Afterland

by Lauren Beukes

  “I’m grateful to you, Generosity. But you need to butt the hell out.”

  “It’s what’s best for him. And you. He can grow up surrounded by love and God’s grace. And think what he’ll mean to us, to the whole world. Proof that our prayers are working. He’s a gift. To us. To everyone.”

  Fury rises inside him, cutting through the hollowness inside. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here! Like I don’t get a say in what happens to me!”

  “Beloved child,” Generosity says, placating. “Mila…”

  “Mila is not my name! Neither is buddy or tiger or kiddo. And I’m not a child. I’m a person. And you don’t treat me like one!” He starts out talking to both of them, but he realizes it’s Mom he’s addressing.

  “You keep making decisions for me, and they’re all the wrong ones. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of you. I wish Dad was here. I wish he was alive and you were the one who died.”

  Mom recoils, as if he’s hit her. “Okay. Wow. Okay.” The look on her face, like the bones have collapsed under her skin. And then she stiffens, straightens. “But you know what? Tough.”

  “What?” He’s sobbing. He hates that he’s crying. But he’s so angry and sad and confused and the feelings are a volcano.

  “Tough fucking luck, Miles,” Mom says. “I’m not your friend. I’m your parent. That’s what I do. I make the decisions. I know you’re growing up. I know that I am going to have to let you go, to go out into the world on your own. But not yet. I have fought for you my entire life, and I want what’s best for you.”

  “What about what I want?”

  “Tiger. Sorry, Miles. You’re a kid. You don’t know what you want yet. The whole point of this, of everything, of all the fuckups and detours we’ve taken, is because I want to get you to a place where you can make your own choices once you’re old enough. I want you to have choices. You have no idea what a privilege that is. And hey, if you want to come back and join the Sorry-brigade when you’re eighteen, that’s fine. If you want to sell your sperm on the black market, that’s also fine. Hell, you can work at Barbarella’s if you want. But right now, you’re my responsibility, and I will always, always have your best interests at heart. And these other people won’t. And yeah, sometimes I make bad choices. A whole bunch of them. Sorry. A thousand million sorrys. I’m human too, and I make human-person mistakes. Maybe your dad would have made different decisions. But he’s not alive. I am. And I am taking you home. Now.”

  A car is pulling into the parking lot, the headlights blinding.

  “Who is that?” he says, shielding his eyes.

  “It’s Billie!” Mom sounds elated. “Thank god.” She takes Generosity’s hands in hers, shaking them like she’s won a prize. “Generosity, thank you. Thank you for everything. Thank you for bringing him back to me. If it helps, maybe this is God’s will? You bringing us back together is the most divine gift you could have given us.”

  “But he wants to stay,” the nun says.

  Against the headlights, he can make out that there are two women walking across the lot toward them. His aunt, limping slightly, and a stranger, tall, with dark hair and a face like a rock quarry and somehow lopsided. She only has one ear, he realizes. And she’s holding a gun.

  60.

  Billie: Cruel to be Kind

  “Cole,” Billie says, arms open. “Oh my god, I was so worried.” She’s trying for friendly, she really is. Put her at ease. We don’t want any complications. But her sister jolts as she sees Zara, who is holding her gun right out in the open. Big dumb idiot. Way to kill the mood.

  “Who is this?” her shitheel-bitch sister says, drawing Miles behind her, as if that could protect him. Bullets go through cars. Ask poor Rico. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh man, Cole, that’s a catch-up for another day. We got to get going. We got to move.”

  “Who is this?” she says again. Stuck on repeat.

  “Could ask you the same thing,” Billie gestures at the linebacker of a woman in a colorful muumuu number with a scarf over her face. The real adventure: the friends we made along the way. “This is Zara. Zara and me have been chasing across this whole damn country trying to find you. You won’t believe what you’ve put us through.”

  “One of your sperm dealers? Why does she have a gun, Billie? Tell her to put it away.”

  “Oh no,” Billie snarls. “Sperm? No. We are way past that. You blew that one. We could have been on a beach in the Caribbean by now, sipping piña coladas. But you tried to kill me. And this is what happens.” That parenting rhyme for little kids. You get what you get, and you don’t get upset. “You tried to kill me.” her voice cracks. “And I nearly died. I probably have brain damage. They put a drill to my skull, Cole. Because of you, you dumb fucking cunt. You bitch. And now you can’t even be the nanny.”

  “Billie, please. We’re so close.” She sounds so confused. It would be adorable if it wasn’t so pathetic. Cole gestures back at the black ocean behind them. “The boat is coming. I love you. I’m sorry I hurt you. We’ve both done bad things and—”

  Zara raises her gun. “Enough talking.”

  And yeah, damn straight. We’ve both done bad things. Cole has no fucking idea. She doesn’t know what she’s put her through. She should let Zara shoot her.

  “Fuck you, Cole,” Billie says. “We’re going. C’mon, Miles.”

  But the kid is clutching at his stomach. “Mom…,” he whimpers. “I don’t feel so good.” He grabs Cole’s hand as he collapses onto the ground.

  “What’s wrong with him? Get him up.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Zara warns.

  61.

  Cole: Signaling

  God, she’s been so stupid. So arrogant, to think they would get away. She should have known. It was the guilt, eating her alive, devouring any sense.

  I never liked that sister of yours.

  Her blood is pounding in her ears, her limbs are heavy, rooted to the ground, even as she wants to run at them, hit them with something.

  Like what, a palm frond?

  She’s an idiot and she’s fucked this all up and she never should have trusted Billie and she can’t believe her own sister would sell them out to traffickers and she should have known, oh God, she should have known, and she can’t worry about that now because Miles is crumpled on the ground, moaning in agony. He hasn’t had a stomach attack since the airport. A million years ago. The last time they nearly got away. And all she wants to do is get them away.

  He’s still hanging onto her hand, an anchor. Two squeezes.

  Family Morse code. Don’t worry. I got this.

  “Mom, it huurrrts,” he moans, writhing.

  He’s faking it. A diversion.

  “What is wrong with him?” the gunwoman asks in her stiff accent.

  “It’s his stomach,” Cole says, “He has panic attacks, it’s anxiety, but it causes real pain. He won’t be able to walk. He can’t go with you. I have to calm him down.”

  “Get him up.” She jerks the gun, impatient. “Now.”

  And if Billie were on her side, if she has ever been on her side, she would have used this moment to hit the stranger, wrestle the firearm away. But she’s standing watching, holding the back of her head, a detached look on her face, like this is happening in another dimension.

  Cole drops down next to Miles. “It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.” Please. Fuck. She doesn’t want to die. She gives the gunwoman a wan smile. “Could you help me? Let’s get him to his feet.”

  She takes a step closer, and Cole tenses her muscles, swings her arm up and punches her as hard as she can in the crotch. She knows how debilitating this is, because she fell on a fence once when she was a kid, tightroping a wooden fence, and she fell and landed with the strut right between her legs, and she couldn’t breathe for minutes on end.

  But she’s breathing now.

  The woman staggers back and Cole rises from one knee, driving forward, swiping her across the stomac
h. Not a full blow, but not a miss either. And then Generosity slams into her with her full body weight. The gun goes skittering, the lightning crack of a round discharging as it hits the ground. And a scream.

  Cole throws herself backward, covering Miles. “Keep down!”

  “Mom. It’s not me. I’m fine.” He scrambles out from under her.

  “What the fuck?” Billie whines. “What the actual fuck?” She has her hand clamped over her collar bone. Even in the dark and the rain, Cole can see the blood welling between her fingers.

  “Come on, Mom.” Miles tugs at her arm. “We have to go.”

  In the distance, drawing closer, the fut-fut-fut of a motorboat audible under the shushing rain.

  Generosity is still grappling with the boy-trafficker, but she’s bigger and stronger, and please let her be able to deal with it. There’s the distinctive splintering crack of cartilage and Generosity reels back, clutching at her face, suddenly dark with blood.

  “You asshole!” she says, and it’s such a shock to hear her swear Cole nearly laughs. Gen hurls herself at the gangster, driving both arms into her chest. Zara’s foot catches on one of the pilings and she falls back, off the edge of the pier. She careens off the side of the yacht with a sickening thud and into the water, sending the yacht rocking, wavelets stirring against the side.

  “Can she swim?” Generosity says, looking down into the black water where the woman is floating facedown. “Ah heck, I guess I’m going in.” She starts peeling off her Apologia.

  “What?” Shock. It’s shock.

  No time for that, boo.

  The rescue boat is drawing closer. A light on the prow flash-flashes, signaling to them. They have to go. Nothing matters except getting on that boat.

  But Billie.

  Billie has found the gun. She’s holding it like a holy artifact, turning it over in her hands, blood still welling from her shoulder.

  Miles used to do that when he was an infant, Cole thinks, wildly. Baby science, Dev called it. Pick up foreign object. Turn it this way, turn it that way, put in mouth. Take out of mouth, turn it around, put it back.

  Wouldn’t that be the best result here, if Billie just put the gun in her mouth?

  The worst parts of you, always just under the surface.

  That’s not you.

  Maybe it is, Dev. Maybe this time she has to wish her dead. She’s already been through the guilt. She lived through it once.

  Her sister aims the gun at them. Her hands are shaking. “You’re not getting on that boat.”

  Below the dock, there is thrashing in the water. She can’t look.

  “Fuck you, Billie,” she says, cold and clear.

  “Fuck me?” Billie yells. “You’re the one who got us into this. You made me do this!”

  “No. That’s your story. You’re wrong. You’ve always been wrong.”

  “I’ll fucking shoot you. Don’t make me shoot you.”

  The boat engine cuts, and it drifts toward the end of the next quay. A woman in a yellow anorak waves from the prow.

  “Then do it. We’re leaving.” She turns her back on her sister, pushing Miles in front, so she’s shielding him, and starts walking toward the waiting boat. Waiting for the bullet in her back.

  “C’mon, Cole,” wheedling, charming. She’s heard this tone her whole life. “I got three passports right here. You can be Polina. There’s a palace on the other side. We can all live the good life. All you got to do is come with me.”

  Deep breaths. One step at a time. She’s not listening. Not this time.

  “I’ll do it!” Billie screams. “What you put me through! What you did.”

  Up the ladder to redemption. Tensed against the bullet that is going to rip through her any moment. One step. Another. Up the ladder to redemption.

  Miles reaches his hand out to the sailor in the yellow anorak.

  Cole waits for a bullet.

  62.

  Billie: Prodigal

  Billie’s hands are shaking. She’s been shot. Oh yeah. For what? Fucking selfish bitch. She always does this. Always. Billie never. She’s still holding the gun. But her hands are shaking, and she can’t figure out how to cock it. How does this thing work?

  “I’ll shoot you!” she shouts after Cole. Do you pull back here? Slide the whole chamber back. Her fingers can’t get a grip in the rain. Blood on her hands. Is it the safety? Where the fuck is the safety? She screams in fury and throws the gun after her bitchcuntwhoresister and her nephew.

  There’s a grunt in acknowledgment. But it’s not from Cole. It’s the hefty nun, soaking wet from the ocean and the rain, hauling Zara up the ladder, one-handed.

  “Don’t leave me!” Billie shouts after Cole, turning her back on the big woman, panicking as the boat starts reversing out. “Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I had a head injury!” Tears in her eyes, mixing with the rain. That’s a song, isn’t it. It’s not her fault. She was desperate. She had to. They were going to kill her. “Cole. You can’t leave me. I’m sorry.”

  Cole stands up in the boat. She can’t make out her expression. She’s a silhouette in the rain. A Cole-shaped hole in the dark. She shouts back, her voice carrying clear. “I don’t care.”

  “Please.”

  “I love you, Billie. But I don’t have to forgive you.”

  Billie nods. Okay. She nods again, holding her head. Okay. Okayokayokayokay. She folds herself down onto her knees. She curls over herself into a ball, rocking. Okay. She’s bleeding. She got shot. She’s all on her own. There’s no one to help her. No one who cares.

  “I’m sorry,” she whimpers.

  But someone is rubbing her back. The big woman, still in her bra and panties, her skin gooseflesh. “It’s all right, sister. I’m here.”

  “She left me.”

  “But I know someone who won’t. Not ever. If you’ll accept Him into your heart. If you’ll repent. You’ve already said the most important word. The hardest word. And I am here to tell you, my sister, you were lost, but now you are found. You are known. I am with you.”

  “What?” Billie says. “Found?”

  “And known. But wow, you’re bleeding a lot. Maybe we should get you to a hospital.”

  “I don’t want to be known,” Billie says, panic rising along with giddiness. Blood loss. That’s blood loss right there. The woman lifts her like a sack of potatoes. Dead weight. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve been through. What I’ve had to do. You don’t know. You can’t.”

  “There will be time to walk you through all your sorrows. Once you’re well. Come and join us. We’ll take care of you.”

  EPILOGUE:

  Surfacing

  The surface of the sea heaves like the flank of a giant breathing animal. Miles never imagined the ocean could take on so many textures. Whitecaps and mountain ranges and glass. Amihan comes to stand beside him at the railing, exactly as tall as he is, in the shadow of the containers piled high above them, like Lego bricks, reds and blues and oranges. Women in overalls bustle around them, tightening the lashing gear, chipping rust off the cranes. Amihan smiles her crooked smile. She’s missing a tooth and the others are snaggled. But she’s saving up the money she’s earning working the shipping routes to get them fixed. The Princess Diana is stopping at Brazzaville, then Walvis Bay. They’ll get off there and drive from Namibia. Kel and Sisonke are coming to pick them up. It still feels like a dream.

  “Have you been practicing your Tagalog?” Amihan asks now.

  “Yes! Madagang araw. Beautiful day!”

  “Almost there. Magandang araw. Think of it like Trump’s red hat. Ma-ga.”

  Miles pulls a face. “I don’t want to have that association, thanks.”

  “But you won’t forget it.”

  “How’s your Zulu?”

  “Sow-bwana,” she tries.

  “Sawubona,” he laughs.

  “What is the Zulu phrase for ‘where is your mother?’” />
  “The answer is she’s still seasick. Downstairs in the cabin. Puking her guts out.”

  “I think you should get her up on deck.” She points out to the water. “She would want to see this.”

  He tears down the ladders inside, the way he’s learned from the crew, half sliding, down to the quarters where his mom is holed up. He shoves open the door, bounces onto the bed.

  “Mom! Get up. You have to come.”

  “No. I’m dying. Go on without me.”

  “You have to come!”

  “Tell Calumpang to call Child Services,” she groans into her pillow. “There’s a boy here who needs to be rehomed.”

  “Mom. I’m not kidding. Get up. Trust me.”

  “Is it the African coastline?”

  “It’s better.” He grins.

  “I hope so, for your sake, young man. I ever tell you, you have your dad’s smile?”

  “All the time, but you’re wrong. It’s mine.”

  He props her up as they walk along the corridor (although he suspects she’s laying it on thick), out onto the deck, and up to the railing. Amihan hands him the binoculars, but he doesn’t need them, they’re so close.

  The ocean stretches out ahead of them, so huge that they can see the curvature of the earth, the horizon bending away.

  “Oh good,” Mom says. “The sea is still here. Right where we left it.”

  “Not that! You have to be patient.” There are monsters in the depths, and other dimensions, and sometimes even families. But there are good things too.

  “Remember how your dad used to make us watch sunsets? All of us lying flat watching the sun slip below the horizon.”

  “And then we had to jump up so we could watch the sun set a second time. Two for the price of one.”

  “What am I looking at?”

  They gaze out over the sea and then suddenly, a black fin carves through the waves, impossibly tall.