by JT Lawrence
Johannesburg, 2021
Kirsten puts her watch up to the screen so the ATM can scan it. She draws her daily limit of ten thousand rand, hoping it will keep her going for the next few days. The machine thanks her for her business and ejects 20 perfumed five hundred rand notes. The cash is bulky but she can’t leave a credit trail. She checks over her shoulder for anything suspicious but everyone seems to be going about their regular lives without a clue of what hers has become.
She catches a communal taxi to Mbali Mall in Hyde Park. She can’t think of anywhere safe to go but when the taxi driver stops outside the shopping centre for another passenger, Kirsten jumps out, leaving the microchip hidden in the fold of the seat.
Usually she hates malls, but for now the soulless space and dazzling lights seem like a good idea. Polished floors, store staff too tired to smile and shopzombies bleached by the artificial light. The killer wouldn’t pump her full of bullets in front of all these people, will he? Still, she is cautious, keeps her head down and walks along the shop fronts, gazing at the window displays without seeing anything. She grabs a mask off a rotating display and uses it to cover her face.
Seth is walking, to kill time and get some air, and is twenty minutes away from home. Tuk-tuks and bike-cabs hoot at him as they pass, offering him a ride. Alba had just confirmed that their bugsweep has entered his apartment, so by the time he gets there it should have been given the all clear. It is just a precaution: so far as he is aware, no one at Fontus knows his address, but he was born with a healthy sense of paranoia and it has kept him alive and (relatively) unscathed up until now. What the fuck is going on at Fontus that they would remove Fiona and set armed security guards on him? Numbers stream through his head as he thinks of the files he had accessed there, the graphs, the summaries, all seemingly in order. What is it that they’re so desperate to hide? He will find out soon enough: he needs to get the samples to Alba HQ.
Her adrenaline flagging, Kirsten looks for a place to sit but is accosted by a Quinbot, AKA Stepford Wife. Despite her side-stepping it, the mannequinbot sidles up to her.
‘Hello Kirsten,’ it says. ‘How are you? Isn’t it a wonderful day?’
‘Jesus,’ says Kirsten into her mask. ‘Really?’
‘I’m sorry. Hello Jesus. How are you? Isn’t it a wonderful day?’
‘Leave me alone,’ says Kirsten.
‘Jesus, would you like to try on this SaSirro alpha-cut dress? It has a built-in corset that will accentuate your lovely body shape.’
‘No.’
‘The shimmer in the hemline adds grace to your movement, and—’
‘No, thank you, not interested.’
‘Jesus, if you look at the detail, you’ll see—’
‘Stop calling me Jesus.’
‘I have scanned your measurements. You have a lovely body shape. This is how the dress would look on you.’
The Stepford Wife grows a little taller, her bust shrinks by a cup, and her waist grows by a few centimetres. Her abs get softer, and her calves become more pronounced. Her hair is reeled into her scalp. Kirsten picks up her pace, but the bot keeps up.
‘Leave me alone,’ she says. ‘Scram.’ She looks around to see who is watching.
‘It has a built-in corset that will—’
‘Fuck off!’ she shouts, causing some nearby shopzombies to look at her. The bot stops and reverses. Its wide lipstick-smile doesn’t falter.
‘Thank you for your time,’ says the bot. ‘It’s always lovely to see you.’
‘Fucking bots,’ mutters Kirsten, jogging away. The last thing she needs is to cause a scene.
‘Don’t be a stranger!’ it calls out after her.
Mannequinbots are always getting abused: fondled, defaced, hacked, taken for trolley rides that invariably end up in some kind of accident, shoved into garbage removal chutes, stolen, decapitated. Kirsten has little sympathy.
She finds a hoverbench outside a Talking Tees shop. It seems to be a politically themed store; usually they’re more light-hearted. The four shirts in the window tell her, via rather basic animations, to ‘Beware The Net,’ ‘Boycott Bilchen,’ ‘Ban the SkyCar,’ and ‘Pray for Peace in Palestine.’ She prefers the more light-hearted shirts, ones with beautiful, evolving illustrations, and ones that tell you jokes. The problem with the joke-shirts, though, is that you have to walk past the person before you hear the punchline.
She opens the letter she found in James’s case. Her name is scrawled on the outside of the envelope.
Dear Kirsten, it says, in her abductor’s handwriting. When you find out the truth you won’t believe that we loved you, but we did, in our own way. It’s terrible to want to tell you the truth, because it puts you in danger, but the truth will out, I can feel it bleeding out of me already, and it’s better if you are warned. Your foster father, my pretend-husband of thirty years, heard us talking on the phone just now and—
Maybe he thinks they’ll spare him, but I know differently—
I don’t have long—I know they’ll be here any minute—who is to say no one else has confessed... I can’t be the only one who feels like this. Festering, about to burst.
The details aren’t important. Please know we truly believed we were doing the right thing.
This is important: What you must know is that I have now compromised the cell and if you don’t move now you will be removed from the programme—killed.
My God, what have we done?
Once you are safe, contact ED MILLER in Melville. He is my life partner & soulmate. We’ve been together for 26 years. He doesn’t know anything about GP, I spared him that much, but has a packet of info for you. Everything you need to know about why you were taken. You need to read this to understand why we did what we did.
You need to get rid of the tracking microchip (embedded in your scalp). You need to move countries. Just get on a plane, fly anywhere, for now. You need to do this without letting the police know. And you need to do this immediately. They will eliminate everyone in our cell, all seven children that were taken. Enclosed is a list of the others. I am sending this and a duplicate to the only other person I (shouldn’t but do) know in the programme, Betty Weil (Barbara). I have given her your address. You can’t trust anyone in the GP, but I had to take the chance. Warn them too, if you can.
Kirsten, one of them is your twin brother.
I’m sorry. Truly. We chose you because you were special. You were all special. God forgive me, and God help you. RUN.
Kirsten’s brain stumbles. All she can see on the page are the words ‘taken,’ ‘twin brother,’ and ‘RUN.’ Kirsten’s watch rings, snapping her out of her shock. It’s Keke.
‘Hey Cat,’ she says, ‘how are you doing? Hey, never mind. You’re alive. That’s the most important thing.’
‘Yes,’ says Kirsten, lowering her mask. ‘I guess so. I’m inside—’
‘Whoah! Don’t tell me where you are.’
‘Of course. I’ll buy a ’sposie.’
‘Good.’
‘You got anything for me?’
‘Ready for your rather interesting day to get a bit more... interesting?’
‘Impossible.’
‘What?’ says Keke.
‘What?’ says Kirsten.
‘What do you know?’ she asks.
‘I need a moment,’ says Kirsten, trying to think straight. ‘You go first.’
‘So FWB Hackerboy Genius found the other person on the list.’
‘Where is he? Joburg? Do you have an address?’
‘How did you know it was a he? And get this, you were right, he was born at the same clinic as you.’
‘I know,’ says Kirsten.
‘Wait, what?’
‘Just carry on,’ says Kirsten.
‘While Marko was hacking into some illegal tax shit to find his address, I checked the other names on the list and they—you—were all born at the same clinic.’
‘What kind of clinic was this?’
&nbs
p; ‘That’s exactly what I thought, so I looked into it, and according to Google and the National Health Authority it never existed.’
‘It never existed.’
‘Correct.’
‘So... I was born to a mother without a uterus in a clinic that never existed.’
‘Er... correct,’ says Keke. ‘In other words—’
‘In other words,’ says Kirsten, ‘she was not my mother and that is not my real birth certificate.’
‘It looks like it, yes.’
‘I was kidnapped,’ Kirsten finally whispers. Snatched. Abducted.
Keke is talking again; Kirsten tries to tune in.
‘... but I have a feeling this is just the beginning. It’s clear that someone will do anything to keep whatever this is, a secret. Get that disposable phone and we can meet up. We can look for this guy together.’
Seven people on the list, all with forged birth certificates. The first four on the list: dead. Five, six, seven alive: orange, pink, green (Grapefruit Skin, Baby Toe Pink, Camouflage).
‘Kitty Cat? Hello?’
‘No, it’s too dangerous. Stay where you are and keep looking.’
‘Will you at least phone James? I’d feel much better if he was with you.’ James hid the letter from her. Kirsten ignores the question. ‘You’ll bump me this guy’s co-ordinates?’
‘Yebo. Watch yourself!’
For a moment the danger fades and the realisation glitters before her: She has a twin. Unbelievable. But hadn’t a small, lonely part of her known all along? ‘RUN’ the letter says. Fuck. Fuck running away. She is going to find her twin.
Seth hasn’t received anything from Alba, so he waits outside, sure he’ll get the go-ahead soon. He still has a few bullets left in his gun, which is cold but reassuring against his palm. He keeps his head down, his hood up. Slips into the camouflage of pedestrian traffic, but the creep is headed straight in his direction.
He feigns nonchalance, flicks off his safety. The person is getting closer, closer, and Seth’s finger travels to the trigger. When the person is a metre away Seth finally looks up and is ready to fire.
There is a blast of light, and his mind scrambles to work out what has just happened. Has he been shot? Has he shot? He doesn’t remember pulling the trigger. But no one is hurt and there is a shock of a beautiful woman in front of him: a haunted look and a shaved head.
‘Seth Denicker?’ she says, breathless.
‘Who are you?’ They’ve never met but he feels as if he knows her. Kirsten’s body is vibrating. This man’s face, his presence, shakes her, she feels like she’s touched a live wire. There’s an immediate electric psychic connection.
Seth is paralysed by the magnetic field of this familiar stranger.
‘I’m...’ she starts. Could it really be true? But she knew it was, without a doubt. Every bit of her could see it, taste it, feel it.
You are my parallel life, she wants to say. I have always felt your existence echo in mine.
She pulls off her face mask.
‘I’m your twin sister.’
Journal Entry
6 December 1988, Westville
In the news: A limpet mine explodes in at the Department of Home Affairs in Brakpan. Bangladesh is devastated after the cyclone of December 2 – 5 million homeless and thousands dead.
What I’m listening to: Patti Smith’s Dream of Life.
What I’m reading: Keith Kirsten’s South African Gardening Manual
What I’m watching: Die Hard. I love Bruce Willis!
The garden is absolutely exploding with colour. P says he can’t believe it’s the same garden. I’m so proud of it. Durban weather is the best: heat to get things growing and blooming, and lots of rain to keep it going. Allamanda, Bougainvillea, Mandevilla, Plumbago. Now I understand the saying ‘riot of colour’. The babies and I spend some time in it every single day.
But besides the garden, there was a big celebration today! The twins turned ONE! We took them to Mike’s Kitchen and they both had a free ‘kids meal’ – a vienna and some chips with tomato sauce and then an upside-down ice-cream cone with a clown’s face on it. Kate has such a sweet tooth and loves ice cream so that was her favourite part. She said ‘green, green’ (even though the ice cream was white). The waiters sang happy birthday to them and gave them red balloons with ribbons (which Sam promptly popped with his teeth). It was so cute, he had this shocked look and he looked at us, not sure if he wanted to laugh or cry.
It was a wonderful day. While the kids were eating P put his hand over mine and gave me this searching look, as if to see where that awful vacant person is, and I smiled back as brightly as I could. That part of me is pushed deep inside and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it there.
Chapter 24
A Little Less Conversation
Johannesburg, 2021
Seth scrubs his scalp with his knuckles. It is obvious that this woman is insane, you can tell at a glance: head shorn, blood-stained. Of course, his head has been bleeding too, but... that wild look in her eyes. She does seem eerily familiar. No, not familiar, but similar. Looking into her flecked irises is like looking through a mirror into some parallel universe.
‘You what?’
‘Your sister. Twin. I think.’
‘You think?’
‘This is also new to me. I still don’t know what happened to us or what is going on, but I know that we’re both in danger.’
‘Look, lady...’ He puts his hand up and takes a step back.
‘I know! I know that I sound crackers. That’s what I thought about the woman who warned me, but then she turned up dead.’
‘Who’s dead?’
‘It’s not important. What you have to know is that there is a... list... and the people on the list are being killed, in order, and we are next.’
Too many teenage summer horror movies.
‘Bullshit,’ he says, and then, ‘by who?’
Kirsten takes the piece of paper out of her bag, hands it to Seth, who makes sure their hands don’t touch. Looks down, looks at her.
‘Lotto ticket?’
‘They’re barcodes. Of people. Look at five and six. That’s us—see our birth date? Everyone above us on this list has been murdered.’
‘What happened in 1991?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘Where on the list is the woman, the one that approached you?
‘Number four.’
‘So then I am five and you are six?’
‘So you believe me?’
‘No, but I’m naturally paranoid and I like patterns, and when I hear that someone is trying to kill me I pay attention.’
Seth’s rational side knows the story is far-fetched, but what if this is really his twin? His flesh-and-blood sister? Standing here with her feels right. There is an unmistakable connection. Against his better judgment he flicks the safety back on.
Kirsten looks at his face, wants to touch it, but all of a sudden he grabs her arms and throws her to the ground. As she opens her eyes a body crashes down onto the pavement next to her, where she was standing. In slow motion she watches black oil spread towards her, and just before it reaches her, Seth pulls her away from it and to her feet.
The dead man on the ground is young, twenty-something, black-clad with waxed spiky hair and smudged eyes. He lies with his mouth open towards the sky, a leg bent at an awkward angle. Seth bends over the warm body and searches his pockets. Kirsten wants to ask him what he is doing but her voice doesn’t seem to be working. Seth doesn’t find a wallet. He sees the glint of a locket, and looks inside: the smallest green rabbit glows at him.
‘Fuck,’ he says, ‘fuck!’ He rips off the locket, pockets it, grabs Kirsten’s hand, and they peel off into a charcoal alley.
A few blocks south, out-of-breath Kirsten manages to flag a cab. Before they get into the car, Seth makes a point of checking the cab driver’s licence.
‘You’re good at it,’ puffs Kirsten as they climb inside
.
‘Good at what?’
‘Being paranoid.’
‘Ha.’
Kirsten gives the driver the address of The Office.
‘I wouldn’t have—’ She motions to the driver. ‘checked.’
‘Ja, well, it comes naturally.’
‘Being paranoid comes naturally?’
‘Yip.’
‘Bad childhood?’
‘Is any childhood not bad?’
Kirsten hesitates. ‘I’d like to think so.’
‘Yours?’ he asks.
‘Actually, to be honest, I don’t remember a lot of my childhood, especially early on.’
‘Me neither. Our brains are programmed to forget bad stuff.’
‘So you’re a glass-half-empty kind of guy.’
He shrugs. ‘Depends what’s in the glass.’
Kirsten fidgets, plays with the ring on her finger, desperate to tell him about the microchip, knowing that every minute it stays in his head is a minute’s advantage they’ve lost, but she has to weigh up the consequences. Just another half hour, till I can show him some proof. Till then I need him to stick around. Instead she tells him about Keke.
Seth watches Kirsten talk, recognises himself in the anxious motions of her hands, the spinning of the ring on her finger. He feels impelled to do the same, but denies the urge. He pops a pill instead. She watches him do this, and without thinking, reaches for her own pills. She keeps forgetting to take them. She snaps the cap off the bottle, but before she can take one he grabs it out of her hand.
‘What is this?’ he demands.
She is shocked. ‘Um,’ she says, ‘a prenatal supplement.’
Seth studies the label: Dr Van der Heever, it says, PN supp 1 per day.
‘Prenatal?’ he asks, ‘so, you’re...’
‘Yes. Well, no. Been trying for a long time. No dice.’
‘Where did you get this from?’
‘Take it easy,’ she says, ‘my boyfriend filled it for me. He’s a doctor.’