by Nic Low
Sophie stares into her coffee mug. You’ve already shared it with anyone who’ll listen.
It’s worth sharing.
You think brushing your teeth is worth sharing. Eloise says you make your life cheap by just giving it away.
That’s ridiculous, he says. What does it cost you to be open about your life?
It costs—something.
Rubbish. It costs to be private. Do you have any idea how much Eloise’s parents will be spending to let her turn off her—
He catches himself.
Sorry, he says. Look, do you think this is disrespectful to your mother? To have dinner with June-Mee?
Maybe, Sophie says. Yes. And to you. Couldn’t you just do something for yourself?
You mean, do something private? he says.
Yes.
Turn everything off?
Would you?
Well, Michael says. I guess.
Michael showers and shaves, and slips into his old dinner jacket. He lifts his phone. Click.
The jacket is far too big. More than that, it reminds him overwhelmingly of Margot. The feeling of buttoning it up in the mirror, the tang of aftershave, the anticipation of good food: he is dragged so sharply back to their shared life that he is forced to leave the jacket on the bed.
On the way into town his overlay briefly takes over the driving. The doors lock and the car cuts west, through the vast shadowed slums of New Brunswick to a boutique overlooking the city’s western firebreak. The staff have a simple but expensive blazer picked out when he arrives, precisely to his taste and cut. He knows he doesn’t need to check it in the mirror.
Outside the restaurant Michael stops to turn off his phone. It’s a symbolic act, because most of the hardware is carried under his skin. But he mutes it all, and one by one the chattering streams of data that have accompanied his adult life fade away. His overlay is gone. The streetscape and the passing crowds flatten into surface and light.
Beside the restaurant door there is a man with his hand out, begging. The faint swarm of data around him winks out, and Michael finds himself staring into the man’s face. Two bloodshot blue eyes, without lids, gaze back at him from a mask of flesh so badly burned it wears no recognisable human expression. Air sucks and blows from two small holes. Michael fumbles a note into the man’s hand, and pushes open the restaurant door.
There are two women sitting by themselves, both with their backs to him. As he approaches the first he sees straight away that she is too young. Her hair spills long and dark down her back. He passes the table and fixes his attention on the next woman, sitting alone with a book and a glass of wine. His pulse quickens.
A voice calls to him from behind. Michael?
He turns. It is June-Mee sitting at the first table. She rises in greeting and a shock goes through him. She is twenty-three or twenty-four. Thirty at most. Her skin, beneath the lightest dusting of make-up, is flawless. When she smiles, he sees the same strong teeth that bit his bottom lip when they kissed on his doorstep, that one and only time.
Michael, she says again. It’s me. June-Mee.
Hello, he says. You look—lovely.
She searches his face, affectionate and curious. How are you? she says.
I’m good, he says. I’m great. And you?
They dive into conversation. Michael talks and laughs, but he’s on autopilot. His mind grasps for clarification. He turns to his overlay and the datasphere and his friends, but they’re gone. Soup comes, he eats it, the waiter removes the bowls. He tastes none of it. Is this her daughter? Has she had surgery? It can’t be her, and yet it is, unmistakeably, the woman he knew some forty years ago. The way she talks, excited and playful and sharp, and her ready laugh, even the way her elbows tuck to her sides when she walks to the bathroom: it’s her.
When she returns he fumbles towards the question. So, what have you been doing for the last forty years? How come you look so—good?
You remember I went to France? June-Mee says. I started a fashion label, skirts made from vintage men’s suits. Like the one I wore to—
The conversation swings back to the past and they’re off again, reminiscing and laughing. The next time he tries, she turns the conversation to him. He finds himself talking about Sophie.
She insisted I meet you in private, he says. I was going to turn up in a green headscarf.
He talks about his fears, his hopes. It floods out of him. June-Mee asks perceptive questions, and follows his answers, even when he wanders into the dull maze of his professional life. She laughs at his tales of how he avoided the horrors of the thirties, and reaches across to cuff him when he grows cheeky with wine. He avoids talking about Margot.
After the dessert plates are cleared, and the two of them are standing out in the street, wrapped in their coats with the taste of coffee on their lips, while Michael is summoning the courage to ask her, once and for all, what’s going on, he realises he can’t handle this by himself.
He’s desperate for clarification. But it’s more than that: he has to share this feeling. It means nothing if he keeps it to himself. A maimed beggar cannot be his only witness. Michael switches everything on, and as the real world comes swarming in, June-Mee kisses him on the mouth.
Goodbye, Michael.
Her lips are soft and yet firm. As different from his own clumsy lips as can be. He can’t believe how good it feels. It’s been decades since he’s had a kiss like this. June-Mee doesn’t have to reach up like Margot did. She simply presses into him, her body lithe against the swell of his belly. As the moment—its image, its imprint, its strange reality—flows outwards through the datasphere, he feels joy blooming inside him, ruthless and swift.
Goodbye, Michael.
She bites his bottom lip, and is gone.
Michael showers, long and vague beneath the scalding water. He doesn’t bother shaving. A hangover beats on his skull. He raises his phone and snaps off the morning’s shots. Click.
It’s all there in his face. Guilt hangs in the shadows under his eyes. But there’s more: the conflicted beginnings of a smile. He needs coffee. Sophie will already be at school. He makes his way slowly down the hall in just his towel.
Sophie is waiting for him in the kitchen. The first thing he sees is the emerald headscarf pulled low over her brow. He scans her data in a panic. Total blackout. She looks furious.
Are you going to pay? she says.
What? What are you doing wearing—
You haven’t even looked at it, have you? Here.
She blinks, and his overlay fills with Cyrillic characters. He dimly remembers seeing it when he woke.
What’s that?
That’s the bill, she says.
For what?
You went on a date with a twenty-four-year-old woman from your past, she says.
I don’t understand, he says.
No shit. Did she know exactly what you liked?
Michael nods.
Did she have an unbelievable memory?
I guess.
She was pretty much perfect, right?
Well—
And you don’t own your own data?
I told you, Michael says. Of course not.
See, that’s how they do it! After you shared your disgusting little moment with the world, I looked it up.
Michael sits at the table. The towel rides up around his thighs. He tugs it down. You’re going to have to spell this out, he says.
You’ve let them log everything you’ve ever done, she says. They know what you’ve watched and bought and clicked. They even know what porn you like—they use that too. It’s in the fine print when you reactivate your Facebook account. You’re liable for premium services.
She’s not real? he says feebly.
She’s a premium service, Dad. They used to send emails from Natalya in Russia, wanting to meet for a good time. This is just the latest version of the scam. Wait, what’s the woman’s name again?
June-Mee, he says. June-Mee Kim.
Sophie blinks, accessing her own data. Hang on, she says. Yes, here. Did you even check outside Facebook? Jesus, she died twenty-five years ago.
She sees his expression, and the righteousness fades from her face.
Dad, she says. I know you’ve been lonely. But so do they; they know how you’re feeling better than you do. It’s total manipulation.
They’ve built this—woman—out of everything I’ve ever said and done?
Pretty much.
Michael is quiet for a long time. And you’ve taken the vow? he says.
Sophie places her hand on the table, and he sees the small gold ring. She tilts her chin defiantly. Yes, she says. Eloise came over last night.
He tries her data stream one more time. Nothing. She’s beyond him now, encrypted to hell. He thinks of Margot—their life, their shared history—and how she is beyond him too.
Then he thinks of June-Mee, and the taste of her lips, and how June-Mee is right here. Michael looks at the bill. He can afford it.
HOW MUCH COURAGE
EUCHIE LOOKED out her bedroom window to the mudflats and the bay. At the heads, one last lazy swirl of gulls was settling into the cliffs for the night. Beyond was just the sun-strafed bloom of monsoon clouds and a wedge of empty sea.
The volunteer gun emplacement winked red atop the narrows. The eighty-pounder swivelled to the west and shrugged, then came the window-rattling thump and flash.
Euchie stripped off her shorts and singlet. She chose a floral sundress with straps across her dark tanned back. Next she pulled on a pair of hand-me-down stockings from her mum. In this heat the nylon was a delicious, adult suffocation. They’d gone saggy at the knees, but it wasn’t like any boy would be getting a look. They were all away on militia training until forever.
She smiled at herself in the mirror, and kept smiling till it looked natural. She went down the stairs. It was six o’clock. Her mum would be cleaning the gun.
Fran had the citizen’s-issue Glock laid out in pieces on the kitchen table. She worked the cleaning rod into the barrel. It wasn’t that she hated night shifts. Everyone had to do their bit, and it was mostly peaceful up there at the old pa site, watching the horizon for boats. She just didn’t like leaving Euchie to her own devices for so long. She dropped oil into the trigger assembly and snapped the magazine into place. She looked up as Euchie came down the stairs.
Look at you! she cried. What a beauty. Where to tonight?
The esplanade, Euchie said. We heard there might be boats in the bay. Maybe a beach party.
Ha ha, Fran said. She handed Euchie the gun. Give them my best. Remember, shoot your friends first, then yourself.
I know, Mum.
I’d do it myself if I didn’t have to work.
Ha ha back, Euchie said. What’s your shift?
On the radar till four.
Fran crossed to the door. As she bent to lace her boots she noticed Euchie’s legs. Her daughter had shot up like a baby giraffe in the last year but the stockings, with their ridiculous ballooning kneecaps, made her seem more girlish than ever. Fran forced herself to smile. Make sure you’re home by nine, she said. Text me when you get in.
Yes, Mum. Love you.
Love you too. Bye.
On the back porch the dog lay sprawled in the heat. Fran knelt at the retriever’s flank and ran a hand beneath her greying muzzle.
Don’t you worry, darling, Fran murmured. I’d shoot you too.
Euchie did her make-up. She carved herself a new red mouth and blackened her eyes. She hung forbidden pirate hoops from her ears. She checked her phone and put the Glock in her handbag, then walked to the beach, singing as she went. Her voice carried thin and high in the breeze.
Mother, oh mother
You’ve got that look again
Daughter, oh daughter
Keep that face hidden.
The sea mouthed and suckled in the mangroves. There were no cars. The houses littering the hill were dark, and the tiny strip of shops across the river stood dark as well.
At the esplanade Marama and Allie were waiting by the boat ramp. They were two skinny girls in matching boob tubes. Marama was Euchie’s best friend. Allie was a bitch, but not all the time.
How’s the you-know-what? Marama asked.
Euchie shrugged. Lost a morning yesterday, but today was okay. Mum still doesn’t know.
I had a near thing at the chemist, Marama said. Got out in time, but the lady behind the counter watched me all the way up the street.
Paranoid cow, Allie said.
She’s not paranoid, Euchie said. Everyone knows it’s here.
Yeah, Allie said, but who’s going to admit it?
The three of them sat among the scorched timbers littering the beach. They smoked monsoon-damp cigarettes, and gossiped as the sun sank below the hills that ringed the town.
You ever wonder where it really came from? Euchie said.
Those coastguard guys that boarded the first boats, Allie said. Before they knew what it was. Gave it to their kids, then it got into the schools.
I know that, Euchie said. But that was down south, and they’re all quarantined. You ever see a boat land round here?
They had a dozen past the battery at Ahipara, Allie said.
Yeah, and they shot them all on the beach. But it’s everywhere now.
So?
I reckon it was already here.
Maybe a bit, Allie said, a frown in her voice. But it didn’t make whole cities shut down.
Euchie shrugged. It was hard to argue with that.
Out past the headlands, a spotter drone buzzed overhead.
They were talking about boys when the truck pulled in. For a moment the waves were lit, curling and dropping in a shaggy spray, and then the headlights snapped off. Euchie heard deep voices and the clink of bottles.
Who’s that? Marama said, hitching up her boob tube.
Euchie stood and peered into the near dark. A phone chimed and its screen blinked on. She saw a man in profile, the sharp peak of
his cap.
Militia, Euchie said.
What the hell? Allie said. They shouldn’t be here. Must be something big.
Who’s there? a voice called. Identify yourselves.
A torch raked the sand, then fixed upon the three squinting girls.
Well, hello, a man’s voice said. Mind if we join you?
Dunno if we should, came a deeper voice.
Chill, bro, the first man said. His voice was light and smooth as driftwood. It’ll be fine.
Come on, fellas, Euchie called. Don’t be shy.
The five men carried their cartons of beer down to the beach. It was hard to tell them apart in the dark. The smooth voice was Sean and the deep voice was Nessi. They had city accents: young men from the suburbs come north to test their nerve. They settled into the sand around the girls.
What are you all doing here? Euchie asked.
Strictly classified, said the one called Sean.
Whatever, Euchie replied. Are there going to be more mass arrivals?
When the next boats arrive, Sean intoned in the voice from the TV, the citizen militias will blah blah blah.
One of the other men did the chant: We’re armed! And willing! And read-dy to fight!
Nah, bro, another said. Armed and willing and ready to fuck.
There was snorted laughter, and the crack and foam of beers.
Anyway, who cares about arrivals, came Nessi’s deep voice. When’s the last time a boat got past the batteries? The militia’s a waste of fucking time.
True that, someone said. The militia should be wasted and fucking—all the time.
The men lapsed back into thin laughter. They hadn’t answered Euchie’s question. They drank hard and talked mostly among themselves.
