Mila reached out for Ettie, despite Ettie’s cranky tone. As soon as Dad’s grip loosened, the toddler lunged across the space between them and flung her arms around Ettie’s neck. Max, inspired by Mila’s antics, made a dive for the floor. Ettie lowered them both to the ground, grabbed each of their wrists, and held tight.
‘See! You’re an excellent kid wrangler, Ettie,’ said Dad. ‘Do you think you could manage for five minutes while I check some prices? I’ll be quick.’
Ettie sighed. The relief on her father’s face was like sunshine after a storm.
‘You’re an angel. I’ll meet you at the directory board for Terminal 3 in exactly one hour.’
‘An hour is actually sixty minutes, not five.’ But her father had disappeared before she finished speaking.
This was not Ettie’s idea of a holiday. How could Dad have possibly imagined it was a good idea to take twin two-year-olds on a vacation that involved a twenty-three-hour flight and a five-hour layover in an international airport? It was the sort of torture designed to make Ettie wish she were an only child.
Ettie glanced down the long, shining mall. Thousands of people were moving along the concourse. Some were dragging suitcases, others browsing the shops, while further along the aisle, weary passengers were lying slumped or stretched out asleep in the lounge areas.
Ettie stopped in front of a display of brightly coloured clothes in a shop window.
‘I guess you can’t do too much damage in a clothing shop,’ she said hopefully.
She led the twins inside and kept them firmly corralled between her legs and a shelf of neatly folded T-shirts. When she’d picked out a couple of pale blue tops, she manoeuvred the twins into a changing room cubicle. The woman at the counter glared at her, but Ettie felt sure that if the twins would just sit by her feet for a few minutes, she could quickly try on the t-shirts.
Max and Mila pressed their faces against the mirror in the change booth and smiled at themselves. They licked the glass as if nothing tasted as good as their own reflections. Looming above them, Ettie stared at herself. The harsh glare of the fluorescent light made her skin seem blotchy; there was a new pimple on her cheek, and her hair looked oily and lank. Her jeans were too tight and she pinched the flesh above her hips with irritation and tugged at her bra, trying to straighten out her clothes so she wouldn’t look so lumpy. She was almost jealous of the way the twins admired their reflections. She hated her own. Her eyes were too far apart, her nose was too long and she loathed the dimple in her chin. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked in the mirror and liked what she’d seen. Had she ever been like Max and Mila, so admiring, so excited about the image the glass presented? The mirror seemed to flicker and gleam at her, throwing back the ugliest version of herself possible.
The twins were perfectly content to play with their reflections as Ettie peeled off her hoodie. It was only when she had her hands trapped in the long sleeves that she realised what a mistake she’d made. Suddenly, Mila dived under the door of the change booth and scuttled across the smooth tiles. Max followed her, even though Ettie clumsily tried to grab him by the ankle.
By the time she had shed her hoodie and thrown the door of the changing booth open, the twins were out of sight. She felt a momentary panic until she heard the shop attendant shouting. Max had pulled a pink silk scarf from a rack and was trailing it behind him while he pawed at a display of feathery accessories. Mila was almost out the door, her stubborn little head down as she tugged and pulled at the hem of a black satin dress worn by the mannequin in the window display.
After apologising and wrestling the twins into her arms, Ettie gave up on the idea of shopping.
‘One hour! What am I going to do with you for one whole hour?’
She wandered up the concourse to the information area, tugging on the twins’ tiny wrists as they squealed and giggled. Then they both went limp, dragging their knees across the smooth marble floor, forcing Ettie to pull their full weight.
Although the plush red seats looked comfortable, she kept away from them. The last thing she needed was for Max to wipe his nose on the textured velour and provoke someone else to glare at her. She stopped and studied the airport map. There were six terminals and hundreds of shops, restaurants and cafes, but nowhere that seemed safe when you had a pair of rampaging toddlers to manage.
‘What about the butterfly enclosure?’ she said, squatting down beside Max and Mila. ‘Would you like to see the butterflies flutter by?’ she asked, tickling Max under the chin.
Mila put her hands out and wiggled her fingers, ‘Budder-by,’ she said. Max laughed, ‘Budder-by,’ and then they both reached their hands up and clapped them together. ‘Swash ‘em,’ they shouted with glee. ‘Munch ‘em.’
‘No, you bad babies. No swashing budder-bys on my watch. And definitely no munching.’ The twins crowed with laughter and Ettie turned back to studying the map.
She wondered if Dad had factored in how long it was going to take them to get to Gate 137 to catch their next flight. She traced her finger along the grid of light rail that connected the terminals. It took seventeen minutes to get from Terminal 3 to Terminal 6. If she took the twins for a ride down to the gate, she could scout out exactly how long the round trip would take and still be back in time to meet up with Dad. At least it would keep the diabolic duo on the move.
‘Okay, team,’ she said. ‘Let’s check out how fast we can nail this trip.’
She found the long glass tube that was the light-rail station for Terminal 3. The doors slid open and a crowd of travellers with carry-on luggage surged into the train. Ettie herded the twins into a corner, away from the other travellers. At each terminal, the train disgorged passengers. By the time they left Terminal 5, the carriage was empty but for Ettie and the twins. Max began to whine, and Mila found her porta-cup in Ettie’s carry bag and tipped the contents onto the floor.
‘Mila!’ said Ettie. ‘Naughty!’
Suddenly, the lights of the carriage flickered and died. They were plunged into darkness. The twins let out a simultaneous wail, and Ettie let go of the safety rail and drew the toddlers tightly against her. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It’s just a power surge.’
But the train kept hurtling into the darkness. Ettie fumbled for her mobile phone and flicked it on. It cast a pale light across the frightened faces of the twins, but it didn’t pick up a signal.
‘Terminal 7,’ said the computerised announcer in Chinese, Spanish, English, Hindi and Arabic. ‘You are now arriving at Terminal 7.’
‘What happened to Terminal 6?’ Ettie asked the empty carriage as the lights surged back on and the train stopped. ‘Maybe we should just stay on board until it goes back.’
As if the announcer had heard her comment, the automated voice said, ‘This train is terminating at Terminal 7. Please disembark immediately.’
The doors slid open and Ettie and the twins stepped onto the platform. Terminal 7 didn’t look very different to Terminal 3, except it was eerily uninhabited.
The shops opposite were all shut, their windows dark. Ettie’s reflection in the black glass was disfigured by undulations in the surface. Even as she stared, her torso seemed to swell. She stepped closer and the image changed again, her belly ballooning as if she were pregnant, her face growing long and tired. The faces of the twins, distorted, grew rounder and pale, their open mouths like gaping maws, their eyes black holes in their faces. Ettie shuddered.
They walked slowly towards the brightly lit concourse of gleaming floors and high walls of glass, but not a single traveller was in sight. There wasn’t even any music playing in the background, and Ettie was unnerved by the sound of their feet slapping on the glittering stone. The information booth was empty, so she stopped briefly to study the terminal map for a light-rail timetable, but there was no timetable and the map was enormous, as if Terminal 7 was a city in itself.
The twins began to whimpe
r and Ettie’s arms ached from dragging them around. Beside the terminal map was a line of gleaming steel trolleys. There were baby strollers too, including a sleek, silver, rocket-shaped one especially designed for two. Ettie had never seen a stroller like it. Instead of one baby having to sit behind or on top of the other, the twins could sit facing each other. She unhooked it from the row and it glided smoothly into her grasp.
‘Perfect,’ said Ettie. She dumped Mila into a seat and strapped Max into the opposite side.
The stroller seemed to grow suddenly heavy, as if the wheels were made of lead, or gravity had altered. Ettie wiped away sweat that beaded on her forehead, put her head down, and doggedly manoeuvred the stroller into the main concourse.
The shops glowed, a soft light emanating from each window. Ettie was relieved to see that some of them were open. Cool air wafted from the entrances, but instead of the ghastly glare of the Terminal 3 shops, the interiors were golden and warm. Ettie caught her reflection in a shop window and stopped the stroller. The lighting was much more flattering here. Her skin looked smooth and flawless, her limbs appeared slimmer, her hips neater. She smiled and the gap between her teeth and the crookedness of them hardly seemed to matter at all. The scar above her left eye, the thin silvery line where she’d bumped her head on the table when she was three, had disappeared. Her long black hair looked silkier, her breasts fuller, the lumps and bumps of her hips and thighs pared down and svelte. If only she looked like this in every mirror, life would be so much easier.
Checking that the twins couldn’t escape, she parked the stroller outside the nearest open boutique clothing store and then stepped inside.
A tall, thin blonde stood at the counter, staring at a screen behind the cash register, her expression transfixed, like a mannequin’s, but her presence reassured Ettie. A heavy bassline throbbed through the speakers inside the shop, even though Ettie hadn’t been able to hear it when she was walking down the main arcade of the terminal. She drifted between the aisles of clothes and picked out an armful of skimpy tops and a pair of very short orange shorts. She’d normally never try on clothes that were so revealing, but the image of herself in every mirror made her feel more confident.
In the changing room, she was startled by what she saw. The girl in the mirror was perfect; sleek and sexy, her skin smooth, her eyes sparkling. Even the pimple on her cheek had vanished. She touched the mirror and the glass felt warm and soft, her fingers sinking slightly into its surface, as if the mirror wanted to suck her fingertips, to taste her beauty. She snatched her hand away, but she could still feel the pull of the mirror, like a magnet, drawing her to it. Her knees made contact with the glass and then her face. She was slipping into her own reflection and it felt wonderful. But suddenly, like a tiny spark in the back of her brain, a throb in the pit of her belly, she thought of the twins.
Ettie stepped back, threw open the changing room door and ran out of the shop. She was sure she’d parked the stroller to the left of the shop’s entrance, but it was nowhere in sight. She broke into a run. The air seemed heavier, holding her back, and her feet felt as if they were encased in concrete.
She shouted, ‘Max, Mila, Max, Mila!’ Her voice echoed against the atrium ceiling and came back to her like the screech of a wild bird.
From far away, she heard a sound like two cats howling, and she knew it was the twins. A flicker of movement caused her to spin around in time to see the rocket-shaped stroller hurtling down towards a pair of sliding doors beyond which lay a fiery gateway.
‘Final boarding call, final boarding call …’ boomed a voice.
‘No!’ shouted Ettie.
She took a deep breath and plunged through the thick air, gaining ground on the stroller. With her last ounce of strength, she leapt into the air, diving to catch the handle before it could glide through the sliding doors. The stroller fell on its side and Ettie wrenched it roughly towards her. The straps that held the twins in place snapped and they tumbled out onto the floor. They scrambled towards her and she swept the toddlers into her arms, clinging to them tightly. They were whimpering now, beyond screams.
‘Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone take you from me.’
Ettie turned and ran through the glittering arcade, back to the light-rail terminal. She caught her reflection in the mirrors as she ran. Her arms and legs had grown thick again, her black hair had lost its gloss and was matted and tangled. She didn’t stop. She kept running, running until she reached the light rail. To her relief, a train was drawing into the station. She elbowed the button by the doorway, not wanting to risk letting go of the twins. Nothing happened. She kicked the door and bellowed at the top of her voice, a wordless sound that contained all her rage.
The glass doors slid back and she jumped into the carriage. Ettie collapsed onto a seat, the twins held fast against her chest. They pressed their cheeks against hers and for the first time since leaving home, Ettie realised how much she loved them.
As the train pulled out of the station, she glanced back at Terminal 7. A dark-haired girl stood on the platform, staring at them as they disappeared from view. Ettie stared back. The girl was a mirror image of Ettie, the flawless, perfect version, a beautiful mannequin with a vacant expression.
Arctic Light
Vandana Singh
I was let out of prison on my seventeenth birthday. That was yesterday.
Eight months ago I was a different person. Everything was different. There was, for instance, the light of sun on snow, the endless sea, the sky of the Arctic. I thought I was brave, a rebel taking on the greatest cause in the history of humankind. On the ship Valiant, sailing from northern Canada to the East Siberian Sea, the light reminded me of a certain look I remembered in my mother’s eyes. Angry as I was with the world, I felt a kind of peace here, a momentary easing of breath.
I remember, when we got to our destination, how the oil rig was a tiny blip in the border between sea and sky, a crooked arm raised up, a scarecrow. TundraSaur’s rig was only the second major oil-drilling operation in the Arctic, but the world’s oil companies were desperately scrambling for permits to start drilling. Beside me on the deck, Natalia stared at the shoreline of her country, her jaw set. Her hair was streaked with grey, and there was a scar on her jawbone shaped like a sword. She had led several protests in Russia and had been in prison twice. We had barely spoken to each other for the past three days – she was angry with me for insisting I would take part in the action, and had told me horror stories of prison life. Her anger was no match for my obstinacy, although if I hadn’t lied about my age the others would not have supported me. Tentatively I reached out and pressed her hand where it clutched the railing. She didn’t look at me or smile; just nodded, patted my hand, and went inside. A truce of sorts.
We dropped anchor just outside Russian waters. Now the rig loomed large before us. There were four security boats reconnoitring the waters around it. Natalia spoke to them in rapid Russian over the radio. ‘We come in peace,’ she said, ‘to protest the drilling for oil in the Arctic. We are currently at anchor in international waters.’
A man replied belligerently in Russian.
‘He’s just warning us we’ll be arrested if we enter Russian waters,’ Natalia said. Now the game was afoot.
The night before the action felt to me like the last night in the world. I had volunteered to be among those courting arrest because I wanted to bring climate change to the attention of the Indian public. Although there was a national action plan on climate, the government was building coal-fired power plants as though there was no tomorrow. (With that much fossil fuel being burned, there wouldn’t be.) All the work of scientists like my mother, all their warnings, had gone to nothing. Reading the news about cyclones and floods, heatwaves and freak storms was bad enough. When the sea came for Mumbai, breaching the new sea wall and sweeping away the familiar streets of my childhood, it brought horrors from which even Fahad Uncle couldn’t protect m
e. I was haunted – by my mother’s eyes, when she lay dying, by the memory of walking through waist-deep floodwaters, terrified I’d be swept away. In my nightmares I heard the roar of the water, felt Mona’s hand slip from mine, again and again. Fahad Uncle shouted, grabbed me, made a leap for her, but the current was too strong. There were snakes in the water, and the distended bodies of slum children, and, once, a pink plastic doll with bright orange hair, smiling maniacally. Three years later there are still nights I can’t sleep.
But that last night before the action, I was awake for a different reason. My responsibility was to help unleash the webstorm, an extreme cyberweather event that would come in like a cyclone, sweeping into other conversations and connections, not by force but by the power of social media and crazy network geometry. I was crazy-network-geometry girl, on deck with my laptop and twitchy fingers, waiting for our tech team to let the drones go.
The drone lights were dimmed to a barely perceptible glow. We sent them off fondly, with a bottle or two of wine. On my screen you could see the locations of the drones, little yellow blinking lights, the seeing eyes of the world. With a touch of my finger, the Million Eyes Inner Collective around the world woke up in Dhaka and Rangoon, Boston and Vladivostok, Oslo and Berlin. Questions and answers popped on the screen like firecrackers.
We can’t see anything!
Well, it’s night over there, moron!
I see some lights! Is that the rig?
No, it’s effing aliens. Of course it is the rig.
We go worldwide as soon as action starts in the morning.
That morning, Natalia and I and Fabio and Aarne got in the little boat with the banner and the megaphone. In the cold pre-dawn light, with pink streaks in the eastern sky, the water was very still, as though the world was waiting. We could hear, faintly, signs of early-morning activity on the rig, and someone on one of the security boats calling out. Our boat was so small they didn’t see us until we were quite close to the platform. We let the banner go. It rose like a ghost while Natalia worked the remote, up and up, until it made contact with the top part of the rig and stayed there. The letters were so huge that you could still see what they said from down below, in English and Russian: TundraSaur: Continuing the Proud Tradition of Destroying the Earth.
Eat the Sky, Drink the Ocean Page 7