The Light at the Bottom of the World

by London Shah

  Westminster is cloaked in shadows caused by the naval submarines overhead. I speed around 10 Downing Street—the headquarters of the government—as passing above the sprawling dome is strictly forbidden, and zoom past the desolate but lit-up Houses of Parliament. As I approach Westminster Abbey I have to dodge several increasingly agitated contestants near the ancient church.

  Flares and irritating mechanical traps swarm the area around

  Buckingham Palace. Camouflaged bots hide among the plant life and rusted metal of the former royal palace gates that twist in every direction, clinging to the stone-and-seaweed walls of the palace itself. I hold my nerve, evading the challenges and zooming over and onward.

  Past the old moss-carpeted Harrods store in Knightsbridge now.

  I zoom over the ancient Victoria and Albert Museum, pressing on until at last I enter Kensington Gardens.

  After some shoving and scrambling with another contestant who tries and fails to intimidate me into letting him overtake me, I arrive at the Peter Pan statue. Ghostly holograms appear in the water. My mouth curves into a smile.

  The children are having fun. Several are playing cricket, some hold hands in a circle as they sing, and others skip or sit smiling as they pick flowers. The children appear so happy and at home in the water. It’s heartening. Careful. It’s a cunningly placed diversion, meant for those easily distracted. Like me. I move on past the projections, over Hyde Park, and on to the once-triumphal structure of Marble Arch. My palms are getting sweaty, my pulse quickening.

  Crowds watch on Oxford Street to my right. Teams of flatfish are visible in the lights of the observing vehicles as they forage among the boulders and stone.

  “All riiight, people, and we arrive at the spot where Finlay Scott came into his own last year, refusing to be intimidated. Many contestants have made it this far, only to panic here. Who will shine, who will crumble? Time to see exactly what our contestants are made of. Oh, the wonder of youuuuu.” He sings and laughs heartily.

  I gulp greedily for air. I need to relax. The first few vehicles to make it this far are now seriously aggressive. I swerve as a circular golden-colored sub passes way too close to me, determined to get ahead at all cost. The route is narrower here than at any other point in the race. This is where I’d intended on breaking away. I jerk the sub left and right, but the contestants block one another’s every attempt to outdistance the rest. The water above me is just as busy. I eye the traffic. Can I do it?

  I flip over and dive low—very low. Moving forward, I peer through the dome to ensure enough distance between the seabed and myself. Keep going. Skimming the floor by a hairbreadth, I dart past the cars, before turning the vehicle right again. Yes. Running the thruster at full speed, I catapult the sub onward.

  “What a maneuver from Miss McQueen!” Elvis exclaims. “Aaaand several more messages of support coming in for Leyla McQueen now, including ‘We love you’ and ‘You go, raven rocket!’ Well, the contestants are sure gonna need all the good vibes you can muster—things are really heating up out there now, folks!”

  Baker Street. The end is so close now. From here on it’s a straight race to the finishing line back at Regent’s Park. I wipe my palms on my legs and take longer, deeper breaths. I can’t make any mistakes.

  Within seconds I pull ahead of the gold car that surpassed me earlier. At last I’m in the park, approaching the Memorial Tree that stands right in the center of the boundaries. The board in the distance has a huge zero lit up; nobody’s passed the finishing line yet. . . .

  Contestants are forbidden from passing over the symbolic Memorial Tree. I crane my neck to plan the best route around it and notice the car beside me. Damn. The number fifty-seven sub is plain at the front, with its rear resembling a Roman chariot. Two decorative wheels cling to its sides. It aims to approach the tree from the left. Fine, I’ll pass it from the right. Oh hell. Several heavyweight bots lie in wait to the tree’s right. I recognize their design and function from the last race. They trap you in unforgiving time-costly nets. Left it is, then.

  As I race on, aiming for between the tree and the other car, number fifty-seven also speeds up, leaning in sharply now.

  If it continues to tilt at the current angle, it will hit me.

  “Well, folks, what’s gonna happen? Is number fifty-seven—a Mr. Paul Martin—really willing to risk a potentially fatal collision? At that angle a hit would damage their chances more than number one hundred’s. In fact it would be disastrous for number fifty-seven. Reckless! Exactly what are these two willing to do to win the London Submersible Marathon?”

  I keep a constant watch out for the car racing on my left. I thrust forward with everything I have, startling a shoal of glimmering sardines that split around the vehicle. Hurtling through the weighty current, my gaze constantly switches between the path ahead and the car careening in my direction from the left. The chariot sub needs to fall back. Or alter their angle. There’s no escape. The car speeding toward my own is guaranteeing a horrific crash. On the edge of my vision, somewhere to my right, I register movement in the distant water—a bulky fish, drawing near, I think—but thankfully Elvis’s voice keeps me focused on my immediate danger.

  His tones are heavy with disbelief. “This is suicide. He must know this? He needs to stop, or we’re looking at another marathon death, folks!”

  My mind races. We will collide, and he’ll at the very least sustain terrible injuries. I’ll suffer damage to the left wing and possibly tail, but I’m all right with that. I must win. The other driver has made his choice, and I have to do what needs doing. Oh, Papa.

  In the last few moments, as the finishing line approaches, I yell and rise out of the way of the car racing toward me, seconds from certain impact.

  My chest opens and several hundred million cubic miles of water pour in and crush and snap and drown the dream of Papa returning home tonight.

  I feel nothing. Numb.

  I turn slowly, expecting to see the chariot-styled sub charge forward and over the finishing line to victory.

  Except it’s not there.

  I can’t even see the other vessel. What happened? Where did the car go?

  And then all becomes clear as my gaze shifts to movement on my right. Number fifty-seven was speeding at such a sharp angle that even my rising out of its way couldn’t keep it on course. It was leaning too far right.

  It’s trapped in one of the time-costly nets fired by a sly bot. A bot I’d mistaken for a fish. Every thought crashes into my head, all at once, and my pulse races.

  He’s in a net. Nobody else has caught up yet.

  And I’m free to move.

  A cry bubbles up inside my throat and escapes my lips. Relief.

  And the audacity to still hope.

  My eyes prickling, and my face and neck flushed, I turn the vessel around until it’s facing the finishing line.

  And I race.

  And the giant zero switches to a dazzling one.

  The observatory buzzes in anticipation of the Ultimate Prize request.

  I gaze at the sea of captivated faces—family and friends of the contestants—all turned toward me as I sit on the stage with my fellow finalists. Gone are the tables of the marathon breakfast, and instead everyone is seated in rows in front of the stage.

  The voices fall silent. Only the whirl of Newsbots as they spin away in the grand room, and the swish of microphones darting to hover in every conceivable space around me, can now be heard. Lights flash and cameras zoom in for their close-up. Everything is set to capture the moment.

  I take a deep breath and stand. Unable to keep the smile off my face, I nod at the presenter—a woman dressed head to toe in mint green and looking like she’s just stepped out of the ancient 1950s—to confirm I’m ready to make my request. A microphone hovers just above my head. I turn to Prime Minister Edmund Gladstone, who’s seated to the right of the stage.

  “I request the freedom of my father, Mr. Hashem McQueen, please, sir.”
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br />   The crowd oohs and whispers; some boo—and there’s a cry of “Murderer” from somewhere at the back—but many clap, too.

  Everyone’s attention instantly shifts from me to the prime minister. Sitting to his right is the shifty-eyed Captain Sebastian. His right-hand man leans in toward the PM with plenty to say, his poker-faced expression giving nothing away as he speaks.

  The PM then also confers with Lord Maxwell on his left. The chief historian nods in concentration at whatever Captain Sebastian is saying.

  I bounce on my toes. Will they release Papa today? It’s quite possible! When the order comes from the very top, surely they wouldn’t bother with too much paperwork?

  Captain Sebastian suddenly turns his steely gaze in my direction. I gulp as he locks his cold, calculating stare on me. He narrows his eyes as if deep in thought. As ever, a finger traces the scar running across his left cheek. I swiftly fix my gaze on the prime minister.

  The PM beckons Mariam Khan, the director of the Marathon

  Committee, who’s sitting a few seats along. Khan immediately joins Edmund Gladstone, nodding earnestly at whatever he has to say. At last she stands and walks over to the stage, making her way to the podium. My insides flutter as I picture Papa’s face. I feel light-headed. Finally!

  Khan greets the audience, both those in the room and everyone watching around the country and world, before going on to summarize everything the London Marathon stands for as she builds up to awarding the Ultimate Prize.

  “And it is in this spirit, in the committee’s drive to ensure that this—the most prestigious of all British sporting events—remains synonymous with everything good and right, and stays reflecting the best of British core values, that the prime minister regrets to inform both this year’s champion, Miss Leyla McQueen, and the Marathon Committee, that he cannot in good faith grant her requested Ultimate Prize. Naturally, on behalf of the committee, I fully accept and understand how difficult and brave a decision the honorable prime minister has had to make.”

  I blink rapidly. I don’t understand. I know what she just said, but I don’t understand it. I’m not sure what’s going on. My chest begins to tighten.

  Some of the crowd cheer at the director’s words, while a few brave low boos. But overwhelmingly, there’s silence—and some discomfort on the faces turning to me now.

  It starts to sink in. My request has been denied. That’s what’s happened.

  I recoil. My throat grows dry and a freezing cold wave crashes into my insides. Again, Papa’s face flashes before me.

  Khan continues. “Please join me, fellow Britons, in congratulating our new London Marathon champion, Miss Leyla McQueen, on a truly admirable win—affirming our nation’s pride!”

  A pause and then enthusiastic clapping and cheers break out.

  “As is customary, in the absence of any Ultimate Prize, the Marathon Committee awards Miss McQueen with not only the respectable sum of money reserved for the champion, but this year’s default prize. And what a most splendid first prize it is! Miss McQueen, may I present a one-off vintage Wright vessel!” She gestures toward the screens around the walls.

  Captain Sebastian immediately narrows his eyes.

  I bow my head.

  More applause and whistling. The other prize-ranking contestants surround me; they speak, patting my arm and hugging to congratulate me before they turn to the screens in anticipation.

  Why was it denied?

  Why?

  I turn to the prime minister; his eyes soften and his mouth turns down in regret. My gaze returns to the faces before me.

  Papa will not be coming home today.

  I need the ceremony to be over. My insides are too heavy, pulling at me.

  This was probably the most realistic chance I’d ever have of getting my papa back.

  The poised presenter walks to my side. She gives a small smile that’s more resentful than celebratory. “What do you think, Miss McQueen? Shall we see the marvelous feat of engineering that you are so lucky”—her perfectly arched eyebrows waggle a fraction—“to have won today?” And then the hint of a sneer.

  She’s clearly another one who thinks I shouldn’t have been allowed to race today. I would tase her. God forgive me, but if I had my brolly right now, I think I’d definitely tase her.

  My hair shields me as I dip my head and stare at the floor. Somewhere in the background, footage of my prize plays on the screens. The crowd oohs and ahhs. I bite my lip. A submarine—when I was hoping to be reunited with Papa tonight.

  The presenter reminds everyone that contestants will receive their prizes the next morning at Westminster once the paperwork and any necessary preparations have all been sorted.

  There’s a subtle prod in my back. One of the production crew, a young woman, furiously indicates for me to show my face.

  I lift my head and stare vacantly at the crowd, rubbing the back of my neck; my breath hitches when Jojo’s gaze meets mine. The puppy leaps out of Tabby’s arms and heads for the stage. The presenter tries stopping her, but the crowd objects and she refrains, smiling and shrugging. I scoop Jojo up and bury my face in her fur.

  “Congratulations, Miss McQueen,” the prime minister says. His soft voice carries across the stage as he walks over to me with a warm smile.

  He hands me a certificate and trophy. Light bulbs flash and the hovering cameras go manic as I’m congratulated. The PM shakes my hand as he faces the cameras.

  “I wish to say a personal thank-you to Miss McQueen. She demonstrated the most honorable racing I’ve ever had the privilege to watch. Despite knowing that rising out of the way of a certain crash might cost her the championship, she still acted in the best interests of a fellow human being.”

  My eyes prickle. Don’t you dare.

  The PM nods. “If we all look out for one another this way, there will be no danger to our numbers. And nothing may ever defeat us. On behalf of the entire nation, I thank you, Miss McQueen. An example to us all.” He claps for me.

  The room erupts in cheers and applause. The PM returns to his seat.

  It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. Papa will remain locked up somewhere.

  I stare into the space ahead. The presenter leans in for a comment. Her fixed smile soon wanes when she’s met with nothing.

  I breathe a sigh of relief, and Jojo relaxes in my arms when the hovering equipment and frustrated presenter move on down the line to the first runner-up.

  Following prize allocation is an announcement: Contestants must remain in the observatory for all pictures and interviews. At long last, someone shouts, “Cut!”

  I stumble off the stage. As I do, I catch Captain Sebastian move to a corner of the room, aggressively waving away a Newsbot as he does. I pause to watch. He speaks intensely into his Bracelet, his features twisted with tension.

  And then he suddenly whips his head in my direction and looks straight at me.

  The look he throws my way could freeze the entire waters. My legs and insides quiver.

  Why didn’t they grant my request?

  What is really going on?

  Where is Papa?

  I exit the hatch and drag my legs along the gloomy corridor to the flat, Jojo in my arms. I wince as I move my head around. The constant twisting my neck during the marathon is kicking in now. Maybe the Medi-bot will help.

  Ahead, in the hallway, I lift the champion’s trophy. I close my eyes, walking through the realistic images of the holographic projections flashing up and down the lengthy space. In one image, I’m rising out of the other contestant’s way in the last seconds before impact. I look around and none of the news highlights show my Ultimate Prize request being rejected. Funny that.

  Papa’s face flashes in front of me for the umpteenth time and I flinch; my chest is tight, all twisted inside. The entire marathon and prize-giving ceremony are just a blur now. I reach for the door’s security scanner. My hand freezes in midair.

  The door is already ajar.

 
Oh God. I inhale sharply; my lungs ache in response. The puppy tenses. What to do? I push the door fully open, my hand shaking. Jojo leaps down and runs in, ignoring my hushed calls. Inside, my brolly lies on the floor. I grab it. The stand it usually hangs from is on its side, my belongings everywhere. My heart has stopped, I’m certain. I take long, deep breaths; pain stabs at my chest.

  The puppy returns whimpering but not growling. I turn to the lounge with my brolly ready.

  The door slides open. I gasp and shuffle back a step. It’s as if I’ve left my mind outside in the corridor and am not really seeing, feeling. I don’t know where to look.

  Everything is destroyed.

  All my belongings are smashed, ripped apart. Every bit of furniture is on its side, stuffing from upholstery and cushions everywhere. Pictures from the walls lie in pieces on the floor.

  I stand in the doorway for several moments. Finally I edge into the kitchen and bedrooms. The entire place has been turned inside out. I gasp in Papa’s room, a sour taste in my mouth. On tiptoe, I reach up for the high shelf and relief washes over me; the Qur’ans are still in place on it. Thank God they didn’t fling them to the floor. I shudder at the thought.

  I turn back to secure the front door; the lock wasn’t forced. What does that mean? Something cracks under my foot as soon as I enter the lounge. Mama’s beloved Afghan tea set is sprawled about in sharp, jagged pieces, no longer taking pride of place on the shelf. My origami models mix with the rubble, shredded. Why?

  I draw in breath. Oh no. A heap of turquoise pieces now rest where Mama’s vase used to stand. She crafted it for Papa after they were engaged and he adored it, refusing to ever put anything inside. It was a feat of beauty in itself, he always insisted. I scoop up a handful of the smaller shards. They glisten in my palm. I let them slip through my fingers.

  I hesitate. “Jeeves?” The wall flickers to life, thank goodness.

  “Good evening, Miss Leyla. May I congratulate you on your outstanding achievement today in—”

  “Please run the flat’s security data for today.”