by JT Lawrence
A woman’s gasp rings out, and concerned strangers come to surround her. Ambulances are called, CPR is administered, but the woman dies within the minute. A white-haired toddler is held back, not kicking and screaming as you’d expect, but dumb with shock.
The strangers stand distraught, arms by their sides, not knowing what to do next. Just terrible. What a tragedy. They begin framing the story in their minds, to tell spouses and friends later. They think of how to word it in their respective status updates. Where is the ambulance? They have children to mind, places to be. One bystander, a large man with a scarred arm, gives up on finding a pulse and walks away. Furtively, he strokes the soft stuffed rabbit he has hidden under his jacket. Chopping of the sky can be heard in the distance: the heli-vac approaching. It forms the intro to the song that starts in his head. He hums along—Pink Floyd?—and doesn't look back.
***
Betty arrives at work slippery with sweat. She has no option but to run to her grind at Propag8 now that the taxi drivers are trying to kill her. She bought an electric car, but they keep trying to booby-trap it. Every time she puts her thumb on the ignition switch, she closes her eyes and waits for the explosion. Every time the car starts without blowing up, she knows it's just a matter of time. That she has bought one more day. That they are watching her, waiting for the perfect time to detonate her life.
Betty can’t handle the daily anxiety, the red-wire-or-black-wire stomach cramps she gets, waiting to be blown to high heaven. Not that she believes in heaven. Not that she believes anything, except the voices in her head.
So she can’t drive the car, but she can’t sell it either, because that would entail meeting up with someone and giving him her bank details. Even if she trusted banks—which she doesn’t—she won’t want to give those details out to a stranger. She’ll have to drive it to an abandoned shopping mall in Fourways and park it there, wipe it down so that there are no fingerprints. No DNA. Because nowadays if you give someone your dynap code, you may as well just hand them everything you own.
Danger everywhere. Can't drive to work, can't catch a ride, so she has to run. Same thing goes for grocery shopping. No wonder she's lost so much weight. Sometimes when she looks in the mirror, she's shocked by the haunted skeleton that stares back at her. She probably wouldn't even buy groceries if it weren't for her beagle. It's not the first time the dog has saved her life.
Betty uses her wafer key to get into her office, closes the door behind her, and cranks down all the blinds. She pulls out a few hotwipes to remove the sheen of perspiration she feels all over her body. She scrubs her face and under her arms and is about to sit down when a male voice crackles into the room.
“Betty.”
She shoots up before her pants even touch the chair.
“Yes?” She’s still not used to the disembodied voices of her colleagues beaming into her office like this. As if they’re sitting in a control room, like a god, observing her every move. As if she’s a cat in a Schrödinger dream.
Is she alive, or dead? She pinches her forearm and welcomes the pain. She’s alive. She doesn’t know how much longer that’ll be true, but today, this minute, she is alive. It won’t last long, so it’s a bit like being alive and dead at the same time.
She’s asked them to refrain from using the Voice Beam in her office, because of her condition, but sometimes they forget. Or maybe they just don’t care that she already has enough voices in her head to deal with, without adding staff announcements like There will be tea and zucchini cake served in the Dahlia Room at 11:00 and Please don’t forget to lock your desks when you leave for the day, as if she needs reminding. If there is one thing Betty is good at, it’s locking up.
"Betty," repeats the voice.
"Yes!" She looks around the room, expecting to see hundreds of swivelling eyeballs in the ceiling, staring down at her. She imagines the sound they would make, and she shudders.
“Mandla here. Please come to my office.”
“Uh oh,” whispers Betty. “That doesn’t sound good.”
She glances at her snakewatch. Yes, she’s late for work again. Of course she’s late! Her manager would also be late for work every day if he had to run a marathon just to show up. When she’d told Mandla her problem, he had been understanding. He knew her diagnosis, knew she needed to do things her way. He was—mostly—willing to overlook her compelling eccentricities. But now he’s called her to his office, and she doubts it’s for a promotion.
Betty knocks on his glass door and jumps away as it slides open. Her manager looks up with a ghost of a smile. He motions for her to come inside, and the door closes soundlessly behind her.
"Betty." He's friendly but firm. "Take a seat."
She continues to stand. “You’re firing me.”
Mandla stops smiling. “I’m sorry.”
“I understand. I’m two hours late.”
“It’s not just about being late. I’m happy to give you the flexitime you need. I just think—”
Betty stares at him. Part of her wants to put him out of his misery, tell him it’s okay, she’s glad she won’t have to run so much anymore, or deal with insensitive colleagues, or taste the awful office decaf again. The other part of her wants him to squirm. She’s given most of her adult working life to this place. She’s responsible for the most groundbreaking accomplishments they’ve achieved, and what does she get in return? A simpering idiot telling her she needs to get help. Because that’s what he’s going to say, isn’t it?
"I think you need to focus on getting well. Perhaps some additional treatment for your … condition."
“What do you know about my condition?”
“I know that when I met you, you were the brightest, edgiest biohorticulturalist I had ever met. You started programmes here that were light years ahead of any other seed storage facility in the world.”
Betty stares at him. “It doesn’t matter, though, does it?”
He hits the desk with his palm, and Betty jumps.
“Of course it matters!” Mandla says, and he seems to mean it. His expression is tight with regret. He sighs and sits back in his chair, resigned. “It matters.”
Betty stares at him while her voices whisper in her head. She ignores them.
“You’re wrong,” she says, and leaves his office.
***
“Come on, girl,” Betty says to the beagle she’s dragging on her red lead. The hound’s not in a hurry: she’s enjoying the impromptu walk, the companionship, the thousand different scents steaming from the hot sidewalk. The beagle looks up at Betty, panting, happy, and Betty softens the line. It’s not the dog’s fault she’s in a hurry. Usually Betty wouldn’t bring her out on a mission like this—it slows her down—but the beagle started whining and crying when she was getting ready to leave her flat, which made Betty blanch with guilt. Then she’d felt some kind of evil, some kind of invasion, and suddenly her home had looked different—as if someone had come in while she was sleeping and replaced all her furniture with exact copies. Her favourite wingback chair looked like the original, it even had the coffee stain on the arm, and the dog-claw scratches on the stained timber legs, but Betty knew it was an imposter. She’d inspected it, even got down on her bony knees to sniff it—which the beagle had thought was a game and joined in—and even the smell was spot-on. How did they get that right? These creeps … these creeps are not to be underestimated. These people are very good at what they do.
Then she'd noticed the painting on the wall—a landscape by a local artist picked up years ago at the Rosebank Flea Market—looked different, too. The scudding clouds were moodier, and there was something wrong with the shade of the sky.
It's just a matter of time before they get her. Maybe she shouldn't give them the satisfaction. Maybe she should kill herself. It'll be better than waiting around like a sitting duck.
Yes.
That is what she'll do, but first, she has to warn the others. The envelopes tremble in her hand.
***
Betty watches from afar as the funeral party leave the building. She's sweating, sweating, always sweating, despite the reprieve from the too-hot sun the tree's shade offers her. Her SPF100 is leaking down her cheeks. One day they'll be playing with the weather and the sun will explode and kill them all.
“What are you doing here?”
The man’s terse voice startles her, sending her heart racing even faster than before.
"Holy!" She coughs in shock and knocks at her chest with her white-knuckled fist. "You gave me such a fright."
James doesn’t apologise. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He’s wearing a dark suit, an elegant cut.
Betty tries to swallow the dryness in her mouth. A velcro furball of anxiety. “I tried sending Kate the letters. I don’t think she’s getting them.”
“Her name is Kirsten.”
“She needs to know.”
“No. She needs to be protected from your paranoid delusions.”
“Don’t you see it? Don’t you see what’s happening?”
James’s jaw muscles flicker under his skin. “Please leave.”
“They’re closing down the cell!”
James looks around, maybe hoping that no one will see them talking. “I’ve asked you before to leave us alone—”
“Christ. Can you not hear what I am saying? We’re on the list. They will kill us all!”
“No,” says James, glancing over at the funeral party. “Kirsten’s parents were killed in a botched burglary.”
Betty chokes. “I know you don’t believe that.”
She swipes at the sweat that's running down her temples.
“Look,” says James. “I know you’ve been having some … health issues.”
Betty hisses at him through her clenched jaw. “You’ve been watching me. I knew someone was watching me.”
“I haven’t been. Propag8 made a statement in the Science Journal, that’s all. Said they have granted you a medical hiatus. Your work is famous, whether you like it or not.”
“Don’t try to turn this around.”
“I’m not. I’m … offering help.”
“You’re going to try to bribe me. To keep quiet.”
James shakes his head, ruffles his soft blond hair. His eyes arrest hers. “Please, Betty.”
“Betty-Barbara,” she says. “Kirsten-Kate.”
“Kirsten’s been through enough. Please don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”
He turns away from her and starts walking back towards the TreePod building.
“How many, James?” she calls after him.
He stops and turns around. Annoyance flashes on his face. “What?”
“How many people will have to die before you pay attention?”
* * *
Betty stands under a silver birch. It’s a young tree, recently planted, but it casts enough shade to keep her from the maniacal sun, and the blistering bark is proving interesting enough for her beagle to investigate. It’s Betty’s first time at CityLeaf. She usually avoids botanical gardens and parks, despite her profession—or, as she has to continually remind herself, her previous profession.
Too many strangers; too much open space. It makes her feel so flesh-coloured and vulnerable. A skinned rat. A baby bird thrown out of its nest by a storm. A snail pulled from its shell. How do these other people cope, she wonders, as they skip by her in their athleisure gear and designer superbug masks that match their tin water bottles. How do they not feel the continual oppressive thrust in the atmosphere that threatens to flatten Betty against the ground?
The beagle has sniffed enough of the tree’s scent history now, and strains against her leash, almost choking herself, trying to get to the next object to explore. Betty winds the handle of the leather lead tightly around her bony hand.
"Wait," she whisper-scolds, not wanting to give up the shelter of the leaves overhead, or her view. She's watching Kirsten sit on a hoverbench in the kids' playground area. The jungle gym equipment is bright and new, and utterly empty of children. Kirsten hasn't moved in twenty minutes, and her face remains blank. The picture spooks Betty, but she can't tear herself away.
Has Kirsten/Kate received the letter she posted to her? If not, surely she got the one she had pushed under her apartment door?
The dog whimpers, lamenting the trove of lost opportunities just out of her reach. The sound skewers Betty with guilt. She's such a good girl, not much of a guard dog, but loyal to a fault. She bends over to stroke the hound’s head, scratches her neck, then digs in her jacket pocket for a bone-shaped biscuit, but comes up empty-handed.
Empty pocket.
Frustrated, Betty sighs and closes her eyes. Kirsten hasn't got any of the letters or the keys. If she had, she wouldn't be sitting in an open park like this, presenting herself as such an easy target. If she'd received one of the envelopes, she would have gone straight to the Doomsday Vault, but Betty knows she hasn't.
She’s not received the warnings, and there’s no time to send more. Betty will have to approach her directly. This is not what she wanted. The idea makes her sweat, and she wipes the perspiration off her top lip with a bent finger that smells of warm leather and dog skin.
The leaves above her move in the breeze, whispering silver threats. Betty ignores the voices. She has to focus. She has to keep her mind clear.
The way forward is obvious: Betty will have to force her hand.
The beagle strains and lets out a high-pitched whine. When Betty opens her eyes again, Kirsten is gone.
* * *
Betty checks the locks on her door for the fifth time. They’re locked, but checking them makes her feel safer. She has to do things that make her feel safer.
She sits in front of her blank homescreen but realises the remote isn't working. Betty shakes the remote around a little, tries again. Then she opens up the back and makes sure the batteries are in place. Takes them out, puts them back in. Still, the glass stays clear. Betty gets up to check its connections and sees it's unplugged. She picks up the plug and moves it towards the wall but stops when she reads an orange sticker covering the electrical outlet and switch: 'Don't watch TV.' It's in her handwriting.
Yes, television is not good for me. She should get rid of the screen, but it was expensive, and she abhors waste. The voices are the reason she can't watch anymore. They tell her to do things. Soap opera stars, talk show hosts, newsreaders. They tell her that creeps are trying to kill her, blow up her building, decimate the country. They make her write letters to people, telling them they are in danger. Politicians, local celebrities, airlines.
The police have been here before. They were rough until she showed them the doctor's note she keeps in her bra. The voices speak directly to her. 'Barbara,' (for they have recently taken to calling her Barbara), 'the next bus you take will be wired with a car-bomb with your name on it.' That's when she stopped taking the bus. The communal taxi and individual cab drivers are also not to be trusted. They could take you anywhere, and you'd never be seen again.
Disappear. She clicks her fingers. Just like that. Click, click.
Also, food is a problem. She can't run with all her groceries, so she has to shop every day. She doesn't enjoy shopping: too many people. Her psycholo
gist says to try online shopping. Everyone's doing it, but that will mean giving strangers her address and the hours she will be home. Even if the shop people are harmless, the information could be intercepted.
When she finally builds up supplies, she ends up throwing them away. The fridge door looks suspicious: full of invisible fingerprints as if someone else has opened it. An intruder. She tries to work out exactly which food they have contaminated but can never stop at one item. Once the pineberry yoghurt has been binned, the cheddar looks suspect, after that, the pawpaw, the black bread, the SoySpread, the feta. The precious, innocent-looking eggs, the vegetarian hotdogs, the green mango atchar, the leftover basmati, until it is all discarded and sealed tightly in a black plastic bag. The dumping of each individual item causes her pain; she so hates to fritter. This happens once a week.
Sometimes she needs to check the cupboards, too. Sometimes it’s not just the open things in the fridge that may have been tainted. She’ll get an idea, a name, in her head, and those things will have to go, too. Last week it was Bilchen—pictures in her head of factorybots polluting the processed food then sealing them in neat little parcels, ready to eat. It’s as if someone is shouting at her: Bilchen! Bilchen! Like a branded panic attack. Then she has to check every box and packet in her cupboard and toss everything with the Bilchen logo. Not much is left over.
She chooses a lonely tin of chickpeas, checks the label, and eases it open with an old appliance. She polishes a fork with her tracksuit top and eats directly out of the can. Canned food is relatively safe. She reaches for the kosher salt pebbles, but before she grinds it, she sees the top is loose. She pictures arsenic, cyanide, a sprinkling of a strain of a deadly virus, and puts it back without using it. Washes her hands twice and sprays them with hand sanitiser.