by Luiza Sauma
She smiled at her reflection and almost believed it.
At the party, in someone’s bedroom, Iris allowed a boy to put his hand under her skirt. Not just any boy – it was James, her friend Beth’s boyfriend. Beth wasn’t at the party. She and Iris had once been best friends, but as they grew up, they struggled to maintain a mutual appreciation. Beth had become one of those girls who regularly shot tiny, barbed insults with such elegance and subtlety that you couldn’t even accuse her of being mean – but everyone was terrified of her.
James had been fawning over Iris all night, constantly topping up her glass of vodka and Coke, which she drained every few minutes, until the news about Robert Cohen ebbed away, temporarily. As two of James’s fingers jabbed inside her, Iris tried not to wince. She sighed breathily, like girls did in films, but mostly she just felt a juddering fear in her heart, cutting through the vodka, making her almost sober. She had never thought herself capable of such a terrible thing, but there she was. James pushed her head down to his lap and she gave him a blow job – her very first. He came quickly: a salty, vile cream that she instinctively swallowed. He wasn’t even handsome. She wasn’t sure why she’d done it. Afterwards, they were both embarrassed.
A few days later Iris received a message from an unknown number – a close-up photo of her face, sucking James’s cock. She hadn’t noticed him taking it. Her eyes were closed, almost blissful, concentrating on the task at hand. There was a strange beauty to it. The photo spread. Everyone saw it. There were more messages, from both known and unknown numbers.
COHEN YOU FUCKING SLUT
Suck my dick!
You love it you slag :)
In the corridor at school, Beth shouted, ‘Skank!’ at her, surrounded by their friends, laughing. They looked so happy. It was a real bonding experience. Iris ran away and cried in a toilet cubicle, biting her hand to keep herself from making any noise.
‘Hmmm, delicious,’ said the Smog, licking up her tears, one by one.
And so it continued, for several weeks. The messages. The Smog. The late-night calls to her mobile phone – sometimes silent, sometimes giggling girls, but mostly boys whose voices she didn’t recognize.
‘Suck any dicks today? Ha ha ha.’
‘Cohen loves cock, Cohen loves cock, Cohen loves cock.’ Sung like a football chant, by a crowd.
‘Ugly fucking dyke.’
‘Are you going to kill yourself?’
Her number was being passed around. They all knew she was rotten, even the people she’d never met. She lay in bed, clutching her phone, waiting for her punishment, rereading messages in the dark, barely sleeping. By night, everyone was obsessed with her. By day, at school, she was a ghost, acknowledged by teachers alone.
It was a Wednesday night. Everyone was asleep – her mother, Jack and baby Mona. Iris crept to the bathroom and searched through the cupboards. Eleanor liked to stock up on things. Iris popped pills on the counter, dozens of them, and swallowed them with a glass of tap water, almost choking as they went down. She didn’t bother with a note. She went back to her bed, lay down and waited for the Smog to take her away.
‘Robert fuckface Cohen,’ she whispered. ‘I’m coming for you.’
Two hours later, she woke up vomiting down her front. It hadn’t worked. She puked some more, into the toilet, changed her pyjamas and went back to sleep. In the morning her face was red and raw from all the puking.
‘Must be a stomach bug,’ said her mother. ‘Just stay in bed – I’ll call the school.’
Eleanor hadn’t mentioned Robert Cohen since her revelation and she would never bring him up again – not with her voice, anyway. Sometimes she would look at Iris, especially when they were alone, and a gloom would cloud her blue eyes, which Iris interpreted as ‘I’m sorry your father killed himself’ though it could have meant something else entirely.
‘Yes,’ said Iris. ‘There’s a bug going round at school.’
And she told no one. Not until she met Edie, two years later – and even then, Edie was the only one.
It was for the best. Her mother wouldn’t be able to handle it. Jack would have her sectioned. Everyone at school would know. She would never live it down. Crazy Cohen. Being a slag was bad enough.
In the afternoon, she crept into Mona’s bedroom and watched her sleeping in the half-darkness. The curtains were drawn. There was a violet tinge to Mona’s closed eyelids. Her face was plump and unblemished, delicate and new. She was wearing a rainbow-striped Babygro and pink socks. Her breathing was loud and sticky. It’s amazing, thought Iris, her instinct to breathe, to live, to carry on, when she’s so small and unformed. I must have been like that, once.
‘I’m an idiot, Mona,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’
The baby breathed faster, flickering her eyelashes. Could she hear her? No, she was just dreaming.
‘My father didn’t love me. I don’t blame him.’ Iris wanted to cry, but she was too tired. There was nothing left. Everything had been puked up. ‘But I won’t do it again. Never. I promise.’
She bent over and kissed the baby on her head. Mona smelled like sweet milk, like heaven.
8.
Interview #2
Iris was back in the black room, sitting on the swivel chair.
‘Welcome to your second interview, Iris,’ said Tara.
‘Thanks for inviting me.’
‘Out of over 500,000 applicants, only 10,000 people around the world have made it this far in the recruitment process. Congratulations!’
‘Wow, that’s great. How do you choose people?’
‘We’re looking for a balance of different personality types and skills.’
‘OK.’
‘Are you still interested in joining Life on Nyx?
‘Of course. I’m here.’
‘Some people come to the interviews out of curiosity. Several people have attended in order to write articles about us.’
‘Oh yeah, I saw that piece in the Guardian. But I’m not a journalist. I’m more of a content strategist.’
‘Those sorts of skills will come in really handy on Nyx.’
‘Great.’
‘OK, first question: who in your life are you closest to?’
‘It’s hard to say. I suppose most people would say their family, but we’re not that close. Maybe my friend Kiran. We’ve lived together for years. I know her better than I know my sister.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I didn’t really grow up with my sister. I’m a lot older than her.’
‘Can you expand? Here’s what you said about her in your first interview.’
Iris’s recorded voice echoed around the room: ‘I worry about her sometimes … She’s so quiet and studious. I don’t think she has many friends.’
‘It’s weird to hear my voice,’ said Iris. ‘I don’t know, I can’t explain it. It just seems like there’s no joy in her life. No, that’s too dramatic. She’s really lucky in so many other ways and things will probably change for her. I’m closest to Kiran, but I don’t know if that will be for ever. Friends seem to come and go. Mona is the person I love the most.’
‘How would you feel about leaving Kiran and Mona behind for ever?’
‘It would be hard … gut-wrenching. Kiran would be OK in the end – she has lots of other friends. I would be more worried about Mona.’ She paused. ‘Look, I’m not a psychopath. It would be the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life. I’m not sure that’s the answer you’re looking for, but I still want to go.’
‘We’re not looking for particular answers and we’re definitely not looking for psychopaths. That wouldn’t work – we’re trying to build a community. If you love Kiran and Mona so much, why do you want to live on Nyx?’
‘Loving two human beings isn’t enough to keep me here.’
‘Are you unhappy?’
‘No, I’m fine. I’m happy.’
‘Then why?’
‘I want to do something different with
my life, something special. I want to be – this is terrible, but maybe I’d like to be remembered, in some way.’
‘Why is that terrible?’
‘It’s not the most noble aim, is it? My work feels inconsequential. I want to do more. I want to make a difference in the world, even if it means leaving the world behind.’
‘Have you ever been in love?’
‘Yes, with my ex-girlfriend, when I was a teenager. She’s the only girl I ever went out with. Maybe it wasn’t love, but I was obsessed with her.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Edie.’
It was shameful, really, how much Edie still lived in Iris’s mind, like a pesky lodger who refused to move out. Iris dreamed about her so frequently that she sometimes forgot she hadn’t seen her in ten years. Didn’t I see her at that apocalyptic music festival, roasting marshmallows over a fire? Didn’t we swim in the North Sea together? And when we got back to the shore, didn’t she tell me she loved me? They were just dreams. Dozens of them. Hundreds.
‘What was her surname?’
‘Dalton.’
‘Edie Dalton?’
‘Edith Dalton.’
‘Any middle names?’
‘I don’t remember. Are you going to track her down or something? We haven’t spoken in years. I don’t even know where she is. I mean, she might be in London, but I don’t know.’
She had looked her up, of course – countless times – but Edie didn’t have much of an online presence. Iris had tried to ignore the rumours: that Edie was a mess, a drug addict, that she’d been sectioned – they couldn’t all be true. Instead, she focused on her memories, which grew more vivid and brilliant with each passing year: hours spent staring into each other’s eyes, lying on Hampstead Heath, snogging; the silky feel of Edie’s short golden hair; the sick ecstasy she inspired in her, for all of two months; the surprise that a girl could make her feel that way. Iris’s memories and dreams entwined to create an eternal Edie Dalton, forever eighteen years old, a beacon of love and hope. In a way, Iris was thankful that Edie wasn’t on the internet, thankful she hadn’t seen her in a decade. It would have ruined her fantasy.
‘If you reach the next level of the recruitment process,’ said Tara, ‘we might get in contact with a few key people from your life. This may or may not include Edith Dalton.’
‘OK. I don’t think she would be of any use to you, though.’
‘How many people have you had sex with?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘Was Edith the first?’
‘No.’
‘Have you had one-night stands?’
‘Yes. Not many.’
‘How did you feel about them?’
‘Not the best sex I’ve had in my life.’
‘How often do you drink alcohol?’
‘Quite frequently.’
‘You know there’ll be no alcohol on Nyx.’
‘That’s fine. I’m not an alcoholic.’
‘But you might miss it – don’t you think? You might find yourself missing all kinds of small, seemingly insignificant things.’
‘How do you know?’
‘There are people already living there.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘They’re a specialist team of engineers and scientists. They’re building a home for the Life on Nyx community.’
‘Do they miss Earth?’
‘They miss it very much.’
‘Do they regret going there?’
‘None of them has come out and said that, no.’
‘Well, there you go.’
‘Do you not enjoy your life on Earth, Iris?’
‘Didn’t you already ask me that?’
Tara didn’t reply. Iris noticed that her arms were crossed. She uncrossed them and rested them at her sides. When she was a child, her mother always said, ‘Don’t cross your arms – it makes you look severe.’ But now she didn’t know what to do with them.
‘This feels like a trick question,’ said Iris. ‘If I say I hate my life on Earth, you’ll think I’m too miserable to go to Nyx. If I say I love it here, you’ll think I don’t want to go.’
‘It isn’t a trick question. Those are two extreme points of view. There’s a spectrum between love and hate.’
‘I don’t hate my life on Earth. It is what it is. I think I would find it more interesting to live on Nyx. More fulfilling.’
‘OK. I have some questions about your health.’
Iris’s heart fluttered once, like a plastic bag in a quick wind. Her palms were sweating. She rubbed them together and placed them on her jeans.
‘How is your health, generally?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Have you ever had any health problems?’
‘Beyond the usual colds and flus, and a broken leg, no, nothing.’
‘Do you take any regular medication?’
‘No.’
‘As you might recall from the terms and conditions, unfortunately we’re not able to recruit people who rely on medication – we don’t have the capacity for that.’
‘Sure.’ Iris had read a think-piece, a few weeks earlier, about how Life on Nyx was discriminating against trans people, the disabled, the mentally or chronically ill. ‘What if people get ill when they’re up there?’
‘There’ll be medical care available, but we’re trying to minimize the need for it.’
‘OK. But what happens when the medicine runs out?’
‘As you might have seen on the website, this is only the first phase of Life on Nyx. Over the next decade we’re hoping to send many more people, along with supplies. Eventually the planet will become completely self-sufficient, with fully equipped labs and hospitals – just like Earth.’
‘OK.’
‘How’s your eyesight?’
‘It’s perfect, I think.’
‘Have you ever received treatment for a mental health issue, including anxiety and depression?’
‘No.’ Did I say it too quickly? she thought. Her heart did a little dance, a pirouette, but she ignored it.
‘Have you ever experienced suicidal ideation?’
‘What’s that?’ she said, knowing full well.
‘Have you ever thought of committing suicide?’
‘No!’ she said, pretending to be horrified.
‘Have you ever taken any illegal drugs?’
‘Never.’ The pores on her forehead opened with the force of her lie.
‘If you pass the recruitment process, we will administer a drugs test.’
‘That’s fine.’ She would just give them up, until then.
‘Do you give permission for us to check your medical records?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great – there’s a form outside. Please sign it on your way out. If your records do not meet our requirements, we will request that you undertake our own medical examination.’ Tara sounded so formal, all of a sudden. ‘We’ll be in touch if you progress to the next level.’
‘Thanks, Tara.’
‘Enjoy your day. Goodbye.’
There was a crackle, and then silence. Iris left the black room. By comparison, the corridor was too bright. She leaned on a wall and waited for her eyes to adjust.
9.
I Want to Win
Iris swallowed a pink pill forty minutes before her course at the London School of Leadership in Camden. It was a Friday morning in late September. The workshop room looked like it had been hastily refurbished: a shiny lino floor, green plastic furniture, a tiled office ceiling and framed Andy Warhol prints of Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley and a cow. A dozen chairs were arranged in a horseshoe in front of two whiteboards. Most of them were taken by men and women in their twenties and thirties, apart from one guy in a suit, in his fifties. Too late for you, dude, thought Iris. Too late for me, too.
‘Hi,’ she said, as she sat down next to him. ‘I’m Iris.’
He jumped slightly. ‘Oh, hi there.’ His hair was the same shade of gr
ey as his suit, which hung limply around his body. ‘I’m John.’
They shook hands, both of them clammy. Iris tried to hide her hand as she wiped it on her jeans.
‘What do you do, Iris?’
She took a deep breath, as she always did before sharing her job title. ‘I’m a digital innovation architect at a creative agency.’ She smiled and rolled her eyes a little to show that she knew it was an absurd title, that it didn’t define her.
‘Well, that sounds very impressive.’
She laughed. ‘It’s all right.’
‘What does it mean? If you don’t mind my asking. I’m just an old fogey.’
‘It’s just a fancy way of saying I work on digital strategies for brands.’ John nodded again, still unsure what this meant. ‘How about you?’
‘I’m an IT manager at a mental health charity.’
‘What brings you here?’
‘Well, we recently hired a new member of staff in the IT department, and our chief executive decided I might need some training. I’ve never really managed anyone, you see.’
‘I’m new to it, too.’
‘Yes, but I’m a bit longer in the tooth. How many people do you manage, Iris?’
She always loved it when new people remembered her name. It showed that they cared. Or that they wanted something from her, but that was not the case with John.
‘Just one person, right now,’ she said, thinking, And I’m fucking him! ‘My manager wants me to improve my leadership skills.’
‘Right.’
A man strode in wearing a grey long-sleeved T-shirt and black jeans. He was stocky and brutishly handsome, with slick dark hair, an orange tan and intense eyes, which he used to scan the participants, nodding slightly at each person, as if thinking, Yes, I can fix you and you and you.
All the students stopped talking. He clapped his hands twice to grab their attention, though it had already been grabbed.
‘OK, OK, guys,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the Fast-Track Leadership Workshop, where leaders are made, not born.’ He was English, but had a strange, flat intonation that suggested he wished he were American or even Australian. ‘My name is Adam Sickler-Jones and I’m going to help you find your inner leader today. Does that sound good?’
