She thinks fleetingly of her wife, but even Jac’s absence means nothing now. They’ve had eighteen years to say their goodbyes. Now she is alone, truly alone, and she must go on with an open and willing heart.
I chose this, she reminds herself.
Then, less certainly: Didn’t I?
Unbidden, an image of her daughter bursts into her mind’s eye. It is the Miri of that morning, back from the Gallery. Clean and fresh, a runaway no more. But a beaten Miri. A Miri who gave in. Gave her in. A Miri who told Alix exactly what she had always hoped to hear and whose every word had nevertheless been like the scrape of a flensing knife.
Now, Alix cannot escape the fact that, in spite of everything – or, perhaps, because of it – Miri had after all seen fit to mark her for death. It doesn’t matter that it’s what Alix wanted. Wants. The knowledge of it is dreadful.
Flinching away from the memory, she twists her hands into tight fists at either side, nails biting into the skin of her palms. It hurts, enough that the heartache begins to dissipate beneath the rush of physical pain. The two mix together, like blood in water. All of this was war, she thinks. All of this was war.
She lets it crash over her then; the anger and despair, the fear, the aching loneliness. And somewhere within that fierce roar she hears it. Silence. Instinctively, she hones in on it. When she does, she’s surprised to find a notch, deep within herself, where there is nothing at all, just a gap, a break in the noise. She takes refuge in it at once, pushing all else away. As she does, the emptiness responds to her, expanding and spreading until, at last, it overtakes her.
She becomes hollow, so light she might be made of nothing at all; emptied out and every cell replaced with particles of air. For an absurd moment she feels like a helium balloon limply grasped in a child’s hand, ready to slip loose and float away on the breeze.
Is this oblivion? She leans back against the wall, feels the hard certainty of the concrete against her shoulders and back, the curve of her skull. It is all that grounds her now.
At her signal, the pigsuits raise their rifles, not a beat before they carry out the child’s wishes. There is no pause for dramatic reflection, no time to console or reprieve–
A salvo of shots and the Offset is made.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
From the very beginning, The Offset has been a work of collaboration. So many writers are alone – they deal with the second-guessing, the waiting and the angst all by themselves. We are lucky; we have each other. What’s more, there’s a crowd of other people in our corner who have encouraged us, supported us and fought for us, and we owe our thanks to the following:
John Ash for his editorial insight, dedication and advocacy. Along with his excellent colleagues at PEW, John has been championing us from the very beginning and we could never have hoped for a better agent.
The team at Angry Robot for all their hard work and to Gemma Creffield in particular for her keen editor’s eye and her understanding of our more idiosyncratic ways of working.
Angela Saini, David Benatar and Ken MacLeod for their early support of the book.
A certain “literary whore” who took us out for coffee, asked us to rewrite the entire novel and then ghosted us when we did. We’d have hated for this to have been easy.
Our partners, Andrzej Harris and Eamonn Bell. Special thanks to Andrzej, who discussed every aspect of the book with us in its various versions, carefully researched the scientific content and helped us make it coherent. Any errors that remain are entirely ours.
Alan Calder and Olga Travlos (and also with our apologies to Olga for writing something so grim – unfortunately we can’t promise that the next one will be any cheerier).
Ann-Marie Harris, not just for the free childcare, but also for reading every single draft.
Hieronim Lev and Orlando Franciszka, for more than either of you will ever know.
Rox Middleton, for being part of Gangu and galvanising us into action.
Kaity Barrett, for her creative help.
For their support and encouragement, further thanks from Emma are due to: Sarah Jones and Christopher Cole, Jolanta and Zbigniew Szewczak, Lindsay Carter and Sarah Cox, Melanie Davies, Claire Thompson, Ben Luisi, Rev’d Ank Rigglesford, and my two favourite teachers Gavin D’Costa and Hazel Stephens.
Similarly, Natasha would like to thank: Alex Calder, Graham Bloomfield, Alex Whatley, Ciarán O’Rourke, Nick Bland and Ellen Pilsworth. Also to the 2018 Clarion West cohort – you are all right – and in particular to Nassos, E.C. and Rachel Prime.
Finally, from both of us to Mark and all the team at Tranquillity Base Hotel and Casino: we couldn’t have done this without you.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Calder Szewczak is writing duo Natasha C. Calder and Emma Szewczak, who met while studying at Cambridge University. Natasha is a graduate of Clarion West 2018 and her work has previously appeared in The Stinging Fly, Lackington’s and Curiosities, amongst others. Emma researches contemporary representations of the Holocaust and lives in Cambridge with her parter and two children.
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