The Uninvited

by Liz Jensen

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘Make me something I can hurl, man,’ says Ashok. ‘One of those water-bombs.’

  We’re in his office on the eighteenth floor. Normally he’s proud of his panoramic view, but when I came in he said, ‘Welcome to my aerial goddam bunker.’

  I slide some origami paper from the front pocket of my briefcase and begin folding. Through the picture window opposite me, the familiar ancient–modern geometry of London sprawls as far as the eye can see.

  ‘I just heard from Belinda an hour ago. That fire back there.’ Ashok jerks his thumb back at the horizon, where a billowing discolouration of air in fifteen shades of black and grey indicates a colossal conflagration. The smoke expands in the same way as a fast-growing fungus, sprouting new growth as it rises. It has great beauty. ‘Postal-sorting station. And someone’s sabotaged the water supply in Manchester. So now there’s another scare. And who knows how long the oil stocks will last.’

  I look out at the middle distance. Grubby skyscrapers. Domes and bridges and riverboats and spires. The rigid cobweb of the London Eye.

  ‘Earth hath not anything to show more fair,’ I quote for Ashok, making more folds. Sometimes a line or two can cheer him. ‘Dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight more touching in its majesty. Wordsworth.’

  I pass him the completed water-bomb.

  ‘Huh.’ Ashok does not care for poetry today. ‘This thing. It’s worldwide, right? You see the implications? What you see on the news, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Factories at a standstill. Public transport all but halted. Utilities operating on red alert. Bang go imports, bang go exports, bang goes what remains of the global economy, bang goes capitalism itself for Christ’s sake! We’ll be growing potatoes on the rooftops next. Bartering. Keeping goats on balconies. Filtering rainwater and darning socks, like we’re all living in some wrist-slitting documentary about Ceausescu’s Romania. This is turning into a fucking war, man. The world’s most highly developed nations watch like dorks as their infrastructures are trashed from within. By a bunch of . . . random people claiming they’ve been hijacked by supernatural beings. Who also happen to be kids.’

  Professor Whybray insisted he will still be joining us after his Home Office meeting. And rather to my surprise, Stephanie has texted to say she is on her way.

  ‘I still wonder how random it really is,’ I say.

  ‘Come on. If the saboteurs all shared some weakness that made them vulnerable to this shit, someone would’ve spotted it by now. You and Whybray, for example. Or some other team some other place. But that hasn’t happened.’

  For a while, as I fold more water-bombs, we argue to and fro about the term ‘grassroots terrorism’ that has become the media term for the upheavals. I object to it on scientific and linguistic grounds.

  ‘Sure,’ counters Ashok. ‘You can split hairs. But I say it’s looking and behaving like a terror campaign, so we might as well call it one. Ten plane crashes now. Fifteen trains. Food poisonings. Factories producing fucked-up stuff, everything on its knees. You heard about the arrests: all those anarchist so-called ringleaders? Turns out they’re in the clear. As confused as the rest of us. You and Whybray have flow-charted this thing, right? Give me the worst-case.’

  I run through the more drastic possibilities: restricted agriculture and manufacture, diminished utilities, minimal transport, little reliable news. With foreign imports halted, Britain’s island status will come into stark focus. Limited and dwindling food supplies will lead to further looting, lawlessness, gang warfare, black marketeering and regionalism. When the pandemic has run its course, daily life will eventually stabilise. But there will be fundamental changes. Enforced curfews. Draconian laws. New safeguards for industry. The opportunistic restructuring of institutions. Reinvented forms of government. A massive drop in the birth rate. A new focus on agricultural self-sufficiency and more transparent forms of corporatism are also possible. Either way, the world will never be the same again. I turn the origami paper and confirm the first set of creases. ‘But if it’s terrorism, that implies it’s co-ordinated,’ I finish. ‘In which case, where’s the strategy, where’s the communication, where’s the coherence?’

  ‘And what the hell’s the message?’ storms Ashok. ‘Unless the aim is simply to bring civilisation to a halt and stop everything in its tracks and . . . reverse all the goddam progress man has ever made since the Industrial Revolution. We’re heading back to the Stone Age. At least with Iraq, or the Pacific rim after the tsunami, there were reconstruction opportunities.’

  ‘We’ve got the Home Office contract.’

  ‘Whoop-dee-do. Followed by what? The Transition to Planet Fucked contract? It’s not the kids that matter. It’s the factory workers, the farmers, the managers. The adults, for Christ’s sake! Look what’s happening to growth! How can anything be rebuilt, or even survive when industry’s being sabotaged on this kind of scale?’

  ‘Anyone who believes in indefinite growth in anything physical, on a physically finite planet, is either mad – or an economist.’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘You asked a question. I replied with a quotation. From one of JFK’s advisers. Kenneth Boulder. A wise man.’

  Stephanie arrives looking raddled, her hair wet from the rain.

  ‘Half the roads are shut off. So what have I missed?’ She’s shaking her hair and taking off her raincoat, which is a green that Dulux calls Autumn Fern. She’s even thinner than ever.

  She called Freddy K a creature.

  ‘Oh, just the usual discussion of the disintegration of the world as we know it,’ mutters Ashok, bouncing my newly finished water-bomb in his palm, ‘and how everything we thought we knew is bullshit because the rules have changed. Adapt or get screwed in the ass.’

  There’s a knock at the door: it opens and Professor Whybray appears.

  Ashok waves him into a seat and asks, ‘What’s new at the Home Office?’

  The lines on his forehead deepen as he settles into a chair. ‘We had a briefing from the army. The ones running wild are moving out of urban areas and into the countryside. They’re going for woodland, mostly, where they can hide. In coastal regions they’re finding caves. A lot of them are living directly on the beaches. It’s unofficial for now. But the strategy is to house as many children as possible in one place. Other cities are taking a similar line. They’re converting the O2 building.’

  ‘The Dome?’ asks Ashok. He grins. ‘I saw Leonard Cohen play there. It has the capacity, I guess. Ha. Britain’s biggest playpen.’

  ‘I advised against it. I don’t like the way they’re headed with this. But there’ve been some developments. In view of which they feel they’re justified in rounding them up and keeping them locked in.’

  ‘What developments?’

  He waves some papers. ‘Firstly, some autopsies. Three children have now died in British Units. Various natural causes. Nothing untoward for a cohort this size. Two had epileptic fits, one had an undiagnosed heart condition. And we’ve recovered the corpses of seven children who were probably murdered by vigilantes. I am sorry to say they were mutilated. But the autopsies of all of them – and there are similar cases documented abroad – also show an anomaly of the kidneys.’ I look at him. ‘Yes. Similar to what Svensson’s autopsy showed. In many cases the kidneys are simply larger. But in a surprisingly high number, there are multiple organs. It’s too rare a phenomenon to be pure coincidence. Alongside that—’ he stops and frowns. ‘I’ll show you.’ He flips open a folder. ‘It’s utterly baffling. There’s just no way to explain it.’ They are medical records. Names of children. Their birth dates. Their height and weight measurements. Various dates. And in each case, a graph that defies logic. ‘We’ve been tracking them.’

  I run my eyes across the charts again, one by one, then hand them to Stephanie. She takes a moment to absorb them, then asks, ‘And these are otherwise healthy children?’ He nods. ‘Could there be a mistake?’

  ‘No. Staff
at sixteen other UK Units confirm it. Others do worldwide. It’s not been made public yet, but it will be out there soon enough.’ He puts his head in his hands.

  I ask, ‘Why aren’t they growing?’

  ‘Not growing?’ asks Ashok. ‘What, none of them?’

  ‘That’s what these figures show. They’re all exactly the same height and weight they were a month ago. In many cases longer than that.’

  ‘But if that’s the case—’ I stop. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Arrested development?’ asks Stephanie.

  ‘But that’s crazy!’ says Ashok. ‘So what happens, they just . . . stay this size? They’re children for ever, like Peter fucking Pan?’

  The professor shakes his head. ‘They could start growing again any time. Or have a sudden spurt. I’m getting some nutritionists on to the team at Battersea. Let’s see what they can do. But in the meantime, we have a problem that goes beyond health. As in, ethical. Political. Moral.’

  Stephanie says, ‘I don’t see how a medical oddity can alter policy.’

  ‘Me neither,’ says Ashok.

  Professor Whybray sighs heavily and looks at me. ‘You’d better explain.’

  ‘It’s cultural. Anthropologically, the children already fit into the barbarian category. The unknown and feared outsiders. They’re seen as dirty and diseased and backward. This medical evidence – the kidney anomalies and the fact they’re not developing normally – suggests they might actually be different biologically. It’s not a small step from there to argue that they’re not strictly human.’ I address Stephanie. ‘Intelligent people are already calling them mutants.’ I pause. ‘Or creatures.’ She flushes. ‘If they’re in a separate species category, they don’t have the same rights.’

  Ashok says, ‘Shit.’

  Stephanie has been very quiet. Now she sends me a look, and makes the small distinctive head movement – a raising of the chin, a widening of the eyes – which I have come to recognise as her version of a silent command.

  But I don’t respond.

  ‘Hesketh,’ she says evenly, ‘I think this might be the moment to tell them what you’ve been holding back.’ I reach for a sheet of paper. I feel ambushed. But I can’t lie. Nor can I even try. Stephanie is still looking at me.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ says Ashok. ‘If this is some personal bullshit between you two over Kaitlin—’

  ‘No,’ says Stephanie. ‘It’s not personal, Ashok.’

  Professor Whybray says, ‘Is there something bothering you, Hesketh?’

  I start folding. A cockroach. Their wings are elaborate. I say, ‘The facts. The facts are bothering me.’

  ‘Go on,’ urges Stephanie. Her eyes are glittering. ‘Tell them. Tell them now.’

  I stand up, take off my jacket and roll up my sleeve to reveal the bruise. It’s finally beginning to fade but the finger-marks remain distinct.

  Professor Whybray says ‘May I?’ I go over to him and he inspects it with interest. ‘I presume this was Freddy.’

  ‘No. It was Jonas Svensson. In Sweden.’

  ‘Hmmm. He must have had very small hands.’

  ‘No. That’s the point. He was big. But when he grabbed me, this is the bruising he left.’

  I go back and sit down again and continue the cockroach and wait. Nobody says anything for a while. Then finally Stephanie clears her throat. ‘Hesketh also saw something in Dubai that you should know about.’

  I give the short version.

  ‘So I and twenty-seven other men saw the figure that de Vries called a tokoloshi,’ I finish. I’m aware of them looking at me. The silence lasts long enough for me to complete the cockroach.

  Professor Whybray shifts painfully in his chair, then rises and goes over to the window. The silence continues as he stands there staring out at the cumulus of smoke on the horizon.

  Ashok has had his head in his hands, but finally he looks up and says, ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell us this before?’

  ‘Because you very specifically said, no little people.’ Ashok lets a rush of air out of his nose and drums his fingers on the table in a way that indicates aggressiveness. He can’t deny it. ‘But Jonas made the bruises on my arm and I saw a little girl.’

  He chucks a water-bomb up into the air. It lands on the desk, then bounces off on to the floor by my feet. I pick it up and cup it in my palm. It’s an admirable specimen.

  Professor Whybray turns. His face is very pale. He looks old.

  ‘Hesketh. If it came from anyone but you, I’d be sceptical. But I can’t doubt that you saw what you saw.’ I shut my eyes and mentally send my little cockroach fluttering up to the ceiling. ‘People with your kind of wiring don’t lie.’ He eases himself back into his chair, apparently in pain. The skin of his face resembles ancient papyrus. I am sure he is not sleeping properly. ‘You should have told us earlier, that’s all. We’ll have to work out what impact this has on our other findings.’

  ‘It’ll be a very unscientific one,’ I say. ‘Because it appears to make no sense.’

  He looks up. ‘New parameters,’ he says bluntly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He means blue skies. Out of the box,’ says Ashok. ‘As if this whole goddam thing isn’t. Right?’

  The professor nods. ‘So to begin with, let’s hypothesise that we’re looking at a generation whose DNA has been somehow altered.’

  ‘By what? And when? It can’t change once you’re born.’

  ‘Not yet it can’t,’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asks Stephanie.

  Ashok says, ‘Are we talking about genetic engineering here or what?’

  Stephanie says, ‘Or evolution. But mutation takes centuries.’

  ‘No. D’you hear about those worms they’ve found thriving in old arsenic mines?’ asks Ashok. ‘Took them just fifty years to adapt to eating one of the world’s most vicious poisons. Or the Nepalese. Extra blood vessels, so they don’t get altitude sickness. A survival mutation.’

  I say, ‘And according to our renal expert, congenital kidney abnormalities are already occurring regularly in some parts of the world.’

  ‘Which means that theoretically in a couple of hundred years’ time it could be the norm,’ says Professor Whybray. His eyes are shining oddly. As if he has a fever.

  ‘Stop,’ I say. ‘This is now. This is the world we’re in. We’re not talking about some . . . future scenario.’

  ‘So the idea of a hypothetical world paying us a visit would be philosophically interesting, but quite irrational, according to you, Hesketh?’

  I nod. ‘Completely and utterly.’ I wonder why he even needs to ask.

  ‘So you see no room for metaphysics?’

  ‘If there’s rationalism and scientifically verifiable data involved, I see room for everything and anything. But if it’s just fanciful speculation, I don’t.’

  ‘Even after our discussion about CERN?’

  ‘Whoa there,’ says Ashok. ‘You’re losing me, guys. Why are we even discussing this, this . . . what is it anyway?’

  ‘A theoretical eventuality,’ says Professor Whybray. ‘Involving a paradigm shift.’

  ‘Bring it on,’ says Stephanie. Her face is pale and grim. ‘If this paradigm shift involves waking up tomorrow morning and finding out it’s all been a bad dream, I’m in favour.’ Her phone rings. ‘Excuse me a moment.’ She pulls out her mobile, gets up and walks towards the door and faces the wall for privacy.

  ‘Well I suggest we drop the blue-skies stuff and stick to the facts,’ mutters Ashok. ‘Now who’s for a drink? I sure as hell need one. I’ve got vodka or whisky. Any takers?’

  But Professor Whybray isn’t listening: he has perched his notebook on his knee and started writing very fast. So I tell Ashok we’ll both have whisky and watch the old man write. He doesn’t do diagrams: instead, he sets out his ideas in the form of sentences, paragraphs, headings and lists of questions. Often, they are very elegantly phrased. I am a diagram-and-symbol
man. But what diagram, and what symbols, can describe a breed of vengeful human child that brings the world as we know it to its knees?

  I must’ve swallowed one, said Jonas Svensson.

  You can’t come in, said de Vries.

  Complex organisms like tapeworms can live inside the body for decades. They make huge demands. They are in control. Like puppet masters, they call the shots. The host and the parasite become inseparable. They form a ‘we’.

  ‘Human history is a juggernaut,’ murmurs the professor. Ashok shoots me a questioning look. I take a deep swig of whisky. A light rain starts falling in wires of silver outside as my mentor’s pen travels across the page, line after line. I fold more paper. Another water-bomb for Ashok. I chuck it over to him and he catches it in one hand. Stephanie’s conversation hasn’t lasted long: she has already said ‘thank you’, sat down again and put the phone back in her handbag. But her movements are a little clumsy.

  ‘Drink, Steph?’ asks Ashok.

  By way of an answer she stands up very suddenly, then staggers and sinks to her knees. Her face is not its usual shape. Professor Whybray drops his notebook, jumps up and grabs her under the arms, just as she’s about to collapse against the desk. He settles her back in her chair and forces her head between her knees.

  ‘Deep breaths,’ he says, a finger on her pulse. ‘That’s good. That’s good.’

  Stephanie groans. It has all happened so quickly I can barely take it in. Ashok is staring wide-eyed. ‘Oh boy,’ he says. ‘Oh Jesus. Oh no.’

  I can be slow on the uptake.

  It will take some time, therefore, for me to register the news that at 3.15pm the female patient in Bed 67 of the Brown Ward on the fifth floor of St Thomas’ hospital suffered a catastrophic brain haemorrhage, and that due to severe staff shortages, lack of resources and patient overload, no medical staff were able to apply the necessary procedures, and that very regrettably, therefore, the thirty-seven-year-old patient Kaitlin Kalifakidis, mother of one, tragically expired.