Wolf Country

by Tunde Farrand

  I slam my cup down and leave the flat. When my fear resurfaces in the lift, I push it aside. I hurry out of the building and make my way with firm steps to the non-profit playground. When Felicity spots me, she screams with joy and runs towards me. I lift her up and give her a kiss on both cheeks. She giggles and starts fumbling with my earring. I can sense the horror of the parents watching me. Despite the invisible pull of my flat and all its safety, under the stinging looks I sit down next to Ruth on the blanket. Her eyes are overflowing with gratitude. I reach out and squeeze her hand.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

  ‘Apart from the usual shit, yes.’

  ‘What usual shit?’

  ‘Someone put a Junior Dignitorium leaflet through my letterbox this morning. It was one of them.’ She looks in the direction of the group in the playground.

  ‘That’s sick!’

  ‘I’m used to it,’ she says softly, looking away, ‘but thank you for standing up for us. I wish I was as brave as you.’

  ‘You have no idea, Ruth, how brave and strong you are.’

  ‘I draw strength from your support. It’s been ages since I had a friend. If I ever had any.’

  ‘It was a noble thing to do, leaving the High-Spender lifestyle for Felicity.’

  ‘I wasn’t happy, Ali.’ She looks me in the eye. ‘In fact, I was so unhappy and lonely that sometimes I spent the whole day shopping just to experience some kindness from the shop assistants.’

  ‘But that’s not real kindness, is it?’

  ‘It is if you’re wealthy enough. For that money, they will be whatever you want them to be.’

  I take a good look at Ruth, her gentle eyes, her flat, dry hair, her chipped nails, her rough hands, the alarming black circles under her eyes. I struggle to see her as a glamorous High Spender. She must have noticed me watching her, for she starts examining her hands.

  ‘I used to have artificial nails, too. It was a requirement in the High Spender champagne bar.’

  ‘Did you really work at a champagne bar?’

  ‘I left last year. It was because of a ‘prominent’ guest. She was nothing but a cheap little celeb. But she left some very negative feedback.’

  ‘And they fired you because of feedback from one customer?’ I’m on the verge of admitting that this is what happened to me, but I realise Ruth still doesn’t know I was suspended from school.

  ‘What did you do to make her so angry? Did you serve the wrong drink?’

  A smile runs across her face.

  ‘Nothing. But she was convinced I’d been looking and laughing at her.’

  ‘But the cameras showed you weren’t, didn’t they?’

  ‘No one cared about watching the CCTV footage, Ali.’ Her face turns dark.

  ‘The only thing that counts is the feedback. Beforehand I worked as a waitress in an award-winning gourmet restaurant, full of prominent guests. None of them knew the truth about how we were paid.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We didn’t have a salary. Each five-star feedback carried a monetary value. And we were paid only after those.’

  ‘Not even four-star feedback paid?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Ruth. I don’t think I would have been able to put up with it. Or with the champagne bar.’

  ‘You know, in a way I’m relieved I left. Here at the spa, they never notice me. It’s unlikely they will leave negative feedback about the person who wipes down the gym equipment.’ She laughs out loud, but her laughter carries a bitter edge.

  My heart is singing with a long forgotten joy as I enter the flat, after spending time with Ruth and Felicity in the playground, even though it felt like a battlefield. Here I am, a Low Spender, but finally I have something I never had as a Mid Spender: true friendship. And not only one friend, but three. Not the shallow acquaintance I had with Christine and the others, who still haven’t even picked up the phone to ask me if I’m alive.

  At the window again, I look down at the playground, pitying those who claim to have normal children and despise Ruth for bringing a non-profit burden into this world. They have absolutely no idea about the sacrifices Ruth makes. Living in the flat underneath hers, I do. Every morning at six I hear the slam of the front door above me, followed by the sound of Ruth’s footsteps hurrying away down the pavement. In the evening, she’s never back before eleven. Last night it was almost midnight. She came in and then suddenly she stopped, dropped her bag and bent forward, her face distorted in pain. She was holding her hand against the middle of her chest. I jumped up to help but she shook her head. ‘I’m fine. It’s just the stress,’ she murmured. She looked back at me, smiling through the pain. Which of us will last longer, I keep asking myself. Which of us will be the first to sink?

  I look around my flat. I’ve been cleaning almost non-stop since I moved in but it still stinks of decay. I move away from the window and for a change I request a playlist. I choose ‘Classical Music for Cleaning’. From the large selection I choose piano music. I turn it up and start to clean like a maniac, as if I can erase all the hardship from my life and from Ruth’s and Felicity’s lives, too. I move the sofa and the armchair and the wardrobe; all these were rearranged a week ago, but I need to mop the floor underneath, until I feel this is my home and the alien smell turns into a familiar one. It’s eight in the evening when I realise I haven’t stopped or eaten since breakfast. From a distance I hear the muffled ringtone of my ID Phone. I so want to pick it up, in the hope that someone out there wants to speak to me, although I’m certain it’s just an advert call.

  It stops ringing by the time I fish it out of my handbag. It was Nurse Vogel. She called three times this afternoon and left two video messages. I watch the first one, left at four. She’s at work, it seems, she must be in the staff toilet of the Dignitorium. She leans closer to the camera and, calmly but firmly, begs me to call her straight away. Is her life in danger? Did they decide to terminate her or is it just a panic attack? The other message was left just after six. She’s standing in the street, near the Dignitorium’s main entrance, by the brick wall. She’s more nervous than earlier, and keeps looking around before she leans closer and whispers into the phone.

  ‘Alice. I’m worried that you haven’t replied to my first message. It’s very, very important that you call me immediately.’ She looks around again, then leans so close that I can see the pores on her nose. Even closer, and all I see is a big mouth, filling the whole screen. ‘I have news about Philip.’

  Philip?

  To make sure I heard correctly, I watch the last message again, in slow motion. I rush to the bathroom and wash my face with ice-cold water. My hands are eager to return her call but I hesitate. I’m not sure I’m prepared for what she’ll say. She has connections through her job; maybe she has access to the police files about the Boxing Day victims. Am I ready to face Philip’s death? Will I ever be?

  My face is still burning; I splash more cold water over it. In the mirror I see dread in my eyes. Maybe she’s mistaken. Maybe it’s not my Philip but someone with the same name. I dash into the room to fetch my ID Phone. It’s cold and stings my hands as I pick it up. Finally I summon enough courage to dial Nurse Vogel’s number. She answers immediately. She is at home, standing in her kitchen in front of the traditional mahogany kitchen cupboard.

  ‘Nurse Vogel, you have to tell me–’

  ‘Alice, please, sit down.’

  ‘Oh my God, what is it?’

  ‘You have to sit down first.’

  My knees give way and I drop onto the sofa.

  ‘I beg you.’

  ‘Alice, Philip is alive. He’s in a Dignitorium.’

  ‘It’s…impossible. You must be mistaken. Why would he…how could he…?’

  ‘I know it’s a shock but it’s him. There’s no doubt. Philip Brunelli, aged 38, born 9 Nov
ember 2012. Is it him?’

  ‘My God!’

  I can’t say anything more, I’m trembling uncontrollably.

  ‘Alice, you have to calm down. I’m coming over, OK?’

  Questions are spinning through my head so fast they make me dizzy. Why is it taking her so long? How could Philip let me down like this? I’ve just calculated, he’s got three weeks from his Honeymoon Period before his Sedation Period starts. There must be a mistake; it can’t be my Philip. He would never retire without me. After a strong coffee, when Nurse Vogel rings the doorbell, I fly to the door and tear it open.

  ‘I know it’s a terrible shock, my child,’ she says, giving me a warm hug. She smells of lilac and something medicinal. She sits down on the sofa, I keep pacing up and down until she asks me to sit.

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I suspected it when you visited the Dignitorium, and said Philip had disappeared but couldn’t be traced. I decided to check that route but it took weeks to gain access to all the Dignitoriums’ patient lists.’

  ‘But why? Why did he do it?’

  ‘He must have had a serious reason, Alice. Don’t torture yourself.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, I don’t know what else to do! Believe me, he never said anything. He must have gone insane like his father.’

  ‘Hopefully you’ll be able to ask him yourself.’

  ‘I want to see him now.’

  ‘This is the complicated part,’ she says after a short pause. ‘You can visit him only if he agrees to it, but you’re not supposed to know that he’s there in the first place.’

  ‘I don’t care, I’ll go tonight–’

  ‘Alice, you must be sensible.’

  ‘Can you help me then?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. The thing is, he’s there voluntarily and he kept it from you for a reason. I know it hurts but he might not want you to visit him.’

  ‘He would never–!’

  ‘Now, write this name and number down, in case you find that you can’t get in touch with me any more.’

  ‘Any more?’

  ‘Her name is Edith, she’s a friend.’

  ‘What do you mean by ‘I can’t get in touch with you any more’?’

  She gives me an annoyed glance, like I’ve interrupted her.

  ‘They are coming for me,’ she says curtly.

  ‘Did something happen? What happened?’

  ‘Calm down, my dear. Nothing happened.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I just know.’

  ‘Don’t let them–’

  ‘Do you want to see Philip or not?’

  I nod.

  ‘This is Edith’s number. She’ll help you. She works in the Dignitorium where Philip is.’

  ‘Which one is that?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘I beg you–’

  ‘You’d ruin everything if you went there now. Just do as I say. Edith will help you if I can’t.’

  ‘Please don’t talk like this. You’ll be fine, I’m sure.’

  She gives a deep sigh.

  ‘Philip probably won’t react if you demand to see him. But if he sees something from you, an object or a letter, he might not be able to resist. Can you handwrite?’

  ‘I’m one of those last remaining people who can, yes. Dad would never have allowed me to grow up without it.’

  ‘I suggest you write an honest heartfelt letter to him. Tell him how much you love him and what happened to you as a result of his decision.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I can’t calm down, I pace up and down the room, my hands trembling. ‘His decision can’t be undone. He can’t leave the Dignitorium, am I right?’

  She nods.

  ‘What if they forced him or abducted him?’

  ‘No one forces anyone to go to the Dignitorium, Alice. It’s supposed to be a privilege.’

  ‘I’ll write the letter now. When can you give it to Edith?’

  ‘As soon as I see her. But I’m being watched, I must be careful. It might take a few days or so.’

  ‘But there is no time left!’ I can’t control my rising voice. ‘Couldn’t you just meet up with her after work? By the way, no one is watching you. You’re paranoid!’

  I’ve crossed the line, I’ve realised. Nurse Vogel is not the type to raise one’s voice with. She’s staring at me with a hurt expression. I feel my face burning.

  ‘Sorry, Nurse Vogel. I am really sorry.’

  ‘Hurry up with that letter. I’m exhausted.’

  OUroboros

  It was a solid sterling-silver ring. It didn’t come in a box; Philip simply opened his palm and slid it onto my finger.

  ‘Another ring?’ I didn’t understand.

  I loved the platinum wedding ring he’d given me, just two weeks earlier. This one was unexpected.

  We had arrived back in London the day before, slightly burned and deliriously happy. The beauty and spaciousness of our new apartment took some getting used to. It felt decadent, even in its unfurnished state, eagerly waiting to start its new life as our family home. We both admired the roof-terrace. It was big enough to host barbecues and dinners, to sunbathe and even have a little herb garden. The park below and the monorail beyond it were far away enough to maintain our privacy.

  The new silver ring took the form of a snake swallowing its own tail. With the tip of my finger, I could feel the ridges on the snake’s skin.

  ‘Ouroboros,’ Philip said. ‘The snake that swallows its own tail. The symbol of eternity.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To remind you of my eternal love.’

  I wondered what he meant by this. Perhaps, out in Madeira, I had spoken a bit too often about having a baby. He told me he thought my concern was mostly fuelled by Sofia’s curse, that I was desperate to defy it. He joked that if I could, I would use some magic to conceive and give birth at once. Just to prove my sister wrong. Behind the cheeky smile, there was some truth in what he said.

  ‘Rushing beautiful things can often ruin them,’ he said, holding my hand in his palm and admiring the ring.

  ‘Like a caterpillar that has been forced open too early, revealing a freak instead of a butterfly?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  The ring was certainly elegant, though it also carried a weight and solemnity that I found reassuring. Warmth filled my chest.

  These were my happiest days. I could finally leave Sofia’s curse behind. Together, we were stronger than her. Sofia might be a lavish Owner, I thought, living the high life at the Primavera Club; she might travel the world with an entourage at her beck and call, but she didn’t know the tender, healing joys of the heart.

  Ouroboros. Eternity. It was some years before I started to reflect on the ring and what it really meant. From a symbol of our bond it gradually became one of doubt and self-torture. Was it a proof of our never-ending love? Or was it Philip’s way of telling me that we had all the time in the world, and having kids could wait? Or that it might never happen at all?

  TEN

  Edith mutters on the other end of the line, anxiety filling her voice. Her camera is switched off, so I can’t see her face. She sounds young in body but not in spirit.

  ‘I’ll pass on your letter to your husband, but you have to be patient,’ she says.

  I repress the urge to ask why she can’t do it faster. As if sensing my question, she continues.

  ‘Nurse Vogel will give me your letter later this week, when I go to London.’

  ‘So Philip’s not in a London Dignitorium?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  She doesn’t reply. I know I won’t be able to get any more out of her. My camera is on and I smile into it; I’m the kindest I can be to this young woman upon whom everything I h
old dear depends. I thank her for the hundredth time, before we hang up.

  I didn’t hold back in the letter. I told Philip what I was going through, how I had lost my job, my status and very nearly my sanity. How I lost all the security I had known, and become a shadow of my former self, almost a non-profit. How alone I am, abandoned by the circle I thought I belonged to. I deliberately didn’t mention my new friends, to make him feel guilty. I allowed the bitterness to pour out freely. I sent him back the ring, Ouroboros, partly to reject him, partly to remind him. While waiting for his reply, to distract myself and do something positive, I’m about to embark on a dangerous mission.

  The entrance gate to the Zone is a sturdy steel construction, sliding open and closed once every hour to let pass the armoured buses full of visitors. With its sheer enormity, it rules the yard, like a conqueror. We, the next bunch of reckless visitors to the Zone, are watching it in awe. This is the gate that protects us from the mortal danger behind. For one reason or another, we’ll soon pass through it. My reason is altruistic: Antonio has the right to know that his son is alive.

  A large white skull vibrates on the advert board to my left, warning us that what we are about to see might be extremely upsetting. It also says in small letters at the bottom that if we change our mind at this point, we don’t get a refund. My eyes keep rising up to the security drones hovering above the gate.

  ‘You may embark now,’ the driver repeats for the third time, with a note of impatience in his voice. ‘We leave in two minutes.’

  The armoured bus, a robust metal box painted shiny black, is parked in front of the gate. Everyone is waiting for someone else to go first. Fed up, I get in, followed by my e-trolley. The scorching sun is filtered out by the small, darkened bulletproof windows, making it pleasantly cool inside. Instinctively I tuck myself away in the corner, in case there’s an attack.