His words don’t cut into me any more. There’s no sense of aggression from him now; instead, his eyes are alive with pain and he looks at me with confusion rather than anger.
We are both silent, buried in our thoughts. What I feel is relief, a calm after the battle. He glances at his watch, an old-fashioned wristwatch with a leather strap that Philip gave him years ago. ‘The meeting is about to start,’ he says, and leaves. I’m suddenly left alone in this suffocating and untidy room where dead electric cables hang from the walls and ceiling, reminders of another era. I feel like picking up Antonio’s ridiculous paintings and smashing them against the wall one by one. Instead I tiptoe downstairs, trying not to call attention to myself, as the meeting is about to start in the kitchen. I slip out to the yard. There are little paths of broken paving stones between the allotments, a mini maze through which I pace aimlessly, round and round, like a wind-up toy.
I love Philip, and I refuse to feel guilty for what Antonio accuses me of. I used to be a brainwashed consumer zombie, I admit that. I wasn’t the wife Philip needed me to be, it’s true. But how could I have known better? It was all I grew up with and saw around me until I became a Low Spender. Antonio is judging me too harshly, and that upsets me again. I resist the urge to burst in on the meeting and tell everyone that it was he who ruined Philip’s life, crying out: ‘Behold the man you so admire and rely on!’ My steps become faster and faster. And he had the nerve to mention Sofia! Twenty years on and I’m still haunted by her words. For slowly but surely, her curse is fulfilling itself.
Suddenly my body is drained of strength and I drop down on a low brick wall. My brain is burning, my limbs trembling. I try to focus on the sounds around me. Birds are singing in the apple trees near the wall. Human voices drift out through the open kitchen door. I’ll go mad if I’m left alone with my thoughts any longer. Even Antonio’s company is more bearable than this, so I decide to go in.
They ignore me as I sit on a chair in a dark corner near the sink. Somewhere in the back of my turbulent mind I hear their conversation about food rations and other resources. I have to admit, the level of organisation is remarkable. They discuss the produce they will need for the following week and where to store it. Antonio is their leader, but they all have their own roles that they seem to take very seriously. Now there is a hearing and Antonio is the judge. An adolescent boy with wide, frightened eyes is accused of stealing tomatoes from the allotment at night.
‘Are you aware, Alex, of the possible consequences of your actions?’ Antonio’s voice is calm and understanding but when he speaks, there is complete silence in the room.
Petrified, he hangs his head. He knows that if he’s expelled from Antonio’s residence, he’s unlikely to survive even a week in the Zone.
‘I take it you fully understand that what you did could have had a detrimental effect on your fellow residents.’
The boy’s eyes are begging for mercy, and I can’t help but feel sorry for him. He must be an orphan, one of far too many. Dumped in the Zone on his eighteenth birthday as a punishment for starting his adult life as non-profit .
Antonio concludes that from now on tomatoes and all other produce will be counted every evening, and guards will be set on night duty to watch over the garden. He gives the boy one more chance. Alex sneaks out of the kitchen, his face flushed with shame but also relief.
I notice a huge difference between how these people interact and how we used to communicate in the staff room at school or at Sunday Mass. Here, people pay attention to one another. It reminds me of the books I used to read as a child, nineteenth-century classics Dad got for me, in which people sat around fires and played cards or shared stories all evening.
The meeting continues, now on a more light-hearted note. Whenever there is a misunderstanding, Antonio smooths it out. If a conflict arises, he initiates a peaceful discussion, focusing on solutions. His eyes are glittering with excitement. He comes across as a brilliant, wise leader, responsible not only for the survival but also the wellbeing of his little community. His words still upset me but I can’t see him as a deranged old man any more. This is not the Antonio I always knew, the person who struggled to make it as a spender, the father who let his family down. Ironically, the Zone has forced him to man up, and having given him his mission in life has transformed him for the better. He takes a gulp of water and when he puts the glass back on the table, he glances at me. For a moment our eyes meet but I turn away. I don’t want him to see the respect in my eyes.
16 june, 2050
The limousine approaches a set of black wrought-iron gates. They swing open automatically as the car slows and we pass through and make our way up the driveway. I look out of the window to my right. The red-brick Victorian mansion is a masterpiece of Gothic architecture, and exactly the kind of house I imagined as a child I might one day be mistress of, with servants attending to my every wish.
This seems less romantic now, though I have to face the bitter reality that Sofia is in fact living my dream, again. I force myself to stop thinking about it and focus on the task ahead of me.
The building is mesmerising, and as I look up, I notice something – or someone – in a second-floor window. The heavy drapery seems to move and from behind it I see a face. It’s a child’s face, white and eerie, but the tilt of the head indicates curiosity. I lean closer to the car window to get a better look, but it’s gone. The curtain is still. So too, I notice, is the car. We have arrived.
BOOK TWO
one
The gates of the Scarborough Dignitorium stand at the end of a wide, tree-lined street. Why did Philip come so far? Surely there were suitable Dignitoriums in London. Was he allocated here or did he have a choice? Not that I care; I would go to the end of the earth to see him.
Last night, as I lay in bed, my phone rang. It was Edith, whispering into her ID Phone, telling me that Philip had read my letter and would like me to visit him as soon as possible. His six-month Honeymoon Period expires on the twenty-fifth. That’s less than three weeks away.
For many hours, I battled with demons, brought to life by Antonio’s words, before slumber finally overcame me. When I woke, as my head began to clear, the guilt came flooding back and clouded my mind as rapidly as black ink in a glass of water. I understand now the missing money – poor Philip struggling alone, spending all his savings on medication and then the unsuccessful laser operation. Even if he could afford a cure in an expensive hospital, it’s too late. There’s no way back from the Dignitorium. He has signed the contract.
After checking in, I’m inside the high surrounding walls, a feeling of serenity settles over me like a fine muslin blanket, making me wonder if the air itself is drugged. I try to shake it off. I can’t stand the arrogance of the mock Victorian building in the middle of the park. The magnificent old trees are rustling in the breeze, their leaves dancing and inviting me to come nearer, like nymphs luring unsuspecting mortals to their death. But I can’t stop seeing the decay behind the beauty, the death behind the peace. Experience has taught me that nature in a Dignitorium is not a symbol of spring and rebirth but of life’s fragility and evanescence.
Most of the residents are old, in their sixties or early seventies, the right time to retire. I’m reminded of the missed opportunities in Philip’s unfulfilled life and I can’t entirely shake off the sense of blame. I only hope it’s not too late. I can still be of use. I’ll come every day. I’ll make his final weeks worthwhile. I’ll also come when he’s sedated, I’ll come…until the end. I don’t want to think about what will be after the end.
It’s time to make my way to the main building. In the marble-floored lobby, behind the dark wooden desk stands a young receptionist with a long black ponytail. The smile on her face never fades while she scans my ID Phone. My face appears on the screen, a photo that was taken some years ago, in which I’m smiling, glowing with optimism. It looks like someone else,
someone I knew in a previous life.
I follow the receptionist through a spacious hall furnished with leather armchairs and antique-style standing lamps. The walls are covered with mahogany panels, on several of which hang screens. Each screen is showing the final Farewell Video of a different resident, reassuring us how gladly they are leaving this world behind. They talk over one another, male and female voices, high and low-pitched, a cacophony of happiness. They each sit in a cosy room with a period fireplace, its mantelpiece decked with flowers and photos of smiling grandchildren. Each resident holds up drawings, which have messages printed on them in a coloured font, such as ‘Love You, Grandma’ or ‘For Grandad’. In the background, behind the sash window, stretches a magnificent landscape with rolling hills and fields of wildflowers.
I’m escorted to the Salon, a grand, rectangular room, reminiscent of old-fashioned drawing rooms. With its heavy curtains, antique fireplaces and gilded mirrors, it reminds me of the long galleries in period houses used for walking when the weather didn’t permit going outdoors. From the walls, gargoyles and angels follow me with their dead stares. I drop into a robust armchair. It’s burgundy and comfortingly soft to the touch. I still have ten minutes to wait, but already my heart is racing.
When the door opens, I glance up, hoping it’s Philip. It’s one of the carers, a woman of about my age, with auburn hair and pale skin. She stops in front of me and smiles widely, if somewhat automatically. A nametag is attached to her grass-green tunic. Next to the miniature Dignitorium logo is her name, Edith O’Connor.
‘Edith? How nice to meet you finally! I’m so grateful for your help.’ I jump up and reach out to shake her hand.
She doesn’t take it, but stares at me with a look of astonishment. Her smile still frozen on her face, she remains formal, avoiding eye contact while she checks my identity on her mini-screen.
‘Thank you again for everything.’ I continue. ‘Nurse Vogel spoke very highly of you.’
Again, there is absolutely no reaction apart from a barely noticeable flush of irritation. I’m beginning to feel like an idiot. She hands over a plastic wrist band with a mini screen on it. She asks me to put it on.
‘You’ll need this to leave the Salon and use the main entrance,’ she says. I recognise her voice, it’s definitely the same person I spoke to on the phone, yet she shows no sign of recognition. ‘You are allowed to walk with your husband outside, anywhere in the grounds. If he needs medical assistance or any other kind of attention, press this button.’ She points at a red button on the wrist band.
‘You’ll have a maximum of two hours with him and by the end of your visiting time you need to be back in this room, where he will be collected. After which you may leave.’
‘There must be a misunderstanding here.’ I struggle to contain the anxiety in my voice. ‘My parents also retired in a Dignitorium and I had three hours with them every day.’
She doesn’t bat an eyelid.
‘These are the rules of our Dignitorium. Terms and conditions differ in each institution and are created solely by–’
‘But why only two hours?’
‘We pride ourselves on spending more time on our residents’ preparation for their final departure. It is our greatest–’
‘But–’
‘Do you agree with our terms and conditions or would you prefer to leave the premises and return home?’
‘I agree, of course. I’m sorry.’
I scan through the terms and conditions and I find that once a week the visitor is allowed to attend the bedroom of his or her loved one. My parents’ Dignitorium never allowed anyone inside the living quarters. This rule appeals to me and I tell her this. I detect a hint of satisfaction at the corner of her mouth.
‘We believe every visitor has the right to see the conditions in which their loved ones live. Sign here, please.’
Her smile is like dried honey and never leaves her face. No matter how hard I try to connect with the person behind it, her gaze strikes me as empty, inauthentic. How can this be the same Edith Nurse Vogel said was helping me?
‘You are not permitted to engage with others, be they patients or visitors,’ she continues. ‘If you have any questions, ask a member of staff.’
I nod again.
‘You will see that there are no restricted places outdoors. You may walk everywhere, including to the Termination Wing. However, you must refrain from taking photos or any other activity that would disturb our terminal patients in any way. Many of them find joy in the view of the gardens in their final hours. For the safety of our residents, there are cameras outdoors, and you will be obliged to leave if you don’t keep to the rules.’
I nod and she leaves.
Another five long minutes pass. My fingers are nervously scratching at the upholstery of the armchair, raking it in both directions. Finally I hear the door open. A man stands there with Philip’s features, in Philip’s clothes, staring at me. I jump up from my seat but something holds me back. Philip is a well-built, attractive man, but this man is haggard and painfully thin. Finally the eyes overcome my doubt; I know those eyes. There are several different urges rippling through my body; one is to scream at him, the other, much stronger, to hold him.
Our embrace is deep and quiet. We mould into each other and stay like that for God knows how long. Despite his unusual gauntness, I feel at home in his arms. He still smells like Philip. I can’t find the words to describe my emotions. I let my tears flow.
We have been sitting on the sofa in front of the bay window for what feels like a long time, speechless. My left hand is pulsing in his right palm.
‘Are they not looking after you well here?’ I ask, looking him up and down, not hiding my surprise at his changed appearance.
‘Quite the opposite. They’re looking after me well. But my attention has turned away from earthly things like food.’
His docile eyes and the way he speaks in a low, melancholy voice, tell me his inner fire has waned.
‘Why don’t you ask me, Ali?’
‘Ask what?’
‘Your real questions.’
I hesitate. There’s so much I want to know but there’s so little I can think of right now.
‘I was so relieved when I heard you were alive, Phil.’
‘But?’
‘But since then I can’t stop asking myself: How could you do this to us?’
‘Your letter. It was painful to read. I did it for you, Ali.’
‘You still don’t get it.’ I sigh deeply. ‘I’m now a Low Spender. I lost my career, our home. I could end up in a Dignitorium, like you.’
‘I swear I never thought this would happen to you, Ali. You’re more important to me than myself.’
I know he speaks the truth but why do his actions show otherwise?
‘I went to see your father. He told me everything.’
‘You went to the Zone, alone? Why?’ He pulls me closer.
‘To tell him you’re alive. But our conversation didn’t quite go to plan. It turned out he knew far more than I did.’ I can’t hide the disappointment in my voice.
‘By the way, your dad is doing better than most of us. He told me about your glaucoma. Another thing you hid away from me.’
‘I didn’t want to trouble you.’
‘How is it now?’
‘It’s in an early stage. But I’ve noticed some decrease in my peripheral vision.’
‘Is it really that bad? Philip, is it really–?’
‘Shush,’ he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. ‘Please, let’s not bring this up again.’
‘Maybe there’s a new treatment or–’
‘I’ve tried everything I could afford.’
‘But it’s your vision, for God’s sake–’
‘It doesn’t matter as long as I can see you.’
‘Can you see me well?’
‘Just like before.’
I can’t believe that this is happening. I have never felt so helpless. He is a useful member of society, a Mid Spender, a respected architect, so why can’t the operation be more affordable? Do they really think if he drops out, there will be others to take his place? Are we no better than cattle, just another one of the herd? He squeezes my hand, probably reading my mind.
‘Why the Dignitorium, Philip? Why not something else?’
‘Like what?’
‘Even moving to the Zone would have been better than this. Your father has created a little haven there. Surely he wouldn’t mind–’
‘Two more years.’ His brooding voice carries a sad note.
‘What do you mean?’
‘In two years’ time much of the Zone will be turned into a new major High Spender development. New mansions, a sports ground, recreational parks, a high speed race track and even a harbour for their bloody yachts.’
‘They can’t do that.’
‘They can and they will.’
‘Does this mean…?’
‘Yes. Dad’s residence will be gone, too. He doesn’t know it yet. I haven’t found a way to tell him.’
‘You must, Philip. He needs to prepare, find a new place by then.’
‘Do you really think one can just ‘find’ a place in the Zone like that?’
‘I’ve seen how many derelict, empty houses there are.’
‘Dad would need another fort-like structure to house his entire community.’
‘So what will happen to them?’
‘They need to break up into smaller groups. It means certain death.’
‘This mustn’t…it can’t be true.’ I shake my head. ‘How do you know about this?’
‘I was the one who was supposed to design it, Ali.’
I can’t hide my shock. Where Antonio’s home now gives shelter and food to dozens of people, High Spenders will be racing in their fancy sports cars. And the Zone residents will be crammed together even more tightly, more of them homeless, prey for the gangs. Is it really that easy to trade with the lives of thousands just because they are non-profit?
Wolf Country Page 20