And that is what I’m doing when the knock comes on the door.
I stop and, in the absence of my own voice, there’s nothing but the sound of the downpour. The knocking becomes louder, more persistent.
‘Who’s there?’ I call out, my heart hammering a rapid staccato in time with the rain. Am I ready to leave? I look around my room.
A second later, the door is forced open, the flimsy lock offering no protection against the push and heave of the two men. No one says a word. All I know is, this is not the rescue that Lewis had promised.
The first thing I notice is the quiet.
How can I describe it?
After months of living right within the constant hum and roar and rattle of living, the rolling, seething, jarring, thrashing of noise, this is like a thick blanket thrown over me. Heavy, dark and still.
Am I dead?
I move my hand, uncurling each finger from my palm. I bite down on my lip: salt, the rust of blood. Next, I see the light. It is soft, like the inside of a shell. I try to keep my eyes open, to focus on something, but they are too heavy. I close them again.
The hand that touches me is smooth, gentle and cool. ‘Try to sit up,’ the voice says.
I do as she instructs, but I don’t have the energy. My limbs have each been tied down by great boulders, the bone and muscle like rubber. My brain tries to speak to my body but the messages are scrambled. I’m not doing what I want myself to do.
‘Where am I?’ I ask, hearing my own words as though from far away, but they’re not words. They’re a mush of sounds. My tongue feels swollen.
The hand is in the small of my back, helping me sit up, easing my body carefully.
‘It’s the RestaPure,’ the voice says. ‘You were given a massive dose – enough to knock out a full-grown man. It seems your body has quite a high tolerance level. Extraordinary, really. Water?’
I can see the glass in my peripheral vision – or at least I think I can. I reach for it but my hand touches air.
‘Here.’
She brings it to my lips, and the water is sweet, like the water we used to drink at Halston. I gulp it greedily, finishing it all.
She puts it on a side table and I can see her more clearly now. She must be about the same age as Miss Margaret. Is she Miss Margaret? I try to roll my body over so that I can see her, eager to see her. Her eyes are kind, forest-green with long dark lashes, and she looks at me with an intense curiosity, sitting back in her chair as she does so. I don’t know her. There’s a mobie on her lap and she shifts it slightly. I wonder if she’s filming me.
‘Where am I?’ I ask again, this time more able to utter the words.
The room is large and, although there are no windows, the light is a perfect replica of a spring morning – soft and clear. The bed is high off the ground and moulds to me. I wonder whether I’m at Halston again.
‘You’re in a recovery room at our outreach observation centre.’
This means nothing to me, and I try to tell her this, but I’m only capable of a few words at a time. Instead, I just keep looking at her, hoping my expression is as confused as I feel and that she’ll give me a more detailed explanation.
‘How long?’ I ask.
She looks up from her mobie. ‘You’ve been with us a few days.’
A few days. This throws me. I’ve been lying here unconscious. For so long I’ve been on my guard, and the thought of having been this vulnerable is terrifying.
‘I’m not at ReCorp?’ Again, I am mumbling, but she seems to understand me.
‘No.’
I sink back into the bed and close my eyes.
The light is the same.
I don’t know how much time has passed, but the woman is no longer in the room. There’s a man. He’s about ten years older than me and he’s sitting back in his chair, flicking across his screen. I watch him for a while, glad he doesn’t know I’m awake. When he glances up, I shut my eyes quickly but I’m too slow.
‘Hello, I’m Robertson.’ His voice is deep and calming.
I can only presume he knows who I am, so I don’t reply.
He checks the various monitors and then tells me they’ve been reducing the RestaPure. ‘When you had a dose like the one you had, we need to taper it, bring you down slowly,’ he tells me. ‘You’re almost off it now. You should be feeling a lot better. A lot more like yourself.’
He’s right. As I sit up, my body responds easily. I wonder if I can stand. I swing my legs down.
‘Careful,’ he warns, holding his arm out to help me up.
I’m in a gown. The clothes that I was wearing are nowhere in sight. ‘Who brought me here?’ I ask him. I stand unsteadily for a moment and then decide to return to the bed.
‘Jerome will be in soon to talk to you,’ he promises. ‘He’ll tell you everything.’ There’s a tray of food in the corner of the room and he sees me looking at it. ‘I’ll bring it over,’ he says. ‘You must be hungry.’
It’s been so long since I’ve tasted anything this good. Again, it reminds me of Halston and, for one foolish moment, I think that maybe I’d never left. I was just sick, perhaps in some kind of hallucinatory coma that’s now over. I can return to school, to Lark, to Miss Margaret, to my lessons and to knowing that I am Fern Marlow and I am special. I sit up and look around my room.
‘Do you remember anything of how you came to be here?’ Robertson asks.
I do, but I don’t reply. I don’t want to tell him anything until he tells me where I am and what I’m doing here. I continue to eat while he watches.
I remember the thunder of the rain on the thin concrete walkway, the slash of the downpour across my skin as the two men forced their way into my room.
‘Where am I going?’ I’d asked.
They’d seized my mobie, and I knew right then that this was wrong.
‘Give it back!’ I’d yelled, trying to wrest it from the grip of the man closest to me, but the other one stepped in front of him, crowding me back against the wall, the portamedray in his hand aimed directly at my skull.
I was cornered.
‘Good?’ Robertson asks, gesturing to the tray of food.
I look at him. You’re not my friend, I think. Don’t try to act like one.
‘I can call for more,’ he offers.
I nod.
We sit in silence, my eyes fixed on the door. When it slides open, another man steps in. He’s older than Robertson, tall and fine-featured, his limbs long and slender, his cheekbones pronounced, the line of his jaw defined. He waits for Robertson to take my empty tray and then he places the full one in front of me.
‘That will be all.’ His instruction is brief and uttered in a tone that is assured of obedience.
Robertson leaves as this new man inspects my medray and the data on the screen.
‘I’m Jerome,’ he tells me. He sits next to my bed, long legs crossed, watching me, waiting perhaps for me to turn in his direction. ‘I hear you have questions,’ he says, ‘which, of course, is no surprise.’
He speaks slowly, his voice deep, each word resonating for a little longer than usual. There’s something hypnotic about his tone. Reluctantly, I turn towards him.
‘I’m more than willing to answer whatever I can. If I can’t answer, I’ll do my best to try to explain why.’
‘Where am I?’ I ask.
‘An easy one to start with.’ He smiles slightly but his words are matter-of-fact. ‘Back where you belong,’ he tells me. He looks at me as though I would have no doubt, no confusion concerning what he’s telling me.
‘Halston?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘Although I’m sure that can be arranged. Eventually. You’re back with BioPerfect, in one of our state-of-the-art facilities.’
‘Am I in danger?’ I ask the question warily. My head is still clouded and I have no idea what he knows.
His smile is benign. ‘Why on earth would you be in danger? We’re very glad to have you back. We invested a lot
of time and data in you, Fern Marlow. You’re an important part of the BioPerfect family. All that you’ve been through is deeply regrettable, but you seem to have survived remarkably well. And, of course, we will need to undergo an intensive debrief with you, which we will commence soon.’
‘Why was I knocked out?’
‘We needed to get you out of there as quickly and as calmly as we could.’ He shakes his head. ‘What a place.’
It’s strange how I bristle as he rubbishes the compound.
He glances behind him. ‘You have a visitor – someone who has been very eager to see you. Someone who I’m sure you’ll be equally pleased to see again.’
As he speaks, the door slides open and she is standing there, hesitant, unsure and so very changed. Lark, thinner than ever, frail and frightened.
I open my mouth to speak but no sound comes out. I stand then, barely aware that I am doing so, and hold my arms out to her.
I didn’t think I would ever see her again. I realise now how utterly I’d given up hope, and it is overwhelming to see her right in front of me.
Jerome, too, is standing and he watches us greet each other. ‘She’s been keen to see you since you arrived,’ he tells me. ‘I’ll let you catch up.’
The door slides shut behind him, leaving Lark and me alone.
She sits by my bed and takes my hand in hers. ‘You look well,’ she says, and her smile is gentle. ‘Everyone is astounded by your constitution, but I’m not.’
‘They knocked me out,’ I say. ‘I’ve been unable to move or speak until now.’ I look at her, wanting some kind of answer, some indication of what she knows – anything. Our conversation is probably being monitored. I have no idea. I can only take my lead from her. ‘How long have you been here?’
She glances around the room. ‘I was brought to this centre a couple of days ago – to see you, I suppose, but I’ve been back with BioPerfect for some months.’ She glances down at her lap. She fidgets. Her long, fine fingers twist in and out of each other as she speaks. She finds it difficult to meet my eyes.
‘Where were you?’ I ask.
She tells me she was at PureAqua. ‘I was in an outer compound. I had to get work in one of their recycling plants. I had a room, which was better than a lot of people, but I didn’t cope with the environment. I was sick – very sick. A lot of the time I couldn’t work. I ran out of data, food, water. I was desperate.’ Her eyes are shining. ‘I never had your strength. And I hadn’t fully recovered from that first illness when they took us there. I didn’t think I’d make it.’
Her words trail off, but there’s little need to speak. I remember my first months at ReCorp. The loneliness and the constant fear were difficult enough without being hindered by illness and hunger.
‘I suppose I went mad,’ Lark says. She bites her bottom lip, the flesh whitening as she does so. ‘I was hallucinating. I told everyone who I really was. I didn’t keep quiet like they’d instructed us to. I would have died if I’d done as they told me.’ She leans forward and almost whispers. ‘They never came for us, Fern. They never came for us.’
I know.
It plagues me as well, gnawing at me constantly.
‘BioPerfect had people everywhere looking for us.’ She is so pale I can see the fine veins at her temple. ‘If they hadn’t, I would have died. I talked so much – to anyone who would listen, really. It wasn’t that hard to find me.’ She smiles a watery smile. ‘They wanted us back and we were worth something to whoever handed us in.
‘I was only there for a few months – I’m not really sure how long exactly. I was delusional for much of that time. When I was first brought in I was skeletal. I’ve seen images. I was confused about who I was, where I belonged – everything.’
Sitting up now, I take her hand. I don’t think she is lying to me. There’s truth to all she’s saying. But there’s an undercurrent, and I feel as though I’m being drawn into deep waters.
The door slides open and Robertson steps inside. He checks my levels and looks at me. ‘I think a walk would do you good,’ he says. ‘There’s no indication of any dosage left in your system. Lark could take you out to the garden.’
I tell him I need clothes and he indicates the wardrobe in the corner of the room.
‘There’s plenty in there,’ he replies. ‘I’m afraid we had to get rid of what you were wearing when you arrived. They were filthy and probably contaminated. I’m sure you understand.’
My legs are weaker than I expected, and Lark steadies me as I dress myself. I glance at our reflection in the mirror. I look thinner than I have ever been, but still so much stronger than her, and I don’t like to think of how she must have been on her arrival.
Robertson has left the door open for us, and Lark takes my arm. It’s only a short stroll to the garden, but I’m tired by the time we arrive, and she leads me to a seat in the shade.
‘You’re crying,’ she says softly.
I hadn’t even realised. It’s been so long since I’ve seen such beauty. The air is soft like silk against my skin; the sky is the perfect cobalt that I remember from Halston – pure and flat. I take my feet out of my slippers and let the grass rub against my soles, sweet and succulent.
‘Look,’ I say, bending down to pick a blade. The green is impossible to comprehend, a tiny shoot of white sap at the tip. I roll it between my fingers and breathe in the sweetness. Like summer, I think, or the smell of Chimo’s skin, and I blush as a memory of him returns. I wonder whether he betrayed me in the end or whether Sala sold me in return for her brother. I glance up to the slow rush of a tree overhead, the leaves rustling like tinsel.
‘I’ve been composing,’ Lark tells me. ‘I lost all faith in my music, but it’s slowly returning to me.’ She looks across the garden.
‘Is Ivy here as well?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what happened to her.’ She breathes in deeply and then turns to me. ‘They say that everything Miss Margaret and Rahim told us is a lie. It was part of a larger subversive plan. They say I shouldn’t believe a word of it. We are Lotto Girls – we are the recipients of a careful BioPerfect design. Our talents are evidence enough of this.’
I search her face for some indication as to what she believes but there is none.
‘The whole time I was at PureAqua, I couldn’t bear the thought of music. I was nothing. Or at least that’s what I felt and believed after they told us that there’d been no design. I remember one night I tried to compose and the notes, the sounds, were an ugly jumble, like broken keys clanging discordantly. I was distraught. I tried to tell myself that I was being foolish, that nothing had really changed. Even if I hadn’t been designed, I’d had such privilege, such an education, and my music had come from that. Why was that any less? I felt such confusion and despair.’
I know. I sit next to her, silent, and I let her talk.
‘I felt everything that made me had been ripped away from me. I could no longer fall back on the good fortune I’d had as a Lotto Girl. I was just part of the great ordinariness of the world – all the people who were out there barely surviving. I hated myself for the horror I felt about that. Why do I need to be special, and why was any sense of being special so dependent on BioPerfect? I couldn’t get my head around it. I’d had my music before; why had it departed me now?
‘And then, shortly before I was taken away from there, I was lying in my room in a terrible fever. I was delusional, drifting in and out of the world. I heard singing. I thought I was imagining it. It was so sweet and it floated high above all the noise of that compound, like floss, wrapping around me, enveloping me and tugging at me with an undercurrent of sorrow that held it, like an anchor.
‘I thought I was imagining it, that it was part of the fever, but I wanted it to be real. I wanted it desperately. Somehow, I managed to crawl out of my room and along the landing in search of that sound. I must have passed out several times, but each time I woke it was still there, drawing me on.’ Lark smile
s, shaking her head at the memory. ‘She was in a room only four away from mine. It felt so much further, as though I had crawled miles. I lay on the ground outside her door and I listened. When I came to, she was bending over me, cooling my forehead.
‘I asked her what the song was that she was singing and she told me it was one her mother used to sing to her when she was a child. Would she like me to sing it again?
‘There, on the floor of her room, I felt all the music that I’d loved return to me. It didn’t matter where it came from, I realised. There’s been so much argument in our lives about how we came to be, and it doesn’t matter.’ She is whispering now, leaning close and holding my hand.
In front of me, a shadow falls and I look up.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ Robertson says. ‘Jerome would like to start running some tests on you this afternoon. He thought it would be best if you weren’t too tired. Lark can come and see you again soon.’
‘What tests?’ I ask.
Lark squeezes my hand, and I can’t tell whether it’s a warning or a farewell. ‘They just want to check your acclimatisation.’ She lets go of my hand. ‘They did endless tests on me when I first came back. I was in terrible shape.’
She smiles up at Robertson, who confirms her words with a nod.
‘I’ll walk you back,’ she offers.
He joins us and we return to my room, Lark holding my arm the whole way there.
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