The invite ended with a quote from Charlotte Bronte, her namesake.
Liberty lends us her wings and Hope guides us by her star.
Last night Charlotte’s fever had reached 37.6 degrees according to her cleverband. Her hands shook when she lifted a glass of water to her lips. Her poor legs shivered despite layers of woolen blankets piled atop them.
It had become unbearable, she decided, the weakness, the insomnia, the hopelessness of it all. The fear of what awaited her as the disease grew worse. Despite the countless medications she was now on, it seemed the virus was progressing at a merciless rate towards its inevitable conclusion. Each day it seemed some new symptom appeared.
Charlotte felt as if she was going mad. Lying in bed, her mind raced constantly with the things in life she had not done. She’d never been to South Africa. Never rode one of those ultra high-speed trains. Never had children. Not that she wanted any, of course. She was a businesswoman first and foremost.
Charlotte had never been in love.
She glanced around her bedroom, made dark by curtains drawn to block out the daylight that her eyes were so sensitive to. Only the artificial ghost light of the television illuminated the room, currently playing a popular soap opera. Her gaze lingered over piles of purchases she had made from the Ideal World shopping channel, things she would never use. Speed-presto crock-pots, smartbot alarm systems, a waterproof plastic terry cloth sheet that was both a blanket and a shower curtain.
This was no way to live. Fantasizing of things to come, things that would never be. I can’t take another day alone in this dark room, she thought.
Charlotte scrolled to the bottom of the invite, where the options Yes, No, and Maybe appeared. Before she could second-guess herself, she touched Yes, sending her promise to attend this somber event through the invisible network in the sky.
When the appointed evening arrived, Charlotte was in utter torment. She’d tried on at least nine outfits, and still could not decide what to wear. It would be her last soirée, after all, and everything must be perfect. If she did not pick an outfit soon, she would be late.
Eventually she decided on a modest cream-coloured cocktail dress with delicate beading stitched in floral patterns across the bodice, and a pair of cream-coloured pumps to match. She fastened the 24k-gold cross pendant encrusted with small diamonds that her father had given her on her twenty-first birthday around her neck. Delicate pearl drop earrings. A satin clutch that matched the dress. Somehow she had managed to find the strength to take a curling iron to her hair for the first time in ages, styling it in loose waves.
Charlotte felt better than she ever remembered feeling since she contracted the virus. Almost like a normal, healthy person, she thought. A little peach-coloured blush had livened up her complexion. Her eyes held some of their old sparkle once they saw how lovely she still managed to look once all dolled up, and how slim her illness had made her too—the dress had slid on with ease.
One last glance in the mirror and she was ready to go. Almost.
Charlotte tiptoed quietly into the sitting room. All the staff had been given the night off so the place was empty, save for two.
Curled up together in a corner of the plush, mauve-coloured sofa were Joxer and Edward III, her two precious, prize-winning Corgis. When Charlotte entered the room, their ears perked up and they gazed at her expectantly. It had been a while since they’d seen their mother up and about.
“My gorgeous darlings,” Charlotte cooed. “You’re all I have in this world, you know that? You do know that, don’t you?” She scratched their chins and continued to heap praise upon them, to which they responded enthusiastically with short barks and wagging tails.
“Mommy’s so sorry she has to leave you. So, so sorry. It isn’t my fault though, darlings. There is evil in this world. No, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? Sweet things,” her eyes began to mist over, but she managed to keep her tears at bay. “I’ve left you to Talia. The poor girl isn’t used to dogs of your caliber, so you must be patient with her. But I believe she’ll take good care of you. She’s taken good care of me.”
She fed them each a treat. Truth be told, she was close to calling off the whole thing in the face of their affection, but it was a testament to her character than she remained resolute. She exited her lovely house in Holland Park for the last time, locking the door and descending the cobblestone steps.
The house where the event was to take place was located in her same neighbourhood. Charlotte rang the doorbell, wondering if she would run into anyone she knew, and if so, would she feel proud or ashamed to be here?
Charlotte decided that she would be proud. She would be brave.
A slender woman with grey hair and coral beads around her neck answered the door. She’s probably only a few years older than I am, but doesn’t wear it quite as well, thought Charlotte.
“Hello, come in,” the hostess said. She took Charlotte’s coat and showed her into the main room, where guests were sipping martinis and glasses of champagne, conversing quietly with one another or listening attentively to the young woman skillfully rendering Chopin on the baby grand piano in the center of the room. Charlotte was pleased to note that the sitting room was decorated not with black candles and upside-down crosses, but with tasteful bronze sculptures and oriental art. A large mosaic portrait of the Hindu god Vishnu hung on the far wall. The furniture was cherry wood and the fabrics were warm patterns in red, brown, and gold. Charlotte admired a rust-coloured satin pillow with leaf patterns embroidered in gold thread that sat in the armchair closest to her. Would that she lived past tonight, she would have asked the hostess where she’d purchased it so she could acquire a set of her own.
“We’re very pleased you could make it,” the hostess said. “What is your name, dear?”
“Charlotte. Charlotte Piebald.”
“Charlotte Piebald, as in Charlotte P. handbags?” she asked enthusiastically.
“The very same.”
“A shame. Such a shame,” the hostess said. “That the disease has claimed such talent, I mean. At least we can help you end your suffering. You’re amongst friends. My name is Mikhaela.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said. “One really needs friends at a time like this. Those who aren’t infected just aren’t capable of understanding.”
“I know, I know,” said Mikhaela. “Come, meet some of the others. Would you like something to drink?”
“Some champagne would be lovely, thanks,” said Charlotte.
She spent most of the evening sampling hors d’oeuvres—the seafood tarts were her favourite—and meeting other guests. Two businessmen from Amsterdam who had caught the disease while in town for a convention. A pleasant couple in their sixties who owned a string of hotels. A dour-looking man with a splotchy beard and a vast original book collection who apparently lived two doors down from Charlotte, and they had never met.
She was speaking to the hotel owners about her award-winning corgis when Mikhaela tapped a fork against her champagne flute.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began in a somber tone. “As our night here draws to a close, so ends an important chapter in all our lives. We’re going to start proceedings shortly, and I would just like to thank each and every one of you for coming here tonight. For choosing the path of bravery. For fighting the good fight with strength and dignity. Let us not succumb to mass chaos and manipulation. Let us live our every breath joyously, and end these breaths that are our own without fear, without apology. Let us not look backwards, only forwards, into opportunity, into the light.”
The guests applauded her steadily.
“Now, as I believe that every individual possesses the right to end their own life when they determine such action is necessary, I also believe they have the right to speak their last words when they are of sound mind. If you would please come forward and form a semi-circle, we’ll go around the room, and everyone will get a chance to say whatever it is they feel they need to sa
y. We’ll pass around this cherry blossom branch, which will be used as a talking stick. Please try and keep your speeches under five minutes each.”
Charlotte froze. She had no idea what she wanted to say.
Before she knew it, the man beside her was speaking, saying something about his dear, departed mother and wars he’d never voted for. It would be her turn next.
The man finished, passing her the branch. The room turned its attention towards her. Charlotte politely cleared her throat.
“I’m not sure what to say, really. But I’ve always believed in living one’s life to the fullest—an option those bastards stole from me. And the pain, recently, it’s just become too much. I can hardly get out of bed, most days. All this not knowing,” she said, shaking her head, “it just drives you mad. With everything that’s been happening these days, it’s as if life is a dream. Nothing seems real anymore. It isn’t like when I was young, playing on the beach without a care in the world, running into daddy’s arms…That was before cleverbands, even,” she stated. “Life made sense then.”
The woman beside her, the elderly hotel matron, touched her arm sympathetically.
“I just want peace,” she said. “At long last. That’s all anyone really wants, isn’t it?”
She passed the talking stick to the next person. The room gave her a round of applause.
“You’re so brave, dear,” the old woman next to her said, before launching into a long speech about her esteemed family and all its generations, which only ended when Mikhaela cleared her throat.
When the speeches were over, each guest received a ruby-coloured beverage in an ornate crystal cordial glass.
Mikhaela lifted her glass to the room. “See you on the other side,” she said.
They closed their eyes and drank the crimson liquid, Charlotte taking one tentative sip, then downing it all in one go.
If you could have asked her what dying felt like, she would say it felt like dreaming she was watching herself on a television programme, a soap opera where the heroine is accidentally shot by her true love. It felt like tasting the sweetest, most delicious trifle in the world, only to have it turn bitter and green before your eyes. It felt like a children’s nursery rhyme that you had once loved, but now couldn’t remember the words to no matter how you tried.
She thought about these things, and how they felt. And then she felt no more.
Chapter Forty-One
DEATH OF A DISCO DANCER
Jeeves plunged headfirst into the fray, into the blurry crowd of limbs, blood, and angry faces.
A metal-encrusted fist impacted his face immediately, striking him in the jaw, shattering his two rows of unnaturally-coloured teeth. Hits to his blue and yellow mismatched eyes followed.
He saw only red, and did not have time to cry.
Two youths, one a tattooed punk, the other clean as a baby, grasped him by his long arms, wrenching them from their sockets.
A knife stabbed him in the back, and Jeeves bled and bled. Enough blood for all his lives thus far.
He tried to think of his good work, his dreams fulfilled, but there was only pain. Higher reasoning failed, and he gave up the fight.
His spirit left his body, then, before the body was torn to shreds, into unrecognizable particles of red and black.
But the spirit, the spirit lives on. It becomes a bulldog working construction in Mississippi, it becomes a neglected daughter, it becomes an alien farmhand at the tail end of a star system light years away. It becomes a lithographic press, it becomes a balloon, it becomes a message in the television screen, it becomes the man that always was and would always be.
Later, he would look down and watch the mad children from somewhere—from up in the clouds, from the seventh dimension. The riot was already beginning to die down.
He wondered if the price of this life was worth it.
He decided that it was.
Kit’s eyes had not left Sam. He seemed far away, standing at the front of the stage bathed in light, an angelic ghost.
Save them, she thought. Do something. She didn’t know if she was talking to Sam, or to herself.
Then, as if in a trance, Sam lips parted, and he began to sing. A soft, sweet tune. A new song. The words he sang were something about rebirth, about leaving things behind.
Zephyr backed him up almost immediately, his drums beating a steady rhythm. It was picked up by Muzzy, strumming a soothing bass line that began to calm frayed nerves.
Kit held the neck of her guitar in a death grip as she watched Sam in a paralyzed daze. In time she began strumming accompanying chords without even realizing it.
Slowly, like an encroaching wave, the chaos abated as the soft melody bled from the sound system into the sweet pleasure paralysis centers of the brain.
The crowd grew quiet.
Adrenaline and carnage soon gave way to tears and regret. They hadn’t meant it. Were slaves to mob mentality. That frenetic, contagious venom that short-circuits reason.
Saint Fox stood at the pinnacle of the stage, glowing with electric energy. His old guitar, taken from Sailor’s frozen hands, was slung across his shoulder.
When he finished singing, Kit watched as he crumpled to the floor and folded over his guitar, like a mother protecting a child. He stayed like that for what felt like hours, maybe days.
The crowd thinned out in wounded intervals. Had there been casualties?
They would tell themselves stories to try and forget, to banish the guilt, to shape the present and the future into something that looked more like how they’d imagined it all along.
Kit took steps in the opposite direction she wanted to go, backing away towards the stage exit. She watched as Sailor untangled Sam from his guitar, pulling him to his feet.
“C’mon, Sam,” Sailor said, his voice a shaky, broken thing. “Let’s go home.”
Sam followed him with bleary, vacant eyes, hanging onto him like a lifeline. They walked right past Kit, Sailor not noticing her at all, Sam looking at her like some precious thing he no longer recognised.
Then they were gone. She barely noticed as others around her, one by one, walked off into the wings.
Soon, she was alone on stage. No one with her except her guitar.
Just as it had always been.
She would play it again in her mind, over and over on repeat, like an irritating chorus that was stuck in her head. All she wanted was for it to stop, to leave her alone and go bother someone else.
What good am I? she thought. She’d witnessed the whole horrendous nightmare and hadn’t lifted a finger to try and stop it. I’m no better than those government bastards who gave the order to fire. Just stood there and watched. So damned useless.
She had wanted to run to Sam, to tell him how glad she was that he was alive, to assure him that everything would be okay, though she had no way of assuring anyone of such. But she’d frozen every time she tried to make a move towards him; her body would not cooperate. She’d let out a scream that no one heard when Jeeves went careening over the edge of the stage and into the vulturish crowd, had started blindly plucking at chords when Sam began to sing.
Kit never did know what exactly to do with herself, except when she was playing.
I’ll forget in time, she thought. Wash myself of the whole bloody massacre.
But whether she drowned herself in alcohol or scrubbed herself clean under fire-hot water, she could not get clean enough and could not forget, as long as she remained looking upon the same grey skies.
The lights inside the vast buildings of Heathrow airport were too bright. People ambled back and forth wearing grey suits, grey sweatpants, grey raincoats to protect them from the grey rain. Paper cups of tea clenched in one hand, their cleverbands the sole focus of attention. Grey suitcases rolled on grey wheels and were loaded onto silver planes.
Kit stared down at her black boots, which were scuffed. She lifted one foot and gazed at the dirt underneath. Blood, hair, and mud, she noted. She would have
to walk many miles to get them clean again.
Her cleverband trilled, alerting her to the last thing she expected—a text from Sam. It probably isn’t even from him, she figured. Sailor using his device, Sam resending an old message by accident.
Kiss me, little Miss Rock n’ Roll, it said.
Bet he doesn’t even know what he’s saying, she thought. Just like always. Kit lifted her hand to reply, not knowing what she wanted to say back. The scar of the Dot on her index finger was faintly purple underneath the callus made by steel strings.
The cleverband trilled again. Incoming file transfer: “Songs we never finished.” Accept. Decline.
She touched Accept, but then minimised the display and switched the device to silent, not waiting for the file containing his scrawled lyrics alongside her scribbled riffs to download. The others waiting inside the terminal stared at their displays, their personal 3D worlds, texting and transacting freely.
Now boarding, Flight 723 to New York, the gate agent announced.
She boarded the plane, looking back almost the whole way, as if the greatest hits of un-merry England was the only thing playing on the viewscreen that shimmered across the headrest in front of her.
It was only when the clouds parted and the aircraft started to descend that she decided to look forward.
Chapter Forty-Two
SMOKE MACHINE
London hospitals were sick to death of the endless stream of patients showing up at their doors with claims of contracting the Dot virus. They began turning people away unless they could easily spot or scan some life-impeding symptom—a tumor, a rash, a fractured limb, a goddamn broken nose or black eye, at least. Every day new cases of the Dot virus continued to surface, despite the fact that the Dot was now barely in operation. Some patients claimed to have contracted it from means other than swiping at a terminal. They believed it was airborne, they believe it was passed through blood, semen, spit, contracted from toilet seats, from riding the Tube, from food in restaurants, from door knobs.
The Rise of Saint Fox and The Independence Page 26
