The Testimony

by James Smythe

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

  Livvy and I lived out on the boat until she died, which was nearly three years after we moved onto it. It wasn’t until she was gone that I went back to DC – or, close to DC, to Front Royal, which was where the majority of the government were set up in those days. (They tried putting themselves in Bethesda, but the levels seemed to change with the wind, and it was deemed too unsafe, so they had to move even further out.) They asked me to go in and chat with the new President, who was a nice guy, really nice guy. I knew him from when he was a senator, because he supported us on a lot of issues. They asked me to take a post, and I – gratefully – declined. They didn’t push the matter; I was glad. I didn’t want to tell them that it was guilt-related, because that would have soured things. They seemed to think I was some sort of hero, though God knows how they got to that point. It’s amazing how, when your name isn’t on documents, and when you have plausible deniability, you can get away with anything. They let me spend some time cleaning out my stuff, which I did. Everything that they had managed to salvage from the White House was stored in a warehouse just off 88. I didn’t even look through it; all the weapons reports that ended up on desks, all the stats, the facts and figures, most of it gone through with black marker, making sure anything important or secretive was erased from history. What could I do with them? I picked out a few, anything important – stuff I knew about but ignored, mostly – and decided that I’d send them to Meany, wherever he was. If I knew him, he wouldn’t be giving up on his research.

  Livvy had cancer, which wasn’t related to anything we’d seen before, not to the missiles or anything. It can just happen, the surgeon said, these things can just appear. That’s part of being human, he said; sometimes we just stop, and there’s nobody else – nothing else – to blame. How long? we asked, and he said that he didn’t know. It depends, he said. Hopefully we can get to it in time. He was being nice, but we knew it was going to be fatal from the second we got the diagnosis, because he said that they had to rush, but there wasn’t actually any sense of urgency to it. Livvy seemed okay with it; she let them try to cut it out, telling them it was fine as long as it wouldn’t hamper her last few days, as long as it didn’t affect her motor functions or her memories, anything like that, but they couldn’t get it all, and it would be too much to hit with chemo. We can try, they said, but she turned them down. It’s better if I just deal with it, she said. We were on the boat for a year after that, and then she didn’t wake up, one day. I think I knew it was going to happen the night before it did, because I lay in bed and couldn’t sleep, and I watched her sleeping, which I never did; but that night, it seemed like something I should do. I finally slept sometime around four, and when I woke up, before six, she was gone – as if she didn’t want to leave with me watching.

  After her funeral – a Church of the One True God service, for the sake of the family, not me, or her – I was at a loss, so I went back into the city. Nobody had been in DC apart from government people, soldiers, that documentary crew who did the Ghost Towns film that got the Oscar, and I wanted to see it for myself. It was fenced off, because when you crossed that line and went into the heart of the city the radiation was bad enough to cause sickness, sickness that would only get worse the longer you stayed, and would be fatal in most cases, but that didn’t stop me. I probably could have gone any time of day, with a team, wearing suits to protect us, but that seemed to almost defeat the point. I went at night, in through one of the safe houses just outside the city, the tunnels that stretched for miles, with their golf carts to drive you through. It took me hours to get to the city itself. It was amazing, completely empty in a way that I had never seen it, absolutely dark. None of the street lights were on; just the moon to light it. As I got there it was turning to dawn, and I watched it coming up. I didn’t take a Geiger with me, because I knew what it would say, that the clicking as it warned me would spoil this. It was nearly midday when I got to the White House, and I found my old office, sat in my old chair. They hadn’t painted, yet; it was customary for the new staff to paint every room completely when they moved in, to put their own stamp on the building. But the guys who took over from us for those few days? They hadn’t even removed my name from the door. The team outside spotted me on the security cameras – they were up all around the city, to prevent intruders like me, I suppose – and they swarmed the White House, bundled me into the back of a van lined with thick tarpaulin, drove me out of the city, sprayed me down, stripped me. Doctors examined me, where my skin had blistered along the line of my clothes. We’re going to have to run some tests, they said, but they had that same look in their eyes as when the doctor diagnosed Livvy, so I told them I wasn’t submitting to it. They kept me locked in a room for a few hours, but I pulled some strings and got myself released, and I went back to the boat and lay on the deck.

  The doctors warned me that the drugs they had given me might make me see things, hear things; so when I was lying there, and I could swear that I started hearing the static again, I wasn’t even close to surprised. I started talking to Livvy instead, in case she could hear me, and I stared at the sun and waited to see if anything would happen to us all before I died.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This novel was, with its multitude of voices and synchronous events, a bit of a devil to write. Thanks to my invaluable readers and idea-thrower-arounders for helping beat it into shape: Holly Howitt, Sam Barlow, Tim Glister, John Smythe and Vikki Chandler.

  And, even after those early beatings, the incredible editorial team at Blue Door helped me see that it still needed another ten rounds in the ring: the wonderful Laura Deacon, the insightful Emad Akhtar, and the estimable Patrick Janson-Smith. They saw everything that the novel could be, and they tirelessly helped to make it better. Thanks to them, along with the rest of the gang at HarperCollins UK.

  Thanks then to Sam Copeland, my fantastic agent, who helped shape both this book, and the many others soon to come. He passionately goes above and beyond, and I’m incredibly grateful to him.

  Special gratitude to early teachers, who had faith in writing (and whose names might well be misspelled here, thanks to the passage of time and the failings of memory): Mrs Ogley, Mr Moretta and Mrs Babuta.

  And lastly, thanks to my family, every single one of you. Without you, I wouldn’t have had the chance to write the book, let alone these acknowledgments.

  Read on for an extract from The Machine

  A Frankenstein tale for the twenty-first century

  ‘Breathtaking’

  Guardian

  ‘Phenomenal … simply unmissable’

  Tor.com

  ‘A gripping thriller and a heartbreaking love story’

  John Harding, author of Florence & Giles

  ‘Extraordinary’

  Dazed & Confused

  ‘Reminiscent of Ian McEwan at his most macabre’

  Will Wiles, author of Care of Wooden Floors

  PART ONE

  Memory is the greatest gallery in the world and I can play an endless archive of images.

  J.G. Ballard, Miracles of Life

  1

  She opens the door to a deliveryman, and the Machine, which has come in three parts, all wrapped in thick paper. Each of the parts is too big to get through the door.

  We’ll have to try the window, the man says.

  She shows him which one it is, along the communal balcony. It’s already at its widest, to let some air into the flat, to try and counteract the invasive heat from outside. Still not wide enough, so the men – the first has been joined by another from the van, having just heaved another thick cream-paper wrapped packet the size of a kitchen appliance from the van, and left it leaning against the bollards – tell her that they’ll have to take the window out.

  We’ve got the tools for it, this other man says.

  Beth stands back and watches as they unscrew the bolts on the attaching arms, and then lift the whole sh
eet down. Others in the estate have stuck their heads out of their windows, or come out of their front doors to watch. Next door, the woman with all the daughters stands and watches, and her girls run around inside. The littlest one stands at the woman’s legs, clutching onto her skirt.

  Gawpers, the first man says. Always wanting to know what we’re up to.

  The deliverymen don’t know what’s inside the packages. They’re just paid to deliver them. Beth wonders if she’s going to be able to assemble it herself, or if she’s better off asking them for help. Slip them a fifty, they’d probably stand around with her for an hour and figure it out. She doesn’t know how easy it will actually be: if there will be wires, or if it’s just a case of plugging the pieces together. The man she bought it from said it would be simple. They struggle up the stairwell with the first piece, stopping to mop their brows. They still wear dark-blue overalls, in this weather, and their now-sweaty palms leave dark-brown prints on the paper wrapped around the Machine’s pieces. The first piece makes it through the window maw, twisted in the frame as if this is one of those logic games. Manipulate the pieces.

  Right, the first man says. Where do you want them?

  In the spare bedroom, Beth tells him. She indicates it through, pointing the way past the living room. The room is light and airy – or as airy as it can be nowadays – and decorated like it’s a master, with an expensive-looking bed. Wallpaper not paint, with a different dado rail, a thick yellow colour contrasting with the impressed patterned cream of the walls. The room looks untouched, like nobody’s ever lived in it. The bed is made, the sides of the duvet tucked in below the mattress. There’s potpourri on the dresser in a simple golden metal dish, but not enough to stop the faint smell of dust. The sunlight, through the window, hits the dust, a cone of it floating in the air.

  Anywhere?

  By the back wall. I’ve cleared a space for it. She rushes past, ducking down in front of him, making sure that the space is still clear, then helps him lower the first package.

  What the bloody hell is this thing? the man asks.

  Exercise equipment, Beth tells him. That’s an answer suggested by the man who sold the Machine to her. In his email, he told her that he would write that on the form for the collection, and on the customs form. He was French, and Beth had had to translate his email using the internet, only the occasional word making her stumble. Still, she got the gist.

  Jesus, the deliveryman says as he puts it down – the French seller has marked the packages with arrows, showing which way up they’re to be carried and stored – and stretches his back. He’s wearing a thick black harness around his waist, which he pats. Lifesaver, he says. They make us wear them now, for the insurance. We take them off in the van, when we’re done. Fucking hot though, wearing this along with the rest of the get-up. He stretches again, more exaggerated this time. His friend shouts from the window, where they see he’s positioned the next piece – this one long and thin at one end, bulbous and clunky at the other, meant to stand tall, taller than any of the people in the flat – halfway through the window. He’s straining to hold it up. Beth sees that the arrows (marked with thin, shaky writing that says THIS WAY UP) are horizontal. She wonders if that’ll affect it in any way.

  Come on, the man says, can’t hold it. The other one takes the inside end and they work it through.

  Same place? the first removal man asks. Beth nods, and then he asks for something cold to drink, which she prepares – iced tea, in the fridge – as they both struggle with it through the tight doorways and narrow corner into the room. She’s got two glasses on the side ready by the time that they’re done with that piece, but the first man – clearly the superior of the two, older and wiser and with a company t-shirt on under his rote blue overalls – waves them aside. Last piece, then we’ll have them, he says. Beth watches them both at the van, which they’ve parked at the bottom of the estate, by the bollards that prevent cars driving right up to the buildings themselves. They look at the last piece, which is nearly the same shape as the first, only somehow wider, more unwieldy, and they both laugh. She knows that they’re talking about what it is. Speculating. They’ll know it’s not exercise equipment. They’ve handled exercise bikes before. They do this for a living, and the wool can’t be pulled over the eyes of those who will know the weight and shape of an exercise bike or a rowing machine. She watches as they finally heave the last piece up between them, up the stairwell and into her flat through the window space. Their sweat drips from their heads and onto the concrete slabs, and the Machine.

  It needs to be a certain way, she says. Would you mind? They shrug, and she tells them. The pieces have been labelled with numbers showing where they connect, drawn on the outside of the wrapping.

  This is like Tetris, the first man says. The younger man laughs. They back up and look at it when they’re done, and the wall is essentially filled by the wrapped packages. The light that came through the small window is totally blocked now, and the room is suddenly darker, thrown into the shade of the still-wrapped packages. You all right with this now? the older man asks. He hands Beth a sheet from his back pocket, and a pen. Sign this and we’re all good. They gulp their drinks back as she signs her name three times, and then leave the glasses on the side. They replace the window back in minutes. These things are all designed to be taken apart and put back together so quickly now, the first man says. Everything’s a bloody prefab, right? He smiles at Beth as if she doesn’t live here, as if she’ll be in on the slightly snobbish joke with him. To her surprise she laughs, to back him up.

  I know, she says. Thanks for everything. I really mean that.

  No problem. She waits until they’re back in their van – they stand at the rear of it for a few minutes examining what they’ve got left on their sheet of deliveries, and where they’re heading next, wiping their foreheads on their sleeves and on a towel, gasping for air – and then watches them drive away. Then it’s just her and the flat and the Machine.

  2

  The paper pulls away from the Machine with relative ease. She’s surprised that it didn’t tear during the move. A few bits she has to attack with scissors but most of it rips away easily, and then she’s left with the Machine itself. She stands back, on the other side of the bed, against the far wall. She sizes it up. This one is bigger than she remembers.

  The pitch-black casing is grotesque, she thinks. It seems so vast. She hasn’t joined it together yet, not where the clips and bolts require, but she can see it as if it was complete. On its side, a coiled power cable waits, like an umbilicus. The Crown has a dock above the screen, in the centre, and the whole thing seems unreal. She looks at it for too long, at how black it is. It almost fills the entire wall, and the shadow it casts is deep enough that she can’t see the wallpaper past it. This was the only place it could go, because of the shape of the room. She tries to move as far back as possible and take it all in, but it isn’t possible. It’s like a cinema screen when you sit near the front: never entirely encompassed by your vision.

  She knows, to the day, how long it’s been since she last saw one of these. The last one was very different in some ways: it was smaller, she thinks, and the Crown wasn’t docked as it is in this one. It was wireless, where here there’s a thick cable that looks like it’s got sand stuffed inside it to keep it taut, and other lumps and bumps along the length of the pale-coloured rubber. The Crown itself is less flashy as well. This is definitely an older model, but she wasn’t looking for a new one. In the newer models, you couldn’t change anything. Firmware updates were automatic. The guides on the internet told her that she needed one she could change, and this was all she could find. Even then it was hidden away amongst useless husks and books and videos. She had to email the man directly to ask if he had any working Machines, and it took four emails (making her jump through hoops) before he trusted her enough to tell her his prices. This one was the oldest of the old. She still paid through the nose for it. But it was the only one she had fou
nd in six months of searching, and she hadn’t spent any money for the last few years beyond the essentials. This was a long-term plan, and she had saved accordingly. The email where he wrote the figure she would owe him made her cry: not from the enormity, but the relief.

  She goes closer to the bulk of it. She remembers the one that Vic had during his treatments, and the way that it used to vibrate. They explained to her, once, about the power needed to run it. It’s one of the most powerful computers in the country, they said to her. (She supposes that, were they to be invented now, they would be put into a smaller package: something the size of a briefcase, maybe even as small as a telephone.) It used to vibrate right through the floors, and Vic would sit in the chair next to it and his teeth would chatter as he clenched them together, because he was bracing himself. The early sessions were the hardest. This Machine here isn’t even plugged in yet, and yet Beth puts her hand on it and would swear that she can feel the vibrations. The metal itself – that’s what it’s made of, some thick alloy that she couldn’t even name, that isn’t like anything she’s got in the house, not aluminium cans or the wrought-iron picture frame or the steel of that lampshade, but something else, like the material that the thing is made from was this shade of black to begin with – is coarse and cold, and she would swear carries some sort of residual shudder. She takes the plug from the side and uncoils it, and runs it to the base of the bed, where the room’s only sockets are. So much is wireless now and yet this needs hard-wiring. The ones that Vic used before were actually attached to the wall, part of the complex that they had to visit. They were monitored.

  She goes to work on the bolts. They’re all hand-driven, none requiring custom tools, which is good. Some of them have connectors that need to be touching, but the deliverymen got them mostly lined up for her. All the insides are driven by conductive metal rather than wires, which makes them easy to assemble. Foolproof, even. The pieces sit perfectly flush when they’re connected and lined up, and it takes a bit of effort – heaving them a centimetre this way, a millimetre the other – but they satisfyingly click together. She can’t even see the lines between pieces when it’s done: it’s like a solid lump of black metal from the front, no seams, like something carved from the world itself. It looks, she thinks, almost natural. Like rock.