by Kim Westwood
Along with other older-style buildings in the financial district, the Tea House was gradually taken over by a new breed of squatter: savvy and sophisticated refugees from the business sector after it took a nosedive in the pandemic. Many of them, playing a cavalier game with the money market, had accumulated extraordinary wealth that was just as extraordinarily wiped out. They forfeited everything, including their homes. The government couldn’t help them or anybody else, being in ten different kinds of strife itself. In desperation, the business professionals (brokers and bankers among them) formed ‘guilds’, each group targeting a vacated building in their old work district to take up squatters rights in. The Tea House has been run these past years by the Stockbrokers’ Guild, its strict membership rules and security measures put in place as bastion against the successive waves of itinerants prowling the city for premises of their own.
So now I know what Roshani’s brother used to do —
Tallis interrupts my train of thought. ‘The question we’re all asking here is how the attackers knew Roshani was a surrogate … and whether they have information on others.’
‘How would that happen?’
‘Roshani or her brother letting something slip to the wrong person.’
Bad.
‘Or a leak somewhere within the surrogacy organisations.’
Worse.
Tallis’s strong, square features have creased in worry. She pushes up both shirtsleeves and grips her forearms in an unconscious action of anxiety. I can see those capable arms supporting women in the throes of birthing agony and delivering wrinkly, squalling babies out into the world.
‘We were wondering whether you might do some digging on our behalf,’ she says, her deft use of the plural reminding me of the raft of invisible worried others.
‘You know I’m a bike courier not a private detective, right?’
‘Yes.’ She smiles. ‘But Gail speaks very highly of you …’
‘Ahh,’ I say. Never underestimate a SANE worker’s capacity to network. I feel her eyes on me, patient and remorseless, and can’t refuse.
‘I guess I could pay the brother a visit,’ I offer.
‘That’d be wonderful. We’ll introduce you as an independent whom we’ve hired to help find Roshani’s attackers. Not everyone is a fan of what we do here. He might find it easier to talk to someone from the “outside”, so to speak.’
Or he might not.
I realise I know very little about how the surrogacy organisations operate and what measures they take to protect their own.
‘It might help me get my head around the situation if you can take me through your protocols; for instance, how you go about shielding the identities of your workers,’ I say, and Tallis is happy to comply, leaning back at last in her chair.
‘There are strict protections in place for the surrogacy arrangements,’ she starts, ‘all of which are brokered by the madams and SADA. Surrogates take no direct part in any of the negotiations, and never meet those they’ve contracted to give birth for, and vice versa. Their anonymity is zealously protected, as with all donors, regardless of what service they’re supplying. On acceptance, each donor is given an alias. From then on, this is how they’re referred to in all discussions and on all written agreements and medical reports.’
I think of Roshani — which I guess isn’t her real name.
‘So how do potential donors and surrogates put up their hands for the various jobs? And how do you choose?’
‘They apply through SADA, and are vetted before interview like any other worker in any other job. Of course, the difference is that what we do here is illegal, so there are a few more hoops to be jumped through before they even get a look-in. The successful applicants are contracted to the relevant fertility organisations under SADA’s umbrella. But it’s only the surrogates who are sponsored to live in the Red Quarter, which they do for the duration of their pregnancy. That way we can take care of their health requirements and safety — usually.’ Tallis looks pained. ‘The only other people in the loop are the Red Quarter doctors who do the monitoring and procedures.’
‘Could any of them be turned?’ I ask.
‘Unlikely, since it means putting their own heads on the chopping block.’
From everything Tallis has said it seems to me the weakest links in the chain of secrecy are the surrogates themselves.
‘I take it the successful applicants know each other?’
‘They share living spaces and provide support for one another.’
A thought strikes me. ‘Do you ever have any trouble when it comes to handing over the newborns?’
‘I won’t say never — and we have contingencies for that — but on the whole these women come to it as professionals, and are paid accordingly.’
Which makes them supremely well-adjusted with it. I can’t help wondering what they think of the brave new world those paid-for babies are being born into.
‘What about the recipients of the surrogacy arrangements?’
‘They’re handled by the brokers — the madams — who liaise with SADA and the fertility clinics on their behalf. The two parties in the arrangement are kept completely separate the whole way through.’
‘And the recipients of Roshani’s baby?’
‘They’ll be contacted by the broker and told the hard news. A no-liability clause protecting SADA and its workers is built into the contract they signed; after all, we’re dealing with an event that can bring a multitude of unforeseen complications. In time, they’ll have the opportunity of a new arrangement.’
Sounds hard-nosed, but this is business. I say my thanks and push up out of my chair, then turn to Tallis at the door. ‘It might be worth finding out whether Roshani made any enemies among her fellow surrogates.’
She nods sombrely. ‘I’ll look into it, and let you know as soon as we’ve contacted her brother.’
Downstairs, the person with the mug is gone from the bench seat. I wheel my bike out into the bluestone alley. At my back, the signage barely tints the brick; ahead, close-hugging walls shade the cobbles and shuttered windows are latched behind rusting metal bars, the layers of grime on the walls making unreadable hieroglyphics of the paintwork. Hunkered beyond them are the surgeries and procedure rooms of the fertility doctors and cosmetic surgeons, nothing to advertise their existence apart from numbered buzzers beside bolted entrances. In SADA’s protected territory, there are no real names. Here, there are no names at all.
I fasten my helmet strap and zip up my cycling vest. Tallis has given me a lot of food for thought, most of it bitter and unpalatable.
13
No work on for Gail, I use the rest of the day to catch up on sleep. Late afternoon I take the bike out for a spin and make my delivery to Lydia, three suburbs away.
Riding back home, I worry. I’ve had plenty of time to ponder how I might tackle the subject of Roshani with her brother, Braheem, but I’m not confident he’ll welcome a stranger’s intrusion, even if it’s to help find his sister’s attackers. I don’t much like the idea of meeting him in his home either, because the squats are usually heavily monitored, and it’s likely that among the Tea House’s unemployed stockbroker residents there are Neighbourly Watch snitches. I haven’t yet ruled out Braheem as one of these — pity Roshani if that turns out to be the case.
Tallis’s call comes as I’m entering my laneway: Braheem’s invited me around tonight. SANE’s emergency team coordinator is a fast worker.
I shower hurriedly then catch a tram to the Tea House.
On Temperance, we roll past a guy scratching up a piece of gum from the pavement. I glance back and see him putting it in his mouth. These are tough times; who knows what scion of the community he might have been five years ago?
The entrance to the squat is on Saviour Street. ‘Scapegoat’ would probably be more apt, or ‘Persecution’. The front door is overhung by a jutting lintel. It’s small protection against the weather, which is already beginning to chill, an edd
ying wind whipping up the rubbish in the street and sending it swirling a few metres before just as quickly dropping it. Cap low and collar up, I look for Braheem on the door list, and press the buzzer. He responds immediately, as if he’d been waiting, finger on the intercom button.
The door clicks open. ‘Down in two secs,’ he says.
I walk in and immediately see the camera positioned on a cornice. Resisting the instinct to hunch, I stroll deliberately to the sign-in desk.
The visitors register is laid open, a warning propped beside it on a stand: All visitors must sign in and remain in the foyer until met by a resident. No firearms permitted. No hawkers. Not exactly reassuring.
The way the squats are run as closed communities with their own sets of laws gives outsiders the impression of crossing into another country. All this foyer needs is a couple of border guards and an X-ray machine.
At the far end is an elevator, stairs beside. The highly polished floor I assume was added by the defunct hotel group. Braheem arrives down the stairwell, two steps at a time. Dressed in jeans and untucked shirt, he looks both casual and professional. He’s very obviously Roshani’s brother. His frame, like hers, is delicately compact, and he has the same deep-set eyes, with an alert intelligence about him that makes me want to step up my game before play has even begun.
He extends his right hand. The handshake is firm and brief.
‘Braheem Rani.’
‘Sam Brown.’
‘You’ll have to supply your particulars, I’m afraid.’ He points to the place on the page. I notice there aren’t any other entries for the day. Given the atmosphere of the place, I’m not surprised.
I pause, the pseudonym I’m about to write solid but uninspiring. If I tack an ‘e’ onto the surname, it’ll suggest a dash of creativity. I follow it with the address of the burnt-down Atonement Street Police Station. Go check, I dare the invisible eyes.
Braheem takes the pen. ‘I have to vouch for you. If anything goes wrong — you burgle the place or shoot someone — I cop it.’
He attempts a smile, and I realise that he’s a bundle of nervous energy beneath that urbane veneer.
‘I promise I’ll behave. After all, we’re on Candid Camera,’ I say to break the awkward moment.
He grimaces apologetically. ‘We have a Residents Committee modelled on the Stasi. Although these days it’s more of a front because nobody can be bothered policing the incomings and outgoings of the building like they used to. As you can see, it’s not exactly Southern Cross Station’ — I note the deliberate use of the old name — ‘especially now the other crowd have set up a stock exchange in the Olderfleet building.’
That’s news to me. The Olderfleet is a fine example of Gothic Revival architecture, and a well-known lawyers’ squat. Their guild must have entered into some sort of arrangement with the stockbrokers and bankers.
‘The latest craze,’ Braheem tells me as we walk towards the stairs, ‘is to speculate on climate change. Not the commodities but the events, like rain and temperature. Investments in Rain are down, but it’s a bear market for Solar Flares. Even though the exchange is just a local venture, with walk-ins off the street doing most of the buying and selling, it still does a brisk trade. My friends track the weather patterns like they did the old indexes. They say the stress makes them feel alive again.’
Old habits are hard to break.
‘And you?’ I ask. ‘You’re not keen to get back into it?’
‘I’ve got plenty of other stresses making me feel alive.’
As we walk up four flights of stairs — the lift not operational — we maintain a polite silence, neither willing to speak in the reverberant stairwell, as if it might funnel our words through the rest of the building.
Inside his apartment it’s a different story.
The door closed, he turns to me, clearly upset. ‘Tell me how she is.’
I’m taken aback. ‘I haven’t seen her since she got out of hospital, but I hear she’s doing really well and will make a full recovery.’
I just tacked on that last bit — a kind of white lie. But I hope she will, and Tallis never said she wouldn’t, which adds up to almost the same thing.
Instantly he looks less agonised. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been terrible, the waiting. I haven’t been told yet when I’ll be able to see her.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be very soon,’ I reassure. Another little white lie. Really, I have no idea.
He leads me into a cluttered living room, two sash windows looking north up Saviour.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he says. ‘Would you like tea?’
‘Please,’ I say, and he disappears into the kitchen off the lounge area.
I sit one end of a battered couch with brown and orange flower patterns reminiscent of the body-painting sixties: love, peace and STDs. Opposite is a bookshelf loaded to groaning, an unframed print tacked to the wall above. It’s a pastoral scene, and a personal favourite of mine: the ploughman and his horse oblivious to the winged man plunging headfirst into the bay beyond.
Braheem pops his head around the corner. ‘Sorry I couldn’t see you earlier. I run a stall at the Queen Vic Markets, and with so many shops closing down we’ve extended our hours to cope with the demand. I’m there every day, but I always knock off before sunset. It’s one of my rules. The rest of them think I’m crazy losing the evening trade.’
I’m wondering whether it’s something religious, or just wanting his dinner early, when he comes out again with a tray holding two teacups and a teapot and answers my question.
‘The truth is, I don’t feel safe any more being out at night. I prefer to be home by dark.’
So it’s not just Roshani with reason to be scared. Or is it because of Roshani?
‘If you don’t mind me asking, what do you sell?’ None of my business, but I’m curious.
‘I have a small jewellery stall. I used to trade stocks and shares. Now I sell fake Asian trinkets.’ He gives a wry smile. ‘My mongoose-tooth fertility charms are winners.’
I’m beginning to like him so I hope he doesn’t mean real mongoose teeth.
He catches my look. ‘They’re sheep’s teeth. This will probably sound macabre to you, but every couple of weeks I take a train out of the city and poke around in the sheep paddocks looking for carcasses. The farmers don’t care. They call me “the mad Paki” even though I’m Indian, but they all know the meaning of subsistence living. I pick up whole jawbones, or partials with the teeth still in them, and bring them back here to extract. I have a little lapidary wheel and polish them up. Then I glue a metal cap on them and attach some leather thong. Sometimes I paint them.’
He begins to pour our tea. I note with approval that it’s real, the leaves caught in a strainer.
‘Does anybody ever mention that they look like sheep’s teeth?’
‘No. We’re living in an age where the willing suspension of disbelief is everything.’
My mind flicks to the mass baptisms of the past several years, and the rise of the prayer groups.
He motions me to help myself to milk and sugar, then goes over to the window and looks down. I see sadness welling in him.
‘I don’t condone what my sister does for a living,’ he says softly, ‘but these are hard times and we all have to find a way to earn a crust. As for those prayer-vigil predators …’ His voice gets an edge. ‘They are the monsters, not her.’
His vehemence surprises me. I realise I’d carried in a few unhelpful preconceptions about Roshani’s ex-stockbroker brother, one being that he wouldn’t be so emotionally open.
I have to broach the subject of her visits. ‘Who knows she comes here every week?’
‘Lots of people. I sign her in. We wave at the camera. They all know she’s my sister.’
The question is forming on my lips when he turns to face me.
‘Four months ago, Geeta told me she’d been accepted as a surrogate.’
I file Roshani’s real name away for futur
e reference.
‘It seems stupid now,’ he goes on, ‘but we didn’t think her employers would approve her Sunday visits here, so we decided the best thing was to keep them quiet. She was going to stop soon anyway because her pregnancy was about to show.’
He turns back to the window.
‘You’re wondering how she stayed a fertile. She was in India with our parents during the vaccination drives. I was fourteen, and not interested in a trip to see the rellies, none of whom I remembered. I just wanted to be here with my school mates, and so I was billeted with family friends — which meant I got the flu shot along with everyone else. My sister and my parents contracted the virus while they were still over there. I thought they were going to die. They were away for several months, unable to come home until the country quarantines had been lifted.’
‘That must have been very tough on you.’
He doesn’t answer immediately. After a bit, he says, ‘I want to thank you for what you did for Geeta that night. Without you there to stop them, who knows how far they would have gone.’
So this is what has earned his confidence in me. Tallis must have told him.
I say the next thing as gently as possible. ‘Have you confided in anyone — another family member, a friend or workmate, anyone at all — about the real circumstances of her pregnancy?’
‘No one. I know how to keep the family’s secrets.’
He’s adamant, and I feel improper picking so callously at a recent wound.
Downing the dregs of his tea, he comes over to pour some more. ‘It’s a cruel irony, isn’t it, that here people are crying out for the children they can no longer have, while over there is a burgeoning population still getting rid of girls as they would vermin.’
He’s surprising me again with his emotion. I sit back on his flower-power couch and let him talk.
‘In India they had no government initiatives for mass vaccination. How could they? The virus ran its course and you lived or you died. Many died; others developed immunity. That immunity, they’re saying now, is being passed across the placental barrier, the antibodies in the mother present in their newborns.’ His eyes darken. ‘It’s the girl-child killings and widow suttees that are our pandemic. Many people are standing up against such practices, campaigning for education, new laws and punishments, but these things you can’t change overnight, or even across generations.’