Hope

by Tyler, Terry

  I shudder. "God, that phrase sends a shiver down my spine."

  "As well it should, as you're now one of them." Nick takes a notebook and pen out of his pocket. "I've written down the main points here, ending with my conclusion that it's the men whose fertility is being tampered with."

  I make a bridge with my fingers and rest my chin on it. "It's the pills, isn't it? Multivitamin and otherwise."

  He nods. "I've been doing a carefully casual survey of the guys in my dorm for the last week or so, and guess what? Every single one of them is on vitamin supplements, anti-anxiety or anti-deps."

  I exhale loudly, and sit back. "Fucking hell, Nick."

  "Fucking hell indeed."

  "It's like something out of a film."

  "Truth is stranger, etc. Think about all those Jews who didn't get the fuck away from Germany even when the writing was on the wall; they didn't believe this could happen in the civilised western world, either. We tell ourselves that we have evolved into civilised beings who care about humanity because to think otherwise is too frightening. Not because there is any evidence that we have. Look at Hiroshima; the Japs were ready to surrender. All those people died in agony just so that Truman could show Stalin that he'd got the bigger nuclear dick. Look at the totally unnecessary war in Iraq, and that's in living memory. Anyway, there's only one way to find out for sure. About the pills, I mean."

  I nod, slowly. "You're thinking what I'm thinking. Andy."

  For the first time, I start to feel scared. Involving someone else makes this real; it's no longer just the two of us throwing theories around.

  "I've still got the anti-anxieties the doctor gave me. And those vitamin D tablets. Do you think he'd do it?"

  I haven't been in touch with Andy Reynolds for well over a year, not since my last test request for some long forgotten product for my blog; I don't even know if he's still working at Wendells. I used to pay him forty quid a time. I've still got a hundred and fifty pounds in my account. The question is whether or not he'll do it.

  "Maybe we don't have to tell him why."

  "I don't see why not," Nick says. "He's not Nutricorp's greatest fan, is he?"

  "I know, but this is a whole new level of serious. It's not just 'tell me if this fat-buster tablet is a con'. This is―"

  "It's uncovering whether or not the government, aka Nutricorp, has initiated a programme to sterilise an entire sector of the population. Damn right, it's a new level of serious. So are we doing it?" He picks up my dish of congealed pasta. "Because from where I'm sitting, especially when I look at this muck we're supposed to eat for the next God knows how many years if we stay here, we don't have any choice."

  28

  The Bitterest Pill

  The hours drag by until Sunday, when we can get out again, but I feel better than I have for weeks. I'm taking action instead of sitting around feeling pissed off and, if we're right, taking steps against something so huge I can't get my head around it.

  I panic about taking the pills out because they'll show in the scanner, but Nick reminds me that having medication in your pocket if you're going out all day is the normal thing to do.

  He says, "Stay focused, but don't get paranoid."

  I reply, "Better paranoid than blasé. It stops you being careless."

  We explain to June at the shop that we need to make a private phone call, because our phones are monitored; their detectors would light up like Christmas trees with all the keywords I'm going to be saying.

  She lets us use her landline.

  I feel sick as I dial Andy's number, expecting him to label me a lunatic, but I need not have worried. After an initial, brief rundown of our circumstances and his suitable noises of surprise and sympathy, I don't have to say much. He gets it. It's cool.

  "Doesn't surprise me at all; I've read a couple of theories about it online. Don't say anything else. Write it all down and send me the samples in a well-sealed padded envelope, recorded delivery, with a return address."

  June lets me use the desk in her back office to write the letter to Andy, but once I've packed it all up and sealed the jiffy bag, I remember that the guards look through our bags when we return, too, and might notice that Nick doesn't have his pills.

  "I'll just say I've lost them."

  "No. Better not to do anything to alert suspicion."

  So we unpack them and carefully peel the labels from the containers to send with a few samples in miniature plastic sealed bags supplied by June, who helpfully supplies a damp sponge to get the labels off intact; I can tell she's enjoying every minute, though obviously we don't explain exactly what we're doing. I pack it all up again, after which I'm a bag of nerves and sure I've made a hundred and one other blunders that neither of us have noticed.

  June says, "Yes, I know, I mustn't tell a soul. Don't you worry; I'll keep your friend's reply safe when it gets here."

  Boy, do I need the long walk back, just to calm myself down.

  Another long week's wait.

  The following Sunday the weather is chilly and wet, but nothing will stop us hiking the five miles out to June's shop.

  The guards are used to us; they're cold and bored, and there won't be much activity on the gate until visiting time.

  "You two off to find a cosy little hedge to shag under, then?" asks the nicer one, who does the bag searches.

  Nick gives them a blokey wink. "Something like that!"

  "Well, all I can say is that you must be gagging for it to brave a bit of al fresco in this weather!"

  I'm about to protest, but Nick drags me away. "Best if they think we're frustrated lovers. Though we can always find a hedge on the way back, if you like."

  We walk. The waterproof jacket I nicked from Wardrobe turns out to be not very waterproof at all, and my feet are squelching in my trainers by the time we get to June's, but I don't care.

  "Nick," I say, just before we go in, "what are we going to do if we're right? Who do we tell? Do we go to one of those exposé sites, you know, Vent or J'accuse?"

  He puts his hand on my back, and guides me into the warmth of the shop. "Let's worry about that after we see what Andy's found. Remember, if we're wrong, there's no story."

  The necessary social chit-chat with June feels like it takes hours (though it's probably about two minutes), and all the time she's holding that envelope. Finally, finally, she says, "Hark at me, rabbiting on. I expect you want to open your letter, don't you?"

  We go through to her office, and I open it with shaking hands.

  Along with the letter, Andy has sent back the samples, clearly labelled, but kept one of each of the pills.

  At first, I just stare at it, and can't take the words in.

  "Calm down," Nick says. "Let's read it together."

  Andy writes:

  '...I bought vitamin capsules made by Nu-Pharm with the same brand name, the same packaging and ingredients as claimed on the label of those issued to Nick; in other words, ostensibly the same product, to compare. Unlike the ones I bought, the capsules given to Nick at Hope Village contained minor quantities of the vitamins and minerals stated, but also a high level of spermatozoal antibodies that block the transport of sperm during ejaculation, and immobilisers that block two proteins necessary for fertilisation. I consulted a colleague for a second opinion, without giving him any details about the purpose of my request, and we agree that the amount of these elements present will cause male infertility―probably long term, certainly ongoing while the pills are being taken―without affecting the general health of the male or his sexual performance. Also present within the capsule is the hormone progestin, which suppresses sperm creation.

  'I was able to get hold of a sample of Alazepam, the anxiety medication available only on prescription, and compare it with your capsule. In yours, I found an indazole carboxylic acid which was not present in the sample I acquired. This acid stops sperm from reaching maturity; in effect, males taking either the vitamin or anxiety capsules will be 'shooting blanks'.
Below, I have listed a full breakdown of the composition of each tablet.'

  "Fucking hell," says Nick.

  "Fucking hell," say I.

  On another sheet of paper, Andy has written, 'Lita―I don't know what you're going to do with this, but I must ask you not to name me in anything that you publish. Although Wendells would, of course, be strongly opposed to the practices you've uncovered, I can't afford to get involved. Not least of all because I'm getting married soon, and I need this job. I accept your congratulations, by the way!

  You don't need to pay me; I give this information gladly, and I do, of course, wish you and Nick the very best of luck. Take care.'

  We're not taking Andy's letter back with us. We can't risk it being found by the guards.

  I ask June to keep both letter and samples for us, and she is happy to do so.

  "Anything you want kept safe, it'll stay here, untouched." She puts it in a little drawer in her desk. "You come and fetch it whenever you're ready."

  We owe her a great deal. I just hope we aren't putting her in any sort of danger.

  Or, indeed, ourselves.

  "Problem. We've had two requests for our families to appear on daytime chat shows."

  "No sweat. Hope's PR can politely decline on their behalf, citing privacy concerns. Shut them down; they've done their job. Say they just want to get on with their lives, away from the glare of the media spotlight."

  "There's still a great deal of interest. The country's fallen in love with Joley and baby George."

  Caleb Bettencourt scarcely looks up. "Give them something else to talk about, then. Tell Aubrey to get a new haircut, or leak that Hunter wants a sex change." He laughs. "Mona would like that―it'd secure the non-binary youth vote! Oh, I don't know―give Kylie Jordan a fat suit and say she's put all her weight back on."

  "That would throw doubt on the whole Fit For Work programme―"

  "I was joking." Caleb rolls his eyes. "Get her a fat boyfriend who needs to get Fit For Fucking. Except don't say fucking. Crying out loud, Jensen, you and Ed figure it out; this is what I pay you for, isn't it? Just find something else to overtake our families in the public eye, and let me have the birth rate viewing stats―I need to see who's looking them up."

  "There's an increase in that, too."

  "Don't talk, show me names and figures. And get those LifeShare pages set to private. The great unwashed will forget about them soon enough, if they can no longer see them."

  "How about one last interview with a site? Talking about trolling and general online abuse?"

  "Yeah, make it happen. We'll keep the programme up and running, but the next ones will be more low key, and uglier. Got it?"

  29

  Whistleblogger

  The Situation is all we talk about. Nick says we should get it out there, immediately, on Naked Truth. His buddy Cole has kept the site most active of late, posting articles about benefit system injustices, and is building up a good readership―Nick wants to use our story to get 'back in the game', he says, rather than giving it away to another site.

  I get it. He misses his previous journalistic success, but I think this is a bad, bad idea. We need to go to one of the established exposé sites―Voice, J'accuse or Vent―because they know how to do this stuff. It's too big for Naked Truth, but Nick's impatient; he's spent so many hours gathering his evidence and says it's 'just sitting there scratching its balls, doing bugger all'.

  We argue. This past year has affected us all so differently. Kendall seems almost happy now, I've just started to climb out of the pit, but Nick is becoming increasingly frustrated and desperate to make waves. I can see that it's more personal for him; he was given this medication, not me.

  His plan is to write his piece in longhand and send it to Cole so he can do a bit of cursory editing. This scares the hell out of me. What if whoever found out the identity of Widow Skanky works this out, too?

  "I agree that paranoid is better than blasé," he says, "but we need to get this done. What am I supposed to do while you're dithering around? Go round to all the blokes in here and say, I wouldn't take that iron tablet if I were you, mate? Come on, this is our lives they're mucking about with! You've been ranting against Guy and MoMo ever since they got into power―this is your chance to make a real stand, to stand up and be heard, instead of writing careful little blog posts that don't actually change a damn thing. It's the big one!"

  I'm scared. He's excited.

  I think he's having heroic whistleblower fantasies.

  "On Naked Truth it could get lost in the sea of conspiracy theory on the web. It needs a bigger platform."

  "Yeah, but bigger platforms will probably want proper source verification, and Andy won't be named."

  "Well, let's ask June if we can use her computer to get in touch with some of them and ask."

  "We don't need to. We've got Naked Truth. With the right headline, it'll go viral."

  And round and round we go.

  If only I could talk to Brody about it.

  Mustn't think about Brody.

  I don't even know where he is, apart from on the end of a phone. If living with Jaffa, he could be anywhere.

  I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by what happens next.

  A week after Andy's reply, on Saturday night, we're sitting in the com lounge playing Scrabble when Nick tells me he's tired, and wants an early night. It's only eight-thirty.

  "I just want to plug in my earphones and listen to something that'll take me away from this dump," he says. Of course I understand, and I say goodnight. We peck each other on the cheek; it's something we've started to do, recently.

  I feel a mild pang of loss at the sight of his back view walking away from me, because I want him to stay with me; when he's with me everything seems bearable. It's as simple as that, really, even if we're arguing. I don't think I'm falling in love with him, but the closeness―well, he's my very, very best friend. More than Kendall, because we connect on so many different levels. Kendall's branching out, anyway; she enjoys the attention her pregnancy brings. I'm glad for her, and I think Melanie, Alison and some of the others in the dorm are good people who care for her. For the first time, she has genuine, supportive women around her, not fair-weather friends.

  Which leaves me on my own with Nick, which in turn makes us grow closer all the time. I don't want to have sex with him (although I don't not want to), but I'd be more than happy to curl up in bed with him.

  I do love him, in a way. Not with the passion I felt for Brody, but he makes my world a better place.

  My eyes prick with tears when I think of this. I know, I know, I'm just getting overemotional because of everything that's happened to us over the last eighteen months or so.

  I turn in early, too.

  I get up, and the day is warm and sunny. I head for the bathroom block at six forty-five, lifting my head to breathe in the fresh morning air. I'm going to get sorted, fed and out early; we can't waste this beautiful Sunday. Autumn will be upon us before we know it.

  Soon, we will have been here a year.

  Mustn't think about that.

  My early start means I'm first in the queue for breakfast; I take my eggs, toast and baked beans over to a table by a window so that I can enjoy the sunshine, and wait for Nick. He's usually here by eight-thirty at the very latest on a Sunday, but the room fills up, and I don't see him. I wait, and wait, but he doesn't show.

  I see Lloyd who sleeps in the bunk below his.

  "Sorry, babe, not seen him. His bunk was empty when I woke up."

  I send a text. Where are you?

  No reply.

  I grab up my stuff from the dorm and head off out on my own.

  I know where he's gone, and what he was doing last night. So much for his early night; he was writing his piece to send to Cole for Naked Truth.

  I charge along with my little pack bouncing on my back, so angry that he's done this without my agreeing to it, but as I walk, I calm down. I'm sure I can persuade hi
m to retrieve the offending article before June sends it off.

  Mostly, I'm cross with him for spoiling this beautiful day that we should have been enjoying together.

  I look around at the silent beauty of this early September morning, trying to wish myself into a parallel universe in which Nick and I share a cottage, where my blog still exists but Nutricorp doesn't. In this cottage there will be much laughter, and decent food, and a few select friends are coming round for lunch; we don't care too much about what's going on in the rest of the world.

  (And Brody is there too, and he loves me, not Jaffa―)

  I'm half way to June's when I see him in the distance, walking towards me.

  That familiar figure, jacket tied round his waist, long skinny legs striding across the field. He waves, and hurries towards me.

  "Sorry," he calls, as soon as I'm in shouting distance. "I had to do it."

  My fantasy world fades away. What's real is Nick, leaning over, hands on thighs, because he's out of puff from running, telling me that he wrote the article last night intending to post it to Cole, but then he thought fuck it, and sat down in the middle of a field and loaded it up himself, on his phone.

  Oh dear. Oh dear, and oh shit, too.

  You remember me saying that Nick writes by voice-activated software? His articles made you feel like you were having a one-on-one conversation with him, which was why he was so popular. He told me that for his news stuff he would shut his eyes and pretend he was being interviewed on a trendy late night topical show, and for the Widow he'd imagine himself on stage in a musty old theatre.

  Alas, although this sounds like a wonderfully natural, authentic way of getting the words from your head and onto the screen, the reality is that it tends to need a fair bit of editing. Fine-tuning, to get rid of the garbled sentences, the odd grammar error; he would spend an hour 'writing' a Widow piece, and two more editing it, often with help from me.