by Eve Smith
‘So, what’s on the menu today?’ I ask, attempting to sound jolly. The hardening yolk of a boiled egg glares at me, like a gammy eye.
She makes a sucking noise, as if she’s got something stuck in her teeth. ‘Pancakes.’ The way she says it sounds like a swear word. And I have a shameful thought. Maybe this is why Pam’s mother isn’t living with her.
Pam turns to go. ‘Oh,’ she says, digging in her pocket. ‘This came for you.’ She thrusts a small white envelope on my tray.
My birthday’s still a few weeks away, but I suppose someone might have got confused. A tide of cranberry juice advances towards the envelope, so I flick it to one side. Part of me is tempted to rip it open straight away, but if I don’t eat while the food’s at least warm, I won’t stand a chance.
I stare at my plate. The pancakes look like mottled flaps of skin, oozing honey. I hook my fingers around the fork’s plastic handle. After a couple of attempts I spear a slither and raise it to my lips. My stomach loops. I put it down and pick up the beaker. I drink the juice down to the last drop, savouring the tartness on my tongue. As I steel myself to attack the egg my eyes wander back to the envelope.
The address is printed: black, Times New Roman, I’d say twelve point. London postmark. I rub my thumb along the edge and think of the diminishing straggle of cards bearing increasingly illegible scrawls. It’s probably just another begging letter. A ginger cat with big eyes and amputated claws, or a child with a swollen stomach. Either that or funeral insurance. I slip the fork under the flap and tear. After a couple of attempts, I prize it out.
It’s as if I’ve been slapped.
I scan every detail: the broad, square lips, the conical ears, the ridges of skin that are like plates of armour.
My fingers stumble as I turn the postcard over. It’s blank. Just a few empty lines where the message should be.
A high-pitched whine sears through my head. This could only have been sent by one person.
But they died, nineteen years ago.
CHAPTER 5
Twenty-seven years pre-Crisis
MARY
I part the thorny branches and search for those tell-tale strips of green at the ends. They’ve had a right old feast on this one: acacia’s always a favourite. I hold a snapped stem and reach for my callipers. Looks like a pair of pruning clippers has been at it. I measure the length and the diameter and take a GPS reading. As I scribble in my field book a hornbill swoops onto the tree next to me. I take off my hat and mop the sweat. I’ll never get used to this heat.
That’s when I spot it, behind the acacia. I feel a pulse of excitement. The three toenails are quite distinct: the large one at the front, the two smaller ones either side. The track is round, about twenty centimetres across with no indentation at the back. I can’t believe my luck, they’re incredibly rare: it’s a black. I reach for my camera and snap away: click, click, click.
The first thing I hear is the snort. I freeze. I lower the camera, my eyes darting between the bushes. I don’t see anything, not yet. The hornbill cackles above me, impossibly loud. There’s another snort, followed by a stamp. I train all of my senses on the acacia. And I see them: two massive horns swaying through the scrub. Blood abandons my guts for my limbs. The animal trots forward a few steps and swings its huge nostrils round. It hasn’t spotted me yet, but it can smell me alright. The ears are in perpetual motion, twisting one way then the other.
A single bead of sweat trickles down my cheek. I have to use all my strength to override it: the urge to run. I tell myself, if I stay where I am, I’ll be OK; I just need to keep still. Seconds pass. They could be hours. My arms, neck, head grow heavy. Other sounds rush in: the warning bark of a baboon, the pulse of veins, the rubbing of a thousand crickets’ wings.
A fly lands on my face. I let it crawl over my skin and drink the sweat.
Then the camera switches itself off. Only a little noise, just the lens pulling back into the frame. It’s enough. The creature spins round and starts to pant. I see the thick folds of skin on its chest, the enormous front legs. A smaller shape presses in underneath. And that’s when I know I’m in trouble.
I drop the camera and run. All the training, all the guidance evaporates, and something else takes over. I tear across the scrub, zigzagging, because I know the mother will outrun me on the straight. Her hooves thunder behind me, the heavy rhythm of her panting drawing closer until I’m sure it’s her breath I feel on the backs of my legs. Thorns rip at my ankles. I take quick, ragged gasps, my eyes swivelling, desperate for something to climb. Then I hear a different noise. A man, shouting. His arms wave at me in the distance. He’s pointing at something. A marula tree. Fifty metres to my left.
A gunshot echoes and I run faster than I have ever run. The ground vibrates under the tempo of her feet. I throw myself at the tree, haul myself up, hands scrabbling, thighs scraping bark. She thumps into the trunk and the whole tree judders. I heave myself along a branch, arms and legs clenched tight. The man’s still shouting, clapping his hands. I dig my nails into the bark and bury my face in the leaves. I count the passing of each breath.
An eerie silence descends.
‘Wat de fok is jy?’
I peer through the branches. There is no sign of the rhino. Instead, a tall man with sun-bleached hair is bent over, hands on knees, gasping. His damp shirt clings to his skin, exposing the curve of muscle underneath. A rifle is slung over one shoulder, but he doesn’t look like a ranger. After a couple more gasps he stands up. His eyes are the colour of a monsoon sky, before the rain falls.
‘Is jy fokken stupid?’
I blink at him. My cheeks flush a furious red. I don’t need Afrikaans for that one.
‘No. I am not.’ I inch my way back along the branch. My hands won’t stop shaking. He doesn’t offer any help.
‘English. Ek moes geraai het,’ he mutters. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ He sounds out each syllable in his thick, guttural accent, as if I’m an idiot. ‘You could’ve got that animal killed!’
‘That animal?’ The bark bites into my palms. ‘What about me?’
He gives me a cursory glance. ‘Plenty more like you. Not so many like her.’
My anger makes me careless and I skid down the last bit of trunk, gouging my leg. Warm blood trickles down my thigh.
He tosses his head. ‘You shouldn’t be out here on your own.’
He’s right, I shouldn’t. ‘I have a research permit,’ I say, with as much authority as I can muster.
‘Really?’
He arches his eyebrows, and for a ridiculous moment, I imagine he is impressed.
‘What are you researching? How fast rhinos can run?’
My chest swells. I want to slap his arrogant Boer face. I want to shout at him that it’s work like mine that’ll save his precious rhinos.
But my fury morphs into something totally unexpected, and I start to laugh.
CHAPTER 6
London Prepares for Mass Protests on Anniversary of Medication Act
Security has been doubled in the capital ahead of the nineteenth anniversary of the introduction of the Medication Act. Large-scale demonstrations are expected across the country, in support of the over-seventies’ right to antibiotics. Last year, more than a million protestors staged die-ins outside hospitals, transport hubs and government buildings, bringing some cities to a halt.
The controversial Medication Act, which was passed under emergency measures during the Crisis, was intended to stem the growth of antibiotic resistance and extend the shelf lives of new drugs. It was based on evidence from a mass screening programme that indicated elderly patients are more prone to antimicrobial resistance because of their longer history of antibiotic usage and increased vulnerability to disease. Campaigners refute this evidence, claiming it is no longer valid and nothing more than a scientific smokescreen. They maintain the real motives were, and still are, financial.
‘The genocide of the elderly has to stop,’ says sixty-eight-ye
ar-old protest organiser Tessa Beecham. ‘We all have a right to treatment, no matter what our age. The drugs are available, the government just doesn’t want to pay for them. We will not rest until they abolish this inhumane and unnecessary Act.’
KATE
My finger hovers over the mouse. I’ve completed the form as best I can, although a few beige boxes are still bereft. The cursor blinks, daring me. All I have to do is click on ‘submit’. Submit the page, submit to Pen, submit to whatever comes next. It’s only a bit of paper, I tell myself. I’m lying. It’s much, much more than that.
It’s the fifth time I’ve visited the General Register Office website. I make life-and-death decisions every day, but here I am, still deliberating, as the minutes tick by. A little voice whispers that even if I get my birth certificate, I don’t have to take things any further. I run my hand through my hair and think of Pen; agonise over the unknown one more time. You should look. I can still see her, nodding at me between breaths. Tears threaten as I feel the same raw ache inside. Why am I even contemplating this? She could be anyone, my birth mother.
A nebulous face floats into my mind, like the greyed-out silhouette of an absent profile picture. I think of her as young: late teens, the spiky aura of some unknown tragedy rippling at her edges. She has visited me ever since Pen’s funeral, like a genie released from its lamp. Something must have happened. Something terrible. Why else would you give your baby away?
Lunch break’s nearly over. Come on, Kate, make a bloody decision. I drum the desk, weigh up the pros and cons one last time. I might spend months, even years, trying to find her, and never succeed. And even if I did, why would she want to see me – the unwanted product of some vicious history? But one biological fact trumps them all.
Because she’s your mother.
It stirs, every time, this faint flutter. Buried deep, beside childhood dreams of flying governesses with parrot-handled umbrellas, and good witches who glide in with a swoosh of satin and make it all better. I can’t quite bring myself to crush it. Not yet.
I keep thinking about my own pregnancy. How all-consuming it was: a fierce, desperate love for the tiny life inside me, coupled with the nightly fears of all that could go wrong. Before the Crisis, most women, in this country at least, just assumed that they would get pregnant and carry their babies to term, that both mother and child would survive the birth and their newborns would grow into healthy toddlers. Whereas Mark and I couldn’t assume anything. Modern medicine had failed us, as it had been failing other mothers in less fortunate parts of the world for years, robbing us of the joy of pregnancy, robbing our babies of an infection-free start.
It was like a miracle when Sasha was born.
Brisk footsteps march down the corridor. My heart skitters in my chest. I click ‘submit’ and scrabble to close the page, as if I’ve been trawling for porn.
‘Sister, do you have a moment?’
I swing my chair round. The ward manager’s voice is extra calm. A sure sign that some emergency has arisen.
‘Of course.’ I brush invisible crumbs off my trousers.
‘We have a situation. Major incident declared.’ He allows me a moment to adjust. ‘Westbourne Centre, Afro-Caribbean male; they’re not sure what he’s carrying.’ Our eyes meet. ‘Assume it’s airborne.’
The breath squeezes out of me. It’s much less frequent, but it still happens. Some lunatic gets themselves infected with the latest strain and decides to make a statement.
‘Have they contained him?’
‘Being tested as we speak. I suppose we should be grateful he drove. At least it’s only the centre we’ve got to worry about.’
My stomach tightens. Only the centre? That place is huge. No matter how many purifiers they put in, it’s never enough; they’ll need all the isolation chambers they can get.
‘How many are we talking?’
‘Not sure yet.’ His face darkens. ‘They were running some kind of promotion. And he waited till lunchtime.’
Bastard. I manage not to say it. Just. So much for glittery wands and satin dresses. It’s never the good witch who comes.
He swallows. ‘I’ve organised extra shifts.’ His eyes flick to mine and away again. ‘I feel bad for asking; I know you’re dealing with a lot right now. It’s just, well, we’re a bit thin on the ground.’
I look wistfully at the clock as the tiredness claws my insides. I’m not sure I’m up to another shift, let alone one on the isolation ward. He doesn’t have to ask, he could just tell me, but he’s smart enough to know that he needs me on side. I’m one of only seven staff here who nursed during the Crisis. We thought that nothing could touch us, but it was too many, too fast. Of the few staff that made it, most either quit or chose to work in the other kinds of hospitals: the normal ones. Where people get well.
A memory surfaces. Rows of beds crammed together, hardly enough room to squeeze in between. The endless hacking and coughing. That rasping chorus never ceased; I still hear it in my sleep.
He taps the desk, trying not to hurry me. I think of all those families happily browsing. The workers who’d popped in for lunch.
I take a breath. ‘Don’t worry, Boss. I get it. Time to suit up.’
His face softens, as if the creases have been ironed out. ‘Thanks, Kate. I really appreciate it.’
I’m about to head for the lift when it clicks like a trigger:
Westbourne Centre.
Lunchtime.
Sasha.
‘My daughter. I have to call her.’ My words erupt, in no particular order: the first of the magma gushing up inside. ‘She might be…’ I baulk at saying it, as if by giving voice to the thought I somehow make it true. ‘She goes there, sometimes. For lunch.’
‘Oh. Of course. Use my office, if you like.’ He holds out his arm in a curiously old-fashioned gesture as I hurtle past.
I can see them already: swarms of bacteria spiralling through that greenhouse, sneaking up noses and down throats.
The ward manager strides up behind me, a little breathless. ‘I seriously hope you don’t need it. But we should get the list soon.’
My heart thuds. I cannot contemplate the possibility of Sasha’s name being on there. I imagine her rummaging for tops. Bolting a forkful of sushi from a bamboo tray as some new contagion floats past.
‘Let me know if you need anything,’ says the ward manager, and eases the door shut.
I punch Sasha’s number into the phone and check the time: nearly half-one. It goes straight to voicemail. I clench the handset. ‘Hello, Sasha. Mum here.’ I use every skill I possess to sound normal. ‘Could you give me a call when you get this? As soon as you can.’ My thumb lingers over the end button. I listen to the clatter of my breathing. ‘Love you.’
I dial the school. She’d have to be back from lunch now, wouldn’t she? Unless she had a free period. I try to summon her timetable as my fingers tremble over the keys. Friday. Does she have a free on Fridays?
‘Bridfield Academy, how can I—’
‘It’s Sasha Connelly’s mum; there’s been an incident at the Westbourne Centre.’ My words tumble out. ‘Is Sasha there?’
‘Hello, Mrs Connelly, it’s Vivienne. We’ve just seen the alert.’ She sounds far too calm to have seen anything. ‘We’re about to take the regis—’
‘She’s not answering her phone.’ My professional veneer is thinning. I don’t care. ‘Please. I need you to check.’
Vivienne tries again. ‘They’re doing registration now. Are you alright to hold?’
What do you bloody think? I swallow. ‘Yes.’
Some classical tune starts simpering at me. My nails dig into my palm. I see Sasha stepping off the bus, smoothing that gold curtain of hair behind her ears. The doors of the centre sliding open for her like a trap.
Please, God. Please. Don’t let her be there.
‘Mrs Connelly? It’s Vivienne.’ There’s a pause that makes my heart leap. ‘Sasha’s name isn’t on the register, but please do
n’t be alarmed.’ A gasp escapes my lips. ‘She has a free period. And she hasn’t signed out, so she must still be on the premises.’
I sink my teeth into a knuckle. Sasha never signs out; she’s always getting in trouble for it. And I’ll bet she hasn’t taken her mask.
‘We’re trying the sixth-form centre and the library. Do you want to continue holding? Or would you like me to call you back?’
‘I’ll hold.’ My voice sounds like ash falling.
The ward manager twists his head round the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but your husband’s trying to reach you. He hasn’t been able to contact your daughter. Any news?’
I slump forward. ‘She’s not on the register.’ I try to remember if he’s a father, if he has any idea. ‘Have they ID’ed it yet?’ I search his face for clues but he just shakes his head.
‘Looks like a new one, I’m afraid.’
I grip the phone as if it’s Sasha’s lifeline, the safety rope that will bring her back to shore. Twenty minutes. That’s all it takes for a whole new generation of bacteria to birth. While we scrabble around with our drugs, trying to play catch-up.
He runs his tongue over his lips. ‘No one’s claimed it.’ His eyes lift to mine. ‘But they think he’s EAA.’
My whole body stiffens. EAA: Equality Above All. The catalysts of the Crisis, the fanatics who tipped us over the edge. Just as I dare to hope they’ve perished, another cell pops up, finding new targets, new ways to attack. I want to slam my fist into the wall.
‘Try not to think the worst,’ he adds quickly. ‘You don’t know for sure that she’s there. And the mortality rate so far’s not too bad.’
As if that’s meant to reassure me. Why? Why do they keep doing it? These idiots don’t value their own lives or anyone else’s. Babies or priests. Nurses. Friends. My fist clenches as I think of Lucy. They’re all fair game.