Cutting the Bloodline

by Angeline Trevena

  "I know," said Kenton. He squinted against the glare of the sun, hung low in the sky.

  "You don't come here often enough. You work way too hard. I'll give Drew a call, get him to give you some time off."

  Kenton smiled to himself.

  "You could do some fishing," Peter continued. "You used to love it as a boy. When did you last go fishing?"

  "I don't know."

  "You should get yourself a lake house. I'll ask around, see if anyone's selling. Think of the peace and quiet."

  Kenton closed his eyes, enjoying the sun's warmth on his face. He breathed in the scent of pine, the smell of woodsmoke. He opened his eyes and exhaled a cloud of steam.

  "Yes," he said. "Spend my days fishing and staring at the water. I think I could get used to that."

  "You could open a fishing lake, learn some proper trade skills. Do something a bit more concrete than all that writing."

  "All that writing is my job." Kenton leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "How's Mum?"

  Peter sighed deeply before answering. "She's doing alright. She's out of the hospital wing, so it's nice for her to be back in more familiar surroundings. They're keeping a close eye on her, after... you know."

  Kenton looked at the floor. They'd never been much of a family for talking about thoughts and feelings, but since his mum had gone into a home, they'd had to reinvent their relationship. When his dad had cried in front of him, he'd been so shocked, he'd walked straight out and driven home. It had been easier than thinking of something to say.

  "I just wish I could have looked after her myself," Peter said.

  "You did your best, Dad. She needs proper help."

  Peter turned and walked to the railing. "She needs to be around people who love her."

  "Severe depression, suicide attempts, and now the dementia diagnosis. You're not getting any younger, you can't take that all on yourself."

  "I'm sorry I didn't make the call. We knew it was dementia, but I just couldn't bring myself to tell you."

  "I understand, Dad. Saying it out loud makes it real."

  Peter looked at his son. "You know what I can't get out of my head? The thought that that criminal gene came from me. She suffered everything; the abortion, the guilt, the shame. It could have equally been my fault."

  "The only people who are to blame are Eugenisence. They're holding this whole country to ransom, and women are bearing the brunt. Forced abortions, sometimes happening past 24 weeks, with no counselling, no support. Women were scared before Eugenisence, scared of criminals, gangs, but now they're terrified of their own bodies, and the communities that judge them if they get it wrong."

  Peter rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I don't know."

  "They tackled crime without a thought for tackling the causes of it. This country was on its knees before Eugenisence, but we haven't stood up, Eugenisence won't let us." Kenton stood and crossed to Peter. "I'm writing a book. It's a collection of stories from the abandoned generation. I want people to know the truth. That genetics don't cause crime, poverty does, inequality does, unemployment, hunger, desperation. I need to make all this stop. I need mum to stop blaming herself."

  Peter tapped Kenton's hand. "Sometimes I think her dementia was a blessing. Perhaps if she can forget, she can be happy again. Does that make me a horrible person?"

  "No, Dad. It makes you human."

  9

  Tuesday 10th December 2052: Hookend Psychiatric Detention Centre

  "Back again?" Amie teased. "They'll be giving you your own set of keys soon."

  "I did hear they're naming a wing after me."

  Amie laughed. Kenton liked to see her so happy and relaxed. He wished they could have normal conversations, not have to talk about tragedy and sadness.

  "Tell me about the day you left the orphanage."

  "They got rid of us in groups. No one cared whether we were quite sixteen or not, I doubt they knew for sure, but they didn't want to risk housing and feeding us for longer than was necessary. We were woken at dawn, dressed in clothes they gave us, told to collect our things, which was basically nothing. We were marched downstairs and out of the front gates. No goodbyes, no advice, just the clothes that we had to thank her for. That was it. We stood there, huddled together on the street, not knowing what to do."

  "You didn't get to say goodbye to the younger girls?"

  "They waved to us from the windows. That was the last time I saw any of them."

  "You never looked for them?"

  "Where would I look?"

  Kenton nodded. "So where did you go?"

  "I lived on the streets for over a year, begging or stealing food. One day a guy at a soup kitchen told me about a charity that could help. He gave me an address to go to, and they moved me into one of their hostels. I was still wearing the same clothes I'd left the orphanage in."

  "What was the charity called?"

  "HomeHold."

  Kenton wrote it in his notebook.

  "I don't know if they're still running or not. It was tough. The house was attacked daily; broken windows, fireworks through the letterbox, the door covered in graffiti, or shit. We were spat at or attacked on the street outside. People knew what we were, and they didn't want us living on their street. I can't blame them." She sighed. "They really helped me, Kenton. I'd probably be dead if they hadn't. And me being in here, that's not their fault. I was already too..." she drifted off, her voice choked with tears.

  "I know." Kenton had never wanted to hug someone so much.

  "You know, I've never worn anything special. Donations and hand-me-downs."

  "What would be something special?"

  "A red dress." She answered without hesitation, and her eyes lit as she imagined it. "A long red dress and strappy shoes." She looked down at herself. "I guess you have to be a special person too."

  "Don't you think you're special?"

  "Only the bad kind of special. Not the 'I think you're really special' kind." She looked away. "Do you think I'm special?"

  Kenton measured his words carefully. "I think you're incredible."

  Amie snorted and looked back at him. "Well, that's not quite the same, is it?" she said tightly. "Professional interest." She gestured the quote marks with her fingers.

  "I think it's the things we do that make us special. Not who we are, or who society thinks we are. You're telling your story to help others. That's special."

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  "Maybe," Amie said quietly.

  "Tell me something no one else knows."

  "My favourite flowers are lilies," she said without looking at him.

  "Tell me something important."

  She tucked her hair behind her ear. "The girl in the fire. I knew her."

  "You knew her?"

  "Kind of. She only lived a few streets away. I saw her out with her mum one day, and she looked so much like I had at that age. I followed them home, watched the house. I pretended she was me, and they were my parents. I pretended that that was my life."

  "Did you tell the police this?"

  "They never asked. I was just another criminal, doing exactly what they expected me to. My DNA was all the evidence they needed." She paused. "I spoke to her once. Her name's Caitlin. She wants to be an artist, or a nurse. She likes riding her bike and skipping. She told me about a boy in her class that she likes. Robert." Her voice had faded, and his name came out as little more than a whisper. She cleared her throat. "She wanted a dog, but her mum doesn't like animals. The day before the fire, I took a young dog from another house. It was shut outside, howling, they didn't care about it."

  "What happened to the dog?"

  Amie brushed a tear from her cheek. "I took it to Caitlin, but there were police at the house. She must have told her parents about me. I hid across the road in some bushes. The dog was making so much noise. I held it's mouth closed, but it struggled, so I had to hold it tighter, and tighter." She looked down, tears running ov
er her cheeks.

  "Is that why you started the fire?"

  "I don't remember. It's like I wake up, just as the fire starts to take hold. I never know why I did it, I just know that I feel better because I did."

  "What do you feel better about?"

  "Everything I guess." She looked up. "It's so calm. Like the fire stops time, just so that the world can turn and watch. I feel peaceful. I always think that's what it feels like when you die."

  "You think death is peaceful?"

  "Nothing can hurt you, there's no reason to be scared anymore."

  "What are you scared of?"

  Amie lifted her hands and looked at them. "I'm scared of hurting people when I don't mean to."

  Kenton reached across the table, and took her hands in his.

  10

  Wednesday 11th December 2052: HomeHold

  Kenton looked at the house that matched the address. He checked the number again, and stepped back into the road to look at the upstairs windows. There was nothing to distinguish it from any other house on the street.

  Two women walked by, arm in arm. One bumped into Kenton. "Bad blood scum," she muttered. Her friend spat a glob of saliva onto the ground.

  Kenton opened the small iron gate. It squeaked and he had to lift it as it caught on the flagstones beyond. The front garden was neat, with small shrubs and flowers, nothing to cause conflict with the neighbours.

  A small card was tacked behind the rippled glass panel in the front door. Kenton bent and squinted to read it. 'Ring bell and come straight in.' He pressed the bell, a buzzer sounding somewhere inside, and eased the door open.

  As he entered, a scanner light ran over him—red; an older model. He looked back as he stepped out of it, noting that its frame was concealed behind heavy drapes.

  A small reception desk had been tucked under the staircase, and a woman stood there, folding clothes. Her blonde dreadlocks were tied back in a thick ponytail, and her ears were heavy with piercings.

  As Kenton approached, she looked up, but she didn't smile.

  "Is this HomeHold?" he asked, looking around for some kind of confirmation.

  The woman put down the clothes she was holding. "How can I help?"

  "My name's Kenton Hicks, I'm a journalist." He offered his hand for shaking. She looked at it, and then back at him. He slowly retracted his arm.

  "A journalist?" Her face screwed up in a look of suspicion. "What do you want?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm writing a book about the abandoned generation."

  She thought for a moment, and a flash of inspiration lit her face.

  "Of course, of course. You're something of a celebrity round here. I'm Clare Fuller. I'm sorry, we're naturally a bit suspicious when journalists come snooping round. Oh! I didn't mean—" she covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide.

  Kenton smiled. "It's ok, we do snoop. I got your details from one of my interviewees, but she was here about ten years ago."

  "Yeah, I've only been here about eighteen months."

  "Who runs the charity?"

  "I do. I took over after we lost Darla Castillo."

  Kenton looked at her quizzically.

  "She was attacked." She bobbed her head to the side. "Murdered. The police made no effort to actually catch them, just claimed it was a mugging gone wrong. Yeah, gone wrong by the fact that they neglected to take her purse, her phone, or the cash donations she had on her." Clare's mouth tightened. "She was a saint. She deserved so much better."

  "I'm sorry. Was she genetic positive?"

  Clare flinched at his use of the official term. "No, but a lot of her family were. She lost a lot of siblings, to orphanages, and then to abortion. She ran this place for years. You can't even count how many lives she saved."

  "Where do the donations come from?"

  "Mainly from abandoned that have made good in life. Secretly, and often anonymously. If they can't give money, they'll donate clothes, food, or volunteer their time." She shrugged. "There are sympathisers that help, people somehow touched by the Eugenisence Programme." She flicked out her tongue as if the words had left an unpleasant taste behind.

  Kenton turned as the front door opened, and watched Lina Moore struggle in with two large bags of clothes.

  "Hi Clare," she said. "Mr Hicks. What are you doing here?"

  "Research," Kenton said.

  Clare hurried forward and took the bags from Lina, dropping them onto the floor by the desk.

  Lina glanced at Kenton as she smoothed down her clothes. "Those children's clothes are all top brands. They're so expensive, and they only wear them for a few months. I don't see the point in it, they're practically brand new."

  Clare untied one of the bags, and pulled some of the clothes out. She held them up to inspect them.

  "These are great, thank you. We're always desperate for children's clothes."

  "I'm glad someone can make use of them." Lina gestured towards Kenton. "Clare, don't you think involvement with something so subversive might be bad publicity?"

  "He's a popular man round here. Honestly, I'll withhold my judgement for now, I don't know how helpful a book like this might be. But maybe a little subversion is what the world needs right now."

  Lina folded her arms and looked Kenton up and down, with her lip curled.

  "I don't think so. If something isn't broken—"

  "You don't think our country's broken?" Kenton said.

  "I think we're doing the best we can. In difficult circumstances."

  "Are you serious? Do you have any idea what's going on around you at all? It isn't all Tupperware parties and hairdressing appointments. Just because you get to go shopping every day with your husband's credit card, doesn't mean it's so easy for everyone."

  Lina stepped forward, jabbing her finger into Kenton's chest. "I know hard. Goddammit, when did your genetics hold you back in life?"

  "Yeah, you're really struggling aren't you?" he snapped back.

  "Hey," said Clare, stepping between them.

  "Maybe if you ever thought about anyone other than yourself," Kenton said. "Like that poor girl, Indi Garrett. I bet she'd love to spend her afternoons at the salon."

  "Who?" Lina asked.

  "Who?" Kenton repeated. "Seventeen years old, and she's being man-hunted across Europe because she dared leave the country with a genetic negative baby in her. They want her for kidnapping. That's what it's viewed as. Because we're killing so many babies the country can't risk losing a healthy one."

  Lina dropped her eyes to the floor. "I heard something, I guess."

  "Just didn't really register on your suburbanite radar, huh?" Kenton bent slightly, levelling his face with hers. "Maybe you should add her to your prayer list."

  11

  Thursday 12th December 2052: The Turncoat Magazine Office

  Kenton was in the zone. His coffee had gone cold, ignored, as his fingers flew over his keyboard. He hadn't looked up from his screen in hours, and the whole world beyond his words had faded into non-existence.

  His office door opened, and the world threatened to tumble in.

  "Hicks?" said Drew.

  Without looking up, Kenton waved a hand at him, gesturing for him to wait.

  "Important news," said Drew.

  "Wait, wait," pleaded Kenton. Kenton finished his paragraph, and punched the final full stop into place. He took a moment to admire his work before looking up at Drew.

  "What is it?"

  "Dr Conley."

  "You got me an interview?" Kenton asked, rising from his chair.

  "Not exactly. I just got a call from the Eugenisence office. It was actually Dr Conley who requested an interview with you."

  "Really? When? I'd like to call Mitch and double check some of the science stuff first. I want to be fully prepared for this."

  "Then you better prepare yourself. The interview's in about—" he checked his watch, "three minutes. She's already on her way."

  "What? I'm not ready."

 
"They probably want to catch you off guard. But you know this stuff, you'll be fine."

  Kenton spun around, panicked. "Where's my recorder?" He patted down his pockets, sighing as he found it. "Good job it's charged." He waved it at Drew.

  "That thing's always charged. Besides, the office is wired for recording."

  Kenton squeezed his recorder in his hand. "I like something a bit more tangible."

  "Got your naked girlie pen too?"

  Kenton narrowed his eyes. "Yes."

  "Then you're prepared." Drew straightened Kenton's collar and brushed off his shoulders. "You're ready."

  "Ok." Kenton sat down and swiped his work off his screen. He lay his hands over the keyboard, the pad warm against his skin. He stood up.

  Drew sighed. "Do you want me to sit in? Stop you saying anything treasonous?"

  "No, I'll be fine." Kenton rubbed his hands on his trousers, not wanting to greet Dr Conley with a sweaty palm. He might not get another chance like this.

  Drew leaned his head out of the door. "You ready?"

  Drew stepped back. Dr Conley walked in, glancing quickly around the room. She looked nothing like she did on television. She was shorter, slighter. Her blonde hair was pulled back, and her greying roots showed. She wore no makeup, and was dressed in a simple grey suit. A man followed her in. The kind of man hired specifically for his looks: average height, average build, no distinguishable marks. Difficult to describe to the police.

  Kenton instinctively moved back.

  "This is Devon Spencer," said Dr Conley. "He'll be sitting in with us."

  "Ok. Sure. Please, take a seat." Kenton gestured to the sofa, working on auto-pilot. "Can I get you any drinks?"

  "No thank you," Dr Conley said. She sat down, perched on the edge of the sofa. Devon opted to remain standing.

  Kenton pulled his desk chair over, and placed his recorder on the coffee table. "Is it ok to record this?"

  "Please do." Dr Conley smiled with a warmth that failed to reach her eyes.

  Kenton cleared his throat. "So, your Eugenisence Programme research makes interesting reading."