The Testimony

by James Smythe

  Phil Gossard, sales executive, London

  Jess and I were at the supermarket, shopping for food. I had been promoted to Head Chef until Karen got home, a role I fucking hated. And Jess was sick of beans or sardines on toast, so we had to shop. We were at the cash-point outside, queuing. The credit card readers were all down – apparently it was a nationwide thing, some sort of glitch, the people who usually sorted that stuff out being understaffed (like almost everywhere else) – so we were all getting wads of cash to do our shopping with. All of a sudden Jess started acting weird, bending over a lot, hiding her face, so I noticed – of course, because kids think that they’re being subtle when, really, they’re anything but – and I asked what was wrong. Nothing, she said, so I looked around, and there was another kid, about Jess’ age, with her dad, fetching a trolley. Jess looked up, hair over her face – over her birthmark, pointedly – and then looked at the cash-point. How long now? she asked. When they’d gone past I asked Jess what that was about. That was Tanya, she said (Tanya being the worst bully in Jess’ school, a ten-year-old girl that Karen and I quickly learnt was a complete – pardon my French – a complete cunt when it came to our daughter). Right, I said, I want to talk to her father, so I marched out of the line and into the shop, Jess crying as I went, begging me to not say anything, but how could I stay quiet?

  We found them by the salad ingredients. Excuse me, I said, civility, politeness. He asked if he could help; I explained who I was, who my daughter was, what his Tanya was doing. He shook his head. That’s not how we’ve heard it, he said. We’ve heard that it’s Jess here who’s doing the bullying. You really think she’s capable of that? I asked. She’s been bullied her whole life. He stood closer to me, raised his voice. People were looking. My daughter’s got bruises across her legs where Jess here has kicked her. She’s a nasty piece of work, and you need to sort her out. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I hit him, swung my hand into his cheek, my bruised hand. It clicked, and he spat blood, and he stood there swaying. I had this horrible flash to those kung-fu films where a man gets killed by one punch, and I worried, for a second, and then he snapped out of it. He was about to hit me back – and I was about to let him, because I was pretty horrified at myself, actually – when we heard The Broadcast, and that stopped us fighting. If it was God, the last thing I wanted to be doing when He was watching us was being stuck in the middle of a fight.

  Audrey Clave, linguistics postgraduate student, Marseilles

  I was cleaning my teeth when we heard The Broadcast for the final time; Goodbye, He said. Just that, nothing more, and then it was gone, the static, everything, and the world felt so much quieter, I just cannot even begin to tell you.

  My Children. Do Not Be Afraid. Goodbye.

  María Marcos Callas, housewife, Barcelona

  I was in church. We were back home, and I went to church every day, just as I always had, nothing changing just because He had spoken to us; everything was the same. I was in church, and I was praying, moving around the stations of the cross, giving Him everything, and then He announced that we were to be alone, all alone. That He no longer wanted to watch over us. I know, I know, ever since, people have suggested that He was simply saying that we’ve developed enough that we no longer need Him, like a mother pushing their child away when they leave their teenage years; but I didn’t feel that. I just felt that we had let Him down, terribly let Him down, and that He was so ashamed He just couldn’t bear to stay any more.

  Theodor Fyodorov, unemployed, Moscow

  We heard it, and Anastasia worried that there would be another riot in the streets. I told her not to worry, that the police force – who were a constant presence since the first one – would hold anybody back who tried to, and she said, Oh, you really think that the police will actually be working still? After hearing that? I said, don’t be silly, this will calm down, but, of course, it didn’t.

  Mei Hsüeh, professional gamer, Shanghai

  That final Broadcast cleared everybody for a few seconds. Doesn’t matter how many people it looks like are standing around talking in a game, if they aren’t at their keyboards they’re not there at all. It’s just empty avatars, and for every single person gathered on my server, that was what we were, while we picked ourselves up and tried to work out what was going on. Wasn’t just online they were quiet, though; I took my headphones off and I couldn’t hear anything from anywhere.

  Dhruv Rawat, doctor, Bankipore

  I woke up to the nurse shaking my arm, saying, Doctor, Doctor. I forgot where I was, even, until I felt the rim of the chair in my back. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep, I said. We thought you should know that he’s awake, the nurse said, but not for long. You can say hello, if you like. Wish him well. I will, I said, and I followed her down the hall. I was desperate for the toilet, but there wasn’t a chance to go before I saw him lying on his bed. He looked like he had been carved, or that there was a trap door in his bed and that’s where half of his lower body was, because there was only one leg that I could see. The other ended in a blunt lump at his thigh, and it twitched as he faced the wall away from it, trying not to look. He didn’t greet me, so I said hello first. Doctor, he said, they said that you stayed the night, I am so grateful. I am so sorry, I said, have they called your daughter? He nodded. She’s on her way, apparently. I don’t know how this happened, he said, and then we heard the last Broadcast. What? he asked when it was finished, what does that mean? He moved his whole body like a cat that you’ve put on its back, wriggling to put itself right again, moving the stump where his leg had been violently up and down. What was that?

  It was the voice, I said, you know, they call it The Broadcast, we spoke about it before. No, he said, that was so angry, so upset. (And even after everything else I read about it, he was the only person to think that it had any emotion in the voice. In fact, most people just heard it as monotonous, unfeeling, apart from that man with his missing leg.) I have to leave here, he said, this is the worst place to be. No, you need to stay, the nurse said, and I repeated her words exactly. But this is Shiva! he shouted, Don’t you see? Don’t you see that? They sedated him, and in the corridor I watched the other people panic and cry, unaware of what or who had left them, but feeling suddenly alone anyway. I think you should go, the nurse said, as if I was to blame for all of this, so I did. I stood outside the hospital and realized that I didn’t know his name, so I couldn’t call and check up on him, but then realized they would know who I was talking about when I mentioned him, the man with the necrotic foot who had to have his leg amputated. I went back to the surgery but it was closed, with no sign why. I assumed that The Broadcast had an effect. In my hotel room, I sat in my underwear near the air conditioner and pretended that the outside heat didn’t exist.

  Tom Gibson, news anchor, New York City

  Just as you’re in danger of forgetting about something it comes right back into view – and that sounds incredible now, to think that we could ever not be concentrating on something as pivotal and life-changing as The Broadcast. We didn’t have time to breathe in the studio, just had to roll with it, keep selling The Broadcast as something that could be anything, we still didn’t know. But what we did know was that it would change everything, that the issues we had with the protests were just the cusp of what was coming. And if it was God, there were two theories: that He was testing us, to see how strong our faith was; or that He had watched us tear ourselves apart over the days before, and wanted nothing more to do with us.

  I really, really hoped that it wasn’t God, because I had a feeling that it could only make things even worse than they already were.

  Dafni Haza, political speechwriter, Tel Aviv

  I was back at home by the time of the last Broadcast. There wasn’t any word from Lev, nothing from the security officers, so I assumed he had been taken somewhere. I could have called up some contacts, found him. Instead, I watched everything on the television, and I drank, even though I didn’t need to, even
though the television was crazy enough. I slept, eventually, on our bed, still in my clothes. I told myself that I had to stay dressed in case the Prime Minister called, in case she needed me for something.

  Mark Kirkman, unemployed, Boston

  The Role Call had put me up in a hotel, and I was in the bar, by myself. It takes a certain sort of person to sit in a bar in a strange hotel and drink themselves near-sick; it takes a person who wants to be noticed or stopped, or both, because the prices are the same in your room. You want company but you don’t make an effort to talk to anybody. You sit with the other people in the same situation. I realized quickly, though, that I wasn’t in the same boat as those guys, because they heard The Broadcast when it came back for the final time, and I didn’t. They sat there and their jaws dropped, and the Japanese man next to me started crying, and the music got switched off and everybody seemed completely shell-shocked, but I carried on drinking until I worked out what The Broadcast had said, and then I drank some more.

  Katy Kasher, high school student, Orlando

  Mom called me into the living room where she was sitting on the floor like she was a kid, and she asked me if I heard it. I should have lied, but I didn’t think quick enough. Heard what? I asked, and that sent her off, hitting me on my arms. You weren’t listening, she said, you didn’t listen and now He’s gone, and you’ll never hear His glory, and you’ll be all alone. I went to my room, packed my bag and climbed out of my window.

  Simon Dabnall, Member of Parliament, London

  It was just all so melodramatic.

  Peter Johns, biologist, Auckland

  It had only been a few hours since we felt that we were back in again, back to what we did best. I checked the fences, the cameras we had set up around some of the nests, to check they were all okay – we used to joke it was like Jurassic Park, you remember that movie? – and Trig went to check the incubators. Then The Broadcast hit, and I heard a bang from the back room, so I called out, check he was alright. I’m fine, he said, little shit just bit me, is all. One of the birds had hatched in the night, and it was sitting there, pleased as all heck with itself. Trig’s hand was swollen and red from the bite – those little things can’t half nip – so I told him to wash it, antiseptic, all that. We don’t want it turning nasty, I said.

  Hameed Yusuf Ahmed, imam, Leeds

  Samia was inconsolable. I didn’t know whether to stay with her or go to help the community. In the end, I took her with me, and sat her in my office as she tried to catch her breath.

  Elijah Said, prisoner on Death Row, Chicago

  When we heard the final Broadcast, Finkler acted like it was the end of the world. I heard him crying, shouting out, asking why, begging God to stay with him. He beat the walls, and I felt it through every part of my cell, all the furniture shaking from where it was fixed to the wall. I was on my cot and I felt it, and I heard the bars rattle in their fittings. Cole was at his table reading something, and he didn’t seem to react at all, didn’t put the magazine down, kept reading, staring at the page. Finkler started shouting my name, asking me why God had left. Brother, why has He left us? he asked. I refused to answer him. In the distance, the alarm was ringing again, but this time nobody seemed concerned with that.

  Cole rose from his chair, put down the magazine. Fuck it, he said, fuck it. He walked to my cell door, opened the box and keyed the code. The door opened – he heaved it, all his strength – and he walked on. What is this? I asked him, but he didn’t answer. He opened Finkler’s door next, then walked on, down the corridor that I last saw Bronx and Thaddeus go down and never return from. That way led to genpop, to the fields, the workshops, the exit. The other way – where the lights were kept off, because they didn’t want us staring – went to the chambers, and the viewing room, and the imminent room. I walked to the now-open doorway and watched as Cole kept walking. Where’s he going? Finkler asked. Again, I said nothing. He got up from his own cot, walked into the corridor – keeping one foot behind him, in his cell, in case this turned out to be a trap – and then repeated the question. He repeated everything; back when I was a teacher, we would have noticed him, singled him out for attention; before I had the call from Allah to do His work. Brother, he asked me, you think we can leave? I saw it, in his eyes. He turned to look at me, and he was happy, excited, optimistic. Through everything, I had never seen him optimistic, even the way he acted, so blinkered and oblivious. Should we leave?

  You shouldn’t go anywhere, I told him, you should stay here and wait for order to be restored. The disappointment in his face. What if this is God’s way of telling us what He wants? What if He told that guard to let us out? We should listen, right? We should listen? His back foot had left his cell; his decision had already been made. Sit down, I told him, using my best voice, my deepest, most commanding voice; it failed me. He turned and ran down the corridor, a rabbit fleeing a hunter. I sat back down on my cot and waited for order to be restored; I was here for a reason, and that reason did not change because a coward chose to open a door.

  Andrew Brubaker, White House Chief of Staff, Washington, DC

  I wasn’t asleep when we heard it. I never fucking slept, it felt like. It sounded like a period, POTUS said, and I agreed. That was it, the end. (Of course, if it wasn’t God, it was just a random word, right? But I thought that it probably was God. I didn’t have a clue what else it could be.) We were right, because that was the last time we ever heard it, so …

  POTUS asked to speak to Meany straight after it, so we called him on the phones – POTUS wanted to bring him physically in, see him in person, but we were still locked down – and POTUS asked him what The Broadcast was again. Last chance, Meany, he said, and Meany took the longest pause I’ve ever heard somebody take with a President, then said, It’s not actually a broadcast, not as we understand it; it’s not coming from anywhere, we can’t pick it up. There’s nothing there, absolutely nothing there. Based on the readings we’ve got, it didn’t even exist. Besides, he said, if it’s really gone for good, what does it matter now?

  Ed Meany, research and development scientist, Virginia

  After I got off the call I was sure that I was going to be fired, but I wasn’t. I was left to get on with whatever I wanted, which at that point meant trying to find a trace of something – anything – that might indicate the origins of The Broadcast. I’m a stereotypical scientist: I need facts, not some story to give me justification. Somebody wondered whether it wasn’t voices from stuff we had broadcast ourselves, TV shows, music, the stuff that they say on the ISS or on space missions; maybe it was that stuff, bouncing off satellites. That theory at least sounded plausible, even if it didn’t explain how the voices bounced down to earth and inside our heads. Another of my researchers remembered this film he saw when he was a kid about some aliens who learned how to talk by watching American TV shows. Could be them, he said, which was ridiculous, but nearly as plausible as the populist alternative.

  Jacques Pasceau, linguistics expert, Marseilles

  Audrey and I were getting on just fine, really; she had pretty much moved into my apartment, because I lived so close to the university, and we ate all our meals together, though mostly that was in the office. Or, she ate her meals, because I wasn’t really eating because my teeth still hadn’t been fixed as all the dentists in the area decided that it wasn’t worth them working, with the protests and everything going on around them, and the wound was so fresh that I could only taste blood almost constantly, so it tainted everything I ate.

  After the final Broadcast, we were talking about what we thought it all meant. We didn’t talk about anything else, I don’t think. She wasn’t over Patrice’s death, David’s death. It was all too much. She was eating a pastry, or pretending to, picking at it; I had a bowl of cereal that I didn’t touch (because I hated seeing the milk left over on the spoon with my blood in it, like some sickly syrup). We were already in the lab, with our notes on the board at the back, same as every day. We tried not to think abo
ut what David did in there. I think He’s just letting us know more about Him, Audrey said, like He’s just showing us what He can do. We know what He can do, I said, if it was Him; He spoke to everybody in the world at the same time! Not everybody, she said, He missed some people out, like that boy in America. Well, then, I said, we have a whole book of things He apparently did, remember? With the plagues and the floods and the resurrections? She didn’t say anything, but I wanted to provoke her. It was good to get a reaction. It’s not God, anyway, I told her. She huffed. I hated the way she used to huff. God is just a trick of the light, I said, cheap tricks and magic. Whatever, she said, I’m impressed.

  RECKONING

  Ally Weyland, lawyer, Edinburgh