He remembered the alleyway, his fear. Tried to convince himself the whispering man would realise the report was already written, though it grew difficult to convince himself, especially with Pious’s glare.
‘Hey, P, how did it go last night?’
Feign normality. That was what he’d do—pretend everything was fine.
‘Quiet.’ The reception guard eyed him with plain distrust. ‘Lots of noise, not much action. What’s the deal with this?’ He turned the slide towards him, its thin translucent screen minuscule between massive fingers.
Markriss shrugged. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘This piece about the riots you wrote.’
‘Like what?’
Pious’s glare was jagged and rough.
‘Like this bit saying many soldiers were injured in the fighting. The only soldiers down here were snipers! And this bit.’ Pious stabbed a finger at the words, finger thudding screen. ‘Talking about, “Prospect rioters made a foolish yet desperate attempt to move their violence into Willington, but were held back by the efforts of our Corps . . .” And here! “Unfortunately the Corps were forced to shoot and wound a handful of rioters.” That’s rubbish! There are dozens of bodies all over the place with bullets in their heads! All those idiotic rioters did was smash up their own shops and streets and now they’re dead! Why don’t you report that?’
A number of residents entered the lobby, flinching at Pious’s raised voice. A man exited the lift, looked into Markriss’s eyes and scuttled out of the building fast.
‘Keep your voice down—’
‘Why? Everyone knows this stuff ain’t true . . .’ Pious’s knuckles, complete with a dark grassy outcrop of hair, grew white against the mini. ‘Things are difficult here; I thought you were different—’
Chileshe eased between them.
‘OK, I think the block’s heard enough. Pious, you know we all have jobs to do, right? Markriss,’ she said as she turned, ‘let’s go. We’re late.’
He felt her tug his arm and opened his mouth, unable to think of anything to say. He stumbled backwards, flailing.
‘You’re wrong. You know you’re wrong . . .’ he wheezed, Chile dragging harder.
Pious’s face churned. He coloured deep red.
‘I’m wrong? I’m wrong? You should be ashamed!’ he bellowed. ‘People on the out would disown you if they knew what you were doing, you shit!’
An almighty tug. He only knew he was on the street when heat from the lights warmed his cheek. He looked down. Chileshe’s eyes swam.
‘You shouldn’t have said that.’
‘But he . . . You know what we have to do . . .’
She was close to weeping. He felt the need to hug her, fully aware that in doing so, he’d be comforting himself.
‘That doesn’t mean I’m proud. I might hide it. Don’t ever think I’m proud . . .’
A teardrop, tracing a glittering path along her right cheek. Falling. He relented, embracing her like he had inside his flat when the fighting seemed enough to overwhelm them all.
‘Let’s get the L. OK?’
He wiped Chileshe’s lone tear, squeezing her shoulders with alert eyes, watching the streets. She nodded once, stiff, gulping back the remains of distress. They walked to the tram stop side by side.
His ruminations, coupled with Chileshe’s outpouring made for a sombre parting as they entered 1322. She squeezed his hand after the security check, giving her wry grin.
‘You know what my uncle used to say?’
Markriss shook his head.
‘He’d tell me, “If you want to know how significant you are, stamp your foot and see if anything changes.”’
‘Thanks, Chileshe, that’s real encouraging.’
They managed a laugh. He touched her hand again and watched her trail down the corridor, unable to dispel the feeling he’d somehow let her down.
‘Hi!’
Keshni. Tiny smile, eyes glistening. A denim jacket over a pretty summer dress that made her look like a teenager.
‘Hi . . . uh . . . how you doing?’
He had to learn to be casual, otherwise fake it.
‘Tired as usual. I feel like I’m always tired these days, you know. Like I could sleep at any time.’
He laughed, envious. Her eyes and lips made almost exact circles as she remembered.
‘Sorry, that was a little thoughtless.’
‘Don’t worry. Shall we go in?’
They smiled together in a manner he’d recall for many hours; her looking up, head leant to one side, him with hands in his pockets, taking in every detail. She was first to step away, through the swinging glass doors into the office. Markriss followed, thoughts of home, his mystery attacker, Pious and the riots banished for a short while.
* * *
In the weeks that followed, something amazing happened. Not only did he and Keshni really hit it off, a minor miracle by any reckoning, he also managed to get her talking to Chileshe over the course of one lunch break. As dubious as he may have been leading up to their meeting, the women became instant friends. Even though he’d always suspected that Chileshe harboured unvoiced desire for him, he knew an introduction between the two was inevitable. Not long after that, they gathered on the roof garden for lunch. If there were any unrequited feelings, Chileshe handled them with great flair, teasing him like a favourite sister, inviting both to dinner at her allocation as though they were already an item. Keshni was equally amicable, witty and clever, which made Markriss happy but also scared. He had no idea whether he was reading the signals right, or taking something for granted.
Somayina and the others couldn’t understand what had happened. Shocked faces broadcast dismay. Although Chileshe was plain and skinny, she possessed a timid light-heartedness that meant a lot of the office guys found her attractive. Walking the corridors of 1322 with both women was enough to make him the talk of the building. Men he didn’t know patted him on the back, giving him the thumbs up when Chileshe and Keshni weren’t looking. Others befriended him, while many wouldn’t speak or look his way. Markriss didn’t care. Those weeks were his happiest, for a while. He relaxed, feeling at home, and even began to look forward to work.
His only discontent concerned Pious.
On the evening of their heated argument over his report, he returned on the Y with Chile to find the guard missing. A younger, thinner man had replaced him, standing by the reception desk with an eager, nervous grin. Chileshe, still upset, demanded he tell them what happened to Pious. The young man was all eyes, suit a few sizes too large, as though his superiors had given him Pious’s uniform along with the job.
‘I dunno, nothin! I came to Inner City last week and I got transferred this morning!’
It was no use berating him, so Chileshe took to the lift. Markriss guessed he’d be blamed, although she said nothing. This was what he’d been trying to explain on that dark street faced with the shadow of a man. Truth was negligible power. His earlier doubts about what he’d written washed away in a torrent of relief at not being spirited away. He would never allow himself to end up like Pious, a troublesome memory. If he had to lie to protect himself and aid his continued survival, he would do it with no more qualms.
Chileshe felt the same evidently, for next morning she greeted the new guard with a smile, asking his name. Mannesh Kappaur. The youth seemed strained, though friendlier at her obvious change of heart. Soon, the three were swapping stories as though Pious and his shouted arguments had never existed.
The culmination of the proof that Markriss had been right was a reborn confidence, near impossible to hide. By the time he and Keshni stepped through the reception doors of 1322 and onto the P-tram for their dinner ‘date’, he was unable to stop talking about Pious, of Chileshe, even the man from the alley. He was still talking when they left the tram at Chaucer, the shopping and office district not far from their workplace. Pausing to decide which national menu they should sample—eventually opting for Italian—he continue
d in the same vein as they found a table and sat. He only came to his senses then, realising there was a vague possibility that unchecked enthusiasm might bore his companion.
She seemed attentive enough, sipping a glass of wine while she ordered, nodding and saying ‘uh-huh’ in the right places. Markriss took a token sip.
‘So what d’you think, honestly? Of what I just told you, I mean.’
She shrugged, sipping more wine, looking at the table. A bolt of fear. She might not share his views, might not understand . . .
‘Well . . . you seem pretty sure of yourself. That’s good . . .’
‘But?’
‘I can’t help feeling you’re not just asking for my opinion, you’re asking for approval. I have the same job as you, Markriss, almost to the letter. Don’t get me wrong. I know what you’re talking about, but what else are we supposed to do? Write what we like? Journalism doesn’t work that way. So do it anyway, get the sack and maybe get thrown out of here? Shouting the odds didn’t get that friend of yours anywhere—’
‘Exactly!’
Passionate relief, loud enough to make fellow diners look. He sank. Keshni smiled, an adult witnessing a display of childish pleasure.
‘That’s something else: you worry so much about other people’s opinions! Your security friend clearly didn’t know what he was dealing with, neither does that crazy guy who attacked you, though to be honest I’m not surprised someone came at you, living where you do. As for Chileshe, she’s the only one who does and how does she deal with it? She knuckles down and gets on. Like you should.’
Sighing, he lifted his head from the cutlery with a half-smile.
‘How did you get to be so pragmatic?’
‘You have to know what you want, Markriss, believe in it with all your heart. I’m not sure you do.’
The waiter arrived, thin and detached, expressing low-voiced concern about their failed neural connection. Markriss chose not to listen. Keshni was right. He was uncomfortable with the decision he’d made, to live by Ark rules, while she seemed to find leaving the outside world as natural as thinking. Only when he watched her chastise the waiter for approaching the table when she’d already ordered, restating her request with a hint of accent and impressing the stoic man into an appreciative comment about her mastery of his language, did he form any coherent thoughts about why. Of course she was at ease. Everything about her said she’d originated somewhere that knew nothing of Regent’s Town. When he looked at the Ark from her angle, there was no time for remorseful feelings towards people he couldn’t possibly save, had nothing in common with. He had to save himself.
He smiled at the waiter, pleased. Ordered food without an accent, ignoring the man’s dissatisfaction, and felt good. When he left, Markriss hunched on his forearms.
‘So, you’ve listened to me long enough. What about you? I still don’t know anything, not even where you came from.’
She flushed, making her sparkle—in his eyes at least.
‘I’m not as good at telling stories as you.’
‘Yeah, you are. I’ve read your articles. Just imagine you’re writing a report on yourself.’
‘OK . . .’ Keshni sat back and closed her eyes, took a deep breath. Even though he didn’t want to, it was impossible not to watch her, immersed. Fully. She opened her eyes. The flush was gone. She had a look of business, a look he was used to.
‘First I’ll tell you about my parents, is that all right?’
‘Sure, start wherever you like.’
‘It’s crazy this story, really it is, and I don’t tell it much,’ she began, looking happy at the prospect. ‘My mum was a lecturer at Dickens Literary College, you know, in South Marvey?’
He applauded himself, forcing jubilation down in an attempt to concentrate.
‘Dad was some IT whiz who worked for a local firm, Globe Computers it was called. Well, Globe wasn’t doing well. E-Lul more or less wiped out big competition, then started moving locally, shutting down firms. Before Dad knew what was going on, he was given a year’s wages and made redundant. He ran around for a month spending money and tearing his hair out, and then had an idea. Why not launch an internet dating agency? So, he put all of his redundancy pay into registering and setting up his company and went for it! Findamate.co.uk . . . Shitty name, right, but it was the nineties.’
‘Wow, that’s pretty brave.’
‘Right? A few years pass, the site’s successful, and Dad’s doing well for himself. Mum, bless her heart, was struggling. Not financially as such, but she’d spent years studying and then got her job at Dickens straight out of university. Not much time for a social life, eh? She sees my dad’s site in one of her women’s magazines and thinks, why not? She’s nothing to lose. Mum fills in the application, gives her credit card details and applies . . . Even though she gets confirmation via email from Findamate, three weeks pass without a word. So she finds out the address where Dad works somehow, and drives down determined to get an apology and her money back. You should see my mum when she’s angry! It isn’t pretty.
‘Thing is, what she didn’t realise is Dad knows all about her. From the moment her application came, he’d printed it out and carried it with him, looking at it when he was alone, wondering how he could ask her out on a date. With him. He reckoned the fact he didn’t do that kind of stuff all the time made things difficult as opposed to easier. Dad was in his office with Mum’s application in front of him, pondering what the hell to do, when guess who comes in with a screaming secretary behind her?’
‘Your mum?’ Markriss offered, unable to withstand the flow of the tale.
‘Who else?’ Keshni gave a tiny shrug of the shoulders. ‘So Mum forces her way into the office demanding to know what’s happened to her application and money. Later, she tells me she was surprised to see what a handsome guy this internet man was, even if she obviously wasn’t letting him know that at the time.’
‘Figures.’
‘So she’s going mad about consumer rights and all that, while Dad just lets her have a go. When she’s done he gets rid of the secretary, finally gets my mum to sit down, and shows her the application. He tells her everything. How he didn’t want anyone else to see her picture, so he never posted it. How he’d been thinking about her for the past four weeks, trying to pluck up courage. Apparently, Mum got really quiet, which I can’t imagine for a minute. Out of all the things she thought she’d hear, she never imagined that. Dad asks her for a date, she says yes, they go out and like each other, he introduces her to me, we get on, blah, blah, blah . . .’
‘Woah . . .’ He was frowning. ‘Did I miss something? You said he introduced her to you. Weren’t you like, not born yet?’
‘Sorry, I forgot to say I’m adopted. Oh, here’s our food!’
There was truth in her diversion; the waiter had indeed returned with two steaming plates on a metal tray. He placed them on the table, garnished the food with a sprinkling of ground pepper and Parmesan, tipped his head once and left. Markriss watched her eat with new understanding, new context. Spearing morsels, Keshni had an amused glint in her eye.
‘It’s no biggie. Dad loved kids but was too busy with the site to settle down. When he made loads of money he thought what the hell, why not adopt? He could afford it. So he did. It certainly increased his bargaining power with Mum. She thought he was an angel from Ra.’
‘And how old were you?’
‘About three, four.’
‘Did you have any brothers, sisters?’
‘Nope.’ The forkful of pasta was shovelled inside. She chewed, swallowed. ‘Just me.’
‘How did you feel about being adopted? Wasn’t it weird for you? Didn’t you ever want to meet your real parents?’
‘Not really. Dad always made sure I knew all about my natural mum, even though she was single, poor and could barely look after herself when she had me. I was quite happy growing up with my new parents, so I never saw any reason to find her. We sent a few letters and photos back a
nd forth, left it at that.’
He was shaking his head in admiration.
‘You’re so candid. About everything,’ he said, taking a first mouthful of his own food, widening his eyes. It was good. ‘And I mean that as a compliment.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Keshni concentrated on her plate, barely listening. Across the table, Markriss looked out of the window in deep thought, slow confusion moving on his face.
‘But I still don’t get what your parents had to do with you being here.’
‘Oh.’ Her fork waved, pasta with it. ‘They don’t in a major way—I just love that whole story. It’s so romantic! The irony is Dad has always been against E-Lul, especially after they closed down Globe. My mum hated E-Lul and the Ark too. You know, that whole thing about rich person’s heaven, poor person’s hell. She wrote long essays on the subject, sent petitions to Parliament, went on marches and sat on her arse in the middle of the street, got arrested, the lot. So when I decided to apply for the Excellence Awards they weren’t best pleased. They thought it was my teenage way of rebelling. They even offered to pay for me to get in the usual rich way, though I refused. When I look back, I think I was rebelling . . . a little . . .’
She trailed off, fork dangling by ear.
‘Wanna talk about it?’
‘Would you mind if I didn’t?’
‘No problem, no problem at all . . .’
Fog cleared. She was back, blinking.
‘Sorry. I haven’t thought about outside since I got here.’
‘That’s OK. The Ark has a way of making you forget. Believe me.’
Keshni said nothing for a moment, moving food around her plate and into her mouth.
‘So . . . what about you?’
They stared over the table.
‘How did I get here? I told you, didn’t I?’
‘No, not that. Your parents. How did they meet?’
A River Called Time Page 11
