by Amy Lilwall
‘Fine.’
The door opened. ‘Take this,’ Susan said, unbuttoning her coat and pulling Blankey from her hip. ‘I mean, take her… Take her to Mrs Lucas.’
‘I will,’ Hamish said, still looking at Emma, then flashed his almost-panicked stare at Susan; shit, he’d let himself linger on Emma. His eyes jumped to her of their own accord, reaching for her face like a drowning man grabs for a buoy. The buoy rolled away, she looked at her knees. Stupid, bloody eyes; they’d lingered again. This time he held Susan’s stare. ‘I will,’ he repeated. The car door was closed and they regarded each other through the window; Susan stared unblinking, as if she’d just caught her partner with another woman.
* * *
‘Do you think they’ll ever meet again?’ Isabel scraped sugared icing from a stale bun with her index fingernail.
‘Who?’ said Reg.
‘Watty and Drew.’
Reg held his breath and jigged his gaze over her.
‘Like in heaven.’
‘You’ve never believed in heaven…’
‘Or reincarnation, then…’
Reg pressed his lips together and straightened in his chair. ‘You know, Quail,’ he said, tracing a circle on the table with a dough-coated fingernail, ‘you’ll always have a home here, with me. Why don’t you stay?’ He nearly added: it’s what they would have wanted; instead he said: ‘It would be a pleasure.’
‘No,’ Isabel replied. ‘But I won’t be very far away.’ She kinked her head in the direction of the lab. ‘None of us will be very far away.’
Reg scrunched up his eyebrows… Us? he’d wanted to ask. She hadn’t been quite right since… well… since the accident.
‘I think I’ll write it as a request – you know – in the notebook. Whoever finds it, when I’m gone, might be far enough into the future to bring them back.’ Her pupils climbed up to the right as she thought this. ‘And I’ll add that they’re never to be separated again.’
‘Alright, Quail.’ Reg’s mouth stretched into shapes of words before letting out a sigh. ‘Just you remember that I’m here.’
Reg saw her twice, maybe three times after she left. He tried to contact her, but she never answered his calls; occasionally sent an email… He had an inkling about her new family, the clones; since that time in the coffee shop; the last day that they had all eaten cake together… She finally had some friends, he thought to himself. Maybe she was happy, at last. Good on her.
Isabel kept her promise and kept her mouth shut, primarily because she loved them. She’d given them all names, taught them how to read, write, speak… She wrote about them in her notebook, Bonbon, Mop, Fola, Lamb, Jinx… All of them. She gave them cuddles each time they returned from whatever procedures they’d undergone, and turned a blind eye when they were taken away. She turned a blind eye because Mark Hector had taken the little fistful of dog hair that was taped into the back cover of the notebook, and brought her best friend back to life. She turned a blind eye because he was the only person she knew who would have the guts to bring back the rest of her family, the same way he’d brought her new family into the world. She’d told him that each of her daddies had had body parts cloned, for later in life, and wondered aloud if it was possible to make up the rest of them? He’d said nothing… That was better than ‘no’. That meant that maybe he would; one day.
A WORD FROM JINX…
I can see him from the booster seat in Susan’s car. He’s often here, looking exactly the same as he did before. He always looks like he’s searching for someone… Sometimes, while he’s searching, he sees me and he waves. I wave back. I’m not sure if Susan has seen him here; I get the feeling that’s why we come to this place in particular, to see if we can see him. Although mostly it’s because Mrs Lucas likes the food from here; Jerry used to come with us when he was… well… when he was alive. It’s really funny, actually, as soon as my memories started to resurface, he and I managed to trace a link back to 1998; I knew the sister of one of his best friends’ cousins. She was a dancer at the theatre company I used to volunteer for when I wasn’t on tour with the ballet…
I love remembering myself as a dancer. This is the part of my life that I try so hard to think about. I love that memory of being the master of my body; of making it look like it could fly. I still try to dance like I used to, but my new body just won’t let me. Bonbon loves these memories as well; although they’re not as clear in her own mind. She remembers that she used to like watching me dance, but… It’s just not all that clear, really. Talking helps. Talking helps a lot. I call it ‘practising memories’; it’s always the well-practised ones that seem to stay in my head. Well practised then and well practised now… Through talking and, and walking, funnily enough; and asking people things about things, I’ve managed to trigger so many memories and as soon as I remember one with Bonbon in it, I tell her straight away. That’s why Bonbon’s a bit behind. She can’t quite manage to talk yet. Many of us can now and many of us can’t and, well, she’s one of those who can’t. The other batches tend to struggle a lot; they say that our batch was ‘defective’ and if it hadn’t been for that, there would have been no ‘product recall’ and no one would have known the truth.
Bonbon is definitely a Batch Twenty. I know her voice is in there, because we’ve laughed together, the three of us, and then Susan and I spend about an hour trying to make her laugh again… But I should know better really. It’s not something you can do automatically the first time; it has to come with a wash of emotion; with something that just has to be said. She understands. She told me about the littlers at the hospital who were about to die in front of her. We think that their emotion was so strong that they were able to say their last thought out loud. Probably calling out for someone they really loved. Or maybe even their own names when they were full-humans, like Chips did. Who knows…
Bonbon is so focused on the real stuff, the practical stuff. Being able to see into our past has shown me that she’s always been that way. She, well he, he was very much an action–reaction kind of person, which is weird when you consider that I was the scientist. When there was a problem, he liked a solution; he needed money so he opened that launderette-library place; when someone was sad he liked to make them laugh, when someone was hungry, he liked to give them cake. All very practical; that’s why she can’t pull the emotions together to speak. It seems that her little voice inside her head, him, is always telling her: ‘but why on Earth would you get in such a state?’ She laughs, though… That’s nice. It’s always lovely to hear Bonbon laugh.
I haven’t told her this, but from what I’ve seen, there is one thing that might get her in such a state: if anything were to happen to me. Of course, neither of us wants that… But Susan and I thought about pretending to her that something horrible had happened, just to get her to talk… But that’s a stupid idea. ‘Tempting fate,’ Mrs Lucas had said, making her eyes go all serious the way she does. ‘Plus, you’d devastate little Bonbon.’
None of us wants that.
I was very different when I was a full-human. I was always looking to go beyond my limits regardless of what my head said. I’d use my whole body to show my feelings as if it were a cage and all that emotion would escape through the bars like tiny birds. It was as if I were dancing with the wasted energy of those dead children. That was me when I was fully charged. That was when my body told my mind that the only way, the only way was to take home the embryo. Well anyway, that’s how I remember it.
And then there’s the other one; the little girl. That’s why we’re little, apparently. Her memories are harder for me to catch; like thousands of flying feathers. But… when there are many of us there are more hands to catch them and, and sometimes we jump at the same time to catch the same one. Sometimes, the memories aren’t words or pictures, but sadness or, or anger and we get angry! But not with each other, only with the world. Bonbon is much better at catching these feathers than I am. She often goes to see Windy just so they can tal
k about their memories of the little girl; Isabel. I find it hard to see Windy without wanting to cuddle her. I’ve talked to Bonbon about this and she says that I love Windy as if she were my parent and my child. I think she’s right. I agreed with her straight away, the first time she said it.
It’s not the same love as I feel for Chips…
I told Jerry that we should take his cells and make him into a littler. That way, he and Mrs Lucas could stay in love until she died; then we’d just do the same to her. We’d write a note and slip it in their dead hands, requesting that they never, ever get split up again.
Just like Isabel did with us.
Jerry laughed. So did Mrs Lucas.
Susan didn’t… Neither did Bonbon. It’s weird, but Bonbon spends a lot of her time worrying about death. Sometimes she says that things were easier before, when she didn’t know so much and so didn’t have so much to lose. I know why she’s worried about death… She’s worried about losing me again, and for good the next time around. She has flashbacks about the car accident. I don’t remember any of it; I think my brain has blocked it out completely. But she does. I tell her that we just have to write it all down, so others can see our story when we’re gone; we are, after all, just a story that we’re living. Nothing else… When Jerry died, I cried and cried; so much that Mrs Lucas gave me a cuddle and said: ‘I’m just so glad that he came home first. Otherwise the ending would have been all wrong.’
We can write. We probably could, even before we had our memories, but nobody ever gave us a pen. Not that many people have a pen these days. Bonbon writes all the time. She said that she can remember herself writing and that was her way of letting the birds out of the cage. The others can write too; and all of us love to read. We’re always sharing information about what we’ve read, and sometimes someone will say: ‘I’ve read that before!’ when they haven’t; well, not this time around…
‘Do you need me to come with you, Susan?’
‘Yeah. Just give me two minutes, will you?’
It’s so nice to be able to go to the shops. People still look at me strangely when I start talking to them, but the whole scandal has been such a big story that… well… I just think it will take a bit of getting used to, that’s all. After a while, people won’t even blink when we walk into a shop and start asking for grapes.
Mmm, grapes. I could eat grapes forever. I can’t decide if I prefer grapes or custard. Once I tried them both together. It was quite nice; better than flakes. Yuk! Bonbon and I hate flakes. But Chips still eats them, every day…
Most people recognize Susan. They often ask how the new centre’s going; has she adopted many out… And she always gives the same answer: there are still plenty of them looking for a nice home. A nice home, we have to stipulate. We’ve had some real weirdos wanting to come and take the retired littlers home. ‘You mustn’t be so judgemental, Jinx,’ she says to me when I screw my face up after a visit from a potential adopter. But it’s not me being judgemental. It’s Bonbon who tips me off. She’s got a real eye for nasty people…
Unlike before, the contract is made between the littler and their new biggerer; the littler can choose who they want to live with and can choose if they want to leave. Or they can choose to live at the centre. Some of them will never find a home, poor things. It’s a sad truth, but they’re just too disfigured. Or too traumatized. It’s usually one or the other…
Ah ha! That’s why she wanted two minutes to herself! She’s seen him and she’s gone to talk to him. Susan, how many times have we gone through this? Oh well, she looks as though she’s keeping her cool. Maybe one year apart has done her good. Maybe they can be friends again. It would be nice if he came over every so often to see us… We do miss him sometimes… But then, we do have a new man of the house who’s taking up more and more room every day.
It turns out that ‘Chips’ was a really good name for him… It’s one of his favourite foods; one of them… We share a sunshine-coloured basket that smells like custard. He talks all the time and uses long words that make me shut my eyes and really concentrate to recall their meaning. Recall. That’s one of Chips’s words. It’s not very long but it’s a word I wouldn’t usually say… He remembers everything about his past life, well, his current life. He visits his old owner sometimes and reads to him or reminds him of his memories. ‘Giving him back himself,’ as Chips would say. I’ve left Chips and Bonbon at home today. I’m trying to make them fall in love with each other. I think it’s working; I often catch them cuddling, and once I came home and found them kissing. Bonbon tells me that she loves Chips but Chips is still a bit unsure… The biggerers think we’re a bit weird for trying to set up this ‘triangle’ relationship, as I call it. But all three of us have agreed that it’s a good idea; much less complicated than one of us getting left out.
‘Are you coming, Jinx?’
‘You told me to wait a few minutes.’
‘—.’
‘And anyway, you were talking to Hamish.’
‘I know.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know… Just still feels a bit weird.’
‘I knew it would.’
‘I couldn’t exactly ignore him, could I?’
‘No. Did he say anything about…’
‘About Emma? He hasn’t heard from her either.’
‘Hmmm. I hope she’s alright.’
‘Me too.’
‘Come on then, Madam… Did you pick up Mrs Lucas’s list?’
‘Yep.’
‘There’s someone bleeping out flyers about ballet classes by the entrance.’
‘Really? Could you bleep one to your wrist?’
‘Sure!’
We still have stuff to do. The battle’s not over yet. It’s hard to tell how long we’re going to live and how quickly we’ll get old. Windy was only eleven years old when I met her. I think about that sometimes, wondering when I’ll get old or when it’ll all end; only because, we are the last ones, Batch Twenty. When we start dying, it’ll be the end of our race. I’d like to think that we will stay a race; although making that happen seems rather complicated. Chips told me a story about the first ever woman who was made from her boyfriend’s rib. I said that I didn’t really fancy making a baby like that, to be honest. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘I came from an amputated leg.’
He’s right, he did. And he’s just perfect. Like grapes and custard.
A group of us has volunteered to be part of a trial to see if there is the possibility of procreation. The trial hasn’t been approved yet and we don’t know if it will be. The most important thing we’ve learned, from our experience and from our collective memories, is to make ourselves heard because, well, we want to stay a race. We have the right to stay a race.
It’s a new fight now.
THE END
‘Funny that you should bring a child to see me, on this day of all days,’ husked the mousy curls, now veined with silver.
Her vision blurred the white face that sat on Hector’s grand-son’s lap. The white was the same as the wall behind it, the only detail that defined it as a head was the red fox tail when the little girl turned to whisper something to her daddy.
‘She’s always wanted to meet you. And…’
‘It’s better to do it just before I die because, well, I’ll be gone. Children have large mouths.’ Isabel squinted. ‘I’ve always wanted to meet a child. Pity I can’t really see her.’
The child leaned forward close enough for Isabel to see that her eyes were pink and gleaming wet. A dark shape was placed next to her thigh and the eyes blurred backwards again with a sniff.
‘What is this?’ asked Isabel, teasing the shape’s fur with her fingertips.
‘Jinx,’ said a child’s voice.
‘It’s one of her teddy bears—’
‘How does she know about Jinx?’ Isabel interrupted.
‘I brought her back,’ said the little girl. ‘For you.’
‘But how did she�
�’ Isabel started, then paused, her milky eyes quivering. ‘Is my notebook next to me?’
‘Yes,’ said Hector’s grandson.
‘I want her to have it.’
‘Oh, but she’s only three…’
‘Hector will give it to her when she’s older. I want her to have it.’ She tried again to squint at the girl. ‘Emma, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said the little girl.’
‘Emma, I want you to have this. Will you look after it?’
The fox tail bobbed with deep nods.
‘Good girl,’ said Isabel. ‘Thank you.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First and foremost, Scarlett Thomas, my incredible mentor, I learned everything I know from you. Many thanks for reading this manuscript about one hundred times and for believing in me so entirely. The Biggerers would have been abandoned years ago were it not for you.
Many thanks to Jenny Parrot and the team at Oneworld, notably Paul Nash, Tamsin Shelton, Charlotte Norman, James Jones and Margot Weale, who are a delight to work with.
Guillaume Marchais, thank you for believing in me and encouraging me for years. I couldn’t have written this book without your support.
Isabel Cabeza-Erikson Hill, I remember sitting in a coffee bar at the Gare de Poitiers telling you that I’d like to write a book about little people. ‘Go for it,’ you said. Well, I did. Thank you for liking my idea. Thanks to you and Sean Hill for your continued support and constant badgering for me to send you a copy.
Many thanks to Imrich Krakornik for your boundless enthusiasm and tips on ‘what to do with Chips’.
Thank you to Alison Rider for your invaluable proofreading skills.
A big thank you to the University of Kent for providing such an excellent learning framework for budding writers. In particular, thanks to the lovely team at the School of English and my second supervisor, David Flusfedder.
A Point Blank Book