Wolf Country

by Tunde Farrand

  So many thoughts are swirling in my head; I’ll go mad if I can’t talk to someone. Before I know it, I’m calling Nurse Vogel.

  She answers immediately. She’s sitting deep in her armchair, wearing a chunky cardigan. There’s something in her demeanour today – an aura of invincibility.

  ‘Can we talk?’ I ask. ‘Are they not listening to your line?’

  ‘I don’t care if they do, I’ve got nothing to hide. Nothing to be ashamed of. This morning I escorted a dear friend of mine, Shirley, to the T-wing. I was her primary carer, and she was crying with gratitude. That’s all that counts, and I will take these memories with me wherever I go if they decide to terminate me. Nothing can scare me now, my dear.’

  ‘Have you ever worked inside the T-wing?’

  From her silence I can tell she’s surprised by my question. ‘I was offered the chance but I didn’t have the stomach for it.’ She swallows hard.

  ‘Why? There’s nothing wrong with the place, is there?’ I hope she won’t pick up on the trembling in my voice.

  ‘I’m grateful I never had to go there,’ she says after a short pause. ‘But I can tell you I don’t like the colleagues who work in the T-wing. They’re all, how to put it, people I don’t want to be close to. Sometimes I feel – I know it makes no sense – that they lack compassion. I can’t explain why.’

  ‘They’ve probably been hardened by such an emotionally draining job, don’t you think?’

  ‘Well, it can’t be easy to send people on their last journey. Then clean up the body half an hour later.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ I can feel the blood draining from my face.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have realised how traumatic it sounds to outsiders,’ she says. ‘I’m used to it, talking to someone, sharing a life, holding a hand, then seeing them escorted to the T-Wing, and the next day taking a flower to their name on the wall.’

  ‘So was it better in the old system, when there were no Dignitoriums?’

  ‘I wish I had a clear answer for you, Alice. I don’t know which is better. It’s definitely better to die with preparation and dignity than without. I wouldn’t work there if I didn’t believe that. These days I mostly look after residents in their sedation period. Like Owen, the young man you saw. When they are drugged, they are happy. When they are no longer drugged, they remember the blissful state they experienced and they stop fearing death. How could that be a bad thing?’

  I’m flooded with relief.

  ‘Even Owners have their own Dignitoriums,’ she adds.

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘If it was painful they wouldn’t choose to die this way, trust me.’

  On the Globe almost every channel is showing breaking news. The red warning sign is blinking to give parents time to take their kids out of the room, so they won’t see the horror that is about to be shown. Bodies of huge, mutant wolves have been found, the newsreader announces with gravity in his voice. Pictures are shown, and I notice with shock that the wolf is almost as big as the van parked next to it. The dead body of a human is being carried away on a stretcher. Suddenly the stretcher accidentally tips over and the body rolls off it onto the ground. Before the crew could turn off the camera, one of them zooms on the body. Screams of horror are heard but before the broadcasting would stop, there are a few seconds during which all the viewers in the country can see the horrible injuries up close. The body doesn’t even resemble a human any more. It’s a red pulp, held together with shreds of purple skin. Then the camera is switched off. Now we’re back in the studio where the newsreader is deathly pale and struggles to collect his thoughts. When he continues his announcement, he says it’s feared that this new kind of mutant wolf can now be found all over the country. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t hide the dread on his face.

  The Prime Minister, Edward Finch, is being interviewed on the Globe. He’s a stern, wiry man in his mid-fifties, not too tall and with a boxer’s nose. Very different from his predecessor, Vincent Lloyd, who was tanned and sporty, with a mesmerising gaze. Despite the difference in their looks I can see many similarities: they use much of the same vocabulary and the rhythm of their speech sounds alike. Philip used to mock all of them. ‘All politics is a lie, a show put on for the masses,’ he would say. He never even mentioned the political parties by their names, he just called them The Good – our current government, The Wrong – the socialists, The Evil – the ultranationalists and The Tree Huggers – the greens. ‘Their nicknames put together sound like an old spaghetti western movie,’ he said. It was the kind of joke you know you should laugh at but can’t. ‘Seriously, I wouldn’t be surprised if most of them had an acting background,’ he added. ‘Probably in a puppet theatre.’ I found it amusing to listen to his sarcastic comments, but always dismissed them with a smile. Sometimes I thought Philip was slightly paranoid, though nothing compared to his father.

  That was until a particularly heated live debate on the Globe. Vincent Lloyd was the PM back then, and he was fervently defending our system in which hard work is appreciated, while the socialist leader argued that in not supporting non-profit people, we were denying them basic human rights. The debate escalated and the presenter didn’t help by reading out heated messages from viewers. A physical brawl broke out between the two men, and it took security several long minutes to separate them.

  The whole country was shocked, apart from Philip, who said, ‘It was just a show. The actors were well compensated for their physical injuries.’ The next morning a new scandal went viral on the Globe. Someone had shared a photo taken of the two leaders later that evening in a wine bar, guffawing, their arms wrapped around each other like the best of old friends. Their bruises were still fresh on their faces. The scandal implied the fighting had been put on to disguise the lack of real interest in their party rhetoric; to mislead voters.

  Philip was victorious. I began to take his words a bit more seriously, but the same evening the mystery was solved. It was announced that the two leaders had been piss-drunk and that notorious image had been taken in a moment of reconciliation, just before they collapsed on the bar floor. Philip said the media was trying to clean up the mess and I should wait and see; Vincent Lloyd would soon be removed. We didn’t have to wait too long. The following week he resigned, allegedly because of the scandal. He was replaced by our current PM, Edward Finch, who is equally well-spoken and charming. Lloyd disappeared from the public eye and the scandal was quickly forgotten. But it’s taken me this long to see it clearly.

  The Bride

  In the atrium of the early-Victorian-style city hall, there was a wall covered with mirrors. I’m not a particularly vain person but I couldn’t help getting closer. I saw my own reflection along with that of three other brides, admiring themselves. I couldn’t believe how well a beautiful dress, hairstyle and make-up could disguise my internal misery. Although there were moments when I wished Sofia could see me like this, on my big day, my fear was stronger. Behind me, I could see Philip, Antonio, Mum and Dad, talking excitedly. Having lost contact with their other daughter, my wedding day had taken on an even greater importance to my parents.

  As usual, Antonio was the centre of attention, entertaining my parents, probably boasting light-heartedly about his artistic success. He was gesticulating wildly and pulling faces to make his story more theatrical. Dad watched him, bemused, while Mum couldn’t stop laughing. ‘Good,’ I thought. ‘At least they will be all right with him.’ From the first day we had met, it was clear that my father-in-law disliked me, but today of all days he was behaving himself.

  Fed up with the new system in the UK, he had gone back to his native Italy a year earlier and when, after six months, he returned, he was shattered, utterly disappointed, and looked twenty years older.

  ‘It’s no better in Italy now, the only thing that’s better is the wine,’ he moaned, and to demonstrate the horrors of the new Italy, he explained how he had
wanted to see the Sistine chapel, his eternal source of artistic inspiration, but wasn’t allowed in.

  ‘They’ve converted it into a bath house for High Spenders,’ he lamented. Philip and I didn’t believe it until we saw the proof online. ‘But the frescos will be destroyed by the humidity, for God’s sake!’ Philip exclaimed. ‘They’re covered with Plexiglas to protect them,’ Antonio explained, before cursing the High Spenders, the Italian government and even the Owners themselves. ‘This disease has spread all around the world now,’ he kept repeating, his wild curls bouncing with every word. My parents found him amusing but I was overcome with an unexpected sadness.

  Mum scurried over to the little group of my friends, girls from work, and they took some selfies and blew me a kiss. I blew one back. I thought of the dinner we would be enjoying later in an exclusive panoramic restaurant – usually only frequented by High Spenders – overlooking the Thames. A once-in-a-lifetime but well-deserved experience, Mum had said. I had told her not to worry, that a simple place would suffice, but secretly I was glad when she said she’d managed to book it. Someone else had cancelled a wedding party at the last minute, she told me, and I found myself wishing she hadn’t let me know.

  Months had passed during which I’d almost been able to forget about Sofia’s curse. Almost. But I felt that taking the place of another couple was a sinister omen. I couldn’t help wondering what had happened. Did they break up? Does one single argument have the power to sweep away years of commitment? Or did one of them back off? These days many young women dive into marriage without thinking about it, just to have their big Cinderella day. I looked at the other brides in front of the mirror, posing, pouting and twisting their bodies into unnatural shapes in order to upload the photos later on Yap! I drifted back to my family, took Philip’s hand and gave a charming smile to the approaching photographer. I could feel panic rising from deep inside. Sofia wouldn’t let this wedding happen. I looked at Philip, the man I’d chosen for life, but despite being a strong, handsome young man on his best form, he seemed weak compared to Sofia’s curse. Philip saw my fear and pulled me over to the corner, away from the others.

  ‘Has it come back?’ he asked.

  ‘Just for a moment,’ I said. ‘You know, the couple who cancelled the restaurant. It felt like an omen.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s nothing.’

  ‘But you can’t stop dwelling on it.’

  ‘It was just a moment.’

  He held my hand and turned to face me.

  ‘Just hold on for another half an hour and I’m yours forever.’

  We giggled and went back to the others.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Dad asked.

  Philip nodded. ‘Just the old thing.’

  ‘Sofia?’ Mum asked. ‘Oh, darling, don’t let her ruin your big day! Soon you’ll be married.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ Philip replied, squeezing my hand.

  Another couple left the wedding room, the bride wiggling her hips like a catwalk model. She was in her late forties and they had about two hundred guests. It took them ages to leave. After them there was just one elderly couple, and then it would be our turn. Thank God they had only two witnesses with them. Not long now, I thought. The photographer asked me to stand at the top of the grand staircase and started taking photos. It felt regal, but I couldn’t help moving my eyes back to the clock on the wall. I waved down to my family and friends, who were all cheering, and then the photographer asked Philip to join me.

  Philip was running up the stairs when we heard the explosion. A sudden thundering sound came from above and the fire alarms went off. People started screaming, and crowding to get outside. More than one bride tripped over in her long dress. Security guards appeared and ushered everyone out of the building. Three fire engines approached and we could hear the sound of sirens in the distance, meaning there were more on the way. A terrifying sight awaited us; fire and smoke poured out of the roof, which had partly fallen in. As I looked up, just next to where the flames had erupted from the hole in the roof, I saw someone waiting to be rescued. Soon it was announced a heli-taxi had accidentally crashed. Luckily there were no casualties and they managed to save the man stuck on the roof, who was apparently the heli-taxi driver. The fire was put out relatively quickly. I gripped Philip’s hand harder than ever, my heart pulsing in my throat.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Philip said in a soothing voice. ‘Soon everything will be back on track.’

  I lost my composure, I felt I would never be able to get rid of Sofia’s curse, that it would find me wherever I went. She wouldn’t let me get married today, or any other day.

  ‘It’s her, Philip. It’s Sofia.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘She did it, I know. She arranged the helicopter crash.’

  Philip gently took my hand, looked into my eyes.

  ‘Now, listen. We’ll be married today. No matter what happens, if the world collapses or London burns down, we will be married. I promise you.’

  I nodded and tried to smile. I didn’t want to upset him, but an unspeakable fear came over me. What if this curse was stronger than anything, even stronger than Philip and me together?

  The entrance hall was intact, so I broke through the crowd to speak to a police officer. I asked him if we could just go in and continue the ceremony. I had to hold myself back from making a scene when he said no. The next few hours were torture. We were told to wait another two hours while they made sure the building was safe to enter again. We all went to a nearby park and sat on the benches, but I soon grew sick of all the well-wishers and the fake smiles I had to produce for them. Mum did well, chatting to everyone about Madeira, where we were due to go for our honeymoon the next day. I couldn’t focus on it; before that damned honeymoon, I wanted a wedding. Philip, who was talking to some of the guests, kept looking in my direction, winking at me, trying to encourage me. At one point I just wanted to slap him.

  Finally, the moment came when we were allowed to go into the wedding chamber. All eyes were on me as I entered, with Dad on my left. I expected something to happen at the last moment, another crash, the end of the world, anything. My hands were shaking as I signed the register, and I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t stand up from the chair. Philip held my hand and I tasted the bitterness of my streaming make-up in my mouth. The guests’ hearts went out to me, thinking that my tears were tears of joy. Only Philip and my parents knew the truth.

  nine

  From the window of my flat I’m watching Ruth and Felicity down in the playground. Ruth throws a blanket down on the lawn and invites Felicity to join her for a picnic. The little girl, full of energy, is not listening. She runs out of the non-profit playground to the benches, where only normal children are allowed to play, and gives another girl a hug. The girl pushes her away, then starts crying in an exaggerated, attention-seeking way. Her mother makes her way to Ruth, explains something with flailing arms. I can’t hear a word but I don’t want to open the window. Ruth stays calm and says something that winds up the sobbing girl’s mother even more. One of the fathers is helping Felicity back to the non-profit playground, gently pulling her by the sleeve of her shirt. I keep watching this silent movie unfolding, hoping it will end well, but my stomach is in knots.

  Poor Felicity! Having to live with the consequences of something that is not her fault must be hard for an adult, let alone for a little child. I’d like to run out to her and to Ruth, to show my support. Currently it looks like an unequal war, as the group of parents shoot menacing glances at the offending pair. I take a deep breath and leave the flat. As the lift goes downwards, my courage dissipates, as if a tap has been turned off. I could run out and be there with Ruth in a few seconds. But an intimidating tension emanates from the playground and my legs start to tremble. The parents outside are suddenly very real, no longer tiny figure
s seen from the third floor. What help would I be to Ruth? It’s not as if she or Felicity have been physically threatened. It’s ridiculous how panicky I’ve become since I moved to the Low-Spender area. I open the lift door and get back inside. I press number three and as it takes me back to my nest, the negative energy evaporates. I can breathe again. I should really start minding my own business. I’m in just as much trouble as Ruth, or will be soon.

  I make myself a strong tea and return to the window. They are still in the playground. Ruth has a devoted daughter, Felicity has a loving mother, but who do I have?

  I have a desire every now and then to re-visit my early childhood haunts, to walk the streets I used to walk with Mum and Dad, to dip into the lake of security. I was eight when my first childhood home was demolished, along with the entire street of terraced houses. They were deemed too small and damp, unfit for occupation in the new system.

  Yesterday I went back to that street, now in MW05, with an aching heart. I wish I hadn’t. I wandered like a ghost, stuck in the past. There was nothing left, not even a lamp post from the old system that I could cherish. When I came home I felt abandoned, like I had been shot out to space.

  One of the bigger boys has just pushed Felicity to the ground. She’s crying, and her elbow is bleeding. Ruth runs to comfort her. The other parents look at Ruth with barely disguised contempt while she and Felicity go back to the blanket, a good distance away from the others. I’m aware that we have to be careful not to let history repeat itself. But is Felicity really a dangerous freeloader who needs to be eliminated? Or the hapless victim of her mum’s selfishness? How can she be deemed non-profit if she gives me so much love, and joy that heals my wounds faster than any medicine? I’m too upset to try to answer these questions. All I know is that her laughter makes me forget all my troubles. Ruth’s careworn face is transformed when she tickles her daughter and they laugh together so hard that the bottle of water tips over and spills all over the blanket. The parents of the normal children pretend not to hear them, and start speaking louder to drown them out. A boy, who must be about fourteen, kicks a ball into the middle of the non-profit playground. The ball lands with a thud just inches away from Felicity’s head.