? a huge news story, with backing and testimonies from hundreds of protégés? It doesn’t matter. That’s up to the thousands of people like you, Karl, enrolled on this nefarious scheme designed to steal your partners and send you to a tower in the middle of a desert. The touch of a button and all the redacted journals appear on every single Transition tablet in the world, for them to read and digest at their leisure. And then act on. Hopefully.’