‘Did he?’
‘He had no choice but–’
‘Hypocrisy, thy name is man!’ She let out an exaggerated groan and before I could reply she changed the subject. ‘Let’s just have a blast tomorrow. I can’t wait.’ For the sake of being a good neighbour, I said nothing.
She reached out to turn up the volume on the Globe. The reporter, an overly excited blonde woman, was wearing a white fur coat that went well with the festive background. The temperature was below zero but a crowd of hundreds had assembled nonetheless. The people were chanting and cheering, already queuing up with their My Paradise e-trolleys. For a moment they looked to me like a well-equipped and bloodthirsty army, coming closer and closer.
The reporter entered the building right after the managing director. Sparkling Christmas trees and golden-winged angels were suspended from the ceiling in the main hall. The crowd now lost all sense and direction. They flooded in like ants; a mass of miniature black figures flowing over the shiny white floor. Up on the roof terrace, dignitaries from the council, celebrities and politicians stood, holding champagne glasses, chattering away, with the magnificent London skyline stretching behind them. I was scanning their faces to find Philip in the group, but the camera moved too quickly.
I hoped Philip had left the office in time to do his speech. With his talent, he could be promoted within a few years, become a celebrity architect, and design some more iconic buildings. We could finally become High Spenders.
After we got married, Philip and I used to visit High-Spender areas. We liked looking at the mansions in the leafy streets and the exclusive boutiques. The magnitude of space was the thing that struck me the most, reminding me of what Dad had once said about the value of real land when I was a child. I didn’t deny it would be good to live somewhere like this. But Philip was reluctant, even after he accepted the Paradise contract, when the possibility of becoming High Spenders was within our grasp. He had always been disgusted by the notion of spending on useless, throw-away stuff just to become and stay High Spenders. I suggested we could do it for just a few months, treat it like a holiday, enjoying the luxury while it lasted and then gladly return to our normal Mid-Spender life afterwards. But in the end we never did.
We never talked about it, but it lingered in the air between us, unsaid but always present. I wasn’t sure I would have been able to move back to the Mid-Spender area once I got used to the high life. Downgrading is bad – the twin sister of decay and destitution. It’s what old people do when their health deteriorates and they are forced to become Low Spenders. The final step before retiring to the Dignitorium. Downgrading is like dying in slow motion.
I cursed the camera again for moving so quickly. All the men were wearing suits and white shirts, making it impossible to spot Philip. The mayor had just turned to the camera and handed his champagne over to his assistant when the explosion happened. It was so loud and unexpected that for a moment I thought it was the Globe that had exploded in the room. Christine and I jumped up at the same time. The smoke prevented us from seeing anything. We stood there, not knowing whether to stay or run, whether to turn away or keep watching. My blood ran cold. Philip!
I called him immediately but he didn’t answer. I tried again and again, hysterically pressing the repeat button on my ID Phone until Christine gently took it out of my hand and helped me to sit down. She made me a strong coffee while I kept watching the Globe for news updates.
‘Could you just leave me alone?’ I asked her after a while.
She stood there, hesitant, opening her mouth to protest.
‘Christine, please.’
I heard her faffing around in the kitchen, then she quietly slipped out of the living room while I was fixed to the screen.
‘Call me if you need anything, OK?’ she whispered.
I heard her close the apartment door.
I became edgy when the news didn’t mention anything about the victims. The news reporter, usually collected and professional, was fighting back tears. Philip still didn’t answer his ID phone. I went out to the monorail stop, roamed the streets. People were coming and going, with fear on their faces. All they were talking about was the ‘terrorist attack’. I hesitated over where to go first – to Philip’s office or to the Paradise. Hoping he hadn’t left work, I hurried to his office, a black glass-walled skyscraper in the city centre.
‘Everyone left, it’s Boxing Day,’ the receptionist said. With a trembling voice, I asked him to check what time Philip had left to attend the Paradise opening ceremony.
‘Let me see, madam.’ While he was searching on his computer, I prayed he would say Philip had gone out earlier, somewhere else, to a building site, perhaps. Or that he was still up in his office and there was a practical reason for him not answering his phone. The receptionist was searching for ages and I started to lose my patience.
‘I’m sorry, madam, he didn’t come to work today.’
‘That’s not possible. Could you check it again, please?’
‘I checked it three times, madam.’
‘What if there’s a problem with the system?’
‘There’s never anything wrong with the system, madam. But if you call tomorrow after nine, one of my colleagues may be able to assist you further.’
I felt goose bumps rising on my skin. He’d left for work that morning after eight, as usual. While on my way to the Paradise, I kept on dialling his number, my hands shaking all the while, but there was no answer.
When I arrived I was hit once more by the scene of destruction. Where the Paradise had stood gleaming, chaos now ruled. The fire had already been extinguished but the scene was still painful to look at. People were being rescued from the debris of the blackened building. The sound of sirens and helicopters mixed with the cries of survivors and family members. The police had formed a human shield around the area, so I couldn’t get closer. Dead bodies covered with blankets were carried on stretchers out from the heavy smoke, but when I ran towards one of them I was pulled away by strong arms. A camera was pushed into my face, the reporter asking what I was doing there. I tried to form a coherent sentence but all I could repeat was Philip’s name. An announcement asked us to register our missing loved ones, then return home. Half an hour later, the crowd had dissipated, and only a few of us remained, gathering in a park nearby. I kept calling Philip’s number and I repeatedly returned yet was always sent away. It was three in the morning when the freezing cold forced me to go home, but I didn’t sleep a wink.
On the news they announced that there were forty-two dead and hundreds injured. They believed there had been four suicide bombers, but the numbers were unconfirmed. The ‘Warriors’ had taken responsibility for the attack. They were on a mission to bring ‘traditional’ values back to society, murdering those who went shopping on Boxing Day instead of spending Christmas in the ‘appropriate’ way.
The Prime Minister, Edward Finch, made an emergency appearance on the Globe, broadcast live from his holiday retreat in South Africa. ‘We will not allow our enemies to destroy our values,’ he said. ‘Values of abundance and opportunity, values of wellbeing and fulfilment. We, as a nation, have been through far too much of the opposite.’ He paused for effect. ‘My family, like so many others in the old system, would queue at the food banks. When the new system began, I swore this would never happen to my children. Since then I have become your Prime Minister, so I extend this promise to future generations. I promise the old times will never return.’
After a sleepless night I went to the police station, increasingly convinced that Philip had been one of the victims of the attack. When I enquired about his final route, they said they had no information. ‘What do you mean? You must be able to see his tracker. You can see everyone’s.’ I was nearly crying. ‘It’s been de-activated,’ they said. When I tried calling him again, his number was no longer in use.
Losing a loved one is
nothing like they portray it in films. It tears you apart and leaves you a walking skeleton. The worst part was getting back to the daily routine. It started when I spotted Philip’s mug – a chunky white one with a caricature of Beethoven on it – in the sink, waiting to be washed and put away, ready for the next cup of Earl Grey with a dash of full-fat milk. His belongings – his clothes, his towel, his toothbrush – were like extensions of his body, widening the aching gap inside me. The initial shock lessened after the first unbearable week, but it took months before hope, that stubborn little flame, began to fade away. I tried to revive it, but it shrank to a faint glow.
TWO
Sunday mornings are busy on the promenade, especially on days like this when the sun is smiling down on the earth. All week I’ve been trying to shake off a fear that something terrible is about to happen. Not that my situation could be much worse. My grief gnaws away at me, but if I manage to get over the night, when it’s the worst, I can get through the day. Dizzy and exhausted from the medication, but fuelled by coffee, I drag myself along towards my oasis. The bright red monorail to my left slides away with a smooth rumble. The vibrant advert screens are encouraging pedestrians to buy this sofa or that tub of ice-cream, the word ‘family’ used everywhere to indicate communal joy. To me, the word means nothing.
The walk invigorates me, but I find the growing crowd and the noise of the adverts irritating. I step onto a passing monorail. I’m the only passenger in the carriage. Sitting at the window, I can observe the Sunday faces as the monorail glides alongside the promenade, which, true to its slogan, is a place where life happens.
When I get off the monorail, my feet instinctively carry me faster than before. Just straight down this street, then turn right at the oak tree. It will do me good to switch off after the shock of the past few days. It’s already too much. The thought of my penalty points kept me awake all night; I had to turn to Mini-doc again. This time Doctor Graham recommended something called Friends Market, where people can hire companionship. I signed up for the trial period, and found a woman of my age in the area. We made an appointment to meet on the promenade, but when I saw her approaching, looking as if she was on her way to a job interview, I felt a sudden disgust and left. At home I ordered a stronger medication, which I started taking immediately.
I hope that by coming here I can start to heal myself. Finally I arrive at the imposing wrought-iron gate. The golden plate on the high brick wall reads:
DIGNITORIUM – RETIREMENT SOLUTIONS
It feels a bit like a homecoming. One of the guards, a beefy young man, points at a selection of flowers in steel buckets. There are bunches of lilac, freesia, tulips in all colours. I pick a bunch of red and yellow freesia, Mum’s favourite. The guard scans my ID Phone, then wishes me a pleasant stay, as if I’ve checked into a holiday complex.
Before Dignitoriums were introduced, there were other places to remember loved ones. On the outskirts of the city, there are still some old cemeteries, like outdoor museums. I once visited one out of curiosity. It was ancient, crammed with graves that were hundreds of years old, but it was not as beautiful as the Dignitoriums. It’s understandable – it’s only the living that require beauty.
As a teenager, I was keen to learn more about the old system and how retired people used to live. I discovered that they just lived at home – if they were lucky enough to have one – or in a hospital or, even worse, in the final decades of the old system, in miserable retirement homes, until they met their lonely, painful, and above all slow death. Once they reached a certain age, they were entitled to a government pension, but there was no way they could afford the standards of a Dignitorium. In fact, it provided them with very little. Despite the warnings, I searched for photos of centenarians. I suppose it’s human nature to be curious about such morbid things. It’s wrong and yet, from time to time, we all search for the pictures.
On seeing the photos my first reaction was disgust, then pity and compassion, and finally a rush of gratitude. Even as an adult the photos gave me nightmares – the poor sods looked like zombies from those horror films shown on the late-night Globe. They suffered a multitude of incurable, debilitating illnesses like dementia before they died, trapped in a decaying body for twenty, thirty, even forty years. They were begging for death but their loved ones could do absolutely nothing to end their suffering; euthanasia was illegal. I consider myself extremely lucky to have been born after those barbaric times.
Although it fascinates me, I don’t think I’ll return to a cemetery. There was a smell of decay, slightly sweet but with a putrid undertone. It was so strong I could still smell it on my clothes for days. Here in the Dignitorium, there’s only the soothing fragrance of lilac.
As I enter the gate and hear it click shut behind me, something otherworldly washes over my exhausted spirit and body. The blossoming trees sway gracefully in the breeze. Flowerbeds carpet the ground in all the colours of the rainbow. A narrow stream coils through ornate gardens, creating tiny islands that are connected by carved wooden bridges. I hear a variety of bird song; Dad once counted eleven different species. This peace and harmony can’t be found anywhere else in the city. Here and there, residents with a carer, or visitor, are strolling as if they have all the time in the world. The carers wear grass-green uniforms. The frantic speed of the outside world doesn’t penetrate these walls. To my left a group of elderly female residents are practising Tai chi; a young Chinese girl instructor faces the group making the poses, which they all mimic in unison. A grey-haired couple sit on a blanket on the hillside with a picnic basket, enjoying the view. They remind me of my parents.
I make my way to the memory wall which is nearly full with plaques. The names stretch up to the very top; there are sturdy wooden stools in the corner for those who can’t reach the name of their loved one. Most names are written on silver plaques, given that this Dignitorium – like the majority of them – is mixed class but caters mostly for Mid Spenders. There are still some names on golden plaques and a significant number on simple bronze ones, too.
It’s good I came early on a Saturday morning, for there’s no one else here. I try to avoid busy times. When there is a crowd, they all want to be near the wall and touch it, so I have to stand in the second or third row. The hysterical cries disturb my quiet reflection and soon someone else puts their bunch of flowers on top of mine. I don’t stand a chance of getting close enough to touch my parents’ names. Now I put my left palm over the letters that read ‘Evelyn and Ben Walker’; it feels like it’s pulsing, Mum and Dad’s spirit flowing into me.
I search for a photo of my parents on my ID Phone, and zoom in on their smiling faces. Now we are together. Apart from Sofia. But I don’t consider her family. I don’t even want to think about her. Where was I? Yes, with Mum and Dad, all together now. I treasure this rare occasion when I’m the closest I can be to feeling connected to them.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here – my palm is ice-cold from the plaque but still pressed to my parents’ names. It’s starting to get busier. Another hand is reaching out just above my head, and I have to bend down to make room. It feels like an intrusion. I slip out from under the arm and move away, my body numb. My eyes are searching for the bench. That bench. When I find it, in front of a giant hydrangea bush, my eyes rest on it for a long time. I walk closer. This is the nearest bench to the T-wing. It hasn’t changed over the years, though the timbers painted in sunny yellow must have witnessed many farewell tears and kisses.
I sit down on it as I did on that autumn day, four years ago. Mum and Dad are with me again. I recall how we embraced each other for the last time before they turned around and left for the T-wing. It was an uplifting moment, so I don’t understand why there are tears rolling down my cheeks. I wipe my face with the back of my hand and stand up. I’d like to see the tulip beds in all their kaleidoscopic colours. I walk up the hill. From here I have a lovely view down the lawn, with the lake
in the middle sparkling like an oversized crystal. I know for a fact that it’s not natural. With Mum and Dad, we saw once how they poured a sack of powder into it that immediately transformed the greyish water into a deep blue.
In the distance, I see the familiar delicate figure of an elderly lady, linking arms with a tall young man. It’s Nurse Vogel, who used to look after my parents. If not for her green uniform, one would assume it was the healthy youth taking the fragile older lady for a walk, not the other way around. A small gesture reveals the truth in the next moment when she reaches out for his arm to make sure he doesn’t fall as he sits down on the bench. With her lithe movements, Nurse Vogel is the picture of eternal youth. Despite her tiny figure, she radiates an inner strength I have always admired.
The pair are a picture of tranquillity; I can’t keep my eyes off them as they relax on the ornate bench in the silvery glow of the early morning sun.
These days all older ladies dye their hair, mostly a blond colour, or a shade of burgundy red for those with a darker complexion. When Dad introduced Nurse Vogel to me shortly after their retirement, it was the first time I had seen grey hair on a woman. Up near the roots it’s almost white, while down at the ends it’s a darker grey, and slightly frizzy. At first, I found it really quite ugly. But I quickly got used to it. I have to admit that her soft, ash-grey hair, which is tied up in a bun today, suits her. I couldn’t begin to imagine her with one of those undulating, golden-blond hairstyles Mum had. The other thing that surprised me back then was her face. There’s no sign of any make-up or the skin improvement therapy that older ladies are so keen on. She doesn’t even try.
Nurse Vogel and her patient are half-hidden by a bush heavy with yellow roses. In the background, on top of a hill stands the main building, an imposing white mansion. It looks as if cream had been poured all over it. It’s the only white Dignitorium in London, a rarity. Elegant sash windows and stuccoed façade invite the visitor hundreds of years back in time. I know that the house is authentic, unlike many of those ‘period’ mansions in the High-Spender areas. In the old system, before they turned it into a Dignitorium, it functioned as a museum and was called Kenwood House. People could only visit for a few hours before they returned to their shabby homes. They couldn’t even dream of living in a place like this.
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