Wolf Country E-Book

Tunde Farrand

• Herausgeber: Lightning Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

London, 2050. The socio-economic crisis of recent decades is over and consumerism is thriving.Ownership of land outside the city is the preserve of a tiny elite, and the rest of the population must spend to earn a Right to Reside. Ageing has been abolished thanks to a radical new approach, replacing retirement with blissful euthanasia at a Dignitorium.When architect Philip goes missing, his wife, Alice, risks losing her home and her status, and begins to question the society in which she was raised. Her search for him uncovers some horrifying truths about the fate of her own family and the reality behind the new social order.Wolf Country is a powerful dystopian vision in the spirit of Black Mirror and Never Let Me Go.'A chilling and politically astute dystopia – sci-fi in the tradition of Wyndham' – Jane Rogers 

Leseprobe

Tünde Farrand grew up in Debrecen, Hungary, and lived, studied and worked in several countries before settling in the UK in 2005. She has continued to work in this country as a language specialist and modern languages teacher. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Sheffield Hallam University, and lives with her husband in Sheffield.

Published by

Lightning Books Ltd

Imprint of EyeStorm Media

312 Uxbridge Road

Rickmansworth

Hertfordshire

WD3 8YL

www.lightning-books.com

First Edition 2019

Copyright © Tünde Farrand

Cover design by Ifan Bates

All rights reserved. Apart from brief extracts for the purpose of review, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without permission of the publisher.

Tünde Farrand has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as author of this work.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Printed by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

ISBN: 9781785630927

To Nick, with love

Contents

Prologue

16 June, 2050

Book One

One

Boxing Day

Two

Wolf Country

Three

The Artist’s Son

Four

Date

Five

The Fight

Six

The Party

Seven

Two Old Fools

Eight

The Bride

Nine

Ouroboros

Ten

16 June, 2050

Book Two

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Book Three

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Prologue

It must have begun when my apple tree flourished and Sofia’s withered and died. Perhaps that was when Sofia first had an inkling that she didn’t belong. Dad used to say war begins at home, in the family. It was not his own idea; he must have read it somewhere and felt obliged to pass the wisdom on to his daughters. It took me twenty years to grasp its meaning, the realisation coming only yesterday after I put the phone down, an entirely changed person from the one who picked it up a minute earlier. I wonder what Dad would say now, if he saw me – saw us – like this, preparing for the final battle, a battle too painful and far too unequal to be fought in the sanctuary of the family.

16 JUne, 2050

I’ve never been alone at a monorail station before. It’s a peculiar feeling I can’t put my finger on. The sense of luxury, the absence of sound. Like I have my own piece of Earth.

In the passenger lounge the pebble-shaped sofas are empty and waiting, the dimly lit wood-panelled bar silent. A fragrance of orchid is released and, for a moment, I’m fooled into thinking it’s real.

Ten minutes ago, when we arrived from London, my fellow passengers left the monorail in haste. They hurried out to the square without stopping in the nineteenth-century station building. They wore well-cut clothes in the finest fabric, leather shoes soft as butter, but none of these could conceal their vacant stares, the servitude dried on their faces. A line of minibuses with tinted windows swallowed them up like a hungry mouth. The Owners must pay them well to make the long commute worthwhile. Apart from the financial remuneration, of course, there is the privilege of working directly in the service of the Owners. A privilege you can’t put a price on.

The square is just as abandoned as the station. There is a high street running through the small town, and little side streets off it, all lined with original Victorian terraced houses, now functioning as traditional pastry shops and tearooms. It is not my first time away from a megacity, but the serenity still comes as a surprise. There’s not a soul apart from me. The tourists don’t tend to arrive before 10am.

It’s a perfect English summer day, which usually lifts my spirits, though today it fails to do so. To kill time and avoid thinking about the ordeal I’m about to face, I watch the advert screens. There’s one on my left, another attached to the station building, and a third one across the road. The same video is playing on each screen. It shows an elderly lady, wearing a pale pink blouse, sitting comfortably in a Chesterfield-style armchair. Behind her, a flowery curtain is drawn open to reveal a breathtaking view. Roses are climbing up the windowsill, while in the distance rolling hills create the impression of heaven on earth. The lady, wearing gold-framed spectacles, leans closer to the camera. She says she could not be happier, and all the things Dignitorium residents usually say. I don’t want to watch it, and yet I can’t keep my eyes off the screen. Now there’s a new resident, from another Dignitorium, then another. The names and faces keep changing, only their message remains the same.

Checking the time, I’m starting to worry I’ve been forgotten when a long black car pulls up in front of me. There’s an RR emblem on its front and a tiny statue of a winged woman. In the old system, these so-called limousines were used mostly by presidents and film stars. I’m flattered, even a bit excited, but I’m not sure about getting into the vehicle. The archive footage of fatal car accidents shown on the Globe always horrifies me.

The last time I was in a car, I was seven. It was still in the old system, when everyone had cars. Now only the Owners do. They say they need them against the wolves. For everyone else there’s the monorail.

The chauffeur gets out and looks around, squinting in the sunlight. He’s in his fifties, with deep wrinkles across his forehead; he seems a trustworthy type. In his immaculate black suit, with matching hat and white gloves, he oozes professionalism. Like the butlers I have seen in period dramas, he seems to have trouble turning his head, as if he had swallowed a stick. He greets me with a courteous bow, avoiding eye contact. If only he knew that I’m more afraid of his Owner employer than he is; that I am not a fellow Owner but a helpless person desperately trying not to blow her very last chance of survival.

‘Mrs Alice Brunelli?’ he asks, and when I nod he checks my identity on his ID Phone. The official photo of me was taken three years ago, and I wonder if – after the past few months – I still resemble that young woman with honey-blond hair, porcelain skin and a lively, elfish smile. Or has my face – carrying pain like an antiquity carries the mark of centuries – become unrecognisable?

He nods and opens the car door for me. He must enjoy watching me struggle to get in. The door seems to be in the way. I do my best to mimic what I’ve seen in old films, to climb in sideways, without hitting my head or tripping over. I refuse his offer of help. ‘Are you comfortable, madam?’ he asks. There’s a slight hint of friendliness in his tone, now that he’s realised I’m one of his kind, a mere mortal.

Inside the vehicle a gentle blue light illuminates the jet-black interior. The cool leather seat stings my arms, the cold seeping through my linen trousers and my blouse. The scent opens up a new dimension, a realm of privilege and opulence. In any other circumstances, I would be excited, but instead I’m ill at ease. This is an alien world, alien and hostile.

As the limousine reaches a high-security red fence, the gate slides open, then closes immediately behind us. We’re entering the infamous wolf country. I peer through the tinted window, trying to spot some wolves, but then remember that they don’t like coming close to vehicles. The landscape changes as the town disappears behind us. The road begins to climb and soon we reach the top of a hill; looking down, I realise how near we are to the coast, only a few miles from the silvery blue that seems to flow beyond the horizon. It shouldn’t surprise me; even as a child, Sofia was attracted to the sea. There’s something surreal about the car’s motion – like being able to fly – seeing the road ahead, running, bending, then we’re snaking our way through a forest. I don’t like the speed, though, and I’m on the verge of begging the chauffeur to slow down. Again I remember the bodies shown on the Globe, broken and blood-soaked, and a recent documentary illustrating how much living space roads used to take up and how cars had a disastrous impact on the environment. There is a sharp curve; I have to hold on to the seat. I press a button to my left and speak into the intercom.

‘Could you slow down a bit, please?’

His expression in the mirror suggests he doesn’t understand.

‘I’m not used to this speed.’

For a second it seems he wants to say something but then his face returns to a rigid mask and he slows the car down. It is still a little fast but I don’t want to ask him again.

‘When will we get there?’

‘We’ll be there in approximately twenty minutes, madam.’

I check the map on my ID Phone but all areas that belong to the Owners – everything behind the red fence – is blanked out. The closer we get to our destination, the faster my heart beats, and my palms are so sweaty they leave wet patches on the soft leather.

How did I ever dare to dream that my sister would help me? I think back to that evening, more than two decades ago. That was the day when Sofia and I, the enemies, became something much worse than that, something I don’t have the words for. That was the last time we saw each other. In the past, whenever I thought of Sofia, I was always overcome with anger, but now the questions overwhelm me. Does she regret what happened? Has she been thinking of that day? And when I manage to forget about the pain, just for a few seconds – usually early in the morning, when I’m between sleep and waking, and my mind is still enveloped in a white, thick fog – I catch myself asking: how has her life been for the past twenty years? Has she – like all of us – been moulded and mellowed by inevitable hardships, or have wealth and status shielded her? I know that for most of us, time smooths over the rough patches and casts a rose tint over everything. However, I am not one of those lucky ones.

Eventually the floating sensation of the car calms my nerves, and another story, an earlier one, emerges from the cloud of memories. I was only nine; Sofia was twelve.

It was about a year after the new system was introduced, though the transition was far from complete. Dramatic changes of that scale take years to implement, delayed by those who oppose them. The opponents were a minority of the retired population, those wealthy enough to escape the notorious retirement homes. They were clinging to an old, failed system like children to their abusive parents or Stockholm syndrome sufferers to their kidnappers. They rejected the new society and many went into hiding.

Our grandmother, in her mid-sixties and bursting with joie de vivre, was horrified by the new system. She said she would rather face prosecution from the authorities than have a tracker installed. I, for one, was excited about the trackers, and Sofia, fascinated by the science behind them, was even more so, but Grandma’s reaction was understandable; she and her peers had grown up in a very different world. No matter how much Mum tried to explain, Grandma couldn’t understand that it was for the good of everyone, that if ever something happened to her, we would be able to locate her immediately. Apart from Grandma, we had all had the trackers shot under the skin behind the left ear when the new system started, gladly and voluntarily. It took only a second, and I immediately felt safe, protected, and even proud.

It was reported in the media that with the help of the trackers, criminals were arrested within hours of committing a crime. As expected, this brought about a rapid fall in crime and won us over to the new system. But not Grandma. She – having been a homeowner, a rarity in her generation – even joined a demonstration outside the Houses of Parliament, but it was stopped, and some participants were arrested; Grandma had a narrow escape. It was reported on the Globe that the authorities were looking for the ‘troublemakers’.

Mum gently tried to convince Grandma that she would have a wonderful retirement in the Dignitorium, reaping the fruits of her life’s work until she felt she was ready. Mum even brought her a shiny prospectus printed with golden letters, but she tore it up. Later that day, Sofia and I spent hours piecing together the fragments, imagining ourselves living like royalty between the walls of the grand Victorian mansion.

‘I’m loving this new system,’ she said. I nearly said I agreed when Grandma’s tearful face came to mind.

‘Yeah. But poor Grandma…’

‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to retire in a place like that?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged.

‘How do you want to die then?’

‘I’ve never thought about it. I don’t want to die.’

‘It’s not a choice, princess,’ she said and I felt – as usual when getting into a conversation with her – like a complete idiot. She excelled in sciences at school and had won a national competition. She even had a tiny room in our attic, which was her ‘laboratory’. Her ambition was to become a scientist. I, until my early adulthood, had no idea what I wanted to do.

Grandma fled her old house the night before the authorities began the evictions. Her house – like most built in the old system – was not nice or practical enough to be kept; they rebuilt that district into a beautiful area for High Spenders.

Grandma stayed with us. She came with just one suitcase of clothes and her wedding album. Everything else was left behind. We still lived in our old house, awaiting the completion of our new Mid-Spender area. I kept picturing our future place; Mum said the new homes would be more attractive and convenient than any accommodation in the history of mankind. We were overjoyed about the brand-new semi we would be given once it was built. Dad tried to explain to me and Sofia on our own level why the old world had collapsed. Even as a nine-year-old I understood that the increasing demands put upon the welfare system by the old and sick had led to the impoverishment of the hard-working majority. I can still feel the excitement in the air about getting free housing; I remember the constant media coverage, strangers hugging each other in the street, grown men crying with joy that the economic and housing crisis had been tackled for good. All we had to do in return was consume.

In the old system our family was lucky because Dad had inherited a house, but when I visited some of my friends I saw the poverty they lived in, two to three families sharing a house, mothers and babies crammed into tiny bedsits. Apart from well-to-do non-profit people like Grandma, everyone hailed the new system. The majority of the working population, who were previously rent slaves, praised the gift of secure employment and accommodation in the regenerated megacities. The pensioners were set free from the subhuman conditions of the retirement homes, in which they had been kept like animals, up to ten of them sharing a room, all crammed onto two large piss- and vomit-soaked mattresses, starved and even beaten by staff. After the change of system, they were given an unprecedented quality of life in the newly completed Dignitoriums.

Grandma refused to be called a non-profit person, though we kept telling her we loved her nonetheless. She had been with us for two days, occupying Sofia’s laboratory, when the authorities visited us, enquiring about Grandma. She was in fact out that evening at a meeting with other non-profit people. They asked us to contact them once she returned, thanked us politely and left.

Of course, Mum and Dad knew that Grandma’s fear was totally unfounded – we all knew it – but strangely we couldn’t bring ourselves to turn her in. When we looked into her eyes, the terror we saw was very real indeed. I suppose it’s like taking a little bird in your hands. Though you know you won’t harm it, the bird does not. Aged nine, I learned to appreciate the power of fear.

We were prepared to defend Grandma if we had to, but they didn’t return. We hoped they had forgotten about her. In the evenings, after school, we would play cards or have dinner together. We did our best to make her happy, but she always said she felt like a prisoner. One day in the kitchen, when Grandma couldn’t hear, Mum said to Dad that Grandma was not a real prisoner, only a prisoner of her fear. That evening I asked Sofia what being the prisoner of fear meant.

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she replied. ‘But I can tell you it’s far worse than being locked up in a real prison.’

Grandma must have been with us for two months when, one afternoon, the authorities returned. The three young female officers – kind and softly spoken – came in, and after a warm greeting they went straight upstairs to her room. Paralysed, I hid on the landing while they stood in the doorway, smiling at Grandma. Her face turned white, but her fear was unnecessary, for they were very understanding. Their leader, a petite woman with a heart-shaped face, sat down next to Grandma on the bed, and patiently explained to her why they had come.

‘It’s in your own interest, Mrs King, that you make a choice now. Start to earn your Right To Reside, like everyone else, or retire to the Dignitorium. It’s totally up to you. I’m happy to announce that we have just completed a cosy little Low-Spender area, where the Right To Reside in a lovely studio is very affordable. I’m sure that with your family’s support you could spend some wonderful years there before you retire. You could even do a little part-time work.’ Grandma nearly exploded.

‘How dare you! I have been working all my life! I paid into a decent pension for forty years. We had our own house. I want my home and my pension back!’

‘I’m sorry to see how it upsets you, Mrs King,’ the chief officer said with genuine concern in her voice. ‘You, like many people of your age group, fail to understand – and I don’t blame you for it – that those times are gone. Now we have a new, more sustainable system. Ask me any questions you like. We are here to help you make the right decision.’

‘I don’t want to live in a flat, and is the Government going to compensate me for taking my home?’

‘My dear Mrs King,’ said the officer patiently, ‘if we compensated everyone, we wouldn’t have any resources for our new, improved society. We would be right back where we were before. Surely you don’t want that.’

‘Of course that’s what I want. I want it just how it was.’

The woman sighed and exchanged glances with the rest of us.

‘How can you say you want things how they were? Mrs King, I agree that you were very fortunate in the old system, but surely you must be aware of how the majority suffered? How people were denied a decent life, the country bankrupted trying to care for the elderly, unemployed and the sick? Think of the future of your family, think of your granddaughters’, she said, nodding at me and Sofia.

Grandma looked confused and was still unable to make a decision.

The officer took a device that resembled a chunky plastic pistol out of a bag. Grandma screamed that they wouldn’t put that thing near her. I wanted to go to her, cuddle her and tell her that the tracker wouldn’t hurt, but Dad gently held me back. Mum asked to have a few words with her in private, so we all left the attic.

While we were waiting down in the living room, the officers showed us a short film that had been made with families in mind. The documentary started by explaining the psychology of fear of the unknown and that this kind of fear – like all manner of degradation – increases with old age. It told us about what happens to the human body and brain as we age. Halfway through, an officer asked me and Sofia to turn our heads away, as we might find the images disturbing. I did so but Sofia didn’t; she gazed with interest at the many centenarians lying helpless and half-naked in their own waste. I know this because I turned my head back for a second when Dad didn’t see. ‘We don’t let animals suffer, why would we do it to our own parents?’ This slogan was repeated many times, and it made my heart contract in pain for what would soon happen to Grandma’s aged body.

‘At what age does it strike?’ Sofia asked.

‘We never know for sure but it gets considerably worse after the age of sixty.’

Grandma’s age, I thought.

‘And is the deterioration gradual or sudden?’ Sofia asked.

The woman was evidently surprised by a twelve-year-old using such language. She glanced at Dad.

‘Sofia is our little scientist, with big plans, aren’t you?’ He patted her shoulder, and Sofia shone like a crown jewel, then started boasting about her hope to find a cure against ageing. I felt acid filling my stomach.

Finally, Grandma made a decision. After a lengthy discussion she reluctantly agreed to move into the Dignitorium. She had to leave immediately, so they offered to take us in their helicopter to a nearby one, in MW12. The roads had just been converted into pedestrian zones and cycle routes but the monorail hadn’t been completed yet.

As we flew over the city, it was fascinating to look down on London beneath us. Our city, just like the whole country and indeed the whole world, was undergoing a total transformation. It was still our city, the city we loved. Big Ben stood proudly next to the Houses of Parliament, boats on the Thames headed up towards Tower Bridge, and in the distance the dome of St Paul’s rose up majestically. But a new earth was about to be born from the ashes of the old one. From the air we could see the rows of back-to-back terraced houses, the narrow streets; a total disorder. A few miles away, the vision of the new system had already materialised, in the form of wide tree-lined promenades alongside which ran the bicycle routes and the monorail track. We marvelled at the very first monorail we saw, a glittering red metallic snake, an improved replica of those originally used in Disneyland.

‘Not bad, but I have better ideas,’ Sofia commented.

Though she wouldn’t admit it, I could see she was spellbound, her eyes widening as she drank up the view.

‘Those are Low-Spender buildings. Ours will be much better,’ Sofia said, pointing at the six- and eight-storey blocks, painted magnolia and terracotta, complete with balconies.

‘Mid Spenders get a proper house with a garden,’ she continued.

‘And what if I want a flat?’

‘They’re not called flats any more, silly. They’re apartments!’

‘Okay, so what if a Mid Spender wants an apartment?’

‘They can get one. Those will be in four-storey condos. They will each have roof gardens and an inner courtyard with a playground and swimming pool.’

I didn’t know where Sofia had got all this information from, but later she was proven right. Dad had requested a semi with a pleasant garden at the front and back, near our new school, and we were given just that.

Sofia pressed her nose to the window, her breath creating steam on the glass surface. I watched her for a long time. I was admiring her profile, the straight nose I so envied, her almond-shaped eyes and long dark hair that framed her face. Her immaculate white skin had never been blemished by the sun. She was studying something in the far distance, mesmerised. I followed her gaze through the window to a slim, snow-white, windowless skyscraper. It was only half-finished but it already dominated the city’s skyline, like a watchtower.

‘What’s that?’ I asked her with awe.

‘The Primavera Club. The Owners’ playground. Cool, isn’t it?’

‘What’s in there?’

‘No idea.’ She shrugged.

If I look back to our childhood, this was one of the few things she ever admitted to not knowing.

‘The Owners go there to relax,’ she added, confidence returning to her voice. ‘After the responsible work they do.’

‘What work?’

‘Everything. Creating new cities, looking after the countryside, and most importantly, protecting us from the wolves.’ At the mention of wolves, I shivered.

Despite the ride being a cool adventure, I couldn’t wait to arrive. I could tell Grandma had already regretted her decision. She was trying to avoid looking down on the new London, but when we pointed something out in admiration, she looked at it with fearful disgust. I hoped once we arrived and she saw the gorgeous building and gardens of the Dignitorium, she would calm down. She kept staring ahead solemnly then suddenly looked at me and Sofia: ‘Do you girls agree with that woman?’

‘Agree about what, Grandma?’ I asked.

‘That I’m selfish. For wanting the old system back.’

‘Oh, Mum.’ Mum patted her hand. ‘Forget about that woman. We are your family. We love you. We all understand how difficult it is to accept change.’ Sofia and I nodded at the same time and sent her a sweet smile.

‘I … I love you girls,’ Grandma said with a serious face. ‘And the last thing I want is for you to think otherwise.’

Mum laughed out and cuddled Grandma. ‘You have made the right decision, that’s the only thing that counts.

‘You two really want this new system, right?’ she asked, brooding, with a strange resignation in her voice.

We arrived above the Dignitorium. The grand Victorian brick mansion was stunningly beautiful in the middle of the magical gardens and lush old trees. Even Grandma looked down with curiosity and when we arrived and said goodbye, she was calmer. What we saw – the gardens, the reception hall, the Salon where we said goodbye to Grandma before she was led away – fascinated all of us. I couldn’t wait to return to visit her and hear all her adventures.

On our journey home, we all were silent. Mum was trying hard to conceal that she was wiping her eyes. The last image of Grandma, looking back from the door of the Salon with an encouraging but somewhat forced smile, made us realise she wouldn’t be a part of our everyday life any more. There was this sense of loss until Mum broke it and got Sofia and me to plan a lovely gift for Grandma that we would take her on our next visit. Sofia wasn’t paying much attention – she was admiring the view of the new London below – but I loved the idea. I said we could have bespoke doll versions of ourselves made for her so she would feel we’re with her all the time. Mum loved the idea and ordered the dolls once we got home.

But Dad couldn’t stop wondering why the authorities had gone straight upstairs to Sofia’s laboratory, how they knew she was there.

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Mum said while dishing out plates of pasta.

‘It does matter,’ Dad replied. He didn’t touch his fork. ‘If they are monitoring us in our own home, I’ll report them.’

I looked at Sofia, who was browsing on her ID Phone, entirely uninterested in the conversation. Mum slammed the cheese grater down on the table. ‘Ben, I think you’re overreacting. Mum is now in a safe place, let’s just drop it and enjoy our meal,’ she said.

Dad didn’t reply. He stared ahead into the empty air for what felt like ages. When he spoke his voice was unusually quiet.

‘It’s not just about finding the bugs, Evelyn,’ he said. ‘If they’re really spying on us, this is more serious than I thought. And this new system is more dangerous than they tell us.’ I felt goose bumps rising all over my skin.

‘There are no bugs,’ Sofia said, not even looking up from her ID phone. ‘It was me who reported Grandma.’ Her words hung in the air. We all looked at her.

‘What are you saying?’ my father asked.

‘I reported her to the authorities. In fact, I don’t know what took them so long. I did it two months ago.’ She glanced up. ‘Why are you staring at me like that? She was cheating the system. I would report anyone for it.’ I saw something unnatural in Mum’s gaze, like she’d been hit with a hammer but was trying to conceal the pain. Dad looked at Sofia with disbelief, then at Mum, then back at Sofia. I think something broke in him for good that evening.

Sadly, Grandma didn’t enjoy the Dignitorium; she wanted to go out and do the things she was used to doing, like wandering around the local flea market or hiking in the hills with her walking group. The fact that her body would soon start to deteriorate didn’t seem to bother her. Grandma insisted she could easily live a full life for another twenty years. There were moments when I nearly believed her and was confused, but once Citizenship classes were introduced at school, they explained how it was in human nature to resist the process of ageing. We were given numerous examples of retired people in the old system not accepting their deterioration and even becoming a danger to society. One was driving a car almost blind, and killed a group of school children. Once I heard that, I understood that it was better for all of us – especially Grandma – if she accepted the new system and even tried to enjoy the luxurious retirement she was being offered.

But when Mum, Dad and I visited Grandma in the Dignitorium, she looked old and thin. I noticed how she tried to conceal her shaking hands. She told us she was organising a little group of fellow residents to write to the Prime Minister and some important Globe broadcasters in protest against their situation. She didn’t have time to follow through with her plan.

Just two weeks after she moved in, we were given an emergency call to go to the Dignitorium. They told us Grandma had been diagnosed with a very advanced cancer. She had requested instant euthanasia and her body had already been cremated. We were in shock. We knew Grandma wouldn’t have done anything like this, not without wanting to see us first. They showed us her diagnosis and explained her illness to us in great detail. Then we saw her Farewell Video in which she sat in a chair, smiling, saying goodbye to us, telling us this was what she wanted. She explained that she wished to avoid the pain of cancer. She hoped to save us the trouble, the heartache.

Her name, etched on a silver plaque on the memory wall in the Dignitorium’s garden, was the only trace left of her, apart from her suitcase and the wedding album. All we could do was to return to the wall with flowers and mourn. Sofia never expressed any desire to come with us, and I had a feeling Dad wouldn’t have taken her even if she had. From the day her betrayal came to light, Dad was cautious around Sofia. Sometimes it was more than caution. I could swear it was fear.

The limousine slows down as we descend a steep hill. I can see dozens of narrow chimneys on an ancient rooftop surrounded by lofty trees. So it’s a Victorian mansion, a grand place. Within the vast grounds a snow-white chopper stands on a helipad. Even from this distance, it all radiates Sofia’s arrogance and obsession with luxury. Suddenly I start to shiver. She won’t help me.

Dad is not here to warn her that war begins in the family and that – despite the crippling interval of two decades since we have seen each other – I am still family. The only reason she has agreed to meet me is because she wants to humiliate me. She’ll listen, raising my hopes, just to laugh in my face the next moment. She’ll bring up the past, condemning me for that day when we parted, when I said things I shouldn’t have said. I want to go back to London. I bend forward, trying to form the words to tell the chauffeur to stop and turn around. It’s not too late yet. But then my survival instinct kicks in, followed by an image of Philip, and I feel ashamed for my momentary weakness. I’m ready to meet my fate, if there is just the slightest hope. Today, I will rise or fall.

Seven weeks earlier…

BOOK one

one

It’s already May, my favourite month. But instead of strolling in the park, I am at home, feeling suffocated, yet unable to leave. On the news they announce that the Paradise shopping centre is ready to be reopened. They rebuilt it brick by brick in the hope that people might forget the fact that it was blown to pieces less than five months ago. The reporter is standing in the rooftop garden with dozens of waving customers behind her. With her shoulder-length hair flying in the wind, her waterproof puffed up, she reminds me of an astronaut floating in space. She exudes an air of triumph as she keeps repeating the words ‘bigger and better’, like a mantra.

A year ago I would have been the first to enter, eager to explore the cave of treasures. The new me couldn’t care less. I’m trapped in time, still reliving that Boxing Day five months ago when Philip didn’t come home from work. Just when we were about to become High Spenders, on the verge of starting a family… Now not only is he gone, but – as I discovered soon after his disappearance – so are the considerable savings from his bank account.

I switch off the Globe and go to my favourite place at the window. I spend more time here than is healthy, watching people in the inner courtyard. The obligatory ingredients of Mid-Spender community living – a neat lawn with a barbecue area, the heated swimming pool in the far right corner and the winding path, bordered with flowers, that circles around the fountain – are supposed to raise the spirits, but instead they fill me with a gnawing loneliness. Still, it’s too addictive to stop. When the courtyard is empty – in bad weather or at night – my eyes are often drawn to the windows of the apartments opposite mine and stay there longer than they should.

This morning I went to the police station again. By now everyone there knows me. I wonder what they really think behind their compassionate smiles. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ the officer said. ‘These days, with such technology, who can be more dead than the officially dead?’ They probably think me a lunatic. Sometimes I’m worried they’re right. This foolish hope that Philip is still alive only prolongs my suffering, conserving it until it becomes a part of my body, and seeps permanently into my bones.

On my way to work, struggling for air during rush hour on the monorail; in the staffroom, while my colleagues are gossiping away, I think of Philip. He’s still there on my way home, when I leave the monorail and pick up the ingredients for a quick, lonely dinner. Wherever I go, I can’t help searching for his eyes in the crowd of unknown faces.

In February I was given the evacuation order. It came as a shock, even though I knew that one day I would have to move into a single apartment. At the council I pretended not to see the dread-ridden faces in the queue, the faces of those who were being downgraded to Low Spenders. I kept telling myself it could be worse. I could be one of them. The council officer’s words were sympathetic but businesslike.

‘Your husband is not coming back. A newly married couple will need your apartment, Mrs Brunelli. You must move out within three days.’ She scanned my ID phone and typed something into her computer. ‘It’s done,’ she said. ‘From now on you will be able to enter your new home. Don’t worry, it’s just as lovely as your old one, the perfect size for a single person.’ She gave me a charming smile. I wanted to reply but my tongue was tied. ‘The entry code for your old home will soon be de-activated. So it’s in your interest to move all your belongings as quickly as possible.’ She gave me another smile of encouragement, the equivalent of a hug had we been friends. I walked home like an automaton, the frost-covered street and the people around me blurred.

I know the police officer was right. If a person’s tracker is deactivated, there are only three – equally hopeless – possibilities. Upon retiring to the Dignitorium, residents have their trackers removed, cut out of their bodies, leaving a barely visible mark behind the left ear. The same happens to those unfortunates who, not qualifying for the Dignitorium, are forced to withdraw from society and are dumped in the Zone, to await their miserable end, either by starvation or attack from other unfortunates. The third possibility is that they are already dead. The tracker switches itself off because of a lack of energy from the living body to fuel it.

The breeze blows gently at the muslin curtain. I prefer hiding behind it; if I am to be a voyeur, better to do it invisibly. The playground below is becoming interesting, now that families are finishing their Sunday lunch and are ready to walk it off. I wonder, if we had had any children, would they have been girls or boys. For some reason, I always thought the first one would be a girl. What would she play with now? Would she sit on the mini-carousel? Or would she be more adventurous and climb the artificial tree? Would she be shooting glances up at the window, waving and shouting: ‘Hi, Mummy’?

It’s getting busier – only the secluded smaller playground for non-profit children is empty as usual. Fathers are watching their children playing on the swings, mums are sunk deep in the jacuzzi, holding one wrist above the water, the wrist with the ID Phone, which they almost never take their eyes off. I would have been a different mother. More attentive, less frivolous. This is all that is left to me now, watching from high up, with the soft muslin curtain tickling the tip of my nose.

Recently I started to make excuses when friends called, inviting me for a birthday bash or a weekend shopping in another city. By now the calls and invitations have stopped. Hi-hello-how’re-yous are scattered around in the staffroom, but it rarely goes any further than that. I can hardly bear other people’s company any more.

Tired of the family scenes, I look across at the apartment opposite. The woman who lives there is always reading on her balcony, and today is no exception. She’s young and beautiful. All she ever does is read, either down in the courtyard on a lounger or on her balcony, swinging in an orange hammock. In the beginning, I kept asking myself how she could earn her Right To Reside. Not any more, now that I know the answer.

I wonder what Philip would make of her, given his recent disillusionment with everything under the sun. He used to say that only idiots read fiction; weak and unfit people who choose to escape from reality instead of confronting it. It seemed he’d forgotten the days when, years ago, we used to read books together, cuddled up, one of us reading aloud, the other listening with closed eyes. Then we would swap.

‘Books are gateways to other dimensions,’ Philip said on our honeymoon in Madeira, out of the blue as we were coasting in a hired boat across the turquoise water of the bay. ‘Once you start reading, the gate opens up, and the other world behind draws you in.’

‘Sometimes I wish I could close the gate and stay trapped in that world,’ I replied jokingly, but he remained serious.

‘We would be separated then,’ he said.

‘Or we could be trapped together.’ I laughed and when the sweet wind blew in my face and sent my hair flying back, my heart nearly burst.

It’s not an imaginary dimension I’m trapped in now, but this harsh, cold and dreadful world. Even worse, I’m trapped alone. Those who counted have gone. We never know how the death of our parents will affect us. I can testify that the adult orphan suffers no less than the child. Mum and Dad often return in my dreams, sometimes in the form of nightmares. I see Mum crouching above someone. It’s Dad, lying face down. Mum starts screaming. At this point I always wake up in a sweat, my heart rate up in the sky. Fortunately this dream only haunts me rarely. Usually I see them as I did for the very last time, on that autumn day four years ago when their retirement in the Dignitorium came to an end and I stayed on the bench in front of the main building. Dad didn’t want me to escort them to the entrance of the T-wing. They said they were ready to go, and had their heads held high, but they never stopped holding each other’s hands. As if they were hanging on to the only certain thing. That’s how I see them when I dream, walking away from me, hand in hand, and the further they walk, the brighter they appear, until they shine like a diamond star.

A breeze is coming through the window and the little living room quickly loses heat. In my old home I could sit out on our private roof terrace if I needed the sun. There were so many things I couldn’t bring from the old apartment, such as Philip’s exercise bike. Maybe it’s better that way, so I don’t have to see it sitting unused. I glance at the clock and my stomach contracts. I’m getting closer to tomorrow by the hour, to the dreaded Monday when the nightmare at work begins again.

On Friday, Leo Sullivan, the head teacher, called me into his office. I had expected it, after I failed to notice that three children hadn’t returned to class from break. Even security couldn’t find them, and they had to call in the police to locate their trackers. For a short time they feared a repetition of the notorious kidnappings – it was the first thing that came to everyone’s minds – but luckily it wasn’t the case. They found them playing truant in a nearby shopping centre. Leo, an exemplary family man, the type who wears a freshly starched shirt every day and decorates his desk with family photos, had warned me in the past weeks to get some help; I thought there was nothing new to say. This time his tone was more severe.

‘What happened today in Year 8 will cost you three penalty points.’

‘I’m sorry, Leo.’

‘With these three points, now you have thirteen.’

‘That’s impossible!’ I stared at him in disbelief. He pointed at his computer screen for me to see. It can’t be true! In September, at the start of the new school year, I had only five points that had accumulated over the years.

‘Look, Alice, I don’t judge you; in fact, I deeply sympathise with you. But if a parent reports the school, it’s not you but me who will be in trouble.’

‘I’m really sorry. These days I’m just…not well.’

‘I know.’

‘You don’t know what an effort it is to get out of bed every morning, how I struggle to cope with even simple tasks.’

‘I have to tell you something, but it must remain between us.’ His tone mellowed to a friendly one. ‘My wife has been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.’ He lowered his voice even though there was no one around. ‘Her condition is deteriorating, it seems she’ll never be able to earn her Right To Reside. I can’t afford to lose my credit in this job.’

At this stage he sounded like he was begging me to sort myself out.

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘The last thing I want is to get you into trouble.’

‘Get some help then.’

‘Even if I could afford therapy, it wouldn’t give me the answers.’

He promised to see what he could do. When he got back to me in the afternoon, he gave me a list of crisis advisors, available from the council free of charge. I applied straightaway . It suggested that in the meantime I get additional help from the Mini-doc.

Mini-doc again! For God’s sake, this is not a common flu or infection I have – how could an app possibly understand what I’m going through?

I close the blinds as if it could shield me from the outside world. Tomorrow it’s back to school again. With my thirteen penalty points, I’m dangerously close to the maximum of twenty, which would mean suspension. I can’t afford another mistake. I’m eyeing my ID Phone on the table, flirting with it. For some reason I have always been against the idea of using the Mini-doc for non-physical symptoms. But what harm can it do? Like everyone else, I pay for it anyway. For a monthly subscription we have this high-tech doctor available to us, day and night. I was a child when the old system collapsed, so I have only vague memories of visiting a doctor. However, Mum would often bring up its horrors: waiting for hours in a confined, badly lit space, having to share it with other sick people, mostly children and the elderly.

I pick my ID phone up and turn on the Mini-doc. A greying man in a white coat greets me. ‘Good afternoon, Alice.’ He introduces himself as Doctor Graham. His manner is professional, and only the lack of any fluctuation in his tone betrays the fact that he’s not real. As I’m trying to explain my problem in a few sentences, narrowing it down, there are more focused questions popping up. My blood pressure and other body functions are measured. Then after a short wait, the results are processed. The diagnosis is depression and exhaustion of medium severity. Four different types of medicine are recommended, but I can’t bring myself to go through the lengthy descriptions so I let Mini-doc choose. It selects one and I pay. Doctor Graham reappears on the screen. ‘Your medicine will arrive within two hours. To aid your recovery, I’d recommend a compilation of relaxing classical music. Please see the available selection on your Globe. Goodbye, Alice, and thank you for using Mini-doc.’

When the Globe comes on, its spherical 3D projection is beamed down from the ceiling into the room. I switch to music mode and type in Johann Sebastian Bach. Dad brought us up listening to music, so unlike most people these days I know many of the great composers. It was one of the things I had in common with Philip. We were rare in that respect, anomalies.