Kéthani

by Eric Brown

  Not long after my implantation, I trained to become a ferryman—and but for this I might never have met Marianne. Her mother, an atheist and implanted, had died unexpectedly of a cerebral haemorrhage, and I had collected the body.

  I had been immediately attracted to Marianne’s physicality, and found her world view—during our many discussions in the weeks that followed our first date—intriguing, if absurd.

  She thought the Kéthani evil, the implantation process an abomination in the eyes of the Lord, and looked forward to the day when she would die and join the virtuous in heaven.

  She was appalled by my blithe acceptance of what I took to be our alien saviours.

  We were married a year after our first meeting.

  I was in love, whatever I thought that meant at the time. I loved her so much that I wanted to save her. It was only a matter of time, I thought, before she came to see that my acceptance of the Kéthani was sane and sensible.

  She probably thought the reverse: given time, her arguments would bring about my religious salvation.

  We had never spoken about what we might do if we had children. She was a successful accountant for a firm in Leeds, and told me that she did not want children. She claimed that Lucy was a mistake, but I’d often wondered since whether she had intended conceiving a child, and whether she had consciously planned what followed.

  During the course of her pregnancy, I refrained from raising the subject of implants, but a couple of days after Lucy was born I presented the implantation request form to Marianne for her signature.

  She would not sign, and of course, because both our signatures were required, Lucy could not undergo the simple operation to ensure her continual life.

  We remained together for another year, and it was without doubt the worst year of my life. We argued; I accused my wife of terrible crimes in the name of her mythical god, while she called me an evil blasphemer. Our positions could not be reconciled. My love for Lucy grew in direct proportion to my hatred of Marianne. We separated at the end of the year, though Marianne, citing her religious principles, would not grant me a divorce.

  I saw Lucy for two or three days a week over the course of the next five years, and the love of my daughter sustained me, and at the same time drove me to the edge of sanity, plagued continually by fear and paranoia.

  That night, in the early hours, Lucy crept into my bed and snuggled up against me, and I dozed, utterly content.

  We slept in late the following morning, had lunch, then went for a long walk. At five we set off for Hockton, Lucy quiet in the back seat.

  I led her from the Range Rover to the front door, where I knelt and stroked a tress of hair from her face. I kissed her. “See you next week, poppet. Love you.”

  She hugged me and, as always, I had to restrain myself from weeping.

  She hurried into the house and I left without exchanging a word with Marianne.

  I threw myself into my work for the next five days. We were busy; Richard Lincoln was away on holiday, and I took over his workload. I averaged half a dozen collections a day, ranging across the length and breadth of West Yorkshire.

  Tuesday night arrived, and not a day too soon. I was due to pick up Lucy in the morning and keep her for the duration of my three-day break. I celebrated with a few pints among congenial company at the Fleece. The regulars were present; Khalid and Zara, Ben and Elisabeth, Jeff Morrow and Richard, the latter just back from the Bahamas with a tan to prove it.

  It was midnight by the time I made my way home, and there was a message from Marianne on the answerphone. Would I ring her immediately about tomorrow?

  Six pints to the good, I had no qualms about ringing her when she might be in bed.

  In the event, she answered the call with disconcerting alacrity. “Yes?”

  “Dan here,” I said. “I got the message.”

  “It’s about Lucy. I wouldn’t bother coming tomorrow. She came down with something. She’ll be in bed for a couple of days.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, fear gripping me by the throat.

  “It’s nothing serious. The doctor came, said something about a virus.”

  “I’ll come anyway,” I said. “I want to see her.”

  “Don’t bother,” Marianne said. “I really don’t want to have you over here if it isn’t absolutely necessary.”

  “I couldn’t give a damn about what you want!” I said. “I want to see Lucy. I’m coming over.”

  But she had slammed down the receiver, leaving me talking to myself.

  I considered phoning back, but didn’t. It would only show her how angry I was. I’d go over in the morning anyway, whether she liked it or not.

  A blizzard began just as I set off, and the road over the moors to Hockton was treacherous. It took me almost an hour to reach the village, and it was after eleven by the time I pulled up outside Marianne’s cottage.

  I fully expected her not to answer the door, but to my surprise she pulled it open after the first knock. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”

  I stepped past her. “Where’s Lucy?”

  She indicated the stairs with a plastic beaker full of juice. I climbed to Lucy’s room, Marianne following.

  “Daddy!” Lucy called out when I entered. She was sitting up in bed, a colouring book on her lap. She looked thin and pale.

  I sat on the bed and took her hand. Marianne passed her the beaker of juice. I looked up at her. “What did the doctor say?”

  She shrugged. She was hugging herself, and looked pinched and sour, resentful of my presence. “He just said it was just a virus that’s going round. Nothing to worry about.”

  “What about medication?”

  “He suggested Calpol if her temperature rose.”

  She retreated to the door, watching me. I turned to Lucy and squeezed her hand. “How are you feeling, poppet?”

  Her head against the pillow, she smiled bravely. “Bit sick,” she said.

  I looked up. Marianne was still watching me. “If you’d give us a few minutes alone…”

  Reluctantly she withdrew, closing the door behind her.

  I winked at Lucy. “You’ll be better in no time,” I said.

  “Will I have to have more tests, Daddy?”

  “I don’t know. What did the doctor say when he came?”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t come here. Mummy took me to the hospital.”

  “Hospital?”

  She nodded. “A doctor needled me and took some blood.”

  A hollow sensation opened up in my stomach. I smiled inanely. “What did the doctor say, Lucy? Can you remember what the doctor told Mummy?”

  She pulled a face in concentration. “They said something about my blood. It wasn’t good enough. I think they said they might have to take it all out and put some new blood in. Then another doctor said something about my bones. I might need an operation on my bones.”

  My vision swam. My heart hammered.

  “Was this at the hospital in Bradley?” I asked her.

  She shook her head. “Mummy took me to Leeds.”

  “Can you remember which hospital?”

  She made her concentrating face. “It was a hospital for army people,” she said.

  I blinked. “What?”

  “I think the sign said it was a general hospital.”

  “Leeds General,” I said. “Was that it?”

  She nodded. I squeezed her hand. My first impulse was to go downstairs and confront Marianne, find out just what the hell was going on.

  Lucy had something wrong with her blood, and might need an operation on her bones… A bone marrow transplant, for Chrissake?

  I tried not to jump to the obvious conclusion.

  I remained with Lucy a further thirty minutes, read her a book and then chatted about nothing in particular for a while, all the time my mind racing.

  By noon, I had decided what to do. I leaned forward and kissed her. “I’ve got to go now, Lucy. I’ll pop in and see you tomor
row, okay?”

  I hurried from the room and down the stairs. I paused before the living room door, but didn’t trust myself to confront Marianne just yet. I left the cottage and drove home through the snowstorm.

  For the next half hour I ransacked the house for the photocopy of Lucy’s birth certificate and my passport, for identification purposes. Then I set off again, heading towards Leeds.

  It was almost three before I pulled into the bleak car park in the shadow of the tower-block buildings. At reception I explained the situation and requested to see someone in charge. The head registrar examined my documents and spoke in hushed tones to someone in a black suit.

  Thirty minutes later I was shown into the waiting room of a Mr. Chandler, and told by his secretary that he would try to fit me in within the hour.

  At four-thirty the secretary called my name and, heart thumping, I stepped into the consulting room.

  Mr. Chandler was a thin-faced, grey-haired man in his late fifties. The bulge of an implant showed at his left temple.

  He was examining a computer flat-screen on his desk, and looked up when I entered. We shook hands.

  “Mr. Chester,” he said. “According to my secretary, you haven’t been informed of your daughter’s condition?”

  “I’m separated from my wife. We’re not exactly on speaking terms.”

  “This is highly irregular,” he muttered to himself.

  I resisted the urge to tell him that Marianne was a highly irregular woman. “Can’ you tell me what’s wrong with my daughter, Mr. Chandler?”

  He consulted his files, lips pursed.

  “Lucy was diagnosed one month ago with leukaemia…” He went on, and I heard him say that the type she was suffering from was pernicious and incurable, but it was as if I had suddenly been plucked from this reality, as if I were experiencing the events in the consulting room at a remove of miles. I seemed to have possession of my body only by remote control.

  “Incurable?” I echoed.

  “I’m sorry. Of course, if your daughter were implanted…”

  I stared at him. “Don’t you think I know that?” I said. “Why the hell do you think my damned wife kept her condition quiet?”

  He looked away. “I’m sorry.”

  “Is there nothing you can do? I mean, surely under the Hippocratic oath…?”

  He was shaking his head. “Unfortunately I’ve been in this situation before, Mr. Chester. It requires the consent of both legal guardians to allow the implantation process to be undertaken in the case of minors. I’m quite powerless to intervene, as much as I sympathise with your predicament.”

  I worked to calm myself, regulate my breathing. “How long might Lucy…?” I began.

  He said, “As things stand, perhaps one month. You see, since the advent of the Kéthani, the funding once spent on research into terminal diseases has been drastically cut back.”

  I listened, but heard nothing. Ten minutes later I thanked him and moved from the room in a daze.

  I have no recollection whatsoever of leaving the hospital and driving away from Leeds. I recall isolated incidents: a traffic jam on the ring road, passing a nasty accident on the road to Bradley, and almost skidding from the lane myself a mile outside Hockton.

  Then I was parked outside Marianne’s cottage, gripping the wheel and going over and over the words I would use in an attempt to make her agree to save our daughter’s life.

  At last I left the Rover and hurried up the path. I had the curious sensation of being an actor on stage, and that, if I fluffed my lines now, the consequences would be dire.

  I didn’t bother knocking, but opened the front door and moved down the hall.

  Marianne was in the living room. She sat in her armchair, legs drawn up beneath her. She was hugging herself as if cold. The TV was on, the sound switched off.

  “I’ve been to the hospital,” I said. “I talked with Chandler.”

  She looked up, showing no surprise.

  Heart thumping, I sat in the armchair opposite and stared at her. “We’ve got to talk about this,”

  I said. “There’s more at stake than our principles or beliefs.”

  She looked away. She was fingering her damned crucifix. “You mean, you want me to sacrifice my principles and beliefs in order to satisfy your own?”

  I leaned forward, almost insensible with rage. “I mean,” I said, resisting the urge to launch myself at her, “that if we do nothing, then Lucy will be dead. Does that mean anything to you? She’ll be bloody well dead!”

  “Don’t you think I don’t know that? This isn’t easy for me, you know.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t see how you can have a moment’s hesitation. The simple fact is, if you don’t agree to the implantation, then Lucy will die. We won’t have any second chances. She’ll be dead.”

  “And if I agree, I’ll be damning her in the eyes of God.”

  I closed my eyes and worked to control my breathing. I looked at her. I could not help myself, but I was crying. “Please, Marianne, for Lucy’s sake.”

  She stared at me.

  I said, “Listen, let her have the implant. Then, when she’s eighteen, she can make up her own mind, have it removed if she wants.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know… I need time to think about it.”

  I gave a panicky nod at the thought that she might be relenting. “Chandler said she had a month, but who knows? We need to make a decision pretty damned quickly.”

  She stared at me, her face ashen. “I need time to think, Dan. You can’t pressure me into this.”

  I wiped away the tears. “Lucy is all we have left, Marianne. We don’t have each other any more. Lucy is everything.”

  This, so far as I recall, was the gist of the exchange. I have a feeling it went on for longer, with clichés from both sides bandied back and forth, to no definite conclusion. The last thing I did before leaving the house was to climb the stairs to Lucy’s bedroom, kneel beside the bed and watch my daughter as she slept.

  I arrived home around midnight and, unable to sleep, stared at a succession of meaningless images passing before me on the TV screen.

  I slept on the settee until ten o’clock the next morning, then showered and tried to eat breakfast. Between ten-thirty and midday I must have phoned Marianne a dozen times. She was either out or not answering.

  At one o’clock, the phone rang, startling me. Shaking, I lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Daniel?”

  “Marianne?”

  A silence, then, “Daniel. I have a form you need to sign.”

  “My God, you mean—?”

  “I’ll be in all afternoon,” she said, and replaced the receiver.

  I drove to Hockton, crying all the way. I pulled up before the cottage and dried my eyes, at once grateful for the decision Marianne had come to, and yet resentful that she had made me so pathetically indebted to her.

  I hurried up the path, knocked and entered. Marianne was in her usual armchair. A slip of paper sat on the coffee table before her. I sat down and read through the release form. She had already appended her signature on the dotted line at the foot of the page. Fumbling, I pulled a pen from my pocket and signed my name below hers.

  I looked up. Marianne was watching me. “You won’t regret this, Marianne,” I said.

  “I’ve made an appointment for the implant. I’m taking her in at one tomorrow.”

  I nodded. “I’ll drop by to see her after work, okay?”

  “Whatever…”

  I made my way upstairs. Lucy was sitting up in bed. Intoxicated, I hugged her to me, smothering her in kisses. I stayed an hour, talking, reading to her, laughing…

  When I made my way downstairs, Marianne was still in her armchair in the lounge. The room was in darkness.

  I said goodbye before I left, but she did not respond.

  It was six by the time I arrived home, and I dropped into the Fleece for a celebratory meal and a pint or three.

&nb
sp; Khalid was there, along with Richard and Ben, and three pints turned to six as I told them the news; that, first, Lucy was going to be implanted, and second, that she was suffering from a terminal illness. My friends were a little unsure how to respond, then took my line and decided to celebrate.

  It was well past one when I staggered home, and I had a raging headache all the next day at work. Fortunately, with Richard back from the Bahamas, the workload was not intense, and I was finished by four.

  I returned home, showered and changed, and then made my way over the moors’ to Hockton.

  The cottage door was locked, and I thought at first that perhaps they had not returned. Then it struck me that, perhaps, Marianne had gone back on her word, decided not to take Lucy to the hospital…

  The door opened.

  “How is she?” I asked, pushing past Marianne and making my way upstairs.

  Marianne followed me into Lucy’s room. She was lying flat out, staring at the ceiling. She looked exhausted.

  She beamed when she saw me. “Daddy, look. Look what I’ve got!”

  Her small fingers traced the implant at her temple. I looked up; Marianne pushed herself away from the door and went downstairs.

  I pulled Lucy to me—she seemed no more than a bundle of skin and bone—and could not stop myself from crying. “I love you,” I whispered.

  “Love you, too,” Lucy replied, then said, “Now that I have the implant, Daddy, will God love me as well?”

  I lay her down, gently, and smiled. “I’m sure he will, poppet,” I said.

  Later, as she slept, I stroked her hair and listened to the words of the rhyme in my head: Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace, Wednesday’s child is full of woe, Thursday’s child has far to go…

  I made my way downstairs. Marianne was in the kitchen, washing dishes.

  I leaned against the jamb.

  “You’ve made the right decision, Marianne.” I said.

  She turned and stared at me. “You don’t know how difficult it was, Daniel,” she said, without meeting my eyes, and turned back to the dishes.

  I said goodbye, left the cottage and drove home.