If Then (15 page)

“There is no war. The war ended over a hundred years ago.”

“And yet it is here again. I have observed it. Upon the chalk cliffs, great jars bathe in the sunlight reflected off the sea. Within each jar, a soldier grows. The rivers run with chromium and the air is poisonous with chrysanthemum clouds of raw gold. Weapons spill out of the factories in torrents: shells of every size, rifles, great cannon and miles of barbed wire, legions of horse. The first replicas were exact forgeries. But with the pressure to produce more so the simulations become less exact. Men are made with greatcoats fused to their skin and with no feet in their boots. You will take your place among them. You will play your role. And then you will understand what you are.”

Adlan wished to continue his study of Hector without further distraction. James left the bedroom and stood with Alex beside a window overlooking the garden.

“You took something out of me to make room for the implant. What was it?” he asked.

Her reflection in the window showed the sadness of somebody trapped, of somebody who could never get back what they had lost.

“The good part.”

“I’ve said goodbye to Ruth. Adlan’s right. I have to go into the war. To serve but not to fight.”

She offered him the use of a room for the evening. He accepted. She visited him at midnight in her nightie, and they made love quietly, while from out on the lawn came the laughter and strange whooping of the inmates. He gave in to her desire for sex because he had closed himself to other people and he wanted to connect again, and Alex was so profoundly lonely among the residents of the Institute. It was uncharacteristic of him, he had not cheated on Ruth before. But Alex had cared for him throughout his recovery, and was intimate with the half of him that Ruth did not like to gaze upon.

The moon was high and bright. At dawn, he heard footsteps in the corridor. He walked naked into the corridor and Hector was there, waiting for him, in full uniform. Betraying Ruth would make it easier for him to leave.

They walked together from the Institute, retracing the steps they had taken on that patrol when James first found Hector. Through the wood and past the camp of the charcoal burner, then back through Glynde, over the railway line, and skirting around Firle before undertaking the steep but not difficult hike up Firle Beacon. He was fit and they reached the high ridgeline overlooking indigo and grey patchwork fields divided by drystone walls and hedgerows. The pattern of fields reminded him of the cellular structure of soap bubbles, and perhaps their formation shared some of the same rules. The grass trembled to meet his fingertips. As a boy, he had been a connoisseur of turf and a carver of dens in the heart of rhododendron bushes. He had liked to curl up safe in the mathematics of the green.

He decohered, thought he heard a child crying on the Downs. The sour taste of an hour’s sleep in his mouth yet it had only been a moment. Hector was a hundred yards ahead and then briefly two, three, four great flashes over the distant town of Newhaven lit up the night, followed by a rumble that could be mistaken for thunder. A star drifted over the coast, illuminating a vast new terrain of scorched cliffs. The landscape he had known was gone, a new one constructed in its place. His implant felt suddenly hot and then he saw the godstuff approach, golden waves rippling quickly across the contours of the Downs. Hector had reached the wire strung across the field, the barrier betwixt and between. Hector turned to him, as if to chide him for falling behind, and then the godstuff flowed over both of them.

11

A
t school
, the children wanted to know about the explosions. No one spoke of it as James had, as a recurrence of war. Was it fireworks? Was it, as one boy suggested, quarrying? Ruth settled the children down and asked them to write a story inspired by the distant explosions. Sylvia, her favourite, chewed her pen top and gazed out of the window at the rooks perched on the branches of the kiss-kiss tree.

“Do you have an idea for a story, Sylvia?”

“The bangs are there to scare us, miss.”

“Do they scare you?”

Sylvia shivered and nodded. And so did the other children around her.

“Why do you think they are there to scare us?”

“It’s like when we set off rookies, miss, to scare the birds away from the crops. Someone wants to scare us out of the town.”

“That’s a very good idea for a story,” said Ruth, “but I don’t think that is what is really happening.”

At midmorning, she crossed over to the kindergarten class. It was warm and yeasty in a cloying, mumsy kind of way. The women spoke in a high questioning tone so as not to disturb the room with assertions. She liked the little children, found them interesting and honest; her desire for children had come too late, after James had been sterilized. But she had been right not to breed. History had been on her side. A couple of the mothers talked about their doubts and regret about having the children, even though they loved them, of course they loved them, but on balance, all things considered, the way things turned out, it would have been better had they never existed.

The kindergarten was hotter and yeastier than usual. She went into the toilets and gagged over a tiny toilet, then bent low to wash her face in a miniature basin. When she stood up, there was a mother helping her son urinate into a potty. Nursery rules dictated a smile at all times. The mother exclaimed, in an exaggerated and high-pitched fashion, an “oh” of surprise.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” she said.

“I am a teacher here,” replied Ruth.

“I thought you had been allocated a new role.”

The mother was fresh faced but her hair was grey. Her jeans were too big for her. Weight loss, colour loss – her house had been taken in the Seizure and reallocated to ensure fairness. Somebody who had earned it and not merely inherited it or speculated for it.

The boy finished urinating. His mother did not notice.

“No harm done,” said Ruth.

In the classroom, the children sat in a circle and sang of the sweet, sweet berries of the kiss-kiss tree. The boy skipped out of the toilet and took his place among them. His mother met Ruth in the corridor.

“Are you helping the group today?” Ruth asked.

“Yes. The Process asked me to contribute. We all seem to be changing our roles, don’t we? It’s refreshing. We all need a change.”

“I am happy with my role,” said Ruth.

“Well, it’s not about whether we are happy with our work, is it? We must also consider whether our work is happy with us.”

Back in the classroom, her students worked upon their stories. Sylvia drew a picture of the children crouched upon the branches of the kiss-kiss tree with explosions all around them, using coloured pencils to fill in the fire: orange, yellow, red. The destiny of these children would be so different from their parents. They would fail or succeed on their abilities. A suitable role would be allocated to them. The Process, by doing away with mortgages and salaries, pensions and investments, had erased the former trappings of adulthood. A new definition of adulthood was required. The tired faces at the school gates were a testament to that. Love could be solved by the Process, too; the dating algorithms that helped a billion Chinese find love were part of it. Legacy relationships were allowed to stand but better matches were on offer.

Her hand brushed against Sylvia’s hair, curls which expressed all the endearing unexpectedness of a child’s mind. She was glad that the children would be spared the lives of their parents.

Some days, she missed the time before the collapse with its racks of magazines with sachets of scent, the feeling of a new pair of shoes, being in a bar full of strangers sipping champagne, telly and tanning salons, train journeys across country.

Sometimes, when the children were running in the playground, and she was in the middle of them, it was as if the collapse had never happened.

Clara, the headmistress, called a staff meeting to discuss what to tell the children about the distant explosions. The other teachers were anxious. Should the school close? Clara canvassed their opinions, pointedly ignoring Ruth, excluding her from debate. She waited until they had all spoken before she informed the meeting that James had gone to investigate the source of the explosions.

“That’s brave of him,” said Clara.

Ruth just wanted Clara to know that she and James still had a role to play.

“Does he know what is going on?”

“Not yet. He will be back tonight or tomorrow. As soon as he returns, I will let you know.”

This promise won her a reprieve of sorts. But James did not come home that night, or the next. In the evenings, people took to gathering on the castle top to observe the distant explosions. In the castle gardens, the Von Pallandts served mulled wine from a trestle table. A greenish light settled over Newhaven, an aurora borealis riddled with flashes of lightning rising out of the earth and a rolling rhythm of explosion and echo. Once Ruth had seen enough of the bombardment, she joined a gossiping, drinking gathering. Edith, in cape and pointed hood, put her hand on Ruth’s arm and asked her if she had heard from James. She realized that was being lined up for a role she had never expected: widow. The Process had issued her the black silk and pattern for a funeral dress, with black lace for the veil and collar.

“Why is the Process doing this?” she asked.

“It will pass,” said Edith.

“What if it doesn’t?”

“You must have faith if you are to get through these times.”

“Faith in what?”

“Faith that it will soon be over and you will cope regardless.”

“We should send another patrol.”

Edith glared, distressed; it was only a matter of time before her greatest fear came to pass and her son was dispatched to follow James.

Death was in their hearts. Grieving widow, grieving mother, the roles waited for them a week or two down the line. The black cloth had been given to her, and the pattern too – all she had to do was make it.

Ruth went up to the turret again and willed the explosions to stop. A distant flare went up, a manmade star that rose above the churning nebula of green smoke. Then that flare fell to earth to be followed by another, then another, like a legion of spirits.

First thing in the morning, the other side of the bed was cold again. Reality was remorseless and stubborn in refusing to give her what she wanted. The bombardment, steadily increasing day by day, played on the nerves of the town. In the classroom, many of the children were missing, kept at home by parents in case the war breached the town walls. By the end of the week, it was decided that the school would close temporarily. Ruth gathered up the work of her pupils and there was Sylvia’s drawing of the children upon the branches of the kiss-kiss tree, huddled together and surrounded by rooks.

A week later, and still James had not returned. The lido was quiet with only four other swimmers in the water and a cleaner mopping the poolside. It was the hour between waking and the start of the guns. She shook her limbs and stretched. Late spring, and the diurnal shift was exceptional, with hot days followed by freezing nights. The waters of the lido were very cold. She hesitated at the water’s edge, mustered her resolve, and dove in.

Ruth concentrated on her breast stroke, thrusting out her legs and using that action to expel air underwater, then inhaling quickly and deeply as she broke the surface. Her skin adjusted to the cold and she turned to swim another length. Crossing and recrossing the pool and to what purpose? Halfway through her mile, she forgot about everything other than her stroke. She was purely swimming. And then a plume of icy spring water at the shallow end shocked her back into herself; she mistimed a breath, took in a mouthful of water and a twig, and gasped at the poolside.

She saw Christopher Von Pallandt pull himself out of the pool; his muscled back and the way the stripe arrowed from the top of his spine and bisected his newly-shaven head, ready for the implant. They said he was to be the new bailiff. Treading water, she wondered if she should befriend him. No – she pushed off, face down, legs straight, feet together, her hands coming together in submerged prayer – there was no point.

She completed her laps then walked across the grass to the edge of a patch of shade. She dried her long black hair and, when she looked up, Christopher Von Pallandt was stood opposite her.

“You swim very well,” he said. Christopher was about eighteen years old, muscular, but undercooked. She had noticed him trying to keep up with her in the pool but his strength seemed to slow him down, as if he were digging his way through the water rather than gliding across its surface. It was how James had swum when she first met him, before she had taught him how to do it properly.

“The water is a great equalizer,” she said.

He took a towel from a tree branch and dried his muscular midriff.

“I wanted to ask you something.” He looked around. The cleaner was mopping away Ruth’s footprints and the other swimmers were absorbed in their stroke.

“I get my implant tomorrow,” he said.

“Congratulations.”

He winced. The breeze sent blossoms into his hair and onto his bare wet shoulders.

“Did your husband ever talk about what it was like? The operation. And afterwards. Was he different?”

“Yes. He was different. He was a changed man.”

“In a good way or a bad way?”

“The times changed too. At first, I didn’t understand what had happened to him because I thought it was a reaction to the Seizure.”

“Alex said that I won’t always be in control of my actions. That the Process will be able to command me. I’m not bothered about that. In fact, it’s kind of glorious, don’t you think?”

She thought of Eviction Night, her husband’s face visible through the steamed glass of the colloid.

“James doesn’t enjoy the loss of control.”

“I have to go alone, across the Downs, to the Institute. My mother wants to go with me but it is forbidden.”

“How old were you when the Process started?”

“Thirteen.”

“What do you remember about the beginning?”

“Being thankful. We didn’t have to move. I saw the others go and they deserved it, you know, the Process got rid of all the people we didn’t need.”

“Do you ever wonder what happened to them?”

“They went somewhere else. Have you heard from James yet?”

“He went into the war.”

The boy nodded quickly.

“I think it’s a war, too. Are you worried about him?”

“I am. But I don’t know what to do about it.”

Swimming had been her only release from anxiety. When she woke at four in the morning, ready for another night shift of churning calculation, then her limbs, full of lead from exercise, pulled her down into sleep again. Every day she expected to hear from James. Nothing. She swam from one end of the pool to the other until she was exhausted. Still nothing.

“Have you been on patrol yet?” she asked.

“As far as Firle. The village has taken a few stray hits from the artillery. The church is bombed out but the people are staying put. The men have been as far as Blackcap and they told me the shelling was too intense to go any further. The roads are filling up with troops and horse moving between the front and the support lines. New trenches appear every day. The men took a boat out from west of Seaford. The coast line has been blasted. There are new factories in Newhaven and Denton Island is a slag heap. Tanker after tanker is queuing to unload at the ferry port. The water close to the harbour is thick with pollution. It’s very dangerous.”

The other swimmers crossed and recrossed the pool. She thought of Charon, the ferryman on the River Styx, transporting souls from the land of the living to the land of the dead, from the sunlit deep end to the cold shallows. It was a holding pattern, a limbo. Activity but getting nowhere.

What was she waiting for?

“Have you heard anything about James?”

Christopher shook his bare head. He looked vulnerable, his stripe glistening and exposed like that.

“If he has been injured, he might have been taken to Saddlescombe Farm. There’s a field hospital there. It’s where I am gathering the evicted.”

She thought of Agnes and the rest of the Bowles family. The carpenter had mentioned relatives in Saddlescombe.

“How do I get to Saddlescombe?”

“It’s about five miles west out of the Nevill. Follow the ridge down to Devil’s Dyke. It’s not a place for women though. You should stay where you are protected.”

“Protected by whom?”

“By me.”

His hand dithered as he considered putting it upon hers.

“You are the wife of the bailiff. That is your role.”

The suggestion was repulsive to her. He had no understanding of the inner life of a marriage. He was young and regarded sex as a social act. She turned away from him. Embarrassed at his own clumsiness, he dived again into the water.

At nine o’clock sharp, the bombardment resumed. Ruth felt it in the soles of her feet. She returned home.

Christopher’s implant was a success. If anything, he took to it far better than James did. He’d lived within the Process for so long, he did not require much by way of convalescence. The rolls of the evicted were once again compiled and read out at the war memorial. A yeoman recited two dozen names and then some, over the distant rumbling of the artillery. The crowd’s laments grew tired, their voices dwindled until the names were met with silence. People were losing the strength to care about the fate of anyone other than immediate family. It was like the early days of the Seizure all over again.

Her name was not included. She wished that it had been.