Wolf Country

by Tunde Farrand

  I look back at the courtyard. Two older ladies are chatting away on the bench, their purple shoes matching their handbags. The confidence that oozes from a young woman in a leather mini-skirt irritates me; her highlighted hair and designer sunglasses make me feel like an outcast, like someone who doesn’t belong to the club any more. I feel less envious when my eyes fall on her ankle, still wrapped in a plaster cast from last month when she fell and injured herself in a two-minute All You Can Grab competition at the supermarket.

  Ms Hayashi’s words are still gnawing at me. What a strange woman, as contradictory as her office, welcoming and thorny at the same time. How dare she accuse Philip of being one of the Boxing Day terrorists…

  How did I end up like this, in danger of premature retirement or instant euthanasia? I mustn’t even consider what Ms Hayashi said. I turn on the Mini-doc on my wrist and re-take the test. Doctor Graham says that my condition has deteriorated. I’m more depressed, more anxious. It takes about two weeks for the medicine to kick in, he says, and suggests that I wait and try to relax. If only.

  I make myself a cup of tea and sit down on the sofa with the warm mug between my palms, trying to gain comfort from the heat. But I can’t sit still. Ms Hayashi’s question keeps running through my head. ‘Was he an anti-consumerist, a freedom seeker…?’

  Philip was a good person, not capable of hurting anyone. The tea burns my throat. ‘…the type who secretly disappeared, allegedly to nature, for a whole weekend…?’

  I have an urge to speak to someone other than Ms Hayashi. Before I know it, I’m calling the only person I feel I can confide in. Soon Nurse Vogel’s familiar smiling face appears on the screen of my ID Phone, the twinkle in her eyes as fresh as ever. Behind her the room is filled with bookshelves, but there’s no Globe in sight and when I ask her she tells me she doesn’t need one. Today she is back to her old self, full of life and relaxed, wearing her hair down.

  ‘What happened to you yesterday?’ I ask. ‘Did you see something?’

  ‘Never mind, my dear. I’m just a silly old woman.’

  ‘No, you’re not. Was it something you saw in your flat?’

  ‘There are some peculiar things happening here,’ she looks around, lowering her voice. ‘Small objects – chairs, dishes – are moved, things like that. Little things that are meant to make me doubt my sanity.’

  ‘The authorities?’

  She nods.

  ‘One of my favourite photos of my late husband disappeared from the bookshelf. I noticed it was missing when we were talking.’

  ‘But how is that possible?’

  ‘It’s not the first time. Anyway, I don’t want to burden you with my troubles,’ she says, and I can see I won’t be able to get any more out of her. ‘But there’s something I forgot to ask about Philip. What did his tracker show?’

  ‘Nothing; it was disabled,’ I reply. ‘His body has never been found. Or that’s what they tell me. To conceal the truth.’

  ‘What truth?’

  ‘That he was one of the terrorists.’

  ‘Of course Philip was not a terrorist.’

  ‘I don’t know any more, to be honest. He always disliked people who went shopping on Boxing Day. Maybe at weekends he secretly went to ‘Warriors’ meetings.’

  ‘Have you spoken to someone about this?’ Her voice suddenly drops to a whisper.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘In your right mind you’d never assume Philip was a terrorist.’

  ‘Yes, when she mentioned it first, it sounded mad. But then I thought about it and I came to the conclusion–’

  ‘Who did you speak to, Alice?’

  ‘I went to the crisis advisor this morning, that’s all.’

  She exhales deeply and rolls her eyes.

  ‘Can you promise me something?’ Her voice is barely louder than a murmur but there’s an edge to it. ‘Don’t go there again. If they get in touch, tell them you feel much better. Lie that you’ve recovered. Say that you’ve confided in a friend who helped a lot. Feel free to mention my name.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘More and more of our patients come to us from crisis advisors.’ I have to lean closer to hear what she’s saying. ‘Dignitorium agents, that’s what we call them.’

  ‘But…I just had a chat with her.’

  ‘They are there to assess your state, and if they find you weak and unlikely to recover, they frighten you with nonsense like Philip being a terrorist. To push you further towards the abyss you’re heading for anyway.’

  I don’t see the point of this. I try to keep a straight face but I’m sure working at the Dignitorium too long must have gone to Nurse Vogel’s head. Has her age finally started to take its toll? I wouldn’t hold it against her. Yes, Ms Hayashi really upset me but recently everything upsets me. It’s ridiculous.

  ‘Are you taking medication?’ She breaks the silence. Next, she’ll say my pills are poisoned. Nurse Vogel is kind but this is going too far.

  ‘No. I’m not a fan of Mini-doc.’

  ‘Good. Keep it that way.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And for once and for all, get it out of your head that Philip was a terrorist.’

  The Artist’s Son

  When I was eighteen, the long-awaited Prom Night marked the start of adult life. During the ceremony they declared that we were now contributors. After the performances and a long-winded speech by the head teacher, we were each given a grown-up version of the ID Phone with a fully licensed Buy-O-Meter app on it. This phone looked serious in comparison to the plastic toy-like gadgets we were now putting back in a huge basket. Most importantly, it didn’t have a spending limit set by our parents any more.

  My skin protested as the smooth, ice-cold steel was attached to my wrist. For a moment the click and grip felt like handcuffs, but I shrugged off the thought and reminded myself of the gravity of the occasion. The government had kindly topped up our Buy-O-Meters with enough for a month’s consumption to qualify as a Mid Spender, just to get us started. Everyone around me was elated. For some reason, the thought of unlimited consuming frightened rather than pleased me; even though it was in reality far from unlimited, it felt that way to us. Like children in a candy shop, we all went mad shopping and bought heaps of clothes and accessories. At the same time, I was aware that the golden days of carefree adolescence were over and that I was expected to earn my Right To Reside.

  My first job was in a nursery. During lunchtime, while all the other staff snuck out to post something or chat on Yap!, I watched the toddlers from the corner. I would imagine myself as a mother, coming to pick my child up, standing at the door at 5pm, feeling the tiny soft palms on the back of my neck, the weight in my arms, even the little knees kicking into my belly. Something was missing, though, apart from a boyfriend. For over a year I couldn’t work out what it was. All I knew was that I craved more. New clothes, new restaurants, the odd holiday – nothing quite filled the gap. When I saw an advert for an evening teaching course at Central London University, I realised it was the intellectual stimulation that I had been missing in the nursery work. My parents were really proud of my ambitions and Dad was happy to help me out with the course fee. They said that with a degree, my Mid Spender future would now be guaranteed.

  I did my training at a primary school in a Low-Spender area on the outskirts of London. I felt an aura of safety in the building, as if it was padded with cotton wool to shield pupils from the outside world. One spring afternoon, not long before my twenty-first birthday, I went into the staff room after lunch to get a hot drink. Aisha, the teacher in charge of training me, and the head teacher, Sudir, were discussing the Everyday Heroes. Once a month they would invite in someone who had done something heroic, as a positive example to the children. This time they were struggling to find anyone.

  ‘I have someone in mind,’ Aisha said, between
two bites of her cucumber sandwich.

  ‘Hope it’s not another kitten saver,’ Sudir joked.

  ‘No, this one’s a real hero for a change,’ Aisha replied, and her eyes lit up with excitement. ‘I saw it in the morning paper. An older man attempted suicide by jumping into the Thames during a storm and this younger guy leapt in after him despite the weather and poor visibility, risking his own life.’

  I was about to join in and share my enthusiasm for the idea, but Sudir shook his head.

  ‘It’s too harsh for our kids, learning about suicide at such an early age.’

  ‘Look, Sudir.’ Aisha was not the type who gave up easily. ‘They’ll have to face the real world one day. Many of them already know about euthanasia, Dignitoriums and the Zone. Some of them know about things that are far worse.’

  There was a short silence. I could hear a fly buzzing at the window and then hitting it hard and dropping onto the table below.

  ‘Not in my school.’

  ‘I keep telling you guys I’ve got this firefighter neighbour,’ a teacher called John piped up from the corner of the room. ‘He doesn’t mind coming back for a second round.’

  ‘There’s no point inviting the same person twice, John.’ Aisha rolled her eyes.

  ‘We could leave the suicide part out,’ I suggested. ‘We could just say it was a boating accident.’

  Sudir looked at me. I could see he was considering it. He nodded.

  ‘Cool,’ Aisha exclaimed. ‘I’ll contact the paper where I saw the article.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ John called out.

  ‘Philip Brunelli. That’s the lifesaver. And the guy he saved is his father.’

  When, a few days later, Aisha brought the article in, I saw a dark, wavy-haired man in his late-twenties, lean and attractive despite the sadness in his eyes. Soaking wet, his hair and clothes sticking to his body, he was hugging an older man with a similarly dark complexion and an empty look in his eyes. The hero turned out to be an up-and-coming architect responsible for the design of many of the city’s newest buildings. Whenever Philip Brunelli’s name was mentioned in the staffroom, I couldn’t help listening in.

  The day of Philip’s visit arrived, and the pupils and teachers gathered in the sports hall. Pupils sat on the parqueted floor, while the staff took folding chairs along the wall.

  Philip immediately caught my attention as he stood at the side of the stage, chatting to Aisha. There was something about him, the way he was listening so attentively, nodding occasionally, standing with a straight back in corduroy trousers and a black turtle-neck jumper. When he spoke into the microphone, his voice was rich and husky.

  ‘I had arranged to meet my dad that morning but I arrived way earlier,’ he said. ‘It’s pure coincidence that I looked down at the river as I was crossing over, for we were supposed to meet on the opposite bank. At that moment, when I saw him from the bridge, turning over in his hobby boat, nothing else mattered but to save him. Normally I wouldn’t call myself a brave person, but something came over me.’ It sounded like a confession. ‘I didn’t even think about my own safety.’

  His eyes didn’t blink when he said the words ‘hobby boat’. My idea.

  The kids were captivated by him; I hadn’t seen them this engaged before, even when the firefighter came. They watched him with their mouths open, their heads tilted. He replied with genuine kindness, even to the silly questions like ‘Would you save him again?’ He was a natural. The way he patiently waited until they finished their questions, and the warmth that radiated from him, told me this was a good man. I noticed that he didn’t have a wedding ring, and nor was he wearing his ID Phone, which was unusual.

  When Philip left the stage, all the teachers stood up to take their students back to the classrooms. I watched him as he was escorted out of the sports hall, waving back to the pupils, and the door softly being closed behind him. I felt as if a spell had been broken.

  Philip lingered in my thoughts over the next few days. I kept wondering about his ID Phone. He must have had it with him in his bag, otherwise he couldn’t even lock or open the door to his home. So why didn’t he wear it? Like everyone else, he could have just muted it for the duration of the speech. It didn’t make sense, unless – and the thought kept picking at my mind – he didn’t wear it on purpose, because he disagreed with what it represented. I was sorry I had missed the opportunity to meet him in person and that he was now gone from my life, as quickly as he had appeared.

  Less than a month later, I had booked tickets for myself and my parents at the Wigmore Hall, to celebrate Dad’s birthday. Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto would be performed by Montgomery X, the eccentric virtuoso violinist. Most people of my age weren’t into classical music, but I was passionate about it, thanks to Dad’s early efforts. It turned out Mum had already booked a holiday to St Petersburg for the two of them, so I was left with two extra tickets. I really wanted to go, but not alone, so I asked around at school. Only Aisha was interested in coming with me, if only to keep me company. I knew I could rely on her: she was a kind soul.

  The Wigmore Hall was one of the few Victorian institutions that had been preserved from the old system due to its historic heritage. It was still used for its original purpose, which was to host classical and chamber music concerts. Dad used to take Mum there occasionally, and I would often go with them. This time, I was surprised to see that less than half of the seats were occupied.

  ‘It’s like being in a Dignitorium,’ Aisha remarked. ‘Seriously, not even there have I seen so many old people. And they don’t even care to hide their age.’

  She was right. Strangely, most of the visitors were dressed for their age, in elegant, tasteful, if slightly old-fashioned clothes. In the sea of grey and silver heads, there was only one figure that stood out.

  ‘Look who’s there!’

  Aisha pulled me closer. Philip Brunelli was sitting in the first row, wearing an immaculate black suit, his head buried in the concert programme. An unexpected joy filled my chest but I hid it from Aisha and we sat down in the middle row, from where I had a clear view of the stage. And luckily of Philip, too.

  The music was played with Montgomery X’s distinctively buoyant style, but it was painful to watch his desperate expression, how he was almost begging the audience for attention. He had always been known for his eccentric clothing – vaguely Napoleonic – and parrot-like hairstyle dyed in multiple bright colours. But this time he outdid himself, and as he stood there, grimacing and perspiring as he played, he reminded me of an old circus clown. I couldn’t help glancing over to where Philip sat, seemingly without company.

  I hoped Aisha wouldn’t go home at the interval, as I had seen her pulling faces during the performance and even secretly using her ID Phone. She reassured me she wouldn’t let me down. When we stood up and made our way out of the auditorium, a lady with white hair asked me where the toilets were, and didn’t believe me when I told her I was a visitor, not an usher.

  ‘Did you see the look on her face?’ Aisha whispered. ‘You must be the only person under fifty in the whole of London who ever sets foot in here.’

  It took us several minutes to get out of the hall, due to the people inching slowly ahead of us. We headed straight to the bar. Aisha ordered a glass of champagne, while I stuck to mineral water.

  ‘I wonder what our everyday hero is doing,’ Aisha said. ‘Being as saintly as he is, he must be staying in his seat all through the interval.’

  ‘Why do you think he is saintly?’

  ‘I just have a feeling.’ She shrugged. ‘Shall we find out?’ Without waiting for my reply, Aisha stood up. ‘I’ll go and check if he’s still in his seat. He’s probably memorising the names of all the secondary musicians.’ She rolled her eyes.

  The champagne had made her even more curious and giggly than usual. I was glad she had come with me. As I looked aroun
d in the wood-panelled bar, I saw that everyone had company. They were mostly in small groups or couples; nobody was alone, even the oldest people, some nearing seventy.

  It came as a slight shock when Aisha returned to the table along with Philip.

  ‘I told you, Ali. He would have been left there alone, if I hadn’t come to his rescue. Philip, this is Alice, my colleague. Alice was in the audience during your Everyday Hero speech and was sorry not to meet you properly.’

  We shook hands, and when our palms, touched, I felt myself blushing deeply, and it took all my courage to hold his gaze. Philip sat down on my left, and I found myself struggling for words. Luckily Aisha saved the day.

  ‘I was about to leave, but it’s quite a show, I have to admit,’ she remarked. ‘Montgomery X is not as boring as I expected.’

  ‘I would never say classical music is boring,’ Philip said. ‘Even if it’s played by a simple musician in a simple black suit.’

  ‘Do you play yourself?’

  ‘I did as a child. But I had to stop.’ I sensed anxiety in his voice, and his fingers were furiously rolling a paper napkin into a ball. I couldn’t help noticing he wasn’t wearing his ID Phone again.

  ‘I’m not too fond of the concert to be honest,’ he continued. ‘He plays it far too quickly.’

  ‘It’s more enjoyable this way.’

  ‘But it’s not how Mendelssohn wrote it.’

  ‘Hah,’ Aisha scoffed. ‘Mendelssohn! When? Some three hundred years ago?’

  ‘Only 210.’ Philip said, then suddenly looked at me. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I like it both ways. But if you ask me, I definitely prefer the original version. The one I heard years ago with my parents, when Sokolowski performed it. It still gives me goosebumps. I was so sad when he retired.’