Ghost Species

by James Bradley

  Kate is standing in the kitchen staring out when Eve turns into the driveway. She dashes out the door and down the drive towards her.

  ‘Oh thank God,’ she says, pressing Eve to her. ‘You’re all right.’ Pushing her back, she grasps Eve’s arms, her grip ferocious, hard.

  ‘Where have you been? Why haven’t you answered your phone? I thought something had happened to you.’

  Eve doesn’t reply, just jerks away, but Kate doesn’t let go. Thrown off balance, she takes a step or two after Eve.

  ‘Eve? What’s wrong?’ she says, but Eve just shakes her head.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says.

  ‘It does matter,’ Kate says. Eve glances down at Kate’s hand on her arm. A wave of anger washes through her and she twists away, pushing Kate back. Kate stumbles, losing her footing and landing hard in the dirt.

  ‘I said leave me alone!’ Eve storms past her and into the house. Kate follows her, catching her in the kitchen.

  ‘Eve!’ Kate says, her voice sharp. Eve slams the door and the bowl by the door tumbles to the floor. Looking down Eve sees it shatter, the sound releasing something in her, so she grasps the corner shelf on which it stood and casts it forward, sending the things piled on it smashing to the floor. Elated, she sweeps her arm out, sends a pile of papers flying, then lunges forward and pushes the table so it flips, thumping onto the floor with one of the chairs beneath it.

  She steps forward, her breath coming raggedly, but as she does she sees Kate standing in the door, her face pale. There is a moment when she wants to charge at her, scream at her, exult in the terror she sees on Kate’s face. But something holds her back, the hesitation enough for her exaltation to turn to shame, and instead she turns and flees back through the house and out, into the forest again.

  It smells of smoke out in the trees. All year it has been like this, the land convulsing as the forests burn and the ice melts. Yet as Eve shoves her way through the trees she is not thinking about the fires or the way the world is unravelling all around her, but about her own isolation, her own shame. When she arrived home all she could remember was the way Lukas and Sami had looked at her, but now that humiliation is overlain by the memory of Kate’s expression, her all-too-apparent fear in the face of Eve’s fury. What made her behave that way, what dark violence made it possible to give in to her anger like that, to take such pleasure in destruction? She has read enough to know this violence is part of what makes her mother’s species what they are, that it is part of what happened to her own. The desire to dominate, to kill, to give in to their most primal urges infects human society, disfiguring it at every level. Even the fires she can smell, the disruption of the forest can be seen as an expression of that same violence, enacted on a planetary scale. Yet until now she had not realised it was there in her, that she too was capable of such unchecked aggression. Is it possible she is not only no better but actually worse? Is it possible she is indeed a monster? And if she is, what does that mean?

  Down by the creek it is quiet, the air still. She sits, stares out over the water, its depths crystal clear. Three fish hang suspended, their bodies rippling as they swim against the current, dappled light moving across them. Eve stares at them, struck for a moment by their beauty, their silvery otherness. What do the fish think, what is their world composed of? What other rhythms make up this landscape? If she were to dive down, swim beside them, would she understand their world, could she lose herself in that motion, become a fish? Or would she still be her awkward, hulking self?

  Meltwater

  That year it feels as though winter will never arrive, the autumn lingering, unbroken, through May and June and into July. The plants and birds are thrown into confusion: in the branches, parrots and pardalotes cry plaintively into the darkness of the evenings instead of heading north to their winter homes; in the trees near their house rosella chicks call urgently in their nests, a late brood that will surely die when the cold eventually arrives, as it must. Even the trees react unpredictably, the natives flowering spontaneously, months out of season, the exotics either keeping their leaves or turning in the most half-hearted way, their confusion lending the wooded approaches to the city a curiously piebald look. In the mountains, fires smoulder, the smell of smoke and ash never far away.

  Nor is it just the birds and plants that are unsettled. Late May brings a run of days in the mid-thirties, hot as summer, the blue water on the beaches dazzlingly clear in the weak winter light, the holiday mood made brittle by the shared sense that, delightful as the weather is, something is deeply awry. Eve feels it too, a sense of hastening, a dislocation deep in the fabric of things.

  And then, in mid-June, it changes. For a day it feels like a storm is approaching, low cloud hanging overhead, the warm wind shifting uncertainly. Late that evening Eve walks along the path behind the house into the forest: in the darkness the landscape seems fitful, anticipatory. Overhead the leaves whispering, the limbs of the trees creaking like the timbers of a ship at sea.

  Perhaps the animals feel it as well, because the usual cries and hoots are absent. But where the path divides she hears a rustling, and, quick as thought a fox steps onto the path in front of her. It is close – no more than three metres ahead – and at first it seems not to have seen her. But then it turns, and for a brief moment their eyes meet and she feels its awareness focus on her.

  She stands, frozen in place. Like her it is a visitor here, an alien, but that does not mean she sees anything like recognition or affection in its gaze. Instead she glimpses another mind, one absorbed in the business of its life, to which she is at best an irrelevance. Then it turns, its attention passing over her and away, and stepping back into its vulpine world jogs away down the path and into the undergrowth.

  Kate is already in bed when she returns, the house silent. In her room she opens the window above her bed and lies down, the scent of the night air filling the room as she waits for sleep.

  The change arrives sometime around three, a brief silence preceding a sudden blast of wind, the sound of branches whipping, a gate banging in the distance. Perhaps responding to some shift in the air pressure, Eve wakes in the moments before it strikes, and for a few minutes she lies listening to the wind, the passing of the warmth filling her with a curious sadness. And later, when she sleeps again, she dreams of the forest, the sleek shape of the fox moving through it.

  In the morning it is bitterly cold, bruised cloud filling the sky, pale light limning the distant horizon. Kate is at work, and Eve stands by the glass doors in the kitchen as she eats, watching leaves and sticks swirl in the strange, sepulchral light. There are reports of snow to the south, suggestions it might reach the city soon, and by nightfall the air is littered with drifting flakes, their substance ringing the streetlights, an inverted penumbra in the dark. As she slips into sleep that night the silence has depth, texture.

  When she wakes the next day, the land outside is white, lost beneath drifts of snow. Stepping out, she looks around, the transformation making her feel giddy, delighted. Down by the gate Kate is visible, checking the letterbox; she waves and Kate waves back, then Eve heads back in and flicks on her screen to check the news.

  She is scanning the weather reports when she hears a sound outside. Not quite a cry, more like a release of breath, a soft clutter. She stands up, goes to the window above the sink. A moment before Kate was there, yet now she is gone. Crossing to the door she opens it and steps out. At first she sees nothing unusual, but then she peers around the corner of the building and there is Kate lying on the ground, the snow around her undisturbed by anything but footprints, as if Kate has simply fallen.

  ‘Mum?’ she shouts. ‘Mum!’ and runs towards her.

  When she reaches her, Kate is on her back, her head twisted sideways, limbs rigid, eyes rolled back in her head. For a brief, shocking moment Eve thinks she is dead, then she sees her hand trembling.

  Her heart clamours. Two years ago on one of her excursions through the city streets s
he saw a man have a fit in a doorway down near the waterfront. It was Friday night, revellers passing on every side, and by the time she stopped, a small group was clustered around him, obviously aware they should do something but unwilling to approach.

  She knew she should get off her bike and help, but she was frightened to touch him, unsettled by the sense he was not himself, that his body had become other, alien, a thing that could not be trusted. Some of that same revulsion surfaces as she kneels beside Kate, a moment of recoil before she forces herself to reach out and touch her.

  Kate does not respond. Her hair is unravelled, and a line of saliva runs down the crease beside her mouth. Eve shakes her, repeating her name, willing her to re-enter her body. When at last Kate’s eyes flicker, consciousness returning, Eve clutches her arm.

  ‘Mum, are you okay?’ she says, her words coming too fast.

  But Kate doesn’t answer, only stares around in confusion. Eve gets to her feet.

  ‘Wait here,’ she says. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  She races inside and grabs her phone. Jay and Cassie are in California, and the staff at the facility are half an hour away. Putting the phone on speaker she tells it to dial an ambulance, then she grabs a throw off the couch and races back outside, tries to cover Kate with it. The computer voice asks her for the address, the patient’s condition. Eve looks at Kate, the specks of snow dusting her hair and face.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Eve stammers. ‘She just collapsed.’

  ‘Is the patient conscious?’

  Kate’s eyes are open and turned to the tenebrous sky.

  ‘Yes, or sort of. Please, just send somebody; I don’t know what to do.’

  There is a moment’s silence, then the system speaks again. ‘An emergency vehicle has been dispatched. It should be with you in fifty-two minutes. If there is any change in the patient’s condition, contact us on this number.’

  With one hand Eve opens the tracking app, registering the location of the ambulance.

  ‘They’re coming, Mum,’ she says, sinking back onto her haunches and staring towards the road. ‘It’s going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay.’

  Casualty is crowded when they arrive, its low space a jumble of beds and blue-clad staff. As she follows the paramedics along the corridor Eve fights not to panic, keeping her eyes down and forcing herself to shut out startled stares of the people they pass. Inside the cubicle she stands beside the bed, one hand clutching Kate’s arm as if she might lose her if she let go. Kate is awake and talking, but unsettled and confused. Several times she calls out Eve’s name, but even when Eve reassures her she is there Kate is distracted, as if she does not recognise her.

  It is almost an hour before a doctor arrives. When she sees Eve she hesitates, surprised, before recovering and introducing herself. Eve mumbles hello. Earlier she caught two of the nurses staring in her direction and whispering to each other; when they caught Eve looking back at them they turned away.

  With one last surreptitious glance at Eve the doctor turns to Kate. She begins by trying to establish the general situation – what happened? Does Kate remember anything? Is there any history of fainting or epilepsy? – before shining a penlight in Kate’s eyes and asking a series of questions about the name of the prime minister and Kate’s plans for the weekend. Eve leans in as the doctor works, careful not to get in her way but worried she might miss something; several times the doctor glances up, clearly unsettled by Eve’s appearance.

  ‘What’s wrong with her? Is she going to be all right?’ Eve asks as the doctor puts her penlight away, uncomfortably aware of the clumsiness of her speech.

  The doctor glances at her. ‘It’s difficult to say. We need to run some tests.’

  Eve remembers a researcher at the facility who suffered a massive stroke, and simply disappeared one day. ‘Could it be a stroke?’

  The doctor shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. But until we’re clearer I’d rather not speculate.’

  Eve spends the day in a succession of waiting rooms, the hours passing in a shapeless blur of worry. Evening is closing in by the time somebody arrives to tell her Kate has been moved into a room. When Eve arrives Kate is sitting up in bed; her face is pale, scoured but otherwise normal.

  ‘They said you were outside,’ Kate says.

  ‘I’ve been here all day,’ Eve says. ‘Has the doctor been?’

  Kate shakes her head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Do you remember anything about what happened?’

  Kate shakes her head. ‘I remember being outside. Then I was here. In between . . .’ Kate shrugs. Eve feels the space she has conjured open in front of her, a void into which she might slip, an intimation of erasure. She takes her mother’s hand, surprised at how fragile it looks in her powerful fingers, the vulnerability of her skin.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ she says, her voice unsteady. ‘It’ll be okay.’

  Except it isn’t. As the doctor explains when she finally appears, the scans have revealed a tumour in Kate’s brain. They will have to speak to the neurosurgeon, but its position means surgery is unlikely to be an option. Kate holds Eve’s hand as the doctor explains the situation.

  ‘How much time do I have?’ Kate asks, her voice wavering on the final word but still clear, direct.

  The doctor hesitates for a moment. ‘It’s difficult to say. But you need to prepare yourself for the idea you may not have long.’

  After the doctor leaves, Kate does not speak, just sits, one hand on Eve’s, her eyes fixed on the view of the city lights through the window. The quiet of the room is immense. Finally Kate turns to her and squeezes Eve’s hand, her jaw set and eyes bright with tears.

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘There we are.’

  It is after eleven before Eve leaves the hospital. With Kate’s help she has summoned a car, and on the drive home she stares out into the darkness. She feels drained, her eyes sore from tears. Although it still shines whitely on the verge and in the fields, the snow is already melting, and the road is covered with an icy slush. Everything is clear, silent, the windswept streets devoid of life.

  The specialist who arrived in the early evening showed them images of the lesion, which nestles in the centre of Kate’s brain like an egg, bloated and swollen. As he ran his finger over the image on the screen Eve asked him how long it had been there, why Kate hadn’t known, and the specialist paused to look at her before saying there was no way of knowing: they grew quickly, and people often had no warning until it was almost the end.

  Afterwards, Kate told her she had been feeling tired for several months. She had thought it was just age, exhaustion, but in fact it was the tumour, the future that was already set contained within it.

  It is almost midnight before Eve arrives home, the house dark and cold. She flicks on the lights and then the heater, settles herself beside it. She knows she should eat, but she is too tired to think, too tired to speak. The world seems alien, her connection to it so tenuous she is not sure it is there at all, even when she flicks on her screen and slips into the electric non-space of the virtual.

  For months now the news has been about West Antarctica, the possibility the ice sheet has reached a critical point, but as she calls up the news she sees the story has moved rapidly in the hours she has been away, and the sheet really is collapsing. And when she sleeps she dreams of shifting ice, the yaw and tectonic creak of it, the way it slithers down into waiting ocean, dark as grief.

  When she wakes, the last of the snow has gone, the sky clear except for a scurf of grey above the ridge. As she dresses she stares out the window, the yearning to be outside and away from other people so intense it frightens her.

  In the kitchen Kate’s phone sits on the counter, forgotten in their frantic departure the day before. Staring at it, Eve is struck by how far away yesterday seems, how irrecoverable. Before she left the hospital one of the nurses realised Kate did not have her phone, and so took Eve’s and punched her number into it. ‘Call me,’ she said, placing
it back in Eve’s hand. ‘I’ll tell you how she is.’ Taking out her phone Eve selects the woman’s number and listens to the whirr of the ring, the click when she answers. At first the nurse’s voice is wary, but when she realises it is Eve she softens.

  ‘She had a good night,’ she says. ‘She’s a lot brighter this morning.’

  After she hangs up Eve sits, uncertain what to do next. She knows she needs to ring Jay, tell him what has happened, but something holds her back. It is almost two years since he took up his new position at the Foundation’s headquarters in Oakland, and though he calls Eve from time to time she cannot shake the feeling he has moved on somehow. Finally she gives in and calls him, choosing the relative anonymity of voice over video, her voice breaking as she tries to answer his shocked questions.

  ‘I should come,’ he says. ‘You need help.’

  ‘No,’ Eve says.

  ‘At least let me arrange for somebody from the Foundation to drop past.’

  ‘No,’ Eve says again, her voice breaking. ‘I’m fine. I can handle this alone.’

  There is a long silence. ‘Okay. But if that changes just say.’

  Back at the hospital Kate is awake and dressed, seated on the side of her bed. Seeing Eve, she smiles.

  ‘Why are you up?’ Eve asks, hurrying towards her. ‘I thought the doctor said you’d have to stay for a few days.’

  Kate stands up. ‘I feel fine. I’m not going to lie in this bed all day doing nothing.’

  As she speaks her legs buckle under her. Eve jumps forward to catch her.

  ‘Are you sure? Perhaps we should get a nurse?’