This Eden

by Ed O’Loughlin

  It sounds to me like you could be the ones who are stealing information. You could be setting me up.

  Towse turned to Ann.

  See, Ann? You were wrong about him. He’s not that dumb.

  He turned back to Michael.

  It does look like we’re stealing information, doesn’t it? But not in this case. Barb Collins will confirm the arrangement. She’s your cut-out with Fess. He told you that in person.

  Michael didn’t look convinced.

  It’s too much responsibility. What if someone steals the laptop? What if I leave it on a bus?

  They’ll never get into it. We have weapons-grade encryption. Quantum based.

  The full ride and blow job, said Ann-without-an-E.

  And why the hell would I want to do this?

  You’re being very well paid, she said.

  Michael stood, gestured at his clothes, his battered old sneakers.

  Do I look like I care about money?

  He turned and walked off.

  Towse frowned at Ann, then called after Michael.

  I heard you want to buy a house in Kitsilano, Michael. They don’t come cheap.

  Michael stopped, looked at his feet for a while, came back, took the bag from Ann-without-an-E. He wouldn’t look at either of them.

  Can you give me a lift back to Hollister?

  We don’t have a car, she said.

  How did you get here?

  She pointed at her muddy shoes.

  Then can’t you at least call me an Uber?

  No cell phones, remember? And there’s no reception up here.

  How are you two getting back down the valley?

  We’re not.

  She pointed across the road, towards the Diablo Range. Michael looked for Towse, meaning to appeal to him. But Towse had gone. There was no sign of him anywhere, though Michael could see for a hundred yards up and down the road. He must have snuck into the creek bed, disappeared in the brush.

  When he turned back, Ann-without-an-E was skipping over the barbed wire that fenced off the road. He watched her climb the grassy hill towards a sycamore. She stopped and turned.

  Hey, she called. If you don’t want to walk, you should try hitching.

  What?

  Hitchhiking. You wait for a car, then stick out your thumb.

  I know what it is. Do people still do that?

  Beats me, she said, turning. I’ve never tried.

  He watched her climb the hillside, disappear over its crest.

  The water bottle sat on the crate, where it had been joined by a string bag of apples and oranges. That part, at least, had been true: there really had been fruit in the fruit stall. He picked up the bottle. It was almost empty, and after he’d drunk what was left he still felt thirsty. He took out an apple and wiped it on his shirt.

  Michael’s mother, Nadia, had been beautiful in the Iranian way – a slender face, large dark eyes, delicate nose. In the earliest photos we have of her, stolen from the files of the Revolutionary Guard, we see her in demure post-revolutionary costume – a knee-length manto, or raincoat, and a headscarf that didn’t quite hide her shiny black hair. She is standing outside a busy cafe near the medical school at Urmia University, north-western Iran, talking to a young man. From their body language, they seem to be flirting. The young man is also very good-looking – dark, as you’d expect. He looks a lot like Michael. He will be Michael’s dad.

  Samvel is, like Nadia, dressed in middle-class post-revolutionary uniform: in his case, a loose suit, no tie, shirt buttoned to the top. His professor at the Urmia school of physics is devout and pro-government, and his postgraduate students, including Samvel, have to dress in the approved way.

  Most of the time, at work, Samvel hides his cheap suit under a lab coat. As a medical student, Nadia wears a lab coat when she follows consultants on hospital rounds. She will later tell a friend, who will eventually betray her, that sometimes, when Samvel’s uncle is out of town on business, and Samvel has the apartment to himself, she sneaks into the building, avoiding the concierge, and they make love in all the rooms of the apartment, wearing only their lab coats. It makes class the next day so much more interesting, seeing their fellow students, unwitting, dressed in their clothing of lust.

  Years later, in Canadian winters, Nadia will wear a blue cotton parka, its hood trimmed with fake fur, from which, in Michael’s earliest memory, her dark eyes look down at him, his hands reaching up to her from his stroller. This, he will tell Alice, is how he would always see Nadia. For him, her eyes would never lose the expression he remembers from that day – or maybe misremembers. Because maybe he was wrong to see her, and Samvel, as eternally lost, confused, vulnerable, in need of someone to look after them. Maybe she is only crying, that day in Red Deer – or it could have been Lethbridge – because it is cold, and her eyes haven’t yet got used to prairie winters, if they ever did.

  When Michael was in the seventh grade, living in Medicine Hat, Alberta, the school principal asked his parents to come in and see her. They were working that morning, cleaning a meat coldstore that was going out of business, so his mother snuck off to the meeting alone. Michael himself was told nothing about it.

  The principal wanted to let his parents know that their son had been showing signs of a possible behavioural disorder. It was probably just a minor case of obsessive compulsion, common enough in children that age. It would most likely clear up with time, but they should look into it, given the chance that a more serious condition – attention deficit disorder, or even mild autism – could be behind it. It was better to nip these things in the bud.

  Michael’s mother said she didn’t understand. What was her son doing wrong? He was never in trouble.

  This was true. Michael’s parents had taught him to keep his mouth shut, avoid disputes, draw no attention to himself, or them.

  The principal noted that Mrs Atarian spoke English well, but with a foreign accent. She also noted that the boy had only been enrolled a few months before. She wrote in her notes: Culture shock?

  Where, she asked Mrs Atarian, had the family lived before they came to Medicine Hat? A recent move, particularly between countries, could be traumatic for children.

  Mrs Atarian said they had moved there from Moose Jaw. Michael was born in Winnipeg and had never left western Canada. What was her son doing wrong?

  Michael wouldn’t step on the cracks.

  In the schoolyard at recess; in the hall going to class; in gym: Michael had developed a morbid fear of standing on the cracks in the paving, in the linoleum floor tiles, in the hardwood floor of the basketball court. Twice, he’d been warned by teachers for reacting aggressively when other students jostled him as they tried to get past, making him step on a crack in the hall. The school had a three-strike policy for violent behaviour. Warning, suspension, expulsion. Better to put him on OCD meds before it came to that.

  The principal was then surprised to hear this shy, dark, tired-looking woman, dressed for a cleaning shift, dried dirt on her clothes, explain in detail why she wouldn’t put her son on selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors.

  She told the principal, in the best English she could manage, that not stepping on the cracks was a harmless superstition or ritualised behaviour that had its roots in a rational fear. Cracks are dangerous. In nature, they hide snakes, poisonous spiders, things that want to be left alone. The cracks in the pavement have the dark fascination of wounds in the flesh or fissures in ice, or the rips in the earth left by sink holes and earthquakes, reminding us that another reality could open and swallow us, or unleash evil forces into our world.

  In any case, Mrs Atarian concluded, Michael would probably grow out of it.

  Maybe, the principal conceded, Mrs Atarian was right. Maybe it was just a passing behaviour. She would let it slide, for now. It would be unfair to single out Michael for somet
hing that many other kids saw as a game.

  What game was that? asked Mrs Atarian.

  You know, that old skipping game: Step on a crack, break your mom’s back. Step on a line, break your dad’s spine.

  Mrs Atarian said she hadn’t heard that one. She was from a different country. She would have a word with Michael when he got home.

  Three weeks later, the family moved on again. We can assume, from the lack of any mention of OCD behaviour in his new school’s records, that Michael had gotten over the problem, or at least he’d learned to hide it.

  Michael was on the couch the next evening, sunburned and sore from his trip up the valley. He’d ordered pizza from Terún and ate it while reading Player Piano. Someone banged on the back door.

  Ann-without-an-E stood on the porch. Still holding the door, he looked past her. The yard was surrounded by a seven-foot fence, planks painted white. The gate, which gave on to an alley, was padlocked on the inside – he could see that from the porch.

  Ann-without-an-E wore a smart blue suit with a pencil skirt and heels. Her tights were unladdered. She was smoking a cigarette.

  How did you get into the yard?

  Never mind that. Do you have the computer?

  Sure. Barb Collins gave it back to me just before I left the office.

  She tossed the cigarette, brushed past him into the living room, sniffed the air.

  Pizza. Great.

  He watched her remove a slice from the box, stepping back as she did so, so that the strings of warm cheese didn’t stick to her clothes. Holding it by the crust, she folded it lengthways and bit off half in one go.

  You’re welcome, he said.

  She swallowed, took another bite, raised a hand.

  One minute, she said, through a mouthful of pizza.

  She took her time, chewing ecstatically, then dropped the crust into the lid of the box.

  That’s good pizza . . . Did you pay cash or card?

  Cash.

  Good. You’re learning.

  She wandered over to the bookshelf, studied the books.

  Oryx and Crake . . . Have you read it?

  I read it on the bus yesterday. I had plenty of time.

  She didn’t seem to notice the pointed way he said it.

  Is it any good?

  Yes.

  Can I borrow it?

  Sure.

  She tucked it under her arm, turned back to Michael.

  OK. Where is it?

  He pointed to the end of the couch, where the laptop sat in its bag.

  Ann-without-an-E sat, took out the computer and opened its lid. She kept her knees primly together, half-turned to Michael, so the screen was hidden from him. Taking a little white card from her pocket, she propped it on the couch beside her. Referring to it, as if for instructions, she tapped a few keys, frowned, tapped some more, frowned deeply, then smiled. She took out a flash key, inserted it into the USB port and did some more tapping. Then she took out the key and put it back in her pocket.

  That’s it, she said, and got up to go.

  That’s it? You don’t want to take the computer away for inspection, like Towse said?

  Not tonight. This is sort of a dry run.

  So, I give the laptop to Barb again tomorrow?

  Sure . . . Do you have a good memory?

  We can presume that he did. Apart from Alice, it was mostly rote learning that got him through college.

  Why?

  She showed him a different card. This one had a number on it.

  Memorise this. Then give me the card back. It’s my burner phone. So you can reach me in emergencies. But don’t call from here, or from your Inscape smartphone. Use a payphone. There’s one in that strip mall.

  I know. I saw it, two nights ago.

  You noticed it, did you? Not bad. Not many people see payphones anymore . . . Remember to keep a few quarters handy. For God’s sake, don’t pay with a card.

  She paused at the screen door, fiddling with it, testing the lock. A thought seemed to strike her.

  Oh. If you don’t mind, which one is your bathroom?

  He pointed, then waited by the screen door to see her out through the back. She was in the bathroom a long time. He became aware of sounds through the door – a tap running loudly and, beneath its white noise, muffled cursing. A few moments later, the toilet flushed. The tap splashed then fell silent. She was smiling blandly when she came out, half-closing the door behind her.

  The window catch was broken, but I managed to open it.

  It wasn’t broken.

  Then it is now.

  She strolled across the lounge, opened the back door and went on to the porch. Michael walked over to the bathroom door, closed it fully, then followed her out. But Ann-without-an-E was already gone.

  The following morning, Aoife/Ann sat over a plate of huevos rancheros in Taqueria El Grullense, on El Camino Real. She was reading Atwood’s Oryx and Crake. Her burner phone, set on the table beside her plate, buzzed loudly. She looked at the screen, picked up.

  Michael, she said.

  She listened for a while, ate some more egg, swallowed.

  Don’t worry, she said. It was probably just junkies. There’s a methadone clinic in that strip mall near your house.

  More noise from the phone.

  How do I know that? Because I notice things, Michael. Did they make a big mess or take anything else? Apart from the laptop and your phone and your wallet?

  A blip from the phone.

  If they didn’t make a big mess, they were junkies, Michael. Junkies grab the first things of value they see and leg it before they get caught. All they want is a fix, and they won’t get one in the police cells. Proper thieves would have taken their time and turned the place over. And you with it.

  A longer gap before she spoke again.

  They can’t get inside that laptop, Michael. We have weapons-grade encryption, remember? If anyone tries to hack into it, it will kill its own hard drive.

  She took another forkful of egg, waited for him to finish.

  Look, don’t worry. It’s just a laptop, and last night was a dry run . . . No, we don’t need to report it. It would just cause a fuss . . . I’ll get you another one. No one else needs to know about it. I’ll be there in an hour. OK?

  We don’t know what Michael did with the rest of that morning. But, at some stage, he calmed down enough to pick up a new book. Peeping through the back window, Aoife saw he was reading The Drowned World. She tapped on the screen door.

  Feet shuffled on floorboards. A steel bolt screeched in an aluminium frame. The mesh door shivered open.

  You’re late. I called you three hours ago.

  Shush! Keep it quiet!

  She brushed past him into the living room. He stood, staring at her costume. Today, she was wearing military fatigues, bloused boots, a dark blue beret, hair tied in a short pony tail. U.S. Air Force, it said on one side of her chest. Smith, on the other. There were other patches and badges that meant nothing to Michael. Oryx and Crake was in the thigh pocket of her camouflaged pants.

  That’s not really your uniform, is it?

  Fits me, don’t it?

  She twirled, an excuse to take in the room. He watched her do it.

  Yes, he said.

  Never mind that. How did they get in?

  The front door was open when I woke up.

  Did you lock it last night?

  Just the regular lock. I didn’t use the deadbolt.

  She approached the front door, ducking to keep out of sight of the windows. Reaching it, she cracked open the door and peeked at the plate of the lock.

  I don’t see any damage . . . They didn’t prise it open with a screwdriver, or anything like that . . .

  She tested the door a couple of times, easing it shu
t and then open again.

  It sits loose in the frame. They could have used a credit card or a strip of plastic. Slipped it under the tongue of the lock. Any fool can do that. Which is why you should always use the deadbolt, Michael.

  He watched her from across the room.

  You didn’t bring me a new laptop, he said.

  She eased the door closed, leaned her back against it and shut her eyes, taking a beat. Then she opened her eyes again.

  No, Michael. I did not.

  She pointed at the corner.

  Go over there. No, not directly. Go around by the wall, and keep clear of the windows. When you get to the corner, lean over just far enough so that you can look across the street. Then tell me what you see.

  She closed her eyes again, bowed her head and waited, hearing his feet scuff on bare boards. There was a pause.

  There’s an SUV parked on the corner. A white Suburban.

  Tinted windows, right?

  Yes.

  Eyes closed, leaning back against the door, she nodded to herself a few times. He watched her slide her back wearily down the door until she was sitting on the floor. Then she turned on to her hands and knees and crawled under the window to join him in the corner. When she stood again her face, lit from the side through the venetian blinds, was a film-noir barcode. She took him by the shoulders. She was as tall as he was. She stared levelly into his eyes.

  I’m not going to lie to you, Michael. You’re in big trouble. We have to get out of here.

  What?

  The men in that Suburban. They’re watching you. We have to go before more of them come.

  He pulled himself away from her.

  Who are they?

  Towse will tell you that. Come on. We’ll get out through the back.

  He stayed where he was, incredulous.

  I’m not going anywhere. I don’t know what’s going on.

  Jesus Christ, Michael. Is it not obvious? It turns out I was wrong about that laptop, OK? It was stolen by pros, serious spooks, and they’ve already cracked it. They’re using its data to hack into some very secret servers, and they’ve set off alarms from here to the Pentagon. And the agencies think that you’re in on it. They think you’re the inside guy.