by London Shah
“Enjoy this morning with your family, won’t you, Leyla?” Theo says.
My insides do this wild flip thing as I remember I’m this close now to the best present ever—some real McQueen family time—and I can’t stop grinning as I head home.
I speed up once more, belting out the lyrics to the ’20s pop-rock playing. At last I steer onto Bankside, slowing down as I pass my long block of flats. The one-story basic construction isn’t much to look at but remains watertight—I’m lucky. I do a quick scan of the immediate area to ensure there are no vessels lurking in the shadows today.
The sub grinds to a halt by my own bay on the parking wall, and I dip its nose into position, maneuvering until I hear it lock into place. The vehicle’s seal emerges from around the edges of its body, a large oval shape of robust, watertight material extending to meet the seal surrounding the dock. I shift around in the seat, my smile wide. I’m this close now. With the seals joined and the vessel safely locked and watertight, any trapped water is sucked out. The craft’s dome then slides back just as the hatch to the building releases, granting me access. I unbuckle and jump down into the compact space. Once the exterior door is secure again behind me, the interior hatch is released and I rush through into the long and gloomy corridor.
Covering my nose to block out the wretched damp, I sprint along the resin floor, passing rows of gray metal doors on either side. The pale-blue walls are full of cracks, the paint chipped, and blotchy mold spreads in all directions.
Soon as I gain entry to the flat, Jojo leaps around, wagging her tail. “It’s almost time, baby.” I shed my jacket and pet the Maltese pup.
I bounce on my toes in the narrow hallway outside the lounge, catching my breath. Any second now. Jojo’s too intrigued to remain still. The fluffy white puppy circles my legs, only taking a break to watch the thin lounge door with her ears cocked.
Heavenly notes rise from behind the door, melodies of Christmases past. Jojo takes a step back, her brown eyes fixed on the entry. I scoop her up and take a deep breath.
It’s time.
The door slides open. I step into the compact room and my hand flies to my mouth, fathoms of warmth spreading inside me. Jojo leaps down, wagging her tail and jumping around, but I can only focus on one thrilling sight.
Papa stands by the expansive window.
“Salaam, Pickle! So what do you think?” He smiles his usual lopsided smile, his bright hazel eyes twinkling. He points at the faded-red festive jumper he’s wearing.
My pulse races; I stare, unblinking. “Salaam, Papa. I . . . I think it looks pretty fab.” Warmth flushes my cheeks.
The “festive” design he’s wearing is actually a map of some far-flung solar system that fascinates my papa with its remoteness and possibilities. All the colorful planetary spheres look like baubles, though, and over time it’s become his “Christmas” jumper. It was a gift from Mama, before I was even born.
I should say something, but I watch, speechless, the corners of my mouth stretched.
“There’s my little queen.”
I turn toward the soft voice. My petite mama stands by the far wall, beside the towering turquoise vase she painted for Papa, smiling with arms outstretched.
“Come on, my beautiful gul—come give Mama your strongest hug. My little Leyla.”
“Salaam, Mama.” I move closer. I feel both light-headed and super awake at the same time. A comforting heat radiates from my chest and ripples throughout my body. Her green eyes, sand-colored skin, and lengthy ebony hair are seriously uncanny; we’re identical. My Kabuli peree, Papa always calls us—his fairies from Kabul.
Like always on special occasions, Mama’s wearing a traditional Afghan kameez. The vivid hues of the long, flowing dress seem to seep into the air around the room, instantly brightening the dreary space. An Old World rainbow after the rain. She tilts her face and smiles. Tiny beads dangling from the silver tika that sits on her forehead dance with the movement.
“You want to do the honors, Pickle?” Papa winks.
I might cry as I dart to the cabinet, careful as I pull out the most brilliant snow globe ever. It’s a McQueen family tradition to bring it out on special occasions. I hold it high for them both to see, and Papa’s face especially lights up. I cup the globe’s smooth surface.
These small-scale spectacles, mostly of the Old World, are avidly collected. The more ancient the scene inside, the dearer the cost. Sometimes it’s a row of houses on a bustling street, a hillside with trees and flowers, or a busy children’s playground.
I prefer the less desired watery scenes.
I shake the globe and catch my breath. Tiny rainbow fish and sparkly jellyfish bob in the turquoise ocean around an inviting submarine, a warm glow emanating from its windows. It’s so utterly perfect. A whole world right here in my hands.
The Christmas carol ends, and a favorite festive song replaces it, loud and merry. I laugh, setting the globe down as I nod along to the music. Everything is heavenly. I might burst any second now. It’s too much. Could joy actually bubble over and spill out? God, I hope not, because I want this sensation to last forever. I break into dance moves, shaking my body on the spot beside an excited Jojo. Papa chuckles. Mama smiles.
I beam. They both look so happy. My skin tingles. It’s all sheer magic. I’d never expected to feel this good.
The melody resounds in the small space. “Are you waiting for the family to arrive-rive-rive-rive—”
I stop mid-twirl as the song falters.
“Are you sure youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu . . .”
Jojo growls at the harsh electronic notes. I clutch my stomach. My eyes widen; I spin around to Papa. He’s talking, but the words are indistinguishable.
He flickers into vivid colored lines.
Then he’s gone.
“No! No, no, no . . .” A sudden coldness spreads inside. I turn to Mama.
There’s no one there.
“No, not yet, it’s too soon. Please.”
Jojo stops barking and stands still. It’s dark and quiet. I blink rapidly to cut short the prickly sensation at the back of my eyes and try to swallow past the ache in my throat. The weight of my chest will crush me. The water outside causes rippled, ghostly shadows on the moldy walls. The auxiliary lighting comes on and casts a thick gloom over the still lounge.
I’m alone.
I press my face against the window in the dimmed lounge and stare out into the patchy darkness. Jojo, cradled in my arms, whines.
“Hey, no need to feel afraid, you daft mutt,” I whisper, trying to swallow away the lump in my throat. “It’s only a power cut. I’ve got you now, baby. Everything will be all right, you’ll see.” I kiss her on her button nose.
I glance over at the far wall again. I’ll be lucky if I hear from the solicitors today; it’s Christmas Day, after all. But there’s a small chance, and I pray the power cut is a short one.
I pull the colorful blanket closer around us both, Papa’s light citrus-and-
herby scent still very much present in its threads. I spent months crocheting the bright squares from various unwanted woolens. Papa insisted it was the best Eid present he ever received. My chest tightens.
Of all the moments for the power to fail, curse it. It had taken Theo days to perfect the clips once he unearthed them from Papa’s album files, to ensure both cuts would look like one real scene. Still, it was only a projection. To think I’d secretly entertained the idea Papa might actually come home this morning—a compassionate release by the authorities.
I hang my head. Mama’s spirited laugh from the footage plays in my mind. I was only three when it was recorded, so I can’t recall the actual memory. I take a deep breath. “God bless you, Mama. Rest in peace.” Mama suddenly passed away in her sleep a year after that recording.
“Hang in there, Papa, wherever you are,” I whisper, placing my hand on the window and fixing my gaze on the familiar unknown stretched out before me. Detained in a facility in London is all I’v
e been told of his whereabouts. Somewhere out there in the city, in its obscure and cloudy expanse, is my whole life. The routine ache pulls at me, tugging away at my insides and latching on to every thought. His absence is unbearable.
I tap my feet and glance over at the far wall again. Come on.
White emergency lighting beams through the green-blue of the early morning waters that stretch high above me. A lengthy form shoots past, startling Jojo. She tucks her head into my jumper. The shape slows down. An eel. It wriggles against the window and swims away, rising to follow the taillights of a four-manned security sub. All around the water fluorescent and phosphorous lights flash by as a mixture of police, ambulance, and structural integrity vehicles speed past.
“Looks serious, Jojo.” I nuzzle the puppy, trying to ignore the obvious dread: Could the power cut be Anthropoid related?
A large Newsbot—resembling a sphere of crushed wreckage and blipping lights—whizzes by the window. Moments later a number of them, each bearing the logos of various news stations, race through the waves trailing the vehicles. It’s serious, then.
A ping sounds as the power returns, and the dim auxiliary lighting in the room is replaced with sharp illumination. The communications wall of the lounge flickers back to life, information tailored to my interests displayed across its surface. Yes.
In the kitchen I command the Tea-lady on and hurry back to the wall with a steaming cup of kahwah. A calming blend of saffron, cinnamon, and cardamom fills the air.
An alert pops up: I’ve not paid my monthly Explorers Fund installment. I bring up my bank balance, pulling a face as I check it. I wave the alert away and skim each message as I dress Jojo.
The Landrovers are up to their usual scams and are “this close to discovering legendary dry land,” if only they have my “regular financial support.” I scowl. Yes, quick as you can, five hundred pounds and Bob’s your uncle: dry land.
Firstly, there’s no dry land up there—only a few mountain peaks. Secondly, discovering dry land wouldn’t even begin to solve my problem.
There’s another alert from the authorities demanding I end the constant petitioning and complaints regarding Papa’s arrest. Not bloody likely.
I shake my head and throw my hands up as I reach the end of the morning’s post. There’s no message from the solicitor.
“Jeeves?” I call out to activate the Housekeeper.
“Good morning, Miss Leyla. How may I assist you today?” The voice coming from my far wall never changes, as people find it familiar and reassuring.
“Jeeves, a file was playing this morning when the power went out. Is it possible to replay it?”
Jojo’s already trying everything she can think of to shed her festive outfit.
“I am sorry, Miss Leyla, but the power cut destroyed the file. Anything else I can help you with?”
I’ll never get to watch the whole thing now. I swallow past the disappointment. “What caused the power failure? I want to pay some Christmas visits—the twins and Grandpa. Has the power cut affected my routes?”
Jojo gives a triumphant yelp as her festive hat rolls off her head. She catches me glaring and scampers.
“Miss Leyla, the power cut was due to an incident in Marylebone. Although authorities initially suspected foul play, emergency services now report an earthquake as the cause. Your intended journeys are not affected by the subsequent travel restrictions. Would you like me to order you a cab?”
Foul play. I gulp. The Anthropoids can go back to whichever hell they came from.
They’re genetically modified humans. They were designed by desperate Old World scientists to breathe freely underwater, bear massive pressures, and possess great strength—all so they could help the survivors after the disaster when machines wouldn’t be enough. But instead they developed heightened levels of rage and loathing, bloodthirst and barbarity. And they turned on us.
Their sole aim is to destroy. They’re incredibly sly. In the water a genetically designed transformation takes place. The layer of skin acting as gills is an undetectable permeable design—making them even more dangerous to us. They’ve proven a truly terrifying mistake that humans have been paying for ever since.
Only last year one of them seized the opportunity to take innocent lives when a submersible caught in an earthquake hit trouble. Instead of aiding the family of four, a Newsbot caught the Anthropoid using specialized tools to cause vehicular damage. Within moments the sub’s body had been pierced, and by all accounts the family inside succumbed to the pressure before the water had even filled the vessel.
If it weren’t for Prime Minister Gladstone’s relentless efforts to find and stop the Anthropoids, many more lives would be lost to the deadly creatures. As if the natural environment isn’t enough of a threat already every time we’re out there.
“No need for a cab, Jeeves, I have Tabby’s sub. Have you run today’s search of Papa’s files? I submitted what you’ll be looking out for.”
“I have indeed, and nothing to report, Miss Leyla. Anything else?”
I sigh. “Keep running the daily scans, please.”
There has to be something in them that can help prove Papa’s innocence—even though the connections I ask Jeeves to look out for have become increasingly vague. It’s been three whole months since Papa’s arrest, and I’ve found nothing to shed any light on the vile accusations against him.
I pass by a now stark naked and contented Jojo. “Oi, you muppet. I’ll have to dress you on the way there now. Try and be good today, Jojo!” The puppy hangs her head, before jumping into the hammock Papa made for her and swinging away. “Oh no you don’t, you lazy sod. We’re headed out to the twins’ in a minute.”
Not many people own real pets. They’re as expensive as antiques. I’m incredibly lucky. Jojo was a gift from someone Papa helped a couple of years ago when their substandard property started showing signs of pressure damage. Papa lent them what little money we had, for a deposit toward a safer dwelling. It’s one thing replacing a virtual pet—that’s heartbreaking enough. Losing a real one’s unimaginable.
My Bracelet flashes: Gramps! I transfer the call to the far wall, and Grandpa’s face fills the space. Jojo wags her tail at the sight of him and he chuckles, his light-green eyes almost disappearing between the heavy bags beneath and the bushy gray eyebrows shading them.
I move closer. “Salaam, Gramps! Everything all right?” I narrow my eyes. “You look paler than usual.”
“Shalom, child. And nonsense, I feel as fit as a fiddle!”
Grandpa moves back from his own communications wall so I can see him in his study. He lifts his cane and performs a brief and woeful jig meant to pacify me but succeeds only in worrying me further. I stare at his beloved, weathered face. Within a fortnight of Papa’s arrest, Grandpa suffered a heart attack and still hasn’t fully recovered.
“As long as you’re eating properly, Gramps. Any drip-dry cupboards when I’m over this evening and you’ll be in serious bother.”
“That’s why I called, Queenie.” Grandpa drags a chair over and sits in front of the screen. He lowers his gaze. “The son of a good friend has stopped by, and I’m afraid I’ll be rather busy today. Could we meet up after he’s gone?”
“Oh, I see. . . . All right, but you must enjoy the day, Gramps, whatever you do.”
“I promise to. I’m sorry, child. I shall miss you, of course. You’ll still be busy, I hope?”
“Oh yes. Headed for the twins’ as soon as we’re ready.”
“Good, good.” Grandpa’s expression grows serious now, concern etched into his face. He smooths the gray-white jumble of hair on top of his head. “Remember, you promised you would stay alert out there.” He’s trying to keep his tone light, but his eyes cloud over. “You haven’t noticed anything else untoward, have you?”
On several occasions over the past few weeks I’ve had this feeling I’m being followed. Each time, I seem to catch the glimmer of a vessel’s lights just before they�
�re dimmed. Voicing my suspicions to Gramps was a bad idea, though. He rip-currented me by insisting I need someone to watch over me.
I most definitely do not.
“I told you, I can look after myself, Gramps. Please don’t worry. But . . . if I am being followed around, do you think it could be related to . . . you know—to Papa?”
Grandpa’s traumatized by Papa’s arrest. I can’t risk upsetting him by talking about it, and yet that day is the only thing I can think of whenever we chat.
None of it makes any sense. Grandpa was with Papa at the time; they’re both astronomers and worked together at the Bloomsbury laboratories. Police stormed the building and took Papa away. Despite Grandpa’s frail health, he’s worked tirelessly since, desperately trying to get some answers as to exactly which prison Papa’s being held in and how they can accuse him of such a terrible crime without a single shred of evidence. Why is the case “too sensitive to allow family and friends contact with him”? No, none of it makes any bloody sense at all.
Grandpa shifts around in the chair. “Anything is possible, child,” he says, his voice low. “If you do suspect someone is on your tail, head straight to a safe place. Please. You’re a smart scone, Queenie. You must remain careful.” He straightens, his gaze flitting around the room behind me. “I wish you would have a rethink about moving in with me, child. It would only be until your papa was back. But you shouldn’t be—”
“You know I love you, Gramps. But I can’t move in with anyone.” I wring my hands. “I’m really sorry. But it would just feel like I’m giving up on Papa. He’s going to return any day now, inshallah. In fact I’m waiting on a solicitor’s reply right this minute.”
Thank goodness I’m sixteen and have a choice. A month younger at the time of the arrest and I’d have been declared a ward of the state unless I moved in with friends or family. I need to stay focused on helping Papa, be here for when he returns.
Grandpa turns to the side, distracted. I think his visitor has entered the room. “I have to go now, Queenie. You must pop around soon as I’m free. Enjoy yourself at the Campbells’ and give that scallywag Jojo a big hug from me.”
