It gave her a lot of comfort thinking she’d see him again.
I reminded her about my mum and said God was losing a lot of rounds, but she had no answer for that.
I always thought that when someone close to me died, that I’d somehow know they were all right. That sounds stupid, because they’re not, they’re dead, but I thought I’d get some kind of sense that they were at peace or something, but I never did with Mum.
She was gone. Full stop.
In two days I’ll be gone. Full stop.
It’d be easier if I believed.
All my thoughts and memories of you will be gone, Isaac. You’ll have to carry the time we met, our evenings in the park, our walks in the woods, when you met Mrs B, the first time we held hands, the first time we kissed, made love – you’ll have to carry them all, but when you die it’ll be like it never happened.
We never were.
Nothing to show, no mark, no record.
My God. Who’ll remember Mum when I’m gone?
Jesus. God. Shit, Mum, I’m sorry.
I remember your hand squeezing mine at the school gate, your arms around me at bedtime, your voice shouting me for tea, but I can’t see your face any more.
With my eyes closed I see it in photos, in a park, at a wedding, raising a glass, frozen at that moment, but you’re not in front of me now.
I hear you crying, arguing down the phone with people you can’t pay.
You had a hard life. Always trying to do the best for me.
I think back. I push away thoughts of your sadness and remember. I hear your laugh.
It’s Christmas. We’re at Mrs B’s, around the table with her and Ollie. We saved money by not buying crackers so me and Ollie made them. We didn’t have the bang, but it didn’t matter. We wrote ridiculous jokes that weren’t even funny and used them instead.
You’re reading one out … I remember it …
Why do cows wear bells?
Because their horns don’t work.
It’s not funny, but you crease in laughter, and as we watch you, so do the rest of us. We can’t stop. My sides hurt. I see your hand over your face wiping your tears but still don’t see your whole face. But it doesn’t matter. I listen to your laughter. I hear your happiness. You are my mum and I’m proud. I’m glad to be your daughter.
Hold that for me, Mrs B. You were there, you’ll remember too. Hold that memory for me after I’m gone. Keep it safe. Keep her with you.
Hours pass.
I’m cold. Freezing.
The cell’s become darker and the window’s now the lightest thing in here. I wonder what the moon looks like tonight. It must be big because there’s so much light out there I can see the clouds zooming over the sky.
The wind’s blowing in stronger.
My fingers are stiff, my toes numb.
My brain keeps wanting to work out how many hours I’ve got left, but I won’t let it.
I feel cold to my bones.
Maybe I’ll freeze to death tonight instead. They’ll come in in the morning and I’ll be like an ice cube and they’ll have to crack my arms and legs to straighten me up. Lift me and drop me back to the ground and I’ll shatter into a million pieces. Probably they’d still carry on with this whole charade and put all the frozen, broken pieces of me in the electric chair.
Can’t spend the night like this, I think.
I’m shaking.
There’s some kind of rhythmic clicking or tapping noise and I look around trying to work out what it is, thinking I’ll be able to see in this dark and there’ll be some mouse scurrying across me or a spider with clicking pincers.
It’s your teeth, I tell myself.
I need to get warm, or at least not get any colder. I try to think of what to do but I can’t think.
Hypothermia. Affects your brain function.
I wish I had more than this mangy sheet.
Knock on the door, ask for a blanket, a duvet.
Yeah, right. Can’t move. Tired.
My nose is running now. Thought it’d freeze not run. Snot icicles off the end of my nose.
Maybe they’ve given up on the psychological torture and are going for the physical now.
I’m trembling and jostling and shaking like I’m four years old and need a wee. I can’t keep still. I stick my hands under the pillow. Change my mind. Hug it to my chest.
Keep your core warm.
Can’t feel my feet.
I wish you were with me, Isaac, I think. Keep me warm. Hold me. Hug me.
‘I am,’ he says in my head. ‘I’m here next to you. Forget the cold. Look up to the stars with me. We can still share the sky.’
It had to end though, didn’t it?
‘If my father hadn’t …’
We were naive.
‘No, we were in love.’
Were?
‘Are.’
CELL 6
Martha
A crackling sound wakes me from a beautiful dream where you were with me.
The warmth of your arms was around me, your breath on my skin, your heartbeat, your chest moving up and down as you slept. It must’ve kept my heart pumping blood around my freezing body.
It reminded me of the time in Bracken Woods, lying on a blanket with the orange of the sunset on your face, swearing at myself for falling in love with you. Happier than I’d ever been, but waiting for the crash that would be so loud it would wreck our lives.
The crackling gets louder, thoughts of you retreat and I sit up.
This new cell is tiny. There’s just enough space for the mattress, a toilet bowl attached to the wall, and a hand basin next to it. There’s no window, only the sliver of a hole, no glass across it and too small to need, or fit, bars.
I inch myself into a square of sunlight coming through it.
The crackling sounds like it’s coming from a speaker but I can’t see one anywhere.
It stops.
The silence is strange now.
I wait.
‘Death,’ a voice says. ‘A permanent end to all functions of life in an organism. Termination. Destruction. Murder or killing.’
I can’t see where it’s coming from.
‘Kill: to put to death. Deprive of life. To cause extreme pain or discomfort to. To make something die.’
It sounds like my old English teacher. Droning and monotone.
‘Die.’
I think it’s getting louder.
‘To cease living. Become dead. Expire.’
Oh my God.
‘To cease function. Stop. To pass gradually. Fade. Subside. Result of murder.’
I lie back down and pull the pillow over my head.
‘Murder: the killing of another person without justification or excuse. To put an end to. Destroy. To kill brutally or inhumanely. Particularly with pain.’
How long is this going to go on for?
‘Pain: an unpleasant feeling …’
You don’t say …
The Stanton house
‘It was just a promise,’ Cicero says as he ejects the memory card, turns off the computer and looks to Isaac.
‘Doesn’t a promise mean anything to you?’ Isaac asks.
‘Not if someone innocent is going to die if I keep it!’ He tosses the card onto the table. ‘How could you do that?’
‘Because I respect her! Because I’m not some adult who thinks they know best when they don’t! She knows what she’s doing. We both do.’
‘They’re going to kill her!’ Cicero shouts.
‘Do you think I want them to?’ Isaac says. ‘Don’t you think I’d prefer her to tell the truth and fight this?’
‘Frankly? No!’
‘She has a right to decide! I have to respect that! So do you!’ He grabs the memory card from the table and storms towards the door.
‘You can’t take that!’ Cicero shouts after him.
Isaac stops and spins round, staring at the exasperated Cicero.
‘Stop thinking
you know what’s best,’ he says, his voice measured and controlled. ‘Because you don’t always. Neither do I. Or Martha, or Eve or even Max or that scruffy-looking guy, Gus, from the High Rises. But together we might, and we have to trust each other to do what’s right.
‘I can do this. With some help from Max and with some support from you guys and some belief that I will do the right thing, then I can do this. Trust me.’
As he walks away and the door silently closes, Cicero paces around the room.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he says, rubbing his hand through his hair. ‘Jesus bloody Christ.’ He grabs his suit jacket from the back of the chair and storms out after Isaac.
The house falls into quietness and while Eve slumps down at the table and rests her head in her hands, Max pads into the room. With a glance to his mother, he moves through to the kitchen, pours water into the kettle and turns it on.
Eve doesn’t move.
He puts a spoonful of coffee into a mug and takes the milk from the fridge, yet still Eve doesn’t move or say a word. After the kettle has boiled he fills the mug, adds the milk, stirs it and places it in front of his mother.
She looks up. ‘Thank you,’ she breathes.
He sits opposite her, takes a biscuit from the barrel and places it next to the mug.
‘What do you think, Max?’ she asks.
Max closes his eyes, letting the silence wrap around him.
‘Isaac and Martha? I think they love each other,’ he says at last.
Martha
Martha sits on a white swivel chair in a small white room. There is nothing else except a computer screen in front of her.
‘Hello, Martha,’ says a slow, metallic voice from behind the screen.
Martha doesn’t reply.
‘How are you today?’ Each syllable is staccato, the odd word lilting in pitch as it fakes a human tone.
Martha spins the chair left and right, left and right.
‘We’d like to talk to you.’
She spins it further, stopping it with her back to the screen.
‘You are the lucky first user of our new computerised counselling service – the virtual counsellor.’
Martha scratches her head.
‘The viewers at home would like you to turn around. They would like to see your face.’
She doesn’t move.
‘In order to take full benefit from the virtual counsellor it is imperative that you turn around.’
A whirring begins and the chair moves by itself. Martha fights it, pushing against the ground with her bare feet, but still it turns, stopping and locking in place, as she is again facing the screen.
Martha shuffles in the chair, folding her legs up and turning around so the screen focuses only on her back.
‘It is imperative that you turn around.’
‘Fuck you,’ she says.
The lights shut down and the room falls into black. Somewhere a door creaks open.
‘Hey!’ Martha shouts. Muffled sounds of feet fill the darkness, a jangle of keys, a shuffle of bodies, a couple of thuds and a dull shout.
Silence.
The lights come up again.
Martha is strapped to the chair facing the screen. Her face is red.
‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ the voice says. ‘We would like to know how you are feeling today.’
Martha doesn’t reply.
‘You have thirty-four hours and fifteen minutes until your possible execution. Correction: thirty-four hours and fourteen minutes. How are you feeling?’
‘I want to speak to Eve. She’s my designated counsellor,’ Martha says.
‘The post of designated counsellor no longer exists. Mrs Eve Stanton is no longer your counsellor. We, the VC – virtual counsellor – now provide for all your needs. You may speak to us instead.’
‘I don’t want to speak to you.’
‘With our unlimited database of virtual experiences we can help you deal with your emotions and thus share your problems, feelings and secrets. Would you like to share a secret with us now?’
‘Nope,’ Martha replies.
‘We are sorry to hear that. We sense stress in your voice.’
‘Stress? Are you surprised? You know what it’s like.’ She stops abruptly.
‘Would you like to share your feelings?’
‘No,’ she replies again.
‘We would like you to share your feelings. Or perhaps you have a problem you would like to discuss.’
‘Actually, yes, yes, I do have a problem. Can you fix it for me?’
‘We can listen and empathise. We can suggest ways in which you can deal with your problem.’
‘OK. My problem is that you’re all assholes.’
‘We are sorry to hear that. Although we sense your problem derives from a subjective point of view –’
‘Subjective point of view and bloody torture.’
‘… and would suggest you look at the problem objectively. This may ease your pain.’
‘I hadn’t finished.’
‘Please continue.’
‘I have lots of problems. Shall we discuss them all?’
‘Our service is to assist you at your time of need. If discussing all of your problems would be of assistance to you then we shall discuss all of them.’
‘Thank you. My first problem, discounting all the … shit … that’s going on in the cells, is that I don’t have any biscuits and it’s making me sad. I miss biscuits.’
‘We are sorry to hear you feel sad and are missing biscuits. The death row service on which you are incarcerated provides three meals a day, none of which include biscuits. Searching the database shows us there are no foreseeable plans to include biscuits on the menu, and examining the statistics regarding your impending death it seems unlikely you will be released. We would therefore recommend that in the future you avoid committing crimes which result in your subsequent incarceration. We hope this solves your problem.’
She nods. ‘Right. Well, my second problem is that I’d like to see a tree again before I die. It’s nice to see something green.’
‘We are sorry that the current service does not include the use of trees, yet as it is something green you wish to see, we are pleased to inform you that peas are on tonight’s menu.’
‘Fantastic,’ Martha replies. ‘Thank you.’
‘Do you have a third problem?’
‘I do. Tell me, computer, is this being shown on TV?’
‘It is.’
‘Is it live? How many people are watching?’
‘It is live. Examining the current statistics we estimate that the viewing populace is currently at around … twenty-one million.’
‘Wow, that’s a lot.’
‘It is estimated that your execution will attract a figure far in excess of that. Our goal is to exceed 24.15 million, the number of viewers who tuned in to hear news of Kennedy’s assassination.’
‘I could beat Kennedy.’
‘Your current viewing statistic puts you in the all-time top twenty.’
‘I bet you’d like that to be even higher, wouldn’t you?’
Behind the screen, the mechanism of the computer seems to click and whirr.
‘We are here to discuss your needs. We are your virtual counsellor and our aim is to support you.’
‘Yeah, yeah, but even more people … I could help you with that.’
The computer doesn’t reply.
‘I do have a secret …’
Still the computer is quiet.
‘Something I could share with your viewers, that they’d be so shocked at they’d struggle to believe … but that I could prove.’
‘After examining your personal history, your childhood, your family and friends as well as your school records and lifestyle choices, it seems highly unlikely that you would indeed have a secret that would shock the viewers or that they would struggle to believe, hence our reply is that unfortunately we don’t believe you.’
‘But yo
u’re curious.’
‘We don’t believe you.’
Martha manages to shrug slightly and her eyebrows lift with a silent question.
‘Although we don’t believe your secret will shock, you are free to share it with us now if you wish. Unburdening may help you rest.’
‘I’ll be dead soon, why do I need to rest right now? No, if you want to know, you can do something for me.’
The room is silent. At the side of the screen a red light blinks.
‘Tell us your secret.’
‘No. You have to do something for me first.’
‘Tell us what it concerns and we may negotiate.’
Martha closes her eyes as she thinks, stretching her hands against the clasps they’re held in.
‘OK. You agree to let me see Eve again, straight away, now, I want to see her now, and I’ll tell you who it’s about.’
‘We don’t believe we can trust you.’
‘Snap,’ Martha replies.
‘We believe finding Mrs Stanton may be difficult.’
‘I don’t think so. I should think she’s already here.’
Again there’s silence.
‘We agree to you seeing Mrs Eve Stanton one more time.’
Martha stifles a smile. ‘Good. My secret concerns Paige, and my relationship with him, shall we say?’
The clasps around her wrists loosen.
‘You will tell us your secret after you have spoken with Mrs Eve Stanton.’
The door opens and a guard enters.
Martha shakes her head. ‘No. I’ll tell you my secret, everything I know, at my final words tomorrow. Just before I die.’
Isaac
‘What are you doing?’ Isaac hisses.
On the massive television screen hung on the wall in front of him, he watches Martha be led away by the guard. The white counselling room is replaced with the blue of the studio, Kristina’s red lips hanging open in mock horror and her thickly mascaraed eyes glancing skyward. Next to her, the eye logo with the words slowly turning.
‘Turn that rubbish off.’ Isaac’s mother wanders into the room, pink velour trousers and a white sweatshirt. Her face is glowing as she dabs at it with a towel, her hair slightly damp. ‘As if it wasn’t enough to have lost my husband, I have to contend with that girl’s face everywhere I go.’
The reality TV show to die for. Literally Page 15