‘I guess that makes sense. Now that babies are… hard to come by, no one wants to think of a time when there were hundreds of them growing up in nasty institutions.’
‘Another legacy of the HI-Vax. No more AIDS orphan babies.’
‘And of the fertility crisis. No more babies, full stop.’ Pain flashes across Kirsten’s face.
‘Sorry, I know this must be difficult for you.’
‘It’s not. I mean, of course it is, but for different reasons. So you’re sure? No record of an adoption?’
‘Actually, no record of you being born. At all.’
Kirsten had guessed the birth certificate was a fake. She laughs despite herself.
‘So, what? You’re saying I don’t exist? I’m a ghost? No wonder I feel hollow. It’s all starting to make sense now!’
‘Not quite a ghost, but there’s definitely something odd about the way you came into the world. We just need to work out what happened. I mean, if that’s what you want. You could just forget about the autopsy report. Go back to living your normal life. It’s probably the sensible thing to do.’
‘Impossible. Besides, it’s never been normal. I need to find out the truth.’
Keke downs the last of her drink.
‘I was hoping you’d say that.’
Seth looks at the clockologram on his bedroom wall for what feels like the hundredth time since getting into bed. Agitated, he wonders if he should get a sleeping pill but he’s already had two TranX so another downer would probably be a bad idea, especially on top of everything else he’s had today. A rock lyric comes into his head.
‘Sandy,’ he says to the open room.
‘Yes, Seth,’ purrs the apartment voice.
‘Play the song ‘Slumber is For Corpses’.’
Three beats later the song comes onto the sound system.
He closes his eyes and listens for a while, then reaches over for the sleeping pills, taps one into his palm. Fuck it, he thinks, and swallows it dry. He feels immensely dissatisfied with life in general. His QOL score was sitting at 32 out of a possible 100.
He had logged on to the Alba network when he arrived home to see if there were any messages, but there was no green rabbit. He looked for a chatterbot in the quantum philosophy circuit but didn’t find one interesting enough. He watched half an hour of a really bad ultra-reality programme about the Underground Games: NinjaJitsu and Punch-Rugby, before giving up on the day and going to bed. He had been alone for so long, but had never gotten used to the feeling. On nights like this he feels his life gaping before him, one big, empty gash. He was a prime number, and prime numbers are always lonely.
The animated graphic novel on his Tile fails to interest him, and he doesn’t feel up to gaming, so he just lies back and watches the red hologram digits click over and over. 00:00. He can’t even be bothered to jerk off.
They leave the SkyBar at around midnight. Kirsten knows by the look in Keke’s eyes that she’s on her way to a booty call.
‘Watch yourself,’ Keke says, strapping her helmet on and inflating it. She flings her leg over her sleek e-motorbike, releases the kickstand, and revs the engine. Kirsten waves as Keke takes off with a roar.
Standing in the monochrome rectangular box of the almost empty, poorly lit parking basement, Kirsten feels restless, cocky, horny, and not at all in the mood to go home. If she were single she would go back to the bar, pick up some unsuspecting man and show him her talents.
She misses that, sometimes, the thrill of sleeping with someone for the first time. The feeling of a stranger’s lips on hers; lips that have nothing to do with love or affection. The first undressing, the first nipple-in-mouth, pulling of hair, and then the heady relief of that first swollen thrust. Just thinking about it, Kirsten feels her breathing deepen, and a general throbbing in the lower half of her body. James is a generous lover, but he doesn’t have the same nagging libido as she does. Add thirteen years of old-fashioned monogamy to that and it’s always tempting on nights like this, with booze in her blood, to accept one of the many advances made to her. After all, she reasons, no one would have to know, so no one would be hurt. She has never cheated on James, but at times like this, angry with him, angry with the world, she feels a hard, rebellious recklessness. A sharp chipstone in her fist.
The idea of meeting someone new at the bar, someone who doesn’t know any of her problems, Is tempting. She could pretend to be a different person. Be someone lighter: someone who didn’t think as much. Make up a fake name, live one of those parallel lives that loiter in her subconscious, if only for a few hours. Shake some yellow stars of adrenaline into her bloodstream. Have dirty sex.
But she knows she won’t do it; wouldn’t be able to live with the haunting guilt. She may have a dozen flaws, but she is not a cheater. Cursed at birth with honesty and loyalty. Not dissimilar to a Labrador, as Keke likes to say.
All relationships, she tells herself, have their rocky roads. She reminds herself to think with her brain, and her heart, and takes a definitive step in the direction of the late night bus stop.
In the distance a silhouette steps out from behind a car and Kirsten jumps.
Jesus! She thinks, scrabbling for her mace.
The figure slowly approaches her. Her beer-clumsy fingers can’t find it so she decides to run, but the parking basement is in virtual darkness apart from the exit, and the creep now stands between her and the light. Kirsten squints, shields her eyes, tries to see the face of the stranger.
‘Hello?’ she calls, pushing her voice deeper, trying to seem strong and confident. The figure slows down, but keeps moving towards her, gliding silently, also cautious. With a zinging in her head, Kirsten realises that this is the person who has been following her all night. She sweats: feverish with fright.
‘Don’t be scared,’ says a wobbly voice. Female.
‘What do you want?’ shouts Kirsten, an edge to her voice. She imagines herself waking up the next morning in a bath of dirty ice, with untidy green stitches (Seaweed Sutures) where her kidneys used to be. But that kind of stuff doesn’t happen anymore, she assures herself. They print organs now.
‘I have something for you,’ the woman says.
Kirsten can make out her face, cheek-boned but androgynous, with a matching haircut. Skeletal figure hidden in unflattering clothes: mom-cut jeans and a tracksuit top flecked with dog hair. No make-up on her dry lips or darting eyes. Clenched hands.
‘Stay away from me!’ shouts Kirsten. ‘Stay away!’
‘I have something for you,’ the woman says again.
Jesus Christ. What? A knife? An injection? A cold pad of chloroform to hold to my mouth?
‘I’m not here to hurt you,’ she says, scuttling up close in dirty sneakers. She has body odour: dried figs and BBQ sauce. The stink smacks Kirsten in the face: it’s a giant grey curtain, poised to smother. The woman has some sticky white sleep in her eyes. Kirsten is repelled, nauseated.
‘I’m here to warn you,’ her eyes flash from beneath her blunt-cut fringe. ‘There are people, people that want to hurt us.’
‘Us?’
‘You, and me, and the other four.’
‘Six people?’
‘Seven! Seven! One is dead already!’
Oh boy.
‘He was first on the list. He sang a song. Music man. Now he is dead. We were too late. Now I am warning you.’
Kirsten tries to step around her, but she blocks her way.