Clade

by James Bradley

  ‘And what if there’s a problem?’

  Amir’s jaw tightens. ‘There won’t be,’ he says.

  In the car on the way to the clinic Ellie cannot help but glance at Nisha and her parents, Mishkat and Riya, in the back seat. The girl is ten, small for her age, and dressed in a cheap tracksuit top and an old pair of leggings; sprawled across the seat with her head in her mother’s lap she looks very sick indeed, her skin grey.

  At the clinic Amir gets out as well.

  ‘I thought you said you couldn’t come in?’ she says.

  ‘Her parents can’t. I’ll tell them I’m your friend.’

  Ellie wonders if she should object, but before she can say anything Mishkat steps forward and hands Nisha to Amir.

  ‘Please,’ Riya says, ‘look after her.’

  Ellie smiles as confidently as she can, and she and Amir hurry through the doors.

  The doctor they are assigned is brief and to the point, his expression barely faltering when Ellie explains Nisha is a niece. ‘It’s appendicitis,’ he says. ‘We’ll have to operate immediately.’

  Ellie looks at Amir, who inclines his head almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Okay,’ Ellie tells the doctor. ‘If you think it’s the only option.’

  While Nisha is prepped for surgery Ellie and Amir sit in the waiting room. Outside it is growing dark, the sky through the high window a vivid scarlet and orange.

  ‘You knew it was appendicitis?’ Ellie asks, and Amir nods.

  ‘How long did you wait before calling me?’

  He does not answer at once. ‘Longer than we should have.’

  ‘How long have you known Mishkat and Riya?’

  ‘A year or two. They were in one of the camps out west before that.’

  ‘And you help them with what? Medical advice?’

  ‘I do what I can.’

  ‘How many people do you help?’

  He shrugs. ‘A few.’

  Ellie sits staring at him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asks at last.

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘About this. About the doctoring. About what you do. I could have helped.’

  ‘Could you? How? We don’t just need access to hospitals, we need medicine, schools, jobs, not to be frightened all the time. To be able to buy food without being terrified somebody will become suspicious because we’re using cash, or report us to the police because they don’t recognise us.’

  Shocked by his vehemence Ellie falls silent.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Amir says.

  ‘No, don’t be. You have every right to be angry.’

  ‘But not at you.’

  The next hour passes slowly, but eventually a nurse appears and beckons them over.

  ‘Nisha’s fine,’ she says. ‘She came through like a trouper.’

  Opposite her Amir breaks into a grin.

  ‘When can we see her?’ Ellie asks.

  The nurse glances at her overlays. ‘She’s in recovery now, but as soon as she’s out we’ll let you know.’

  ‘And other visitors?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ the nurse says.

  It is growing dark by the time Ellie and Amir emerge. Mishkat and Riya race towards them. ‘How is she?’ Mishkat asks.

  ‘Okay,’ Amir says. ‘Resting.’

  At Amir’s words Mishkat puts his arm around Riya and draws her against him.

  ‘And when can we see her?’ asks Riya.

  ‘Not till tomorrow.’

  Ellie drives the four of them back in silence. Outside the flat she gets out with Mishkat and Riya. Standing by the car Mishkat bows his head to her.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. Next to him Riya presses her hands together, tears in the corner of her eyes.

  ‘Please,’ Ellie says, ‘don’t. I only wish I could do more.’

  As Mishkat and Riya turn away she looks at Amir. ‘You’re staying?’

  ‘For a while,’ he says.

  ‘You’ll let me know if I can help again?’

  He smiles. ‘I will. And Ellie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Although she expects to hear from him the next day, or the day after that, she does not, the time passing quietly in work and walking. More than once she considers calling, asking for news on how Nisha is faring, but she restrains herself, unsure whether she is wary of intruding or wary because she senses that things have changed between the two of them.

  On the third day she calls Bec, and for the first time tells her about him, careful to avoid mention of the trip to the hospital.

  ‘He’s illegal?’ Bec asks disbelievingly.

  Ellie tells her he is.

  ‘Oh Jesus, Ellie. You know you can be charged for assisting him?’

  ‘I don’t need a lecture,’ Ellie says, wondering as she does whether she has made a mistake.

  Back in her studio she opens her overlays, calls up some of her notes. She has seen fossils of bees, bodies in stone dating back 140 million years, evidence that they existed alongside the dinosaurs, that they were moving between ancient flowers in the forests of the Cretaceous. It is a dizzying thought, the idea that they have existed for so long, their colonies shifting and changing and evolving as the world altered around them, and one she finds herself returning to. Do individual bees have any conception of time, or is their existence simpler than that, their brief lives lived in the busy rush of the moment? What do they understand of the past, of the future, of the deep well of their history? Do the hives remember? And if they do, what do they make of the collapses, of passing away and out of time?

  She is in the kitchen the next day when Bec pings her. ‘Have you seen what’s happening?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ Ellie replies, pulling up her feeds. At first she cannot grasp what she is seeing, what the reports of police and security raiding buildings mean, and she spends several seconds scrolling through video and photos, trying to make sense of the shouting and jolting perspectives before she feels the chill of comprehension.

  She pings Amir, and when there is no reply, live-calls him, but still he doesn’t answer. Standing up she circles the table, scanning the feeds for more information, before calling him again. Finally she calls Bec back.

  ‘What do you know about what’s going on?’ she asks.

  ‘Not much. Just that they’ve been raiding places all over the city. Where’s Amir?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t get hold of him.’

  ‘Don’t panic,’ Bec says. ‘It could be nothing. Is there somewhere he might go?’

  Ellie thinks of the hives. ‘Perhaps. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘No.’

  She can hear Bec’s silent calculation of the meaning behind that ignorance.

  ‘If he has been arrested, where would they take him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bec says. ‘One of the police stations? A processing centre?’

  ‘If I call the police will they tell me whether they’ve got him?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. Do you have a lawyer?’

  ‘No. Would it make a difference?’

  ‘It could. I’ll send you the details of my friend Rachel. She might be able to help.’

  Ellie pauses. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No worries,’ Bec says. ‘And Ellie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Good luck.’

  She calls up the public interface for the security companies who manage the centres, but as she expected they yield nothing. Placing a request with Rachel results in a frustrating conversation with an automated system that takes her details and suggests various courses of action without charge. Then, as she is about to give up, she receives a voice call.

  ‘Ellie?’ the caller asks.

  ‘Yes. Is that Rachel?’

  ‘Bec says you’ve got a friend who’s been picked up?’ She has the slightly clipped voice of a woman used to dealing with authority from the wrong side of the table.

  ‘
That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

  ‘Where would he have been?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Somewhere outside the city.’

  ‘Okay. If they’ve got him he’s most likely to be in the processing centre at Penrith.’

  ‘Is there some way of contacting them, finding out if he’s there?’

  ‘They don’t release information to the public unless they’re next of kin.’

  ‘Perhaps I could go there, ask them in person.’

  ‘They won’t tell you even if he is,’ Rachel says.

  Ellie lifts her hand to her face, pinches her brow. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive,’ Rachel says. ‘They’re not required to release any information. But if you leave it with me I’ll see what I can do.’

  Once Rachel hangs up Ellie scans the newest reports about the crackdown, searching videos for Amir’s face. It now seems that the operation is being coordinated across the entire east coast, with thousands already detained. She understands enough about the laws surrounding illegals to know that if Amir has been caught he is extremely unlikely to be released again, especially given he has already escaped custody once, which means that he will be processed and deported, back to what remains of Bangladesh. The idea is insupportable, unbearable.

  Not knowing what else to do, she gets in her car and drives to Mishkat and Riya’s, scanning the faces of passers-by as she goes. Around their building there are signs of raids and resistance, groups of people standing in doorways or moving uncertainly through the streets; windows have been broken, cars overturned. Stopping outside Mishkat and Riya’s she runs to the door, but as she opens it a woman in a black security uniform appears, her face obscured behind a helmet and visor.

  ‘Sorry,’ the woman says. ‘This area is restricted.’

  ‘What do you mean, restricted?’ Ellie demands.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t divulge details of operational matters,’ the woman says. ‘Perhaps if you could tell me what business you’ve got here?’

  From somewhere upstairs there is a crash, then shouting.

  Ellie takes a step forward but the woman blocks her with her body, the physical threat unmistakeable.

  ‘Perhaps you could give me some ID?’ she says. ‘It might be useful for us to know why you’re here.’

  Ellie moves back, suddenly aware she is shaking. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says, hating herself as she speaks the words. ‘I’ll come back later.’

  Driving home she has to fight to keep her anger and shame at bay, the argument she should have made circling in her head, her fury only increased by her impotence. How can things have reached the point where people just disappear, where there is no process or review, or recognition they were even here? How can it be that she is so weak she cannot help? How can they have surrendered so much to their worst natures?

  By the time she reaches the house her fury has leached away, leaving only emptiness. To the west the sun is already dropping behind the hills; inside she turns on the lights, walks through the empty rooms to her studio. Opening her screen she sees a message saying the first roughs of the sculptures and images for the installation have arrived; pulling them up she turns the sculptures under her hands, marvelling at them. They are beautiful, the chitinous shell of the eyes smooth beneath the yellow of the fur, the glistening transparency of the wings. Yet it is the one in flight she finds herself returning to, amazed by the way in which the legs fold under the body, so that a clumsy shape becomes something impossibly elegant.

  With a stab of sadness she realises she was right about the project’s strength. Once rendered many thousands of times their own size, the insects are transformed, made wondrous and strange. Likewise the close-ups of their faces – the blankness their eyes reveal when expanded both invite and repel identification; their unknowability is like a space into which one can fall, a reminder of the presence of otherness in the world, and of the loss of its passing.

  By the time she has finished examining the roughs it is dark, the sound of crickets rising outside. She should eat but she is not hungry. It is quite possible she will never hear from him again. The mistake is hers, of course, to allow herself to become attached to a man whose life is so parlous, who might disappear at any moment.

  Turning the overlays off and removing her lenses she returns to the kitchen, boils water for tea. But as she is warming the pot she hears footsteps outside. For a second or two she stands frozen in place, then, heart thumping in her chest, she races for the door.

  In the light from the hall he looks tired and rumpled, but unharmed.

  ‘You’re all right,’ she says, the words coming in a rush.

  He nods.

  ‘I thought . . .’

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was out checking the hives. And while I was there I saw the news about the arrests. I didn’t know what to do so I hid.’

  ‘Why didn’t you answer my calls?’

  ‘I was scared,’ he says.

  Ellie realises she is crying. ‘I was so frightened.’ Reaching out she clasps his hand in hers. ‘And the hives?’

  ‘They are okay. At least for now.’

  Unslinging his rucksack he draws out a small package. ‘Here,’ he says, holding it out to her.

  She takes it, and unpeeling the paper sees a piece of honeycomb.

  ‘It’s for you,’ he says. Raising it to her lips she closes her eyes and bites into it, the rush of sweetness filling her mouth. And when she opens her eyes Amir is still there, waiting for her.

  September 25

  I’m not really sure how to begin this so I’ll just begin. My name is Li Lijuan, and today is my sixteenth birthday. I suppose sixteen doesn’t seem all that old to a lot of people but it seems old to me, and it got me to thinking about how much I’ll actually remember when I’m old. I’ll have my lifelogs, obviously, and videos of the things I did and people I knew, but will I have anything to remind me what I thought or felt, or who I was? Because when I look at the vids of when I was eight or ten or even fourteen, all of that has already slipped away, and the only things left are pictures of people and places, half of which I don’t even recognise, and all the tags in the world won’t remind me of what I was like.

  So I’ve decided I’m going to keep a diary and write down what happens. The idea is it will be for me, so if I want to look at it next year or in a decade or when I’m a hundred, I’ll know what my life was like, what I was like. But since even if it is for me some intrepid archaeologist might recover it in a thousand years and want to know the facts, here goes. Like I said I’m Lijuan and I turned sixteen today. I live with my mum in Sydney, but when I was younger we lived in New Zealand and before that we were in Shanghai, although because we left China when I was two I don’t really remember that. I go to school up the road, at Newtown High, and I’m good at maths and media but pretty ordinary at anything involving science. What else? I have a best friend, Sash, I play the piano (badly – note to self, practise more) and on weekends I volunteer with one of the reclamation groups. And that’s about it. God I sound boring.

  September 27

  Came home this afternoon to find Mum back early from work. Turns out her sister in China is sick and she needs to go see her. While she’s gone I’m going to stay here on my own.

  September 29

  Spent today helping Mum sort things out so she can leave. I don’t know how long she’ll be gone, although things with my aunt sound bad, and Mum’s been talking to people in China pretty much nonstop since she found out.

  While she’s away I’ve agreed to do some of her work. Before I was born she trained as a nurse in China, but since we came here she’s mostly worked looking after kids and cleaning. For the past few years she’s been spending afternoons with a kid called Noah, who lives with his grandfather over near Redfern. I know all about Noah because Mum goes on about him all the time, Noah this and Noah that. Apparently he’s on the s
pectrum, but although he’s a bit odd he’s also super-bright. His grandfather is some kind of scientist – I met him once and he seemed nice.

  Noah’s sixteen, like me, and Mum’s been looking after him since he was twelve or thirteen. He probably doesn’t need to be minded any more but this year she and Noah’s grandfather agreed she’d do another year and so she is, but while she’s away I’m supposed to be doing it. I’m not sure the whole keeping an eye on Noah thing is really me, but Mum says I have to, so I guess I have to.

  October 1

  First afternoon with Noah. I went early so I could get to know the place and so I was there when he got home. Not sure what I was expecting but he wasn’t anything like it. For a start he’s Indian, or part-Indian – how Mum managed not to mention that I don’t know – and also, weirdly, not bad looking, although he isn’t comfortable around people.

  He must have known I was going to be there, but when he came in he just acted like I wasn’t there until I said hello, then he said hello as well and hurried through to his room.

  I know from Mum he spends most of his time in there, reading and working with his data. She says he used to play Twinmaker, but he stopped that and now he just reads and hangs out in Universe or one of the other virches.

  After about an hour I decided I wouldn’t see him again, but almost as I did he opened his door and came out into the kitchen. He mumbled a few words about food, but then he just stood there. It took me ages to work out he wanted to get to the fridge and I was in the way, so I stepped aside to let him through. I hadn’t noticed it until then but he’s super-thin under his clothes. I offered to make him a snack and he sort of lunged at the fridge and told me not to, he’d do it.

  I was a bit freaked out after that so I just sat back while he heated noodles. It was funny watching him after hearing Mum talk about him so much, he’s not what I expected at all.