‘I saw him live too, in Warsaw, at the Chopin Festival. But that was ten years ago. When the festival still existed.’
Aisha glanced at her ID phone to check the time, excused herself and left for the bathroom. I hoped there would be a long queue, and luckily there was. By the time she returned, Philip and I were deep into a conversation about our favourite music, our knees almost touching. I was so mesmerised, I almost missed the bell for the second part. During the performance I couldn’t focus on Montgomery X, I kept watching Philip and afterwards I left the row deliberately slowly so that we would meet in the aisle.
‘Why did you come tonight if you don’t like Montgomery X’s style?’ Aisha asked him, while we remained stuck in the middle of the slow-moving crowd.
‘These are the final weeks of classical concerts at the Wigmore Hall. Next month it will be converted.’
‘Refurbished? It could do with it, to be honest.’
‘No, not refurbished. Converted into a cabaret venue. It will cease to be a concert hall. So I take every opportunity to come here while I can.’
‘How sad!’ I said.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Aisha, casting her eyes over the audience which was still not moving, due to an elderly man blocking the way with his walking frame. ‘But how do you know about this?’
‘We architects know everything about each other’s projects.’ His eyes were filled with nostalgia as he gazed around him.
Outside, Aisha blew a kiss dramatically to both of us, while pushing herself forward to get on her monorail, in a rush to get home and feed her puppy. Mine was due in four minutes.
‘Are you waiting for yours, too?’ I asked Philip.
‘No. I’m walking.’
‘Well, it was a lovely night.’
‘It was. And thanks for taking my side against Aisha.’
‘Don’t judge her too harshly. She doesn’t know any better. She didn’t have the parents I had.’
‘She certainly didn’t.’ There was appreciation in his voice and I was grateful that in the dim evening light he couldn’t see my cheeks redden.
I expected him to say goodbye and turn on his heels but he didn’t.
‘How sad about the hall!’ I said, trying to keep my voice level.
‘It is.’
I checked again, he still wasn’t wearing his ID Phone. He must have noticed my eyes on his naked wrist.
‘I like the touch of fresh air on my skin, I like to feel… Never mind.’
I had a sudden thought that what he wanted to say was ‘free’. The growing crowd around us, the noise and the biting cold seemed to have disappeared. I stared at him, not knowing what to say. All I knew was that I couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye and not seeing him again. Then he spoke.
‘The very last concert will be next Friday. Just before they close the hall down. Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto. I definitely want to go. I wonder if you…’
‘It’s one of my favourite pieces ever,’ I lied.
‘Would you…would you like to join me?’
‘I’d love to,’ I smiled.
He opened his bag and took out his ID Phone to enter my contact details. When he had finished, he put it back in his bag. I watched him astonished, burning to ask him more about it, but good manners held me back. My monorail rolled into the station, and I leapt on it before I could say anything that might ruin the moment. From my seat I glanced at the platform, but all I saw was his dark hair and the back of his black overcoat as he was swallowed by the billowing crowd.
four
Before my first lesson starts, there’s already a lump in my throat. In the staffroom this morning I bumped into Linda who is a governor, a High Spender on the school board of directors. She must have noticed my lethargy as she looked me up and down and began spouting her usual condescending platitudes: ‘You see, if you had had kids, you wouldn’t be completely alone now. I’m so sorry for poor Philip, Alice, but you know, life goes on.’ It took all my willpower to give her a polite smile.
Everything is set up, minutes now before my Year 8 students come in. I can’t think of anything but my penalty points. I quickly check them on the computer. No, they haven’t gone up. It’s Citizenship class with a fascinating topic: non-profit people. I keep reminding myself that I just need to survive the next hour, then there’s the commemoration until lunchtime and I only have one more lesson in the afternoon.
In my mind’s eye, all I can see is my bed and the soft velvety duvet cover, decorated with rows of light brown elephants marching on sand-coloured dunes. In the middle there’s a baby one I adore. Last night I spent a long time studying the elephant pattern. I slid into my leggings and an oversized jumper – an old Christmas present from Philip – and lay on the sofa, hugging the duvet, breathing in its familiar scent. The fabric is tired in places, the surface slightly fluffy from years of washing. Philip said he would get us another one, but I refused. The elephants fill my heart with warmth, bring back days filled with joy, the feeling of happiness just to be alive. It all feels a lifetime ago.
I’m torn out of my reverie by the sound of girls screaming and doors slamming. My students are approaching. They are fighting and calling each other’s mums non-profit. To my surprise, Charlie leads the way. Usually he’s the very last one to arrive, but knowing that the subject of today’s class is non-profit people, he’s eager to learn. I straighten my back, attempting to appear stronger and in control.
I start the video. It has a positive, supportive approach that I like. Instead of focusing on the non-profitable side of non-profit people, it highlights the humanity with which we should treat them. It also encourages us to do our best to contribute towards their Right To Reside, if possible, and if not possible, to make those final years as enjoyable as we can. The video talks about the importance of supporting the Zone and urges us to contribute unwanted goods to its Distribution Centre. It shows how tirelessly the government is working on maintaining the free water system there, despite the residents not paying a penny for it.
‘They shouldn’t be getting water. They should all be left to die of dehydration,’ Charlie shouts out. ‘Fucking useless freeloaders.’ Other children start giggling.
‘Quiet, Charlie!’ I shout.
‘But that’s the truth, miss. My dad always says no one should get anything for free. We don’t get water for free.’
‘Enough, Charlie.’
‘Do you get water for free, miss?’
He stares at me insolently. A cold silence settles on the room. I can hear the humming of the lamp overhead.
‘Charlie, we’ll discuss–’
‘Do you get water for free, miss?’
‘No, but–’
‘You see, so why should the Zone get free water? It’s us who are paying for it.’
‘That’s what this video is about, Charlie. It teaches us compassion.’
The video ends by emphasising the fact that almost all of us will cease to be profitable at some stage in our lives. It’s a powerful ending that moves students every year, resulting in a deep silence long after the video has finished playing.
‘I’ll never end up like that.’ Charlie shouts out. ‘That only happens to fucking losers.’
‘Charlie!’
He jumps up and grabs Joanna, the girl who sits in front of him, by the hair.
‘You’re keeping a non-profit bastard at home, aren’t you?’
Everyone knows she has a sister who was born deaf. He holds Joanna down, so that she can’t escape. She starts crying. I press the emergency button under my desk then run to separate them. Very soon the door swings open and two guards enter. The moment Charlie sees them, he releases Joanna. They take him away but bring him back ten minutes later. He has a chip on his shoulder, I can see that. He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes are boring into me. I ignore him. Only
fifteen minutes left.
Now I give the students an opportunity to ask anything they want about the Zone. They are very interested, hands are popping up in the air. They ask clever questions, like how the waste-disposal system works. One girl refers back to the video which stated that residents live up to a year in the Zone before dying either of starvation, illness or violence. ‘But how do they know? How do they measure such things if there are no cameras there?’ she asks.
‘It’s a very good question,’ I say. ‘I suppose these are just estimates. They might not apply to everyone. I happen to know someone who has lived there for three years and is still alive.’
The moment this leaves my lips, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake. I take a deep breath and maintain a professional demeanour. I shoot a quick glance towards the camera opposite me. I feel it’s rebuking me. Now more hands are up in the air, asking more questions, again and again. For a fraction of a second my gaze falls upon Charlie. His eyes are still on me, giving me goose bumps. Despite many years of experience, it’s hard to keep a straight face when things like this happen. I struggle to find my voice; I stand there gawping like a dying fish, but nothing comes out. The class stops, hands drop down. It’s deadly quiet. Thirty pairs of eyes stare at me in confusion. I must do something. I go to the window, open it and breathe in the cool, crisp air. Then I’m back at my desk.
‘Carry on, everyone,’ I call out with a false air of confidence. But inside my chest I can feel my rapid heartbeat, fuelled by an unpronounceable fear.
‘Right. Now can you tell me who we define as non-profit people?’
A dozen hands shoot up. I force a smile and keep nodding. I’m grateful for my twelve years of experience that allow me to function on autopilot if I need to. Less than ten minutes to go now.
I’m leading my class down the corridor, to the sports hall. Today they’re more fidgety: they know the commemoration is coming, when we’ll pay tribute to the three students who were abducted while walking home from school a few years ago.
Seeing the festive preparations – flowers, cards, decorations on the walls – I find myself wondering whether we celebrate the abductions instead of paying tribute to those who were abducted. If I didn’t know it was Linda who organised the decoration, I would have guessed it by now. The three children are looked upon as martyrs, like sacrifices that were tragic but also necessary in order to raise awareness. As a result, armed security was introduced at schools throughout the country.
By 10am we are all assembled in the sports hall, with security guards holding down some of the kids, who are kicking, fighting, swearing and spitting, desperate to run around. On the stage, Leo Sullivan stands in a ceremonial manner, lowering the microphone, for he’s a small man, smaller than many of the female teachers. His grey blazer bulges on one side, reminding us of who he is: the only person in the school allowed to carry a gun – apart from the security guards, of course.
‘Welcome.’ His rich voice cuts into the air, commanding immediate attention.
‘I don’t have to remind you what a sad occasion it is we are remembering today. Joshua Robinson, Aliya Khan, Samir Khan. They are our heroes who will never be forgotten. I want you to consider and be aware of the fact that you are probably alive because they are not.’
The next half an hour is an emotional commemoration, with the three children’s photos projected on the wall, then poems read by students, some by well-known poets, some by the students themselves. There is singing, clapping, nodding and plenty of tear-wiping followed by praise for the security guards, who parade around on stage, displaying their guns, promising what everyone craves: protection.
Leo returns to the microphone. He stands there waiting for the noise to die down. There’s more to come, and knowing Leo I assume he’ll say something impromptu, like the good pastor who is unable to let his herd go without imparting some final words of wisdom.
‘As you all know, I appreciate the positive measures that have been introduced since this tragic event. Despite all this, we keep hearing news of youth abductions in the Low-Spender areas. If they don’t target children on their way to or from school, they target them in other places, in the playground, for example.’
I sense unrest in the audience, some whispering from the back.
‘I know you’re told that it’s nothing to worry about, that it happens only in the Low-Spender areas. We keep being reassured how safe, secure and wonderful our lives are here, as Mid Spenders.’
He speaks louder now and I fear what’s about to come.
‘However, I’m afraid the horrible event we are remembering today might not be the last abduction in the Mid-Spender areas. I can’t conclude this commemoration without warning you all: despite being told we’re safe now, we are not. If it happened once, it could happen again.’
The murmuring from the audience is getting louder. Teachers are exchanging horrified glances.
‘No one will protect us if we don’t protect ourselves. Not the government, not the cameras, not the police. Not even the armed guards, despite their best efforts. The moment you leave school territory, you are potential victims.’
Mrs Galloway, the deputy head, runs up onto the stage, switches off Leo’s microphone and whispers something to him, pointing at the audience with her long crimson nails. Leo hesitates, and turns his back on us while they talk. Mrs Galloway is nervously wringing her hands. When she finally returns to her seat, Leo switches the microphone back on.
‘What I meant to say is be aware, be vigilant. Look after yourselves.’ The fire has disappeared from his voice. He swiftly wraps up his speech by wishing us good luck. There is an eerie silence in the hall; the only sound is the ticking of the large, old-fashioned clock on the wall. Leo leaves the stage, but it seems the whole audience has been paralysed by his words. Someone should tell the kids to stand up. Everyone is looking at someone else, waiting for a signal. Finally, Mrs Galloway comes and shouts in her high-pitched voice: ‘Up you get, everyone! Time to go back to class.’
In the staffroom Linda’s perfume is more offensive than ever. Her words this morning are still nagging at me, but my curiosity is piqued and I drop down on a sofa near her inner circle. The teachers are discussing the commemoration, and mainly Leo’s speech. The general opinion is that it was outrageous; Leo must be overworked – he has been under a lot of pressure recently. Some are harsher, saying no head teacher should be allowed to spread these kinds of views and that he should have been stopped. I don’t understand the fuss. I’m proud of Leo for what he said. Just because we Mid Spenders are relatively safe, I can’t sleep peacefully at night knowing children and young people are in danger. Even if they are only Low Spenders.
Linda leaves, probably for the bathroom. The moment she is gone, the conversation shifts onto organ robberies, the poor kids who were abducted and how the High Spenders were able to get away with it. This leads to a discussion about who is more dangerous, the smooth criminal in a High-Spender villa who masterminds the crime, or the perpetrator, the destitute Zone resident who can run about and do anything he is commissioned to do because he can’t be tracked and caught. We don’t notice when Linda returns until her violent fragrance begins to creep back into our nostrils. And then it’s too late. Her voice is less sugar-coated than normal, her eyes are like darting arrows.
‘I wish I was able to find the person who started this stupid gossip.’
‘It’s not gossip, Linda,’ Mrs Galloway says. ‘It’s on the Globe, it’s everywhere. It’s a fact.’
‘But it’s a lie. You simply don’t understand how–’
‘Linda, you don’t have to take it personally. No one is accusing you of organ theft. But it does happen.’
‘If you hadn’t interrupted me I would have been able to tell you that it’s totally impossible,’ Linda says, her face turning purple. ‘Why would we do that? We can get organ transplants – if we need them –
in hospitals. It’s the hospital’s job to find donors. Contrary to popular belief – because the truth is always less romantic than fiction – the donors are voluntary Dignitorium residents.’
‘So how do you explain the abductions?’
‘What am I, a detective? I can’t explain everything. Crime is as old as humanity. I have never said that all High Spenders are angels. Some of them are involved in the drug trade, I imagine. But I can tell you that High Spenders don’t need illegal organs.’
Everyone nods and the conversation moves back to Leo’s speech. No one believes Linda, I can see it in their eyes. We are born with an innate suspicion of the more privileged. I can’t blame my colleagues; I feel the same way. I don’t believe a word Linda said. She would never accept a transplant from a Dignitorium resident – aged and medicated – into her perfectly groomed body.
The corridor feels colder and more abandoned than usual as I walk towards Leo Sullivan’s office, my shoes echoing on the tiled floor. During lunch break he called, asking me to see him. It’s not the best time; the afternoon lesson starts very soon. I’ll definitely let him know that I agree with his speech. I always have a sense of heaviness when I see the fake smiling faces on the Globe, trying to reassure us that Mid and High Spenders are safe. On the other hand, nothing is said about Low Spenders, or how they are protected. I’m pretty certain they aren’t.
When I knock and enter Leo’s little office, it takes a few moments to locate him among the piles of books on his desk. The long-forgotten sweet scent of printed books immediately calms my nerves. The hustle of the schoolyard seems miles away.
‘I want you to know, Leo, that I agree with every word you said during the commemoration,’ I start.
He sighs deeply, as if he’s carrying the weight of the world, and puts his half-finished sandwich down.
‘Thank you, Alice,’ he says in a melancholy tone. ‘I appreciate it. However, I asked to see you for an entirely different reason. Charlie reported you.’
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