Chose

by O M Faure

  At last they let me go and I’m once again in the city. Absorbed in gloomy thoughts, I make a wrong turn and find myself in a crowd outside an ugly concrete building. Reporters are making excited speeches in front of lit-up cameras. Intrigued, I stop and listen to one of the journalists’ reports.

  ‘ … about to come out of the Old Bailey Criminal Court where the case of Alvita and Amani Clarke is being decided today. The fourth-generation Caribbean couple was arrested last year for breaking the AEP law. Instead of accepting deportation...’

  Someone presses against me in the crowd and when I turn to snap at them, I realize it’s only an old black woman, her curly gray hair pulled into a neat bun, the strands of whiter hair shining in the morning sun. The old woman is pulling a green crocheted cardigan tightly against her thin frame, watching avidly, straining to hear what’s happening. She reminds me of my grandmother.

  I remember going to see my grandma in her nursing home, a week after Barack Obama won the election. She was the granddaughter of a house servant and had told me many stories about her childhood in the age of slavery. She was so proud of me, the doctor. Something told me I should come that day; I didn’t do it often, maybe once a year.

  I’d shown her the photos of President Obama and the press articles to prove that he’d been elected, and she’d looked at it all. Her frail, bony hands handled the photos, trembling as she unconsciously bit her dentures. She’d looked at me over her bifocal glasses.

  ‘Oooh, DeAnn, it’s you.’

  She raised her shaky hand and touched my cheek and then went back to the photos with a frown, her head shaking back and forth, her voice quavering with age.

  ‘So this young man, a negro…’

  ‘We don’t say that word anymore, Grandma.’

  ‘A negro has been elected president?’ She had a slight drawl and it sounded like ‘pray-zee-dayn’t’.

  ‘Yes, Grandma, an African American in the White House,’ I said, my heart swelling with hope and pride.

  She shook her head, disbelieving, marveling, afraid to rejoice, and just kept saying, ‘Well, I’ll be. Well, well… Are you sure?’

  Grandma died a month later and I kept the image of her wondering face like a precious treasure in my jewelry box.

  Someone steps on my foot and I snap back to the London street. I place a gentle hand on the old woman’s arm and she jumps, startled, then looks at me in alarm but her face relaxes when she sees that I’m black too.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous,’ she says, taking in my clothes and my hair.

  Puzzled, I wonder why and ask, ‘What about you?’

  ‘I had to come. I had to see it.’ She tightens her green cardigan around her.

  To me, it looks like an ordinary scene: A mildly hyped civil case of some sort. Journalists love to add this kind of social sob stories at the end of the news segment. Makes them look like they give a shit.

  ‘See what?’ I ask.

  ‘History,’ she whispers. ‘They hope we’ll die out. But we won’t. No, we won’t.’ She points to the court’s entrance with her chin. ‘Some of us choose to fight.’ She crosses her arms, hugging herself, her jaw working, lips pressed.

  The journalist presses a finger against his ear and looks away from the camera, turning his head toward where a couple have emerged, journalists pressing them on all sides. The dark-skinned woman looks intensely uncomfortable as she hides her small son behind her and places a protective hand on her pregnant belly.

  ‘Janet, there’s movement, it looks like we’re going to have a statement any minute now,’ the journalist says.

  The family stops and huddles together, unable to go any further. A barrister, wearing a ridiculous robe and wig, steps in front of them and pulls out his iMode, then starts to read from it – the verdict concerning his clients, I’m guessing. I’m too far to hear but the crowd doesn’t seem very pleased with the results.

  The journalist turns back to the camera, visibly surprised. ‘Well, Janet, it’s an unprecedented verdict here today at the Old Bailey. The court is releasing the Clarkes. It appears that the family will not receive a jail sentence, fines or sanctions of any kind despite the fact that…’

  He presses his finger to his ear and goes silent for a few seconds. ‘The family is not being deported, Janet, they’ll stay in the KEW. Well, this is completely unexpected. We can expect an appeal against the judge’s decision, which is – to say the least – astonishing. A non-white family allowed to reproduce, this is unacceptable and I…’

  The crowd is becoming violent; a group of beefy young white men is hurling invectives at the couple and some of the people of color in the crowd interpose themselves. A fight breaks out and I try to extricate myself from the milling mass. I plant my feet down but the crowd surges, pulling me forward toward the thugs who are starting to punch the Clarkes. The father is bleeding from his nose, his arms open to protect his child, who is cowering behind him. I hear the mother’s screams from somewhere on the ground; I can only see the hateful, contorted faces of the men who are kicking her in the stomach. The police are nowhere to be seen.

  There’s not much I can do for them, so I take the old woman by the arm and steer us toward the street I came from. A well-dressed elderly man leaning on a walking stick spots us. His face scrunches up in resolution, he marches toward us and I think he’s going to offer us help but instead he raises his cane and as I lunge to protect the old woman, his cane strikes my forehead. My reflexes kick in and I push him violently so that he falls backward. I step over him and pull the old lady with me. We run to the Tube station.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I say when we reach the top of the staircase, both of us shaking and winded.

  Her head is shaking and her jaw is working, soundlessly.

  ‘History,’ she says, as a wan smile stretches across her lips.

  I try to check her vitals but she just pats my hand and leaves, hurrying down the steps silently. As her frail silhouette is swallowed by darkness, I wipe an angry tear off my cheek.

  21

  Olivia

  Conurbation of London, November 2081

  * * *

  I stare at the council estate and the drab street in front of me. This is where the cottage should be, but I don’t recognise anything. On the iBubble screen, a map is superimposed over the landscape, but I just can’t match the address to where I’m standing. I collapse the glass sphere and massage my temples, trying to get rid of the headache that’s been building up since this morning. It must be somewhere around here. I’m probably lost. Typical.

  Home.

  In my mind’s eye, I imagine Mum’s house, my favourite spot on earth. Some places have magic in them. Wisteria, honeysuckle and clematis grow against the red brick walls and tickle the slanted roof. A barrel sits at a corner to collect rainwater.

  The air smells of mowed grass and the sun timidly warms my hand on the garden gate latch. The rugged wood feels familiar under my palm. I stop to drink in the sight of this house that makes me feel grounded and happy, and then continue my morning tour of the garden, relishing the feel of the grass under my feet, the wet kiss of the morning dew on my ankles.

  ‘Oh, how wonderful, you’re awake, sunshine.’

  A tear rolls down my cheek as I press my eyes shut against the dreariness of 2081. Instead of opening my eyes, I imagine Mum tightening her terrycloth robe, her face still full of sleep. She meets me halfway, stopping here and there to pick up a few dead leaves and a rose. I hug her as she wraps me in a warm embrace. We stay like that for a little while, hugging each other and smiling.

  She touches my red hair. ‘You’re so beautiful in the morning.’

  The smell of wood wax and the empty silence greet us as I close the front door behind us, holding the cold milk bottle in my hand.

  I remember when this house was full of sound and boisterous life. My brother charging down the stairs two by two, clamouring for his breakfast. Our chocolate lab, Jasper, barking and dropping
the ball at Dad’s feet, asking him to play. Mum calling, ‘Breakfast’s ready!’ in a loud clear voice, and me, curled up on the window sill with a book, Tolkien or some other fantasy novel, looking up from my dream world to find my brother ready to pounce and tickle me until I cried for mercy.

  Everything is exactly as always; the small Sheraton desk at the entrance where books are piled up haphazardly, the muddy Wellington boots in a row under the coats, the old copper coal bucket ending its days by the entrance as an umbrella stand.

  She’s re-upholstered the sofa again, I notice, amused. The colour doesn’t quite match the rest of the room. She’s always fiddling with the front room. But it’s never quite right. There’s a large bouquet of white lilies on the mantel of the black cast iron fireplace. Their smell overpowers this room as it always does. The vase of lilies is always there. As soon as they wilt, she buys more. Always white ones. I never thought to ask why. I should.

  The ghost smell of the lilies tickles my nose. I adjust my iBubble and will myself back into the daydream.

  Mum’s in the kitchen, humming as she toasts the crumpets. For a minute, I look at her hunched shoulders, choked up. She’s only seventy-one but I’m starting to notice how fast she gets tired, the new lines on her face, the liver spots on her hands. What will I do without her?

  I remember when the house smelled of burnt apricot jam, and my dad and my brother would come back from their walks, their tempers high.

  ‘Why can’t you be more sensible? I’ll stop supporting you if you drop out of—’ my father would begin.

  ‘I don’t care,’ my brother would interrupt. ‘You always do this, always force me to be like you.’ Dermot was always so stubborn.

  ‘I’m doing no such thing, I’m just trying to do what’s best for you, but you’re so headstrong, you only ever do what you want.’

  ‘Of course I do. This is my life, not yours. You don’t care who I really am.’

  ‘How will you feed yourself? You can’t rely on me all your life.’

  ‘Rely on you? You’re never even here!’

  They never quite saw eye to eye and little by little the house became more tense and subdued between fights, more explosive when they locked horns.

  Then my brother died. Then my father.

  Now the house is silent and it smells of lilies. My mother is growing old here, alone. Who will learn the pudding recipes? Who will inherit this cottage? Who will remember these ghosts when I’m gone?

  The familiar anxiety tugs at my belly, reminding me that the survival of my family is my responsibility and that I’m failing in my duty. I’m the last link in a long chain of people that has existed for centuries. And this chain will break because I’m incapable of finding someone to love me enough to perpetuate my genetic patrimony. I’m an evolutionary dead end. The weak link. Or rather the broken link, the last link. Tears sting my eyes and I swallow them back.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, sunshine,’ she says as the bread springs out of the toaster.

  The green cupboards happily echo the green of spring outside the window. The kettle is on and Mum’s in her bathrobe. I’ve been afraid of her reaction about the IVF. Such a messy unconventional way towards motherhood, I’m afraid she’ll disapprove.

  When I tell her, instead of criticising, she hugs me fiercely and a few buttons of her nightgown come open, her heavy breasts visible, drooping; I avert my eyes but she catches my hand.

  ‘Sunshine, you have to become a mother. It’s what will make you a woman. You can’t consider yourself fully grown until you’ve given birth.’ She grabs me and presses both our hands against her belly.

  I’m completely taken by surprise, repulsed by how physical she is. She’s so profoundly anchored in her own body. Her fleshy rolls of skins are warm under my hand.

  ‘Motherhood comes from the gut,’ she says in a low intense whisper.

  I yank my hand back and wish she’d close her nightdress, but she’s too absorbed in passing me this all-important message, that she hasn’t even realised it’s gaping open. Her breasts sway a little, pointing downward.

  ‘Mum, the IVF actually has a very low percentage of success at my age and…’

  ‘You will make me a baby.’

  ‘What? No, I’m not making a baby for you or with you. Why would you put it like that?’

  She turns to me, sunlight playing with the curls on her neck and then she vanishes, as this grey, suffocating day in 2081 erases all trace of her.

  I Know It doesn’t matter and there are more pressing concerns. Like the small fact that I’m not an agent and I’m in over my head. Or the fact that the Programme was attacked before we left and they might not have time to rebuild the pyramid before we make it back. Or the fact that the Coalition is out to kill us. And I know it’s stupid and I know that it’s not technically my home anymore as I’m probably dead by now, but I’d still like to find it. I wipe my palms against my leggings and sigh.

  Oh wait – first, I need to check that I’m really dead; I wouldn’t want to run into myself and ruin the universe’s balance or something like that. I check my iMode and here it is, in my Programme personnel file: deceased.

  ‘Well, that’s not creepy at all, is it?’ I say to no one in particular. So, how did I die? And when...? Oh, God. The temptation to open up the file is nearly more than I can resist. I really shouldn’t know, I’ll spend the rest of my life obsessing over it and then counting down to the moment. But what if I can prevent it? What if I need to know this? In the end, fear wins. I just don’t want to know.

  I spot a group of old men drinking beer, standing outside one of the towers’ entrances. Not great, but I guess they’ll have to do. We start chatting and then they break my heart.

  ‘I know the one you mean: a small cottage with a big field around it, innit?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It should be close by, do you know where I can find it?’

  He snorts with laughter. Actually snorts. ‘You’re standing on it, love.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They built the council estate on it. Couldn’t just carry on belonging to one person, not with all the honest folk needing housing and what have you.’

  ‘But how could this happen? Didn’t it belong to someone?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember, there was a woman who lived there alone. She died and no one inherited the house, so it went to the council and they razed it.’

  I wonder if he’s talking about my mum or me. The woman lived alone. She died alone. She had no one to pass her home down to. A shudder snakes up my spine; maybe I’m standing on my own grave. My worst fears realised. I died alone and failed my family.

  ‘Motherhood comes from the gut’ I hear, like an echo through time.

  22

  DeAnn

  Conurbation of London, November 2081

  * * *

  ‘Welcome.’ Madison is on the threshold, smiling, a toddler balanced on her hip as Olivia, Burke and I get out of the driverless cab.

  We cram into the minuscule hallway and Madison’s husband, Darren, announces through the kitchen door, ‘Dinner’s nearly ready.’

  We hear a few pots clanging and cooking smells waft over. I wonder if this time it’ll be edible. Anthony disappears into the kitchen, ostensibly to help Darren, more likely to have a beer with him.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy!’

  A little girl of about four sprints toward us, but she skids to a halt when she sees me. Hiding behind her mother’s legs, she looks up at us with huge blue eyes, her gaping mouth displaying decayed and missing teeth.

  I get the sense that inviting people to one’s home has become an event in this society. Of course if there’s a food shortage, everyone would want to keep the food for their own family, not share it.

  ‘Hello, Jenny.’ Olivia crouches in front of the child but the little girl ignores her and stares at me, eyes wide. She reaches over tentatively and touches my knee, then squeals and runs to the kitchen, swivelling her head every o
ther step to check that we’re still here.

  Madison takes our jackets and whispers, ‘Please be cautious, they don’t know anything, of course.’

  We both nod and follow her to the living room.

  There’s a bit of a commotion in the kitchen and as I pass the open door, I hear a whispered conversation.

  ‘Mummy’s friend is brown, Daddy, I touched her skin but it doesn’t come off.’

  ‘Wash your hands, right now, Jenny.’

  And I thought nothing could get to me anymore.

  This is one of the smallest living rooms I’ve ever seen, littered with toys and with threadbare furniture. A table is laid in the middle, taking up all the space, the seven plates jostling with each other to fit on it. The chairs are a mishmash of styles and there are fake flowers in a vase in the middle.

  Madison sets the little boy on the sofa. She snaps the bracelet off her wrist, flattens it and pulls on its corners in a practiced gesture, as she chats to us. The clear plastic stretches like moulding clay until it reaches the size of a small tablet, then she gives the kid the extended iMode. On the transparent screen, I get a glimpse of Paddington’s familiar silhouette.

  ‘Mummy, go see real bear?’

  ‘No, sweetheart, we can’t. They’re all gone.’

  ‘Where bears go, Mummy? When come back?’

  She kisses the top of her little boy’s head. ‘They’re all in heaven, sweetheart. They’re not coming back.’

  Olivia’s face contracts with pity and sadness but Madison doesn’t seem to realize the magnitude of what her children have lost. I guess she never saw a bear either. I go wash my hands and when I come back, Madison and Olivia are in the garden, having what looks like a pretty intense conversation.

  Foregoing discretion, I decide I want to know what they’re saying and carefully open the french windows to the garden, edging closer to the handkerchief-sized vegetable plot at the back.