‘How dare you! I have been working all my life! I paid into a decent pension for forty years. We had our own house. I want my home and my pension back!’
‘I’m sorry to see how it upsets you, Mrs King,’ the chief officer said with genuine concern in her voice. ‘You, like many people of your age group, fail to understand – and I don’t blame you for it – that those times are gone. Now we have a new, more sustainable system. Ask me any questions you like. We are here to help you make the right decision.’
‘I don’t want to live in a flat, and is the Government going to compensate me for taking my home?’
‘My dear Mrs King,’ said the officer patiently, ‘if we compensated everyone, we wouldn’t have any resources for our new, improved society. We would be right back where we were before. Surely you don’t want that.’
‘Of course that’s what I want. I want it just how it was.’
The woman sighed and exchanged glances with the rest of us.
‘How can you say you want things how they were? Mrs King, I agree that you were very fortunate in the old system, but surely you must be aware of how the majority suffered? How people were denied a decent life, the country bankrupted trying to care for the elderly, unemployed and the sick? Think of the future of your family, think of your granddaughters’, she said, nodding at me and Sofia.
Grandma looked confused and was still unable to make a decision.
The officer took a device that resembled a chunky plastic pistol out of a bag. Grandma screamed that they wouldn’t put that thing near her. I wanted to go to her, cuddle her and tell her that the tracker wouldn’t hurt, but Dad gently held me back. Mum asked to have a few words with her in private, so we all left the attic.
While we were waiting down in the living room, the officers showed us a short film that had been made with families in mind. The documentary started by explaining the psychology of fear of the unknown and that this kind of fear – like all manner of degradation – increases with old age. It told us about what happens to the human body and brain as we age. Halfway through, an officer asked me and Sofia to turn our heads away, as we might find the images disturbing. I did so but Sofia didn’t; she gazed with interest at the many centenarians lying helpless and half-naked in their own waste. I know this because I turned my head back for a second when Dad didn’t see. ‘We don’t let animals suffer, why would we do it to our own parents?’ This slogan was repeated many times, and it made my heart contract in pain for what would soon happen to Grandma’s aged body.
‘At what age does it strike?’ Sofia asked.
‘We never know for sure but it gets considerably worse after the age of sixty.’
Grandma’s age, I thought.
‘And is the deterioration gradual or sudden?’ Sofia asked.
The woman was evidently surprised by a twelve-year-old using such language. She glanced at Dad.
‘Sofia is our little scientist, with big plans, aren’t you?’ He patted her shoulder, and Sofia shone like a crown jewel, then started boasting about her hope to find a cure against ageing. I felt acid filling my stomach.
Finally, Grandma made a decision. After a lengthy discussion she reluctantly agreed to move into the Dignitorium. She had to leave immediately, so they offered to take us in their helicopter to a nearby one, in MW12. The roads had just been converted into pedestrian zones and cycle routes but the monorail hadn’t been completed yet.
As we flew over the city, it was fascinating to look down on London beneath us. Our city, just like the whole country and indeed the whole world, was undergoing a total transformation. It was still our city, the city we loved. Big Ben stood proudly next to the Houses of Parliament, boats on the Thames headed up towards Tower Bridge, and in the distance the dome of St Paul’s rose up majestically. But a new earth was about to be born from the ashes of the old one. From the air we could see the rows of back-to-back terraced houses, the narrow streets; a total disorder. A few miles away, the vision of the new system had already materialised, in the form of wide tree-lined promenades alongside which ran the bicycle routes and the monorail track. We marvelled at the very first monorail we saw, a glittering red metallic snake, an improved replica of those originally used in Disneyland.
‘Not bad, but I have better ideas,’ Sofia commented.
Though she wouldn’t admit it, I could see she was spellbound, her eyes widening as she drank up the view.
‘Those are Low-Spender buildings. Ours will be much better,’ Sofia said, pointing at the six- and eight-storey blocks, painted magnolia and terracotta, complete with balconies.
‘Mid Spenders get a proper house with a garden,’ she continued.
‘And what if I want a flat?’
‘They’re not called flats any more, silly. They’re apartments!’
‘Okay, so what if a Mid Spender wants an apartment?’
‘They can get one. Those will be in four-storey condos. They will each have roof gardens and an inner courtyard with a playground and swimming pool.’
I didn’t know where Sofia had got all this information from, but later she was proven right. Dad had requested a semi with a pleasant garden at the front and back, near our new school, and we were given just that.
Sofia pressed her nose to the window, her breath creating steam on the glass surface. I watched her for a long time. I was admiring her profile, the straight nose I so envied, her almond-shaped eyes and long dark hair that framed her face. Her immaculate white skin had never been blemished by the sun. She was studying something in the far distance, mesmerised. I followed her gaze through the window to a slim, snow-white, windowless skyscraper. It was only half-finished but it already dominated the city’s skyline, like a watchtower.
‘What’s that?’ I asked her with awe.
‘The Primavera Club. The Owners’ playground. Cool, isn’t it?’
‘What’s in there?’
‘No idea.’ She shrugged.
If I look back to our childhood, this was one of the few things she ever admitted to not knowing.
‘The Owners go there to relax,’ she added, confidence returning to her voice. ‘After the responsible work they do.’
‘What work?’
‘Everything. Creating new cities, looking after the countryside, and most importantly, protecting us from the wolves.’ At the mention of wolves, I shivered.
Despite the ride being a cool adventure, I couldn’t wait to arrive. I could tell Grandma had already regretted her decision. She was trying to avoid looking down on the new London, but when we pointed something out in admiration, she looked at it with fearful disgust. I hoped once we arrived and she saw the gorgeous building and gardens of the Dignitorium, she would calm down. She kept staring ahead solemnly then suddenly looked at me and Sofia: ‘Do you girls agree with that woman?’
‘Agree about what, Grandma?’ I asked.
‘That I’m selfish. For wanting the old system back.’
‘Oh, Mum.’ Mum patted her hand. ‘Forget about that woman. We are your family. We love you. We all understand how difficult it is to accept change.’ Sofia and I nodded at the same time and sent her a sweet smile.
‘I … I love you girls,’ Grandma said with a serious face. ‘And the last thing I want is for you to think otherwise.’
Mum laughed out and cuddled Grandma. ‘You have made the right decision, that’s the only thing that counts.
‘You two really want this new system, right?’ she asked, brooding, with a strange resignation in her voice.
We arrived above the Dignitorium. The grand Victorian brick mansion was stunningly beautiful in the middle of the magical gardens and lush old trees. Even Grandma looked down with curiosity and when we arrived and said goodbye, she was calmer. What we saw – the gardens, the reception hall, the Salon where we said goodbye to Grandma before she was led away – fascinated all of us.
I couldn’t wait to return to visit her and hear all her adventures.
On our journey home, we all were silent. Mum was trying hard to conceal that she was wiping her eyes. The last image of Grandma, looking back from the door of the Salon with an encouraging but somewhat forced smile, made us realise she wouldn’t be a part of our everyday life any more. There was this sense of loss until Mum broke it and got Sofia and me to plan a lovely gift for Grandma that we would take her on our next visit. Sofia wasn’t paying much attention – she was admiring the view of the new London below – but I loved the idea. I said we could have bespoke doll versions of ourselves made for her so she would feel we’re with her all the time. Mum loved the idea and ordered the dolls once we got home.
But Dad couldn’t stop wondering why the authorities had gone straight upstairs to Sofia’s laboratory, how they knew she was there.
‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Mum said while dishing out plates of pasta.
‘It does matter,’ Dad replied. He didn’t touch his fork. ‘If they are monitoring us in our own home, I’ll report them.’
I looked at Sofia, who was browsing on her ID Phone, entirely uninterested in the conversation. Mum slammed the cheese grater down on the table. ‘Ben, I think you’re overreacting. Mum is now in a safe place, let’s just drop it and enjoy our meal,’ she said.
Dad didn’t reply. He stared ahead into the empty air for what felt like ages. When he spoke his voice was unusually quiet.
‘It’s not just about finding the bugs, Evelyn,’ he said. ‘If they’re really spying on us, this is more serious than I thought. And this new system is more dangerous than they tell us.’ I felt goose bumps rising all over my skin.
‘There are no bugs,’ Sofia said, not even looking up from her ID phone. ‘It was me who reported Grandma.’ Her words hung in the air. We all looked at her.
‘What are you saying?’ my father asked.
‘I reported her to the authorities. In fact, I don’t know what took them so long. I did it two months ago.’ She glanced up. ‘Why are you staring at me like that? She was cheating the system. I would report anyone for it.’ I saw something unnatural in Mum’s gaze, like she’d been hit with a hammer but was trying to conceal the pain. Dad looked at Sofia with disbelief, then at Mum, then back at Sofia. I think something broke in him for good that evening.
Sadly, Grandma didn’t enjoy the Dignitorium; she wanted to go out and do the things she was used to doing, like wandering around the local flea market or hiking in the hills with her walking group. The fact that her body would soon start to deteriorate didn’t seem to bother her. Grandma insisted she could easily live a full life for another twenty years. There were moments when I nearly believed her and was confused, but once Citizenship classes were introduced at school, they explained how it was in human nature to resist the process of ageing. We were given numerous examples of retired people in the old system not accepting their deterioration and even becoming a danger to society. One was driving a car almost blind, and killed a group of school children. Once I heard that, I understood that it was better for all of us – especially Grandma – if she accepted the new system and even tried to enjoy the luxurious retirement she was being offered.
But when Mum, Dad and I visited Grandma in the Dignitorium, she looked old and thin. I noticed how she tried to conceal her shaking hands. She told us she was organising a little group of fellow residents to write to the Prime Minister and some important Globe broadcasters in protest against their situation. She didn’t have time to follow through with her plan.
Just two weeks after she moved in, we were given an emergency call to go to the Dignitorium. They told us Grandma had been diagnosed with a very advanced cancer. She had requested instant euthanasia and her body had already been cremated. We were in shock. We knew Grandma wouldn’t have done anything like this, not without wanting to see us first. They showed us her diagnosis and explained her illness to us in great detail. Then we saw her Farewell Video in which she sat in a chair, smiling, saying goodbye to us, telling us this was what she wanted. She explained that she wished to avoid the pain of cancer. She hoped to save us the trouble, the heartache.
Her name, etched on a silver plaque on the memory wall in the Dignitorium’s garden, was the only trace left of her, apart from her suitcase and the wedding album. All we could do was to return to the wall with flowers and mourn. Sofia never expressed any desire to come with us, and I had a feeling Dad wouldn’t have taken her even if she had. From the day her betrayal came to light, Dad was cautious around Sofia. Sometimes it was more than caution. I could swear it was fear.
The limousine slows down as we descend a steep hill. I can see dozens of narrow chimneys on an ancient rooftop surrounded by lofty trees. So it’s a Victorian mansion, a grand place. Within the vast grounds a snow-white chopper stands on a helipad. Even from this distance, it all radiates Sofia’s arrogance and obsession with luxury. Suddenly I start to shiver. She won’t help me.
Dad is not here to warn her that war begins in the family and that – despite the crippling interval of two decades since we have seen each other – I am still family. The only reason she has agreed to meet me is because she wants to humiliate me. She’ll listen, raising my hopes, just to laugh in my face the next moment. She’ll bring up the past, condemning me for that day when we parted, when I said things I shouldn’t have said. I want to go back to London. I bend forward, trying to form the words to tell the chauffeur to stop and turn around. It’s not too late yet. But then my survival instinct kicks in, followed by an image of Philip, and I feel ashamed for my momentary weakness. I’m ready to meet my fate, if there is just the slightest hope. Today, I will rise or fall.
Seven weeks earlier…
BOOK one
one
It’s already May, my favourite month. But instead of strolling in the park, I am at home, feeling suffocated, yet unable to leave. On the news they announce that the Paradise shopping centre is ready to be reopened. They rebuilt it brick by brick in the hope that people might forget the fact that it was blown to pieces less than five months ago. The reporter is standing in the rooftop garden with dozens of waving customers behind her. With her shoulder-length hair flying in the wind, her waterproof puffed up, she reminds me of an astronaut floating in space. She exudes an air of triumph as she keeps repeating the words ‘bigger and better’, like a mantra.
A year ago I would have been the first to enter, eager to explore the cave of treasures. The new me couldn’t care less. I’m trapped in time, still reliving that Boxing Day five months ago when Philip didn’t come home from work. Just when we were about to become High Spenders, on the verge of starting a family… Now not only is he gone, but – as I discovered soon after his disappearance – so are the considerable savings from his bank account.
I switch off the Globe and go to my favourite place at the window. I spend more time here than is healthy, watching people in the inner courtyard. The obligatory ingredients of Mid-Spender community living – a neat lawn with a barbecue area, the heated swimming pool in the far right corner and the winding path, bordered with flowers, that circles around the fountain – are supposed to raise the spirits, but instead they fill me with a gnawing loneliness. Still, it’s too addictive to stop. When the courtyard is empty – in bad weather or at night – my eyes are often drawn to the windows of the apartments opposite mine and stay there longer than they should.
This morning I went to the police station again. By now everyone there knows me. I wonder what they really think behind their compassionate smiles. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ the officer said. ‘These days, with such technology, who can be more dead than the officially dead?’ They probably think me a lunatic. Sometimes I’m worried they’re right. This foolish hope that Philip is still alive only prolongs my suffering, conserving it until it becomes a part of my body, and seeps permanently into my bones.
On
my way to work, struggling for air during rush hour on the monorail; in the staffroom, while my colleagues are gossiping away, I think of Philip. He’s still there on my way home, when I leave the monorail and pick up the ingredients for a quick, lonely dinner. Wherever I go, I can’t help searching for his eyes in the crowd of unknown faces.
In February I was given the evacuation order. It came as a shock, even though I knew that one day I would have to move into a single apartment. At the council I pretended not to see the dread-ridden faces in the queue, the faces of those who were being downgraded to Low Spenders. I kept telling myself it could be worse. I could be one of them. The council officer’s words were sympathetic but businesslike.
‘Your husband is not coming back. A newly married couple will need your apartment, Mrs Brunelli. You must move out within three days.’ She scanned my ID phone and typed something into her computer. ‘It’s done,’ she said. ‘From now on you will be able to enter your new home. Don’t worry, it’s just as lovely as your old one, the perfect size for a single person.’ She gave me a charming smile. I wanted to reply but my tongue was tied. ‘The entry code for your old home will soon be de-activated. So it’s in your interest to move all your belongings as quickly as possible.’ She gave me another smile of encouragement, the equivalent of a hug had we been friends. I walked home like an automaton, the frost-covered street and the people around me blurred.
I know the police officer was right. If a person’s tracker is deactivated, there are only three – equally hopeless – possibilities. Upon retiring to the Dignitorium, residents have their trackers removed, cut out of their bodies, leaving a barely visible mark behind the left ear. The same happens to those unfortunates who, not qualifying for the Dignitorium, are forced to withdraw from society and are dumped in the Zone, to await their miserable end, either by starvation or attack from other unfortunates. The third possibility is that they are already dead. The tracker switches itself off because of a lack of energy from the living body to fuel it.
Wolf Country Page 2