The breeze blows gently at the muslin curtain. I prefer hiding behind it; if I am to be a voyeur, better to do it invisibly. The playground below is becoming interesting, now that families are finishing their Sunday lunch and are ready to walk it off. I wonder, if we had had any children, would they have been girls or boys. For some reason, I always thought the first one would be a girl. What would she play with now? Would she sit on the mini-carousel? Or would she be more adventurous and climb the artificial tree? Would she be shooting glances up at the window, waving and shouting: ‘Hi, Mummy’?
It’s getting busier – only the secluded smaller playground for non-profit children is empty as usual. Fathers are watching their children playing on the swings, mums are sunk deep in the jacuzzi, holding one wrist above the water, the wrist with the ID Phone, which they almost never take their eyes off. I would have been a different mother. More attentive, less frivolous. This is all that is left to me now, watching from high up, with the soft muslin curtain tickling the tip of my nose.
Recently I started to make excuses when friends called, inviting me for a birthday bash or a weekend shopping in another city. By now the calls and invitations have stopped. Hi-hello-how’re-yous are scattered around in the staffroom, but it rarely goes any further than that. I can hardly bear other people’s company any more.
Tired of the family scenes, I look across at the apartment opposite. The woman who lives there is always reading on her balcony, and today is no exception. She’s young and beautiful. All she ever does is read, either down in the courtyard on a lounger or on her balcony, swinging in an orange hammock. In the beginning, I kept asking myself how she could earn her Right To Reside. Not any more, now that I know the answer.
I wonder what Philip would make of her, given his recent disillusionment with everything under the sun. He used to say that only idiots read fiction; weak and unfit people who choose to escape from reality instead of confronting it. It seemed he’d forgotten the days when, years ago, we used to read books together, cuddled up, one of us reading aloud, the other listening with closed eyes. Then we would swap.
‘Books are gateways to other dimensions,’ Philip said on our honeymoon in Madeira, out of the blue as we were coasting in a hired boat across the turquoise water of the bay. ‘Once you start reading, the gate opens up, and the other world behind draws you in.’
‘Sometimes I wish I could close the gate and stay trapped in that world,’ I replied jokingly, but he remained serious.
‘We would be separated then,’ he said.
‘Or we could be trapped together.’ I laughed and when the sweet wind blew in my face and sent my hair flying back, my heart nearly burst.
It’s not an imaginary dimension I’m trapped in now, but this harsh, cold and dreadful world. Even worse, I’m trapped alone. Those who counted have gone. We never know how the death of our parents will affect us. I can testify that the adult orphan suffers no less than the child. Mum and Dad often return in my dreams, sometimes in the form of nightmares. I see Mum crouching above someone. It’s Dad, lying face down. Mum starts screaming. At this point I always wake up in a sweat, my heart rate up in the sky. Fortunately this dream only haunts me rarely. Usually I see them as I did for the very last time, on that autumn day four years ago when their retirement in the Dignitorium came to an end and I stayed on the bench in front of the main building. Dad didn’t want me to escort them to the entrance of the T-wing. They said they were ready to go, and had their heads held high, but they never stopped holding each other’s hands. As if they were hanging on to the only certain thing. That’s how I see them when I dream, walking away from me, hand in hand, and the further they walk, the brighter they appear, until they shine like a diamond star.
A breeze is coming through the window and the little living room quickly loses heat. In my old home I could sit out on our private roof terrace if I needed the sun. There were so many things I couldn’t bring from the old apartment, such as Philip’s exercise bike. Maybe it’s better that way, so I don’t have to see it sitting unused. I glance at the clock and my stomach contracts. I’m getting closer to tomorrow by the hour, to the dreaded Monday when the nightmare at work begins again.
On Friday, Leo Sullivan, the head teacher, called me into his office. I had expected it, after I failed to notice that three children hadn’t returned to class from break. Even security couldn’t find them, and they had to call in the police to locate their trackers. For a short time they feared a repetition of the notorious kidnappings – it was the first thing that came to everyone’s minds – but luckily it wasn’t the case. They found them playing truant in a nearby shopping centre. Leo, an exemplary family man, the type who wears a freshly starched shirt every day and decorates his desk with family photos, had warned me in the past weeks to get some help; I thought there was nothing new to say. This time his tone was more severe.
‘What happened today in Year 8 will cost you three penalty points.’
‘I’m sorry, Leo.’
‘With these three points, now you have thirteen.’
‘That’s impossible!’ I stared at him in disbelief. He pointed at his computer screen for me to see. It can’t be true! In September, at the start of the new school year, I had only five points that had accumulated over the years.
‘Look, Alice, I don’t judge you; in fact, I deeply sympathise with you. But if a parent reports the school, it’s not you but me who will be in trouble.’
‘I’m really sorry. These days I’m just…not well.’
‘I know.’
‘You don’t know what an effort it is to get out of bed every morning, how I struggle to cope with even simple tasks.’
‘I have to tell you something, but it must remain between us.’ His tone mellowed to a friendly one. ‘My wife has been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.’ He lowered his voice even though there was no one around. ‘Her condition is deteriorating, it seems she’ll never be able to earn her Right To Reside. I can’t afford to lose my credit in this job.’
At this stage he sounded like he was begging me to sort myself out.
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘The last thing I want is to get you into trouble.’
‘Get some help then.’
‘Even if I could afford therapy, it wouldn’t give me the answers.’
He promised to see what he could do. When he got back to me in the afternoon, he gave me a list of crisis advisors, available from the council free of charge. I applied straightaway . It suggested that in the meantime I get additional help from the Mini-doc.
Mini-doc again! For God’s sake, this is not a common flu or infection I have – how could an app possibly understand what I’m going through?
I close the blinds as if it could shield me from the outside world. Tomorrow it’s back to school again. With my thirteen penalty points, I’m dangerously close to the maximum of twenty, which would mean suspension. I can’t afford another mistake. I’m eyeing my ID Phone on the table, flirting with it. For some reason I have always been against the idea of using the Mini-doc for non-physical symptoms. But what harm can it do? Like everyone else, I pay for it anyway. For a monthly subscription we have this high-tech doctor available to us, day and night. I was a child when the old system collapsed, so I have only vague memories of visiting a doctor. However, Mum would often bring up its horrors: waiting for hours in a confined, badly lit space, having to share it with other sick people, mostly children and the elderly.
I pick my ID phone up and turn on the Mini-doc. A greying man in a white coat greets me. ‘Good afternoon, Alice.’ He introduces himself as Doctor Graham. His manner is professional, and only the lack of any fluctuation in his tone betrays the fact that he’s not real. As I’m trying to explain my problem in a few sentences, narrowing it down, there are more focused questions popping up. My blood pressure and other body functions are measured. Then after a short wait, the results a
re processed. The diagnosis is depression and exhaustion of medium severity. Four different types of medicine are recommended, but I can’t bring myself to go through the lengthy descriptions so I let Mini-doc choose. It selects one and I pay. Doctor Graham reappears on the screen. ‘Your medicine will arrive within two hours. To aid your recovery, I’d recommend a compilation of relaxing classical music. Please see the available selection on your Globe. Goodbye, Alice, and thank you for using Mini-doc.’
When the Globe comes on, its spherical 3D projection is beamed down from the ceiling into the room. I switch to music mode and type in Johann Sebastian Bach. Dad brought us up listening to music, so unlike most people these days I know many of the great composers. It was one of the things I had in common with Philip. We were rare in that respect, anomalies.
Boxing Day
Christine, our neighbour, poked her head out of the door to our roof terrace but once she looked down, she grimaced and retreated back into the living room. It amused me, but I was not as cruel as her husband, Paul, who would push her towards the edge of the terrace until her face went deathly pale, and she gripped his arm, her fingers leaving red marks. Christine’s vertigo didn’t allow her to join me. I knew it; that’s why I’d gone outside. I stood there taking in the fresh air, with my elbows pressed to the icy rail, trying to get Christine’s words out of my head.
‘Last night there was a chat show on the Globe about women who don’t have children,’ she’d said the previous evening, and I knew I didn’t want to hear what was coming next.
‘So what?’
‘The survey concluded that ninety-five per cent of them regret not starting a family by the time it’s too late.’ She shot me a meaningful look. I swallowed hard.
‘Where are you going with this, Christine?’
‘Nowhere. Honestly. It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it.’ Her voice was filled with curiosity, her eyes widened with excitement as she waited for me to start lamenting – as once, in a moment of weakness, I did – about the fact that Philip didn’t want to have children.
On the balcony I inhaled deeply and reminded myself not to confide in Christine in the future.
It was only 2pm. The street was silent under the thick blanket of virgin snow. Far away, above the roofs of the city, the London Eye was turning slowly, but gracefully, many tiny pairs of legs dangling from the seats. This new, giant London Eye had just been installed, to replace the original one with capsules. Customers craved ever bigger thrills. Now they sat between earth and sky, uncovered, unprotected. Even the sight of it gave me the shivers and I shifted so that it was concealed by the roof opposite.
Christine, like me, was enjoying the two-week winter break all non-teachers were so jealous of – those who had never experienced the sensation of a lead-heavy brain after months in the classroom, who had never felt the numbing stress when, every afternoon, the results of likeability votes from the students appeared on all teacher’s computer screens. I pulled my coat around me; the cold was biting but I needed more time to myself. This was one of the moments when I thought it would be good to be a smoker. It would feel pleasant to do something with my fingers and release smoke circles into the crisp air.
It was a very special Boxing Day. Christine and I had been so excited about it. We had discussed whether Philip would change his mind and, as the chief architect of the Paradise project, make a speech, and if so, how he would look on the Globe in the silky white shirt I had bought him for the occasion. It brought out his Mediterranean complexion. Secretly, I hoped he would make the speech so that everyone in the country could see him handsome and bright, and I would burst with pride.
After ten minutes of quiet time, I went in. The combined smell of roasted vegetables and pine needles hit my nostrils. Christine was sprawled across our sofa as if she was at home. She was absorbed in her favourite programme, in which a celebrity offers one of her designer gowns for a charity auction. Only this is no ordinary auction. It is a battle. The ten women who are ready to pay the highest price for the gown have to fight for it, physically. First they must search for the dress, which is packed up in a box and hidden on a closed-off section on the promenade. The real excitement for onlookers and Globe viewers, however, begins when the box is found. The contestants can fight each other without restrictions, including using teeth and nails. There are several ambulance helicopters on the scene, waiting for those with the weakest teeth and shortest nails. Christine was loudly cheering on the woman she was rooting for. I tried to keep my eyes off the screen.
It was still two hours until the Paradise opening ceremony, and Christine was starting to tire me with all her chatter. She was a great shopping partner but not exactly a close friend. I was looking forward to our shopping spree the next day, when we would get to the Paradise by 7am. The first thousand customers would be given a free e-trolley with the words ‘My Paradise’ on it. We planned to stay all day, and round it off with dinner in a rotating restaurant on the roof. New mini-trains had been introduced to carry shoppers around. We would spend a lot, I knew; the Paradise was in a High-Spender area, targeting High Spenders and those aspiring to join their ranks. I wasn’t usually the type to go beyond my budget, but Christine had convinced me I deserved it after an exceptionally difficult term at school.
Christine’s conversation was of limited interest; it started and ended with shopping. I was glad when she found a film to watch; it was a silly rom-com, not really funny, but at least she shut up. I fell into a light doze; the sound of people giggling on the Globe and Christine’s occasional remarks always pulling me back.
‘So, your father-in-law actually lives in the Zone? Or was that just a joke?’ Christine’s voice came from the other end of the sofa. She put the Globe on mute. I was surprised that she mentioned the Zone without her usual tone of contempt. The Zone is a segregated, abandoned area on the eastern periphery of London, where the most deprived quarters used to be. A high concrete wall, built at the beginning of the new system, separates it from the rest of the city. It’s a no man’s land, the only place remaining where life is miserable and death is slow and unassisted. All criminals are exiled there and those non-profit people who – having been active consumers for less than ten years – don’t qualify for the Dignitorium.
‘Philip is not the type to joke around these days,’ I replied, ‘and I don’t think he would joke about his own father. Yes, Antonio has been living there for years now.’
‘How come he’s still alive?’
‘He took over a large house and formed a self-sustaining community. There are about thirty of them now.’
‘Self-sustaining?’ Christine snorted. ‘Without us providing free water, he and his community wouldn’t survive for a day.’
Christine, when sober, was a fairly nice person, but I could see she’d had her fair share of drink by then. Philip, who was far less indulgent than I, would say this was her real personality, freed of any inhibitions by the alcohol, and now I started to see her through his eyes.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said in a conciliatory tone. ‘I fully support the Zone residents getting free water.’
I nodded, forcing a half-smile.
‘Are those armoured buses as safe as they say?’ she asked after a short pause. ‘I’ve been thinking of a visit as a special birthday gift for Paul. We’re both dying to know what it’s like there. But what if the gangs, you know, attack the bus?’
‘It’s not for fun, Christine. Most people go there out of necessity. They want to make sure their loved ones are OK.’
Christine rolled her unnaturally blue eyes.
‘I mean, relatively OK,’ I said. ‘That’s why we usually go only to the Visitor’s Centre. It’s been years since we were fully inside the Zone.’
And I don’t mean to return there, ever, I thought. We were lucky, yes, that nothing happened last time Philip and I visited Antonio. But in a place aban
doned by civilisation, where humans are each other’s greatest enemies, anything could have happened to us.
‘It’s that or the Red Carpet Treatment in Cannes.’ Christine’s voice brought me back to my living room. ‘I think I’ve decided. Hello, Cannes! At least we’re guaranteed to come back in one piece.’
We ate and chatted and wrote a list of what to do in the Paradise the next day. Minutes before 4pm we were ready to watch the live broadcast.
‘Philip is an oaf, excuse me for saying so, if he doesn’t make this speech. What’s his problem exactly?’ she asked.
‘It’s complicated. The area where the Paradise is used to be part of the Zone.’
‘So?’
‘And hundreds of inhabitants were evicted to make space for the new High-Spender area.’
‘I know, there was nothing else on the news for weeks. I still don’t see the problem.’ She pulled a face.
‘You must have heard that many of the evicted froze to death in the streets. Others were killed by the gangs.’
‘Oh, those rumours.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I mean, look at the Zone, it’s still huge; even if we had taken half of it away, there would still be space for thousands. Those who died could have found some shelter if they really wanted to.’
‘Philip’s father says it’s not a rumour. He tried to save–’
‘So what’s Philip’s problem?’
‘He doesn’t want to give his name to a project that takes away from the disadvantaged and gives to the already rich.’
‘For god’s sake. Let’s not enjoy a meal because there are people out there in the world who are starving, eh?’
‘Well, that’s not exactly–’
‘He accepted the job, didn’t he? And the money and status that come with it?’ She gave me a piercing look.
‘Well…to be honest–’
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