by Luiza Sauma
‘Iris,’ says Rachel. ‘You know that I can’t –’
‘I know. I can ask, though, can’t I?’
‘Of course. You can say whatever you want. This session is for you.’
‘Sure.’
‘How are you feeling, now that the seven-year anniversary is coming up?’
‘It doesn’t feel that different from six years. Sorry, I know that’s not an interesting answer.’
‘That’s OK.’ Rachel smiles. ‘You don’t have to be interesting. Not to me, anyway – just to the viewers.’
‘I’ve heard they’re not that interested, either,’ says Iris. Her heart goes boom. The words slipped out. She hadn’t meant to say them. ‘I mean, that’s the rumour.’
Rachel shakes her head. ‘I can’t talk to you about that.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Iris leans in and tries to study Rachel’s face. The connection isn’t great. Her features are indistinct. ‘I get it. People have been watching us for years. They’re bored.’
‘Um …’ Rachel looks down at her notes and reads, in a whimsical, high voice, ‘If you could go back in time, would you still leave Earth and live on Nyx?’
‘It’s kind of monotonous up here, but I wasn’t that happy on Earth.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘I was amazingly depressed.’ Iris closes her eyes. She didn’t plan to say this, but what does it matter – now that she’s pregnant, now that nobody’s watching. When she opens her eyes, Rachel is staring out of the screen, blinking, her face stuck between expressions. ‘I hated myself. I hated my life. That’s why I came here.’
‘So you lied on your application?’
‘Yeah.’
Rachel takes a breath and runs her fingers through her hair. Iris notices that the bottom half of her scalp is shaved and tattooed with a swirling pattern. It seems incongruous with her TV anchor-style outfit. Fashion has evidently moved on. Iris doesn’t understand it.
‘Tell me more,’ says Rachel.
‘I was just sad. It’s nothing special. I’ve always been that way.’
‘Did you get any help?’
‘No, I felt I could handle it myself.’
‘Why did you think that?’
‘I don’t know. Because of my mother, maybe. She always handled everything herself. She didn’t like talking about difficult things. Even my decision to come here – we barely discussed it. Who knows, maybe she watches me on the livestream every day.’
‘But it’s not running any more.’
‘What?’ Iris suddenly feels cold. The nausea returns. ‘It’s not running?’
‘Oh, God.’ Rachel covers her mouth with her hands. ‘I said it without thinking. I wasn’t supposed to talk to you about that. I’m sorry.’
‘The livestream isn’t running any more?’
‘I can’t talk about this.’
‘What about the TV show? Is it still running?’
‘I can’t say anything.’
‘Are we going to be cancelled?’
Rachel looks to her left. ‘Hi,’ she says to someone off-camera. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’ She turns back. ‘I need to go. Thanks so much for speaking to me.’
‘Come on, you can’t give me that information and not say anything else. When did it stop running? A long time ago?’
Rachel stares into the camera. ‘I have to go.’ Her eyes are wide and anxious. She reaches a hand forward and the screen goes blank.
The idea of the livestream has always been a comfort to Iris, the way God must be to other people – the knowledge that someone, somewhere, is always watching. She decides not to tell Abby, at least not for now. She doesn’t want to lose her.
31.
No One Is Watching
One evening, over dinner, Abby bites her thumb. Rav nods, while Vitor pretends not to notice. Iris feels her heart lurch, but she doesn’t say anything. They finish their last mouthfuls of the chewy meat substitute, take their plates to the counter and walk to Abby and Iris’s room.
‘Good evening, Ravinder and Vitor,’ says Tara.
‘I found a way out.’
‘Abby,’ says Iris.
‘A way out?’ says Rav.
‘To Earth?’ says Vitor, his eyes full of hope and disbelief.
‘No, a way out of the Hub.’ Abby glances at the window. Outside, everything is pink and still. ‘I’m leaving.’
Vitor’s face crumples. He presses his fingers to his eyes. ‘What does that mean? You’re going to kill yourself, Abby?’
She shrugs. ‘You don’t know that for sure. I’m going. I thought you guys should know, in case you want to come with me. Iris won’t, so –’
‘What do you want, a suicide pact?’ says Rav.
‘I don’t care any more.’
Iris wants to tell them about the livestream shutting down, that no one is watching, but she’s afraid of what they might do. It would push them over the edge. If the Nyxians don’t exist on Earth, they might as well not exist at all.
‘Count me out.’ Rav holds his hands up.
‘Seriously? You’re not sick of this?’
‘There’s being sick of it and there’s killing yourself.’
‘I dunno,’ says Vitor, quietly. ‘Maybe it’s worth the risk. I’ll come with you.’
‘Are you serious, V?’ says Rav.
Iris puts a hand on her stomach. It’s firm and warm with the heat of a brand-new, untarnished life. None of them has noticed her expanding belly.
‘Iris?’ says Vitor.
She shakes her head. ‘No. I don’t want to die. I …’ She doesn’t finish the sentence. She was going to tell them that her body is no longer her own, but it feels good to keep a secret, to have the baby to herself. The one thing that is hers alone.
Iris and Abby get under the covers and hold each other. They inhale the scent of sweat, skin and dirty hair. It soothes them, like children sniffing favourite old toys.
‘We chose this,’ says Abby. ‘We have no one else to blame.’
Iris feels tears dripping onto the crown of her head, through her hair, to her scalp, wet and tickly.
‘I miss my husband.’
‘I’m sure he misses you, too.’
‘I bet he remarried years ago. He probably has kids and a dog and a house – everything we nearly had. What’s wrong with me? Why didn’t I want it? He was such a good person.’
‘It’s OK not to want those things.’
‘It’s not OK to walk out on your life. It’s not OK. We’re bad people.’
‘Shhhh.’ Iris strokes Abby’s head. She doesn’t disagree, though.
‘I’m losing it. I’m losing my mind.’
It’s strange to be the one who hasn’t lost hope – a new feeling. Iris likes it. It makes her feel strong. She holds Abby super-tight. She wishes she could squeeze their bodies together to become a single, heaving, breathing mass: Iris, Abby and the baby. Then they might be able to survive.
‘You shouldn’t go,’ she says. ‘I need you.’
Abby doesn’t reply. Iris remembers standing with her family on a street in central London, waiting for her mother to say those words.
32.
Someone Is Watching
Iris dreams that she’s making breakfast with Eleanor, Jack and Mona at their house in Tufnell Park. Jack and Mona are the same age they were when Iris left Earth, but Eleanor is younger – even younger than Iris – with peachy skin and a long plait. She wears the same white cotton nightgown she wore when she sang ‘Silent Night’ to Iris, and keeps reaching for her, patting her reassuringly. It feels natural, somehow, to be older than her mother.
Together, they toast the bread, butter it, fry the bacon and poach the eggs. Everything is slow and close-up, like one of those pornographic cooking programmes that are designed to make you hungry. No one talks. They’re smiling peacefully and enjoying each other’s company – more than they ever did in real life. The stodgy, salty smell of bacon and eggs, and delicate Earl Grey tea, fills the a
ir. They lay the table and start to eat. God, it’s delicious.
Someone is knocking on the glass door to the garden – rat-a-tat-tat – but when Iris turns, there’s no one out there. She can hear a voice saying, faintly, ‘Iris … Iris … Iris.’ The garden is perfect and still, with green grass and red roses, like a CGI garden from a property brochure.
‘Iris,’ says Eleanor, ‘I’m so glad you decided to come back to Earth.’
‘Me too,’ says Iris, and she genuinely means it. She looks around the table, nodding at each member of her family. What a relief. ‘Thanks for having me back.’
‘Of course, darling. This will always be your home.’
‘I knew you’d come back,’ says Mona, chewing some bread.
Out in the garden, dozens of birds begin to fly around, crashing into the plants, singing like crazy. Shut up, thinks Iris. Let me concentrate on the crispy bacon salting my tongue, cracking between my teeth. She looks around the table at her family again. There’s a Christmassy feeling in the air. They’re so happy, their faces bright and rosy – even her mother’s, which is usually colourless and translucent, like tracing paper – but outside the sun is shining and there’s blossom on the trees. Is it winter or spring? It’s hard to tell. The birds are too loud. Iris puts her hands over her ears. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Her family disappears and the kitchen fills with birds, flapping their wings, knocking things over, singing.
Iris opens her eyes. Oh, it’s the bloody alarm-birds. The dead, recorded animals continue to sing. She sees the metal ceiling. Her mouth is full of saliva. She adds these to her list: bacon, eggs, butter, toast, tea – how did she forget tea? Then she closes her eyes and transports her mind back to Tufnell Park, to the butter melting on her tongue; the creamy, salted egg, dripping with hot yellow yolk. Her pretty young mother, dressed in white. Mona. She opens her eyes. But I’m here, she thinks. I always will be. What day of the week is it? Who knows, who cares. The walls feel closer together than usual. The image of the dream breakfast flashes in her mind again, but her family aren’t smiling any more, not rosy-cheeked and glad, but gurning and sweaty, under harsh yellow lighting, like people in a soap opera. Iris laughs, even though she knows it’s coming. All over her body, her hairs stand on end. Her skin feels cold to the touch. Her blood, her organs and her bones – they all know that someone is watching. Not someone on Earth, but here, on Nyx. It’s been so long, but it’s coming.
Go away, she thinks. I don’t need you any more.
She tries to distract her mind by wondering what Mona looks like now. Her parents, she can more or less imagine – heavier, greyer, slower – but she can’t picture Mona. People change so much between fourteen and twenty-one. They start to become themselves. She might have graduated from university by now. Or did she rebel and skip university altogether? Unlikely. Has she been in love? Does she love women or men, or both, or neither? Does she still hate me? What is she doing with her life? This is pointless, thinks Iris, rubbing her eyes.
‘Morning, Abs,’ she says.
Abby doesn’t reply.
‘Still asleep?’
Silence. Iris looks over the side of her bed at the bottom bunk, but Abby isn’t there. She must be in the bathroom. Her grey blanket is scrunched up and there’s something sitting on top of it. A piece of paper, folded in two? She goes down the ladder, picks it up and unfolds it. It’s a photograph of Abby and her husband, Joe, on their wedding day. It’s weird to see Joe’s face at last, after years of hearing about him. Iris realizes she doesn’t know him at all. He’s a stranger – stocky, with brown hair, pale skin and kind eyes. He wears a black suit and a kippah on his head. Abby is more recognizable – several years younger, plumper, darker and happier, wearing a modest white dress with lace sleeves. Both of them are full of joy, smiling wide with their American teeth. The photo is creased all over.
Iris waits a few more minutes, but her stomach is growling, so she goes to the cafeteria. She feels self-conscious walking in on her own, like a friendless kid at school, but thankfully Rav and Vitor are already there.
‘Bom dia,’ she says, sitting at the table.
‘Bom dia,’ says Vitor, looking up. ‘Where’s Abby?’
‘I think she’s showering.’
He cocks his head. Iris tries to look bland and unassuming.
‘So what’s for breakfast today?’
‘Avocado on sourdough with smoked salmon,’ says Rav.
‘That’s what I thought.’
Iris goes to the counter and brings back the usual: a slice of bread with protein spread, plus a small, soft pear. This makes her happy – they haven’t had pears in a while. When she returns to the table, Vitor looks up, catches her eye and turns away, looking exhausted. His eyes are bloodshot, surrounded by creased, sallow skin. He stands up.
‘Can I come see you later?’ says Iris. ‘I have a medical question.’
‘Yeah, I’ll be there all day.’
He leaves the cafeteria. Rav soon follows. Iris eats alone, saving the pear for last. She waves at Stella across the room, then picks up her tablet and sends Abby a message:
Hey. Where are you?
While she waits for a reply, she takes a bite of the pear. Its sweet, ripe deliciousness catches her off guard. For a moment, she forgets about Abby. Damn, she thinks, I hardly ever ate pears on Earth. I should’ve had one every day. She takes another bite, closes her eyes and keeps it on her tongue as it dissolves, before swallowing the sugary pulp. She remembers Abby and silently counts to twenty, hoping that a reply will appear by the time she finishes. It doesn’t appear. She finishes the pear.
Iris goes for a walk around the Hub, looking out of the windows – in the bedroom, the cafeteria, the living room, the corridors. If Abby escaped and was suffocated by the atmosphere, her body would be lying just outside, dead on the sand. But she’s not there. Maybe they took her away before anyone could see. They. Maybe she held her breath and ran away from the Hub until she was out of sight. Was that even possible? Iris imagines Abby sprinting, her bare feet flicking sand into the air, hair flying, her lungs feeling like they could burst. Freedom. And then she remembers, for the first time in years, the gymnast Ella Williams, who swooped off a building in London like a wild, exotic bird.
On the way to her shift, Iris is stopped in the corridor by Maya, carrying a box of cleaning products. She looks wide-eyed and a little frantic.
‘Have you seen Abby?’ she says.
‘No. You haven’t seen her?’
‘She hasn’t shown up for her shift.’
‘Yeah, I don’t know where she is either.’ I’m saying this too calmly, thinks Iris. I should be panicking. It’s just the hormones, the hope and serenity, fooling her.
‘OK, thanks,’ says Maya. ‘I have to go.’ She walks away briskly, struggling to keep hold of her heavy box.
Would Abby leave without saying goodbye? thinks Iris. This can’t be it.
For most of her shift, Iris doesn’t mention Abby. The cameras would pick it up. She and Yuko clean the cafeteria floor on their hands and knees with disintegrating bits of cloth cut from old sweatshirts. They tie rags around their knees to stop them from hurting, but still they ache, like old women. The cleaning cloths are filthy, so nothing gets truly clean. The dirt just gets moved around, displaced. It gathers in dark corners, where no one can see it. Their hands become caked with grime. Every few minutes, they stand, stretch and grunt. Stella is older, so she gets the easier jobs – wiping down the tables, counters and chairs. Today, Norma is somewhere else, with her father.
During one of her stretches, Iris feels the baby move for the first time – a slight, balletic twist – and she yelps in surprise.
‘You all right?’ says Stella.
‘Yeah.’ Iris realizes she’s rubbing her belly, and immediately stops – it would give her away. ‘I, uh, hit my elbow.’ She massages her right arm, unconvincingly. They get back to work.
Five minutes later, Stella whispers, ‘Look at that.’<
br />
‘What?’ shouts Yuko from across the room.
‘Shh!’ Stella motions for them to come over to where she’s standing, by the counter, and nods towards a corner of the room, near the ceiling. ‘Look,’ she whispers, ‘that camera isn’t filming.’ The machine’s LED is switched off. It’s black where it should be red. ‘That one, too.’ Stella points at the next camera along.
‘I’ve noticed a few others,’ says Yuko. ‘In the corridors and living room.’
‘Why are we even whispering? If the cameras are broken, the microphones probably are, too.’
‘I don’t know,’ says Iris, ‘but now I feel too self-conscious to raise my voice.’
The other two laugh quietly in agreement.
In one of the bathrooms, they can talk more freely. Within a few minutes, all three of them are sitting on the floor with their backs to the walls, resting and chatting. Cleaning has always been exhausting, but it’s getting worse as they age, as their muscles wither from malnutrition, as their rags fall apart and the cleaning products become ineffective. It would be easier to let the dirt thrive, to let it fester and destroy the Hub. This is what Iris thinks, anyway.
When she tells them that the livestream has been shut down, they widen their eyes, but their surprise is somewhat mild and jaded.
‘It’s only a matter of time before it’s all over,’ says Stella, rubbing her tired, blotchy face. ‘Well, it was fun while it lasted.’
‘Was it?’ says Iris.
‘Maybe not fun,’ she concedes, ‘but it was different. I have no regrets. Do you?’
They don’t reply. Yuko looks pained, while Iris’s regret is too gargantuan, too monstrous, to face. It’s better to push it away, cover it up, make it small and manageable.
‘I think Abby has left the Hub,’ she says. ‘I think she’s dead.’
‘No!’ says Yuko, reaching for her. ‘Why?’
