‘I know, Phil, trust me, I know.’
‘No, you have no idea how difficult it is to remain calm on the threshold of premature death. Sometimes I wish I could just go to the T-wing and request instant euthanasia. But I believe in humanity and I want to go through this stage gradually, alert and prepared, and to quote George, not be dragged to the T-wing like an animal to the slaughterhouse. I’m trying to make sense of all this, Ali, to give it a higher meaning.’
I keep nodding.
‘In that sense I quite like what’s going on here, the courses and training, the preparation – it really works. I’ve found peace through it. But I beg you, will you stop ruining it for me?’
‘Philip, I–’
‘Come back when you’re ready.’
‘I want to visit you, not a blissed-out zombie. But we have very little time left before your sedation period begins. Only eleven days.’
‘I’ll be waiting every day.’
I look back at him as I’m walking down the path. He is unresponsive, staring out at the sea, somewhere in the distance where the water becomes one with the sky. I am torn to pieces, I detest this beautiful and tranquil place that will become Philip’s slaughterhouse no matter how hard he tries to transform it into something divine. As I walk past the fountain, I see the sign on the wall. Before I leave, I need to pay my respects to George.
There is no one else at the wall. In front of it, bunches of flowers are laid on top of each other like corpses in a mass grave. Under the fresh ones, the rest are dry and withered.
I don’t have any flowers with me. I pick a bunch up from the top and say my little prayer for George, then place the flowers back down again. Among the masses of names it’s easy to find the very last one. For a moment I struggle to believe what I see. Instead of George Dimitriadis, the name I see etched on the silver plaque is George Dimitriad. With a clear and pronounced dot at the end. Shortened, as if there was no space for the full name. The only thing holding me back from running to reception and protesting is that I will not see Philip any more if I make another scene. I stay a bit longer, to remember George. Quietly I thank him for making Philip’s last months more bearable and less lonely. Here lies George Dimitriadis, or at least his name, or at least most of it, father and grandfather-to-be, good friend, prolonger of life and violator of rules.
The monorail leaves behind the rows of red brick apartment blocks and mansions of Scarborough. Sitting by the window, I immediately search for a private detective on my ID Phone. There are hundreds, but I must find the best. Two hours later at home, I dial the number of a certain Mr Sikula. I was nearly put off by the high prices and his exaggerated website, which shows him sitting in a dimly lit library like a modern-day Sherlock Holmes. In his hand he holds a football-sized globe, with the slogan flashing above: ‘As long as they are on this planet, I will find them.’ But he has thirty-five years’ experience, and reviews claiming he can perform miracles. He answers the phone immediately and I tell him my problem. My speech is wobbly and disorganised, but he keeps listening without interruption, nodding attentively.
‘No problem, madam,’ he says.
‘But she is an Owner now. I know that makes it very hard because Owners don’t have trackers in their bodies.’
‘Not for me, madam. If you read my profile online you’ll see that Owners are not a problem for Mr Sikula. It comes at a special fee, though.’
‘I know, I know.’
Having checked the fee online, I ask him to confirm it, and I try to hold my breath when I hear it. If I pay Mr Sikula, there is no way back. It will require all my savings. We agree verbally, and soon I get an attachment that I need to fill in and send back. By five o’clock I have the contract in my hands. All it needs is my signature. It promises to find any living person’s contact details within forty-eight hours. It does not guarantee that the found person will reply, though. I hesitate. What if he gives me a made-up phone number or email and claims it’s not his fault if Sofia doesn’t get back to me? I need to think it through first.
A cup of tea always tends to help, but on this occasion I make myself a double espresso. I can feel the effects immediately: the rapid heartbeat, the increased awareness, impatience verging on aggression. The urge to do something. I keep pacing up and down in the room, counting, calculating. The fee is ridiculously high; my savings will be gone. If he can’t find Sofia… But in that case I won’t need any money any more. In the Dignitorium the only currency is human life, my last remaining asset.
I slowly give in to the voice that keeps whispering to me. This is our last chance – Philip and I could still be together. There is still hope for us. I sit down at the table and stretch my hands out until they stop trembling and quickly scribble my signature at the bottom of the page.
It’s done and it can’t be reversed. If it doesn’t work, I won’t be able to afford to visit Philip for much longer. I just pray I can until his drug therapy starts, after which it won’t matter much to him. I’ll lie to him that I’ve found a new partner, I can even show him a fake profile on a dating website. I’ll be the happiest future mother he’s ever seen. I’ll kiss him goodbye cheerfully, but behind my smile there will be invisible tears. Then I’ll find a Dignitorium in London.
BOOK THREE
One
The large blind eyes of the Gothic windows of Sofia’s mansion follow us as the limousine comes to a halt in front of the stone steps, gravel crunching under the heavy wheels. I’ve never felt so powerless in my life.
Despite its warm red-brick walls, the house exudes solemnity. The chauffeur jumps out to open the door for me. I clutch at the leather arm of the seat to steady myself, to gain some inner strength. The chauffeur helps me get out. As he reaches out a hand to me, I notice how immaculate his white gloves are.
When the cool sea breeze hits my face, my whole mission suddenly feels real. Maybe it’s the aura of power and wealth that is palpable in the crisp morning air, maybe it’s the chauffeur, who is avoiding my gaze and keeping his head bowed. He drives the car away. I’m surrounded by a silence I never thought existed. In front of the main entrance six servants stand in two rows like soldiers, wearing starched uniforms. I shiver. There’s no way back from here, but the way ahead is just as frightening.
This is the first time I’ve seen an Owner’s house in real life, not on the Globe or in a glossy magazine. It’s far grander than I ever imagined. The red brick building towers above me menacingly, reminding me of my own insignificance. The front door is the biggest I’ve ever seen. It could swallow a whole army. On either side of the steps, a life-sized, white stone lion stands guard. I make a hesitant move, glancing at the servants for a nod of encouragement, the smallest sign, but they might as well be as lifeless as the stone lions. Only a trickle of sweat on the forehead of an older man reveals that they’re flesh and bone like me. It strikes me that Sebastian’s parents had their main residence near the sea in Cornwall and now I remember Sofia mentioning two lion statues in front of the house.
The forest surrounding the mansion is vast and ancient, and the highest branches sway in the heavy wind. From the distance I think I hear an owl hooting, though it’s the wrong time of day for owls to be out. I scold myself for taking it as an omen, and force myself to walk slowly and steadily towards the house; Sofia might already be watching me on a camera somewhere. She can’t see the cramp in my stomach or my madly pumping heart, but my fearful posture and hesitant body language might give me away. Knowing her, if she spots any sign of weakness, she will use it against me.
So far my entire reason for coming here has been Philip and the possibility that he might still be saved. But now, as I walk up the steps past the two lions, the silent guards, something changes. Memories start to flow, first a trickle, then a flood, one after the other. Feelings so intense I fear my nerves will get the better of me before I have the chance to speak.
First
comes the jealousy paired with bitter helplessness I felt when I was thirteen and Sofia received a large bunch of black roses from the boy I had a secret crush on. After this I recall the joy and comradeship when I confided in Sofia that it had been me who accidentally spilled juice over Mum’s precious table cloth, not the neighbour’s cat, as I had claimed. Other feelings emerge, humiliation tinged with envy caused by Sofia scolding me in front of my friends in the playground, and again, admiration and even pride when she got herself into trouble for defending me from bullies at school. All this makes sense; I can relate these emotions to particular experiences. But another emotion rises up, so unexpectedly that I have no chance to fight it. It swells my chest with a warm, tender energy. I don’t understand it; Sofia has never given me any reason to love her. I try to deny this misplaced emotion; love is the last thing I expected to feel and I don’t want it. Not here, not now.
At the top of the steps, in front of the door, I stop. I’m surrounded by servants who keep their heads bowed and their eyes on the ground – they ignore me. The door swings open and I find myself in an entrance hall that boasts a meticulously polished marble floor. A gleaming chandelier hangs from the ceiling. It reminds me of an old-fashioned ballroom. A lavish red-carpeted stairway spirals upwards.
An elderly butler greets me. His steps are soundless and his appearance is immaculate. It feels as if he has been dropped here from the nineteenth century. He approaches me, stops at a good distance and bows with respect.
‘Welcome, madam. Please, follow me.’
Without waiting for my reply, he is already walking up the stairway. We are passing through wood-panelled halls, long dark corridors, a large Victorian library that has the sweet, stale smell of ancient books, then we take two floors up in a lift that is completely over the top. It is carpeted, wall-papered and has two armchairs with cushions, gilded mirrors and an art deco floor lamp in the corner. We exit the lift to a reception area where a large white door stands before us.
‘This is your key.’ The butler says, holding up a silver wrist band. He scans it, and the door opens up slowly with a low buzzing sound. I can see there is something else he’d like to say before we enter. He clears his throat.
‘I’m sorry, madam, but according to our house regulations, I need to take your ID Phone for the duration of your stay.’
It’s absurd and I consider refusing. I look at him, and he holds my gaze. After a short hesitation, I take my ID Phone from my wrist and hand it over. He puts it in a transparent plastic bag which he seals and slides into the inner pocket of his jacket.
‘This is the White Suite. Reserved for our very special guests,’ he says with noticeable pride in his voice as we enter.
‘This must be a mistake. I’m returning home today, after the meeting.’
‘I’m only following instructions, madam.’
‘Do you know when I can meet Sofia?’
‘I’m sorry madam, I have no further information at the moment.’
It’s a large rectangular room with rows of sash windows on both sides. It’s ultramodern and chic. White is the only colour in the entire suite. In the middle, a frosted glass wall hides the bathroom. The giant oval bathtub is carved out of white marble. At the back is the bedroom area. An oversized sunken round bed sprawls on a circular stage. The living area is furnished with a set of velvet sofas and armchairs, built-in wardrobes, a white stone fireplace and giant vases. A balcony with a stone balustrade overlooks the forest.
The place should feel sterile, like a hospital, but instead it’s pure and serene.
After the butler leaves, I allow myself to be conquered by the beauty, immersed in peace. Sofia gave me her most luxurious suite. Does it mean that she takes my visit seriously?
An hour later the butler returns. ‘Is everything to your satisfaction, madam?’ he asks, standing in the doorway.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him how nervous I am, how I don’t give a damn about comfort.
‘I must see Sofia right now.’
‘Madam Sofia cannot see you today, I’m afraid.’
My heart sinks. She is playing with me, as I feared. She never had any intention of meeting me. It takes all my willpower to appear calm.
‘Is there a problem? I have come a long way to meet her. It’s very urgent.’
His eyes remain fixed, his manner as official as a bank clerk’s.
‘Madam Sofia will be available to see you tomorrow. It is her express wish that you stay the night.’
I want to say so many things, but all I do is clench my fists and force my voice to sound steady.
‘I need my ID Phone back. I can’t stay here without it.’
‘I’m sorry, madam, I can only return it to you when you leave us. If you need to contact someone, there is a portable telephone in your suite.’
‘Why can’t I use my own phone then?’
‘No photography or messaging is allowed in the territory of the estate, madam. If you need anything done that requires an ID Phone, please contact your personal maid for assistance.’
‘I don’t need anything at the moment.’ I know I’m starting to sound hysterical but I can’t help it. ‘I must see Sofia. Today.’
‘Madam Sofia will be available tomorrow. Thank you for your understanding.’ He then turns on his heels and disappears into the lift.
I’m alone and trapped. Without an ID Phone I can’t ask for help, and who would help me anyway? Who would believe me against an Owner’s words? I force myself to stop thinking of all the worst things that could happen. A single day will not make much difference.
The afternoon has gone quickly. First, two maids brought up lunch on a silver trolley and I ate it on the balcony, with only birds and the warm breeze for company. It was a strange experience, almost surreal, to be surrounded by such silence. After lunch I dozed off and when I woke I was spaced out. I first thought Sofia had had something put into my lunch. But soon I realised I was simply in a state of peace. A peace one feels when things are entirely out of one’s control. When surrender is the only way.
Now I’m outside, discovering the estate. I pass through a rose garden with a Victorian fountain in the middle, and walk along pebbled pathways bordered with exotic plants I don’t recognise. Behind a wall I discover something that looks like a combination of a playground and an amusement park. It has endless slides, dodgem cars, a giant trampoline and even a Victorian-style carousel. I wonder if Sofia and Sebastian have a family or if it’s just a part of what the estate has to offer for the children of their guests.
On the other side of the house, surrounded by a tall hedge, is the wing the butler told me to avoid. I stop at a distance. Next to the building I see a large swimming pool and a patio with outdoor dining furniture. A maid is clearing off the large wrought-iron table, while another one is sweeping the floor. I’m about to turn around when I hear something unexpected. The laughter of a child. When I look up, in a window of the second floor I see a woman in glasses, staring at me but quickly disappearing behind the curtain. It’s the same window where I saw the child’s face when I arrived in the limousine. I walk back to the park for a final stroll. It feels as if time has stopped here but for all its beauty and glamour it doesn’t feel like a happy place.
A helicopter is about to land. From where I am, I have a perfect view over the landing pad. Three people, an older man and two younger women, get out. The man is carrying a doctor’s bag. They are visibly in a hurry. The butler greets them and ushers them into the house. Not long after, a van arrives in front of the main entrance; the writing on the side says ‘Fresh Seafood’. With the help of a servant, the driver carries ice boxes into the house. Having only seen the personnel, I have the impression people keep coming and putting things into an empty house as if they are feeding ghosts. And the house silently swallows them, wanting more and more. I don’t have the strength to resist, either
. I allow myself to be tempted to enter and let my curiosity drive me.
Like a phantom, I walk across corridors, halls, creaking wooden staircases, enjoying the lack of purpose, the sheer joy of aimless discovery. When I find myself in the Victorian library, I stop and allow it to take my breath away. I let the past talk to me through its thousands of old books, the scent created by ageing matter, the yellowed maps behind vitrines, the presence of a museum. When I’m ready to move on, I find myself in the entrance hall. Here I see a maid dusting the banister of the grand stairwell. She bows and curtsies to me but doesn’t say a word. I stroll along a passage that connects two wings of the building. It resembles a cloister I saw once in a monastery. The arched windows are all stained with the most brilliant colours, depicting religious scenes. My steps are echoing on the stone and I feel lonely, but it’s a peaceful loneliness, the quiet of the ancient stones washing away all worry.
At the end of the passage I arrive at the door that leads to the forbidden wing. Before turning around I eavesdrop. There’s no sound but I know this is where Sofia and Sebastian live.
Two
I’m on the balcony, still coming around. Last night I tossed and turned in bed, and once woke up to the hysterical laughter of a child. I’m not sure if it was a dream or reality. I feel lonely, totally bereft. My personal maid’s smile is formulaic while she’s pouring my coffee. She leaves me with my breakfast. I would like to connect with the world, check the news, anything on my ID Phone. I’m about to stand up to switch on the Globe in the living room when the portable telephone rings. It’s the butler, telling me he will take me to see Sofia in half an hour.
The breakfast is even more abundant than my lunch and dinner were yesterday, with fruit juices in all the colours of the rainbow. I can barely touch it.
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