With five minutes to the shuttle departure, she set off towards the terminus, crossed the concourse, and strode towards the platform. Much as she longed to see Dave once again, she was equally eager for the shuttle trip. In fact, the journey would transform her mindset into a perfect state of readiness for meeting him. The open spaces, the big horizons. Anyone witnessing so much sky, she thought, must experience…must actually feel free, alive, physically. She felt it now; it was a tingly and light sensation. But this quickening was soon arrested as she took her seat in the grungy carriage. These long-horizon feelings were a trick, she decided. Our emotions kid us that life is better than the sum of its unremarkable parts. She cast her thoughts back to the old man in his weary suit. Our delusions are our best defense.
As the shuttle picked up speed through the inner suburbs, she imagined the homely interiors that streaked past. Some, no doubt, would be even more beautiful than the Slaters’. She imagined themes for different living spaces and she scattered through them, on the thinnest of floating glass shelves, many of the antiques she’d just seen and touched, creating multiple fantasies of domestic perfection. What would her favorite theme be, she wondered? As though her mind were stuck in a groove, she was drawn once again to the accoutrements of coffee making—starting with an array of traditional grinders. I’d collect coffee cups whenever I went on holiday. Even better, I’d photograph interesting cups of coffee served to me in spectacular settings, or photograph Dave drinking coffee. And, definitely, cups of coffee shot from above—before and after—showing the perfect frothy milk toppings next to the drained cups with their subtle staining. They’d look pretty restrained. I’d hang the photos on muted gray walls. I can just see it…too much of one thing though. A sub-theme to act as a foil; not a complete contrast, just something that picks out one aspect of the coffee idea and inverts it in some way. Something that contrasts with the harsh shiny surfaces of crockery, more textured and battered—driftwood or old furniture. Or perhaps I should offset the mass-produced character of the crockery with hand-made earthy ceramics. The Upchurch would be so perfect. Then a couple of textile pieces to soften the overall ceramic concept. I can see myself in the room. I’m wearing chalky-green, baggy trousers and a frayed, white T-shirt and I’m a foil myself to the crisp aesthetic of the photographs. Just so.
She awaited the sharp transition between the suburbs and farm territories and when the shuttle crossed the boundary she gaped. And she continued to gape as the shuttle passed through the first enclaves. Less shocked this time by the squat, featureless townscapes, she noticed more clearly the emergence of citrus groves that she knew stretched westwards, out to the Welsh mountains. She tried to name the varieties but the speed of the shuttle smudged her attempts into guesses. Who would have thought, she mused, that citrus would find a home, here, so far from China? And two sentences of prose trickled across her thoughts, written thousands of years before: The baskets were filled with woven ornamental silks. The bundle contained small oranges and pummeloes.
C. medica (citron), C. grandis or C. maxima (pummelo), C. reticulata (mandarin/tangerine), and C. aurantiifolia (lime). There are just four ancestral genetic species for the entire gamut of citrus that spread across the globe from China and South East Asia. The lack of any sterility barrier between varieties has resulted in countless wild and cultivated hybrids.
She listed some of the crossings: citron and lime crossing to become the lemon; pummelo and mandarin forming both the sour orange and the sweet orange (an odd fact, she thought); then, the sweet orange combining with its progenitor, the pummelo, to make the grapefruit, and with its other progenitor, the mandarin, to form the tangor; grapefruit and mandarin crossing to make the tangelo (the variant Jamaican tangelo known unkindly as the Ugli fruit); mandarin and lime forming the Chinese lemon…
A vast and intimate family, she thought, or total breeding chaos.
Dave lifted his arm and spread his palm wide in salutation. The thrill of recognition sent needles shooting down from her neck, through her arms and her hands, and out through her fingertips. She offered a handshake as he approached, and gestured backward with her head in the direction of another passenger who had alighted. “Keep it formal. Just in case.”
“Okay, but tell me, Jayna, what’s going on? That’s all bank account stuff in that file, isn’t it?”
Ignoring his question she said, “My friend Veronica was taken away on Friday.”
“Who? Is she…same as you?”
She nodded. “Let’s walk through the market and then we’ll be okay to go back to your place.”
He brushed his hand against hers. “Jayna, what are you up to?”
She looked across the expanse of derelict car park towards the housing blocks. She would attempt to explain everything before they reached the packed streets. “Things aren’t looking good. We could be on the verge of a complete recall. The Constructor must be getting nervous…At the very least, random checks might start and I reckon I’d soon come to their notice.”
“Why’s that?”
“It sounds stupid but my stick insects are a bit of an anomaly. And our canteen assistant might decide to say something.”
“What about?”
“That I’m more interested in the food than the other residents are.”
“Doesn’t sound like much.”
“I know. But it could be enough. And, I lied to my friends about last weekend and that may be picked up if the Constructor really starts checking.” She pressed on. “So…I’ve been siphoning money from several bank accounts, buying shares. It’s all detailed in the Sarcophagus file.”
“Jesus!” He barked a laugh. “How much?”
“Plenty.”
He picked up a stone and threw it, with all his strength, high into the air.
“Dave, don’t attract attention.”
“Can you get away with it?”
“Please, Dave. Listen. I know it sounds impossible but I have to disappear, away from the city. I want to hide out in the enclaves, permanently.”
“What, with me? Wouldn’t they make the connection? You visiting today…”
“No. I don’t want to implicate you in any of this. I’ll disappear somewhere else and when it’s safe, if you want to, we can make contact.”
“But where, Jayna? You don’t know your way around.”
“I’ve got some help…He’s already set up a safe house.”
Dave stopped, and turned to her. “He? Who’s he?”
“Another simulant. Sunjin, from C6. He works for the Metropolitan Police and wants out. He’s the one who told me about Veronica; found me on Friday and he’s really upset. He took a huge risk approaching me.” She hoped this would placate him. “And Sunjin even told me the address of his safe house. But you can see, Dave, if he’s already figured me out then others will too.”
He fell quiet and kicked, or rather stubbed, a stone upwards. It followed a steep arc and fell into the center of a discarded tire. “This is getting fucking complicated. Can you trust this guy?”
“I think so. I have to now.”
“Look, Jayna, I’ve had enough of Mayhew McCline. You know that. And if you can pull this off…with the money…”
“I’m getting bio data from Sunjin, for the bank accounts. What about—?”
“It’s okay. I removed the Sarcophagus file from Mayhew McCline. I’ve deleted the file from the tower. I didn’t want to keep it at home either so I’ve found a safe place—”
“Don’t tell me for now.”
“Right.”
“It’s all happening quicker than I expected.”
“So when are you…?”
“It’s unbelievable…but I think soon. It’s just too risky to delay. Sunjin and I will have to disappear at the same time. So Saturday, ideally. And then, after a while you can join us, if you decide that’s what you want. Or, we’ll come and find you.”
“I’ll just walk out of Mayhew McCline?”
“I’ve thought
about that. You should get yourself sacked for bad time-keeping. Or pick an argument with someone like Hester. She’d demand dismissal.”
“Yeah, that would work. They’d just forget about me then.”
“But you have to be sure about this. You’ll be out of a job, no company—”
Dave jerked into defense mode. Three dogs were bolting towards them from the housing blocks. He pulled Jayna behind him. Stooped to grab a handful of grit. The dogs were racing closer, ears back. He crouched with arms and legs spread wide, ready to match the dogs’ speed with aggression. But they veered off, more intent on escaping their tormentors than facing a new confrontation. He dropped the detritus and brushed his hands against his trousers.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get going.”
They entered the enclave proper.
“You’ll need a plan beyond the safe house, y’know,” said Dave.
“Sunjin will decide how long we can stay there.”
“I’m the one with the local know-how. I reckon you and Sunjin could disappear among the farm migrants almost indefinitely. You could do that till things calm down. And I’d be a free agent so I could set something up. I’d need a bit of money, though.” He stopped as though he’d remembered something important. “What exactly is the deal with this Sunjin?”
“He doesn’t know anything about you, yet. I didn’t want to say anything until I’d spoken with you first.” She walked on but he hadn’t finished. “So, this guy thinks he’s doing a runner with you. You and him?”
“Not like that. He just wants out.”
At which point, they began to merge with the enclave residents who were milling around in the less-frenetic Sunday market. They kept their uneasy thoughts to themselves and became just another pair of friends, seemingly with nothing more to do than browse the pavement stalls, with no more on their minds than who they might meet later in the day and where they might hang out.
“I’d love to live here, Dave.”
He didn’t want to laugh at her but he did. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, do you? I guarantee you’d change your mind within forty-eight hours.”
“Quite likely. Right now, I’m fed up pretending I’m fact-finding for Mayhew McCline.”
“Fine by me. There’s a short cut, half-way down Clothing Street.” He set a faster pace dodging in and around the shoppers but it was still slow going. Ahead of them, a refuse collector emerged from a side street to the left, pedaling and sweating; his puny body barely capable of propelling his mountainous load forward. Remembering the stench, she covered her mouth and nose as he turned towards them. The sweating man leaned forward and, lifting his face, caught Jayna’s eye.
In a split second, the crowd froze en masse. A male voice roared out of the side street and a short, stocky figure tore across Clothing Street. He threw himself bodily at the refuse collector. Both men sprawled through the paralyzed shoppers and crashed to the ground at Jayna’s feet. Dave pushed her backwards against other shoppers. Children were grabbed by parents. Everyone jostled to get away from the fist-fight. Two blurs, a man and a woman, charged out of the side street and they piled in.
“Move back,” barked Dave. He pushed her towards the side street but she strained to look back over her shoulder. She caught sight of bloodied fists.
“Knives!” a woman screamed. Dave grabbed Jayna’s arm and as they turned into the side street another man shot past. He tore into the fight, threw badly aimed punches. A whistle pierced the air—once, twice, three times.
“Jayna, hurry for Christ’s sake. Police will be all over the place soon.”
They stumbled down the side street. She shook with excitement. “That’s a real fight!”
A man looked out from a doorway, thirty meters farther along, and yelled to Dave: “What’s going on up there?”
He shouted back: “Don’t go up there, mate. It’s another punch-up over the bloody rubbish.” They reached the man. Dave put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Getting beyond a joke, this.”
“Where’s the police?”
“Scratching their arses,” said Dave. And they both laughed.
“Hey, come in.” Dave took Jayna’s hand and stepped through the entrance. The man stood back to let them pass but she was hesitant. “You all right?” said the man. She nodded.
“Pretty dramatic,” said Dave. “It happened right in front of us. They’ll be looking for witnesses if anyone’s knifed.” Dave squeezed Jayna’s hand as his friend led the way. “Better keeping off the streets for a while.”
This building was darker than Dave’s and the passageway was narrow. His friend lived on the ground floor at the back of the building. An unpleasant smell. Like the smell in a pet shop. As his friend shoved obstructions out of the way, muttering to himself, Dave spoke quietly to Jayna: “It’s a detour, I know. But we’ve got enough time…you’ll find Leo’s place interesting.” He kissed her cheek. “Another wee enterprise.”
They stepped into his noxious flat and while Dave made the introductions, Jayna tried to work out what she was looking at and frowned. “What on Earth…?” she murmured. A fly zapper, with its glaring blue light, hung disturbingly close to eye level from the low ceiling. It was suspended above a metal tray that was clearly acting as a chute directed towards a huge tank of bubbling water, two cubic meters she reckoned. And there were pipes—the water was being aerated.
Zap! A fly dropped into the tank. She stepped forward, peered in and saw fish. She laughed, captivated.
“I said you’d like it,” said Dave. She looked at Leo for some explanation.
“Obviously, I have to live on the ground floor with this lot.”
“Obviously. But is it allowed?”
“I haven’t asked. I don’t think I’d like the answer.”
Dave stepped forward. “Leo’s a foreman at the fish farm—y’know, next to the generation plant.” She did know. All the enclaves had the same set-up; power from waste with the fisheries sited alongside. They shared a pool of bonded labor and the whole enterprise helped to keep running costs low for the enclaves.
“I used to supervise labor on the gray side of the generation plant—shoveling ash, making bricks. But now I watch over the fishery, spend most of my time at the tanks.”
“Is there any violence?” she asked, the street fight fresh in her mind.
“Nah. They’re just refugees working on right-to-stay rules. It’s a cushy number for them, especially working with the fish.”
“Leo knows everything about carp farming,” said Dave, evidently proud of his association.
“I’ll make us a cup of tea then, shall I?”
She walked around the tank working out the sums for Leo’s little earner. Few fixed overheads; minimal rent, free electricity, free labor. “Are these insects enough for them?” She assumed not.
“No, the insects are like fresh supplements.” He grinned. “I bring fish food and antibiotic solution back from the works. It’s a tiny amount, relatively. No one notices.”
“But the smell? Does no one mind?”
“Not if I keep everyone well supplied. You’ll notice the kids in this building are pretty healthy looking.”
She turned to Dave. “Remember you told me last Saturday about cooking fish. Did you mean Leo’s fish?” He nodded.
“Second date then,” said Leo, mashing the mint tea.
They ignored him. “The tea smells good,” said Jayna.
“Best thing in this heat, with this smell. You can actually taste something.” And he passed around the small glasses.
“Slurp it, to cool it down,” said Dave, and Leo demonstrated. Jayna broke into a fit of giggles. Mistakenly, she thought he was exaggerating for comic effect. They stood around the tank, watched the carp writhe around each other while Jayna did her best to imitate Leo’s eccentric manners.
“Tell me about the fight,” she said as soon as they left Leo’s flat. “What was that all about?”
“That guy who
was attacked? He was on their patch most likely.”
“They have patches?”
“Yes. It’s developed over the years along with the aggravation. Individual groups, mostly families, bought the rights to collect rubbish along individual streets. And families are passing on the rights to sons and daughters.”
“Was that the original intention?”
“No. They were supposed to re-apply every five years for the collection rights. But the housing department couldn’t be bothered with the admin cost, so that’s how it evolved.”
“So one family per street?”
“Roughly speaking. The streets run the length of the enclave and there’s rich pickings if they can stop any encroachment.”
“People try to steal rubbish?”
“Why not? Just another commodity.”
She retracted into her own thoughts as they continued through dusty streets towards Dave’s block, then piped up: “It sounds exactly like the old problem with the vineyards…in Burgundy.”
“What?” said Dave. He’d completely lost the thread.
“Well, the Burgundy wines were produced by monks in the Middle Ages but when their power started to wane, many of the vineyards were sold off to private owners. Then along came the Napoleonic Inheritance Laws that said private property had to be split equally among siblings. From that point on these incredibly valuable lands were subdivided—” she looked at Dave to see if he followed her drift “—again and again until, at the end of the last century, each family often owned a single row of vines. So a single row of vines could end up having its own label.”
A Calculated Life Page 15