by L. Lee Lowe
'Are you saying my dad has something to do with your illness?'
'Are you ill when deprived of oxygen?'
She spread her hands in a gesture of hopeless incomprehension. Zach raised his upper body off the pillow, his colour high again, his eyes too bright.
'Are you sure you want to know? Really sure?' he asked.
Slowly she nodded.
He spoke fast, almost as if he were trying to outrun a stutter. 'OK. I'll tell you. Nobody else will. And then you tell me if you'll be able to sit down at breakfast with your dad and eat your scrambled eggs and bacon and toast without choking.' He took a breath, trying to calm himself. 'We're flawed genetically, all of us. A faulty gene which prevents our bodies from producing a key protein needed by our brain cells. The biochemical mechanisms are a bit more complicated, of course. But going too long without this factor induces the withdrawal symptoms you've seen. And worse.'
'How much worse?'
'Worse.'
They were quiet for a time.
'Then why aren't you taking the stuff?' Laura asked. 'That serum.'
'I wanted to see if I could manage without it. At least for a while. How would you like to be dependent on the supply of a drug?'
'Lots of people were, once. All those old diseases—diabetes, schizophrenia, high blood pressure. Still are, for some things.'
'Not a great way to live.'
'Haven't they tried to fix the problem? They can do an awful lot about faulty genes nowadays.'
Zach gave a short harsh laugh. 'You don't get it, do you? It's the other way round. They engineered the defective gene deliberately. To have a hold over us. To control us. To own us.'
The doorbell rang. 'The pizza,' Laura said, relieved to escape for a moment. But when she opened the door, it wasn't a deliveryman.
'There's been a complaint, miss,' the officer said.
Chapter 6
On a ridge surmounting the sea ice, Zach and Lev are stretched out on a caribou skin over deep snow compacted by their feet. It's taken a long, painstaking trek across uneven terrain to locate the breathing hole directly below them. There are fresh polar bear tracks out on the ice, clearly visible after the new fall of snow.
'He's hunting,' Lev says. 'Ringed seal's his favourite snack.' He offers no explanation other than a lame joke for the second set of footprints, the ones which resemble their own but circle the aglu without an inbound or outbound trail. 'Some winged angels with a taste for hi-tech expedition boots, maybe.'
'Better than armoured ice bears equipped with subtle knives,' Zach says dryly. 'Listen, seal meat makes good eating. Lots of calories in the blubber.'
'Without a harpoon? Anyway, a seal is no challenge. But it depends on how long you can take the cold.'
Zach edges closer to his companion. For now, their layered clothing, lightweight but well insulated, defies the wind. Though they've avoided overtaxing themselves—sweat, like any moisture, has sinister consequences in the far north—the cold always wins in the end. Zach is grateful for the mitts Lev insisted on, better than his own, and the bubble-fleece face mask. Refusing a pair of ski goggles—'they'll only interfere with my vision'—may have been a mistake. He remembers the feel of Lev's lips, their restorative warmth. And with a sharp twist of pain, Laura's.
'Are you OK?' Lev asks.
'Polar bears are supposed to be curious,' Zach says. 'Wouldn't it be easier to show ourselves? Attract attention?'
'The only way I can hope to take him is when he's distracted, concentrating on his prey.' Lev nods towards the breathing hole, the nearest of several. 'That's the other reason for the caribou pelt. A seal won't surface if it hears the scrunch and squeak we'd make on loose snow, even just shifting in place.'
'How long have we got to wait?'
'No idea. Could be a while. Don't worry, I'm not that stubborn—or rash. Seal stew is preferable to hypothermia.'
'There's black, open water in most of the agluit,' Zach says. 'They've been used recently.'
'You've done your homework. Now be quiet.'
'Look here—' Zach says, but Lev puts up a warning hand and points towards the expanse of shorefast ice. The moonlight enables them to see four, maybe five kilometres out. It's hard to tell, for there are no landmarks which signify anything to Zach, no real means of gauging scale and depth, and the entire vista is so vast, so eerie, so ethereal that he might be gazing upon a poem rendered in light rather than words.
Yet the ice isn't featureless. Not only are there small domes over some of the breathing holes, but fissures and cracks where the snow shades to lilac and cyan, to a bruised violet like veins under the skin of a newborn; dunes and snowdrifts blown into ridged formations and hollows reminiscent of the open desert; low piles of rubbled ice, grey and barely frosted with white; in places, drifting hoar mist; and even some meandering leads of open water, black as the lead in the great cathedral windows. At first he thinks of a lunar landscape, then realises that the comparison is inadequate—that, in fact, the very attempt to impose a foreign grammar on such a place would prevent him from communicating with it. If it has a language, he needs above all to listen. Not like the monkeys, who in their discontent and greed redefine everything with their paltry nomenclature, make and remake and make again in their own stunted image. Little backwater gods, scared shitless that they've been shunted onto a sidespur of evolution.
A flicker of movement, barely discrete—more a warping of the light, as though passing through a prism—there, near the edge of a lead. Something is moving across the ice. Zach touches Lev on the shoulder, who nods to show he's seen it too. The bear has surfaced so quietly from the water that its presence seems like a ghostly gift: the one who gives power, according to the Inuit.
As Zach concentrates on the animal, he begins to make out its strategy. Chest flat on the ice, the bear is sliding along centimetre by centimetre in their direction, its hindquarters slightly raised, propelling itself forward by its powerful rear legs. And difficult as it is to credit, this canny creature is pushing a piece of ice in front of itself like a shield. What does Lev think he's doing, arrogantly hunting such a tool-wielding being? He can't hurt it, of course, but he doesn't know that. VWT only works if its participants are totally immersed in the experience; if they're convinced it's real.
Zach debates rising right then and there to shout and gesticulate and head off the impending encounter. Nark or not, Lev has been decent, Zach flinches to think of what's coming. Briefly he wonders which crime could have sentenced Ethan and Chloe to this place: murder? a bombing? grievous bodily harm? or even the one Zach can hardly bear to contemplate, sexual assault? The harsh polar regions are almost invariably reserved for the most violent cases. He'll find out, of course. More than half the clients tell him themselves within the first twenty-four hours—some boastfully, some defiantly, some with a battery of excuses, some in deep denial and protesting their innocence. Not the child molesters, however; they give nothing away. Like their victims.
Without a watch it's impossible to tell how many minutes pass. Though Zach has learned to read the Arctic sky, its cycles conflict with paradigms so long accepted as to seem natural and unquestioned, instilled since infancy and as much a cultural given as, centuries ago, a geocentric cosmos or humours or hatred of the infidel; angels, for godsake. Nor is he entirely sure whether the programmers don't set the time parameters to suit a company directive. Time here is as malleable as the snow itself. Or perhaps no more so than elsewhere, but in the same manner that extreme conditions strip away pretence, the cold distils and purifies the senses till only a true core of perception remains—the dark unfrozen sea which lies beneath the ice.
The bear halts at an aglu about ten metres from their vantage point. Zach can sense Lev's heightened awareness, though he moves even less than before, his breathing so quiet that he might be hibernating. Nor does he tense, the way most people would. Two different species, but in this inhospitable landscape strikingly alike, bear and man—as if the exigenci
es of the hunt have interfaced their very genetic code. And both understand silence.
Then comes the faintest ripple of sound—a seal surfacing for air. A few bubbles. Like milk at the boil, both bear and Lev erupt instantly. The bear lunges in an explosion of snow and ice and ferocious strength, its massive paws slamming through the aglu. The sea churns, water foams and spumes in all directions. By the time Zach has blinked, Lev is on the ice, knife unsheathed and raised to strike.
The polar bear whips round. Having lost the seal, it's maddened with rage. It roars and swings for Lev, who dances back, just out of reach of those steely claws. Those paws that can kill a walrus—or man—with a single blow. The bear lowers its head, glares at Lev with febrile eyes, and roaring once more, springs. Lev goes down.
The bear pauses and swivels its head to survey its domain. Zach has risen to his feet, their eyes meet. Afterwards Zach will be ready to swear that it smiles at him. Its intent is plain, and it makes no attempt to conceal it. This Arctic warlord will have its kill, one way or another.
And Zach reacts. He doesn't have time to think about what he's doing, how absurd his impulse is. How counterproductive. How foolhardy.
'Abort,' he cries, and reels off the string of code that will end the run.
Except that nothing happens.
'Abort,' he repeats, enunciating the code more slowly and distinctly.
Then he drops his arms and stares at the scene which is unfolding on the ice, surreal as vintage simulations, as early neuroscience.
Chapter 7
Her eyes stinging from staring at the screen, Laura blinked back tears. She would never understand this stupid useless stuff no matter how many hours she sat here. What did anyone do with stochastics? She tossed down her pencil, slid open her bottom desk drawer, and removed the book she was reading. No one, not even brainy Olivia, bothered with poetry. Except, it seemed, for Zach. Laura had been surprised to find out how much she liked the poems. This woman's desperation could make you gasp as though you'd fallen into an icy sea and were struggling to keep your head above water, struggling to swim for shore, unable to see its outline for the frost smoke. Up close, Zach's hair had smelled faintly of burnt matches as he'd handed her the book. She wondered where he'd been.
Her door opened. Quickly she thrust the book under her scratch sheets, but it was only Max.
'When are you going to learn to knock?' she asked. 'I might have been in my underwear. Or naked.'
Max shut the door behind him. One eye was dark and puffy, his bottom lip split. Skin scraped from his cheek and jaw.
'Max! Have you been fighting?'
'Ssh. Mum will hear.'
'You're going to need a mask to hide those bruises. Better yet, a hangman's hood.'
'Yeah, I know.' He sighed. 'I was hoping you'd think of a good story.'
'What happened?'
'Here.' He took something from his pocket and gave it to her.
Laura unfolded the small white envelope, small and white and blank. She looked up at her brother.
'Who's it from?'
'You know.'
Laura hoped that Max couldn't hear her sudden inrush of breath.
'You've seen him? He's OK?'
'Better than me.'
He blinked rapidly, and Laura was touched by his vulnerability. Still a little boy, though she'd never say so. But then he straightened his shoulders in a manner copied from a zillion films. The sensitive yet brave hero facing adversity. Soon he'd not allow himself even a single sniff in her presence. She curbed her impulse to put an arm round him.
'Where did you see him? What did he say?' she asked.
'At the pitch. All he said was to give the envelope to you. He left pretty fast, but not fast enough.'
'What did they do to him?' She couldn't keep the fear from her voice.
'Not to him. To me.'
'Shit.'
'Yeah, well.' Then he grinned. 'Broke Tommy Atwell's nose, I think.'
'Double shit. More trouble.'
'Na. They won't cozz.'
'You reckon?'
'They didn't see him pass me the note. In a fair dust-up you don't grass on your mates.'
'Then why the fight?'
Max dropped his eyes.
'Max?'
'Stupid auger, he should've known better than to come near me when anybody else was around.'
'Don't call him that!'
'It was dumb of him. Real dumb.' But he didn't repeat the word.
Laura regarded her brother for a moment. 'I get it. They said stuff about me.'
'Is it true?' Max burst out. 'That you—that you have sex with him?'
'No, of course not.'
'But you've been thinking . . . I mean . . .'
'Little brother, you've got no idea what I'm thinking!'
'I only meant, you went to his place.'
'With some schoolwork. He'd been absent a lot. Then I saw he was ill, needed help.'
'That was just a lie for Mum and Dad. And the plods.'
'Not exactly.' Laura smoothed her fingers over the envelope. She could almost feel his voice whispering to her from the paper. If only her skin could hear a little better . . .
'You like him?' Max asked.
Max would get punished no matter what story they fixed between them. Because of her.
'Yeah, I like him. Not the way you mean, but I like him.'
'They said he sleeps with everyone. Even'—a whisper now—'even boys.'
'Max, he's just somebody from school, but he's nice. Don't believe all the rubbish you hear.'
'But what if—'
Their mother's voice went off suddenly like a smoke alarm, only louder. 'Max, are you upstairs? Come down here immediately! You've left your dirty boots in the middle of the hall again. And your holdall. Max!'
Laura tapped her brother on the hand. 'You'd better go.'
'What should I tell her? You know how she gets about fighting. Like their sort.'
'The best lies are close to the truth. Twins, hard to tell apart.'
'Max! Do you hear me?' More strident now.
Max went to the door and opened it a crack. 'Coming, Mum. Just need the loo.' He looked back at Laura.
'Don't say too much, that's when they get suspicious,' she said. 'Try something about their insulting her.'
'Max! I'm warning you. Get down here right now or you'll regret it. Do you want to be grounded like your sister?'
'Don't worry, even she wouldn't ground you for defending her,' Laura said. 'Just make sure to report at least one juicy swear word. Cunt will do.'
'I'm not having her ring round to everyone's mum!'
'For godsake. How could any brother of mine be such a bad liar? Then say it was some simu kid from school. That she'll believe, but won't be able to do a thing. Especially if you say you can't tell them apart anyway.'
'Brilliant.'
'You got it.' She blew him a kiss. 'And Max—'
'Yeah?'
'Thanks.'
*****
After Max left, she stood up and went to bolt her door. Though it wouldn't keep her mum out for long, at least no one could sally in unannounced. The shouting from downstairs barely registered, much like the noise from the high-speed rail line which ran behind the flats where Olivia's dad lived. You got used to it.
Back at her desk, she picked up the envelope and held it for a few moments between her fingers, then laid it down again. One part of her wanted to tear it open straightaway; another part wanted to enjoy the anticipation—or possibly, postpone the disappointment. He was mad to write to her. Mad to try to contact her at all. Why did madness seem like the true matrix of sanity?
Finally she carried the envelope to the window. Leaning against the casement, she carefully prised open the flap. A crow was hopping among her dad's dahlias, his glossy black plumage contrasting sharply with the ostentatious sprawl of colour in the flowerbed. She'd always hated those flowers—vulgar tarts slathered with lippy, top-heavy and lolling suggestively.
She preferred the crows, though her father called them nasty pests and fought an endless, futile battle against them. He'd even offered Max a pellet gun alongside a premium, but her brother had been horrified. There wasn't a bird with a broken wing or an orphaned litter of hedgehogs which Max didn't try to rescue. If she didn't know better, she'd have thought somebody had scrambled his genetic code.
She watched the alert movements of the crow until he cocked his head in her direction. A keen eye whose scrutiny was unmistakable—and familiar. She giggled, then rapped a knuckle against the pane. As he rose into the air, she was startled by the black rainbow of his flight—Zach's hair shimmered in the sunlight with the same iridescence.
Inside the envelope was a thin sheet of white paper which she'd have to destroy no matter what he'd written; no texting and no messaging and no emailing, they'd agreed. She drew it out with fingers just short of trembling. She missed the easygoing times with Livs when they'd been able to say anything and everything to each other. Now even opening a note—or your mouth—seemed to require as much discipline as winning an Olympic gold medal. Towards which, despite her mother, she was most definitely not about to swim.
Unfolded, the sheet revealed an exquisite, handcut paper snowflake, as delicately wrought as silver filigree. Utterly anonymous, devastatingly personal. Laura held it up against the light. She could see those long fingers snipping with a scissors, that crow hair swinging forward as he bent over the table.
'Thank you,' she whispered, and he might have smiled in response. But the rest—the kiss, the embrace, the future—took place in her own imagination.
*****
Owen was waiting for her at the pool on Saturday.
'You must be starving after all that swimming. Let's get a burger,' he said. He made no mention of her weeks of punishment, nor of Zach. Laura should have been grateful; instead, she felt irritated and resentful. That damned niceness again.
'Only if we go someplace new.'
'Where?' he asked, amenable.