The bus fills up quickly. When all eight of us are in, two armed guards join us. As one of them slams the sliding door, I can’t help feeling as if a prison door has been shut behind me. I’m totally at their mercy now. The driver speaks into the microphone. His voice is deep and serious, he sounds like a hero embarking on a dangerous mission. He probably plays up to it a bit, using the tone of his voice to let us know that, thanks to him, we are in safe hands. Philip once said they could charge us more if they put on a bit of a show.
If I hadn’t done this before, I would be freaking out like the middle-aged couple at the other end of the bus, with a fully packed e-trolley. The woman has a thin face full of worry and clings to her husband, who is deathly pale. It’s obvious they are first-timers. It’s easy to spot who is here to visit a relative and who is the adrenaline seeker. I can see that most of them are family visitors like myself. Only a couple in their early twenties, each with a blue streak in their hair, are giggling and taking non-stop selfies, even while the driver is speaking. One of the guards gives them a look that would make me wither on the spot, but they carry on all the same.
We enter the Zone. The old London, like a living museum, unfolds before our eyes, with its endless narrow lanes and crumbling terraced houses, derelict streets, and collapsed escalators leading down to the abandoned underground stations where unfortunates live like rats, desperately trying to find shelter from the gangs. Burned-out skeletons of cars, with everything removable long stolen, line the roads. Though it promises to protect me from attack, the armoured bus cannot keep out the sense of despair that pervades the place.
My eyes are drawn to a group of children outside the window and my heart shrinks; suddenly I have the urge to cry. There are at least a dozen of them, huddled on the pavement, which is covered in broken glass, chipped tiles and other detritus. The children are watching our bus; blank fear is reflected in their vacant eyes. They don’t come closer, knowing from experience that they won’t be getting anything from this strange black vehicle. The middle-aged man in the corner turns even paler. The young couple with the blue hair are filming everything, erupting every now and then into harsh laughter.
One of the guards speaks into a microphone, giving us our money’s worth. He talks about the socio-historical importance of the Zone, a remnant of the old system, of things that have been successfully eliminated from our affluent society. We need to be reminded of the wrong to appreciate the right, he says. I’m surprised by his elegant words and deep baritone voice. ‘See, for example, those people on the roadside,’ he says and points to a little group of unfortunates in ragged clothes, sitting on rain-soaked cardboard, with a large box in front of them. ‘They rely on other people’s mercy. In the old system when poverty was a sad reality, they were called beggars.’
‘Wow!’ the blue-haired girl exclaims and takes a few pictures as the bus comes to a halt, allowing the visitors to get a good look at these symbols of another century, a dark and backward time.
‘Of course, money has no value to Zone residents,’ the guard continues, ‘so all they can hope for is food. But it’s rare for beggars to survive longer than a week. Food is the most highly valued commodity in the Zone; no one gives it away for free.’
He warns us that feeding the unfortunates is strictly prohibited. ‘If you wish to help them, please take items to the Visitor’s Centre.’
The young man in black-framed glasses next to me speaks for the first time. Judging by his appearance he might be an arts student. ‘So basically a human being is starving to death just meters away from me and I’m not allowed to help.’
‘Like I said’, says the guard in a mechanical tone, ‘if you wish to help them–’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier to help the ones I can see here and now, rather than leaving things at the Distribution Centre where it’s mostly the gangs who will pick them up?’
‘Leave it’, I murmur and nudge him with my elbow. ‘They are just paid staff, they don’t make the law.’
‘There is a reason for this, young man’, interjects the woman from the first-timer couple. ‘They might look innocent. But they are very unpredictable. You never know what will happen if you open that window, even just an inch.’
The young man and I exchange glances. He shrugs and fervently types something into his notebook.
We continue our journey into the centre of the Zone.
‘Is it true that some unfortunates eat corpses after digging them out of the mass graves?’ the blue-haired girl asks the guard.
He pretends to pull a fed-up face, before answering in a mysterious voice.
‘That’s an urban legend. But in a place like this, anything is possible.’ The passengers gasp in unison.
Our van now is getting closer to a structure that looks like a stadium when the guard confirms this.
‘That used to be the Olympic Stadium. London hosted the Olympic Games in 2012 and the stadium was specifically built for the occasion.’ The stadium has dirty grey walls and rails; some of the panels are hanging down on the side. Nearby stands a weird structure that looks like a large bent tower surrounded by a snake shaped metallic grid that used to be red. The van stops at a distance so we have a good view of both.
‘We can’t get any closer,’ the guard announces. ‘The stadium is now occupied by the Zone’s most dangerous gang. Satellite pictures have shown that they are self-sufficient, having created an orchard and vegetable gardens in the centre of the stadium where the pitch used to be.’
‘What’s that ugly thing?’ I ask, unable to tell if the weird tower is about to collapse or was designed that way.
‘That was the so-called Orbit Tower. A big thing in its time. Again, built for the Olympic Games, it had a dramatic glass slide around it. On the top there were observation decks.’
A photo appears on the screen for us to see what it looked like when it was built. Yes, the grid was red and the structure wasn’t covered with rust or ivy, but otherwise it didn’t look much better. People in the old system had strange taste.
‘Do people live in there, too?’ someone asks.
‘We don’t know for sure, but it’s unlikely. It has started to crumble. Large pieces can fall down anytime. Remember, since the new system started, nothing has been maintained or looked after here. For that reason, we are not allowed to go any closer.’ We turn around and we are back in the narrow streets, but I keep looking through the window behind me, trying to imagine how this must have looked with all the visitors of the Olympic Games, the buzz, the glory, and how sadly it all ended.
Amid the mountains of rubble, Antonio’s residence comes into view at the end of an abandoned street. It’s a derelict factory building stretching for an entire block, harbouring a large courtyard inside its weather-worn walls. From the middle of the courtyard a long chimney rises like a lighthouse. Dust is flying up from the crumbling road. The ground floor windows are all boarded up, the first and second floor are protected by bars and dark curtains.
The driver shouts my name and stops the bus in front of the massive red-painted wooden gate. A red-painted gate or door in the Zone is a sign of warning to the gangs, a house where dangerous people can be found. People not to be messed around with. A guard knocks firmly on the gate, but minutes pass and no one appears. They’re probably checking who it is from the top window. When the gate is finally opened, I climb out of the bus with my e-trolley. The guards stand on either side of me, offering protection. My feet are on the ground in the Zone; just the thought of it would frighten most people.
I find myself in an entirely different world, leaving the guards and the armoured bus behind. I can hear the bus rattling away along the bumpy road. Glancing at my watch, I realise I have over two hours before it returns to collect me.
I look around. The large courtyard with dozens of overlooking windows hasn’t changed since I last came here with Philip. The little allotments a
re blooming with fruit and vegetables. Tomato vines climb their way up in pots covered with a plastic sheet to imitate a greenhouse. Every little niche or corner has been put to use for growing plants, not an inch has been wasted. There is a large secluded area just for potatoes, the most common food within these walls.
Haggard-looking men and women gather in the courtyard. They are wearing an odd combination of mismatched, ill-fitting clothes. They don’t take their eyes off me but don’t come any closer either. I grab my e-trolley, just in case. I seem to recognise one or two of the residents from the last time when I was here with Philip. So I was right, not everyone in the Zone dies within a year, and yet I was fired for saying it. Antonio approaches, wearing dark blue overalls, the kind workmen used to wear in my childhood. His shoulder-length hair is even wilder than usual. I can sense a mix of irritation and surprise in his gaze.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I have to talk to you.’
‘It’s only three weeks till we meet in the Centre.’
‘This can’t wait.’
‘Have you come to your senses and decided to join us?’
‘Very funny.’
He ushers me through a low doorway. The shadowy room we enter functions as a kitchen. It has only one tiny window in the back, letting in just enough light to see. I can make out the silhouettes of other people, at least a dozen of them, sitting at a giant table made up of many smaller ones of different sizes. They sit in the semi-darkness, munching on something – boiled potatoes, I imagine. When they see me, the lively conversation dies out. They are all ogling my e-trolley with hungry eyes as it comes to a halt by my side.
‘It’s dark in here, but if we light a candle it will be too hot,’ Antonio says while beckoning me to sit down. ‘Most of us can find our own mouths, anyway.’
‘I’d prefer somewhere a bit more private,’ I say quietly, hoping the others will not take it as an insult. Carrying my e-trolley, I follow Antonio up the creaking stairs covered with patches of different carpets. I have to hold my breath. These carpets have never seen a vacuum cleaner.
We arrive on the second floor where his ‘suite’ is, a bedroom and living area separated by a wall from which the door has been removed. Half-finished paintings are scattered all over the place. Strangely there is some style, some art in the arrangement of the furniture, a mishmash of things collected from the Distribution Centre. On a long table next to the wall there are hundreds of old toys, mugs, broken picture frames, candleholders, and countless used books. These objects remind me of the old system. People were so poor they had to wear other people’s used clothes, it was reported in a heartbreaking documentary on the Globe. There were even shops where they could buy them, so-called ‘secondhand’ shops. The way they were desperately, greedily pulling the items from the mountains of clothes bore a frightening resemblance to how Zone residents fight for items in the Distribution Centre.
I find a clean spot on the sofa and sit down. Antonio reaches behind a curtain, and fumbles with the window lock, trying to open it a bit more, but it doesn’t give.
‘Not much I can do against the heat up here,’ he says. ‘I have to be careful about opening the windows. They are at least fifty years old. If they break, we can’t repair them.’
‘Don’t they leave window panes in the Distribution Centre?’
‘Rarely and they are usually the wrong size. The gangs get them straight away. But while they have raw power, we have brains.’ He taps his index finger against his temple. ‘Plastic sheets are almost as good. And they are excellent as substitutes for green houses.’
He sits down on a chair opposite me, eyeing my e-trolley.
‘I’ve seen your tomatoes. They could pass for Mediterranean ones.’
‘You didn’t come here to talk about my tomatoes. You’re not safe here. Now, speak. I have a meeting in twenty minutes.’
‘Meeting?’
‘Without meticulous organisation, none of us here would still be alive, Alice.’
I take a deep breath. I don’t know how to start.
‘This will come as a shock to you, Antonio. But it’s good news. Philip is alive. He is in a Dignitorium.’
I expect him to ask me to repeat myself, to move closer and examine my face to see if I’m lying. But he simply shrugs and leans back on the chair.
‘I know,’ he says.
‘You…you know?’
‘The Dignitorium was one of his choices. I have always thought it was the most likely one, given his weakness, the materialism you’d infected him with. He was too cowardly to move in here with us.’
I feel the room rotate around me.
‘What…what do you mean? Did you know about this all along?
His mouth curls and then slides into a mocking grin.
‘Behold the epitome of perfect marriage as she finally discovers what everyone else knew about her husband.’ He snorts. ‘You should see your face now, bella.’
‘What is it about Philip that everyone knew?’ I don’t recognise my own voice as it reaches a hysterical pitch.
‘That he was going non-profit.’
‘Non-profit?’
‘He has advanced glaucoma. He’s going blind.’
It simply doesn’t make sense. Philip has never mentioned anything about his vision.
‘How…? How do you know about this?’
‘He visited me in October, totally devastated about his condition. Then he returned in November, saying he’d found a solution. I couldn’t get any more out of him.’
‘Why didn’t you mention this to me?’ I feel my blood pressure climbing rapidly.
‘I hinted at it, I kept asking you to remarry,’ he says, without any sign of guilt.
‘You hinted at it.’ I can barely get the words out now.
I pick up one of the porcelain bowls from the table and I’m about to smash it against the wall, but he twists it out of my hands and grabs my shoulders.
‘Just let me finish, OK?’
‘You’re despicable!’
‘He made me promise I would let you think he was dead. That was the whole point of what he did. All to please your selfish ego.’
I tear myself away from his grip.
‘How dare you blame me?’
‘He decided to withdraw because of you, Alice, to give up his place for another man who would be able to grant you your wish to have a child, your stupid dream family.’
It takes me a moment to catch my breath. I’m tempted to dismiss what I’ve just heard with a knee-jerk reaction. But his words, child and dream family, sting me to my very core.
‘He wanted you to think him dead and remarry. It was you who sent him to the Dignitorium.’
I’m stammering – I feel like a trapped animal. ‘How could he want me to find another man? Why couldn’t he just BE that man?’
He snorts and for a moment I’m afraid the overwhelming scorn in his gaze will pour out and burn me.
‘Typical,’ he exclaims. ‘Twelve years of marriage was not enough for you to listen, just once, to fucking listen to what your husband said, what he feared, what he believed. How he felt.’ He kicks himself out of the chair and begins pacing the room; fury is crackling in the air around him like electricity.
‘Listen? In the past few years there was nothing to listen to, he virtually stopped speaking.’
‘That’s when you should have really listened.’ He stops, leans against the wall and scrutinises me with his cold grey eyes.
‘You never change, do you, Alice? Bringing a consumer robot into this life that ends with premature slaughter in the Dignitorium. That’s still your dream, isn’t it?’
‘We both wanted a family. How can you blame me for that?’
He shakes his head in disbelief.
‘You know, I’ve never met your sister.’ He wa
lks over to the window and looks down onto the garden. ‘I only heard about her from Filippo, the horror stories of what she did and how she fled to join the Owners. Entirely the opposite of what I would have done. But sometimes I think I can understand her. She must have realised the uselessness and triviality of the spender zones, your honey-coated Mid-Spender heaven that is slavery in disguise. I think she saw that. And she didn’t want it.’
If he had slapped me in the face, he couldn’t have delivered a bigger blow. I don’t want to hear about Sofia. I don’t want to hear this insane man, a useless, selfish father, praising her. I would leave this place for good now, if I could. But I’m a prisoner here for another hour.
‘Suddenly you show a remarkable understanding towards Philip.’ I spit.
He is still at the window, looking down.
‘When he visited me in October, for the first time in his adult life Filippo opened up to me.’ He speaks in a confessional tone. ‘We kind of made up. He said I had been right all along. When he realised he couldn’t afford the operation that would save his sight, he finally understood the system was designed to get rid of the sick. He felt he had failed you as a husband, though I did my best to tell him you’re not worth the trouble and heartache.’
I swallow hard.
‘He was inconsolable,’ he continues. ‘His illness made him realise the real danger of becoming non-profit: he saw through the system as it was, without your rose-tinted glasses. For the first time in decades we finally found a common voice.’
‘Or a common enemy.’
‘No, Alice. He never said a bad word about you. He wanted to give you what you have always dreamed of, even if it was only possible by getting out of the way. That’s how much he loved you.’
I can’t speak, I’m so close to tears. I don’t want to believe a word Antonio says; I tell myself he’s just trying to put me down and taking his petty revenge, but deep down I know that every single word is true.
‘There is love that is constructive and wise, Alice,’ he says, sitting down on his chair. ‘And there is love that is just plain stupid.’
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