A Calculated Life (23 page)

“But you have to be sure about this. You’ll be out of a job, no company—”

Dave jerked into defense mode. Three dogs were bolting towards them from the housing blocks. He pulled Jayna behind him. Stooped to grab a handful of grit. The dogs were racing closer, ears back. He crouched with arms and legs spread wide, ready to match the dogs’ speed with aggression. But they veered off, more intent on escaping their tormentors than facing a new confrontation. He dropped the detritus and brushed his hands against his trousers.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get going.”

They entered the enclave proper.

“You’ll need a plan beyond the safe house, y’know,” said Dave.

“Sunjin will decide how long we can stay there.”

“I’m the one with the local know-how. I reckon you and Sunjin could disappear among the farm migrants almost indefinitely. You could do that till things calm down. And I’d be a free agent so I could set something up. I’d need a bit of money, though.” He stopped as though he’d remembered something important. “What exactly is the deal with this Sunjin?”

“He doesn’t know anything about you, yet. I didn’t want to say anything until I’d spoken with you first.” She walked on but he hadn’t finished. “So, this guy thinks he’s doing a runner with
you
.
You
and
him
?”

“Not like that. He just wants out.”

At which point, they began to merge with the enclave residents who were milling around in the less-frenetic Sunday market. They kept their uneasy thoughts to themselves and became just another pair of friends, seemingly with nothing more to do than browse the pavement stalls, with no more on their minds than who they might meet later in the day and where they might hang out.

“I’d love to live here, Dave.”

He didn’t want to laugh at her but he did. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, do you? I guarantee you’d change your mind within forty-eight hours.”

“Quite likely. Right now, I’m fed up pretending I’m fact-finding for Mayhew McCline.”

“Fine by me. There’s a short cut, half-way down Clothing Street.” He set a faster pace dodging in and around the shoppers but it was still slow going. Ahead of them, a refuse collector emerged from a side street to the left, pedaling and sweating; his puny body barely capable of propelling his mountainous load forward. Remembering the stench, she covered her mouth and nose as he turned towards them. The sweating man leaned forward and, lifting his face, caught Jayna’s eye.

In a split second, the crowd froze en masse. A male voice roared out of the side street and a short, stocky figure tore across Clothing Street. He threw himself bodily at the refuse collector. Both men sprawled through the paralyzed shoppers and crashed to the ground at Jayna’s feet. Dave pushed her backwards against other shoppers. Children were grabbed by parents. Everyone jostled to get away
from the fist-fight. Two blurs, a man and a woman, charged out of the side street and they piled in.

“Move back,” barked Dave. He pushed her towards the side street but she strained to look back over her shoulder. She caught sight of bloodied fists.

“Knives!” a woman screamed. Dave grabbed Jayna’s arm and as they turned into the side street another man shot past. He tore into the fight, threw badly aimed punches. A whistle pierced the air—once, twice, three times.

“Jayna, hurry for Christ’s sake. Police will be all over the place soon.”

They stumbled down the side street. She shook with excitement. “That’s a real fight!”

A man looked out from a doorway, thirty meters farther along, and yelled to Dave: “What’s going on up there?”

He shouted back: “Don’t go up there, mate. It’s another punch-up over the bloody rubbish.” They reached the man. Dave put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Getting beyond a joke, this.”

“Where’s the police?”

“Scratching their arses,” said Dave. And they both laughed.

“Hey, come in.” Dave took Jayna’s hand and stepped through the entrance. The man stood back to let them pass but she was hesitant. “You all right?” said the man. She nodded.

“Pretty dramatic,” said Dave. “It happened right in front of us. They’ll be looking for witnesses if anyone’s knifed.” Dave squeezed Jayna’s hand as his friend led the way. “Better keeping off the streets for a while.”

This building was darker than Dave’s and the passageway was narrow. His friend lived on the ground floor at the back of the building. An unpleasant smell. Like the smell in a pet shop. As his friend shoved obstructions out of the way, muttering to himself, Dave spoke quietly to Jayna: “It’s a detour, I know. But we’ve got
enough time…you’ll find Leo’s place interesting.” He kissed her cheek. “Another wee enterprise.”

They stepped into his noxious flat and while Dave made the introductions, Jayna tried to work out what she was looking at and frowned. “What on Earth…?” she murmured. A fly zapper, with its glaring blue light, hung disturbingly close to eye level from the low ceiling. It was suspended above a metal tray that was clearly acting as a chute directed towards a huge tank of bubbling water, two cubic meters she reckoned. And there were pipes—the water was being aerated.

Zap! A fly dropped into the tank. She stepped forward, peered in and saw fish. She laughed, captivated.

“I said you’d like it,” said Dave. She looked at Leo for some explanation.

“Obviously, I have to live on the ground floor with this lot.”

“Obviously. But is it allowed?”

“I haven’t asked. I don’t think I’d like the answer.”

Dave stepped forward. “Leo’s a foreman at the fish farm—y’know, next to the generation plant.” She did know. All the enclaves had the same set-up; power from waste with the fisheries sited alongside. They shared a pool of bonded labor and the whole enterprise helped to keep running costs low for the enclaves.

“I used to supervise labor on the gray side of the generation plant—shoveling ash, making bricks. But now I watch over the fishery, spend most of my time at the tanks.”

“Is there any violence?” she asked, the street fight fresh in her mind.

“Nah. They’re just refugees working on right-to-stay rules. It’s a cushy number for them, especially working with the fish.”

“Leo knows everything about carp farming,” said Dave, evidently proud of his association.

“I’ll make us a cup of tea then, shall I?”

She walked around the tank working out the sums for Leo’s little earner. Few fixed overheads; minimal rent, free electricity, free labor. “Are these insects enough for them?” She assumed not.

“No, the insects are like fresh supplements.” He grinned. “I bring fish food and antibiotic solution back from the works. It’s a tiny amount, relatively. No one notices.”

“But the smell? Does no one mind?”

“Not if I keep everyone well supplied. You’ll notice the kids in this building are pretty healthy looking.”

She turned to Dave. “Remember you told me last Saturday about cooking fish. Did you mean Leo’s fish?” He nodded.

“Second date then,” said Leo, mashing the mint tea.

They ignored him. “The tea smells good,” said Jayna.

“Best thing in this heat, with this smell. You can actually taste something.” And he passed around the small glasses.

“Slurp it, to cool it down,” said Dave, and Leo demonstrated. Jayna broke into a fit of giggles. Mistakenly, she thought he was exaggerating for comic effect. They stood around the tank, watched the carp writhe around each other while Jayna did her best to imitate Leo’s eccentric manners.

“Tell me about the fight,” she said as soon as they left Leo’s flat. “What was that all about?”

“That guy who was attacked? He was on their patch most likely.”

“They have patches?”

“Yes. It’s developed over the years along with the aggravation. Individual groups, mostly families, bought the rights to collect rubbish along individual streets. And families are passing on the rights to sons and daughters.”

“Was that the original intention?”

“No. They were supposed to re-apply every five years for the collection rights. But the housing department couldn’t be bothered with the admin cost, so that’s how it evolved.”

“So one family per street?”

“Roughly speaking. The streets run the length of the enclave and there’s rich pickings if they can stop any encroachment.”

“People try to steal rubbish?”

“Why not? Just another commodity.”

She retracted into her own thoughts as they continued through dusty streets towards Dave’s block, then piped up: “It sounds exactly like the old problem with the vineyards…in Burgundy.”

“What?” said Dave. He’d completely lost the thread.

“Well, the Burgundy wines were produced by monks in the Middle Ages but when their power started to wane, many of the vineyards were sold off to private owners. Then along came the Napoleonic Inheritance Laws that said private property had to be split equally among siblings. From that point on these incredibly valuable lands were subdivided—” she looked at Dave to see if he followed her drift “—
again
and
again
until, at the end of the last century, each family often owned a single row of vines. So a single row of vines could end up having its own label.”

“I don’t think any of our rubbish will get a label.”

She smiled. “What I mean, Dave, is this: it’s not sustainable to keep the rubbish business within the family. They realized that eventually in the vineyards. But it’s a nice story.”

He put his arm round her. “A nice story? You’re becoming quite a romantic.”

Climbing the stairs to his flat, she still had the Burgundians in mind as she once again traced the wall’s history with her fingertips.
History lends character
, she thought as she reached the second floor.
That’s the heart of my problem. I haven’t lived enough. My character is just the combination of my intellect and my faults. I haven’t had time to become more complex, more interesting
. As she stepped inside the flat ahead of Dave, she turned to face him. “I’m not sure if you realize this but without my flaws I’d be pretty dull. You should know that.”

He took her face in both hands. “That goes for everyone, you idiot.”

One hour and seven minutes later, they dressed. They sat at Dave’s small table, which he had laid out with olives, misshapen tomatoes, and heavy unleavened bread. The heat had been so stifling that after their love-making, he’d led Jayna to stand in front of the shuttered windows to catch the breeze blowing through half-opened slats. He’d soaked a towel at his sink and wiped her down, and she’d reciprocated.

He now watched her eating. “You know, I could cope with Mayhew McCline if we could come home to one another.”

“Hmm, that would be lovely.”

He guessed that the word
lovely
was addressed to the olives as much as his remark. “You’re a bit obsessive about food, aren’t you?”

“This is the best meal I have ever had.” She sat back to give Dave her complete attention and added carefully: “I love knowing that you’ve shopped in the market and chosen this food especially for me, for us; that, when you bought the olives, you were thinking about me, and about what I might like.”

“It’s true. That’s exactly how it was.”

“And I was thinking of you when I bought this earlier today.” She set the tiny package on the table.

“What’s this?”

“A present. Or, more precisely, an investment.”

He unwrapped the object. “Is it worth something?”

“Worth forty times what I paid.” Dave inspected the label and maker’s mark on the back. “I decided you needed a fallback…if things unravel. I’m concerned…”

“You don’t need to be, Jayna. All the same, thanks. Thanks a lot.”

“With the money you make on this you’ll have time to think. Maybe you can start a small business here in the enclave. If you want to.”

“A second-hand book stall?”

“Well, possibly. That would be fun. But don’t forget, Dave, people don’t need to buy books but they do need to buy food.”

He reached for her hand.

“Wait, give me a pen.” She flattened the discarded paper bag and took the pen from his hand. “You’ll need this, too.”

“What?”