They settled into a nice, destructive routine of pretending each other did not matter or even exist. Twenty-four months of that dulled her instincts with him. It came as a big surprise when the surveillance jockeys brought the footage.
Wande as insurgent. Wande as distributor of seditious literature, as collaborator with enemies of state. Wande as composer of leaflets for Bicycle Girl, conspiracy theorist and searcher.
Femi pauses to drink coffee. ‘There were clumps of followers of the girl here and there. She popped up like an alien abducting some, preaching her version of utopia, a version with which the President emphatically did not agree. I did not blame him; it was nine months to the election.
‘I had been kept informed of the progress of tracking Wande’s cell, but could not be involved for obvious reasons. For a time even I came under suspicion and experienced a rash of subtle surveillance and interdepartmental innuendo. I endured it like a bout of herpes and continued to work with customary diligence. If there is nothing to find, there is no reason to fear the observing eye. I treated it as a minor irritation and it went away.’
She found out from reading a classified bulletin. Six dead, arms tied, shots to the back of the head, unknown perpetuators, one Wande Alaagomeji identified as victim. Femi did not react, though she felt sorrow. The death squad wasn’t S45’s style and it probably came from an entirely different department who had access to the information.
She had been drawn to the extra-natural elements of S45 at the time, learning fragments about different aspects of her work, the reborn, the witches, the psychics, especially shifts. In-house psychiatrists thought it was a displacement of the mourning process. An interest in the occult after a death in the family is almost a cliché, they said. Weeks after Wande’s burial, Femi had the idea to create a mass grave for the purpose of testing finders.
‘Which brought me to you, Kaaro. Possibly the best finder in Nigeria and hence the world, but a plebeian who loves the good things of life, a wine biber and satyr, filthy and completely lacking in probity.’
I giggle. ‘One day soon, you’re going to change your mind about me.’
‘That is an honour that I dream not of,’ says Femi. ‘Will you stay and help me find Bicycle Girl?’
‘Sorry, Femi. I’ll find the girl and hear her point-of-view. I still don’t trust your organisation.’
‘We don’t exterminate.’
‘Maybe. Maybe you don’t, but other branches of government do, and they have access to your data. I’m sorry.’ I start to make my way out.
‘This is unwise,’ she says.
‘Like most other things I’ve done in my life,’ I say.
At first I think Femi will organise people to follow me, but she doesn’t. There are other crises on her mind. I do not fool myself, I know she will get around to me at some point.
I know where to find Bicycle Girl. I know where she will be.
A bus drops me, literally. It is still moving when I step off the danfo. It is early in the evening and people are milling about the market. I wait for a gap in the traffic, and cross to safety. The square is lined with shops that all face a cast bronze statue of Oduduwa, the founder of Yorubaland. Most stalls are simple wooden structures with corrugated iron roofing. Some traders have gone home for the day. Others sell savoury snacks and food, especially boli sold in paper and garnished with fiery-hot pepper sauce. Boli is roasted plantain, and it is usually sold with roasted peanuts. The aroma dominates the air. I have no money, so I ignore my watering mouth.
The occasional constable walks a beat, but with no expectation of action as violent crime is virtually zero. The local newspaper, The Clarion, reports domestic spats, contamination of the water reservoir by pranksters, visits by national dignitaries, and the release of the latest implant technology. Most people get their news from the Nimbus on their phones and ignore the highly censored and pre-digested bulletins.
There are paper bills on several telephone poles, and they hold a sketch of a young woman with Afro-puffs. ‘Have you seen Oyin Da? Have you heard her message of light? The Science Hero of Arodan Lives!’ Beneath this a phone number blazes in red marker. I kick myself for not memorizing the number of the crazy man I spoke to before for comparison.
I walk among the citizens, return the greetings of those who greet me. A stray dog barks at me and charges in a fitful way before finally breaking off. Up in the sky there are early stars and the ungainly blob of the Nautilus, that failed space station.
A gaggle of teenage girls giggles past me. Their fingers are chest height and they depress each digit as if with invisible keyboards. They have dactylo-implants and text with a linked keyboard only visible on their contact lenses or glasses. Too much metal in them for my liking. I hate implants.
I find an empty stall and wait. I am uneasy. Something is going on inside me, inside my mind. I am getting flashes of … images, impressions, smells, tactile phenomena. They last seconds, but are distinct from the wide array that led me to the market in the first place.
I see them after twenty minutes. Two men, three women. They do not exactly glow and I do not hear the Hallelujah Chorus, but I know them as distinct from the other shoppers and straggler traders. They do not mill or window-shop. They have lists and buy what they want without haggling. Their fashions are about a decade out of date. They are furtive, but trying not to appear so. They never lose line of sight to each other, I notice. It’s as if an invisible thread connects them. They root, looking up after buying to be sure the others are within reach.
I am careful about watching them. It seems to last forever, but on giving and receiving an unseen signal they converge and leave the market area. I follow behind at a safe distance. I have no bag of goods, for which I am irritated because it makes me obvious. I grab a green beer bottle and slow down, try to give the impression of a drunk, but sure I’m fooling nobody.
They pass down an alleyway between two houses. It opens into a field denuded of grass by local kids playing football. They walk diagonally across the pitch towards nothing at first, but I can feel a convergence of possibilities. This is it.
A brightness appears and they do not hesitate, but aim for it. I do a quick calculation and realise I won’t make it. One by one they start to disappear into the light. I start to run. There are only two of them left, now one. Before the light swallows the last one I leap, catch hold of one of the bags. It feels cold and bursts open, showering me in cutlets of beef. I lose balance and end up on the ground.
The ground is now concrete and all five of the people surround me. I pick meat off my face. A woman stands in front of me. She wears overalls and has her hair in Afro-puffs. I know who she is and she does not seem surprised to see me.
‘Wait right here and remain still,’ she says.
She turns, darts to the side of a machine panel, reaches into a scabbard, and draws a double-barrelled shotgun. She points this at my face and talks to the others.
‘Move away from him. This will make a mess.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Rosewater: 2066
I’m seated on the road a metre and a half away from the burning building. My hearing is back, sort of.
As usual, the fire brigade has engines but no water. The firemen are in uniform and do not seem embarrassed at all by the empty hoses on their truck. Their expertise is directed to organising the numerous local men and women who turn out with containers of water and white sand. Between them they put the fire out. The smouldering mess is the embodiment of hopelessness. The walls are still standing, but the roof has caved in and all windows lack glass. I am coughing from the smoke, but uninjured. About fifteen COB hawks rest on cars, walls, and ledges close by, observing, sending information to servers. Two more circle overhead. A few steps away from me the security guard who waved her in sits staring at his shoes. In his hand is the burst football the street kids were playing just before the blast. The dead are lined up on the ground, uncovered. Most of them have lost one or both shoe
s and I find that puzzling. Even more puzzling is that I cannot locate Aminat.
In the xenosphere there is no sign of her, but that does not necessarily mean she is dead. The explosion may also have burnt off the xenoforms in the air, so the network may be growing back slowly. Her telephone goes to voicemail.
People make attempts to look after me and I am overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers, but I do not need or want it. I am not a sentimental person generally, but I feel deep sorrow at Aminat’s luck. Why was there a bomb at her office? Was this aimed at me? God, Aminat, what the fuck? My chest actually hurts, and I think I might be having a heart attack, until I realise it’s just grief. My heart is beating as if I have a small bird in my chest, but it feels as heavy as lead. I need a drink or something. I breathe, and the pain abates.
‘Mr. Kaaro?’ said a voice.
I look up to see a young local militia man standing over me. Three other armed men in uniform stand behind him at parade rest.
‘It’s just Kaaro. What can I do for you?’
‘You’re to come with us to the Department of Agriculture, sir. Orders.’
‘My girlfriend just died,’ I say.
‘Which one is she?’ he says, pointing to the corpses.
‘Her … she hasn’t been found yet.’
‘Then I’m sorry. We have to take you back. It’s orders. I promise I will come back to get her for you.’
I take one last look at the depleted blaze. As I follow the man I think again of quitting S45.
There’s a new guy at Ubar. His name is Badmos and he sweats a lot. His handshake is wet. He says he is my new handler. I find him obsequious, slick, smiling. I will no longer have direct access to the director.
‘It was an anomaly, really. The only reason Alaagomeji had direct contact with you was because you were there when she got promoted.’
‘She didn’t get promoted. Everyone senior to her got—’ I try to say more, but cough instead. It comes from deep inside my chest.
‘You better do something about that cough,’ he says, smiling, but with a hidden edge that says it’s not a suggestion. ‘It’s important to, eh, to finish up this business.’
‘Why? Why is it important? Do we now know what he’s up to?’
‘Do you want to be thought of as lazy?’
‘I find that the older I get, the less I care what people think about me. I only care what a small number of people think, and that number is dwindling daily.’
‘Eh, you are talking about Aminat, your paramour. Well, you’ll be pleased to know her body was not recovered from the debris. She was not in the building.’
‘Were you starved of oxygen at birth? I saw her walk in, Badmos. I was right there.’
‘Twelve deaths, three minors, all accounted for. Your girl, Aminat Arigbede is not there. We’ve queried servers for her implant information, but that will take time.’
What?
‘For now, I need you to finish up here. Find out what this guy is up to.’
I pick up nothing from this Badmos, but that doesn’t mean much. He may have scrubbed with medicated soap and moisturised with ketoconazole. Why else would he be meeting me unprotected?
‘I’m not of a mind to do this right now, Badmos.’
He places a proprietary and sweaty hand on the back of my shoulder. ‘Not optional, Kaaro. I’ve read your file and heard good things about you. I’m sure you can wrap this up in a single session.’
I enter a room with my mind in turmoil because of Aminat. Tolu Eleja is seated with the white noise headphones on. He is dressed this time, and his wounds have had time to heal. I feel kinship with him since I am healing too. He has not been beaten in my absence. I indicate to the agent that the noise should be stopped. Eleja licks his lips nervously, like he knows what’s coming.
I start. Nothing happens. I hear a whirr of some climate control devices somewhere in the building and the rushing of my own blood in my ears, but I have no access to the xenosphere. I try everything. Deep-breathing, forced hyperventilation, mindfulness meditation, fantasy image flood, distraction, and nothing works. I try to call Molara mentally in desperation. She does not answer.
‘I need to have a shower,’ I say to the agent, and this may even be true. Sometimes with prolonged use ketoconazole builds up in the skin to such an extent that the xenoforms cannot form links to our skin. Theoretically. This has never happened to me.
Washing makes no difference. I use scalding hot and ice cold water but all is, as they say, vanity. The mirror is frosted over and I clean it with my forearm and stare at myself. I slap my own cheek. ‘Come on, fuckface. What are you playing at?’ I headbutt the mirror, checking if it will jar my abilities into working or shake something loose.
I slide to the floor.
I could pretend. I could write up a bogus report. I already know that Eleja is up to something, and that he’s trying to hide it from anyone poking around his head. I can make up a paragraph or pages of shit and leave. Problem is it might conflict with whatever concrete information they have. So what? This isn’t an exact science. It isn’t even a science. I cough and I can taste blood in the phlegm I swallow. I’m sick.
I doze off and find myself with Professor Ileri in the classroom where he taught me and the other raw sensitives. Or maybe in sleep whatever blocks me from the xenosphere is removed. It feels like a dream. Ileri stands in front of the class. I sit in the front row because I’m older than the others and I have no time for their classroom antics.
‘You are dying, Kaaro,’ says Ileri.
‘No, I’m not. I have smoke inhalation.’
‘You were coughing before the explosion, remember?’ Ileri is patient, always has been.
‘What is killing me?’
‘The same thing that killed all the rest,’ he says, and points to the rest of the class.
I look and see that all the other students are dead. Their corpses are posed in the seats, but they are all in various stages of decomposition.
‘What can I do?’ I ask.
‘Call in your favour,’ he says. ‘And wake up.’
I’m on the floor of the bathroom and an agent is shaking me. ‘Thank God, I thought you were dead,’ she says.
‘Wait around a bit longer. Your thoughts might be correct,’ I say, and get up.
In the end I tell Badmos the truth, or a version of it. I say because I’m unwell I can’t read Eleja. He releases me. I immediately think of contacting Ileri.
Professor Ileri has retired, of course. He must have been about sixty back in ‘55. He is probably under milder surveillance than others. The address I have places him in Ilesha, Osun state. Ilesha has existed since just before the 1700s. The city is known for cleanliness and order, not civil, but geometric regularity. That’s for outsiders. People from Ilesha are also known to be stubborn and hard-headed, exemplified by the statue in the town square of the hardest motherfucker you have ever seen wielding a machete and garlanded with charms. That statue says if you fuck with us, we will fuck you up. It definitely is not there to welcome visitors.
Ilesha is an hour from Rosewater. I hope to be in and out before S45 notices I’m gone. I have to speak to Ileri. I’m driving along Iwo Road, five minutes to Ileri’s last known address, when a quadcopter appears in front of me, matching my speed, not doing anything. I’m trying to decide a course of action when two more appear at the sides of my car. In the rear mirror I see one more. I slow to a halt. I’ve pushed my luck too far.
I hear noise now, and the grass on the side of the road bends under invisible weight. A larger aircraft, a helicopter.
I start to come out of the car, but an alarm goes off.
‘Stay where you are, Kaaro, or we will kill you.’
Here we go again. What did I say about Ilesha? They do not fuck around. I stop breathing just in case my movement is misconstrued.
Three hours later I’m back in Rosewater, in my flat, an official reprimand on my record. I’m staring out of the window where
I see four reanimates happening along my street. No matter how efficient the special detachment, there are always reanimates all year round. They don’t hide, they are just ubiquitous. Not all are dangerous. I know people who swear they are harmless and only reflect the emotional states around them. I know that to be bullshit, but what’s more ridiculous is movies that have them eating brains or raw living flesh. Why the fuck would they do that?
I’m drinking tepid water. I’ve been coughing, but not bringing up phlegm. The water helps, but not much. My wrists are bruised in a circular fashion from the handcuffs those Ijesha cops put on me. It’ll pass. It’s not the first time I’ve been bruised from fetters.
My phone rings, unknown number. I’m not expecting any calls.
‘Go dark,’ I say, and my apartment hides itself from surveillance by sending out virtual chaff, nonsense information based loosely on how I protect the xenosphere by reading classic literature into it. The windows vibrate gently. The apartment emits subtle wavelengths that discombobulate cameras.
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Are you secure?’ Familiar voice.
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘I heard you paid me a visit today,’ says Ileri.
‘Prof!’
‘It’s odd speaking to you like this. I had a dream a few days ago that you and I were working on a machine together. In the dream I knew what the machine did and we were both happy, creating it, but I woke up and the details faded.’
‘How are you, sir?’
‘I am more dead than alive, my boy. There are still enough people in the organisation that feed me information, which is how I heard about your stunt today. What were you thinking? Nobody’s going to allow you and I to be in the same airspace, you know that.’
‘Desperate times, sir.’
‘I see. And what has made so this desperate?’
I tell him everything, though in shorthand, and edited to remove culpability on Femi’s part. After all, nostalgia aside, it’s been more than ten years since I last saw Ileri and I have no idea where his loyalties lie.
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