by JT Lawrence
It assaults his ears with a tune.
The man pushes up his sleeves, cracks his knuckles. Moves his head from side to side. Indulges in a quickie fantasy where he snaps the bot’s neck with a flick of his wrist, and drags its body to the stuffed toy section, to later frighten some kids.
The daydream perks him up. He takes a deep breath.
‘I need a...’ What does he need? If he knew, he wouldn’t be standing around here like a gimp.
‘Yes?’ says the bot, desperate to help.
The man realises his scarred arm is showing, and pulls his sleeves down. A scar like that has no place in BabyCo.
‘I need a... starter kit. For babies.’
‘Can you repeat that please?’
‘A starter kit.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get that.’
‘Everything you need when you’re... you know. Expecting.’
‘You need everything?’ the bot asks. ‘I can help you with that!’
It spins around and starts taking products off shelves, scanning the barcodes on its chest as it goes. A packet of glow-in-the-dark dummies, an Insta-Ice teething ring, a self-regulating temperature taglet. A swaddling blanket puffed up with clouds and zooming with planes. The BabyCo-bot stops and its head swivels around to look at the man.
‘You’re going to need a bigger basket.’
Chapter 34
Unlucky Firefighter
Johannesburg 2021
‘You fucking viper,’ says Kirsten, thinking of the twenty-six years of lies.
‘Au contraire,’ says Miller. ‘I’m one of the most loyal members of the Genesis Project. Was born into it. Not a bit of traitor in my blood.’
‘Did my mother know?’ she asks.
Miller looks as if he is going to say something, then shakes his head. ‘It’s complicated.’
Seth spreads his feet, wields his shovel like a sword.
‘Don’t get uppity, whippersnapper,’ says Miller. ‘Dig.’
‘Fuck you,’ the twins say, at the same time.
The gun glints in the late afternoon sun.
‘Where’s the packet?’ asks Kirsten.
Miller pats his pocket.
‘You never gonna get it, sweetheart. It’s over.’
To illustrate his point, he zips his pocket open and takes out a plastic wallet. He opens the wallet and pulls out what looks like a notebook full of bookmarks and stickies. It is wrapped up with an old fashioned flash-disk on a lanyard, like a retro ribbon.
‘Inside this book is everything you need to know to bring down the GP,’ he says. ‘Do you think I would hand it over to you punks?’
The combustible smell of paraffin wafts towards them. Petrol-green pinstripes. He has pre-doused it. Turned it from a book, a holy grail, a weapon, into an unlucky firelighter. Kirsten imagines the pages and pages of handwritten details. Blue ink on oily paper. Who their real parents are, the Chapmans; what happened in 1991. Who their abductors really are. Why they were killed. And why she and Seth, and the other five children, were taken.
He throws it on the ground, among the wildflowers. Takes a matchbox out of his top pocket, lights a match, and drops it towards the book. The match moves towards the ground in slow motion.
‘No!’ shouts Kirsten, starting to run towards it. Miller shoots the ground next to her foot and she freezes. Puts her arm up in surrender. The match lands, nothing changes, then the front cover begins to slowly curl, pulled by an invisible flame. The fire gains momentum, and is soon hungry and crackling. They stand in silence, watching it burn, scorching the surrounding flowers. Kirsten feels as she is burning along with it.
‘Get on your knees,’ Miller says. ‘Hands behind your heads.’
They fall on to their knees, their faces masks. Seth puts his hands behind his head but Kirsten is in pain. Miller allows her to cradle her broken arm. He walks behind them.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ says Seth.
‘Actually, I do,’ says Miller, gripping the butt of his gun, placing his finger on the trigger. ‘Doctor’s orders.’
The colours of the sunset tinge the flowers orange and pink (End of the Rose). There is some poetry in being surrounded by wildflowers, and death at dusk.
Miller takes aim. Kirsten reaches into her makeshift sling, grabs her revolver, turns in a smooth arc and shoots Miller in the shoulder, sending him listing backwards. Shocked, he tries to regain his footing, aims the gun at her again, but she is faster than him and she gets another bullet into his torso. He begins to stumble, still trying to shoot her, but not able to lift his arm high enough.
Seth jumps up, grabs a shovel, and smashes the gun out of his hand. He falls forward, onto his hands and knees. Blood spreads over the flowers on his shirt and the ones under his body. He grunts from the pain then pulls himself up so he is kneeling in the flowers. He notes the irony of his position.
‘Where are they?’ demands Kirsten, gun cocked.
He laughs. ‘And why would I tell you? An extra bullet isn’t going to make a difference. In fact, you’d be doing me a favour. Go ahead, do it.’
She lowers the Ruger, kicks him in the stomach. He moans. She kicks him again. He falls onto his back and lets out a long, terrible sound. Seth wields his shovel as if to brain him.
‘Tell us!’ she screams, stamping on his crotch. He cries out, tries to protect himself, so she stamps on his broken hand too.
Seth waits for him to stop screaming, and says, ‘We can draw this out for hours.’
‘I have a knife in the car,’ says Kirsten. ‘A Genesis Project pocketknife.’
‘Think of what that would feel like, punk,’ says Seth. ‘Death by pocketknife.’
Miller mumbles something.
‘What?’ says Kirsten.
‘Okay,’ says Miller, ‘okay.’ Blood is running out of his mouth now. ‘You’ll never be able to get in, anyway.’
‘Where are they?’ she asks again.
‘ChinaCity/Sandton. A round building made out of glass. Called inVitro.’
Kirsten kicks him again. ‘You think we’re stupid? You think we’re going to believe that?’
‘Believe what you want. It doesn’t matter. Your friend’s probably dead by now. And, anyway, you’ll never get inside. You need a member with you to bypass the biometric access. Every member has their own access code, and it has to be combined with that member’s fingerprint. Impossible—’ He coughs scarlet. ‘—to hack.’
‘Then you’re coming with us,’ says Kirsten.
Miller spits rubies on the grass, shakes his head. ‘You kids have no idea who you are dealing with here.’
Miller’s whole shirt is red now; his eyes are getting glassy.
‘I don’t think he’ll last the trip,’ says Kirsten.
‘Me neither,’ says Seth, ‘and he’ll slow us down.’
Miller watches the darkening sky as Seth fetches the car and drives it over the flowers; they lever him into the back seat. His breathing is laboured, and there is a bubbling sound. Kirsten finds some cable ties in the cubbyhole and Seth ties Miller’s wrists together, then his ankles. Kirsten hands Seth his gun back, returns hers to her sling.
‘Big mistake, honey,’ she says to Miller, ‘thinking a woman wouldn’t be armed.’
Miller gets paler as they get closer to the clinic. His eyes are closed, skin waxen. His Cheerios are fading. Kirsten is sitting in the back with him, Ruger pointed at his stomach, safety catch off. He will die today. I have killed someone. I’ll never be able to eat cereal again.
Seth is driving as fast as the car will go. ‘We won’t be able to get in.’
Kirsten looks out of the window, as if searching the sky for an idea. With a sudden grunt, Miller launches himself at Seth, throws his arms over his head and hooks his ligatured wrists across Seth’s throat. The cable tie cuts off all his oxygen. Miller’s body is taut and his veins like ropes with the effort of the strangulation. His jaw muscles ripple, his teeth melded together with pressure and
pink spit. Seth, purple-faced, takes his hands off the wheel and immediately loses control of the car. Kirsten screams and grapples for the gun and shoots in the direction of Miller once, twice, three times. The sound of the gunshots and the ricocheting is blinding. Did she hit him?
She can’t see past the noise of the gunpowder blasts. The car is off the road now. Seth manages to wrench the noose away from his neck for a gasp of breath, then tries to force the car back onto the road, but it’s too late. It veers wildly and they hit something and fly through the air. Airborne, she feels her cheeks lift, her arm spark. The weightlessness is terrifying, and then there’s an ear-splitting almighty crash, her brain short-circuits, and everything goes black.
The twins regain consciousness at the same time. The front of the car is smoking; the boot has sprung open. Miller lies dead in the road in front of them, his bare skin lacerated by the broken windscreen. The smashed insulin kit lies beside him. Kirsten and Seth don’t talk. They reach out for each other, touch hands. Kirsten can hear herself blink.
She starts scanning her body for injuries: wiggles her toes, pumps her legs, palpates her ribs. Apart from the pain in her already-broken arm she feels fine; or as fine as numb can feel. Seth is holding his neck. He gives it a few squeezes, then kicks at the door. It takes three hard kicks to swing it open. He gets out and wrenches open Kirsten’s door, helps her out.
They mumble worried phrases at each other, touch each other’s grazes with furrowed brows. Satisfied that they are not too badly injured, they go over to inspect Miller, to make sure he is dead. He is a red spectre: his skull is crushed and he has five bullet holes that they can see. His skin is etched with a patina of blood. There is no life in him. His Cheerios are gone.
Kirsten picks up the bag of insulin. Despite being atheist, she crosses her heart and says a quick prayer to The Net and any god that will listen. She goes to the boot and heaves when she sees the contents. Motions for Seth to come over. Seth doesn’t seem surprised. He leans in closer, to get a better look at the day-old corpse’s face. A battered face and a body dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and chinos. Some fingernails are missing.
The real Ed Miller.
When Kirsten checks the insulin kit she discovers that the only remaining vial is broken. The bag is wet with the precious liquid. No insulin remains for Keke. No medicine to stop her from going into hypoglycaemic shock, stop her from going into a sugar coma and dying.
How strange, thinks Kirsten absent-mindedly, how sugar and death can be so closely linked. She bites down hard to stop herself from crying.
The car is un-driveable. They try to hitch but no one will pick them up looking the way they do, so the pair give up and sit on the kerb, facing the road, wobbling knees pointing to the sky. Seth puts his arm around Kirsten.
‘James,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘James can come get us. He has a car.’
For some reason this fills Seth with dread.
‘James might have insulin.’
Kirsten sends James their co-ordinates in tracking mode.
‘Let’s walk so long. It’s not too far from here. Five or six kilometres?’
Kirsten checks Keke’s phone. Her diabetes app timer says thirty-four minutes.
‘Keke doesn’t have that long.’
‘Can you run? With your arm, I mean?’
Even if they do run, they wouldn’t make it to the clinic in time. If they make it to the clinic in time, they won’t be able to get in.
‘I can try.’
‘Good girl.’
They stand up and start jogging. Seth tries to flag down cars as they go. Kirsten is dizzy, and she feels every footfall deep in her broken bone. The jagged pain mounts and mounts, until the blue light blots out her vision and she has to stop and throw up into a patch of roadside ivy. A plague of rats scurries away. She wipes her mouth and starts to run again, almost falls. Tries again.
‘Stop.’ Seth catches her. ‘Stop.’
She tries to wriggle free, tries to keep running, but he grabs her again, just in time, and she faints into his arms.
When Kirsten comes to, it takes her a second to remember where she is.
‘Keke?’ she asks, but Seth shakes his head. Twenty-one minutes left on the SugarApp. When it reaches twenty minutes it begins flashing a red light.
‘You’ve done everything you can,’ he says.
She stands up, trembling. ‘No.’
As if on some otherworldly cue, a white van appears on the road and drives in their direction. Seth starts yelling, waving his arms, like an island castaway trying to signal a rescue chopper. Kirsten blinks at it, trying to figure out if it is real, or some kind of desperate inner-city mirage. The car drives right up to them and stops on the shoulder of the road. The driver gets out and Kirsten’s knees almost buckle again.
‘Kirsten!’ shouts James, running towards her.
‘James,’ she says, ‘James.’
‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere!’ He seems agitated, but becomes gentle when he takes in Kirsten’s shorn scalp and make-shift sling. He hugs her gently on her right side, kisses her forehead, her cheeks, her shorn head.
‘What have they done to you?’ he asks, ‘What have they done?’
Who? thinks Seth. What have who done?
‘I’m okay. But... Keke...’
Seth steps forward. ‘We need to leave right now.’
James looks at him, the shock clear on his face. He doesn’t say anything.
‘This is Seth. He’s been helping me,’ says Kirsten. ‘I’ll explain everything later. We need to find Keke. Immediately. She needs insulin. Do you have any?’
James releases her. ‘We’ll get some.’
He jogs over to the van and opens the sliding door. It is dark inside the back, and there is a silhouette of someone, sitting in the front passenger seat: a large man. Both Seth and Kirsten stop.
‘Come on,’ says James, beckoning.
There is a flash of light in Kirsten’s mind that bleaches her vision. Some kind of terror, some kind of dreadful déjà vu, roots each to the spot. Seth shakes his head, wants to hold Kirsten back. Kirsten’s whole body is telling her not to get into the car, but she reasons with herself: Must Save Keke. Also: this is James; Sweet Marmalade. James beckons again, and this time Kirsten obeys: head bowed, like a shy little girl. Seth swears under his breath and climbs in next to her.
James slams the door closed and gets into the driver’s seat. The passenger is looking out of the window and doesn’t acknowledge them. The car has a chemical smell to it, rectangular in shape. Dry cleaning? New plastic? No, neither shape is right. And then she gets it: paint. A new paint job. Just as James is about to start the car, she gives him the clinic’s address. James and the passenger look at each other. He stops for a moment, as if he can’t decide whether to press the ignition button.
The man scowls at him, and only then does Kirsten recognise him.
‘Inspector Mouton!’ she says, not understanding the connection. He purses his lips, gives a nod in her general direction. Has James been so worried about her that he called the cops? Has Mouton agreed to help him find her?
The engine starts; the doors all lock automatically. She tries to open her door, but it won’t budge, as she has known it won’t. Child-lock. There is the distinct aroma of turmeric in the air.
Seth’s Tile vibrates with a bump.
FlowerGrrl> Hey, hope u OK. Hope you get this. Results in. Ramifications huge. Hve already called emergency meeting with YKW. Hero u. Biggest bust in Alba’s history. Fontus going down in big way. All yr previous fuck-ups forgiven. U officially now Rock Star. Whn can u come in? We hve a few bottles / Moët wth yr name on.
SD>> Results?
FlowerGrrl> Oh, U R there! Alive. : ) Sending report now. Come in ASAP!
Two separate PDFs come through. The first is the report on the Fontus samples: Anahita and Tethys clear, Hydra with lots of red tabs, showing irregularities.
Seth recognises the main chemicals: ethinyl estradiol; norgestrel; drospirenone; mestranol; ethynodiol—the same active ingredients you’d find in a contraceptive pill. James casts a backward glance, but keeps driving.
The next PDF is the analysis of Kirsten’s yellow pills, and he sees some more red tabs. Confused for a second, he checks that he is looking at the right report and not the Hydra analysis, but it’s the correct one. The red tabs highlight various chemicals, all of which Seth recognises from his time at Pharmax. Diazepam, Sertraline, Doxepin. The fuck? It’s a zombie pill. He starts as he remembers James is the one who fills her prescription for her.
James speeds up and weaves through the traffic, causing them to sway in their seats at the back. He swears under his breath and skips red lights. Smacks the steering wheel with his palm.
Seth bumps Kirsten.
SD>> Who’s the beefcake?
KD> Cop. Mouton. He worked my parents’ case.
SD>> WTF?
KD> ??
SD>> U know those pills u had?
KD> Yebo?
SD>> Tranquilisers.
KD> No way. I got them from James.
Kirsten digs in her handbag for her lipstick magic wand, and slips it into her pocket, along with her pocketknife. When the front entrance of the clinic is in view, Inspector Mouton pulls off his long sleeve shirt. Kirsten’s eye is drawn to the skin on his arm. It’s marbled, shiny. Burn scar?
They pull into the parking space closest to the giant glass entrance, and James and the inspector get out. Kirsten tries her door again, but it’s still locked. She jimmies the handle, knocks on the window.
‘James!’ she calls. ‘It’s on child-lock!’
The realisation hits Seth just before it does Kirsten, and he puts his forehead in his hands. She doesn’t understand his reaction, and then all of a sudden she does.
The memory comes back to her like a swift punch to the stomach, slams her back into her seat, takes all the air out of her lungs. She sees it as if she is back in that moment, that terrible moment, when the light went out of her life. A moment so long buried in her subconscious she’d think it would be decayed in some way, but it’s not. It’s cruelly vivid and so clear Kirsten can taste the colours.
